Enemy of My Enemy (27 page)

The ayatollah was cunning. He was now fascinated by what Hashim had suggested. "Is that possible?" he asked.

"Of course. Everything has to move through our territory before it gets to Turkey and Syria. Suppose we simply keep it all and double-cross them. We'll get everything, including the American pilot. We can trade him for American technology or kill him. That'll be our decision."

The ayatollah put both hands on the desk and intertwined his fingers. "Are you certain that this pilot is alive and well? That they really have him?"

"Nadim showed me a picture."

"Did he give it to you?"

Hashim shook his head. He didn't want to admit he had refused it.

"Go meet with Nadim again. This time make him give you the picture. I'll need it in order to get the approvals here. They'll want to see that proof. I know how they think."

Visibly relieved, Hashim rose to leave on unsteady legs.

The ayatollah was smiling. "It will serve them right," he said, "those infidels in Turkey and Syria. They should come up with sand in their hands. That's what they deserve."

* * *

Knowing that his French wine business was on hold regardless of what happened, Jack decided to clean up one final loose end. It took him three calls on his cell phone to find the special cuvee Chateauneuf du Pape that Ed Sands had ordered. He arranged to ship it to Washington.

Seconds after Jack hung up, the phone rang. Very few people had the number. With everything that was happening with Nadim, it jarred him in a way it never had before.

He decided to listen, holding his breath, before identifying himself.

"Jack," he heard a woman say. He thought he recognized her voice, even after all of these years.
Oh, hell, it can't be. I don't need this now.
But it was.

"Jack, it's Sarah McCallister."

The phone fell out of his hand and onto the desk. When he picked it up, he heard her say, "Sam gave me your cell phone number. I hope you don't mind my calling."

"No, of course not," he said in a flat, unemotional tone. "My brother told me about your son, Robert. It's horrible. I feel bad for you."

"Thanks, Jack. It's been hell for all of us."

"I can imagine."

"Actually, you can't," Sarah said sadly.

It hit Jack that Sarah, because of Terry's relationship with President Kendall, might have some information about Robert that would be useful to him and Avi. "Any news about his release?"

"I wish there were."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Jack, but you're not willing to do anything to help."

So this was the point of the call. "I'm flattered that you think I could do anything, but I'm sure that Sam explained to you I'm in the wine business. I'm not a soldier or a spy."

"You know people in Israel who could help. Don't you?"

Good old Sarah. Always blunt and direct. Never one to mince her words. Jack didn't respond.

"I want to come to Israel or Paris or wherever you are and talk to you about it," she said.

Thanks a lot, Sam,
he thought. "I'm afraid now's not a good time."

She ignored his words. "Buy me lunch tomorrow, Jack. I'm in London. You tell me where and when. Anywhere in the world. I'll be there. Bobby's my child. My only son." Her voice was cracking with emotion. "You can't deny me that."

"But I just said—"

"With our history you can't possibly say no."

What he wanted to say was,
Precisely because of our history, I can say no.
But he couldn't do that. The desperation in her voice tugged at his heartstrings.

Jack softened. "Take the train down to Paris in the morning. Meet me in the lobby of the Hotel Bristol at one. We'll go from there."

"Thank you, Jack," she said, sounding relieved.

* * *

Sharp spasms of pain shot through Margaret Joyner's back. She stood up from her desk chair and walked around the office, holding an electric heating pad with a long extension cord against her lower back and cursing. Not wanting to risk dulling her mind, she refused to take painkillers. With surgery out of the question, the heating pad, standing, and muttering obscenities were her only relief. Until about fifteen minutes ago her back hadn't been bothering her for the first time in several days. Then Michael's report of his visit to Volgograd arrived with the photographs. As she began reading it, the pains returned.

The situation was treacherous. Her briefing yesterday with the president, one-on-one, based on Michael's oral report, had been a waste of time. Kendall had refused to focus on the issue. All he could talk about was Robert McCallister and Turkey. It had become an obsession with him.

Joyner refused to be blocked by the paralysis at the White House. She would respond to Michael and tell him to step up his vigilance on Suslov in Moscow and at the warehouse in Volgograd. She would move other CIA agents to Moscow if he needed more resources. She swallowed hard. She would also notify her Pentagon liaison that American troops at nearby locations should be on alert for possible assistance. This was dicey, because her request could find its way to Chip Morton and then to the White House. She'd have hell to pay for acting on her own, but she was willing to take the risk.

Satisfied with this approach, she returned to her desk to call in Carol and dictate the messages. Before she had a chance, the red phone rang.

"It's a gorgeous spring day in Jerusalem," Moshe said when she picked up.

She took a deep breath. This had to be more bad news. "You didn't call to give me a weather report."

"But I did. Because it's so nice my window was open, and a little birdie flew into the office."

"And?" Joyner said, holding her breath.

"The birdie told me that Robert McCallister has been moved to Syria."

Joyner couldn't get angry at Moshe. The news he was giving her was too important for that. "I thought you weren't going to get involved."

"Not a single Mossad employee has had anything to do with this. I can assure you of that."

Joyner was perplexed. "Why Syria? How reliable is your birdie?"

"Very. Two people almost lost their lives confirming it."

"Where in Syria are they holding him?"

"The birdie didn't know."

"Do you think it's just the Syrians helping out the Turks by providing a secure place for McCallister outside of their country?" She paused. "Or do you think there's some kind of joint Turkish/Syrian plot being hatched?"

Moshe hesitated before answering. He was afraid to tell Joyner everything he knew, which pointed toward Nadim's involvement with Kemal, who was acting on his own. First of all, nothing in detail had been established. Second, he didn't want to risk having Kendall order the Israeli prime minister to shut down Jack's operation with Avi. It was too critical to Israel's self-interest. So he equivocated. "I can't give you any hard information yet. You now have all I can pass along, which isn't an awful lot."

Joyner was thinking about her options. "I appreciate the call. Really I do, but now..." She hesitated.

"You don't know what to do with the info. Right?"

"Precisely."

"I'd say you're like the rabbi who skipped synagogue on Saturday to play golf and made a hole in one."

"Seriously, though, Moshe. Thanks for the information. Let me know if any other birdies fly into your office."

Joyner hung up the phone and called Mary Beth Reynolds on her cell phone. The vice president was in a car on Pennsylvania Avenue. "We have to talk," Joyner said.

"How about my office up on the Hill in thirty minutes? I may be a little late if I have to vote to break a tie on the health-care bill."

"Doesn't matter. I'll wait."

The vice president had an office on the Senate side of the capitol. That was where Joyner found Reynolds when she arrived.

"No vote," the vice president said. "The Democrats are playing parliamentary games. So what else is new? But none of that's important. I gather from your voice that something's happened."

Joyner told her about Moshe's call. "What do we do now?" she asked Reynolds at the end.

"We go over and tell Kendall."

"He'll bust a gut because I'm working with the Israelis."

Reynolds was never one to shy away from a battle. "It's the right thing to do... for the good of the country. We'll give Kendall the info. He can do what he wants with it."

"He might ask for my resignation."

Reynolds looked over at Joyner, shifting in her chair to find a more comfortable position. "At this point, do you care?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Good. I'll call and tell him we're coming."

As Reynolds picked up the phone, Joyner said, "Tell him we want to meet with him alone. I've had enough of Jimmy Grange for one lifetime."

"Amen."

* * *

Joyner got her wish. Kendall was the only one in the Oval Office when she arrived with the vice president.

"I'm making the Japanese prime minister wait so I can meet with you," Kendall said, not bothering to conceal the animosity he felt for his vice president. "You said it was urgent."

"It is," Reynolds replied in a firm voice, refusing to be intimidated. She looked at Joyner. "Tell him what you learned."

The back spasms returned. Joyner stood up and walked around, holding her back as she prepared to speak.

"Can't you see a doctor and take care of that?" Kendall said testily. "It's driving me crazy."

"What do you think it's doing to me?" she fired back, then returned to the issue at hand. "The director general of the Mossad called today. The Israelis have learned that Robert McCallister has been moved from Turkey to Syria."

She watched Kendall's face turn bright red as he digested her words. The veins were throbbing in his neck.
I hope to hell he took his blood-pressure medicine this morning,
Joyner thought.

"Dammit, Margaret," he said pounding his fist on the desk. "I told you several times to keep them out of it."

Joyner moved in close to Kendall with her hands on her hips. "I didn't involve them," she said emphatically. "I have no idea how they got the information. I thought you should know about it. If you want me to resign, that's okay with me. I gave you an undated letter when you appointed me. Add today's date and release it to the press. I promise you I'll go quietly without making any statements. I'll say I want to pursue other interests. It's your choice."

The last thing Kendall needed right now was a media circus concerning Joyner's resignation. He may have wanted it, but it wasn't an option. "They're wrong," he said with conviction.

"Who's wrong?"

"The Israelis."

"How do you know that?" Mary Beth asked.

"General Childress received a report from the DIA earlier today. The Turks are holding Lieutenant McCallister in an underground bunker beneath a hospital in Van. I've personally told their ambassador that if they don't turn him over to us in the next three days, when the ultimatum expires, I intend to suspend all aid to Turkey and give the order for a limited bombing of one Turkish air base. At that point, General Childress will put a special-operations unit on the ground to go in and get him out. Childress and Chip haven't exactly been sitting on their hands for the past few days."

"What's the source of the DIA information?"

Kendall had no idea. He was annoyed by the question. "What makes you think the Israelis are always right?"

Joyner began walking around the office again with her hands on her lower back. "They're not," she said, "but it's their neighborhood. We have to consider what they tell us."

"I'm considering it, but rejecting it," Kendall snapped. His voice had a hard edge and the ring of finality.

* * *

The prison in Marseilles was one big cesspool. Daniel Moreau was confident that after two days in the hole, and the threat that he might spend the rest of his life there, Edouard Laval would be ready to tell Moreau everything he knew.

Waiting for them to bring the prisoner, Moreau reread the file. Laval was a petty thief who had three prior arrests. Trained as an auto mechanic, he had turned to crime in order to support his wife and two children when he was fired for stealing a car phone. All three of his priors were for stealing cars. He was part of a gang that snatched them from the streets in the Marseilles area, then drove them through Spain into Morocco, where they were stripped down for parts or sold on the black market.

In total, Laval had spent a year and a half in jail. Not long enough for what he had done, Moreau decided, but sufficient time to know that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life that way.

Moreau had kept in close touch with the Marseilles police ever since the Khalifa murder. Once he heard they had arrested Laval, he dropped everything and flew down from Paris.

Moreau was surprised when they brought in Laval. He had been expecting a big, strapping auto mechanic who resembled a football player. Instead he saw a thin, waiflike, terrified creature shuffling into the room in handcuffs. Laval was only twenty-eight, but already his light brown hair barely covered his head. His face was pockmarked. Generally, he looked so terrible that Moreau thought his picture could appear on posters that read,
Crime doesn't pay.

The two armed guards accompanying Laval roughly pushed him into a battered wooden chair, then moved to the side of the room, where they could watch him without being in the way.

Moreau saw no point playing games with this punk. "For murder you spend the rest of your life in jail. You know that."

Laval tried to show a false bravado. "I didn't murder nobody."

"The police have the evidence. The records that you bought the explosives that blew up Khalifa's car when he started the engine." Moreau shook his head in disbelief. "Not too smart on your part, eh?"

Laval didn't respond. He looked down at his hands. Shit, he had really done it this time. He'd never see his wife and kids again. Never be able to spend all that money the stranger had paid him that was in a locker at the train station.

"And that's not all," Moreau added. "The police found the key to the locker in your apartment. They've got the money. All ten thousand Euros."