Fraser glared at her, wanting to fire her on the spot. He didn’t like the way she argued. “What’s your point?” he demanded.
“If he reads something in the PDB that doesn’t track with what he’s reading and hearing from other sources, he just might call Carroll in.”
Fraser gestured for the brief and reread what the analyst had said about the current developments in the Middle East. “This is pure crap about the Arab masses seeing Saddam What’s his name as a martyr and forcing their governments to unite to finish his work or that Iraq is secretly rebuilding its military strength. Hell, Iraq is still digging out of the rubble — economically and politically. And I certainly don’t see any signs of growing tension between Syria and Israel. Zack might get the idea that Israel is not able to handle the situation, that things are getting out of control.”
“Things change,” Melissa said. “It’s the job of intelligence to stay on top.”
“Get a fresh copy,” he demanded. “I’ll send it up this time.” He picked up the next folder in the stack and started to read. Then he looked up over his reading glasses at Melissa’s retreating back. He made two mental notes: Fire the bitch as soon as possible and get with the director of central intelligence to make sure the party line was reaching the President.
Be careful, he warned himself. The broad has some sort of pull with Pontowski. He had tried repeatedly to find out what it was and at first had simply chalked it up to sex. Beautiful women did come with the job and, even at forty-five, Melissa Courtney-Smith was gorgeous. But in all the years he had known Zack Pontowski, Fraser had never detected the slightest extramarital indiscretion. The President liked women, associated easily with them, and when he found a competent one, relied on her skills and listened to her opinions. But he never took advantage of them. “Humph,” Fraser grunted aloud. It didn’t make sense that a man of the President’s generation would treat women like he did men. Fraser knew exactly how he would have used the woman if she wanted to flit around the edges of real power. It was beyond his way of thinking that Pontowski valued Melissa simply because of her years of loyal and competent service on his staff.
“For Christ’s sake!” he yelled when he read the third folder. “Melissa, get the wing commander at Luke Air Force Base on the phone. Matt’s back at it again.”
“Shoshe, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Tamir was watching his daughter go about the business of packing. His fatherly instincts warned him that she was lying and they were going to argue.
“You would’ve only been upset sooner,” she replied, padding barefoot through the apartment, wearing an old, half-opened, baggy shirt over her briefs and nothing else.
“Must you dress like that?” he asked. He couldn’t help it. He wanted his daughter to be a good Jewish girl. Why are we stuck at the same place we were when she was seventeen? he asked himself.
“Faah-ther,” she said in exasperation, sounding like a teenager, “there’s only you and me here and I am packing.”
“You should have told me sooner,” he repeated. “Going on a vacation on such short notice — I don’t like it.”
“I told you, it’s a working holiday. The company is sending me on business. Otherwise, I could never afford it. Not on my salary.”
“Why would a fruit export company be doing business in southern Spain? It doesn’t sound right.”
She took a deep breath, tried not to let her annoyance break through, and kept her voice calm and reasonable. “I’m checking on new packing and processing equipment. My company has got to stay current if we’re going to compete in world markets.”
“Shoshe …"He wanted to confront her with his suspicions, to lay it out, to satisfy his inquisitive nature. Because of his work in the government, he had heard the Shoshana’s company also fronted for Mossad and he strongly suspected that his only child, his big, beautiful, beloved, raven-haired daughter, worked for Israel’s Central Institute for Intelligence and Special Missions.
“Shoshe …”
“You sound like a stuck record.” She smiled at him. “I’ve got everything I need packed so I can change now. I’ll cook dinner. Just the two of us. You can drop me at the airport in the morning on your way to work.”
Five minutes later, she was dressed and in the kitchen, singing and cooking. Well, Tamir thought, now she knows how to handle me and avoid an argument. He settled into his favorite chair and looked out the open French doors that led to the balcony. The lights of Haifa were coming on below them. It was the end of the Sabbath. She would not have told me anyway, he consoled himself. They never admit it when they work for Mossad. It is one of their strictest rules — the first one they learn.
“I’ll drive, Father,” Shoshana said, loading her two suitcases into the trunk of the family’s Volvo. Tamir grunted and settled into the passenger’s seat. He was worse then a bear coming out of hibernation early in the morning. She pointed the car down the hill and joined the light Sunday morning traffic.
He was surprised by how smooth a driver she had become. “You are driving much better,” he mumbled, still not fully human. “I remember the last time I rode with you …"He dropped the subject and relaxed into the seat for the seventy-mile drive to Ben Gurion Airport. “The car’s running better,” he said, yawning.
“I had it tuned up,” Shoshana replied, glancing at him. “Asleep. Good.” She floored the accelerator and wove smoothly through the light traffic. The car was silent as they left Haifa and headed south.
The sharp staccatolike bark of an AK-47 shattered Tamir’s sleep. Panic jerked him fully awake when he saw two cars in front of them crash together, blocking the road. Instead of hitting the brakes, Shoshana went straight at them, aiming for a gap between a stopped bus on their left in the oncoming lane and a light-green car parked against the curb on the right. He gasped for air when she wrenched the steering wheel to the left, into the bus. At the same time she stomped on the gas, breaking the rear end loose and skidding them sideways through the gap. He was vaguely aware that gunfire was coming from the parked car.
“Whaa …” was all he could manage and a bolt of fear shot through his stomach as the wrecked cars in front of them burst into flame and two bullets slammed into the back of the Volvo. He was certain they were going to roll or skid into the flames.
“Get down!” Shoshana shouted. She eased off the accelerator, still keeping them in the skid as they slowed. Now they were through the gap. Again she mashed the gas pedal and they rocketed around the rear of the bus in a tight U-turn. They accelerated back down the road toward Haifa, keeping the bus between them and the parked car. He could see flames coming from die bus as more gunfire poured into it from the other side. Metal and glass fragments rained down on them. Then they were clear, barreling to safety. “Terrorists,” Shoshana said, her voice amazingly calm. “They were in the parked car.” She pulled into a service station and jumped out of the Volvo, demanding to use the telephone.
Tamir stumbled out of the car still breathing hard and in a state of shock. Now the sporadic terrorist attacks that plagued Israel had touched him and threatened his family. Before, it had only been an incident recorded on TV. Now it was reality. He examined the two holes in the rear of the car, one in the deck and the other in the rear window. Both had passed completely through the car at an angle and exited out the right side. Slowly it came to him that Shoshana had saved his life by throwing the car into a skid and taking the gunfire in the rear; otherwise, the slugs would have plowed through his door.
He followed her inside and found her on the phone reporting the incident. He listened, aware of a growing thirst. He wanted a cool drink — badly. “Yes,” she said, confirming the location of the attack. “There were three of them, two men and a woman. General impressions only, young, Arab-looking, not European or Oriental. I saw two AK-Forty-sevens. Nothing else. They were in a light-green Renault.” Tamir listened as she reeled off the seven digits of the license plate. “There was a different number plate on the front. I didn’t get it all; the first two numbers were four-seven.” She identified herself and then hung up. “We can go now,” she announced. “They’ll call you if they need more information.”