The problem solved itself when Habish saw the single agent behind him talking on a radio as Derhally pulled to the curb in front of the dress boutique. “Retracing her route,” Habish said to himself. He pulled around the corner and slowed, anxious to see what the backup car would do. The gray Lada also turned but pulled to the curb and stopped. Habish almost smiled as he turned into a dusty alley and parked. He got out of his car and walked back to the gray Lada. The Iraqi was surprised when Habish opened the door and slipped in beside him. “Derhally said to stay with you.” Habish’s Arabic was faultless and the agent had a confused look on his face when Habish shot him.
Without any sign of haste, Habish got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door and pushed the body into the passenger’s seat. He got in and drove into the alley behind his parked car. There, he stuffed the body into the trunk of the Lada, left the ignition key on the front seat in case anyone wanted to steal the car, and threw the trunk key on a roof. Some enterprising Iraqi car thief would dispose of the body for him.
Habish returned to his car, slipped on sunglasses and the dark coat of his suit. He combed his hair back and decided he looked close enough to an Iraqi goon from the secret police. He drove around to the boutique and parked directly behind Derhally’s car.
The two women who ran the shop glanced at him nervously when he walked in. He gave them a hard stare—a man in charge—and swept the room with a practiced look. They were alone. If Derhally had been in the shop, he would have been an innocent customer who would beat a hasty retreat. But now, he was another agent. “Is Inspector Derhally here?” he asked in a low voice, nodding to the rooms behind the shop. The women blabbered an answer. “Good. Please close the shop and leave. Do not tell anyone we are here. Do you understand?” They understood perfectly and were out the door in less than a minute.
Habish drew his pistol and pulled the slide back, charging the chamber. He slipped into the hall and waited. He could hear a man’s voice coming from the rear office.
“Miss Temple, please. No more games.” It was Derhally talking.
“Call the Canadian embassy,” Shoshana demanded.
“In time, in time,” Derhally said. “And how will you prove you’re a Canadian citizen? You don’t have your passport.”
“You know the hotel holds the passports of all foreigners until they get an exit permit. I am a Canadian citizen.” Shoshana was sticking to her cover.
Habish waited until he had an idea of where the three people were seated inside the office. Then he holstered his pistol and pulled out the fake Canadian passport he carried. He knocked on the door and entered. “I’m from the Canadian embassy,” he announced. “I’ve been told a Canadian citizen, Miss Rose Temple, is here and needs assistance.”
Derhally took the passport and scanned it. “This is not an official passport.”
“Oh, sorry. Wrong one.” Habish reached inside his coat and drew his pistol. In one quick fluid motion, he stepped to one side, went into a shooter’s two-handed crouch and shot Derhally in the head. The other agent had his pistol half drawn when Habish shot him. Without hesitating, the Israeli methodically shot each man in the head again.
“Anyone else?” he asked Shoshana. She shook her head no. She was sitting in a chair in the corner, her wrists tightly manacled with plastic flexcuffs. Her hands were already red and starting to swell from lack of circulation. It was the first step in an Iraqi interrogation. Habish cut through the thick white plastic with a small penknife. “Did they contact anyone?”
“They made two calls on the car radio,” she said. “One was to a backup. His name is Fahad. I think he’s driving a gray Lada and is parked outside. Also, they checked in with their control. I heard them use my name and refer to the hotel. That’s all I could understand.” Habish was impressed. She hadn’t panicked and kept her eyes and ears open.
“Where’s Mana?”
“I don’t know.” Shoshana rubbed her hands, trying to stimulate circulation, and told everything that had happened. She left nothing out.
“So you sent the combo pen to your language teacher disguised as a birthday gift.” Habish was impressed with her quick thinking. He made a phone call, contacting Avidar with new instructions. “Help me hide these bodies and clean up this mess. We’ve got to get out of Baghdad tonight.”
The waiting was a grueling endurance contest. Shoshana envied the Mossad agent who used the language school as her cover for she went about her business as if everything was normal. Shoshana couldn’t match the teacher’s cool facade and her agitation kept breaking through as the minutes dragged.
“The flowers will come,” the petite woman assured her.
“Where’s Habish?” Shoshana wondered. “I thought he’d be back by now.”
“Like the flowers …” They fell back into their waiting.
The clock read 5:32 when Habish returned. He was all business. “We’re rolling up our operation here,” he told the two women. “Avidar is putting the final touches on the new passport and exit visa you’ll need. I’m working on the assumption that Al Mukhabaret has got yours from the hotel and instructed the desk clerk to report anyone asking about you.” He looked at the woman who ran the school. “Can you get out on your own?” The woman nodded and left. Neither Habish nor Shoshana knew how she would leave Iraq. They assumed she would use her contacts with Kurdish rebels to move her through northern Iraq and into Turkey, but if Habish or Shoshana were captured, they could not reveal where she went. Likewise, she did not know how they were escaping out of Iraq.
“We’ve got to move fast,” Habish said and handed her a Walther exactly like the one he carried. Shoshana checked it over as he talked and dropped it into her handbag. “There’s only one flight leaving tonight in three hours. Swiss Air. You’re on it.” For the first time, she saw a hint of nervousness play across Habish’s face. “We’ve got to get that combo pen out.”
The minutes now flew by as the scheduled departure time approached. Finally, Habish could wait no longer. “The clerk in the gift shop will probably deliver the flowers herself after the shop closes. Too late.”
“Why don’t I go pick the flowers up?” Shoshana volunteered.
“Too dangerous. Someone might be waiting for you.”
Shoshana thought for a minute. “Maybe not. Derhally really thought I was a Canadian citizen.” Habish gave her a quizzical look. “I heard them mention Canada three times over the car radio and when you walked in, he did believe you were from the Canadian embassy.” Habish was almost convinced. “I’ve picked up enough Arabic to understand some of what they were saying and I think they were still sorting this out, not sure of what they were on to.”
Habish bought it. “It’s worth a try. Zeev should be here in a few minutes. We’ll leave him here to wait for the flowers if they arrived while we go to the hotel. I’ll put on my Canadian official act at the front desk and ask for you. If anyone is watching the hotel, that should cause a distraction. You go into the gift shop and check on the flowers.”
Ten minutes later, Shoshana was walking out of the gift shop carrying the flowers with the happy birthday card and combo pen clearly visible. Habish was still talking to the desk clerk when she ran into Mana.
“Where have you been?” Mana asked. He was excited and shaking. His eyes widened when he saw the brightly wrapped tube stuck in the flowers. “What is going on?” He snatched the combo pen out of the flowers and peeled the aluminum foil back. The dark olive green tube stood in dark contrast to its bright wrapper. He grabbed her upper arm and, for once, Shoshana was surprised by his strength.
Adrenaline, Shoshana thought, I hope he isn’t thinking too clearly. “Is’al, it isn’t what you think.” He stared at her in disbelief. “I am a Canadian and work for a firm that specializes in industrial security. Your government contracted with us.… But I never thought I would fall in love with you. … Up in my room … the proof …”
Mana wanted to believe her
and nodded dumbly. She could feel the strength drain from his grip. “Come,” she said, breaking his grip and moving toward the elevator. “Let’s go to my room.” She caught Habish’s attention just as the elevator doors closed on them. Smiling at Mana she lightly drew her fingers over his crotch. “Perhaps afterward?” It was a mistake and she could see the doubt flare in his eyes at the obvious sexual ploy. They rode in silence. Mana still had not said a word when she opened the door to her room. “You’ll see,” she promised.
The Iraqi barged past her into the room. She closed the door behind them after making sure no one was in the hall. Her travel clock beside the bed said she had less than an hour to reach the airport. Time had run out. “What you need is in the stationery box,” she said, pointing to the dresser. He jerked a drawer open and spilled the contents on the floor. She reached into her handbag and grabbed the Walther Habish had given her. She didn’t pull it out but walked across the room to Mana. “It’s in the next drawer,” she told him. Again, he jerked a drawer open.
His back was to her and his head bent over when she dropped her handbag and freed the Walther. In one quick motion, she raised the weapon and pulled the slide back, chambering a round. It was the motion she had practiced over a thousand times while in training and the words of her instructor came back, dominating her actions: “You pull a gun, you’ve blown your cover. So you shoot. When you shoot, you kill.”
The last sounds Is’al Mana heard were the click of the slide ramming a shell home and a phut. Her instructor had repeatedly shouted at her, “Always shoot twice.” She did as she had been taught.
Habish was standing in the hall when she locked the door behind her. “Where did you hide him?” he asked.
“In a closet behind some clothes.” She had covered him with the same black dress she had bought in Marbella to seduce him.
Habish nodded. That might give them a little more time before a maid discovered the body. He could see tears in her eyes. “Don’t let up now,” he cautioned.
In the lobby, Habish phoned Zeev Avidar at the language school and made some vague references to buying a replacement computer. Avidar understood that he was to meet them on the road outside the airport with new documents and the luggage Shoshana would need to get through immigration.
The traffic on Abu Nuwas Street was jammed up for three blocks as cars and trucks fought to cross the Jumhuiya Bridge over the Tigris River. Habish turned down a side street and headed for the Ahrar Bridge, a kilometer upstream. The traffic was insane, trying to cross the only two bridges that had been repaired after the war. Once across the river, they had to double back to make contact with Avidar. Fortunately, the traffic was now light and Habish was able to make good time. A half kilometer short of the airport, the traffic piled up again and there was still no sign of Avidar. Habish checked his watch. “Thirty minutes,” he muttered.
“There he is.” Shoshana had turned around and picked him out behind them in the stopped traffic. She jumped out and ran back to his car and piled into the backseat just as the cars started to move. By the time they reached the entrance to SwissAir, she had changed clothes and scanned the new documents. She was now Abigail Peterson.
“Peterson entered the country three days ago,” Avidar explained, “and Passport Control might have your old name and orders to stop you.”
Avidar carried her bags as they hurried toward the immigration counters. Three other late arrivals for the SwissAir flight were still in line and she caught her breath as Avidar dropped her bags and disappeared. When the last person in front of her moved away from the counter, she bent down to pick up her bags. She looked up into the deadpan face of the same immigration official who had cleared her into Iraq.
“Miss Temple,” he said, recognizing her immediately, “we’ve been waiting for you. Your passport and exit visa please.” He held out his hand, enjoying his power over her now that there was no Is’al Mana to intimidate him and Al Mukhabaret had issued orders to detain her.
“Of course,” Shoshana replied. She reached into her handbag and touched the Walther. Then her mind was made up. She clenched the pistol and glanced at the exit to her left. Just maybe she could avoid capture long enough to pass the combo pen off to Avidar. She would have to be the decoy to let Avidar escape. This was not the way she had planned to die.
“Passport!” the man demanded. He was staring at her handbag. Suddenly his head snapped up and he came to attention. “Sir!” Habish was standing directly behind Shoshana wearing his dark suit coat and sunglasses. He looked exactly like an Iraqi ape from the secret police and he was waving an identification card that established him as an inspector. Avidar had done his work well and the ID card was a perfect copy. The Iraqi was trembling.
Habish grabbed Shoshana by the arm and jerked her toward the exit. The force pulled Shoshana’s hand free of her handbag and the contents spilled on the floor. Habish kicked the Walther toward the counter. “You’re a fool,” he snarled. “She would have shot you and I should have let her. Now, pick everything up.” The man hurried to do as he was told. “Give it to me.” He took the handbag and rushed Shoshana through the exit leading to the street.
Avidar was right behind them with Shoshana’s suitcases. “Hurry,” he urged, “two real agents are at the counter.”
The Safety Investigation Board was convened at RAF Stone-wood in less than twenty-four hours after the crash. Matt was amazed at the efficiency of the base and the board in starting the investigation. The wing’s Safety Officer had guided him through the first hectic hours. Sensing trouble, Matt had asked for a lawyer, but the Safety Officer explained that the Safety Board took no disciplinary action and none of its findings could be used in a court-martial. The board simply wanted to determine the cause of the accident to prevent it from happening again. If the Air Force wanted to hammer Matt, it would convene and Accident Investigation Board to conduct an investigation and gather evidence independently of the Safety Board.
Seventy-two hours after the accident, the Safety Board had issued a preliminary report on the accident. While the report said the cause of the accident had yet to be determined, every experienced fighter jock knew what the final verdict would be—pilot error. And all eyes were looking directly at Matt. He gave up going to the casual bar in the officers’ club when he overheard a pilot and wizzo talking about the accident.
“You think Locke screwed up?” the wizzo asked.
“No way,” the pilot answered, “Locke was too good for that.”
The memorial service in the base chapel for the three men was a gut-wrenching experience for Matt. He sat alone at the end of one pew, avoided by the men of his squadron, and concentrated on what the chaplain had to say. Then a two-star general, Rupert Stansell, stood in front of them and delivered the eulogy. The general asked them to look at Locke’s life and draw lessons from his example. Stansell’s final words rang true when he offered a prayer: “Please take this man and judge him fairly, for he was among the best we have.”
The mourners gathered outside the chapel and waited. The roar of distant jets could be heard and three F-15s overflew the chapel in a missing man formation. Then three RAF F-4s passed over in the same formation, their roundels catching the setting sun. Matt had heard that a British air marshal, a Sir David Childs, had ordered the flyby. He looked at die high clouds that were turning from hues of pink to blood-red and knew that Locke’s influenced had reached deep. Not knowing what to do, he followed a basic instinct and sought out Locke’s British wife. He found her standing with friends, holding the hands of her two small children.
“Mrs. Locke, please accept my condolences …"He felt like a rigid fool.
The woman raised her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were dry and clear. She had done her crying in private. “Yes, thank you.” He knew he was dismissed and walked away.
Matt did not escape without hearing a muttered “He’s such an asshole,” when he crossed the street, heading for his BOQ room.
“Yeah, and
his family will bail him out,” another voice said. “You won’t see an Accident Board on this one.” He recognized both voices and knew they meant him to hear.
A week later, the accident board finished their investigation and issued an interim report: Nothing new had been discovered and the cause of the accident would have to wait further analysis of the wreckage. Matt found that no one in the squadron would talk to him. He was in limbo. That afternoon he went to the Class VI store and bought a bottle of Scotch, determined to hang on a colossal drunk in the privacy of his BOQ room.
The next morning he walked into the squadron building, still feeling the aftereffects of the Scotch he had swizzled the night before. That’s not the answer, he told himself. He tried to sneak by the scheduling counter when he recognized the pudgy major talking to the sergeant on duty.
“Captain Pontowski,” the sergeant called. “Major Furry here wants to talk to you.”
Matt stifled a groan. Major Ambler Furry was the wing’s weapons officer, a distinguished graduate of the Air Force’s Fighter Weapons School, and Locke’s old backseater. Furry’s career stretched back to F-4s and he was one of the original cadre of the 45th who had served under Colonel Muddy Waters. Matt cursed his luck for being associated with legends of the Air Force. In any other unit, he could have sunk into welcome anonymity.
Furry pointed to an empty office and left the counter. Matt followed him. Normally, men built like Furry tended to waddle, but Matt noticed the wizzo had a rolling gait that shouted self-confidence. Furry closed the door behind them and motioned for Matt to sit down. “How’s it going?” Furry asked.
“Not good. You’d think I had a case of the plague that could be caught by standing inside fifty feet.”
“Sounds more like you’re still feeling sorry for yourself.” Furry didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, it’s always hard getting over an accident.”
Matt turned away and looked at the white wall board that still had the sketch of an air-to-air engagement on it. “I’m not sure I can fly anymore … I haven’t flown since the accident. I don’t even want to. I look at an F-Fifteen and I see trouble.… Hell, I’m not even sure what caused the accident.”
Firebreak Page 14
