Firebreak (9 page)

A feeling of relief swept over Fraser—the DCI had just raised a peripheral issue that should distract Pontowski from cozying up to the current Israeli prime minister.

“Don’t get distracted,” the President said. “We don’t know the exact contours of the relationship between Israel and South Africa or what they’re doing in the Kalahari. For now, focus on Egypt, Syria, and Iraq.”

Fraser didn’t want to let the subject die. “I think the South Africans are using the Israeli lobby to push their case with Congress.”

Pontowski nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen the results of that effort before.” He pointed at Fraser. “Tom, I want you to stay on top of this and have some answers by this afternoon. Don’t leave a single stone unturned.” He walked out of the room, cutting off any further discussion, leaving a hushed and stunned group behind him.

The secretary of state broke the silence. “He’s worried.”

Fraser stood up and glared at him. “Obviously. We’ve got to sort this one out—and fast.” For the next few minutes, he demonstrated the organizational skill that made him such an asset to the President. Finally, they were ready to leave.

“Okay,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, “who presents it to the President? I’d suggest we let General Leo Cox do it. He’s the most knowledgeable man I have on the Middle East.”

Everyone readily agreed, more than willing to let the Defense Intelligence agency handle this one. “No,” Fraser said. “I want the CIA to present it.” No way I’m going to let that son of a bitch get to the President, he thought, stomping out of the room.

Back in his office, he threw the papers he was carrying at Melissa and slammed his door behind him. Once in the privacy of his own office, he paced the floor, rage and fury boiling through him. “Damn,” he growled, “I control access to the President. I set the agenda. Someone’s getting around me.” Slowly, he regained control and the shooting pains in his stomach quieted, leaving only an occasional echo to remind him of his ulcer.

The light for his private line on the phone bank flashed at him. He sat down and hesitated before answering it, making sure he was in total control. It was B. J. Allison, the CEO of one of the largest oil corporations in the United States. Allison was also a heavy contributor to any cause or campaign Fraser might suggest and heavily invested in Middle Eastern oil. “B.J.”—he forced a smile into his voice—“we’ve got to get together for lunch of dinner.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah, I got rid of the bimbo. Tomorrow night would be fine.”

Zack Pontowski was sitting by his wife’s bedside reading and drinking coffee when she woke up. She studied her husband for a few moments, not wanting to disturb him. We’ve been through so much together, she thought, and now you’ve got to watch me die. For a moment, she fought back her tears, not because lupus was again ravaging her body, this time attacking her skin, but because she couldn’t help him now that he had reached the pinnacle of his career. She cried because he had to carry the burden alone. When she was in firm control and the tears conquered, she moved, letting him know she was awake.

“Sleep well, Tosh?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked her. She smiled at him as he laid down the thick read file that waited for him every morning, removed his glasses, and placed a hand gently over hers. Pontowski had caught her first waking movements and had concentrated on his reading until she was in control.

“You are so vain,” she chided him. “You never let anyone see you wearing glasses.” He humphed in response. “Probably just as well,” she allowed. “Don’t need to hide those steely blue eyes.” He waited until a nurse had helped arrange her in a sitting position before handing her a cup of coffee. “Well, then,” she continued, “have you solved the world’s problems or will that take until lunch?” She believed in keeping him humble.

“Should have that done by tomorrow. Looks like a decisive power struggle is going on inside Russia.” He always told her what was occupying his attention and she had a way of keeping him focused on what was important. “Lots of turmoil inside the Kremlin.”

“Will that affect what’s going on in the Middle East?” He had shared Melissa’s memo with her the night before.

“Hard to say. It does look like Rokossovsky is in deep trouble. The old guard is fighting his economic reforms tooth and tong.”

“Tooth and toenail,” she corrected him. They both laughed although it was far from a laughing matter for Viktor Rokossovsky, the young and energetic Soviet premier.

“We got a letter from Matt,” he announced, handing her the envelope. “He’s in Marbella on vacation, whooping it up, I expect.”

“Just like his father,” she said. Pontowski waited while she read the rare note from their grandson. It was an occasion when he wrote, for Matt was like his father—an unrestrained fighter pilot, eager to party, chase women, and fly whenever he got the chance. Zack Pontowski and his wife both shared the unspoken hope that he would not die in a fiery crash like his father did—that combat would not claim the last male descendant of the Pontowski clan. “Now this is different,” she said. “He mentions a girl, a Rose Temple from Canada. Do you think our ne’er-do-well grandson may be getting serious for the first time in his life?”

“Well, he did write a letter.” Again, they both laughed.

Patience was not part of Fraser’s personality and the delay ate at him. Still, he forced himself to sit quietly in the receiving room of the mansion in the rolling hills of western Virginia that B. J. Allison called home. Even for a private dinner at home, Fraser knew that B.J. liked to make an entrance. Some “home,” Fraser decided, calculating its worth at around $19.5 million. He had missed it by less less than $200,000.

He was not disappointed by her entrance. Five minutes later, B.J. Allison swept down one of the spiraling staircases wearing a simple floor-length gown and a single diamond pendant with matching earrings. Fraser was impressed, not by the gown or diamonds, which he correctly estimated to be worth $2 million, but by the five minutes. B.J. kept governors and senators waiting seven minutes and was on time only for the President of the United States or royalty.

“Tom!” she sang out, her voice a beautiful contralto. “You do avoid me too much.” Fraser couldn’t help but smile as she took his arm and escorted him into the drawing room, the first stage in the journey to dinner. Only the eccentric with strong self-destructive tendencies or the extremely powerful willfully avoided Barbara Jo Allison. Charles de Gaulle had reportedly managed it successfully.

No one knew B.J.'s exact age, nor did they discuss it publicly, for it was the one thing the petite and elegant woman was sensitive about. Reporters could describe her as a witch, bitch, or anything else within the realm of journalistic decency with impunity. One young reporter had mentioned the rumor that she was so politically conservative that she considered Attila the Hun a flaming radical and that she had a swastika tattooed on the right cheek of her fanny. B.J. had sent a note to the reporter’s publisher telling him that the swastika was tattooed on the left cheek because it was a liberal philosophy, however misguided and amusing. The reporter’s reputation and career were made.

The one TV commentator who had speculated about her age had disappeared into obscurity within three days and later committed suicide. Fraser was wildly off when he estimated her age at sixty-six.

B.J. led Fraser through dinner with the grace and charm she had learned from her mother in Tidewater Virginia and regaled him with Washington gossip and delightful rumors. It was only in the intimacy of the library over coffee that B.J. turned to what interested her the most—oil and politics. “They tell me the President is going to press Congress to reduce the offshore oil depletion allowance. Now I think that would be most unwise, don’t you?” He readily agreed and promised that he would do what he could to change Pontowski’s mind. Neither of them mentioned that, thanks to Fraser, Allison had thrown her weight, influence, and campaign contributions behind Pontowski in the recent election.

“And the Middle East, I do find that worrisome, don’t you?” Again, Fraser agreed, wondering what she was leading to. “Is it true that someone is telling the administration that the Syrian-Egyptian treaty is more than an agreement to spur on economic development in those two poor countries?”

Fraser almost dropped his cup. How had she learned that? What were her sources? The briefing the CIA had given Pontowski the day before was classified top-secret. He knew better than to lie. “Yes, that’s true. The Israeli secret service—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “I know about the Mossad. I do wish they would quit meddling in my business. Secret agents, penetrations …” She stomped her foot in frustration. “Why, you’d think I was a foreign power threatening those poor unfortunate people.”

“What nonsense. If you want, I’ll tell the President that the Israelis are harassing American companies.”

“I wouldn’t trouble him for the world.” She laid on her soft southern accent, creating an illusion of helplessness. “You mustn’t listen to the ramblings of a silly old woman.”

“I should be so old,” Fraser lied and quickly changed the subject. “Mossad did pass a warning to us that the treaty is a cover for a military alliance between Egypt and Syria with a possible link to Iraq. Some of our analysts think Israel is the only logical target.”

“Ridiculous,” she snorted. “I know many Arabs and they all want peace. Why just the other day I was talking to Sheik Mohammed al-Khatub, you know, that charming man from OPEC, and he assures me that they all want peace. The Israelis are using that as a scare tactic to get more money and arms out of us.” She paused before continuing. “Tom.” She laid her hand on his arm. They had come to the crux of the meeting. “I do wish that President Pontowski and Congress would recognize that we have many other friends in the Middle East besides Israel. And I do think it’s time we let Israel sink or swim on its own, don’t you?”

Gad Habish was tired when his flight from Amsterdam landed at Málaga. The return journey from Israel had been an ordeal and he had spent hours transiting through four different airports in four countries as he switched passports and changed identities. “All for twenty minutes with the Ganef,” he complained. The team’s number two man, Zeev Avidar, who had met him at the airport said nothing; he understood only too well Habish’s feelings. Everyone in the Mossad knew their leader was habitually ill-tempered and irascible, but they also knew he was a genius who had learned his craft in the Warsaw ghetto as a teenager in World War II.

“What horse is the old Ganef riding these days?” Avidar asked.

“Money. What else. Claims we’re spending too much of it. He had a fit over the dress until I showed him the pictures.” Habish gave a snort that passed for a laugh. “That shut him up. I think the old bastard actually got a hard-on.”

“Impossible.” They were quiet for the rest of the ride into Marbella.

Shoshana was following the routine Habish had established for her to make contact. She started out by visiting a certain gift shop downtown and then pausing for a late-morning coffee on the main square. After that, she would visit a few more shops before dropping into Gabriella’s dress boutique thirty-five to forty minutes after she had finished the coffee. Someone was always there to meet her. This time, it was a red-eyed Habish who was waiting.

“How’s the relationship with Mana progressing?” he asked.

“Satisfactory.” He could hear an icy chill in her voice. When Shoshana chose, she could freeze a person with her haughty, reserved manner. But Habish was no ordinary person.

“Out with it,” he demanded, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

“I don’t like being watched by voyeurs,” she replied, turning the temperature down a few more degrees. “You are nothing but a frustrated—” She cut the words off. “I do not like what I am doing to Is’al and prefer not to be gawked at when I must … must seduce him.”

“Say it like it is,” he snapped. “When you must ‘fuck’ him.”

Her anger flared. “We haven’t gone that far yet. He has a problem.”

“Yes, we know. Premature ejaculation.”

“Must you do this to him?” A pleading had crept into her voice.

“My God! You’ve fallen for one of the clients.”

“No. But I do like him. He is so vulnerable and unsure of himself.”

Habish motioned for her to sit down while he checked the hall for security. Only Zeev Avidar was there. He sat next to her and spoke in a soft voice, explaining the ‘'drill” to her.

“Yes, we do watch you. You are under constant surveillance, twenty-four hours a day. It is not easy but it is necessary.” She started to protest that it wasn’t necessary, that she was perfectly safe with Mana. Again he anticipated her. “Believe me, you are in constant danger. This is the only way we can guarantee your safety. Did you know Mana has bodyguards and they have taken pictures of you and him together? Including that tender scene in the hall where you had him twanging at E above high C.” Shoshana was shocked.

Habish pressed his advantage. “Is’al Mana is an Iraqi chemical engineer who right now, as we speak, is negotiating with WisserChemFabrik for highly specialized machinery that could be used to manufacture a new nerve gas. You know the most likely target of nerve gas—Israel.” He stood up, his words now filled with emotion. “Shoshana, we are protecting our people, making sure that nothing like the Holocaust will ever happen again. No one
likes
what we do, least of all me. But there is no choice between the Manas of Iraq and the safety of our families. I wish there was another way.”

His words had stirred memories deep inside and she remembered that Sunday long ago when she had cut her hair and visited Yad Vashem with her grandmother and aunt and uncle. “You’re right.” Her voice was her apology. ‘ ‘I had let my personal feelings cloud my judgment. It won’t happen again.”

“In our work,” Habish said, “you must put your personal feelings away. But always remember where you hid them. You will need them when you’re done with this filthy work. That is the way you remain a human being.” He let her digest his words, judging her about ready for the purpose of his hurried visit back to Israel. She nodded and he knew she could continue.

“An agent reported the Iraqis are constructing a plant to make a new and much more deadly gas—one that we have no defenses for. He paid for that information with his life.” He paused. “Shoshana, there is a connection between Mana and that plant. We want you to go inside, into Iraq, and find out what that nerve gas is.”

Satiated, saturation, disgust. The three words rolled around in Matt’s head, much like a tune that wouldn’t go away. “Damn,” he muttered, not knowing why he was so discontented. He was lying naked on the deck of a thirty-six-foot sailboat, another one of the many Wisser possessions, off the Greek island of Santorin. He rolled over, careful not to put any pressure on his crotch, and searched the beach for Lisl. He didn’t have any trouble finding her. She was the nude, golden-haired nymph running through the surf. “Exhibitionist,” he grunted.

Lisl’s brother, Hellmut, had sensed that Matt’s growing attraction for Shoshana might complicate the negotiations with the Iraqis if the pilot stole her away from Mana. Rather than take any chances, Hellmut had suggested that the two of them leave Marbella and fly to Mykonos to pick up the boat for a few days’ sail around the Aegean. Matt had readily agreed, seeing an easy way to end the games he was playing over Shoshana. He didn’t like being aced out by an Arab.

Gingerly, he stood up and climbed down the companion-way to find something to eat. He was standing in the galley when the boat rocked as Lisl climbed up the boarding ladder. “Not again.” He made a promise to stop talking to himself. Rather than let Lisl trap him below for another round of love-making, he went back on deck. She was waving at another sailboat that was mooring beside them. Two couples waved back and they started an animated conversation in German.

“They’ll be coming over when they finish mooring,” Lisl told him. The two women on the other boat had already shed their clothes.

What in the hell is the matter with you, he thought. I’m in a teenager’s paradise, screwing my eyeballs out and I’ve had it. For the first time in his life, he understood the difference between fucking and making love. And he knew whatever he and Lisl had been doing, it wasn’t making love.

“Lisl, what’s the date today?” She shrugged and called across the water, asking the new arrivals. He knew enough German to understand the answer.
“Scheise. ”
The German obscenity got her attention. “I’m AWOL. Got to get going.” He explained that he had overstayed his leave and would be in a barrel of
Scheise
if he didn’t get back to his unit. The news didn’t bother Lisl, her four new friends would keep her occupied for a while. Her father would send someone to pick up the boat.