Enemy of My Enemy (11 page)

The response to Jack's question was stony silence. He decided to push Avi. "All I'm asking you to do is get some information."

Holding a cigarette, Avi jumped off the hood of the truck. He paced around, thinking, while he blew smoke circles in the air.

Jack added softly, "Just to make a couple of calls."

Avi stopped walking and wheeled around, his dark brown eyes boring in on Jack. "C'mon. You know damn well how these things unfold. It's never that simple. One thing always leads to another. You've got a reason... with your brother and all that... for putting your own ass on the line. But I'm different."

"You can bail out on me at any time."

"Easier said than done."

Jack stopped talking and held his breath.

"Dora would be furious," Avi said, thinking aloud. "I told her last year when I left the Mossad that she'd never have one more night of worrying whether that was the night she'd get the call telling her that I'd taken a bullet, that I'd never be coming home again."

Jack was convinced Avi intended to turn him down. Then Avi kicked one of the tires on the truck. "Oh, what the hell, I feel as if I owe you from Osirak. Besides, selling weapons may be lucrative, but it's boring as hell. I need some action—like I used to have in the Mossad."

Avi's words alarmed Jack. He wondered if he'd be able to control the former agent whom Gila had called a maverick. For now, the important thing was he had agreed to help. "I really appreciate it, Avi. Thanks."

As he climbed into the truck, Jack decided not to tell Sam what he was doing. Nothing might come of it. Also, he still had his cover to maintain.

"Give me a little bit of time to make contact with some former sources in Ankara and Istanbul," Avi said, starting the engine. "A day or two. Then I'll get back to you. After that, we'll decide how to get that kid out."

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

General Kemal, the director of Turkish military intelligence, stood at the window of the building that housed the prime minister's office, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Kemal gazed at the park below, and at central Ankara filled with nondescript cinder-block buildings. It always amazed him that a nation as rich in history and culture as Turkey could have such a boring capital. But perhaps it was fitting for a country that in the last few centuries had been forced from its rightful place in the top tier of the world by the Christian nations of Europe and was being maintained there by the upstart, arrogant Americans.

That thought grated on Kemal so badly that he had decided to take a giant step to assert Turkey's independence from foreign dominance, a bold move to shape its own destiny.

For it was Kemal who had given Colonel Abdullah the order—in a clandestine meeting at night on a deserted hilltop—to shoot down an American plane. It was Kemal's plan. And no one other than he, Abdullah, and a handful of troops loyal to Abdullah knew about it. No one else had to know.

The course of events from that point forward should have been simple. Kemal would claim that the Kurds had shot down the plane, which would create a rift between the Americans and their new friends—the despicable Kurds. Abdullah would interrogate the pilot about American military plans, then kill and bury him where he would never be found.

It was all so straightforward. Then Kemal had learned from an agent attached to the Turkish Embassy in Washington that the pilot was the son of a powerful American named Terry McCallister with close ties to President Kendall. That had led Kemal to instruct Abdullah to take good care of the pilot. He might be a valuable bargaining chip, although Kemal didn't know how he could be used.

Now the Turkish politicians were in the act. As usual they were anxious to suck up to the Americans. It was disgusting. The call summoning him to this meeting had come from the defense minister. One terse sentence: "You have some serious explaining to do."

Everything was in danger of unraveling, but Kemal refused to bend. He refused to be sacrificed at the alter of Turkish-American relations. He wiped the moisture from the back of his neck, then put the handkerchief away and looked at his watch. The defense minister had asked him to come at two this afternoon. It was already 3:25. It was as if they thought his time was of no consequence. That infuriated him further.

Finally the thick wooden door opened and the defense minister came out of the cabinet meeting. "We're ready for you now."

Kemal followed him inside, passing the two guards armed with AK-47s who stood at the entrance of the inner sanctum.

At one end of the long wooden table sat the prime minister. He was a short, squat man who was overweight. Thick black-framed glasses were pushed up on his high forehead, exposing tired, bloodshot eyes. The six other top cabinet officers were spread out, three on each side of the table.

The prime minister pointed to the chair facing him at the other end and nodded toward Kemal, who realized that this was his cue to sit down.

He was confronted with a hard, cold stare. "You told us that the Kurds fired the missile that brought down the American plane." The prime minister's words were spoken with a cold, white anger.

Keep calm,
Kemal cautioned himself, while he clutched the sides of his chair for support. "That's what I have been advised by our troops in the area, and I have pressed them hard."

The prime minister snarled. "Obviously not hard enough. The Americans have now supplied us with proof, by satellite photos and other evidence, that our forces are responsible."

Kemal considered asking to see the evidence, but he quickly banished that thought. The Americans were good at this kind of technology. Focusing on what they had would only dig him deeper into a hole. Instead he straightened up and looked indignant.

"The Americans have no right to call us liars. Why would we shoot down their plane?"

"You're the head of military intelligence. You tell me."

The defense minister tried to help Kemal out. "Perhaps one of our men made an error. He mistook it for an enemy aircraft. Not our ally's."

"That's certainly possible," Kemal said quietly. "I'll fly to the area immediately. I'll personally conduct an investigation."

Kemal rose, hoping he could leave.

"Not so fast," the prime minister said. "The situation is even worse than that. The American pilot's father is Terry McCallister."

Kemal feigned bewilderment. "The name means nothing to me."

"He's one of President Kendall's top supporters."

Kemal swallowed hard.

"As you might imagine," the prime minister continued, "the Americans are threatening very serious repercussions if their pilot is not returned within ten days. They say that they'll cut off all aid and attack one of our air force bases."

Kemal remained standing. "Let the Americans try it," he replied softly. "We're not the Iraqis. We have powerful antiaircraft batteries in place at all our bases."

The prime minister shook his head in disbelief. "Is this what you want? A war with the Americans?"

"We don't have the pilot," Kemal said, shifting his ground. "How can we return him?"

The defense minister interjected: "They have evidence that he parachuted out over our territory. He couldn't have disappeared."

"It's hilly, wild terrain with lots of caves. He could be hiding in one." Kemal shrugged. "He could have been injured when he landed. The plane hit rocks and broke into millions of pieces. I had our troops check the area of the wreckage. They didn't see any sign of the pilot."

"The Americans want to inspect the wreckage of the plane themselves."

Kemal was looking at the defense minister, playing toward him as the most hopeful audience. "It's our land. We'll report to them. They have to respect our territorial integrity. I'll look at the plane. If any portions are salvageable, we'll return those to the Americans. They're always trying to dictate to us."

The defense minister was sympathetic. "Let General Kemal visit the area himself and report back. Then we can decide on our next steps."

The prime minister was watching Kemal closely, gazing at him suspiciously. "There's more to this than meets the eye."

Kemal straightened up and looked indignant. "I resent the insinuation." Even as he protested his innocence, Kemal felt moisture spreading under his arms.

"Then disprove it," the prime minister said. "Find the pilot and bring him here so I can deliver him to the American Embassy."

Now in the back of a car on the way to a military airport, General Kemal closed his eyes and focused hard on the jam he was in. There had to be a way out. As they were reaching the air force base for his flight to southeastern Turkey, he had a possible answer. He yanked the phone out of his pocket and dialed the cell of Maj. Gen. Husni Nadim, the deputy director of Syrian intelligence. Since the United States had attacked Iraq, Kemal and Nadim had increasingly coordinated intelligence activities.

"Where are you now?" Kemal asked.

"In Damascus."

"Can you meet me in Van tonight? It's quite important."

"I'll be there."

"Check into the Buyuk Urartu and wait in your room. I'll call you."

* * *

The Syrian, Major General Nadim, was trembling with excitement as he waited in his hotel room for Kemal to call. He didn't know precisely what Kemal wanted, but his guess was that it concerned the American pilot who had been shot down over southeastern Turkey.

Though it was almost midnight, Nadim was dressed in a perfectly pressed military uniform. He was tall and suave, with a thin mustache he thought gave him a debonair look that appealed to Parisian women. When he wasn't in Damascus he was in Paris. Nadim despised the Syrian capital, which he viewed as a cultural cesspool lacking in the pleasures of life. But then again, how many other places in the world could rival Paris in that regard?

Nadim had fallen in love with the city of lights when he had been a student at the Sorbonne. His good looks concealed a keen intellect. They also concealed a hard, cruel streak that enabled him not only to survive amid a multitude of intrigues, but to plan many of the recurring bloodbaths aimed at purging their foes. When Syria had tightened its control over Lebanon years ago, it was Nadim who eagerly assumed the role of strongman and implemented a program of systematically executing any Lebanese leader or private citizen, Christian or Muslim, inclined to oppose Syrian control or to make peace with Israel. The flow of Lebanese blood, for which he was responsible, earned Nadim the nickname "the Butcher of Beirut."

Nadim, who hated the Americans because of their support for Israel, had cheered when he had heard an American plane had been shot down, though he had no idea who was responsible. What surprised him was that the Americans hadn't released the name of the pilot the way they usually did. So he activated some very good sources in Washington. To his pleasant surprise, he found out that the pilot's father was one of President Kendall's big supporters. Nadim, who had spent three years attached to the Syrian Embassy in Washington, knew how the Americans worked. This incident had to be getting a lot of top-level attention at the White House.

The phone rang. It was Kemal. "I'm in front of the hotel in a black car. Come now."

Nadim moved swiftly from the hotel entrance to the car. He wasn't surprised that Kemal was in the back of a bulletproof vehicle. Van was a focal point for the Kurdish separatist movement, and violence was a daily occurrence. Nadim got into the back with Kemal. Up front next to the driver a soldier clutched a machine gun tightly, his eyes darting in all directions.

They drove for about fifteen minutes until they reached a hospital surrounded by armed soldiers.

Kemal climbed out. With Nadim at his side, he led the way to a staircase, then two floors underground. The armed guard from the car was following right behind.

Midway along a deserted corridor they reached an empty room with a table and two chairs, used to interrogate prisoners who happen to be patients. Kemal told the guard to wait outside. Once he and Nadim were alone, he kicked the door shut.

This was an odd place for their discussion, Nadim thought, but he decided not to say anything. It was Kemal's show. The two of them had increasingly cooperated since the Americans had brought down Saddam Hussein's regime. Kemal and Nadim had developed a mutual respect.

"Thank you for coming on short notice," Kemal said when they were both seated.

"You told me it was important. That was enough. I assume it concerns the American pilot."

Kemal nodded. "It was my idea to shoot down one of their planes and say the Kurds did it."

Nadim raised his eyebrows. "Very creative."

"But now it's all turning to shit."

"Because of the identity of the pilot."

"How do you know?"

"I have my own sources in Washington. What are the Americans telling your government?"

"They know we did it, and they're all worked up because it's Terry McCallister's son. Initially I thought it was good that the pilot had an important father. Maybe he'd be valuable to swap for something."