We follow the crowd along the edge of a field, and flow down a hill to within hailing distance of the military base. There are Palestinian soldiers and ambulances everywhere. And there is the gutted shell of a van, its doors blown out and its interior a mangle of metal, leather and blood. Beside the wreck there is a punctured cistern, endlessly cascading water. Suddenly, a shot rings out, and the crowd surges back up the hill.
Women cup their faces in terror.
One soldier drags along the road the smoking carcass of one of the missiles that hit the car. Another man rests on a wall, his head in his hands, and a shirtsleeve soaked in blood. The helicopters have vanished. The assassination is over. As what seems like the entire village streamed toward the car, we headed for Al-Hussein hospital in the sister village of Beit Jala.