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 lesson.
“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.
The phone rang. She grabbed a towel and hurried to answer it. It was Mana. He had just returned from Kirkuk, was still at the airport, and wanted to see her immediately. She told him to hurry for she did miss him.
She hung up, sat down, and cried, hating what she had become.
The squadron self-help project was finished and Matt was basking in compliments from his fellow pilots and wizzos. Even Locke seemed pleased. Charlie Ferguson, being a grizzled old master sergeant, took it all in stride and only saw it as business as usual. For Matt, it had been a lesson in accomplishment and he took pride in what he had done. Then his name appeared on the schedule for a “ride” in the simulator to refresh his emergency procedures. He was going back on the flying schedule and he saw an end to his troubles.