“Talk to the best NCO you can find.” Locke looked and then nodded at the door, his way of telling Matt that the conversation was over. Matt stood up, saluted, and left.
The next morning, Matt found the NCO he was looking for, Master Sergeant Charlie Ferguson. Ferguson was the squadron’s senior-ranking sergeant and considered himself the unofficial “first shirt” for the squadron. He knew how to make the Air Force system work and, within hours, the lumber, plaster, and paint they needed were in the building. For help, Ferguson went to the “Detention Facility,” Air Forceese for jail, and had six inmates released to his custody for a work detail.
Matt was learning a lot about construction and how the Air Force worked. He had never realized that there was so much involved in just putting up a simple wall or doing a little electrical wiring or plumbing even though he had majored in civil engineering. He also learned how to bypass most of the Air Force bureaucracy’s paperwork. But he could not avoid all of it. He was getting the job done and would have been all right if it hadn’t been for the ceiling in the lounge.
Ferguson and his convict crew of laborers were almost finished with the lounge. They had installed a kitchen area and a bar, paneled the walls, and were ready to mount indirect lighting against the ceiling. But the ceiling was too high and Matt thought that they should drop it about two feet. He and Ferguson went on one of their “requisitioning runs.” The military contracting system generates tons of surplus and Ferguson found what they needed buried in a pile of junk that had been tagged for disposal. One the way back to the squadron building, the colonel who served as the base’s RM, the resource manager, stopped them. They explained that what they had found was surplus and that they were using it for a self-help project in their squadron. When they couldn’t produce the paperwork, the RM had them return it all.
The next day, Ferguson ginned up the required forms and Matt took them over to the RM’s office for an official signature. But he couldn’t get in to see the RM because a crew of workmen were installing a new dropped ceiling in his office using the same large acoustic tiles and hangers that Ferguson had unearthed. Matt was furious. That night, he and Ferguson’s crew of six convicts visited the RM’s office and did a quick bit of midnight requisitioning. By the next morning, the ceiling was safely installed in the squadron’s lounge.
The RM had a very strong suspicion about what had happened to his ceiling and was in the squadron before eight o’clock in the morning. For a moment, Matt was certain the man was going to have a heart attack when he saw his ceiling. Before they had lifted the large tiles into place, two of Matt’s “helpers” had dropped their trousers and bent over. A coat of paint was applied to the buttocks of each in the squadron colors of black and gold and each tile was pressed against the makeshift templates. Now the ceiling was decorated with a mass of black and gold butt prints. The RM sputtered and, at a loss for words, stormed out of the squadron lounge.
Matt and his crew were busy turning the tiles over when Locke came into the lounge. He shook his head and told Matt to report to his office. Once there, Matt paid for the ceiling with a chewing out of legendary proportions. Locke considered the matter closed but the RM had other ideas. Within hours, Matt was under investigation by the Office of Special Investigations for theft of government property. Ferguson came to his rescue two days later when he produced a bill of sale from a local civilian supplier that stated they had bought the ceiling tiles from him. Matt was off the hook but in the bad graces of every colonel in the wing. With the exception of the NCO Club, the squadron building had the best interior decoration of any building on base.
Romance and clothes dominated Nadya Mana’s life and nothing else seemed to interest her. Shoshana was shocked when the girl mentioned she would celebrate her eighteenth birthday next month and Shoshana realized that she was dealing with the mentality and impetuousness of a spoiled teenager. On most outings, they met with three of Nadya’s friends who were also chaperoned by older women and Shoshana found herself swamped by giggly girls, all talking about boys and clothes, exactly like her friends when she was thirteen.
Shoshana was amazed how the girls plotted to break away from their chaperones to meet their latest boyfriend until she realized the older women deliberately looked the other way. But the rules didn’t apply to her and Nadya’s aunt stayed attached like a leech.
Panic started to build when she realized that she was being carefully watched and would never be able to establish contact with her team unless this changed drastically. Mana provided the key when he visited her one night and told her that she wouldn’t be meeting his family.
“I’ll not be your mistress!” she screamed at him and started to pack. Mana tried to stop her but much to her surprise, she discovered she was stronger. Like most of his class, Mana had never engaged in physical exercise or hard work. His muscles were as soft as his face. Then she turned playful, physically dominating him while they made love, using pain instead of ice to control his response. He screamed in agony and begged for more. Later, before he left, it was agreed that she could find a tutor to teach her Arabic but that Nadya and her aunt would have to accompany her.
Nadya sulked when she accompanied Shoshana to meet her tutor, a small wisp of a woman, one of the struggling Iraqi middle class who ran a language school for foreigners. The girl would sit huffily in a corner of the room while her aunt would go to sleep, snoring loudly. “Nadya, I feel so bad about you having to wait for me,” Shoshana consoled her. “Why don’t you visit one of your friends while I’m at my lesson? Your aunt can take me to you if you’re not back.” Nadya eagerly accepted, seeing an opportunity to meet her boyfriend. It worked perfectly, Shoshana would go into her lesson, the aunt would go to sleep, and Nadya would disappear. Just before the lesson would end, Nadya would reappear with new makeup and freshly combed hair.
One day, the woman who normally instructed her was sick and Shoshana had a substitute—Gad Habish. The woman who ran the school was Mossad’s Baghdad station chief.
Nothing in Fraser’s face or actions betrayed the cold fury that was rolling through him as he scanned the switchboard’s computerized telephone log that listed every phone call the President made or received. He could not control the outgoing calls, for it was his job to do the President’s bidding. But he was determined to control the incoming calls and the log was clear—a call had reached the President without his okay. He noted who was on duty at the time of the call. Melissa, he fumed to himself. That bitch had stabbed him in the back! He jabbed at the intercom button on his communications panel and ordered Melissa Courtney-Smith into his office.
“Melissa,” he began, his voice calm and businesslike, “I noticed a call reached the President without my okay. You know anything about it?”
Melissa looked at the offending entry in the log. “I cleared that one. It was a personal call from Matt. You weren’t in yet.”
Fraser’s lips pursed into a thoughtful moue. She had done the right thing. If the President found out he was withholding personal phone calls … well, he preferred not to think about that one. Zack Pontowski’s anger never surfaced, but the results were something to behold. “Okay, next time memo me, though.”
“Sir”—she gave him a confused look—“I think I did. Let me check the files.” She hurried out of the office and was back with a memo in a few minutes. Nothing was ever thrown away; everything was carefully filed and stored as a record of the Pontowski administration. “It did come across your desk.” She didn’t mention that she had buried it in a pile of low-priority memos that Fraser often ignored and farmed right back to her for action.
“Okay, next time make sure I initial it.” His face and tone were all reasonableness. “Melissa, you know the success of a presidential administration rests on the flow of information to the President. I cannot let him get inundated with trivia.” She nodded and left. They were still at a stalemate. Fraser wanted to fire her and lock up the office of the presidency in his control. Melissa had o
ther priorities and, when she was honest with herself, she would admit that she loved Zack Pontowski and wanted to protect him.
Thomas Patrick Fraser was power-hungry. He longed for it like some sought money or fame. He had money, gained in a slash-and-burn career organizing corporate takeovers. But what he had always wanted was power over people—the ability to call the shots and make others jump at his bidding. And that ultimately meant politics. He was a realist and knew that while he had the wealth and connections to be elected a senator, he did not have the charisma or the long-term staying power to reach the ultimate pinnacle—the presidency of the United States. So he chose an alternate road; he would be a kingmaker and become the chief aide and adviser to the man he would make President. The man he had selected to back was Zack Pontowski. It may have been a mistake.
Normally, a chief of staff is the President’s chief adviser, but in the case of Zack Pontowski, there was no one single adviser, for he listened to many sources and then made up his own mind. Perhaps his wife came as close as any to being his principal adviser, and while he always listened to what she had to say, he still made up his own mind.
Goddamn it, he swore to himself, I made Pontowski and I will control him. His intercom buzzed. It was the President.
“Tom, I want to meet the delegation when they arrive and let them know this is a friendly meeting.” A group of three congressmen and two senators who were sometimes called the Israeli lobby were scheduled to meet with the President in fifteen minutes.
“Good idea,” Fraser agreed. “Want me at the entrance with you?”
“Not necessary. But I do want you at the meeting. Bring the briefing books.” The briefing books were the thick three-ring binders that were constantly updated and held all the information needed to review a subject. In this case, the subject was Israel and the Syrian-Egyptian treaty.
Fraser was waiting for the President and the delegation when they entered the Oval Office. He said nothing and took notes during the meeting. His mind raced as he listened, ferreting out the implications of what was being said. The delegation was worried about the latest signs of cooperation between Syria and Egypt and saw an inherent danger in the treaty for Israel. Pontowski agreed with them, and then he dropped the bombshell. “We have intelligence reports that the treaty contains a secret protocol fusing the Syrian and Egyptian military command and control systems.” He didn’t mention the suspected Iraqi connection. That would have sent the delegation into orbit.
The delegation’s worst fears were confirmed and they demanded to know what the President was going to do about it. Pontowski assured them that the State Department was talking to the Israeli government but that the Israeli prime minister was not overly concerned at this time.
“Mr. President”—it was the junior member of the delegation—“we are also concerned about Iraq. We have learned that they are once again purchasing equipment from a German firm, WisserChemFabrik, that could be used in the manufacture of nuclear arms.”
Fraser grabbed the Iraqi notebook and flipped to the armed forces section. He handed it to the President. “That machinery is earmarked for a petrochemical plant outside Kirkuk,” he said, sotto voce, loud enough for the delegation to hear. “The embargo against anything that could be used for nuclear weapons or any significant weapon system is still in force.” Pontowski adjusted his reading glasses and scanned the notebook. When he was certain that the notebook contained no references to CIA activities in Iraq, he handed it to the junior congressman.
“Worrisome,” Pontowski agreed, “but not critical at this time. We are certain that Iraq is being denied anything that could be used to make an atomic bomb. Besides, Iraq has received stern warnings not to even think about nuclear weapons. We don’t believe this equipment can be used for nerve gas production. We’re watching it.”
“Mr. President”—the young congressman was relentless—“nerve gas is the poor man’s nuclear bomb—”
“Which neither we nor the Israelis,” Pontowski interrupted, “believe the Arabs will use against Israel.”
“May I ask why?” The junior delegate wouldn’t let it go.
“Because that could invite the Israelis to respond in kind or even go nuclear,” Pontowski said. Loud protestations broke out from the delegation declaring that the Israelis only had protective equipment for nerve gas and that it was unfounded speculation about them having a nuclear capability and that, even if they did, they would never use it.
Pontowski waited patiently until the hubbub subsided. “Gentlemen, can I interest you in an intelligence briefing on the current situation? I’ll send General Cox from the DIA with a team of briefers over to you for an update.”
Fraser almost interrupted and recommended the CIA give the briefing, but that would have overstepped his bounds and upset Pontowski. He kept quiet and calculated his next move. Why did the President specifically say Cox? After the congressional delegation had left, the President sat thoughtfully. “Tom, what do you think?”
Now Fraser had to play it absolutely straight and give him the best advice he could. “I don’t think the Iraqis are a factor at this time. But we need to watch the entire situation and start considering alternate scenarios.” Fraser was suggesting that the President assemble a task force of his people to start playing what-if games and come up with suggested positions for the United States. “Also, we need to hear from the other side.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Some CEOs from oil corporations have asked to see you. I’ve been stalling them. Talking to them might be a good way to show that you’re striving to maintain the status quo in the Middle East.”
“Oil. It always comes down to that.” Pontowski didn’t expect an answer. Even now, the United States was importing over half of its oil supply and much of that came from the Middle East. He knew that the oil industry simply wanted to keep it flowing and avoid another Arab oil embargo like that of 1974. “Okay, arrange it.” Fraser felt a surge of triumph; he was still getting what he wanted.
“I suppose”—the President smiled—“that Mrs. Allison is among the group.”
“She’s heading the delegation.”
“Please tell B.J. not to be late.”
6
After a month, Shoshana considered herself a fixture of the Baghdad Hotel. She had settled into a comfortable routine and while Mana’s family did not label her his mistress, neither was she seen as his fiancée. Little by little, Mana loosened the reins and she was allowed more freedom to move about on her own. She was careful never to break her established pattern because when she went out alone one of the family chauffeurs always drove her. At least she had met his older brother, a brigadier general who was rebuilding the Iraqi Air Force, so there was some progress toward meeting his father. She was willing to wait. She sighed out of boredom and called the desk, summoning the chauffeur. The highlight of the day’s activities was her language lesson. She sighed again.
Gad Habish had become a regular at the café off Rashid Street and the waiter automatically brought him a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Habish made no pretense at being an Iraqi but used the cover of a German businessman in the café. Since he tipped well and insisted on speaking Arabic, he was readily accepted and welcomed. This morning, the agent who posed as an artist was waiting for him with news. They chatted for a few minutes before the agent mentioned the chemical factory located near Kirkuk.
“It’s complete,” the agent said. Habish talked about the weather. “A technician from WisserChemFabrik says they will be testing a new insecticide in the next week or two,” the agent added as Habish talked about the unusually cool weather for September.
Habish left the café first and strolled back to his car. He drove to the safe house Avidar worked out of and changed his identity cards, becoming a substitute teacher. He left the car behind and rode the dilapidated bus system to the language school. Substitute teachers did not drive cars in Iraq. He was waiting for Shoshana when she arrived for her l
esson.
“When did you last see Mana?” he asked.
“Last week. He spends a lot of his time in Kirkuk where the chemical factory is being built. He should be back today or tomorrow.”
“Does he still talk about his work?”
“That’s all he talks about now,” Shoshana told him. “He tries so hard to impress me.”
“Why?” Habish demanded.
For a moment, Shoshana hesitated, not wanting to confide in her case officer the nature of their sexual relationship and Mana’s total subservience to her. “He needs to prove his worth to me,” she said. Then she slowly told him how she dominated him in bed. Habish wanted to know every detail and questioned her relentlessly.
When Habish was certain he knew everything, he carefully weighed Shoshana’s position. “If he starts to talk about the new plant at Kirkuk the next time you see him, become very interested.”
“Why? It would be a change in our relationship.”
“Because the plant is finished and they are testing a new nerve gas next week. Find out as much as you can.”
“He’ll become suspicious if I press too hard.”
“I don’t think so. Given a chance, he’ll talk endlessly. Just listen.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” she asked.
Habish looked straight at her. “The next time he goes to Kirkuk, go with him, learn all you can.” He stood up and left. Outside the building, he lost himself in the crowd and worked his way back to the safe house, making sure he wasn’t being followed.
Shoshana returned directly to her hotel room and drew a bath. She felt dirty for the way she was using Mana. She turned her feelings for him over and over, examining them. She smiled when she thought of his boyish eagerness to please her. Reluctantly, she admitted that she was fond of the Iraqi engineer and didn’t want to see him hurt. The smile faded when an image of Habish threatening Mana materialized. Because of their intensely intimate relationship, she had unwittingly developed strong protective feelings for the Iraqi and she feared what Habish might do.
Firebreak Page 11
