End of Enemies (36 page)

Camp Perry

Tanner's days became a blur of lectures and mock-ups. As Stan put it, “Learning something is one thing. Doing it on the ground over and over until it comes naturally is another.”

A series of planned exercises tested his cover story, language skills, and surveillance techniques, while others were impromptu affairs, one of them a late-night “kidnapping” that ended with a frighteningly real interrogation that took Tanner straight back to that Beirut basement. As the memories came flooding in, he found himself fighting to keep a grip on his emotions.

The afternoon of the last day, Stan pronounced Tanner “ready as you're gonna get,” toasted him with a cup of coffee, then gave him an overview of what he could expect once he was in-country.

The previous few days had seen increased factional fighting in Beirut, Stan reported. Several artillery duels and dozens of skirmishes had erupted along the city's Green Line, which had officially been abolished three years before but still unofficially separated Muslim West Beirut from Christian East Beirut. Mortar attacks had been reported in several districts and the Beirut Airport, though still operating, had curtailed its flights by 20 percent, a sure sign all was not well.

In the Bekka Valley, Syrian troops appeared to be gearing up for the upcoming rotation, which was expected within ten days, depending on when the relieving force wrapped up its exercises in the desert.

“And we ain't helping much,” Stan said. “The two battle groups in the area are making everyone nervous, including Iraq, who's getting antsy about Iran playing so close to the border. But I suspect that's why Iran's doing it.”

It was relatively quiet along the southern Lebanon-Israeli border and the Golan Heights, Stan continued. Relatively quiet for the Mideast, that was. “Stick to the central sections of Beirut and don't wander along the Green Line, or you're likely to find yourself being shot at,” Stan concluded.

Tanner nodded. He knew all this, but hearing it again was reassuring. He felt himself slipping back into the Beirut mind-set, where chaos was a way of life and on opposite sides of any given street you can see a posh cafe and a demolished building.

“My best advice is to be anonymous.”

“That could be difficult,” Tanner replied. “I'll be short on time.”

“So I gathered. Do what you gotta do, but remember: Beirut can change overnight. You go to bed on a Monday, and Tuesday morning you're at war. I've lived and breathed Lebanon for twenty years, and I'll tell you this: Right now the average Beiruti citizen is stocking up on canned peaches and water.”

After leaving Perry, Briggs drove to Indian Head, where a phone call from the guard shack brought Cahil to meet him. Bear pulled up in a Suburban and jumped out. He was dressed in black BDUs, and his face was streaked with camouflage paint.

“Welcome to Camp Not-on-the-Map,” he said as Tanner climbed in.

“It hasn't changed much,” Tanner replied with a smile. Indian Head felt like home. Located a few miles north of Quantico on the Potomac, Indian Head once specialized in NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) training. Now the 200-acre backwater base was used by SEALs and Marine Force Recon to conduct exercise assaults on oil platforms and ships.

Cahil stopped beside a pier. Anchored a hundred yards offshore was an old, rust-streaked freighter roughly the size of
Tsumago.
Tanner could see several black-clad figures crawling over her superstructure. The muffled booms of concussion grenades and the chatter of assault rifles drifted across the water. Down the pier stood a group of trainers armed with bullhorns and stopwatches.

Tanner asked, “How many on the team?”

“A full platoon … sixteen. We just heard
Tsumago
is still headed north. Plan is, we're going to take her near the Canary Islands.”

“Two more days, then. Will it be enough time?”

“I think so. We're working it hard.” Bear laughed. “Hell, I can see the layout in my sleep.”

“What've you told Maggie?” Tanner asked.

“That I'd be out of town for a few days. She's figured it out, though.”

And she won't say a word,
Tanner thought. It was a silly superstition he and Bear shared, and one that had rubbed off on Cahil's wife. Don't talk about the worst and it won't happen.

Tanner had already begun what he'd come to call “the narrowing.” Bit by bit, his mind was discarding excess baggage and focusing on the essentials: Get in, get the job done, get out. Grocery shopping, doing laundry, friends, family … he could feel them all slipping away. It was a hugely selfish process but a necessary one. It was even harder for Bear and his family, Tanner knew.

A motor whaleboat pulled alongside the pier and a figure hopped out.

“Sconi Bob,” Tanner said.

“The one and only,” said Cahil.

Jurens jogged up to the Suburban. Tanner rolled down the window and stuck out his hand. Jurens shook it. “Briggs, how're things?”

“Good, Sconi, how about you?” Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a shaved head, a goatee, and an easy smile.

“Damned fine. Aside from having to put up with ol' Mama Bear here.”

“He tells me you've got a good team.”

“The best. We're ready. Two more days is just icing on the cake.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably everyone. Slud's here, Johnson, Smitty, Wilts …”

Tanner nodded. He'd worked with all of them; good men. The Navy spec war community was a close-knit family, and he often missed it.

“Listen, Briggs, good to see ya. Coming, Bear?”

“In a minute.”

They watched Jurens hop back into the whaleboat and head back toward the freighter. After a long silence, Cahil asked, “When do you go?”

“Tonight.”

Cahil stared at the windshield. “CNN says things are heating up over there.”

“So I heard.”

“Listen, bud, just make sure you watch yourself. …”

Tanner smiled. “I will, Bear. You too. Come on, drive me back.”

Tanner's next stop was his parents' home. Part of him knew he was making the rounds, saying his good-byes, but he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Over a dinner of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, he told them he'd be gone for a while. No, nothing to worry about, just business. Yes, he'd call if he got a chance. Henry simply nodded; his mother excused herself and wandered into the kitchen.

Briggs wanted to ask his father about Azhar, but he didn't dare. Henry would make the connection, and he loved Abu as much as Briggs did. If the worst came to pass, how could Tanner ever explain what he'd done?

Finally, he said good-bye, shook his father's hand, hugged his mother, accepted a plate of leftovers, and left.

Langley

Waiting for him in the Operations Center were Mason, Coates, Dutcher, and Art Stucky. Coates handed Tanner his passport, wallet, and duffel bag containing clothes and toiletries, all of Canadian manufacture.

“You're backstopped as a freelance writer working on a piece for a Montreal-based travel agency,” said Coates. “You already know the cover particulars and fallback stories. If you're pressed, you've got two to work with.”

Tanner smiled to himself.
Pressed
was spook-speak for
interrogated.
A fallback story is designed to convince captors they have extracted the truth from their prisoner, when in fact they've simply uncovered yet another layer of the lie.

Coates continued. “You'll have two cell phones, one primary and one backup. They're similar to the ones you had in Japan. Same daily changing crypto, same rotating frequency. If you're compromised, press star zero one three; the internal software will be scrambled.” Next, Coates showed Tanner how to connect the phone to a modified Palm Pilot. “You've got a dedicated MilStar satellite for the next ten days and priority access to GPS.”

The Palm Pilot would perform two functions: One, it would allow Tanner to encode reports and send them via burst transmission to the MilStar, which would bounce them down to Stucky in Tel Aviv for routing to Langley; and two, it would supply tracking information from the Global Positioning System.

“Questions?” asked Coates.

“None,” said Tanner.

Coates and Mason shook his hand and left. Dutcher took him aside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Travel safe. I'll see you when you get back. Dinner's on me.”

“Deal.”

Dutcher nodded at Stucky, then left.

When the door shut and they were alone, Stucky said, “Small world, huh?”

“How so?”

“You working for me. Ironic.”

Tanner gave him a hard stare. “Let's get something straight, Art: You don't like me; I don't like you. I can live with that. But if you can't do your job, say so now.”

“I can do my goddamned job. I don't need you telling me—”

“Good. And I'll do mine, and we'll get the job done.”

Stucky chuckled; his teeth were nicotine-yellow. “Suit yourself. Come on, I'll show you the comms.”

An hour later, the center was empty except for Mason. Coates, Dutcher, and a lone technician. “When does Stucky land?” Dutcher asked Coates.

“Four hours before Tanner.
Shin Bet
will meet him at Ben-Gurion. The fly arrived this morning, their time.”

Dutcher looked at Mason and found himself wondering if the DO knew about Stucky. As much as Dutcher liked Mason, he knew the DCI was grimly practical. If Stucky was the right man for the job, his past might not matter—especially given the stakes.

The phone rang. Coates snapped it up, listened for a moment, then hung up. He turned to the group. “Tanner's airborne.”

Tel Aviv,
Israel

As Tanner's plane was taking off from Heathrow, Stucky was leaving Ben-Gurion Airport in Avi Haron's car. The windows were rolled down, and a breeze blew through the interior. In the distance Stucky could see the blue expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.

“How was your flight?” Haron asked him.

“Fine.” Stucky had taken an immediate dislike to Haron; he was too cheerful by half. “Why's it so damned hot?”

“It is what we call
hamseen
… a warm, dry wind. It is Arabic for—”

“So where do we find this guy?”

“He is waiting for us in a cafe just outside the West Bank.”

“Waiting?”

Haron smiled. “Yes, Mr. Stucky. You see, we've done this before.”

The cafe, which lay within shouting distance of the West Bank checkpoint, was built of rough ochre stone and cedar supports. On the front terrace, rows of wooden benches were filled with customers.

Haron's car and two Israeli Army jeeps screeched to a stop in front of the cafe, and a dozen soldiers leapt out. The patrons, all Arabs, hardly took notice, most continuing to drink their coffee and smoke from their
hookahs.

“Stay here,” Haron said to Stucky.

Haron got out and marched onto the terrace. He went from table to table, examining faces and asking questions until he came to Hossein Asseal, who was sitting alone. Haron asked for his identification. Asseal shook his head.

“Take him,” Haron ordered.

Asseal was handcuffed, dragged to one of the jeeps, and thrown in the backseat. Haron got into the car and they pulled away. “See?” he told Stucky with a smile. “Simple.”

They watches Asseal through a one-way mirror. Seated across from him were a pair of interrogators, one Mossad, the other
Shin Bet.
All three were smiling and joking. The room was thick with cigarette smoke.

“How long do we hold him?” asked Haron.

“Four more hours should do.”

Haron nodded. “We'll be done with his things within the hour. After that, it's just a matter of satisfying appearances. Believe me, thirty minutes after we took him, half the West Bank knew.” Haron grinned. “Mr. Asseal is well-known, you see. He thinks of himself as quite the businessman.”

“Yeah, well, business is about to turn sour.”

Haron excused himself and stepped into the cell. He dismissed the interrogators. Once alone, he shook Asseal's hand. “My old friend, how are you?”

“Better since your message,
effendi.
You said it was urgent, so here I am.”

Haron slid an eight-by-ten photograph across the table. “Do you remember this?”

“Of course. Khartoum. A fine day. It was helpful to you?”

“Very. You see the man in the middle, the Arab with the mustache? His name is Mustafa al-Baz. We believe he's in Beirut. We want you to gather more information on his activities. Can you do it?”

Asseal frowned. “Of course, but Beirut it such a dangerous place. …”

“Five thousand. Half now, half on delivery.”

“U.S. dollars?”

Haron nodded. “And a ten percent bonus if you can get the information within five days.”

“Five days? That is not much time. Forty percent.”

They haggled over the bonus until Haron agreed to twenty percent. “An extra thousand upon delivery.”

Asseal smiled. “Done.”

With Haron's car in the lead, the convoy returned to Ben Gurion Airport via a circuitous route that took them through several Arab neighborhoods. Asseal, already mentally spending the $2,500 in his wallet, did not notice.

Others did, however.

At the terminal he was lifted bodily from the jeep, his handcuffs were removed, and his suitcase was dropped on the pavement. With a soldier on each arm, he was marched to the El Al ticket counter. Travelers in nearby lines stared momentarily, then turned away: Just another unwelcome Arab.

The soldiers released Asseal and shoved his briefcase into his chest.

“Good luck,” Haron whispered to him, gave a wink, and walked away.

Falls Church,
Virginia

This was to be their second and final call to Abu Azhar.

Though he wouldn't call it respect, Latham had developed a certain regard for Fayyad. Since his capture the Jordanian hadn't once tried to defend the things he'd done; he was resigned, Latham thought. Similarly, he hadn't requested anything in return for his cooperation, save one. He wanted to see Judith. Latham agreed to pass along the request but made no guarantees. This, too, Fayyad accepted without comment.

Once the recorders were running, Latham had the technician dial the Nicosia front number. The procedure was the same as last time. An hour after Fayyad's initial message, they received a call and another booth number, which they quickly cross-referenced and routed to the safe house switchboard.

Abu Azhar picked up on Fayyad's third ring.

“You recall the man from Angola we spoke of?” Fayyad said.

“Yes.”

“His name is Hossein Asseal. He has worked for both American and Israeli firms. The former has asked him for a referral on one of our employees.”

“He is coming here?”

“That is what we've been told.”

“When?” asked Azhar.

“He's either already left Tel Aviv or will be very soon. He should be arriving evening or early morning, your time.”

Beirut

As Hossein Asseal was leaving Tel Aviv, Tanner was just touching down at Beirut International Airport. Once the jet taxied to a stop, he sat staring out the window until most of the passengers collected their carry-ons, then stood up and headed toward the exit. He got a perfunctory “Enjoy Beirut, sir,” from the flight attendant and started down the stairs.

Immediately the odor washed over him: the unmistakable scent of Beirut. Someone had once described it as a mixture of “cooking spices, gunpowder, dashed hopes, and barely controlled terror.” It fit. It was the
tawattur
—the tension—that epitomized Lebanon.

He shouldered his duffel and joined the queue to Customs.

The terminal was a cultural smorgasbord. Shiites stood beside Christians, who bantered with Druze, who laughed with Armenian Jews. On a dark street they might be enemies; here they were neighbors. Ahead, a young Lebanese woman in denim shorts and a pink T-shirt emblazoned with Hot Stuff stood behind a Sunni Muslim woman dressed in a black
aba
and veil. Amid the cacophony of voices, Tanner could hear snippets of French, Arabic, and English.
A different world.

It took an hour to reach the desk and thirty seconds to be cleared. For whatever reason, most Lebanese love journalists, and they hold a special affinity for the Canadian variety, who they believe to be nonimperialist and therefore neutral.

Tanner bought half a dozen newspapers from the gift shop, two of them large-circulation journals,
al-Liwa
and
Monday Morning,
the other four propaganda sheets for several of Beirut's dominant factions. These, he hoped, would give him a feel for the climate of the city.

The taxi stand was bustling, so he found a bench and sat down. Several vendors and cabbies approached him with their pitch, but he declined.

Before long, a battered yellow taxi with a
Playboy
air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror screeched to the curb. A rotund Arab in a starched white
dish-dash
hopped onto the sidewalk, bartered unsuccessfully with several customers, then stopped before Tanner.

“Taxi, sir? Very clean, fair price.”

Tanner shrugged. “Why not?”

Within minutes they were speeding north into Beirut proper. The road was littered with abandoned cars and the occasional armored personnel carrier. In a nearby field, children scampered over a charred T-64 tank; a hundred yards away sat a refugee camp, little more than a cluster of tents and shanties bordered by a sewage canal in which more children splashed and played.

Just north of the sports stadium, the driver pointed over a rubble-strewn berm. “Sabra. Chatila.” Briggs knew the words well.

In September of 1970, Phalangist agents tipped off the Israelis that the Sabra and Chatila refugee camps were in fact PLO staging areas for
Fatah
guerillas. The Israeli army surrounded the area but refused to enter, instead allowing the Phalange Militia to round up the guerillas. What followed was a massacre that took the lives of almost 900 Palestinian civilians, many of them women and children. Soon afterward, Sabra and Chatila became a rallying cry for anti-Zionist terrorist groups.

As the taxi turned onto the Corniche Mazra, the driver said, “I was so happy to receive your call, Briggs. It is splendid to once again see you.”

Tanner reached forward and squeezed Safir Nourani's shoulder. “And you, my friend. How have you been?”

“Very well.”

“Your family?”

“Happy and safe.”

“The city?”

“Ahhh.
Himyit.
”
Roughly translated, it meant “things are getting warm.” Given Safir's penchant for understatement, it meant the city was very dangerous. As proof, Safir pointed to a pair of bullet holes in his windshield. “Just yesterday.”

“You can give me a rundown later,” said Tanner. “First, how about one of your famous whirlwind tours?”

“Muslim side or Christian side?”

“Muslim.”

“Malesh
!
Hold on!”

Without so much as a turn signal or a beep of the horn, Safir swung his taxi around a pair of cars, then screeched onto Boulevard Verdun, heading north toward the old lighthouse and the Corniche.

“I see you haven't lost your touch,” Tanner said, clutching the door handle.

“Thank you,
effendi
!”

Safir Nourani was a self-proclaimed “closet Druze,” living and working in the city, while still retaining ties to Druze enclaves in the Chouf Mountains. Druze were a secretive and close-knit offshoot sect of Islam, with a reputation of being fierce fighters when crossed.

Tanner and Safir (who'd been recommended to Tanner by his old mentor Ned Billings) had been friends for eight years, having met when Briggs and his team had slipped into northern Lebanon to gather intelligence on
Pasdaran
activity in Baalbek. Safir had served not only as their guide but also as their eyes and ears. If there was news worth knowing, Safir had it.

For the next hour, he took Tanner through the city while giving a running monologue of what had changed and what had not: Here was a supermarket gutted by a mortar attack; there a French cultural minister was kidnapped last month; three car bombs on this street last week; there a sniper killed four people two days ago. Safir's account was a laundry list of terror, events most people only read about but Beirutis lived every day.

They passed through a dozen
hajez,
or checkpoints, each manned by teenagers carrying AK-47s, the weapon of choice for the Beiruti
musallahheen.
So far, Tanner had seen neither police nor soldiers. If tradition held, the authorities were holed up in their barracks, waiting for the problems to work themselves out.

At each
hajez,
they were cleared through as Safir produced the correct password: sometimes a shouted slogan, sometimes a bit of torn paper taken from that particular group's propaganda sheet, and sometimes a smile and
“Keef al haal
!”

At a checkpoint near the Museum Crossing, a gunman demanded money for safe passage and reached into Tanner's jacket. Without thinking, Briggs grabbed the hand. A dozen AKs jutted through the car's windows. After two minutes of debate, Safir appeased the leader with a warm Coca-Cola from the glove compartment, then drove away.

“Please excuse,
effendi,
but that was unwise of you.”

“I know. Sorry. I'm still trying to acclimate.”

“I understand.” Safir swerved to miss a crater; the Playboy air freshener twirled. “So: Can I assume you will need my services while you are here?”

“If you're available.”

“For you, of course.”

“As for—”

“No, no. Money is not discussed between friends. You will pay me what you think is fair. We will not discuss it again.”

They followed the Corniche to American University, then on to Hamra, Beirut's commercial center. Here there were boutiques, shoe shops, markets: everything a western business district had save the rubble-strewn streets and bullet-ridden walls.

“Seen enough?” asked Safir.

“Yes. I'm at the Commodore. Is it still the same?”

“The Commodore never changes,
effendi.
It is bomb-proof, that place.”

He dropped Tanner at the doors and promised to return at eight.

Milling inside the lobby were a dozen or so journalists, all wearing either the thousand yard stare or the cheerful such-is-life visage that Beirut eventually foists on its visitors. A pair of saloon-style doors led to the bar, and through them Tanner could hear laughing. The birthplace for many an alcoholic, the Commodore's bar saw brisk business.

The clerk rang for the bellman, then told Tanner he must check in with the local media liaison, in this case a chain-smoking PLO man Briggs found in a small back office. Next week, Tanner knew, the liaison might be an Amal soldier or a PFLP thug. It all depended on who had the muscle.

“Passport,” the PLO man said. Tanner handed it over. The man studied it for a long minute, then squinted at Tanner. “American?”

“Canadian.”

“You have media pass?”

“No,” Tanner said. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

“How long?”

“Five days, maybe a week.”

“One week, fifty dollars. American.”

Tanner counted out the money and laid a twenty on top of it. “For your help.” In the Mideast it was called
baksheesh-
—socially acceptable bribery.