Glenn Kleier - The Last Day

Feldman had not been embarrassed so much by the affront to his masculinity in front of a hundred students and professors. No, he'd been flustered mostly because this outspoken woman had playfully pinched him on his journalistic ass. To Feldman, that had made things considerably more personal. And challenging.

With one eye out for Mystery Woman, he basked in what he knew only too well would be a brief limelight. More talk about the attack. More rumors about what the Negev installation had really been. More opinions about who was responsible for the missile strike and how the Israeli Defense Force, which never let any aggression go unanswered, might retaliate. And on.

Only one thing could have improved this exceptional day, and suddenly she materialized. For the briefest moment before she was blocked from view, Feldman caught sight of his fantasy. In an adjoining reception room, talking and laughing. Even more beautiful than he remembered.

Her hair was different now. Instead of the long cascade of soft dark curls he had admired previously, it was a raven's nest of wild ringlets. But those eyes and that perfect olive complexion were unmistakable. Before she was again obscured from sight, he appreciated that she was tall, slender and impeccably dressed.

Impatiently, Feldman worked his way in her direction. He experienced an unfamiliar sensation of mild panic when, amid the frustrating distractions, he realized she was no longer in the side room. But a quick reconnaissance found her off in a hallway, in intimate conversation with an affected, self-important-looking Middle Eastern business Turk. The newsman positioned himself to catch her eye, but she was absorbed in her conversation.

Feldman waited patiently in idle chat with a few fellow reporters, then, sensing the moment, he uncoupled perfectly to exchange glances with Miss Mystery.

He knew exactly how he wanted to handle this. In feigned anger he stood with hands on hips, pressed his lips tightly together, squinted one eye while arching the opposite brow and then pointed an accusing finger at her. “You!” he mouthed, widened both eyes in stern recognition, held it for just the right amount of time, and then lapsed into a disarming grin.

She returned the smile. Full of white teeth and self-assurance. She moved toward Feldman and offered her slim right hand. It was a signal of dismissal for the Turk, who faded bitterly away.

Feldman grasped her by her elbow and her smooth, cool fingers, drawing her firmly to him in a manner that said he had something personal to convey. She did not resist.

To overcome the din of surrounding conversation, Feldman brought his lips to her ear. She smelled fresh and wholesome, without perfume. He whispered, “I've just had my testosterone level all topped up, so you have to be nice to me now.”

She laughed appreciatively, but offered no apologies. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered back into his ear, “After today, I should think your ego's all topped up as well!” Again, there was no bite. Her voice was playful, and her hint of a French accent captivating. She was teasing him, he decided.

Realizing he was still holding her arm with both hands, he self-consciously released her. Yet she paid no apparent heed and didn't retreat.

“What's your name?’ he asked.

“Anke Heuriskein.”

“And you're a graduate student at Tel Aviv University?”

“Working on my master's in international law.”

“Law? I should have thought journalism.”

“No. Journalism was my major as an undergraduate. Fun, but there's no real future in it.”

This came out matter-of-factly, and Feldman couldn't tell if she was really sincere this time. It must have shown in his face, because she gave him a sideways smile and poked him in the ribs with an elegantly tapered forefinger. He realized she had a knack for catching him off-guard and resolved to be more alert in the future. Turnabout was also fair play, he vowed to himself.

“So,” she said baitingly, “do you still think journalists should be nothing more than word processors, impersonally recording events?”

“You mean, am I still an advocate of impartial, unbiased, fair and honest reporting?” He'd been ready with this answer for a month.

“No. I mean, don't you feel that a journalist should have a social conscience? Bear some responsibility for the societal consequences of a story?”

“I don't believe it's a reporter's place to influence news, slant news or make news, if that's what you're asking,” he responded stolidly. “It's a reporter's job to report. Pure and simple.”

“But things are not always so pure and simple, now are they?” she purred, and averted her eyes mysteriously.

Feldman was more than charmed. As he loosened his crumpled tie for maneuvering room, his focus was interrupted by the reappearance of Hunter picking his way toward him from across the room. Feldman interpreted his partner's serious look and groaned audibly.

Hunter was at their side now; he leaned close to Anke and hooked a thumb toward Feldman. “Sorry to intrude, little lady, but Mr. Celebrity here is wanted back at the shop.”

Turning, he gripped Feldman by the right biceps. “I just got a call from headquarters. Things are heatin’ up.”

Feldman bit his lip, nodded and turned to find an amused look on Anke's perfect olive face. “Can I-” Feldman began.

“I'm out a lot,” she interrupted, “why don't I call you?” and proceeded to take Feldman's number in a small black phone book she produced from the pocket of her jacket.

Reluctantly departing with his colleague, Feldman watched helplessly as another slick-looking Don Juannabe promptly moved in to fill the void.

WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 11:56 P.M., Saturday, December 25,1999

Hunter and Feldman rolled back into WNN headquarters to find the cramped offices humming with activity.

Area news director Arnold Bollinger spied the two reporters immediately and motioned them aside. In his mid-fifties, Bollinger was the earnest type, a black man with superb news instincts, a stocky, sound build and short, graving hair. He had an open, honest face, with large, sincere eyes. While he may have considered Feldman and Hunter a bit too cavalier and undisciplined for his tastes, Bollinger nevertheless appreciated their work as intelligent and substantive. Hunter had a deserved reputation for risk-taking. Feldman was a stabilizing influence, if too easily tempted astray.

But Bollinger was ecstatic with their report on the desert installation attack, and he was more than willing to let them run with a major story that appeared to have legs.

“We're getting some interesting feedback, guys,” he explained, handing Feldman a selection of data sheets. “Especially this one.” He isolated one page in particular, pointing at two names.

“Dr. Kiyu Omato … and Dr. Isotu Hirasuma?” Feldman struggled with the note. “Japanese?”

“Two astronomers from Japan, running some sort of study out at that big observatory in the Negev,” said Bollinger. “We checked them out and they're legit. Strong credentials. They saw your newscast and they've been waiting here to see you. Claim they're eyewitnesses, and they'll only talk with you.”

“Actually,” Feldman wished aloud, “I'd like to find someone from inside that research center. And learn what the hell was so important that the Jordanians would risk war to take it out. Any new info, Arnie?”

Bollinger shook his head. “Not even U.S. intelligence sources have anything definitive. At least that's what they claim. Best anyone knows right now, it was a biotech lab. And though the Israelis are screaming it's the Jordanians, the State Department won't confirm it.”