End of Enemies (26 page)

Japan

Tanner knew Takagi had no intention of letting them leave Japan alive. That left only one alternative: Get out before he could trap them. Tanner hated the idea of running, but cliché or not, here discretion was in fact the better part of valor. Staying would get them nowhere.

It was dark by the time they returned to the Royal Palms. The lobby was empty except for the receptionist standing behind the front desk. Tanner recognized the young man. “Evening, Kenzo. Any messages?”

Eyes on the counter, Kenzo shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Can you check anyway, please?”

“Oh, sorry, just a moment.” He walked over, checked Tanner's box, and returned. “No messages.”

Tanner stared at Kenzo until he looked up.

“Everything okay?” Briggs asked.

“Oh, yes, fine.”

Tanner joined Cahil at the elevators.

“What's up?” Bear asked.

“Kenzo's not his usual gregarious self. He wouldn't even look me in the eye.”

“You know him well enough to—”

“I've never seen him without an ear-to-ear grin.”

The elevator's doors parted. Tanner glanced back at the counter. Kenzo was nowhere to be seen. “I'm getting a bad feeling, Bear. Come on.”

The kitchen was closed for the night, so they walked through the grill area to the exit. Written on the door in both English and Kanji were the words Emergency Exit: Alarm Will Sound.

“Bear, I need a—”

“Hang on.”

Cahil rummaged through a nearby drawer until he found a steel spatula. Tanner wedged it between the jamb and the door's bolt, then pushed the crash bar. Cahil held the spatula in place as Tanner slipped into the alley. He returned a minute later. “There's a Takagi security truck on the road behind the trees.”

“That didn't take long. Do we have anything in the room we need?”

“The laptop's in the Rover; so's most of our gear. I've got the cell phone and my passport.”

“Me, too.” Cahil shrugged and smiled. “What say we check out.”

After making sure Kenzo was still absent, they walked through the lobby and into the parking lot. They were halfway to the Range Rover when Tanner saw a figure—another Noboru clone—crouched beside the rear bumper.

Briggs gestured for Bear to circle through the trees, gave him a minute to get into position, then walked toward the Rover. When he was ten feet away, the man looked up.

His eyes went wide. He reached inside his jacket. He was fast; his gun was already clear when Cahil slipped from the bushes behind him and palm-butted him at the base of the skull. He crumpled. Tanner walked over, kicked the gun away, and checked his pulse. He was dead.

Tanner looked around; the lot was empty. “Grab his feet.”

They loaded the body into the rear of the Rover, covered it with a tarp, climbed in, and drove away.

With nowhere else to go, they drove into the forest north of Mitsu's village. Once well into the trees, Tanner doused the headlights and coasted to a stop. They carried the body to the mangrove creek, found a large rock, tied the body to it, and rolled it into the water.

They hiked deeper into the forest until they found a small clearing. Here and there, fireflies winked, and the trees were filled with the occasional clicks of cicadas. Tanner plopped down on his duffel bag, pulled out the cell phone, and dialed.

Ieyasu picked up on the third ring. “Briggs. Where are you?”

“Don't ask.

“Did you go to the funeral? Are you okay?”

“Yes and yes. We're leaving, though. Forget you met us and lay low.”

“Briggs—”

“If Takagi finds out you've helped us, you're dead.”

Some might call you bad luck,
Takagi had said. It had struck a nerve, Tanner admitted. Though not true of Ohira, Sumiko had died because of her involvement with them. “You've been a great help and a good friend, Sato, but promise me you'll leave it alone.”

“I promise. You take care of yourselves, both of you. You will contact me if—”

“You have my word.”

Tanner hung up and checked his watch: early morning in Washington. He dialed Holystone, listened to it ring, then heard a double-click as the call was routed to Oaken's home.

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Tanner asked.

“No. Where are you?”

“Camping. How soon can you and Leland be at the office?”

“I was on my way there; so is Leland. We were getting ready to call you.”

“Good timing, then. Call us when you get there.”

“What's this business about camping?” Dutcher asked an hour later.

“We're persona non grata at the hotel,” Tanner said, then explained.

“I told you to lay low. I wouldn't call going to this woman's funeral and throwing rocks at Takagi laying low. What were you thinking?”

Tanner didn't know what to say. Leland was right; he was wrong. “It was a bad idea, I know. Takagi sits back, orders the execution of dozens of people—that we know of—then has the balls to go to Sumiko's funeral. I wanted to look him in the eye. I just wanted to see for myself.”

Dutcher sighed. “Well, it's done with. Two things: We checked on the names of those two JRA soldiers. Ieyasu was right. They were hard-core members, active in the Mideast. They even did some mule work in Israel a few years ago. You remember the bombing in at the Hagana Museum in Tel Aviv?”

“I remember.”

“Word is, one of these boys carried the explosives across the border. Whatever they were doing for Takagi, it was dirty.”

“And second?” Tanner asked.

“Walter's got an idea about
Tsumago.
I'll let him explain.”

Oaken asked, “How do you guys feel about another tour of Takagi's shipyard?”

Cahil groaned. “Oh, boy.”

“What have you got in mind?” asked Tanner.

“You remember her computerized helm console? I'm betting it logs the ship's projected courses and speeds. Unless the crew is unusually meticulous, they probably didn't clear the computer's buffer after each trip.”

“How big's the buffer?”

“Just guessing, I'd say a gigabyte. Plenty of space to record her last dozen voyages. In the last six months, she's made eight of them.”

“Oaks, you're the best,” said Tanner. “Leland, are we paying him enough?”

“Not enough money in the world.”

“Okay, okay,” Oaken said. “Can you do it? Can you get back into the dock?”

“We'll get in. Tell me how we download the data.”

Oaken explained the procedure. “Once you've got the laptop plugged in, it'll load the data onto the hard drive. Any questions?”

“None,” said Tanner. “Leland, we're gonna have to move fast. As soon as Takagi realizes we're gone, he'll start making calls: police, Immigration, the works.”

“We'll handle that. You worry about getting into the shipyard … and back out.”

They loaded their gear into a single duffel, walked to the main road, and found a bus that took them to Wakayama, where they found an open rental car agency and used one of Tanner's sanitized credit cards to rent an Accord. From there they took the ferry across to Shikoku and drove south to Mugi. The dive shop was closed, but it took them all of five minutes to break in, collect what they needed, and leave a generous bundle of
yen
on the counter.

Thirty minutes later, they were crouching in a cluster of trees across from the shipyard. Cahil was sorting through their gear as Tanner scanned the sea fence one last time. He lowered the binoculars. “Ready for round two, Bear?”

Cahil dipped his hand in the water. “Warmer this time, I think.”

Hovering motionless in the water, Tanner could see the green glow of Cahil's chemlight beside him. Briggs peered ahead but was unable to see the fence. He checked his watch and compass. Perfect. Now it was just a matter of time.

In the distance, he heard a faint grinding sound, like metal scraping concrete. He signaled Cahil to wait, then finned up to the surface and popped his mask above the water. He focused his binoculars on Dock 12.

The hangar door was open, and the interior was dark except for several flashing yellow lights. A tugboat sat at the mouth of the dock. He tapped twice on his tank and Cahil surfaced beside him. “We're too late,” Tanner whispered and passed him the binoculars.

“They're rigging the tow lines. I count three … no, four crew on the forecastle. Can't see the bridge. They've got it pretty damned dark in there.”

“All the better to skulk away. How long before she's at the gate?”

“Twenty minutes at most,” Cahil said. “Unless you want to hitch a ride …”

“I know. Let's go.”

Swimming hard against a crosscurrent, they reached the shore eighteen minutes later and climbed out just as
Tsumago
was reaching the fence. Once through the gate, the tugboat disengaged its towlines and peeled away. Almost immediately,
Tsumago's
wake broadened, white against the dark water.

“She's moving fast,” Cahil said.

Tanner nodded. “How long since you've done a five-minute mile?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Once she makes the turn around the headland, we'll lose her. We have to know which direction she's headed.”

“I'm right behind you.”

It was almost two miles to the end of the peninsula. For the first mile, Tanner caught glimpses of
Tsumago
as she steered for open water, but soon the forest thickened and they lost sight of her.

The path they chose was a hiker's trail, and they made good time despite falling several times in the darkness. By the time they reached the headland, their shins were bruised and bloody. Panting hard, they scrambled up the rocks at the water's edge.

“You see her?” Tanner asked.

“No. Wait … there.” Cahil pointed at a pair of lights in the distance.

“Give me a fix.”

Cahil pulled out their map, picked out a couple landmarks, and did a quick calculation. “She's at one-five-zero.”

“I see green running lights.”

“That makes her starboard side to us. She's heading south; make it one-eight-five.”

Across the cove they heard the thumping of the helicopter rotors, followed a moment later by a strobe light streaking across the water. Five minutes later, the strobe merged with the
Tsumago's
outline and blinked out.

“Bad news,” Tanner told Oaken an hour later, then explained.

“You're sure she was heading south?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I might have something. It's not gonna be as accurate as data from the helm, but I've got a guess where she's headed.”

“Oaks, I'm certainly not one to complain, but it would've been nice if you'd thought of this a few hours ago,” said Cahil.

“I know, sorry. There's just so much information—”

“I'm kidding, Walt.”

Tanner asked, “How long until you can give us a guess?”

“Tomorrow. In the meantime, we're getting you out. Got a map?”

“Yep. Go ahead.”

“There's a small airstrip outside Iyo on Shikoku's northwestern shore.”

“I see it.”

“Go there. A charter will be waiting.”

Washington,
D.C.

Vorsalov was gone. Latham and his team were angry and demoralized. He did his best to rally them, but in his heart he wasn't hopeful. The odds were against them and getting worse with each passing hour.

The repercussions of Vorsalov's escape would not be long in coming. This operation was under scrutiny by not only the FBI and the CIA, but by Senator Hostetler and his allies on Capitol Hill as well. Hostetler wanted the man who'd almost killed his little girl, and the nation—when and if it found out about this operation—would want the man who'd visited terror on its shores. Once the ax started falling, Latham knew his head would be on the short list.

He forced himself to focus on their next step. There was only one, really: interviewing and canvassing. So while his agents discreetly beat the bushes, Latham waited.

Sixteen hours after Vorsalov escaped, they struck gold in the form of a xenophobic deli owner.

According to Paul Randal, the deli owner claimed to have seen a pair of “Eye-rabs” parked in a minivan two blocks from Brown's Boat Center around the time of Vorsalov's escape. Suspicious of Middle Easterners and their well-known fondness of wanton destruction, the deli owner not only remembered the license plate but also the movements of the occupants, one of whom left the van for ten minutes, then returned. This in itself was not significant until Randal questioned an employee at Brown's, who confirmed that Vorsalov's canoe had been reserved and paid for by an Arab. The time frame fit, as did the general description.

“Why didn't they just rent it over the phone?” Latham asked Randal.

“They tried, probably. Last year during homecoming a bunch of high school kids reserved a dozen paddle boats by phone, then took them out and played a little demolition derby. Since then, they only take reservations face-to-face … credit card, waivers, all that.”

“What else?”

“This is where it gets good. The deli guy says the van sat there for about twenty minutes. Just sitting there. He's getting nervous; the Arabs look nervous. Then all of a sudden a white guy, walking fast from the direction of Brown's, climbs in, and they pull away.”

“I'll be damned. And the van?”

Randall handed him the report. “Rented by a Henry Awad, a naturalized citizen. He's a cook at a diner in Hyattsville. Wife, no children. The van goes for three hundred a week. He pulls down four.”

“Henry must really love minivans,” Latham said. “Okay, put him under the microscope.”

Within twenty-four hours they knew more about Henry Awad than did his closest neighbors. Most of the information was trivial, but several things caught Latham's eye.

According to INS, Awad had come to the U.S. from Egypt six years before. Ever the skeptic, Latham called in a favor from the FBI's Linguistics Department and had a Near East expert visit the diner for lunch. While eating her cheeseburger and fries, she listened closely to the voice in the kitchen.

“Wherever he's from,” she later told Latham, “it isn't Egypt.” Her best guess was Syria or Iraq. Latham knew this proved nothing, but it piqued his interest.

The second curiosity was that the Awad family's Wind-star—the one costing Henry three-quarters of his weekly income—was nowhere to be seen. Awad drove a brown Dodge Aries K, and his wife never left the house aside from walking trips to the grocery store.

During the second day of surveillance, Randal called Latham. Charlie could hear the excitement in his partner's voice. “Remember that load of groceries Henry's wife bought yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“He's loading them into the trunk of his car.”

“Picnic, maybe?”

“Doubt it. It's just him, no basket, no blanket.. .just him.”

Latham had worked enough cases to know the majority of them are exercises in tedium, broken by occasional moments of excitement. Seemingly dead cases can turn 180 degrees in a matter of hours. This is exactly what happened when Randal tailed Henry Awad.

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Awad drove straight to a strip mall in Greenbelt and parked. Five minutes later, the blue Windstar pulled up beside him.

“Charlie, you're not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“Henry's loading groceries into our wayward minivan. He's being helped by a pair of Arabs that look a whole lot like the ones our deli owner described.”

“Okay, forget Henry for now. Stay on the van. We pin them down, we're back in the game. I'm sending backup. Stick with them.”

An hour after sunset, Latham parked in a clearing of pines in rural Greenbelt, old horse country about five miles off Highway I-95. He got out and walked up a path leading into the trees. He was met by Janet Paschel.

“How's it look?” he asked.

“Good. The HRU boys are already here.”

Following his call, it had taken the Bureau's Hostage Rescue Unit only thirty minutes to get mobilized. HRU was perhaps the best hostage team in the U.S., military or civilian.

Paschel led him to a ranch-style house fronted by a long porch. Latham found Randal and Stan Wilson, the HRU commander, standing in the darkened living room before a bay window that overlooked a meadow.

Latham shook hands with Wilson. “Thanks for getting here so quick, Stan.”

“Sure. This is Hank Reeves, my second-in-command.”

“Good to meet you, Hank.” To Randal: “Nice digs. Whose is it?”

“Belongs to the Taub family. They own the stables and corral, too. They're in Kentucky for a month or so. We ran into a caretaker who gave us their number. Seems Mr. Taub is an ex-DEA agent. He said—and I'm quoting here—as long as we don't bring in any hookers and promise to clean up after ourselves, we can have the run of the place.”

Latham laughed. “I think we can manage that. Stan, how's it look?”

“Depends on what you want.”

“Let's see the layout.”

Wilson handed him a pair of binoculars. In the distance he could see a two-story, whitewashed farmhouse. Several windows were lit, but Latham saw no activity. A narrow access road led from the house, around the edge of the meadow, and out to the main road.

“Can't see it from here, but there's a garage to the right,” Wilson said. “Van's parked in front of it.”

They had chosen a good hidey-hole, Latham decided. There were only three ways to approach the farmhouse: the road, through the pine trees surrounding the house, or across the meadow.

“Have we got blueprints?” Latham asked.

Randal handed them over. “Care to guess who's listed as the renter?”

“Good ol' Henry Awad?”

“You got it.”

“Stan, how thick are the trees?”

“A good mile in all directions.”

“How close to the farmhouse?”

“About a hundred feet of clearance on all sides. The meadow grass is maybe six inches tall,” Wilson added. “No cover there.”

“Okay, this is what I need: Bore mikes on each major room, plus the upstairs if possible, an eyeball map of the grounds, pictures of the occupants, and a wire tap.”

“Can do. You'll handle the warrants?”

“Yep.” Latham called Janet Paschel over, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the U.S. Attorney's Office. “Janet, start driving. They'll be ready when you get there.”

If there was any silver lining to the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City bombings, it was the legislative and judicial system's increased support of the FBI's antiterrorist efforts. As Latham stood in the Taub house in rural Greenbelt, the FBI's power to pursue terrorists was greater than it had been since the days of J. Edgar Hoover. Within two hours of sending Paschel to fetch the warrants, Latham was listening to the radio as the HRU team moved into position around the farmhouse.

It was cold outside, in the low fifties, and from where Latham sat, he could see dew glistening on the meadow grass. In the distance came the occasional whinny of a horse. Randal sat beside an audio tech at the coffee table.

Wilson's voice came over the radio. “Eyeball, give me a report.”

“I count three tangos in the kitchen. All windows clear. No other lights.”

“Roger, move in.”

Latham peered through the infrared scope and could barely make out two of Wilson's men crawling from the trees and merging with the shadows along the farmhouse wall.

Thirty minutes later, it was done. His hair soaked with sweat, Wilson walked into the living room. “Any problems?” Latham asked.

“Couldn't get to the upstairs. Maybe if they leave, but not while they're home. We've got mikes on all the ground-floor rooms, plus a wiretap on the phone, a map, and some good pics of the inside.”

“Great job, Stan; thanks. How about the two we're looking for?”

“Didn't see them.”

Short of canvassing area hotels for Vorsalov, Latham had no choice but to hope these Arabs would lead him to the Vorsalov and Fayyad—if in fact the Jordanian was part of the operation.

He turned to the audio technician. “How about it?” he asked.

“Perfect. It's like we're sitting in the same room.”

Latham nodded. “Start the tapes and pray they're talkative.”

Born from a combination of arrogance and a firm belief in hiding in plain sight, Vorsalov took a room at the Marriott Key Bridge at the bend of the Potomac, a stone's throw from Roosevelt Island and Brown's Boat Center.

After showering and calling room service for a seafood quiche and a bottle of white Coutet, he took a chair by the window and read Fayyad's report. He was impressed by the Jordanian's progress. The seduction had been swift and complete. Fayyad had read her perfectly.

The turning of the senator had also gone smoothly, though Fayyad was a bit too congenial for Vorsalov's taste. Fayyad reported Smith was compliant, frightened, and slightly desperate—a powerful combination. But would it be enough? And what of the ridiculously short time line? Would these Arabs never learn? Yet another case of zealotry-induced blindness.

He finished the report and set it aside. Ill-advised as it might be, tightening the vise on Smith was their only recourse. Vorsalov scanned the report again until he reached the page he sought. He read the passage twice more before the germ of a plan began to form. It was workable, he decided, but very dangerous.

But this was America, he reminded himself. Security here was a sieve, and their police were restricted by rules and regulations and other such niceties. Yes, he decided, it could be done.