by Allan Topol
"Exactly. Well, anyhow, then-Colonel Husni Nadim, now a major general and deputy director of Syrian intelligence, implemented the plan. Yasef was on his staff. He was outraged at what he saw. The killing, raping, and burning. The murder of so many innocent people."
Jack was on the edge of his chair. "How'd you get him to come over?"
"He was a walk-in at our embassy in London. Wanted to do what he could to topple Ahmed and destroy Nadim."
"Has he been useful?"
"Very. I've gone in from time to time. He's fed me hard information that permitted us to thwart Syrian border attacks and cut off the movement of military supplies into Lebanon."
This is just what I need, Jack was thinking. "Will you call this Yasef and see what he can find out about Robert McCallister and what they're planning to do with him?"
Avi shook his head. "I can never use the phone that way with Yasef. The government frequently listens in on calls of its low-and midlevel intelligence people. It's one of the routines they established after they found someone else passing us information a few years ago. If I call Yasef like that and they're on the line, he's a dead man."
Jack thought about what Avi had said. He had only one possible move at this point. You're going to owe me big-time, Sam. "Can you get me into Syria?" Jack said. "And tell me how I can get in contact with Yasef once I'm there?"
Avi was taken aback. "You can't do that."
"When I start something, I like to finish it."
"It's insane. Yasef may not even be in the same job any longer. Nadim may have found out he was working with me and killed him."
Jack wasn't deterred. "I'll take my chances."
"You ever been to Syria before?"
"I fought there in the 'seventy-three war."
Avi was stunned. This guy's more of a wild man than I am. "That doesn't count. You have any idea how dangerous it is for a lone Israeli there? Not just the top leadership, but the people on the street hate us. They'd give anything to avenge 'sixty-seven and 'seventy-three. They'd kill any Israeli they could get their hands on. You know damn well I'm right."
Jack couldn't argue. "There's no other way," he said stubbornly.
Avi took a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and offered one to Jack, who declined. He lit up, blowing the smoke into the air. "There's a tire company based in Milan, Angelli, with whom we have good relations. I've gone into Syria from time to time over the years with an Angelli executive ID—Mario Leonardo, group vice president. Angelli sells there. They could put a new plant in Syria if they wanted to. You'd be surprised how the possibility of jobs eases entry and movement restrictions even in a totalitarian regime. If you're really hell-bent on this lunacy, I could get the two of us Angelli papers."
Jack grimaced. "I didn't say anything about your going. You've got a wife and family. There's no way I'm letting you come with me. All I want is a letter I can hand to Yasef. I'll take it from there."
Avi pulled back and shook his head. "It's too treacherous for you to go alone. If we're right that they're planning a joint operation with Turkey, security will be even tighter than usual. It'll take two of us—one to watch the other's back."
Jack was now feeling guilty about involving Avi. "If our cover's blown, we'll have a hell of a time getting out. I hate to see you putting yourself at risk for that scumbag Terry McCallister's son."
Avi shook his head. "I'm not doing it for the pilot. That's between you and your brother. For me, the gut issue is Syria's involvement. Nobody hates us as much as Ahmed. And Nadim's capable of anything. We have to find out what they're scheming. As you said earlier, the stakes have now changed. They're huge."
Jack was persuaded, though he felt very uneasy about Avi coming. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "We'll both go." He shifted in his seat. "You've done this before. What are the logistics?"
"We fly to Milan in the morning and from there to Damascus. In the evening I'll try to contact Yasef."
Avi finished his beer with a large gulp, belched, and rose to leave. "I have to get our plane tickets tonight and make arrangements for the papers we'll need. We want to make an early plane in the morning."
Jack put his hand on Avi's arm. "A few more minutes won't kill you. There's something I want to ask you."
Avi sat back down. "Sure. Shoot."
"Yesterday you said that you had a story to tell me about your playing tennis. You piqued my interest." Avi sighed, took another cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. Jack could tell he didn't want to talk about it. "Sorry I asked."
"No, it's not such a big deal." Avi looked at the empty bottle on the table. "If I'm going to talk about this, I need another one. How about you?" he asked Jack.
"I'll pass."
"I don't trust people who don't drink."
Jack smiled. "You're safe with me then. But only good wine."
Avi wrinkled up his face. "Snob."
"What can I tell you? I'm in the business."
Once the owner deposited another Maccabee for Avi, he began talking softly. "When you were a kid, did you ever have a dream for the rest of your life?"
Jack thought about his plan to marry Sarah and move to Israel. "Sure," he said without explaining.
"Well, my whole childhood I wanted to be a fighter pilot. And I made it. I came through training with distinction. Then they sent me to Alabama to fly with the Americans, where I got the highest grade in the class. For about a year, I was flying an F-4 Phantom and having the time of my life. The Egyptians or Syrians would put planes up in the air, and we'd shoot them down. When I was home on leave in the summer, I went out and played tennis with a pal. He had a strong serve, and the court surface was a little rough, to say the least." A glum expression covered Avi's face. "Well, anyhow, one of his serves took a freak bounce and struck my eye. Tore the zonules in the eye and dislocated the lens. It was repaired with surgery, but my flying days were over." Avi sipped some beer.
"That really sucks," Jack said.
Avi took a puff on his cigarette and shook his head. "It's life. You worry about one set of dangers, and wham." He smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. "Something else comes out of nowhere. My mother had a great-aunt Rivka who survived Auschwitz. She and her husband. They came to Israel. Had one child. A son. He made it through four years in the army, including one war. A year after his discharge, when he was a student at Haifa University, he died in an auto accident. Go figure."
"So how'd you get mixed up with Moshe?"
"I was spending my time at home picking oranges, whining and feeling sorry for myself after the eye operation, when Moshe paid me a visit and recruited me. Dora says I'm reckless, that I have a death wish, that's why I drive so fast, and that was why I joined the Mossad when I couldn't fly anymore. But she's wrong about that."
Avi paused before continuing. "I was ten in June of 1967. Before my father was mobilized in his reserve unit, he taught me how to shoot a rifle. My mother already knew. She had been in the army. We also had my two-year-old sister at home. The Jordanians were part of the Arab armies that were tightening the noose around us. If they broke through our line of defense, which was thin, we and the other residents of the Moshav were all that was stopping them from reaching the sea. They were so close we could see them getting ready to attack with binoculars."
Jack thought about what he had been doing then. He hadn't developed his passion for Israel until the 1969 trip. In early June 1967, he was caught up in "Cub fever," as the usually pathetic Chicago Cubs were in first place in the National League before their annual "June swoon" brought them back to mediocrity.
Avi shook his head somberly. "It's not for the excitement and the danger that I joined up with Moshe. Ein Barera. We've got no alternative to self-defense if we want the state to survive."
Avi's words hit home with Jack. "We're similar in that way. I didn't come to Israel to spy and kill terrorists. I wanted to be part of the new Jewish state. I saw this as an ideal place to live. To raise a family. The society was rich
intellectually and culturally. There was an excitement about trying to fulfill a two-thousand-year-old dream. But our neighbors don't see it that way. So we do what we have to do in order to survive. As you put it, we've got no alternative."
"What about Moshe? When did he recruit you?"
"I came here from Chicago in 'seventy-three," Jack said. "Fought in the Yom Kippur war in an infantry unit on the Syrian front."
"Two citations for bravery," Avi interjected.
"How did you know that?"
Avi gave him a broad smile. "It's amazing what you can learn on the Internet."
"After the war the army assigned me to a new elite unit that hunted and killed terrorists. I was planning to make a career of that when Moshe came to visit me one day. He said he was looking for an American-born Israeli to set up in the wine-exporting business with offices in Paris, Milan, and Barcelona. The idea was that I would be available to do jobs for the Mossad from time to time in Europe. He thought the cover of an American in the wine business was perfect. When I agreed to do it, he sent me to Hebrew University for an economics degree and to learn Arabic. In the summers he arranged for a French Jew in Burgundy to teach me the wine business and to speak colloquial French. Over the years I paid back the Mossad's initial investment. The business is mine."
Avi put his cigarette out and lit another. "What jobs did you do for him?"
"At first, mostly small stuff relaying info between Israel and Europe, primarily on terrorist activities. Then a big job came along."
"Osirak?"
Jack nodded. "Yeah. I located a metallurgist named Jean Pierre, who was working for a firm in Lyons that had a large piece of the project. Jean Pierre thought it was an outrage that his country was helping the lunatics in Baghdad develop nuclear weapons. So he was willing to assist us."
Avi's eyes opened wide. "How'd you use him?"
"I set him up with this good-looking woman I knew in Paris. Francoise Colbert was her name. Gentile. A struggling actress." Avi didn't need to know everything about Jack's relationship with her—just the operational facts. "In return for Mossad funding, she agreed to see the engineer whenever he came to Paris, which was quite often. He brought plans and copies of progress reports with him in his briefcase. We had a team follow Jean Pierre from the train station to Francoise's apartment on the Left Bank to make sure he wasn't being followed. The team stood guard out in front when he went inside. I installed several copy machines in her apartment. While Francoise kept Jean Pierre occupied in the bedroom, our people copied documents."
Admiration was visible on Avi's face. "Now I see why we knew precisely what to bomb and when—immediately after they finished construction. It would have been horrible for the entire world if the Iraqis had gotten nuclear weapons. You should have been given a medal for what you did."
Jack looked down at the table. He didn't like talking about the prime minister's award he had received, which hadn't been publicized. "Yeah, well, things got a little dicey at the end. The SDECE caught on to Jean Pierre. We got a tip that they picked him up in Lyons. We scrambled and shut everything down. I hustled Francoise off to Montreal with a new identity and a large bank account."
"What happened to Jean Pierre?"
Jack felt guilty about this part of it. "Supposedly hung himself in a French prison. They made it look like a suicide. My guess is they tortured him to talk. They couldn't get much, though. He didn't know my real name or Francoise's."
Avi shook his head. "None of that's surprising. It was a huge embarrassment for them. What have you done since for Moshe?"
"For a long time, smaller stuff again. Relaying information obtained from French government people willing to defy their leadership and supply material to us. Then in the last couple of years we began focusing on Arab terrorists in France."
"Was Khalifa in Marseilles your kill?"
Jack nodded. "The French refused to extradite Khalifa after we gave them clear evidence of his involvement in three suicide bombings and other murders. Then Moshe called me. I went down to Marseilles and made the arrangements. For money, it was easy to find locals to help. They all hate the Arabs."
"From what I heard, it was a clean job."
Jack thought about Daniel Moreau's visit to his office. "I hope so." Right now he couldn't worry about Daniel Moreau. If he didn't make it back from Syria alive, what happened in France would be immaterial.
Chapter 11
Daniel Moreau should have felt tired and jet-lagged. Only a few hours ago he had gotten off a plane from Paris and arrived in Montreal, which was still in the grip of winter. The frigid, moist air cut through Moreau like a knife. None of that mattered. The surge of adrenaline he was feeling easily overcame his weariness and the weather. After years of intensive investigation, he was finally closing in on his prey.
Jack Cole must be very pleased with himself, thinking that he outfoxed me by closing up his office in Paris and sending Monique away. He underestimated me. There's no way I'm buying into his phony cover. In a few hours I'll have the proof I need to nail him.
Moreau was traveling on a passport in the name of Simon Prieur, businessman. Canadian police never liked it when law-enforcement people from other countries, especially the United States or France, operated in their country. In his suite at the Queen Elizabeth, he ordered dinner from room service and then waited for ten o'clock to come, passing the time by rereading for the umpteenth time Camus's The Stranger. He didn't have with him the extensive dossier that he had compiled on Francoise Colbert, including every report card she had received at her Catholic girls' school in Paris. All of that he had committed to memory.
At ten o'clock he put on a suit and tie, making himself look like a visiting businessman. Then he set off on foot, heading toward the river. Periodically he stopped and pretended to be window-shopping to make certain he wasn't being followed.
Two blocks from the river he found what he was looking for: an open-air drug market. Sensing that he had cash, three vendors hustled over to Moreau. He waved them away and continued walking until he reached the building with the number twenty on the dilapidated brown-brick exterior. In the doorway stood a large, beefy man with a red face marked with blemishes. His right hand was concealed in the pocket of his black leather bomber jacket.
Moreau stopped and stared at the man. "Duc," he whispered, using the code that had been arranged. When the man nodded, Moreau reached into his pants pocket. As he did, the beefy man pulled out his right hand with a plastic bag containing a white powder. In the flash of a second, he exchanged the plastic bag for a roll of Canadian dollars. Moreau moved away.
It was a mile to Le Club. Moreau covered it on foot, again making certain he wasn't being followed. He had been in Montreal only once before, but he had committed a street map of the area to memory.
Le Club was a dingy, sleazy bar in a seedy part of the city. The walls were covered with red velvet wallpaper to make it look like a bordello. The material was stained and peeling away from the wall. Next to the bar was a small raised platform. On it, an emaciated blond woman gyrated and unhooked her bra to disclose a set of improbable breasts.
A couple of the dozen male customers leered. Most looked bored and sipped exorbitantly priced beer. Off on one side of the room, a couple of other men ignored the show and shot darts into a board on the wall.
Two women in short, skimpy brown skirts and white halter tops, a redhead and a brunette, sitting together at a table, eyed Moreau when he walked in and let his eyes adjust to the dim light of Le Club.
He headed toward the bar, overpaid for a Molson, and carried it to a booth in a corner, isolated from other patrons. The redhead got up and walked over to him. "Will you buy me a drink?"
"I want to see Roni," he replied.
She gave him a contemptuous glare that said, You'd be better with me, but Le Club had its protocol. She moved away and nodded to the brunette.
Watching her approach, Moreau, who grew up in a well-off Paris family, thought of an expr
ession his mother frequently used: "shopworn." As Francoise moved closer, he changed his characterization. "Down and out" seemed more accurate. The former actress had short hair and bloodshot eyes. She swung her hips in an undulating motion. Heavy makeup was caked on her face, covering bruises.
When she slid into the booth across from Moreau, he noticed the tracks on her left arm. "I drink champagne," she said. He smiled. He knew how the game was played. She'd get a glass of colored water, he'd pay twenty bucks or so, and she'd get a cut from the house.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. "I was hoping we could go somewhere more intimate."
She looked at him warily, trying to decide whether she could trust him. That German who had treated her like a punching bag two weeks ago said something similar. Her gaze went from his face to the money in his hand. That made up her mind.
"A hundred," she said. "And you wear a condom. The whole time. Even if I blow you. You got that?"
He nodded.
"We'll go to my place."
She got up, grabbed a fake-fur coat from a hook in the back, and headed toward the door. Moreau was two steps behind.
"What are you doing in Montreal?" she asked as they walked two blocks to a dilapidated twelve-story building that reminded Daniel of public housing built for Arabs in Marseilles.
"Trying to make some money."
That was good enough for her. "Tell me about it."
When they got into the elevator, heavy with the stench of urine, she pressed the number twelve. "I have the penthouse," she said, cracking a smile.
She was missing a tooth, but it didn't matter. That smile lit up her face and confirmed what he had known from the dossier: Twenty years ago she had been a beautiful young woman. The apartment was a chilly, tiny mess—a kitchen and two rooms with a balcony that ran along the outside of both rooms.
Once they were inside she held out her hand. He peeled off a hundred dollars, which she placed in a cabinet in the living room. In a couple of seconds she stripped off her halter top, skirt, and underwear. Around her neck she was wearing a tiny gold cross. She had shaved all of her pussy hair. She had small breasts that sagged and an incision across her stomach from the cesarean. He knew from the dossier that the baby had been born with a heart problem and died at two months. She returned to the cabinet, where she had stashed the money, and pulled out a package of condoms.