Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  "Seriously, though, Moshe. Thanks for the information. Let me know if any other birdies fly into your office."

  Joyner hung up the phone and called Mary Beth Reynolds on her cell phone. The vice president was in a car on Pennsylvania Avenue. "We have to talk," Joyner said.

  "How about my office up on the Hill in thirty minutes? I may be a little late if I have to vote to break a tie on the health-care bill."

  "Doesn't matter. I'll wait."

  The vice president had an office on the Senate side of the capitol. That was where Joyner found Reynolds when she arrived.

  "No vote," the vice president said. "The Democrats are playing parliamentary games. So what else is new? But none of that's important. I gather from your voice that something's happened."

  Joyner told her about Moshe's call. "What do we do now?" she asked Reynolds at the end.

  "We go over and tell Kendall."

  "He'll bust a gut because I'm working with the Israelis."

  Reynolds was never one to shy away from a battle. "It's the right thing to do... for the good of the country. We'll give Kendall the info. He can do what he wants with it."

  "He might ask for my resignation."

  Reynolds looked over at Joyner, shifting in her chair to find a more comfortable position. "At this point, do you care?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Good. I'll call and tell him we're coming."

  As Reynolds picked up the phone, Joyner said, "Tell him we want to meet with him alone. I've had enough of Jimmy Grange for one lifetime."

  "Amen."

  * * *

  Joyner got her wish. Kendall was the only one in the Oval Office when she arrived with the vice president.

  "I'm making the Japanese prime minister wait so I can meet with you," Kendall said, not bothering to conceal the animosity he felt for his vice president. "You said it was urgent."

  "It is," Reynolds replied in a firm voice, refusing to be intimidated. She looked at Joyner. "Tell him what you learned."

  The back spasms returned. Joyner stood up and walked around, holding her back as she prepared to speak.

  "Can't you see a doctor and take care of that?" Kendall said testily. "It's driving me crazy."

  "What do you think it's doing to me?" she fired back, then returned to the issue at hand. "The director general of the Mossad called today. The Israelis have learned that Robert McCallister has been moved from Turkey to Syria."

  She watched Kendall's face turn bright red as he digested her words. The veins were throbbing in his neck. I hope to hell he took his blood-pressure medicine this morning, Joyner thought.

  "Dammit, Margaret," he said pounding his fist on the desk. "I told you several times to keep them out of it."

  Joyner moved in close to Kendall with her hands on her hips. "I didn't involve them," she said emphatically. "I have no idea how they got the information. I thought you should know about it. If you want me to resign, that's okay with me. I gave you an undated letter when you appointed me. Add today's date and release it to the press. I promise you I'll go quietly without making any statements. I'll say I want to pursue other interests. It's your choice."

  The last thing Kendall needed right now was a media circus concerning Joyner's resignation. He may have wanted it, but it wasn't an option. "They're wrong," he said with conviction.

  "Who's wrong?"

  "The Israelis."

  "How do you know that?" Mary Beth asked.

  "General Childress received a report from the DIA earlier today. The Turks are holding Lieutenant McCallister in an underground bunker beneath a hospital in Van. I've personally told their ambassador that if they don't turn him over to us in the next three days, when the ultimatum expires, I intend to suspend all aid to Turkey and give the order for a limited bombing of one Turkish air base. At that point, General Childress will put a special-operations unit on the ground to go in and get him out. Childress and Chip haven't exactly been sitting on their hands for the past few days."

  "What's the source of the DIA information?"

  Kendall had no idea. He was annoyed by the question. "What makes you think the Israelis are always right?"

  Joyner began walking around the office again with her hands on her lower back. "They're not," she said, "but it's their neighborhood. We have to consider what they tell us."

  "I'm considering it, but rejecting it," Kendall snapped. His voice had a hard edge and the ring of finality.

  * * *

  The prison in Marseilles was one big cesspool. Daniel Moreau was confident that after two days in the hole, and the threat that he might spend the rest of his life there, Edouard Laval would be ready to tell Moreau everything he knew.

  Waiting for them to bring the prisoner, Moreau reread the file. Laval was a petty thief who had three prior arrests. Trained as an auto mechanic, he had turned to crime in order to support his wife and two children when he was fired for stealing a car phone. All three of his priors were for stealing cars. He was part of a gang that snatched them from the streets in the Marseilles area, then drove them through Spain into Morocco, where they were stripped down for parts or sold on the black market.

  In total, Laval had spent a year and a half in jail. Not long enough for what he had done, Moreau decided, but sufficient time to know that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life that way.

  Moreau had kept in close touch with the Marseilles police ever since the Khalifa murder. Once he heard they had arrested Laval, he dropped everything and flew down from Paris.

  Moreau was surprised when they brought in Laval. He had been expecting a big, strapping auto mechanic who resembled a football player. Instead he saw a thin, waiflike, terrified creature shuffling into the room in handcuffs. Laval was only twenty-eight, but already his light brown hair barely covered his head. His face was pockmarked. Generally, he looked so terrible that Moreau thought his picture could appear on posters that read, Crime doesn't pay.

  The two armed guards accompanying Laval roughly pushed him into a battered wooden chair, then moved to the side of the room, where they could watch him without being in the way.

  Moreau saw no point playing games with this punk. "For murder you spend the rest of your life in jail. You know that."

  Laval tried to show a false bravado. "I didn't murder nobody."

  "The police have the evidence. The records that you bought the explosives that blew up Khalifa's car when he started the engine." Moreau shook his head in disbelief. "Not too smart on your part, eh?"

  Laval didn't respond. He looked down at his hands. Shit, he had really done it this time. He'd never see his wife and kids again. Never be able to spend all that money the stranger had paid him that was in a locker at the train station.

  "And that's not all," Moreau added. "The police found the key to the locker in your apartment. They've got the money. All ten thousand Euros."

  Jesus, how'd they get that? Only Clara knew where it was. The wench must have blabbed to the cops.

  "So if you have all of that," Laval said, "what do you want with me?"

  "I want information."

  Laval was watching him closely. "Are you a cop?"

  "I'm working with the police."

  "What's in it for me?"

  "You tell me what I want, and they'll agree to limit your jail time to two years."

  Laval smiled, showing badly discolored teeth and a couple of spaces in his mouth. At first the offer sounded good. Then he thought about it some more. "How do you know the judge will do what you say?"

  Moreau gave him a copy of an agreement a magistrate had signed. The local prosecutor had initially objected, but a call from the justice minister in Paris had settled the issue.

  Laval read the document slowly. Satisfied, he clutched the paper tightly in his hand. "What do you want to know?"

  Before responding, Moreau took a small cassette recorder out of his briefcase and put it on the table in front of Laval. He pressed a button. The sprockets began turning.r />
  "Who paid you to kill Khalifa?"

  "You mean the Arab terrorist?"

  Moreau hit the stop switch. "You don't know he was a terrorist."

  "Everybody in our part of town knew it. When he got drunk he bragged about how many Israeli civilians he had killed by arranging those suicide attacks. Here he was safe. He knew the French government would never send him to Israel."

  "I don't want to hear any more about that," Moreau said testily.

  "Yeah, then what?"

  Moreau rewound the tape to the beginning and hit the record button. "I want to know who paid you to kill Khalifa."

  Laval didn't like being a stool pigeon, but he had to save his own ass. "A guy came down from Paris."

  "What was his name?"

  Laval held out his hands, palms facing up. "He didn't tell me."

  "How did he hook up with you?"

  "He said he got my name from some guys at a bar. I don't know. He stopped me on the street when I was leaving my house one morning. So he knew where I lived."

  "What did he ask you to do?"

  Laval looked around nervously. In his world, stoolies had their tongues cut out. But the man who hired him wasn't from his world. "He wanted me to plant a bomb in Khalifa's car that would blow up when the Arab started the engine."

  "You did that. Didn't you?" Laval nodded. "Speak up," Moreau said sharply.

  "Yeah. I did it."

  "And the man paid you ten thousand Euros for the job. Didn't he?"

  "Yeah. Five before. Five after. And my expenses to buy the shit. You know. But I'm not a murderer."

  "That's what it sounds like to me."

  Laval pulled back. "Hey, this Arab was scum." He sounded proud of what he had done. "It's not like I was killing a decent guy."

  Moreau snarled. "I didn't realize that you were God. That you decided who lives and who dies."

  "Well, I'm not. I don't like the Jews, but killing people in a restaurant with suicide bombs. Man, that—"

  "I told you, I don't want to hear that. Stick to what you did, or you'll lose your deal."

  Laval squeezed his hand against the paper. "Okay. Okay. I got it. What else do you want to know?"

  Moreau reached into his briefcase and extracted a picture of Jack Cole, which he handed to Laval. "Is this the man who paid you to kill Khalifa?"

  Laval nodded. "He's the one."

  "You might have to testify against him in Paris in order to keep your deal."

  "Yeah," Laval said, and he nodded. "I guess I'll have to do whatever you want."

  Moreau was pleased. He not only had Jack Cole nailed for espionage in connection with Osirak, but for the murder of Khalifa. For the second crime, he now had a witness. Jack Cole would rot in a prison like this for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 21

  Seated alone at a table at Guy Savoy, Jack felt as if everyone were staring at him. She changed her mind. I'm being stood up.

  He looked around the small room, one of three with only six tables each, that made up the restaurant. Modern paintings hung on the walls of what was otherwise an austere white interior.

  Suddenly he heard a commotion at the front door, followed by the maitre d's words, "Ah, Mademoiselle Gemayel. So good to see you again."

  As she approached, Jack felt an excitement, surging through his body. Layla was radiant. She looked stunning in a sea-foam-green chiffon dress from Valentino with spaghetti straps. A matching scarf trailed over her shoulders. She wasn't wearing a bra. She looked as if she had just gotten her hair done. Again she brought with her the scent of Joy.

  He stood up and kissed her on each cheek.

  In response she touched his shoulder affectionately and winked at him. "No handshake?"

  "I'm a fast learner."

  "Sorry I was late. Traffic was impossible."

  And the hairstylist must have been running behind, he thought.

  A waiter came by. "Aperitif?" he asked.

  "Champagne," she replied.

  "The same for me."

  Jack decided to begin with business, which, after all, was supposed to be the point of the dinner. "I've never heard of your bank," he said, trying to sound like a potential borrower. "Is it a new one?"

  "Forty years ago it began as the Swiss branch of a Beirut bank. Now most of our operations are in Europe."

  "And what do you do there? I mean you personally."

  The glasses of champagne arrived. Jack raised his. "To making new friends." They clinked together.

  "The wine industry is one of my specialties," she said, "which is why I was at the Latour tasting. We finance all aspects of the industry." She gave him that warm, mysterious smile, while looking right at him. "So you would be in experienced hands if you decided to finance with us."

  He nodded. "That's what I was hoping to hear."

  "And what exactly does your company do?" she asked in a way that made him think she had some doubt about what he had told her last evening. Or contrary information from Nadim.

  Fortunately for Jack, at that moment Guy Savoy came out of the kitchen to greet Layla. She rose at the table as the gray-and-black-haired, bushy-bearded chef in his white apron kissed her on each cheek.

  The headwaiter then came with menus and a wine list.

  First they settled on the food. They were both starting with scallops with truffles cut into the center, followed by a cote de veau for two.

  The sommelier handed him the wine list. "No. No," Jack protested. "We pick together." He placed it in front of Layla.

  She opened up the thick booklet. "What do you think about white Burgundy?" she said. "Followed by red Bordeaux?"

  "Sounds great."

  As they both scanned the pages, she found a 1995 Batard Montrachet by Etienne Sauzet. Jack pointed to a 1985 Chateau L'Evangile. "Since the 'eighty-five was so good last evening. Fabulous," he said. She looked amused. "What's so funny?"

  "You are. You've got an exuberance about you. Like a kid."

  He shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with being enthusiastic."

  She touched his arm and rested her hand there for a minute. "I meant that as a compliment. Maybe it's because you're American. Frenchmen are more staid."

  "So when you're not eating here, where do you like to dine in Paris?" Jack asked, hoping to draw the conversation away from himself.

  She wasn't having any of it. "You're not interested in borrowing money from my bank, are you?"

  Jack had to drop the ploy. She was too intelligent to be fooled. "You're right, of course. I just wanted to see you again."

  She was amused. "You could have simply asked me out. No need to go through this phony loan story. I thought you were pleasant enough for an American. I would have accepted. Besides, I'm willing to try one evening that includes great food and wine with just about anybody."

  Jack thought he saw an opportunity. "Well, I noticed somebody else at the dinner last evening trying to get friendly with you, and—"

  "The one in the military uniform?"

  Jack nodded. A dark look of horror covered her face. "I don't want to talk about Nadim."

  "I'm sorry." He retreated quickly. "The truth is, I found you attractive. I'm going to be in France for a while, and I thought..."

  Their first courses arrived. Jack tasted the Batard Montrachet and nodded.

  "How long have you lived in Paris?" he asked.

  "Actually, I went to school at the Sorbonne for a few years. Then I got an MBA at Harvard."

  "When was that?"

  She gave him the mysterious smile and shook her head. "If I answered that question, you'd know how old I am. You're clever. I'll have to watch you."

  Was she being witty, or toying with him? "Okay, what happened after Harvard, which I assume was two years ago?"

  She laughed. "I went to Beirut to live."

  Jack feigned surprise. "Lebanon?"

  "That's where I was born. My family has deep roots in the country. I wanted to go back and help rebuild the economy. Aft
er two years I realized it was hopeless."

  "Why?" Jack asked, trying to sound like someone who knew very little about the situation in Lebanon.

  She paused to eat some food and sip the wine. "A good choice," she said to Jack, pointing to the glass.

  "Thanks. So why was it hopeless in Beirut?"

  "The Syrians wouldn't let it happen. They were determined to keep our country under their control. And the Israelis didn't help. The two of them decided to play their war games in our land. Actually, my uncle Bashir tried to make peace with the Israelis, which could have improved the situation in the region."

  "It cost him his life."

  She raised her eyebrows, making Jack sorry he had said it to show off his knowledge. He tried to recover. "We do have newspapers in the United States."

  "Touché. I was just surprised. Not many Americans have the vaguest idea of anything that's happened in Lebanon. For them it's just one of those Arab states over there. They don't realize that it was once the Switzerland of the Middle East, a great commercial center where Arabs from all over came to deposit their money, and a vacation playground. My country was a jewel in those days, an oasis in the turbulent Middle East, with incredible beauty at the crossroads between East and West. Not so long ago we had everything: mountains, the sea, entertainment and culture—even a political balance between Christians and Muslims, who existed in a partnership, and then..." She looked glum. "Egged on by the Syrians, the Muslims demanded more power, and they launched a civil war to get it."

  "Must have been a frightening place to live in those days."

  "It was." She paused to smooth down the tablecloth, while she remembered scenes from her daily life. "Going to the store for a bottle of milk meant putting your life at risk. You could get caught in a cross fire at any time."

  "So did the Syrians bring an end to the civil war?"

  "At the price of our freedom. I couldn't live that way. That's why I returned to Paris, where I proceeded to meet a French lawyer whom I married and divorced. I hate all lawyers. Scourge of humanity. If you were a lawyer, I wouldn't go out with you."

  Jack laughed.

  She anticipated his next question. "No children, and here lam."