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 other 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.”