End of Enemies (15 page)

The secretary of state argued that such “machinations” sounded too much like a call to war and that while Iraq certainly had a history of aggression, it was flanked by two neighbors who had shown equal if not greater aggression in the past. Saddam's response was clearly defensive in nature, he said.

The president agreed—but conditionally. “Tine. Just as long as we make it clear that any offensive action on Iraq's part will result in immediate retribution. Nor will they be allowed to maintain their new positions once the Syrian and Iranian exercises are finished. Clear?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said the sec state.

We're giving the bastard the proverbial inch,
Mason thought. To the Arab mind, such a toothless response was tantamount to victory. As far as Mason was concerned, the only appropriate response was the same kind George Bush had given in August of 1990: Get back where you belong, or we'll put you there.

But that wasn't going to happen. In response to Coates's question, Mason simply said, “We're moving a pair of battle groups into the area. The president's making the announcement tomorrow.”

The elevator doors parted, and they entered Coates's office. Lying on his desk was a Manila folder. Attached to it was a receipt—“Cleared, CIA Office of Security”—and the initials of Security Directorate Deputy Marie Calavos.

Coates opened it and withdrew an eight-by-ten photo and a note:

My dearest George,

This was taken in Khartoum.
Though the source of this photo is losing favor with us,
we feel it is genuine.
This man
(
the European
)
is wanted by us as well,
but I believe you would find more use for him.
Good hunting.

“If they know him,” Mason said, “why not mention him by name?”

Coates grinned, shook his head. “Pyotor's sense of humor.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“No, but I know somebody who might. He's got to be Russian, and the other two are obviously Arab…” Coates picked up the phone. “Art, come on up for a minute, will you?”

“Wonder what that means: ‘quickly losing favor with us'?” Mason said.

“Some of the third-party stuff we've been getting from the FIS looks like this. Like the photographer is being selective with his shots. See right there…. It's daylight with no shadows to speak of. At that angle, he could've gotten a clear shot of all their faces.”

“But he only gets the one. The other two are just fuzzy enough to make a solid ID impossible.”

“Right. The theory is, this photo and the others like it come from a stringer who's double-dealing with several agencies.”

Mason smiled grimly. “Same house, different paint.”

“Exactly,” Coates added.

Art Stucky knocked on the door, and Coates waved him in. “Art, what do you make of this?”

Stucky studied the photo. “Holy cow!”

“Somebody you know?” asked Mason.

“You could say that. Yuri Vorsalov.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. We knew he had a falling-out with the Russians, but he went to ground about two years ago. Is this recent?”

Coates nodded. “We think so.” To Mason, he said, “Last we heard he was doing some consulting in the Mideast.”

“Can we get him?” said Stucky.

“We don't know, Art. Thanks for coming up.”

“Okay, boss.” Stucky turned at the door. “You know, the FBI has the real expert on this guy. Charlie Latham was on him years ago.”

“Thanks, Art.”

“What's this about Latham?” Mason asked when Stucky was gone.

Coates told him the story. “He took the kid's death pretty hard.”

“You think we should give him a look at this?”

“Definitely. Nobody knows Vorsalov better than Latham.”

“Okay. He's downstairs; talk to him. If we can get Vorsalov, I want him. If we're right about his Mideast connections, he's a potential gold mine.” Mason tapped the photo. “Also, see what we can find on these other two. They were meeting for a reason. I want to know why.”

Downstairs, Bonnie Latham held Judith's hand as she talked. Judith was near tears, and Bonnie knew why; the woman had put up with Herb Smith for twenty-five years, and his abuse tonight had been just more of the same. Usually, Judith suffered such episodes gamely and made light of them, but tonight she seemed almost … resolute. Bonnie wondered if her friend had reached a turning point.

“What does your therapist say?” Bonnie asked.

“The same thing you do,” Judith replied. “That I deserve better.”

“She's right.”

“I just wish I could believe that.”

“Judith, when you come in a room, heads turn. For Christ's sake, even Dick Mason, battle-hardened cold warrior that he is, fawns over you.”

“Oh, Bonnie, please—”

“Judith, you're bright and sexy, and you're one of the most intelligent women I know. That's why you make me so damned mad!”

“What?”

“You're ignoring the obvious. I tell you—and everybody who's a real friend tells you—how wonderful you are. Listen, I want you to start thinking about something, okay?”

“What?”

“Just start to think that maybe, just maybe, we're right and you're wrong.”

Judith smiled. “Marsha said that, too.”

“Good! You don't have to convince yourself overnight, you know. Just think that maybe Herb is the one who's screwed up. That doesn't sound so farfetched does it?”

“Not when you put it like that.”

“Good. Now, let's go get another drink.”

Fayyad's team consisted of hour other Arabs, only one of which he knew. Ibn, a former
As-Sa'iqa
freedom fighter, and he had fought together in the PFLP-GC during the '82 invasion of Lebanon. Ibn and the other three had rented a house in rural Greenbelt, while Fayyad had chosen a condo in the Glen Echo area.

Ibn assured him the others were reliable. They were sleepers, he said, three of hundreds of men and women stationed throughout the world—usually as full-fledged citizens—to lend help on such missions. As citizens, it was easier for them to find housing and vehicles. Two of the men even had wives and children.

From the beginning, Fayyad suspected the operation was being backed by the Syrians, but that was a question best left unasked. If these men were in fact sleepers, they were the first Fayyad had heard of in America. Al-Baz's group had committed substantial resources to the mission.
Why
?
Fayyad wondered.
What could be so crucial
?

The operation was proceeding well. While he and Hasim were in the Smith home, Ibn and his team followed them to CIA Headquarters in Langley. It was a social function, Ibn reported, with hundreds of guests. After three hours, the senator and his wife left separately, she home in a taxi, and he in the limousine to an apartment in Georgetown, where they found he was keeping a mistress, an early-twenties blond named Suzie Donovan.

Fayyad was unsurprised at the senator's indiscretion. Simply keeping a mistress wasn't enough for Smith's ego; he had to flaunt it; he had to show he could do it with impunity. How humiliating that must be to Judith. But then again, Fayyad thought, that, too, could be useful.

Fayyad returned to Judith's diary. He was beginning to understand her. She fit the profile perfectly. His approach would be textbook. Like all women, she was emotionally complex, but her basic needs would be simple, whetted by twenty-five years of the senator's neglect and abuse.

For me,
Fayyad thought,
she will open like a flower.

Washington,
D.C.

Despite a throbbing headache, Charlie Latham was in his office by seven. It was only after three glasses of wine at the CIA reception the night before that he remembered he had no tolerance for the stuff. Bonnie had smiled indulgently, called him a dummy, then got him some aspirin.

Yuri Vorsalov.
My God.
Even if the photo was recent and even if Vorsalov was still in Khartoum, it didn't matter. Sudan and the U.S. weren't exactly on good terms, so capture was out of the question, as was extradition.

His phone rang, setting off waves of pain in his temples. “Charlie Latham.”

“Charlie, Avi Haron here. You don't sound so well.”

“I'm fine, Avi. How about yourself?”

“Avi is wonderful. Listen, our friend Fayyad is traveling. If he returns to one of his hideaways … Who knows?”

“Don't take too long. I've got a U.S. congressman breathing down my neck.”

Congressman Hostetler was a prominent figure on the AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) as well as a powerhouse on the Appropriations Committee, which influenced how and where U.S. dollars were spent, including foreign-assistance subsidies. Hosteder was strongly opposed to further support for Israel since Rabin's assassination, stating that the current leadership wasn't dedicated to the peace process.

Haron was silent for a moment. “I don't understand.”

“Hostetler's daughter was on that plane, Avi.”

“Oh my.”

“What I'm saying is, Hostetler's got his teeth into this case. Eventually, he'll hear about our conversation. He's already growling, Avi. Just think what he'll do if he thinks you're withholding.”

“I see. Will you be in your office?”

“I can be.”

“I'll get back to you.”

The call came fifty minutes later.

“We have a photo, Charlie. It appears your man was in Northern Africa last week with two others. We don't know why nor do we have their identities.”

“Where exactly?”

“Khartoum.”

“Describe the photo.” Haron did so, and Latham asked, “One Arab, one European?”

“Yes, that's right. What—”

“Where is Fayyad now?”

“We are not sure. He left the same day but by a different route, via Cyprus. If he follows routine, he may return to this area, but it will be to one of our tougher neighborhoods.”

Lebanon,
Latham thought. “Can you confirm that?”

“Perhaps. I've passed this information along, of course, and I expect it will draw some interest,” said Haron.

Latham knew the Israeli's method of obtaining confirmation would probably come from a cross-border raid by one the IDF special forces groups. Such a mission could only be authorized by the chief of staff.

“If I hear anything more, I will call,” said Haron.

“Thanks, Avi.” Latham hung up and redialed. “George? Charlie Latham. That Vorsalov photo you've got … describe it to me.”

The DDO did so.

Latham asked, “One is Vorsalov, the other two unidentified Arabs?”

“That's right. What's going on, Charlie?”

“We'd better meet I think we're working on the same puzzle.”

Langley

An hour later, Latham was in Mason's office pitching his Vorsalov/Fayyad theory to George Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and the director of the FBI. Obviously the two photos sold to the FIS and
Shin Bet
came from the same source, he said. Whoever the stringer was, he was either gutsy or stupid. Double-dealing two of the world's most ruthless intelligence agencies was not the road to a long, happy life.

Fayyad was the prime suspect in the Delta bombing, and Vorsalov was a known freelancer. That they were meeting in Khartoum just days after the bombing was compelling; either they were connected by the bombing or by an impending operation. Latham suspected the latter, since freelance terrorists rarely bothered with postmortem briefs on their operations. Plus, it was unlikely Vorsalov would be consulted on a simple bombing; it wasn't the Russian's forte. The identity of the third man in the photo was still unknown, but Latham hoped by pooling the CIA's and FBI's resources they could not only identify him but uncover the reason behind the Khartoum meeting.

“Find one and we find the other,” Latham said. “Find them both and we find out what they've got cooking.”

By the end of the meeting, Mason ordered an interagency working group be set up. It would consist of Latham, his partner Paul Randal, and selected members of Art Stucky's Near East Division.

Fayyad's and Vorsalov's lives were to be dissected, examined, then plugged into a time line that would trace their movements over the past three years. There would be gaps, of course, but their careers had never been examined side by side. It was a logical place to start.

Washington,
D.C.

Judith Smith left her psychologist's office and walked two blocks to Bistro Francais. It was sunny and warm, and squirrels darted from tree to tree along the sidewalk. A popular nightspot overlooking the C & O Canal, Bistro Francais was usually uncrowded during the day. Coming here was a ritual for Judith, quiet time to mull over what she and Marsha had talked about.

There was only one other patron on the terrace, a broad-shouldered man in his midthirties. He was engrossed in the lunch menu, so she couldn't see much of his face, but he looked Italian—and handsome. He wore twill olive trousers, a collarless cream shirt, and a light blazer. As she took her seat, he looked up and smiled. Judith glanced away. He
was
handsome.

Despite herself, she watched him out of the corner of her eye.
Oh stop it,
Judith,
she thought. She was acting like a little girl.

“Pardon me,
signora.
”

Judith's breath caught in her throat. She looked up. She suddenly realized how long it had been since she looked into a man's eyes. “I'm sorry?”

“For intruding. I apologize.”

“Oh … ah … you're not.”

“I am wondering. Can you help me with a …
il menu
?”

“I can try. What do you—” Judith stopped, seeing the brochure in his hand.

“You know this place? The Coco …”

She smiled; he pronounced it “cocoa.” “The Cocoran Gallery. Yes. In fact, I'm on its fund-raising committee.”

“Yes?”

“Have you been there?”

He smiled; his teeth were flawless and white. “It is where I was going this morning. I got lost. Silly, yes?”

“Washington can be confusing.”

“I have discovered that. Perhaps you can tell me? Is it far from here?”

“No, not at all,” Judith said. “Take the Metro to Seventeenth, then five blocks south on New York.”

“Grazie.
”
He held her eyes for several moments. “I'm sure you are waiting for someone. I will leave you to your lunch.” He turned to go.

Judith's mind raced.
Let him go.
He just needed help,
that's all.
But there was another voice, suddenly powerful:
He's interested,
the voice said. They way he smiled and held her eyes … Besides, there was no harm in lunch, was there?

Before she realized it, her mouth was opening. “You know, you might want to wait until Thursday to go to the Cocoran.”

He turned. “Oh?”

“They're debuting some new Kramer pieces.”

“Kathleen Kramer?”

“Yes,” she said, then hesitated.
Leap,
Judith
!
“Would you … I mean, would you like to join me for lunch?”

“I would not be imposing?”

“Oh, no. We could … talk about art.”

He smiled and extended his hand. “I am Paolo.”

Judith took his hand. He turned it, grasping just her fingers, European style. Ever so briefly he grazed his thumb over the back of her hand.

“And your name?” he asked.

“Judith. My name is Judith.”

Before she realized it, three hours had passed. Paolo was an engaging listener, asking her about her taste in art and books and theater. His eyes rarely left her face as she talked, straying away only to refill their wineglasses. It was a childishly simple thing, but it felt wonderful, nonetheless. This stranger had paid her more attention in the last few hours than Herb had in two years.

She realized she knew nothing about him. She said so.

“With respect, Judith, I refuse. You are much more interesting. Please tell me more about—”

“No, I want to know about you. Where do you come from?”

He lived in Tuscany, he said, and was here doing research for his doctoral thesis in art history. His family owned a ski resort in the Italian Alps, which he had managed until two years ago. His heart was not in business. Art was his love. Upon hearing this, his father had virtually ostracized him from the family.

“And so, Judith, you see, I am passionate. I sometimes wonder if that is a good thing. Without it, I would be a rich businessman. With it …” He smiled, shrugged. “Well, I am here, having a wonderful lunch with you.”

“It has been nice.”

“So what is your opinion?”

“About?”

“Passion. Can it be not such a good thing?”

Judith folded her napkin, then refolded it. “Well, I don't know. I've never given it much thought.”

“No? You appear to me as a passionate woman. The way you talk about art, your eyes shine.”

“Really?”

“Truly.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Judith, I have a belief. Would you like to hear it?”

“Please.”

“I believe passion is a matter of finding what makes you feel alive and following it. We are alike, I think. For the first thirty-four years of my life, I suppressed my passion. I ignored what made me feel alive, but it waited patiently until I could no longer ignore it. It is the same for everyone. Whether we know it or not, our hearts know the right way. Some people listen; some do not.”

Judith was uncomfortable. Passion had no place in her life. Everything she did and thought and felt was ruled by Herb. Passion? She'd forgotten what it felt like.

Listening to Paolo, however, her mind cleared, and she suddenly heard what he was saying. The words combined with the voices of Bonnie Latham and Dr. Burns and bolstered that little, quiet voice in the back of her mind. She suddenly felt free and vastly confused at the same time.

“I am sorry,” Paolo said. “I have become too personal with you. Please accept my apology.”

“No. You don't have to apologize. I just …” She hesitated. “It's just hard to …”

“You think it's too late.”

“Yes, I do.”

Paolo stood up and pushed in his chair. He took her hand and kissed it. The gesture seemed more respectful than romantic. “Judith, it is never too late. Of that I am sure. I have enjoyed meeting you. Perhaps I will see you at the Cocoran show. If not, I wish you happiness.”

Judith could only nod as he turned and walked away.

Japan

Tanner and Cahil took separate routes into Kobe. The meeting place, Sorakuen Garden, was near Sannomiya Station in the foothills of Mount Rokko.

The morning after Tanner's near mugging in Shinkansen Station, Sato Ieyasu had called. The body of a young man matching the description of the third attacker had been found in Osaka Harbor early that morning, he reported. Tanner assumed he'd been executed to insure his silence. If the other two attackers were not already dead, they soon would be.

Later that day, they received a Federal Express package containing their equipment dump, which consisted of nothing more than a pair of ordinary-looking cellular phones and an equally ordinary 3.5″ diskette for their laptop computer.

The phones were Motorolas adapted by the CIA's Science & Tech Directorate. Each was equipped with twenty-four encode chips, one designed to control pulse repetition rate, the other to manage automatic frequency selection. Together they gave the user tens of thousands of secure channels on which to transmit data to a dedicated MilStar satellite.

Any significant data would be passed via the phone's condenser/burst function, which could record a five-minute message and condense it into a three-second digital burst. The software on the 3.5″ diskette, whose twin Oaken had at the Holystone office, would unstuff and decode the transmissions into clear text on their laptop computers.

Once the phones were operational, Tanner sent a report describing the contents of Ohira's locker and asking Oaken to research the words
Toshugu
and
Tsumago,
as well as the Takagi shipyard secure dock area. For whatever reasons, the facility had been important to Ohira, and Tanner wanted to know why.

The remainder of that evening and part of the next morning, he and Cahil separately toured Osaka, servicing the dead-letter drops. Each of DORSAL's three agents had been allocated three drops. Traditionally, drops are preceded by message-waiting signals, usually in the form of marks left in specific locations. Ohira had quickly realized this wouldn't work, however, given the maddening efficiency of the city cleaning crews. It took him almost three weeks to realize his marks were disappearing before agents saw them and then devise another system.

All nine drops were empty. According to Mason's orders, they could go no further without approval. But as Tanner had guessed, Mason was unsatisfied with this and approved the Sorakuen meet.

The rest of the afternoon they spent reconnoitering the shipyard. Though naturally inclined toward a water-borne penetration, Tanner didn't want to discard the land approach. If security were lax enough, it might simply be a matter of scaling a fence. It was not to be, however.

Tange Noboru knew his business. The shipyard was run with militaristic efficiency, with armed patrols (both on foot and in four-by-four trucks) guard dogs, floodlights, and electric fencing. Though these measures were not insurmountable, they made the seaward approach all the more inviting.