In the Mideast, Mason knew, rarely could you take events at face value.
“So is Iraq the only wild card here?” asked NSA Talbot.
“Not necessarily,” said Mason. “All we know for sure is what Syria and Iran appear to be doing, and that’s conducting exercises. Syria is being tight-lipped, which is nothing new, but Iran has been pretty open about it.”
“It all appears routine,” added General Cathermeier. “If there’s anything more to it, we’ll have to wait for further indications. Iraq we know all about. Saddam is his old duplicitous self. This mix-up is just what he’s always looking for.”
“That’s what we need to focus on,” said the secretary of defense. “Iraq can bear the burden of whatever response we choose, and if we choose correctly, Syria and Iran are sure to get the message.”
This got nods, but Mason was apprehensive. The policy of oblique message sending had never proven effective in the Mideast, but it was popular in Washington as it was an easily renounced position. If you don’t commit, you don’t get burned.
“So what are we talking about?” said Talbot. “Statements, UN resolutions—”
“Forget that,” said the secretary of state. “We need something tangible. Syria almost never responds to diplomatic pressure, and we sure as hell can’t tell the Iranians to stop their goddamned exercise because we don’t like the timing of it.”
“I agree,” said the sec def. “Better we act before the Israelis get jumpy. A reaction from them is bound to draw more fire than one from us. Besides, everybody expects us to rattle the saber a bit. We have an image to consider here.”
Everyone chuckled.
They were now talking about a military response, Mason realized. Though it would likely be a simple showing of the flag, it was a decision not to be reached hastily, especially where the Mideast was concerned. The lessons of the hostage crisis, the Marines in Beirut, and the Gulf War were not far from any of their minds.
“Any ideas, General?” James Talbot asked the JCS chairman.
“We’ve got the Independence battle group off Italy on exercises. They’re due to wrap up in three days. And the Enterprise group is on the Indian Ocean. Both are just coming off a refit cycle. Get them in position, increase CENT-COM overflights, and we’ll have their attention.”
“And if we need more than that?” asked Talbot.
“It would depend on the situation, but it would give us increased firepower.”
Talbot considered this; he looked around the table. “Any problems with this?”
No one spoke. Mason looked down at his notes. He’d expressed his opinion to both the president and Talbot, but it was clear the course had been chosen. “How long to draw up an op plan, General?” Talbot asked.
“Five days.”
“Do it. I’ll brief the president.”
10
Japan
Tanner took the afternoon right from Hon Kong to Osaka and arrived back at the Royal Palms at dusk; He was stepping from the shower when a knock came at his door. It was a bellman.
“Mr. Tanner, your party is waiting for you in the restaurant.”
“My party?”
“Yes, sir.”
Camille, Tanner thought and smiled. “Please tell her I’ll be down shortly.”
Ten minutes later, he walked into the restaurant. He was two steps through the doors when he saw her in the corner booth.
Even at this distance her black hair shimmered in the candlelight and her eyes shone as they returned his gaze. Her dress was simple, low-cut black silk with a single strand of pearls dipping into her cleavage.
He stared for a moment longer and then walked over.
“Welcome home,” she said.
“Hello.” He stared.
She smiled. “Do you want to sit down, or are you going to eat standing up?”
They shared a bottle of wine, then ordered dinner, which Briggs barely tasted. The conversation was effortless, and again he was surprised how natural it seemed between them. Even so, he felt an undercurrent of electricity, pleasant, yet slightly unnerving
Camille said, “It was a long two days.”
“For me, too.”
Suddenly she became demure; she toyed with the rim of her wineglass. For a moment Tanner wondered, disappointed, if this was an affectation, but he decided it wasn’t. There was a duality to Camille that he found irresistible. She was sexy and chaste, bold and uncertain, strong and submissive.
“So,” she said. “Shall we sit for a while, or we can walk on the beach—”
He stood up and extended his hand. “Come with me.”
“Where—”
“Just come.”
She took his hand.
Two minutes later they were at her room. Without a word, Camille opened the door, and Briggs followed her inside. He shut the door. The room was dark except for the moonlight filtering through the balcony door; a breeze billowed the curtains.
Camille leaned against the wall. “Don’t leave me this time, Briggs.”
“I promise.”
Then they were together, kissing, her arms around his neck. She arched her back against the wall, pushing her hips and breasts against him. Tanner drew down the zipper at her back. Her dress slid away. She wore no bra. He grazed his fingertips over the upper swell of her breasts, then gently cupped them and traced his thumbs over her nipples. She sucked in her breath and leaned her head back.
“Oh, God. Hurry, Briggs; I don’t want to wait.”
In one smooth motion, Tanner lifted her off the ground. She wrapped her legs around his waist and began unbuttoning his shirt as he carried her to the bed. As they fell together, she curled her hands around his neck and drew him down on top of her.
Afterward, they sat on the balcony wrapped together in a blanket, watching the ocean. Camille traced her finger along the corner of Tanner’s eye. “What’s this scar?”
“I got careless with a razor.” A razor that happened to be in the hands of a Korean soldier at the time, Tanner didn’t add. “Nicked myself.”
“And this one?” Camille touched under his right armpit.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“I fell on some broken glass.”
“Mmm. You should be more careful.”
After a while, she whispered, “Briggs, I have to leave in the morning.”
“What? I thought it wasn’t until the day after.”
“So did I. Something from work came up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want it spoiling our evening.”
Tanner smiled. “Never argue with a woman’s wisdom.”
“Pardon?”
“Something my dad once told me.”
“A wise man, your father.”
Her tone was light, but Tanner knew she was thinking the same thing as he: Whatever they had now would probably end tomorrow. He wasn’t sure which feeling dominated his heart: sadness or relief. He was torn, and he hated it.
“I hate this,” Camille murmured.
“Me, too.”
“I don’t know how to …” A tear ran from Camille’s eye and fell on his chest. “What do we do, Briggs?”
Tanner wrapped his arms around her. “In the morning we’ll have breakfast, I’ll take you to the airport, we’ll promise to meet again, and then we’ll say good-bye.”
She looked up at him. “Just that easy?”
“No, not easy. Not easy at all.”
Camille kissed him, then lifted her leg over the chair and straddled him. She pulled the blanket around them and smiled. “Well, we still have time.”
She shed her robe and moved against him until they were both ready, then rose up and lowered herself onto him. She stayed that way, unmoving except for a gentle circling of her hips. They made love slowly, almost lazily, until she climaxed. She made no sound save a small gasp, then curled up against his chest.
“Almost dawn,” Tanner murmured.
“Take me back to bed, Briggs.”
A few hours later, after she finished dressing, Tanner took her luggage to the lobby, called for a taxi, and sat down to wait
After sunrise they’d shared breakfast on the balcony. Camille’s mood was cheery and playful, but it was forced as she dawdled about the room, combing her hair, packing and repacking, avoiding the clock. When Tanner finally told her they had to leave, she simply nodded and asked him to take her bag downstairs.
Suddenly the lobby doors burst open and in strode a genuine cowboy, complete with snakeskin boots, a silver and turquoise belt buckle, bolo tie, and a ten-gallon Stetson. Tottering his wake was a single bellman, his arms piled with luggage.
The cowboy stood about five eight and tipped the scales at a solid 220 pounds. His close-cropped beard and mustache were light brown.
The check-in process for the cowboy was swift, and within minutes he and his bellman were headed for the elevators. As he passed Tanner, Ian “Bear” Cahil tipped his hat at him, gave him a “Pardner,” then disappeared into the elevator.
The cavalry has arrived, Tanner thought with a smile. What was it Dutcher had said? Light cover for status? Briggs suspected Bear had chosen his own. It would do the job, though; the Pecos Bill act would be what people remembered; out of costume, Cahil would be almost invisible.
A moment later the elevator opened and Camille stepped out.
“Ready?” Tanner asked.
“Yes.”
An hour later, they were standing at the plane’s boarding gate. The attendant announced the last call for her flight. She cast an irritated glance at the jet way.
“Damn it.” She pressed a finger beneath her eye, trying to keep it from brimming. “This is silly. After all, this was just a vacation romance, wasn’t it?”
He took her in his arms. “No.”
She looked into his eyes. “No, I guess not.” She kissed him, then pushed herself away and picked up her carry-on. “I should go. I’ll miss my plane.”
“Good-bye, Camille.”
“Good-bye, Briggs.” She placed a tentative hand on his chest, then turned and walked onto the jet way.
Tanner asked the cabbie to drive for a while, not caring where, then returned to the Royal Palms. He walked up to Cahil’s room and knocked.
“Hold yer horses!” Tanner heard.
The door opened. “Sheriff,” Briggs drawled and walked in.
“You like it? I’m kind of enjoying it. They love cowboys here.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Cahil frowned at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“She make her flight?”
Tanner nodded.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Cahil ordered coffee and sandwiches from room service, and they spent the afternoon fleshing out their game plan. First they would check the locker at Sannomiya Station, which Tanner felt could be important for two reasons: One, instead of having secreted it somewhere, Umako was carrying the key when he died; and two, he hadn’t told the CIA about it.
Next they would check DORSAL’s series of dead-letter drops. Following that, assuming they got no response from the drops, would be to get clearance from the CIA to restart Ohira’s network, beginning with the one and only agent the CIA knew about, an engineer at Takagi Maritime. All this would take some finesse. Ohira’s contacts had probably heard of his murder, and a sudden reactivation might send them running.
“What about equipment?” asked Tanner.
“We should have it by tomorrow. When do you want to check the locker?”
“Tonight.”
Cahil nodded and downed the last of his coffee. “Then get the hell out of here and let me sleep. My body’s still on Washington time.”
11
Langley
One of the by-products of the end of the Cold War and the U.S.S.R.’s subsequent demise was a spirit of renewed cooperation between the U.S. and Russian intelligence communities. As the struggling commonwealth’s primary source of subsidy, the U.S. had demanded and received many concessions, one of which involved Russia’s former links to state-sponsored terrorism. In the years following the breakup, the KGB’s successor, the Foreign Intelligence Service, had aided the CIA’s war on terrorism by serving as an information clearinghouse. To facilitate this conduit the DCI and his deputies were linked to their Russian counterparts via encrypted phones.
The phone’s distinct double buzz caught DDO George Coates by surprise. He opened the drawer and lifted the receiver. He heard several clicks, then a muted tone burst, which told him the encryption and recording units were functioning.
“George Coates.”
“Hello, George.”
“Pyotor, this is a surprise.” Pyotor Kolokov, his opposite number in the FTS, used the “bat phone” sparingly.
“A pleasant one, I trust.”
“Of course. How is Karina?”
“She is well. Thank you for asking. George, I am sending you something in the diplomatic pouch. It concerns a former friend of ours, someone you’ve expressed an interest in.”
Coates had a guess what this meant. Most often, information passed by the FIS regarded the CIA’s hit parade, an informal list of assorted bad guys they were tracking. The upper ranks of the DO’s current hit parade were filled almost exclusively by Islamic terrorists the KGB had once nurtured.
“How much interest?” asked Coates.
“For you, some. But for your sister, quite a lot, I think.”
“I see.” The CIA’s “sister” was the FBI.
“Once you’ve had a chance to digest the material, call me.”
Coates laughed. “After-the-sale customer service, Pyotor? That’s not like you.”
“I am in an expansive mood. Good-bye, George.”
Coates hung up and redialed. “Marie, George Coates here. I’m expecting a package from the Russian embassy. Bring it up as soon as it’s clear, will you?”
Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.
Ibrahim Fayyad stood in the customs line reading a copy of La Republica. The line inched forward, and he picked up his bag, stepped ahead, then set it down again. Behind him, a woman did the same.
“Don’t you just hate lines?” she asked him.
Fayyad turned. “Mi scusi?”
“These lines,” she repeated. “Don’t you just hate them?”
“Oh. Si.”
“You’re Italian, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
She was a midthirties platinum blond with vacuous eyes and too much eyeliner. Her figure was gorgeous, however, and Fayyad let his eyes settle on her generous cleavage. Her smile broadened.
“You know, I just love Italian men,” she cooed.
And very often, I suspect, Fayyad thought. “Grazie.”
For a moment he considered the invitation. The physical release would be welcome, and this woman was just what he needed—a receptacle. She made no pretenses otherwise.
She said, “Say, would you like to have a drink or—”
“I’m sorry, I am late for an appointment. Thank you, though.”
“Another time, maybe?”
“Possibly, yes.”
She jotted her number on the back of his newspaper. Her name was Candi. The “i” was dotted with a heart. “Call me.”
He gave her a smile and slipped it into his pocket. “Candi. Bello.”
“Bello? What’s that?”
“It means beautiful.”
Fayyad was next in line. The customs agent nodded and took his passport as his bag was searched. “Your name, sir?”
“Vesuchi. Paolo Vesuchi.”
“Do you have anything to declare?”
“No.”
; “And the purpose of your visit, sir?”
“Business.”
The agent stamped his passport and handed it back. “Have a nice stay.”
FBI Headquarters
Charlie Latham’s Hebrew was just good enough to tell the switchboard operator at Shin Bet headquarters who he was looking for. A moment later, Avi Haron’s booming voice came on the line. “Charlie Latham!”
“Hello, Avi.”
“They told Avi it was an American calling, and of course I knew it was you.” One of Haron’s most endearing quirks was speaking of himself in the third person. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“You’ve heard about the Delta bombing?”
“Ah, yes. Bad business, that. I wondered if you were involved. Where does it stand?”
“That depends on you. You remember your trouble with the PFLP a few years ago … the honey trap business?”
“Do I remember? Of course. You don’t think—”
“The woman in question met a man on vacation, had a romance, etcetera…. The whole thing fits the profile. So does his description and the name he used.”
“I see. Give me the details,” Haron said, and Latham did so. “So who is your guess, Charlie?”
“Ibrahim Fayyad.”
“Ah! This is bad, Charlie. These are not nice people. But Fayyad is freelance now. Unless you have more for me, there is no way of knowing who hired him.”
“I know, Avi. I’m looking for a direction before this thing stalls on me.”
“Perhaps I can help. But we are out of channels, are we not? Aren’t your liaison people going to get testy? You know me, I am a stickler for protocol.”
Latham laughed. “Since when? If you want, I can send it up the line, but this is information I need now, not a year from now.”
“Am I hearing that the wheels at the FBI turn slowly? Charlie, I will help you. One friend to another. Give me a day. If we are lucky, and Fayyad sticks to his routine, he may return to one of his favorite haunts for some rest and relaxation.”
End of Enemies Page 11