Enemy of My Enemy Page 2

  Sam took a sip and placed his glass on an end table.

  "Nope," he said. "I just wanted to see you." Sam's voice had a nervous edge.

  "Quite a gamble on your part. I might have been out of the country." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jack remembered the phone call he had received last night around midnight. When he had answered and said, "Jack here," the caller had hung up. That had to have been Sam, checking that he was at home.

  "This must be about your great romance," Jack said.

  "I want—"

  Jack cut him off. "I'm not interested in hearing about it." Breaking his vow to remain calm, he was raising his voice. Sam knew damn well what Jack thought of the idea of his dating and then becoming engaged to Sarah and Terry's daughter. Apparently, the legal genius with the Harvard Law School education who crafted billion-dollar deals couldn't get this simple fact into his head.

  "You can do whatever you want with your life," Jack said.

  Sam stepped forward toward Jack. "Why do you always have to interrupt people? At least let me finish a sentence."

  "I know what you're going to say."

  Sam pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket, extracted a hundred-pound note, and smashed it down on Jack's desk. "Looky here, I'll bet you don't. I'll bet—"

  "Oh, c'mon, you're going to tell me you set the date to marry that girl." He refused to mention Ann's name. "And you want me to join you at your wedding."

  "You just lost a hundred quid. I am going to marry her, but we haven't set the date yet."

  Feeling chagrined at his outburst, Jack lightened up. "Don't act British with me," he said in a jocular tone. "You've only been there two years. They're called pounds. Not quid."

  Jack came out from behind the desk and pointed to two chairs around a coffee table. When they were both seated, he said, "Okay, what gives?"

  "It has to do with Ann."

  Jack felt his anger rising again. He clutched the arms of his chair. "Yeah, go ahead."

  "Her brother Robert's plane was shot down over southeastern Turkey."

  Jack's eyes widened. "Is he the unidentified pilot they've been yapping about on CNN?"

  Sam nodded. "Washington hasn't wanted to go public with his name. The Turks are claiming that the Kurds are responsible. The Kurds are blaming the Turks. Both of them say they have no idea who the pilot is or what happened to him."

  "What are Terry and Sarah saying about it?"

  The question annoyed Sam. "What do you think they're saying? It's their son. But looky here, that's not why I came. I don't give a shit about Terry or Sarah. It's Ann I care about. She and her brother are close." He raised two fingers pressed together for emphasis. "Like you and I were once."

  Jack let the comment pass.

  Sam continued. "Ann's been going through hell since she heard the news. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't work."

  "What's the American government doing?"

  Sam held out his hands. "Not much... so far. Terry's using all his clout as a big contributor and fund-raiser for President Kendall and the Republicans. Leaning hard on Kendall to do whatever it takes to win his son's release, and you can't blame—"

  This was too much for Jack. He cut Sam off again. "Good old Terry, always a man of action. Leads a charge up a hill even though he's got no idea whether there's anything at the top worth taking."

  Sam sighed in exasperation. "I know that something happened with you, Sarah, and Terry when the three of you were at Michigan. I've been trying to get you to tell me about it ever since you went into orbit once I started dating Ann. But you refuse to talk. So what the hell can I do?"

  "You could have stopped dating her," Jack said, his eyes blazing. "It's called loyalty."

  "If we're such a team, then tell me what happened with the three of you."

  Jack waved his arm. "I won't talk about it."

  "I didn't come all this way for another round with you."

  Jack was on the edge of his chair. "Then why did you come?"

  "Yesterday President Kendall sent a private message to both the Kurds and the Turks. Either find and return Robert or suffer serious consequences."

  "Yeah, that'll produce Robert's release," Jack said sarcastically. He looked away from Sam at the red ball of fire setting over the Mediterranean. He wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not even Terry and Sarah.

  Jack turned back to Sam. "So that's what you came to tell me? Fine. I know it. Now that you're here, I assume you'll stay with me overnight. We'll go out for some dinner."

  "You don't understand. I want your help."

  Jack wondered what was coming next. "My help with what?" he asked warily.

  "Rescuing Robert."

  A long, low whistle flew out of Jack's mouth. "That's a hell of a request of someone who runs a wine-exporting business."

  Sam was not to be put off. "Looky here, you've lived in Israel a long time. The Israelis have a close relationship with the Turks. You must know people in the Israeli government. People who..."

  His brother's plea astounded Jack. Sam couldn't possibly know about Jack's Mossad connection unless he had let something slip out. But he had always been so careful. Hoping that Sam was shooting in the dark, he decided to tough it out. "Hey, I've got an idea. Maybe the Turks and the Kurds will take a few cases of good French wine in return for Ann's brother. Suppose I make it Haut Brion or Margaux. Something extraordinary like that."

  Sam bristled. "One of those two groups probably captured Robert and is holding him prisoner. You know what those people are like. This is no time for smart-aleck comments. Have a heart, for God's sake."

  "I can't help." Jack stood up to signal the end of the discussion. "I'm really sorry."

  "Damn it, Jack!" Sam cried out. "I'll bet that kid's in a prison somewhere being tortured. He's the brother of the woman I love. This isn't about Sarah or Terry."

  At the sound of her name, a tiny smile appeared on Jack's face. Life was funny. If you lived long enough, anything was possible. "Well, well, isn't that nice. So now Sarah needs Israel, and she sent you."

  "Sarah doesn't know I came. I didn't even tell Ann."

  "I can't help," Jack said in a tone of finality.

  Sam shot to his feet and moved in close to Jack. "You could if you wanted to!" He was shouting. "You're such a hard-ass. No wonder you've never had a relationship with anyone."

  Afraid he might strike Sam, his face red with rage, Jack retreated to the far corner of the office. It was true that Jack had never had a serious relationship with any woman in the three decades since he'd broken up with Sarah, but he certainly hadn't lacked for women and romance.

  Sam was contrite. "Look, I shouldn't have said that. Regardless of what happened between you and Terry and Sarah, I don't think it's right to hold the children responsible for the sins of their parents. You have to agree with that."

  Angered by Sam's words, Jack picked up a white china ashtray from his desk and moved it around in the palm of his hand. "Tell you what," he finally said. "If old Terry, the world's biggest hypocrite, flies over here, gets down on his knees, and begs me to help, then I just might do it. Otherwise the answer's no."

  Sam refused to stop. Tenacity was the key to his success in law practice. "Terry will never know you did it. He has no idea Ann and I are even dating."

  "The answer's still no. Terry's so important now. Let him do it himself."

  Sam had one more card left to play. "Have I ever asked you for anything before? You moved to Israel and left me holding the bag for Mom and Dad. I never complained about it. I know you sent money, but that wasn't the issue."

  Sam paused to take a deep breath before continuing in an emotional voice. "Even when Dad was dying after his heart attack, and then Mom from cancer, you were never there. You came to sob at their funerals. Big fucking deal. A couple of cameo appearances by the prodigal Israeli son. You didn't have the vaguest idea of what goes into watching two parents die from day to day."

  Sam's words bothered him more th
an Jack would ever admit. Being away from Chicago for those horrible two years and unable to visit more often was something he had always regretted. But that was the critical period for the Osirak operation. Sam didn't have a clue about it, and Jack couldn't explain, even after all this time. Sam had no business hitting him with a huge guilt trip. "I'll forget you said that," Jack replied, feeling his anger rise close to the boiling point.

  "I don't want you to forget it. Now for the first time I'm asking you for something, and you're turning me down. When it comes to family, you were a shit then; you're a shit now."

  Sam's words were too much for Jack. He clutched the ashtray tightly in his hand. With a look of fury, he raised it and threw it at Sam. The white rectangle was flying on a line straight for Sam's forehead. "What the..." Sam blurted out as he ducked to one side in the nick of time. The ashtray smashed against the wall and shattered into hundreds of pieces.

  "You bastard!" Sam shouted. "Keep your fucking dinner. I'm going back to London." He turned and bolted from the room, slamming the door so hard it nearly tore the hinges out of the door frame.

  Jack shook his head, frustrated and upset that the conversation had ended this way. For several minutes he agonized over what had happened, knowing that he could never explain anything to Sam. Ah, the hell with him, Jack finally decided. He closed the door to his office and turned back to his computer. Monique's e-mail about Daniel Moreau's visit was ominous. Here was something he had to deal with immediately.

  He was usually good at compartmentalizing different issues in his mind and shifting gears mentally. But the conversation with Sam had thrown him. It took several minutes for Jack to begin thinking clearly about Daniel Moreau.

  The Frenchman might come back again and search the office. He thought of the materials he kept in there. Was there anything he should ask Monique to destroy? Anything troublesome that could tie Jack to his Mossad activities?

  He closed his eyes and visualized every file, every drawer in his office. There was nothing, he decided. He had been meticulous about confining what he maintained in the office on Avenue de Messine to the wine business.

  Monique didn't know a thing about his other life. He had never involved her in his work for Moshe. Travel arrangements and logistics for those trips were handled by a contact in the Israeli embassy in Paris. Still, Monique was in the line of fire with Daniel Moreau. He had to get her out of there.

  Quickly he punched in the number of his office in Paris. "Monique," he said. "I saw the e-mail about Daniel Moreau."

  "It was terrible." She sounded distraught. "He's an awful man. He kept pressing me about what you do and where you go. He wanted me to let him look through all our documents."

  "What'd you tell him?"

  "That he'll need a warrant before I show him anything. I remember that from school." No longer on her own, Monique was now sounding stronger and pulled together.

  "How did he react?"

  "He tried to lean on me, but I wouldn't back down."

  Jack remembered that Monique's former husband had been a brute who whacked her around from time to time. She had learned to hang in with intimidating men. "Good for you."

  "He'll be back," she said. "With a warrant."

  Jack knew Moreau would return—not with a warrant, but when the office was empty. He didn't tell Monique that. There was no point alarming her any further.

  "Don't worry about Daniel Moreau," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "It's nothing. I'll make a couple of calls and deal with it. Meantime, since everything's quiet, I decided to give you a well-earned vacation."

  "You did? Thank you."

  "You know how you always wanted to take a trip to Australia?"

  "Yes," she replied with enthusiasm.

  "Go for the next month. Put the airplanes and hotels on the company credit card. Maybe you could even check out some of the producers while you're there, as my emissary."

  "Oh, my God! Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Anything I can do before I take off?"

  "Not a thing," he said. "Just lock the door."

  He was prepared to do battle with Daniel Moreau.

  Chapter 3

  Shrouded in heavy fog that rose from the Potomac River, the black Lincoln Town Car moved cautiously along the GW Parkway in the gloom of the predawn. It was mid-March. Spring should have been bursting forth, but Washington was still in the grip of one of the nastiest winters in memory, which prompted the pundits to say, "What global warming?"

  Behind the driver, an exhausted Margaret Joyner looked out of the window into the abyss and closed her eyes. She couldn't doze. The pain in her back was killing her. One of the orthopods had recommended surgery, but the head of the world's most powerful intelligence agency was afraid of going under the knife. And many people said back surgery never worked anyway. Joyner decided to live with the pain as long as she could.

  She rested her weary mind, mustering her strength for the long day ahead. The three hours of sleep she had gotten each of the last four nights were taking their toll. It had been the worst week Joyner had in her six years as CIA director. Ever since Robert McCallister's plane had been shot down, she had been on constant call for President Kendall and that asshole Jimmy Grange, as Terry McCallister kept turning up the heat.

  When Kendall had defeated Harry Waltham for the presidency two years ago, she should have packed up and gone back to California. But the president-elect had pleaded with her, "I don't know the intelligence business. Without you, the congressional committees will crucify me. I'll be dead in the water."

  Faced with a presidential plea like that, Joyner had found it impossible to say no. Acting against her better judgment, she had told President-elect Kendall, "Four years, but only four." She had done it for the country. Not for Calvin R. Kendall.

  It was dark outside, but Joyner's corner suite on the top floor of the Company's headquarters in Langley was fully lit. Two secretaries were typing furiously, while an extraordinarily handsome man in his mid-thirties with curly black hair, a soft, winning smile, and sparkling dark eyes that pulled the gaze of people in the room like magnets, sat stiffly in a leather armchair along one wall. He was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and reading the morning Washington Post.

  The minute she walked into the office, he sprang to his feet. "Good morning, Mrs. Joyner."

  "Sorry to bring you in so early, Michael. After I called you back to Washington, the McCallister matter exploded. This is about the only time that we have a decent chance of not being interrupted."

  "Not a problem. Anything that's good for you works for me. Besides, my body's still on Moscow time."

  "Well, mine isn't. I need a boost to get started." She nodded in the direction of one of the two secretaries. "Carol here brews a great cup of coffee, and it's already in my office. Right, Carol?"

  "Absolutely, Mrs. Joyner."

  Michael Hanley picked up the attaché case at his feet and followed Joyner toward the heavy mahogany door that led to her corner office. As she walked, from the corner of her eye she watched Carol watching Michael, who was Carol's age. She wasn't surprised. He had a sensual look that turned women's heads. When he was seated at the circular conference table in the corner of her office, Joyner kicked the door shut and poured them each a cup of coffee.

  Michael had been in the director's office only once before. That was when Joyner had given him this assignment. Then, like now, the thought that kept popping into his mind was, If only the walls could talk. So many intrigues against foreign governments. So many operations concealed from Congress and the White House had been hatched in this room.

  Joyner took off her glasses and tossed them on the table. The rest of the world couldn't stop because Terry McCallister's kid was shot down. Then she said to Michael, "What you're doing is one of the most important projects this agency has going. I want a personal briefing."

  "Certainly, Mrs. Joyner," he said in a courteous voice.

  He reached into
the attaché case, pulled out two copies of a report in a blue folder, and handed her one. "I prepared this for you last night on my laptop."

  "Any other copies?"

  "None. The disk is inside the cover of yours. The message from your secretary was that you wanted to meet alone with me. That no one else was to know about it. I've followed that instruction, of course."

  "Good." She liked this young man. She was glad she had handpicked him for the project.

  "Power Point or paper?" he asked.

  Joyner smiled. "I'm from the generation that has to hold papers in their hands and make notes. If I can't touch it, it's not real." She walked over to her desk and hit a button that dropped a screen from the ceiling. "Do your high tech thing," she said, "but leave me a hard copy of the report."

  He nodded and began pushing buttons on his laptop while she walked around the room in order to alleviate the pain in her back.

  On the screen the words flashed:

  Assignment: Determine whether Russia was the source of nuclear weapons recently acquired by Pakistan and North Korea.

  Michael pulled out of his pocket a silver pointer that emitted a red laser beam.

  He hit a button on the computer. The next image flashed on the screen. Following the beam of the pointer, Michael read the words:

  The most serious problem now facing the world.

  ~ Over 20,000 nuclear warheads exist in Russia from the former USSR stockpile.

  ~ Despite ten years of American subsidies, safeguards are still minimal.

  ~ Soldiers providing protection are underpaid, demoralized, and subject to being bribed.

  ~ Opportunities exist for theft, particularly of the smaller tactical nuclear weapons.

  Impatiently, Joyner glanced at her watch. The White House could be calling any minute to reassemble the McCallister crisis team. She interrupted Michael. "I know all of this. That's why I gave you the job. Cut to the guts of what you've learned."

  For an instant Michael was flustered. His first-ever presentation to the director, and he was blowing it. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and said, "Bottom line is that your hunch was right. Nuclear weapons of the former USSR, supposedly being guarded by Russia, are being sold."