Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

After Michael explained why he had been pursuing Suslov and what he had seen in Volgograd, the three of them sat in glum silence trying to imagine how dreadful it would be for Israel, the Middle East, and the world if the Syrians or one of their allies obtained nuclear weapons.

  "Perhaps Nadim came for some other reason," Eytan said hopefully.

  "It can't be for a chess match. Suslov doesn't play." Michael shook his head. "There's one foolish optimist in every crowd."

  "How can we find out for sure?" Shlomo asked.

  Michael hadn't seen Irina since they had gone to the inn together overnight. She was his only chance. "I'll do what I can," he said. "Meantime, let's wait and see where Nadim goes from here."

  * * *

  Jack got to the Bristol early. He went into the men's room, removed his toupee, glasses, contacts, and mustache, and placed them into his briefcase. He couldn't risk Sarah telling Sam how different he looked. His brother was smart. He might guess why Jack felt it necessary to assume a disguise. Then Jack returned to the lobby and waited. Ten minutes later he watched a sad-looking woman with puffy eyes come through the glass revolving doors. From his distance of twenty yards, he immediately recognized Sarah.

  After thirty years, the bright flower of spring had faded. Some men would have found her attractive, but Jack remembered something else.

  Her brown hair was streaked with gray. She still had a shapely figure, but instead of the explosive colors and tight-fitting clothes she had once worn to show it off, she was dressed in a nondescript wrinkled beige suit and practical pumps. In the old days had once refused to wear makeup, laughing at women who did. Today it was caked on her face.

  The sad-looking woman turned to a bellman inside the door and said, "I'm meeting someone." She spotted Jack moving forward and forced a smile.

  As long as he was having lunch with her, Jack had made up his mind to be polite. "You look just the same, Sarah."

  She gave a short, nervous laugh and touched his arm. "You can't mean that. Or you've lost your sight. But you're nice to say it."

  "I thought we'd eat here," Jack said, pointing to the luxurious wood-paneled dining room just off the lobby of the Bristol.

  "Wonderful. We always stay here in Paris. I like the dining room."

  We obviously meant she and Terry. Jack guessed that she didn't want to mention his name.

  When the waiter asked if they wanted an aperitif, Sarah said, "A scotch on the rocks would be nice." Jack settled for a glass of white wine.

  "To better days," she said, raising her glass.

  After they ordered lunch, she told him, "You're in the wine business, Jack. Pick something good for us."

  Jack selected a simple Mersault with the grilled turbot they were having.

  He let her lead the discussion. For a while she talked about Ann and Sam. "They're so good together," she said. "Right for each other. I couldn't hope for anything better."

  Then she moved to the usual "Let's catch up on our lives." She was tense and nervous as she began, gulping down the Mersault. "A wonderful wine," she said.

  "You obviously like it," he responded.

  She let that pass. "I spend a great deal of my time helping people as a volunteer. I'm the director of an organization that runs shelters for the homeless, and another one that dispenses food to the poor. I'm on the foundation board of a large public hospital. Nothing glitzy. No opera or symphony boards. I'm not an officer of the country club in Winnetka, though of course we belong and I've learned to play a decent game of golf."

  She was waiting for some words of approval from Jack. When they weren't forthcoming, she added, "Not much different from the old Sarah in the soup kitchen at Ann Arbor."

  He watched her picking at her food as she drank more and more wine. What was running through his mind was, How could I have been such an ass, remembering those golden days of our youth? Like the high school football hero, Sarah had peaked at eighteen. He could tell that she was desperate for him to like her. He realized that she had been unhappy long before Robert's plane was shot down.

  "What about you, Jack? Sam says you've built a good business."

  Jack laughed. "That's my brother. Always focused on the bottom line."

  "Well, you've had your dream of living in Israel. Has it turned out the way you wanted?"

  "I wouldn't live anywhere else, but the country and I grew up together. The dreams of the early days have given way to some harsh realities. It's a hard, tough life, and I don't just mean economically."

  "You mean the wars and the terrorist attacks?"

  He nodded. "That's part of it. Anytime you go to a restaurant or walk on the street, you know there's always the possibility of an attack by a suicide bomber. But even more than that, we're constantly under siege from the Palestinians and our neighbors one way or another."

  He thought about his discussion with Layla last evening. "The Syrians are the worst."

  "Are you married? Any children?"

  "I was married once for a short time. No children. Didn't work out," he said curtly. She wasn't entitled to an explanation.

  "Then I guess I sort of messed things up for both of us," she said.

  Looking at her, he thought, Only for you, my dear. Only for you. Instead of responding, he signaled the waiter to clear the dishes from their main course.

  "The past few days have been hell for me," she said, "since my Bobby's plane was shot down."

  "I truly feel sorry about that." Jack sounded sincere. He meant it.

  "Bobby reminds me of you in a lot of ways. He's a nice guy. Gets along with people. A good student. A real decent human being."

  She paused to wipe some tears from her eyes with a napkin. "My Bobby had dreams of going to medical school, but Terry insisted on his attending the Air Force Academy. Terry wants him to be president one day."

  "If that's what Bobby wants, I hope he gets it," Jack said, trying to sound as if her son had a future.

  "We've gone everywhere. Done everything. Been to the White House. Met with the president and his top advisers, both senators from Illinois, everyone. It's all so hopeless and frustrating." She began sobbing. Tears were running down her face, causing her mascara to run.

  Jack removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "I'm sorry. I'll pull together. I came to see you because the Israelis are good at this sort of thing."

  "You know I would do anything I could to help. The reality is that I'm not in the government, Sarah."

  "But you always had a good way with people. You could get them to do things."

  "I'm sure that the American government has asked the Israelis to help. That means more than my calling somebody I met once at a party."

  "He told the president not to involve the Israelis. I was there when he said it."

  The he was obviously Terry. Jack was thinking. The old anti-Semite couldn't stand the idea of Jews rescuing his son, but he didn't say that. Instead he replied, "With all due respect, Sarah, the American government will do whatever makes sense regardless of what a hostage's father says. No matter how important the person is."

  Jack's words put a ray of hope on her face. "Do you really think so?"

  He nodded. He decided to probe for information. "Surely the American military is planning a rescue operation?"

  She got a pained expression on her face. "They tried one somewhere in southeast Turkey, but they were too late. By the time they got to the jail where they were holding Bobby, the Turks had moved him. Terry said he's in the town of Van now in an underground bunker. They'll never get him out of there."

  Jack wondered whether Moshe had decided not to tell the Americans about Robert's present location, or whether Kendall and his people were keeping Terry in the dark. He wanted to say, Bobby's been moved to Syria. He's probably safe because they're planning to use him in some bigger deal. But he couldn't do that. He fiddled with a cuff link. If her information was current, then he and Avi were ahead of the Americans. H
e would have to report that to Moshe.

  She was staring at him before making another try. "You must be able to do something. You've lived in Israel so long. You have to know people who could help." The niceness was gone. In her desperation, fueled by alcohol, she sounded ugly.

  "Shh. Keep your voice down."

  She got herself under control. "I'm pleading with you to consider what you can do to help. That's all I'm asking."

  Jack looked away from her down at the table. "I'll do what I can, Sarah," he said softly. "I can't promise anything."

  She reached over to touch his hand, but he pulled away. "Please, that's all I ask."

  Jack stole a glance at his watch. It had been the longest hour he could ever remember. He would have preferred to get the check and wrap it up when the waiter came by. She ordered a cognac in lieu of dessert. Jack had a cappuccino.

  As long as he had to stay, Jack made up his mind to ask her the one question he had always wondered about. "How did the head of the New Left student association become a right-wing Republican?"

  "Ah, the great metamorphosis of Terry McCallister," she said bitterly. He nodded. "We were living in a commune near Big Sur, farming and smoking pot. Ann was four and Robert was two when Terry's father died. He hadn't spoken to his dad for years, though he'd stayed in touch with his mother, which was more than I did with mine," she said sadly. "So we came back to Chicago for the funeral. His father had a large real estate business, but his affairs were in shambles. The day after the funeral Terry and I went with his mother to the family lawyer's office, Edward M. Jones the Third. We were in dirty jeans and sandals—to prove a point, I guess. The kids were barefoot. What we found was a roomful of blue-suited lawyers and bankers ready to pounce like vultures on a fresh carcass. Mr. Jones, as the old stuffy bat insisted on being called, explained that the chances of his holding the creditors at bay and leaving Terry's mother with even the house were between slim and none.

  "Something happened that day to Terry. Maybe he was tired of the life we had. Maybe he loved his mother. Or maybe he wanted to prove something to his recently departed father. But Terry made up his mind to do battle with the vultures.

  "He fired Mr. Jones and hired Del Prescott, a high school buddy of his, who was a lawyer with one of the big La Salle Street firms. We moved into his parents' house with his mother and cleaned up, so to speak. Actually, Mrs. McCallister was a very nice woman. First she scrubbed the kids. Then she tidied me up. She was doing all of this while she was still shaken over her husband's death and the financial mess. I remember she even tried to call my parents. I knew that would be hopeless.

  "Funny thing was, Terry had a good head for business, and he could be charming when he wanted to be. In about twelve months he and Del sold off enough property and had a large enough nest egg to start a venture-capital firm, one of the first in Chicago. They took early large stakes in Microsoft and Intel and soon had high-tech start-ups beating a path to their door. Timing in life is everything. They cashed in most of their chips before the bubble burst. By then Terry was spending about half his time contributing and raising money for Republican candidates. They were all sucking up to him for money, mostly on the right. He was loving every minute of it. I wanted him to set up a charitable foundation, but he wouldn't do that. It had to be the Republican party. Terry saw himself as a kingmaker and Bobby as his future. Believe it or not, Joe Kennedy was his model. Does that answer your question?"

  "I think it does." Jack signaled the waiter for the check.

  She looked at Jack, and her eyes filled up again with tears. "I'm sorry for what I did to us. I really am. You've got to believe that. I was young then. If I could take it all back, I would do it differently." Her words were slurred.

  Feeling disgust for her, he replied in a sharp tone, "We were all young."

  "I had more than myself to think about at the time."

  He didn't respond. He knew that she had been pregnant when she married Terry. His parents had told him in August of the year he had gone to Israel about the Goodmans' anguish at not attending their daughter's wedding. "We know how much she hurt you," his mother had said. Seven months later his mother had been in tears when she called to tell him that Sarah had had a baby girl, and the Goodmans had vowed they would never see their granddaughter.

  Jack tossed a credit card on the silver tray with the check. The waiter discreetly picked it up.

  Sarah was looking at him beseechingly. "Terry and I have nothing. I know that we can't go back thirty years in time, but maybe you and I can start from this point and create something new."

  Her offer was absurd. He wanted to laugh. "You can't turn the clock back," he said as gently as he could manage.

  "You're right." She was trying to get a grip on herself. It was a matter of pride. It was obvious what he thought of her. She refused to humiliate herself any further.

  As she rose from her chair, her knees were wobbling. She steadied herself by gripping the table. "After you think about it, if you can do anything to help my Bobby," she said, trying to mask the desperation she was feeling, "I would appreciate it. That's all I came to tell you today."

  He helped her find a cab; then he returned to the men's room in the Bristol to put his disguise back on. He decided to walk for a while on the Rue St. Honore to clear his brain after lunch with Sarah. He didn't have a good record with women.

  Avi was right: He should break it off with Layla before it was too late. They didn't need Layla any longer to get at Nadim. That was the sensible thing to do, and it would avoid the great risk to himself. His head told him that.

  He was a mature man now, not a college student, but he couldn't help himself. He was intoxicated with Layla.

  * * *

  For more than two hours, Shlomo, Eytan, and Michael sat in the Philadelphia Cafe drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and taking turns glancing out of the opening in the dirty, thin curtains at the front of the entrance to Suslov's building.

  Suddenly Eytan said, "Nadim's on the way out."

  "With whom?" Shlomo asked nervously.

  "Alone. Headed toward his car."

  Shlomo and Eytan bolted for the door. With his cell phone, Shlomo notified the other two teams.

  A minute later all six Israelis were on the move in their three cars along with Nadim's gray Mercedes. They headed in a direction that led back to the airport.

  In the cafe, Michael remained behind and took out his cell phone. He knew that calling Irina at her office was dangerous, but he had no choice. "I have to see you," he said as soon as he heard her voice.

  "I can't talk now, Mother," she replied, trying to sound annoyed that her mother had called. But he also detected panic in her voice.

  "Call me when you can. On my cell," Michael said, and hung up quickly.

  What had happened? he wondered. He wanted to believe that Suslov or one of his people was close by when Michael had called. That was all. But the sound of her voice told him it might be more than that.

  What was his next move? Michael wondered. Report to Joyner, or wait awhile to see if Irina called?

  Wait, he finally decided. At this point he didn't have any hard information that Nadim's visit was related to Suslov's sale of nuclear arms.

  At Sheremetyevo Airport two Israeli teams followed Nadim into the terminal. The third remained parked in the limo lot in case the Syrian went back to his car for a quick getaway.

  Shlomo watched Nadim get in line at Alitalia. The Israeli queued up in the adjoining line. When Nadim reached the ticket counter first, Shlomo strained his ears to listen.

  "Space has been reserved for me on flight four-fifty-three to Rome today," Nadim said, "and on your flight tomorrow at sixteen-thirty from Rome to Paris. Both in first class."

  Having gotten the information he wanted, Shlomo drifted away from the ticket counter and headed toward the terminal exit. Eytan was a short distance away, watching Nadim. He continued doing that until Nadim walked through passport control, on the way to
the boarding area. Then he joined Shlomo at the terminal exit.

  He gave Shlomo a thumbs-up, which evoked a smile. They had accomplished their mission without a hitch. Nadim was gone. They could relax. But first Eytan drove Shlomo to the Israeli embassy so he could report to Moshe on a secure phone.

  Shlomo had expected the director to chew him out for involving the Americans without approval from Jerusalem. To his pleasant surprise, Moshe responded, "Washington may be able to help us. Stick close to Michael Hanley. Also, try to find out what connection Suslov has to Rome. Meantime I'll alert Benny in Rome. He'll pick up Nadim at Fiumicino."

  "What do you think is happening?"

  Moshe's mind was processing what Shlomo had told him. "Every bit of information you gave me raised more questions." He decided not to tell Shlomo about the possible connection of any of this to Robert McCallister, particularly because he couldn't put the pieces together himself.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Joyner listened to Moshe's report of what happened in Moscow with alarm. She didn't want to believe that the erratic and irrational Syrian government, blinded by its hatred for Israel, would be acquiring nuclear arms. An even worse scenario was that Nadim was somehow acting in coordination with the renegade Turks, and they would both be receiving the arms Suslov was selling. That meant they were planning some type of nuclear blackmail. Robert McCallister was a pawn in their scheme.

  At the end of his report, Moshe put Joyner's fears into his own blunt words: "Suslov's nuclear arms will be moving to Syria and Turkey."

  "You haven't established that," a grim Joyner responded, wanting to believe Moshe was wrong.

  "You're deluding yourself if you don't accept it. And by the way, you'd better face the fact that your American pilot, Robert McCallister, has been tossed in the middle of this dangerous mix. That's why they moved him to Syria."

  "You made a huge leap to get there."

  "I may have, but I can't take a chance on that scenario. I intend to act on the assumption I'm right and do everything possible to block them."

  Moshe's words further alarmed Joyner. She had set up, with painstaking care for several months, Michael Hanley's project in Russia. Assuming there was a transaction involving Suslov, Turkey, and Syria, the only way it could be blocked was if they caught Suslov in the act and Kendall went to Drozny, the Russian president.