End of Enemies (22 page)

Langley

British Airways flight 9701 was four minutes from touch-down at Montreal's Mirabel International Airport.

We're ready,
Latham told himself. They'd done everything they could. Still, the practical pessimist in his head was prattling away.
Something would go wrong.
No matter how exhaustive its design, some piece of the plan, whether significant, trivial, or something in between, would go awry. All they could do was to be ready.

“Agent Latham, we're patched into the RCMP command van at the airport. We'll hear exactly what they're hearing from the field units.”

“About damned time,” Art Stucky muttered, crushing out his cigarette.

“Put it on speaker,” said Latham.

“All units, this is Command, the flight is on final approach,” a voice from the RCMP command van said. “Radio check by section.”

“Gate team in place.”

“Concourse team in place.”

“Mobile teams in place.”

“Roger. Gate, you'll start us off; notify us as soon as the subject disembarks.”

“Six teams?” Stucky asked Latham.

Latham nodded. “Three in the airport and three mobile. Almost forty Mounties in all, plus Mirabel Security. They'll have a dozen cameras on him.”

“If this guy can give the slip to the Brits, he sure won't have any trouble—”

“All units, this is Gate, the subject is on the ground.”

“Here we go,” said Latham.

As Vorsalov stepped off the jet way, he was invisibly surrounded by a fluid cordon of RCMP watchers who shadowed him through Immigration and down to the baggage claim area. As the concourse team—which consisted of almost a dozen officers, none of which Vorsalov would see twice in his passage through the airport—took over, the radio reports became increasingly brief.

“Concourse Three, this is Two. Subject descending escalator east two.”

“Got him.”

Latham and the others studied a map of Mirabel Airport. “There he is,” Latham said. “There are three more levels below this one: the taxi stand, garage, and car rental desks.”

They didn't know whether Vorsalov had any baggage to claim; in the commotion at Heathrow, MI-5 had missed that detail. He had several transportation options available, all of them problematic; whichever he chose, the RCMP would have to scramble to catch up before he escaped the airport grounds.

“Command, this is Concourse Two. Subject is off the escalator. Stand by.” There were thirty seconds of silence. “Command, he's got baggage … single piece, a brown suitcase … East escalator now, descending. Concourse Four, he's yours.”

“Roger, got him.”

Two minutes passed.

“Come on,” Stucky muttered. “Where is he?”

“Wait,” said Latham.

“Command, Four. Subject is descending again. Five, he's coming your way.”

Going for a taxi,
Latham thought.

Sixty seconds of silence. Heart thudding, Latham stared at the speaker.

“Five, this is Command. Report.”

“Stand by … I think we've lost him…”

“Goddamn it
!”
Stucky roared.

“Shut up, Art,”

“I knew it! Shit, I knew—”

“Command this is Five, he's done a U-turn … Going back up the escalator. Four, have you got him?”

“We see him.” Long pause. “Command, subject is at Avis counter.”

“Understood. Mobile Units converge. Subject is on rental car level.”

Latham turned to Randal. “Paul, have the Mounties fax us his rental receipt. I want to see that credit card.”

Vorsalov drove his rented Lumina directly to the Ramada Inn Parc Olympique. To the surprise of the Mounties, he made no U-turns or quick backs. In fact, his driving was so sedate the mobile units had to adjust their pace to avoid overtaking one another. Vorsalov pulled under the hotel's awning, tipped the valet, and walked into the lobby.

“All units, Command. Subject is inside. All units take secondary positions.”

Randal walked into the conference room and handed the fax to Latham.

“What is it?” said Stucky.

“He's still traveling under the Karnovsky alias.”

“So?”

“If he was going to switch, Mirabel was the perfect place; he could've hit the ground clean.”

“That's good for us.”

“His paper trail is too long. It's out of character for him.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Latham shook his head. “I don't know.”

Montreal

In addition to being the youngest member of the surveillance team, Corporal Jean-Paul Lemond was a walking recruiting poster for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Clean-shaven and lantern-jawed, he stood six foot three inches and had a face that seemed both stern and boyish. He also had an uncanny eye for detail.

Lemond could look at a picture of a suspect at age eight and pick him from a lineup as a middle-aged man; from a crowd of hundreds he could single out a blond-haired, clean-shaven man who had once been a black-haired, bearded felon. On one occasion he even fingered a Quebec Separatist who had undergone extensive cosmetic surgery. The giveaway, Lemond later explained, had been his ear-lobes.

Had anyone told Lemond this unusual talent would save the Vorsalov operation from disaster and make the day of an FBI agent he'd never met, he would have laughed at them.

Ten minutes after Vorsalov entered the lobby, Lemond walked into the hotel's parking garage and jogged up the ramp until he came to the valet section. A red-coated attendant walked by. Lemond stopped him and flashed his badge. “The green Lumina that just came in. Where is it parked?”

“Uh … over there, by the red Puegot.”

“Anyone else on this level?”

“No.”

“The stairwell and elevator are the only ways up here?”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to wait by the elevator. If anyone comes up, make some noise. I need to inspect this car. Can you do that?”

“Uh, sure, I guess so.”

It took Lemond only a minute to slip inside the Lumina, search it, and plant the transmitter under the bumper. He gave the valet a wave and started back down the ramp.

Suddenly, from below, he heard a door slam shut. He waited for the wail of an exit alarm, but none came. He stopped, listened. Rapid footsteps echoed on concrete. Lemond walked to the railing just in time to see a figure exit the ramp and turn onto the sidewalk. He got only a glimpse of a black fedora and a khaki trench coat before the figure disappeared beneath an elm, but it was enough. Something in the figure's stride, the tilt of his head as he turned to look for coming traffic …

He pulled out his radio and started running. “Command, this is Lemond…”

As the surveillance commander was scrambling to respond to Lemond's report, Lemond himself was jogging up to the corner Vorsalov had just turned. “Command, subject just passed Sherbrook and Ontario.”

“Roger, stand by, hold position.”

Lemond peeked around the corner. A block away, a La Salle taxi swerved to the curb beside Vorsalov. “Command, I need instructions. We're going to loose him.”

“Stand by….”

Lemond hesitated.
No time,
no time
… He holstered his radio. The problem with a surveillance net this big was it took time to adjust. And the problem with following a subject without backup was he could find himself in trouble very fast. He'd read the KGB man's file; better to not be caught alone with him.

He took a deep breath, then turned the corner at a stroll. Ahead, the taxi was pulling away from the curb. Lemond waited until it turned the corner, spun, and raised his hand for a cab. “Command, subject is in a La Salle, number 4201, heading south on Iberville. I am following.”

“Negative, negative, wait for backup.”

“Negative, Command, he'll be gone by then. I'll contact you.” He climbed inside and flashed his badge to the driver, a turbaned Pakastani. “Did you see that La Salle that just turned the corner?”

“Yes.”

“Follow it.”

“Certainly you are not serious, Officer?”

“Certainly I am. Move!”

However tenuous the cabbie's grasp of English was, he was a good driver. They had closed to within fifty meters of the La Salle. “What's your name?” Lemond asked. “Punjab.”

“Stay with him, Punjab.”

“Certainly I will, Officer.”

Ahead, the La Salle took a sharp left.

“He's turning!”

“Indeed he is,” Punjab replied, going straight ahead.

“Follow him!”

“Oh no, he will be coming out ahead of us. Three blocks, you will see.”

“How do you know?”

“I am a taxi driver for twelve years now. They can only go east from there. All one-way streets, you see. Also, I know that driver. Only airport runs for Henri. The hotel district to Dorval Airport only. You will see.”

“I hope you're right.”

True to Punjab's prediction, the La Salle appeared ahead of them and turned back onto Iberville. Through the La-Salle's rear window Lemond could see a black fedora.

“There is Henri,” Punjab said. “Dorval Airport, you see.”

Lemond noticed a black duffel bag lying on the front seat. “Is that yours?”

“Yes.”

“What's it for?”

“Athletic attire. I play squash.”

“May I borrow it?”

“My bag? It contains my lucky racket. Why must you have it?”

“Police business.”

Punjab grinned. “Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

“Thanks. Give me one of those airport maps, too.”

Why Dorval
?
Lemond thought. Dorval handled only domestic flights.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled under the terminal's awning. Ahead of them, the La Salle pulled away from the curb. Vorsalov was gone.

With Punjab's bag in one hand and the airport map in the other, Lemond climbed from the cab. “I'll contact you about your bag.”

“Before tonight, I am hoping,” said Punjab “You see, it contains my—”

“Your lucky racket, I know. Thanks.”

Lemond made a show of studying the map as he walked down the sidewalk. He spotted a security guard. “Excuse me, can you help me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“RCMP,” Lemond whispered, unfolding the map to reveal his badge. “Take me to the security office immediately.”

As Latham was getting the bad news and the Mounties were converging on Dorval, Lemond was standing before a bank of camera monitors.
Where are you
?
These next few minutes might well decide his future with the RCMP—and whether he had one at all. He could imagine the charges: disobeying orders, misappropriating civilian property, endangering the welfare of the public.

Where in the hell is the man
?

“You can thank terrorism,” said the security director.

“What?”

“Up until five years ago, we only had three cameras in the whole terminal. Terrorists have the government scared of its own shadow, so here we are … more cameras, more guards, more everything.”

“What have you told your people, Mr. Director?”

“To look for a man matching your description but not to interfere with him. The gate attendants and the security guards are watching for him.”

“Good. When is the next flight due to leave?”

The director consulted a sheet. “Five minutes, gate seven. That screen, there.”

“We can transfer images to that big screen, also,” said the operator.

“And we can see all of the gates?” Lemond asked.

“Plus the waiting areas.”

“Put gate seven on the big monitor, please.” Lemond leaned closer, studying the gate's waiting area. “Can you pan?”

“Sure,” said the operator.

The camera scanned the lounge from corner to corner, but Lemond saw no sign of the Russian. “How many guards are assigned to that area?”

“Two,” replied the director.

“Have them walk through. And for God's sake, if they see him, tell them to stay clear.”

As the director relayed the orders via radio, Lemond studied the other cameras. Twelve gates, twelve waiting areas … lots of territory. “Wait! Gate ten.”

“You see him?” asked the director.

Lemond peered closer, shook his head. “No, the height is wrong.”

Gate seven announced its final boarding. The attendants began closing the jet way doors.

“Well, so much for that one,” said the security director. “Next we've got two flights leaving at the same time. Gates one and four. Bring them up, Jorge.”

As the operator reached for the switch, Lemond saw a flash of movement at the corner of the monitor. “Hold it! Pull back and pan right.”

“What is it?” asked the security director.

The camera moved just quickly enough. On the monitor, a trench coat-clad figure handed his boarding pass to the attendant and slipped through the door.

Lemond grinned. “That's him,” he said. “That's him! Where's he going?”

The director consulted the schedule. “Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.”

Japan

Seeing the wreck with fresh eyes, Tanner recognized it immediately as a World War II U.S. fleet submarine. A dozen questions filled his mind, chief among them: What was it doing here, less than 400 yards off the mainland?

Tanner finned up to join Cahil on the bridge. Both periscopes were snapped off at their midpoint, but the masts for the surface- and air-search radars were intact. Below them, the foredeck sloped into the darkness, casting everything forward of the escape trunk in shadows.
Had the trunk been used
?
Briggs wondered.
Had there been any survivors left alive to use it
?
There was only one way to find out, he knew, but the trick would be getting inside. With a nod from Bear, he finned over the rail.

Beneath the bridge they found a gash in the hull. Tanner tried to recall what he knew about a fleet sub's layout. As a child he'd been fascinated by submarines and spent many hours poring over artists' diagrams. They had to be somewhere near the forward battery compartment, he decided.

Working together, he and Bear dug through the rubble until the gash was wide enough to accommodate them. Tanner shined his flashlight inside. The beam revealed nothing but darkness and swirling silt. His heart was pounding. He forced himself to take a deep breath. It was likely that no human had seen the inside of the submarine for better than fifty years. How many of the crew were still trapped inside? He looked at Bear's face and his own emotions reflected there: anticipation and fear.

He checked his watch, then signaled,
Ten minutes left.
Bear nodded.

Tanner turned sideways, wriggled through the hole, then waited for Cahil to join him. They were in the main pump room, Tanner realized, looking around. Above them would be the control room, diving station, and conning tower.

They swam aft through the hatch to the fresh water tank, into the radio room, then through to the galley and crew's mess. Pots and pans littered the deck and flotsam swirled in their flashlight beams. A cabinet door wafted open and shut with a muffled banging sound. Tanner found an escape trunk hatch, rubbed the grime from the porthole, and peered inside; it was flooded.
From damage or use
?

They swam aft into the crew's quarters. The bunks were empty, mattresses long ago rotted to pulp that billowed with their passage. There were no skeletal remains, which surprised Tanner. Had all of the crew gotten out? He hoped so. The only other option was grim: The boat had sunk so quickly that everyone had died at their battle stations.

The door to the washroom stood open, revealing a toilet fuzzy with algae. Tanner saw a light wink at him from the darkness, and his heart skipped. It was his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

They continued into the forward engine room, found it empty, and continued into the after engine room. On either side of the catwalk lay the boat's two Fairbanks-Morse 1600-horsepower engines. They were in the heart of the sub now, and this is where Tanner hoped they might find a clue to its identity.

With Cahil's help, he pried open the catwalk hatch, slipped feet first past the barrel-like generator, and rolled over onto his belly. On elbows and knees, air tank banging on the catwalk above, he wriggled forward, shining his flashlight along the engine casing. Silt swirled in the light beam. He could feel the press of tons of steel hanging over him; he forced it from his mind.

There
!
Stamped in the engine casing were a series of numbers. He rubbed away some of the algae and peered closer. 5-4-7-9-1-1-2-3-6. He committed the serial number to memory, then wriggled backward and let Cahil pull him back up.

Well
?
Bear mouthed.

Tanner gave him a thumbs-up, then checked his watch: four minutes of air left. With their reserves, they had just enough time to explore the rest of the boat.

They found the first skeleton in the officer's wardroom.

It lay face up on the deck, both arms crossed over the chest cavity. Nearby lay a cap, dissolved save the plastic brim and a badly corroded steel emblem. It was an officer's insignia: a lieutenant junior grade. Tanner shined his light over the skull and caught a glint of something inside the eye socket. Using his hand, he fanned away the silt and looked closer.

In the center of the forehead was a perfectly round hole. Gently, Tanner turned the skull until he found a matching hole at the back, this one larger and more jagged. Out of it dropped a lump of metal. He picked it up. It was badly corroded and partially squashed but unmistakably a bullet.

Swimming through the after torpedo, they found their second skeleton. Here also was the cause of the sub's demise. The skeleton lay at the edge of a gaping shell hole in the deck, which began above their heads, arced through the compartment, and exited below their feet. Tanner shined his light up through the hole and could see the rocky edges of the rift. Amazing the torpedoes hadn't detonated, he thought, running a hand over the blunt nose of one of them. The shell had probably been a dud. If not, the bow would have been blown off.

He turned back to the skeleton. It lay sprawled beside the torpedo rack, one wrist chained to a stanchion, the other to a rotted leather briefcase. Gently, Tanner opened the case's lid. Inside was a manila folder and a small automatic pistol, a .25 caliber Beretta. As he touched the folder, it dissolved into a cloud of pulp. He slipped the gun into his rucksack.

Cahil tapped him on the shoulder. He pointed at the skeleton's lower legs. Half covered in silt were a pair of stainless steel braces, the leather straps still encircling both tibias at the knee and ankle. These, too, Tanner slipped into the rucksack.

Cahil tapped his watch.

Tanner nodded and pushed off the deck into the shell hole. Bear followed. Once on the foredeck, Tanner finned toward the canopy of sea grass. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Bear was gone. He could see a flashlight beam moving inside the shell hole. He swam back.

Cahil gestured him closer, then pointed to the edges of the hole.

They were smooth and freshly blackened by a blowtorch.

When they got back to the Range Rover, Mitsu was waiting.

“Did we have any company?” Tanner asked.

“No.”

Tanner squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, scout. You did good. Run on home.”

Mitsu ran off into the darkness.

As Tanner started the engine, Cahil said, “So tell me: Aside from the obvious, what the hell did we just find down there?”

It was a good question. Tanner had felt certain Ohira's markings on the chart had meant something, but now he wasn't so sure. What did they have, really? A sunken World War II submarine, and a dead man's insinuation that a nonexistent Takagi salvage ship had been lurking in the same area.

“I don't know, Bear,” Tanner replied. “I don't know.”

Back at the hotel, Tanner stopped at the front desk for messages. “Yes, sir,” the receptionist said. “One. From a woman. She did not leave her name.”

Tanner read: “Must postpone our date; called to office for urgent meeting.”

Inexplicably, Tanner felt a chill. How unusual was it for Sumiko to get a late-night summons to Takagi headquarters?

“What is it?” Cahil asked.

“Maybe nothing.”

Briggs walked into the deserted Tiki Lounge, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed Sumiko's office number. He let it ring a dozen times and was about to hang up when the line clicked open.

“Hello?” Tanner said in Japanese.

Silence. Breathing in the mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

The line clicked dead.

His next call went to Inspector Ieyasu. He explained an acquaintance of his might be missing. They'd already checked her apartment and could get no information from the Takagi corporate office. As Tanner expected, Ieyasu only half bought the story but immediately agreed to look into it. He knew several officers in the prefect. He would have them drive by Takagi Headquarters.

Ieyasu called back an hour later. “Noboru and his security people were already there in force,” he said. “They tried to bar the police from entering, but they finally gave in.”

“And?”

“This friend of yours was a woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Sumiko Fujita.”

“I'm sorry, Briggs. I'm so sorry. She was found dead in the parking lot.”