by Allan Topol
Yasef kicked at the ground in frustration. There was no good way out of this mess. He had to assume that Hussein had reported he was following the Italians, even if he didn't have a chance to disclose his location. If Yasef drove off and left the Israelis on their own, it would be only a matter of time until Avi and Jack were captured. He could take a chance that the Israelis wouldn't break under torture and reveal his involvement, but Yasef didn't want that to happen. Avi had always been a friend, bringing things that Yasef wanted for his family and couldn't get in the country. Yasef's sense of honor required that he return that friendship.
The Syrian now had a plan for what they should do. "Get in your car and follow me," Yasef said.
Avi was willing to trust Yasef with his life. Without questioning the Syrian, he said to Jack, "Let's go."
They drove for about twenty minutes in an easterly direction, the green Renault behind the gray Lada, until they came to an area where the road fell off sharply to the right. Yasef pulled over to the side and stopped. Avi was behind him, with Jack in the passenger seat.
"Leave the keys in your car and wait here," Yasef told the two Israelis.
They did as they were told while Yasef drove the green Renault down the side of the embankment and into a natural tunnel in the ground. No one could spot the car from the road.
Breathing heavily, Yasef climbed back up the rocky slope. Sweat streamed down his face, moistening his beard. "I have to get the two of you out of the country," he said grimly. "There's no other way of dealing with this." He turned to Avi. "You go in the front of the car with me."
Yasef opened the trunk. "Your friend rides back here."
A horrified Jack looked at Avi. The Syrian read his mind. "Don't worry about suffocating. Fucking Russian cars leak like sieves. There are plenty of holes back there and lots of airflow from the interior. I once kept someone there for two full days."
"I hope it won't be as long this time," Jack said nervously.
"Not even close. We're about a hundred fifty miles from the Jordanian border crossing point at Dar'a. We'll stay off the main road and approach it from the west. In four or five hours you'll be safe." He gave a nervous laugh. "Either that or we'll all be dead. There's no way I'll let them take us alive."
Once they were settled in the car, Yasef turned on the ignition and began driving.
Avi pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and handed it to Yasef. Then he lit a second for himself. Two more cigarettes later, Yasef explained to Avi in a halting voice that there was a State Security alert in the country.
"You're saving our lives," Avi said. "How can I ever thank you?"
Yasef waved his hand, blowing smoke out of the open car window. "Don't worry about thanking me. We just have to get out of this alive. All of us. That means whisking the two of you out of the country. I assume there's nothing you need in your hotel rooms."
Avi's mouth was taut. "If I needed it, I wouldn't have left it there."
Yasef was too tense to crack a smile. "Good. Then we don't have to go back to Damascus. At the border crossing I'll try to sneak you over with me. You can use Hussein's papers. Fortunately he didn't have a beard."
Yasef paused and glanced at Avi. "You look a little like him. The guards will be tired. It'll be dark. They won't care."
"You said that State Security was already on high alert. Once they find Hussein's body—" Avi stopped in midsentence.
Yasef looked thoughtful. "It's our only chance. We're racing against the clock."
Avi tried to consider alternatives. None was better. From Jordan he would have no trouble getting back to Israel, as Yasef knew.
"Why is your government on such a high-security alert?" Avi asked Yasef, who slowed to avoid hitting a small animal crossing the road. The old battered Russian car was wheezing and snorting. I hope it doesn't die on us, Avi thought.
"I don't know," Yasef said. "All I've been able to learn is that Major General Nadim is planning some kind of big operation. What or when is a closely guarded secret."
"How long has this high-security alert been going on?" Avi asked.
"Just now. A day or two. All very recent."
"What does that mean?"
"All foreign visitors are being carefully checked. You have to assume that they have your picture from a hidden video that was running at the airport when you arrived."
Avi was digesting Yasef's words, trying to decide if this operation of Nadim's related to Robert McCallister, and if so, how.
Yasef interrupted Avi's silent and inconclusive analysis.
"Back at the cafe I asked you why you came to Damascus. Then your friend burst in. Let's pick it up from there."
"Have you heard an American plane was shot down over southeastern Turkey a few days ago?" Avi said.
Yasef nodded. "There was a huge story when it happened. Then suddenly inexplicable silence. It's as if the pilot disappeared from the face of the earth."
"He hasn't disappeared," Avi said grimly. "He's been moved from Turkey to Syria."
Yasef's head snapped back in surprise. "Are you certain?"
"Very."
"Why did they do that?"
Avi was putting together what he knew about McCallister with what Yasef had told him in the car. According to Yasef, Nadim was planning a major operation. It had just happened. One of the maxims that kept Avi alive through his years in the Mossad was that for the spy there could be no such thing as coincidence. What Nadim was planning had to involve McCallister. Avi told Yasef, "The American pilot is the son of a close friend of President Kendall."
Yasef's eyes lit up. "Then Nadim must be planning to use the poor bastard as the pawn in some deal he's masterminding."
"Exactly what I was thinking. Suppose Jack and I stay in Syria, and you try to find out what Nadim has in mind? How close can you get to him?"
Yasef shook his head. "Nadim's already gone back to Paris. He likes to act as a solo player. My guess is that very few people, if any, in the Syrian government know what Nadim's up to. He's a firm believer that people can't tell what they don't know. His other maxim is that dead people don't talk."
Avi rubbed his chin. Yasef was right. With Nadim gone, he couldn't learn any more in Syria about Nadim's plan. But there was another possibility: If they could rescue McCallister, they could thwart Nadim's scheme.
"Do you think you could find out where they're keeping the pilot?"
Yasef looked terrified. "Surely you don't think you can take him out with you?"
"We would do it ourselves," Avi said boldly. "Just Jack Cole and me. It wouldn't get back to you."
Yasef couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I didn't save your life so you could throw it away. It would take me at least a day, maybe longer, to find out where they're holding the pilot. Remember, I'm with the military intelligence section. They isolated us from State Security. I would have to do it without arousing suspicion. Meantime, State Security will have found Hussein's body. Headquarters will know he was following you. They'll assume you killed him. Every policeman, soldier, and intelligence agent in the country will be looking for you. You know how long you'll last that way?"
They were approaching an intersection. Yasef stopped to consult a map in the glove compartment, then turned left. "Besides," he continued his thought, "even if you were able to break into the prison, or wherever it is they're holding McCallister, and you managed to get him out of there, the three of you wouldn't last three seconds on the street."
While Avi mulled over Yasef's words, the Syrian added, "I know what you did at Entebbe. I know how bold and daring you Israelis can be. But even for you, this would be too much. On further thought, I'd give you three minutes on the street, but it would be fun to watch." Quite inexplicably, Yasef burst out laughing.
"It's not funny," Avi said.
"Sorry, gallows humor."
For the next two hours they drove in silence. Yasef was pushing the old car hard, at the maximum speed it would take.
They turned onto the main north-south road that connected Damascus and Amman. A slow-moving train chugged on the tracks parallel to the road.
Avi saw a sign that said Jordanian border twenty kilometers. He pointed it out to Yasef, who nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out Hussein's wallet and his State Security ID. He handed them to Avi, who glanced at the dead man's picture.
"You really think this is going to work?"
"Absolutely," Yasef said, trying to steel his own courage. "You told me once that your family lived in Baghdad for eighteen hundred years until your great-great-grandfather moved to China."
"Yeah, but so what?"
"Before that your ancestors lived in Palestine. So you've been a neighbor. You look like one of us. You even speak Arabic."
"You're assuming Hussein's body hasn't been found yet."
Yasef was ready for Avi. He had weighed all the factors in his mind. "Or if they found it, they didn't have time to notify all the border guards and distribute your pictures."
"Either way, I'd better twist up my face to look like the miserable bastard Jack killed."
Yasef didn't want to talk anymore. He was looking through the windshield, squinting as he concentrated on the road and the task at hand. Five kilometers from the border he said to Avi, "Take the briefcase on the backseat and put it on the floor at your feet."
Avi followed Yasef's command.
"Inside there's a loaded pistol. Use it if you're in doubt. Dead is better than being Nadim's prisoner." Yasef said it in a grim voice.
Avi glanced over at Yasef. What he saw was a determined soldier sitting ramrod straight behind the wheel, his jaw firmly set as if he were made of iron.
It was still dark when Yasef slowed to a stop at the border hut. Two soldiers in Syrian army uniforms strolled out. The one in front was holding a flashlight. "Identification, please," he said as he approached the car.
Yasef handed him his ID. "Military intelligence," he said. "The car belongs to the agency."
The soldier yawned. It had been a long night on duty. "Where are you going?"
"To Amman to meet with Jordanian military officials on a top secret mission personally ordered by Major General Nadim."
Yasef figured that mentioning the name of the dreaded Nadim would stop the inquiry. Certainly no lowly border guard would dare try to call the major general in the middle of the night. He was right. The soldier shone the light on Avi while his colleague walked to the back of the car to check the license plates.
It matched the papers Yasef handed them. He tapped on the trunk.
Yasef hoped it wouldn't pop open, which sometimes happened after a hard knock.
Inside the trunk Jack was in a fetal position. Now that the car had stopped, he figured they were at the border checkpoint. He was holding his breath, ready to spring at anyone who opened it up.
Alongside the car, the soldier with the flashlight pointed toward Avi and asked Yasef, "Who's he?"
"From the agency, too. He's on the mission with me."
In his left hand Avi held Hussein's ID ready to hand it over. His right hand was on the edge of the seat, poised to go for the gun if need be.
The soldier didn't ask to see Avi's ID. He waved his hand with the light. "Go on, you two."
Fifty yards ahead at the Jordanian border control, Yasef, now breathing easier and more relaxed, repeated his story. Again they were waved through.
* * *
They reached the outskirts of Amman as the sun was rising. Yasef pulled into a combination gas station and restaurant. Once they were out of sight behind the building, he stopped the car and opened the trunk. Jack climbed out and tried to straighten his stiff body.
"You okay?" Avi asked.
Jack smiled. "Yeah, it was almost as bad as flying economy on El Al."
They all laughed from relief that the ordeal was over.
"Let's stop and eat something," Avi said.
Yasef shook his head. "I have to get home before they suspect me in Hussein's killing."
"You need food to keep going. We won't waste much time."
Reluctantly Yasef agreed. Inside the restaurant, at a table, they wolfed down sandwiches of diced vegetables in pita and drank bottled water and coffee. Avi leaned over and whispered to Yasef, "Don't go back. It's too dangerous. Go to Israel with us. We'll take care of you."
Yasef sighed. "I can't leave my wife and children. They'll be interrogated. You know what that means."
Avi nodded grimly. "They don't have any information. After a couple of months we'll mount an operation and get them out. We've done that for Syrian Jews."
Yasef didn't want to tell Avi that the Israeli didn't fully appreciate Nadim's cruelty. His only hope was to return before he was missed. If he didn't come back, Nadim would torture and kill his wife and children whether they knew anything or not. It would be his way of gaining a measure of revenge over Yasef. The Syrian didn't want Avi to know how terrified he was. He put his hand on top of Avi's. "You're a good man, but you worry too much. I'll be okay."
The look in Yasef's eyes told Avi he would never convince the Syrian to change his mind.
On Hashemi Street, near the Roman Amphitheatre, in downtown Amman, Yasef dropped the two Israelis in front of the Grand Hyatt hotel. Before he pulled away, he got out of the car and embraced Avi. "Good luck, my friend," Avi said.
Avi watched Yasef's car pull away. Then, in silence, he and Jack walked six blocks to the Israeli trade mission. The receptionist looked at him with surprise when he entered the office. "Is Nir in?" he asked.
"Well, well. Avi Sassoon returns." She smiled. "I thought you retired last year. Couldn't take the boredom, eh?"
"I'm still retired," he insisted.
Nir, a Mossad employee operating under a trade cover, was even more startled. "What are you doing here?" he said in a sharp, hostile tone.
"Is that any way to greet a former colleague?"
"Who is he?" Nir asked, pointing to Jack.
"A friend from Tel Aviv. We went hiking and got lost. We need a ride home."
Nir shook his head in disbelief. He motioned to Jack. "You wait here. The girls will get you something to drink." Then Nir led Avi into a small conference room and pushed the door shut. "I thought you were selling weapons."
Relieved that he had made it out of Syria, Avi was feeling good, and in no mood to take Nir's crap. "I am. Do you want to buy some?"
"Look, comedian. Our relationship with Jordan has finally recovered from your Aqaba fiasco last year. We're trying to keep things quiet with them right now. You want to tell me what you're up to?"
"Negative. It's a secret arms deal authorized by the Defense Ministry. I can't discuss it with you. You're not on the approved list." Avi could tell that his words were pissing Nir off in a major way, and he was enjoying every second. "Besides, it doesn't concern Jordan. So your skirts will stay dry, which is all you care about."
Nir scowled at Avi. "What do you want, then?"
"Transportation to Jerusalem on the next green car out."
Avi was assuming that the old arrangement from last year was still in effect. Israel could move people from Amman to Jerusalem in an official car, the so-called "green car" that traveled across the Allenby Bridge with no papers required and no questions asked. Jordan could do the same from Jerusalem back to Amman. His assumption was right.
"Be back here in three hours," Nir said. "And don't make any trouble till then."
Avi looked at him scornfully. "You've got to be kidding. Me, make trouble?"
"Aqaba wasn't your finest hour."
"Mentioning my name to the Jordanian foreign minister wasn't yours."
* * *
The director of the State Security section at the Syrian intelligence agency knew that something was wrong as soon as he reached his office at seven in the morning, reviewed the reports from all of the agents, and learned that Hussein hadn't reported in since eleven last evening, when he had followed two Italians to the Abu cafe outside of town.
He dispatched two agents to the cafe, where the owner insisted he had never seen Hussein. In less than an hour they found the agent's car and his dead body, where Jack had left them close to the cafe.
When they reported that to headquarters, they learned that the Italians never returned to their hotel last night. A clear picture was emerging: Whoever had met the Italians in the cafe must have killed Hussein. Then they escaped.
That led to a second visit to the cafe owner. This time they showed him a photograph of one of the Italians, which had been made from the video taken on their arrival at Damascus airport. The picture of the other one was too blurred to be of use.
They threatened to haul the proprietor of the cafe down to headquarters unless he told them everything he knew. "We'll work on your good leg until you talk, or until it goes the way of the other one. Think about it... with one good leg you can still have a life in this country. Missing two legs you become a pathetic beggar."
Quite apart from the threats, the proprietor didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Yasef was a member of their agency. Yasef always insisted that his meetings were government business. The cafe owner looked at the picture of Avi and said, "He's the man who entered with Yasef. Another one came in later, but I didn't get a good enough look to identify him." The owner decided to omit the payments Yasef made to him. Besides, they never asked about money. Once they heard about Yasef, they were in a hurry to get to Yasef's house.
That was where they were, sitting in his living room, pointing guns at his petrified wife and his three wailing daughters, when Yasef called.
