Enemy of My Enemy (19 page)

"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.

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. Now 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."