End of Enemies (19 page)

Washington,
D.C.

For the third time in as many weeks, George Coates found himself before the Intelligence Oversight Committee. Aside from Coates, the CIA's chief legal counsel, and the IOC panel, the hearing room was empty. Their amplified voices echoed off the walls.

This hearing was unavoidable, Coates knew. The decision to shut down SYMMETRY had ensured that. Just as the CIA was obligated to inform the IOC of all ongoing operations, it was bound to disclose failures as well.

Thinking of SYMMETRY and Marcus—a man he'd never met—Coates found himself almost hoping the man was dead. It would be far better than spending months—perhaps years—chained in a Beirut basement while his captors decided how to best dispose of him.

With that image in his mind, Coates had a hard time finishing the rather clinical statement his staff had drafted. “… and so, given the agent's capture, and fearing he would be forced to disclose operational details of the network, we've suspended operations pending future review.”

“Pending future review,” Smith repeated. “ ‘Future review' certainly can't help your captured agent, can it.”

“I disagree. If his captors manage to extract information from him, it'll lead them nowhere. SYMMETRY is a dead conduit. Finding nothing of interest, they may choose to release him.”

Smith barked out a laugh. “How very naive of you, Mr. Coates.”

Coates was opening his mouth to reply when the chief counsel laid a hand on his forearm. Coates took a breath.
Don't give him the satisfaction.
“You might think it naive, Senator. I like to call it solution-oriented thinking. We already know SYMMETRY has failed. Dwelling on that fact won't get us anywhere.”

“No sale, Mr. Coates. Who do you think you're talking to? You think you can hide the fact that the CIA has not only wasted over four million dollars of taxpayers' money, but it has also got an agent murdered?”

“We don't know that, Senator. Marcus may still—”

Smith banged his fist on the table. “Stop trying to paint a happy face on this thing! You screwed up, and we've got nothing to show for it! Nothing!”

“You're wrong, sir. Before his capture, Marcus had been forwarding valuable product, which we are currently—”

“What kind of product?”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me, Mr. Coates. I said, what had Marcus been delivering? In fact, I think we'd be wise to hear a lot more about SYMMETRY.”

“Such as?”

“Anything that might help us understand what went wrong. For example, what exactly was Marcus's task in Lebanon? What type of information was he gathering? Had he penetrated any terrorist operations, and if so, which ones?”

“Senator, I don't—”

“I know you don't want to answer, Mr. Coates. I know the CIA wants to protect its ass. Well, the time for dodging is over.”

Coates was stunned. Several members of the panel glanced nervously at Smith. The IOC vice chairman, Senator Dean, leaned toward Smith, only to be waved off.

Smith had just crossed a very big line in the CIA-IOC relationship. In his four years as DDO, Coates had never been asked such questions. The premise behind the IOC could be found in its very name: oversight. The CIA was not expected to divulge tradecraft particulars such as raw product or op sec measures. It just wasn't done.

“The question stands, Mr. Coates,” Smith said.

What was Smith up to? Coates wondered. Was he simply flexing his muscles, looking for ammunition? If so, he might be appeased with some juicy yet insubstantial answers. He leaned over and put the question to the chief counsel.

“Fine, but not today. Don't talk off the top of your head.”

“We're waiting, Mr. Coates.”

“Senator, I did not come prepared with the information you're looking for.”

“I'm unsurprised.”

“If we can reschedule for another day, I can—”

“No, Mr. Coates, I will not—”

Smith was cut off as Senator Dean put a hand over the microphone. They whispered for several minutes, then Smith said, “Fine, Mr. Coates, we'll reconvene in three days. But be advised: Bring answers.”

Coates was walking down out of the room when Senator Dean stopped him. “Got a minute, George?”

“Depends. On or off the record?”

“Off.”

“Then sure,” Coates said. He and Dean had a solid relationship.

“It's Smith. His questions were news to the rest of us. In fact, he and I had discussed the format yesterday. This wasn't part of it.”

“So he's got a burr under his saddle. What's new?”

“What I'm saying is, whatever his agenda, he's keeping it to himself.”

“It'll be a cold day in hell when I give him what he wants, Harry. What he's asking for is need-to-know stuff, details even the DCI doesn't have. And if Dick Mason doesn't need to have them, Smith sure as hell doesn't.”

“I agree. Take my advice, George: Next time we meet, give him a few details … minor stuff. Chances are it'll satisfy him. You know Smith, if he's not pissed off, he's not happy. Whatever witch hunt he's on, he'll get tired and move on to something else.”

“He'd better, Harry, because he's on thin ice.”

Glen Echo

Near dusk, Judith Smith and Fayyad lay together in bed.

She propped herself up on an elbow. “I stopped by earlier. I missed you.”

“Oh? What time?”

“About four. I thought I'd surprise you.”

“I went for a drive.”

“Where?”

“Up to Harper's Ferry. It was beautiful; we should go.” In truth, Fayyad had met Smith and collected his notes from the hearing. Fayyad had yet to review them.

Judith played with his chest hair. “I hear they have wonderful B and Bs in Harper's Ferry.”

“B and Bs?”

“Bed-and-breakfasts. The emphasis being on the former, of course.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

Fayyad was pleased with the relationship. They made love often and in every imaginable way, which was to be expected. What he hadn't expected was his reaction to her. She was a remarkable woman: intelligent, bright, and warm, and he found himself responding to her. He found himself torn between his two selves. Which was real? he found himself wondering.

“What are you thinking about?” Judith asked.

“Pardon me?”

“You look so far away. Were you thinking of something?”

Fayyad smiled. “Yes. You.”

The bedside phone rang, and Fayyad reached for it. “Hello.”

“Is Heloise home?” said the voice.

Fayyad felt his heart skip.
Damn them
!
“I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

“This is not six seven two four?”

“No, sorry, wrong number.” Fayyad hung up.

“What is it, darling?” asked Judith.

“Nothing, wrong number.” He checked his watch. “It's late. We must get you home.”

“I don't want to go home,” she said.

“Are things bad?”

“No more than usual. He's drinking more, and he's nastier, but it's nothing I haven't seen before.”

“Do you think he suspects anything?”

“He's oblivious to anything but work, scotch, and his little bimbo.” She looked at him. “You're very curious about him all of the sudden.”

“I know he hurts you. I want to understand.”

“It feels good to have someone worry about me.”

“Is this increased drinking of his unusual? Or the meanness?”

“Whenever he's under stress he gets that way. I'm first in the pecking order. Can we stop talking about this? I don't want to ruin our time together.”

“I'm sorry. Speaking of time—”

“I know,” she said, slipping her hand beneath the covers. “Just a few more minutes … ?”

“You are a beast, Judith.”

She smiled and rolled on top him. “Blame yourself, lover.”

Once alone, Fayyad drove to the phone booth and dialed.

Al-Baz answered. “What took you so long?”

“She was with me.”

“More film for the library? When this is over, I think I would like to see—”

“Is this why you contacted me, to exchange entendres?”

“Exchange what?”

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“We are considering a change.”

“What kind of change?” Fayyad asked.

Al-Baz explained. “In fact, we've already sent for him.”

“Mustafa, I know this man's methods. He'll ruin what we've accomplished.”

“Accomplished? What have you accomplished? The bedding of a middle-aged slut?”

“Damn you! I—”

“You have lost your objectivity. Whether you approve or not is irrelevant. The only question is whether we can count on you. I trust we can.”

Fayyad read between the lines. He leaned his head against the booth's glass and forced himself to think. Al-Baz said they were
considering
a change. What did that mean? Were they having trouble convincing the Russian? He was wanted by the FBI; perhaps he was reluctant. Fayyad hoped so. Once in charge, the Russian would ratchet the pressure on Smith, either directly or indirectly, and that would mean using either the mistress or Judith.
Oh,
lord,
what if he wants to take her
?

“And if I refuse?” Fayyad whispered.

“You are not listening, Ibrahim. You have no choice.”

Langley

“He asked for what?” Mason asked.

“Operational details,” George Coates replied. “Nuts and bolts stuff.”

“Give me the whole thing, from start to finish.”

Coates recounted his testimony and ended with his conversation with Senator Dean.

Sylvia Albrecht said, “Witch hunt or not, it's absurd. Smith has to know that. Obviously he's got another agenda.”

“My thinking, too,” said Coates. “He wants another meeting the day after tomorrow.”

What is Smith's game
?
Mason wondered. He knew the senator had long-term designs on the Oval Office—if not for himself, at least for his party—and was looking for leverage against the current administration. Or was this in fact just another Herb Smith tirade? Either way, Mason didn't like the feel of it.

“We've done our part,” he said. “A postmortem is all we're required to give.”

Coates said, “Dick, if we clam up, we'll be handing him a banner. Look, we give him a few scraps—just enough to placate him—and he goes away.”

Mason looked at his DDL “Sylvia?”

“Might be the best course.”

“Okay. George, put something together. But this time, he's coming to us. Let's find out what's on the good senator's mind.”

Japan

Tanner finished decoding Oaken's last message on the laptop.

“Good news or bad?” Bear asked.

“A little of both. We have a week before they pull the plug.”

“No surprise there. And the good?”

“The verdict is still out on our haul from the shipyard, but Oaks has figured out the
Toshogu
angle. Takagi sold her—and I use that word loosely—to a Norwegian company called Skulafjord Limited on whose board he just happens to have a secret seat.”

“What's their business?”

“Salvage and mining. Apparently
Toshogu
'
s destination is a Skulafjord station on Svalbard Island.”

“So it's a dead end.”

“Not necessarily. Oaks wants to put a satellite track on her.”

“Good luck. Even if Leland gets the tasking order, it'll be like looking for a snowflake on a bedsheet. Besides, why go to all the trouble?”

“You mean besides the fact Leland trusts our uncanny instincts?”

“Yeah, besides that,” said Cahil.

“Oaks also found
Toshogu
was supposed to have been delivered four months ago,” Tanner said. “Takagi Maritime blamed the delay on defects in the rudder post. Supposedly, it was just fixed last week.”

“I don't buy it.”

“Me neither. Takagi went to a lot of trouble to run interference for her. I'd like to know why.”

“Speaking of Oaks, did he find anything on our other request?”

“Nothing. No wrecks in the last forty years.” One of Tanner's theories regarding
Toshogu's
visits to the waters off the village was that somebody had lost a ship in the area, and Takagi had salvaged it for reasons unknown. “On paper, it's a dead end.”

Cahil eyeballed his friend; he knew the look on Briggs's face. Tanner was not about to let a lack of solid evidence throw him off track—not yet.

“But you still want to take a look,” Cahil said.

Tanner smiled. “How'd you guess?”

Washington,
D.C.

To his own amusement, Charlie Latham loved grocery shopping. It had started when their children were old enough to baby-sit themselves for an hour or two, and he and Bonnie needed time alone. Even now, though the kids had moved away, they still practiced the ritual, pushing the cart up and down the aisles, pricing toilet paper and debating the quality of off-brand canned peaches.

Bonnie walked up to the meat case where Charlie was scrutinizing a package.

“This is a good deal, huh?” he asked.

“Charlie, that's rump.”

“So?”

“We're making stew. We need stew meat.”

“Oh.”

Latham's cell phone buzzed; he mouthed
Sorry
to Bonnie and answered. “Charlie Latham.”

“Charlie, it's Paul. Your
Shin Bet
guy just called. He wants you to call him on a secure line. He sounded pretty excited.”

“Okay. You'll have to come pick me up … the Fresh-Rite on Burton.” He hung up and handed Bonnie the car keys. She frowned at him. “Sorry, hon. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

“I've heard that before. I'll keep the stew warm.”

Latham went straight to his office and dialed Avi Haron's number in Tel Aviv. He glanced at his watch: almost ten at night in Israel.

“Avi, it's Charlie. What's up?”

“You remember the three men in the Khartoum photo?”

“Of course.”

“We've tracked the European. He's moving.”

Latham was momentarily confused at Haron's phrase, “the European,” then he remembered the Israeli's photo only clearly showed Fayyad; to them, Vorsalov was an unknown. The third man, the other Arab, was still a mystery to everyone.

“You could've told me you were tracking them,” Latham said.

“Be thankful I'm calling you at all.”

“Yeah, you're right. Sorry. What about the other Arab?”

“No luck there.”

“Where's the European going?”

“Larnaca, Cyprus. He's booked on the noon flight from Aswan.”

Latham jotted down the particulars. “What's your stake here, Avi? I mean—”

“Do we plan to intercept him? I doubt it. This is Institute information; if they hadn't wanted it passed along, I would have never heard about it.”

That made sense, but it wasn't like Mossad to be magnanimous. What was their agenda? “But you are tracking him.”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know, or you can't say?”

“I don't know, Charlie,” said Haron. “I'm surprised they gave us even this.”

“Me too. I owe you, Avi, thanks.”

Langley

Within two hours, Latham, Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and Art Stucky were sitting in Dick Mason's office.

Haron's news was big. The primary question was, what to do with it? It was quickly agreed they must tag Vorsalov in Cyprus and keep him under surveillance for as long as possible. If they were lucky, he would lead them to Fayyad. To this end, Coates proposed an unorthodox plan.

“I'm pretty sure the FIS will go along,” he said. “They gave us the Vorsalov tip in the first place.”

“We have no assets in place that could handle it?” Mason asked.

“Not by tomorrow,” said Coates. “But I'm sure the Russians do. If not directly, then through some locals. Cyprus was one the KGB's favorites for years.”

Mason looked at Latham. “Charlie?”

“If we're right about Vorsalov and Fayyad's connection, we can't afford to miss the chance. He's moving, and we know where he's going. That's an advantage we don't usually get.”

“Ain't that the truth. Okay, I'll make the call. In the meantime, let's get the ball rolling. George, get the op center staffed. If we're able to tag Vorsalov, we'd better be ready to track him.”

Fortunately for Mason, the director of the Russian FIS was an early riser. It was not quite dawn in Moscow when the call went through.

Now, after twenty minutes of sparring, Valerei Ryazan was leaning Mason's way. “What you ask, Richard … It is a difficult thing.”

“But not impossible, Valerei.”

“We have no assets in Cyprus.”

“But you have connections.”

The Russian chuckled. “Perhaps. What would you have us do?”

“Just trail him, find out who he's meeting, where he's headed. We're looking for a possible link.”

“To what?”

“The Delta bombing.”

“I see. I assume you know we want him as well. It would be much easier for us to simply take him.”

“I'm aware of that,” said Mason.

“We could pass along any information we get from him—”

“No good, Valerei. If you take him out of the loop, the rest of the operation—whatever he's got brewing—would collapse.”

“Da,
that is possible. Tell me, Richard, if you were in my place … if you had the chance to capture Vorsalov, you would not hesitate.”

“No. He's wanted for murder here. He's still on the FBI's hit parade.”

“Oh, yes, the young agent,” Ryazan murmured. “A terrible thing.”

“Add that to the bombing, and Vorsalov's body count for U.S. citizens is six.”

“I can count, Richard.” Ryazan was silent for a few moments. “And in return for our cooperation?”

“You would have my thanks.”

“I will require more.”

“Such as?”

“If you come to possess Colonel Vorsalov, he will be returned to us in a timely fashion.”

“Define
timely.
”

“Five years.”

“Valerei, he'd get life in prison for the agent's murder alone. Besides, I don't have the authority to—”

“Oh, Richard. You have the authority. Just as I have the authority to do this highly irregular favor for you.”

Checkmate,
thought Mason. By first tipping them off to Vorsalov's Khartoum meeting and then by ignoring a chance to capture him, Ryazan was taking a big risk. Though the name had changed, the FIS was no less vengeful than its predecessor when it came to dealing with traitors, especially ones like Vorsalov, whose many clients included guerillas in Chechniya and Kazikstan.

Mason considered the deal. Either way he went, they lost something. Justice for a decade-old murder or capturing those responsible for the Delta bombing?

“Deal,” Mason said.