Enemy of My Enemy (12 page)

Kemal paused and shook his head in disgust. "Now I realize I got a bad break. If it had been some ordinary kid, they wouldn't be going berserk in Washington... and turning my prime minister into a wild man." He took a deep breath and repeated. "A bad break. I need your help, my friend."

Nadim's mind was racing. An idea was taking shape—something that was at once brilliant, daring, and sinister. Something that could radically change the course of events in the Middle East and propel Nadim to control of the government in Syria.

"Perhaps it's not a bad break at all," Nadim said softly. "Perhaps you got lucky."

"I don't understand."

"Where is the pilot now?"

Kemal raised his hand and pointed a finger to the right. "We're holding him in a room at the end of the corridor... sedated and unconscious. He has no idea where he is or how he got there. He's being carefully watched and monitored by a doctor and a nurse. But I can't keep him here much longer. I'm under tremendous pressure from my government to find him and return him to the Americans. That's why I called you. I was hoping you'd be able to take him secretly to Syria. That way I could say he's not in Turkey. Even if the Americans came here with a whole army, they wouldn't find him. You could kill him and dispose of the body however you'd like. I can't do that any longer because they'll interrogate people, and some frightened bastard will talk. But they'll never think to focus their attention on Syria. If you do this for me, I will be in your debt."

Nadim couldn't believe he was hearing this. It fit perfectly into his own idea.

"Well... will you do it?" Kemal asked nervously.

"I'll do more than that," Nadim said, letting the excitement bubble out in his voice. "I have an idea that will make you a hero for all time in your country, because Turkey will finally be able to control the Kurds. They'll bow down to you in Ankara—the prime minister and all of the other top people in the government."

"I'm listening," Kemal said, still apprehensive.

Though he was acting on his own, Nadim was ready to forge ahead. Ahmed, that imbecile of a president Syria had, would never understand the plan even if Nadim explained it to him a hundred times. The Syrian president was an optometrist by education. When he had been handpicked by his father as a successor to punish his power-hungry uncle for plotting to capture the presidency, the streets had erupted with laughter. The man was no leader.

But when Nadim succeeded, he would be able to rally the army behind him and oust Ahmed. He would know how to run the country. They would finally be able to strike back at the Israelis for the 1967 and 1973 humiliations.

"The first thing we have to do," Nadim said, "is move the American pilot to Syria, but not for execution, as you suggested. Instead, for safekeeping. I have the perfect place to hold him."

Kemal was troubled. "But if he's alive he can create problems for us. If my prime minister finds out—"

Nadim held up his hand. "Hear me out first. Then you decide."

"Okay. Tell me your idea."

Nadim began talking, and as he listened to the Syrian for the next half hour, Kemal, too, became excited by what he was hearing. A smile formed at the edges of his mouth.

"If we can pull this off," Kemal said, "both our countries will be so much stronger and more dangerous. You'll be better able to deal with the Israelis, and we with the Kurds."

"Exactly." Nadim nodded vigorously. "It will change the entire political situation in the Middle East. And we will succeed." Nadim said it with confidence.

Kemal became nervous again as he thought about one of the aspects of Nadim's plan. "But we need the miserable Iranians to participate. They're unpredictable. And they hate us because of our secular government. They'll never go along."

Anxious to gain Kemal's unqualified support, Nadim placed a reassuring hand on the Turk's arm. "They despise the Israelis even more. They won't pass up an opportunity to weaken the Israelis and their position as the dominant military force in the region. Besides, they'll be able to gain some concessions from the Americans."

Kemal was mired in thought, weighing the risks and benefits to himself. Deep furrows appeared on his forehead.

Nadim pressed the Turk. "When we succeed, you'll be a hero in your country."

"And if we fail..."

"We won't fail," Nadim said. "You can count on that."

Kemal was coming around. Whether or not Nadim's plan succeeded in the long run, Kemal would gain an immediate advantage: He was getting the American pilot out of Turkey and across the border into Syria. "I'm in," Kemal finally said.

When Kemal left the room to make the arrangements to transport the American pilot, Nadim pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed a Paris number. There was no answer. He decided to leave a message.

"Layla, my dear," Nadim said, "I'll be back in Paris in a couple of days. I want to schedule a date with you for dinner."

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Michael Hanley waited for Irina in a blinding snowstorm in Moscow in front of the Pushkin Memorial Museum on Prechistenka. Night was falling over the city. Two hours ago Irina had called. "Dmitri's going out of town on a business trip." She had giggled. "We can have a date tonight."

This could be the break he had been waiting for with Suslov. He wanted to shout, "Where has he gone?" but he controlled himself. If things broke his way, he'd end up getting that information.

He glanced at his watch as large, wet snowflakes pelted him. She should have been here fifteen minutes ago.

A new dark silver Mercedes SL500 turned the corner and spun to a stop. Through the windshield he spotted Irina—beautiful Irina with skin as white as the falling snow and long blond hair spilling over her eyes. The car must have been a gift from Suslov, Michael decided. God only knew how much it cost in rubles, with expensive foreign imports priced to the sky. But if you were virtually minting money, as Suslov was doing, price was no object. Hell, maybe he had his goons extract it from a car dealer as a "protection fee" if they wished to stay in business.

Michael was still closing the front door on the passenger side when she gunned the engine. The car glided over a patch of icy snow, then shot forward. For the next several minutes Irina, nervously glancing into the rearview mirror while biting down on her lower lip, didn't say a word. Michael watched her. Her short black skirt had ridden up high on her thighs, showing him lots of beautiful soft, pale skin. While her right foot was pressed tensely on the accelerator, her left leg, encased in a long black Ferragamo boot, was shaking from fear.

Once she was satisfied they weren't being followed, she relaxed.

"I'm glad you could meet me, Micki," she said in Russian, which was what they always spoke. She had studied English in school, but retained little of it.

"I'd meet you anytime," he said.

Irina loved calling him Micki because she said Michel and Michael were too formal. Though he hated that nickname because it reminded him of his childhood in a rough part of ethnically divided Boston, where it was still the Dagos against the Micks, he was willing to tolerate it. There was a lot he was willing to tolerate with Irina. He was going for the gold.

Don't forget your priorities,
he reminded himself.
The gold is not between her legs. The gold is what she can tell you about Suslov and his nuclear arms operation.
He remembered Joyner's words: "You're playing a dangerous game."
Sometimes the prize is worth it,
he thought. The idea of nuclear weapons falling into the hands of an outlaw regime or an international terrorist organization was too horrible to contemplate, and North Korea was already claiming membership in the nuclear club. Even without them, Al Qaeda had been able to wreak havoc on the United States and the world.

Without a signal or any other warning to following cars, she turned right sharply, narrowly missing a parked car.

Jesus, the woman drives like Dale Earnhardt,
he thought. He gripped the grab handle on the car's roof for support.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

She pushed the hair away from her eyes. "A small inn outside of town. Very few people know about it."

She raised a hand to her lips, kissed it, then waved it in his direction.

"Touch me, Micki," she said.

He rubbed his hand along the arm of the black leather Ferragamo jacket that matched the boots.

"Not there, silly." She giggled while pushing up her skirt. "Give me your hand."

When he held it out, she took it and pressed it between her legs. Jesus, she wasn't wearing any panties under the black suede skirt. "Surprise," she cried out. Her bush was soaked. He pressed his hand against her soft folds of skin.

When she braked for a red light, he pulled his hand away.

"Now lick your fingers," she said. As he followed her command, she reached across and touched his penis, stiff and hard, jutting forward in his pants.

"That's what I like. Take it out," she said in a devilish voice.

The light turned green. "Not now. Later," he said.

"Boo-hoo," she feigned crying.

He laughed.
She's twenty-four years old,
he thought.
Immature. A baby.
Michael had met her when she was shopping in a store that had small French and Italian boutiques. Though he had followed her to the store because he knew that she worked in Suslov's office, he pretended that their meeting was coincidental. With his looks and charm she readily agreed to have coffee with him. On their second coffee date, she had explained that about a year ago Suslov had seen her picture in a magazine when she was modeling clothes. He had decided that he had to have her. So he had told one of his goons, "Find that girl and pay her whatever it takes to get her to come and work as a secretary in my office."

As she had told him that, Michael had thought,
My God, I know that some people order the clothes they see in an ad. I never heard of anyone ordering the model.

The road was opening up. The snow was tapering off, which greatly relieved Michael. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the snow with Irina. Her being rescued by the police might come to Suslov's attention.

"How did you find out about the inn for this evening?" Michael asked.

"One of my friends is dating an older married man. Somebody important whose name I won't mention, who brings her here so his wife won't find out about it."

Suslov didn't have that problem, Michael knew, because he didn't have a wife. He had killed her about five years ago. Strangled her with his bare hands, although Michael didn't know why. Large payoffs to the prosecutor, coupled with intimidation, precluded any charges from being filed. It was Russian justice at its finest in the post-Communist era. Michael often wondered, if the Russian people were given a choice, would they prefer the new system of freedom or the old Communist regime? His guess was that many would opt to turn back the clock, although certainly not Irina and her friends.

"Aren't you afraid that you'll see one of Dmitri's buddies at the inn?" Michael asked.

She smiled. "I took care of that. They only have three rooms, plus a dining room where they serve meals. I rented all three for the night."

"That must have cost you a bundle," he said.

She giggled, that silly girlie laugh of hers he liked. "Actually, it'll cost you a bundle. You're paying for it."

Her words didn't bother Michael. He touched his pants pocket and the wad of American bills he had brought with him; all Company money, of course. Whatever he paid to the proprietor would mean there would be less to give Irina. Her father, an old Communist bureaucrat, was now out of work, and her mother had breast cancer. In reality he doubted whether any of that money, his or Suslov's, ever reached them.

It was seven o'clock when they arrived at the inn. An old man with one crippled arm carried in Irina's gigantic overnight bag, which to Michael looked as if it had enough clothes, makeup, and God knows what for a week. All Michael had was the clothes he was wearing. The proprietress, a heavyset woman with forearms resembling bowling pins, followed them up to their room with a tray that held English biscuits, a pot of tea, two cups, a bottle of Johnny Walker blue label, glasses, and ice. "Dinner will be whenever you want it," she announced, and departed.

Michael looked around. The room was decorated in belle époque style, with heavy red curtains and a king-size wooden four-poster bed that dominated the room.

"Tea or scotch?" he asked Irina.

"Tea now. Scotch later." She poured two cups, handed him one, and dropped three cubes of sugar into her own.

He took a sip. It was a fine jasmine tea that was rarely found in Russia.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Not for food," she said, enticingly. "Dinner can wait."

With that she pulled off her powder-blue angora sweater and tossed it on a chair. She wasn't wearing a bra. He had never seen her naked before, and he was stunned. Though she was almost six feet tall, she was perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were round and full, with sharp, pointed pink nipples. Her skin was snow-white. Her broad shoulders tapered to a tiny waist. Michael wasn't a religious man, but what kept running through his mind was,
God, you got it right this time.