“That’s close-hold information, Lieutenant. I’m telling you because it will be officially announced tomorrow. Keep it under your hat until then. There’s another thing …”
Matt braced himself.
“You give a new meaning to the term ‘double bang,’ “ Lock began, not enjoying what he had to do. Damn, Locke raged to himself, I remember when I was on the receiving end of a chewing-out like this one. But the young man standing in front of him was different. He had weight behind him. Hell! How much more backing could a fighter jock have than the President of the United States? Locke thought. The wing commander had forcibly reminded him of that two hours ago when he dumped the problem of Matthew Zachary Pontowski III and his wild ways into Locke’s lap. The wing commander’s words had been a simple “Work it out, Locke. Keep the kid under control and don’t get me involved.”
“Just how much farther do you think you can push the system?” Locke asked, switching his approach.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Let me put it another way, Pontowski. If any other swingin’ dick in my squadron had jumped two alert birds scrambled on a drug smuggler or had a general’s wife running around stark starin’ naked at a party, he’d be long gone. Your political connections are saving your ass …” Suddenly, Locke was tired of the young man in front of him. Tired of his casual attitude and self-confidence that were ample evidence he wasn’t worried about anything his squadron commander could do to him. And Locke knew he was right.
“Years ago,” Locke said, “your personnel file would have had a big PI, for political influence, stamped on it. They don’t do that anymore. In your case it wouldn’t matter.”
“That’s not fair, Colonel—”
“Just listen, Pontowski. You’re walking away from jumping the F-Fifteens clean as a whistle because of PI in the shape of one Thomas Fraser, your grandfather’s chief of staff. Fraser is running interference for you and pinging on our wing commander. The Old Man can’t take that sort of heat. Also, I’ve got other things to worry about, like a squadron move, and haven’t got time for you.” Matt started to interrupt, stung by Locke’s hard words. But Locke cut him off. “Are you also hard of hearing? I said, ‘Listen.’ At least allow me one prerogative. All I can ask you to do is to try and act responsible and not kill anyone else in these games you play.”
Matt was standing rigidly at attention, biding his time until he could escape. “One last thing,” Locke continued, his voice flat and unemotional. “No political influence, no cosmic backseater, no fuckin’ false bravado is going to save your ass when a MiG pilot has outflown you, outthought you, outfought you, and is at your six o’clock hosing you down.”
“With the ruckus in Iraq over, that’s not likely to happen, now is it, Colonel?” Matt was smiling when he said it, all his self-confidence back. He was getting bored.
“You’d better hope not,” Locke said, thinking about his own experience in that particular war. “But in England you will be just that much closer to MiG drivers, won’t you? Now get the hell out of here so I can do some productive work.”
Matt saluted and left. Haney was waiting for him outside the office, wearing a worried look. He followed the pilot down the hall. “Are we gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” Matt reassured him, totally unaffected by the chewing out he had received. “Not a hell of a lot they can do to me. Stick with me kid and you’ll be okay.” The relief on Haney’s face was obvious. “I gotta get out of this chickenshit outfit for a while,” Matt continued. “Maybe take some leave.” He thought for a moment. “I know where there’s one hell of a party going on.” The young pilot turned abruptly into the administration office, grabbed a leave form, and filled it out.
The administration clerk checked the completed form. “Colonel Locke has to approve foreign leave,” she told Matt.
“No problem. He’ll sign it. Probably be glad to get rid of me for a while.”
“Where you goin'?” Haney asked.
“Spain. See you in England.” He ambled down the hall, leaving a perplexed Haney in his wake.
Shoshana sat at a small table in Marbella’s main square, enjoying a late-morning cup of coffee and reading a two-day-old copy of The New York Times. She found the old town with its picturesque streets, small shops, and masses of flowers fascinating and, after three days, was spending more and more or her time there, mostly in dress shops. She dropped the newspaper in her lap and thought about the boutiques she would explore later on. A familiar voice brought her back to reality with a jolt.
“Don’t turn around,” Habish’s voice said behind her. She did anyway and saw her contact sitting at the table immediately behind her. He was reading a newspaper, seemingly unconcerned with her presence. “This is not a vacation. Spend more time at the beach club. We’ve arranged for you to attend a party there tonight. The club manager has an invitation for you.”
Habish had been busy making contacts and opening doors for Shoshana’s entrance into the more rarefied strata of Marbella’s social life. Since the Mossad did not use local Jews for its operations, refusing to compromise their status or allegiance to their own country, Habish had to ferret out his own contacts and bring in two more agents. Luckily, Marbella was a tourist trap, although a very high class one, that required workers — hairdressers, waiters, receptionists — fluent in many languages. Habish had found a young Moroccan working as a hotel’s assistant manager who was hired because he spoke Arabic. The young man was also Jewish and a Zionist. He had readily volunteered to help Habish, willing to become involved without knowing details. Secretly, the Moroccan hoped Habish was on the trail of another Adolf Eichmann. Shoshana would never know that three Mossad agents were backing her up, laying groundwork, watching her every move, and only getting above five hours of sleep a night. Gad Habish was a tired man.
“The dress boutique you were in yesterday,” he continued, “the one near the fountain, go back this morning and talk to Gabriella. She’ll help select a dress for the party.” The sales clerk was another immigrant worker that one of the agents had recruited.
“I can’t afford anything in there,” Shoshana protested.
“Use a credit card,” Habish snapped, cutting off any further conversation.
Twenty minutes later, Shoshana was trying on dresses, shocked that she would be buying anything with such a price tag. “You must be more relaxed and natural,” Gabriella counseled. “Don’t worry about the prices.” She surveyed the young woman, analyzing her, trying to decide how best to showcase her natural beauty. “Black is your best color,” she decided. “Try this one.” The woman handed Shoshana a black, full-length gown, strapless except for two thin spaghetti straps over each shoulder and slit high up the right side, revealing most of her leg. The dress seemed to shimmer and flow over her body. “Yes, that will do perfectly.”
Shoshana took stock of her reflection in a mirror, shocked at what she saw. “It looks like a nightgown …”
“Not quite. But that is the idea.”
“What kind of bra do I wear with this? And look at the panty line!”
“Don’t wear either.”
Shoshana was ready for her first skirmish.
A gentle breeze moved in off the Mediterranean, cooling the large patio where the beach club held its parties, rocking the lanterns, and casting a moving pattern of light and shadows over the rich, famous, infamous, and hanger-ons that made up the “glitterati” of Marbella’s society. Matt was sitting at the patio’s bar just outside the French doors that opened into the main lounge taking it all in when a tall, Nordic young man walked through the doors. “Hellmut,” he called, catching the newcomer’s attention, “I’d given up on you.”