“Is this the first time you’ve seen our squadron, Colonel?” the captain asked as she escorted him down the hall.
The air attaché only nodded. You damn well know it is, he thought. Gold had been assigned to the United States embassy in Jerusalem for two years and even though he was Jewish and spoke Hebrew, this was the deepest he had ever gotten inside the actual operations of Israel’s Air Force. The Israelis cast a dark mantle of secrecy over their military and carefully shielded their capability from outsiders. They believed their security depended on it. Since air attachés are official spies sent by their governments, the Israelis were careful to show them very little. Gold had learned more on his short search for Matt and Furry than in the previous two years.
Israel’s early warning and air defense net was one of their closest-held secrets and the air attaché would have willingly sold his soul to learn the details of the elaborate structure of orbiting aircraft, fixed and mobile radar sites, command bunkers, and how they were all linked together by a triple redundant system of computers.
The rotating planar array antenna on top of Mount Hermon was a critical part of that system. Because of constant artillery barrages, the Israelis had developed a fast erect/retract mechanism to protect the antenna and keep it feeding information to its processors and high-speed computers. A counterbattery radar would scan the area, and when it reported the area free of artillery fire, the antenna would snap out of its protective bunker and come to an upright position. From its elevation of 9,200 feet, the antenna would sweep the Damascus plain and the Transjordanian plateau as far south as Amman in Jordan on every ten-second rotation.
As Colonel Gold was following the intelligence officer down the hall to her office at Ramon, the Syrians unleashed a heavy artillery barrage on Mount Hermon. The antenna quickly retracted when the counterbattery radar reported incoming and the defenders hunkered down. The captain in charge of the radar site on Mount Hermon was perplexed by the barrage, for the Syrian Third Army stretched out below him had been relatively quiet. He keyed his computer and ordered the antenna to come erect during an interval between explosions. The counterbattery radar sensed a six-second window between the incoming shells and the planar array antenna snapped up and took a 110-degree sweep of the area below before it retracted to safety.
Inside the bunker, the computers processed the new information and sent out immediate warnings. Under the cover of the barrage, the Syrian Third Army was repositioning on the Golan Heights. Farther to the south, the Syrian Fifth Army had launched forty-six tactical missiles.
The air attaché had reached the captain’s office at Ramon when the alarm sounded. On top of Mount Hermon, the captain commanded the radar antenna to come erect once more. Again, the antenna popped up and partially swept the horizon. This time, the computers were able to determine the trajectory of the tactical missiles, and since the ballistics of a missile are constant, the point of impact, the target, was determined. Eight of the missiles were headed for Ramon Air Base. Again, warnings went out.
Deep in the command bunker outside Tel Aviv, computers reported the attack. Intelligence officers scanned the information and noted the targets. At first, the computers determined the missiles to be Soviet-built Scud Bs. But since the distance to Ramon was 320 kilometers, well beyond the range of the Scud B, the missiles arcing toward Ramon were upgraded to Scaleboards. Another warning was sent out for Ramon to expect eight missiles with two-thousand-pound highexplosive warheads to arrive shortly. An Israeli general’s lipscompressed and disappeared as he punched the telebrief phone at his console. Someone was going to have to tell Prime Minister Ben David that the Syrians were using much more accurate tactical missiles and that the battle for the Golan Heights could start at any time.
The pretty captain disregarded the air raid warnings and handed a set of photos to Matt. She handed another set to the air attaché as Klaxons outside their bunker warned the base to take cover. “We’re as safe down here as anywhere else,” she told him. Sweat glistened on Gold’s face as two of the missiles eluded the Patriots and hit the base. It was the first time that the violence of war had found the colonel.
Fraser sat panting in the bathtub, his face etched with sweat, still trying to catch his breath. His heart was still beating rapidly and he could feel his temples pound. My God, he wondered, how close did she come to giving me a heart attack? I’ll never let her do that to me again. For a moment he tried to remember all that he had told her. It seemed the more he had dropped names and told her about the rich and powerful people he associated with, the more excited she became. He shook his head and promised himself that he would never crawl into a bathtub with her again.
Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she sat on the edge of the sunken tub, her legs arched gracefully over his big belly. He was fascinated by the way she handled the old-fashioned straightedge razor as she flicked it up and down her legs. “Where did you learn that trick?” he asked.
“My grandmother’s sister. Quite a gal in her day.” She reached for a bottle of fresh champagne and wiggled the cork, popping it free. He knew how strong her long fingers were. Then she poured the champagne over her freshly shaved legs. He knew how that felt. In fact, he knew many more things now than he had an hour ago. He had always thought of himself as a sexual sophisticate, one of the things money and power could buy, but Tara Tyndle had destroyed that self-image. He was amazed that a woman with her looks and class could be — he searched for the right word — a modern courtesan, he decided.
Tara splashed some of the champagne over her naval and let it run down. Then she swung one of her long legs over his head. “Want to lick?”
Later, when they were ready to go and drinking a last cup of coffee, Fraser marveled at her transformation. Tara had become a young society matron. Or was she a highly successful business-woman? or the pampered wife of one of Washington’s power brokers? He couldn’t tell. “Dinner tonight?” he asked, looking at her over his cup of coffee.
“Oh I’m sorry, I can’t.” She gave him a sad look. “I’m going out of town for a few days. Switzerland.”
“Why Switzerland?” Fraser considered that country one of the more boring places on the face of the earth and he did not like the Swiss — especially their incorruptible, self-righteous bankers.
“Business. I need to make some arrangements.”
Fraser understood immediately. Her business had to do with secret bank accounts and die transfer of money. If it involved the laundering of “black” money, something he was an expert at, he could help her. “If it involved banking,” he ventured, “you don’t need to go to Switzerland. I do have some contacts …” He deliberately let his words die.
“I don’t see how I can avoid it,” she said, a rueful look on her face. “I would much rather go to dinner with you.” Her tongue flicked over her lips and he caught his breath. “But the sums are very large.”
“Like I said, I know some people who might be able to help you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t want to impose.” She rose to leave, satisfied that he had taken the bait.
An hour later, Fraser walked into his office. He settled down behind his desk, still preoccupied with thoughts of Tara. He had convinced himself that she was a power groupie, one of those women who skirted on the edges of true power, exchanging the only thing they had for a chance to be among the influential. And in exchange for a little aimless chatter, he laughed to himself, it’s all for free.