by Allan Topol
Jack instinctively threw himself to the ground. As he dropped down, he grabbed the handle to shut the doors until he was ready to fire back at whoever was in the ambulance.
He was too late. The doors kept opening.
Jack rolled along the ground, hoping to make himself a difficult target.
To Jack's astonishment, a Syrian soldier with an AK-47 on his lap and blood flowing down the side of his face and soaking his shirt pitched forward. He tumbled out of the ambulance, landing next to Jack on the ground.
Jack jumped to his feet, gun in hand. In utter amazement he saw Robert McCallister up on his knees on a gurney. His right arm was bandaged. In his left hand he held a pistol, which was smoking.
In a jerky movement, Robert lowered his arm and aimed the gun at Jack. He had a dazed look on his face, which made Jack think they must have given him a sedative that was just wearing off. He had no idea who Jack was, and he might fire again.
Before Robert had a chance, Jack took the gun out of his hand. "I'm here with the American military," Jack said. "You're safe now. We've got you back."
Tears of joy filled the pilot's eyes. "Oh, my God. I'm really free?"
A bullet blasted into the ground not far from the ambulance. The sound of automatic weapons was close by. "I have to get you under cover," Jack said. "I didn't do all this to lose you now."
Jack helped Robert out of the ambulance and hustled him over to the cafe.
Though Avi and Michael both had guns trained on the Iranians, they let out a cheer when they saw Jack and Robert.
"Good work," Avi called out.
"It looks like the American troops are mopping up the last few Russians," Jack said. "I'd say this is a complete success."
"Not yet," replied Michael, his leg bandaged with towels from the cafe. "Suslov escaped. He drove off in his Mercedes."
"We can't let that bastard get away," Jack said. "He's the one who was selling the nuclear weapons to our enemies."
Jack glanced at Avi, who nodded his agreement.
"You two stay here and watch Robert," Jack said. "I'll see if I can find Suslov and give him a little justice, Russian style."
"I'm going with you," Michael said. "I owe him big-time for everything he did to Irina."
Jack was prepared to tell Michael to remain behind and help Avi, when Avi spoke up: "Don't worry. I can handle it all back here. Get moving, you two."
* * *
The Americans were racing around picking off the few remaining Russian soldiers. Three threw their arms in the air and surrendered. "The area is now secure," Captain Kelly told Major Davis.
With an Uzi in his hand, Jack ran over to the pilot of one of the choppers. "We need a ride," he said. "The Russian responsible for all of this has taken off, heading west in a Mercedes."
"Climb in," the pilot of Chestnut four-four said. "I'll get my gunner. We'll catch him."
The helo lifted off with Michael belted in on one side, gripping his automatic hard. On the other, Jack was clutching an Uzi in one hand and a support in the other. He always found being in a helicopter with the door open and the wind whipping around to be a surreal experience. He pulled in his feet and legs to avoid falling out.
Ten minutes later they saw Suslov's Mercedes streaking along the open road at well over a hundred miles an hour.
"His car's armor-plated," Michael shouted to the gunner over the roar of the helo.
The gunner laughed. In an accent from the mountains of western North Carolina, he shouted back, "This sucker's equipped with AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles with enough power to punch through tank armor."
"Yes!" Michael roared.
The gunner gave him a thumbs-up.
In the Mercedes, Suslov watched as the Blackhawk moved in for the kill in his rearview mirror. He expected them to have weapons that would pierce the armor in the car. Thick trees lined the right side of the road. Suddenly Suslov cut a sharp right into the trees and slammed on the brakes. Gun in hand, he jumped out and dashed toward a clump of rocks just as the gunner let go with a missile that took the Mercedes out of the equation. There was a huge fireball and a deafening roar from the explosion.
"He's clear of the car," Jack shouted to the gunner. "Tell the pilot to put it down on the road. We'll chase him on foot." The gunner relayed Jack's request via his intercom headset, and the pilot quickly set his bird down on the road.
Suslov was moving away from the helicopter as fast as he could. Over his shoulder he saw Jack racing after him, while Michael trudged slowly with his bandaged thigh.
With his bum leg, Suslov knew he was no match for Jack. His only hope was to use the thick cover of the woods to circle back and pick off Michael, then surprise Jack from the rear.
But Michael had a pair of binoculars in his pocket. He yanked them out and put them up to his eyes, scanning the area until he saw Suslov. From the Russian's counterclockwise movement, he guessed what Suslov had in mind.
Michael took cover between two large rocks and watched Suslov gradually approaching his position.
Patience, he cautioned himself. Patience. You already missed twice. Wait for the right shot.
Michael knew he had it when Suslov stepped into a small clearing, only fifteen feet away from him. Glints of sunlight sliced through the trees. Gun in hand, the Russian looked around, searching for Michael. Michael could see him sweat.
He took aim and then slowly raised himself up behind the rock. Suslov spotted him, but before the Russian had a chance to shoot, Michael pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The bullets tore into Suslov's body from abdomen to chest as the gun bucked in Michael's hand. The Russian collapsed to his knees, then onto his back.
Blood and mud covered much of Suslov's body. He struggled to sit up and raise his gun.
Michael was ready for him. "This is for Irina," he said as he pulled the trigger.
Now the gun fell from Suslov's hand as he reared backward with a startled look on his face, as if wondering how this whole episode could have turned to shit so quickly.
Jack walked into the clearing. The Russian was dead. He raised his boot and violently kicked Suslov in the face.
The helo took Jack and Michael back to the parking lot of the truck stop. With the gun still in his hand, Jack trudged wearily into the cafe.
By now Robert was fully alert. The American pilot looked at him and said, "Hey, I'd like to thank the guy who rescued me. Who are you?"
"I'm Jack Cole. Your future brother in-law."
Epilogue
Politics always follows money, someone told the woman in the gray suit who headed up the Middle East section of Bank Leumi in Tel Aviv. Layla didn't know whether that was correct, but she did know that in the first six months on the job, she had developed a significant portfolio of loans for projects in Morocco, Egypt, and Jordan. The risk for the bank wasn't great. Most had guarantees from the United States, a European country, or a world lending organization. The political benefit from these loans for Israel was significant, as the word spread on the Arab street.
She checked her watch. Running late again. The trip to the hair salon she had hoped for early this evening would have to go.
She left the bank headquarters and jumped into a cab. "The Mann Auditorium, please," she told the driver.
"What are they playing tonight?" the driver asked in Russian-accented Hebrew.
She smiled. No cabdriver in Paris would have ever asked a passenger that. "Yefim Bronfman is playing two Brahms piano concertos, Numbers One and Two."
"Magnificent," the driver responded. "He's one of our best."
Layla shook her head in disbelief. What a country this Israel is. Everyone's a political analyst and a music critic.
As the cab slowed to a stop next to the plaza in front of the hall, Layla climbed out. A tall, fit-looking man with thick, wavy, sand-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes was waiting for her.
"Did I ever tell you," he said, "that I love how you get in and out of a car? You
always show lots of gorgeous leg."
She smiled. "Yes, I believe you've mentioned it. Sandwich and a glass of wine before the conceit?"
"The sandwich I'll buy. The wine I brought." He patted a case he was carrying in his hand. "I can't drink what they're selling here."
Laughing, she leaned up and kissed him. "You're such a snob, Jack. Don't forget you're just a kid from the north side of Chicago."
The End
Acknowledgments
After the successful publication of Spy Dance, I breathed a large sigh of relief that events in the Middle East didn't destroy the factual premises for the story, and vowed that I would never write another novel which even tangentially touched upon that turbulent part of the world. With events unfolding at a furious pace in Iraq and the Israeli-Arab conflict, the topic seemed like a minefield. No pun intended.
However, Henry Morrison, my marvelous agent, and Doug Grad, my superb editor, had other ideas. "You know the area," they said. "You can do it again." So it was into the fray one more time. Henry and Doug worked with me and offered valuable insights each step of the way from outline to the final revisions. For that I am extremely grateful.
My wife, Barbara, read each draft and offered constructive suggestions. She particularly helped me shape the female characters. Sarah, Ann, and Layla have all benefited from her sagacity.
Ed Sands at Calvert Woodley in Washington supplied essential information about the intricacies of the wine business. Our daughter, Deborah, was always available to help make the medical issues accurate and coherent.
Finally, the entire team at NAL—John Paine, Adrian Wood, Ron Martirano, Tina Anderson, and everyone in the art and sales departments—were incredibly helpful and amazingly efficient.
Excerpt from
The China Gambit
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2012, Allan J. Topol
Before Craig had a chance to answer, his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number.
"Craig Page here."
"Mr. Page, this is James Anderson, Deputy Police Chief in Calgary Canada."
Craig's heart was pounding. Two day ago Francesca had sent him an e-mail, telling him she was in Calgary, working on a big story.
"Are you Francesca Page's father?"
"I am."
Craig held his breath.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Page, I have to inform you that your daughter died in an auto accident this evening. Her car collided with a truck on an icy road."
"No," he gave a bloodcurdling cry. "No. It can't be."
Not Francesca. I love her more than anything in the world.
"You're mistaken. It's not Francesca."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Page. She had a passport and other ID in her jacket pocket."
The fool was lying. "You're no Calgary cop."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Page. She had a Tiffany's wristwatch. Engraved on the back 'To Francesca With Love...'"
He'd given her that when she graduated from Northwestern.
"And a scar on her left ankle."
He vividly recalled the ski injury she suffered during their trip to Megeve two years ago at Christmas.
The man's accent and inflections were from Calgary. As the reality drove home like a spike through his body, in agony, a rash of grief covered his face, distorting his mouth, turning his grey eyes black. Francesca was dead.
"I'm so sorry," Giuseppe said.
But Craig barely heard his words.
"Leave me alone," Craig said, rising abruptly. "I am alone."
He left Sabbitini and wandered the streets of Trastevere. Crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, he recalled his father, four years old, so alone after the carnage on the farm, his whole family murdered.
Now, I too, am no longer connected to a single living soul.
Aimlessly, in a daze, he crossed streets, disregarding traffic signals, ignoring honking horns and the curses of motorists. He passed churches, but didn't go inside. He wouldn't find solace there.
He walked for two more hours. Then drifted into a Trattoria. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress poured a glass, but he didn't touch it. He placed his head into his hands and lowered it to the coarse wooden table. He cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth. "Francesca," he muttered in a barely audible plaintive lament.
He had no idea how long he remained with his head on the table. He heard, "Craig." A powerful set of arms pulled his head up, then raised him to his feet. It was Giuseppe.
"C'mon Craig, we're going to the airport. I'm taking you to Washington."
Excerpt from
Spy Dance
A Novel
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Allan J. Topol
Nervously he picked it up on the second ring.
"Is this Greg Nielsen?" a man's voice asked in French.
"You must have the wrong room," he replied, trying hard not to disclose the tension in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to form under his arms.
"I know that you're Greg Nielsen," the caller persisted.
"You're obviously mistaken. There's no one in this room by that name. I suggest you talk to the hotel operator."
"I would urge you not to play games with me, Mr. Nielsen. Be in front of the Bristol at six tomorrow morning. A black Mercedes will pick you up."
David's mind was focusing on the accent of the caller. Clearly Parisian, he decided. "What is your name, please? I'll give it to the hotel operator. Maybe she can leave a message."
"Did you understand what I said?" The caller sounded annoyed. "Tomorrow at six."
"And if I'm not there?"
"Certain people in Washington will be very interested in knowing where you are, Mr. Nielsen."
The phone clicked dead.
Allan Topol is the national bestselling author of novels of international intrigue, including Spy Dance, recently translated into Chinese. He is a graduate of Carnegie Institute of Technology, who majored in chemistry, abandoned science, and obtained a law degree from Yale University. A partner in a major Washington law firm, and an avid wine collector, he has traveled extensively, researching dramatic locations for his novels. You can visit him at www.AllanTopol.com. Please let him know if you would like to receive his free newsletter.