Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  Matt sensed the hesitancy, mistaking it for weakness, and decided to press his advantage. “Sir, we did what we set out to do. We smoked the bad guys, made ‘em glow in the dark. And that’s what it’s all about.”

  “It would’ve been nice if you had brought the jet back,” Locke said.

  Before Matt could say more, Haney interrupted. “Matt, shut up.”

  But Matt wouldn’t let it go. “Damn it, Colonel. We should have passed that check ride. Those Stand Eval pukes haven’t got a clue—”

  Locke cut him off with a cutting chop of his right hand. “Wrongo. You haven’t got a clue. You assumed you flunked. Stand Eval passed you with a ‘marginal.’ They did comment on your attitude and that’s what’s got me worried. That’s why you’re in here.” He paused for effect, to let the news sink in. “Haney, you got high marks for your rapid decode of the message.” Locke threw the two message forms they had used in the simulator in front of them. “And for the IP-to-target run. The Stand Eval ‘puke’ claimed it was the best he’s ever seen. You”—he pointed a pencil at Matt—“didn’t even bother to finish decoding the message. That was dumb because two-man control and verification of release messages is critical to the way we operate. Luckily, your wizzo was right. Haney, disappear while your nose gunner gets his attitude adjusted.” The young captain saluted and beat a hasty retreat out of the office.

  “Let’s get something straight, Pontowski,” Locke said, leaning back in his chair. “You passed that check ride because of your wizzo and the fact we need to get all our crews nuclear-mission qualified.”

  “I’m not asking for any gifts, sir.”

  “You’re getting a small one because the squadron is moving to England and picking up a NATO commitment. We need every body we can get. The bottom line is that you’re mission-qualified—barely. Normally, I don’t accept a ‘marginal’ and put a crew back into training until they are ‘satisfactory.’ ”

  Matt was stunned by the news. “I didn’t know we were moving …”

  “That’s close-hold information, Lieutenant. I’m telling you because it will be officially announced tomorrow. Keep it under your hat until then. There’s another thing …”

  Matt braced himself.

  “You give a new meaning to the term ‘double bang,’ “ Lock began, not enjoying what he had to do. Damn, Locke raged to himself, I remember when I was on the receiving end of a chewing-out like this one. But the young man standing in front of him was different. He had weight behind him. Hell! How much more backing could a fighter jock have than the President of the United States? Locke thought. The wing commander had forcibly reminded him of that two hours ago when he dumped the problem of Matthew Zachary Pontowski III and his wild ways into Locke’s lap. The wing commander’s words had been a simple “Work it out, Locke. Keep the kid under control and don’t get me involved.”

  “Just how much farther do you think you can push the system?” Locke asked, switching his approach.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Let me put it another way, Pontowski. If any other swingin’ dick in my squadron had jumped two alert birds scrambled on a drug smuggler or had a general’s wife running around stark starin’ naked at a party, he’d be long gone. Your political connections are saving your ass …” Suddenly, Locke was tired of the young man in front of him. Tired of his casual attitude and self-confidence that were ample evidence he wasn’t worried about anything his squadron commander could do to him. And Locke knew he was right.

  “Years ago,” Locke said, “your personnel file would have had a big PI, for political influence, stamped on it. They don’t do that anymore. In your case it wouldn’t matter.”

  “That’s not fair, Colonel—”

  “Just listen, Pontowski. You’re walking away from jumping the F-Fifteens clean as a whistle because of PI in the shape of one Thomas Fraser, your grandfather’s chief of staff. Fraser is running interference for you and pinging on our wing commander. The Old Man can’t take that sort of heat. Also, I’ve got other things to worry about, like a squadron move, and haven’t got time for you.” Matt started to interrupt, stung by Locke’s hard words. But Locke cut him off. “Are you also hard of hearing? I said, ‘Listen.’ At least allow me one prerogative. All I can ask you to do is to try and act responsible and not kill anyone else in these games you play.”

  Matt was standing rigidly at attention, biding his time until he could escape. “One last thing,” Locke continued, his voice flat and unemotional. “No political influence, no cosmic backseater, no fuckin’ false bravado is going to save your ass when a MiG pilot has outflown you, outthought you, outfought you, and is at your six o’clock hosing you down.”

  “With the ruckus in Iraq over, that’s not likely to happen, now is it, Colonel?” Matt was smiling when he said it, all his self-confidence back. He was getting bored.

  “You’d better hope not,” Locke said, thinking about his own experience in that particular war. “But in England you will be just that much closer to MiG drivers, won’t you? Now get the hell out of here so I can do some productive work.”

  Matt saluted and left. Haney was waiting for him outside the office, wearing a worried look. He followed the pilot down the hall. “Are we gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah,” Matt reassured him, totally unaffected by the chewing out he had received. “Not a hell of a lot they can do to me. Stick with me kid and you’ll be okay.” The relief on Haney’s face was obvious. “I gotta get out of this chickenshit outfit for a while,” Matt continued. “Maybe take some leave.” He thought for a moment. “I know where there’s one hell of a party going on.” The young pilot turned abruptly into the administration office, grabbed a leave form, and filled it out.

  The administration clerk checked the completed form. “Colonel Locke has to approve foreign leave,” she told Matt.

  “No problem. He’ll sign it. Probably be glad to get rid of me for a while.”

  “Where you goin'?” Haney asked.

  “Spain. See you in England.” He ambled down the hall, leaving a perplexed Haney in his wake.

  Shoshana sat at a small table in Marbella’s main square, enjoying a late-morning cup of coffee and reading a two-day-old copy of The New York Times. She found the old town with its picturesque streets, small shops, and masses of flowers fascinating and, after three days, was spending more and more or her time there, mostly in dress shops. She dropped the newspaper in her lap and thought about the boutiques she would explore later on. A familiar voice brought her back to reality with a jolt.

  “Don’t turn around,” Habish’s voice said behind her. She did anyway and saw her contact sitting at the table immediately behind her. He was reading a newspaper, seemingly unconcerned with her presence. “This is not a vacation. Spend more time at the beach club. We’ve arranged for you to attend a party there tonight. The club manager has an invitation for you.”

  Habish had been busy making contacts and opening doors for Shoshana’s entrance into the more rarefied strata of Marbella’s social life. Since the Mossad did not use local Jews for its operations, refusing to compromise their status or allegiance to their own country, Habish had to ferret out his own contacts and bring in two more agents. Luckily, Marbella was a tourist trap, although a very high class one, that required workers—hairdressers, waiters, receptionists—fluent in many languages. Habish had found a young Moroccan working as a hotel’s assistant manager who was hired because he spoke Arabic. The young man was also Jewish and a Zionist. He had readily volunteered to help Habish, willing to become involved without knowing details. Secretly, the Moroccan hoped Habish was on the trail of another Adolf Eichmann. Shoshana would never know that three Mossad agents were backing her up, laying groundwork, watching her every move, and only getting above five hours of sleep a night. Gad Habish was a tired man.

  “The dress boutique you were in yesterday,” he continued, “the one near the fountain, go back this morning and talk to Gabriella. She’ll help select a d
ress for the party.” The sales clerk was another immigrant worker that one of the agents had recruited.

  “I can’t afford anything in there,” Shoshana protested.

  “Use a credit card,” Habish snapped, cutting off any further conversation.

  Twenty minutes later, Shoshana was trying on dresses, shocked that she would be buying anything with such a price tag. “You must be more relaxed and natural,” Gabriella counseled. “Don’t worry about the prices.” She surveyed the young woman, analyzing her, trying to decide how best to showcase her natural beauty. “Black is your best color,” she decided. “Try this one.” The woman handed Shoshana a black, full-length gown, strapless except for two thin spaghetti straps over each shoulder and slit high up the right side, revealing most of her leg. The dress seemed to shimmer and flow over her body. “Yes, that will do perfectly.”

  Shoshana took stock of her reflection in a mirror, shocked at what she saw. “It looks like a nightgown …”

  “Not quite. But that is the idea.”

  “What kind of bra do I wear with this? And look at the panty line!”

  “Don’t wear either.”

  Shoshana was ready for her first skirmish.

  A gentle breeze moved in off the Mediterranean, cooling the large patio where the beach club held its parties, rocking the lanterns, and casting a moving pattern of light and shadows over the rich, famous, infamous, and hanger-ons that made up the “glitterati” of Marbella’s society. Matt was sitting at the patio’s bar just outside the French doors that opened into the main lounge taking it all in when a tall, Nordic young man walked through the doors. “Hellmut,” he called, catching the newcomer’s attention, “I’d given up on you.”

  “Never miss a party like this one, my friend,” Hellmut Wisser, the son of WisserChemFabrik’s general director assured him. For the next few minutes, the two old friends brought each other up to date on what they had been doing since they last met at Gstaad, Switzerland, for a week of skiing. Their friendship went back to the time when Matt was a cadet at the Air Force Academy and had accompanied his grandfather on a junket to visit NATO bases in Europe. They had met at a stuffy reception and had become instant friends when they discovered a shared interest in pretty girls, fast cars, skiing, and partying—not necessarily in that order. They had escaped from the elegant castle on the hillside overlooking Bonn where the reception had been held and for the next three days, pursued three of their four common interests, sorry that it was the midst of summer.

  The friendship had grown on its own over the years and received positive encouragement from Hellmut’s family when they learned that Matt’s grandfather might become the President of the United States. For one short summer, the Wissers had hoped that something might develop between Matt and Hellmut’s younger sister, Lisl. But nothing came of it, for other than a lustful enjoyment of each other’s body, Matt and Lisl had nothing in common. They still slept together whenever they met.

  They were talking about skiing when Shoshana walked onto the patio. “Who,” Matt said, very interested, “is that?”

  “A new face this year,” Hellmut told him.

  “And a new body,” Matt allowed.

  “Her name is Rose Temple. I had the company run a background check when one of our”—Hellmut paused, searching for the right words—“more influential clients expressed an interest. She’s a Canadian working in California. Over here for a vacation and staying at the Atalaya Park. Some money in the family—ranching and lumbering.”

  “1 hope,” Matt said, “that she’s one of them ‘wimmen’ my granddaddy warned me about.”

  Hellmut shook his head, an amused look in his eyes. He knew when Matt was about to give chase. “We would, ah”—again he sought the right words—“rather you’d not. There is an engineer here who we would like Miss Temple to meet.” He nodded toward a dark, pudgy young man, Is’al Nassir Mana, standing next to Hellmut’s father.

  “Is this business?” Matt asked.

  “Of course.” Hellmut saw no reason to tell his friend that Mana was from Iraq and that his company was doing business with that country again. Americans could be incredibly naive about some things.

  “Then he’s going to have to take his chances with the rest of us,” Matt said. He stood up and headed toward Shoshana.

  “Matt,” Hellmut called after him, “Lisl is here.” The pilot paused before he rolled in for a reconnaissance run on his latest target.

  Shoshana turned her head, cast a long gaze at Mana, then glanced away. He had seen her looking at him. Good. Slowly she returned her gaze, a slight smile on her lips. It was the classic, time-honored come-on—an interested look and a smile. Now the ball was in Mana’s court. Would he take the few steps over to her and say something? No matter what he said, it would be well received. The Iraqi engineer was saying something to the elder Wisser. Then he started to walk toward Shoshana.

  “He’s not the one for you,” a voice said. She turned to see Matt standing behind her. Now Mana was walking away. Matt’s self-assured style cast a circle of strength and confidence around him that intimidated competition at a distance and that women found attractive and alluring. Mana could sense that he was already beaten. For a moment, Shoshana was flustered, not knowing what to do. A warm feeling welled up and pulled her toward the American. “Hi,” he continued, keeping her off balance. “I’m Matt Pontowski.”

  She glanced back at Mana, who was watching them. Shoshana gave him an upward shrug of the shoulders with a smiling, perplexed look as if to say, “I can’t help it,” or “Save me.” Mana smiled back then rejoined the Wissers. All was not lost.

  “Oh, ah, Rose Temple.” She looked away, sending an obvious signal that she was not interested. Her training had been most thorough in this area.

  But Matt was not about to be put off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare off your Arab friend. I seem to do that all the time.” He was establishing his territory, offering her protection if she wanted it and the tugging inside Shoshana grew stronger.

  She was saved when a slender, self-possessed woman passed by. “Matt!” the newcomer sang out, her voice warm and friendly. “Hellmut said you were here.” Lisl Wisser stopped less than six inches from Matt and reached up, touching his cheek. She was establishing her own territorial claims. For a moment, the entire room was aware of the trio, watching them. The two women stood in a stark, beautiful contrast to each other; one fashionably slender, a golden blonde, the other a dark, mature beauty with a glowing sensuality. Most of the guests knew who Matt was. Two men commented on the choice Matt would have to make. A third speculated that knowing Lisl Wisser, Matt wouldn’t have to make a choice—if he was lucky.

  Shoshana ended all speculation by excusing herself and walking away, determined to leave the party and salvage whatever she could. Matt watched her go. Lisl gave his cheek a friendly pat, recapturing his attention. “Tonight?” she asked, making sure Shoshana heard.

  Outside the beach club, Shoshana asked the doorman for a taxi back to her hotel. A dark car driven by Gab Habish pulled up and she waited for the doorman to close the door before she said anything. Quickly, she recounted what had happened at the party. “You did well by leaving,” he told her. “We’ve arranged for you to join a water-skiing party tomorrow at Porta Banus. Mana will be there. Wear your black bathing suit.”

  “I can’t wear that and water-ski,” she protested. “I’ll fall out of it.” Habish only looked at her. She got the point-that was the idea.

  “I’ll have you picked up at eleven tomorrow morning,” Habish said. He was looking forward to a full night’s sleep. “And avoid Matthew Pontowski.”

  “Who is he anyway?” she asked.

  Habish let his irritation with her show. “Start doing your homework and learn all you can about the people you associate with. His grandfather is the President of the United

  States.”

  Shoshana felt a warm confusion tug at her again.

  3

  The
black Mercedes Habish had dispatched to take Shoshana to Porta Banus blended perfectly with the other cars in the small, exclusive resort town that hugged a harbor overflowing with yachts. The driver deposited her at a dock where she joined a small group of people. Much more observant after Habish’s sharp rebuke about doing her “homework,” she noticed that most of the crowd was made up of the younger set from last night’s party. She also counted the armed uniformed guards that strolled casually through the waterfront and along the docks. She carefully noted the type and condition of their weapons.

  Two luxury speedboats were ferrying the waiting guests for the water-skiing party out to a massive yacht that was too long to enter the harbor. A man in a white linen suit took her name and spoke into a small radio, checking her invitation before he let her board one of the speedboats.

  Once on board the yacht, she was pleased that the baggy white shorts and cotton safari shirt she had chosen to wear over her swimsuit matched the casual dress of the other guests. Hopefully, she thought, Habish won’t be too upset when I tell him that I didn’t wear the bathing suit. Instead, she had donned a modest athletic tank suit with two bright fluorescent panels. Her instincts warned her that it would be more acceptable to Mana and less provocative to the likes of Matt Pontowski.

  “Miss Temple,” Hellmut called out when he saw her, “so glad you could make it.” The heir apparent to the Wisser fortunes guided her by the elbow to his small group gathered around the taffrail at the stern of the ship. A waiter scurried up with a tray of Bloody Marys while Hellmut introduced her around. Is’al Nassir Mana extended his hand when he was introduced and she shook it, finding it warm and soft like his brown eyes. He spoke a few words and Shoshana thought of the teddy bear she loved to cuddle as a child. He did not match the stereotype she had created in her mind when she had studied his file.