“Thanks, Avi. You have my home number. Call me day or night”
“I will be in touch, my friend. And Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“How many died?”
“Five.”
“And the woman?”
“She made it”
“Good. A bit of justice in that, perhaps.”
“Not enough, Avi,” said Latham. “Not nearly enough.”
Langley
“All right, let’s wrap it up.” said Frank Rhodes, the CIA’s counterintelligence director. “We need a recommendation for the boss.”
At the direction of George Coates, Rhodes had drawn together this working group to determine if SYMMETRY’S op sec—or lack thereof—had contributed to the loss of Marcus.
As far as Art Stucky was concerned, the reason was clear: The man had gotten careless. Stucky knew Rhodes was anxious to submit his report before the Intelligence Directorate had a chance to point the ugly stick at ops. Being blamed for this mess was bad enough without getting it from that Albrect bitch. How she had landed the DDI slot in the first place was a mystery to Stucky. Women had no business in the spy business.
“Let’s go around the table,” said Rhodes. “Julie?”
“All the other SYMMETRY contacts are untouched. Same with the safe-call locations. Either Marcus is dead, or he hasn’t given them anything.”
“Yet,” said Stucky. “Once they put his nuts in the vice, he’ll start singing.”
Julie ignored him and continued. “I think we can rule out communication procedures as a weak link.”
“Ditto for personnel compromise,” said another analyst. “Nobody but the alternate who reported the snatch knew Marcus personally. The rest were handled via drops only.”
“Any word on ransom demands or credit?” asked Rhodes.
“Nothing,” said Julie. “We tapped all our sources, official and unofficial. Whoever took him isn’t bragging about it. If they killed him, they did a good job disposing of the body.”
“So the bottom line is, Marcus was taken by persons unknown, for reasons unknown.”
“I’ll tell you why the raghead got caught,” Stucky said. “He fucked up, that’s why. SYMMETRY was wired tight. Marcus screwed up and got himself killed, period.”
The other analysts at the table stared at Stucky with a mixture of distaste and amazement. “Jesus, Art,” said Julie.
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
“Well, you don’t speak for me.”
“Well, no shit—”
“Okay, people, enough,” Rhodes said. “Art may be right. This could be a case of operator error. Unfortunately, we may never know. Okay, I’m meeting with DDO this afternoon. Our report will indicate no compromise on our side of the house, with the recommendation that SYMMETRY be shut down to preserve the network until it can be reactivated. Any disagreement?” No one spoke. “Okay, that’s all. Thanks.”
Everyone filed out of the conference room except for Rhodes and Stucky, who reclined in his chair and lit a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign above his head. “Christ, that Julie is one bleeding-heart bitch, ain’t she?”
“Maybe,” Rhodes said, “but you might want to ease up a little bit—”
“My guess is she just needs some.”
“Some what?”
Stucky laughed. “Good one. Okay, let’s get this thing filed so I can get back to Tel Aviv.”
“I would have thought you’d want to stay here,” said Rhodes.
“What the hell for?”
“Exposure. It’d do your career some good.”
Stay here and rub elbows with management cocksuckers? Stucky thought. No thank you. Field operatives were the backbone of the CIA, not assholes who sat around deciding the cafeteria lunch menu. All their good manners and college degrees made him sick.
His encounter with Dutcher last week was proof of that. Wasn’t it enough that Dutcher—and Briggs Tanner, especially him—had trashed his Army career? Twenty years down the toilet over some little Spic girl. He’d done what was necessary, what guys like Tanner didn’t have the balls to do. And now Dutcher wouldn’t even give him the time of day when they passed one another on a goddamned elevator.
People like them eventually got what they deserved, of that Stucky was sure. And if there was any justice in this world, he’d would be there to see it. He would pay money for that. He smiled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” asked Rhodes.
“Forget it.” Stucky stood up and crushed out his cigarette. “Listen, Frank, just make sure you get it straight in your report, okay? I ain’t gonna get bent over because some raghead got himself snatched.”
Tel Aviv
Hayem Sherabi, Director of the Israeu Mossad, studied the NAKA report before him. All Mossad case officers—known as katsas—submitted operational reports in this standardized format. No variation was allowed, and NAKA training constituted several weeks of a Mossad recruit’s training.
This particular report was correct in all respects, but its source concerned him. There were those in Mossad that believed friendship had no place in the intelligence business, but Sherabi thought this naive. This particular katsa was a friend—or more accurately, the child of a long-dead friend. How to balance loyalty, discipline, and the security of Israel was a question with which Sherabi often wrestled.
Known formally as Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Tafkidim Mayuhadim (the Institute for Intelligence and Operations) and informally as The Institute, Mossad is a small agency by U.S. standards, fielding less than fifty katsas worldwide. Despite this, Mossad is considered one of the most effective agencies in the world and certainly one of the most ruthless. Surrounded by a sea of neighbors who have sworn to destroy its mother country, Mossad lives by a brutally pragmatic motto: “By way of deception, thou shalt do war.”
There was a knock on Sherabi’s door. “Come.”
His guest entered and stood at attention before his desk. He studied her. A fine katsa and a beautiful woman, Sherabi thought, but to him Camille Sereva would always be the little girl of a dear friend.
Since Amil Sereva’s death ten years ago, Sherabi had kept his promise to watch over Camille. Of Amil’s three children, Camille was the only one still living, the rest having been taken by forty years of war. Her two brothers had died while stalling the Syrian advance on the Golan in ’73 as 1,200 Syrian tanks were defeated by 175 Israeli Shermans. It had been a glorious but costly victory: 6,000 dead in less than three weeks of fighting.
Sherabi stifled the impulse to embrace Camille. “Sit.”
She did so.
“I’ve read your report. The murder of your contact was unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your interlude with this man, this American … Who authorized it, can you tell me that?”
“No one, sir.”
“And yet you did it. Why?”
Camille hesitated.
“Answer me!”
“It … it was a …” She trailed off
A mistake? Sherabi thought. Interesting she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say the word. He’d never seen Camille at a loss for words. Nor did she say anything she didn’t mean. She was stubborn like her mother.
“Why did you include it in your report?”
“Because it happened … it happened during an operation. The guidelines are quite clear regarding—”
“I know the regulations. I also know that regulations cannot cover every circumstance a katsa may encounter.” Sherabi closed the file. “Since you did not attempt to hide it, we’re going to treat this as a lesson learned.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Learn it well, though. Here, you do not get many second chances.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your impressions of the man were correct.” Sherabi opened another file. “Briggs Tanner is a retired Navy commander, attached to the Navy
Special Warfare Group and Special Operations Command, but it appears he no longer has any links to either the government or military. Aside from an interesting background and his behavior at the murder scene, we found nothing unusual about him. You, however, attracted some interest.”
“What?” Camille asked.
“The Karotovic cover was probed. It held up, of course, but all the same, we are shutting it down for the time being. Now: new business.
“We’ve received reports of an increased Iranian Pasdaran presence in Beirut. We believe the Syrian Mucharabat and Air Force Intelligence are providing secret base camps and training.”
“In the city proper?” Camille asked, surprised. Most Iranian activity was confined to Baalbek and areas south of the Litani River.
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“We don’t know. It may be nothing, it may be something. Who can know the Arab mind? At any rate, we are considering options. One them would involve reactivating some of the Lebanon networks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The decision hasn’t been made yet. For now, I want you to take some time.”
“Why? I am—”
Sherabi raised his hand. “This is not a punitive measure, Camille. You are due some time off. Take it; relax. Consider it an order, if it helps.” Sherabi came around the desk to sit beside her. “Enough business. How is your mother?”
Camille smiled. “Fine. She asks about you.”
“I haven’t seen her in some time.”
“She said that, too. She said you should be ashamed.”
Sherabi chuckled. “The most direct woman I know.” Sherabi took her hand and patted it. “Camille, you are a fine katsa. You are young, though. This thing with the American—”
Camille raised her chin. “Are we talking as family now, Uncle Hayem?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is none of your business.”
Again Sherabi chuckled. “Stubborn like your mother and direct like your father. Do you know what we called him in the Haganah?”
“No.”
“We called him Badger. Small, tenacious, and fierce in battle. Camille, listen, as a friend … as the voice of your father … I tell you this: There are those that feel a katsa is not entitled to a personal life. Everything you do is in the service of Israel … even who you love.”
“They are wrong.”
“Perhaps so. Tread carefully, though. I will not always be here. I overlooked this liaison of yours. Others would not.”
Camille was silent.
“Never ignore your heart,” Sherabi continued, “but God help you if you are forced to choose between your heart and your duty.”
“Have you ever faced such a choice?”
“Once.”
“Did you choose correctly?”
“I think so.”
“Which did you follow … your heart or your duty?”
Sherabi smiled. “Who are you to ask me such questions? Impudent child!” Sherabi kissed her forehead and stood up. “Now run off before I become angry.”
Camille laughed and headed for the door.
“By the way, Camille…?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Welcome home.”
Camille opened the door to her apartment and stepped over the pile of mail beneath the slot. She set her bag on the kitchen table and looked around. Nothing had changed. Had she expected otherwise? Had she expected someone to be waiting at the door to greet her?
The apartment was empty, aside from a small love seat and a battered wing chair. There were a few paintings and tapestries, but these lay on the floor, still in their packing boxes. What few plants she owned had withered in her absence.
She opened the refrigerator and saw a bottle of wine, a tupperware container filled with God knew what, and a rotten head of lettuce. She grabbed the wine, poured herself a glass, and found a box of crackers in the cupboard.
She paced the floor, watered the plants, thumbed through the mail, stared into the refrigerator again.
Nothing felt right. This was her home, but it felt foreign. She took a gulp of wine. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Probably for the same reason she hadn’t been able to use the word mistake in Uncle Hayem’s office. Why couldn’t she make sense of what was going on in her head?
“God help you if you are forced to choose between your heart and your duty.” Wasn’t that what Hayem said? Duty was something she understood. Of the two—heart and duty—only one could exist for her right now.
Camille raised her glass and toasted the bare walls. “To duty, then.”
12
Japan
Tanner took a taxi to the underground Umeda station in Osaka, where he bought a one-way ticket and boarded the Tokaido Line train. Thirty minutes later he arrived at Sannomiya Station
The terminal was a three-story structure with marble concourses, a central atrium, and domed skylights. The upper levels containing the lockers were reached by spiraling ramps at the north and south ends of the train platform.
Tanner found the platform almost deserted, with only a few late-night commuters milling about. Ian Cahil, sans Stetson and wearing a conservative blue suit, sat on a bench at the opposite end of the concourse, reading a newspaper. Without a glance in Tanner’s direction, he stood, folded the newspaper under his left arm, and started up the south ramp.
All clear, no surveillance, Tanner thought. Had Cahil folded the newspaper under his right arm, it would have been a wave-off: Go away, don’t look back.
No matter how many times Tanner went through the tradecraft, he had to remind himself it was all necessary. You never trusted luck alone unless you had no choice.
He waited exactly three minutes before starting up the north ramp. Above him, Cahil stood at the railing with a disposable coffee cup in his right hand.
Tanner kept going.
The third level was all but empty. Aside from Cahil, who now sat on a stool in the Sannomiya’s kissaten, or coffee shop, there were three other people visible: two standing at the shop’s counter and the attendant at the tourist kiosk. Footsteps echoing, Tanner strode past the kissaten. As he did so, Cahil opened his suitcase, removed a magazine, laid it facedown on the stool beside him.
Tanner walked to the bank of lockers, found 312, opened it, removed the leather valise he found inside, shoved it under his arm, closed the door, and walked down the south ramp.
Three minutes later, he boarded the Shinkansen Line back to Osaka.
He rode for twenty minutes and then disembarked at Shinkansen and walked across the concourse to the Tokaido platform. According to the schedule, the next train was due in five minutes.
It was nearly midnight. Except for a lone janitor sweeping the platform, the station was quiet. Briggs found a bench and sat down. Moments later, he heard the clomp of footsteps coming down the stairwell behind him. He turned.
First down the stairs came a hard-looking Japanese man wearing a loose-fitting gray suit. With a thick neck and heavy brows, he could have been a clone of Tange Noboru. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, clasped his hands in front of him, and stared at Tanner. A moment later, three younger men appeared behind him, each wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots. The taller of the three whispered to the suited man and got a nod in return.
Tanner glanced around. The janitor had disappeared.
It was then that Tanner recognized the thugs. They’d been aboard his train at Umeda but had disembarked two stops before Sannomiya. Instead of setting the ambush at the more public Sannomiya, they’d gambled he would return on the same line. Stupid mistake, Briggs.
There were only two exits nearby, one of which was blocked by these four men, and a second one a hundred yards away. Too far, he decided.
The three thugs swaggered forward. The leader shoved his hand into his pocket. If the trio was armed with anything more than knives, this
one had it. Clutching the valise to his chest, Tanner stood up, glanced around, then turned and began walking toward the far exit. The thugs followed, fanning out behind him. Tanner stumbled, regained his balance, and picked up his pace.
As Tanner drew even with one of the platform’s pillars, he stopped and turned. “What do you want?” he stuttered. “Leave me alone.”
The leader stepped forward. “Give wallet and case.”
“My wallet?” Tanner said. “Why?”
“Give!”
Tanner glanced around, eyes wide. “Please. Please, I don’t—”
One of the other thugs muttered something. The other laughed. The leader took another step forward. “Give case now!”
“Oh, God,” Tanner sputtered. “Please …”
The leader pulled his hand from his pocket. With an audible click, the knife’s blade shot open. He reversed it, blade backward, parallel to his forearm—the classic grip of an experienced knife fighter. “I said, give case!”
There would be no more talking, Tanner knew. Wait for it. … “Please, I—”
The leader lunged forward, knife slashing diagonally toward Tanner’s face.
Simultaneously ducking under the blade and stepping forward, Briggs dropped the valise, seized the leader’s arm at the wrist and elbow, then sidekicked, sweeping the man’s right leg from under him. As he fell, Tanner spun on his heel and slammed the man face first into the concrete pillar. From the corner of his eye, Tanner saw the other two closing in, but slowly, confused by their target’s sudden transformation. It was typical wolf pack mentality, Tanner knew, and the solution was simple: Pick the leader and wreck him.
Still gripping the leader’s wrist, Tanner heaved the man to his feet, then wrenched forward and down. With an audible pop, the man’s radius bone snapped. He screamed, and his knees buckled. Tanner shoved him into the other two. They stood frozen.
Down the concourse came several shouts. “Ya me te! Ya me te!” Stop!
Eyes locked on the thugs, Tanner bent down and picked up the valise. One of the thugs suddenly regained his courage. He flicked open his switchblade and charged. Tanner met the thrust with the valise. The blade plunged into the leather. Tanner took a step backward, drawing the man along, then toe-kicked him in the kneecap, shattering it. The man fell hard, groaning.
End of Enemies Page 12