End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

They sat on the hut’s porch, which was back a few yards into the tree line. A pair of sputtering kerosene lanterns hung from the eaves. In the distance Tanner could hear the hiss of the waves.

  Once the dishes were cleared away, the mother served tea while the younger boy fanned the hibachi smoke to keep the insects at bay. Tanner asked Mitsu where his father was.

  “He went out one night. In our boat. The boat came back the next morning. He did not.”

  Tanner glanced at the mother, who merely smiled at him. Up to this point, Mitsu had been translating their conversation, but he had stopped at this last exchange.

  “How long ago?’

  “Six months. It was after the ship stopped coming.”

  “What ship?”

  “Every few nights for almost a month, a ship came. Over there.” He pointed off the beach. “It would stay for a few hours, then sail again.”

  “Do you know what she—it—was doing?”

  “No.”

  “What did the police say about your father?”

  Mitsu shrugged, and Tanner realized the police hadn’t been notified. It was a village matter, he guessed. He wondered why Mitsu had mentioned the ship. Was it simply the boy’s way of marking his father’s disappearance or something more?

  Tanner stood up and bowed. With both hands he returned the teacup to the mother. “Domo arigato, Kombanwa.”

  The mother returned his bow. “Do-ita-shimashi-te.”

  Tanner tousled Mitsu’s hair, shouldered his rucksack, walked down the steps, and headed down the beach.

  “He went out one night. The boat came back the next morning. He did not.” What happened to him? Tanner wondered. A man goes out in a boat, then disappears.

  Back at the hotel, Tanner stood under a hot shower, then toweled off, slipped on a pair of rough khaki shorts, a navy blue tropical knit shirt, and sandals, then headed downstairs to the hotel bar, the Tiki Lounge. He still had trouble speaking the name without laughing, but it certainly did fit the general motif of the Royal Palms Resort.

  What the designers had lacked in originality they recouped in lavishness. Seemingly transplanted from the shores of Tahiti, the hotel was a man-made tropical paradise on an island with plenty of its own. The crescent-shaped hotel was bordered on one side by the beaches of Cape Shiono and a forest of evergreen and bamboo on the other. Nestled between the concave sides of the hotel was the requisite kidney-shaped swimming pool, cabana bar, and artificial waterfall. And palms. Large and small, fake and real, they sprouted from every corner, with or without the aid of soil. Hidden in the foliage came the muted squawks of parrots. Tanner had yet to see a live bird, but to the hotel’s credit, neither had he spotted the loudspeakers.

  He strolled through the Tiki’s doors, took a stool at the bar, and ordered a Kirin beer. It was a quiet night, with only a half-dozen patrons seated at the tables. His beer arrived, and he took a sip.

  Then he sensed someone standing behind him.

  “Do you ever get the feeling you’re in the wrong place?” the voice said.

  He turned.

  She had lustrous, shoulder-length black hair and a delicately curved neck that could only be called elegant. Her skin was flawless and tanned. She was stunning, Tanner thought.

  As do most men, Briggs did his best to convince himself he was in control of his reactions to women, and like most men, he was wrong. Happy he hadn’t fallen off his stool, he smiled and said, “Pardon me?”

  She gestured to the nearby tables. He looked and suddenly realized the rest of the Tiki’s patrons were couples—all newlyweds, he guessed.

  “It seems we’re surrounded,” he said.

  “May I?”

  “Please do.”

  “My name is Camille.”

  He shook her extended hand and felt an ineffable tingle; her accent was Eastern European, perhaps Slavic. She smelled like plumeria. Or was it hibiscus?

  “I’m Briggs.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “A long story. An ancestral name my father took a liking to.”

  “I like long stories. Tell me.”

  Tanner shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go outside. It’s too nice a night to waste.”

  They ordered two more drinks, then stepped onto the pool deck and wound their way through the umbrella-covered tables and sat down at the edge of the pool. The aerators gurgled softly, and the underwater lamps glowed amber. Camille took off her sandals and dangled her legs in the water.

  “So,” she said. “Your story.”

  “You’re sure you want to hear this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want the unabridged version or the Reader’s Digest condensed?”

  “Unabridged.”

  “Okay…” Tanner said. “According to my father, it began back in 1774…”

  By the time he finished the story, Camille was laughing so hard she was doubled over, tears streaming down her face. He caught her arm and gently pulled her upright. A few wisps of her hair had dipped into the pool, and she brushed them away.

  “You made that up,” she said.

  “Every word is true.”

  “So you’re named after a … a … what is the word? A pirate—”

  “Back then they were called privateers.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Not much.” He took her glass and stood up. “I’ll go freshen our—”

  Beyond the fence came the squealing of tires. An engine roared, brakes screeched, followed by a crash and shattering glass.

  “That sounds close,” Camille said, jumping up.

  Tanner ran toward the fence. He was ten paces from it when he noticed a figure scrambling over it. The man reached the top, teetered, then tumbled headfirst into the shrubbery. Dragging his left leg, he lurched onto the patio.

  Tanner caught him as he fell. “I’ve got you, slow down—”

  “American!” the man sputtered. “You’re American?”

  “Yes. What—?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “They’re coming!” Tanner looked but saw no one. “Help me! Please!”

  On an impulse that would be his first of two that evening, Tanner nodded and helped the man to his feet. “Okay, come on.”

  They were turning toward the Tiki when Briggs saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced back. A pair of arms were reaching over the top of the fence. Then a head appeared. Tanner caught a glint, moonlight on metal. Instinctively he knew what it was.

  “Gun!” he yelled and shoved Camille to the ground. “Down!”

  The crack came a second later.

  The slug entered the man’s upper back and exited the hollow above his collarbone. Off balance, Tanner felt the man slipping from his arms and tried to compensate by stepping backward. His foot plunged into the pool, followed by his leg.

  The man was lying on his side, head resting on the concrete. He was alive, Tanner realized, but not for long. Dark blood was pumping from the wound. Subclavian vein, he thought. Without help, he’d be dead in less than a minute.

  The man reached toward Tanner. “Please …”

  “Hold on, don’t move!”

  “Briggs!” Camille called.

  “Stay down!”

  Tanner pulled himself out of the pool, crawled over to the man, rolled him onto his back, and ripped open his shirt. Tanner wiped the wound clear and shoved his index finger and thumb into the hole, searching for the vein. The bullet had destroyed everything in its path—veins, bone, muscle, ligaments—all gone.

  The man gripped Tanner’s hand. “Help me, please …”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying, stay with me.”

  “God, it hurts. …”

  Tanner stopped working and looked into the man’s eyes. They were bulging with pain, but there was something else: aloneness. He was dying among strangers, and he knew it.

  Tanner would never remember hearing the second shot.

>   The man’s forehead seemed to split open before Tanner’s eyes. The eyes and nose disappeared in a gout of blood. Tanner felt it splatter him. What little remained of the man’s head lolled backward onto the concrete. The body spasmed twice, once more, then went still.

  Lying a few feet away, Camille said, “Briggs, are you—”

  He wiped the blood from his face. “I’m okay,” he replied. He looked to the fence line. There was nothing. “You?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  One of the dead man’s fists had unfurled, revealing a small key; he’d been clutching it so hard it left an impression in the flesh. On yet another impulse, Tanner pocketed it.

  In the distance came the wail of sirens. Then, from the lobby turnaround, an engine revved, followed by the screeching of tires. Headlamps pierced the fence. Tanner jumped to his feet.

  “Briggs!” Camille called. “What’re you doing?”

  Hunched over, Tanner sprinted to the fence and scrambled over in time to see a pickup truck accelerate around the curve. In seconds the taillights disappeared.

  Ignoring the chattering guests loitering in the lobby entrance, Tanner walked across to the man’s car—a red four-door Nissan with an Avis sticker in the back window—which lay crumpled against a tree. Both doors were dented, as was the rear bumper. The trunk was riddled with pencil-sized holes, all in skillet-sized patterns. Shotgun, Tanner decided.

  The sirens grew closer. Tanner reached through the window, opened the glove compartment, and found a sheaf of papers. It was a rental agreement: name: Umako Ohira … address, credit card number … In a blaze of flashing lights, three police cars screeched to a halt beside the wreck. Headlights blinded Tanner.

  “Ya me te! Ya me te!”

  Though his Japanese was limited, he guessed he was being ordered away from the car. The clack-clack of several pump shotguns convinced him of it. He raised his hands and walked toward the headlights. From out of the glare, three figures charged forward and tackled him to the ground.

  It took Camille and the Royal Palms’s manager ten minutes to convince the Kagoshima Prefectural Police (Todo-Fuken Keisatsu) he was in fact a guest of the resort and an innocent bystander.

  Under the watchful eye of one the officers, he was escorted to the bathroom to wash up. There was a small cut on his right cheek. Bone fragment, he thought dully. He plucked it from the wound and watched it swirl down the drain. He splashed water through his hair and did his best to ignore the bits of flesh dropping into the bowl. His hands were still shaking. Adrenaline.

  He’d seen death before, but it was something to which he’d never become immune. He preferred it that way. Once it became easy, you had a problem. He’d learned to put his feelings on hold, but at best that only delayed the inevitable. If you didn’t deal with them, such feelings began to eat you from the inside out.

  The officer escorted him back to the pool, where the body was being loaded onto the coroner’s stretcher. The concrete was stained with blood. Some of it had trickled into the pool’s aerator, and thin black tendrils of it floated on the surface like seaweed.

  Camille was standing beside one of the tables. A few feet away, a plainclothes police officer was talking to the resort’s manager. Tanner walked over to Camille. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Why did they shoot him, Briggs?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Tanner?” The inspector walked over.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Ishu Tanaka, homicide investigator for the Kagoshima Prefect.”

  Camille was still staring at the puddle. Tanner put his arm around her and walked her away. “I’m sure he felt no pain,” Tanaka said, sitting down. “How are you feeling, then? No injuries to you or Miss …”

  “Sereva,” Camille replied. “I’m fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll take as little of your time as possible.” Tanaka opened his steno pad. “First, your full names, please.”

  “Briggs Tanner.”

  “From the United States, I assume. Vacationing?”

  “Yes,” said Tanner. He was in no mood for talking.

  “Ms. Sereva?”

  “I am Ukrainian. Vacationing also.”

  “Now, please, in you own words, tell me what you saw tonight.”

  Tanner did so, leaving out mention of the key. Unsure if Camille had seen it, Tanner half expected her to interject, but she said nothing.

  “Witnesses said there were two shots,” Tanaka said. “Where did they strike, can you tell me?”

  “As far as I can tell, one entered his upper back, the other the top of his skull.”

  “The shots came from the fence?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You were hunched over the body when the second shot came. Why is that?”

  “I was trying to stop the bleeding. I thought if I could—”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “A bold move, jumping over that fence.”

  “I didn’t really think about it.”

  “Mr. Tanner, why were you near the car when we arrived?”

  “I was looking for anyone else who might have been injured.”

  “Had you ever seen this man before tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Nothing that made any sense. He was panicked, scared.”

  “And you, Ms. Sereva?”

  Camille shrugged. “I didn’t see much. I’m sorry.”

  Inspector Tanaka nodded. “Mr. Tanner, you told the responding officers you saw the truck carrying the gunman. Can you tell me anything else?”

  “As I reached the top of the fence, they were pulling away. It was black or dark blue, no license plate. There was a driver and the gunman—”

  “You saw the gun?”

  Tanner nodded. “A rifle, bolt action, medium length, with a scope.”

  “Please go on.”

  “The gunman and another man were in the back,” Tanner replied, then thought: How long from the time the truck left to when the police arrived? Thirty seconds, a minute? Surely they had to have passed the truck.

  As if reading Tanner’s mind, Tanaka said, “We found some fresh tire tracks just inside the woods about a hundred yards down the drive. We believe the truck pulled off, doused his lights, and let us pass.” Tanaka stood up. “This was an unfortunate incident. You and Ms. Sereva may rest assured we will get to the bottom of it. You are both certain you are not injured?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Tanner replied.

  “Then I’ll say good night. You will be staying a few days, in case we need to ask more questions?”

  Tanner and Camille nodded.

  “Very good.” Tanaka stood, shook both their hands, and left.

  After seeing Camille safely to her room, which was directly one floor below his, Tanner took a shower. He stood under the spray for twenty minutes, then got out, toweled off, poured himself a vodka, and stepped onto the balcony. The moon was high and the sky clear.

  So much for a quiet vacation, he thought.

  It had been a professional killing, that much was certain. The gunman—whoever he was—was not a paper target shooter. If the first shot had been a few inches to the right, it would have struck at the base of the skull. Even so, the first shot had been fatal. Why the second shot, then? Insurance?

  This was no murder, Tanner decided. It was an execution.

  And now, because of a stupid impulse—no, two impulses—he was involved. Not very smart, Briggs. There was something about the man named Umako Ohira, though. … He’d been desperate for help, as would have anyone, but he’d seemed especially glad Tanner was American. Why? And the key … Of all the things to be carrying, why that?

  He took a sip of vodka, felt it wanning in his belly, and leaned on the railing. Below him, Camille stood on her own balcony. He was about to call down when he saw moveme
nt in the trees below. It moved again: a figure in dark clothing. After a moment, it slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.

  Tanner looked again for Camille, but she’d gone inside.

  2

  Beirut, Lebanon

  The man known as Marcus stumbled over a discarded tire and fell, gashing his shin. He cursed. God, what he wouldn’t give for a working streetlight! But in Beirut—especially in Muslim West Beirut—they were as rare as mortar attacks were common. He could feel the cuts and bruises on his hands and face. His clothes were shredded. He’d lost count of the number of times in the past hour he’d fallen.

  He sat down to catch his breath. At the end of the alley he could see a gutted apartment building, half its facade crumbled and blocking the adjoining street. Here and there, rifles cracked and he could hear the faint crump of grenades. The Shia and the Phalange were fighting again, somewhere near the airport shantytowns.

  Suddenly an engine revved. Marcus froze.

  He strained to listen. Where are they? The engine faded, went silent. A dog barked. Silence. Maybe he’d lost them. In the past half hour he’d done so several times, but still they managed to catch up. They knew the city at least as well as he did, perhaps better.

  He patted his coat pocket and realized the pieces of colored chalk were still there. He emptied his pockets. He couldn’t afford to be caught with them. His pursuers were simple men but not stupid. They would make the connection.

  Behind him an engine growled. Headlights swept over him. Run! He climbed to his feet and half limped, half ran down the alley and into the street.

  He was pinned by spotlights. Behind the glare, he could make out the outline of a pickup truck. Half a dozen men stood alongside it, their weapons leveled at him. Behind him, a car skidded to a stop; doors opened. Footsteps pounded toward him.

  Marcus turned, looking for an exit. Left … right … Nothing, nowhere to go.

  Allah be merciful, he thought. I’m caught.

  Two hours later, when Marcus still hadn’t appeared for their meeting, the old Armenian named Salah knew something was wrong. Marcus had never been late without giving a … What did he call it? A wave-off. He had checked all four drops and found no markings, but still no Marcus.