Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  "Guest?" Hubert said indignantly. "I agreed to invite one person. Not two."

  "But surely you wouldn't want a sophisticated gentleman coming to a savvy party like this alone?"

  "This had better be the last time you ever want anything like this from me."

  "Thank you," Jack said quickly, hanging up the phone before Hubert could change his mind. He looked forward to telling Avi.

  Not right away, though. There was something he had to do first.

  Margaret Joyner was finishing up dinner with the vice president in the director's dining room at CIA headquarters when her secretary, Carol, entered with a note that read, Michael Hartley is calling from Moscow. He says it's quite important. Are you available?

  Joyner turned to Mary Beth. "Let's go upstairs. You know about this mission. If you have time, I want you to hear what he has to say."

  "Nothing is more important."

  Joyner put the call on a speakerphone.

  "I'm on a secure phone in the Moscow embassy," Michael said.

  "Okay. Go ahead. I have the vice president with me."

  That rocked Michael back on his heels. Talking with Joyner herself was impressive. Adding Mrs. Reynolds to the conversation was almost too much for the young man. He began in a halting voice, intimidated by the positions of the two powerful women at the other end of the phone. "You told me to report any major developments directly to you."

  "Absolutely. I want to know."

  He gulped hard. "I've got the worst possible news."

  "Suslov's getting ready to make another sale."

  "That's how it looks."

  He explained that he had learned about Suslov's trip to Volgograd without mentioning Irina as the source of the information. Then he described his visit to the warehouse with Perikov. "Looking at all those weapons and imagining what they can do is mind numbing. I'm planning to write up a detailed report on what we saw. I'm afraid it won't do the scene justice. I'll also send along photographs to you in the diplomatic pouch. But I figured you wouldn't want to wait."

  "You were exactly right. What makes you think Suslov is planning to make a sale of some of the weapons in this warehouse?" Joyner said.

  "He's following the same MO he did in the other two transactions. First he gets rid of all the soldiers regularly on guard with hefty bribes. My guess is that within a week he'll be moving arms out of this Volgograd location."

  Joyner's mind was racing to come up with a plan to deal with the situation. "I need you to stay in Moscow and keep tabs on Suslov. Can you send one of our people down to Volgograd to watch that place around the clock?"

  "Even better. Perikov agreed to send somebody. Whoever he sends won't stand out. He'll let me know when he hears something."

  "Good. If anything starts moving from that location, I want to know immediately. You have all my numbers. I'll wire it on this end so President Kendall will immediately call the Russian president once we catch Suslov in the act. You okay with all of that?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And watch your step with Irina, Michael."

  "Yes, ma'am. I will."

  When Joyner hung up the phone, she looked at Reynolds. "I wonder who Suslov's customer is this time."

  The vice president thought about it. "I hope it's not A1 Qaeda or another terrorist organization." Her eyes closed as she thought about that scenario. "The kind of damage they could do is too awful to contemplate."

  "Regardless, you and I need time with Kendall to tell him what's going on in Moscow."

  "It'll be tough. He's consumed by McCallister and the crisis with Turkey. There are only five more days left on our ten-day ultimatum. Kendall's stupidly painted himself into a corner. He says he'll do something when the ten days are up, but at this point, my guess is that he doesn't have the vaguest idea of what he wants to do."

  Joyner wasn't deterred. "I don't care. This is more important than the life of one pilot. It's no exaggeration to say that millions of lives are at stake. If you're right that a terrorist organization is Suslov's customer, those nuclear weapons could be used against the United States. I'll find a way to get in and see Kendall. You want to come?"

  Thoughtfully, Reynolds leaned her head on her hand and pondered the issue. "My presence might be a liability. You're better to do this meeting without me. I can tell that Kendall resents me, and I don't want him to think there's a cabal of women in his administration. Besides, Michael Hanley is your project, and you're not looking for a decision. It's just informational. You don't want Kendall to go to the Russian president yet. Do you?"

  Joyner shook her head. "We have to catch Suslov red-handed before Kendall can call Drozny. That means we have to wait for Suslov to fall into the trap and start moving those arms."

  Joyner's mind was focusing on another troubling scenario. "Suppose we get evidence that Suslov's moving the arms and Drozny won't act? Would Kendall be willing to send in American troops to block the operation?"

  "You mean American troops on Russian soil?"

  Joyner nodded.

  Mary Beth shook her head. "It would be the right thing to do, but we'll have an uphill battle with Kendall on that one."

  * * *

  Everything had suddenly gotten more complicated, Moshe concluded. He sat at his desk and studied the bizarre message he had received from a Mossad agent in eastern Turkey.

  "Major General Nadim of Syria was in Van a couple of days ago meeting with General Kemal. Reliable sources report that Nadim was trying to enlist Kemal's support for a project with Syria that somehow involves the downed American pilot, Robert McCallister."

  The spy hadn't learned any of the details. Even this cryptic message was enough to alarm Moshe. If Syria was collaborating on something with Kemal, anything, it had to have an adverse impact on Israel. Robert McCallister's fate was no longer solely an American issue.

  * * *

  Jack took a cab to No. 65 Avenue de Messine in the eighth arrondissement. It was a gray stone five-story structure, built to last for ages. Jack had bought the entire fourth floor with a personal loan from Moshe when he started his wine business.

  By making this visit, Jack realized he was taking a chance, but he had to know how serious Moreau was. The risk was manageable, he decided. The uncertainty unacceptable.

  Jack knew there was no point trying to avoid George, who somehow observed every single person who entered and left the building.

  Inside the front entrance, Jack paused to knock on George's door. It was unnecessary. The old gray-haired man had spotted him on the street.

  "Aha. You're back… I'm so sorry." George sounded ashamed, even shattered. "Maybe I was wrong to give them the key, but I thought they'd only break the lock, and—"

  Jack raised his hand to cut George off. "Whoa... what happened?"

  "Daniel Moreau from the SDECE came with two others. Real bastards, all of them."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Not a thing." George looked irate. "They weren't going to intimidate me. I hate those people. They're no different from their fathers who participated in the Vichy government. When the war was over, they all pretended they had been in the resistance."

  One reason Jack liked living in France was because there were lots of decent people like George, free spirits who resented authority and treasured their independence. "What happened then?" Jack asked.

  "Moreau and one of his men went into your apartment."

  "Did he have a court order to search it?"

  "Of course not, but he was going in one way or the other." George looked down at his feet. "I could have called the police, but they always defer to those people."

  Jack gave him the reassurance he was looking for. "You did the right thing. Did you go upstairs with Moreau?"

  "They kept me down here. They were up there about an hour. Moreau had a briefcase. I couldn't tell if he took stuff away with him. After they left I went up there." He paused and let out his breath in a whistling sound. "They made a mess... a huge mess."


  "Thanks for telling me," Jack said as he reached into his pocket. "Can I offer you something for your trouble?"

  George shook his head. "Keep your money. I do what I do because I want to. I didn't like this man Moreau. He's a devil. As far as I know, you never came back to Paris."

  Jack didn't take the lift. He climbed the stairs slowly, thinking about his conversation with George. Daniel Moreau was closing in on him. He'd have to be careful.

  A blind fury gripped Jack when he opened the door and looked around. George's expression, They made a mess, was one of the great understatements of all time for the destruction that he saw.

  "Merde!" Jack cried out.

  His blood was boiling as he walked into the apartment in the back. While Jack was exploding with rage, one fact mollified him: Moreau hadn't found any useful evidence. He couldn't have. Jack had been meticulous to avoid leaving anything behind. Once Moreau realized it wasn't here, the Frenchman had become vindictive. Jack realized that all of this had been in frustration at Moreau's failure to find anything.

  Jack returned to the office and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that faced Avenue de Messine below with its honking horns and heavy traffic. It had started to rain, a light spring shower. As Jack watched pedestrians scrambling for cover, he considered his options.

  He realized now that his situation in Paris was more precarious than he had imagined. Moreau was on a vendetta.

  If Moreau ever caught him, Jack would wind up in a harsh French jail for a very long time. Whether Moreau had a case or not would be immaterial. Espionage would be the charge. There would be no way for Jack to escape, no way to get a public trial.

  One choice was to get the hell out of France immediately. That was tempting. The Israeli government would never extradite him. On the other hand, what he was doing with Avi was vital for the country, and he was the one who had the entree to Nadim. The whole McCallister business was on a short time fuse. That much was clear. Quite apart from Daniel Moreau, he and Avi were racing against the clock to find out what Nadim had planned before he succeeded or before the Americans began a military operation. Either way, it would all be over in a couple of days.

  Jack decided to tough it out and hope Moreau didn't find him. What he had going for him was that Paris was a huge city. Also the SDECE didn't like to involve the police. They did their own thing. He'd have to take his chances.

  On the other hand, he couldn't be foolish either. Before the Khalifa operation, Moshe had given him the name of a man to see in Paris if he needed to make a hasty exit from the country. Denis was an artist working in the French motion picture industry who could change a person's appearance and give him a new passport to match in a couple of hours. That was what he needed right now.

  Chapter 17

  Major General Nadim sat at his desk in the Syrian embassy in Paris and agonized. He should have been in a good mood. Half an hour ago the photographs of Lieutenant McCallister holding a copy of the Herald Tribune had arrived in the diplomatic pouch from Damascus in a sealed brown envelope marked personal and confidential—to be opened only by major general Nadim.

  The pictures were clear. No one could challenge their authenticity. No one could reject the assertion that Nadim's government had possession of Lt. Robert McCallister and that the American pilot was healthy enough to be the pawn in the scheme Nadim had developed.

  Nadim moved the photos around on the polished wooden surface, trying to decide which ones to use. He finally concluded that it didn't matter. They were all equally good.

  No, the pictures of the American pilot weren't troubling Nadim. It was the contents of the second brown envelope in the pouch that was also to be opened only by Nadim. Inside was a report of the incident at the Abu Cafe involving Yasef, Hussein, and the mysterious Italians.

  A photograph of one of the men was included, taken at the Damascus airport on his entry into the country. The other one was too blurry to be of any use. "Crappy Russian technology," Nadim cursed. Now that the Russians aren't our great benefactor any longer, we should get all of their products out of the country.

  Nadim studied the picture of the one so-called Italian. He had thin hair and a broken nose. Nadim felt as if he had seen the man sometime in the past, but he couldn't place the face. That troubled Nadim. When he was younger, he never failed to match a face and a name. Growing older was a curse. Even his sexual prowess was declining, he had to admit, but only to himself. At least that could be overcome with the new wonder drugs, but he wasn't ready for them. Still, it was good they would be there when they needed them. If you couldn't fuck, what was the point of living? For Nadim, there was one other point to life: at long last, to get even with the Israelis for the 1967 and 1973 wars.

  Nadim looked through the rest of the items in the envelope: a copy of the demand by the Syrian government's foreign office to Rome for the immediate arrest and extradition of Angelli Tire Company executives named Mario Leonardo and Paulo Pentair. There was a response by the Italian foreign minister: We have discussed the matter with the Angelli Tire Company. They have informed us that they don't have employees with those names.

  So the men's passports and other identifying papers were false. Nadim wasn't surprised. It had all been done in a very sophisticated way. Even the items left in the men's hotel rooms had been carefully selected to be consistent with the story. An Italian novel. Articles from economic journals about the tire business. A brochure for the next year's season at La Scala.

  There were only two intelligence agencies capable of doing that, which might have the inclination: the CIA and the Mossad. Nadim found one possibility more ominous than the other.

  He had to assume that the timing wasn't coincidental.

  Whoever had sent the men pretending to be the two Italians knew or suspected that Robert McCallister was in Syria. They had sent the phony Italians to find out where McCallister was in order to plan a rescue, or to find out what Nadim intended to do with the pilot.

  All of that worried Nadim. What was good, however, was that the phony Italians had undoubtedly failed. Nadim was confident that Yasef didn't have either item of information. If Hussein had not followed the phony Italians and paid for it with his life, Yasef might have been able to obtain what they wanted. But Yasef was dead. From the statement of the guards along the Jordanian border, at least one of the phony Italians had crossed into Jordan. The other one could have been hiding in the car. Those guards were so incompetent. Even if the other one was still in Syria, the most he could do was find out where the pilot was being held. No one in Syria, even Ahmed, knew what Nadim had in mind for the pilot.

  None of this should foil his plan, Nadim decided. He would view it as a good warning. He would have to be even more vigilant.

  The intercom buzzed. "Your visitor is here," Nadim's secretary announced.

  "Show him in."

  Ali Hashim didn't simply walk into a room. The Iranian intelligence chief acted as if he owned the office and everyone inside, including Nadim. It wasn't merely that he was a large, powerfully built man with a bald head and a thick, bushy brown beard. It was how he carried himself. Notwithstanding his country's rule by clerics, Ali Hashim managed to find the money to shop at Turnball and Asser on Jermyn Street in London.

  Nadim found the man's haughty arrogance unbearable, reflecting his country's view of itself in the region. Today Nadim had to endure it. What made it tolerable was his confidence that Hashim didn't like Nadim any more than Nadim liked the Iranian. Still, when Nadim had reached Hashim on the telephone in London, where he was conducting other business, and said, "I want to meet you about a matter of mutual benefit," the Iranian had agreed to stop in Paris on his way back to Tehran.

  "Your words were enticing," Hashim said as he sat down on a chair facing Nadim. "What could you offer me that would be of mutual benefit?"

  The implication to Nadim was infuriating. It was as if Hashim were dealing with an insect. What could a lowly Syrian offer one of Allah'
s select? Nadim stiffened. His eyes bore in on Hashim. "What do you most want from the Americans right now?"

  Now the Iranian's eyes blazed with interest. Nadim knew that he had Hashim's attention. He should have suppressed the smile that was breaking out on his face, but he decided not to.

  "Access to their advanced technology," Hashim responded immediately. "They've blocked us from obtaining their electronic and computer technology by a presidential order. Also other high-tech items. If we had those, we could modernize our economy. We have the money from oil. If we had the technology, we could become a real player in the global economy. Israel wouldn't be the only economic power at the crossroads between East and West." Hashim narrowed his eyes. "But why do you ask me this?" His tone was suspicious.

  "Suppose that the American pilot shot down over Turkey were the son of an important—"

  Hashim interrupted him. "I know he's Robert McCallister, and who his father is." Hashim detected the surprise on Nadim's face, and he sneered. "You think that you're the only one who does good intelligence work?"

  Nadim didn't want to endanger his plan by goading Hashim. He tried to retreat gracefully. "I didn't mean that. I simply wasn't aware that you knew."

  "Well, anyhow, you were saying?"

  "Suppose that you were able to get possession of Robert McCallister, and you could turn him over to the Americans. Would that permit you to obtain the technology you want?"

  Hashim scoffed and shook his head. "Kendall would never submit to blackmail like that."

  Nadim shifted in his chair. "Not blackmail. It would be a goodwill gesture on the part of your government. You would say that you obtained the pilot to help the Americans and defuse the situation. They're seeking a thaw in relations with your government. This would be a good way to begin. It could be subtly orchestrated so that you would obtain certain technology, but it would never be viewed as blackmail. There are ways of doing these things with Washington. You know that."

  Intrigued by Nadim's words, Hashim wrinkled his broad forehead, thinking. "You don't need me. Let the Turks do this themselves."