Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  Avi smiled. "To gain your confidence and throw you off guard, which is what she did."

  "Jesus. You—"

  "The important thing is that she wanted to know your plans vis-à-vis Nadim. Didn't she?"

  "She wanted to help me."

  Avi let out a long, low whistle. "You are being led around by your dick, my friend."

  Jack didn't say anything. Avi couldn't possibly be right. No woman could have done what she did with him last night at the same time she was setting him up.

  "And the beating," Avi added, "was brilliant. A great way to get you to have even more trust in her, to confide in her what we know about Nadim's operation."

  "C'mon. The Maronites hate the Syrians."

  "But they hate us even more."

  Jack tore off a piece of the roll, lifted it to his mouth, and then tossed it back on the tray. "Give it up, Avi. I know what I'm doing. Now tell me about Rome."

  "Your friend the Butcher is there right now."

  "He must be a busy man, what with masterminding the attack on me by remote control. I don't imagine that he enjoyed getting the call telling him what happened to his goons."

  Avi's expression turned grim. "Hell, I was so busy worrying about you and the girl, I never even focused on what you did to those two guys. Once Daniel Moreau gets wind of it, he'll know you're in Paris."

  Jack was flabbergasted. "It's a routine police matter. It'll never get to Moreau."

  "It will if they were Syrian nationals, which is likely. Then Daniel Moreau will know that Mackie's back in town."

  "I'm sorry, Avi," Jack said, sounding contrite. "It was self-defense."

  "I'm not blaming you. Shit happens. It's just one more thing we have to worry about."

  Jack was staring into space, furious at himself for messing things up.

  "Tell you what," Avi said. "Take a nap. You need it. We'll talk about Rome when we're on the ground. Moshe has one of our boys meeting the plane."

  * * *

  Robert McCallister jogged around the inside perimeter of the stone wall surrounding the house where he was being held. He was wearing cotton khaki slacks and a gray T-shirt. Two guards carrying automatic weapons, dressed in military uniforms, jogged behind him. On the other side of that wall lay freedom, he told himself. If he could break out, he'd find someone willing to help him.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The two guards were perspiring profusely. Robert had barely broken a sweat. Even after being cooped up as a prisoner, I'm in so much better shape than those guys, he decided. Once I cut loose and sprint, they've got no chance of catching me.

  If the green van was coming today, it should be here before long, he figured. And if it didn't come... He eyed the wall longingly. There were crevices at various spots throughout. Getting up and over would be difficult, but it was doable. He had climbed harder walls at the academy. The only problem was these two bozo guards. He'd have to get enough of a jump on them to go over before they could shoot him.

  Dummy, he chastised himself. What are you worried about? You've got very little downside. They can't kill you. They need you alive to work whatever deal they're planning. The most that you'll get is a superficial wound.

  Buoyed by that thought, he decided to go for it today. One way or the other, van or no van, he had to try to escape. If he didn't, it meant either that the president would have to make a national sacrifice to trade for him, or that he'd be in prison forever. Both of those options were unacceptable.

  Two more loops past the front entrance, he decided. If the van wasn't there by then, he'd make his move. On the first loop around, the wrought-iron gate was closed. There was no sign of the green van. Okay, one more.

  He looked back at the guards. One was cursing, but keeping the pace. The other was lagging behind.

  On the next loop he saw the dark green van passing through the gate and parking in front of the villa. He slowed to see what happened. The driver was unloading boxes from the back. He had left the keys in the ignition. The black wrought-iron gate remained open.

  Robert decided to make one more loop to give the driver time to go inside the villa. Halfway around, Robert put his head down and broke into a sprint.

  For an instant, the two guards were confused. "Hey, slow down!" one of them shouted.

  Then the other one figured out what was happening. But he had been lagging behind and was well off the pace. His legs were heavy and tired. Fear propelled his body. He was terrified of the thought of what would happen to him if this American escaped.

  They were out of sight when Robert turned the corner of the villa. He saw the driver yakking away with two other guards standing at the front entrance, smoking cigarettes. In his arms the driver held a bushel of produce. He had left the front door of the van open on the driver's side. Robert could have kissed the man.

  With a final acceleration, Robert covered the last few yards faster than he had ever run before. He jumped into the van, slammed the door with his left hand, and cranked the ignition with his right.

  There was no time to turn around inside the compound, so he shoved the gearshift in reverse and floored it. The van shook and sputtered for an instant. Then it responded, propelling him backward through the wrought-iron gate.

  One of the guards in front reacted fast. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and grabbed the rifle at his feet. Running after the van, he fired a warning shot into the air. Robert had no intention of stopping.

  Once the van was through the gate, Robert kicked it into first and shot around in a 180-degree turn. He was on gravel, and the tires were worn. The van bucked and skidded when Robert floored it. "C'mon, baby," he shouted. The van responded. He was off, heading down a long dirt road. His plan was to find a place to hide out, then at night look for someone to help him.

  The guard who was giving chase dropped to one knee and aimed for the left rear tire, praying to Allah that he wouldn't hit the fuel tank, which would cause an explosion and kill the prisoner.

  He was a superb marksman. The first shot was right on target. The tire blew out and the van spun out of control, despite Robert's efforts to keep the steering wheel straight.

  The van slid off the right side of the road, rolled over once onto the roof, and would have kept rolling except it crashed into an olive tree. The impact dazed Robert. He was groggy, but still conscious.

  With a struggle, he climbed out of the open window of the van. Disoriented for an instant, he rubbed his eyes. A bullet went whizzing by. That was all it took to get him started again. He staggered down the hill toward a stream at the bottom swollen with spring rain and runoff from snow-pack in the mountains. If I can just make it to the stream, Robert thought, I'll be okay. I can dive in and swim. I'll lose them that way.

  Two armed guards were now in pursuit. More warning shots, accompanied by a shouted order in English—"Halt!"—flew over Robert's head.

  When that didn't do the trick, the marksman knew he had no choice. He couldn't let Robert get into that stream. Waving off his colleague, he dropped to one knee and aimed for Robert's right shoulder. His first shot, a little too far to the right, narrowly missed the pilot. The second shot was perfect, just grazing the shoulder.

  Robert let out a bloodcurdling scream, lost his footing, and tumbled to the ground. Before he could get to his feet to resume running, the two guards pounced on him.

  Blood was oozing from his shoulder, which hurt like hell.

  What pained Robert more than that was the realization that he'd never escape now.

  * * *

  Eppy, as Ephraim liked to be called, had spent the last two years in Rome for Moshe with the title of cultural attaché at the Israeli embassy. Behind the wheel of his Fiat, he took to heart the expression, When in Rome, do as the Romans do. He tore across the roads at breakneck speed, honking his horn, furious when another driver threatened to cut in front from a different lane, waving his arm wildly, and shouting out of the window if someone was going too slowly.

  In the b
ackseat, Avi, the daring air force pilot, was loving every minute of the ride. Sitting next to the driver, Jack was convinced he'd seen the last of Layla for sure. Dead men didn't date.

  "Let's talk about the plan for today," Avi said to Jack, who was gripping the door handle to keep from sliding around.

  "First, tell me what Nadim's doing in Rome."

  "You cut right to the heart of the matter. That's what we have to find out." Avi then reviewed for Jack what had happened yesterday in Moscow.

  "Jesus," Jack said. "That's worse than I ever imagined." What was running through his mind was that while he was having a great time with Layla, a diabolical plan by Israel's worst enemy to acquire nuclear weapons was advancing.

  He no longer felt tired. His eye, the scratches and bruises on his face, no longer hurt. The adrenaline was surging through his body. He was ready for action. "What happened when Nadim reached Rome?"

  "We followed him from Fiumicino to the Hassler Hotel, where he checked in. Then we struck a deal with an assistant manager. In return for a hefty supplement to his retirement fund and those of a couple of his colleagues, we can have free rein within reason. We promised him nobody gets hurt on hotel property."

  "Then what?" Jack said anxiously.

  "I talked to one of our guys on the scene before I got on the plane this morning. Nadim ordered room service for dinner. When the waiter was in the room, he pretended to be stocking the minibar and stuck a bug on the side of the little refrig."

  "What'd we pick up?"

  "Your friend the Butcher made two calls: one for a lady of the night who came to service him, which didn't go too well."

  "What's that mean?"

  "He had a little trouble getting it up. He told her it was his prostate misbehaving."

  Jack burst out laughing.

  "You obviously didn't have that problem."

  "This isn't about me. I'll bet our friend beat the girl up."

  "He didn't have to. She earned her money. She finally got him off."

  "I'm so pleased to hear that. What was his other call?"

  "To Ali Hashim, the head of Iranian intelligence."

  Jack was stunned. "Whoa. What the hell is this? An alliance of all the people who hate us the most?"

  "Sounds like it."

  Jack shook his head. "Having the Iranians in this mess makes everything so much worse, particularly because nuclear weapons are involved. The Iranians have money and resources the Syrians can only dream about. They've been financing both Hezbollah and Hamas."

  "I'm well aware of what the Iranians want to do to us."

  "So what did Nadim and Hashim talk about?"

  "They set a meeting. Lunch today at one on the Hassler patio. Nadim wanted to meet earlier, but Hashim's playing hard to get."

  Chapter 26

  Nadim was white with rage. He shook his head in disbelief as he listened on a cell phone in his hotel suite at the Hassler to the report of Robert McCallister's attempted escape. He couldn't believe that officers in the Syrian army could be so incompetent.

  "The pilot's perfectly all right now," the terrified commander of the unit guarding McCallister tried to reassure Nadim. "I had two of the best surgeons in Damascus flown up here by helicopter to look at him. They said it's a superficial shoulder wound. 'Superficial' was their word. The bullet exited his body. They're certain of that. They applied ointments and rebandaged it. They have him on a sedative and painkillers. He's in his bed sleeping now. I ordered one of the surgeons to remain here around the clock."

  Nadim decided that he couldn't believe the commander. "Who are the surgeons?" he asked. He recognized the name of one of them, the chief surgeon at the largest hospital in Damascus. Nadim asked to talk to him.

  "Not a big deal," the doctor said calmly. He then repeated what the commander had told Nadim.

  Satisfied, Nadim resumed talking to the commander of the unit. "It's inexcusable that your two men who were supposed to be watching the pilot let him escape. I mean the two who were jogging with him." Nadim's tone was fierce and brittle.

  The commander was shaking as he listened. "I know that, sir. They've been reprimanded."

  "That's not enough."

  "I'll strip them of their rank and post them to a hardship assignment."

  Nadim snarled. He was on his way to being president of the country. Soldiers had to understand that they couldn't fail to carry out an assignment because of stupidity. His orders had to be followed to the letter. News always spread through the army like wildfire. How he handled this situation would be a valuable lesson for the entire military. If Ahmed had dealt with the Hama situation firmly in the beginning, the destruction of the town would not have been necessary. "I want both soldiers shot," Nadim said. "In the courtyard of the military school."

  "Shot?" the disbelieving commander said.

  "You heard me. Executed by a firing squad."

  "Both of them?"

  "You think that's not enough? Perhaps I should include their commander as well."

  "No. No," the commander protested as the muscles tightened up in his stomach so badly that he practically doubled up in pain. "You order will be carried out," he managed to get out of his mouth through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  "Shot," Jack said to Avi. "He's going to have both guards shot."

  They were in the penthouse suite of the Hassler listening to conversations emanating from Nadim's room.

  "Why are you surprised? I gave you the bio. Hama. Beirut. God only knows how many people he's had killed over the years."

  "He's not someone we want to make a mistake with."

  Avi gave Jack a wry smile. "Don't look at me. I'm not dating his girlfriend."

  "She's not his girlfriend."

  "I hope you're right. Meantime, at least we know Robert McCallister is alive and well, more or less."

  "But we still don't know what they're planning to do with him and when."

  Avi glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. "One hour to showtime. Hopefully we're going to get the answers to those questions then."

  Jack looked out of the window at the patio restaurant below. "I wasn't my sharpest this morning. Run it by me again."

  "We've planted a bug in the bowl of flowers on the table, which the maitre d' has reserved for Nadim and Hashim." Avi pointed to the sound equipment on the desk in the suite. "We'll be able to hear and record every word they say. Finally we're going to find out what Nadim's planning."

  "What if Nadim or Hashim asks for a different table?"

  "The maitre d' will tell them to wait a minute while he finishes setting it. He'll move the flower bowl. Also we'll have a photographer up here in our suite with a telephoto lens to take a picture of them during the meeting so we can have visual confirmation."

  Avi could tell that Jack wasn't satisfied. "What do you think I missed?"

  Jack shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't have a good feeling about this. Something's going to go wrong. I know it."

  "You're worrying too much."

  "I hope you're right."

  * * *

  At the table in the Hassler's patio restaurant, Nadim looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. It was already ten minutes past one. Ah Hashim was playing a game by being late—the same game he had been playing when he insisted that he was too busy for a meeting this morning. He's trying to show me that I need him more than he needs me.

  To calm himself, Nadim ordered a bottle of Vernaccia di San Gimignano. As he sipped the chilled white wine, Nadim looked around the restaurant, which was still only sparsely filled. Italians ate late. That was why he had wanted to meet earlier, when there would be less chance of someone recognizing them. In fact, Nadim had wanted to meet in his suite. Hashim had insisted on the restaurant. Probably doesn't trust me alone in a hotel room, Nadim decided.

  The patio was surrounded by a garden and a low wall. A light breeze rippled through the trees. It was a magnificent spring day, peaceful on the patio. The smell of fragran
t flowers was in the air. They were everywhere in bloom around the patio and in the beautiful compact little centerpiece on each table.

  On the other side of that wall, it was a different world. Horns honked vociferously. Cars racing by the Spanish Steps spewed noxious exhaust fumes. Vendors hawked gelato to the tourists, busy snapping pictures.

  Twenty-five minutes late, Ali Hashim arrived. He offered no apologies. He declined any wine. "It's forbidden by our religion. Maybe you don't know that," he told the Syrian with contempt.

  Nadim would have liked nothing better than to pour the rest of the wine and the ice bucket it was resting in over Hashim's bald head, but that wouldn't get him what he wanted. So he squeezed his fists together tightly under the table and said to Hashim, "Let's order lunch first. Then we'll talk."

  The Iranian nodded. Once the waiter departed, Nadim couldn't wait any longer to launch into the discussion. First he glanced around the restaurant to make certain there was no one he recognized and that no one was watching. Then he began speaking softly.

  "Is your country in or out?"

  Hashim's expression was noncommittal. Inside, he was smiling. Nadim was a brutal killer, but he was a poor negotiator. Everything that he did signaled how much he wanted the deal. By doing that, he lost his bargaining leverage.

  "We have some problems with the proposal you presented," Hashim said calmly.

  "Problems?" Nadim asked. "What problems?"

  "We're willing to give you the five million dollars you want in a Swiss bank account, but we refuse to make an identical payment to Kemal, the infidel."

  Nadim didn't like what he was hearing. "Without Kemal, we would never have had the pilot."

  "But we have him now. We don't need Kemal any longer."

  Nadim realized that he was between a rock and a hard place. If he didn't get the cash payment he had promised Kemal, then the Turk would balk, and under Nadim's plan his participation was still critical. "But we do need him," Nadim said. "The last time we were together you said you had a keen sense of the geography. The only way we can bypass Turkey is by moving through Iraqi territory. That's obviously not a possibility."