End of Enemies (29 page)

Agana,
Guam

Twelve hours after he pulled Tanner from the bunker, Cahil wheeled him down the hallway of Agana's main hospital. “Bear, where are we going? And why the wheelchair? I'm fine.”

“Hospital rules. You don't want to piss off Nurse Ratchet.”

“They have a Nurse Ratchet?”

“Every hospital has a Nurse Ratchet. Besides, I doubt that deep-fried leg of yours would take much weight.”

“Speaking of that, have I thanked you yet?”

“A couple times.”

“Good. So tell me again: What happened after you pulled me out?”

“Figuring Takagi wouldn't mind if we borrowed it, I loaded you aboard the helo, said good-bye to Fantasy Island, and set a course for the nearest land. Guam had the best chance of having a hospital worth a damn, so here we are.”

“I wish I could remember it.”

“You might have if I hadn't shot you full of morphine. You're gonna have a dandy-looking scar.”

“Where did you land, on the hospital lawn?”

“Of course not! I set her down in a field a couple miles out of town and traded it to a farmer for a ride here.”

Tanner started laughing and suddenly found himself unable to stop. It felt damned good to be alive.

“What?” Cahil said. “He can sell it. The damn thing's worth more than he'll earn in a lifetime.”

“Anybody ever tell you you're rabidly practical?”

“Only you. Now, as for where we're going … Somebody wants to see you.”

Cahil turned into a room. On the bed lay the Japanese man they'd rescued from the bunker. Behind the oxygen mask he smiled feebly and waved to them.

“How is he?” Briggs whispered.

“Two of his ribs are broken, and he lost a lot of blood, but it could be worse.”

“What's his name?”

“Ezoe. He was the cook.”

Ezoe was reaching toward Tanner. Cahil wheeled him closer, and Tanner took the hand.
“Domo arigato,
”
Ezoe said.
“Domo.
”

“You're welcome. Do you speak English?”

Ezoe nodded.

“Good, because my Japanese is terrible. Ezoe, do you remember what happened at the island?”

“I remember.”

“Would you be willing to talk to us about it?”

“Yes.”

“First, though, we have a problem. I think it would be a bad idea for you to go home right now. If you'd like, you can come with us. We can't force you, but—”

Ezoe's eyes lit up. “To America?”

“Yes.”

“When do we leave?”

Lebanon

Abu Azhar seated General al-Khatib and their guest near the fireplace and pulled the drapes shut. Outside, the temperature hovered around freezing; the peaks of the Anti-Lebanese Mountains were capped in snow.

Azhar sat down and studied his visitor. “You are
Pasdaran
?”
he asked.

“Yes,” the man replied proudly.

Indeed,
Azhar thought,
he has the eyes of a fanatic.
Tough, well-trained, and only too ready to die for Islam, the
Pasdaran
were Iran's elite revolutionary guard corps. This man's presence spoke volumes of al-Khatib's influence. Their role was the linchpin of the operation.

“How many men under your command?” Azhar asked.

“Thirty.”

“Have you been briefed on your mission?”

“No. Whatever it is, we will succeed,
inshallah.
”
God willing.

Azhar handed the man a sheet of paper. “We want these men killed.”

The
Pasdaran
officer studied the list. “If it pleases Allah. When—”

“Listen to me,” Azhar said. “Do you understand who these men are? They are important and well-guarded. When I ask you if you can kill them, I want an answer, not a fanatical platitude. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the man stammered. “Yes, I understand. I know who these men are. We can do this for you. We will succeed or die in the attempt.”

“Succeed first. What you do afterward is not my concern. All the deaths must occur within twenty-four hours of one another, two to three weeks from now. We will give you the precise schedule.”

“It will be done.”

Azhar handed him a file. “You'll want to conduct your own surveillance.

“Of course.”

Azhar stood. “May Allah guide you.”

Once the man was gone, al-Khatib smiled and said, “You were hard on the young pup. Are you satisfied?”

“Not until it's done.”

“Ever the cynic, Abu. Tell me, how goes your Washington operation?”

“I expect to have the information within a few days. Time enough to adjust our plans, if necessary. What about the ship?”

“She sailed two days ago.”

Azhar nodded and stared vacantly out the window. “Now it is all timing.”

Tel Aviv,
Israel

“Oh, Saul, there it is!” Bernice Weinman called. “There!”

They'd chosen this spot in Charles Clora Park in hopes of seeing the ship sail into port. Saul Weinman could just make out her white superstructure beyond the breakwater. “I see her, Bernice. She's beautiful.”

“Tell me again, what is she called?”

“The
Valverde.
She's named after one of the Canary Islands.”

“Are we going there? Is that one of the stops?”

“Yes, Bernice,” Saul replied with a laugh, delighted at her excitement. “There and other places, too: Spain, Portugal, Casablanca—”

“Like the movie? Oh, how wonderful!”

After thirty-two years of private medical practice in Tel Aviv, Saul Weinman had retired the previous month. This cruise was to be their first trip alone together since their honeymoon. Bernice had waited so long for this—as had he. This would be the start of the most wonderful years of their life.

“Oh, Saul! What do you think our stateroom will be like? Will it be big? Do you think they'll serve those drinks with the umbrellas? Or dancing! Do you think there will be dancing?”

“They'll have everything. It's going to be wonderful.”

“I wish we were going today, right now.”

“Patience, Bern. Day after tomorrow.”

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Within minutes of receiving Tanner's call from Guam, a relieved Leland Dutcher and Walter Oaken set to work getting them home. Two hours and a few phone calls later, a VC-20 lifted off from the U.S. air base at Misawa bound for Guam, where it picked up the trio, then headed east.

Now, some 7,000 miles later, Dutcher and Oaken stood on the Tarmac watching the VC-20 taxi to a stop. Aided by a cane, Tanner came down the ladder, followed by Cahil, who turned to help Ezoe down. Oaken ran forward to help.

Dutcher shook Tanner's hand. “How's the leg?”

“Sore, but working.”

“And our guest?”

“Better than he looks. Considering what he saw, he's doing great.”

With Cahil and Oaken under each arm, Ezoe walked past them toward the car.

“How many dead?” asked Dutcher.

“Twelve that I could count. How did Mason react when he found out we hadn't pulled out?”

“What could he say? I fell on my sword, told him DORSAL wasn't as dead as we thought, and gave him the news. That bunker complex has all the markings of a chemical or biological facility. Trust me, they love you.”

“Glad to hear it. Leland, there's something I didn't tell you. On the plane we had a little chat with Ezoe. Three days before we got to the island, a ship arrived. From his description, I'm pretty sure it was
Tsumago.
That night, Noboru and his men loaded something aboard her. Ezoe didn't know what. The next day, about two hours before the shooting started, a Chinook helicopter landed carrying about a dozen men. After they were aboard the ship, she sailed.” Tanner paused. “He says he got a good look at them. They were Arabs.”

Langley

They were met in the lobby by an escort from the Office of Security and escorted up to the DCI's conference room. Mason, Coates, and Sylvia Albrecht were waiting for them, as was a sumptuous lunch buffet. Ezoe shook hands absently and eyeballed the food.

“I understand you've been through a lot,” Mason said to him. “You must be hungry. Let's eat before we talk.”

Ezoe needed no encouragement. Tanner couldn't help but smile at the scene. This man, this simple cook, who'd not only witnessed the execution of eight of his friends but had also been buried alive under their corpses and possibly held the secret to Takagi's Parece Kito complex, sat before the CIA's top spymaster shoveling meat loaf into his mouth. As for Mason, Tanner was impressed; however important Ezoe's information might be, Mason was going to let the man eat first.

Finally, Ezoe folded his napkin and let out a satisfied sigh. He looked up, saw that everyone had finished long ago, and grinned sheepishly. “Thank you for lunch.”

“You're very welcome,” said Mason. “Can we get you anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“I'm sure you're tired, but would you be up to answering some questions for us?”

“I will try.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning. How did you get involved?”

Ezoe's story was short. Five months ago, while working as a cook at the Anan shipyard, he was approached by Tange Noboru, who asked if he would be interested in a special job. A fifteen-year veteran of Takagi Industries, Ezoe had come to consider it home, so he proudly accepted. A week later, he was flown to Parece Kito.

Over the next four months, Ezoe saw no one else aside from the complex's other maintenance and housekeeping personnel. Only a few workers were allowed on the “other side,” as he called the clean room area. He described the basic routine of the complex, who came and went, and how often
Tsumago
visited.

He ended his story with
Tsumago's
final visit. “It was almost midnight when it started. They just walked into the kitchen and started shooting. They never said a word. I fell down, and I felt …” Ezoe touched his chest. Tears seeped from the corner of his eyes. Sylvia Albrecht handed him a tissue.

“It's hard, I know,” Mason said. “You're a lucky man.”

Ezoe nodded at Tanner and Cahil. “Not luck … them.”

For the next hour Mason, Albrecht, and Coates questioned him. This was just the first round, Tanner knew. Later would come the full debrief. “One more thing,” Mason said. “How certain are you about the men in the helicopter? You said they were Arabs. How can you be sure?”

“They looked like Arabs and they spoke their language. And their leader was carrying one of their books … umm, like your Bible?”

“A Koran?” Oaken offered.

“Yes, Koran. I was looking at it; he got very mad.”

“Do you think you could help us put a sketch together of this man?”

“I'm not a good drawer.”

“That's all right. The computer will do it for you. Sylvia, will you take our guest down to OTS?”

Once they were gone, Mason turned to Tanner and Cahil. “Gentlemen, I'm not used to having my orders disobeyed, but in this case, I'm glad you did. Dutch told me you had good instincts. I'm convinced.” He turned to Oaken. “You uncovered Parece Kito. How solid is the link between it and Takagi?”

“Are you asking if we have enough to nail him?”

“Yes.”

“No, he's insulated himself too well. Even the executions would be hard to link to him. Legally, at least. Ezoe never spoke with Takagi, only Noboru, who's now dead. If push came to shove, Takagi could paint Noboru as the bad guy.”

“What about evidence from the complex itself? Mr. Tanner, you say it's destroyed. Are you sure there's nothing left that could help us?”

“I'm sure. Noboru knew what he was doing. Whatever wasn't crushed to dust is probably still burning from the phosphorus. I counted at least a dozen grenades, each one hot enough to melt rock. Whatever was there, it's gone.”

Albrecht returned carrying a file, which she handed to Mason. Inside was a composite portrait of Ezoe's Arab. He had jet black hair, black eyes, and a bushy handlebar mustache. “What's the probability of error?” he asked.

“Minus three. Arab bone structure, eye offset, and skin tint are pretty uniform.”

Cahil asked, “Minus three … What's that mean?”

“It means there's a ninety-seven percent chance if somebody handed us a photo of this guy, it would look identical to this composite. We're running it through our database now. It'll take a few hours.”

Mason handed the composite to Coates. “George, take this down to Near East, see if it rings any bells.”

“Sure.” Coates got as far as the door. He turned back, his mouth agape.

“What is it, George?”

“You don't recognize him?” He held up the composite. “The Khartoum meeting between Fayyad and Vorsalov … This is the third man.”

Langley

Coates's revelation completed a circle whose existence no one had suspected. Hiromasa Takagi, Yuri Vorsalov, Ibrahim Fayyad, Senator Smith, and Parece Kito were all intertwined. But how and why?

Mason wasted no time drawing together the people he hoped would fill in the blanks: Dutcher, Oaken, Tanner, and Cahil for their work on DORSAL and discovery of Parece Kito; Art Stucky for his Mideast experience; George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht, who would provide the necessary resources; and Charlie Latham for his knowledge of the Fayyad/Vorsalov/Smith triangle.

“Thanks for coming, all of you,” Mason began. “I think everyone knows National Security Adviser James Talbot.”

“Mr. Talbot will be briefing the president later today. I've asked George to put together a summary of what we know. What we discuss here today is classified top secret. None of the details are to be discussed outside this room. George?”

Coates walked to the podium. “The scenario I'm going to lay out is by no means flawless, but most of the pieces seem to fit.”

For the next thirty minutes, Coates laid out what they knew and how the pieces fit into the larger picture. “Eventually,” he concluded, “Vorsalov led Latham and his people to a team of Arabs in a house in Greenbelt, then to Fayyad, and then, finally, to a prominent U.S. senator, who we believe is the target of an extortion operation.”

“What's their leverage on this senator?” asked Talbot.

“His wife,” Mason replied. “We believe Fayyad seduced her, then used the affair to turn the senator.”

“What are they after?”

“We don't know yet. Agent Latham, will you fill in the blanks?”

“We believe Vorsalov was brought in to crank up the pressure on the senator,” Latham said. “Problem is, Vorsalov pushed too far, and the man snapped. He and his wife are in protective custody. This morning, Vorsalov contacted Smith and set up a meeting for tomorrow night. We plan on being there. We'll also be hitting the Greenbelt house and Fayyad's condo.”

“Is this senator cooperating?” asked Stucky.

“Reluctantly, but I expect that to change this afternoon.”

“Why?”

Latham smiled. “I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse.”

There was general laughter.

“Who exactly are we talking about?”

Coates looked at Mason and got a nod. “Senator Herb Smith, chairman of the Intelligence Oversight Committee.”

There were several moans around the room.

Mason said, “Glad to see we're all familiar with the dynamic Senator Smith.”

More laughter.

“Now for the punch line,” Coates continued. “Two days ago, we received some disturbing information from Tanner and Cahil. In the course of their work on DORSAL, they found an informant who described a meeting between Hiromasa Takagi's chief of security and an Arab man. A composite of this man was made. We've identified him as the third unidentified man from the Khartoum meeting.”

There was silence in the room as the attendees tried to absorb the implications. Tanner and Cahil exchanged glances: The DDO had left out any mention of Parece Kito and
Tsumago.
Why? Tanner looked over at Mason, who gave him a barely perceptible nod.

Oaken said, “There's one thing that bothers me: Fayyad's approach. The standard time line on a honey trap is four months, minimum. They've done it in three weeks. Why the hurry?”

“That's one of the questions we need to answer,” said Mason. “But we think we know what put it in motion. Go ahead, George.”

Coates picked it up: “Three weeks ago, we lost an agent in Beirut. Within a week of his kidnapping, Vorsalov and Fayyad were meeting in Khartoum. A week after that, Vorsalov was summoned to Beirut, then he came straight here. More importantly, the information Smith was fishing for was related to the Beirut op.”

“So, something this group squeezed from Marcus made them nervous,” said Cahil.

“Exactly. Problem is, we don't know what set them off, and we don't know what they've got cooking.”

“But its something that involves Takagi Industries,” said Oaken.

Mason nodded. “And that's the piece we need to find. What's the connection, who's running the op, and what is it?” He stood up. “So, while we wait for the result of Agent Latham's roundup, we start working the puzzle. Any questions?”

There were none.

As the group dispersed, Mason said to Dutcher, “Dutch, will you and your people stay behind a minute?”

Once the room was empty, Mason shut the door. “First, I know we glossed over Parece Kito and the ship. I'll explain why in a minute. Second, the brief you just heard was classified top secret. What I'm about to tell you goes beyond that. Aside from the people in this room, only George, Sylvia, and Jim Talbot know about Parece Kito and
Tsumago.
For now, it stays that way. Understood?”

There were nods all around.

“Dutch, when this started, I told you about a link between Iraqi fire control systems and Takagi Industries. That's all true. The part I left out is what's got us worried.

“Of all the Scuds fired during the war, we got a good salvage on only one of them. It was a conventional missile but stripped down for different payload. Actually, it was a reconversion: a Scud that started as conventional was converted into a bio/chem carrier, then back to conventional. They fell short on quality control, though. Part of a telemetry package contained an actuator system designed to control an airburst release,”

“Oh, boy,” Cahil muttered.

Dutcher said, “Dick, are you telling me you sent my people into this thing knowing they could be dealing with chemical or biological weapons?”

Mason nodded. “That's one of the reasons I finally pulled the plug. As long as they were simply checking DORSAL'S network, they were safe. Briggs, Ian, I ordered you out for two reasons: One, we wanted to be able to restart DORSAL in the future; and two, I didn't want you flying blind. I hope you understand.”

“We're big boys,” Cahil said.

“Ohira's product lead you to the bio/chem angle?” Tanner asked Mason.

“Yes. About a month before he was killed. We weren't sure what to think when you two uncovered Ohira's interest in Takagi Maritime. To us, it felt like a goose chase. To you guys, it felt solid, and you were right. Ohira's tangent scared Takagi enough that he had him killed.”

“Along with a lot of others,” Tanner said. “So far, he's murdered almost thirty people to keep his secret.”
Including Sumiko,
Tanner thought.
But he missed one,
didn't he
?
He missed Ezoe,
and now it was going to cost him.

Dutcher said, “So, bottom line, Dick: You think Takagi was hired by this Beirut group to deliver a chemical or biological weapon, then Marcus turns up, stumbles onto something he shouldn't have, so they grab him and mount the Smith op.”

“Exactly.”

“And now, whatever the hell it is, it's aboard
Tsumago
headed for … Where?”

“That's the million-dollar question,” Mason said. “Either it's going to be stored for future use, or it's going to be used immediately. If that's the case, we feel the two most likely targets are the United States or Israel.”

Mediterranean Sea

Accompanied by fireboats spouting geysers of water and blaring their horns,
Valverde
had left Tel Aviv two days before. Standing on the deck, Saul and Bernice Weinman gazed at the distant island of Crete,
Valverde's
first port of call. A warm wind fluttered the pennants over their heads. Bernice had not stopped smiling since they boarded, and now she leaned over and kissed Saul on the cheek.

“What's that for?” he asked.

“Just thank you. We've waited so long. It's wonderful.”

After a brief layover in Crete,
Valverde
would weigh anchor and head west for stops in Greece and Sicily before sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Atlantic Ocean.

Syria

As night descended on
Velverde,
eight hundred miles to the east, a helicopter landed in the lee of a sand dune and General Issam al-Khatib climbed out. He ducked under the whirling blades and walked to an outcrop of rock overlooking a
wadi.

Parked bumper-to-bumper in the dry riverbed were two miles of empty semi truck transports. Hundreds of soldiers hurried about, rigging lines and pulling camouflage tarpaulins into place.

Al-Khatib checked his watch: Almost time.

Far to the southeast, the exercise continued. If it were daylight, al-Khatib might have been able to see the dust storm raised by the tanks and APCs.
All that power,
he thought with a smile.
Just waiting.
He felt the surge in his blood.

To the west and south, also too far to see, were two U.S. Navy battle groups, one off the coast of Lebanon, the other patrolling the Gulf. And Israel, rattling its saber, posturing and threatening action.
The game continues.
But not for much longer.

He looked up at the black sky. Somewhere up there an American spy satellite was racing in its orbit toward them. He checked his watch again. They would make it.

In the
wadi,
the troops kept working.

Rappahannock River,
Virginia

Prior to joining Holystone, Tanner and Elle moved to the Chesapeake Bay area and rented a house in Hills Point not far from Annapolis, where his father taught at the U.S. Naval Academy.

For the first month, Briggs had fished, camped, spent time with Elle and his parents, and generally did a lot of nothing which, after twelve years in spec war, was a novel experience.

After joining Holystone, they started looking for a permanent home and stumbled on the lighthouse in a back-water cove of the Rappahannock River. They immediately fell in love with it. The two-story cabin-style house and attached light tower had been abandoned for forty years. With the blessing of the Virginia Historical Commission, they bought it, moved in, and Briggs had been working on its upkeep ever since. Surrounded by forest on three sides and the cove on the fourth, it was secluded and quiet. And after six weeks away, it was a welcome sight for Tanner.

He dropped his bags on the kitchen table and opened the fridge. It was empty save a tupperware container filled with something fuzzy and green; he tossed it in the garbage. That left a shrunken apple and a beer. Tanner tossed the former and opened the latter.

On the counter, his answering machine blinked at him. Half the messages would be from his parents. He hadn't called them since the start of DORSAL, and there would be hell to pay with his mom. He decided he could use a little motherly nagging.

An hour later, he was shaved and showered and sitting in the living room in front of the stone-hearth fireplace. The decor was simple, consisting of wood paneling, a couple rattan pieces, a sectional sofa, and a modest collection of Winslow Homer prints on the walls under track lighting. Outside, the wind was picking up, and Tanner could see a rain squall on the horizon. The hanging plants on the deck swung wildly.

Unexpectedly, Camille's face popped into his head. He missed her, he realized.
Think about something else,
he commanded. On the coffee table sat the box he'd brought back from Japan. He reached for the phone and dialed.

When the line clicked open, he said, “Mrs. Tanner, have you got room at the table for your wayward son?”

Henry and Irene Tanner now owned a small colonial in Bay Ridge. Regardless of where they'd lived while Briggs was growing up—whether Switzerland or Kenya or points in between—their homes had always been warm and smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. It was the magic of Mom, Briggs supposed.

He was halfway up the walkway when Irene burst from the front door and ran to him. After a long embrace, she pulled back and squinted at him. “You look tired.”

“I am tired. It's good to be home.”

“What's in the folder?”

“Something for Dad. A mystery.”

“Oh, he'll love that.” She put on her stern face. “Where have you been? Oh, never mind. I should know better than to ask. Come in.”

Henry shook Briggs's hand, then gave him a hug. As usual, his father wore an old, loose cardigan and equally old leather moccasins. Perched on his nose were a pair of half-glasses. He tilted his head back and studied his son. “Starting to get a little worried about you.”

“I know. I should have called.”

“No matter. You're here now.”

“Dinner's almost ready,” Irene called.

Henry took his son's arm. “You better be hungry.”

After dinner, Tanner and his father sat over coffee. “Dad, are you working on anything right now?” Tanner asked. Henry was an avid amateur historian, and it was rare for him to not be absorbed in some obscure research project. World War II was his specialty, and much of its intrigue had rubbed off on Tanner.

“No, as of late, your mother's got me weeding the garden. Why?”

“I've got something that might interest you.”

“Shoot.”

“During the war, how many U.S. fleet subs were lost off the coast of Japan?”

“Depends on how you define
coast.
How close do you mean?”

“Three, four hundred yards.”

“I've never heard of anything like that.”

“What would you say if I told you I found one a stone's throw off Honshu?”

“Is that what you're telling me?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find it?”

“Recreational diving,” said Tanner.

“Uh-huh. Did you get a sail number?”

“Tanner shook his head.”

“Hmm,” said Henry. “That is a mystery. You check with the local guides?”

“Nothing. No wrecks within two miles of the area.”