Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  "What about Jack?" Sam asked. "Was he involved, too?"

  "Not at all. He tried to discourage me. We had some huge fights. All he cared about politically was Israel, which I thought was ridiculously narrow."

  Sam looked startled. "He was religious in those days?"

  Sarah smiled. "Jack didn't even believe in God. He believed in Israel and the Jewish people. He was studying Hebrew and heading up a group of pro-Israel Jewish students."

  Ann raised her eyebrows. "Did you guys ever go to class?"

  Sarah laughed. "Not very often. Most of us were too busy for that. Besides, we were convinced that we knew more than the teachers. But Jack was different there, too. He refused to miss classes. He did homework, wrote papers, and studied for exams. Other students laughed at him. He didn't care."

  "So where did Father fit into all of this?" Ann asked.

  Sarah did her best to conceal the pain she was feeling. The decisions you made when you were young, you had to live with your whole life. "Terry was a senior when Jack and I were freshmen. He was the president of the new left student movement."

  Ann picked up her fork and smashed it against the plate, causing everyone in the dining room to stare at them. "You mean to tell me that Mr. Right-wing Republican Investment Banker was a pot-smoking pinko? How hypocritical can you get?"

  Sarah didn't respond. She, who had never abandoned the liberal leanings of her youth, had often asked herself the same question. She had no desire to defend or justify Terry.

  Ann was now nodding her head up and down. "I can probably fill in the rest of the picture. I bet Jack was wonderful, just like Sam. You ditched the nerdy geek for the older, charismatic rabble-rouser."

  Sam interrupted. "Hey, I'm no nerdy geek."

  Sarah didn't hear what Sam said. Ann's words sliced through her like a knife. "You have a wonderful way of expressing yourself."

  They had eaten so little that a waiter came by to inquire, "Is there something wrong with the food?"

  Sam waved him away. "We're just talking. The food's superb."

  "How would you put it?" Ann asked her mother.

  "I had never dated anyone other than Jack. I was swept up in passion with your father. I thought we had a lot in common."

  "Not religion."

  "Obviously."

  "Did Grandpa really sit shiva for you when you married Father?"

  Ann knew how to cut to the core. This was the hardest part to recall. Neither her nor Terry's parents had come to their wedding. "Let's just say that they liked Jack, and they didn't like the idea of my marrying outside the faith."

  Ann pushed on. "So why'd you marry him?"

  "Well, in August we went off to the Democratic convention in Miami Beach."

  "You and Terry?"

  Sarah nodded. "Once the school term was over, Jack went to Israel to live. Terry and I hung out in Ann Arbor for a while. Then we flew down to Miami, where we met other left-wing student leaders from around the country. It turned out to be a big dud. Nothing exciting, like the 'sixty-eight convention. In the auditorium, the delegates were nominating George McGovern. On the sands of South Beach at midnight, surrounded by hundreds of radical students, many of whom were stoned out of their minds, a campus chaplain from some university I can't remember married your father and me."

  Ann pulled back as if she had been shot. Her mouth was agape. Her arms flew up involuntarily above her head. "What did you say?"

  "Oh, my God," Sarah said, realizing immediately the dreadful slip. The horrible, horrible mistake she had just made. She had been thinking about Jack, remembering what had happened. She hadn't been paying any attention to what she was saying. She wanted to die. She didn't know what she could do to rectify it.

  As Sam looked from daughter to mother, one face more contorted in pain than the other, he knew something serious had happened. At first he didn't realize what it was. Then he did the math in his head. Ann's birthday was March fifth.

  "So you lied to me all these years," Ann said in an accusatory tone. "You celebrated your anniversary in April because you didn't want me to know that you were pregnant when..." Ann's face turned deathly white. "Oh, God. I ruined your whole life." She sprang to her feet. "I think I'm going to be sick." Covering her mouth with her hands, she raced toward the rest room, past the entrance to the restaurant, with Sarah two steps behind.

  At the table, Sam wanted to cry for both of them.

  A few minutes later Sarah returned. Sam jumped up. "How is she? What can I do?"

  "She'll be okay. She wants to be alone for a while."

  "Maybe I should go to her."

  Until he began dating Ann, Sarah hadn't seen Sam since he was seven years old, during winter break her first year at Michigan. That was the last time she had ever set foot in her parents' house. Despite all the baggage, she had to admit that she liked Sam. He had Jack's concern and sensitivity. Terry would have been eating his dinner right now. "That would be a little difficult. She's locked in a stall in the ladies' room. Leave her be."

  A waiter was hovering around. "You can take this food," Sarah said to him. When he was gone, she refilled her glass with wine, emptying the bottle. "I think we need another one, Sam."

  He motioned to the sommelier, then sat quietly, leaving her alone with her demons while she drank.

  Somehow Sarah would have to make Ann understand that she had ruined her own life. Not Ann. It wasn't only politics that drove her into Terry's bed. She felt she had outgrown Jack's limited world.

  Then there was sex with Terry. Experienced at "the art of making love," as he called it, he not only initiated her in sexual acts that she couldn't even have imagined, but he made her feel things that were mind numbing. No, Ann, you didn't ruin my life. I did it myself.

  She looked at Sam, unsure what to say. "Don't you want to know what happened after Terry and I got married?" Not particularly, he thought, but to be polite, he nodded. "I dropped out of school. We went to live on a commune near Big Sur. That's where Ann was born."

  She emptied her glass. Sam refilled it. "How's Jack?" she asked, her voice quavering.

  "He's still based in Israel."

  "Based?"

  "Yeah, he started and operates a company called Mediterranean Wine Exports. He has offices in Tel Aviv, Paris, Barcelona, and Milan. The business is pretty successful."

  Sarah cracked a smile. "You're such a corporate lawyer. I mean, is he married? Does he have children? Is he happy?" Sarah asked wistfully.

  Sam shrugged. "Happy—who knows? He doesn't have children. He was married once for a year or two to an American who thought she wanted to live in Israel, but then she realized what it was like. Decided it was too tough for her. Jack refused to move back to the U.S." He snapped his fingers. "That was that."

  "Personality-wise has he changed?"

  Sam grinned. "Same old Jack."

  "The original straight arrow."

  Sam nodded. Family loyalty was now raising its head. "Jack's still decent and hardworking, but he's made a glamorous life for himself. Because he's in the wine business, he moves in the fast lane socially. Last year he dated this Italian movie star. He made the papers when he showed up with her at the Marbella Club for a weekend."

  Sarah was taken aback. That wasn't the Jack she remembered. "Suppose I were to go and meet him in one of his offices. Do you think he would try to find someone in Israel who could help rescue my Bobby if I asked him?"

  "You'd be wasting your time. Like I said, I already tried that. Jack made it clear to me that there is nothing he can do."

  The more Sam thought about it, the more convinced he became that Jack had to be lying to him. Hatred had been driving Jack. Sam's initial instinct had to be right. There was something Jack could do.

  Chapter 13

  His wife and three daughters were asleep, but not Yasef. In his tan military uniform he sat on a chair with frayed navy-blue material and padding bursting out of the arms, staring at the television set, which was broadcasting the l
ate-evening news. Having helped with the scripts for the news-people on many occasions as part of his job in the intelligence agency, Yasef knew very well that what was called "news" in Syria was nothing more than government propaganda. Still, if someone with Yasef's background listened carefully, he might pick up hidden meaning between the lines. That was what he was doing this evening.

  There was something big going on, being run by Major General Nadim. Yasef had learned that much in the corridors of the intelligence agency headquarters today. However, his own section, military intelligence, had thus far been frozen out. Only the Office of State Security seemed to be part of the action. An order had been given to check and recheck passports of any visitors at airports and border crossings. Hidden video cameras were being operated at each arrival point to take pictures of foreigners. A tail was being placed on questionable foreigners. In the state security section they were paranoid about Israel, and Syrians spying for the Israelis. The thought made him tremble. Anything was possible.

  Yasef was listening so closely that he didn't hear the phone until the third ring. Then he jumped up with a start and raced across the room. It was past ten. If the people from State Security were onto him, they wouldn't be calling. They would sweep down and haul him in.

  "Yes," he answered in a hesitant voice, trying to conceal his pounding heart.

  "Is this the Damascus Coffeehouse?" a man asked in Arabic in a voice that was unmistakably Avi's.

  The Israeli's words were part of a code he and Yasef had developed. They meant that Avi was in Damascus. He wanted to meet in one hour at Abu, a small cafe outside of town. It had been a year and a half since he had heard from Avi.

  Racing through Yasef's mind was the thought that Avi's visit must have something to do with whatever Nadim was planning. With the high-security alert, it was an incredibly dangerous time for Avi to be in Syria. An even more dangerous time for Yasef to meet with him. What he wanted to do was warn Avi, "It's too risky for us to meet now. Get out of the country fast," but he couldn't do that. Someone from State Security might be listening in on the call right now. He could simply say, "I'm sorry, sir. You must have the wrong number." That was the signal that Yasef couldn't meet Avi in an hour at the cafe. Then he wouldn't answer the phone when it rang for the next day or so, and he would instruct his wife and children not to answer. That would leave the Israeli on his own to fend for himself. Yasef couldn't bear to do that.

  "You have the wrong number, sir," he said, leaving out the words, "I'm sorry." His response told Avi he would be there.

  He tiptoed into the bedroom, moving quietly to avoid waking his wife, who was bundled in the blankets, snoring loudly. He gently slipped open a bureau drawer and searched under his clothes until he found the Russian pistol. He loaded it and placed it carefully into his briefcase.

  Then he went into the bathroom. From a cabinet he pulled out a bottle marked Aspirin which everyone in the family was forbidden to touch. He poured the capsules in his hand until he found what he was looking for. Several of the round objects were slightly larger than the others and didn't have the word Bayer etched on top. He wrapped two of the cyanide capsules in a tissue and stuffed them into his pocket.

  * * *

  With Jack beside him in the green Renault he had rented at the airport, Avi drove slowly and cautiously from the At-Tal hotel on Al-Maijeh Square to the Abu Cafe.

  "Watch our six o'clock," he told Jack, who kept glancing behind to make certain they weren't being followed. They traveled on poorly maintained, narrow back roads with very little traffic, along a route Avi had committed to memory. They rode for forty minutes in a northerly direction toward Ma'Alula. They were only twenty miles from the Lebanese border on the west. About a hundred yards from the cafe, Avi pulled off the road into a clump of trees.

  Satisfied that the car was concealed, Avi grabbed a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment, and his briefcase from the car seat. Then he and Jack climbed out. They kept their bodies low, shielded by the car, until they ducked behind a deserted old wooden shed.

  Peeking out around a corner, Avi had a good view through the binoculars of the road, the front of the cafe and its parking lot, while Jack kept out of sight.

  In the next half hour only two cars passed their observation point. Neither turned off for the cafe. "He should be here by now," Jack said anxiously.

  Avi wasn't listening. He was focused on an approaching car, a dull gray Russian Lada that had slowed to a crawl. Avi watched it pull into the cafe parking lot. Yasef climbed out and walked into the cafe, carrying a briefcase in his hand.

  "Showtime," Avi said to Jack as he handed him the binoculars. "Remember what I told you about the license plates of the State Security cars. They all start with the numbers nine-nine. If you see a car like that, we've got trouble."

  "I'll hustle down to the cafe fast and warn you," Jack said tensely.

  With the binoculars pressed tight against his face, Jack followed Avi until he entered the restaurant. Then Jack turned his attention to the road.

  Five minutes later, another car passed. A black Lada. Jack stared at the license plates. "Oh, shit." The number was 9970.

  The driver hit the brakes and veered into the parking lot.

  Jack had to warn Avi before the security agent entered the cafe or called for backup. On foot, Jack raced along the dirt side of the road toward the cafe. As he ran, Jack's right hand went instinctively into the pocket of his black leather jacket and gripped the Swiss army knife he had packed in the luggage they checked through. It had been years since he used it for anything except opening bottles of wine, but he kept the blade sharp.

  At the entrance to the parking lot, Jack stopped running and slipped behind a large bush. There was a chill in the air, but he was perspiring heavily.

  Jack paused for a second to evaluate his options. The agent's car was parked between Jack and what appeared to be the only entrance to the cafe. The agent had the window rolled down on the driver's side of the car. If Jack dashed for the entrance to the cafe, the agent would see him and cut him off.

  Jack studied the agent in the dim light that was coming through the windows of the restaurant. The man was looking at some papers in the car with the aid of a flashlight. He picked up a cell phone from the car seat. To Jack's horror, he heard the agent say in Arabic, "This is Hussein. I've caught up with the Italians."

  At this point, Jack's choices narrowed to one. He had to divert Hussein from his phone call before the agent disclosed their location. He remembered a trick he had learned when he was in the elite antiterrorist unit in the seventies. He ran across the parking lot toward the agent's car. At the same time he pulled the knife out of his pocket and opened the blade.

  In Arabic, Jack screamed out, "Rape... rape." He circled around to the back of the car and crouched down, his knees just above the rough gravel surface.

  Hussein put the phone down and leaped out of the car with a .45-caliber pistol in his hand. Puzzled, he looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. Jack sprang at him from behind. He looped his left arm around Hussein's neck, cutting off his wind. With a swift motion he plunged the knife into Hussein's chest, going straight for the heart while trying to minimize blood squirting, exactly as the military instructors had taught him years ago. He was out of practice. Some blood hit the sleeve of his jacket while he continued thrusting the knife.

  In a futile, gesture, Hussein struggled to turn and use the gun, but it was too late. The .45 fell harmlessly out of his hand. His eyes were bulging, his body convulsing involuntarily.

  When he was satisfied Hussein was dead, Jack pushed the agent back into the car, then across the seat to the passenger side. After taking a quick glance around to make certain no one else was in sight, Jack picked up the gun, climbed into Hussein's car, and drove it into a cluster of trees.

  Careful to wipe off any prints, he extracted Hussein's wallet and ID from his pocket. He pushed the body onto the floor of the car. Then he walked calmly
into the cafe.

  In the dim light he looked around. Seated in a corner, with cups of Turkish coffee on a battered wooden table, Avi and Yasef were the only patrons.

  Yasef was alarmed to see someone approach them. Avi put a reassuring hand on Yasef's. "Meet Jack Cole. He's my friend."

  "We have to leave," Jack said.

  Avi noticed the blood on his jacket. Rising to his feet, Avi whispered to Yasef, "Let's get out of here."

  His eyes blinked nervously, but Yasef accepted the order. "I'll meet you outside. I have to take care of him," Yasef said, pointing toward the owner of the cafe, seated behind the bar. He was a heavyset man in his forties with one wooden leg, the result of a mine he had stepped on in Lebanon when Syria had seized control of the country. Yasef paid him handsomely for the use of his cafe for what Yasef told him were secret government meetings, and for keeping his mouth shut.

  Yasef was confident that the man had no desire to jeopardize their arrangement. For insurance, Yasef handed him a wad of Syrian pounds.

  Once Yasef joined them outside, Jack quickly explained in Arabic what happened. He handed the Syrian Hussein's wallet and ID.

  "You did the right thing," Yasef told him. "You also did a favor for the Syrian people. That bastard was determined to advance in his career on the corpses of those he killed."

  "He must have followed us here," Avi said, feeling guilty.

  "You can't blame yourself for not spotting him," Yasef said. "In the last year State Security has gotten more technologically sophisticated. They installed an electronic homing device under the hood on many cars that foreigners rent. It permits them to follow without being detected by the driver."

  Yasef's mind was racing. Undoubtedly Hussein had concluded that these foreigners had come to the cafe for a clandestine meeting. In the Syrian police state, foreigners were considered suspicious, or as enemies of the state. If Hussein had seen Avi with Yasef, they would have both been tortured until they explained why they had come to the cafe at the same time.