Martin had taken a cue from the Navy and was sold on the concept of formed crews where a pilot and a wizzo were teamed and always flew together. He was convinced that was the only way to exploit the full capability of the E model. It was proving to be a paperwork nightmare for the bureaucrats on the ground, but was showing positive results in the air. “There’s no way I’m going to let you escape for two months,” Martin told the wizzo. Furry was an outstanding weapons and tactics expert whom Martin kept hopping on special projects at wing headquarters.
“Sir”—this from Matt—“why don’t you put all the crew’s names in a hat and draw the lucky guy?”
Martin grabbed a cigarette and lit it. “Not bad. What do I tell USAFE?”
“Tell them that I decline because of personal reasons. No way they’ll press to test that one. Leave my name out of the hat.”
Another groan from Furry. “Not fair,” he protested. “Let me at the Israelis. In sixty days I can pluck their brains bare on every new tactic they’ve got. It’s a rare chance, Colonel.”
“Okay, your names are in the hat too. Furry, arrange it for this morning.”
The main briefing room in the squadron was jammed as every pilot and wizzo crowded in for the drawing. Furry had turned it into an event and had a pretty civilian secretary there to pick the name. More than one rumor was passed around that she was the prize for the runner-up. With the proper amount of fanfare and hype from Furry, she reached into the hat and felt around. She pulled out a folded slip of paper and read it to the crowd. “Captain Pontowski and Major Furry,” she announced.
Loud groans and accusations of a “fix” greeted the winners. “That’s the name of the runner up, right?” Matt shouted. “Draw for the winner now.” More good-natured shouts of “Scam” and “Fix” were heard as the crowd filed out of the room. Furry joined Matt. “Well, old buddy,” the pilot said, “how’s your Hebrew?”
“Duty’s a terrible burden,” Furry answered.
“Tall ‘Uwaynot,” Mustapha grunted. Shoshana could see their destination in front of them, the isolated and dusty village of Tall ‘Uwaynot. He had picked the village because it was in the extreme northwest of Iraq and lay less than twenty-five miles from the Turkish border. “I’ll bribe some border guards and smuggle you across,” he said. He pulled up in front of a walled compound on the outskirts of the village. ‘ ‘This is our safe house. Stay inside and out of sight until I can get it arranged.”
Time became the enemy again as Shoshana waited for Mustapha to complete the arrangements to get her across the border. She had time to rest and wash their clothes, but no amount of soap and water could wash away what she had become. Bitterness burned inside her as she struggled to bank that fire and forget that she was a murderer and whore. After the initial shock of Habish’s death had worn off, she felt a profound relief at being free of the man. She stopped thinking about Habish altogether when Mustapha’s young wife, Meral, appeared one day, tired and dirty from the eighteen-mile walk from the nearest highway. The next day, Shoshana went with her to the village square and followed her around as she shopped at the various stalls.
Two soldiers from the small army detachment that was assigned to the village stopped them, gave their identification papers a quick glance, and handed them back. “They’re only farmers who were drafted by the government,” Meral explained, “and probably can’t even read.” After that, the soldiers ignored them when they went to the square and the gentle pace of village life reached out and enveloped Shoshana, restoring a semblance of sanity to her life. Tall ‘Uwaynot was exactly what she needed.
Early one morning Mustapha woke her. “Come, I need your help.” He rushed her into the bedroom. Meral was lying on a sleeping pallet, awake but in obvious pain. The girl was miscarrying.
“We’re going to need a doctor or a nurse,” she told Mustapha. He only shook his head and said they couldn’t do that. “Then get a midwife,” she ordered. Again he refused, claiming it was too dangerous to approach strangers. “Then I’ll get one,” Shoshana said and left the room. She had come to the end of her toleration for death and suffering.
Mustapha caught her outside and shoved her back into the house. “I’ll go,” he said and ran into the night. He was back in less than thirty minutes with an old woman who took one glance at Meral and started issuing orders. Mustapha would hurry to do her bidding while Shoshana sat in a corner and watched the old woman work. When she finished and Meral was resting comfortably, the old woman cocked her head to one side and studied Shoshana for a moment. Then she was gone.
“I told her you were my sister,” Mustapha explained, “and that we had to take care of you because you’re a simpleton and slightly crazy.” He stared into the night. “I don’t think she believed me. She’ll gossip. The soldiers will hear and become suspicious.”
“Then it’s time to leave,” Shoshana said.
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he said and disappeared out the door.
Shoshana walked to the door and stood there. The distinctive phut sound of a Walther drifted back to her. She was still standing in the doorway when Mustapha came back. “There was no choice,” he said. “She lived alone and won’t be missed for a day or two. We must leave now.” Shoshana stared at him. “I said there was no choice,” he snapped. “Everything we do has a price. She was the payment.”
Shoshana lay on the ground beside Mustapha’s wife. The young girl was growing weaker and Shoshana had half carried, half dragged her the last three miles through the mountains until they reached their rendezvous point with Mustapha. Shoshana was sorry that they had to bring her along, but she would have never found the hidden niche without her. “At least I could carry her,” she consoled herself, gasping for air. When her breathing had slowed and she felt some strength return to her legs, Shoshana crawled out from behind the rock where they were hiding and scanned the valley below them, looking for Mustapha. Nothing. She crawled back and lay down, glad for a chance to rest. “What is he doing down there?” she said, more to herself than to the girl, and dozed off.
A man’s voice and a sharp guttural command in Arabic caught at the edges of Shoshana’s consciousness and jolted her fully awake. For a moment, her heart pounded rapidly. Then she heard Mustapha’s voice and her breathing eased. Again, she heard the same hard voice followed by a wheedling sound from Mustapha. Both of the women heard it and pulled back into the rocks and brush, trying to become invisible.
“They are hidden here,” Mustapha said in Arabic. Two border guards climbed around the rock and stood in front of the two women. “Do I get a reward?” Mustapha asked from behind the two men. He was cringing and wringing his hands. A perfect toady.
“No, but I will,” the border guard with the hard voice rasped. He swung his AK-47 down off its shoulder strap and jammed the muzzle into Mustapha’s stomach, bending him over in pain. He knocked the Kurd to the ground with the butt of the assault rifle and then took aim at Mustapha’s head. Shoshana closed her eyes, not able to see another killing. She heard a single shot and Meral gasp in surprise. Then she opened her eyes. Mustapha was still lying on the ground, but the lifeless body of the hard-voiced guard was sprawled out over him. The other guard was standing over them, an automatic in his hand. Blood, brains, and most of the dead guard’s forehead were splattered over Mustapha.
“This is the man I bribed,” Mustapha explained. “Unfortunately, this one”—he pushed himself free of the body—“could not be bribed.” While Mustapha tried to clean himself, the guard stripped the dead man’s uniform off and threw it at Shoshana. “Put it on,” Mustapha told her.