Back in the car, he stared at her. “How did you see all that? And the driving. Like a professional race car driver.”
“Oh, Faah-ther.” The seventeen-year-old was back. “I don’t know. I just did. It was luck. The only time I’ve ever been in a skid was when I took driving lessons. You remember, I told you about that.”
He wanted to believe her; he wanted to be certain that his daughter was telling the truth and just going on a nice business trip to Spain. But his years of training and work as a scientist had conditioned him to evaluate the evidence he saw, to divorce emotion and wishing and hoping from cold logic. Then he looked at her and she tossed her head, throwing her hair to one side, just like Miriam. She saw him watching her and gave him that beautiful smile. The father in him won and he believed her.
Shoshana concentrated on driving, picking her way through back roads until she rejoined the main highway, well clear of the terrorist ambush, heading toward the airport. Please stop asking so many questions, she thought, keeping her silence. I’m doing the same thing you are. She thought about her first field assignment — to make contact with one Is’al Nassir Mana. She had only been told why Mossad was interested in him, not how to exploit their relationship. But she knew what she had to do.
“This is good stuff,” Mike Haney said. “My wife is guzzling her third one. What’s it called?” Matt Pontowski’s backseater helped himself to another dose of the punch Matt had brewed for the party.
“Tell her to go easy,” Matt warned. “It’s called a French Seventy-five. It’s sneaky and can really do a number on you. According to my, ah, sources”—Matt almost said “grandaddy” but he didn’t want Haney to think he was name-dropping—“it first saw the light of day in World War One and was named after a famous French artillery piece. Believe me, it can be lethal.” The lieutenant smiled as he recalled how his grandfather could go on endlessly, spouting trivia from what he called the Great War. The elder Pontowski’s interest in World War One made sense, considering the President of the United States was born on November 11, 1918, the day the war ended.
Matt checked the bar again, satisfied with the way the squadron party was going. It was the first time he had used the big recreation room at the condominium where he lived in Phoenix, Arizona, and it was a perfect party place, the way it opened out to the pool and spa. There was a sauna in a back room and he liked the large freestanding fireplace that formed a pillar in the center of the room.
The squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Locke, and his wife were leaving and came over to Matt. “Nice party,” Locke said.
Gillian Locke extended her right hand for Matt to shake. “I really enjoyed it and don’t want to leave. Baby-sitters, you know.” Her British accent charmed him and she gave him a beautiful smile.
Locke turned and looked around the room, wanting to stay. But he could see the younger troops wanted to get rowdy and were only held in check by his presence. It was one of the reasons squadron commanders left early. He remembered when he was a bachelor lieutenant. Now he had to play the squadron commander. “Take good care of the drunks.” He smiled, his way of saying not to let anyone drive under the influence.
“Roger, sir,” Matt said, all business. “We got designated drivers and I’m keeping them stone-cold sober. Poor bastards.” The Lockes said a few more good-byes and disappeared out the door. Matt breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, oh,” Haney said. “Looks like one of the ladies is getting ready to do it.” A small crowd was gathering around a corner of the freestanding fireplace in the center of the room. A girl wearing a tight skirt was looking up at the beam ceiling twelve feet above her head. The bricks did not form a smooth edge, but stuck out. The way they overlapped and alternated made a ladder effect that the girl was going to test. She hiked her skirt above her thighs and scampered up the corner of the fireplace like a human fly.
“Woo-ie!” she called at the top, tapping a beam in the ceiling. She started to work her way down.
“Hope someone catches her if she falls,” a soft voice said behind Matt. He turned to see the condominium’s owner standing in the doorway.
“No way I’m going to stand under her,” Haney said. “My wife would skin me alive — claim I’m turning into a dirty old man and looking up women’s skirts.”
“I think,” Matt said, “there’s plenty of volunteers to catch her, Mrs. Mado.” He handed her a cup of his punch.
Barbara Mado returned his smile and sipped the punch. “French Seventy-fives. Wicked.”
Matt caught the gleam in her eye. “Why don’t you stay and get acquainted, Mrs. Mado.” Matt had heard the rumors about her and knew a party animal when he saw one.
“Please, it’s Barbara. And I will if you don’t mind. Sounds like fun.” She smiled and joined the crowd.
“Is she really a general’s wife?” Haney asked.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “ A three-star. Lieutenant General Simon Mado. A real asshole. He traded his first wife in for her a couple of years ago. Figured it would help his career.”
“I can see why. Great body. She could pose for Playboy. How old you think she is?”
Matt shrugged an answer. “I’d guess late thirties. Rumor around the condo has it she was a Las Vegas showgirl in a prior life before she started buying real estate. Apparently she made a bundle before marrying Mado. She still shows up now and then; takes good care of the place.”
Haney moved behind the bar and helped Matt while the party got noisy and rowdy. From time to time. Matt noticed Barbara Mado and started to worry about her repeated trips to the punch bowl. Most of the married couples had left and someone had turned the music up when he heard a squeal from the pool. Two lieutenants were launching Barbara into the air. He heard a splash and shrugged. Three more splashes followed in short order.
The girl who had climbed the fireplace came up to the bar, gathering a few well-deserved comments. She was only wearing a wet teddy that left nothing to the imagination. She threw her soaked dress at Matt. “Please do something with that,” she laughed.
Another chorus of shouts marked Barbara’s entrance from the pool. She was fully clothed and dripping wet. “Unzip me, please,” she said, turning her back to Haney.
He did as he was told. “Man, I got to leave,” he said. “Too wild for an old married man like me.” He went in search of his wife.
“Chicken,” Barbara called at his departing back and stepped out of her dress, She kicked it into a pile against the bar and mentally compared herself to the young, half-dressed girl. Matt sucked his breath in. Barbara Mado was spectacular in her wet black lace bra and sheer matching bikini panties. She might as well have been naked.
He leaned across the bar and did his best W. C. Fields routine. “Well, well, my dear, anyone who drinks French Seventy-fives and runs around dishabille can’t be all bad.”
“You like,” she laughed and moved off to the punch bowl. He could hear a promise in her voice.
“Never made it with a general’s wife,” he muttered, thinking about his prospects when the party was over.