Enemy of My Enemy (24 page)

The cab turned right and entered the Place de Vosges, in one of the oldest sections of Paris, close to the Bastille.
The trouble with Paris traffic,
Jack thought in the backseat,
is that it's totally unpredictable.
Generally, getting down here was a nightmare. This evening they zipped right along.

Jack, who wanted to arrive precisely at eight, found himself exiting the cab a full twenty minutes early. He strolled on the cobblestones around the Place de Vosges, with the grassy Louis XIII square in the center, to pass the time. He stopped in front of the still stately building that had been Victor Hugo's house. Jack wondered what the aristocratic writer would think of his
Les Miserables
becoming culture for the masses.

He cut through the grassy plot in the center. It was a warm and pleasant spring evening. Flowers were in bloom around the fountain. A young man and woman were locked in a passionate embrace on a park bench. Jack was envious. It was springtime in Paris, and what was he doing? Spending one more of an ever declining number of available springtimes chasing killers and terrorists. One thing was different this time, Jack realized. With Daniel Moreau now pursuing him, this would be the last spring he spent in Paris, regardless of what happened with Nadim. There would be killers and terrorists to chase in other places, including Israel, but Jack decided as he glanced back at the young couple kissing that he wouldn't be doing it any longer. This would be it for him. He wasn't Moshe, in the game for a life sentence. He didn't know what he'd do, but the young lovers made up his mind. When this was over, he was finished.

Jack thought about Daniel Moreau. He knew that it was risky coming to a gathering like this. Moreau could have mentioned to one of the other guests that he was looking for Jack Cole, but he had to take the chance. He had to find a way to get to Nadim, to find out what the Syrian was planning.

On the other hand, he doubted if Moreau would recognize him. Denis had done a superb job of remaking Jack's appearance. The dark black toupee, the black contacts behind wire-framed glasses, and the thin mustache would have been enough, but he had shown Jack how to use makeup to soften his nose and eradicate the lines under his eyes. He had also forged a perfect French passport for Jack in the name of Henri Devereaux. Jack would have dearly loved to use the Henri Devereaux name this evening, but that wasn't an option. Hubert had invited Jack Cole because he was in the wine business, and that was the hook to get Nadim.

Jack returned to 9 Place de Vosges. The restaurant, L'Ambroise, was housed in a magnificent and tastefully renovated old stone structure with high ceilings and dim lights. Monsieur Pierre, the sommelier, couldn't believe that he was really Jack Cole. "What have you done to yourself, my friend?"

"I went off to a place in Switzerland for a little touch-up, trying to look younger and more attractive."

Pierre had laughed. "You Americans are all insane about your appearance." As he looked around, Jack saw that the Latour tasting had taken over the entire restaurant. In the first of the three rooms, waiters were passing Dom Perignon on trays as an aperitif for the reception that preceded the serious dinner and tasting set up in the two farther dining rooms.

Being early, Jack, with a glass of champagne, drifted around the two other dining rooms. At the several tables in both rooms, about sixty places were set. Each had eight Bordeaux glasses. Trying to be unobtrusive, Jack checked the name cards at each place.

Hubert had seated Jack on one side of a round table of ten in the first of the two rooms. Major General Nadim and "Guest of Major General" were seated on the other side of the table, too far away for casual conversation during dinner.
So I'd better get to know him during the reception,
Jack decided.
Then maybe I can arrange to meet him tomorrow to discuss wine.

The room for the reception was filling up. Jack looked around. No sign of Nadim.

Anxiously Jack watched the front door while he half listened to someone else in the wine export business who was rattling on about the wines of the last couple of years. The next time the door opened, in walked a large-busted blond woman wearing a low-cut magenta dress, whose appearance cried out "bimbo." Jack recognized her from one of the police shows on prime-time television in France. Behind her in his brown military uniform came Nadim.

The picture in the folder Avi had given him didn't do Nadim justice, Jack decided. The Syrian looked suave, sophisticated, and worldly. There was no question that he belonged in this room, at this elaborate evening. Yet there was something about the face of the debonair figure with slicked-down coal-black hair, parted in the center, and a precisely trimmed mustache that told Jack it wasn't surprising that Nadim was known as the Butcher of Beirut.

Jack waited until Nadim and his actress friend had a glass of champagne in their hands to approach him. The two of them were standing alone. Trying to appear nonchalant, Jack walked up and said to Nadim, "Hello. I'm a wine dealer from New York."

Taking the measure of this brash American whom he had never met before, Nadim shot Jack a piercing look that cut through him. Always a believer in his ability to judge people by snap first impressions, Nadim quickly decided that Jack wasn't worth talking to. He gave Jack a supercilious smile, then said in an arrogant tone, "Well, isn't that nice. Marie is interested in New York. She wants to be a Broadway actress. Why don't you tell her about it?" With that, Nadim turned and stalked away, leaving Jack with the actress.

For now, Jack was willing to live with that. After all, one way of moving in on Nadim was by getting close to the woman he was with. So Jack said, "I've enjoyed your show on television."

She didn't bother to respond. Jack doubted if she had even heard what he had said. She had her eyes on Nadim, who was making a beeline for a chic-looking woman dressed in a smart gray Valentino suit, which she might have worn to the office that day. She exuded confidence as well as elegance. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older, Jack thought. She reminded him of an investment banker Sam had introduced him to in London last year in the hope she might be a suitable marriage partner for Jack. After two dates, they concluded that they had absolutely nothing in common and Sam must have been "daft," as she had put it, to think this would ever work.

The woman in the gray suit wasn't drop-dead beautiful, Jack decided. But she carried herself with a patent sensuality that made him enjoy looking at her. She repeatedly pushed back her long brown hair from her eyes as Nadim approached her. She was engaged in an animated conversation, gesticulating with her hands, with a man whom Jack recognized as the finance minister in the French government.

Nadim approached the two of them. For a few moments they all spoke together. Then the Frenchman drifted away. Left alone with the woman, Nadim dropped his hand down and gently placed it on her derriere. She swatted it away as if she were dealing with a mosquito, shot him an irritated look, and then stalked away. He tried to stop her by grabbing onto her arm below the elbow, but she was too fast for him. "Keep your fucking hands off me," she spat through clenched teeth. Nadim made no effort to follow her.

Jack turned back to Marie, who had been watching the scene unfold with Nadim, as Jack had. "I don't think she likes your friend," Jack said, trying to find some common ground with the actress.

"Do you know who the bitch is?" Marie asked Jack, while pointing to the woman in the gray suit.

"Never saw her before."

"Well, what do you have to do with Broadway?" she asked.

Jack took a deep breath. "I have some very good friends who produce top shows." He thought he told the he well, but it was clear from her face that it was a story she had heard too often.

"What you mean to say is that you'd like to get into my pants now, and later you'll try to find someone you know in the theater. You American men are all the same. Interested in one thing." She accompanied her words with a smile to show she wasn't angry, just amused.

Jack looked at her hopefully. "You can't blame a guy for trying. Your friend in the military uniform seemed otherwise occupied."

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a hard, cold stare. "Sorry, you're not my type."

"How can you tell that?"

"I have to pee. Since I'm a lady, I'll add, 'Please excuse me.'"

With that, Marie headed toward the toilet in the front of the restaurant.

Jack decided that he should make another approach to Nadim before the reception ended. When he looked around the room, he couldn't see the Syrian.

Jack glanced into the next room. Acting casually, Nadim was picking up the place card that said "Guest of Major General" in the second room and moving it to a table in the third room. He returned with a different place card, which he set down next to him when he didn't think anyone was looking. Jack's guess was that had to be for the woman in the gray Valentino suit.
Jesus,
Jack thought.
This guy's a piece of work. It's a good thing I'm finished in Paris. I'll never be invited to one of these dinners again.

Jack waited until Nadim reentered the reception room to approach the Syrian. This time he held out his hand. "Hello. I don't think we've met before. I'm Jack Cole from New York."

That didn't change Nadim's initial impression that Jack wasn't worth talking to. This time Nadim stared coolly into Jack's eyes. "Yes," he simply replied. Then he walked away in the direction of a French general, the only other guest in a military uniform.

Moments later, Hubert announced what the procedure would be for the evening. "With the first course, a foie gras
en croute,
we'll be tasting the best eight vintages of Latour from the 1980s. With the second course, rack of lamb, we'll have the best eight Latours from the 1970s. And with the cheese, six Latour wines from the 1960s, as well as the legendary 1959 and 1949."

This announcement produced a subtle "ah" of appreciation.

"And now the waiters will direct you to your assigned seats."

As Jack moved toward his table, he was anxious to see what happened next with Nadim and the two women. This was playing out like a French farce on the stage. If it weren't so serious with Nadim, it might be funny.

Before the woman in the gray suit moved out of the reception room, her cell phone rang. She went off into a corner to take the call. As she did, Nadim led the actress into the third room and deposited her at the new place he had arranged. She was pouting when he left her there, but he acted as if he didn't care.

A moment later the woman in the gray suit finished her call and put the phone away. By then everyone was on their feet for a toast to the president of France. She glanced around both rooms and saw only one open place, next to Nadim. Scowling and looking annoyed, she moved in that direction.

As dinner began, Jack glanced across the table. Nadim, acting pleasant and charming, was trying to talk to the woman in the gray suit, but she turned to the other side. All of her attention was directed to the French finance minister. A couple of times during the first course, Jack made an effort to call across the table to Nadim to engage him in conversation, but the Syrian ignored Jack. By default, Nadim was talking to the wife of the finance minister, who seemed charmed by the dashing military man from the Middle East speaking perfect French. "Didn't we own Syria once?" Jack heard her ask Nadim.

The Syrian smiled and replied, "Once you owned lots of things."

This is turning out to be a total disaster,
Jack thought, feeling despondent.
This evening was a stupid idea. Either that or I'm too much of a dunce to pull it off.
He felt even more miserable when he thought of facing Avi tomorrow and letting him know how hopelessly he had struck out.

He decided to stop eavesdropping, forget about Nadim, enjoy the wines, and talk to the people on either side of him. One was a woman who was a food and wine critic from
Figaro.
The other was a man, based in London, who owned one of the largest wine-importing businesses in the U.K.

There were a series of speeches after each course, and the attendees evaluated the wines on written sheets. In the middle of the speeches after the lamb, the woman in the gray suit got up to go to the ladies' room. Jack watched Nadim leering at her while she turned away from him. Suddenly he had an idea. Nadim obviously wasn't involved with the bimbo. But what about the woman in the gray Valentino suit? There was definitely something between her and Nadim. Whatever it was might hold the key to getting access to Nadim.

Jack waited until she was on her way back to the dining room to make his move. Then he headed toward the men's room, also in front of the restaurant.

His timing was perfect. Their paths crossed at the entrance to the second dining room. He stopped and stared at her, making sure he had her attention.

"Say, don't I know you?" he asked.

She stood still and looked at him. "I don't think so." The aroma of her perfume, lavishly applied, aroused his senses.

"Joy, isn't it?" he asked.

She seemed surprised. "You have a good nose."

"I'd say that's de rigueur for the wine business. Wouldn't you agree?" She smiled. It was a warm smile with a hint of mystery, of the exotic.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Only an American would use a term like that in this context."

"Good guess. My being an American," Jack said.

"Actually your accent gave it away."

He shrugged. "I'm not trying to pass for something I'm not."

"But that's not true," she said.

Her words alarmed Jack. How could she know he was lying? "What do you mean?" he asked seriously.

The sparkle in her eyes let him know she was jesting with him. "We're all trying to be someone we're not. Rich. Smart. Honest. Depending on our situation. That's life."

"I'm an American from New York in the wine-export business. Jack's my name," he said. Then he held out his hand.

She made no effort to shake it. Instead she laughed.