Enemy of My Enemy (34 page)

Irina couldn't believe her ears. She would have a life like one of those women in a Hollywood movie. "Can we have a big house with a swimming pool in Beverly Hills?"

"If that's what you want. And you can shop on Rodeo Drive."

She moved over and gave him a big kiss. "I'll do whatever you want. Even spy on Dmitri."

When Michael left her at Natasha's, he went to the American embassy. He wanted to call Joyner and tell her that Irina would try to get the information. By then a different security man of Suslov's was following his taxi in a blue SAAB. The man was good. Michael never spotted him.

 

 

 

Chapter 25

 

"My God, you look like hell," Avi said as Jack slid into his seat on the airplane two minutes before the doors were scheduled to close. "You've given a new meaning to the term 'rough sex.'"

Unwilling to share his misgivings about Layla, Jack said, "Not funny, wise guy. So tell me, why are we going to Rome?"

The business cabin was only half-full. Avi looked around and decided it was safe to talk as long as they kept their voices down and didn't use any names. Besides, the chances of anyone on this airplane understanding Hebrew were slim. "The good news is that it won't involve any reading on your part, because you have only one eye that's open. So what happened?"

"I ran into a door."

"Was she that good?"

Jack was willing to play Avi's game. He tried to smile, but his face hurt too much for that. "Actually, she was."

"That's great, because people used to say, No pain, no gain. In your case, I hope it's lots of pain, lots of gain."

Jack sighed. "Now that you've had your fun, would you please tell me what we're doing on this plane?"

The engines started. They were moving away from the gate.

"I think you'd better go first with the latest version of the soap opera. It could affect what we do in Rome."

When Jack didn't respond, Avi waited until they were up in the air to take his own stab at what happened. "So the Butcher found out that you were moving in on his girlfriend, and he didn't like it."

Jack waited until a flight attendant gave them each a tray with coffee, a very hard roll, and some fruit before giving Avi a report from the time of Layla's angry entry into the restaurant. Avi sipped coffee and listened carefully with a deadpan expression. "When we left Taillevent, we went back to her place."

"Where Nadim had some thugs waiting for you."

Jack shook his head. "That came later, when I left her apartment." He then described what happened on the street.

"So I know she can't be working for Nadim," Jack said. "She can't be that good an actress to say she found out about me. She was angry, and she still came to dinner. If she were working with Nadim, why wouldn't she have just come without that whole routine?"

Avi smiled. "To gain your confidence and throw you off guard, which is what she did."

"Jesus. You—"

"The important thing is that she wanted to know your plans vis-à-vis Nadim. Didn't she?"

"She wanted to help me."

Avi let out a long, low whistle. "You are being led around by your dick, my friend."

Jack didn't say anything. Avi couldn't possibly be right. No woman could have done what she did with him last night at the same time she was setting him up.

"And the beating," Avi added, "was brilliant. A great way to get you to have even more trust in her, to confide in her what we know about Nadim's operation."

"C'mon. The Maronites hate the Syrians."

"But they hate us even more."

Jack tore off a piece of the roll, lifted it to his mouth, and then tossed it back on the tray. "Give it up, Avi. I know what I'm doing. Now tell me about Rome."

"Your friend the Butcher is there right now."

"He must be a busy man, what with masterminding the attack on me by remote control. I don't imagine that he enjoyed getting the call telling him what happened to his goons."

Avi's expression turned grim. "Hell, I was so busy worrying about you and the girl, I never even focused on what you did to those two guys. Once Daniel Moreau gets wind of it, he'll know you're in Paris."

Jack was flabbergasted. "It's a routine police matter. It'll never get to Moreau."

"It will if they were Syrian nationals, which is likely. Then Daniel Moreau will know that Mackie's back in town."

"I'm sorry, Avi," Jack said, sounding contrite. "It was self-defense."

"I'm not blaming you. Shit happens. It's just one more thing we have to worry about."

Jack was staring into space, furious at himself for messing things up.

"Tell you what," Avi said. "Take a nap. You need it. We'll talk about Rome when we're on the ground. Moshe has one of our boys meeting the plane."

* * *

Robert McCallister jogged around the inside perimeter of the stone wall surrounding the house where he was being held. He was wearing cotton khaki slacks and a gray T-shirt. Two guards carrying automatic weapons, dressed in military uniforms, jogged behind him. On the other side of that wall lay freedom, he told himself. If he could break out, he'd find someone willing to help him.

He glanced over his shoulder. The two guards were perspiring profusely. Robert had barely broken a sweat.
Even after being cooped up as a prisoner, I'm in so much better shape than those guys,
he decided.
Once I cut loose and sprint, they've got no chance of catching me.

If the green van was coming today, it should be here before long, he figured. And if it didn't come... He eyed the wall longingly. There were crevices at various spots throughout. Getting up and over would be difficult, but it was doable. He had climbed harder walls at the academy. The only problem was these two bozo guards. He'd have to get enough of a jump on them to go over before they could shoot him.

Dummy,
he chastised himself.
What are you worried about? You've got very little downside. They can't kill you. They need you alive to work whatever deal they're planning. The most that you'll get is a superficial wound.

Buoyed by that thought, he decided to go for it today. One way or the other, van or no van, he had to try to escape. If he didn't, it meant either that the president would have to make a national sacrifice to trade for him, or that he'd be in prison forever. Both of those options were unacceptable.

Two more loops past the front entrance, he decided. If the van wasn't there by then, he'd make his move. On the first loop around, the wrought-iron gate was closed. There was no sign of the green van.
Okay, one more.

He looked back at the guards. One was cursing, but keeping the pace. The other was lagging behind.

On the next loop he saw the dark green van passing through the gate and parking in front of the villa. He slowed to see what happened. The driver was unloading boxes from the back. He had left the keys in the ignition. The black wrought-iron gate remained open.

Robert decided to make one more loop to give the driver time to go inside the villa. Halfway around, Robert put his head down and broke into a sprint.

For an instant, the two guards were confused. "Hey, slow down!" one of them shouted.

Then the other one figured out what was happening. But he had been lagging behind and was well off the pace. His legs were heavy and tired. Fear propelled his body. He was terrified of the thought of what would happen to him if this American escaped.

They were out of sight when Robert turned the corner of the villa. He saw the driver yakking away with two other guards standing at the front entrance, smoking cigarettes. In his arms the driver held a bushel of produce. He had left the front door of the van open on the driver's side. Robert could have kissed the man.

With a final acceleration, Robert covered the last few yards faster than he had ever run before. He jumped into the van, slammed the door with his left hand, and cranked the ignition with his right.

There was no time to turn around inside the compound, so he shoved the gearshift in reverse and floored it. The van shook and sputtered for an instant. Then it responded, propelling him backward through the wrought-iron gate.

One of the guards in front reacted fast. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and grabbed the rifle at his feet. Running after the van, he fired a warning shot into the air. Robert had no intention of stopping.

Once the van was through the gate, Robert kicked it into first and shot around in a 180-degree turn. He was on gravel, and the tires were worn. The van bucked and skidded when Robert floored it. "C'mon, baby," he shouted. The van responded. He was off, heading down a long dirt road. His plan was to find a place to hide out, then at night look for someone to help him.

The guard who was giving chase dropped to one knee and aimed for the left rear tire, praying to Allah that he wouldn't hit the fuel tank, which would cause an explosion and kill the prisoner.

He was a superb marksman. The first shot was right on target. The tire blew out and the van spun out of control, despite Robert's efforts to keep the steering wheel straight.

The van slid off the right side of the road, rolled over once onto the roof, and would have kept rolling except it crashed into an olive tree. The impact dazed Robert. He was groggy, but still conscious.

With a struggle, he climbed out of the open window of the van. Disoriented for an instant, he rubbed his eyes. A bullet went whizzing by. That was all it took to get him started again. He staggered down the hill toward a stream at the bottom swollen with spring rain and runoff from snow-pack in the mountains.
If I can just make it to the stream,
Robert thought,
I'll be okay. I can dive in and swim. I'll lose them that way.

Two armed guards were now in pursuit. More warning shots, accompanied by a shouted order in English—"Halt!"—flew over Robert's head.

When that didn't do the trick, the marksman knew he had no choice. He couldn't let Robert get into that stream. Waving off his colleague, he dropped to one knee and aimed for Robert's right shoulder. His first shot, a little too far to the right, narrowly missed the pilot. The second shot was perfect, just grazing the shoulder.

Robert let out a bloodcurdling scream, lost his footing, and tumbled to the ground. Before he could get to his feet to resume running, the two guards pounced on him.

Blood was oozing from his shoulder, which hurt like hell.

What pained Robert more than that was the realization that he'd never escape now.

* * *

Eppy, as Ephraim liked to be called, had spent the last two years in Rome for Moshe with the title of cultural attaché at the Israeli embassy. Behind the wheel of his Fiat, he took to heart the expression,
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
He tore across the roads at breakneck speed, honking his horn, furious when another driver threatened to cut in front from a different lane, waving his arm wildly, and shouting out of the window if someone was going too slowly.

In the backseat, Avi, the daring air force pilot, was loving every minute of the ride. Sitting next to the driver, Jack was convinced he'd seen the last of Layla for sure. Dead men didn't date.

"Let's talk about the plan for today," Avi said to Jack, who was gripping the door handle to keep from sliding around.

"First, tell me what Nadim's doing in Rome."

"You cut right to the heart of the matter. That's what we have to find out." Avi then reviewed for Jack what had happened yesterday in Moscow.

"Jesus," Jack said. "That's worse than I ever imagined." What was running through his mind was that while he was having a great time with Layla, a diabolical plan by Israel's worst enemy to acquire nuclear weapons was advancing.

He no longer felt tired. His eye, the scratches and bruises on his face, no longer hurt. The adrenaline was surging through his body. He was ready for action. "What happened when Nadim reached Rome?"

"We followed him from Fiumicino to the Hassler Hotel, where he checked in. Then we struck a deal with an assistant manager. In return for a hefty supplement to his retirement fund and those of a couple of his colleagues, we can have free rein within reason. We promised him nobody gets hurt on hotel property."

"Then what?" Jack said anxiously.

"I talked to one of our guys on the scene before I got on the plane this morning. Nadim ordered room service for dinner. When the waiter was in the room, he pretended to be stocking the minibar and stuck a bug on the side of the little refrig."

"What'd we pick up?"

"Your friend the Butcher made two calls: one for a lady of the night who came to service him, which didn't go too well."

"What's that mean?"

"He had a little trouble getting it up. He told her it was his prostate misbehaving."

Jack burst out laughing.

"You obviously didn't have that problem."

"This isn't about me. I'll bet our friend beat the girl up."

"He didn't have to. She earned her money. She finally got him off."

"I'm so pleased to hear that. What was his other call?"

"To Ali Hashim, the head of Iranian intelligence."