Enemy of My Enemy

  Enemy of My Enemy

  A Novel

  by

  Allan Topol

  National Bestselling Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-113-3

  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2005, 2011 Allan J. Topol

  Cover design by Victor Mingovits

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  "John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor in Topol...As entertaining as it is complex, this energetic narrative is loaded with close calls and compelling relationships." ~Publishers Weekly

  "Plotwise, Topol is up there with such masters of the labyrinthine, as Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy." ~Washington Post

  By Allan Topol

  Fiction

  The Fourth of July War

  A Woman of Valor

  Spy Dance

  Dark Ambition

  Conspiracy

  Enemy of My Enemy

  ~

  Non Fiction

  Co-Author of Superfund Law and Procedure

  Dedication

  For my wife, Barbara, for everything

  Chapter 1

  Robert McCallister was terrified. He was more frightened than he had ever been in the twenty-five years of his life.

  His prison cell was smaller than the closet of the bedroom he had had as a boy in Winnetka on Lake Michigan's Gold Coast, north of Chicago. The stone walls were cold, and coated with a green mildew like substance in which a myriad of insects crawled. The stench from the toilet bucket was overwhelming. The rusty shackles were cutting into his wrists and ankles.

  Sitting on the dirt floor, he strained his ears as he heard the sound of men's voices approaching in the corridor outside the cell. There were two of them laughing and talking loudly in a language he couldn't understand. For the past day, only a single soldier had brought his food. Something different was happening. A round of torture after all?

  He lifted up his knees in a protective position. His whole body tensed from fear. Two rodents scurried across the floor and disappeared into a hole. Even they were taking cover.

  He didn't know how long he had been living this nightmare. Without a window to the outside world and minus his watch, which an angry mob had torn from his wrist when they pounced on him before he had a chance to extricate from the parachute, he had no sense of time. He rubbed his hand along his unshaven cheek and chin, trying to gauge how much stubble had accumulated. The scratches on his face were healing and scabs had formed. He guessed that he had been captured two days ago. Maybe three.

  The mob had been hysterical. Some were tearing and scratching his face; others kicking his body, while chilling guttural cries spewed from their mouths. The words were incomprehensible to him, but the venom in their voices was apparent.

  Initially, he had been relieved when soldiers had pulled him away. Quickly, his relief had given way to a new terror as he had faced his interrogator. Abdullah was how he had introduced himself to Robert. Dressed in a brown military uniform, he was powerfully built, with a thick, bushy black mustache, a sadistic smile, and small, beady dark eyes. The instruments of torture hanging on the wall behind Abdullah's desk—electrodes, rubber batons, and metal poles with multiple thin, sharp, pointed objects at the end—were what Robert was staring at when Abdullah told him, "You have twenty-four hours to decide whether we do this the easy way or the hard."

  Waves of fear had shot through Robert as he heard those words. With an incredible effort of self-control, he had kept his body from shaking or losing control of his bladder, as he recited, "Robert McCallister, lieutenant, United States Air Force," in response to each question Abdullah asked about the location and strength of American forces in the region.

  Two soldiers had dragged him from the room, away from Abdullah's contemptuous sneer and his threatening words: "You'll talk. Sooner or later, they all do." Robert had wondered how long he would be able to hold out. How long it would be until he disclosed everything he knew.

  From his position on the dirt floor, he stared at the one-foot-square barred window on the metal door of the cell, waiting for the next hate-filled face to appear on the other side of those bars. When the door opened, he saw the two soldiers who had dragged him from Abdullah's office after his interrogation the first day. One crossed the room, moving toward him with bold, deliberate steps. Robert tried to pull himself to a standing position, but the soldier lifted his leg and smashed his boot down hard on Robert's shoulder, keeping him in place. Then he unsnapped the leather holster on his hip and removed his pistol. He began laughing, gesturing to his comrade with one hand while he gripped his gun tightly with the other. He pressed the hard, cold steel against the side of Robert's head. "I kill you, fucking American pilot," he said. "Now I kill you."

  Robert wanted to pray, but he didn't know how. Brought up without any religion, how do you pray?

  Resigned to his death, Robert didn't plead for his life like a sniveling coward. He didn't cry. His body was taut. He closed his eyes. His hands clenched into fists. His knees were shaking despite his effort at self-control. He held his breath.

  The soldier pulled the trigger. Robert waited for the explosion. Nothing happened. The gun must have malfunctioned.

  The soldier aimed the gun again. He pulled the trigger. Nothing.

  Then he burst out laughing. "No bullets in gun. You lucky, American pilot."

  Relieved, but furious that it had all been a sadistic joke, Robert didn't say a word. He wondered what they would do to him next.

  "Maybe not so lucky," the soldier said. "We take you to Abdullah."

  As they dragged him upstairs, Robert tried to steel himself for what was coming next. "Robert McCallister, lieutenant, United States Air Force," he muttered under his breath. No matter what Abdullah did to him, that was all he would say.

  When he entered the office, Abdullah said, "Are you ready to tell me about American military deployments in the area?"

  "Robert McCallister, lieutenant, United States Air Force," he said in a voice that tried lamely to express the courage he didn't feel.

  Abdullah turned around and pointed to the instruments of torture on the wall while giving that cruel smile. "Would you like to choose or shall I?"

  "Robert McCallister, lieutenant, United States Air Force."

  Before Abdullah could respond, the telephone on his desk rang. As his interrogator listened, Robert watched the expression on the officer's face. The smile gave way to an angry, surly frown, his tone subservient as Robert guessed he was responding, "Yes, sir... Yes, sir," to whatever orders he was receiving.

  He hung up the phone and stared hard at Robert. "Someone powerful believes that you're worth more to us alive than dead."

  Chapter 2r />
  Jack Cole sat at his desk in Tel Aviv with a puzzled expression on his face as he studied the computer screen. The email from Monique, his secretary in Paris, was terse: Daniel Moreau from the SDECE (Service de Documentation Exterieur et Contre-Espionage) came to the office today to see you. I told him that you were out of the country, and that I didn't know where you were, how to reach you, or when you would return. He said he will be back.

  Jack had never met Moreau, but he knew the Frenchman from reputation. He was the assistant director of SDECE charged with investigating espionage that took place on French soil. Jack wondered whether he was still pursuing the 1981 Osirak affair, or the recent assassination in Marseilles of Khalifa, a Palestinian terrorist. Jack didn't think either of these could be tied to him, but he couldn't be positive there wasn't a leak somewhere. It seemed impossible that Moreau could have found Francoise in Montreal or wherever she was now, after all these years.

  This was a dangerous situation for Jack. The purpose of Moreau's visit had to be interrogation, arrest, or expulsion. He would have to find a way of dealing with Moreau, or Jack's entire life—so carefully constructed with France and Israel at the center—would come crashing down.

  Jack thought about calling Moshe to report this development, but decided against it. He rationalized that he needed more information before he alarmed the director of the Mossad, but his real reason was something different. Moshe might pull him from Paris. Jack didn't want to run the risk of that happening. France was now a hotbed for Arab activity. That was where the action was.

  Jack's worries about Moreau were interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom. "Ed Sands at Calvert Woodley in Washington is calling," Rachel, his secretary in Tel Aviv, said.

  Jesus, this is not what I need right now, Jack thought. He wanted to concentrate on Daniel Moreau and sending back a message to Monique, but he had no choice. He had to keep his wine business afloat, to maintain his cover. Then there was the problem of what he should say to Ed Sands.

  Stalling until he picked up the phone, Jack turned around and looked out the window of his office on the fortieth floor of the Azrieli Towers, one of two side-by-side gleaming skyscrapers, the highest buildings in Tel Aviv, at the sprawling city below. He had loved Tel Aviv the first time he had seen it as a boy in 1968. Not being religious, he chose to live here rather than in Jerusalem. For Jack, secular Tel Aviv was the cultural and economic heart of modern Israel. Writers and musicians thrived on the cutting edge of their art. A burgeoning high-tech industry burst forth and rivaled others around the world. It was a city, like New York, that never slept, where boutiques, discotheques, and buses were crowded late at night.

  Jack had been dreading this call ever since he had sent the e-mail yesterday advising Ed that he couldn't deliver the fifty cases of the special Cuvee Chateauneuf du Pape that Ed had ordered and paid for six months ago, because Jack's supplier had welshed on him. Jack had made his deal for the wine with Claude DuMont, a broker in Lyons, before he sold it to Ed. Yesterday, DuMont had returned Jack's payment with a note that read, Impossible to supply. Jack knew exactly what had happened. With the wine in great demand throughout the world and the price soaring since Jack and DuMont had made their deal, the thief DuMont had found a customer willing to pay a lot more than Jack. That left Jack stuck in the middle. He had no doubt that Ed had already resold the wine to his retail customers. If Jack followed DuMont's lead and returned Ed's money, Ed's customers would raise holy hell when they couldn't get their wine.

  Jack picked up the phone and held it away from his ear in case Ed shouted.

  "I'm not a very happy man," Ed said in a low grumble.

  Jack took a deep breath. "I didn't expect you to be."

  "We've been doing business a long time."

  Jack knew Ed's vocal inflections well enough to determine that he was furious, as he had a right to be. "I'm really sorry. I sent you a copy of the note from Claude DuMont."

  "And should I send Claude DuMont's note to my customers?"

  Jack was running through the options in his mind. There were only two: Stick Ed the way Claude had stuck him. Jack's guess was that Ed would probably not go to the expense of suing. Jack might lose the Calvert Woodley business, but Ed might eventually come around. Or Jack could offer to go out into the open market, buy the wine at the market price, and supply it to Ed as promised, taking a financial beating in the process. Jack grimaced, his face looking as if he had bitten into a lemon.

  Due to the world recession, Jack's company, Mediterranean Wine Exports, with offices in Paris, Milan, and Barcelona, was less profitable this year than last. As he crunched the numbers in his mind, he realized that he would be taking a serious hit if he had to cover, but he had no choice. Ed had been one of Jack's earliest customers.

  Twenty-three years ago, when he had started the business and dropped into Calvert Woodley on a marketing trip to the United States, Ed had been willing to give him a chance. Besides, covering was the decent thing to do. He had made a commitment. He had to honor it.

  "I'll find the wine for you," he said to Ed. "The price stays the same. Give me thirty days."

  Before Ed could respond, Jack's secretary burst into his office with a note in her hand. "Hold on for a minute," he said to Ed.

  Jack reached out his hand for the note. Your brother, Sam, is here, Rachel had typed.

  Jack shook his head in disbelief and hit the mute button on the phone. "This is one hell of a day," he muttered.

  Rachel looked at him sympathetically. "Anything I can do to help?"

  "Yeah, tell him to go back to London and break his engagement."

  She cracked a tiny wry smile.

  "Since you won't do that, tell him I'll be off in a couple of minutes."

  Jack activated his phone. "Okay, I'm back," he said to Ed. "What do you think?"

  "You're an honorable man. That's what I think. I like doing business with you."

  "Our relationship means a great deal to me as well."

  Ed cleared his throat. "As long as I've got you on the phone, what are you hearing about last year's burgundies?"

  "I tasted some of them in the cask," Jack said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "It may be the best vintage in a hundred years."

  Ed laughed. "You guys say that about every two years."

  Jack laughed with him. "Yeah, well, this time it really is."

  "Anyhow, send me a price list and I'll fax you an order for some of those wines from the small producers you're working with."

  "Thanks, Ed. I'll look for it."

  When Jack hung up the phone, he breathed a sigh of relief. His profit on Ed's new order would make up some of his loss from DuMont's crummy behavior. Now he had to turn to the surprise visitor in his office. If Jack could fly, he would open the window and take off. Anything to avoid talking to his brother.

  Sam was more than Jack's only sibling. For all practical purposes, Jack had no living relatives other than Sam. Back in Chicago, where they had grown up, Jack, ten years older, had been part father and part brother to "the little guy," as he affectionately referred to Sam. Their father, a newspaper reporter at the Tribune, had worked long hours. Their mother was immersed in charity work. Left alone, the two of them had developed a close bond. Jack had expected it to last forever, and it would have, but for one fact.

  About a year ago, Sam, living in England as the head of the London office of a large Chicago-based international law firm, had begun dating Ann McCallister. "Don't get started with that family," Jack had admonished Sam, to no avail. A month ago, Sam called Jack to announce his engagement. Viewing it as a personal betrayal, Jack had slammed the phone down on him.

  There could be only one reason Sam had come to Israel now without any warning: to tell Jack he had set a date to marry Ann. Well, you're wasting your time if you think I'll stand up with you and those people during a wedding ceremony, Jack vowed to himself. I'm not even sure that I'll be there.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he
became. Sam had done him a favor by showing up in his office. Jack would be able to deliver the message in person. He hit the intercom. "Send him in, Rachel." Deal with this unemotionally, Jack cautioned himself.

  As the door opened and he saw Sam, a glass of Coke in his hand, Jack was struck by the fact, as he always was, of how little resemblance the two men bore. Jack had gotten their good-looking mother's genes. Sam was a dead ringer for their father.

  Sam, who was five-eight, with a protruding waistline, worked too hard and couldn't find time in his busy schedule for exercise. He had a bald spot in the center of his dark brown hair. Jack was an inch over six feet, thin and in good shape from running and using an exercise bike five or six times a week. Jack had thick, wavy sand-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes. Sam wore wire-framed glasses over tired bloodshot brown eyes.

  Sam was wearing the Savile Row double-breasted suit that was the uniform of his trade, mergers and acquisitions. He was a specialist who crafted transactions for the world's most powerful businesses. Jack was dressed in his normal Israeli garb of slacks and a sport shirt open at the neck. No one would have guessed that Sam was the thirty-eight-year-old, the way they looked.

  The picture Jack still had in his mind was of the two of them in shorts and T-shirts. Jack was on his way to play baseball or football with his friends. Sam, thrilled to be Jack's sidekick, held on to his brother's hand as they made their way to the park. There, Sam hung out with the older boys as a sort of mascot. Jack loved the little guy tagging along, looking up at him with great admiration. All of that changed when Jack went off to Michigan for college.

  "This is a surprise," Jack said. "You down here for business?"