Beloved enemy, p.1
Beloved Enemy, page 1
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For Victoria
Without whose love, dedication, and superb editorial work this novel would not exist
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
What Came Before
Epigraphs
Prologue
Part One: Terminal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two: Two Heads Are Better than One
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three: Enemies in the Mirror Are Closer than They Appear
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Four: Blowback
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
By Eric Van Lustbader
About the Author
Copyright
WHAT CAME BEFORE
FOUR YEARS ago, while on assignment in Moscow with the late president, Jack McClure was introduced to Annika Dementieva through a violent incident set up by her grandfather, Dyadya Gourdjiev, a man of great charisma with a Machiavellian mind. Gourdjiev needed Jack to solve a vexing puzzle for him that ran all the way from Ukraine to the highest levels of American government. During this time, Annika was forced to lie to Jack again and again. Nevertheless, the two were gripped by a powerful attraction, and fell in love—a love that was to be tested time and again in the ensuing years. Jack learned that Annika had been abducted by her father, causing her mother’s death. Gourdjiev bent all his will to getting her back. It took years, during which time Annika’s politically powerful father subjected her to unspeakable abuse. But it wasn’t only Annika who loved Jack—her grandfather saw qualities in him that caused him to subtly alter his plan, so that when he died Jack was drawn more tightly into Annika’s orbit. Jack discovered that the old man had formed an alliance with Iraj Namazi—known to the world as the Syrian—a terrorist more interested in money and power than ideology. What the two men were planning was a mystery, but Gourdjiev’s death brought Annika to the Syrian’s side, parting her once again from Jack.
To gain, you must yield;
to grasp, let go;
to win, lose.
–Chinese proverb
God has given you one face,
and you make yourself another.
–Hamlet to Ophelia, Act III, Scene 1
PROLOGUE
April 21
Méribel, Switzerland
JACK MCCLURE, squeezing through a tapering tube of icy metal, had run out of options. There was no way back; he had to go forward, farther into this curved tube—a massive decorative talon, one of four built at the corners of the chalet’s roof.
He inched forward, his breath coming in steaming clouds. In front of him, sunlight slid into the open end of the talon. It seemed to inch toward him with a terrible slowness. Placing one hand in front of the other, one knee sliding forward, then the other, he continued on, while the tube shrank around him. Ahead of him, the brightness of sunlight quickened. Just a few feet more.
And then he stopped. He was stuck. He tried to push forward, but there was no room. A kind of panic welled up in him—the same feeling he’d had as a child when the letters on the pages of books he tried to read swam in front of his eyes like schools of frightened fish.
He closed his eyes, emptied his mind of panic, then of fear. His mind’s eye looked around, found the place outside himself of perfect calm. He projected himself there. The place fit over him like a familiar glove, giving to his particular contours. Here he felt safe. Here he could accomplish anything—even interpret two-dimensional objects.
Relaxing his body, he breathed out, emptying his lungs. And moved forward, out of the icy talon, into the brilliant sunlight, the landscape dominated by sparkling Alps. For a moment, he clung to the outside of the talon, then he made his careful way along its curved length, to alight at last on the chalet’s roof.
He crouched down, fired the Airweight three times.
Then the Syrian appeared in the helo’s open doorway, a gun aimed at him.
“You poor fool!” Namazi shouted over the rotors’ din. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Jack kept on coming. Now he was within two or three yards of the rising helo.
The Syrian stared fixedly at Jack. His gun hand was perfectly steady. “Annika will never forgive you for this. Never,” he said, and fired.
PART ONE
TERMINAL
Ten Days Ago
ONE
“I CAUGHT him on the rooftop, diagonally across from the club. It was twilight, the best time, in my opinion, for sniper work, so I was lucky. I admit that. I was also pretty pissed off: a fucking sniper at my rdv. A leak somewhere, that was what I was thinking when I came at him…”
“This was in Bangkok,” Jack McClure said.
Dennis Paull, the head of homeland security, nodded. “That’s right.”
The two men were sitting in Paull’s study, secreted within his red brick, Federal-era townhouse in Georgetown. Outside, a velvet night had descended, along with a rain that pattered softly, misting the windowpanes.
Jack shifted in the leather club chair. “How long ago?”
“Legere’s rendezvous or his debriefing?”
“Both.”
Paull opened a dossier on the desk in front of him. It was buff-colored, with a black stripe down the left side, denoting Eyes Only status. He looked sallow and worn, his pale gray eyes lying sunken within dark circles. “The encounter occurred eight days ago. The debriefing, which was conducted by myself, a day later.”
Jack sat forward. “You conducted the debriefing alone?”
“Legere is my asset.”
“I didn’t know about him.”
Paull’s eyes flicked up to encounter Jack’s steady gaze.
“Nor did I know why you had gone to Bangkok. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Now,” Jack said, taking a sip of his Bulleit rye, “that there’s a problem.”
Paull sat back in his swivel chair. “And you’re my problem solver.” He cocked his head. “What is it, Jack?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that.”
Jack sighed, placed the old-fashioned glass on his boss’s desk. “Ever since I got back from Sharm el-Sheikh I’ve been under the impression there’s a glass wall between us.”
“You’re wrong.” Paull took up his three fingers of bourbon, sipped it thoughtfully, then placed the glass precisely three inches to the right of the open dossier. “It wasn’t Sharm el-Sheikh; Sharm el-Sheikh is where all the debts were settled, where Alli’s past was finally healed. How is she, by the way? Adjusting to Interpol’s procedures?”
“She’s based out of Paris, but currently she’s on assignment; a back of beyond where she’s unreachable.”
“Good for her. But, Fearington being an FBI feeder academy, I had assumed she’d apply there.”
“I don’t think that was ever her intention. In any case, she needed to gain some distance from recent events.” Jack waved away the diversion. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand.”
“We are faced with several problems,” Paull interjected. “Let’s start with Rome. It’s what happened in Rome that concerns me.”
“Specifically Annika.”
“Specifically the Syrian, or should I say Iraj Namazi, the Iranian, so you have informed me.” His gaze fell heavily on Jack. “Annika is now with Namazi, in what capacity…” He paused, thinking out the route he would take. “Now that her grandfather is dead, she’s allied herself with Namazi, isn’t that right?”
Jack nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His breath was hot in his throat, and his heart contracted at the reminder of Annika’s latest betrayal.
“This woman,” Paull said, “is perhaps the most dangerous female on the planet.” He reached for his bourbon, then seemed to change his mind. “This is the woman you love.”
“Loved,” Jack said, finding his voice. “Past tense.”
“Is that so?” Paull steepled his fingers, tapping the tips together ruminatively.
“It is, Dennis.”
“You can turn it on and off at will.” His tone made his skepticism clear. “You’d tell me if it were otherwise, wouldn’t you, Jack?”
“I would.” Jack nodded to the tape recorder on Paull’s desk. “Let’s get on with it.”
“We’re talking now of allegiance.” Paull turned his glass around and arou nd on the desktop. “Speaking bluntly, my fear is that you’ll try to find her.”
“I’m your problem solver, Dennis. That’s why you hired me; that’s why I’m here.” But Jack now knew that Paull had a second agenda. In addition to being a fine administrator, he was an astute judge of human nature. Possibly the two facilities were intertwined. He knew full well how deep Jack’s love affair with Annika went. In addition, though he and Jack had never spoken of it, he suspected there was depth to Jack’s friendship with Annika’s grandfather, Dyadya Gourdjiev, murdered a year ago in Rome.
As if to prove Jack right, Paull said, “It’s not just Annika. Now that she’s shown her true colors, your relationship with her is, I think, complicated enough without members of her family further gumming up the works.”
“What works?” Jack said, a bit too sharply.
“Your thought processes.” Paull leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the desk. “Your intense loyalty is one of your strengths, Jack. But, in this case, I wonder if it might become a liability.”
“I haven’t thought about it,” Jack lied.
Under Paull’s penetrating gaze, he reached out and depressed the “play” button. Legere’s plummy voice rolled out across the wood-paneled study:
“He must have heard me because he swung the M82A3 Special Application scoped rifle right into my face—”
Jack stiffened. “That’s a U.S. Marine weapon.”
Paull nodded, silent.
“Beneath this thick bandage the wound is horrendous.”
“Legere was pointing to his cheek,” Paull said.
“I’ll need plastic surgery. I can’t go back into the field with this on my face. How would I ever melt into a crowd? It’s like a neon sign.”
Paull’s voice on the tape said, “The sniper,” guiding Legere back on track.
Legere: “Yes, well, I hope he was a better sniper than he was a hand-to-hand fighter.”
Paull: “And yet you killed him.”
Legere: “An accident. I hit him, his knees buckled, and he fell against the concrete parapet. The back of his head split open.”
Paull: “Pity he couldn’t tell you who he worked for.”
Legere: “I know who he worked for: the Syrian.”
Paull: “Have you brought me proof?”
Legere: “The sniper’s rifle. Who else but the Syrian would have access to a U.S. Marine rifle?”
Paull: “Please continue.”
Legere: “I found the sniper after twenty minutes of recon of the rdv’s immediate area. It was now one hundred hours. I went into the club.”
Paull: “Name.”
Legere: “WTF. It’s at Thonglor Soi 10. Very farang friendly, so I felt right at home. Lots of girls in shorts cut so high you can see the lower hemis of their ass cheeks. They’re all dancing in super high heels, though God alone knows how. Snotty kids, anyway.”
Paull: “Your contact, Legere.”
Legere: “Right. I bellied up at the far end of the neon-lit bar, just as planned. He came in several minutes later, ordered a drink, then, after checking out the nightlife, sauntered over to where I stood. We exchanged the proper parole and got right down to it.”
Paull: “What did he say?”
Legere: “You’re right. There’s a worm in the casket. The Syrian has a mole high up in the U.S. government. Very high up.”
Paull: “Which branch?”
Legere: “Well, I…”
Paull: “Out with it, damnit!”
Legere: [sighs deeply] “That’s just it. The contact’s head exploded, and I turned tail and ran.”
Paull: “You ran.”
Legere: “The place was a fucking madhouse—blood all over the bar, people screaming, vomiting at the sight of the contact’s brains and fragments of his skull bobbing in their gin blossom specials. I’d never have found the shooter, and the cops, who keep an eagle eye on these places after midnight, were already infiltrating the club floor. I did the only thing I could do: I got the hell out of there.”
Paull: “Without the name of the Syrian’s mole or where he works.”
Legere: “I fucked up. In retrospect, the sniper was a feint. The real assassin was waiting in the club. The Syrian’s as clever as a demon.”
Paull: “The question to answer now, Legere, is how your rdv was compromised. It wasn’t from this end. You and I were the only ones who knew about your assignment.”
Legere: “That means someone on the ground in Bangkok.”
Paull: “Someone you met or spoke to.”
Legere: “Boss, no one knew why I was in Bangkok. No one.”
Paull: “Clearly not true. Go back over it in your mind.”
[A pause.]
Legere: “I’m clean, I swear. Maybe my contact said something inadvertently.”
Paull: “You were shadowing him that day. Where was he before the rdv?”
Legere: “At a massage parlor he frequents, off Phaholyothin Road, in Soi Aree.”
Paull: “That’s clear across town.”
Legere: “Which gave me the time to do my reconnoiter of the rdv site.”
Paull: “All right. What was the name of your contact?”
Legere: “Connaston. Leroy Connaston.”
Paull: “Whose idea was it to meet in Bangkok?”
Legere: “His.”
Paull: “And WTF?”
Legere: “Also. He said he felt secure there, amid all the young people, all the frantic energy.”
Paull: “Maybe he had a death wish.”
Legere: “There’s another possibility.”
Paull: “Out with it.”
Legere: “The Syrian turned Connaston, promised him the world if he led him to me.”
Paull: “But it was Connaston the Syrian killed, not you.”
Legere: “The Syrian is a notorious paranoid. Would you trust a man who could be turned? Besides, he has now ID’d me. If he killed me, another agent he wouldn’t know would just follow in my footsteps.”
Paull: “The devil you know.”
Legere: “Right.”
[Another pause.]
Paull: “Okay, Legere, hang tight and don’t leave Bangkok. I’m going to need you again.”
Paull, reaching out, stopped the tape. He looked up at Jack. “That was the last time I—or anyone else, for that matter—had contact with Pyotr Legere. His mobile number is dead. The safe house he had been using has been cleaned out. None of my agents-in-place have been able to find him. He’s fallen off the face of the earth.” He sat back. “Which is where you come in.”
“You want me to follow in his footsteps,” Jack said.
Paull nodded. “It is imperative that we find the Syrian’s mole, Jack. Do you understand my concerns now?”
“Iraj Namazi had Dyadya Gourdjiev killed.”
“Interpol sent on the official police reports from Rome. Gourdjiev was a victim of a hit-and-run.”
“Why would you believe an Italian police report?” Jack said curtly. “Namazi killed him or ordered him killed. I want to find him, too.”
“Have you proof that the report is false?”
“I know what I know.”
“No, for you this is all emotion.” Paull’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “This is what I’m talking about, Jack. Gourdjiev—”
“I knew Gourdjiev.”
“You thought you knew him. The man was a snake in human form. He lacked both morals and scruples.” Paull worried his lower lip with his finger. “You want to find Iraj Namazi. I’m ordering you to find Pyotr Legere and, with his help, run down Namazi’s mole.”
“I can do both.”
“God alone knows how much damage the mole has done or how much of our intentions abroad, our secret intel, Namazi possesses.”
“I understand.”
“I wonder if you do, Jack. There is an obsessive streak in you.”
“Dennis—”
“Don’t try to fool me. The Dementieva woman has gotten under your skin. I’ll be honest. If I could find her, I’d terminate her with extreme prejudice.”
Jack sat very still, scarcely breathing.
Paull rose and, coming around from behind his desk, perched on the corner closest to where Jack sat. “I’m afraid that your obsession has blinded you as to just how dangerous Annika Dementieva is.”
Jack was silent.
Paull leaned forward, his hands clasped as if he were a priest. “If push comes to shove, Jack, would you be able to kill her, or would she kill you?”
