Warriors by Barrett Tillman (17 page)

       "I have a hard time imagining you as immature."

       Claudia suppressed a smile. "Well, all right.
He
was too immature, caught up in radical politics. If he knew I'd defected to the establishment he'd demand return of the Che Guevara poster he gave me.”

       "And the second guy wanted you to join him on a hardship post in Sierra Leone, right?"

       "Not quite. We were both in Washington at the time. But our careers were competitive. It just wouldn't have worked." She shot Bennett a sly glance. "How about you? Ever think of remarrying?"

       "Not seriously. After Elizabeth was killed in the car wreck I had my hands full raising Paul. He was in high school at the time and a little wild. He needed all my attention."

       "That's about what I'd expect of you." Her tone was both admiring and sympathetic. "But surely there were plenty of eligible ladies in La Jolla."

       "Oh, sure. I was out of the Navy by then but I still knew lots of women. Cruise widows we call them, wives whose husbands are at sea. Actually it was a pretty tame arrangement. I'd help them with repairs around the house and they'd fix me dinner once in a while."

       Their meal arrived and Bennett cautiously tasted his entree. It was a rather bland mixture of vegetables with small portions of meat which he seasoned to his own taste.

       She said, "Go ahead, silly. It's safe. It's lamb stirred into a mixture of herbs and vegetables. I'd tell you the name but you'd never remember it. Just trust me that it's what a traveler needs."

       Half joking, half serious, Bennett said, "I don't remember what the Koran says about mixing cuisine. Guess I'll have to read up on it during the flight home."

       Claudia leaned her chin in one hand, regarding Bennett with increased interest. "I wouldn't have picked you as a student of religion. "

       "Well, normally I'm not. But when I was asked to consider this job, I studied a synopsis of the Koran and have read most of it in translation. I'm just trying to see things from the Saudi viewpoint."

       "What do you make of the writings of the Prophet?" Claudia was on firm ground-she had read the Koran in Arabic twice. All one hundred and fourteen
suras.

      
"Most of it's pretty heavy going. For me, anyway. The organization makes no sense, if I understand it right. You know-the short, easily read
suras
last, which I think were written first. And the imbalance between the Meccan and Median revelations. No wonder it took Muhammad twenty-one years to get all of the text. He must have hardly known which parts came in what order."

       Claudia smiled. "Remember, he was beloved of God. When he was gone--"

       "Yeah, 632 A.D."

       "When he died in June 632," she went on, "the
suras
were written from memory and organized by the caliph Uthman, who had scholars prepare a definitive version. Enough people knew the writings by heart that it could be done."

       They continued discussing the holy book until it was time to leave. Claudia realized Bennett's interest in regional politics had led him to an understanding of the rift in Muslim doctrine: the Shiites believing that only direct descendants of Muhammad, through his daughter Fatima, could lead Islam; the Sunnis adopting a case for individual merit, much as tribal leadership was decided. Though Shiism was the decided minority in the Arab world, it was the dominant sect in Iran. By contrast, Iraq's population was nearly evenly divided while most other nations-Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, to name the more prominent--were Sunni.

       Conversely, Bennett was impressed with Claudia's detailed knowledge of the historical Koran: the comparison between Biblical figures described in the Old and New Testaments--Noah, Moses, Abraham, and Jesus. It occurred to him that the three great religions spawned in this volatile region had as much in common as they had to dispute.

       Bennett escorted Claudia home and stepped inside just long enough to kiss her decorously on the cheek. But he felt her press close against him and her hand went to the nape of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, their mouths met, and he felt her lips part in the beginning of a long, delicious kiss. Then he turned to go.

       "John." He glanced over his shoulder. "I pray that you have a safe trip and a wonderful reunion with your son.
Fii arnaah illaah.
Go in the care of God. "

      
"Masaa' il-khayr,"
he replied, touching her cheek. Claudia laughed appreciatively before closing the door. "Good evening" was more a greeting than a sign of leaving, but it mattered little. John Bennett offered possibilities that Claudia Meyers had not considered in years .

Jidda

      
The morning after Bennett's flight left for Rome and New York, Safad Fatah met with two other Saudi officials. He was very un-Arabic in his direct manner.

       "Our pilot training program is proceeding on schedule. The first class completed preliminary instruction this week, and two more classes have entered the same phase. It appears we shall have our hundred and fifty F-20 pilots in barely two years with the rapid curriculum. "

       Tewfig al Aziz, the economics specialist, expressed cautious concern. ''That is as we expected, it is not? But how long will it take until all of those pilots are qualified for combat? And what about the maintenance personnel?"

       Fatah raised a placating hand. "The instructors still insist that each pilot should have two to three years experience beyond post-graduate training. That is, after the eight months following graduation from flying school and commissioning as officers. 1 do not dispute that claim. Nor do 1 take for granted the quality of our support people. Clearly, we must continue to rely upon our contract foreigners for quite some time. But the important thing is, we should have adequate numbers of trained Saudis in flying and maintenance positions to tide us over. If relations are broken with the Americans in eighteen months, we can draw upon our own resources for pilots and many of the technicians."

       Aziz shifted his tiny coffee up. "Very well. What then about the additional aircraft?"

       "That is why I wished to meet so soon. His Majesty has asked me to report on our options to lease or purchase the machines currently held or ordered by other nations." He looked to the third man.

       Ali Abd Musad was a forty-nine-year-old retired air force officer who had been a Saudi attache to Ankara and Rabat. Fatah had chosen him two years before for a long-term project which, in fact, might never come to fruition. But in the meantime, if the need arose, Musad's exceptionally fine contacts could prove invaluable.

       "Our options are good to excellent," Musad said. "As you both will recall, the Turks were willing to appear reluctant to accept two squadrons of F-20s, insisting they preferred more advanced aircraft. This in turn caused Washington to offer favorable terms in exchange for Turkey accepting the Tigersharks. Since the U. S. extended trade credit in order to allow the Turks to complete the agreement, it is satisfactory to all concerned. Deliveries are scheduled to begin later this year, but Ankara has made it clear the F-20s are only an interim measure. Once economic conditions permit, the Turks will press for F-l5s. Under that condition, we have applied to be the ultimate user in a contingency, but should an emergency develop we shall buy the Tigersharks in any case."

       Fatah allowed himself a moment's admiration of the man. Musad had been an indifferent pilot but had shown an exceptional capacity for Machiavellian politics. His behind-the-scenes contribution to his nation's defense far outweighed his service in the cockpit two decades ago.

       Aziz caught Fatah's attention, pursuing Musad's line of thought.

       "We have assured Ankara that our purchase of the aircraft will be at least eighty percent of the contract price. But since the Turks will not be paying in full anyway, the arrangement actually could be profitable for them. They will continue to fly their Phantoms and other machines, so there should be little attrition among the F-20s should we need them."

       Fatah wrote a memo on his notepad. Without raising his eyes, he said, "Good. Now what about the Moroccans?"

       Musad leaned back, at ease and confident. "That situation is even better. The end-use certificate specifies that those F-20s may only be transferred or sold to a nation already flying the type. It's different from the Turkish contract, since there exists the possibility that Greece might buy some Tigersharks. Between Turkey and Morocco, we can maintain a twenty to thirty percent reserve for our own F-20 force. And I have established contacts with both air forces-and perhaps the Sudan or South Korea-for extra spare parts in the event of an embargo."

       Still writing, Fatah asked, "And what is the projected U. S. reaction if we exercise these options before an arms embargo? That is a possibility we must consider."

       Musad's face was passive, in contrast to Aziz's. "I should say it depends upon relations between the Americans and the Israelis at the time. You may have heard that Israel provided Skyhawk parts to Argentina during the Falklands War, and Phantom parts to Iran in order to keep the pressure on Iraq. Neither exchange, to my knowledge, was approved by Washington. Yet there was almost no criticism. "

       "But you know the Jewish influence in America." Aziz's voice had a brittle edge. "It is endless, there is no bottom to it."

       Musad was about to reply that he could not blame any nation or group that acted from self-interest. It was the way of the world. Fatah looked up from his notes. "Yes, that is so. The Israelis can do almost anything they wish where the U.S. is concerned. They can spy on Americans, they can lobby against American interests in the U. S. Congress. They have even killed Americans with impunity." He looked over the top of his bifocals. "They cannot produce oil for the Americans. But we can."

Chapter 6

Tel Aviv

      
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICES WERE EVER EMPTY. Staffed around the clock every day of the year, they operated smoothly as each eight-hour shift alternated or--increasingly--overlapped. Colonel Chaim Geller flexed his legs, walking down the hall. It had been a long day in a long month. The occupation of Jordan continued to require much of his time, even with reduced military activity in that unhappy land.

       Moving past the cubicles on either side, the once-sunburned archaeologist pondered his dissipating tan. He seldom got outdoors during daytime anymore. The shift had changed two hours ago and, working overtime, he noted with mild surprise the lamp on young Bar-El's desk remained on. Looking closer, he realized the reserve lieutenant was still there.

       "Levi." The young man glanced up, "Here I thought we had said good-bye hours ago. Your active duty ended this afternoon."

       Levi Bar-EI shifted slowly in his army issue chair. Geller realized his protege ached as much as himself. "Oh, yes sir. You know how I'm obsessed with this Saudi case."
I'm leaving today,
he thought to himself.
No need to be diplomatic
.
Not until next year.

      
The section chief walked over, peering at the papers on the desk. He could not suppress a pleased grin. "By God, Levi, you may not be entirely objective yet, but you're hell for persistence." He made a special effort to pat the lad on the shoulder. "Something new?"

       Holding up a report, the lieutenant said, "Our friend John L. Bennett was in America for almost two weeks and now is en route back to Arabia. Evidently the graduation of his first class from groundschool allowed him a short vacation."

       Geller scanned the related papers from the file. "It seems they're serious about building this F-20 force. Well, for better or worse they'll probably have time to make it operational. I've not revised my estimate of six months ago."

       Bar-El stretched his arms, slumped back, and mussed his curly black hair. "I remember. You said a relatively quiet two years or more. The Air Force staff thinks they will have to deal with these Saudi F-20s eventually."

       The colonel dropped the file on the desk. "At least there's time to make plans. The Islamic fundamentalists still have to sort out their internal problems, consolidate their gains, and try to decide how to take us on. I believe their newfound unity has bought us a breathing space. If in fact they are consolidating their national and religious objectives to apply mass against us-"

       "The correct procedure," Bar-El interjected.

       A teacherlike wave of the finger. "You're learning. But if they are in fact consolidating and planning along those lines, it will take much effort in Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon."

       "So you think they'll continue harassing us, building their military strength, and working diplomatically as well."

       Geller said, "Absolutely. The imams must know by now they cannot afford another major loss. But some of them are dogmatic enough to think twice about dealing with the Soviet infidels. It may take time to overcome that attitude about unbelievers, especially after Afghanistan. But eventually pragmatism will win. Next time they'll choose the proper moment and try to do it right."

       Bar-El scratched his head. His eyelids felt heavy. "Then what can we hope for in the meantime?"

       There was the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of Geller's mouth. "I myself would prefer a miracle. A change of human nature. But lacking that, you know sometimes miracles are the product of a lot of hard work."

       Bar-El's face was expressionless. Sometimes he did not understand his chief at all.

       "More bickering among Sunni and Shiite, perhaps even some shooting along the South Yemen border." An eloquent shrug. "We’ll just have to wait and see."