End of Enemies (10 page)

“Yes.”

For Tanner, that meant he was on his own. He would be disavowed if caught and ignored if imprisoned, a private citizen breaking Japanese law.

“Support?” asked Dutcher.

“We can give you equipment and information, but you'll have to work out the logistics.”

“When?”

“As soon as George signs off. Give me a couple days.” Mason looked hard at Dutcher. “This is big for us, Dutch. I'd consider it a personal favor.”

Dutcher had discretion over which projects Holystone undertook. He weighed the pros and cons and decided Mason was right: This was big. If Takagi Industries was dabbling in the underground weapons market, the U.S. would have to deal with it sooner or later. Sooner would be better.

“Let me see the file,” said Dutcher.

Syrian/Lebanese Border

Six thousand miles away, Abu Azhar and General Issam al-Khatib stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Syrian desert. Every few seconds, the horizon bloomed with bursts of orange; even at this distance al-Khatib could feel the accompanying explosions in his belly.

Azhar raised his binoculars. “Artillery?” he asked.

“And tanks. Integrated warfare: armor, infantry, artillery, and aircraft working together.”

“It is impressive, but is such a large force necessary?”

“We must not only get their attention but keep it as well.” General al-Khatib smiled. “Abu, yours is the difficult job. Your men are ready?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I know how you feel about this, but I think you should consider—”

“We've already discussed this. The answer is—”

“You've chosen your target well, but we gain more leverage if—”

“No! No children! That was my only condition. You knew that from the start.”

General al-Khatib nodded and clapped Azhar on the shoulder. “Yes, of course. We won't discuss it again. So, what was so urgent you needed to see me?”

“We have captured a spy.”

“What? When?”

“Last week. He's working for the Americans, that much he has already admitted. Otherwise, he is resisting well.”

“Give him to me,” General al-Khatib said. “I will—”

“No, we will keep him. My concern is the operation. This close to the final phase, I am worried the Americans may know something.”

“Impossible.”

“Improbable, but not impossible. We need to be sure before we're committed.”

“What do you propose?”

Azhar explained. “Mustafa has already contacted the Jordanian. We have the funds and the target, and the logistics are fairly simple once we're in-country. What we need is a man who has experience in this area.”

“For participation?”

“No. Consultation,” said Azhar. “Mustafa tells me you know a man, a former KGB officer.”

General al-Khatib hesitated. The operation Azhar was proposing was one of unprecedented daring. His first instinct was to forbid it, but al-Khatib heard the resolve in Azhar's voice. He'd heard it many times before.

In the years after the loss of Azhar's child, he'd provided Azhar with refuge and friendship. He'd also grown to love him like a brother, all the while seeing the hidden potential. Azhar was a brilliant planner, a fierce soldier, and a charismatic leader.

Were Azhar's worries justified? al-Khatib wondered. Could this tangent of his jeopardize the operation? No, he decided, compromise was unlikely; they were well insulated. The most important part of that insulation was Azhar himself. In fact, without him the heart of the plan would collapse. Perhaps appeasement was the wisest course. Besides, this new venture might provide necessary distraction.

“Very well,” al-Khatib said. “I'll send him. Where?”

“Khartoum.”

“His price will be high.”

“We will pay it,” Azhar said. “The price of failure for us is even higher.”

Japan

The pool patio was nearly deserted. Their table was lit by a hurricane lantern. Candle rafts drifted on the surface of the pool. The dinner Tanner had arranged was simple but delicious. They started with fresh shrimp cocktail and fruit salad, followed by braised albacore fillets and baby asparagus with hollandaise sauce.

“So,” Camille said, sipping her wine. “You were telling me about the Navy.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“I seem to be doing all the talking.”

“Not so,” she said. “You know I am Ukrainian, you've heard the woes of my childhood: strict, religious parents, our small backward village. …” Camille smiled suddenly. “Would you like to hear about my first lover? I was nineteen,” she said. “He was a sailor … like you.”

Tanner laughed. “Like me because he was a sailor, or like me because we're alike?”

“You are nothing like him. You are genuine and warm and have a wonderful heart, though you try to hide it sometimes.”

Be careful with this one,
Tanner thought. “You're very insightful, Ms. Sereva.”

“Yes, but am I very correct?”

“So, this sailor …”

“I loved him, and he loved sleeping with me. I was a naive little girl.”

“Gender has little to do with naïveté.”

“So you've been in love and made a fool of yourself?”

“More times than I care to admit.”

She leaned forward. “I want to hear about it.”

“You've steered the conversation away from yourself again.”

“Have I?” Camille said. “By what miracle are you not married?”

Tanner paused and took a sip of coffee. “I was.”

“Was?”

“It was a long time ago. She died in an avalanche in Colorado. We were skiing. Some teenagers had stolen the boundary markers as a prank, and we ended up where we shouldn't have been.”

After the avalanche he'd tried to get to her, but he couldn't. The snow was so dense, so heavy; it was nearly impossible to dig. For a while he thought he heard her voice, and he called to her but heard nothing. With two ribs cracked and his collarbone shattered, he clawed at the snow, every move agony, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness, everything white and cold and dank.

After twelve hours, the rescuers found him. He was within four feet of where they eventually found Elle's body. As they'd loaded him on the stretcher, he stared at her still lying in the snow, her face blue, eyes open. …

That had been four years ago last month. He'd sensed its passing but hadn't actively noted it. Elle had always loathed what she called “morbid anniversaries,” like the day Kennedy was shot, or Pearl Harbor Day, or the day you buried a loved one's body in the ground. She thought it better to dwell on the time someone was here, not on the single day on which they left.

When he remembered her, it was the peculiarities that stood out, the bits of memory that defined her in his mind: Elle demanded all their houseplants have names; Elle cried at happily-ever-after films, giggled at horror movies; Elle loved to fish, refused to bait the hook. Elle was unique and irreplaceable, and her death had been pivotal in his life.

Afterward, there had been times of drinking, of staring at the walls, and of listening to the phone ring but not answering because he knew it was a well-wisher, and he no longer had the strength to muster another “I'm fine, thanks.”

He sometimes wondered—though not too often lest he give it real consideration—whether any woman would feel right again. This, he realized later, would have bothered Elle most of all.

But getting to that realization had taken many months. He didn't like the person he saw in the mirror. It was the face of someone who'd stopped trying. She was gone. It was done. He could stay in limbo or choose to live. He chose the latter. Later, he realized Elle had given him something else: her ability to live each day as it came. Moments were important, each one a sliver of time you could only experience once, each one a building block of a life.

“You blame yourself,” Camille said.

“Some.”

“A lot, I think. I'm sorry, Briggs. What was her name?”

“Elle … Susan Ellise.”

They sipped their coffee in silence. Inside the Tiki Lounge, a Frank Sinatra tune was playing on the jukebox. “What is that?” Camille asked.

“‘Summer Wind' by Frank Sinatra.”

“Aren't you a bit young to be a Sinatra fan?”

“I grew up listening to him and Henry Mancini and old Herb Alpert stuff. Hated it back then. Now … I guess it sort of grew on me.”

The waiter approached their table. “Mr. Tanner, a message for you.”

“Thank you.”

Tanner opened the slip and read: “Meet me, Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. Dutch.” At the bottom there was a postscript. “Regarding your new business partner, still checking references.” Feeling mildly guilty, Tanner had forwarded the name Stephan Karotovic to Oaken.

“Bad news?” Camille asked.

“Just business. I have to go out of town for a couple days.”

“When? Not tonight, I hope.”

“In the morning.”

“Good. I'm due to leave day after tomorrow. I may not be here when you return.” She paused. “Unless, of course …”

“Yes?”

“Unless you pleaded for me to stay until you get back.”

Tanner smiled. “My pleading skills are a tad rusty.”

“Ask, then.”

“All right. Will you stay until I get back?”

“Well, since you asked …”

They strolled arm-in-arm on the beach, watching the tide curl around their ankles and talking until almost midnight. When they reached the door to her room, she leaned against the jamb as he opened it for her.

“Good night, Camille.”

She put her arms around his neck and drew him against her. She turned her mouth upward, waiting for his.

Their first kiss was unhurried as their tongues touched, withdrew, and touched again. Briggs pressed his hands into the small of her back and drew her hips against his. She gasped and arched herself. “Please, Briggs, take me to the bed.”

“Camille—”

“I want you. Please … What?” she breathed. “What is it?”

“I have to go,” Tanner said, then thought,
What are you doing
?

“Don't you want me?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Then—”

He put a finger to her lips. “We have time, Camille. There's no hurry.”

Her expression softened into a smile. “You're sure about this?”

He chuckled. “Not entirely. I'll find you when I get back.” He pulled away.

Slowly, reluctantly, Camille swung the door closed. Just before it clicked shut, she poked her head out. “I'll tell you this, Briggs Tanner, if you die in a plane crash or from food poisoning or anything else, I'll never forgive you.”

Tanner smiled. “That would make two of us.”

Hong Kong

Tanner loved Hong Kong, its vitality and its mysterious blend of Old and New Worlds. While many things had changed here since China took over from Great Britain, few of them were visible to the tourist. One thing that would never change, Tanner guessed, was the taxis.

He clutched the taxi's door handle tighter as his driver weaved from lane to lane, shouting Mandarin curses out the window and flailing his arms. To their right lay Victoria Harbor, teeming with hundreds of junks, and through the windshield he could see Victoria Peak, its upper reaches cloaked in mist.

The driver veered left off Connaught Road, then again onto Charter before screeching to a halt in front of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. “We here,” he announced.

“And then some.”

“Eh?”

“Nothing,” Tanner replied, handing him the fare.

Tanner stepped onto the curb. The driver retrieved his bag from the trunk and deposited it on the curb, where a bellman smiled, took Tanner's passport, then scurried into the lobby. In all, the operation had taken four seconds.

“Gotta love Hong Kong,” Tanner murmured.

“Eh?” asked the driver.

“Nothing.”

The Mandarin Oriental Hotel combines British Old World taste with Oriental opulence. Two of the city's finest restaurants, the Pierrot and the Man Wah, share the top floor, while on the ground floor guests can choose from the Mandarin Grill, the Clipper Lounge, and the Captain's Bar.

By the time Tanner reached the main desk, his bag was already en route to his room and the register ready for his signature. Two minutes later, the bellman was escorting him to his room.

He had a half hour before he was to meet Dutcher, so he unpacked and took a long shower, then dressed and headed downstairs to the Gunnery.

Beside the bar's double oak doors was a brass plaque that read, Men Only. Sexism notwithstanding, this, too, was part of the Mandarin's Old World charm, Tanner admitted. Inside, the pub was all polished walnut and teak and brass lanterns. Nautical paintings and memorabilia dominated the shelves and display cases. At the bar, patrons hefted imitation pewter tankards.

Tanner spotted Dutcher in a corner booth.

“How was your flight?” Dutcher asked, rising to shake Briggs's hand.

“Good. And yours?”

“Uneventful.”

The waiter appeared and took their orders. After their drinks arrived, Tanner and Dutcher reminisced about Hong Kong. Their memories were from different perspectives; Dutcher's mostly from his days there as a CIA station chief during the seventies, Tanner's mostly from his time there with his family.

For the better part of his first twelve years, Tanner's family followed his father from one history teaching assignment to the next. Before he was ten, Briggs had lived in a dozen cities and countries including Paris, Geneva, Kenya, Beirut, Venice, and Hong Kong. He'd never missed what others would call a normal childhood. Traveling had opened the world to him.

When it was time for Briggs to enter middle school, they returned to Maine, where the Tanner clan had lived for 160 years, and settled into a more routine life as Briggs entered the world of high school, coed dances, football games, and girlfriends. He'd always admired his parents' wisdom: They hadn't forgotten what it was like to be an adolescent. While youngster Briggs delighted in the travel, teenager Briggs needed home and stability. The two lifestyles had made him well-rounded and self-assured. In that respect, he was the perfect amalgam of his mother and father.

“What happened to your face?” asked Dutcher.

Tanner touched his cheek. “Bone sliver.”

Dutcher nodded and was silent for a few moments. “Was it bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Anything more on your watchers?”

“No sign. I seem to have lost my popularity.”

“Good. You up to a little legwork?”

Tanner smiled into his drink. “So now I'm the Man Who Saw Too Much?”

“ 'Fraid so.”

“I was getting bored, anyway.”

“Finish your drink,” Dutcher said. “Have you ever been to Luk Yu's?”

Luk Yu's is a Hong Kong landmark that dates back to the early 1900s. Inside, past an authentic-looking Sikh doorman, Tanner found a polished marble foyer and humming ceiling fans. Booths were separated by stained glass panels. According to the brass plaque beside the grand staircase, the second floor contained a sitting room where British governors and aristocrats had once debated Hong Kong's future.

Though the service and the meal—Szechuan was their mutual choice—were mediocre, Tanner decided Luk Yu's decor made up for it.

After dinner they walked through the gardens surrounding The Peak Tram Station. “Umako Ohira was working for us,” Dutcher told Tanner. “CIA.”

“Agent or case officer?”

“Agent … a walk-in.”

Dutcher recounted the briefing he'd received from Mason. Tanner asked many of the same questions Dutcher had. “What was Mason's take on Ieyasu's suspicions about Takagi and the JRA?” Briggs asked.

“He didn't have one.”

“Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

“A bit, but the chemical angle is thin. What they found in the Iraqi SAM radars was tangible.”

“And that's all they want from us—to check the network, nothing else?”

“In their eyes, Ohira was a tool. The network is all that counts now.”

Tanner didn't like that mind-set but said nothing, knowing Dutcher felt the same way. That kind of brutal pragmatism made it too easy to use people, then dispose of them. Besides, remembering those few seconds he'd stared into Umako Ohira's eyes made it impossible for Tanner to see the man as a tool.

“Do we know what Ohira was doing the night he died?” asked Tanner.

“According to his last report, a few weeks ago, he'd been approached by someone wanting to buy information about Takagi Industries. They were supposed to meet that night, but he didn't say where or when. His impression was they were trying to false-flag him.”

False flag
is an agent recruitment method where an enemy agent pretends to work for a friendly, or at least neutral, service. False flag recruits often go years without knowing the true identity of his paymasters, if ever.

“Did he make the meet?” asked Tanner.

“We don't know.”

“I'll need to see the details of the network.”

“I have a loaded laptop for you. Walter's included a brief on Takagi Industries. You'll find it interesting reading.”

“From what I gather, he's probably the most powerful industrialist in Japan.”

“No doubt about it. One of the ten richest men in the world, in fact. If there's any truth behind the Black Ocean connection, he's probably pulling a lot of strings in the government.”

“Are they on friendly terms?”

“Not as friendly as Takagi would like,” Dutcher replied. “The current prime minister is a tough SOB. We think Black Ocean isn't getting its way on a lot of policies, and they don't like it.”

“What kind of support is Mason giving?” Tanner asked.

“The usual. I'm sending Ian over in a couple days; he'll have light cover for status.”

Tanner understood the decision: They would be moving fast, and a fully backstopped cover for either of them was impossible. Either way, Briggs was glad to have Cahil along. As friends, they were as close as brothers, and as colleagues, their teamwork was uncannily empathetic, having been forged during their years in Special Warfare and IS AG. Early in training, Cahil's gregarious nature earned him the nickname “Mama Bear” from his fellow candidates. Bear was genuine, fiercely loyal, and as reliable as the setting sun.

“The key you picked up from Ohira matches a locker at the Sannomiya Railway Station in Kobe,” said Dutcher. “Now, as far as this woman at the hotel, Camille …”

“Sereva.”

“Nothing turned up on her, either. The name Stephan Karotovic is real. He's an immigration attorney in New York. She looks legitimate.” Dutcher saw Tanner's half-smile and asked, “Something I should know about?”

“Not if she's clear.”

“She is.”

“Then no.”

“One more thing,” Dutcher said, stopping. “Ieyasu's story about all the dead and missing Takagi employees is true. In fact, one of them was in Ohira's network.”

Tanner thought about this for a moment. “It seems our Mr. Takagi takes his downsizing seriously.”

Khartoum,
Sudan

In the old Berber's cafe on the street of canals, Fayyad watched Mustafa al-Baz approach the table. Two steps behind him was a European with pasty skin and flat, blue eyes.
Dangerous,
Fayyad thought.

“Ibrahim, this is Sergei,” said al-Baz.

The two men shook hands. “Hello,” said Sergei.

Russian.

“He is here as an adviser,” said al-Baz. “He is trustworthy.”

“Very well.”

After tea was ordered, al-Baz got down to business. “We have a job for you, Ibrahim. Your specialty.”

“Where and who?”

“The where is America—”

“Pardon me?” The United States was the last place he wanted to be right then.

“You will know the who when you accept”

“When and for how long?”

“It would begin in a week. We will handle the logistics. As for duration, we're estimating three to four weeks.”

In the back of Fayyad's mind, he was hearing
No,
no,
no.
“And my fee?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars, in an account of your choosing.”

Fayyad's teacup froze halfway to his mouth. “Three hundred thousand?”

“That is correct.”

With that kind of money, Fayyad would be free. If handled wisely, he could leave this business forever, find a plain, simple-minded wife, and settle down. Three hundred thousand! Whatever the risk, it was worth it.

“I accept,” he said. “Now: Who is the target?”

“Once you are committed, there can be no—”

“I understand. Who is it?”

Al-Baz told him.

“You can't be serious.”

“We are very serious.” Al-Baz slid a photograph across the table along with a sheaf of papers. “Can you do it?”

“I can do it.” Fayyad turned to Sergei. “This is your area of expertise?”

“One of them.”

“Is it feasible?”

“As I told Mustafa, yes. The woman fits the profile, but the target may or may not have the information you seek. If he has access to it, it will be through secondary sources. His inquiries may draw attention. Also, the timetable is too ambitious. You'll have to move fast and put great pressure on the target.”

Fayyad asked al-Baz, “Is all this true?”

“We think Sergei is being overly cautious.”

The Russian said nothing, his face blank.

“Are you still willing?” asked al-Baz.

Fayyad had no choice. Between the lure of the money and the consequences for backing out now, he was committed. He nodded. “I will do it.”

Across the street, hidden behind a pair of cracked shutters, a man watched the trio as they talked. Every few seconds, as one of them turned or inclined his head suitably, the man raised a Nikon camera and took a photograph. He was careful with his selections, occasionally changing positions as necessary. After taking two rolls of photos, he packed his case and slipped out into the alleyway.

Now would come the tricky part, the man told himself. Who would pay the best price? If his guess about the men's identities was correct, he knew of at least three potential customers. It would take delicacy, for these customers were unforgiving. But that didn't worry him.

It should have.

In addition to being a master at surveillance and a savvy entrepreneur, the man was greedy and naive—naive to think he could play stringer agent to not only the Israeli Mossad, but the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service and the PLO as well without eventually getting burned. None of this entered his mind, however.

He hurried down the alley, already calculating his profits.

Washington,
D.C.

Charlie Latham scanned the report of the samples collected from the La Guardia crash site. His phone rang. “Charlie Latham.”

“Charlie, Jed. Step over for a minute, will you?”

“On my way.”

Report in hand, Latham started down the hall. He passed a man wearing a visitor's badge. The man stopped. “Agent Latham?”

“Yes?”

“Stanley Hosteller,” the man said, extending his hand. “I understand you're handling the Delta bombing for the bureau.”

“That's right, Congressman.”

“Where do we stand?”

“I assume you've just spoken with my boss.”

“I have, but—”

“He's got the same information I have, Senator.”
Most of it,
at least,
Latham added, conscious of the report in his hand. “It's still early into the investigation, sir, but it's coming along.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“How is your daughter?” asked Latham.

“Physically she'll be fine, but that's only part of it.” Hostetler hesitated. “You interviewed her. … You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I think what that son of a bitch did to her …”

As a father, Latham understood Hosteller's rage. Someone had defiled, used, and then tried to murder his little girl.

“At any rate,” said Hosteller, “I told your boss I have every confidence in you and the bureau.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And I'm sure you understand the need for decisive results, Agent Latham?”

“Clearly, Congressman.”

“Good. I look forward to hearing more from you.” With that, Hostetler strode toward the elevator.