End of Enemies (34 page)

“If you do this, you'll be just like him. I'm telling you, he ain't worth it”

Cahil had stopped eating. “Obviously you didn't kill him.”

“No.” Tanner stared into his coffee cup.
I
should have,
he thought
I
should have put a bullet in his head and been done with it.

“So what happened? What did the Army do to him?”

“They discharged him short of his twenty.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“How'd he get here?”

“I don't know. Lousy interviewer, maybe.”
Or maybe they needed somebody like him,
Tanner thought.
Someone,
somewhere,
would always need a Stucky.

“And the girl?”

“She spent almost a month in the hospital, but she made it. She and her older sister still live together at a mission outside Barranca.”

“Still? How do you know?”

For the first time since retelling the story, Tanner smiled. “We're pen pals. She just graduated from high school.”

Langley

The working group found four Manhattan Project members still alive that might shed some light on
Stonefish's
role. While half the group tried to trace these men, the other half sifted through five decades' worth of Navy archives. Henry Tanner, who'd driven to Manassas to reinterview Captain Myers, returned with the first positive news: Myers had identified John Staples as the man he saw on the pier.

Late in the afternoon, Mason called Dutcher, Tanner, and Cahil to his office.

“We've found
Tsumago.
She's in Luanda, Angola. We don't know how long she's been there—can't be more than two days—but it looks like she's refueling.”

“How'd you pin her down?” asked Tanner.

With four satellites on the search, the NPIC had a steady stream of possible matches coming in, Mason explained. These were fed into a Dell mainframe for analysis. Those that could not be ruled out were then rephotographed at greater resolution.

“This one's a 97.2 percent match,” Mason said, then looked at Tanner and Cahil. “There's a reason I'm sharing this with you. The president has approved a boarding. We're assembling a SEAL team. We want one of you to go along.”

Neither Tanner nor Cahil were surprised by the request; they knew
Tsumago
'
s layout firsthand. “Which one of us goes?” asked Tanner.

“We'll make that decision by tomorrow.”

Strait of Gibraltar,
Mediterranean Sea

While Bernice and Saul Weinman enjoyed a dinner of lobster bisque after a long day of shuffleboard and rumba lessons,
Valverde's
captain, Hiram Stein, stood on the bridge and watched the sun's last rays slip beneath the horizon.
So beautiful,
he thought. Twenty-one years at sea, and he never grew tired of the sight.

A former Israeli Navy officer, Stein had taken the posting as
Valverde's
master after retirement. With his wife dead and his children grown, the sea was his only remaining passion. Of course, managing a cruise liner was nothing like running a warship, but she was a good ship with a good crew.

On the foredeck a speck of light caught his eye. He waited for it to reappear, but saw nothing aside from the long rows of umbrella tables. Then it came again: a flashlight. It winked out. Probably someone who'd forgotten their suntan lotion, Stein thought and returned to his review of the deck log.

Ten minutes later, night had fully fallen. Gibraltar slowly passed abeam of
Valverde
as she cleared the straits and entered the Atlantic Ocean. Stein peered through his binoculars, trying to catch a glimpse of the rock's massive shadow.

Outside came the clang of footsteps on the ladder, followed by a knock on the hatch. “Are we expecting someone, sir?” asked the helmsman.

“No.” The bridge crew used the inside ladder, which was accessible only through a locked hatch, while the wing ladders were cordoned off with a placard reading Ship's Personnel Only. This was probably either a lost passenger or someone looking for a tour. Stein opened the hatch. “Can I help you?”

“Pardon,” the man said. “Can you help, please?”

He was Arab, Stein saw. Of the 306 passengers aboard
Valverde,
26 were Arab Christians. He noticed the flashlight in the man's hand. “What seems to be the problem?” said Stein.

“I believe I left my sunglasses beside the pool. I tried to find them, but …”

“That's no problem. Every evening the crew checks the pool area for lost items. Talk with the purser tomorrow morning; your glasses will likely be there.”

“Oh, thank you.” The man peered inside. “This is the pilothouse, yes?”

“Yes, sir. We call it the bridge.”

“The bridge.” He gave a sheepish wave to the helmsman. “This is where you steer the ship and control her speed?”

“That's right. If you'd like a tour, we—”

“Yes, I know. I have signed up for a tour. Very exciting.”

“Good,” said Stein. “Unless you need help finding your stateroom …”

“No, thank you, I will find my way.”

Stein closed the door and turned to the helmsman. “That's one,” he said with a smile. On each cruise the bridge crew ran a pool to guess how many passengers tried to finagle unauthorized tours. “Fourteen more, and I'm in the big money.”

Rappahannock River

Two nights in a row,
Tanner thought. He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, then wandered into the living room and turned on the TV. He surfed until he came to a channel playing
The Old Man and the Sea.
If anything could lull him to sleep, it would be listening to Spencer Tracy's commiserations with a marlin.

In the television's glow, he noticed a figurine sitting on the fireplace mantel. It was a carved cedar camel, no bigger than his palm. It had been there so long he'd forgotten about it. He smiled, remembering where—

He bolted upright in the chair. “Oh, God.”

Langley

One call to the Op Center told Tanner the AV technician arrived at 7:00. Briggs was waiting outside the audio room when he walked in. “Morning,” the tech said. “You're up early.”

“I need a favor,” Tanner said.

“You all right? You look kinda pale.”

“I'm fine. I need a favor.”

“Sure, what's up?”

Tanner explained. “Two conditions, though: I need it done by nine, and I need you to keep it quiet.”

“Whoa, hold on—”

“If there's any flak, I'll take it.”

The tech shrugged. “Okay. Can I get some breakfast first? I_”

“Tell me what you want; I'll get it for you.”

The tech finished at 8:45. Tanner listened to the results, thanked him, grabbed the tape, then headed upstairs to Mason's office. Dutcher was standing outside talking to Oaken and Cahil.

“Morning, Briggs,” said Leland.

Cahil said, “You don't look like you got much sleep.”

“I didn't. Leland, I need to talk to you.”

Mason walked past. “Okay, folks, let's get started.”

“After the meeting,” Dutcher said.

The meeting lasted an hour. To Tanner, it felt like ten.

So far, Mason reported, they'd had limited success with the Navy's archives, which were still in hard copy and microfiche format. After two days and 120 man-hours, the team had reviewed only about 20 percent of the relevant files.

The other avenue of research was faring better. Two top-level Manhattan Project members—one physicist and one strategic planner—had been located and were being flown in later that afternoon.

The NPIC reported
Tsumago
had left Angola and was heading north along the coast of Africa. Unless she changed course in the next two days, Mason said, her most probable destination was the Mediterranean.

After a few brief questions, the meeting ended. Once the room was empty except for Dutcher, Oaken, and Cahil, Tanner said, “I've got something you all need to see.”

Mason looked at him. “The last time you had that look on your face, we found out there was a nuke floating around. Are you about to ruin my day again?”

“Depends on how you define
ruin,
”
Tanner replied. He walked to the TV/VCR, inserted a tape, and hit Play.

There were a few moments of static on the screen, and then it cleared, showing what appeared to be a wedding reception beside an outdoor fountain. In the background a band played Handel's
Water Music.
The bride and groom stood at the head of the receiving line, greeting guests. The camera zoomed in on the groom's face: It was Tanner.

Mason said, “Briggs, what's this about—”

“Wait.”

He let it play for a few more seconds, then hit Pause as Elle embraced a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. His face was in profile.

Mason looked at Tanner. “I don't understand what—”

“For the past couple days, something's been nagging me. I couldn't put my finger on it until last night.”

“What is it?” asked Dutcher. He was concerned; Tanner looked almost ill. His eyes were distant, his voice barely a whisper.

“I think that man is the leader of the group that's got
Stonefish's
nuke.”

No one said a word.

They think I'm nuts,
Briggs thought.
Maybe they're right.
What was his proof? A voice he hadn't heard in over a decade? A gut feeling?

Mason cleared his throat. “Briggs, this is—”

“I know. That's why I had the lab run a comparison.” Tanner slid the report across the table. “Ninety-six percent match.”

Tanner had met Abu Azhar when he was thirteen years old. He and his parents were living in Beirut, where Henry taught European history and Azhar taught Middle East politics at American University. Despite the cultural differences, the two became fast friends, Henry the academic adventurer, Azhar the opinionated but gregarious Arab who was the antithesis of everything young Briggs had seen of Middle Easterners on television. Azhar didn't carry bombs under the folds of his robe, and he didn't rant about infidels. He was kind and warm and doted on Briggs every chance he got.

Azhar and his wife spent many weekends at their home along the Corniche overlooking the Mediterranean. Briggs, on the brink of adolescence and struggling to adjust to life in Lebanon where his white skin made him a target for bullies, came to think of Azhar not only as a friendly uncle but also as a guide to the rules of his new home.

One day, Tanner came home with a black eye and a split Up. He'd been beaten up by a gang of four Shiite boys. While Irene tended his wounds, Abu whispered, “Come see me tomorrow.”

For the next week, Azhar and Tanner secretly met in the gym at American University, where he taught Briggs the fundamentals of boxing—not classical boxing, per se, but rather “Beiruti boxing,” as he called it. Briggs avoided the gang as best he could until Azhar pronounced him ready.

“Remember, fight only if you have to. Fight only to defend yourself or what you care about. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Briggs.

“Not ‘think'!” Azhar replied firmly. “Violence must be a last resort. If you must use violence, do so with compassion. Life is a circle, Briggs. What you give, you eventually receive. What you forget or abandon will haunt you. Now do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Also, bullies are like a pack of dogs. To disperse the pack, pick the strongest one and hurt him. The others will run. Tomorrow, you will walk home from school the usual way, and you will not be afraid.”

The next day, the gang cornered Briggs in an alley. Through the taunts and the tossed dirt clods he kept walking until one of the boys—the leader—shoved him from behind. Hands shaking, Briggs set down his books, turned around, and broke the boy's nose. The boy fell to the ground, crying. The others ran.

Briggs helped the boy to his feet, handed him his handkerchief, then picked up his books and walked home.

That day, Abu Azhar earned a place in Tanner's heart.

After the Tanners left Beirut, Briggs and Azhar exchanged dozens of letters, but Briggs saw him and his wife only once, at his graduation. “Uncle Abu” gave him a carved wooden camel, an Azhar family heirloom his great-great-great-grandfather had carved from the family cedar tree. “This was to be passed down to my son,” Azhar said with a sad smile. “But … it was not to be.”

Briggs later asked Henry what Abu had meant, and his father told him the Azhars could not have children.

He saw Azhar only once more, Tanner explained. At his wedding to Elle.

“That's him,” Tanner murmured. “Hugging Elle.”

Dick Mason stared at the screen. The man was of medium height with a slight paunch, a broad smile, and lively eyes. Hardly the portrait of a terrorist. But then, after decades of invasion and civil war, who could say what had happened to Azhar?

“So you're telling me he's a family friend?” asked Mason.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you,” Tanner replied.

“Why didn't you stay in touch?”

“I was in college when Israel invaded Lebanon. I sent dozens of letters; none were answered. I assumed with the war …” Tanner shrugged. “Aside from going to look for him, there was nothing I could do. Eventually I got back there, but under the circumstances. …”

“I know. I read your file. You think Azhar is capable of this?”

“He had some strong ideas about politics, but I never saw anything militant in him. That was a long time ago, though. If we're talking about the man I knew then, I'd say no.”

“Dutch?”

“If Briggs says he's the one, that's good enough for me.”

“Well, I wish I could be as trusting,” replied Mason, “but paranoia is part of the job. Briggs, I assume you know you've just landed in the hot seat?”

Tanner nodded. “I know.”

For the next ten hours, Tanner was relentlessly grilled by George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht Gone were the smiles and friendly demeanor, gone also were the use of first names. This was an interrogation. They could not accept his story—or the tape, which was by now being dissected by the computer—until both had passed the toughest scrutiny.

Finally, at 11:00 P.M., he was called up to Mason's office. Dutcher, Cahil, and Oaken were already there. “Three things,” Mason began. “First, we've interviewed our two Los Alamos survivors. Both were involved in bomb construction.

“There were three operational bombs: Little Boy for Hiroshima, Fat Man for Nagasaki, and a third named Baby Sally, for an undisclosed location. The Baby Sally team received specific instructions: The device had to be submersible, time-detonated, and exactly thirty inches in circumference.”

“Roughly the size of
Stonefish's
standard torpedoes,” said Tanner.