End of Enemies (24 page)

Point Hope,
Alaska

Nine hours after leaving Japan, Tanner and Cahil were nearing their destination.

Tired, sore, and anxious to be away from the constant hum of the Cessna's engines, Tanner stared out the window at the barren shoreline jutting into the Chukchi Sea. They were 130 miles north of the Arctic Circle and 150 miles from mainland Russia. The water was a startling royal blue. In another month it would be a solid sheet of ice; already the surface looked slushy. Briggs could almost feel the cold in his bones.

“Reminds me of home,” Cahil shouted over the engines. Bear was a born-and-raised Monhegan Island fisherman.

“Glad you like it. Say, what's the temp on the ground?”

“Midtwenties,” replied the pilot. “With windchill, five or ten degrees.”

Tanner grunted. “This is the last time I let Oaks plan my vacations.”

It had taken Oaken only a few hours to compute the wind and sea currents around
Toshogu's
last known position and come up with a target area that stretched between Point Hope and Cape Lisbourne—almost 100 miles of desolate coastline.

Oaken said the Coast Guard had reported no distress calls from the area, which seemed to suggest
Toshogu
had not been in peril. So why had the crew allowed such a dangerous buildup of ice on the decks? Tanner wondered. One thing was certain: Rare was the disaster that could sink a ship so fast she couldn't send a distress signal.

“Hold tight,” the pilot called. “We're going in.”

They lined up over Point Hope's single runway and touched down in a cross wind that whistled through the cabin and rattled the windows. They taxied toward a small Quonset hut. Hanging above its door a sign read, Point Hope International Airport—Hub to Nowhere.

“Enjoy, gentlemen,” the pilot said.

“Thanks.” Tanner said.

They climbed out amid swirling snow. The cold ripped the air from Tanner's lungs. In all directions, all he could see was white. He slipped on his sunglasses.

“Hear that?” Cahil called.

“What?”

Cahil walked a quick circle. His boots crunched in the snow. “That. That's how you know when it's really cold.”

“Thanks, Bear, that's handy information.”

The door of the hut cracked open, and an arm jutted out, waving them over.

Inside they found a bar, several pinball machines, and a short-order kitchen. The bartender/cook, who sat on a stool watching
Wheel of Fortune,
never looked up as they entered. The person attached to the waving arm was a bearded man in granny glasses. “Simon Braithwaite. Been expecting you.”

Tanner made the introductions. “How much did Walt tell you?”

“No more than I need to know. Come on, I've got somebody I want you to meet. I did some digging around.”

Tigara Tim's bar was a squat log building sitting at the head of Point Hope's docks. Through the swirling snow Tanner saw several fishing boats rocking at their moorings, and he caught the scent of tar and sea salt.

The bar was warm and dimly lit. Like a bad Western movie, all activity froze when they walked in. They followed Braithwaite to a corner booth. Several dozen eyes tracked them.

“I take it you don't get many visitors,” Tanner said.

“Not many aside from the occasional cargo barge from Seattle. We're early. They should be here in a bit.”

“Who?” Cahil asked.

“Shageluk. He and his two sons fish the coast. They're Inupiaqs … Eskimos. They ran into something yesterday that might interest you.”

“Any luck with transportation?” Tanner asked.

“I think so. Can either of you fly?”

Tanner nodded. “I'd feel better if the weather lifted, though.”

“I'll check the forecast. Here they are.”

Shageluk, dressed in jeans and a yellow anorak, nodded at Braithwaite then said something to his two sons, who took a table across the room. Simon slid over to make room for Shageluk, who sat down and nodded to Tanner and Cahil.

“You're looking for a ship,” Shageluk said.

“That's right.”

“Simon says you can be trusted. No one can know we talked.”

Tanner looked at Braithwaite. “What are we missing here?”

“There are only five registered fishing boats in Point Hope. If you don't register, you don't fish. Problem is, the fees run almost a quarter of an outfit's annual net. Shageluk doesn't have a permit, but he's got a family to feed.”

“I understand,” Tanner said, then to Shageluk, “You have our word.”

Shageluk looked at Braithwaite, who nodded. Shageluk shrugged. “It was yesterday morning, about forty miles north of here. The fog was bad, and my radar was not working so good. We almost ran into her, she was so close. We saw her through the fog for a few minutes before we turned away.”

Tanner pulled a map from his pocket and spread it on the table. “Show me.”

Shageluk pointed. “Here.”

“How big was she?”

“About four hundred feet, wide in the beam.”

“Was she under way? Any sign of life?”

“I don't think so. We didn't want to be seen, though; we turned away quickly.”

“Running lights?” asked Tanner

“No. And no distress lights. We listened on the radio also. Nothing.”

For the next few hours, Shageluk explained, they kept getting sporadic radar contact on the ship, which seemed to be drifting toward the coast. Then, as they turned and headed for home, they saw her once more, this time ten miles from shore.

He pointed to the spot on the map about thirty-five miles north of Point Hope. “There. Very close to the coast.”

“You said this was yesterday. What time exactly?” Tanner asked.

“About eleven in the morning.”

He and Cahil exchanged glances.
Too long,
Briggs thought.

Though the Bell Koa helicopter's heater was blowing full blast, the cabin temperature hovered around forty degrees. Tanner scanned the ground as it swept below the windshield. Aside from the occasional patch of evergreen, the land was uniformly gray tundra sprinkled with glacial scree.

“How're we doing on gas?” Tanner asked.

“About ten minutes till turnaround,” Bear said.

Fuel was their main concern. Braithwaite had only been able to secure enough fuel for twelve hours' flying time. Such was life in the Arctic Circle. Almost everything came at a premium … even light. This time of year, days and nights were equally divided, but with each passing week, Point Hope lost about an hour of daylight. By early December, they would have none at all until February.

According to their map, the coastline between Point Hope to Cape Lisbourne was pocked with hundreds of coves and inlets, any one of which could hide
Toshogu.
The likelihood of her running aground on a straight stretch of shoreline seemed slim. In three hours they'd found two grounded shipwrecks, both derelict trailers.

“You were up here last year, weren't you?” Cahil said. “The pipeline thing.”

“Yep. Nearer Fairbanks, though. By comparison this is the dark side of the moon. Not exactly on Oaks's vacation list.”

Cahil chuckled and tapped the gas gauge. “Time, bud.”

Bear swung the Koa around, dropped the nose, and headed south.

Tanner raised the binoculars. “We better get lucky soon, or we'll be spending the winter up here.”

Their luck changed when they returned to their motel, the Starlight Inn. Their room was an aqua and gold nightmare. The pillows smelled like Lysol, and the bedspreads were emblazoned with the words, Starlight Inn: Comfort at a Discount. It was warm inside, though, which went a long way to balance the scales.

Tanner was taking off his boots when there was a knock at the door. Cahil opened it to find Abe, the motel's owner/ manager/janitor/maid.

“Somebody called for you!” Abe was excited; Abe didn't see many patrons.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Here. I didn't read it.” Abe peered into the room. “You boys need anything? Towels? soap? More shampoo—”

“No, thanks, Abe. We're doing great,” Tanner said.

Cahil said, “Maybe some coffee?”

“Surely! I'll be back.”

Cahil shut the door and read the note. “Walt's got something.”

“Don't thank me,” Oaken said. “Thank Skip.”

“I'll do that,” Tanner said. “Who's Skip?”

“NPIC. He worked some overlay magic with the thermal images. From there, I punched in the current and weather data, and
voil
à
.
”

“How about ice? The water's getting thick up here.”

“All in the numbers.”

“Oaks, you're the best,” Tanner said, putting another mental check on his number-of-times-Oaks-has-saved-the-day list.

“Thanks. Hook up; I've got an image for you.”

Tanner attached his cell phone to their laptop computer. “Okay.”

“Go to channel four, then get back to me.”

Tanner switched channels, and moments later, the laptop's screen was filled with an image of the coastline. Tanner switched back to Oaken. “Got it. What're we looking for?”

“See the red dot about fifty miles north of you? Unless my numbers are skewed, that's were she should be, give or take. That is, if she didn't sink before she got there.”

Forty-eight miles north of Point Hope, Cahil lifted the Koa through the fog and swept over a ridge of evergreens. Through the mist Tanner caught a glimpse of a cove so small they'd almost passed it when something caught his eye: an elongated shape, straight lines against the cliff face.

“Swing her around, Bear, I think we've got something.”

Cahil banked hard and reversed course. As the cove again came into view, he stopped in a hover. Tanner opened the door, braced himself on the cabin frame, and leaned out. “Bear, are you seeing what I'm seeing?” he shouted.

“Damned right I do!”

The ship lay half-grounded on the beach, her bow on the sand, her stern still afloat in the cove. She was awash to her gunwales and listing a few degrees to port, with only the deck railing and the pilothouse visible. Wave after wave had washed over the decks, leaving an ever-thickening coat of ice.

“Size looks right,” Cahil said. “Superstructure, too.”

“There's a moon pool on the afterdeck. Looks good.”

“Where do you want me to put her down?”

“Try the cliff. We can rope down.”

They secured one end of the rope to the helicopter's landing strut, then tossed the other end over the edge. Tanner peeked over and saw the rope dangling into a three-foot gap between
Toshogu
and the cliff. The ship groaned and shifted, grating against the face. Ice popped, each as loud as a gunshot.

“She ain't long for this world,” said Cahil.

High tide was less than twenty minutes away. Once it came, she would likely float free and capsize under the weight of the ice.

Tanner lowered himself over the cliff and rappelled to the bottom, where he swung out and hooked his foot over the encrusted railing. Ice snapped off and crashed to the deck below. He tied off the rope and belayed Cahil as he came down.

Every inch of exposed deck was thick with ice—a skating rink broken only by the derricks and J-shaped ventilators. The ice sparkled dully in the gray light.

Slipping and clutching for handholds, they left the railing and began picking their way across the canted deck. “Watch yourself, Briggs. If we fall in …”

“I know.”
Three or four minutes to live,
Tanner thought. “Check aft; I'll go forward.”

Five minutes later, they met back on the forecastle. All entrances to the pilothouse were as good as welded shut. Even with blowtorches, it would take an hour to break through. They continued forward, scrambling and clawing until they reached the bow railing. Four feet below them, waves licked at the hull. Tanner shuffled forward, peered over the edge, then pulled back.

“Do you hear that?”

“What?” said Cahil

“Some kind of echo. Here, hold on to me.”

With Cahil clutching his belt, Tanner leaned farther over the railing. After a moment, he pulled himself back up. “There's a hole about the size of a VW in the hull. The water's filling it, but I think if we time it right …”

Cahil groaned. “Oh boy. We're gonna get wet doing it. And you complain about Oaks planning bad excursions. So who goes first?”

“Me. It's my bad idea.”

North of McLean,
Virginia

After leaving Philadelphia, Vorsalov stopped briefly for breakfast at an IHOP, then got on Highway 95 and headed south in the predawn darkness. Three hours later, he was approaching the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

Following ten miles behind, Latham was anxious.

He wanted to be on the front lines, but he knew it was impossible. Vorsalov knew his face too well. Even with the van's bank of monitors that allowed him to see everything the cars saw, it was maddening being so far removed from the action. The feeling worsened as they neared the city.

“Command, this is Mobile Lead.”

Latham picked up the handset. “Go ahead, Paul.”

“Subject is turning, heading southeast on Old Dominion.”

“Roger.”

Sixty seconds later: “Another turn … onto Dolly Madison, heading north. Subject is turning into a Denny's. Okay, units four and five spread out, give me a wide perimeter.”

Denny's
?
Something didn't add up for Latham. Vorsalov had eaten breakfast two hours before and made a bathroom stop in Essex outside Baltimore. Was this simply a coffee break? “Paul, stay sharp. I got a weird feeling about this.”

Randal took up position a hundred yards up the road from the restaurant. Through his binoculars, he watched the hostess seat Vorsalov at a window booth, then take his order. She returned a minute later with coffee.

Ten minutes passed. The Russian sipped his coffee and read a newspaper.

“What's he doing?” Randal's driver asked.

“Drinking coffee, looks like.”

“Why's the boss getting hinky about that?”

“He's out of pattern. Why drive this far off the interstate for coffee?”

After a second cup of coffee, Vorsalov paid his bill and walked outside.

“All units, this is lead. Subject is moving. Get ready to roll.”

As Randal spoke, another car—a black Oldsmobile—pulled into the lot and parked beside Vorsalov's Taurus. The driver, a woman in a blue blazer, got out. Vorsalov waved to her. Randal focused his binoculars on the sticker in the Olds's rear window: Avis

“Shit! He's switching cars, he's switching goddamned cars!”

Latham heard Randal's report, but even as Vorsalov was transferring his bags from the Taurus to the Olds, his mind was elsewhere: Vorsalov was switching. Fine, he's dry-cleaning. But why here? Why not at an Avis office?

In addition to a laptop and a satellite communications console, the command van was equipped with a library of maps that would've done
National Geographic
proud. Latham found one of the Georgetown Pike area and flipped it open. It took him less than a minute to see it.

“Mobile Lead, this is Command,” he called.

“Go ahead.”

“Paul, have you got a car to the east of the parking lot?”

“Negative. That's a one-way street. He can't …” Then Randal understood. “Lead to Four, head east to where the one-way dumps out. Move!”

“Roger, we're rolling.”

Randal said, “I screwed up, Charlie. Sorry.”

“Forget it. Hold your breath.”

Latham cursed himself. He should have seen this the moment Vorsalov pulled into the lot. The road to the north was a two-lane, one-way street. If Vorsalov had chosen this Denny's for a reason other than its superior coffee, it was because it was the perfect spot to lay one of the oldest countersurveillance traps in the game.

Vorsalov waved good-bye to the rental agent, got into the Olds, then pulled up to the exit, his blinker signaling a right turn. A dozen cars flew by. The speed limit was fifty miles per hour, but no one was doing less than sixty.

Randal called, “Four, this is Lead, are you in place?”

“Not yet. Almost there…”

“Push it.”

There was a lull in traffic. Vorsalov pulled out. Abruptly, he veered left, up the one-way, and sped around the corner.

“Go, go, go!” Randal yelled to his driver. “All units, this is Lead. Subject is running, I say again, subject is running. Four, are you in place?”

“Negative.”

Randal pounded the dashboard.
Damn
!
Vorsalov had been a lamb all the way down the coast; now this. They'd gotten comfortable, and he'd nailed them.

As often as not, spies who suspect the are under surveillance do not try to shake their watchers; they try to expose them. In doing so, the roles are reversed and the watchers must work twice as hard to not only remain invisible but to maintain contact. If Vorsalov could lure someone down the one-way street, he would gain the upper hand. The trick for Latham's team would be to reestablish contact without letting the Russian see them. That was now in the hands of the team's only woman agent, Janet Paschel in Mobile Four.

“Command to Four,” Latham called.

“Go ahead.”

“Janet, this is Charlie. He won't go more than two blocks. Any farther, and he risks attracting the cops. Just get in place and look sharp. If he gets even a whiff, we're finished. Just slide in behind him and stay there. We'll catch up.”

“Roger.” Janet's voice was tight.

Paul Randal called, “All units copy that?”

The units checked in one by one. The net went silent, waiting.

Sixty seconds passed.

Ninety seconds.

Finally: “Command, this is Four. I've got him.”

The next two hours stretched Latham's team to the breaking point. After leaving the one-way, Vorsalov headed southwest on Kirby Road, away from the city and back toward McLean. With Paschel in the lead, Latham juggled units until they were paralleling Vorsalov on side streets, invisibly boxing him in.

The Russian hadn't forgotten the terrain. He was taking them on a grand tour of the city: Rock Creek Park, The Mall, Union Station, Arlington National Cemetery, Dupont Circle. He made unsignaled turns and U-turns, parked suddenly and ducked inside cafés, only to reappear sixty seconds later. At one point, he parked his car and took a taxi two blocks to the Reflecting Pool, where he sat on a bench and watched the Olds for ten minutes before walking back and driving away.

Randal reported in: Vorsalov was pulling into a convenience store on Georgia Avenue outside Howard University.

What's he doing now
?
Latham wondered, then caught on: Howard University had 12,000 students, the majority of them African-American. It was a smart move. Gambling that any surveillance team would be predominantly white, Vorsalov had chosen a place where they would stand out.

“Paul, has Tommy been up front recently?” Tommy was one of the six black agents on the team.

“Not since Philly. No way he's been made.”

“Have him pull into the store and get something to drink. I want to know what our boy's doing.”

“I copy that,” Tommy answered.

Seven minutes later, they had their answer. While Tommy was deciding between a blueberry slushy and a Coke, Vorsalov used the pay phone, then left.

“Secure that phone,” Charlie ordered. “Be discreet, but nobody uses it.”

“Command, he's turning northeast on Rhode Island.”

Latham consulted a directory, then dialed his cell phone. He got the main switchboard at Bell Telephone. He identified himself then said, “I need to speak to a supervisor. It's urgent.”

“One moment, sir.”

A woman came on the line. “Agent Latham, my name is Marie Johnson. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Johnson, I need some information.” Latham gave her the number of the pay phone. “There was a call made there about four minutes ago. I need to know to where.”

“No problem. Hold for a minute.” It took four. “The call went to a bank of phones on the corner of California and Kalorama. It's a sequenced bank.”

“Okay, hold on.” Latham got on the radio. “Paul, it's California and Kalorama. Get somebody moving.”

“On our way.”

“Ms. Johnson, what's that mean, a sequenced bank?”

“Calls to and from that bank are routed on a single trunk line. They don't go to individual phones until they reach the bank.”

“You've lost me.”

“We can't tell exactly which phone the call went to, and all six have been pretty busy in the last few minutes. Roughly twenty-six incoming and outgoing calls.”

“Smart sons of bitches.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Can you narrow that down, give us phones with incoming only?”

“Yes, but, it'll take some time. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“I'd be grateful.” He gave her his cell phone number.

Vorsalov continued heading southeast. The car Randal sent to California and Kalorama reported nothing unusual at the phone booths.

After ten minutes of random driving, Vorsalov turned onto fifteenth, then swung west on Constitution into the heart of Capitol Hill.

“Passing Virginia Avenue,” Randal reported.

Latham checked his watch.
Come on.
…

“Coming up on Roosevelt Bridge. … We're over the bridge, heading north to the George Parkway.”

Latham traced the route on his map. Vorsalov was taking the bridge over the Potomac and to Teddy Roosevelt Island.
Roosevelt Island
…
Latham thought, reviewing what he knew about it.
Good place for a meeting
;
plenty of trails.
An easy place to spot surveillance.

“I see him,” Randal called. “All units keep driving, nobody pull in. Command, he's pulling into the Roosevelt Island parking lot. The only exit is northbound, so we're setting up down the parkway. The median is blocked by a barrier. No way he can get across.”

“Roger,” said Latham. There were only two ways to reach Roosevelt Island, one from the parking lot, the other a pedestrian bridge crossing from Rosslyn Station. “Don't forget Rosslyn, Paul.”

“It's covered. We're also collecting plate numbers from the lot.”

Now to find out who the Russian was meeting.

Vorsalov climbed out and stretched his legs. His muscles were sore. It felt good to be out of the car. He looked around. Most of the cars in the parking lot were from other states. Tourists with children. That would make it hard for watchers. Good. He started across the footbridge.

The last few hours had been grueling but satisfying. Just like the old days. His hands shook with excess adrenaline. God, how he missed this. He was safe, he decided. Even if by chance he'd been intercepted, he'd long since lost them. He knew the city too well and had played this game too long to be trapped.

He turned his attention to the island, picking out landmarks and trails from the guidebook. A ninety-acre game preserve, the guide said, named after Theodore Roosevelt. He skimmed his fingertip along the map until he found the trail he wanted.

He turned off the bridge and east onto the path. Time was critical now. He picked up his pace.

One mile south of the island, Latham's command van sat in the visitor parking lot of Arlington National Cemetery. Ten minutes had passed since Vorsalov had parked. Latham's cell phone buzzed. “Latham here.”

“Agent Latham, Marie Johnson here, from Bell—”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I've got the information you requested. There were only three incoming calls to that bank of phones. One wasn't answered, the other was a busy signal. The third was picked up. The call lasted just over a minute.”

“Great,” Latham said. “Was that phone used—”

“I thought you'd ask that. About fifty seconds after the first call came in, the phone was used again, this time for two minutes.” She gave him the number, a 202 area code, 333 prefix. Inside the city.

“Where—”

“The number is registered to Brown's Boat Rental at Virginia and Rock Creek.”

Latham froze. He knew Brown's. It lay on the east bank of the Potomac, not three hundred yards from Roosevelt Island.

Jesus.
Vorsalov wasn't meeting anyone. He was still dry-cleaning.

“Thanks, Ms. Johnson, you've been great.” Latham hung up and keyed the radio. “Command to Mobile One.”

“Go ahead.”

“Paul, get somebody back across the bridge. I want one car in the parking lot of Brown's Boat Rental and two patrolling north and south on Rock Creek.”

“What's going on?”

“Our boy's making a run.”

Vorsalov's ploy was a master stroke, Latham would later admit.

Vorsalov calls a partner at the booth on California and Kalorama, who then calls Johnson's to confirm a boat is reserved and waiting on the island, a common request during tourist season. Meanwhile, Vorsalov crosses the bridge to Roosevelt, maneuvering any pursuers into a perfect bottleneck that would trap them on the west side of the Potomac with no quick way to get back across during noon rush hour.

Latham did the calculations: Six or seven minutes for Paul to reach Rock Creek Parkway, another two minutes to reach Brown's. Add to that the ten minutes head start Vorsalov had, plus four minutes for him to paddle across the river …

It would be close.

Twenty minutes later, they had their answer.

Randal reported finding an abandoned canoe on a beach just south of the boat center. “Are we sure it was him?” Latham asked.

“Pretty much. One of the attendants saw him ditch the canoe and take off toward the GWU Metrorail stop. The description matches.”

Latham stared into space. He was numb. They'd worked so hard. …

“Charlie, are you there? Should we—”

“No,” Latham said. “Forget it. He's gone.”