Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  "You're sure?"

  He nodded. "And I know who's doing it."

  Michael now had Joyner's undivided attention. He skipped ten slides and put up on the screen a photograph of a man with a coarse-looking face, dressed in a suit and tie. He had short gray hair and hard, cruel eyes. He was missing his left ear.

  "Dmitri Suslov," Michael said. "More precisely, Gen. Dmitri Suslov."

  "Russian army?"

  Michael nodded. "Retired five years ago. He lost the ear in Afghanistan. Caught some shrapnel. He was one of the major strategists of their war in that country."

  "He must be a brilliant tactician."

  Laughter or a smile was called for, but Michael was briefing the director herself. He was too serious for that. "Then Suslov led the crushing of rebels in Chechnya. Commanded his troops to kill everything that moved—even the animals. They were delighted to comply. It was a waste of ammunition, but it sent a message."

  "Sounds like a nice man."

  Michael moved to the next slide. A series of bullets appeared on the screen. He stopped talking and slid the red pointer from top to bottom, letting Joyner read it herself.

  ~ Resigned from the army.

  ~ Went into business.

  ~ Corporate headquarters of Dmitri Suslov Enterprises is former KGB operations center.

  ~ Incredible success as an entrepreneur.

  ~ With strong-arm tactics, took control of the third-largest Russian bank, which he uses to dispense money to Mends starting up businesses in return for a piece of the action.

  ~ With threats and intimidation now controls 60 percent of all pulp and paper production in Russia.

  ~ Has much of his own money out of the country in Switzerland, Cayman, and Gibraltar.

  ~ Has a private militia of former army officers, who served under him, as enforcers.

  She finished reading and resumed pacing around the office, holding her back, thinking about Dmitri Suslov. "So he's one of the handful of robber barons who now control the Russian economy."

  "Exactly. I think of them like J. P. Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, or others of that crowd who dominated American industry at the turn of the century."

  "With a big difference. Over there, all they had to do was grab pieces of the industrial pie with the breakup of the Communist state and the absence of law."

  "Agreed." Michael nodded readily. "I suppose, too, that Suslov and the other new economic Czars in Russia are more like thugs. They'll use force to get what they want. One thing is clear, though: Suslov's not happy with the billions he has. He wants more money."

  "Sounds familiar," Joyner said. "During the dot-com bubble years in the U.S., a reporter asked one of those captains of industry, 'How much money do you want?' To which the answer was, 'Just a little more.'"

  "Well, for Suslov the answer would be, 'A lot more.' Anyhow, he saw a pot of gold waiting for him to snatch."

  "Nuclear weapons?"

  "Exactly. He knew that most had been moved into Russia from the former Soviet republics at our request and with our money, but that's as far as any real safeguards go. The level of security at storage facilities is a joke."

  She stopped on a dime. Her eyes bored into Michael. "You're telling me that Suslov made the sales to Pakistan and to North Korea?"

  Michael met her gaze without flinching. "Absolutely, and it's only a question of time until the next one."

  Joyner took a slug of coffee, then picked her glasses up and fiddled with them while standing next to the table. "Damn," she muttered. It was worse than she had thought. "How reliable's your information?"

  "My main source is Vladimir Perikov, a member of the Russian Nuclear Control Agency."

  "The distinguished physicist?"

  Michael nodded. "He's frustrated because his agency has no real power... appalled by his government's lax control over the nuclear arms that have been moved to Russia from various Soviet republics after the breakup of the USSR. So he's willing to work with me, though he knows Suslov will kill him if he finds out."

  "Are we paying Perikov?"

  "Refuses to take a cent. The only honest Russian I've met in the eight months you've had me on this project."

  "There's one in every crowd. What other sources do you have?"

  He shuffled his feet anxiously on the floor. Michael had hoped to avoid this topic, but he wouldn't lie to Joyner. "I've developed a relationship with a woman, Irina, who works as a secretary in Suslov's office. She confirmed that North Koreans and Pakistanis came visiting at about the right time period."

  Something in Michael's voice told Joyner there was more to this than he had just said. "Tell me about Irina."

  He briefly closed his eyes. "She also sees Suslov from time to time. Socially, you might say. She doesn't really like him, but he's supporting her family. You know how that goes."

  Joyner frowned. "And you're seeing Irina from time to time, socially, as you just put it. I know how that goes, too."

  He looked down at his hands resting on the table. The nails were manicured. Michael cared about his appearance. He didn't dare tell Joyner that Irina excited him in a way other women did not. To impress Irina when he returned to Russia, he had stopped at a Washington hair salon yesterday to get a decent cut. In Moscow they were all hacks. "Not yet, but hopefully I'm headed in that direction. I may also be helping to support her family, too, if I can set it up."

  "Company funds?"

  "If it's okay with you. She would be a valuable asset."

  Michael was charming, and he had the looks of a magazine model for high-priced Italian suits. "You're playing a dangerous game."

  Michael appreciated her concern for him. She was not only smart, but she cared about her people, which wasn't always the case for someone atop a huge bureaucracy like the Company. Still, he shrugged, brushing aside her cautionary note. He was in the process of extricating himself from a bad marriage with Alice, a dull, whiny woman, and his relationship with Irina was a heady ride. It was like being on a giant roller coaster. Swept up in the exhilaration, nobody ever remembered that the structure was built on a bunch of wooden sticks, rotting and aging, that could come crashing down at any time.

  He was soaring with Irina. Alice, on the ground, seemed small and remote. He wondered what he had been thinking three years ago when he married her. She knew that he traveled a lot in his position with the Company, which he couldn't talk about. Then she had said, "Gosh, that's exciting." Now it was, "Why can't you get a job as the director of security at a company in Philadelphia so we can move up there and be near my parents?" There was no way he would do that. He loved the thrill and excitement of being a spy.

  Then, Alice couldn't get enough of him in bed. She had one of the most talented mouths he had ever encountered. Now the only tubular object she placed in that mouth of hers was a cigarette. Fortunately, there weren't any children. He had hired a lawyer a month ago. The divorce papers were winding their way through the court system, clogged with similar divorce filings by others who had found that what they got wasn't what they thought they had bought.

  "Sometimes it's worth living on the edge," he said glibly.

  "Being reckless won't help anybody," Joyner shot back sternly through a tightly drawn mouth.

  "Sorry," Michael said. "I didn't mean to convey that impression."

  "You ever hear of Clint Darling?" Michael shook his head in bewilderment. "One of our top people in the seventies," Joyner said soberly. "Constantly putting his life on the line."

  "And?" Michael said nervously.

  "He ended up dying a fiery death in a car with an East German scientist we wanted to get our hands on. Clint tried blasting his way through an armed border crossing. His recklessness did more than cost him his life. We desperately wanted what that scientist knew."

  "I get the picture," Michael said.

  He sounded chastened, but Joyner's guess was that it was an act for her benefit. Still, she softened her expression. "Okay, let's move on. Use Irina if you think it
'll help. I'm willing to do just about anything. The goal has to be to assemble enough evidence to take to the Russian president and have Suslov arrested."

  Michael nodded his head up and down. "The only way to do that is to catch him in the act on his next sale. He's paying off too many people. Unless we catch him red-handed, Drozny will never move against him."

  "Is another sale planned?"

  "Not yet. I don't think so."

  "Then what do you think we should do?"

  Michael's eyes lit up. He was ready for this one. "My sources claim the Pakistan and North Korea sales brought in a small fortune. Estimated amounts are laid out in the folder. It's as good as printing money. I say we set up a sting. Bring someone to Suslov pretending to be a buyer. Say from a Colombian drug cartel. Or from an international terrorist organization. Catch Suslov when the exchange takes place, and hold him until the Russkies come."

  "Which means he goes off to jail, and you get Irina."

  Michael blushed. "That's not why I suggested it," he protested.

  She didn't like his proposal. "Bad idea. From what you've told me, Suslov will do his homework on the buyer. There's a good chance he'll kill both you and Irina."

  "Do you really think—"

  "Don't be in such a hurry. Keep your eye on him. Your cover as an oil company development official is a good one... if you don't mess up with Irina. Sooner or later he'll slip; then Kendall can call Drozny. We'll move in with them."

  Michael was preparing to argue with her when the buzzer rang on the intercom. "Kathy just called from the White House," Carol said. "The president wants you over there ASAP. That was her term, not mine."

  Bristling at the idea of being summoned like a school-child, Joyner grabbed her glasses and stood up. "Sorry, Michael. It's back to McCallister. Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  He leafed through his copy of the report. "We've covered the essentials. If you have any questions from the document, please call me."

  "You can be sure I will. Keep me informed with calls and messages on that cell phone the agency technical people gave you. Better yet, use a secure phone in the embassy in Moscow. If the bean counters downstairs give you any trouble on your expenses, send them directly to me. Meanwhile, I'll brief the president, vice president, and a couple of key congressional leaders on what you reported today. We'll have a team ready to move as soon as you tell me we have a chance of catching Suslov in the act. We can't let him make another sale under any circumstances. The risks to the world and millions of innocent people are too great."

  "I understand." He loaded the report and pointer into his attach^ case and started toward the door. Then it hit him. He should tell her how he felt. Michael pivoted and looked at Joyner shuffling papers on her desk. "I appreciate the opportunity to do this project. I really do, and I like working directly with you. I'll do my best to—"

  She smiled. "That's enough of that stuff. Just get out of here and do your job. Don't forget that with Irina, you're playing with a grenade. Make sure Suslov doesn't pull the pin."

  * * *

  Joyner's coat was on. In her hand was the battered thin burgundy briefcase that Ken had given her on her last birthday before he died, the victim of a hit-and-run when he had been chaperoning the prom at the Washington suburban high school where he taught. Suddenly she heard the distinctive ping... ping... ping from the red phone on her desk that connected her to the director of the Mossad in Jerusalem. They'd have to wait for her at the White House. Moshe called only if it was urgent. He might have information about Robert McCallister.

  Standing, she picked up the red phone. "Joyner here."

  In his usual gruff manner, with little time for small talk, Moshe said, "I learned that the pilot they shot down is the son of one of the president's big-shot money men, Terry McCallister."

  She was startled. "We were trying to keep a lid on his identity. How'd you find out?"

  "Our air force people talk with yours. Life must be miserable in Washington right now."

  "That has to be one of the great understatements of all time. You can't believe the heat in this town."

  "So why haven't you called? You know we can be of help finding young McCallister and getting him out. We have good relationships in Ankara and strong assets on the ground in that whole area of southeastern Turkey."

  "Which is more than I can say."

  "Remember, it's easier for us. We can send people who speak the language and blend in."

  Joyner was well aware of that fact. She took off her coat. Slowly and painfully, she eased down into the straight-backed, hard wooden desk chair. "I proposed calling you and asking for your help, but..." She paused and sighed.

  Before she could continue, Moshe broke in. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Terry McCallister doesn't want those heavy-handed Israelis complicating the chances of his son's release. He's afraid if they find out we're involved, they'll kill young McCallister for sure. So he's convinced his good friend the president to reject your recommendation. 'It's my boy' and all that."

  She laughed. "How'd you get to be so smart?"

  Of all the CIA directors he had worked with over the years, Moshe liked Joyner the best. She never forgot that the United States and Israel sometimes had different interests on specific matters, but she always leveled with him. There was never any deception, and she had a sense of humor, which was rare in their business. "My dear friend Margaret, I'd be stupid if I couldn't fill out the picture after forty years of working with your government. And, of course, the father's fooling himself. If they want to kill his son, they'll do it whether we're involved or not."

  "You can't believe the pressure Kendall is feeling from Terry McCallister."

  Moshe was eager to learn what Washington's next move would be. "Are you sending troops into the region to rescue him?"

  "At this point, we don't even know whether it was the Kurds or the Turks who shot down the plane. They both have the capability in that area. Right now all of the options are on the table. That's all I can tell you."

  Moshe grumbled. He understood that Kendall was indecisive. He wasn't surprised that Washington hadn't developed a clear course of action. "Let's come back to the reason for my call. Suppose, just suppose, a little birdie flies in through my window and drops some information on my desk about young McCallister. Do you want to know about it?"

  Joyner was hesitating. Moshe's offer of clandestine assistance was tempting. The trouble was that Kendall had been adamant: "No Israeli involvement." Usually she was willing to take heat from the White House to do what was right. Here, her dislike for Terry McCallister overrode that impulse.

  "Don't do anything, Moshe," she cautioned.

  "Do you really mean that?"

  "Without any question," she said bluntly, letting him know by the sharp tone in her voice that she was serious. "If your people become players and Robert McCallister ends up getting killed, we'll both have hell to pay for it."

  * * *

  By the time Joyner entered the cabinet room at the White House, President Kendall, seated in his usual place at the center of the polished wooden table, facing the thick bulletproof glass picture window, looked at her irritably. "We've been waiting for you to start."

  "Traffic on the bridge was insane."

  "You should have used a chopper." He made no effort to conceal his annoyance.

  "Next time I will," she responded without apology.

  It was Kendall who had informally dubbed the assembled group "the McCallister crisis team." On the president's right sat Jimmy Grange, an undistinguished Washington lawyer, who had no official position. He had earned his place as the president's adviser and counselor by being Kendall's drinking and golfing buddy ever since they had been roommates at Yale thirty years ago. Across from the two of them sat Chip Morton, secretary of defense, red faced, with a large, veiny, bulbous nose, another longtime pal of Kendall's who had been CEO of Morton Industries, one of the nation's largest defense contractors, before coming in
to the government. Next to him in air force blues was Gen. Harry Childress, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, with a thin, narrow face and short-cropped, bushy gray hair.

  At one end of the table sat the vice president, Mary Beth Reynolds, former Texas governor, an attractive woman with a warm, winning smile and poised manner, whose accomplishments were a tribute to her brains, hard work, and determination to succeed. That was what it took for Reynolds, born into hardscrabble poverty in Odessa, Texas, to propel herself on scholarships through Stanford and the University of Texas Law School, where she had been the editor in chief of the Law Review, to a position in one of Houston's mega law firms, which elevated her to managing partner before she entered politics. Reynolds was ending her term as governor of the Lone Star State when Jimmy Grange had paid her a visit during the convention to offer her the second spot on Kendall's ticket. "Don't expect to play a major substantive role," Grange had said.

  Reynolds immediately knew what this was all about. "Why don't you just say that you want me because I'm a woman and I'm from Texas, which has all of those electoral votes, not to mention the rest of the South, where Kendall is weak?"

  The odious Grange had sneered and replied, "Give that girl a prize."

  Despite all of that, Reynolds took the offer because she loved her country, and she saw the post as a stepping-stone to the White House. Her husband, a medical researcher at Rice in the forefront of novel cancer treatments, was eagerly welcomed at NIH. Then a funny thing happened. The press and public liked her so much that Kendall, albeit reluctantly, had to make her seem like a part of his team, or risk having her take the nomination away from him at the end of his first term. So here she was sitting at one end of the table.

  At the other, with a thin pair of glasses resting halfway down on his nose, was Warren Doerr, the secretary of state, who viewed the job as a great learning experience that would make him a better teacher when he returned to Princeton. Reynolds, who had a sharp tongue, referred to Doerr as "the professor" in her increasingly frequent one-on-one conversations with Joyner.