Firebreak (10 page)

Two hours later, Matt was at Santorin’s small airport. When he reached the counter, he almost booked a flight through Málaga, but decided against that. He couldn’t waste two more days looking for Shoshana and had to get to his new base at Stonewood. He wished he hadn’t gone sailing with Lisl and lost track of time—and Shoshana. He tried to write her off as just another passing fancy. But her face kept appearing like a beautiful melody that kept playing in his mind.

A light dew gave a freshness to the early morning as Habish started the car. Zeev Avidar, who specialized in forged documents, was packing his unique equipment into the trunk for the trip to the airport at Malaga. “I’m getting tired of this drive,” Habish told Avidar. But there was no choice, his other agent was watching Shoshana and Avidar had to start the circuitous route that would take him to Baghdad.

Once inside Iraq, Avidar would keep the team supplied with all the fake documents a team needed to survive in that hostile country. It was no easy task, for he could not take the documents with him and would have to make them on the spot. During his journey, he would pick up the cover of a computer salesman and repairman trying to hawk his product inside Iraq. Like any good salesman, he would have samples of his product and, like a competent repairman, he would take his tools and spare parts with him. Avidar would go through the motions of setting up a computer business, taking his time as he worked through the masses of paperwork and the bureaucratic maze of the Iraqi government to get a business license.

Another agent, posing as an artist, had already smuggled in the unique types of paper and ink they would need. They would join up and Avidar would write a detailed program to load into a computer that would turn his laser printer into a most unique printing press. Their documents were so good that when experts compared Avidar’s forgeries with the real thing, they always picked out the legitimate documents as the fake. But setting up the operation took time.

While Avidar was making his journey, the artist would make contact with an operative who was working with the Kurds, a minority fighting for their independence from the oppressive Iraqi regime. Through the Kurds, he would receive small, lightweight, 22-caliber Walther automatic pistols for each member of the team. The Walthers had been highly modified and used special, low-powered, German ammunition. When fired, the weapon made a soft
phut
sound and they did not need to use bulky silencers. It was a short-range assassination weapon. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the operation and if he was caught with the weapons, it meant certain torture, execution, and compromise of the operation. Because of that, the weapons problem had to be resolved before anyone else entered Iraq.

Habish and two other agents would enter Iraq separately about the same time as Shoshana. She would have to travel without a backup and be on her own for a time. Once inside Iraq, the team would have to go to work with a vengeance, relearning the local customs, checking current police methods, and how the procedures at harbors and airports had changed since the last team was in Iraq. Then they would have to rent or buy at least three safe houses. Each agent would try to rent or buy a car, a difficult task in Iraq. While all this was going on, they would establish a communication system, make escape arrangements, develop hiding places, and pass out equipment. Avidar and the artist would work twenty hours a day, churning out the fake documents so an agent never had to use the same identity for doing two separate tasks. Habish would use the same driver’s license for renting a car and while traveling. But he would never carry that driver’s license when he was strolling from café to café, keeping in contact with his agents.

At a certain point, Habish would establish contact with Shoshana through the language school where he had told her to take lessons in Arabic. He would then move her into the operation, telling only what she needed to know, never revealing the entire operation or the identity of another agent to her. As the daddy rabbit for the operation, Habish was critical to the security of the entire team and he had promised himself long ago that he would commit suicide before being captured. Then Avidar would have to pick up the pieces and try to get everyone safely out of Iraq.

Habish knew what was ahead of him when he drove Avidar to the airport at Málaga. It was going to be up to him and one other agent to maintain a watch over Shoshana and he didn’t look forward to the next few days. For now, he needed to get as much rest as possible until Shoshana wangled an invitation from Is’al Mana to visit Baghdad.

There was little doubt that Mana was totally infatuated with Shoshana. He followed her around like a puppy and sent her gifts every day. She encouraged the attention but refused to accept a single present and kept telling him that their relationship had nothing to do with material things. After a while, he believed her. Then Habish noticed that Mana’s bodyguards no longer followed them around and used the time Shoshana and Mana were together to take a break.

Mana repeatedly tried to talk about his work to impress her with his talents and abilities. Again and again, Shoshana would put him off, claiming she didn’t want to discuss business while on vacation and only wanted to spend more time with him. If he became too insistent in talking about chemical equipment, she would stroke and pet him, totally distracting him until a premature ejaculation sent him back to his villa for a change of clothes. Mana was in love.

Habish reprimanded her once for not letting Mana talk about his work. She froze him with her icy stare. “I believe the proper technique is to keep him ‘humming’ at E above high C.” She liked Mana much better than Habish.

Finally, the negotiations between the Iraqis and WisserChemFabrik were finished and Iraq had the last of the equipment it needed to complete its nerve gas plant. Habish had met her in the main square while she drank coffee and said that Mana would be returning to Iraq within the next day or two. She paid her bill and got ready to leave. “I know. He told me. We’re having dinner tonight at his villa.”

“Then he must ask you to go with him tonight.”

“He will,” Shoshana promised.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve been doing my ‘homework’ and reading about Is’al’s problem.” She picked up her bag and left.

From the moment Mana picked up Shoshana at the hotel, he could not take his eyes off her, which was exactly what she wanted. The top three buttons of her white silk shirt were undone and her black, straight-legged trousers snared her small waist and hugged her ample hips and well-shaped rear.

They ate dinner on the balcony of his villa that overlooked the Mediterranean. When Shoshana judged the time was right, she suggested they go inside. Mana obediently followed. Inside, she stood in front of a mirror and checked her hair. “Is’al,” she called, “this is a funny mirror. What’s wrong with it?”

A bright crimson blush spread across the Iraqi’s face as he told her there was a VCR camera hidden behind it. His honesty was painful.

“Do you take pictures of us?” she asked. He nodded. “Do you like watching them?” Again, he nodded. “Then I don’t mind if it will remind you of me.” She studied the mirror, not able to see anything behind it. “Is’al, ask one of the servants to bring in a bowl of ice cubes. Then dismiss them.” He did as she asked and after the maid had left, she playfully kicked off her shoes and walked toward him. Her hips and shoulders swayed provocatively and Mana watched her breasts move under the silk blouse. He sucked in his breath when she undid the buttons down to her waist. She stopped in the middle of the room and beckoned for him. “Bring the ice,” she commanded.

They met in the middle of the room and she took the bowl from him and set it on the floor. She turned so her back was to the mirror. Then she rapidly stripped his clothes off. Mana stood there perplexed, growing soft, losing his erection. Quickly, she undid her belt and shed her trousers and blouse. She was wearing nothing underneath. Mana was erect again, growing excited. She knelt in front of him and took him in both hands, feeling him pulse. It was almost over. Then she scooped up a handful of ice and clapped it over his penis. He gasped for air and visibly cooled.

Shoshana looked at him and smiled. “I think we’ve solved our problem.” She picked up the bowl of ice and led him into his bedroom.

So this is what a whore feels like, Shoshana thought, loathing herself. She kicked her legs out of bed and looked across to Mana. He was sleeping peacefully, a childlike look on his smooth face. She didn’t hate him—she couldn’t bring herself to that. And he had been so grateful the night before. Then they had made love again, at least it was love for Mana. For her, she decided, it was more like two dogs mating in a plush garden. The second time, Shoshana only had to use the ice once. The third time, it had been normal. It was Mana’s first successful sexual experience.

Shoshana walked across the huge room and drew the curtains back from across the picture window that overlooked the Mediterranean. The morning sun streamed in, flowing over her. It was the same sun that had waked Israel first, over two thousand miles to the east. She stood there, staring out to sea, toward her home.

“Rose,” Mana called from the bed.

The use of her alias brought her back to reality and a bitter taste filled her mouth. She was using her body to get what she wanted and that made her a whore. She walked back to bed and crawled in next to him.

“Our vacation is almost over,” she said and drew a fingernail down his chest and scratched his stomach. “I’m going to miss you very, very much.”

“Rose,” he said, still at the beginning. “I don’t want this to end. Please, will you marry me?”

She wanted to cry but there it was. “Oh yes.” Tears filled her eyes. “No, I can’t.”

“Why not? I love you.” He was pleading.

“Oh, Is’al, you know how I feel about you”—she stroked his cheek and laid her breasts against him—“but there are so many problems.” He started to protest but she hushed him. “There is your religion and, well, I’m really nothing. I don’t speak your language and must learn it first.” Now she was rubbing his crotch and drawing her fingernails along his erection. “And this is very important, Is’al. I will only marry you if your family approves.”

“They will love you,” he promised. She stopped him from talking with a kiss and they made love again, but she had to use the last of the ice.

Afterward, they lay together. Then: “Please come with me to Baghdad and meet my family.”

It was a retake of the same scene Matt had starred in the last time he had seen his squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Locke. Only this time, the setting was different. Instead of standing in Locke’s Spartan office at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, he was at RAF Stonewood in England and the office was a shambles. The noise and activity of a tactical fighter squadron settling into his new home was a constant distraction. Matt wondered how long Locke would keep him standing at attention before chewing him out. Come on, he thought, get it over with. Just what the hell can you do to me? I was only eight days late and what the hell, no one needed me for anything.

Matt Pontowski would not have been so cocksure of himself if he had known what the look on his commander’s face meant. It was the rock-hard look of determination that froze his features when he went about the business the United States Air Force paid him for—combat. The last time Locke had worn that particular expression he had killed seven men. But those men had never seen his face in the impersonal and antiseptic arena of aerial combat. They were lucky.

“Lieutenant,” Locke finally said, his voice measured and calm. Matt stifled the grin that wanted to break out. He wasn’t particularly worried about what the man could do to him. Hell, he mused, this guy is a lightweight. Locke caught the smirk on Matt’s face and correctly interpreted it. “It’s too bad you take your commissioning oath so lightly. This may come as a shock to you, but the President of the United States does place a special trust and confidence in you.”

Matt wanted to laugh. “I think I know much better than most what the President of the United States expects of me.” He had made his point and almost added, “Now do your damnedest, Colonel, do your damnedest.”

Locke did. He was tired of the irresponsible young man in front of him who thought rules were for others. His voice never lost its reasonable tone and his face did not change. “Right. You overstayed your leave eight days and made no attempt to report in. A telephone call was in order. You should have contacted the squadron and extended your leave.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Matt interrupted, “but just what phone number was I to call? The squadron was moving.”

“Apparently, you can’t read either. Read your leave slip. The phone number to call in case of emergencies or requests for extension is on the front.” Locke handed him his leave slip. Matt read it and felt his self-confidence starting to erode. “Now that we have
that
small matter straightened out, is there anything else you wish to say in your defense before we continue?”

“Colonel, you’re making this sound like a court-martial.” The lieutenant was still trying to reassert his position, gain an unspoken dominance over the man.

“You’ll have your chance for a court-martial in a few moments.” For the first time, Matt understood how serious Locke was. Then he saw the look in the older man’s eyes and was suddenly worried. “As of now, you are grounded while I initiate the paperwork for an Article Fifteen.”

Article 15, nonjudicial punishment under the UCMJ, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, was much like a traffic ticket but with much more harmful fallout for an officer. Good sergeants were expected to get at least one as they made the system work, but it was the kiss of death for an officer. Article 15s were handed out by commanders as punishment for breaches in discipline. Officers were expected to give them, not get them, and were rarely promoted if they had one in their file.

“That’s coming down pretty damn hard.”

“No problem, Lieutenant. You don’t have to accept it.” Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He had forgotten that an Article 15 had to be voluntarily accepted in place of punishment under a court-martial—much like plea bargaining. “If you choose not to accept it,” Locke continued, “that leaves me two options, I can drop the Article Fifteen and we’re back to square one or I can initiate court-martial proceedings.” The look on Matt’s face told Locke that the lieutenant didn’t believe he’d do the last. Too bad.

“Also, you were on the promotion list for captain. I red-lined you. You’re going to stay a lieutenant for a while longer—until you start acting like a captain and stop screwin’ around.”

“Colonel, this sounds like overkill.” Matt was still trying.

“Then go for the court-martial. Lieutenant, go for it.”

Matt got the message. “If I accept the Article Fifteen, what punishment are you going to lay on me?”

“Six weeks’ restriction to base.”

“Anything else?” The tone in Matt’s voice indicated he thought it was pretty steep.

“Well, to keep you busy, you’ll be in charge of the self-help project we’ve got under way here making the squadron building suitable for human life.”

“Self-help? Where we paint and fix up the squadron instead of Civil Engineers? That’s their job. Shit, Colonel, self-help is just an excuse for the Civil Engineers’ not doing their job.”

“Lieutenant Pontowski, you’re not reading my lips. Try it. It’ll save a lot of confusion on your part. You’re about to become the best construction engineer in the United States Air Force in Europe. Dismissed.”

“Colonel, I—”

“I said, ‘Dismissed.’ Also have the flight surgeon check your hearing. If you can’t hear me, we may have to ground you permanently.” Matt saluted and beat a hasty retreat.

“You’ve had it, you fucking meathead,” Matt muttered, leaving the squadron and searching for a telephone to make a private call. Twenty minutes later he was talking to Melissa Courtney-Smith.

“Matt, I’m sorry,” Melissa told him, “but Mr. Fraser clears all telephone calls to the President and he isn’t in yet. It’s still early in the morning here.”

“Melissa, I have to talk to Grandpop.” She relented and put him through, aware that Fraser would try to fire her if he found out.

Zack Pontowski listened to the recital of Matt’s troubles. He smiled when Matt told him that his squadron commander was holding up his promotion to captain and “offering” him an Article 15 all because he overstayed his leave. Just like his father, Pontowski thought. “Matt, you wanted to be an officer in the Air Force and fly. Well, in my book, that means you take the good with the bad. Sounds to me like you’ve got some
bad
headed your way.” He listened to more protests before he cut him off. “Do you remember when you came home from school, I think it was the seventh grade, claiming your teacher had punished you unfairly for pouring water down a girl’s back?”

Matt remembered only too well. The elder Pontowski had said that he had gotten into trouble by himself and he could get out by himself. Then he had grounded Matt for a month when he learned what had really happened and about all the other trouble the twelve-year-old had been in.

“Your grandmother’s quite ill,” he told Matt. “I’m in her bedroom and … right, here she is.” He handed the phone over to his wife and picked up his read file. That boy’s been up to something else, he decided. He’s on his own now. He made a mental note to tell Fraser not to intercede on Matt’s behalf.

“Passport,” the Iraqi customs official demanded, threatening Shoshana with a hard look. She pulled the bogus Canadian passport out of her handbag and tried to look unconcerned as she handed it over. It was her first test and her heart was pounding. The man thumbed through the passport, studying the visa stamps. Habish’s warnings about Arabs reverting to type in their own homeland came back. The customs man glanced up at her then back to her passport.

Shoshana tried to act nonchalant as she waited. She glanced around the customs area in the Baghdad airport. A bit on the seedy side, she thought. She forced herself to concentrate. He’ll ask me some question, try to trick me. She went over the details in her passport. She was thankful for the cover name Habish had chosen for her—it was easy to remember.

“Name!” the official barked.

“Rose Louise Temple.” She had anticipated his question! Her confidence soared, shattering the doubts and fears that were showering over her.

“Religion?” He was still acting skeptical.

“Protestant.”

“Denomination please.” He was somewhat mollified and not so aggressive.

“None,” she answered. The man looked at her, confused.

Then Mana joined her and stared at the official who quickly validated her passport and dashed his initials across the entry stamp. “Welcome to Iraq, Miss Temple. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He forced a smile and looked at Mana, not at her. He had made a bad mistake. The Mana family was not to be trifled with in Iraq.

Nothing about Baghdad surprised her as they drove from the airport. The streets were dusty, the buildings on the seedy side, like the airport. The same Arabic music she had heard in Israel assaulted her ears when she rolled the window down at a stop light. And then it hit her—she could have been in East Jerusalem. The sights and the sounds were the same. Again, her confidence climbed. The change in Is’al did bother her, though; he was much more aggressive than in Spain, but in the chauffeur-driven car his family had sent to meet him, he reverted to the original Is’al. She hoped Habish was wrong.

“This is Sa’adon Street,” Is’al told her. The car stopped in front of an elegant old hotel. “And this is the Baghdad Hotel.”

Inside, the Baghdad Hotel reminded her of an old movie. It was exactly as she imagined a luxury hotel in an Arab city. None of the run-down look invaded the lobby. The room was true to type: high ceiling, spacious, with large windows that opened onto Sa’adon Street. The bathroom was old-fashioned but immaculate. “Oh, Is’al,” she beamed, “I love it.”

“Rose, I must tell you now that I probably won’t see you for a few days. I must attend to my family and arrange for your introduction.” She smiled at his formal, stilted English. Only in the most intimate moments did he become relaxed. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“I don’t mind waiting, but please don’t stay away too long. I brought some books to read and”—she paused as if a thought had just hit her—“can you arrange for a tutor to teach me Arabic? I must learn your language.” He nodded, a pleased look on his face. “And I can do some sightseeing and shopping.” His frown told her she had said the wrong thing.

“You must stay in the hotel until I call.”

Has he reverted to type? she thought. I’ve got to establish some independence or I can never make contact with Habish. “Oh, Is’al.” She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “You know how lonely I get.” He knew no such thing but she felt no need to be rational. “Let the hotel arrange a guide and car for me.” He only shook his head. “Please”—now she was wheedling—“I do need the exercise. Otherwise, I’ll have to spend all my time at the swimming pool.” A shocked look crossed his face. He knew the stir she would cause in Baghdad society once she was seen in a swimsuit. “Is’al,” she breathed his name, “I want to find the most exquisite bowl to hold the ice.” He crumbled and beat a hasty retreat, promising to arrange something.

The next morning, Mana telephoned, telling her that his sister, Nadya, had agreed to be her guide and teach her some Arabic, but that formal lessons were out of the question. She told him that was perfect and hoped they could meet today. Mana arranged for his sister and aunt to meet her for lunch at the hotel. For the next two hours, Shoshana dressed carefully, picking out her most conservative clothes. She was certain Mana wanted her to be carefully chaperoned and watched—a definite problem.

At exactly one o’clock, Shoshana’s phone rang and the clerk announced that Nadya Mana was waiting for her in the lobby. Shoshana resigned herself to the ordeal in front of her and went downstairs. “Miss Temple?” a voice called the moment the elevator doors opened. A beautiful young girl of perhaps twenty was waiting with an older woman, an obvious chaperone. Nadya Mana tried to act very Western as she extended her hand and Shoshana could tell by her expensive Parisian clothes that she was the Mana family’s pampered and spoiled pet.

Lunch proved to be delightful and before too long they were giggling and carrying on like two schoolgirls. Afterward, they went to Shoshana’s room to examine her wardrobe. “Is’al,” Nadya said in exasperation, “should have bought you tons of clothes. Oh, these are beautiful,” she added hurriedly, not wanting to offend Shoshana, “but he should have.” She stomped a dainty foot to emphasize her point.

“He wanted to,” Shoshana explained, “but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Why?” Nadya was incredulous.

Shoshana led her by the hand to the bed and set her down. “You must understand, I love your brother very much. Of course, I can’t tell him that.” Nadya nodded in understanding. Now they were conspirators. “In my country, a woman only accepts expensive gifts from a man if she is his mistress or his wife. I will not be Is’al’s mistress.”

Again, Nadya nodded. “But in my country it is different. Here, a man must show his wealth and how much he cares for you. Come, we’re going to buy you many clothes and Is’al is going to pay for it all!” They laughed like conspirators and hurried to the waiting car, the aunt still in tow.

Nadya’s chaperone was asleep, snoring loudly by the time they reached their first stop. They left her in the car and went into a boutique that would have done a Parisian couturier proud. The two women who ran the shop chased everyone else out and fawned over Nadya. Within minutes, Shoshana was in a back room trying on the many dresses Nadya had thrown at her. Shoshana appraised herself in the mirror, decided she liked one, and went out to show Nadya. But she couldn’t find the girl. Suddenly, the women did not speak English at all. Puzzled, Shoshana went back to the fitting room. She heard a low moan from a room down the hall and walked back, checking to be sure she was alone and careful not to make any noise. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open to see inside. Nadya was locked in an embrace with a young man, her skirt up around her hips and her panties on the floor.

Terminally frustrated was the only way to describe Matt. Locke had promised him that he would become the best civil engineer in USAFE, United States Air Force in Europe, and he was determined to prove his squadron commander wrong. But not being able to fly was what hurt the worst, for Locke had grounded him during his forty-five-day confinement to base. He had reluctantly “accepted” the Article 15 Locke had “offered” him after talking to a lawyer. The lawyer had reviewed his case and simply said that he would rather represent the Air Force in Matt’s upcoming court-martial. He got the idea that Locke was serious.