Enemy of My Enemy

 

 

 

 

 

Enemy of My Enemy

A Novel

 

by

 

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

 

 

 

 

 

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

 

ISBN: 978-1-61417-113-3

 

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

 

Please Note

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

 

Copyright © 2005, 2011 Allan J. Topol

 

Cover design by Victor Mingovits

 

eBook design by eBook Prep
www.ebookprep.com

 

Thank You
.

 

 

 

"John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor in Topol...As entertaining as it is complex, this energetic narrative is loaded with close calls and compelling relationships." ~
Publishers Weekly

 

"Plotwise, Topol is up there with such masters of the labyrinthine, as Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy." ~
Washington Post

 

By Allan Topol

 

Fiction

 

The Fourth of July War

A Woman of Valor

Spy Dance

Dark Ambition

Conspiracy

Enemy of My Enemy

 

~

 

Non Fiction

 

Co-Author of
Superfund Law and Procedure

 

 

 

Dedication

 

For my wife, Barbara, for everything

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Robert McCallister was terrified. He was more frightened than he had ever been in the twenty-five years of his life.

His prison cell was smaller than the closet of the bedroom he had had as a boy in Winnetka on Lake Michigan's Gold Coast, north of Chicago. The stone walls were cold, and coated with a green mildew like substance in which a myriad of insects crawled. The stench from the toilet bucket was overwhelming. The rusty shackles were cutting into his wrists and ankles.

Sitting on the dirt floor, he strained his ears as he heard the sound of men's voices approaching in the corridor outside the cell. There were two of them laughing and talking loudly in a language he couldn't understand. For the past day, only a single soldier had brought his food. Something different was happening. A round of torture after all?

He lifted up his knees in a protective position. His whole body tensed from fear. Two rodents scurried across the floor and disappeared into a hole. Even they were taking cover.

He didn't know how long he had been living this nightmare. Without a window to the outside world and minus his watch, which an angry mob had torn from his wrist when they pounced on him before he had a chance to extricate from the parachute, he had no sense of time. He rubbed his hand along his unshaven cheek and chin, trying to gauge how much stubble had accumulated. The scratches on his face were healing and scabs had formed. He guessed that he had been captured two days ago. Maybe three.

The mob had been hysterical. Some were tearing and scratching his face; others kicking his body, while chilling guttural cries spewed from their mouths. The words were incomprehensible to him, but the venom in their voices was apparent.

Initially, he had been relieved when soldiers had pulled him away. Quickly, his relief had given way to a new terror as he had faced his interrogator. Abdullah was how he had introduced himself to Robert. Dressed in a brown military uniform, he was powerfully built, with a thick, bushy black mustache, a sadistic smile, and small, beady dark eyes. The instruments of torture hanging on the wall behind Abdullah's desk—electrodes, rubber batons, and metal poles with multiple thin, sharp, pointed objects at the end—were what Robert was staring at when Abdullah told him, "You have twenty-four hours to decide whether we do this the easy way or the hard."

Waves of fear had shot through Robert as he heard those words. With an incredible effort of self-control, he had kept his body from shaking or losing control of his bladder, as he recited, "Robert McCallister, lieutenant, United States Air Force," in response to each question Abdullah asked about the location and strength of American forces in the region.