“So you are convinced Iraq is now aligning with Syria militarily?” Pontowski said.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Carroll replied. His answer carried conviction. “Also, Iraq wants to settle a very real score with Israel.”
Fraser’s head shot up; his face did all but shout, “What score!”
Pontowski laughed at his chief of staff’s abrupt reaction. “Tom, Israel has been the primary support behind the Kurdish rebellion that has plagued Iraq for years. It’s a basic element of faith among Iraq’s leaders to punish Israel for keeping the Kurds stirred up. Cooler heads who argue for an accommodation with Israel disappear into the cellars of Al Mukhabaret.”
“Al Mukhabaret?” Fraser asked. He had never heard that name.
“The Iraqi intelligence service and secret police.” Pontowski liked to surprise his staff with what he knew. “Mike,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “put a team together to watch the situation and come up with some concrete proposals to back up Israel.”
Fraser wanted to interrupt and say that there was no confirming evidence and that they should stay focused on the United States’ primary goal in the Middle East: to keep on the friendly side of the Arab oil interests and keep the oil flowing. After all, it was simply a matter of good politics — and business. He said nothing and a pain shot through his stomach.
“Also,” Pontowski continued, “we need to develop a comprehensive plan now on how we are going to handle another Arab oil embargo like 1973. And get the word to the oil companies that we won’t tolerate the excessive profits they made during the last crisis.” He sat thinking for a moment. “Colonel Carroll, I’d like you to move over to Mr. Cagliari’s office and work for him.” He smiled at Cox. “I know. I’m stealing your top talent. But I want to stay on top of this. I hate being in a reactive mode.” He turned to Fraser. “Tom, make it all happen.”
The door to the Oval Office opened and Melissa walked in unannounced. It was too much for Fraser and he stood up, about to tell her to leave immediately. Damn! he raged inwardly, the stupid bitch hasn’t figured it out yet. I control access to the President.
“Mr. President,” Melissa said, not caring that she had interrupted or what the consequences would be. “I just received a phone call from the Pentagon… Matt’s been involved in a crash… No word on survivors… Nothing else at the moment.”
7
Avi Tamir folded the latest letter from Shoshana and placed it in his old battered briefcase with the other postcards and letters she had written. He tried to concentrate on his latest project: creating a hydrogen bomb by the gaseous boosting of lithium-6 into an atomic bomb. But he couldn’t focus on his work.
Reluctantly, he pulled the postcards and letters out and spread them on the table, rereading each. The father in him wanted to believe the picture they painted — Shoshana was on an extended business trip, mixing business and pleasure as she toured fruit packing and processing plants in southern Spain. But the scientist in him won out and he saw another pattern. All the cards and letters had been written at the same time with the same pen. And while the handwriting on the cards appeared to be the same, the dates were written with a slightly different pen. A magnifying glass confirmed his suspicions.
The pieces all fit together; his daughter was working for the Mossad and was on an assignment. His beautiful and only child — his only tangible link with Miriam, his long-dead wife. A sick feeling swirled through his stomach and he prayed Shoshana was safe in Spain and not somewhere else.
He berated himself for not attempting to work and put the letters away. “I only want my daughter home safe and sound,” he said to himself.
“Don’t worry,” Mana told Shoshana, “the villa is very nice.”
Shoshana kept looking at the dusty landscape and simple one-story buildings along the road that led from Kirkuk’s airport to the villa and Iraq Petroleum Company furnished for visiting guests. She wondered how any luxury could exist amid the poverty and destruction she saw. The driver turned the big Mercedes down a paved road. Around a bend and out of sight of the main highway, they entered a canopy of trees. A high whitewashed wall appeared in front of them and a heavy wrought-iron gate swung back as they approached. Inside, a magnificent garden swept up to a large mansion.
The majordomo was waiting for them at the entrance and escorted them to their rooms on the second floor. Servants scurried to hiding places and kept out of sight, but always ready to serve. Mana only smiled and nodded condescendingly. It was everything he had promised.
That afternoon, he took Shoshana on a tour of the new chemical plant the Iraq Petroleum Company had built thirty kilometers west of Kirkuk. She could sense the professional pride he took in showing her what he had accomplished and made numerous mental notes about the layout of the plant. She carefully marked the one heavily guarded building he studiously avoided.
Over breakfast the next morning, Mana hurriedly explained how he would be gone most of the day as they were conducting tests and that he had to be present. Shoshana asked what they were testing and Is’al beamed as he related how they were testing a new insecticide. “Everyone thinks it is a gas,” he explained, “but that’s totally wrong. It is really a liquid dispersed in a vapor that forms droplets on contact with a surface. And it’s most persistent.”
She put on an act of forced interest while her mind raced with the implications of what he was saying. Twice she tried to change the subject, but Mana kept on talking. Everything he said only revealed that the “insecticide” he kept mentioning was meant for humans. “It sounds dangerous,” Shoshana said. “We ran a batch of new insecticide where I worked in California and some of it escaped before it was diluted.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Please be careful.” He promised her he would. “Can I go sightseeing today?” she asked, again changing the subject.
Mana frowned. “That’s not possible, please stay here.”
Some spy, Shoshana thought as she walked him to the waiting car. I won’t learn a thing cooped up here.
The construction staff of foreign engineers was waiting for Mana’s arrival at the guarded building he had avoided on the tour with Shoshana. They led him through the freshly completed building, reviewing every detail involved in the manufacture of binary nerve gas munitions. The concept behind a binary nerve gas is simple: Two harmless agents are kept separated until they are employed; then the two agents are mixed together either in-flight or just prior to use, forming a deadly mixture. While the idea is simple, the production of a binary system is no easy task. But it had to be a binary system, for the scientists had provided the Iraqis with an additional capability. When mixed, the new nerve gas mixture was highly corrosive and capable of penetrating the protective clothing and gas mask filters the Israelis used.
After a break for noon prayers and lunch, a small group of Iraqi and foreign engineers and scientists escorted Mana deep into the third basement where tests were conducted. Six guards were waiting for them with two prisoners.
“That one”—the plant’s general manager pointed at the woman—“is an Israeli agent. And the man is her Kurdish contact. We captured them six months ago.” Both were wearing the protective clothing issued to Israeli soldiers for NBC (nuclear-biological-chemical) warfare. The manager growled a command and the guards removed the handcuffs from the prisoners and dropped gas masks at their feet. “Put them on,” the manager ordered.