Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  “What’s that?” Matt replied, confused.

  “A base at war.”

  Avi Tamir waited impatiently for his turn to see the prime minister, Yair Ben David. Normally, Tamir would have used the time to dig into one of the scientific journals he subscribed to and never seemed to have time to read. But today was different—Shoshana had called him that morning with the news that she was home. He had itched to leave his lab early and catch the train to Haifa. But Ben David’s secretary had telephoned, telling him that the prime minister wanted to see him that afternoon. Reluctantly, he made the sixty-mile trip to Jerusalem.

  “Yair will see you now,” the secretary said. The atmosphere in the office reflected the traditional, egalitarian ways of Israel and every one was on a first-name basis. Tamir wasn’t taken in for a moment; he knew who was in charge.

  Ben David met him at the door and shook his hand, “Avi, glad you could make it on such short notice. I know you’re anxious to get home.”

  The scientist wondered how the prime minister knew that.

  “Please sit down.” Ben David waved Tamir to a comfortable chair, sat down himself, and lit a pipe. The old, massive briar pipe was his political trademark. He puffed for a few moments, not inhaling. “Avi, I was talking to Benjamin Yuriden today.” Ben David did not have to mention that Yuriden was the minister of defense and Tamir’s boss. “We were wondering what progress you have made.” Tamir was not surprised that the prime minister would talk to him directly about his work—things were kept informal in the Israeli government.

  Tamir tried to make himself comfortable, but the subject Ben David wanted to discuss did not allow comfort. “There is progress. We should have a working model ready within the next three months.”

  “The triggering mechanism?”

  “No,” Tamir explained. “The entire system. My people have taken shortcuts using the information provided by Mossad.”

  “Ah yes,” Ben David interrupted. He did not correct Tamir. The job of stealing defense technology from the United States was not done by Mossad but by another branch of Intelligence: the Scientific Liaison Bureau. Their agents operating in the United States had penetrated a lab at Sandia Corporation and “borrowed” classified nuclear weapons design information. The “borrowed” information had saved the Israelis years of research and led Tamir and his staff directly to the development of a thermonuclear, or hydrogen, bomb. “Time,” the prime minister said, “time. We need more of it but the Arabs are denying us that luxury.” Tamir waited, knowing there was more to come. “I need a fully operational weapon as soon as possible.”

  “But for what use?” Tamir protested. “Why would we need such a terrible weapon?” The closer he came to perfecting a thermonuclear bomb for his country, the more his conscience demanded to know why. “We have more than enough atomic weapons to destroy our enemies.”

  Ben David laid down his pipe, folded his hands, and looked directly at Tamir, drawing Mm in. “We live in a trouble world filled with hard choices. One of our agents has learned that the Iraqis are now producing a new binary nerve gas that can penetrate the protective clothing we use.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Tamir protested. “Producing a binary nerve gas is very difficult. Why would the Iraqis go to all that trouble when a more conventional method of production is all they need? And the claim that a nerve gas can penetrate protective clothing? Well, I’m more than a bit skeptical.”

  “Believe me, enough is going on around Kirkuk that we cannot ignore it. Two facts. We know they are using canisters that are made of a polymeric material that is difficult to manufacture—but extremely resistant to corrosion. Also”—Ben David was spitting out words like a machine gun—“they are producing a new antidote. Our agent brought out an injector needle that looks exactly like the combo pens we use. We are analyzing it now.” Ben David paused for effect. “Our scientists cannot break down the antidote. We don’t know what it is.”

  “But in time we will,” Tamir said. “Then we can manufacture it for our own protection.”

  “True … In time. But time is the one thing we don’t have. Arab radicals have made Saddam Hussein a martyr to Western imperialism and are using him as a symbol to force cooperation between all the Arab states. In defeat, Saddam has brought Egypt, Syria, and Iraq together in defiance of the West’s “new order.” So much so that we now have evidence of a renewed military alignment between Syria and Egypt. Also we are seeing signs of much more cordial relations between Syria and Iraq. If that happens …”

  “Yes, I see. That means the Iraqis’ nerve gas can be used against us. But they wouldn’t do that. Surely, they must suspect we have the bomb and would retaliate. It would be Armageddon …”

  “They do. But it hasn’t stopped them from developing their version of ‘the poor man’s bomb.’ The Arabs will be made to understand that using a nerve gas, any nerve gas, on us is unthinkable. The consequences would be too great. That’s why we need a thermonuclear weapon.”

  The moral dilemma that had deviled Tamir since the first nuclear test in 1979 was back to torment him. Am I to be a destroyer of nations? he thought.

  “I know you are anxious to get home,” Ben David said. He rose from his seat and walked Tamir to the door. “Avi, each of us must do what he or she can to protect our people and our land.” He clasped the scientist’s hand tightly. “Go. See your daughter. And be proud of her.”

  The train ride to Haifa gave Tamir time to mull over what Ben David had said. He cursed his probing, analytical mind that refused to rest. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, not wanting to think about the pieces that were fitting together. His daughter worked for Mossad and had been the agent who had brought out the latest intelligence from Iraq. It was just like the prime minister to give him enough clues to figure it out. But why? Ben David always had an ulterior motive. Was it to spur him on? Or did the prime minister have something else in store for the Tamir family?

  Rather than walk from the train station in Haifa, Tamir caught a taxi to the family’s apartment. From the moment he let himself in, he could sense Shoshana’s presence. “Shoshe?” he called.

  “Here, Father.” She stepped through the French doors opening onto the balcony and stopped. The room separated them. She was wearing a simple dress, sandals, and no makeup. He hair was pulled back into a single, thickly plaited braid. Then she was in his arms and he could only smell the soft fragrance of soap, no perfume.

  “I’m glad you finally decided to come back and see your old dad,” he told her. There was no rebuke in his voice, only the old banter.

  “I’m so glad to be home,” she said and drew back to look at him. He wanted to hear her say, “Oh, Faah-ther,” but it was gone forever. Even her voice was different and the last traces of the girl he had so loved were gone. This was a mature woman. His daughter had changed and he would never call her Shoshe again.

  Shoshana insisted on cooking dinner for them that night and not going out to a restaurant. “I did enjoy going shopping this afternoon,” she told him as they sat down.

  “Did you see Yoel?” he asked. He knew her old boyfriend would be anxious to see her.

  She shook her head no. “I don’t think there’s anything there. Not now.”

  “Well, tell me about Spain.” He promised himself to keep up the charade. For the next few minutes, Shoshana told him a very convincing story about her trip. She’s been debriefed well, he thought. I wonder how long she’s been back?

  Later that evening, Shoshana announced that she had quit her job with the fruit export company. Tamir only raised an eyebrow, not sure of what to say. “I’m going to enlist in the sherut miluim and train as a medic,” she told him. Sherut miluim was the reserve component of Israel’s defense forces. “After I finish training, I’m thinking of becoming a nurse.”

  Tamir said nothing, thankful that his daughter was home.

  “Now what’s happened?” Melissa said to herself as she hurried to the waiting car that had bee
n dispatched from the White House garage to pick her up. It had to be important for the duty officer to call her at four in the morning and tell her that Fraser had ordered her to work and that a car would be in front of her condominium within minutes.

  The driver gave her a noncommittal nod and handed her the final edition of The Washington Post. “It’s on the front page,” he said. She opened the newspaper to glaring headlines and a lead story that told of massive amounts of money being fed into political action committees, get-out-the-vote organizations, and Pontowski’s own election committee. The reporter related how a sophisticated money-laundering scheme had covered up the donors and bypassed political contribution disclosure laws. Most of the money had been directed into political action committees that had then engaged in a TV blitz of vicious mudslinging. It was claimed that the get-out-the-vote groups effectively bought votes. The reporter ended the exposé by quoting the Senate minority leader, William Douglas Courtland. “This was a highly unethical campaign with too much money going to the right people at the right time. One person or group had to be controlling the shots and they violated just about every election campaign law on the books.”

  “How much of it do you think is true?” the driver asked.

  Melissa only shook her head, trying to think of what to say. Of course, she wanted to believe it was a pack of lies or misinformation, facts twisted to make a story. She had seen it before and accepted it as part of the game of politics. But this was different, it had the ring of truth and the Post had too good a track record with their investigative journalism. Sure, the newspaper made mistakes, but not ones that involved the President of the United States. The reporter was onto something. There was no doubt in Melissa’s mind that Zack Pontowski would never allow, much less condone, the use of illegal campaign funds. He would have been the first whistle-blower. But perhaps someone inside the election campaign committee had exceeded his or her bounds. Who? An image of Fraser talking on a telephone immediately came to mind.

  A secretary told her to go directly into the Oval Office when she reached the White House and she was embarrassed at interrupting the meeting. Fraser was sitting next to the chairman of the election committee. The Vice President was standing, holding a cup of coffee, listening to what the speaker of the House had to say. “Coffee?” Pontowski asked when he saw Melissa come through the door. She smiled a thanks and poured a cup from the silver carafe on the table. “Well, like I was saying, Mr. President,” the speaker continued, “it’s way too early to see what this has done to your political base in the House.”

  “What about the Senate?” Pontowski asked the Vice President.

  The Vice President stared into his cup. “It’s the same. Too early to tell.” He gave a wicked grin. “But I can tell in beaucoup markers.”

  “Not on this one,” Pontowski told the Vice President. Fraser’s head snapped up, but he said nothing.

  Pontowski leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Frank”—this was for the campaign chairman—“can you recall any questionable money coming in from political action committees or our people getting in bed with the wrong characters?”

  “We returned anything that looked like it came from a questionable source,” the man said. “And we stayed well clear of the PACs and get-out-the-vote groups. Too much wheeling-dealing going on at the state level.”

  “Did you keep a record of all that?” Fraser asked.

  “Of course,” the campaign chairman said. Fraser frowned.

  “Melissa”—Pontowski was looking at her—“did you see or hear anything questionable when you were working at the national campaign headquarters?”

  “Every day,” she answered. “But if it had anything to do with contributions, I forwarded it to Mr. Fraser’s office.”

  “Did you keep a record or some kind of memo?” Fraser asked. Melissa shook her head no.

  “Tom, what did you see?” Fraser had been responsible for the day-to-day running of the campaign, leaving the chairman free to concentrate on fund-raising and overall guidance.

  Fraser smiled condescendingly. “Only what Melissa sent up to me. I handled it.” There was condemnation in his tone.

  “Did you keep a record?” Melissa asked sweetly.

  Fraser glared at her. “It wasn’t necessary.” Now he took charge. “It’s an exposé, the kind of thing that sells newspapers. We’ve all seen it before and the Post has been slobbering after another Watergate ever since I can remember. There’s nothing there, so we should stonewall it and throw the ball back into their court.”

  “I don’t think it will be that easy,” the speaker of the House allowed.

  “Without proof, what have they got?” Fraser was on the offensive.

  “Okay, enough,” Pontowski said, holding up a hand and stopping all discussion. “This has the potential to blow up in our faces. It’s like seeing a rat—if you see one, you can be sure there’s more hiding in the woodwork.” He spoke quickly, without emotion. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Tom, you’re in charge. First, draft up a press release and get it back to me before it’s sent out. As of now, we are concerned and conducting a full-scale investigation. If there was any wrongdoing, we’ll find it and prosecute those responsible, no matter who they are. Second, talk to the attorney general and get a list of recommendations for a special prosecutor. Third, get the FBI involved and have them contact and interview everyone connected with the campaign.”

  “Sir,” Fraser protested. “Do you have any idea of how many people that is?”

  “Some,” Pontowski replied, “some. Fourth, contact the IRS and have them start checking on reported tax deductions to my campaign. It had all better track with our records.”

  “They won’t like that one,” Fraser mumbled.

  “No doubt,” Pontowski conceded. “Fifth, I want action today and an update before you go home tonight. Sixth, I want every reporter coming to us for information and anything they dig up on their own will be old news. Any questions?” There were none and the group started to file out. “Tom, what’s first on the agenda for today?”

  Fraser stopped and looked at his schedule. “Breakfast with a delegation from the hill at seven-thirty, Mr. President. Subject: the Middle East.” He handed Pontowski a list of the three congressmen and two senators who would be there.

  “Humm, the Israeli lobby,” Pontowski said. “Well, we can get some work done before then.”

  Later, the breakfast started pleasantly enough but tension slipped into the conversation as talk turned toward the main concern of the delegation. “Mr. President,” the senior senator said, “we are worried about current developments and see an ominous threat being directed at the security of Israel. We understand that the Israelis have asked for increased military aid.” Pontowski nodded and encouraged the senator to continue. “We believe the administration should honor that request.”

  “We only received the request a few days ago,” Pontowski explained. “We’re still examining it.”

  “Mr. President”—it was the junior congressman’s turn—“my constituents are very worried about the bellicose statements coming from the Arabs that they are uniting to continue the work of Saddam and think we should give the Israelis the squadron of F-Fifteen Es they have asked for.”

  “Your information is very detailed,” Pontowski said. “Like I said, we are looking at it.”

  “Since your grandson is demonstrating an F-Fifteen E to the IDF can I tell my constituents that you are favorably considering the request?”

  Pontowski looked at the man and frowned. “I didn’t know Matt was in Israel. Please believe me, sending my grandson was a decision made by the Air Force and does not reflect my policies in the area.”

  “Mr. President,” the junior senator said. “We understand that your policies are changing.”

  “My policies reflect the reality of the situation,” Pontowski replied.

  “And what are the realities of the situation, Mr. President?” It was the junior congressman
again. He was challenging the President.

  “Gentlemen”—Pontowski smiled—“I’ll be glad to discuss my Middle East policies here but we are going to disagree and I would prefer we keep the conversation confidential. We only tell the press that we had a ‘frank discussion.’ Agreed?” That was a polite way of telling the press that a serious head-knocking session went on at the meeting. A “blunt and open discussion” meant they had all but come to blows. Nods and agreement went around the table.

  ‘ ‘First, I have no intention of letting Israel be destroyed or suffer a defeat at the hands of her enemies.” He could sense the delegation relax. “However,”—the tension was back—“I have no intention of supporting all of Israel’s policies-policies that are creating problems of their own making.”

  “What problems are you talking about, Mr. President?” the junior congressman asked.

  “Specifically, the occupation of Gaza and the settlement of the West Bank.”

  “Gaza and the West Bank are vital for the security of Israel, Mr. President.”

  “Perhaps. But because of that occupation, Israel has to make many choices.” This was greeted by silence. “Is Israel going to be a South African-type state in the Middle East where Jews rule a sub-class of Palestinians? Or is Israel going to be a democratic and Jewish state that lives in some sort of peaceable accommodation with its Palestinian neighbors?”

  “But the Jews have a historical right to Palestine,” the junior Congressman protested.

  “All of it?” Pontowski answered, his voice calm and measured. “And what about the Palestinian claims? Have they no historical rights?”

  “Mr. President, you obviously don’t understand the complexity of the situation.” The junior congressman regretted saying it as the words came out.

  But Pontowski only smiled, waiting for him to continue. Silence. “It’s allowed to disagree with me,” Pontowski said. He was telling the young congressman to fight fair and that he was willing to overlook one minor indiscretion—as long as it was in private. “I do understand there are factions in Israel who claim the Jews are entitled to all of Palestine and that other fractions are willing to limit the size of Israel and share the land with the Arabs who were also born there.”