End of Enemies (42 page)

“And you know nothing about this cargo? Or the terrorists' intentions?”

“No.”

“Why bring this to us? Why take the risk? Your people would consider it an act of treason.”

“Believe me, I know that. I've watched your country fight for survival all my adult life. You're surrounded by neighbors sworn to destroy you. And now, because somebody hasn't got the balls to do the right thing, you're staring down the barrel of a gun.” Stucky shook his head. “I can't sit still and let it happen.”

Stucky had just verbalized the thoughts of the average Israeli citizen and soldier. The never-ending fight for survival was a heritage with which they all lived. “We're grateful you've brought this to our attention,” Sherabi said. “We'll consider—”

“There might be a way to handle the situation.”

“I'm listening.”

“The man we sent into Beirut is familiar with the leader of the group. They're close friends, in fact … almost family as I understand it.”

“Pardon me?”

“Langley thought it would give him an advantage. I disagreed. I thought it would cloud his judgment. I kept my mouth shut. Unfortunately, it looks like I was right. Here.”

Sherabi took the slip of paper and read it.

TARGET TAKEN. UNABLE TO TRACK DUE TO GPS MALFUNCTION. WILL ATTEMPT TO TRACK BY ALTERNATIVE MEANS.

“That's his most recent transmission,” Stucky said.

“And?” replied Sherabi.

“I ran a system test on the GPS link. It's working perfectly.”

“You believe he is lying.”

“I think it's worse than that I think he has no intention of doing the job.”

Sherabi suddenly understood where Stucky was going. The CIA man had a personal agenda. They were in very dangerous territory now, Sherabi knew. Was it worth the risk to have a CIA division chief in their pocket?

He shrugged. “I'm sorry to hear that However, I don't see how it affects us.” Sherabi saw a flicker of frustration on Stucky's face.
Anxious boy.

“Don't you get it? We've got a golden opportunity.”

“Speak plainly, Mr. Stucky. What are you suggesting?”

“He's in place; he has the access. I say we use him.”

White House

“How many casualties?” the President asked.

“One dead, two missing,” replied General Cathermeier. “Wilts died in the water. We don't know what happened to Sludowski and Cahil.”

“Cahil was your man, Dutch?”

Dutcher nodded absently. Forty years in this business and it had never gotten any easier to send people into harm's way. It didn't help that he thought of Bear as family. “Yes, sir.”

“Family?”

“Wife and daughter. I've already been to see them.”

“Whatever comes, we'll make sure they're taken care of. Dick, what do we know about the hijacking?”

“We think we've pieced it together,” Mason replied.
“Valverde's
captain said they received a distress call from a freighter we now know was
Tsumago.
They asked for medical help, then ferried some crewmen to
Valverde.
While Stein was occupied with the man claiming to be the freighter's captain—al-Baz, we believe—a dozen men swam across and took the ship. Al-Baz shot the first officer—”

“What? Why?”

“According to Stein, to convince him they were serious. Al-Baz then demanded a passenger manifest and began rounding up hostages, which they then ferried back to
Tsumago.
”

Very smart,
Dutcher thought. The hostages would not only forestall further attacks, but they would help mask
Tsumago's
true purpose. Why take hostages if you held a nuclear weapon as a trump card?

Moreover, hostages would buy time. While
Tsumago
steamed ever closer to Israel, the focus would be on securing their release. Once the Israelis realized the truth, they would face a nightmare choice: Sink the ship, killing a hundred of their own citizens and triggering an explosion that would turn the Med into a radioactive cesspool, or risk the device falling into enemy hands—or worse yet, have it go off in Tel Aviv Harbor. It was the perfect lose-lose-lose scenario.

“What do we know about this group?” asked the president.

“They claimed to be the Arab Liberation Command. It's a fanatical pro-Iraq group.”

“I thought al-Baz was a Syrian operative.”

“He may still be. One is a ruse, the other the truth. At this point, we can't rule either of them out. Both are capable of this kind of operation.”

“I need options, gentlemen. General, militarily, what can we do?”

“Another boarding is out of the question. By now
Tsumago
is buttoned up like a drum. Plus, we're blind. We don't know where the hostages are or the location of the device. What the Israelis are going to do is anybody's guess.”

The president removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well, I'm afraid we're going to find out. When we're finished here, I'm calling the prime minister.” Talbot began to protest, and the president waved him off. “They deserve to know what they're facing. They may already know about
Tsumago,
and I'll be damned if I'm going to withhold the rest of it.”

The president turned to Dutcher. “Dutch, what about your man in Beirut? Can we pin any hope on him?”

How to answer that
?
Dutcher thought If he had to gamble everything on any one person, it would be Tanner. Dutcher had done so before and never regretted it. Still, Briggs had less than seventy-two hours to reach Azhar and put a stop to
Tsumago.

“I think, Mr. President, we'd be wise to plan for the worst case.”

Holystone

Oaken stared at the ceiling, not seeing it. Scattered on his desk were books, sheafs of computer printouts, and dozens of pages of notes. His computer screen saver swirled in a multicolored waterfall.

He was wrestling with the same problem that had occupied him for the past two days: If in fact Syria was behind the bomb, what did it hope to gain? The most obvious answer didn't satisfy him. Whether it was the intelligence officer in him or the mile-wide stubborn streak Beverly complained about, Oaken was not sure, but he found it hard to accept anything at face value. There was a story behind everything, and a story behind every story.

So what was it here?

It all boiled down to ambition. A burglar steals to fulfill his desire for money. A terrorist kills to further his group's agenda. Nations do both, and more, to secure their national interests. What was Syria's greatest national interest? To have a nuclear device? No, that was too pat an answer. To blow Israel into the sea? Again, no. Bashar Assad was too savvy for that. Such a blatant attack would lead to his own destruction.

Suddenly, in an intuitive flash, two days' worth of rumination paid off. He bolted forward in his chair. “Gleiwitz,” he whispered.

Aqrabah,
Syria

Throughout the day, the Syrian Army exercise group, now under the direct command of General Issam al-Khatib, had been wrapping up its maneuvers. As dusk fell over the desert, the long column of tanks, APCs, and towed artillery began its journey north toward Damascus.

Trailing behind al-Khatib's jeep were the First Armored Division, elements of the Seventh and Ninth Mechanized, and the recently downsized but still lethal Golan Task Group, comprised of units from the Third Armored and the Tenth and Eleventh Mechanized. In all, the convoy consisted of 320 tanks, 510 APCs, 175 artillery guns, and some 16,000 soldiers.

The route took the convoy on a narrow and badly pocked secondary road. Before long, the column's pace slowed to a sedate five kilometers per hour, and as darkness fell, the lead elements were twelve miles from the border of the Golan Heights.

Tsumago

Cahil woke up to a blinding pain in his head. For a long five minutes, he lay perfectly still until his senses returned, one by one. He felt himself lifting and falling and heard the
swoosh-hiss
of water.

He forced open his eyes and looked around. He was in a cramped room, lying beside a huge winch drum out of which rose several links of massive chain. He was still aboard
Tsumago.

The previous night's memories came flooding back: the boarding and the firefight … he and Slud making a stand as the others went overboard … and then the sledgehammer blow to his chest. He remembered clawing at the passing hull and then being jerked to a stop. The snagline! He'd grabbed the snagline.

He explored his chest, searching for the wound, but instead, his fingers found a shattered steel D-ring on his vest. A millimeter to the right, and the bullet would have pierced his heart. He forced himself to a sitting position and probed the wound on his calf, a gash in the thick of the muscle. It was already bandaged. He didn't remember doing that, either.

Bad move,
Bear,
he thought. If he hadn't grabbed the line, he would be tucked in a cozy hospital bed in Rota instead of here, beat to hell and trapped aboard a ship with several dozen terrorists and a nuclear bomb.

What next? He could either go overboard and take his risks in the water, or he could make himself useful. It took him exactly one second to reach an answer. He was staying. Now the question was, what could he do? And where was Slud?

Two decks below Cahil, Saul and Bernice Weinman sat huddled together under a blanket. All around them, other
Valverde
passengers were doing the same. Some were sobbing, others praying, others sleeping fitfully. They were all cold, hungry, and very frightened.

Their prison was barely big enough for each of them to lie down without crushing their neighbor. Dimly lit bulbs swung from the ceiling. At the back of the compartment was a single door with a peephole.

“Saul, what's going to happen?” Bernice whispered. “What do they want?”

He pulled her tighter. “I don't know, Bern. Try to sleep.”

“I can't.”

“Try.” He pulled the blanket under her chin. “Everything will be fine.”

Saul heard of the
click-click
of the door's bolt being thrown.

The door swung open. Two Arabs marched inside, dragging a man in a black wet suit. His face was bruised and bloody; one eye was swollen shut. The guards dropped him in a corner and walked out, slamming the door behind them.

“Who is he?” whispered Bernice.

“I don't know,” he replied.
Perhaps he had something to do with the shooting last night.
“He looks hurt.” Saul began to stand.

“Saul …”

He patted her hand. “I'll be all right, Bern. I need to see if I can help him.”

Beirut

Tanner returned to the Commodore and found a seat at the bar.

It was crowded with midafternoon drinkers, mostly journalists who had already faxed or phoned in their stories. For an hour he mingled, talking shop until he developed a rapport with several of the newsmen, including a Spanish writer for Reuters. Over their third round of beers, Tanner mentioned hearing something about a cruise liner in trouble near the Canaries. “Aren't the Canaries part of Spain?” he asked. The writer's curiosity was piqued. He told Tanner to wait, then left the bar.

He was back in twenty minutes. “I don't know where you got your information, but you were right. They were just about to put it on the wire. A liner was hijacked south of Fuertaventura. It sounds like hostages were taken.”

Tanner returned to his room. Safir was waiting for him.

“Are you all right,
effendi
?”
he asked. “You do not look well.”

Briggs sat down on the edge of the bed.
Bear
…

He now knew what had gone wrong aboard
Tsumago
but not what had happened to Cahil. Either he was dead, or he was still aboard. The latter was implausible, the former unthinkable. Briggs clenched his hands and stared at them.

“
Effendi
?
Are you—”

“Is there anything happening at the warehouse?”

“No. I checked with Sadiq an hour ago. They changed guards early this morning, but nothing since then. Not to worry, though. They are patient boys.”

“I know they are.” Tanner took out his belly wallet and counted out a dozen $100 bills.

“No,
effendi
—”

“Safir, you're a good friend, and you have a family to feed.” He opened Safir's palm and stuffed the bills into it. “One is for Sadiq, one for Ahmed, and the rest is for you.”

“Briggs, this too much—”

“It's not nearly enough. Take it.”

Safir nodded solemnly and gripped Tanner on both shoulders. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Tell Sadiq I'll relieve him after sunset.”

Shortly before six, there was a knock on Tanner's door. He opened the door, and Camille stepped in, gave him a lingering kiss, then pulled away. She touched his face.

“You look pale,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Your face.”

He ran his hands over it. His mind felt fuzzy. “Oh.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

They ate and watched the sunset. Tanner lit a hurricane candle on the table and poured them another glass of wine. “If I try very hard,” Camille whispered, “I can almost pretend we're here on vacation. You are a handsome and dashing stockbroker, and I am a housewife.”

Tanner smiled. “Really. And where do we live?”

“Akron, Ohio.”

“Why there?”

“It is Middle America, isn't it? Average, pleasant, routine.” She sipped her wine. “As for our six children—”

“Six!”

“—we left them with your mother, who does not like me at all, but she tolerates me because I make you happy and her grandchildren are beautiful. …” She trailed off.

“Almost but not quite,” said Tanner.

She stood up and walked over to him “Take me to bed, Briggs.”

Afterward, they lay together, her head on his chest.

“What are we going to do, Briggs?”

What
could
they do? Looking back, Tanner had known the answer from the beginning. He had to find Azhar, and he couldn't do it like this. He could feel himself closing down, narrowing.

“I don't think we have a choice,” he said. “We can't help one another, and we can't stay together. Not here, not now.”

“And later? Somewhere else?”

“I don't know.”

She sat up and hugged her knees. “How can this be so easy for you?”

“It's not, Camille.”
If you only knew,
he wanted to say.

“That's how it feels.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you? I don't know if I believe you.”

“Don't do this, Camille. You know—”

“No, Briggs, I don't. That's the problem. I don't know how you feel, and I don't think you do, either. It's easier to let it go … to tell yourself it's too complicated.”

Briggs felt his heart thud.
Jesus.
He felt transparent.

“Many things are complicated,” she said. “It doesn't make them impossible.”

“What, then?”

“I don't know.”

He laughed softly. “I thought I just said that.”

“I'm a woman. I'm allowed to be fickle.”

“Okay. In another time and place, who knows, but right now, we both have jobs to do. We can't be together here, Camille. You know that.”

“I know, but … I just wish it was different.”

“So do I.”

Tanner drew her back down beside him, and they lay quiet for a while.

Finally she said, “I should go.” She dressed in silence. Tanner called the front desk and ordered her a cab. At the door, she said, “I know we agreed not to talk shop, but I have to ask …”

“Go ahead.”

“This thing you're working on … I must tell them something. They know it's about more than a missing agent. Should I be worried? Should
we
be worried?”