by Allan Topol
Moshe put his cup down with a thud and looked squarely at Jack. "How do you know that?"
"It's been on CNN and in the papers."
"Not the pilot's name. The Americans have kept it a secret. No one else has released it."
So Sam was right about the lid that both sides had placed on the identity of the pilot, Jack thought. He shifted in his chair. "My brother's living and working in London. He's engaged to Robert McCallister's sister, who's a student there."
Moshe nodded in recognition. Now he knew why Jack had come. "You want me to use the Mossad to help rescue the pilot for your brother's sake."
"Yes. That is why I wanted to talk to you." Jack felt defensive. "But it isn't only for me. I thought it would be in Israel's interest as well."
Jack was met with a hard, cold stare. He began to wonder if this had been a good idea. "Now that you have the question, what's the answer?"
"In a word: no."
"Why not? You would earn a great deal of gratitude from President Kendall if you could free their pilot."
Moshe took a deep breath. He had no hesitation sharing confidential information after what Jack had done with him over the years. "Because the Americans don't want our help. They've told me to stay out of it. It's that simple."
Jack was astounded. "But that's insane! You have a deep network of intelligence assets in the area, and you're well connected with some key Turkish officials."
Moshe smiled. "You were born in the United States. You spent eighteen years of your life there. At my request, you kept your American passport. I don't need to explain to you how Washington operates."
"Is Kendall afraid that if we help, it'll show how close our relationship is with Washington, and he'll lose his standing with Egypt and some of the other Arab countries?" Jack was incredulous. "Thinking like that prompted Washington to fly wounded Americans to Germany rather than Israel when the American embassy in Beirut was bombed. It cost American lives, as I recall."
Moshe shook his head. "If it were just that, I think they'd have given us a green light."
"Then I don't understand."
"Do you know this Terry McCallister, the father of the girl your brother is engaged to?"
Jack lifted his cup and took one final sip. No matter how sweet Turkish coffee was at the beginning, it was always bitter at the end.
"I know him," Jack said curtly, not wanting to explain.
"Then it may not surprise you to learn that Margaret Joyner wanted our assistance, but Terry McCallister leaned on the president to turn it down."
Jack snarled. "That anti-Semite wouldn't want Israel to help. What's his rationale?"
"Our involvement will inflame the situation and lead to Robert's death."
Jack shook his head in disbelief. "What an asshole. Nothing Terry McCallister does would surprise me." Jack's eyes sparkled with hatred. He was raising his voice. "Terry's brain is still clouded from all that dope he smoked back in college."
Moshe was stunned by the information and the intensity of Jack's response. "There's obviously a personal history here. You want to tell me about it?"
Jack pretended not to hear Moshe's question. His competitive juices were flowing. Now that he knew Terry was opposed to Israeli involvement, he wanted it much more. "Why should Terry McCallister be able to make the decision on our participation?" Jack asked.
"You'll have to ask President Kendall that."
"Suppose you ignore what Joyner said, and move in anyhow? Suppose—"
Moshe raised his hand, signaling Jack to stop. "I have a relationship with Margaret. I won't jeopardize it by flouting her request. I also have a second reason to keep out of it."
"What's that?"
Moshe sighed deeply, remembering how sharply he had been interrogated at the meeting this morning before his recommendation was accepted. "When I briefed the prime minister and the cabinet about McCallister, I told them that Joyner wanted us to stay out. They decided that I should comply. It's the Americans' problem."
Jack shrugged. "They're politicians. What do they know?"
Moshe grinned. Jack was throwing one of his own favorite expressions back at him.
"No, really," Jack continued with zeal. "Go ask any of our air force officers. You know what they'll tell you."
"You're a tough man, Jack." Moshe wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or fascinated by Jack's determination.
"The last time you told me that, you were happy about it. I was doing what you wanted." He paused. "You know I'm right."
Moshe wrinkled his forehead. "Of course you're right. However, I won't cross Joyner on this. Also, despite what some people in this city and in the press say, I don't go out of my way to disregard orders from the cabinet."
Jack decided to keep pushing. "Think about the pilot. If it were one of our boys down, you'd do everything humanly possible to rescue him." Jack felt himself growing emotional as he thought about what was happening to Robert McCallister.
Moshe shook his head. "But he's not one of our boys. Is he?"
"So what?" Jack fired back, raising his voice again. "An innocent man's life is at stake. We have a moral obligation to—"
Jack had gone too far. Moshe was furious. Jack Cole had no business coming in here and lecturing him about morality. He didn't care whose brother the American pilot was. "You're way out of line." He pointed a finger at Jack for emphasis.
Jack knew the rebuke was deserved. He backpedaled. "I'm sorry, it's just that—"
Moshe cut him off. "I don't want to hear any more about it." His tone was sharp and crisp, with a ring of finality. "I won't use the Mossad to rescue Robert McCallister. The issue's closed."
* * *
Jack was angry at himself for handling the discussion with Moshe so poorly. Wanting to cool down, he left Moshe's office and walked along the tree-lined thoroughfare toward the main campus of Hebrew University. The buildings, all constructed of gray stone torn from the Judean hills, gave a sense of peace, tranquility, and permanence to one of the most hotly contested pieces of real estate in the entire world.
The sun was bright in a cloudless blue sky, which made the Middle East a photographer's dream. It was a spring day for young lovers losing themselves in each other, not for middle-aged men worrying about pilots being held hostage by an implacable foe.
Jack didn't think about the path he was following. His legs automatically carried him toward the university sports complex and the tennis courts, where he had spent many hours as a student, some in glorious victory, others in the anguish of defeat. The tennis team was practicing. Jack walked into the complex and sat down in a corner of the stands that ringed center court.
He was there only five minutes when a tall, thin, gray-haired man dressed in tennis whites, walking with a decided limp, the result of a bullet he took in the leg from a Palestinian sniper in the intifada, came up and stood next to Jack.
He shouted to one of the players: "Motti, get the racket higher on your serve. All the way up."
He watched, then grimaced. "Follow through. Whatever happened to the follow-through?"
Same old Dov Landau, Jack thought. He and Dov had played on the university team together. Dov, the star, made tennis his career, playing in international competitions, then coaching Israel's finest players.
"Jack Cole," Dov said as he sat down. "I haven't seen you in ages. I read about you in the papers. The gossip columns. You and that dish of an opera singer."
"Chava. She's a nice person."
Dov smiled. "Yes, I'm sure that's the only reason you date her. What brings you to Jerusalem?"
"Business."
Dov laughed. "That tells me a lot."
"I'm selling wine."
Dov cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Run, Noah. Run. That's why God gave you legs."
He turned back to Jack. "I was sorry to hear about your knee surgery. Have you resumed playing?"
"The doctor said I'll never be any good again. I gave away my rackets."
&nbs
p; Dov frowned. "That's the trouble with people our age. We're still young enough to do whatever we want, but we listen to people who tell us we can't. You should have told the doctor to stuff it."
"Well, it's too late for that now."
Dov patted Jack on the back. "You had a good run. For someone without much talent, you did okay on the courts."
Jack winced. "Not much talent? Ouch. That hurt."
"I meant it as a compliment. People were always telling you that you couldn't beat this guy or that one. You never gave up. Often you found a way to win when you should have lost. I admired that."
Jack smiled. Coming from Dov, who rarely gave compliments, the words raised Jack's sagging spirits after the discussion with Moshe. "Fair enough. You redeemed yourself."
"You want to stay in Jerusalem and have dinner with me and Naomi?"
"Thanks, but I have to get back to Tel Aviv.... Just wanted to say hello."
On his way out of the stadium, Jack thought about what Dov had said. When Jack was younger, he often found a way to do things that people told him weren't attainable, whether it was tennis matches or projects for Moshe. Sheer grit and determination were two of Jack's main characteristics. He was afraid he was losing those now. He had gone to Moshe with a proposal—rescue Robert McCallister—and Moshe had turned him down. He had readily acquiesced. Well, that was ridiculous. He would find a way to do it.
He needed someone who had spent time working in Middle Eastern countries and had sources of information in the area. He had to find out where they were holding Robert and what his condition was. After what Moshe had said, Jack couldn't contact anyone working for the Mossad. But that didn't preclude people who were retired from the agency.
He tried to recall the names of Mossad people with whom he had worked or who had recently left the agency. There was Yheuda Neir, but he had left Israel to work in Mexico as a consultant to the government there on antiterrorism measures. Ditto for David Allon in China. Then the name Avi Sassoon popped into his mind.
The Osirak project had been a long time ago, but Jack remembered every detail as if it were yesterday. Avi had been the Mossad point person in Baghdad who was relaying information to Israel from Iraq at the same time Jack was forwarding it from Paris. He had never actually met Avi, but he knew the man had a reputation for courage and for being a bit of a firebrand, which Moshe usually didn't tolerate in career Mossad people. He also knew that Avi had conducted operations in Syria, Iran, and Turkey as well as Iraq. About a year ago, one of the Mossad agents passing through Paris told Jack at dinner that there had been a big brouhaha over a failed operation in Jordan. Avi had taken the blame, and Moshe had sacked him.
Jack retraced his steps to the Mossad headquarters, but not to Moshe's eighth-floor office. This time he slipped down to the basement to the finance department, where Gila, affectionately nicknamed Miss Moneypenny after the character in the James Bond books and films, supervised payroll and expense reimbursement. Jack always called her when there was a delay in the checks he received, which was often, because Gila tried to hang on to money as long as possible.
He knew Gila liked him. That should be enough to get what he needed.
"What do I owe you now?" she said with a twinkle in her eye when he walked into her cluttered office. Papers were piled on the desk, the bookshelves, and even the chairs.
"Actually, you're up-to-date, but Avi Sassoon owes me for a bet we made on a basketball game last year. Since I was in the building today, I figured that I'd collect. I was told he retired."
"You didn't know?"
Jack feigned ignorance. "Know what?"
"About the Aqaba fiasco. It was a mess, and Avi took the fall."
"That's too bad."
She shook her head. "We all liked him. Even though he was a maverick." Loyalty asserted itself for Gila. "Still, the old man had a point. He had to do something to placate the king of Jordan."
"Now I have to locate the deadbeat. You must be sending him pension checks."
She moved over to a computer behind her desk and began punching keys. "He lives on Moshav Avahail." She wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Jack. "His home phone. He's working for Koach, the big arms manufacturer, selling weapons systems to foreign governments. I don't have an office number."
"Don't worry. I'll find him."
Once he was outside of the building, Jack dialed Avi on his cell phone. It was late Friday afternoon. He expected to find Avi at home if he was in the country. Jack wasn't disappointed.
"This is Jack Cole," he said. "We've never met, but—"
"Osirak," Avi immediately said. "You were the guy in the wine business in Paris."
Jack was pleased he remembered. "There's something I want to talk to you about. I need your help."
"Where are you?"
"Jerusalem."
"Good. Come up to the Moshav tomorrow at one o'clock. You can have lunch and meet the family. Avahail. Just outside of Netanya."
Jack was pleased. He had made a start on rescuing Robert.
Chapter 6
To pass the time, Robert, sitting on the dirt floor, doodled on the ground with one finger, tracing and retracing the letters USA. He listened for sounds, but there were none. The other cells in the building must be vacant, he decided.
Following that session in Abdullah's office, when the phone call came, the guards, who had repeatedly slapped Robert, didn't lay a hand on him. Prior to that time, the food he had been given was a thin, watery fluid with a couple of suspended solid objects that he was afraid to eat. After that, food became ample and tasty. There were no more rounds of interrogation with Abdullah.
Robert could guess what had happened. They had found out who he was—or more precisely, who his father was.
That thought didn't comfort him. As he closed his eyes, a cold fury surged through his body. He knew why he had been pulled out of his air force unit at a base in California and shipped to the Middle East: Terry McCallister had made a call to Chip Morton, the secretary of defense, urging Chip to give Robert some flying time where .it mattered, to build his resume for the political career Terry had planned for his son. Robert knew all of this from his unit commander on the base in Saudi Arabia, who grumbled about having been ordered to use an inexperienced pilot on reconnaissance flights that sometimes turned lethal.
Robert still wasn't sure what had happened. Had his F-16 strayed off course? Where did the missile come from? He had been in contact with air control at the base. How had he missed it?
All of those issues were fuzzy. But one thing was clear: It was all his father's fault that Robert was here. No, that was wrong. It was Robert's own fault. He was the one who was constantly striving so hard for his father's approval. He was the one who had rejected the offer from Brown University for their combined premed-medical school program, giving up his lifelong dream to be a doctor. He was the one who agreed to attend the Air Force Academy because it was part of the blueprint for his future that his father had drawn. He could have simply followed Ann's lead and gotten as far away from the man as possible, but Robert wasn't Ann.
When this ends, Robert thought, I'll go back to school and take the science courses I missed for medical school. Then I'll start over. I'll live the life I want to lead. To hell with him.
For a few minutes that thought buoyed Robert's spirits. Then he opened his eyes and looked around the dingy cell. Despair snuffed out hope. What was the point of thinking about the future? He didn't have one. He would never leave this hellhole alive. Robert heard the sound of several men approaching the cell. Sliding backward, he moved himself into a corner. He tensed, waiting to see what they wanted.
The door creaked when it opened. Abdullah was standing there, accompanied by four soldiers.
Abdullah pointed to two of them. Without saying a word they pulled Robert to his feet, then hoisted him onto their shoulders. That was the way they carried him out of the cell.
"Where are you taking me?" Robert cried out.
His question evoked a grunt from one of the soldiers. They hauled him up two flights of cracked and splitting stone stairs, through a door that led outside into bright sunlight that momentarily blinded Robert after so long in the dark cell. He squinted, trying to see where he was, where he was being taken.
They loaded him into the back of a truck, open on top, which was empty except for bits of fruits and vegetables. Two of the soldiers climbed up and sat down on the floor with him. A heavy dark green vinyl tarp was pulled over the top. Then the truck began to move. "Where are we going?" Robert asked.
No one responded.
The air was stifling under the tarp. Robert strained his eyes to see through a rip in the plastic, but he was too far to the side. One of the soldiers pointed a gun at Robert. The other took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. In a matter of seconds the pungent aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the air. To Robert, the odor was disgusting.
He wanted to remain awake and alert, to observe everything he could about where they were taking him, maybe even to escape if he had the chance. But his body betrayed his mind. Ever since he could remember, he fell asleep in a vehicle when he was tired and he wasn't driving. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
The truck slammed to a stop. Robert opened his eyes and saw a worried look on the face of the soldier who was smoking. He crushed out the cigarette with his boot and peeked out of a corner where the tarp was loose. His look of concern turned to amusement. He said something to his comrade, which Robert couldn't understand. They both laughed. From his pocket he removed a grease-stained cloth, covered Robert's eyes, and tied it behind the prisoner's head. Robert smelled another cigarette being lit.
The wheels of the truck started rolling again. Robert, sitting and leaning back against one of the wooden planks on the side, found a haze descending over his mind. He could no longer think clearly. He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe that it was good he was being moved, that his father had found a way to win his release. More likely, he thought with grim bitterness, his father had somehow managed to make Robert's fate worse, as he usually did.