Enemy of My Enemy (38 page)

She hesitated. "I don't know about dinner. It's not what I had in mind."

He decided to press ahead, believing that he could persuade her. "What could happen to you at a public restaurant?"

"Nothing, but—"

"Good. Carre des Feuillants at nine o'clock this evening."

He could tell she was uncertain, but he was manipulating her. Once he had her at dinner, he had no doubt that he'd charm her sufficiently to get her into his bed—the prize he had been seeking for months. He got excited thinking about it.

"If I agree to come," she said in a stammering voice, "then I want you to promise that you'll never harass me again. Just this one date and that's it."

"Absolutely. After this one evening, it'll be whatever you want. We'll meet at the restaurant," he said, and held his breath as a heavy silence settled over the line.

Finally she said, "I'll be there."

When she hung up, he stared at the phone for several seconds. The timing of the call—coming now—bothered him. Was the reason she gave honest? She could be sufficiently frightened by what had happened to Jack Cole outside of her apartment the other night to want to find a way of reaching an understanding with him. But there was another equally plausible alternative—Jack Cole was working for the Israelis, and he wanted her to pry information out of Nadim.

That latter possibility put a smirk on his face. If that was her game, she was doomed to failure. Unlike many men, it didn't matter how much he drank. He never lost control of his tongue. If he ever found out that was what she was doing, he would make her pay for it in ways she couldn't even imagine. His mind was racing trying to formulate them.

In the meantime, though he'd be vigilant, he was prepared to take her at her word. It wasn't just that he wanted to get into her pants and into that moist pussy of hers. That was only part of it. The other part was that having Bashir and Amin Gemayel's niece meant for Nadim extending to the utmost his subjugation of the Lebanese people and those stubborn Maronites. Layla was the prize in more ways than one.

Nadim was so engrossed in thinking about Layla that it took persistent knocking by his secretary on the closed wooden door to gain his attention. "Yes," he called when he finally heard her.

She opened the door and said, "Daniel Moreau is down in the reception area."

"Good, bring him up and offer him some coffee."

Moreau didn't want anything to drink. The Frenchman wasn't in a friendly mood, Nadim noticed as the sour-looking man entered his office. Nadim pointed to a sofa against the wall. He waited for Moreau to sit down before taking a chair facing him.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Daniel," he said, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Not this time, I'm afraid."

Nadim sucked in his breath. "What happened?"

"You know damn well what's going on. I don't like you Arabs and Israelis playing your deadly little games on French soil. Save them for your own backyards."

Nadim didn't know what had occurred that could be traced to him. "I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

Moreau looked angry. "I hate being lied to."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Well, you are now." His face was flushed with anger and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. "The police picked up two men night before last near Place de l'Alma. One was dead. One was badly beaten. Both had Syrian embassy IDs."

Nadim cursed under his breath.
Those incompetent fools.
He had told both of them to carry fake Saudi identification in case they were caught. The French were too frightened about their oil supplies to do anything against Saudi nationals.

"There must be a mistake."

"There's no mistake, but I will tell you that you trained the one who's alive very well. So far he has refused to talk. We're continuing to work on him."

Nadim knew it would be counterproductive to persist with the denial. "What do you want from me?" he asked.

"Stop the war games in France. Right now."

"It will be done," Nadim said.

"Good."

Suddenly Nadim had an idea: Maybe he could use Moreau for information. "Does the name Jack Cole mean anything to you?"

The man's sour expression gave way to a face aglow with intensity. Moreau leaned forward on the sofa. "How do you know him?"

"He's an American. He's been pursuing me. Makes me think he may be an Israeli agent."

"He is," Moreau said flatly.

Well, well, isn't that nice to know,
Nadim thought. "Why are you interested in him?"

"I want him for two crimes. Tell me where I can find him... I'll owe you a big favor in return."

Nadim frowned and tapped his fingers on the side of his chair. This was now getting tricky. He thought again about Layla's call. Jack Cole had tried to use Layla and failed, or he was in fact using her. Regardless, he wanted Jack Cole out of circulation, but he didn't want Moreau roughing up Layla to get at Jack.

"I don't know where to find Cole," Nadim said.

Moreau sputtered. "You're lying again."

"Actually, this time I'm not lying. But I can offer you a suggestion."

"What?" Moreau asked anxiously. From Moreau's tone and demeanor, Nadim could tell how much Moreau wanted Cole.

"It's possible," Nadim said slowly, watching Moreau hang on each word, "that those two men who were beaten up the other night near Place de l'Alma may have encountered Cole in the area." Nadim shrugged before continuing.

"Maybe he lives near there or has a friend close by. If I were in your shoes, I would station police or my men on that street with Jack Cole's picture."

Moreau narrowed his eyes. "You know something you're not telling me."

Nadim ducked the implied question. "I've just helped you out a great deal. Patience, my friend. Jack Cole will return to that location."
Damn right he will, as long as he continues to see Layla,
Nadim thought. "You can nab him then."

* * *

"I just heard from Stefan," Perikov said to Michael in a grim voice.

Michael pressed the cell phone to his ear. "Who's Stefan?"

"Remember when we finished our visit to the warehouse, you asked me to send one of the people on my staff down to Volgograd to pretend to be a tourist to keep his eye on those weapons?"

"Of course I remember that."

"Well, Stefan's the man."

"Sorry, I didn't know the name. What's he say?"

"Grab on to something and hold it tight."

God, this must be awful,
Michael thought. Perikov wasn't prone to dramatic gestures.

"As of an hour ago," Perikov said in a rapid staccato manner, "nuclear weapons are moving out of Volgograd. At the warehouse they were loaded in the backs of four tractor-trailer trucks, buried under fruits and vegetables."

He wasn't exaggerating, Michael thought: This was terrible. "How reliable is Stefan's information?"

Perikov was offended. "He was hiding in another building on the abandoned plant side watching the operation through binoculars."

"Does he have any idea of their destination?"

"They began moving in a southerly direction. That's all he knows. The roads have been closed to other traffic. Detour and Road Construction signs have been posted. He can't follow them. It's now up to you and your government."

Michael thanked him, then clicked off. He had to call Joyner ASAP. He thought of doing it on the special so-called secure cell phone the Company had given him, but worried about it. The Russians had gotten better at picking up communications coming in and out, especially from the United States. An hour wouldn't matter. He decided it would be safer to make the call to Joyner from the embassy.

* * *

Margaret Joyner's secretary pulled her out of a meeting in her office with the head of the FBI about homeland security to take the call from Michael. Her face turned pale as she listened to the report of his conversation with Perikov.

"Are you certain of this information?"

"Perikov has never been wrong yet."

Joyner should have been happy with Michael's information. After all, the reason she had set up his operation was to catch Suslov in the act of doing precisely what he was doing now. The difficulty was that the idea of nuclear arms on their way to renegades in Iran, Turkey, or Syria, or some combination of the three, was too horrible to contemplate. Those shipments had to be stopped, regardless of the cost.

"We need to know where those weapons are going, when the exchange is scheduled to take place, and what the rest of the deal is."

"Absolutely. I couldn't agree more. But Russia's a large country. They could be going anywhere."

It was a stupid comment. Michael had been thinking aloud. He wanted to take it back. It was too late.

"I know it's a big country," she snapped. "I need answers from you any way you can get them. Meantime, I'm on my way to the White House to brief the president."

Michael put the phone down and stared at the metal walls of the tiny cubicle of an office he was in, devoid of furniture except for a table, two chairs, and this magic phone. He felt as if he were in a prison cell.

Joyner wanted answers. Michael had only one way to get them. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight thirty in the evening. Irina was probably out at one of the trendy clubs with Natasha or some other girlfriend, or on a date with Suslov.

He called her home. No answer. The same on her cell. He wasn't surprised. She rarely kept it on when she was out for the evening. Said it spoiled her fun. He didn't leave a message. He'd keep trying. Eventually she had to go home.

* * *

"I don't think you should do this," Jack said to Layla.

The two of them were back at last night's brasserie in the neighborhood of Jack's apartment.

Her eyes were blazing with hatred. "I want to do it. More than ever," she insisted. "You should have heard the arrogance in the bastard's voice. I could imagine the smirk on his face. The great lover thinks he's about to score one more conquest that's eluded him." She could see the reluctance on Jack's face. "It's ironic that you suggested it to me. And you're the one who's getting cold feet." She reached over and put her hand on his.

"He's too dangerous. I'm afraid you'll get hurt. Call it off now before it's too late."

She smiled. "You're a smart man, Jack, but I've been in greater danger before. Do you know what it was like living in Beirut during the civil war? We knew that the Muslims saw each of us as a potential target. I've never used the knowledge, but I learned how to fire a gun."

She paused and patted her leather Gucci purse. "Since Nadim had those men attack you, I've kept one with me at all times."

"I'm not surprised. I would never underestimate you."

"Now let's talk about logistics."

He couldn't believe the discussion. She wasn't at all hesitant. She was a very unusual person. He reached into his pocket and slipped out a small plastic bag. Inside were two tiny round objects resembling black buttons. He held the bag under the table. She took it from him and stuffed it in her purse.

"Each one's a powerful electronic transmitter," he said softly.

"Bugs."

"Precisely. They'll transmit to a receiver we've installed in a sound lab not far from the Syrian embassy and Nadim's apartment on the Left Bank. Peel the paper off the bottom of the button and there's a sticky base."

"Where do you want me to plant them?"

He shrugged. "It's your call. See how the evening goes. If he has a briefcase with him, that's a good possibility if the button blends in. If you end up in his apartment..." He hesitated.

"And hopefully I will," she said.

"Then under a desk in a study or some other piece of furniture would be good. Remember, we're looking for places where it'll pick up his voice on the phone or in a meeting."

She nodded.

He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a wrist-watch with a burgundy leather strap and handed it to her. There was a tiny diamond in the center of the small gold face under the word
Piaget.

"A Lady Protocol. Jack, I've always wanted one of those. It particularly means a great deal coming from you right now. I take it as a vote of confidence."

He couldn't decide if she was putting him on. "It's not what it seems, although it does keep time. Pushing the stem activates a two-way panic button. I'll be following you around... outside whatever building you're in. It'll set off a buzzer on a receiver in my pocket. I'll come running."

She looked concerned. "If Nadim spots you, that'll blow the whole thing."

"Don't worry. He won't."

"I can really do this myself," she insisted. "I don't need you shadowing me around like some schoolgirl who—" He cut her off. "We're doing this my way."

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

Layla became frightened. The minutes of the afternoon passed slowly. The movement of the Piaget watch advanced grimly, as if heading toward the hour of her execution. The bravado she had expressed with Jack faded. Nadim was a horrible, cruel man. A killer. By doing this she was putting her life on the line.