Enemy of My Enemy (46 page)

With her eyes and a nod of her head Joyner tossed the question to Childress.

"The problem, Mr. President," Childress said, coughing to clear his throat, "is that I don't believe that Suslov will have only a single bodyguard or anything like that."

"I agree," Joyner said.

Kendall's eyes went from Childress to Joyner and back again. "What makes you two so sure?"

Joyner picked it up. "Michael Hanley is on the scene in Moscow. He knows the players, and he has no doubt Suslov was feeding his contact misinformation."

Childress gave the president a few seconds to absorb that before adding, "Suslov's background with the Russian army confirms Margaret's conclusion. In Chechnya, Suslov always used plenty of brute force to accomplish any task."

"But suppose... let's just suppose..." Kendall said stubbornly.

Joyner shook her head in dismay. Kendall was a smart man, but that didn't prevent him from seeing things the way he wanted to in a complex situation.

"Suppose " Kendall repeated, staring at Childress, "we continue to work with Drozny and we don't make the type of troop movements that would alarm him. At the same time, you send Major Davis with his six-man group to Baku quietly, maybe even dressed in civilian clothes. Give Davis a chance to redeem himself from the earlier abortive effort. Let him and his men get themselves into the area. We'll all stay close to the situation. If it turns out that Drozny won't act or we get some independent information that Suslov's sending a large force, then we bring in an increased group of our own to offset Suslov's troops."

Childress was cringing. "The problem with that, Mr. President, is that it takes time to move in troops and their arms. Baku's not an easy place to get to."

Kendall dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. "Ah, c'mon. We have so many troops and weapons around the whole Middle East area and in Asia. You can shuttle some in on short notice."

Childress didn't argue. His commander in chief had made a decision. For her part, Joyner kept still. She knew Kendall well enough to realize that once he had taken a position, further opposition was useless. It would simply force him to dig in further.

* * *

"Six special-ops troops?" Moshe said to Joyner in disbelief. "Has Kendall lost his mind?"

Regardless of how Joyner viewed the decision, she felt the need to defend the president to the Israeli. "He's relying on information from what's been a reliable source in the past. We're trying to balance the need to block this exchange with the delicacy of American-Russian relations. If we receive different information in the future, we'll readjust. It's a fluid situation."

"Hmph," Moshe said. "I think it's a ridiculous way to go."

"You have to appreciate that our relationship with Moscow is always sensitive."

"But the exchange is taking place in Azerbaijan. Not Russia."

"Which used to be a part of the USSR. Moscow views it as within Russia's sphere of influence."

"We don't. I just want you to know that. We'll take whatever action we believe is in our best interests."

"C'mon, Moshe, at least you've got to give Drozny time to act. To stop the nuclear convoy."

"You undoubtedly have satellite photos, Margaret. We've done the calculations. We figure that the convoy will be across the Russian border into Azerbaijan in another couple of hours, at most. If Drozny hasn't acted by then, he's not going to."

Joyner couldn't argue with that logic. She decided to shift her approach. "If you act too soon with too large an armed contingent, you run the risk of the convoy turning around and heading back to Russia. The next time—and there will be a next time—we'll never have as good a chance of stopping them."

"I've discussed that with the prime minister," Moshe said. "That's a risk we're prepared to take," The Israeli sounded implacable and unyielding. His voice was tinged with a sharp tone of righteousness.

"You'll also get our pilot, Robert McCallister, killed," Joyner protested.

Moshe's voice softened. "You can be sure that we'll take every step humanly possible to save young McCallister's life."

"God, you' re stubborn," Joyner said.

"Coming from you, I take that as a compliment."

"You would."

"Don't forget what the Bible says—we're a stiff-necked people."

Joyner took a deep breath and exhaled. "Whoever wrote that knew what he was talking about."

"No, seriously, Margaret, I know we disagree from time to time, but..."

She wanted to be conciliatory as well. She liked Moshe. Israel was an important and valuable ally. "I recognize that your country sometimes has different interests from ours. That causes the disagreements."

"That's certainly true. Last night I dreamed about you."

Joyner wondered where this was going. "Yeah?"

"Well, anyhow, I dreamed that you and I had died. We were up in heaven arguing with each other. First it was about David and Sagit and the Saudi Arabians. Then it was about Jack Cole and Michael Hanley and the Russians and Syrians in this mess."

She laughed. "Do you think we're going to make it to heaven? I mean you and I?"

Moshe shrugged. "God needs people to direct his intelligence agents, but who can know for sure? At least we have a lot better chance than Nadim and Suslov."

"In English, we call that damning by faint praise."

Given her disagreement with Kendall, Joyner couldn't tell Moshe, but she was changing her mind. The longer she thought about it the happier she was that Israel was sending a contingent of troops to Baku. "Do what you have to do," she said. "I'll still work with you in the next world."

* * *

The proprietor of the Philadelphia restaurant came over to Michael. It was almost midnight, and the American had been sitting at a table sipping stale coffee and looking out of the restaurant's window at the headquarters of Suslov Enterprises for almost nine hours.

"I'm sorry, but we're closing now," he said to the visibly distraught young man in a kind tone.

Wise to the ways of the world and having operated the restaurant when the KGB had used the building across the street, the proprietor recognized this as a familiar scene. He realized that Michael was conducting a vigil, waiting for someone who would never come out. Probably a woman, judging from Michael's face.

"Perhaps she's decided to spend the night," he said. "I'm sure she'll be out in the morning."

The man was being kind. Michael tried to force a smile. He couldn't even do that. He had only one more possible move.

With wobbly legs he left the restaurant. Trying to appear bold, Michael walked across the square and straight up to one of the two guards in front of Suslov's building who was gripping an AK-47.

"I want to speak to Irina Ivanova," Michael said in his best Russian.

Without consulting any list, the man responded, "There is no one inside by that name."

Michael pointed to the phone attached to a concrete post. "Would you please call and ask?"

The guard looked at Michael with mean, cold eyes. "There is no one inside by that name," he repeated.

Michael considered pushing aside the guard and rushing to the front door. Sensing this, the other guard trundled over. He aimed his gun at Michael. "Move on," he barked.

Michael's guess was that Suslov had left a specific order that they were supposed to shoot to kill if he tried to break in. He looked from one battle-hardened Slavic face to the other. Neither of them flinched.

Filled with guilt and remorse, Michael turned and walked away.

* * *

Daniel Moreau was persistent. He sat in his office and went back over all of the notes he and his colleagues had made in their interviews of people around Place de l'Alma in the search for Jack Cole.

He lit up a cigarette and scratched his head. There had to be a lead somewhere he was missing.

When he came to the notes of his own interview with the woman in apartment 6B with the initials L. G., he remembered how good she looked, and he smiled.

As he smoked, blowing circles in the air, he continued thinking about her. The smile turned to a sullen, grim expression. He began kicking himself. It wasn't just that he had been sloppy. Replaying the interview in his mind, he became convinced that she was conning him, using her sexual appeal to distract him. And he had fallen for it like some rookie, rather than the seasoned operator he was.

You're a man, and you're only human,
he told himself, trying to rationalize. That didn't cut it. There was no excuse for how he'd behaved.

Think about the facts,
he told himself.
The woman in 6B has olive skin. Definitely could be Middle Eastern.
He didn't have her name. Just the initials L. G.

He snuffed out the cigarette and picked up the phone on his desk. It was almost one in the morning. He didn't care. He'd call Charles, the superintendent of her building.

"This is Daniel Moreau," he said to the groggy Charles, who woke out of a deep sleep to answer the phone.

"It's very late, monsieur. No?"

"No," Moreau barked. "The woman in six-B. What's her name?"

There was a shuffling of papers by Charles. Then the answer: "Layla Gemayel."

"Oh, Christ," Moreau shouted. "How fucking stupid can you be?"

Thinking that the cursing was intended for him, Charles was terrified. "But monsieur—"

Moreau hung up. He was furious at himself. He knew damn well that Gemayel was a Maronite Lebanese name. That made her the enemy of Major General Nadim. The Arabs had a saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. That made Layla Jack Cole's friend. But Moreau was still mystified as to why Nadim was covering for her. Why didn't Nadim just give Moreau Layla's name? He would have known how to interrogate her to learn where he could find Cole. That didn't make sense. Maybe she wasn't the right one. He shook his head in bewilderment. Nothing made sense.

Calling Layla and asking her about Cole over the phone was a waste of time. He'd have to confront her in person.

He got up from his desk, grabbed his gun, and headed for the door.
I'm going to wake you up, Layla, and see what you can tell me.

Fifteen minutes later Moreau impatiently rang the doorbell to apartment 6B several times. When no one answered, he woke Charles again to get a key.

He searched the apartment but found nothing of interest, other than the fact that she worked at a bank.
She's probably out on an overnight,
he decided.
Maybe with Jack Cole.

He yawned. Tired himself, he decided to go home and sleep. He'd return early tomorrow morning. No banker ever went to work at the crack of dawn. That would be a great time to question her.

 

 

 

Chapter 35

 

It took Nadim two minutes to pick the lock to Layla's door. Once he was inside her apartment, he moved on tiptoe toward the bedroom. He hoped to find her asleep in bed. His guess was that she slept naked between expensive silk sheets.

For much of the day Nadim had thought about what he should do to her. Finally he made up his mind. It was absolutely perfect. Before he told her what it was, he intended to have her again with brute force. He'd let her know who her master was from this point on. Thinking about it made his sexual desire temporarily push the anger to the back of his mind.

Tonight he hadn't had a single drop of alcohol. He wanted his mind to be sharp. All parts of his body were functioning like a well-oiled machine. As he cut across the Oriental carpet in her living room, he unzipped his pants, reached his hand inside, and stroked himself, wanting to be ready for her.

The bedroom door was ajar. He didn't hear any sounds. The scent of Layla and her perfume lingered in the air.

He crossed the threshold and looked at the king-size bed. Empty!

He checked the rest of the apartment. No Layla. So she must be spending the night with Jack Cole somewhere in Paris before he left for Baku.
Well, he's never coming back from there, sweetheart. You, on the other hand, have to come home after your date with the Israeli spy.

Nadim had memorized the schedule of airplanes from Paris to Baku. His guess was that Cole was on the early one via Istanbul. That meant Layla would be home before long. Who knew, he might get lucky. Cole might even walk into the apartment with her. Then he could take care of both of them.

For this, Nadim had patience. He wouldn't lose anything by taking a later plane.

He decided to sit down and wait for Layla. Eventually she'd walk in the front door.

* * *

It was the middle of the night, and Robert McCallister's shoulder was throbbing under the heavy bandage. He was scared that the doctors who had treated his wound had inadequate training and lacked experience. Certainly the way in which they had milled around anxiously talking to each other before they gave him an anesthetic evoked little confidence.

All of that left him with the feeling that if the president made a deal for him, and he managed to make it home, it would be a miracle if he ended up with two fully functioning arms.

The idea of ever returning to the United States seemed so preposterous that Robert nearly burst out laughing. Since his failed attempt at escape and the treatment of his wound, he had been confined to bed with both legs tied to the bedposts. The restraints had been loosened only when he had to use the bathroom. Then two armed guards watched him every second.