by Allan Topol, 2004

Chapter One

Robert McCallister was terrified. He was more frightened than he had ever been in the twenty-five years of his life.

His prison cell was smaller than the closet of the bedroom he had as a boy in Winnetka on the Lake Michigan gold coast, north of Chicago. The stone walls were cold, coated with a green mildew like substance in which a myriad of insects crawled. The stench from the toilet bucket overwhelming. The rusty chain link shackles were cutting into his wrists and ankles.

Sitting on the dirt floor, he strained his ears as he heard the sound of men's voices approaching in the corridor outside the cell. There were two of them laughing and talking loudly in a language he couldn't understand. For the past day, only a single soldier brought his food. Something different was happening. A round of torture?

He lifted up his knees in a protective position. His whole body tensed from fear. Two rodents scurried across the floor and disappeared into a hole. Even they were taking cover.

He didn't know how long he had been living this nightmare. Without a window to the outside world and minus his watch, which an angry mob had torn from his wrist when they pounced on him, before he had a chance to extricate from the parachute, he had no sense of time. He rubbed his hand along his unshaven cheek and chin trying to gauge how much of a brown stubble had accumulated. How far along the scratches on his face were toward healing. Scabs had formed. He guessed that he had been captured two days ago. Maybe three.

Initially, he had been relieved when soldiers pulled him away from the hysterical mob, some tearing and scratching his face, others kicking his body, while chilling guttural cries spewed from their mouths. The words were incomprehensible to him. The venom in their voices apparent.

That relief had given way to a new terror, when he had faced his interrogator. Abdullah was how he introduced himself to Robert. Dressed in a brown military uniform, he was powerfully built with a thick bushy black mustache, a sadistic smile and small beady dark eyes. The instruments of torture hanging on the wall behind Abdullah's desk--electrodes, rubber batons, and metal poles with multiple thin sharp pointed objects at the end--were what Robert was staring at when Abdullah told him, "you have twenty four hours to decide whether we do this the easy way or the hard."

Waves of terror had shot through Robert as he heard those words. With an incredible effort of self-control, he had kept his body from shaking, losing control of his bladder, as he recited, "Robert McCallister, Lieutenant. United States Air Force," in response to each question Abdullah asked about the location and strength of American forces in the region.

Two soldiers had dragged him from the room, away from Abdullah's contemptuous sneer and his threatening words, "you'll talk. Sooner or later. They all do." Robert had wondered how long he would be able to hold out. How long it would be until he disclosed everything he knew.

From his position on the dirt floor, he stared at the one foot square barred window on the metal door of the cell, waiting for the next hate filled face to appear on the other side of those bars. When the door opened, he saw the two soldiers who had dragged him from Abdullah's office after his interrogation the first day. One crossed the room moving toward him with bold, deliberate steps. Robert tried to pull himself to a standing position, but the soldier lifted his leg and smashed his boot down hard on Robert's shoulder, keeping him in place. Then he unsnapped the leather holster on his hip and removed his pistol. He began laughing, gesturing to his comrade with one hand while he gripped his gun tightly with the other. He pressed the hard cold steel against the side of Robert's head. "I kill you fucking American pilot," he said. "Now I kill you."

Robert wanted to pray, but he didn't know how. Brought up without any religion, how do you pray?

Resigned to his death, Robert didn't plead for his life like a sniveling coward. He didn't cry. His body was taut. He closed his eyes. His hands clenched into fists. His knees were shaking despite his effort at self-control. He held his breath.

The soldier pulled the trigger. Robert waited for the explosion. Nothing happened. The gun must have malfunctioned.

The soldier aimed the gun again. He pulled the trigger. Nothing.

Then he burst out laughing. "No bullets in gun. You lucky. American pilot."

Relieved, but furious that it had all been a sadistic joke, Robert didn't say a word. He wondered what they would do to him next.

"Maybe not so lucky," the soldier said. "We take you to Abdullah."

As they dragged him upstairs, Robert tried to steel himself for what was coming next. "Robert McCallister, Lieutenant, United States Air Force," he muttered under his breath. No matter what Abdullah did to him, that's all he would say.

When he entered the office, Abdullah said, "Are you ready to tell me about American military deployments in the area?"

"Robert McCallister, Lieutenant, United States Air Force," he said in a voice that tried lamely to express the courage he didn't feel..

Abdullah turned around and pointed to the instruments of torture on the wall while giving that cruel smile. "Would you like to choose or shall I?"

"Robert McCallister, Lieutenant, United States Air Force."

Before Abdullah could respond, the telephone on his desk rang. As his interrogator listened, Robert watched the expression on the officer's face. The smile gave way to an angry, surly frown. In a subservient tone, Robert guessed that he was responding, "yes sir…yes sir" to whatever orders he was receiving.

He hung up the phone, and stared hard at Robert. "Someone powerful believes that you're worth more to us alive than dead."

Chapter Two

Jack Cole sat at his desk in Tel Aviv with a puzzled expression on his face as he studied the computer screen. The e-mail from Monique, his secretary in Paris, was terse: "Daniel Moreau from the SDECE (Service de Documentation Exterieor et Contre-Espionage) came to the office today to see you. I told him that you were out of the country. That I didn't know where you were, how to reach you, or when you would return. He said he will be back."

Jack had never met Moreau, but he knew the Frenchman from reputation. He was the assistant director of SDECE charged with investigating espionage which took place on French soil. Jack wondered whether he was still pursuing the 1981 Osirak affair, which Moreau wouldn't let die or the recent assassination in Marseilles of Khalifa, a Palestinian terrorist. Jack didn't think either of these could be tied to him, but he couldn't be positive there wasn't a leak somewhere. It seemed impossible that Moreau found Francois in Montreal or wherever she was now, after all these years.

This was a dangerous situation for Jack. The purpose of Moreau's visit had to be interrogation, arrest or expulsion. He would have to find a way of dealing with Moreau, or his entire life, so carefully constructed with France and Israel at the center, would come crashing down.

Jack thought about calling Moshe to report this development, but decided against it. He rationalized that he needed more information before he alarmed the director of the Mossad, but his real reason was something different. Moshe might pull him from Paris. Jack didn't want to run the risk of that happening. France was now a hot bed for Arab activity. That's where the action was.