Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  She charged up the flight of stairs, then pressed hard on Oliver's bell, ringing it again and again.

  "Okay. Okay. I'm coming," he called from inside. He looked through the peephole, saw it was Layla, and opened the door. She stumbled inside and closed it quickly.

  "Hey, what's going on?" the startled Oliver asked.

  She pushed a finger up to her lips. "Shhh. Be quiet."

  Oliver, with two days' growth of a beard, bags under his eyes, and dressed in old jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt, led her away from the door.

  "You look like hell," he whispered.

  "You don't look so hot yourself."

  "I've been up for forty-eight straight hours rewriting my screenplay, because some asshole producer thinks he's more creative than I am, and the director's too much of a wimp to take my side. What's your excuse?"

  "It's better if you don't know."

  "It's that SDECE guy, Moreau. Isn't it?"

  She nodded weakly.

  "He's coming for you?"

  They heard a commotion outside. "Don't open the door," she said. "Just look through the peephole."

  He crossed the room toward the door. As he did, he called over his shoulder, "Go hide in my bedroom."

  She followed his advice, reaching into her purse on the way and grabbing the .38. She clutched it tightly in her hand.

  What Oliver saw was Moreau accompanied by one of his goons pounding hard and angrily on the door to Layla's apartment.

  "Open up, bitch," he shouted. "Open up now."

  When nothing happened, Moreau reached into his pocket, took out the key that Charles, the building manager, had furnished, and unlocked the door.

  * * *

  From habit, Moreau grabbed his gun and stepped into the room slowly. You never knew what might be waiting for you. His assistant, also armed, stood in the doorway and covered Moreau.

  First the horrible stench of charred skin hit Moreau in the face. Then he saw Nadim. "You poor bastard," Moreau cried out.

  Moreau crossed the room and touched the pulse in the unconscious Nadim's wrist. "Jesus, he's still alive. This guy's one tough bird." Nadim's pants were unzipped. Moreau could guess what he had in mind. Nadim wasn't on his way to the bathroom to take a leak.

  "Call for an ambulance," Moreau barked to his assistant.

  While they waited, Moreau studied the doorknob. Pretty clever device. Moreau had seen one of these before—state of the art. Had to be the Mossad—Jack Cole using Layla and her honey pot to lure Nadim and kill him.

  Moreau was furious that the Israelis and Arabs were playing their war games on French soil. He was determined to put an end to it once and for all. But without Layla he didn't have enough evidence for his government even to file a protest with the Israelis, much less charge Cole.

  He needed Layla, and he needed her now. The trouble was, she wouldn't be hanging around Paris after this. She was probably on her way back to Beirut and the safety of her family. He searched the apartment and found lots of expensive jewelry in a brown wooden box. That told him she had left in a hurry.

  With one call to headquarters, Moreau had her name flashed to security at both airports in Paris. He was convinced that this had happened only an hour or so earlier. He was confident that security agents would nab her at passport control or getting on a plane.

  * * *

  "Well, what's happening?" Layla called frantically to Oliver from across the room. He was looking out through the peephole in his front door.

  "Nothing yet," he said. "The medics went in with a stretcher and all their equipment."

  "What the hell's taking so long? If he's dead, they should put him in a bag and take him away."

  "Don't keep asking," Oliver responded. His own nerves were frayed. Not only had he drunk umpteen cups of coffee in the last forty-eight hours, but now he had become an accessory after the fact to murder, or at least attempted murder, if they caught Layla and she couldn't make her self-defense story stick. He thought she should be able to, from what she had told him, but lots of French hated Arabs, so they rarely got a fair shake in the French judicial system.

  Oliver was willing to take the risk. He liked Layla, thought she was right, and hated cops like Moreau. Besides, he had read extensively about events in Lebanon in recent years. He knew how Nadim had earned his nickname, the Butcher of Beirut. So I'm not just doing this to get material for a new screenplay, he told himself.

  "Something's happening now," he said to Layla without turning around.

  "What?" she asked anxiously.

  "They're carrying Nadim's body out on a stretcher. They have oxygen hooked up to his mouth."

  "Oh, no," she wailed. "He's still alive."

  When everyone had left the apartment and was on the stairs, out of sight, Oliver opened his door a crack to hear what he could. "They're taking Nadim to University Hospital," Oliver said.

  "My family's all as good as dead," she moaned.

  Oliver felt sorry for her. He couldn't let that happen. "I've got an idea for you," he said, "from a scene I used in one of my screenplays. When I write, I do thorough research. I can help you."

  Chapter 36

  Turkish Air flight 17 was in the final stages of boarding at Orly. In the gate area, Jack pulled Avi by the arm off to a deserted corner and whispered, "I've got to call and find out if Layla's okay."

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed frantically. There was no answer at her apartment. The message machine kicked on.

  "She must have gone to work early," Avi said, trying to sound optimistic. He didn't want to tell Jack how much he, too, was worried about Layla. "Or turned off the phone to get some sleep."

  "Maybe," Jack said, unconvinced.

  Avi grabbed Jack by the arm and herded him onto the plane.

  In his seat, Jack was staring blankly into space. Once the engines started he turned to Avi. "Regardless of how this plays out, I can't go back to Paris. Not with Daniel Moreau so close. Before long he'll discover where I'm living... Will you call someone and have them clean out my apartment? When Moreau turns up, I want him to find an empty place."

  "Good idea," Avi said.

  Jack realized that a part of his life was over.

  * * *

  The minute Michael woke up in his Moscow apartment, he called Irina at home. All he got was the answering machine.

  He was furious at himself for not whisking Irina over to the American embassy and out of the country yesterday. He had already put most of the pieces together with Perikov's help and their visit to the warehouse in Volgograd. The Israelis had supplied the other critical details. He had been greedy to try to use Irina for additional information. Suslov was a shrewd man. It was only a question of time until he found out about Irina and Michael. In the Company's training program, they emphasized how important it was to pull a source from the field before it was too late. But there were no rules, just an agent's gut instinct. His had failed him. Irina had paid the price.

  He tried her telephone number at Suslov Enterprises. The call rolled over to the control operator.

  "I want to speak to Irina Ivanova," Michael said politely. The phone went dead.

  In frustration, he pounded his fist against the wall. His stomach ached. His body was racked with guilt. A heavy stone settled into his heart.

  He hadn't loved Irina, but she had trusted him, tied her life to his. And what had he done? Cut the cord and sent her into a free fall to her death. He should have gotten her out a day earlier.

  He glanced anxiously at his watch. He should be dressing to leave for the airport. Grief and guilt threatened to paralyze him.

  The sound of pounding on the door of his apartment jarred Michael out of his stupor. Jesus, that could be some of Suslov's goons coming to kill me, Michael thought. He grabbed his gun. Clutching it tightly, he walked over to the front window, which had a view of the entrance, then looked out through a crack in the curtains. It was only Perikov. He relaxed and opened the door.

  "I
didn't want to do this over the phone," the Russian scientist said.

  Looking at Perikov's glum face, Michael was confident this wouldn't be good news.

  "Drozny refused to act while the convoy was in Russian territory." Perikov sounded dejected. "He won't do a thing now that they've crossed into Azerbaijan."

  "What happened?"

  There was a long silence. Perikov was hesitating.

  Michael could guess what was involved. He had spent enough time in Russia to understand how rampant corruption was at all levels of the government. "If you tell me to keep something to myself, I will. You know that."

  Perikov sighed. "Okay, Suslov not only paid off people close to Drozny, but a Swiss bank account's been opened for the Russian president."

  Michael shook his head sadly. This was even worse than he had figured. "How do you know this?"

  "I have friends in high places, but that's not important. What matters is that you must tell Washington immediately that Drozny won't do anything to block the transaction." Perikov was worried he had said too much. "Please don't mention anything about the Swiss bank account. I don't want my friends to lose their lives."

  "You don't have to worry about that." For reassurance, he placed his hand on Perikov's shoulder. "I would never betray your confidence."

  That satisfied Perikov. "The rationalization for looking the other way is that these arms will never be used against Russia. None of the people involved care what the Arabs do to the Israelis."

  "That's a responsible attitude."

  Perikov dropped his head in despair. "When has my government ever been responsible?" The words came out in a hoarse, barely audible whisper.

  Michael decided to try another tack. "Do you think there's any chance of Kendall turning Drozny around?"

  "Never." Perikov shook his head forcefully for emphasis. "Drozny thinks Kendall's ignorant and arrogant."

  "Great."

  "Besides, it'll be easy for Drozny to resist Kendall's request now that the weapons aren't on Russian soil any longer."

  In agony, Michael ran his hand through his hair. Suslov was beating them. There was no chance of the government of Azerbaijan acting to block this exchange from taking place. Suslov's MO foreclosed that possibility. No doubt he had paid people in Baku to look the other way, or he would never have set the meeting there. Jesus, what a fucking mess.

  "It's up to your government now," Perikov said. "They have to stop this travesty from occurring."

  Michael knew that getting Washington to act was easier said than done. Joyner would be all for it, but she wasn't the president. Kendall was another matter. "I'll do what I can," Michael said softly.

  When Perikov left, Michael decided that it would be close, but if he hurried, he had time to stop at the embassy and call Washington before heading to the airport.

  * * *

  Joyner was dismayed to hear from Michael that Drozny wouldn't act. "Satellite photos show that the convoy's already in Azerbaijan," she said tersely.

  "That's what Perikov said." Michael sounded beaten.

  Joyner sighed and rubbed her back, which was killing her.

  "What do we do now?" Michael asked.

  "You get your butt on a plane to Baku. I'm going over to the White House. The time for mincing words is over," she said sharply. "I'm sure as hell going to get some action from Kendall."

  Michael was taken aback. This wasn't a tone he had ever heard from Joyner in discussing the president.

  Joyner's mind was racing. One way or another she would compel Kendall to give the order to substantially increase the size of the American force. The question was whether there was enough time to do that. Had Kendall's indecision cost them a chance to block the exchange and rescue Robert McCallister? She didn't share any of those concerns with Michael. "Your job is to be there on the scene."

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm on my way as soon as I finish this call."

  Joyner shifted to her concerned voice, which always reminded Michael of his mother when she was worried about him. She and Mrs. Joyner were about the same age. "What happened with Irina?"

  "I was too late," he said glumly.

  She had figured as much from the way he sounded. "I'm sorry, Michael. Really, I am." There was no hint of, "I told you not to get involved with her."

  "I know that and I appreciate it."

  "Tomorrow this should be over, one way or another. I don't want to tell you what to do, but afterward you might want to take some time off."

  "That's a good idea."

  "Meantime"—she was back to being the CIA director—"I spoke to the head of the Mossad. Whatever the Israelis do in Baku—"

  "Which is what?"

  "At this point, I don't know. Moshe and I have been dancing around with each other, as we sometimes do. Eventually it may shake out to full disclosure, but we're not there yet. He did tell me that his leads in Baku will be two guys, Jack Cole and Avi Sassoon. They'll be at the Hyatt Regency in Baku tonight. Get close to them if you can and work together. Moshe and I both want that."

  "Meaning that somebody else doesn't."

  She laughed. Michael was smart. She liked him and didn't want to lose him. She hoped he wouldn't go into a tailspin over Irina when this was over. "Yeah, the politicians."

  "Morons."

  "You said it. Not me."

  "Now I'd better get going."

  "There is one other thing," Joyner said with such severity that Michael knew he wouldn't like what was coming next.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "Chances are that Suslov's going to be in Baku."

  Involuntarily, Michael stiffened. "I'm sure of that."

  "Just remember," Joyner continued, "and this is an order—your first objective is to stop those nuclear weapons from getting into the hands of the Turks, Iranians, and Syrians. Second, you are to bring Robert McCallister home alive. This isn't the time or the place to conduct a personal vendetta against Dmitri Suslov."

  Michael touched the hard, cold steel of the .45-caliber pistol in his pocket.

  When he didn't respond, she added, "Am I making myself clear?"

  Michael knew better than to argue with her. She had the option of sending someone else to Baku in his place. "You always make yourself clear," he said, sounding respectful. He was determined to carry out his assignment in Baku. At the same time, he planned to kill Suslov.

  Joyner's eyes were blazing when she put down the phone. Her first call was to General Childress. "How soon can you get to the White House?" she shouted.

  "What happened now?"

  "Drozny won't lift a finger. The trucks have moved across the Russian border. The time for playing games with Kendall is over."

  "Whoa. That's a mouthful. I'd say you blew your cool, Margaret."

  "Damn right. How about fifteen minutes?"

  "I'll be there."

  Her second call was to the president's secretary. "This is Margaret Joyner. Is the president in his office?"

  "He is, but he has—"

  Joyner cut her off. "Tell him that General Childress and I will be there in fifteen minutes. This is more important than anything else he's doing."

  Unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner, the flustered secretary stammered, "Please hold for a minute, Mrs. Joyner. I'll see if—"

  "I won't hold, and you won't see anything. Tell him we're coming."

  Joyner shimmed the phone down and grabbed her briefcase.

  * * *

  The treasury secretary and three aides with thick notebooks of economic data were hustled out when Joyner and Childress arrived.

  She slapped a map down on the president's desk. In a voice cracking with emotion, she told Kendall what she had learned from Michael and the satellites, and where the convoy was now.

  She was prepared to lean on Kendall with every bit of strength she had in her body until he gave the order to increase U.S. forces and block this exchange from taking place. It didn't take much. By the time she finished her presentation, th
e sheepish and abashed look on Kendall's face told her that the president now realized he had played this poorly. He should have left intelligence and military matters to her and Childress. She wondered if this was how Kennedy had felt when he had personally micro-managed and mismanaged the Bay of Pigs invasion.

  Kendall was now willing to get out of the way and let the professionals take over. "Do the best you can," he said to General Childress. "Keep me posted."

  "Will do, sir..."

  Kendall was looking at him with a shell-shocked expression.

  The general continued in a businesslike tone: "I would like your approval, Mr. President, to coordinate our activities with the Israelis. They're probably ahead of us here. They can help us play catch-up."

  Joyner was looking at the president, ready to pounce if he turned Childress down. The president glanced from Childress to Joyner and back again, then swallowed hard. He didn't like the proposal, but he had no choice. "Whatever you think makes sense under the circumstances."

  Joyner suppressed the urge to smile.

  Then Kendall continued: "There is one condition, though. The Israelis have to understand that we take possession of the nuclear weapons and sort out with the Russians what their disposition is. They don't get control of those. Can you sell that to your buddy in Jerusalem, Margaret?"

  "Moshe will agree to it," Joyner said without hesitation. "According to our intelligence, they've got an adequate stockpile of their own, although they'll never admit it."

  Kendall stood up. The craggy lines in his face had deepened with worry. "Okay, you two, go and get the job done."

  Outside the Oval Office, when they were alone, Joyner said to Childress, "I marveled at your self-control. I'm sure you wanted to tell him that he's the one who buried you in a sand trap. Now he wants you to make an eagle."

  Childress laughed. "Did you ever play golf, Margaret?"

  "Never in my life."

  "That's what I figured. Well, I play, and you just came up with a terrible metaphor. There's almost no chance anyone, even Tiger Woods, could make an eagle on a hole in which he's been buried in a sand trap."