by Allan Topol
"The Turkish government's not involved. Kemal was flying solo."
The comment evoked a smile from Hashim. "Why doesn't your government do the deal itself?" the Iranian asked suspiciously.
"Two reasons. First, the Americans don't respect us. They view us as a peanut of a country. Also, Washington's close relationship with the Israelis precludes them from doing anything that involves us without Israeli approval. You're different."
That made sense to Hashim. He nodded. "And the second reason?"
"You have money. To pull off my plan will take lots of it. Kemal obviously can't come up with it, and my government doesn't have that kind of hard, cold foreign currency."
Hashim looked distrustful. "If your plan's that good, let your president borrow it. There are plenty of people who would be willing to finance an operation like this. Yet you come running to me when you need money."
Nadim felt as if he had been slapped in the face. Hashim always made him feel like a poor relation. Did he dare trust his life to the Iranian? He decided that the benefits justified the risk. If he succeeded, the rewards would be great. "President Ahmed doesn't know," he said softly.
Hashim gave a wry smile and tapped his finger on the side of the chair. "Well, well. So you have personal ambitions."
"Don't we all?"
"You're living on the edge."
Nadim knew the Iranian was right. He tried lamely to smile. "Life in both of our countries is constantly on the edge. You and I could find ourselves in jail or worse at any time with no warning." Hashim nodded. "But if you convince your government to accept my plan," Nadim continued, "you will be a hero. You will be the one who obtained the American technology and other benefits."
Hashim raised his hand and pointed a thick finger at Nadim. "Only if it succeeds."
"Agreed. But it will succeed."
"Tell me what you have in mind. I'll decide for myself about the chances for success."
For the next twenty minutes, Nadim laid out his proposal in detail. Hashim's only reaction was a snort and two grunts. At the end, Nadim said, "Well, what do you think?" He was holding his breath.
"I don't like it," Hashim said coldly.
"Why not?"
"My government will refuse to pay money to you and to Kemal."
Nadim decided to try a different tack.
"That's a small part of the operation. If the plan succeeds, you will not only be receiving American technology, but we will be striking a mighty blow at Israel."
Hashim rose to leave. "Do it without us."
"But I want you to enjoy the fruits of this effort."
Hashim gave him a haughty smile. "I have a keen sense of the geography involved in the plan. Iran's participation is critical."
Nadim was trying to decide if the Iranian was merely bargaining in the manner of the souk, seeking to make the best deal he could, or whether he was really opposed to the concept. "We could come up with another alternative."
"With great difficulty... perhaps." Hashim said it in the arrogant manner of someone who knew he held a key card.
"At least take it back to your foreign minister in Tehran," Nadim said. "With what's at stake, let him decide."
"He'll laugh at me. I don't even have any proof that you hold the American pilot."
Nadim reached into one of the brown envelopes on his desk and removed a photograph of Robert McCallister. "Take it," he said. "That's your proof."
Hashim snatched the photograph from Nadim, studied it for a moment, then handed it back. "I can't risk being caught with this now. It would mean a death warrant for me." Hashim paused. "In the unlikely event the foreign minister is interested, I will need the photograph before we go to our president with your plan."
Nadim was worried that the Americans might find out where the pilot was and undertake some military action to rescue him before he could implement his plan. If that happened, it would all go up in smoke. "We don't have much time," Nadim said anxiously.
Hashim smiled. "I won't be rushed."
"Fine. I'll give you the photograph the next time we meet about this. Call me when you're ready. I'll be there. Any time or place."
Hashim was walking toward the door. "I doubt very much there will be any more meetings on this subject. The foreign minister will throw me out of his office before I complete my presentation."
Nadim didn't respond. Inside he was thrilled. He was confident that he had hooked his fish. He attributed Hashim's negative words to his unwillingness to sound positive about something his government might not accept. Hashim would lose face with Nadim if that happened. And then there were the terms. If the Iranians agreed in principle, those rug merchants would insist on at least one round of haggling.
When Hashim left, Nadim told his secretary, "No interruptions," and he closed the door to his office. Time was short. He had to assume Hashim would bring his government around. The political benefits were too great for them, the costs too small in comparison. Nadim's plan was brilliant. Now he had to turn his attention to the next steps. Everything had to be plotted carefully. He began making notes on a pad. Later he would burn the page.
As he scribbled, he heard a gentle tapping on the door. "I told you no interruptions," he barked to his secretary.
She hesitated, trying to guess which way she would be more severely criticized—for disturbing him or for failing to alert him about the messenger. Knowing how deeply passionate he was about food and wine, she decided that the better course was to risk his wrath with the interruption. She opened the door a crack.
"A messenger's here from Chateau Latour," the cowering secretary said. "He has a note, and he needs an immediate reply."
At the name of the famous Bordeaux chateau, Nadim covered up the photographs with the morning Le Monde and held out his hand. The secretary breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had made the right decision.
Nadim ripped open the envelope and read the handwritten note. We regret that through an oversight you were not invited to the vertical tasting of Chateau Latour this evening at 20:00 hours at L'Ambroise. You would do us honor by coming, and you may, of course, bring a guest.
It was signed, Hubert.
Under any other circumstances Nadim would have eagerly accepted, though he didn't believe for an instant that there had been an oversight. They must have had a last-minute cancellation. That didn't bother Nadim. What did concern him was that he was so engrossed in planning the operation with the American pilot. Could he afford to take an evening off? Wanting to attend because it was a plum of an invitation, Nadim rationalized: Once he made his initial calls for the next moves about the pilot, there was little else he could do today.
Another thought popped into his mind: Layla. She was so heavily involved in buying, selling, and financing Bordeaux properties that she was now well connected in the area. There were rumors that Chateau Latour was considering a major expansion, and her bank was on the short list of possible lenders. With all of that, there was a good chance she might be there at the tasting. Her presence opened up new possibilities. That made the decision for Nadim.
He scribbled a note: I'll be pleased to come with a guest.
Then he handed it to his secretary. "Give this to the messenger."
When she was gone, Nadim moved aside the newspaper and glanced down at the photos of the American pilot again. He knew what the next step was for his plan. He picked up the phone to make the first call.
Chapter 18
The cab turned right and entered the Place de Vosges, in one of the oldest sections of Paris, close to the Bastille. The trouble with Paris traffic, Jack thought in the backseat, is that it's totally unpredictable. Generally, getting down here was a nightmare. This evening they zipped right along.
Jack, who wanted to arrive precisely at eight, found himself exiting the cab a full twenty minutes early. He strolled on the cobblestones around the Place de Vosges, with the grassy Louis XIII square in the center, to pass the time. He stopped in front of the still state
ly building that had been Victor Hugo's house. Jack wondered what the aristocratic writer would think of his Les Miserables becoming culture for the masses.
He cut through the grassy plot in the center. It was a warm and pleasant spring evening. Flowers were in bloom around the fountain. A young man and woman were locked in a passionate embrace on a park bench. Jack was envious. It was springtime in Paris, and what was he doing? Spending one more of an ever declining number of available springtimes chasing killers and terrorists. One thing was different this time, Jack realized. With Daniel Moreau now pursuing him, this would be the last spring he spent in Paris, regardless of what happened with Nadim. There would be killers and terrorists to chase in other places, including Israel, but Jack decided as he glanced back at the young couple kissing that he wouldn't be doing it any longer. This would be it for him. He wasn't Moshe, in the game for a life sentence. He didn't know what he'd do, but the young lovers made up his mind. When this was over, he was finished.
Jack thought about Daniel Moreau. He knew that it was risky coming to a gathering like this. Moreau could have mentioned to one of the other guests that he was looking for Jack Cole, but he had to take the chance. He had to find a way to get to Nadim, to find out what the Syrian was planning.
On the other hand, he doubted if Moreau would recognize him. Denis had done a superb job of remaking Jack's appearance. The dark black toupee, the black contacts behind wire-framed glasses, and the thin mustache would have been enough, but he had shown Jack how to use makeup to soften his nose and eradicate the lines under his eyes. He had also forged a perfect French passport for Jack in the name of Henri Devereaux. Jack would have dearly loved to use the Henri Devereaux name this evening, but that wasn't an option. Hubert had invited Jack Cole because he was in the wine business, and that was the hook to get Nadim.
Jack returned to 9 Place de Vosges. The restaurant, L'Ambroise, was housed in a magnificent and tastefully renovated old stone structure with high ceilings and dim lights. Monsieur Pierre, the sommelier, couldn't believe that he was really Jack Cole. "What have you done to yourself, my friend?"
"I went off to a place in Switzerland for a little touch-up, trying to look younger and more attractive."
Pierre had laughed. "You Americans are all insane about your appearance." As he looked around, Jack saw that the Latour tasting had taken over the entire restaurant. In the first of the three rooms, waiters were passing Dom Perignon on trays as an aperitif for the reception that preceded the serious dinner and tasting set up in the two farther dining rooms.
Being early, Jack, with a glass of champagne, drifted around the two other dining rooms. At the several tables in both rooms, about sixty places were set. Each had eight Bordeaux glasses. Trying to be unobtrusive, Jack checked the name cards at each place.
Hubert had seated Jack on one side of a round table of ten in the first of the two rooms. Major General Nadim and "Guest of Major General" were seated on the other side of the table, too far away for casual conversation during dinner. So I'd better get to know him during the reception, Jack decided. Then maybe I can arrange to meet him tomorrow to discuss wine.
The room for the reception was filling up. Jack looked around. No sign of Nadim.
Anxiously Jack watched the front door while he half listened to someone else in the wine export business who was rattling on about the wines of the last couple of years. The next time the door opened, in walked a large-busted blond woman wearing a low-cut magenta dress, whose appearance cried out "bimbo." Jack recognized her from one of the police shows on prime-time television in France. Behind her in his brown military uniform came Nadim.
The picture in the folder Avi had given him didn't do Nadim justice, Jack decided. The Syrian looked suave, sophisticated, and worldly. There was no question that he belonged in this room, at this elaborate evening. Yet there was something about the face of the debonair figure with slicked-down coal-black hair, parted in the center, and a precisely trimmed mustache that told Jack it wasn't surprising that Nadim was known as the Butcher of Beirut.
Jack waited until Nadim and his actress friend had a glass of champagne in their hands to approach him. The two of them were standing alone. Trying to appear nonchalant, Jack walked up and said to Nadim, "Hello. I'm a wine dealer from New York."
Taking the measure of this brash American whom he had never met before, Nadim shot Jack a piercing look that cut through him. Always a believer in his ability to judge people by snap first impressions, Nadim quickly decided that Jack wasn't worth talking to. He gave Jack a supercilious smile, then said in an arrogant tone, "Well, isn't that nice. Marie is interested in New York. She wants to be a Broadway actress. Why don't you tell her about it?" With that, Nadim turned and stalked away, leaving Jack with the actress.
For now, Jack was willing to live with that. After all, one way of moving in on Nadim was by getting close to the woman he was with. So Jack said, "I've enjoyed your show on television."
She didn't bother to respond. Jack doubted if she had even heard what he had said. She had her eyes on Nadim, who was making a beeline for a chic-looking woman dressed in a smart gray Valentino suit, which she might have worn to the office that day. She exuded confidence as well as elegance. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older, Jack thought. She reminded him of an investment banker Sam had introduced him to in London last year in the hope she might be a suitable marriage partner for Jack. After two dates, they concluded that they had absolutely nothing in common and Sam must have been "daft," as she had put it, to think this would ever work.
The woman in the gray suit wasn't drop-dead beautiful, Jack decided. But she carried herself with a patent sensuality that made him enjoy looking at her. She repeatedly pushed back her long brown hair from her eyes as Nadim approached her. She was engaged in an animated conversation, gesticulating with her hands, with a man whom Jack recognized as the finance minister in the French government.
Nadim approached the two of them. For a few moments they all spoke together. Then the Frenchman drifted away. Left alone with the woman, Nadim dropped his hand down and gently placed it on her derriere. She swatted it away as if she were dealing with a mosquito, shot him an irritated look, and then stalked away. He tried to stop her by grabbing onto her arm below the elbow, but she was too fast for him. "Keep your fucking hands off me," she spat through clenched teeth. Nadim made no effort to follow her.
Jack turned back to Marie, who had been watching the scene unfold with Nadim, as Jack had. "I don't think she likes your friend," Jack said, trying to find some common ground with the actress.
"Do you know who the bitch is?" Marie asked Jack, while pointing to the woman in the gray suit.
"Never saw her before."
"Well, what do you have to do with Broadway?" she asked.
Jack took a deep breath. "I have some very good friends who produce top shows." He thought he told the he well, but it was clear from her face that it was a story she had heard too often.
"What you mean to say is that you'd like to get into my pants now, and later you'll try to find someone you know in the theater. You American men are all the same. Interested in one thing." She accompanied her words with a smile to show she wasn't angry, just amused.
Jack looked at her hopefully. "You can't blame a guy for trying. Your friend in the military uniform seemed otherwise occupied."
Her smile disappeared, replaced by a hard, cold stare. "Sorry, you're not my type."
"How can you tell that?"
"I have to pee. Since I'm a lady, I'll add, 'Please excuse me.'"
With that, Marie headed toward the toilet in the front of the restaurant.
Jack decided that he should make another approach to Nadim before the reception ended. When he looked around the room, he couldn't see the Syrian.
Jack glanced into the next room. Acting casually, Nadim was picking up the place card that said "Guest of Major General" in the second room and moving it to a table in the third room. He returne
d with a different place card, which he set down next to him when he didn't think anyone was looking. Jack's guess was that had to be for the woman in the gray Valentino suit. Jesus, Jack thought. This guy's a piece of work. It's a good thing I'm finished in Paris. I'll never be invited to one of these dinners again.
Jack waited until Nadim reentered the reception room to approach the Syrian. This time he held out his hand. "Hello. I don't think we've met before. I'm Jack Cole from New York."
That didn't change Nadim's initial impression that Jack wasn't worth talking to. This time Nadim stared coolly into Jack's eyes. "Yes," he simply replied. Then he walked away in the direction of a French general, the only other guest in a military uniform.
Moments later, Hubert announced what the procedure would be for the evening. "With the first course, a foie gras en croute, we'll be tasting the best eight vintages of Latour from the 1980s. With the second course, rack of lamb, we'll have the best eight Latours from the 1970s. And with the cheese, six Latour wines from the 1960s, as well as the legendary 1959 and 1949."
This announcement produced a subtle "ah" of appreciation.
"And now the waiters will direct you to your assigned seats."
As Jack moved toward his table, he was anxious to see what happened next with Nadim and the two women. This was playing out like a French farce on the stage. If it weren't so serious with Nadim, it might be funny.
Before the woman in the gray suit moved out of the reception room, her cell phone rang. She went off into a corner to take the call. As she did, Nadim led the actress into the third room and deposited her at the new place he had arranged. She was pouting when he left her there, but he acted as if he didn't care.
A moment later the woman in the gray suit finished her call and put the phone away. By then everyone was on their feet for a toast to the president of France. She glanced around both rooms and saw only one open place, next to Nadim. Scowling and looking annoyed, she moved in that direction.