by Allan Topol
He raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"
"That you'll stick with what you said. If, at the end of this evening, I'm not interested in dating you anymore, you'll leave me alone." For a few seconds he fiddled with a spoon, trying to frame his response. That was too long for her. Abruptly she rose from her seat and grabbed her purse. "If you don't confirm that right now, then I'm out of here."
God, she has a hot temper, Nadim thought. I'll bet she's wild in bed. Her condition didn't trouble him. He was confident that she would fall for him. He broke into a wide smile. "You have my word on that."
"Good," she said. "Then let's drop it."
* * *
When Joyner arrived at the White House for a meeting to brief the president on the call from Michael and Perikov's news, Kendall's secretary said to her, "I'm supposed to tell you you'll have to wait ten minutes at most. Mr. Grange and a Mr. McCallister just arrived."
The secretary had pronounced McCallister's name with an expression fitting for someone who had just bitten into an extremely sour lemon.
Joyner smiled. Terry McCallister must have been his usual odious self.
Behind the door to the Oval Office, Kendall was in no mood to pamper Terry McCallister.
Grange had tried to open the meeting on a conciliatory note, saying, "Terry has some concerns about—"
But Terry didn't need Grange speaking for him. "Listen, Calvin," he began, which infuriated Kendall. He should have been addressed by McCallister as Mr. President, and nobody told the president of the United States to listen. Grange, who could sense Kendall's reaction, was horrified and cringing as McCallister continued: "Jimmy told me that you changed your mind on the bombing."
Kendall was ready for him. "There must be a misunderstanding on your part. No decision was ever made on the bombing."
"That's not what Jimmy told me. He said you would bomb them back to the Stone Age unless and until they released Robert."
Kendall glared at Grange, who tried to defend himself. "That's not exactly what I—"
Kendall cut him off. "All of that's beside the point." He wanted to sound presidential. "The fact of the matter is that I'm dealing with a complex situation. Your son's release is important, but it's only one part of the equation."
McCallister was trying to keep himself in check. "If you won't bomb, what exactly are you doing to get Robert out of that cesspool?"
"I'm afraid I can't give you any specifics. Our plans are highly classified."
McCallister ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Oh, that's bullshit." He was raising his voice now. "Why don't you admit you're not doing a damn thing?"
Kendall was on the verge of terminating the meeting. Out of gratitude for what McCallister had done for him, and wanting to cut a distraught father some slack, he decided to make one more stab at bringing Terry around. "I can understand how you feel, Terry," he said in a soft voice, wanting to lower the decibel level. "And your son's life is important, but the welfare of his country, our country, is more important. When he joined the air force he knew that there would be a possibility of being captured or even killed. All military men know this. It's particularly true for pilots. Yet this is what your son wanted to do, and I admire him for that."
Kendall's words stung McCallister, who had coerced Robert into attending the Air Force Academy.
Kendall continued. "But please believe me when I say that it's my decision, and I'll do what I can to get Robert out of there consistent with my obligation to the country."
That didn't satisfy McCallister. "I'm not some ordinary Tom, Dick, or Harry. You're forgetting how much money I contributed and raised for—"
Kendall had enough. "This meeting's over."
When McCallister didn't move toward the door, Kendall looked at Grange. "The two of you leave now, or I'll call the Secret Service men outside this door."
McCallister knew he had no choice. Grange took him by the arm and said, "Let's go, Terry." McCallister lowered his head in abject resignation and turned around.
As the door opened, Joyner watched Grange and McCallister leaving the Oval Office. Instantly she knew how the meeting had gone.
"Okay," Kendall told her when Grange and McCallister were out of sight. "Let's do something constructive. Where's General Childress?"
"He should be here momentarily."
Behind her she heard Childress's booming voice. "Present and ready for action."
Kendall smiled. "The only action in this room is people flapping their mouths."
They all laughed to cut the tension.
"Margaret," Kendall said, "give us the latest news."
She repeated what Michael had said verbatim. At the end she added, "I think you should call the Russian president."
"Drozny was rude and arrogant when we met at the U.N. last September. I don't like the man. I don't want to ask him for anything. Can't we find another way to stop this deal from taking place?"
Joyner sucked in her breath and looked at General Childress for support.
"She's right," the general said, taking his cue. "There is no other way to stop this short of putting U.S. troops on Russian soil, and I doubt if—"
Kendall raised his hand, signaling Childress to stop. "You know how to convince a guy, don't you?" Kendall turned to Joyner. "What time is it now in Moscow?"
She glanced at her watch. "Almost nine in the morning."
Kendall hit the intercom. "Kathy," he said to his secretary, "I need President Drozny in Moscow on the phone. But first you'd better get that Russian translator, Vince whatever-his-name-is, in the west wing over here to interpret."
Twenty minutes later Vince was in place and Drozny was on the line with his own interpreter. It quickly became apparent to Joyner during the strained and forced exchange of greetings that the Russian president had an equal disdain for Kendall. "That's the trouble with summits," one pundit had observed after their meeting at the U.N. last September. "When leaders don't get along, great damage can be done."
Drozny spoke virtually no English. Following Kendall's words, "Good morning, Mr. President," the interpreters took over. Joyner hated operating that way. Without seeing Drozny's face or hearing the inflection in his voice, she knew she was missing a great deal. However, in this situation they had no choice.
Kendall let Joyner explain what they had learned about the nuclear weapons moving south from Volgograd.
There was a pause. Vince Kuzinski, the interpreter in the Oval Office, translated Joyner's words, followed by a long silence.
At the end of it, three short sentences came back from Drozny's interpreter. "What you say is very unlikely. We will investigate. Thank you for your interest."
Then the phone went dead.
That infuriated Kendall. "The fucker hung up on me," he said. "I told you he was a rude son of a bitch."
Joyner tried to soften his reaction. There was enough going on here without adding personal pique to the mix. "I'm sure he thought the conversation was over."
"Well, he'd better cooperate, or..." Even in his pique, Kendall couldn't force himself to say that he'd send American troops into Russia to do the job. But what other choices would he have?
* * *
Reluctantly, Layla had to admit that for the two hours during dinner Nadim exhibited a charm that frightened her. He spoke about his years in the United States at the Syrian embassy, and he asked about hers at Harvard. He made clever and witty comments about phonies and hypocrites he had met in the French and American governments over the years. He talked to her about Paris restaurants she liked and skiing in the Alps, for which they shared a passion. He even got her talking about the boarding school she had attended in Switzerland.
She found it terrifying that this monster, the Butcher of Beirut, could turn himself into a wholly different personality as easily as he had shed the military uniform for the double-breasted suit. She had never known anyone like him. He wasn't merely duplicitous and a charlatan. He had some type of mental disorder, t
he split personality she had read about in school, but she couldn't recall the psychiatric term. What she had to keep reminding herself was not to forget how dangerous he really was and the risks to her tonight.
All the while they talked and ate, the wine flowed. Following the champagne, he had chosen a Puligny-Montrachet and an 'eighty-five Haut Brion. With dessert he ordered a half bottle of Chateau d'Yquem. The whole time she was trying to drink as little as possible, but that was difficult. The sommelier kept refilling her glass.
Nadim admired her wristwatch, the one Jack had given her. She blushed and said, "Thank you." Then she put her hand under the table before he studied it carefully. After dessert and coffee, he ordered them each a glass of cognac. When he went to the bathroom, she dumped most of hers into her coffee cup.
Outside, Jack sat in the backseat of a dull gray nondescript Renault sedan parked across the street, twenty yards away from the entrance to the restaurant. Behind the wheel was Gal from Haifa, a twenty-five-year-old who was working part-time at the Israeli embassy in Paris while he studied at the University of Paris. After three years in the city, Gal knew the streets well. The rain was finally letting up. Jack had a clear view of the front of the restaurant. The instant he saw Layla and Nadim emerge, he planned to stretch out on the backseat so they couldn't see him. It would be up to Gal to follow them wherever they were headed.
Jack looked at his watch nervously. Jesus, it's almost eleven-thirty. She's been in there with him a long time. Suppose she likes him. Then what? Another equally sickening thought was that the restaurant had a rear entrance. What if Nadim had hustled Layla out that way? When Jack had checked this afternoon, he saw only one entrance. Still, there could be a service door where supplies were delivered. Dummy. He blamed himself for not thinking of that. All restaurants had separate doors for vendors, didn't they? Too late now.
Suddenly he saw Layla walking down the path from the front of the restaurant with Nadim beside her. "There they are," Jack said to Gal. He ducked down and stretched out on the seat.
When the car didn't move, Jack called out anxiously to the driver, "What's going on?"
Gal strained his eyes to see. "He's waving for a cab. He has an arm around the girl. He's kissing her."
"Jesus, don't tell me that."
"But you asked."
"Now what?"
"They're getting into a cab together."
Jack raised his head enough to see the cab in front of the restaurant begin moving. "Go now. Follow them.... You'd better not lose them."
He ducked back down. Two minutes later, Jack snapped at Gal, "Tell me where you're going."
"Toward the river."
"Which bridge?"
"The Pont Neuf."
Layla's place was the other direction. There were hotels close to the restaurant. They wouldn't be driving so far if that was where Nadim was taking her. They must be going to Nadim's apartment, Jack decided. That was good for planting the bugs, but bad for what could happen to Layla. He was sorry he had done this.
* * *
In the back of the cab Nadim, without any warning, pushed his hand under Layla's skirt. He had a wild, animal like look in his eyes. His garlicky, alcohol-laden breath was in her face as he tried to kiss her. So close to the object of his desire, he abandoned the charm. She wondered if he planned to have sex with her in the cab.
Layla was ready for him. Without panicking, she clamped her legs together. "Please wait," she said. "We'll both enjoy it so much more when we get to your apartment."
He pulled his head away from her. The urgency was gone. "Just a tiny touch. Down there. A preview," he said. He was coaxing, not demanding.
This guy's technique leaves a lot to be desired, she thought. He's obviously used to taking what he wants from women. She spread her legs a little and his hand was in her panties. He was forcing two fingers inside of her.
She pulled them away and said, "That's the preview."
He didn't argue.
The cabdriver smiled, enjoying the performance.
* * *
"I'll undress you," Nadim said once they were inside his apartment.
"No. No," she protested. "I have to use the bathroom first. I'll strip in there. You take your clothes off out here. I'll meet you in bed. Two naked bodies."
That satisfied him. In the bathroom she looked at herself in the mirror. Oh, God, how am I going to go through with this? Then she thought about all of the people he had killed—family members and others. More than avenging their deaths was at stake. She couldn't let this madman get his hands on nuclear weapons. You're going to close your eyes and do it, she vowed.
She slipped out of her clothes and let them fall to the white-tiled floor. Then she reached into her purse and yanked out a bottle of body lotion and a condom. "No way am I going to have this monster's stuff inside me," she muttered to herself.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, she saw Nadim naked in bed, lying on his back stroking himself. "Sometimes he needs a little help," he said.
"That's my job," Layla replied, now sounding self-confident and in control. "First I want to give you a massage."
"I am your slave," Nadim said.
Slowly, with probing fingers, she massaged his shoulders and the back of his neck using the body lotion. He gave himself over to her fully, moaning with pleasure.
What I should really do right now, she thought, is get the gun in my purse and kill the bastard. It was tempting, and it took all of her control to resist. That wouldn't get Jack what he needed.
She had Nadim so relaxed that she was hoping he might fall asleep this way. Then she could plant the bugs and get the hell out of there. No such luck. He began talking again. "You have great hands."
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was alone on a beach in Beirut when the city was still beautiful, before all of the wars.
"Now the front," Nadim said as he flipped over. "Down there."
She went to work with her hands on his penis and his balls, stroking lightly with the tops of her fingers the way Enrico, an Italian from Verona she had been in love with a few years ago, had taught her. She wasn't that experienced, but the couple of other times she had tried it with men, it always brought them to a state of arousal in a matter of seconds.
Nothing was happening with Nadim. He remained soft and limp.
"Sometimes it takes me a little longer," he said. "Just work with me."
"That's nothing to worry about," she said. "It happens to everybody, especially when they drink a lot." He reached for her breasts, but she twisted away.
Now something else began bothering her. She had read that some men become abusive toward the woman they were with if they had this problem and couldn't get an erection. She had left her bag in the bathroom. She knew precisely where it was: on the sink. At the first sign of that kind of behavior, she'd get her gun and shoot him.
"Put it in your mouth," he said. "That always works."
Before he knew what was happening, she slipped the condom on him, which wasn't easy given his lack of arousal. Then she took him into her mouth, but that still didn't do a thing. She decided this must be a recurring problem with him from the way he was sounding. So much for Nadim's being a great lover.
She was racking her brain, trying to decide what she could do to prevent this from turning into a total disaster. Then an idea popped into her head. She knew how she could save herself and Jack's mission. In Nadim's diminished state as a result of all the wine he had, and with his massive ego, she might get away with it.
He was still on his back. She rolled on top of him.
"You're nice and hard now," she said, trying to make the lie sound convincing. "I want you inside of me."
She pressed her breasts against his chest. Then she reached down and grabbed his flaccid member. With her hand cupped tightly around it, she began thrusting herself against him and crying out, "Oh, it's good. It feels so good.... I'm coming.... Oh, God, I'm coming. You too."
She k
ept tugging and pulling on him until his body gave a shudder. She felt warm, sticky fluid in her hand as it spilled out of the condom.
With that, he turned over on his side and fell asleep.
Layla moved fast. Resisting the urge to throw up, she washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face. Then she reached into her purse and took out the two bugs Jack had given her.
One she fastened under the center of the tablelike desk in the study. On the floor was the briefcase Nadim had taken to the restaurant with him. Her guess was that he carried it everywhere. She attached the second bug to the bottom of the briefcase.
She took a pen and paper from the center desk drawer. Praying that he wouldn't wake up, she quickly scribbled a note. You're a fabulous lover. I had a great evening. Hope to see you again soon.... L
She left it on the other pillow, next to him in bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. She was tiptoeing around the bedroom as he snored loudly. Another minute. That's all I need. She dressed so quickly in the bathroom that she put her panties on backward. She didn't care. She raced toward the front door, closed it softly, and got out of that damn apartment.
Her clothes were disheveled. Her entire body was trembling as she walked out of Nadim's building into the chilly night air. The instant Jack saw her, he climbed out of Gal's car and raced over. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
"I planted the bugs," she said in a voice filled with self-loathing and disgust. "Isn't that what you care about? One under his desk. One attached to his briefcase. It's done." She couldn't get her body to stop convulsing.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"What the hell do you think's wrong?" she cried out. "I feel like a whore."
Jack was distraught. "This afternoon I told you not to do it."
"Yeah, you did," she said. "I can't blame you. I should have listened to you, but I didn't and..."
Suddenly she felt horribly sick. She staggered over to the gutter along the curb, leaned over, and threw up her entire dinner. Tears were running down her cheeks. Jack handed her a handkerchief and put an arm around her. She was sobbing and shaking her head.