Firebreak (4 page)

“Things change,” Melissa said. “It’s the job of intelligence to stay on top.”

“Get a fresh copy,” he demanded. “I’ll send it up this time.” He picked up the next folder in the stack and started to read. Then he looked up over his reading glasses at Melissa’s retreating back. He made two mental notes: Fire the bitch as soon as possible and get with the director of central intelligence to make sure the party line was reaching the President.

Be careful, he warned himself. The broad has some sort of pull with Pontowski. He had tried repeatedly to find out what it was and at first had simply chalked it up to sex. Beautiful women did come with the job and, even at forty-five, Melissa Courtney-Smith was gorgeous. But in all the years he had known Zack Pontowski, Fraser had never detected the slightest extramarital indiscretion. The President liked women, associated easily with them, and when he found a competent one, relied on her skills and listened to her opinions. But he never took advantage of them. “Humph,” Fraser grunted aloud. It didn’t make sense that a man of the President’s generation would treat women like he did men. Fraser knew exactly how he would have used the woman if she wanted to flit around the edges of real power. It was beyond his way of thinking that Pontowski valued Melissa simply because of her years of loyal and competent service on his staff.

“For Christ’s sake!” he yelled when he read the third folder. “Melissa, get the wing commander at Luke Air Force Base on the phone. Matt’s back at it again.”

“Shoshe, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Tamir was watching his daughter go about the business of packing. His fatherly instincts warned him that she was lying and they were going to argue.

“You would’ve only been upset sooner,” she replied, padding barefoot through the apartment, wearing an old, half-opened, baggy shirt over her briefs and nothing else.

“Must you dress like that?” he asked. He couldn’t help it. He wanted his daughter to be a good Jewish girl. Why are we stuck at the same place we were when she was seventeen? he asked himself.

“Faah-ther,” she said in exasperation, sounding like a teenager, “there’s only you and me here and I am packing.”

“You should have told me sooner,” he repeated. “Going on a vacation on such short notice—I don’t like it.”

“I told you, it’s a working holiday. The company is sending me on business. Otherwise, I could never afford it. Not on my salary.”

“Why would a fruit export company be doing business in southern Spain? It doesn’t sound right.”

She took a deep breath, tried not to let her annoyance break through, and kept her voice calm and reasonable. “I’m checking on new packing and processing equipment. My company has got to stay current if we’re going to compete in world markets.”

“Shoshe …"He wanted to confront her with his suspicions, to lay it out, to satisfy his inquisitive nature. Because of his work in the government, he had heard the Shoshana’s company also fronted for Mossad and he strongly suspected that his only child, his big, beautiful, beloved, raven-haired daughter, worked for Israel’s Central Institute for Intelligence and Special Missions.

“Shoshe …”

“You sound like a stuck record.” She smiled at him. “I’ve got everything I need packed so I can change now. I’ll cook dinner. Just the two of us. You can drop me at the airport in the morning on your way to work.”

Five minutes later, she was dressed and in the kitchen, singing and cooking. Well, Tamir thought, now she knows how to handle me and avoid an argument. He settled into his favorite chair and looked out the open French doors that led to the balcony. The lights of Haifa were coming on below them. It was the end of the Sabbath. She would not have told me anyway, he consoled himself. They never admit it when they work for Mossad. It is one of their strictest rules—the first one they learn.

“I’ll drive, Father,” Shoshana said, loading her two suitcases into the trunk of the family’s Volvo. Tamir grunted and settled into the passenger’s seat. He was worse then a bear coming out of hibernation early in the morning. She pointed the car down the hill and joined the light Sunday morning traffic.

He was surprised by how smooth a driver she had become. “You are driving much better,” he mumbled, still not fully human. “I remember the last time I rode with you …"He dropped the subject and relaxed into the seat for the seventy-mile drive to Ben Gurion Airport. “The car’s running better,” he said, yawning.

“I had it tuned up,” Shoshana replied, glancing at him. “Asleep. Good.” She floored the accelerator and wove smoothly through the light traffic. The car was silent as they left Haifa and headed south.

The sharp staccatolike bark of an AK-47 shattered Tamir’s sleep. Panic jerked him fully awake when he saw two cars in front of them crash together, blocking the road. Instead of hitting the brakes, Shoshana went straight at them, aiming for a gap between a stopped bus on their left in the oncoming lane and a light-green car parked against the curb on the right. He gasped for air when she wrenched the steering wheel to the left, into the bus. At the same time she stomped on the gas, breaking the rear end loose and skidding them sideways through the gap. He was vaguely aware that gunfire was coming from the parked car.

“Whaa …” was all he could manage and a bolt of fear shot through his stomach as the wrecked cars in front of them burst into flame and two bullets slammed into the back of the Volvo. He was certain they were going to roll or skid into the flames.

“Get down!” Shoshana shouted. She eased off the accelerator, still keeping them in the skid as they slowed. Now they were through the gap. Again she mashed the gas pedal and they rocketed around the rear of the bus in a tight U-turn. They accelerated back down the road toward Haifa, keeping the bus between them and the parked car. He could see flames coming from die bus as more gunfire poured into it from the other side. Metal and glass fragments rained down on them. Then they were clear, barreling to safety. “Terrorists,” Shoshana said, her voice amazingly calm. “They were in the parked car.” She pulled into a service station and jumped out of the Volvo, demanding to use the telephone.

Tamir stumbled out of the car still breathing hard and in a state of shock. Now the sporadic terrorist attacks that plagued Israel had touched him and threatened his family. Before, it had only been an incident recorded on TV. Now it was reality. He examined the two holes in the rear of the car, one in the deck and the other in the rear window. Both had passed completely through the car at an angle and exited out the right side. Slowly it came to him that Shoshana had saved his life by throwing the car into a skid and taking the gunfire in the rear; otherwise, the slugs would have plowed through his door.

He followed her inside and found her on the phone reporting the incident. He listened, aware of a growing thirst. He wanted a cool drink—badly. “Yes,” she said, confirming the location of the attack. “There were three of them, two men and a woman. General impressions only, young, Arab-looking, not European or Oriental. I saw two AK-Forty-sevens. Nothing else. They were in a light-green Renault.” Tamir listened as she reeled off the seven digits of the license plate. “There was a different number plate on the front. I didn’t get it all; the first two numbers were four-seven.” She identified herself and then hung up. “We can go now,” she announced. “They’ll call you if they need more information.”

Back in the car, he stared at her. “How did you see all that? And the driving. Like a professional race car driver.”

“Oh, Faah-ther.” The seventeen-year-old was back. “I don’t know. I just did. It was luck. The only time I’ve ever been in a skid was when I took driving lessons. You remember, I told you about that.”

He wanted to believe her; he wanted to be certain that his daughter was telling the truth and just going on a nice business trip to Spain. But his years of training and work as a scientist had conditioned him to evaluate the evidence he saw, to divorce emotion and wishing and hoping from cold logic. Then he looked at her and she tossed her head, throwing her hair to one side, just like Miriam. She saw him watching her and gave him that beautiful smile. The father in him won and he believed her.

Shoshana concentrated on driving, picking her way through back roads until she rejoined the main highway, well clear of the terrorist ambush, heading toward the airport. Please stop asking so many questions, she thought, keeping her silence. I’m doing the same thing you are. She thought about her first field assignment—to make contact with one Is’al Nassir Mana. She had only been told why Mossad was interested in him, not how to exploit their relationship. But she knew what she had to do.

“This is good stuff,” Mike Haney said. “My wife is guzzling her third one. What’s it called?” Matt Pontowski’s backseater helped himself to another dose of the punch Matt had brewed for the party.

“Tell her to go easy,” Matt warned. “It’s called a French Seventy-five. It’s sneaky and can really do a number on you. According to my, ah, sources”—Matt almost said “grandaddy” but he didn’t want Haney to think he was name-dropping—“it first saw the light of day in World War One and was named after a famous French artillery piece. Believe me, it can be lethal.” The lieutenant smiled as he recalled how his grandfather could go on endlessly, spouting trivia from what he called the Great War. The elder Pontowski’s interest in World War One made sense, considering the President of the United States was born on November 11, 1918, the day the war ended.

Matt checked the bar again, satisfied with the way the squadron party was going. It was the first time he had used the big recreation room at the condominium where he lived in Phoenix, Arizona, and it was a perfect party place, the way it opened out to the pool and spa. There was a sauna in a back room and he liked the large freestanding fireplace that formed a pillar in the center of the room.

The squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Locke, and his wife were leaving and came over to Matt. “Nice party,” Locke said.

Gillian Locke extended her right hand for Matt to shake. “I really enjoyed it and don’t want to leave. Baby-sitters, you know.” Her British accent charmed him and she gave him a beautiful smile.

Locke turned and looked around the room, wanting to stay. But he could see the younger troops wanted to get rowdy and were only held in check by his presence. It was one of the reasons squadron commanders left early. He remembered when he was a bachelor lieutenant. Now he had to play the squadron commander. “Take good care of the drunks.” He smiled, his way of saying not to let anyone drive under the influence.

“Roger, sir,” Matt said, all business. “We got designated drivers and I’m keeping them stone-cold sober. Poor bastards.” The Lockes said a few more good-byes and disappeared out the door. Matt breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, oh,” Haney said. “Looks like one of the ladies is getting ready to do it.” A small crowd was gathering around a corner of the freestanding fireplace in the center of the room. A girl wearing a tight skirt was looking up at the beam ceiling twelve feet above her head. The bricks did not form a smooth edge, but stuck out. The way they overlapped and alternated made a ladder effect that the girl was going to test. She hiked her skirt above her thighs and scampered up the corner of the fireplace like a human fly.

“Woo-ie!” she called at the top, tapping a beam in the ceiling. She started to work her way down.

“Hope someone catches her if she falls,” a soft voice said behind Matt. He turned to see the condominium’s owner standing in the doorway.

“No way I’m going to stand under her,” Haney said. “My wife would skin me alive—claim I’m turning into a dirty old man and looking up women’s skirts.”

“I think,” Matt said, “there’s plenty of volunteers to catch her, Mrs. Mado.” He handed her a cup of his punch.

Barbara Mado returned his smile and sipped the punch. “French Seventy-fives. Wicked.”

Matt caught the gleam in her eye. “Why don’t you stay and get acquainted, Mrs. Mado.” Matt had heard the rumors about her and knew a party animal when he saw one.

“Please, it’s Barbara. And I will if you don’t mind. Sounds like fun.” She smiled and joined the crowd.

“Is she really a general’s wife?” Haney asked.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “ A three-star. Lieutenant General Simon Mado. A real asshole. He traded his first wife in for her a couple of years ago. Figured it would help his career.”

“I can see why. Great body. She could pose for
Playboy.
How old you think she is?”

Matt shrugged an answer. “I’d guess late thirties. Rumor around the condo has it she was a Las Vegas showgirl in a prior life before she started buying real estate. Apparently she made a bundle before marrying Mado. She still shows up now and then; takes good care of the place.”

Haney moved behind the bar and helped Matt while the party got noisy and rowdy. From time to time. Matt noticed Barbara Mado and started to worry about her repeated trips to the punch bowl. Most of the married couples had left and someone had turned the music up when he heard a squeal from the pool. Two lieutenants were launching Barbara into the air. He heard a splash and shrugged. Three more splashes followed in short order.

The girl who had climbed the fireplace came up to the bar, gathering a few well-deserved comments. She was only wearing a wet teddy that left nothing to the imagination. She threw her soaked dress at Matt. “Please do something with that,” she laughed.

Another chorus of shouts marked Barbara’s entrance from the pool. She was fully clothed and dripping wet. “Unzip me, please,” she said, turning her back to Haney.

He did as he was told. “Man, I got to leave,” he said. “Too wild for an old married man like me.” He went in search of his wife.

“Chicken,” Barbara called at his departing back and stepped out of her dress, She kicked it into a pile against the bar and mentally compared herself to the young, half-dressed girl. Matt sucked his breath in. Barbara Mado was spectacular in her wet black lace bra and sheer matching bikini panties. She might as well have been naked.

He leaned across the bar and did his best W. C. Fields routine. “Well, well, my dear, anyone who drinks French Seventy-fives and runs around dishabille can’t be all bad.”