Enemy of My Enemy (39 page)

She took her time getting dressed for her date with Nadim. Wearing a pale pink silk bra and panties, she eyed longingly a bottle of scotch that was standing on the bar. She would have dearly liked one stiff drink to steel her courage. A bad idea, she decided. She'd have to drink enough tonight as it was. She needed to keep her wits as best she could.

One floor below, Daniel Moreau was knocking on the door of the owner of the apartment just beneath Layla's. Moreau had taken Nadim's advice and put several men on the street in the area where the two Syrians had been attacked. He and another one of his people were going door to door in the several closest buildings with Jack Cole's picture, trying to find out whom Jack had been with that evening. In this building it was easy. There were only two apartments to the floor.

Moreau rang the bell to 5B and waited several minutes. When he rang it again and there was still no answer, he slipped a note under the door for the occupant to call him. Then he trudged up the stairs to the top floor.

The owner of 6A, Oliver, was a screenwriter. He resented the intrusion, which came just as he was drafting a critical section of a police action thriller. Besides, Oliver had no desire to cooperate with the police or the SDECE. He made a very good living writing about them, but he had come to despise their brutality in real life.

"I've never seen the man," Oliver said tersely when Moreau showed him Jack Cole's picture.

Moreau wasn't convinced. "I could take you to the center for questioning."

"Not unless you'd like to see yourself on the front page of
Figaro
," Oliver said.

"Who are you?"

"Go see
Cops on the Loose.
I wrote it."

Moreau stepped back and Oliver slammed the door.

Across the hall was 6B. On the mailbox downstairs, the occupant was identified as L. G. Moreau rang the bell.

"Who's there?" a woman called from behind the door.

"Police. SDECE," he said.

Not many people knew about the counterespionage agency, but Layla did. Between her fund-raising work for Christians in Lebanon and her involvement with Jack, Layla was apprehensive. She had Jack's cell phone number. For a moment she considered calling him. No, she decided. There was no need to panic.
Play it cool and you can get rid of this guy.

"I'll open the door a crack with the chain on," she said, sounding like a careful woman who lived alone. "Show me your ID."

Moreau took it out of his pocket and held it up to the crack in the door. At the same time she was looking at it, he was sizing her up.
Foxy woman,
he concluded.
Wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, makeup partially on her face. Must be getting ready to go out for the evening.

She opened the door and gave Daniel Moreau a warm smile with a hint of mystery. "What can I do for you, Monsieur Moreau?"

He took out Jack Cole's picture and handed it to her.

As she studied the photograph, her robe loosened a little on top. Moreau found his eyes being drawn to the cleavage between her shapely breasts.
Sexy woman.
After this was over, maybe he'd come back and get acquainted.

"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said politely. "I've never seen the man before. Did he do something wrong?"

"He killed someone in the neighborhood."

Layla looked astonished, which was genuine. She knew that Jack had been attacked by some of Nadim's thugs. She didn't know how it had ended. Moreau's words made her feel better about the protection Jack would be providing this evening.

"Do you think he'll come back this way?" She was sorry that she kept talking.
Don't say too much,
she chided herself.
Break it off with him.

He handed her his card. "If you see him on the street, please call me." He wanted to add,
or if you want company,
but he didn't.

"I'll do that, Daniel."

"Good, well, thanks for your time," he said, and was gone.

She was ready to leave the apartment when the doorbell rang again.
Oh, hell,
she thought. Moreau must have gotten new information and decided to come back. She looked through the peephole and held her breath. No, it was only Oliver, her neighbor. They had developed a friendly relationship over the years—not romantic, as he was interested in men, but they got together for drinks or coffee every month or so.

When she opened the door, Oliver saw she was dressed to go out. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "Did that asshole Moreau from the SDECE grill you too?"

"Yeah," she said, trying to sound irate.

"Why the hell's he looking for this Jack Cole?"

She shrugged and Oliver left.

* * *

Michael dialed Irina at home and on her cell phone every half hour, getting only an answering machine. Finally, at eleven-thirty, she picked up, sounding groggy.

"You woke me," she said. "I just got in a few minutes ago. I went right to sleep."

"Well, where were you? With Suslov? I've been calling all evening."

That annoyed her. "You're not my boss, you know."

Though he wasn't in love with her, Michael still didn't like the idea of her being with Suslov, but he brushed all of that aside. Those four trucks with nuclear weapons were moving south from Volgograd. Michael desperately needed her help to stop them from falling into the hands of lunatics. Right now that was all that counted. He tried a conciliatory approach. "I'm sorry, my little bird, it's just that last night with you was so great."

She laughed. "I know. Poor Micki. So jealous. I wasn't out with Dmitri. You don't have to worry. For me, last night was great, too. This evening I was with Natasha at the Territoria. A boring scene. Nobody was there."

"But lots of men hit on you, I'll bet."

"All babies. I've got my Micki, and he's taking me to Beverly Hills to live."

"I was making plans for us today."

Her face was flushed with excitement. "Wow, really? When are we going?"

"Once this project of mine is finished. If you can help me out, I'll get done faster."

Michael rationalized that what he was telling her was mostly true. When he didn't need her for information on this exchange any longer, he intended to take her to safety in the United States. He'd help her resettle in California before he left her and went back to the Company. Okay, she wouldn't be living in Beverly Hills at first. Maybe she'd start out in Venice or Santa Monica, but he'd help her get a job modeling. Those rich Hollywood guys would eat her up. In a year, two at the most, he was confident that she'd be ensconced in a house in Beverly Hills as some hotshot producer's trophy wife or mistress.

"Tell me what I can do," she said.

"Tomorrow try to find out what you can about the deal Suslov is working on with the Arab who visited him a couple of days ago."

"The one they had all the secrecy about?"

"Yeah. That one. Anything at all."

"I'll do my best. I promise." She sounded sincere and determined.

"That's all I ask, my little bird. I'll keep my cell phone on. Call me anytime."

* * *

As she exited her apartment and climbed into the waiting Jaguar, Layla noticed the two men in suits and ties standing at either end of the block trying to blend in with the scenery. Frenchmen. Not Arabs. Chances were they didn't belong to Nadim. Daniel Moreau must have set a trap for Jack. She'd have to warn him not to come back here.

The restaurant, Carre des Feuillants, was in an old section of Paris, on Rue Castiglione, close to the Ritz Hotel and the Opera. When they were two blocks away, the skies opened with a sudden spring downpour.

Climbing out of the car and under Jean Claude's waiting umbrella, Layla thought about what Jack had told her on their first date:
I love how you get in and out of a car. You show lots of gorgeous leg.
Where was Jack now? she wondered. Already in the area of the restaurant, or would he come later? She looked around quickly. No sign of Jack. That didn't surprise her. She expected him to be concealed.

"I won't need you any more this evening," she said to Jean Claude.

He knew her well enough to sense the tension in her voice and in her movements. "Are you certain? It's not a problem."

"No, I'll be okay," she said, displaying a confidence she didn't feel.

He was reluctant to leave her, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Really. I'll be fine."

Her knees were knocking as she proceeded down the small covered path that led to the entrance to the restaurant.
Get hold of yourself; you have a chance for revenge. Don't mess it up.

By the time she passed through the door held by the maitre d's assistant, she was walking gracefully and calmly, carrying the black bag with her loaded gun inside. Dressed in a simple mauve sheath, which was a little provocative, she turned men's heads in the small restaurant when she followed the proprietor to a corner table. Nadim was waiting with a glass of champagne in front of him.

He smiled as she approached, then rose smartly. He was wearing a freshly pressed double-breasted pin-striped Armani suit.

He leaned forward to kiss each of her cheeks. She let him, swallowing hard the whole time.

"You look fabulous, my dear," he said.

"And for you, no military uniform this evening."

"I'm decidedly off duty... trying to make a fresh start with you. I figure a different image might help. Try to think of me as a fellow banker."

But you still have the blood of my people on your hands,
she thought.

"Champagne?" Nadim asked.

"But of course."

He nodded to a waiter, who hustled over to pour another glass from the bottle of Grande Dame that Nadim had selected.

After they had ordered, Nadim said, "I know I have been a bit persistent in chasing you."

"That's an understatement. You've been horrible."

"But if something's worth having, I'll do everything humanly possible to get it. You should take my behavior as a compliment."

She forced a smile. "Let's ignore all of that. I agreed to one dinner. In return, you promised to stop harassing me. That was our deal."

"Fair enough. We'll also forget our respective politics for this evening. Who knows? You may not even think I'm so bad."

"I doubt it," she said, gritting her teeth. "But promise me one thing."

He raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"That you'll stick with what you said. If, at the end of this evening, I'm not interested in dating you anymore, you'll leave me alone." For a few seconds he fiddled with a spoon, trying to frame his response. That was too long for her. Abruptly she rose from her seat and grabbed her purse. "If you don't confirm that right now, then I'm out of here."

God, she has a hot temper,
Nadim thought.
I'll bet she's wild in bed.
Her condition didn't trouble him. He was confident that she would fall for him. He broke into a wide smile. "You have my word on that."

"Good," she said. "Then let's drop it."

* * *

When Joyner arrived at the White House for a meeting to brief the president on the call from Michael and Perikov's news, Kendall's secretary said to her, "I'm supposed to tell you you'll have to wait ten minutes at most. Mr. Grange and a Mr. McCallister just arrived."

The secretary had pronounced McCallister's name with an expression fitting for someone who had just bitten into an extremely sour lemon.

Joyner smiled. Terry McCallister must have been his usual odious self.

Behind the door to the Oval Office, Kendall was in no mood to pamper Terry McCallister.

Grange had tried to open the meeting on a conciliatory note, saying, "Terry has some concerns about—"

But Terry didn't need Grange speaking for him. "Listen, Calvin," he began, which infuriated Kendall. He should have been addressed by McCallister as Mr. President, and nobody told the president of the United States to listen. Grange, who could sense Kendall's reaction, was horrified and cringing as McCallister continued: "Jimmy told me that you changed your mind on the bombing."

Kendall was ready for him. "There must be a misunderstanding on your part. No decision was ever made on the bombing."

"That's not what Jimmy told me. He said you would bomb them back to the Stone Age unless and until they released Robert."

Kendall glared at Grange, who tried to defend himself. "That's not exactly what I—"

Kendall cut him off. "All of that's beside the point." He wanted to sound presidential. "The fact of the matter is that I'm dealing with a complex situation. Your son's release is important, but it's only one part of the equation."

McCallister was trying to keep himself in check. "If you won't bomb, what exactly are you doing to get Robert out of that cesspool?"

"I'm afraid I can't give you any specifics. Our plans are highly classified."

McCallister ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Oh, that's bullshit." He was raising his voice now. "Why don't you admit you're not doing a damn thing?"

Kendall was on the verge of terminating the meeting. Out of gratitude for what McCallister had done for him, and wanting to cut a distraught father some slack, he decided to make one more stab at bringing Terry around. "I can understand how you feel, Terry," he said in a soft voice, wanting to lower the decibel level. "And your son's life is important, but the welfare of his country, our country, is more important. When he joined the air force he knew that there would be a possibility of being captured or even killed. All military men know this. It's particularly true for pilots. Yet this is what your son wanted to do, and I admire him for that."

Kendall's words stung McCallister, who had coerced Robert into attending the Air Force Academy.

Kendall continued. "But please believe me when I say that it's my decision, and I'll do what I can to get Robert out of there consistent with my obligation to the country."

That didn't satisfy McCallister. "I'm not some ordinary Tom, Dick, or Harry. You're forgetting how much money I contributed and raised for—"

Kendall had enough. "This meeting's over."