Firebreak (23 page)

“How much of it do you think is true?” the driver asked.

Melissa only shook her head, trying to think of what to say. Of course, she wanted to believe it was a pack of lies or misinformation, facts twisted to make a story. She had seen it before and accepted it as part of the game of politics. But this was different, it had the ring of truth and the
Post
had too good a track record with their investigative journalism. Sure, the newspaper made mistakes, but not ones that involved the President of the United States. The reporter was onto something. There was no doubt in Melissa’s mind that Zack Pontowski would never allow, much less condone, the use of illegal campaign funds. He would have been the first whistle-blower. But perhaps someone inside the election campaign committee had exceeded his or her bounds. Who? An image of Fraser talking on a telephone immediately came to mind.

A secretary told her to go directly into the Oval Office when she reached the White House and she was embarrassed at interrupting the meeting. Fraser was sitting next to the chairman of the election committee. The Vice President was standing, holding a cup of coffee, listening to what the speaker of the House had to say. “Coffee?” Pontowski asked when he saw Melissa come through the door. She smiled a thanks and poured a cup from the silver carafe on the table. “Well, like I was saying, Mr. President,” the speaker continued, “it’s way too early to see what this has done to your political base in the House.”

“What about the Senate?” Pontowski asked the Vice President.

The Vice President stared into his cup. “It’s the same. Too early to tell.” He gave a wicked grin. “But I can tell in beaucoup markers.”

“Not on this one,” Pontowski told the Vice President. Fraser’s head snapped up, but he said nothing.

Pontowski leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Frank”—this was for the campaign chairman—“can you recall any questionable money coming in from political action committees or our people getting in bed with the wrong characters?”

“We returned anything that looked like it came from a questionable source,” the man said. “And we stayed well clear of the PACs and get-out-the-vote groups. Too much wheeling-dealing going on at the state level.”

“Did you keep a record of all that?” Fraser asked.

“Of course,” the campaign chairman said. Fraser frowned.

“Melissa”—Pontowski was looking at her—“did you see or hear anything questionable when you were working at the national campaign headquarters?”

“Every day,” she answered. “But if it had anything to do with contributions, I forwarded it to Mr. Fraser’s office.”

“Did you keep a record or some kind of memo?” Fraser asked. Melissa shook her head no.

“Tom, what did you see?” Fraser had been responsible for the day-to-day running of the campaign, leaving the chairman free to concentrate on fund-raising and overall guidance.

Fraser smiled condescendingly. “Only what Melissa sent up to me. I handled it.” There was condemnation in his tone.

“Did you keep a record?” Melissa asked sweetly.

Fraser glared at her. “It wasn’t necessary.” Now he took charge. “It’s an exposé, the kind of thing that sells newspapers. We’ve all seen it before and the
Post
has been slobbering after another Watergate ever since I can remember. There’s nothing there, so we should stonewall it and throw the ball back into their court.”

“I don’t think it will be that easy,” the speaker of the House allowed.

“Without proof, what have they got?” Fraser was on the offensive.

“Okay, enough,” Pontowski said, holding up a hand and stopping all discussion. “This has the potential to blow up in our faces. It’s like seeing a rat—if you see one, you can be sure there’s more hiding in the woodwork.” He spoke quickly, without emotion. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Tom, you’re in charge. First, draft up a press release and get it back to me before it’s sent out. As of now, we are concerned and conducting a full-scale investigation. If there was any wrongdoing, we’ll find it and prosecute those responsible, no matter who they are. Second, talk to the attorney general and get a list of recommendations for a special prosecutor. Third, get the FBI involved and have them contact and interview everyone connected with the campaign.”

“Sir,” Fraser protested. “Do you have any idea of how many people that is?”

“Some,” Pontowski replied, “some. Fourth, contact the IRS and have them start checking on reported tax deductions to my campaign. It had all better track with our records.”

“They won’t like that one,” Fraser mumbled.

“No doubt,” Pontowski conceded. “Fifth, I want action today and an update before you go home tonight. Sixth, I want every reporter coming to us for information and anything they dig up on their own will be old news. Any questions?” There were none and the group started to file out. “Tom, what’s first on the agenda for today?”

Fraser stopped and looked at his schedule. “Breakfast with a delegation from the hill at seven-thirty, Mr. President. Subject: the Middle East.” He handed Pontowski a list of the three congressmen and two senators who would be there.

“Humm, the Israeli lobby,” Pontowski said. “Well, we can get some work done before then.”

Later, the breakfast started pleasantly enough but tension slipped into the conversation as talk turned toward the main concern of the delegation. “Mr. President,” the senior senator said, “we are worried about current developments and see an ominous threat being directed at the security of Israel. We understand that the Israelis have asked for increased military aid.” Pontowski nodded and encouraged the senator to continue. “We believe the administration should honor that request.”

“We only received the request a few days ago,” Pontowski explained. “We’re still examining it.”

“Mr. President”—it was the junior congressman’s turn—“my constituents are very worried about the bellicose statements coming from the Arabs that they are uniting to continue the work of Saddam and think we should give the Israelis the squadron of F-Fifteen Es they have asked for.”

“Your information is very detailed,” Pontowski said. “Like I said, we are looking at it.”

“Since your grandson is demonstrating an F-Fifteen E to the IDF can I tell my constituents that you are favorably considering the request?”

Pontowski looked at the man and frowned. “I didn’t know Matt was in Israel. Please believe me, sending my grandson was a decision made by the Air Force and does not reflect my policies in the area.”

“Mr. President,” the junior senator said. “We understand that your policies are changing.”

“My policies reflect the reality of the situation,” Pontowski replied.

“And what are the realities of the situation, Mr. President?” It was the junior congressman again. He was challenging the President.

“Gentlemen”—Pontowski smiled—“I’ll be glad to discuss my Middle East policies here but we are going to disagree and I would prefer we keep the conversation confidential. We only tell the press that we had a ‘frank discussion.’ Agreed?” That was a polite way of telling the press that a serious head-knocking session went on at the meeting. A “blunt and open discussion” meant they had all but come to blows. Nods and agreement went around the table.

‘ ‘First, I have no intention of letting Israel be destroyed or suffer a defeat at the hands of her enemies.” He could sense the delegation relax. “However,”—the tension was back—“I have no intention of supporting all of Israel’s policies-policies that are creating problems of their own making.”

“What problems are you talking about, Mr. President?” the junior congressman asked.

“Specifically, the occupation of Gaza and the settlement of the West Bank.”

“Gaza and the West Bank are vital for the security of Israel, Mr. President.”

“Perhaps. But because of that occupation, Israel has to make many choices.” This was greeted by silence. “Is Israel going to be a South African-type state in the Middle East where Jews rule a sub-class of Palestinians? Or is Israel going to be a democratic and Jewish state that lives in some sort of peaceable accommodation with its Palestinian neighbors?”

“But the Jews have a historical right to Palestine,” the junior Congressman protested.

“All of it?” Pontowski answered, his voice calm and measured. “And what about the Palestinian claims? Have they no historical rights?”

“Mr. President, you obviously don’t understand the complexity of the situation.” The junior congressman regretted saying it as the words came out.

But Pontowski only smiled, waiting for him to continue. Silence. “It’s allowed to disagree with me,” Pontowski said. He was telling the young congressman to fight fair and that he was willing to overlook one minor indiscretion—as long as it was in private. “I do understand there are factions in Israel who claim the Jews are entitled to all of Palestine and that other fractions are willing to limit the size of Israel and share the land with the Arabs who were also born there.”

“Mr. President”—the congressman was like a bulldog and would not let it go—“the choices you mentioned can only be made by Israel. Why should an internal matter for the Israelis affect our policies in the area?”

The moment of truth had arrived. “Because, their choice will determine my policy toward them.”

Melissa was in the hall when the delegation left. The junior congressman ignored her when he announced, “The oil interests bought him. Read all about it in the
Post.”

Matt was tired when he unzipped his flight suit and headed for the shower, shedding the rest of his clothes as he went. Furry was flopped out in an easy chair, unable to move. Occasionally, a groan would slip out. They had ended their sixth week of flying with Israelis and returned to their rooms after an early-morning flight. “I’m too old for this,” Furry boomed across the room as he reached for another beer. “My bones hurt from pulling all those g’s. But damn, we were good today.”

“Yeah, we were,” Matt conceded. He had been surprised to learn that he could hold his own with the Israeli pilots and, in every one-on-one engagement, best them. Furry had repeatedly demonstrated the bombing accuracy of the Eagle’s systems on “first look” targets and impressed the Israeli observers no end. “They ain’t much to look at on the ground,” Matt said from the shower, “but once they strap a jet on, they are something else.”

Furry pulled at his beer, thinking. And so are you old buddy, so are you. “Hey, you think they’re doing a snow job on us?” he called. “These pukes are supposed to be the best in the world.” Got to keep the boy humble, he thought. “We shouldn’t be rompin’ and stompin’ like this.”

“Could be,” Matt allowed, as he stepped out of the shower. “But I doubt it. At least not in the air. Come on, get your bod in gear, Dave’s going to pick us up in a few minutes.”

Furry groaned and launched his bulk from the chair. Dave Harkabi was going to take them on a long weekend when he went home to Haifa. He had apologized for not having room at his parents’ home and booked them into a hotel on the beach. Twenty minutes later, they were in Harkabi’s car, headed north for Haifa. They broke the monotony of crossing the Negev Desert by talking shop. “Your Eagle is most impressive,” Harkabi said. “We could use a squadron of E models.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, deep in thought, “the jet has definitely given us an edge we wouldn’t normally have.”

Harkabi said, “You’ve had input into that advantage. You make the Eagle fly like a demon.”

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Matt allowed. “Your pilots are on to us now and are going to start kicking some ass.”

“You think so?” Harkabi asked.

“Yep. You’re too damn good. Look at your combat record …”

Harkabi laughed. “You’ve been reading our propaganda.” He turned and looked at Matt. “Yes, we are good. We carefully select our pilots and then train like hell. Every flight is a potential combat mission for us. Why do you think we upload all our birds with munitions after we land?”

“Even ours?” Furry said.

Harkabi took a deep breath and ignored Furry’s question. The Israeli major didn’t tell them that every night an Israeli aircrew had powered up their Eagle and had worked the systems. One night, they had even flown the bird. He changed the subject. “When you look at our combat record,” he explained, “always remember who we are flying against. Look at the Syrian Air Force. They have seven hundred fifty pilots. Of those, fifty are as good as any in the world. We know them by name, what they fly, and where they are stationed. The other seven hundred are turkeys, cannon fodder, worthless. We are fortunate because there are none in between.

“We monitor their communications and use it against them. If any of those fifty good pilots take off, we know it. Because they fly like the Soviets and rely on ground control to vector their fighters, we know exactly where the ‘man’ is and—what do you Yanks say?—we double-and triple-bang him in an engagement.”

“You mean you deliberately go after their talent and go three-on-one?” Matt was amazed.

“Exactly. We will let their turkeys enjoy a temporary advantage while we concentrate on eliminating the real threat.”

“Nice guys,” Furry mumbled.

Again, Harkabi laughed. “What do you say? ‘A kill is a kill'?”

When they were out of the Negev and into the heart of Israel, Harkabi gave a running commentary about the countryside, a perfect tour guide. He drove fast, telling them he wanted to reach Haifa before the Sabbath began. “Israel grinds to a stop at sundown,” he explained. “If you’re not religious, Haifa is the best place to spend the Sabbath.”

His timing was perfect and Matt and Furry were deposited at the hotel as Dave sped away. Inside, they learned that their rooms had been paid for in advance. After a brief discussion, they told the clerk that they would have to pay because they couldn’t accept gifts from a foreign government. The clerk shrugged and quoted a very reasonable price, settling the issue.

The next morning, Matt woke up at five-thirty and couldn’t go back to sleep. He wandered out onto the balcony and took in the sunrise before he pulled on a pair of shorts and his running shoes and headed for the beach, intent on a morning run. Two miles from the hotel, he saw a lone swimmer walking toward the water. A sense of déjà vu swept through him as he neared the woman who was now in the water—there was something familiar about the way she walked, her figure. He gave a mental shrug and ran on past as she swam directly out to sea.