HAIFA, ISRAEL
Bosco and Breezy were making the most of the down time.
Clad in garish swim trunks that screamed “American tourist,” the two operators occupied their recliners in a strategically advantageous position. Few of the resort’s patrons could enter the pool area without passing within fifteen yards of the athletic young men.
Breezy was growing tired of the routine. Their fourth day at the Mediterranean Hotel had produced another confirmed date and one probable, but they were not there entirely for R&R. “I thought we’d hear from our contact by now,” the erstwhile paratrooper declared.
Bosco shrugged. “Don’t matter to me, dude. The guys in Arlington know where to find us. If this Cohen guy can’t be reached, we might as well enjoy ourselves, you know?”
As a string bikini wiggled past, Bosco lowered his Oakley shades off the bridge of his nose for a better view of the owner’s derriere. He shook his head in appreciation of the human female’s gluteus maximus. “Mmm … mmm. Dude, we came to the right candy store.”
Breezy did not bother to look up. “Man, you know that half these babes don’t even show up when they say they will.”
The Ranger’s ingrained confidence and sense of mission were both bulletproof. “Yeah, but half of them do.” The latter sentiment was accompanied by a male-bonding click-click sound of the tongue.
Breezy finally looked at his friend from four feet distance. “Man, I can see it from here. You’re approaching a state of physical and mental exhaustion.”
“Like that’s a bad thing?”
While Bosco was absorbing that response, his friend hit upon a fresh thought. “Hey, I gotta go shopping this afternoon. You want me to pick up anything for you?”
“Shopping? For what? Souvenirs?”
“Condoms, dude. Condoms.”
Bosco returned to his supine position. “Man, you live your life between your legs.”
“Like that’s a bad thing?”
“Well,” the former paratrooper replied, “there’s more to life than sex.”
Breezy knew when he had his partner’s goat. “Of course there is. There’s violence, too. They go together, sorta like the yin and yang of the universe. Like, you know, the duality of nature.”
Bosco sat bolt upright. “The duality of nature! Brezyinski, where the hell did you ever hear a phrase like that? You sure didn’t read it.”
“Hell, man, I dunno. I heard it somewhere.”
“But you don’t know what it means.”
Two Alitalia flight attendants walked past, chattering in delightfully melodic voices. Both Americans interrupted their philosophical discourse to track the young women for several meters.
At length Breezy said, “Of course I know what it means.”
“What?” Bosco was still distracted. He was seriously serious about slender, raven brunettes.
The Ranger tagged the paratrooper with the back of one hand. “We were talking about the duality of nature. You know, like, sex and violence.”
Bosco was focused again. “Are you trying to tell me that you like war as much as sex?”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been to a real war. That’s why I got out. But what I’m saying is, if I had to choose between sex every day and combat every day, I don’t know what I’d take.”
Bosco regarded his friend, as if seeing him for the first time. “Well, for one thing, if you got shot at every day of your life, eventually you’d be KIA.”
Breezy unzipped a knowing grin. “Sex can kill you, too.”
“So you’re trying to tell me that you enjoy sex as much as killing people. That’s pretty far out, dude.”
“No, not exactly. I’m saying that I really like shooting people who shoot at me. It doesn’t matter if they’re killed or not. C’mon, man, you know what I’m saying. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
“Look,” Bosco said. “Yeah, sometimes I enjoy the rush of double tapping some guy who’s trying to kill me. But that’s not why I stay with SSI. I’d do the same work for the same pay if I never had to shoot.”
“So it’s the gear more than the job.”
“Well, yeah, pretty much. I mean, I still get paid really well to do what I like: parachuting, rappelling, stuff like that. But it’s a lot better than the Army because I do it on my terms, and I can walk away almost anytime I want. With the money I’m saving, it’s a no-brainer.”
“Excuse me,” a voice intruded.
The Americans looked up from their recliners. They saw a thirtyish, obviously fit young man who spoke almost unaccented English.
“Are you Mr. Boscombe and Mr. Brezyinski?” the man asked.
Bosco raised his sunglasses, better to inspect the stranger. “You Mr. Cohen?”
“Alex Cohen. Frank Leopole sent me. We need to talk.”