by Allan Topol
Don't forget your priorities, he reminded himself. The gold is not between her legs. The gold is what she can tell you about Suslov and his nuclear arms operation. He remembered Joyner's words: "You're playing a dangerous game." Sometimes the prize is worth it, he thought. The idea of nuclear weapons falling into the hands of an outlaw regime or an international terrorist organization was too horrible to contemplate, and North Korea was already claiming membership in the nuclear club. Even without them, Al Qaeda had been able to wreak havoc on the United States and the world.
Without a signal or any other warning to following cars, she turned right sharply, narrowly missing a parked car.
Jesus, the woman drives like Dale Earnhardt, he thought. He gripped the grab handle on the car's roof for support.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
She pushed the hair away from her eyes. "A small inn outside of town. Very few people know about it."
She raised a hand to her lips, kissed it, then waved it in his direction.
"Touch me, Micki," she said.
He rubbed his hand along the arm of the black leather Ferragamo jacket that matched the boots.
"Not there, silly." She giggled while pushing up her skirt. "Give me your hand."
When he held it out, she took it and pressed it between her legs. Jesus, she wasn't wearing any panties under the black suede skirt. "Surprise," she cried out. Her bush was soaked. He pressed his hand against her soft folds of skin.
When she braked for a red light, he pulled his hand away.
"Now lick your fingers," she said. As he followed her command, she reached across and touched his penis, stiff and hard, jutting forward in his pants.
"That's what I like. Take it out," she said in a devilish voice.
The light turned green. "Not now. Later," he said.
"Boo-hoo," she feigned crying.
He laughed. She's twenty-four years old, he thought. Immature. A baby. Michael had met her when she was shopping in a store that had small French and Italian boutiques. Though he had followed her to the store because he knew that she worked in Suslov's office, he pretended that their meeting was coincidental. With his looks and charm she readily agreed to have coffee with him. On their second coffee date, she had explained that about a year ago Suslov had seen her picture in a magazine when she was modeling clothes. He had decided that he had to have her. So he had told one of his goons, "Find that girl and pay her whatever it takes to get her to come and work as a secretary in my office."
As she had told him that, Michael had thought, My God, I know that some people order the clothes they see in an ad. I never heard of anyone ordering the model.
The road was opening up. The snow was tapering off, which greatly relieved Michael. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the snow with Irina. Her being rescued by the police might come to Suslov's attention.
"How did you find out about the inn for this evening?" Michael asked.
"One of my friends is dating an older married man. Somebody important whose name I won't mention, who brings her here so his wife won't find out about it."
Suslov didn't have that problem, Michael knew, because he didn't have a wife. He had killed her about five years ago. Strangled her with his bare hands, although Michael didn't know why. Large payoffs to the prosecutor, coupled with intimidation, precluded any charges from being filed. It was Russian justice at its finest in the post-Communist era. Michael often wondered, if the Russian people were given a choice, would they prefer the new system of freedom or the old Communist regime? His guess was that many would opt to turn back the clock, although certainly not Irina and her friends.
"Aren't you afraid that you'll see one of Dmitri's buddies at the inn?" Michael asked.
She smiled. "I took care of that. They only have three rooms, plus a dining room where they serve meals. I rented all three for the night."
"That must have cost you a bundle," he said.
She giggled, that silly girlie laugh of hers he liked. "Actually, it'll cost you a bundle. You're paying for it."
Her words didn't bother Michael. He touched his pants pocket and the wad of American bills he had brought with him; all Company money, of course. Whatever he paid to the proprietor would mean there would be less to give Irina. Her father, an old Communist bureaucrat, was now out of work, and her mother had breast cancer. In reality he doubted whether any of that money, his or Suslov's, ever reached them.
It was seven o'clock when they arrived at the inn. An old man with one crippled arm carried in Irina's gigantic overnight bag, which to Michael looked as if it had enough clothes, makeup, and God knows what for a week. All Michael had was the clothes he was wearing. The proprietress, a heavyset woman with forearms resembling bowling pins, followed them up to their room with a tray that held English biscuits, a pot of tea, two cups, a bottle of Johnny Walker blue label, glasses, and ice. "Dinner will be whenever you want it," she announced, and departed.
Michael looked around. The room was decorated in belle époque style, with heavy red curtains and a king-size wooden four-poster bed that dominated the room.
"Tea or scotch?" he asked Irina.
"Tea now. Scotch later." She poured two cups, handed him one, and dropped three cubes of sugar into her own.
He took a sip. It was a fine jasmine tea that was rarely found in Russia.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Not for food," she said, enticingly. "Dinner can wait."
With that she pulled off her powder-blue angora sweater and tossed it on a chair. She wasn't wearing a bra. He had never seen her naked before, and he was stunned. Though she was almost six feet tall, she was perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were round and full, with sharp, pointed pink nipples. Her skin was snow-white. Her broad shoulders tapered to a tiny waist. Michael wasn't a religious man, but what kept running through his mind was, God, you got it right this time.
He was still staring at her when she walked across the room and unbuttoned his shirt. She tossed it onto the floor, then pressed her naked chest against his. Kissing him hard, she shoved her tongue into his mouth. When she pulled away, she whispered into his ear, "I've never fucked an American before. Will I like it?"
"You'll love it," he whispered back. With his hand he reached under her skirt and stroked her velvet pelt as she moaned softly.
"Jesus, I'm hot," she said as she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor.
"Eat me, Micki. Eat me," she cried out, spreading her legs. When he dropped to his knees, he placed one hand on her round, sloping buttocks and pulled her close to his face. With the other he opened her up while he pressed his mouth against her soft, moist skin.
"There," she cried as he licked her clit, which swelled to the size of a grape. "Right there. Oh, God, right there."
He kept licking and eating her until her whole body shook.
"You're good," she moaned. "You're so fucking good."
"You haven't seen anything yet," he said. With the taste of her in his mouth, he led her toward the bed. As they walked, she unzipped his pants and pulled out his engorged member, red and veiny, ready to explode. "That's what I want," she said, wrapping her long slender fingers around it.
He dropped his pants and kicked them off with his shoes. Michael was standing on the floor, and she was on the bed on all fours with her gorgeous rear end thrust out when he entered her soft, wet vagina from behind. He slipped in and out slowly and rhythmically while cupping her breasts in his hands. She was playing with her clit and moaning with pleasure. "Your finger," she cried out. "Put it in there. The other hole." He removed one of his hands from her breasts and did what she wanted. Her whole body bucked and shuddered as she came again. "You too," she shouted, but he held back.
Still standing next to the bed, he flipped her over on her back and lifted her legs up on his shoulders. Then he raised her bottom into the air before shoving his hard and pulsating cock into her wet vagina. In that position he found the sensitive G-spot de
ep inside her. Her response was immediate. "Oh, God, yes!" she shouted. "Oh, God, yes!" as he moved in and out. "Now, dammit! Now!" she screamed. This time he came with her, both of their bodies shaking together.
He fell onto the bed and collapsed next to her heaving body. She was on her back, gasping for breath. "Nobody ever did that to me before. That position. Nobody. If that's how they do it in the United States, I'm moving there tomorrow."
He laughed. "You're funny, my little bird."
She ran her hand over his chest. "I like when you call me that. It makes me think that you care for me. You want to protect me. You're not just taking me for the sex, like most men."
Her words made him feel guilty. She was so vulnerable, and he was using her. He had to be careful that she didn't become a victim in his game with Suslov.
"Let's have some scotch," she said. "If you fuck me like that, I'll be your slave. I'll serve you anything you want."
She fixed two glasses of Johnny Walker on ice and brought them back to the bed. When she handed him one, she said, "After dinner when we come back up here, I'm going to pour scotch all over your cock and balls and lick it off. What do you think of that?"
"Sounds to me like a great use for Johnny Walker. Can we spend the night here, or do we have to go back after dinner?"
"Dmitri won't be back until six tomorrow evening."
He was itching to ask her where Dmitri had gone, but he bit his tongue. He decided to wade into the quicksand from another direction. "I'll bet I'm a better lover than he is."
Her entire body tensed. "You don't want to know," she said, dropping her voice to a nervous whisper. "For your own sake you don't."
That only whetted his appetite. "Tell me."
"I shouldn't, but I feel as if you're someone I can trust. Someone who will help me one day when I need it, and I know I will."
"Absolutely," he replied without hesitation.
She climbed out of bed, walked over to the door, and checked to make sure no one was hiding there and listening. After refilling her glass, she returned to the bed. She sat down with her back against the headboard, her knees curled up against her body. "Something happened to him in Afghanistan," she said. "He was wounded down there"—she pointed to Michael's genitalia—"with some shrapnel. The same time he caught some of it on his ear. Down there," she repeated, still pointing, "it hit a nerve. So he can't get hard. You know what I mean?"
Michael nodded. "Never?"
"Never, but he likes to do other things to me. Horrible things." She was choking back tears thinking about it. "He refuses to tell anyone. Once I foolishly told him to go see a doctor, and he slapped me hard. He said they know nothing. Besides, he said, they will talk and everyone will know. He explained to me that his wife went to see a doctor about it secretly. When he found out, he killed her."
"Jesus."
"That's why he needs the relationship with me."
Michael rubbed his hand along her leg, to soothe her, to keep her talking. "I don't understand."
"His friends see him with me, and they think he must be virile, a man in his fifties, to keep me satisfied. He fuels that by telling them lies about what we did together. He says things like, 'God, am I bushed. Four times last night. She can't get enough of me. My thing will fall off if I do it any more,' and all that."
She grabbed Michael's wrist and clutched it tightly, digging her nails into his skin. "You know how you men are with each other."
"So why do you keep seeing him?" Michael asked.
She shook her head. "You can be so stupid, Micki. He made it clear that if I break it off with him, I'll end up like his wife. He'll hunt me to the ends of the earth if he has to, and he has the stooges to do that. I don't even want to imagine what he'd do to you if he found out about us."
The game had now gotten far more dangerous than Joyner could ever have imagined. But Michael refused to turn back.
Irina grabbed her glass and took a long sip of scotch. She began trembling, and pulled up the blanket around her body. "I don't want to talk about it anymore," she said. "Tell me about your oil development business. What you do and all that."
Her words stunned him. He had told her that was what he was doing in Russia, but why was she asking about it now? Again, Joyner's words popped into his mind. It was a dangerous game he was playing. Was Suslov using Irina to get information about him?
He tried to remain calm. "A new discovery was made in Uzbekistan. I may have to go there."
"And leave me all alone in Moscow?" She sounded annoyed. "You men are always leaving me for your business trips."
This was the opportunity he had been looking for. "Where did Dmitri go?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Volgograd. Do you know where that is?"
Michael knew exactly where it was: seven hundred miles south of Moscow. Volgograd was better known by its pre-1961 name, Stalingrad. It had been the scene of one of the bloodiest and most decisive battles of World War II. Michael lied to her. "I have no idea." He was afraid she'd become suspicious if he knew too much about Russia.
"Me neither," Irina said, "but then again, I didn't do well in geography in school." She rolled her eyes. "Or any other subject."
Then it hit him. Volgograd was on Vladimir Perikov's list of locations where large quantities of nuclear arms were being stored following their collection from former Soviet republics. Suslov must be thinking about another clandestine sale of nuclear arms. Okay, here we go. This time Michael would stop him.
Chapter 10
"We have to talk," Avi had said to Jack on the phone. "Let's meet in an hour at the Cafe Eden on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv."
What in the world could have happened so soon? Jack wondered.
It was a balmy night, with a breeze blowing in from the sea. Jack parked a few blocks away and walked in the salt air. The streets were crowded, the restaurants mobbed. He used a pedestrian bridge to cut over the circle, Kikkar Dizengoff, with its trendy shops and boutiques.
Arriving at the cafe before Avi, Jack took a table in a corner on the patio and ordered a cappuccino. Intense discussions were raging about literature and politics. A young woman with a shrill voice was defending A. B. Yehoshua's latest novel. The man she was with was tearing into it.
A few minutes later Avi walked into the cafe, dressed casually in a print shirt and khaki slacks, with a poker expression on his face. Avi nodded to Jack and pointed to the back of the cafe. "We need privacy," he said as they settled into a booth.
Avi waited for the owner to deposit a Maccabee for him and another cappuccino for Jack. He lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, took a long pull, and put it down.
"He's not in Turkey," Avi blurted out without any opening.
Jack was stunned. "Who's not in Turkey?"
"Robert McCallister. Isn't that who we're—"
"You sure of that?"
"Positive. I've communicated with two different military intelligence people I've worked with in Turkey, one in Ankara and one in Istanbul. Both told me the same thing. Shooting down the American plane was a rogue operation conceived by Kemal, their chief. Some members of the Turkish government are starting to catch on. They may even be happy about it because there's a lot of animosity toward the United States. But the prime minister's still in the dark and raising hell with Kemal to get to the bottom of what happened. To save his own hide, Kemal moved the American pilot out of the country."
As Jack stared at him in incredulity, Avi sipped his beer and grinned. "It just goes to prove you can't always rely on CNN."
Jack was trying to absorb Avi's information. "But if he's not in Turkey, then where is he?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Well?"
"He's been moved to Syria."
Jack's jaw dropped. "What? That doesn't make sense."
Avi shrugged. "I told you... Kemal did it to save himself. No body... no crime."
That explanation didn't ring true for Jack. "I can't buy it. Why would the Syrians take
him if that's all that was going on? The United States has been looking for a chance to hit them. Why present it to Washington on a silver platter?" Then the answer to Jack's question popped into his mind. "Unless Syria's planning to use Robert McCallister in some type of blackmail scheme."
Avi was right with him. "And Kemal's a part of it with the Syrians."
"My God," Jack said. "The stakes have just increased enormously for us. If the Syrians are involved, you can be sure that we're a target of what's being planned. Not just the United States."
"Precisely. Don't forget what we read every Passover. While Pharaoh wanted to slay only the firstborn Jewish males, Laban, the Syrian, wanted to kill all of us. Nothing's changed in twenty-five hundred years. Before 1967 they loved firing down on our villages from their bunkers up in the Golan. They'd do it again in a minute if we ever gave the land back."
"I guess I'd better tell Moshe."
Avi tapped his fingers on the table. "You can do that if you want. But then you can forget about helping free Robert McCallister. I know what Moshe's like when he makes up his mind that an operation can't be undertaken. There's no way to convince him."
Jack looked pensive. He had the same opinion of the Mossad director. With the Syrians now a part of the action, Jack had no intention of backing off. An idea was starting to take shape in his mind. "How good are your contacts in Syria?" Jack asked.
Avi wondered where Jack was going with this. "I have one and only one good relationship. He's in Damascus."
Wide-eyed, Jack was looking at Avi.
"Don't get too excited," Avi cautioned. "I haven't seen him in about eighteen months."
"Tell me about him."
"Yasef's his name, a midlevel official in the Syrian intelligence agency. You remember back in March of 'eighty-two, when Ahmed ordered the total destruction of the town of Hama because there were some political dissidents?"
Jack nodded. "How could I forget? They leveled the town. Killed twenty thousand residents. All Syrian citizens."