Enemy of My Enemy (54 page)

"Magnificent," the driver responded. "He's one of our best."

Layla shook her head in disbelief.
What a country this Israel is. Everyone's a political analyst and a music critic.

As the cab slowed to a stop next to the plaza in front of the hall, Layla climbed out. A tall, fit-looking man with thick, wavy, sand-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes was waiting for her.

"Did I ever tell you," he said, "that I love how you get in and out of a car? You always show lots of gorgeous leg."

She smiled. "Yes, I believe you've mentioned it. Sandwich and a glass of wine before the conceit?"

"The sandwich I'll buy. The wine I brought." He patted a case he was carrying in his hand. "I can't drink what they're selling here."

Laughing, she leaned up and kissed him. "You're such a snob, Jack. Don't forget you're just a kid from the north side of Chicago."

 

The End

 

 

 

Acknowledgments

 

After the successful publication of
Spy Dance,
I breathed a large sigh of relief that events in the Middle East didn't destroy the factual premises for the story, and vowed that I would never write another novel which even tangentially touched upon that turbulent part of the world. With events unfolding at a furious pace in Iraq and the Israeli-Arab conflict, the topic seemed like a minefield. No pun intended.

However, Henry Morrison, my marvelous agent, and Doug Grad, my superb editor, had other ideas. "You know the area," they said. "You can do it again." So it was into the fray one more time. Henry and Doug worked with me and offered valuable insights each step of the way from outline to the final revisions. For that I am extremely grateful.

My wife, Barbara, read each draft and offered constructive suggestions. She particularly helped me shape the female characters. Sarah, Ann, and Layla have all benefited from her sagacity.

Ed Sands at Calvert Woodley in Washington supplied essential information about the intricacies of the wine business. Our daughter, Deborah, was always available to help make the medical issues accurate and coherent.

Finally, the entire team at NAL—John Paine, Adrian Wood, Ron Martirano, Tina Anderson, and everyone in the art and sales departments—were incredibly helpful and amazingly efficient.

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from

The China Gambit

 

by

 

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

 

Copyright © 2012, Allan J. Topol

 

 

 

 

 

Before Craig had a chance to answer, his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number.

"Craig Page here."

"Mr. Page, this is James Anderson, Deputy Police Chief in Calgary Canada."

Craig's heart was pounding. Two day ago Francesca had sent him an e-mail, telling him she was in Calgary, working on a big story.

"Are you Francesca Page's father?"

"I am."

Craig held his breath.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Page, I have to inform you that your daughter died in an auto accident this evening. Her car collided with a truck on an icy road."

"No," he gave a bloodcurdling cry. "No. It can't be."

Not Francesca. I love her more than anything in the world.

"You're mistaken. It's not Francesca."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Page. She had a passport and other ID in her jacket pocket."

The fool was lying. "You're no Calgary cop."

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Page. She had a Tiffany's wristwatch. Engraved on the back 'To Francesca With Love...'"

He'd given her that when she graduated from Northwestern.

"And a scar on her left ankle."

He vividly recalled the ski injury she suffered during their trip to Megeve two years ago at Christmas.

The man's accent and inflections were from Calgary. As the reality drove home like a spike through his body, in agony, a rash of grief covered his face, distorting his mouth, turning his grey eyes black. Francesca was dead.

"I'm so sorry," Giuseppe said.

But Craig barely heard his words.

"Leave me alone," Craig said, rising abruptly. "I am alone."

He left Sabbitini and wandered the streets of Trastevere. Crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, he recalled his father, four years old, so alone after the carnage on the farm, his whole family murdered.

Now, I too, am no longer connected to a single living soul.

Aimlessly, in a daze, he crossed streets, disregarding traffic signals, ignoring honking horns and the curses of motorists. He passed churches, but didn't go inside. He wouldn't find solace there.

He walked for two more hours. Then drifted into a Trattoria. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress poured a glass, but he didn't touch it. He placed his head into his hands and lowered it to the coarse wooden table. He cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth. "Francesca," he muttered in a barely audible plaintive lament.

He had no idea how long he remained with his head on the table. He heard, "Craig." A powerful set of arms pulled his head up, then raised him to his feet. It was Giuseppe.

"C'mon Craig, we're going to the airport. I'm taking you to Washington."

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from

Spy Dance

A Novel

 

by

 

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

 

Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Allan J. Topol

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nervously he picked it up on the second ring.

"Is this Greg Nielsen?" a man's voice asked in French.

"You must have the wrong room," he replied, trying hard not to disclose the tension in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to form under his arms.

"I know that you're Greg Nielsen," the caller persisted.

"You're obviously mistaken. There's no one in this room by that name. I suggest you talk to the hotel operator."

"I would urge you not to play games with me, Mr. Nielsen. Be in front of the Bristol at six tomorrow morning. A black Mercedes will pick you up."