The Hot Pilots (44 page)

“That’s what makes it all so mind-boggling,” Steve said.

“Well, this agent learned that the pilot was critical of his government’s actions toward the Kurds—”

“Whoah, slow down,” Steve demanded.

“The Kurds are a minority people who live primitively in the mountains of Iraq. They tried to maintain their independence
from Baghdad, so the Iraqi Government set out to exterminate them. This pilot had flown some bombing missions against the
Kurds, and was deeply troubled concerning this policy of genocide he was being asked to carry out.”

“So the guy had a motive for defecting …” Steve mused.

“And as the months passed, the Mossad agent helped strengthen that motive by becoming romantically involved with the pilot,”
Rivka continued. “He was married, with children, but in Iraq, I suppose, the aristocracy is allowed certain liberties,” she
added, her tone primly disapproving. “Anyway, the pilot and the Mossad agent traveled together. In Europe the honey trap was
sprung. If he was willing to fly to Israel with his MIG-21, he would be paid handsomely, and he and his family would be given
a new identity and settled somewhere in this country…”

“And if he wasn’t willing?” Steve asked.

Again Rivka shrugged. “As I told you, I am not Mossad, so I don’t know how these things go.”

“So he went for it, obviously.” Steve nodded. “But how did they get his wife and kids out?”

“Prior to his defection it was arranged for one of his children to travel to England to receive medical attention for some
nonexistent ailment. With the child of course the mother would go, and with the mother, why not the other child, as well?”

“They just let the guy’s family out like that?”

“It’s very common practice. Medical care is not all it could be in Iraq.” Rivka chuckled. “And don’t forget, this man was
highly placed in the Iraqi Air Force. The right to medical treatment abroad is just one of the privileges such Arabs enjoy
over the unfortunate masses.”

“So his family boarded an airplane to England—” Steve began.

“But they never got there,” Rivka finished. “They got
here
, instead. Soon after, the Iraqi got into his airplane for a routine patrol, and flew to Israel. It happened so fast that
by the time the Arabs realized what was happening the pilot had already linked up with his IAF protective escort. And that
was how we got our MIG,” she finished.

“Poor guy,” Steve said.

“Hardly,” Rivka scoffed. “He and his family are well taken care of, I am quite sure. Israel’s reputation depends on her holding
up her part of the bargain in such matters.” Her smile turned devilish. “But I do understand why a man such as you might empathize
with that pilot.”

“Meaning what?” Steve demanded.

“Meaning that you can easily see yourself being hoodwinked in just the same way,” she teased, licking her pink lips as she
regarded him.

“Are you saying that I could be wrapped around some female’s little finger, Captain Yakkov?”

“Oh, absolutely I am saying just that, Colonel Gold.” She nodded adamantly. “It would be even
easier
to take advantage of
you.
”

“How so?”

She leaned toward him across the table. He could feel their knees suddenly touching.

“Because, Steven,
you
think it is the natural course of affairs that every woman to whom you have ever paid attention should tumble into bed with
you.”

“Hmmm.” Steve nodded. “Until
now
, of course …”

“Until now, of course,” she echoed, deadpan mimicking him.

“Honey trap, huh?”

“Honey trap.” Rivka impishly nodded.

“Well, you know what they say.” Steve smiled brightly. “You can catch more
fliers
with honey than you can with vinegar—” His laugh died in his throat as he saw her staring blankly.

“
Who
says that …” Rivka asked, puzzled.

“In America! It’s an old saying! ‘Flier’ instead of ‘fly,’ as in ‘housefly’ …” Steve rolled his eyes. “Ah, the hell with it…”

Rivka glanced at her watch. “We should go. Do you have your car?” she asked. She had met him at the cafe.

“It’s parked around the corner,” Steve told her.

“Then would you take me to my flat—?”

“Now you’re talking!” Steve beamed.

“—and drop me off there,” she added, wagging her finger at him like a schoolteacher. “I have IAF paperwork to catch up with
tonight, Colonel, sir.”

“Rivka,” Steve groaned. “This has got to stop. The way you’re keeping me at arm’s length is making me
miserable
. And I
thought
it was your job to make me
happy
—”

“That
is
my job, Steven …” She reached across the table to skate a figure eight with her fingernail on the back of his hand. “But
when
I do it is up to
me.
”

The car they’d given him was a Citroën 2CV. It was a bug-eyed, little tin can of a thing, painted a cream of pea soup shade
of pale green. The Citroën had serious wrinkles in all four of its rusting bicycle fenders, a balky, push-pull gear shift
lever mounted on the dash, and a black canvas sunroof that Steve kept open all the time because it couldn’t block the rain
worth a damn, anyhow. Inside the car there was more of that black canvas, this time cut into strips and crisscrossed around
hollow, curved metal tubing: lawn furniture where in a real car the padded upholstered seats would be. Beneath the hood was
a minuscule 300 cc engine: Steve had seen bigger power plants on lawn mowers. The car could do maybe forty-five miles an hour,
provided, of course, the road was level, the wind was at your back, and you stuck out one foot and helped scoot her along.

Despite all that, careening around Tel Aviv in what he had affectionately taken to calling his “little green crab louse” was
kind of fun. On the other hand, Steve was grateful that his “other car” was a Tyran II jet fighter—

He dropped Rivka at her apartment building, a rickety-looking tenement located on a side alley off the southern end of Hakovshim
Street, near the old port of Jaffa. Rivka had told him that her flat was on the top floor, and that her bedroom had a beautiful
view of the sea.

If there’s a God, I’ll someday get to find that out for myself
, Steve thought as he drove back to his own apartment. It was furnished studio equipped with a small kitchenette, located
on the second floor of a building on a side street off Petah Tikvah Road, near the railway station. The place was a little
grim, but all in all it wasn’t bad. The apartment was clean, and it faced the rear, overlooking a little courtyard, so it
was quiet.

He parked the Citroën in front of his building and used his key to open the locked front door. His head was full of lustful
thoughts of Rivka as he climbed the two flights of stairs.

He stopped short on the second-floor landing.

There was light coming from beneath his door. Steve thought about it: He’d left early this morning, and had spent the day
on his own, sight-seeing. He
knew
he hadn’t left any lights on.

He moved quickly and quietly to his door and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Benny
Detkin, a very somber expression on his face, was sitting in the rocking chair by the window.

“I’m disappointed,” Steve said, shutting the door behind him. “I was looking forward to meeting a Jewish burglar.”

“Jewish burglars are like all the rest,” Benny told him. “More successful, maybe …”

“When’d you get back?” Steve asked, standing in the center of the room.

“Just a couple of hours ago.”

“You ready to do some flying tomorrow?” Steve challenged him. The past few months, whenever Benny had been in Israel, he’d
managed to find the time to come down to the base and fly training missions along with Steve and the rest of the pilots. Steve
had been gratified to find that his old friend still had the right stuff. Benny today was every bit as sharp in the cockpit
as he had been over twenty years ago when he’d helped chase the Zeros back to Tokyo.

“Steve …” Benny began, looking worried. “When I checked in at IAF headquarters, there was a cable for you.”

“A cable? What about?”

“Steve—”

“What?” The look on Benny’s face froze him. “What’s happened?”

“It’s your father,” Benny said, his voice thick with sadness. “He had a heart attack—”

“Oh, God—” Steve staggered back. His vision dimmed. He could feel his legs sagging. His head was filling with a steadily building
roar, like that of a jet plane approaching—

“
My father’s my hero
—”
he’d told her
.

“
Then you should tell him—” Rivka had said
.

“
Plenty of time …
”

His earlier chuckles echoed perversely, melding with his hoarse moan of grief—Plenty of time …

“Steve!”

He opened his eyes to find himself lying flat on his back on the carpet. Benny, looking petrified, was kneeling beside him
cradling Steve’s head in his hands.

“You fainted,” Benny said. “You all right now?”

“Yeah …” Steve said thickly. “Jesus, is my father
dead?
”

“No—”

“Huh? What?” Steve shook himself, trying to clear his head.

“I said no! He’s not dead! Listen to me! Will you?”

Steve nodded slowly. “I’m okay now.” He sat up gingerly and rubbed his hands across his face. “When did it happen?”

“I don’t know, exactly, but it was yesterday. Sometime during late afternoon.” Benny paused, studying Steve, as if he still
wasn’t sure how much of what he was saying was getting through. “I’m talking about Saturday
California time
,” Benny added.

“Yeah, of course …” Steve muttered. “Late afternoon on the West Coast would make it three or four in the morning here …” He
frowned. “That’s still hours ago! Why wasn’t I contacted?”

“No one knew where you were all day.”

“When did the cable come in?”

“According to the log, mid-morning our time.”

“And that’s hours after you said it happened!”

“Calm down!” Benny commanded. “Think it through. I’m sure it was some time before they knew anything, and
then
they had to first reach somebody in Washington—and this is on a Saturday night—who knew how to get a message to you. When
you add in the time difference, I’m surprised they got to you as soon as they did. Someone must have stayed up all night trying
to pull all the pieces together.”

“I guess you’re right,” Steve said, getting to his feet. “Damn! I wish I knew what was happening!”

“Come on,” Benny said, heading for the door.

“Where are we going?”

“IAF headquarters. The cable had a number for you to call. I left a man standing by in Communications to patch you through
…”

The Communications Room was a small annex off the amphitheaterlike, map-lined, computer-laden War Room. Both were in the basement
of the nondescript, gray stone building like so many others in the heart of the city. Steve and Benny waited anxiously in
the windowless, fluorescent-lit, belowground cave lined with electronics as the radio man seated at his console fiddled with
his dials. On the soundproof wall behind them the rows of clocks showing the time all over the world ticked relentlessly.

“I’ve got the connection,” the radio man suddenly said in English, whipping off his earphones and handing them to Steve. “Use
this mike here—” He indicated a microphone angled out on a pivoting arm above his control panel. “Talk fast,” he added in
warning as Steve adjusted the earphones on his head. “We could lose the connection anytime.”

“Hello? Hello?” Steve called loudly, grimacing as static pouring from the headphones filled his ears.

“I’ll pipe it through the overhead speaker,” the radio man was telling Benny.

“—Steve? It’s Sus—” The rest was lost in a burst of angry static.

“Susan? Can you hear me? Damn—!” Due to some glitch in the thousands of miles of wire linking him to his sister half a world
away, Steve’s own voice was echoing in his ears a split second after he spoke.

“—Yes. I can hear you—” Susan said. “—been waiting forever for you to call! No one knew how to reach you—”

“Susan, tell me about Pop,” he demanded.

“—heart attack,” she said. As she continued she was periodically drowned out by the noise over the line. “—awake, resting
comfortably—intensive care—blocked artery—no operation—too old—but the doctors say he should recover—”

“How’s his spirits?” Steve shouted into the mike.

Suddenly, miraculously, all interference on the line ceased. Susan’s voice came through the headphones as clearly as if she
were in the room with him.

“He’s taking it very well, considering,” she said. “Mom and Don have talked to him. He knows he has to retire. When they told
him, his reaction was funny. He seemed almost
relieved
to be turning over the business.” She began to laugh and cry at the same time. “Oh, Steve, wait until you hear! You’ll never
guess what he intends to do once he’s well: He wants to be Bar Mitzvahed—”

The roar of static cut in. “Susan? Hello? Are you still there!” Steve shouted, glancing questioningly at the radio operator.

“That’s it, we lost it.” The guy frowned. “We were patched in through London, believe it or not. From there over the cable
to New York, and across to California. I’m surprised the linkup lasted as long as it did. I could try to get it back …”

“Not necessary,” Steve said, plucking off the headset. “Thank you for what you did manage.”

The operator nodded, breaking into a grin. “Thank God your father is going to be all right. And better than all right! He’s
going to be a Bar Mitzvah!”

“Bar Mitzvah literally translates into ‘man of duty,’” Benny said as they left the IAF building. It was now close to eleven
o’clock, and the city was quieting down. The street they were standing on was deserted.

“Traditionally, a boy is thirteen when he is a Bar Mitzvah …” Benny continued, pedantically lapsing into what Steve imagined
was his friend’s courtroom style. “… But, of course, there is no set limit to how old a man might
be
when God sees fit to summon him to finally take on the religious duties of a good Jew—”