The New Year could not come soon enough for the weary pontiff.
8
U.S. embassy, Tel Aviv, Israel 9:13 P.M., Saturday, December 25,1999
The U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv was an impressive government building in the Roman style, with six large columns at the top of expansive sandstone steps. A spotlessly uniformed valet reluctantly accepted Feldman's Rover from him, put off by the dirt and sand that Feldman never noticed.
There were accolades awaiting inside where the two newsmen arrived unintentionally, but fashionably, late. Having slept through WNN's evening newscast, neither was aware that their Negev Institute report had made lead story. Their first major scoop.
Ascending the grand staircase to the main hall, Feldman and Hunter worked their way through warm greetings from familiar associates and new faces alike, who congratulated them on their freshly achieved stature. A genuinely renowned affair, the U.S. embassy Christmas celebration was originally held in appreciation of Christian consulate members and staff detained in the Jewish state over the holidays. But the Christmas party had grown to include Israeli politicians and government officials, as well as connected media, prominent businesspeople and many of the area well-to-do. A gathering of the elite. Even for the resourceful and persistent Hunter, obtaining two invitations had been no easy feat.
Feldman was not here to dispel any homesickness. Nor was he here for the outstanding cuisine and excellent news contacts. For both Feldman and Hunter, the sole appeal of this event was the prospect of meeting the available young women reputed to make their appearance here. And to the newsmen's complete gratification, the office scuttlebutt, for once, proved accurate. Among the hundreds of elect guests in attendance tonight were some of the most chic and beautiful women the two reporters had encountered since arriving in this foreign land. Hunter and Feldman exchanged pleased glances.
“A veritable trove of nubility,” Hunter quipped, mock-posturing like a sophisticate. Spotting a tempting quarry, the cameraman disengaged from Feldman with a self-announcing, “He's sexy, he's single, he's made to mingle!”
Feldman smiled and shook his head with a slight twinge of envy as he watched his friend assimilate himself promptly into the crowd. It was so much simpler for Hunter. Feldman's love life in the Middle East had been less than satisfactory. It was partly due to his hectic lifestyle, where spontaneous news opportunities and pressing deadlines allowed little time for sociable activities or meaningful encounters. But mostly, if truth be told, it was simply because he was far more discriminating than Hunter.
In leaving America, Feldman had left no special love interest behind. Not for lack of candidates-his honest, handsome features, affable nature and appealing wit having always attracted a fair amount of female interest. It was that he harbored a stubbornness about making serious personal commitments, a perspective he had acquired at a young age witnessing the turbulent unraveling of his parents’ marriage.
Consequently, while he very much enjoyed the company of bright and attractive women, he ultimately avoided lasting entanglements. Before he'd allow a promising new relationship to take off, he invariably did so himself. Not maliciously or to intentionally inflict pain, but as a form of self-protection. And tonight, Feldman was ready to start the empty cycle anew.
It should prove far easier for him this evening, now that he'd become an instant, if somewhat uncomfortable, celebrity. The Negev installation attack, of course, was the hot topic, and the young reporter was in constant demand. Speculations and rumors abounded that the installation was some secret military complex where strange and extraordinary research had been taking place. Everyone wanted more information and no one would accept the fact that Feldman was sharing all he knew.
But Feldman was currently more interested in some extraordinary research of his own. A quick visual survey of the crowd couldn't confirm if an interesting young woman he'd once met was here. It was a long shot. She was a graduate student in journalism, he presumed. This intriguing individual had come to Feldman's attention during a guest lecture he'd given at the University of Tel Aviv a month ago.
In his concluding question-and-answer session, Feldman had experienced a short but rather lively exchange with an attractive, dark-eyed woman with a slight French accent. It amounted to a difference of opinion regarding how much personal slant a reporter should reasonably interject into a story.
In her opinion, the West's “male-dominated club” of journalists was so obsessed with being objective in their reporting that they sanitized the truth out of stories. She had proposed that journalists not be afraid to take moral stands in their coverage of important issues, and that they play more active roles in promoting positive political and social change.
Feldman had responded with the standard line that facts must be allowed to speak for themselves, and that a reporter's job is merely to report, not to interpret. Unintentionally, he'd allowed this spirited woman the last word-an offhanded remark about “the fraternity of journalism not having enough collective testosterone to really get firm on any given issue.”
But there had been no venom in her delivery. Rather, there was a not-so-subtle flirtanousness to it, catching him off-balance and completely sidetracking his train of thought. In the pause before he could collect himself, audience laughter segued into applause, he was summarily thanked by the presiding professor, and his female counterpoint had dissolved into the dispersing crowd.
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
