End of Enemies (13 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Your impressions of the man were correct.” Sherabi opened another file. “Briggs Tanner is a retired Navy commander, attached to the Navy Special Warfare Group and Special Operations Command, but it appears he no longer has any links to either the government or military. Aside from an interesting background and his behavior at the murder scene, we found nothing unusual about him. You, however, attracted some interest.”

“What?” Camille asked.

“The Karotovic cover was probed. It held up, of course, but all the same, we are shutting it down for the time being. Now: new business.

“We've received reports of an increased Iranian
Pasdaran
presence in Beirut. We believe the Syrian
Mucharabat
and Air Force Intelligence are providing secret base camps and training.”

“In the city proper?” Camille asked, surprised. Most Iranian activity was confined to Baalbek and areas south of the Litani River.

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“We don't know. It may be nothing, it may be something. Who can know the Arab mind? At any rate, we are considering options. One them would involve reactivating some of the Lebanon networks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The decision hasn't been made yet. For now, I want you to take some time.”

“Why? I am—”

Sherabi raised his hand. “This is not a punitive measure, Camille. You are due some time off. Take it; relax. Consider it an order, if it helps.” Sherabi came around the desk to sit beside her. “Enough business. How is your mother?”

Camille smiled. “Fine. She asks about you.”

“I haven't seen her in some time.”

“She said that, too. She said you should be ashamed.”

Sherabi chuckled. “The most direct woman I know.” Sherabi took her hand and patted it. “Camille, you are a fine
katsa.
You are young, though. This thing with the American—”

Camille raised her chin. “Are we talking as family now, Uncle Hayem?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is none of your business.”

Again Sherabi chuckled. “Stubborn like your mother and direct like your father. Do you know what we called him in the Haganah?”

“No.”

“We called him Badger. Small, tenacious, and fierce in battle. Camille, listen, as a friend … as the voice of your father … I tell you this: There are those that feel a
katsa
is not entitled to a personal life. Everything you do is in the service of Israel … even who you love.”

“They are wrong.”

“Perhaps so. Tread carefully, though. I will not always be here. I overlooked this liaison of yours. Others would not.”

Camille was silent.

“Never ignore your heart,” Sherabi continued, “but God help you if you are forced to choose between your heart and your duty.”

“Have you ever faced such a choice?”

“Once.”

“Did you choose correctly?”

“I think so.”

“Which did you follow … your heart or your duty?”

Sherabi smiled. “Who are you to ask me such questions? Impudent child!” Sherabi kissed her forehead and stood up. “Now run off before I become angry.”

Camille laughed and headed for the door.

“By the way, Camille…?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“Welcome home.”

Camille opened the door to her apartment and stepped over the pile of mail beneath the slot. She set her bag on the kitchen table and looked around. Nothing had changed. Had she expected otherwise? Had she expected someone to be waiting at the door to greet her?

The apartment was empty, aside from a small love seat and a battered wing chair. There were a few paintings and tapestries, but these lay on the floor, still in their packing boxes. What few plants she owned had withered in her absence.

She opened the refrigerator and saw a bottle of wine, a tupperware container filled with God knew what, and a rotten head of lettuce. She grabbed the wine, poured herself a glass, and found a box of crackers in the cupboard.

She paced the floor, watered the plants, thumbed through the mail, stared into the refrigerator again.

Nothing felt right. This was her home, but it felt foreign. She took a gulp of wine. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him? Probably for the same reason she hadn't been able to use the word
mistake
in Uncle Hayem's office. Why couldn't she make sense of what was going on in her head?

“God help you if you are forced to choose between your heart and your duty.
”
Wasn't that what Hayem said? Duty was something she understood. Of the two—heart and duty—only one could exist for her right now.

Camille raised her glass and toasted the bare walls. “To duty, then.”

Japan

Tanner took a taxi to the underground Umeda station in Osaka, where he bought a one-way ticket and boarded the Tokaido Line train. Thirty minutes later he arrived at Sannomiya Station

The terminal was a three-story structure with marble concourses, a central atrium, and domed skylights. The upper levels containing the lockers were reached by spiraling ramps at the north and south ends of the train platform.

Tanner found the platform almost deserted, with only a few late-night commuters milling about. Ian Cahil, sans Stetson and wearing a conservative blue suit, sat on a bench at the opposite end of the concourse, reading a newspaper. Without a glance in Tanner's direction, he stood, folded the newspaper under his left arm, and started up the south ramp.

All clear,
no surveillance,
Tanner thought. Had Cahil folded the newspaper under his right arm, it would have been a wave-off:
Go away,
don't look back.

No matter how many times Tanner went through the tradecraft, he had to remind himself it was all necessary. You never trusted luck alone unless you had no choice.

He waited exactly three minutes before starting up the north ramp. Above him, Cahil stood at the railing with a disposable coffee cup in his right hand.

Tanner kept going.

The third level was all but empty. Aside from Cahil, who now sat on a stool in the Sannomiya's
kissaten,
or coffee shop, there were three other people visible: two standing at the shop's counter and the attendant at the tourist kiosk. Footsteps echoing, Tanner strode past the
kissaten.
As he did so, Cahil opened his suitcase, removed a magazine, laid it facedown on the stool beside him.

Tanner walked to the bank of lockers, found 312, opened it, removed the leather valise he found inside, shoved it under his arm, closed the door, and walked down the south ramp.

Three minutes later, he boarded the Shinkansen Line back to Osaka.

He rode for twenty minutes and then disembarked at Shinkansen and walked across the concourse to the Tokaido platform. According to the schedule, the next train was due in five minutes.

It was nearly midnight. Except for a lone janitor sweeping the platform, the station was quiet. Briggs found a bench and sat down. Moments later, he heard the clomp of footsteps coming down the stairwell behind him. He turned.

First down the stairs came a hard-looking Japanese man wearing a loose-fitting gray suit. With a thick neck and heavy brows, he could have been a clone of Tange Noboru. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, clasped his hands in front of him, and stared at Tanner. A moment later, three younger men appeared behind him, each wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots. The taller of the three whispered to the suited man and got a nod in return.

Tanner glanced around. The janitor had disappeared.

It was then that Tanner recognized the thugs. They'd been aboard his train at Umeda but had disembarked two stops before Sannomiya. Instead of setting the ambush at the more public Sannomiya, they'd gambled he would return on the same line.
Stupid mistake,
Briggs.

There were only two exits nearby, one of which was blocked by these four men, and a second one a hundred yards away.
Too far,
he decided.

The three thugs swaggered forward. The leader shoved his hand into his pocket. If the trio was armed with anything more than knives, this one had it. Clutching the valise to his chest, Tanner stood up, glanced around, then turned and began walking toward the far exit. The thugs followed, fanning out behind him. Tanner stumbled, regained his balance, and picked up his pace.

As Tanner drew even with one of the platform's pillars, he stopped and turned. “What do you want?” he stuttered. “Leave me alone.”

The leader stepped forward. “Give wallet and case.”

“My wallet?” Tanner said. “Why?”

“Give!”

Tanner glanced around, eyes wide. “Please.
Please,
I don't—”

One of the other thugs muttered something. The other laughed. The leader took another step forward. “Give case
now
!”

“Oh, God,” Tanner sputtered. “Please …”

The leader pulled his hand from his pocket. With an audible click, the knife's blade shot open. He reversed it, blade backward, parallel to his forearm—the classic grip of an experienced knife fighter. “I said, give case!”

There would be no more talking, Tanner knew.
Wait for it.
…
“Please, I—”

The leader lunged forward, knife slashing diagonally toward Tanner's face.

Simultaneously ducking under the blade and stepping forward, Briggs dropped the valise, seized the leader's arm at the wrist and elbow, then sidekicked, sweeping the man's right leg from under him. As he fell, Tanner spun on his heel and slammed the man face first into the concrete pillar. From the corner of his eye, Tanner saw the other two closing in, but slowly, confused by their target's sudden transformation. It was typical wolf pack mentality, Tanner knew, and the solution was simple: Pick the leader and wreck him.

Still gripping the leader's wrist, Tanner heaved the man to his feet, then wrenched forward and down. With an audible pop, the man's radius bone snapped. He screamed, and his knees buckled. Tanner shoved him into the other two. They stood frozen.

Down the concourse came several shouts.
“Ya me te
!
Ya me te
!”
Stop!

Eyes locked on the thugs, Tanner bent down and picked up the valise. One of the thugs suddenly regained his courage. He flicked open his switchblade and charged. Tanner met the thrust with the valise. The blade plunged into the leather. Tanner took a step backward, drawing the man along, then toe-kicked him in the kneecap, shattering it. The man fell hard, groaning.

Footsteps pounded down the concourse.
“Ya me te
!”

The third man turned and ran. Tanner looked for the Noboru clone, but he was gone.

The two officers spoke little English, so Tanner was escorted to prefecture headquarters, where he was questioned through an interpreter.

A few minutes later, Inspector Tanaka arrived. He nodded at Tanner, scanned the report, then took a chair. As he had at the hotel, Tanner took an immediate dislike to Tanaka; it was partly gut reaction and partly trust in Ieyasu's insinuation that Tanaka was dirty.

“You are having an eventful stay in Japan, Mr. Tanner.”

“Not by choice, Inspector. How is it you got this case?”

“Homicide and Violent Crimes are part of the same division. I was on duty, and I recognized your name. I thought I might help.”

“Thanks, but no harm done.”

“Except to the two men you put in the hospital.”

“Are you more concerned for them, Inspector, or for tourists who get mugged in your subways?”

“For our tourists, of course. These men were severely injured, however. I am wondering where you learned to—”

“Call it dumb luck.”

“But these were experienced street hoodlums. I just find it curious that—”

“Inspector, am I being charged with something?”

“No. The circumstances are quite clear here.”

“Then let's finish. It's been a long night.”

“Very well. We just need a statement, and then we'll return you to your hotel.”

Tanner stated he left his hotel and took the train into Kobe, where he boarded the Portliner monorail for Port Island, a thirty-minute round trip.

“And the reason for this trip?” asked Tanaka

“Sightseeing.”

“At this hour?”

“I don't sleep well.”

“May I see the ticket?”

“I threw it away.”

“Please continue.”

From the Portliner he returned to Sannomiya and boarded the Tokaido to Shinkassen, where he was attacked. He described both the confrontation and his attackers but mentioned nothing of the Noboru clone.

“What did they ask for?”

“My wallet.”

“Not the valise?” Tanaka asked, pointing to the case in Tanner's lap.

“No. In fact, I offered it to them, but they didn't want it.”

“May I?”

Tanner didn't bat an eye. “Go ahead.”

Tanaka dug through the case for a few moments, then handed it back. “Well, Mr. Tanner, we will file a report and continue the search for the third attacker. I'll have an officer return you to your hotel.”

Tanner stood. “Thank you.”

“One piece of advice, however,” Tanaka said. “This is your second incident in our country. You might be wise to be more cautious in the future.”

“You're afraid my string of bad luck might continue?”

Tanaka smiled greasily. “I certainly hope not, but who can say?”

“I'll keep that in mind, Inspector.”

An hour later, back in Cahil's hotel room, Bear held up the valise and wiggled his finger through the knife hole. “Made some friends, I see.”

Tanner poured them a pair of scotch rocks, handed one to Cahil, then dropped into a chair. “Three of them.”

“You okay?”

Tanner nodded.
Good ol' Mama Bear.
It was good to have him along. “One got away,” he said. “A Noboru look-alike was there, too, but he disappeared.”

“Slowing in your old age, Briggs.”

“Tell me about it. Let's see what they wanted so badly.”

Cahil opened the valise. There were only two items: a nautical chart and a day-planner organizer. Cahil unfolded the former on the bed. It was a coastal chart of southern Honshu Island, the Inland Sea, and Shikoku Island. Written in along the border were the words “Toshogu” and “Tsumago” and “Anan, Secure Dock 12—???”

“Takagi's shipyard?” Cahil asked.

Tanner nodded. “It's just south of Anan, over on Shikoku. One of Ohira's contacts worked there. Here, what do you make of these?”

A series of asterisks and fractional numbers—all with three-digit numerators and four-digit denominators—had been scribbled on the chart. Four of the asterisks lay within miles of the Royal Palms. A pair of red dots—one just inside the mouth of the Inland Sea and the other a few miles off Shiono Misaki—were linked by a dotted line.

“Interesting,” said Cahil. “Wonder what it means.”

“Let's see the day planner.”

The contents appeared unremarkable, except for several pages on which they found handwritten geometric symbols: squares, triangles and diamonds, each in different sequences and each followed by four numbers.

“Military time,” said Tanner. “It's symbol code—probably listings of Ohira's contact locations and wave-off meets.” He retrieved the laptop computer, powered it up, typed in his password, and opened a file. “Here we go. … Check the night he was killed.”

Cahil flipped pages. “Busy boy. Three meets: eight, ten, then eleven.”

“He was killed at about nine-thirty, so he was probably on his way to the second meet. Anything written down?”

“No, just the time.”

“Could be his false flag. So, let's assume he made the first meet. …” Tanner said, checking the laptop's screen. “Here: A bar outside Tokoshima. It was his shipyard contact, the engineer. Why all the interest in the shipyard, I wonder? The fire-control chips were supposedly made by Takagi's electronics division.”

“Most of Takagi's contract work for the JDF is handled by the Maritime Division.”

“True, but still …”

Cahil squinted at him. “Let me guess: You see a late-night visit to the shipyard in our future.”

“It might be a good idea. Okay, how about Ohira's last meet?”

Bear checked the day planner and found Ohira's eleven o'clock appointment had been set at the Nintoku Mausoleum in Osaka. “Wow,” he said. “The contact's a lawyer in Takagi's Office of Counsel. Big fish.”

“No kidding. Okay, that was the primary meet. How about the secondary?”

“Ten o'clock at Sorakuen Garden in Kobe. Day after tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Tanner. “Now let's just hope his contact hasn't gone to ground.”

South of Nagoya, in his hilltop mansion overlooking Atsumi Bay, Hiromasa Takagi steepled his fingers and stared at the black-and-white photograph lying in the center of his desk blotter. “This is the man who helped Ohira?” he asked.

Tange Noboru nodded.
“Hai.
”

“The same man you followed to the village?”

“Hai.
”

“Is he working alone?”

“We think so. After leaving the hotel he boarded the train at Umeda, but he was lost when he switched to the Shin-kansen. He returned by the same route, this time carrying a briefcase. An attempt was made to intercept him.” Noboru cast a reproachful glance at the gray-suited man standing behind him. “It failed.”

“Explain.”

Noboru barked at the gray-suited man, who stepped forward and recounted the confrontation with Tanner.
“Gomen nasai,
”
he murmured. Please forgive me.

For a full minute, Takagi stared at the man, who stood bowed at the waist. In feudal Japan this was a posture of submission, the symbolic offering of one's head as atonement for wrongdoing. Today, according to the code of conduct of the Black Ocean Society and its subculture, the
yakuzza,
atonement was not as final, but it was harsh nonetheless. A sign of renewed fealty was required.

Takagi spoke. The phrase was idiomatic and roughly translated as, “By the blade, you are cleansed.”

The man nodded.
“Hai.
”

He walked to the low coffee table against the wall and knelt beside it. On the table lay a small oak cutting board. In deliberate, almost ritualistic fashion, the man wound a silk handkerchief around the base of his pinky finger and then drew the handkerchief into a knot. Immediately the finger began to swell purple. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a
kento
knife and laid it beside his splayed finger.