End of Enemies (31 page)

Washington Navy Yard

Henry Tanner's first steps in pursuing Briggs's submarine was to dial directory assistance. Knowing most World War II U.S. fleet submarines had been equipped with Fairbanks-Morse engines but not whether Fairbanks-Morse was still in business, he put the question to the operator. Yes, Fairbanks-Morse still existed, but it had been taken over by Coltech Industries, headquartered in Beloit, Wisconsin.

It took four transfers from Coltech's switchboard before Henry reached an engineer who might be able to help. Explaining he was researching a book, Henry gave the man the serial number and explained his predicament. The engineer promised to get back to him by day's end.

Next Henry arranged an appointment with an old friend who was serving as an assistant curator at the Washington Navy Yard's Historical Archives.

Built in 1799 beside the Washington Canal, the yard is the Navy's oldest shore establishment and home to warehouses full of archived data on naval history, from routine operational orders and recon photos of Guadalcanal to the personal diaries of Chester Nimitz. If it exists, chances are it is secreted somewhere in one of three yard warehouses.

Henry parked his car on N Street and walked two blocks to Building 57, the home of the Operational Archives Branch. He was met at the third-floor reception desk by his friend. “Henry, how are you!”

“Good, John. Thanks for your help.”

“That's what we're here for. Come on, I've got a room set aside for you.”

The first thing Henry asked for was records on U.S. fleet submarines reported missing or sunk in Japanese territorial waters during World War II. It took an hour, but the master chief returned with a two-foot stack of material. “Sorry they're not organized any better. We're still working to get everything on CD. It's a big job.”

“I can imagine. This'll be fine. I prefer hard copy anyway.”

Henry found thirteen submarines that might fit the bill, all of whose last known locations were well-documented, right down to latitude and longitude, and many of whom who had been cross-referenced with Japanese Imperial Navy records. Out of these thirteen, he narrowed the list to three possible matches.

He then dug through the stack until he found each boat's operational orders. In each case, the sub in question was lost during a routine patrol. No secrecy, no covert mission, nothing that would account for the scrubbed sail number Briggs reported.
But then again,
Henry thought,
if the sub's mission was that secret,
she wouldn't be listed in these archives.

He'd reached his first hurdle. Pursuing the sub's identity any further would depend on Fairbanks-Morse, so he turned his attention to the civilian Briggs had found in the forward torpedo room.

Since his leg braces obviously made the man ineligible for military service, Henry had a guess for whom he might've worked. As far as he knew, the only World War II personnel to carry .25 caliber Berettas were government employees; and the only government employees who had reason to be aboard fleet subs were operatives for the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA.

Langley

While Henry Tanner was chasing fifty-year-old leads, the newly resurrected DORSAL working group was sorting through all of DORSAL's product, from Marcus's capture in Beirut to Tanner's discovery of Parece Kito. This last thread was being examined by Walter Oaken.

Under his direction, half a dozen analysts were digging into the secret holdings of Takagi Industries. The industrialist covered his trail well, but the CIA had cut its teeth on tougher corporate hideaways, most notably the money-laundering labyrinths of Colombia's drug cartels, so it wasn't long before they found dozens of buried links to companies specializing in chemical engineering and agricultural research.

“How hard would it have been for Takagi to keep this kind of secret?” Sylvia Albrecht asked.

“Not very,” said Oaken. “You've got to understand how tough it is to track this kind of stuff. Alone, the individual chemicals are pretty benign. It's not until you combine them that you've got a weapon. Take a few pesticides, refine them correctly, and you've got a nerve agent like sarin or tabun.”

“The kind used in the Tokyo subway gassing.”

“Right If the compounds are bought by front companies over a long period of time … Think of it like a jigsaw puzzle being assembled by a hundred different people in a hundred different locations, none of whom are talking to each other.”

Not only could Takagi refine such chemicals, Oaken further explained, but given what they'd found on the salvaged Scud, he also had a workable delivery system. Add to that his connection to the JRA, whose links to Mideast groups were well-documented and …

“You can see the possibilities,” he said.

Secondary to the pursuit of paper trails, however, was the hunt for
Tsumago.
To this end, Mason ordered the NRO to retask an additional two satellites, a Keyhole and a Lacrosse. Armed with her approximate sailing date and cruising speed, the satellites began scouring millions of square miles of ocean.

Bay Ridge

Henry Tanner was under no illusion: searching for a lone OSS operative who may or may not have existed was a daunting task. During the war, the OSS was known to reconnoiter enemy territory via submarine, but such excursions were rarely documented. Finding a name would mean wading through the CIA's archives; if it came to that, he wanted to be armed with the name of the sub.

He got his wish later that afternoon. “A man from some company in Wisconsin called for you,” Irene said when he got home. “Coltech, I think. He wants you to call him.”

Henry did so. “I'm short on details, Mr. Tanner, but I can tell you the numbers match a pair of engines we delivered to the Charleston Yard in July of 1942.”

“I appreciate your work. Have you got a name?”

“You bet.” Henry heard keys clicking. “Here we go: According to our records, those engines were put aboard a boat called
Stonefish.
”

Falls Church,
Virginia

The safe house to which Vorsalov was taken was more a well-disguised prison than a house. Surrounded by acres of woodland in rural Falls Church and staffed by specially trained HRU guards, it was reserved for the most prized catches.

Fayyad's disappearing act notwithstanding, the simultaneous assaults on Greenbelt and Glen Echo had gone well. How Fayyad managed to slip the net was still a mystery, as were his actions in Greenbelt. None of the Arabs had survived the assault, and Fayyad was at Bethesda Naval Hospital, still unconscious from surgery to repair his shattered hip. It had not been until Randal discovered Smith's mistress in the upstairs bedroom that the Jordanian's actions made sense. But why had he done it? Latham wondered. Why try to save a woman he'd never met, a woman Smith had sent to slaughter to cover his own butt?

“That son of a bitch,” Latham said when he heard. “He served her up!” The U.S. attorney was considering rescinding Smith's deal, which was dependent upon the senator's
full
cooperation. Maybe Smith and Vorsalov would end up cellmates. Doubtful, but he enjoyed the thought.

Latham stared at the Russian through the holding room's one-way glass. “Has he said anything?”

“Not a word,” said Randal. “I think it's finally hit him.”

“Good. Bring him to the interview room.”

Once Vorsalov was seated and handcuffed, Latham sat down opposite him.

“Hello, Yuri. It's been a while.”

“Yes, it has, Charlie.”

“Ten years.”

“I know.” Vorsalov held up his cuffed hands. “Can we please—”

“They stay on.”

“Charlie, I … what happened with your man—”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“It was a mistake, you know. It was dark, I was running, and then he was there in front of me—”

“He was twenty-three years old, Yuri. His parents have never gotten over it.”
Stop it,
Latham commanded himself. “I'm not here to talk about that.”

“You want to talk about Senator Smith.”

“No. I'm here to give you your options. You've got two. One, you give us your full cooperation—”

“Which means?”

“Every detail of every operation you've worked since leaving the KGB. We want the who, what, when, where, and how of every group you've ever dealt with.”

“And if I do this?”

“You spend the rest of your life in a federal prison.”

“You'll forgive me if I'm not thrilled by your offer,” said Vorsalov.

Latham shrugged. “Option two: We wash our hands of you and put you on the next plane back to Moscow.”

The Russian went pale. “Charlie, you know what Moscow would do to me.”

Latham said nothing.

“You are lying. You do not have the power to arrange any of this.”

“The U.S. attorney does. One signature and it's done. You killed a federal agent, Yuri. That comes with an automatic life sentence.”

“I've never been tried. I know your law. You can't—”

“You were convicted in absentia nine years ago; you've been a fugitive since then. Throw in your extortion of Smith, the kidnapping and attempted murder of the girl, and your link to Fayyad, who killed five people on that Delta flight …”

Vorsalov blinked hard, looked away.

He's afraid,
Charlie thought. Probably for the first time in his miserable life. “We've got you, Yuri. You're finished. All that's left to decide is whether you go to prison here or back to your buddies in the basement of Lubyanka.”

Vorsalov's shoulders slumped. The prospect of months of torture in the dungeons of Lubyanka followed by a summary execution had suddenly become an all-too-real possibility. The Russian stared at his hands.

Ten seconds passed.

Latham stood up. “Okay, have it your way.” He was halfway to the door when Vorsalov called, “All right. All right! What do you want to know?”

Langley

Tanner and Cahil sat through yet another update meeting on DORSAL. Aside from answering occasional questions—most of which they couldn't answer because of Mason's gag order—neither of them had much to contribute.

After the meeting, Tanner spent an hour with Ezoe, who was fully enjoying the CIA's hospitality, then returned to the op center, where he and Ian wandered around, listening to discussions and looking at photos.

Oaken saw them and walked over. “How's it going?”

“You mean aside from feeling like a fifth wheel?” said Tanner.

“Come on, this might interest you.” Oaken led them to the audio room. “Latham and his people recorded a call between Fayyad and another man. We think it's the big boss. The call was traced to an exchange in Cyprus, but we're pretty sure it originated in Beirut.”

Tanner felt his stomach tighten.
Beirut.
Some things never got easier, he thought. He and a four-man team had gone into the city, and only two came out. It had been a rude awakening for Tanner. No matter how well-trained and well-prepared you were, an operation can go catastrophically bad in a matter of seconds.

They had spent four months chained to that basement wall, listening to the sounds of Beirut: the
crump
of distant artillery, the clatter of automatic weapons, the haunting voices of muezzins calling from their mosques. And always the sound of boots clumping down the stairs, and wondering which one they were coming for.

Tanner slipped on the headphones. “How sure are we this is the boss?”

“Listen for yourself.” Oaken nodded to the audio technician. “The first voice.”

“ ‘You met with our friend?'”

“ ‘Yes. You approve of his plans?'”

“ ‘I do. You will assist him, I assume?'”

“ ‘If it is what you want, I will, of course.'”

Oaken said, “That's the gist of it.”

Tanner was frowning. “Run it again, will you?” The technician did so. And then a third time.

“Something?” asked Cahil.

“I don't know. Is that all of it?”

“There's another thirty seconds or so, but it's small talk. We think it's just padding.”

“Can I hear it all?”

From behind Tanner a voice said, “Well, well, if it ain't Briggs Tanner.” Tanner turned.

“Hello, Art. I didn't know you were here.”

“Near East Division. Marcus was my agent.”

“Bad break,” Tanner said, meaning it.

“Shit happens.”

It had been over a decade since Tanner had last seen Stucky. Time had not been kind. Liquor and cigarettes had turned his complexion pasty and thick. His hair, which he still wore in a crew cut, was a yellowish gray, and his nose was lined with broken blood vessels. Despite the paunch around Stucky's middle, Tanner could see solid muscle beneath.
Still dangerous,
he thought.
Still the same cruel SOB.

“See you around, Art.” Briggs started to turn back around.

“So, did you retire?”

“Pardon me?”

“From the Navy,” Stucky said. “Did you retire?”

“I resigned my commission.”

“Nice to have the option. I was just shy of my twenty, you know.”

Enough of this,
Briggs thought. “We all make our choices, Art.” Tanner turned his back on him. There was a long five seconds of silence. Briggs could feel Stucky's eyes on him.

Stucky laughed, a bark. “You know, some things never change. You were an asshole back then, and you're an asshole now.” He walked away.

Once he was gone, Cahil muttered, “What the hell was that?”

“Art doesn't like me.”

“So I gathered. What's the deal?”

“Later. Oaks, can I hear it again?” The tech rewound the tape, and he listened to the conversation twice more before giving up.