End of Enemies (11 page)

Latham walked into his boss's office. “I just got buttonholed in the hall.”

“Don't worry about it,” said the assistant director. “We'll handle Hostetler, you concentrate on the case. Where are we?”

Charlie Latham liked his boss. The man wasn't an investigator by nature and made no pretense about being one. He was a superior administrator who had enough sense to let his people work and stay out of their way.

Latham handed him the report. “Just got it. Pretty sophisticated device. A pound of Semtex molded into the lining of the suitcase. The steel toe rivets had been wired to act as a circuit for the detonator.”

“What kind of actuator?”

“A combination barometer-timer. That's where it went wrong.”

“Let me guess: single-route circuit?”

“You got it.” They'd seen this before.

A single-route barometric detonator measures air pressure—thus altitude—and is designed to trigger the bomb when a preset limit is reached. A double-route circuit, however, must reach two of these limits for detonation. A combination barometric/timer detonator is designed to work in two, and sometimes three stages. Stage one occurs when a timer activates the first barometer; once its limit is reached, it in turn activates yet another barometer, which finally detonates the bomb. Such a trigger lets the bomber set the device to explode far from its point of origin, oftentimes well into other countries and after several landings and takeoffs.

In this case, the lab found the bomb's engineer had mis-wired the timer, so instead of sending the detonation signal when the plane reached cruising altitude, the barometer had to settle for the next best thing, which was the plane's landing at La Guardia.

“That tells us they've got access to sophisticated equipment, but they screwed it up,” said Latham. “The irony is, if they'd gotten it right, we'd have a better idea of the engineer.”

“And we'd have a hundred eighty dead instead of five.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, the device isn't going to lead us anywhere. But this guy Cynthia Hostetler described rings a bell. It's a textbook honey trap. Hostetler matches the profile to a tee: single woman traveling alone, swept off her feet by a stranger; a romance ensues; plans are made to have the man return home with her, but he's delayed at the last minute; he asks her to take a package with her as he can't fit it in his suitcase; she gets on the plane, and—”

“Boom.”

“Right. Israel's
Shin Bet
thinks the technique was perfected by Ahmed Jabril and the PFLP general command. Whether this incident is theirs or not…”

“You recognize Hostetler's mystery man?”

“Maybe. We sent a sketch artist over to the hospital, and she gave us a few more details. Her description matches others. But the kicker is the name and nationality he used: Ricardo, Italian. He's used it before. Sometimes it's Ricardo, sometimes Paolo or Antonio, but always Italian.”

“Bad habit for a terrorist. So where do we go now?”

“I have a friend in
Shin Bet,
”
said Latham. “I want to call him, see if he can point us in a direction. But I'm betting Liaison is going to scream bloody murder.”

“Make the call. I'll handle the bullshit,” said the assistant director.

White House

“We're behind the game on this one, Gentlemen,” National Security Adviser James Talbot told the members of the National Security Council. “The administration has yet to state its policy, and it's starting to show. The president needs options.”

Sitting at the table were the secretaries of defense and state, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Chuck Cathermeier, and Dick Mason.

Mason heard Talbot's words but was having a hard time concentrating. Between both DORSAL and SYMMETRY, his plate was becoming increasingly crowded. He'd averaged four hours of sleep a night for the past month, and judging from the tone of this meeting, that average was about to plummet. Someone had pushed the near-panic button at the White House.

The NSC, which met at least once a week—more often as events dictated—was only one of the dozens of committees on which Mason sat, including the NFIB (National Foreign Intelligence Board) and the PFIAB (President's Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board). Often, however, their agendas overlapped, and Mason found himself rehashing the same topics. It was maddening.

DORSAL and SYMMETRY. Two separate operations, 5,000 miles apart, yet they had one thing in common: Both their primary agents were gone, one dead, the other kidnapped. Movie portrayals aside, the loss of an agent was not a common occurrence. Was there a connection? If there was, they had yet to find it. Worse, they still had no idea what had gone wrong.

Today the NSC's agenda dealt with Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The Syrian military exercise was gaining momentum, and Assad's government was stonewalling; all back-channel inquiries through the State Department had been politely brushed off.

Next door to Syria, Iraq was reacting to Iran's military exercise by beefing up its own maneuvers along the border. Caught in the middle was CENTCOM, forced to play watchdog. The commanding officer of CENTCOM was frying the phone lines to the Joint Chiefs, warning this was a perfect excuse for Saddam to mobilize. If that happened without the U.S. having a strategy to deal with it, escalation would surely follow. Mason agreed, clearly remembering those dangerous months back in 1990 when the U.S. had been forced to play catch-up with the Iraqi Army.

Soon after his appointment as DCI, Dick Mason began studying Middle Eastern history, culture, and politics. He quickly realized why the word
byzantine
was so often used to describe the region. It was a millennia-old quagmire of imperialism, tribal squabbles, and religious discord. And nothing epitomized this better than the relationship between Syria, Iraq, and Iran.

Syria was perhaps the most Machiavellian of the players. As a member of the country's minority Alawite sect, President Bashar Assad's power base lay in his ability to keep the country militarized and enmeshed in conflict, whether in Lebanon, in Iraq, or covertly against Israel.

The examples of such serpentine agendas were countless: Iran making back-channel overtures to Israel during the Gulf War while supporting
Hezbollah
terrorists in Lebanon; Syria temporarily lowering its anti-Zionist banner and joining the Gulf War coalition against Iraq; Lebanese Muslims, fearing Syrian Alawite rule more than Israeli intervention, tacitly aligned with Israel during its 1982 invasion of Lebanon; Saddam Hussein harboring exiled Ayatollah Kohmeini from Iran while murdering his own Shiite population.

In the Mideast, Mason knew, rarely could you take events at face value.

“So is Iraq the only wild card here?” asked NSA Talbot.

“Not necessarily,” said Mason. “All we know for sure is what Syria and Iran
appear
to be doing, and that's conducting exercises. Syria is being tight-lipped, which is nothing new, but Iran has been pretty open about it.”

“It all appears routine,” added General Cathermeier. “If there's anything more to it, we'll have to wait for further indications. Iraq we know all about. Saddam is his old duplicitous self. This mix-up is just what he's always looking for.”

“That's what we need to focus on,” said the secretary of defense. “Iraq can bear the burden of whatever response we choose, and if we choose correctly, Syria and Iran are sure to get the message.”

This got nods, but Mason was apprehensive. The policy of oblique message sending had never proven effective in the Mideast, but it was popular in Washington as it was an easily renounced position. If you don't commit, you don't get burned.

“So what are we talking about?” said Talbot. “Statements, UN resolutions—”

“Forget that,” said the secretary of state. “We need something tangible. Syria almost never responds to diplomatic pressure, and we sure as hell can't tell the Iranians to stop their goddamned exercise because we don't like the timing of it.”

“I agree,” said the sec def. “Better we act before the Israelis get jumpy. A reaction from them is bound to draw more fire than one from us. Besides, everybody expects us to rattle the saber a bit. We have an image to consider here.”

Everyone chuckled.

They were now talking about a military response, Mason realized. Though it would likely be a simple showing of the flag, it was a decision not to be reached hastily, especially where the Mideast was concerned. The lessons of the hostage crisis, the Marines in Beirut, and the Gulf War were not far from any of their minds.

“Any ideas, General?” James Talbot asked the JCS chairman.

“We've got the
Independence
battle group off Italy on exercises. They're due to wrap up in three days. And the
Enterprise
group is on the Indian Ocean. Both are just coming off a refit cycle. Get them in position, increase CENT-COM overflights, and we'll have their attention.”

“And if we need more than that?” asked Talbot.

“It would depend on the situation, but it would give us increased firepower.”

Talbot considered this; he looked around the table. “Any problems with this?”

No one spoke. Mason looked down at his notes. He'd expressed his opinion to both the president and Talbot, but it was clear the course had been chosen. “How long to draw up an op plan, General?” Talbot asked.

“Five days.”

“Do it. I'll brief the president.”

Japan

Tanner took the afternoon right from Hon Kong to Osaka and arrived back at the Royal Palms at dusk; He was stepping from the shower when a knock came at his door. It was a bellman.

“Mr. Tanner, your party is waiting for you in the restaurant.”

“My party?”

“Yes, sir.”

Camille,
Tanner thought and smiled. “Please tell her I'll be down shortly.”

Ten minutes later, he walked into the restaurant. He was two steps through the doors when he saw her in the corner booth.

Even at this distance her black hair shimmered in the candlelight and her eyes shone as they returned his gaze. Her dress was simple, low-cut black silk with a single strand of pearls dipping into her cleavage.

He stared for a moment longer and then walked over.

“Welcome home,” she said.

“Hello.” He stared.

She smiled. “Do you want to sit down, or are you going to eat standing up?”

They shared a bottle of wine, then ordered dinner, which Briggs barely tasted. The conversation was effortless, and again he was surprised how natural it seemed between them. Even so, he felt an undercurrent of electricity, pleasant, yet slightly unnerving

Camille said, “It was a long two days.”

“For me, too.”

Suddenly she became demure; she toyed with the rim of her wineglass. For a moment Tanner wondered, disappointed, if this was an affectation, but he decided it wasn't. There was a duality to Camille that he found irresistible. She was sexy and chaste, bold and uncertain, strong and submissive.

“So,” she said. “Shall we sit for a while, or we can walk on the beach—”

He stood up and extended his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where—”

“Just come.”

She took his hand.

Two minutes later they were at her room. Without a word, Camille opened the door, and Briggs followed her inside. He shut the door. The room was dark except for the moonlight filtering through the balcony door; a breeze billowed the curtains.

Camille leaned against the wall. “Don't leave me this time, Briggs.”

“I promise.”

Then they were together, kissing, her arms around his neck. She arched her back against the wall, pushing her hips and breasts against him. Tanner drew down the zipper at her back. Her dress slid away. She wore no bra. He grazed his fingertips over the upper swell of her breasts, then gently cupped them and traced his thumbs over her nipples. She sucked in her breath and leaned her head back.

“Oh, God. Hurry, Briggs; I don't want to wait.”

In one smooth motion, Tanner lifted her off the ground. She wrapped her legs around his waist and began unbuttoning his shirt as he carried her to the bed. As they fell together, she curled her hands around his neck and drew him down on top of her.

Afterward, they sat on the balcony wrapped together in a blanket, watching the ocean. Camille traced her finger along the corner of Tanner's eye. “What's this scar?”

“I got careless with a razor.”
A razor that happened to be in the hands of a Korean soldier at the time,
Tanner didn't add. “Nicked myself.”

“And this one?” Camille touched under his right armpit.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I fell on some broken glass.”

“Mmm. You should be more careful.”

After a while, she whispered, “Briggs, I have to leave in the morning.”

“What? I thought it wasn't until the day after.”

“So did I. Something from work came up. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want it spoiling our evening.”

Tanner smiled. “Never argue with a woman's wisdom.”

“Pardon?”

“Something my dad once told me.”

“A wise man, your father.”

Her tone was light, but Tanner knew she was thinking the same thing as he: Whatever they had now would probably end tomorrow. He wasn't sure which feeling dominated his heart: sadness or relief. He was torn, and he hated it.

“I hate this,” Camille murmured.

“Me, too.”

“I don't know how to …” A tear ran from Camille's eye and fell on his chest. “What do we do, Briggs?”

Tanner wrapped his arms around her. “In the morning we'll have breakfast, I'll take you to the airport, we'll promise to meet again, and then we'll say good-bye.”

She looked up at him. “Just that easy?”

“No, not easy. Not easy at all.”

Camille kissed him, then lifted her leg over the chair and straddled him. She pulled the blanket around them and smiled. “Well, we still have time.”

She shed her robe and moved against him until they were both ready, then rose up and lowered herself onto him. She stayed that way, unmoving except for a gentle circling of her hips. They made love slowly, almost lazily, until she climaxed. She made no sound save a small gasp, then curled up against his chest.

They dozed and talked until the first tinge of sunlight appeared on the horizon.

“Almost dawn,” Tanner murmured.

“Take me back to bed, Briggs.”

A few hours later, after she finished dressing, Tanner took her luggage to the lobby, called for a taxi, and sat down to wait

After sunrise they'd shared breakfast on the balcony. Camille's mood was cheery and playful, but it was forced as she dawdled about the room, combing her hair, packing and repacking, avoiding the clock. When Tanner finally told her they had to leave, she simply nodded and asked him to take her bag downstairs.

Suddenly the lobby doors burst open and in strode a genuine cowboy, complete with snakeskin boots, a silver and turquoise belt buckle, bolo tie, and a ten-gallon Stetson. Tottering his wake was a single bellman, his arms piled with luggage.

The cowboy stood about five eight and tipped the scales at a solid 220 pounds. His close-cropped beard and mustache were light brown.

The check-in process for the cowboy was swift, and within minutes he and his bellman were headed for the elevators. As he passed Tanner, Ian “Bear” Cahil tipped his hat at him, gave him a “Pardner,” then disappeared into the elevator.

The cavalry has arrived,
Tanner thought with a smile.
What was it Dutcher had said
?
Light cover for status
?
Briggs suspected Bear had chosen his own. It would do the job, though; the Pecos Bill act would be what people remembered; out of costume, Cahil would be almost invisible.

A moment later the elevator opened and Camille stepped out.

“Ready?” Tanner asked.

“Yes.”

An hour later, they were standing at the plane's boarding gate. The attendant announced the last call for her flight. She cast an irritated glance at the jet way.

“Damn it.” She pressed a finger beneath her eye, trying to keep it from brimming. “This is silly. After all, this was just a vacation romance, wasn't it?”

He took her in his arms. “No.”

She looked into his eyes. “No, I guess not.” She kissed him, then pushed herself away and picked up her carry-on. “I should go. I'll miss my plane.”

“Good-bye, Camille.”

“Good-bye, Briggs.” She placed a tentative hand on his chest, then turned and walked onto the jet way.

Tanner asked the cabbie to drive for a while, not caring where, then returned to the Royal Palms. He walked up to Cahil's room and knocked.

“Hold yer horses!” Tanner heard.

The door opened. “Sheriff,” Briggs drawled and walked in.

“You like it? I'm kind of enjoying it. They love cowboys here.”

“So I've heard.”

Cahil frowned at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“She make her flight?”

Tanner nodded.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Cahil ordered coffee and sandwiches from room service, and they spent the afternoon fleshing out their game plan. First they would check the locker at Sannomiya Station, which Tanner felt could be important for two reasons: One, instead of having secreted it somewhere, Umako was carrying the key when he died; and two, he hadn't told the CIA about it.

Next they would check DORSAL's series of dead-letter drops. Following that, assuming they got no response from the drops, would be to get clearance from the CIA to restart Ohira's network, beginning with the one and only agent the CIA knew about, an engineer at Takagi Maritime. All this would take some finesse. Ohira's contacts had probably heard of his murder, and a sudden reactivation might send them running.

“What about equipment?” asked Tanner.

“We should have it by tomorrow. When do you want to check the locker?”

“Tonight.”

Cahil nodded and downed the last of his coffee. “Then get the hell out of here and let me sleep. My body's still on Washington time.”