Free Firebreak by Richard Herman

on Haney’s face was obvious. “I gotta get out of this chickenshit outfit for a while,” Matt continued. “Maybe take some leave.” He thought for a moment. “I know where there’s one hell of a party going on.” The young pilot turned abruptly into the administration office, grabbed a leave form, and filled it out.
    The administration clerk checked the completed form. “Colonel Locke has to approve foreign leave,” she told Matt.
    “No problem. He’ll sign it. Probably be glad to get rid of me for a while.”
    “Where you goin'?” Haney asked.
    “Spain. See you in England.” He ambled down the hall, leaving a perplexed Haney in his wake.
    Shoshana sat at a small table in Marbella’s main square, enjoying a late-morning cup of coffee and reading a two-day-old copy of
The New York Times.
She found the old town with its picturesque streets, small shops, and masses of flowers fascinating and, after three days, was spending more and more or her time there, mostly in dress shops. She dropped the newspaper in her lap and thought about the boutiques she would explore later on. A familiar voice brought her back to reality with a jolt.
    “Don’t turn around,” Habish’s voice said behind her. She did anyway and saw her contact sitting at the table immediately behind her. He was reading a newspaper, seemingly unconcerned with her presence. “This is not a vacation. Spend more time at the beach club. We’ve arranged for you to attend a party there tonight. The club manager has an invitation for you.”
    Habish had been busy making contacts and opening doors for Shoshana’s entrance into the more rarefied strata of Marbella’s social life. Since the Mossad did not use local Jews for its operations, refusing to compromise their status or allegiance to their own country, Habish had to ferret out his own contacts and bring in two more agents. Luckily, Marbella was a tourist trap, although a very high class one, that required workers—hairdressers, waiters, receptionists—fluent in many languages. Habish had found a young Moroccan working as a hotel’s assistant manager who was hired because he spoke Arabic. The young man was also Jewish and a Zionist. He had readily volunteered to help Habish, willing to become involved without knowing details. Secretly, the Moroccan hoped Habish was on the trail of another Adolf Eichmann. Shoshana would never know that three Mossad agents were backing her up, laying groundwork, watching her every move, and only getting above five hours of sleep a night. Gad Habish was a tired man.
    “The dress boutique you were in yesterday,” he continued, “the one near the fountain, go back this morning and talk to Gabriella. She’ll help select a dress for the party.” The sales clerk was another immigrant worker that one of the agents had recruited.
    “I can’t afford anything in there,” Shoshana protested.
    “Use a credit card,” Habish snapped, cutting off any further conversation.
    Twenty minutes later, Shoshana was trying on dresses, shocked that she would be buying anything with such a price tag. “You must be more relaxed and natural,” Gabriella counseled. “Don’t worry about the prices.” She surveyed the young woman, analyzing her, trying to decide how best to showcase her natural beauty. “Black is your best color,” she decided. “Try this one.” The woman handed Shoshana a black, full-length gown, strapless except for two thin spaghetti straps over each shoulder and slit high up the right side, revealing most of her leg. The dress seemed to shimmer and flow over her body. “Yes, that will do perfectly.”
    Shoshana took stock of her reflection in a mirror, shocked at what she saw. “It looks like a nightgown …”
    “Not quite. But that
is
the idea.”
    “What kind of bra do I wear with this? And look at the panty line!”
    “Don’t wear either.”
    Shoshana was ready for her first skirmish.
    A gentle breeze moved in off the Mediterranean, cooling the