Enemy of My Enemy by Allan Topol Page B

wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Jack. "His home phone. He's working for Koach, the big arms manufacturer, selling weapons systems to foreign governments. I don't have an office number."
    "Don't worry. I'll find him."
    Once he was outside of the building, Jack dialed Avi on his cell phone. It was late Friday afternoon. He expected to find Avi at home if he was in the country. Jack wasn't disappointed.
    "This is Jack Cole," he said. "We've never met, but—"
    "Osirak," Avi immediately said. "You were the guy in the wine business in Paris."
    Jack was pleased he remembered. "There's something I want to talk to you about. I need your help."
    "Where are you?"
    "Jerusalem."
    "Good. Come up to the Moshav tomorrow at one o'clock. You can have lunch and meet the family. Avahail. Just outside of Netanya."
    Jack was pleased. He had made a start on rescuing Robert.

 
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    Chapter 6

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    To pass the time, Robert, sitting on the dirt floor, doodled on the ground with one finger, tracing and retracing the letters USA. He listened for sounds, but there were none. The other cells in the building must be vacant, he decided.
    Following that session in Abdullah's office, when the phone call came, the guards, who had repeatedly slapped Robert, didn't lay a hand on him. Prior to that time, the food he had been given was a thin, watery fluid with a couple of suspended solid objects that he was afraid to eat. After that, food became ample and tasty. There were no more rounds of interrogation with Abdullah.
    Robert could guess what had happened. They had found out who he was—or more precisely, who his father was.
    That thought didn't comfort him. As he closed his eyes, a cold fury surged through his body. He knew why he had been pulled out of his air force unit at a base in California and shipped to the Middle East: Terry McCallister had made a call to Chip Morton, the secretary of defense, urging Chip to give Robert some flying time where .it mattered, to build his resume for the political career Terry had planned for his son. Robert knew all of this from his unit commander on the base in Saudi Arabia, who grumbled about having been ordered to use an inexperienced pilot on reconnaissance flights that sometimes turned lethal.
    Robert still wasn't sure what had happened. Had his F-16 strayed off course? Where did the missile come from? He had been in contact with air control at the base. How had he missed it?
    All of those issues were fuzzy. But one thing was clear: It was all his father's fault that Robert was here. No, that was wrong. It was Robert's own fault. He was the one who was constantly striving so hard for his father's approval. He was the one who had rejected the offer from Brown University for their combined premed-medical school program, giving up his lifelong dream to be a doctor. He was the one who agreed to attend the Air Force Academy because it was part of the blueprint for his future that his father had drawn. He could have simply followed Ann's lead and gotten as far away from the man as possible, but Robert wasn't Ann.
    When this ends, Robert thought, I'll go back to school and take the science courses I missed for medical school. Then I'll start over. I'll live the life I want to lead. To hell with him.
    For a few minutes that thought buoyed Robert's spirits. Then he opened his eyes and looked around the dingy cell. Despair snuffed out hope. What was the point of thinking about the future? He didn't have one. He would never leave this hellhole alive. Robert heard the sound of several men approaching the cell. Sliding backward, he moved himself into a corner. He tensed, waiting to see what they wanted.
    The door creaked when it opened. Abdullah was standing there, accompanied by four soldiers.
    Abdullah pointed to two of them. Without saying a word they pulled Robert to his feet, then hoisted him onto their shoulders. That was the way they carried him out of the cell.
    "Where are you