Enemy of My Enemy (53 page)

Afraid of hitting the woman and wanting to lure Suslov outside, Michael dashed out of the cafe.

As Suslov fired, the woman moved, trying to twist free. Her movement jarred his arm, and the shots ricocheted off the wooden doorpost.

Suslov grabbed his driver's keys from the floor and stuffed them into his pocket. With his left arm tight around the woman as a hostage in front of him, and the gun in his right hand, Suslov made his way out of the cafe.

Crossing the threshold, he looked around. He couldn't see Michael, who had taken cover in a cluster of trees adjacent to the parking lot, twenty yards from the Mercedes.

Michael was watching Suslov carefully as the Russian moved toward the Mercedes S500, no doubt equipped with body armor, ultrathick glass to withstand gunfire, and run-flat tires that he'd never be able to blow out with his pistol. It was a virtual fortress on wheels.

Michael's plan was to stay out of sight. He doubted if Suslov would take the hostage with him, so his guess was that there would be a split second, between the time Suslov let go of the woman and when he climbed into the car, when he would be vulnerable. That was when Michael had to nail Suslov.

Michael had his eyes glued on the Russian. Suslov switched the gun to his other hand, and with his free hand grabbed the car keys from his pocket. He pressed down on the keypad to unlock the car door. Then, with a rough push, he shoved the woman to the ground and opened the driver's-side door. That was when Michael took aim.

But the woman on the ground wasn't content to flee toward the cafe, as Suslov had expected. Instead she gave the Russian a good swift kick to the balls, which made Suslov lurch his head just as Michael fired. That movement was enough to send the bullet whizzing past the Russian's ear by a matter of inches. Michael's next shots bounced off the car's armor plating.

Suslov spotted Michael now standing, gun in hand, next to a bush. Instinctively Suslov fired a round in Michael's direction, ducking down to take cover behind the armored Mercedes. One of the shots grazed Michael's thigh. Though it was just a flesh wound, it had Michael on the ground writhing in pain, unable to try for another shot at the Russian.

Now the woman was stumbling back toward the cafe. Suslov pulled the trigger and killed her before she made it.

With Michael's gun silent, Suslov was tempted to race into the bushes and finish off the American, if he wasn't already dead. But he couldn't risk losing precious time to get away.

Instead he climbed into the car and floored the accelerator. With squealing tires and dust flying into the air, the Mercedes shot forward and roared out of the parking lot onto the road, heading west.

Avi ran into the parking lot to find out what was happening. Through an opening in the trees, he saw Michael on the ground moaning. Sizing up the situation, he opened fire on Suslov's retreating car. The shots struck and ricocheted off the thick rear window. He helplessly watched the Russian disappear around a bend in the road.

Michael staggered toward the parking lot, still gripping his gun.

"Let me help you," Avi said.

"Thanks. I'll be okay. It's nothing serious."

As Michael, leaning on Avi for support, moved slowly toward the door of the cafe, the four Iranians stormed out and headed toward their BMW.

They didn't see Avi until it was too late. The Israeli raised his machine gun and said in Farsi, "Drop your weapons. I'm turning you over to the Americans. They can deal with you for your role in the kidnapping of Robert McCallister."

With blood dripping from his leg, Michael helped Avi herd the Iranians back into the cafe, all the while biting down on his lip as searing pain shot through his body.

* * *

The ambulance still sat on the other side of the building. Jack, who had kept firing at Russians from his position behind the toolshed, had not taken his eyes off the white vehicle.

The firing was dying down as the Americans were gaining the upper hand, but Jack decided to wait until it diminished further to try to rescue Robert. He wanted to minimize the risk of getting them both killed.

Suddenly he saw Kemal and Abdullah leave the
cafe with guns in their hands, running toward the ambulance. His guess was that they planned to escape in the ambulance with McCallister. Of course, they didn't know that two of the tires were flat. Jack waited until they were in an open area midway between the cafe and the ambulance. He raised his Uzi and aimed at Kemal. A short burst dropped the Turk, but Abdullah sprinted toward the ambulance and darted behind it before Jack could zero in on him.
Okay. One down and one to go,
Jack told himself.

Abdullah began firing an AK-47 that blasted into the toolshed.

Jack couldn't get a clear shot. He was afraid of hitting the ambulance and having a bullet penetrate the exterior. Bullets were flying everywhere around him. The noise was deafening.

Suddenly Jack stopped firing. Pretending to be hit, he yelled for help in Arabic from behind the shed:
"Al-haoonee! Al-haoonee!"

The trick worked. Abdullah leaned out a tiny bit to see what was happening. That was enough for Jack. His shot tore into the side of Abdullah's head.

With the Uzi still in his hand, Jack dashed toward the back of the ambulance, wondering what condition he'd find Robert in.

He dropped the machine gun on the ground. Slowly he twisted the latch and began pulling open the heavy white metal double doors. As he did he heard a muffled shot ring out from inside the ambulance and one of the rear windows shattered.

Jack instinctively threw himself to the ground. As he dropped down, he grabbed the handle to shut the doors until he was ready to fire back at whoever was in the ambulance.

He was too late. The doors kept opening.

Jack rolled along the ground, hoping to make himself a difficult target.

To Jack's astonishment, a Syrian soldier with an AK-47 on his lap and blood flowing down the side of his face and soaking his shirt pitched forward. He tumbled out of the ambulance, landing next to Jack on the ground.

Jack jumped to his feet, gun in hand. In utter amazement he saw Robert McCallister up on his knees on a gurney. His right arm was bandaged. In his left hand he held a pistol, which was smoking.

In a jerky movement, Robert lowered his arm and aimed the gun at Jack. He had a dazed look on his face, which made Jack think they must have given him a sedative that was just wearing off. He had no idea who Jack was, and he might fire again.

Before Robert had a chance, Jack took the gun out of his hand. "I'm here with the American military," Jack said. "You're safe now. We've got you back."

Tears of joy filled the pilot's eyes. "Oh, my God. I'm really free?"

A bullet blasted into the ground not far from the ambulance. The sound of automatic weapons was close by. "I have to get you under cover," Jack said. "I didn't do all this to lose you now."

Jack helped Robert out of the ambulance and hustled him over to the cafe.

Though Avi and Michael both had guns trained on the Iranians, they let out a cheer when they saw Jack and Robert.

"Good work," Avi called out.

"It looks like the American troops are mopping up the last few Russians," Jack said. "I'd say this is a complete success."

"Not yet," replied Michael, his leg bandaged with towels from the cafe. "Suslov escaped. He drove off in his Mercedes."

"We can't let that bastard get away," Jack said. "He's the one who was selling the nuclear weapons to our enemies."

Jack glanced at Avi, who nodded his agreement.

"You two stay here and watch Robert," Jack said. "I'll see if I can find Suslov and give him a little justice, Russian style."

"I'm going with you," Michael said. "I owe him big-time for everything he did to Irina."

Jack was prepared to tell Michael to remain behind and help Avi, when Avi spoke up: "Don't worry. I can handle it all back here. Get moving, you two."

* * *

The Americans were racing around picking off the few remaining Russian soldiers. Three threw their arms in the air and surrendered. "The area is now secure," Captain Kelly told Major Davis.

With an Uzi in his hand, Jack ran over to the pilot of one of the choppers. "We need a ride," he said. "The Russian responsible for all of this has taken off, heading west in a Mercedes."

"Climb in," the pilot of Chestnut four-four said. "I'll get my gunner. We'll catch him."

The helo lifted off with Michael belted in on one side, gripping his automatic hard. On the other, Jack was clutching an Uzi in one hand and a support in the other. He always found being in a helicopter with the door open and the wind whipping around to be a surreal experience. He pulled in his feet and legs to avoid falling out.

Ten minutes later they saw Suslov's Mercedes streaking along the open road at well over a hundred miles an hour.

"His car's armor-plated," Michael shouted to the gunner over the roar of the helo.

The gunner laughed. In an accent from the mountains of western North Carolina, he shouted back, "This sucker's equipped with AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles with enough power to punch through tank armor."

"Yes!" Michael roared.

The gunner gave him a thumbs-up.

In the Mercedes, Suslov watched as the Blackhawk moved in for the kill in his rearview mirror. He expected them to have weapons that would pierce the armor in the car. Thick trees lined the right side of the road. Suddenly Suslov cut a sharp right into the trees and slammed on the brakes. Gun in hand, he jumped out and dashed toward a clump of rocks just as the gunner let go with a missile that took the Mercedes out of the equation. There was a huge fireball and a deafening roar from the explosion.

"He's clear of the car," Jack shouted to the gunner. "Tell the pilot to put it down on the road. We'll chase him on foot." The gunner relayed Jack's request via his intercom headset, and the pilot quickly set his bird down on the road.

Suslov was moving away from the helicopter as fast as he could. Over his shoulder he saw Jack racing after him, while Michael trudged slowly with his bandaged thigh.

With his bum leg, Suslov knew he was no match for Jack. His only hope was to use the thick cover of the woods to circle back and pick off Michael, then surprise Jack from the rear.

But Michael had a pair of binoculars in his pocket. He yanked them out and put them up to his eyes, scanning the area until he saw Suslov. From the Russian's counterclockwise movement, he guessed what Suslov had in mind.

Michael took cover between two large rocks and watched Suslov gradually approaching his position.

Patience,
he cautioned himself.
Patience. You already missed twice. Wait for the right shot.

Michael knew he had it when Suslov stepped into a small clearing, only fifteen feet away from him. Glints of sunlight sliced through the trees. Gun in hand, the Russian looked around, searching for Michael. Michael could see him sweat.

He took aim and then slowly raised himself up behind the rock. Suslov spotted him, but before the Russian had a chance to shoot, Michael pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The bullets tore into Suslov's body from abdomen to chest as the gun bucked in Michael's hand. The Russian collapsed to his knees, then onto his back.

Blood and mud covered much of Suslov's body. He struggled to sit up and raise his gun.

Michael was ready for him. "This is for Irina," he said as he pulled the trigger.

Now the gun fell from Suslov's hand as he reared backward with a startled look on his face, as if wondering how this whole episode could have turned to shit so quickly.

Jack walked into the clearing. The Russian was dead. He raised his boot and violently kicked Suslov in the face.

The helo took Jack and Michael back to the parking lot of the truck stop. With the gun still in his hand, Jack trudged wearily into the cafe.

By now Robert was fully alert. The American pilot looked at him and said, "Hey, I'd like to thank the guy who rescued me. Who are you?"

"I'm Jack Cole. Your future brother in-law."

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

Politics always follows money, someone told the woman in the gray suit who headed up the Middle East section of Bank Leumi in Tel Aviv. Layla didn't know whether that was correct, but she did know that in the first six months on the job, she had developed a significant portfolio of loans for projects in Morocco, Egypt, and Jordan. The risk for the bank wasn't great. Most had guarantees from the United States, a European country, or a world lending organization. The political benefit from these loans for Israel was significant, as the word spread on the Arab street.

She checked her watch. Running late again. The trip to the hair salon she had hoped for early this evening would have to go.

She left the bank headquarters and jumped into a cab. "The Mann Auditorium, please," she told the driver.

"What are they playing tonight?" the driver asked in Russian-accented Hebrew.

She smiled. No cabdriver in Paris would have ever asked a passenger that. "Yefim Bronfman is playing two Brahms piano concertos, Numbers One and Two."