Enemy of My Enemy

by Allan Topol

  He was on his cell phone in a restaurant near Izra'a, a small town on the Syrian side of the border, where he had stopped for coffee to stay awake. His wife answered the phone on the second ring, which surprised Yasef. Usually it took four or five.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  The two State Security men had written down on a piece of paper the speech his wife should give if Yasef called. Ten different times they had made her practice it to make sure she got it right. They wanted Yasef to come home so they could capture him and find out who the Italians were and what they were doing in Syria. The instant the phone rang one agent herded the wailing daughters into another room and silenced them.

  Yasef's wife intended to give the speech exactly as they wanted. Truly she did. She began in a voice that sounded natural. "Where are you? When will you..." The agent was gripping his gun hard, pointing it at her face with his finger on the trigger. The fear became too much for her. She couldn't go on.

  When the agent pressed the hard, cold steel of the barrel of the .45 against her forehead, trying to intimidate her into continuing, the phone fell out of her hand. She began crying and moaning. The agent slammed the phone down, then pistol-whipped her across the face, breaking her nose and jaw. "You stupid cow," he shouted.

  In the restaurant, Yasef held the dead phone in his hand for several minutes. He had no doubt that State Security was in his house. Even the words he had heard were ones his wife would never have used with him. Those people are so clumsy and witless, he thought with contempt.

  Yasef looked down into the muddy brown cup of Turkish coffee and weighed his options. Saving his own life was no longer possible. By now they were aware that his wife and daughters knew nothing. If he went back and they captured him, State Security would make him watch his wife and children being tortured. They would suffer unimaginable horrors, and eventually he'd break. But if he didn't go back, there was a chance that they'd let his wife and children live.

  He removed the tissue from his pocket. Without hesitation he put one cyanide capsule in his mouth, washed it down with coffee, and followed the process with the second one. He had no regrets. He had done what he could to remove those monsters from control of his country.

  * * *

  Robert McCallister was walking slowly along a stone path under a blue sky on a beautiful spring day as he evaluated his situation. He was being held prisoner in a large villa surrounded by a twelve-foot-high stone wall. It was comfortable inside, with finely made furnishings that were now frayed and tattered. His guess was that at one time it had been the summer residence of a wealthy man. No one was living there, at least not now. He was alone except for the servants who cleaned the house and cooked for him. It was good food—meats, fish, vegetables, and fruits. As much as he wanted.

  There were armed soldiers, of course, each one carrying an AK-47. They rotated in shifts, but two of them watched him twenty-four hours a day: when he walked outside, when he ate, when he slept, even when he showered. Unwilling to give him a razor, they insisted on having a man shave him each morning. For recreation they permitted him to jog in the morning and to walk around in the afternoon, but always on the grounds inside the walls. They offered him books to read: novels in English by Mark Twain and Charles Dickens.

  He didn't know where he was. The soldiers' uniforms were plain dark brown without any insignia or other identification. They looked like Arabs, but when he tried to talk to them in the few words of Arabic he knew, they refused to respond. From being outside in the air, he discerned that he was at a reasonably high altitude, but not above the tree line. The scent of fresh flowers of spring drifted over the top of the wall. Tall trees in bloom were visible.

  Often he thought of escaping, but so far he hadn't been able to come up with an idea for doing that. Before long you'll find a way, he reassured himself.

  Everyone addressed him politely, as if he were a guest in the villa. Each morning they gave him clean clothes to wear—a shirt and casual slacks with the labels cut off, precisely in his size. Whoever was managing his imprisonment was intelligent and meticulous. They left nothing to chance.

  He walked slowly along the path, studying the wall on all sides. There had to be a weak spot. Something he could exploit to escape.

  From the front door of the villa a man was calling him in English: "Lieutenant McCallister, please come here."

  He glanced at one of the soldiers, who motioned with his AK-47, signaling Robert to move back inside. He turned and headed that way.

  The living room had been converted into a photographer's studio. A soldier he had never seen before asked him to sit in a comfortable leather chair that faced the lens of a camera. One soldier put a sign around his neck with large letters that said lt. robert mccallister. Another one handed him a copy of the International Herald Tribune and asked him to hold it in front of his body. As Robert moved the paper around in his hands, he got a quick glance at the date, March 24. That had to be today's paper, today's date, he guessed.

  "Please smile," a man's voice called in English from behind the camera. Robert couldn't see the photographer's face. He kept his lips pressed together on general principle, but no one seemed to mind. The photographer snapped away. Robert didn't know why they were taking the pictures, but he realized what they would portray: Robert McCallister fit and healthy. What the viewer would never see was the anguish and misery he was feeling inside. The conviction that was growing stronger with each passing day that he would never get out of this alive.

  Think positive, he told himself. The photographs must mean that they're using you in some type of blackmail scheme. So if Father antes up enough money, which he will, then I go free.

  As he walked back outside after the photography session, gray clouds were moving in that matched his mood. He realized this couldn't be a simple effort to extort money from his father. It had to be far more complex—an attempt at political blackmail. The price for releasing him had to be an agreement by the United States to take some action so repugnant to President Kendall that the president would never do it, regardless of who Robert's father was.

  He knew from a class at the Air Force Academy how these things went. There would be endless discussions around the clock in Washington. Memos outlining options would be drafted, revised, and revised some more before they made their way to the White House. There would be incessant hand wringing at the Pentagon and the State Department. But at the end of the day President Kendall would decide not to submit to blackmail.

  Robert wouldn't blame the president. In fact, he would be upset if the president made any other decision, even though his own life was on the line.

  During those four years at the Academy, he had become imbued with the concept that there were times when people had to die for their country to preserve America's freedom. If this was that type of situation, then Lt. Robert McCallister was willing to die. He didn't want the price for his release to be a diminution in America's freedom.

  That didn't mean he would go quietly. He intended to redouble his efforts to find some way to escape.

  * * *

  "Don't get in that car," Jack said as Avi reached for the door of the armor-plated black sedan that was scheduled to make the next run from Amman to Jerusalem.

  Avi quickly moved away. Instinctively he thought that he would be activating a bomb if he opened the door. "What's wrong?" he asked Jack, sounding alarmed.

  Jack pulled Avi off to the side to talk, while the driver of the limo looked at them irritably. "Going to Jerusalem's stupid," Jack said.

  "We have to brief Moshe."

  "That's why it's stupid. We're making progress now. If we tell Moshe, we run the risk that he decides to call Joyner at the CIA. Even if the Americans don't blow the whistle, he'll yank it away from us and use his own full-time people."

  Avi nodded.

  "Besides," Jack continued, "when I met with Moshe in Jerusalem before I contacted you, he told me that he couldn't be involved. Well, it's our baby. N
ow that we're getting somewhere, I don't want to lose it."

  Avi liked working with Jack. He was not only sharp, but he shared Avi's independent streak. "So we go to Paris," Avi said, "because that's where Nadim is, and he has the plan for the American pilot in his head."

  Hearing the word Paris, Jack remembered Monique's email he had received in Israel the day of Sam's sudden visit, and he cringed.

  The driver trudged over. "Look, Avi," he said, "I'm on a tight schedule."

  Avi had no intention of letting word get back to Moshe that he and Jack were flying to Paris. "Then go."

  "What will you do?"

  "Drop down to Aqaba for a swim. They love me there."

  The driver burst out laughing. "You're a funny guy."

  "You'd better take off before Nir blows a gasket. Don't worry about us."

  Once the limo pulled away, Jack said to Avi, "Let's walk. I have to tell you something." They were in an upscale commercial area of Amman near shops and restaurants. Jack looked around nervously. "I have a problem with Paris right now. The SDECE may be looking for me. You might have to go without me."

  That stopped Avi in his tracks. "What happened?"

  Jack described the e-mail Monique had sent about Daniel Moreau's visit to his office.

  "You think they suspect you in Khalifa's death?"

  Jack shrugged. "I don't think the locals I used in Marseilles know enough to help Moreau tie it back to me, but I can't be positive." He shrugged. "Moreau may still be trying to build a case against me for Osirak. I've learned from friends in Paris that Osirak's been eating him up inside for years. He won't let go of it. He may have caught up with Francoise in Montreal. So you don't want me with you in Paris right now. I could be a real liability."

  Avi mulled over what Jack had said. "Does Moshe know about the Moreau visit?"

  Jack shook his head. "You're the first person I've mentioned it to."

  "What do you think?" Avi asked. "You'll be the one at risk. Do you want to take the chance?"

  Jack began thinking aloud. "The boys from the SDECE play rough, but they're also loners. They rarely coordinate with the local gendarmes or with the authorities in other E.U. countries." He paused. "On the other hand, we have to assume that they'll have my name and a picture at passport control at airports. Maybe even posted at train stations."

  "You might be able to get one more use out of the Angelli tire ED if you needed it."

  "That's too risky. The picture on the Italian passport is still mine, and the Syrians may have forwarded our Italian names to the French. A better bet might be to fly to Brussels and drive down to Paris. The European border checkpoints are a thing of the past."

  Avi evaluated what Jack had said. "You'd better avoid your office and apartment in Paris."

  "That's what I was thinking. In Paris my official residence is behind my wine business in a building on Avenue de Messine. But I also have another place off Avenue Victor Hugo in the name of a dummy company in case I ever had to go underground."

  Jack sounded sheepish. He felt defensive about owning a second costly apartment in Paris. He had bought it years ago with his share of the life-insurance money from his parents that he and Sam split before prices went out of sight.

  "Would your secretary give you away?"

  "I sent Monique off to Australia for a month's vacation when I heard about Moreau's visit. You can stay with me at the Victor Hugo pad."

  Avi shook his head. "I don't want to impose. Besides, Koach, the arms manufacturer I work for, keeps a suite at the Hotel Pyrenees on the left bank. I can toss the wet towels on the bathroom floor. We'll use your place for our working headquarters."

  "I'll make sure I've got lots of cold beer for you."

  Avi laughed. "Sorry to disappoint you, but in France I drink Armagnac and smoke cigars."

  "Lucky for you, I have plenty of both."

  * * *

  They took a cab to Queen Alia Airport in Amman. As they sat in a coffee shop waiting to board a plane to Athens, where they would connect to Brussels, Jack said to Avi, "How much do you know about Major General Nadim?"

  "I never met the man, but I feel as if I know him well, he's been a nemesis of ours for so long. A couple years ago I asked our researchers and psychologists to do an in-depth profile from all the information we've been able to gather."

  "How can I get a copy?"

  Avi leaned over the table, close to Jack. "Wait until we hit Paris. I have friends at our embassy there. One of them will pull it off the computer for me without getting any approvals."

  "We have to act fast," Jack said. "Nadim has to be worried that Washington could begin a massive bombing, or take some other action in Turkey or Syria if they know he's moved the pilot. So we have to assume that he'll probably make his move in a matter of days."

  Chapter 14

  "Where is Jack Cole?" Daniel Moreau demanded of George, the building manger, who lived on the ground floor of the Avenue de Messine building that housed the office for Jack's wine business as well as his official residence. They were standing in the entrance to the building.

  George stared hard at Moreau, his face registering defiance. "How the hell should I know? He doesn't report to me."

  "Is he in Israel with all the other Jews?" He pronounced the word with contempt.

  "I'm not his travel agent," George fired back.

  Moreau, who had arrived with two agents of SDECE and flashed his ID, had expected that George wouldn't be intimidated. Before coming he had run a background check on the man. George would be eighty-five next month. Active in the resistance and captured by the Gestapo, he never cracked under torture, even after losing an arm. After the war he had worked as a real estate agent until the company had retired him, and then as a building manager. Since the Germans hadn't broken him as a young man, Moreau didn't expect to coerce him into talking now. But Moreau couldn't resist making one more try. "Jack Cole's a spy for the Israelis," he said sharply. "If I think you're concealing information, I can lock you up until you talk. You won't have the right to a lawyer or anything else."

  George looked indignant. "Listen, Inspector, or whatever the hell you are. As far as I know, Jack Cole's an American in the wine business. I don't know anything about spying."

  "I have proof that you're lying."

  George held out his hand and locked eyes with Moreau. "Then arrest me."

  Moreau knew there was no point in doing that. "What about his secretary, Monique? I met her the last time I was here. Is she upstairs?"

  "I haven't seen her in days."

  "How convenient," Moreau said sarcastically. He reached into his pocket and removed a small notebook and pen from his pocket.

  "What about other employees of Cole? Where are they?"

  George shrugged. "You'll have to ask Jack Cole."

  Moreau knew he was banging his head against a wall. "Give me the key to his apartment," he said angrily.

  "I don't remember seeing a search warrant. Show me one."

  Moreau pointed to one of his men, who was eagerly brandishing a crowbar. "You're looking at it."

  George had no doubt that this bastard was going into Jack Cole's office and apartment whether George gave him a key or not. There was no point letting him break down the door. George went inside to his desk and returned with a key. "I'll walk up and let you in."

  "Wrong. You give me the key. You'll stay down here with him." Moreau nodded to the other man.

  Reluctantly George handed over the key. "He has the fourth floor." George mumbled under his breath while Moreau and the man with the crowbar went into the lift.

  From his prior visit, Moreau knew that the front of the apartment was Jack's office, where Monique and Jack had separate rooms. Slowly and systematically Moreau looked through every drawer and file cabinet in those two rooms, searching for anything related to Jack's activities for the Mossad. To his dismay all he found were papers related to the wine business. As he looked through each drawer and came up empty, he cur
sed and dumped the contents on the floor.

  Moreau took the computer hard drive and all the disks from both computers, Jack's and his secretary's. He shoved them into his briefcase. Then he turned to his assistant with the crowbar. "Do your work."

  As Moreau moved into Jack's living quarters, the young man used the crowbar to decimate the green leather top on Jack's Louis XIV desk. Then he smashed one end through the screens of the two computers. He turned over file cabinets.

  Meantime, Moreau searched Jack's living quarters in the back. When he failed to find a single inflammatory piece of paper, he called for his associate. This time the young man cut Jack's suits and scattered them across the floor of the apartment. A glass lamp was smashed. Tables were turned over. The mattress was slit open.

  "Fucking Jews," Moreau cursed in frustration as his assistant finished the job.

  * * *

  An hour later Moreau entered the office of the director of the SDECE to report what had happened in Montreal. He decided to omit his pointless search of Jack's office and apartment.

  As Moreau spoke, he watched the director's expression turn from curiosity to disbelief and finally disdain.

  "You idiot," the director railed with scorn. "How could you have let Francoise jump off that balcony?"

  Moreau was livid. His chest muscles tightened. He didn't like being chewed out as if he were a schoolboy by anyone, particularly by the director. "It was a mistake. I told you that. Obviously I shouldn't have let her out of my sight."

  "It wasn't a mistake," the director screamed. "It was a total fuckup. Your brain froze on you. Now we've lost our only witness."

  Moreau sat in front of the director's desk, trying to keep his anger in check. He was the one who had decided to reopen the Osirak investigation after the recent death of Khalifa persuaded him that the Mossad was operating again on French soil. He was the one who had painstakingly read and reread every transcript from Jean Pierre's interrogation and then combed Paris directories from 1981 for actresses, which was all that Jean Pierre said about the woman he slept with, until he found Francoise Colbert.