by T. E. Cruise
Rivka turned to him, her eyes locked with his as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then let it fall from her shoulders. Her breasts were large and round, her nipples startlingly dark against her breasts’ alabaster skin. She shyly stepped close, hesitating an instant before she put her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. Steve held her gently, his hands caressing the strong, supple curve of her back. He buried his face in her thick hair, inhaling her spicy scent. His knees grew weak. The aching swell in his groin was both delicious and unbearable.
“Oh, I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered, his voice thick with passion, the blood pounding in his veins. “Oh, you are so beautiful and I’ve wanted this for so long—”
She tilted up her head, smiling at him, taking her time doling out kisses. Her tongue tasted cool and sweet. Her pearly teeth nibbled at his lips.
“Steven, you are my first,” she murmured. “My first. My hero—”
What? Steve thought. Hero—? Is that what this is about?
She’d unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers were fluttering across his chest and stomach. Her touch dropped to his belt buckle.
“Rivka, tell me,” he pleaded. “What do you mean I’m your hero?”
“You know…” She laughed softly. “You know what they are saying about you, about what you’ve done for my country. You are a great hero. They compare you to David Marcus! David Marcus—” She took his hands and began to pull him insistently toward the bed.
And Steven looked at the bed again—the child’s bed—and he thought about how lovely Rivka was, and how his own life was passing, and how there wouldn’t be many more girls like this leading him to love … He thought about how much he wanted her, and what difference did it make why she wanted him—
Why she wanted him …
I’m not a man to her at all, Steve realized. I’m a legend. I’m not desirable for who I am, but for what I symbolize; like David Marcus—Goddamn it, like Golda Meir!
It made him want to laugh when he thought about it. It made him want to weep when he looked in the mirror and saw a man holding a girl young enough to be his daughter; a girl who would always remember him, although how and what she remembered depended on what he did next. Depended on what he was willing to deny himself. What he was willing to give—
“Steven? What is it?” Rivka asked as he gently, sadly, extricated himself from her heavenly embrace.
“I’m—I’m going to leave.” The confounded look in her eyes made him smile. “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’m not sure I understand why either, but I am sure that I’ve got to go.”
“But I thought you wanted me.” She shook her head, her dark eyes growing wet. “I thought you thought I was beautiful—”
“I do—” He was fumbling at buttoning his shirt with fingers grown too clumsy for the job. His groin was aching. Her taste was in his mouth, her scent in his nostrils, her touch seeping into his pores. Got to get out of here, he thought. Got to go before I surrender to my greed, before I take what isn’t mine—
“I thought you wanted to love me—” she whispered pleadingly.
“Maybe if I could stay, Rivka, darling …” He paused, chuckling ruefully. “No, it’s too late for that, as well. But maybe if I were fifteen years younger…” He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to understand—hell, I didn’t, until just now—so you just listen. I’ve been a go-as-I-please, selfish sonofabitch my entire life, but it’s time for me to make a change. You are one wonderful thing I’m going to leave for someone else. You find someone you really love, Rivka. If not forever, at least for that instant, but the important thing is that you should love him for who he is, not what you think he stands for. That’s what you deserve, and so does some lucky guy somewhere in the world.” He sighed. “When you do find yourself that guy, chances are that he’ll have a few less miles on him than me…”
“You really are a hero …” she said, awestruck.
“You put on your blouse now,” Steve told her. He felt heartbroken because the look in Rivka’s eyes told him that he was doing the right thing. Told him too much about the roads of his youth so recklessly well traveled; the roads he wouldn’t be going down again.
Dressed, she followed him out to the living room. “Don’t you want me to take you to the airport?”
“No.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I’d rather say goodbye to you here. Anyway, I’ve got plenty of time. I think I’ll go walking for a bit, and then I’ll grab a taxi.”
She nodded. The cat scooted away as Steve bent to pick up his flight jacket. He slung it over his shoulder. He was at the door when he stopped, looked at the jacket for a moment, and then at Rivka.
“Here,” he said, tossing the jacket to her. “Catch!”
“You are giving it to me?” she asked as she caught it.
“It’s got that Vigilant Virgins logo on the back, right?” Steve shrugged. “Remember what you said when we first met?”
She nodded, her eyes growing wet all over again as she murmured, “I said I could use a jacket like this to discourage …” Her voice changed, melting down the scale into something that was half laughter and half a sob. She only shook her head, rubbing her teary eyes.
“You let that jacket keep you safe and warm,” Steve said. “Until you find the right guy to take over the job—”
“And even then,” Rivka said adamantly, hugging the jacket. “Even then—”
Steve nodded. “Well, I guess I would take it kindly if from time to time, you could see your way clear to favor me with your thoughts …”
He felt something warm and furry against his ankles, and looked down to see the champagne cat with the wise eyes weaving between his feet. “And if this cat doesn’t like the guy you’re thinking of, you boot him right out of here.” Steve winked. “Because it’s plain this animal knows how to judge a man who’s got the right stuff.”
He turned away then, and let himself out of her flat and out of her life, closing the door gently but firmly behind him.
(Four)
Lod Airport
Steve was about to board his flight when Benny Detkin intercepted him at the gate.
“What are you doing here?” Steve asked. He’d already said good-bye to his friend at IAF headquarters. They were planning to get together back in the States.
“I have something for you,” Benny said. “Something that’s pretty much guaranteed to get you off the hook with the big boys in Washington …”
“Well, I don’t know if I am going to be on the hook,” Steve said. “The IAF has pretty much covered my ass concerning our little escapade.”
“Well, this is going to close the books on it once and for all,” Benny confidently replied. He took an envelope out of the inside breast pocket of his linen sport jacket and handed it to Steve. “Go on,” he urged excitedly. “Open it.”
Inside the envelope was a color snapshot of several circular, concrete enclosures out in the desert. Inside each enclosure was a missile on a launch ramp.
“SAM sites?” Steve asked.
“Sure.” Benny nodded. “But not just any old run-of-the-mill SAMs. Those are SAM-12s, the most advanced version. When the Egyptians turned tail in the Sinai they left those launch sites virtually intact. The Israelis got it all, right down to the instruction manuals for the radar guidance equipment.”
“That’s great,” Steve said. “But what does it have to do with me?” .
“Only this.” Benny grinned. “The Israeli Government has communicated to Washington its decision to share this particular bit of plunder with the United States, as a gesture of appreciation on behalf of Colonel Steven Gold’s services.”
“You’re shining me …” Steve looked down at the photograph in his hand. “The brass would kill their own mothers to get the scoop on what the Russians have in terms of surface-to-air missile technology.”
“They don’t have to kill their mothers now, though, do they?” Benny winked. “They’re going to have it all laid out for them on
a plate by the Israelis, who have made it clear that the brass has Steven Gold to thank for their good fortune.”
“Benny, this is going to make my career,” Steve quietly said. He shook his head, overcome with emotion. “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you …”
“You don’t have to thank me.” Benny laughed. “You don’t have to thank anybody. This is just the Israeli Government’s way of thanking you. The actual technical material will travel through the normal channels,” he added. “Consider this photograph a memento of our little adventure together.”
“Yeah, I will … thanks …” Steve listened as the final boarding notice for his flight was called over the airport’s public address system. “I guess I better get going—”
“Yeah.” Benny nodded. “Say, speaking of mementos, where’s your flight jacket?”
“Oh …” Steve shrugged. “I gave it to Rivka. Kind of a present …”
“Uh-huh.” Benny had a funny look in his eyes. “Tell me more …”
“Well, there’s nothing to tell,” Steve said quickly. “Except that you were right when you said I’d never get anywhere with her. I tried every trick I knew, but she shot me down …”
“Oh, she shot you down, eh?” Benny shook his head. “Before you say anymore, I should tell you that I happened to run into her at IAF headquarters just before coming here.”
“Oh, fuck.” Steve winced. “What did she do? Tell you everything?”
Benny shrugged. “What can I say, I have that kindly sort of visage that makes girls see me in a fatherly light.” He grinned. “You better be careful, Steve, a couple more episodes like the one you had this afternoon and girls will be turning to you for fatherly advice.”
“Jesus, Benny, just don’t tell anyone else, okay?” Steve pretended to gruffly plead, although he couldn’t keep the smile out of his eyes. “I got my reputation as a hound to uphold.”
Benny laughed. “You better get on your plane … You hero, you—”
As Steve walked through the gate he couldn’t help thinking that this hero stuff wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.
CHAPTER 23
* * *
Gold Household
Bel-Air, California
7 August 1967
Herman Gold was in his second-floor study. He was seated in his leather armchair with a yellow legal pad on his lap and a pen in his hand. He was surrounded by stacks of books: Hebrew primers, Judaic histories, English translations of the Old Testament and the Torah. Occupying a place of honor in Gold’s bookcase was his latest acquisition: a custom leather-bound, encyclopedic, thirty-five-volume set of the Talmud. It was the recently published English language edition, translated by Soncino.
Gold enjoyed being in this book-lined den, even if the room did have something of a split personality. Look into the space, with its fireplace, dark paneling, brass lamps with green glass shades, and heavy mahogany and leather furniture, and you might think you were in the library of an old English country house. Turn toward the french doors opening out onto the balcony, however, and you had a typically Southern California view of the swimming pool and landscaped patio.
The only thing Gold didn’t like about the second-floor study was the goddamned chair lift they’d installed onto the staircase railing to carry him up here. Stair-climbing as well as most other physical exertion was off-limits for him since his heart attack. He understood the reasoning behind the prohibitions, of course, and he’d pretty much come to terms with them. Hey, he was grateful to be alive. Nevertheless, he found the chair lift especially galling. Settling into that thing and switching on the electric motor was a hell of a comedown for a man used to airplane cockpits.
Grateful to be alive—Gold wrote across the top of the legal pad. He stared at it a moment and then savagely crossed it out. It was just too trite to use as a Bar Mitzvah discourse …
Gold had been toying with the idea of being a Bar Mitzvah ever since his involvement in the scheme to smuggle Vector-A systems into Israel had kindled his interest in his religious heritage. Initially he’d dismissed the idea, afraid of the ridicule he was certain to face from his friends and business associates—and, yes, even from his family—if he attempted to carry it out. After all, thirteen-year-old Jewish boys take part in the Bar Mitzvah ritual, not seventy-year-old men …
It was, of course, his heart attack that had changed his point of view. Ridicule seemed a very small thing after you’d been locked in a chest-crushing wrestling match with death. As he’d recuperated in his hospital bed he’d realized how little it mattered what other people thought. You were only on this earth for a short while …
Once he’d decided to commit himself to the course of study that would lead to his becoming a Bar Mitzvah, he knew that he had to go all out. He’d found the finest scholars to teach him, because he was fervently committed not just to do, but to understand…
Gold had been to Bar Mitzvah celebrations in Los Angeles. As often as not they were Hollywood-inspired extravaganzas. To Gold they had seemed like yards of cotton candy—the catering, the liquor, the gifts, the band—wrapped around a puny little popsicle stick core—an apple-cheeked boy in a brand-new suit spending a quarter hour in a synagogue mumbling beneath his breath a phonetically learned portion of the Torah, and then squeaking, “… Today I am a man …” just because his parents had said he had to.
Gold, however, was no apple-cheeked boy. He was a man of substance; material substance at least—He had never in his life done anything halfway, and he was not about to start now. It would be at least another year before he was a Bar Mitzvah, because he fully intended to understand and feel the truth of what he was doing. More than that, his teachers had mentioned that at one time in Europe it was customary for the Bar Mitzvah to deliver a meaningful discourse to the congregation assembled to witness his right of passage.
Gold intended to follow in that tradition. Hence the pad on his lap, the newly purchased edition of the Talmud on his shelf, and the puzzled look on his face as he contemplated the still-blank page. It was not a moment too soon to begin honing his discourse, and he’d been trying to begin for days, but what to talk about?
The teachers had suggested something pertinent … Gold put his pen to paper and scribbled: changing of the guard—
Since Gold’s heart attack, Don Harrison had lifted the burden of running GAT from his shoulders. Gold was pleased with the job that Don was doing, and the respectful way in which he was doing it. Don Harrison was not coming on like gangbusters, further unduly upsetting an already jittery executive staff concerning the transition of power. Don always thought twice before he spoke, and always seemed to take into account other people’s feelings and points of view—
What was most important, Don had made it his habit to consult with Gold before making any important decision. Gold was grateful that he was not destined to be a King Lear scorned by his children; the ungrateful inheritors of his domain.
Changing of the guard—Gold pondered it awhile and then thought: No, it won’t do. What he had to say on that topic concerned his children more than himself…
“Children,” Gold murmured softly. “The welfare of one’s children is a concern …”
Especially when your children carried arms for their country—
Gold’s eyes moved across the room to the newspaper still lying unopened on his desk. These days he could hardly stand to read the international headlines. He had a son and a grandson in the Air Force, after all, and both men were fighter pilots; frontline warriors in the most crucial battleground of the modern era—the sky. How could Gold bring himself to read about the dozens of places around the world where his son and grandson might fight and die? There was Vietnam. The Mideast. The uprising in the Congo. The revolt in Greece. The revolutions in South America—
And wherever duty called, Gold knew his boys would be, taking command of the sky on behalf of their country…
Gold’s reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. �
��Come in,” he called.
The door opened and in walked his grandson Andy carrying what looked to be a cake box. “Grandpa?” Andy began. “Grandma said that you were studying, and that I shouldn’t disturb you …”
“Uh-huh.” Gold laughed.
Andy took a step closer to Gold. “Am I disturbing you?”
Gold shook his head. He took off his glasses and put them aside, along with his writing materials. “You could never disturb me, sonny-boy,” he said lovingly.
Andy grinned. “I have something for you.” He held out the cake box. “I made it all by myself,” he added proudly.
Gold peered at the box in Andy’s outstretched hands. “You made me a cake?” he asked dubiously.
“Noooo!” Andy giggled. “Mom just gave me the box to use to bring your present.” He ran to Gold and plopped the box down on his lap, then took a step back. “Open it!” Andy demanded, breathless with excitement.
Gold opened the box and looked inside. “Oh, Andy…” He gently lifted out of the cake box a model of a World War I vintage Fokker Dr.I triplane.
“It’s like the one you flew in the war. Right, Grandpa?” Andy eagerly asked.
“It is, Andy,” Gold murmured, holding the airplane up to the light in order to better see it. “Oh, it is …”
The model itself had been put together from one of those airplane model plastic kits that came with instructions. The kind that you could buy for a few dollars at any hobby shop. Examining it, however, Gold could tell that Andy had assembled the model with incredibly painstaking care for a nine-year-old. What was even more amazing about the model was its enameled paint job. The triplane had been painted scarlet everywhere but on the sides of its fuselage and its wings, where it was painted sky blue. On both rear side quarters of the model were teaspoon-size, bright yellow ovals, each showing a tiny, but perfectly rendered, centaur —a mythological creature, half man and half horse—rearing up on its hind legs to do battle. Just forward of the centaurs, and on her wings and tail, the model wore black Iron Crosses, edged in white.