The Consulate Conspiracy

by Oren Sanderson

  The theme that year was the Gulf War. There was a feeling that the Americans had won the victory of their lives; no statistics or rational analysis would spoil the celebration for them. I, of course, was especially interested in World War II aircraft. The vintage planes were known as warbirds, backed by an association of the same name that had thirty thousand members in Texas alone. I wasn’t a member, though, of that club or any other. Aside from the Liberator organization, which didn’t want me, I wasn’t interested in joining. I liked to birdwatch on my own.

  Standing on display was a trio of camouflage-colored Spitfire aircraft, from the Royal Air Force. I knew the trio from a previous show I attended at the Hanscom Air Force Base in Lexington, Massachusetts. They were well-maintained and still in flight condition. Next to them was a beautiful B-17 bomber that had appeared in many war movies. There were also two German Stuka planes, belonging to a collector in Idaho. The B-24 was still being kept in a remote hangar, for the special reception of the Liberator club.

  The Texans were happy to celebrate and flood the runways with their masses. The radio was talking about half a million people who had arrived since this morning. By noon, another million people would join them. We had a busy schedule. Paratroopers were currently making their jumps to the applause of the masses. Next up was the legendary aerobatic display of the Blue Angels in six F/A-18 Super Hornets.

  Giora had come to review the technical-commercial display about protective equipment and guerilla warfare, but he also admitted that he would not have come had it not been for the aerial display.

  I told him about the missiles I had heard about from Angela. I kept the rest of the story to myself for now.

  “Do you know where they are stored?” he asked casually.

  “Some Air Force base in Texas. I’m not sure exactly which one.”

  “This base,” he declared, and we continued walking among the jets, as if nothing was going on. He had to be there for the missiles.

  Five ancient Harvard prop planes, sounding like so many lawnmowers, took off in formation. That’s what we called them in Israel, where they were IAF training aircraft. In the US, they’re T-6 Texans. They launched the historic section of the show, including Stearman and de Havilland planes from World War I. I watched, entranced.

  “So what are you doing in the afternoon?” he asked me.

  “I have an invitation to a reception in one of the hangars. The B-24 Liberator club.”

  He stopped. “What’s your connection to them?”

  “I’ve been a fan for years. I’ve been building models since I was nine.”

  “What’s your connection to them?” he repeated.

  “Like I said, I’m a fan.”

  “Watch your step,” he told me, then resumed walking. “They’re a lot more than a club.”

  “Did you want to join me?”

  “No, I can’t. Just be careful.”

  Giora tried to drag me to the hangar with the technical display.

  "I’m not interested. It’s hot, crowded, and boring."

  "Don’t you want a free hat?” Giora asked me. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

  "Let’s walk around the base a bit. It’s an ‘open base’ day, isn’t it?” He was plotting something. I stopped resisting and we moved away from the unbearable human traffic on the runways.

  "Did you report to Jerusalem what’s happening here?” I asked.

  "I’m returning to Israel next week.”

  “What?!”

  “You heard me. I’m going back.”

  "For consultations?”

  "Until further notice. I was offered a new position in the Arab Affairs section. I declined.”

  "What happened?” I tried to hide my shock.

  "I reported my findings in Houston and asked for instructions. Next thing I knew, I was being recalled.”

  “That can’t be,” I objected. “We never work like that.”

  "That’s a fact,” Giora reflected sadly. The Harvard planes passed low above us, with a deafening rumble.

  An MP jeep drove up to us and stopped suddenly. A uniformed sergeant challenged us, “Gentlemen, where are you going?”

  “We’re just out for a stroll,” said Giora. “We were at the airshow.”

  "The airshow is in the other direction,” the sergeant said politely, seemingly quite embarrassed.

  “It was too crowded,” I said.

  "Very well, gentlemen, but don’t cross the next road. That area is off limits.” He saluted soberly and got back in his jeep.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “None of the responses from Jerusalem make sense,” Giora continued, ignoring my question. “I’m going back, just as the situation here is about to explode.”

  "Why are you telling me this?”

  "Because you’re staying.” Now It was my turn to stop dead in my tracks. Giora stopped too and looked at me without saying another word. He locked his gaze on my eyes, and I did the same to him. It was like a schoolboy game — who would blink first?

  "Forget about it,” I balked. “Remember the first time you tried to recruit me? What came of it?”

  We reached the next road, and Giora crossed it without hesitation. I followed him, worried.

  The Air Force base was massive, dating back to the height of World War II, when the Gulf Coast was thought to be a target for an attack by Nazi Germany. Fifty years later, the hemispherical hangars were mostly empty. In the next couple of years, the base would be closed, with a residential suburb rising in its place soon after, no doubt with an excellent golf course.

  "I have no diplomatic immunity,” I objected. I didn’t have the strength to face off against the authorities the next time they threatened to arrest me.

  "Don’t worry. Today they’ve all been recruited by the base’s public relations department. They won’t care about a small mistake on our part.”

  "Where are you trying to get to?”

  Approaching another hangar, we hid behind it. Giora pointed to the next hangar, surrounded by a barbed-wire electrified fence.

  "The sentry is positioned on the other side,” said Giora. “Every ten minutes they patrol.”

  “Guarding what?”

  “Sea-based nuclear warheads, decommissioned now. Some are antiquated, others are subject to arms reduction treaties. They’re here for transportation. Mostly, they’re Polaris missiles.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the Navy’s responsibly?” I still didn’t get it.

  “As soon as they’re decommissioned, it’s the responsibility of U.S. Strategic Command. They’re headquartered in Nebraska. The Polaris ballistic missile submarines are being cut down drastically. Their home port is New London, Connecticut, but once the missiles are offloaded, they ship them to Galveston. Then they’re loaded on to trains to be disassembled in New Mexico and Arizona. Obviously, this is all supervised, including joint inspection committees with the Russians.”

  “And…”

  “Our friend Barkat is participating in two projects here. He was assigned a position as an observer on the joint disarmament committee, and he is also a senior consultant on a multi-purpose communications satellite project. The next shipment of warheads arrives here tomorrow — this it’s Minuteman missiles. But I won’t be here anymore...”

  "Maybe you’ll come to the Liberator reception anyway? You can be my plus one.”

  "I can’t. I shouldn’t be here anymore. Where is it supposed to be?”

  “Hangar H-36.”

  He narrowed his eyes as he concentrated.

  "It’s across the road, but fifty yards from this hangar, as the crow flies. That explains everything.”

  "Explains what?" The Blue Angels’ six Hornets roared overhead.

  "This base was built during World War II, when the Americans were preparing for j
ust about any eventuality. There is a system of underground tunnels between the hangars…”

  The plane passed right over the roof of the hangar, but when we looked back down, we could see two MP jeeps approaching. Two hulking military policemen got out as they pulled up, and they cuffed us without another word.

  "Play it dumb,” he told me. “It suits you.” He did not look surprised, but I did not share his equanimity.

  "I actually still have a lot to lose.”

  We sat in a hallway lit by blinding fluorescent lights, manacled each to a different soldier, waiting to speak to the base commander.

  "They’ll separate us soon,” said Giora. “There’s one more thing you need to know."

  "Shut up!” the sergeant told him, glaring at him with hostility. Giora continued to hum as if to himself.

  "I talked to the head of the service. We have a man in Silicon Valley who will come here as backup.”

  "Who knows about him?”

  “The head of the GSS, me, and now you too."

  "What’s his name?”

  "Mark Sasson.”

  "And who’s watching over him?"

  "He has an Israeli service passport. It’s just him and you and that’s it. You’re the last two remaining.”

  43.

  The next two hours in Galveston were tense and trying. Giora and I were separated, but they didn’t treat us badly. I presented to the officer my student ID when she asked me for identification. Her face and her figure were full. She looked like a good mother. Her uniform skirt seemed ready to burst.

  There was no point in getting the consulate involved. It could be embarrassing and complicate things even more. The officer made sure I got a good lunch, and after another hour she sent me off with a warning. All my attempts to put a smile on her face failed. Giora was right. This was a PR day. They didn’t need grim headlines and investigations. It turned out that Giora was released beforehand and left me a message with the officer that he was continuing, and not to wait for him, so I had enough time to stroll around to soak up more of the airshow.

  The B-2 strategic bomber was now being put through its paces in aerobatic exercises. It looked as unwieldy as an elephant, but it dived and climbed almost vertically. It put the fear of God in me. I was trying to look for the Strategic Command hangar, but it was at the far end of the base. Tomorrow the warheads would be delivered, at least according to Giora.

  The chances of hearing from this Mark Sasson were not great. God only knew who they might actually send as a contact or bodel.

  Hangar H-36 was on the other side of the forbidden road, but in surprising proximity to the Polaris warehouse. I arrived when the reception had already begun, after the speeches and toasts.

  There it stood in all its glory. The Liberator, Model H. Sparkling new Plexiglas turrets. In front, in the belly, the cockpit; above it, the turret of 0.3 machine guns. Four new Pratt-Whitney engines with four silver blades and a black center. The plane’s camouflage colors were perfect, including the belly in the azure gray of the sky. Really perfect. Tears of excitement rose in my eyes, against my will.

  "A serious piece of work, huh?” Logan asked me. He was wearing trendy khaki pants and a dark blue polo shirt.

  "Exceptional,” I said admiringly.

  Logan led me to the refreshment table. Deep glass bowls containing piles of shrimp in hills of crushed ice. There were watermelon slices, trays of cocktail wieners, and beer.

  "They will soon replenish the stock of ribs,” he apologized. The hangar contained more than two hundred people. Many of them had images of the B-24 emblazoned on baseball caps, T-shirts, and other items of clothing. In the cavernous hangar, they seemed to fade into the background.

  "Everyone is a B-24 fan?” I wondered.

  "They are all true patriots,” he replied. “Will the consul general come?”

  "He’s stuck preparing for the visit by the minister of science."

  "Elroy?” asked Logan, who knew too many people. “A good friend of mine, a smart man. And now, forgive me—” He cut me off unexpectedly.

  Logan crossed the hangar to greet Shuki Barkat. Laure stood a step behind him and still had not seen me. Her Bermuda shorts revealed perfectly tanned legs. Her hair was hidden under a Liberator cap, which further emphasized her cheekbones. That night at the Sixpence and everything we went through failed to separate her from Barkat, who as usual enjoyed being the center of attention. He warmly shook Logan’s hand and continued lecturing those around him. Logan waited patiently for something. Then, to my amazement, the maternal public relations officer entered. She went straight to Logan and whispered something in his ear.

  Was the base’s public relations department connected to the reception? Logan looked where I was standing. I clung to the landing gear of the plane, managing to hide quite well behind it. Logan gestured at Barkat and led him away from his audience. Barkat also began to scan the hangar with his eyes.

  It was time to get out of there. Laure walked over to the refreshment table. Along the wall stood a souvenir stall, and I hurried to buy a baseball cap and a scarf in red and blue, both of which were emblazoned with the image of the B-24. Despite, the heat, I put both items on, hiding most of my face. I brushed past the refreshment table, pulling Laure after me on my way out. She froze for a second, then came along with me. Once we were outside, she stopped.

  "What the hell…?”

  "I have to get away. Why do you keep going back to him?”

  “You know what, you’re right. You ought to get away.”

  “What have you heard?”

  "That you’re a professional troublemaker."

  "Well, that’s nothing new—”

  “Keep your distance, Mickey.” She held my hand. “Get out of here, fast.”

  “Come with me.”

  Laure stared at me, puzzled. “What the hell?”

  "Otherwise, I’m staying."

  She smiled slowly. I already knew that slow smile. “Let’s go. What could happen? Worst case, they’ll kill me.”

  “No one will kill you,” I reassured her, though I thought she might be right.

  44 .

  The officer left the hangar, accompanied by Logan. They were looking the other way as we made our escape. I put an arm over Laure’s shoulder, hoping they wouldn’t identify us.

  “My leg,” Laure said, biting her lip as she limped. “The pain is radiating from my back.” Our pace was too much for her, but there was no choice. One of the base’s service vehicles stopped next to us and a kindly baby-faced sergeant offered us a ride at just the right time. I wasn’t looking back. The sergeant took us to the parking lot, and I was ready to go back to Houston.

  Walking the next few steps to the car, Laure bit her lip again. There were tears in her sad eyes.

  "Are you scared?”

  "No, it’s just my leg.”

  “My Trans Am should be comfortable enough.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  We sped west, into the setting sun. The air was cooling, and Laure leaned away from me, against the door, silent. The skyscrapers of Houston loomed on the horizon, then grew closer. The spotlights on the roof of the tallest tower of the Uptown District, Transco Tower, marked two parallel stripes in the pink sky of dusk.

  "You go back to him every time."

  "He needs me. I have no choice.” I wasn’t sure what she meant.

  "Are you scared?” I asked again after a long silence.

  "No, I already told you.”

  "Then you have a choice. I won’t let anyone lay a finger on you.” I continued to surprise even myself.

  "I know. You’re stronger than them. Not as smart, but much stronger.”

  I hugged her with one hand.

  “It’s not fear at all. It’s just despair. I see things happening and I have no control over them. I
look at myself like a stranger, and I have no idea what to do next. All that is left is despair. You know that, the familiar and comfortable despair?”

  "Stop it. That’s a lyric in Chava Alberstein’s London. But we’re in Houston.”

  "And why do you care at all?"

  I did not answer.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” she murmured. “It’s just because of the pain.”

  He conducts himself with such confidence, she thought, but what does he really know? Maybe it was better this way. Pain management was the science of the future, Laure had heard so many times. The world was constantly progressing, true, but the pain remained as it was — or perhaps grew worse. She knew it, in all of its shades and shapes and tones, the violet circles and the hammer blows, sharp or dull; sometimes it was low-pitched, sometimes high — depending on the time of day, and how the sensation was radiating.

  The pain had never stopped, not since the day she had woken up in the hospital in Safed. She would have a place of honor in the research and development of pain management techniques and technology; she would be a valuable partner in the advancement of medical science, they told her.

  She knew everything about pain. The stabbing in the evening, the waves in the morning, rising to her brainstem and threatening to paralyze her. The rest of her life, the moments in between, she wasted on dread. It was always a question of time: when would it appear and when would it vanish?

  She would remember the IED at Marjayoun until her last day, the split second before the explosion, as she rode with Uri, the deputy brigade commander.

  Yuda, the brigade commander, had gotten an overnight pass to go to Haifa, to see the wife and kids — and Orit, Laure’s predecessor and Yuda’s lover.

  Laure had imagined how the phone call from Orit the next morning would sound. He had shown up at five in the morning, after telling his wife that he had to report to brigade headquarters in Metula at seven in the morning; instead, he stopped off in Neve Sha’anan, at Orit’s apartment in the Haviva Reik complex. How convenient to have a wife and a concubine in the same city. But no, he was too tired to perform. That’s what they always called it.