End of Enemies (38 page)

Beirut

After Safir returned from the Riviera and confirmed Hossein Asseal's arrival, Tanner spent the night sitting on the balcony, staring out over the city and periodically checking Asseal's position on the Palm Pilot.

By sunrise the red square still had not moved.

Where is Abu Azhar
?
he wondered. He still couldn't accept the idea of his “uncle” as a terrorist, a man prepared to give Syria the power to kill hundreds of thousands of people—or worse still, a man prepared to use that power himself. The Abu he'd once known could not be that man, but what might time and war and death do to an otherwise gentle person? If history had shown anything, Tanner knew, they can turn anyone into a killer.

Nourani arrived at seven. “I hired two boys to keep an eye on Asseal,” he told Tanner. “Don't worry, they are trustworthy. Ahmed and Sadiq. Both from my home village.”

“I'd feel better if I handled—”

“You would stand out, Briggs. They can move about freely.”

Tanner thought it over; it made sense. “What did they find out?”

“Asseal and his woman—”

“Woman?”

“Of the evening,” Safir said. “He hired her for the week. I don't recognize her, but others have seen her from time to time. Her name is Lena, though I doubt it is her real name.”

“Could you reach her? Would she be open to some extra income?”

“Almost certainly. Why?”

“If I'm right, Asseal will do some sightseeing today. I want to know where he goes and what he does.”

“I will look into it. Anyway, Asseal gambled until about three in the morning, then went to bed … alone. He is still asleep.”

Asseal certainly was working hard at spending the Israelis' money
, Tanner thought.
Hopefully, today he would start earning some of it.

By late afternoon, Briggs was pacing the room, awaiting word from Nourani.

Earlier, Safir had found the woman and, after a bit of haggling, a price was agreed upon, with the proviso that whoever Nourani represented would do nothing to curtail her client's generosity.

According to Ahmed and Sadiq, Asseal awoke just after noon, had a late lunch with his companion, then took a cab into the Hamra district for a shopping spree. At two, the taxi took them south into the slums of Southwest Beirut, at which point the boys broke off and returned to Nourani.

“They say things are bad between here and the airport. Something between Amal and the Maronites.
Al'ane.
”

Tanner knew the phrase; it meant “it is being hooked or tangled.” In short, someone was fighting. The reason was unimportant. “Where is he now?”

“Napping. Energetic man, this Asseal. He left a wake-up call for eight, with dinner reservations at Amici for eight-thirty. I will speak to the woman before then.”

Tel Aviv

In his suite in the Moriah Plaza, Stucky finished decoding Tanner's latest message. On the table beside him sat a cell phone, a Palm Pilot similar to Tanner's, and a briefcase transceiver through which he could access both the MilStar and the GPS.

“Okay, let's see what you have to say, Briggs ol' buddy.”

TARGET LOCATED. GPS FUNCTIONING. NEGATIVE CONTACT ON TARGET. WAITING. UPDATE SAME TIME TOMORROW.

Stucky chuckled. “No luck, huh? Ain't that a bitch.” He set aside the message and began encoding his own to Langley.

Beirut

As his second day in the city came to a close, Tanner got his first nibble.

Following his return to the Riviera, Asseal dismissed Lena and ordered her to return later for dinner and more gambling.

She met Safir in a café on Mazzra Street. After shopping, she said, Asseal had ordered the taxi driver to take them into the Zokak al-Blat, a heavily populated Muslim neighborhood that, was seeing fierce fighting between the pro-Syrian
Saiqua
guerillas and the
Hezbollah.

Asseal made four stops, each within enclaves contested by both groups. He talked with several of the local commanders and passed around a photograph. Lena did not overhear the conversations, but judging from Asseal's mood, he'd had little luck.

On the way back to the hotel they took Damascus Road to the Green Line, at which point Asseal grew agitated, claiming they were being followed by a gray Volvo. He ordered the driver to hurry to Hamra, which he did, dropping them in the heart of the district.

“Did she see the Volvo?” Tanner asked Safir.

“No, but Asseal was clearly frightened.”

“He must have thought Hamra's traffic would shield him.”

“He doesn't know Beirut, then. They would kill him in front of the Vatican embassy if they really wanted him.”

“How about the groups he went to see? Was it just those two?”

“No, there were others, but she didn't recognize them.”

Briggs checked his watch. “Okay, Hossein's nightlife should be starting soon. Hold the fort. I'm going to take a walk around.”

He strolled along the Corniche, stared at pigeon rocks from Lighthouse Square for a while, and then, a little before eight, headed back up the Corniche and found a restaurant across from the Riviera.

Night had fully fallen, and down the block he could see the glare of Hamra's neon lights. The volume of strollers surprised him; either they were very brave, or they had faith in Hamra's reputation as being an unofficial haven from whatever troubles the rest of the city was experiencing. Though kidnappings and murders were still commonplace in Hamra, it rarely saw serious fighting.

The restaurant Tanner chose was run by an Armenian family, a husband and wife and their two young daughters, who served as waitresses. The husband seated him in a corner booth near the window.

“And how are you, sir?” asked the husband.

“Very well, thanks.”

Tanner ordered
sanbousek,
a pastry filled with meat, spices, and pine nuts, and a glass of
kefrayek.
As one of the daughters returned with his food, Tanner smiled and thanked her in Armenian, which drew a giggle and then whisperings with her sister behind the counter.

At 8:40, Hossein Asseal stepped through the hotel's revolving door with a woman on his arm.
The lovely Lena,
Tanner assumed. Her hair was bleach blond, her dress bright red and rhinestoned. They stepped into a waiting taxi, which made a U-turn on the Corniche and sped off.

Amici restaurant was only a few blocks to the south, so Tanner paid his bill, stepped outside, and started walking.

Suddenly, from around the corner came the squeal of tires, followed by the crunch of metal. He ran to the corner in time to see Asseal's taxi stopped in the intersection, blocked on each side by a car, one of them a gray Volvo.

A dozen men encircled the taxi. Waving AK-47s at the bystanders, they yanked open the doors. The driver was dragged out and thrown aside, then Lena, screaming and kicking. Three of the kidnappers crawled into the backseat. Arms and legs flailed; the taxi rocked from side to side. They dragged Asseal out, already bound and gagged, rushed him to the Volvo, threw him in the backseat, piled inside, and sped away.

Tanner stared at the empty street, his heart pounding. What he'd just seen had happened a hundred times before to diplomats and journalists. Fifteen seconds and you're gone. Just like that.

Down the Corniche he heard the wail of sirens. Both the taxi driver and Lena were on their feet, looking shaken but uninjured. In a flurry of flashing blue lights, the police pulled up.

Tanner turned and began jogging for the Commodore.

“Just now?” Safir asked. “They took him?”

“Off the Corniche,” Tanner said, connecting the Palm Pilot to his cell phone.

A few seconds passed before the Palm Pilot made contact with the GPS and downloaded the information. The red square flashed on the screen. Every ten seconds it blinked, then reappeared as Asseal's position changed. They were moving north, toward the coast. Tanner pulled out his map of the city, cross-referenced it with the Palm Pilot, then circled the port area.

“The Majidiya District,” he said. “Do you know it?”

Safir nodded. “Oh, yes. It's divided by the Green Line. Heavy fighting. That is a bad neighborhood, Briggs. If that's where they're taking him … Allah help him.”

Tanner handed him a pad and a pencil. “Draw me a map.”

USS
Mount Whitney
,
Rota,
Spain

Cahil could feel the tension around the briefing table, and he suddenly found himself wondering about Tanner.
What a god-awful job,
he thought. Go into a city at war and kill a man you consider a second father.
He'll make it,
Bear told himself and refocused on the task at hand.

Witney's
CIC was quiet and dark except for the occasional burst of radio traffic and the orange scope faces. In addition to Jurens, Cahil, and the rest of the team, they were joined by the ship's weatherman and her tactical action officer, or TAO.

Jurens said, “Okay, gentlemen, before we walk it through, a word from the rain dancer.”

The weatherman stepped forward. “By early morning you should have partly cloudy skies, a quarter moon, light surface fog, and a sea state of three or so … choppy, but manageable.”

“How about water temperature?” asked Cahil.

“Sixty-eight, give or take.”

Bear thought,
Pretty cold if we're in the water more than a few hours.
But then, if that happened, something would have already gone terribly wrong.

“Intell?” Jurens asked.

“Given the target's possible ESM capabilities, they've called off the P-3, but as of an hour ago, satellite imagery showed her on track, same course and speed. We'll get updates up until your departure. As for transport, the Pave Low is fueled and ready to fly;
Ford's
on station, shadowing the target at two hundred miles.”

“Any activity aboard?”

“Limited movement above decks and no lookouts or patrols that we can see.”

Sconi glanced at Cahil. That tended to confirm what they'd hoped: Having no idea they'd been compromised,
Tsumago's
crew was not expecting an assault.

“Radio traffic?” asked Bear.

“Zero. Best guess is they're in EMCON,” said the TAO, referring to emission control status. No radio and no radar—nothing for the opposition to home in on.

Jurens thanked the two officers, and they left. Once they were gone, he unrolled
Tsumago's
blueprint. “I ain't gonna bore you boys with the transportation details, so we'll pick it—”

Wilts said, “Uh, one thing, Skipper—”

“No, Wilts, there will
not
be an in-flight movie. No cocktails, either.”

There was general laughter.

“So,” Jurens continued. “Two teams: Alpha and Sierra, eight men each. Alpha, boarding by helicopter, will be led by me. Sierra, boarding by sea, will be led by Cahil.

“Bear, timing is critical. Alpha needs to hit the deck within six minutes of your boarding. Nothing happens until you say so.

“Sierra will clear the first two decks. Make sure your take-downs are quick and quiet, and be damned sure the ladders are secure, because we'll be right on your heels.

“Alpha will fast-rope onto the afterdeck, then split into two elements. One, led by Cochran, will take the signal bridge and the pilothouse. Cochran, make sure you cut their comms and anything else that looks hinky.

“The other element, led by me, will head below decks, bypass Sierra, and take the engine room.”

Jurens looked around the table. “Estimated duration for the op is nine minutes, start to finish. Remember, everybody aboard is a bad guy.”

Everyone understood the order: Shoot first, don't bother asking questions later.

“Any questions?”

There were none. They'd lived this mission eighteen hours a day for the past five days. Now all that remained was Murphy's Law of Special Ops: Be ready for something to go wrong, because it will. What makes a successful mission is not the absence of glitches but controlling them when they pop up.

“One last thing,” Jurrens said. “We all know what
Tsumago's
carrying; we know what could happen if we don't get the job done.” He looked each man in the eye. “There is no prize for second place on this one, gentlemen.”

Canary Islands

Eight hundred fifty miles southwest of Rota,
Valverde
clearing the headland of Puerto del Rosario. To port, the island's lights twinkled in the darkness.

“Clearing the peninsula, Captain,” said the helmsman.

“Very well,” said Stein. “Navigator, course to Fuerteventura?”

“Straight along the coast, sir. Zero-eight-five. At ten knots, we'll be there before dawn.”

“Good. Helm: zero-eight-five, speed ten.”

Satisfied they were on course, Stein turned over the bridge to the officer of the deck and headed to his cabin for a late supper.

Tsumago

Forty miles south of
Velverde
,
Tsumago
steered a northeasterly course along the coast of Western Sahara. On the bridge, Mustafa al-Baz studied the chart under the glow of a small lamp.

“We're ready, sir,” called the radar operator. “System is on standby, set for sector search only.”

“Good. One sweep only. Any more, and we risk detection.”

“Understood.”

“Proceed.”

The operator reached above the panel, energized the radar system, let four seconds pass, then shut it down. “Got it,” he said. “Bearing three-five-zero.”

Al-Baz marked the chart and then, using a pair of dividers and a compass, projected their position ahead three hours and made a second mark. He measured the distance between the two, then did a quick calculation.

Al-Baz nodded.
Perfect
…
“Helm, come left to course zero-three-eight.”

National Military Command Center,
Pentagon

Sitting around the conference table in the center of the amphitheater were Dutcher, Mason, Talbot, and General Cathermeier. At nearby consoles, technicians managed radio traffic and updated the room's wide-screen monitors, each of which was capable of displaying real-time satellite and live-feed imagery.

The door opened, and the president strode in. “Where's our target, General?”

“Passing the border between Western Sahara and Morocco,” said Cathermeier.

“Give me a who's who.”

“We'll be hearing six call signs, Mr. President. We're designated Coaldust. Cowboy is
Ford,
the frigate trailing behind the target. Boxcar and Trolley are the team's transports, a C-130, and a Pave Low helicopter. Once the teams make their jump-off, they'll split into Alpha and Sierra.”

“Where are they now?”

“Alpha is waiting aboard
Ford
;
Sierra's on the Tarmac at Madeira.”

“The Madeira Islands? That's Portugal. How'd we get their cooperation?”

“We didn't,” replied Leland Dutcher. “During a routine training flight, Trolley developed engine trouble and had to make an emergency landing. Once we give the word, she'll make a sudden recovery.”

The president grinned. “Go on, General.”

“We'll be getting target updates from a Keyhole every thirty minutes. Last one showed
Tsumago's
projected course clear of traffic. All the pieces are in place, Mr. President. We're ready.”

The president was silent for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay, General, give the go-ahead.”

Valverde

At two A.M. Stein's cabin phone buzzed. “Captain.”

“First Officer, sir. We've just received a distress call from a Tunisian cargo ship … the
Alameira.
”

“What's the problem, Danny?”

“Some of their crew is ill, sir. They're requesting medical assistance.”

“What's our position?”

“Twenty-five miles from Fuertaventura. They're forty-two miles south of us.”

Stein did the calculation.
Alameira
was several hours from the nearest port. Too long if the crewmen were gravely ill. “I'm coming up.”

When he reached the bridge, he took the radio handset from Danny and pressed the transmit key. “This is Captain Stein of
Valverde.
Please explain your situation.”

“We have five sick crewman aboard, Captain. We don't know what to do.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“They are having seizures of some sort and trouble breathing.”

“Understood,
Alameira
”
said Stein. “Stand by.”

Stein leaned over the chart, made several measurements, then thought for a moment. He keyed the handset
“Alameira,
we will render assistance. What's your best speed?”

“Eighteen knots.”

Danny whispered, “Damned fast for a freighter.”

Stein nodded. “Very well,
Alameira.
Come left to three-five-zero, best speed. We are turning south to meet you.”

“Thank you,
Valverde.
Please hurry.”

Stein switched off and called, “Helm, come right to one-six-five, all ahead full.”

At hank speed,
Valverde
could not make twenty-two knots. Combined with
Alameira's
eighteen, Stein estimated they would meet in approximately an hour, which was why after only thirty-five minutes he was surprised to hear the radar operator call, “Got her, sir. Dead on the bow.”

“What?” Stein snatched up his binoculars and peered through the window. “Danny, I thought you said she was forty miles away.”

“She was, sir. At least I thought the radar—”

“Never mind, we must have misplotted her. She's here now.”

In the rush to render assistance, Stein had just made a terrible mistake. There could be only two reasons for the early rendezvous: Either
Alameira's
original position had been in error, or the freighter was capable of making almost double her reported top speed. Since Stein knew this to be impossible, he assumed the former.

“Messenger, go wake the doctor and tell him to expect patients.”

After bringing
Valverde
to within a hundred yards of
Alameira,
Stein watched through binoculars as the freighter's launch was lowered into the water and the five sick crewmen were helped aboard. The launch cast off and started across the water. Stein ordered the main deck lights turned on.

“Danny, go down and make sure they get aboard safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

Five minutes later,
Alameira's,
ailing crewmen were being walked up the midship's ladder and into the superstructure. Danny returned to the bridge with one of the freighter's crew.

“The captain of
Alameira,
sir.”

The man was of medium height with black hair and a handlebar mustache. His eyes were red-rimmed. They shook hands. “I cannot express my gratitude, Captain Stein.”

“My pleasure, sir. Not to worry. Our doctor is very good.”

“Of that I am certain. We were lucky you were in the area.”

“Join me in my cabin? We can have some coffee while we await the doctor's diagnosis.”

“You are very kind.”

Stein turned the bridge over to Danny, led the way to his cabin, and seated his guest. They chatted about the weather until the bulkhead phone rang.

“Ah .. . word from the doctor,” Stein said, grabbing the handset. “Captain.”

“First officer, sir. Uh, sir, we have a situation.”

“What is it, Danny?”

Stein heard muffled voices in the background. “Uh … sir, they say your guest will explain everything.”

“They?” said Stein. “Danny, who—”

The phone went dead.

Stein felt the first shiver of fear. He turned around and found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. He jumped to his feet.

“Sit down, Captain,” said Mustafa al-Baz.

“What is this?”

“Sit down.”

“I will not. I want to know—”

“Sit down
!”
al-Baz shouted. The gun remained steady.

Stein complied. They sat in silence for thirty seconds and then from below, Stein heard the clatter of automatic weapons, followed by screaming and shouting. Then silence.

“My God, what are you doing?” Stein said. “We tried to help you—”

“Captain, if you speak again without being spoken to, I will shoot you.”

A few minutes passed, then the bulkhead phone rang. Al-Baz picked it up, listened, said something in Arabic, then hung up. “Captain, your ship is under our control. The engine room, radio room, and the bridge belong to us. As we speak, your passengers are being gathered together in the main dining room. Those officers and crew not on duty have been locked inside the signal bridge. Do you have any questions?”

“Have you hurt any of my passengers or crew?”

“Not so far.”

“What do you want?”

“All in good time, Captain. First, to the bridge.”

Al-Baz prodded Stein from the cabin and up the ladder to the pilothouse. Danny, the helmsman, and the navigator were being held at gunpoint by a trio of men in black wet suits.

Danny said, “Captain, what—”

“It's all right. Just do as they say.”

“Wise advice, Captain,” said al-Baz. “However, it has been my experience that people in your situation are not so easily convinced.” Al-Baz turned. “You there. Danny, is it? You are the first officer?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Don't,” Stein whispered.
“Please,
don't. He's just a boy.”

Al-Baz offered Stein a cold smile. “We were all boys once, Captain.”

Al-Baz raised his pistol and shot Danny in the forehead. Danny stumbled backward two steps, teetered for a moment, then crumpled the deck.

“You bastard! You rotten bastard! There was no reason for that.”

“I have your attention, do I not?”

“Yes, damn it—”

“Then it was worthwhile.” He handed Stein a slip of paper. “Read this over the ship-wide intercom.”

Eyes fixed on Danny's lifeless body, Stein grabbed the intercom handset. His hand was shaking; he steadied it with his opposite hand. He keyed the microphone.