“We need to leave.”
Rage crashed through her, driving her anger and frustration before it like a windstorm. “Do we throw him in a ditch like those two soldiers? Or do we just leave him here for the rats to eat? Goddamn you, Habish. He saved our lives and I can never repay that. At least I can bury him.”
“Shoshana …” He wanted to reach out and touch her, to tell her of his grief and sorrow. But he had to continue with what had begun in Tel Aviv when he started on this operation. And then against his better judgment, he gave in. “We’ll bury him.” He rose and brushed past her. “Stay here,” he commanded and disappeared out the door.
He returned an hour later and without saying a word, picked up the body. He laid it gently in the rear of the truck and drove to a cemetery. Again, he carried the body and laid it gently beside an open grave.
“Why in a Muslim cemetery?” Shoshana asked.
Habish looked at her in disbelief. “Where else? Avidar was a Druze.”
“He wasn’t Jewish?” She was shocked by the revelation.
“Why do you think he spoke Arabic so well and blended in like he did?” Habish was slightly irritated. “He was not an aqil, one of the ‘initiated’ into the mysteries of their religion.”
“I didn’t know we could trust any Arabs.”
“Muslims consider the Druze heretics and hate them as much as they do Jews. Avidar’s people gave their loyalty to Israel in turn for protection. You need to know more about your own country.” His voice hardened. “His loyalty speaks for itself.”
She helped him lower the body into the grave and cover it with dirt. When they were finished, she knelt beside the grave and rocked back and forth in her grief. Slowly, the Hebrew words came as she rocked, “Shma Yisrael… In the beginning God created …” Habish’s hand clamped down hard on her shoulder, stopping her. She looked around and saw a man in a white turban and long flowing black robes standing behind them—a mullah.
Zack stood in the doorway of his wife’s bedroom, not wanting to disturb the moment. He was vaguely aware of the young, dark-suited Secret Service agent in the far corner of the main hall who was trying to blend in with the woodwork. They do try to give me space, he thought. But a President is never really alone. Zack accepted the inevitability of what that meant and knew the young agent would breathe easier if he went inside and closed the door behind him. I’ll wait, he decided. They don’t need me right now.
Sitting on the edge of his grandmother’s bed, Matt was gently holding her hand in his and speaking softly. His voice had changed, not so strident and young. “I’m okay now, Grandmother. A good friend helped me get through … my wizzo.”
A good friend? Pontowski thought. His wizzo? Before it had always been the girl of the moment whom Matt had talked about when bringing Tosh up to date on his private life. And he’s wearing his class A uniform. He had never done that before and had always been in a hurry to get into civvies. My God, he does look like his father …
The image of Matt’s father was now painted in large brushstrokes across Zack’s memory. You were on the way when Zack Junior was your age, he thought.
“No.” Matt smiled at his grandmother and answered another question. “There’s no one special right now.”
That was as close as Tosh will come to asking about your love life, Pontowski thought. She wants a great-grandchild, hopefully a boy, to carry on the Pontowski name. Pontowski… a good Polish name that could trace its lineage back to a king. No doubt on the wrong side of the bedsheets, if the truth be known. The Pontowskis always were a lusty lot. Damn it, Matt, get with the program. You’re the last of the line, almost the same age as your father when he was killed in Vietnam.
“Will you make the Air Force a career now?” Tosh asked.
“Probably. I seem to have my act together now and …”
It is true, you do have your act together. Thanks to the Air Force. But at what a price. They tell me Locke was one of the finest officers they had, a superb pilot, a leader, a future general. Must we waste our best men? I’ve got to change that. Is there a price for Matt to pay?
“And, well”—Matt hesitated looking for the right words—“I’m good at it. I can fly the beast.” He was serious now. “And I love the challenge. When I’m flying, I’m alive.”
Now you understand yourself. Is that the beginning of discipline? Oh yes, I know about being alive, when food tastes better, love is sweeter. Someday I’ll have to sit down with you and talk about the Big One, World War Two, when I was flying Mosquitoes for the RAF and met your grandmother. You can do both—be a pilot and a husband. Be honest, you want a great-grandson as badly as Tosh.
“Zack”—Tosh looked around her grandson—“come in and quit ignoring your family.”
Zachary Matthew Pontowski, the President of the United States, savored the moment and felt a rare warmth work through him. I suppose, he thought, that each of us in only given a few limited moments of happiness and contentment in this life. Are they the same? The secret isn’t to wish for more of those moments but to know when you’re having one.
He walked through the door and closed it behind him.
“Oh, this is nice,” the girl said as she looked around the elegant apartment that Fraser kept at the Watergate complex for such occasions. They had met at a dinner party that evening and after a show of interest on his part, the girl had easily gravitated into his circle. No one had objected, for Tara Tyndle was young, extremely well-endowed and gorgeous, and could carry on an intelligent conversation. She shook out her blond hair when Fraser took her wrap, creating the effect she wanted.
“I’m glad you like it. Drink?”
“Please. White wine.” She walked around the room and touched the stereo. She gave him a look and arched an eyebrow. He nodded and she turned the stereo on. She knew exactly where to find the FM station she wanted. “I used to dance to music like this,” she told him.
“I didn’t know you’re a dancer. Ballet?”
“Was a dancer. I gave it up. I assure you, this is not music for ballet.” She could tell he was interested.
“That’s too bad, I’d of like to seen you dance.”
“It’s not too late.” She shook her head again, threw her hair to one side, and arched the same eyebrow. Fraser liked the way she communicated with him and again nodded.
Tara smiled and started to move with the music. She walked across the floor with the same sure step of a showgirl on a runway at a casino in Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Then she was behind his favorite chair, patting the high back for him to sit down. He did and she moved out in front. Now she was rubbing the sides of her hips, pulling her dress up her thighs. With an easy, practiced motion, she pulled the dress over her head and threw it aside, again shaking her hair out. Her movements slowed with the music as she teased him, slowly taking her bra off. Then her back was to him and she bent over, pulling her panties down, looking back at him. Slowly, she moved toward him and straddled his left leg, moving with the music.
Fraser’s pager buzzed at him and she backed away, her sensuous movements blending with the music. She kicked off her high heels. He fumbled at the pager and glanced at the call number. “Goddamn it! What does that bitch want now!” B. J. Allison’s phone number was flashing at him. He fought to control his breathing. When he was in control, he jabbed at the buttons of the phone next to him. His voice was pleasant and showed no traces of what he felt. “B.J., you do work late. How do you expect an old fart like me to keep up with you?” He listened. “Yes, of course. No … I don’t mind coming. right over. You called at a good time. I’m free.”
The girl moved to the hall closet, took out his topcoat, and held it demurely in front of her. She was still moving to the music, swaying back and forth behind his topcoat. “Must you go?” she asked. He grunted and disappeared out the door. Tara walked back into the room and methodically searched it for bugs and a hidden VCR. It was clean. She sat down in Fraser’s chair and crossed her long bare legs as s
he dialed a number. “Hello. Yes, it worked.” She gave a low laugh, “Oh, yes. He’s definitely interested but I won’t be here when he gets back.” She hung up and rapidly dressed. Just before she left, she scribbled her phone number for him to call.
Fraser knew Allison was sending him a message and that he would have to cool his heels for a while longer before she made an entrance. Of course she would bubble with apologies, but the message would remain—she was angry at the way she had been treated at the White House. After all, she had only been three minutes late for the meeting, and while it was a deliberate three minutes, Fraser should have smoothed things over with the President. Her money, power, and influence demanded that. She was determined to make that point with Fraser.
“Tom, you do spoil me.” B.J. swept into the room, looking bright and cheerful for one o’clock in the morning. As always, he wondered how old she really was when he took her hand and tried to act courtly. She led him into the sitting room she used as an office and sat down. A secretary brought over a silver tea service and poured two cups. When he was finished, B.J. waved the young man and two other secretaries out of the room. “Now, Tom, we really must talk.” Fraser braced himself for a brutal session.
“Doesn’t the President know that we only have the best interests of our country at heart?” Her voice sounded wounded.
“No one doubts that, B.J. …”
“Then why doesn’t he show it? Oh, that man!” She stomped a small foot. “He must know we import over half our oil now and that most of it comes from the Middle East. We”—she kept stressing the “we”—“must do all we can to keep that oil flowing to us.”
“I assure you, the President does understand that. But—”
“There are no ‘buts,’ “ she interrupted. He could hear steel in her voice now. “The way he is encouraging the Israelis angers our other friends. Heavens, they might, if they are provoked, and who could blame them the way he ignores them, decide to create another oil embargo.”
“Again, I assure you—”
“Assure me of what? That he is encouraging the Israelis in their own type of imperialism? That he doesn’t care about peace in that part of the world? That he doesn’t care about the concerns of our true friends? That Israel dictates our foreign policy? And now this talk of a national energy policy! Why … why”—she screwed up her courage to utter the dirtiest word she knew—“it’s … it’s … socialism!”
“He takes a broader view,” Fraser tried to explain. “He sees our national energy policy linked to the Middle East situation, the problems in the Soviet Union, our balance of trade, the budget deficit.” He regretted the last even as he said it.
“How dare he even think that we do not pay our fair share of taxes!” Allison believed what she was saying with all the fervor of a TV evangelist. She also believed in making a profit and knew how to turn an oil embargo to her advantage. She preferred to maintain the current way she did business importing oil, yet she did not want to be denied her profit-making options in case the Arabs decided to embargo the flow of oil. A national energy policy put too many limits on the amount of money she could make. It disturbed her that more and more senators and representatives in the U.S. Congress did not agree with her.
“B.J., please listen,” Fraser begged. “I cannot change the President’s view of the world.”
“He must be listening to someone,” she shot at him.
“Well, there is an Air Force lieutenant colonel, an expert on the Middle East, who recently came on board with the National Security Council.”
“Tom, doesn’t this remind you of that nice Marine under President Reagan? Surely, he must be telling the President the truth.”
“He sees the situation much as the President does.”
“Then get rid of him. Get someone responsible to take his place.” She pressed a button beside her chair and the young male secretary appeared almost instantaneously. “Please get Mr. Fraser’s coat,” she ordered.
After Fraser had left, Allison twiddled her fingers, thinking. The door opened and Tara Tyndle walked in. She gave the old woman a beautiful smile, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat down. “Well, Auntie?” Tara asked.
“I can’t believe how stupid they are.” B. J. Allison lumped anyone who disagreed with her into a pile of “theys.” “I do believe we are dealing with a hostile administration and Fraser does not have the influence with Pontowski that he led me to believe.” She continued to twiddle her fingers deep in thought. Tara waited. She recognized the signs. “Perhaps, the President needs something else to take his mind off the Middle East and his so-called national energy policy.”
Her fingers were at rest. B.J. Allison had made a decision. “Do you remember the unfortunate Watergate affair with Mr. Nixon?” Tara said nothing. “Perhaps we need something like that to occupy Mr. Pontowski’s time and energy. Are those nice two young reporters still working for that horrid newspaper?”
Tara arched an eyebrow. “No. But there are others.”
Shoshana sat in the shade of the building next to the bus stop outside the new chemical factory the Iraq Petroleum Company had built near Kirkuk and concentrated on the activity around her. She judged the time to be after ten o’clock, which meant Habish was over three hours late. He should have come out of the chemical factory with the other workers at shift change. Shoshana fought down her impatience, hating the waiting, and wondered what might have gone wrong. The gates of the factory opened and a silver blue Mercedes drove out. She recognized one of the occupants from when she had toured the plant with Is’al Mana, but no one in the car even glanced her way.
A policeman made his way through the crowd at the bus stop and asked a man dressed in a fairly clean Western-style suit for his identification papers. The policeman scanned the papers mechanically and grunted. He handed back the papers, glanced at Shoshana, ignored her, and moved on past. My disguise is working, she decided. She watched the policeman approach Mustapha Sindi who was sitting nearby. Again, the policeman repeated his demand for identification.
Shoshana watched Mustapha as he handed his papers over. You are a cool one, she thought. Mustapha Sindi had a chameleonlike ability to change identities instantly. She remembered how convincing he had been at the cemetery when he appeared as a mullah. Even Habish had been fooled and he had told Mustapha to meet them there. He was reaching for his Walther when Mustapha identified himself. After that, Mustapha had taken them to a house in Kirkuk where they could hide. The sponge bath she had taken while a woman washed her clothes revived her spirits and she had established an instant friendship with a teenage Kurdish girl who had helped her wash her hair. A meal of grilled lamb, Arabic salad, and freshly baked bread had worked magic and she had slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, she had joined Habish as they waited for Mustapha to return. Habish explained that Mustapha was a Kurdish rebel fighting for his people’s independence from Iraq’s rule. The Israelis had supported the Kurds in their fight and through that connection had recruited Mustapha to help Mossad.
When Mustapha returned, he had a new set of identification papers and a factory pass for Habish that identified him as a worker in the new chemical plant. Habish quizzed her about her tour of the place with Mana until he had a good idea of the factory’s layout. Then he calmly announced that he was going inside.
“Haven’t we done enough?” she protested. The two men ignored her and plotted how Habish would enter the plant as part of the night shift crew and come out the next morning. Shoshana and Mustapha were to be waiting for him at the bus stop. If nothing else, they could listen to the workers talk and hear any rumors if he was caught.
As planned, Habish had mingled with other workers that evening and entered the plant during shift change. Now it was late the next morning and Habish had not come out. After the policeman had disappeared, Mustapha got up and moved past her heading for the truck. “Walk away,” he mumbled. “I’ll pick you up down the road.” She did as h
e said.
“What now?” Shoshana asked as they drove away in the truck.
“We come back tomorrow morning,” Mustapha replied. The waiting was back, bearing down with its weight.
The crowd at the bus stop the next morning was buzzing with a low murmur. As more workers came through the plant’s gates and joined the throng, the buzz grew and changed into a loud babble. Shoshana could catch enough words to understand that a massive search had been going on inside the plant. She fought down the urge to corner Mustapha and ask him what was happening.
Then she saw Habish come up to the gate with a large crowd of men. Each man had a slip of paper that the guards were collecting—an exit permit. Then it was Habish’s turn. The guard studied his pass and the exit permit. She could see him ask a question and Habish shrug in reply. Something was wrong. The guard motioned for another guard to come over as a bus pulled up to the stop. The crowd being held at the gate behind Habish did not want to miss the bus and started shouting and pushing. The guard held on to Habish with one hand and frantically checked passes and exit permits while the other guard tried to push his way through the crowd.
Fighting to control her panic, Shoshana looked around for Mustapha. Then she saw the truck moving down the street toward the gate. Mustapha honked the horn as he eased through the men crossing the street to the bus stop. She fought down the urge to run as she walked out into the road and jumped into the back of the truck. She heard loud shouts from the gate and two gunshots. Mustapha hit the accelerator and the horn at the same time, adding to the confusion. Then Habish was at the tailgate scrambling to get on board. Another man was also trying to climb on the truck and escape the shooting. Mustapha drove faster, barging through the crowd.
Shoshana held on to the side of the truck and grabbed the back of Habish’s shirt with her free hand, trying to pull him in. But the other man was in the way. With a vicious kick in the face, Shoshana sent him sprawling in the road. She heard a scream followed by a loud thump. They had run over a man not able to get out of the way. Then Habish was in the truck and they were clear of the crowd. “What happened?” she gasped.
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