“Judith, now, is it? Enjoying our work, I see.”
Fayyad clenched the phone. “Why have you called me?”
“Things are not moving quickly enough.”
“Not quickly enough? What—”
“You are taking too long. Bed the whore and get on with it.”
Fayyad felt his face flush. Motherless bastard! She is not a … What in Allah’s name was he doing? Focus … think! Al-Baz was clearly agitated. Why? What was their hurry?
Fayyad had run dozens of honey traps, and this one was proceeding with amazing speed. Soon he would move to the next phase. The senator was likely to react badly, he knew, but how badly? And how fast could he get results? If not fast enough, Fayyad asked himself, what were the consequences for al-Baz—and for him? There were three options, he decided. Either they would abandon the operation, allow him to continue at his own discretion, or demand drastic measures.
“I will move forward in a few days,” Fayyad said. “I don’t dare go any faster.”
“Just do it, Ibrahim,” al-Baz ordered. “Quickly.”
Fayyad forced the call from his mind, checked to ensure the bedroom was prepared, then returned to the kitchen and opened the wine.
Judith’s hands shook on the steering wheel as she pulled beside the condo, an expensive ranch-style fronted by hibiscus hedges and plumeria-draped eaves.
Arranging the evening had been easy. Herb was working late on some committee finding, which really meant he was at his little bimbo’s apartment. Though Judith had long ago ceased being jealous, the humiliation still stung. Acquaintances no longer spoke her name without preceding it with “poor” or “too bad about.”
Well, not anymore, she thought.
She tingled with anticipation. It couldn’t be wrong, she told herself, not the way it felt. She took a deep breath—Leap, Judith!—then checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, took one last look at her dress—a black strapless Givenchy—got out, and walked up the path.
She rang the bell. The door opened. Paolo stood there, staring at her, not smiling. Oh no, she thought, what—
“Judith … My lord, Judith, you look stunning.” He extended his hand, drew her into the foyer, and shut the door.
“Is that Vivaldi?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I love Vivaldi.”
“I thought you might.”
She melted into his arms and pressed her face against his chest and inhaled his musk. “Oh, I’m glad I came.”
Over dinner they talked very little, simply watching one another in the flickering candlelight. Afterward, they sat together on the couch, sipping wine and listening to Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was a fitting choice, Judith thought. This felt like a dream. She felt her inhibitions slipping away. She wondered what they would feel like together.
After a time, he put on some Mancini and asked her to dance. As they moved, everywhere their bodies touched, she tingled. God, the way he held her … moved his hips against hers, his hand pressed into the small of her back, eyes fixed on hers, his lips at her throat …
She was breathing faster now, pressing against him, feeling his hardness pressing back. “Paolo, I … it’s been so long for me, I don’t …”
“Shhh, Judith. Don’t say a word.”
Once in the bedroom, he took gentle command of her.
They stood kissing for a time, and then, turning her, he lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, one hand resting on her stomach, the other unzipping the dress and letting it slide away. She wore a black lace bra and matching panties, both newly purchased. He turned her again. Judith watched his eyes wander up and down her body and was suddenly embarrassed. He gently lifted her chin and grazed his fingertips along her jawline, down to her shoulders. His touch left gooseflesh.
Judith leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
His hands glided over the slope of her breasts and down her flanks to her hips.
Judith moaned. “Oh, God …” Never had a man done this before … taken such care and time.
He undid the front clasp of her bra, and her breasts fell free, heavy and flushed. He did not touch them, instead kneeling at her feet and carefully removing her panties, kissing her belly as he did so. He stood again and gently cupped her breasts—adoringly, she thought—his thumbs grazing and circling, grazing and circling. Very slowly, he leaned down and touched his tongue to her left nipple.
“Ohhh!”
A shiver of electricity shot through her. She cradled his head as he took the other nipple in his mouth and bit ever so gently. Judith’s knees buckled beneath her. He caught her and swept her into the air.
Once she was laid out on the bed, he stood beside it and undressed. Judith watched him, transfixed. When he was fully naked, she couldn’t help but stare. “Oh, my. Is that for me?”
He smiled. “Si, Judith. All for you.”
He lay down with her. She could feel his hardness pressing against her belly. She parted her legs, ready for him, wanting him, and was surprised at what he did next. He kissed her breasts, then trailed his tongue down to her belly, her thighs. And then inward. Oh, my God, he’s not going to … down there? She had read about this in Harold Robbins novels, but certainly it wasn’t something real people did.
She was about to tell him to stop, when he placed his hands under her buttocks, lifted her hips off the bed, and put his mouth on her.
He was expert and gentle, bringing her to three shuddering climaxes in fifteen minutes, until she lay breathless and dizzy. “Please, darling, please,” she murmured. “I want you inside me.”
Gently lowering his weight on her, he cradled her head and in one fluid motion slid himself into her. She groaned and lifted her knees. He lay still on her, stroking her face. She panicked. Why wasn’t he moving? By now Herb would have been rutting away. And then she realized: He was waiting for her, waiting until she was ready.
Oh sweet God, this was how it was supposed to be. …
They made love three more times that evening, and she found herself doing and saying and feeling things she never imagined possible. He was a perfect lover, strong, gentle, and patient.
After the last time, they lay quietly together. She felt a thousand things at once: glowing, satiated, sexy … but most of all, woman. She basked in it. She felt the tears welling in her eyes.
Fayyad could feel her tears trickling onto his chest. This often happened, tears following lovemaking, and for him it had always meant one thing: She was his.
This time, however, he felt an unsettling mix of fear and contentment. Judith felt wonderful in his arms. This one was different from the others.
He kissed her forehead. “Judith? Have I hurt you?”
“Oh, no, darling, God no. I’ve never been happier.”
“I’m glad,” he said. Oh, Allah, what have I done?
Lebanon
“What are you saying?” Azhar asked. “You don’t believe he can do the job?”
Al-Baz considered his answer. He knew Fayyad’s ways. In the pursuit of his goal he became the perfect lover, and in so doing fell in love himself. Perhaps this was the case with the Smith woman. No, he decided, there had been genuine rage in the man’s voice.
“Perhaps,” answered al-Baz. “At best, he is growing soft.”
“Then we must increase the pressure. No, better still, put someone else in command.”
“Who, though? Who could …” The answer suddenly occurred to al-Baz; one glance at Azhar told him they were thinking alike. “Shall I make the arrangements?”
Azhar nodded. “Quickly.”
17
Japan
Two hours after midnight, Tanner and Cahil lay hidden in the undergrowth watching the shipyard through binoculars. Earlier, dark clouds had rolled over the Inland Sea, and now a cold rain was falling. Fog horns drifted across the water.
That morning, they had rented the dive gear a
nd old skiff from a Mugi shop owner. Just after sunset, they left the shop, drove up the coast to the Anan peninsula, where they parked on a deserted fire road. From there they carried the skiff to the opposite shore and waited for nightfall.
Ideally, their minimum equipment loadout for this kind of penetration would have included an SDV (swimmer delivery vehicle), night-vision equipment, H&K MP-5 assault rifles, and a pair of LAR V bubbleless rebreather tanks. But they had neither the time nor the resources for such a wish list. Tanner’s greatest concern was their bubble trail, but the rain would take care of that, cloaking their approach and rendering the patrol boat’s searchlights almost useless.
The weather also brought a downside. The water temperature was sixty-five degrees, not numbingly cold, but still thirty-three degrees below their core body temperatures. Barring any glitches, they would be in the water less than three hours, but even in full wet suits, the cold would immediately begin to sap their bodies of heat and energy.
To reduce this risk, they planned to take the skiff part of the way, cutting the distance to the sea fence by two miles—or about an hour’s swim in the crosscurrent. Once at the gate, they could remain submerged for an hour before having to turn back.
Tanner watched the patrol boats finish their tour of the fence and return back through the gate. “Okay, they’re through.”
Cahil nodded and set the bezel on his watch. “Shall we?”
“Let’s get wet.”
An hour and ten minutes later, Tanner checked his watch and wrist compass, then gave the buddy line two jerks. Cahil swam out of the darkness to join him. Twenty-five feet above, the water’s surface bubbled with rain.
They put their masks together for a face check. In the green glow of their watches, Bear was grinning broadly; Briggs felt the same. This is what they did best. Despite the absolute blackness, the water felt safe. It was a world without edges, where up/down/left/right could become meaningless unless you kept a grip on your mind. Tanner had seen otherwise hard, unflappable veterans panic in such conditions. Without its everyday reference points, the human mind begins to feed on itself, magnifying fears and sowing doubts. Until they were moving again, he and Bear would stay in constant physical contact.
You okay? Tanner mouthed.
Cahil nodded and gave a thumbs-up. You?
Tanner nodded back. He gestured ahead, made a clam-shell with his hands, then pointed to himself: Checking the sea fence. He returned in thirty seconds and gave a thumbs-up. They were in position.
Now they waited.
It wasn’t long before they heard the muffled whine of propellers approaching the sea gate. The sound faded and was replaced by the chugging of engines. Garbled voices called to one another, followed by a metallic clank as the latches were released. A moment later, Tanner felt a surge as the gate swung outward.
Knowing it would remain open only long enough to let the boats through, he and Cahil had decided against trying to dash through. That left piggybacking. A trip to a local glazier had provided the necessary tools.
Once the boats exited the gate and peeled away to their respective fence lines, spotlights came to life, knifing through the water and illuminating the boat’s hulls. With Cahil following, Tanner finned toward the nearest boat.
Each armed with a pair of glazier’s tongs—dual suction cups on U-shaped handles—they swam hard until they were alongside the hull. Tanner mounted his tongs along the keel line, while at his feet, Cahil did the same, then scooted forward, locking Tanner’s legs against the hull. The illuminated fence skimmed by Tanner’s head.
After another five minutes, the boat turned back and headed for the gate. Tanner heard the latches clank open, followed by the groan of steel. The boat surged forward, then stopped. Flashlight beams tracked along the waterline, then clicked off, and the boat started forward again.
Three hundred yards into the cover, Tanner felt a squeeze on his calf. Ian was disengaging. Tanner waited a few seconds, then dropped away. They joined up, and Tanner checked the compass: Dock 12 was about a quarter mile away, bearing 282. They started swimming.
The hanger door loomed before them. Tanner touched it: heavy-gauge steel. He jerked his thumb downward. They finned to the seabed, clicked on their penlights, and groped until they found the door’s lower lip. Here Tanner found the break he’d been betting on: The shipyard’s designers had failed to seat the hangar doors on a concrete foundation.
Using garden trowels, they started digging.
When the hole was large enough, Tanner wriggled under the door, then turned left and swam until his fingers touched concrete. He finned upward and broke the surface under the pier. Cahil came up a moment later.
The dock was cavernous, measuring some 700 feet deep, 200 feet wide, and 300 feet to the vaulted ceiling. The waterway was bordered by a pair of concrete piers on which sat forklifts, cranes, and equipment sheds. Along the walls, stretching into the distance like runway markers, were dim yellow spotlights.
Looming over them was a ship’s bow. A pontoon scaffolding floated beside the half-painted hull, and tarps and electrical lines drooped over the edge of the forecastle.
Cahil whispered, “Your choice, bud,”
“You take the ship, I’ll search the rest of the dock,” Tanner said. “We’ll meet on the bridge in twenty minutes.”
At the rear of the dock, Tanner found a raised booth containing radio equipment and controls for the ventilation, lighting, and the main doors. In the corner was a locked filing cabinet, which he picked open. Inside he found a spiral notebook. Its contents were written in Kanji. It was obviously a log, but aside from a few headings such as Dock Number, Date, Time, and Destination, it was beyond his translation skills. Two words caught his eye, however: Toshogu and Tsumago. Which had they seen leave the other night? He flipped pages until he came to the correct entry: Departure Time, 0100—Toshogu.
He photographed entries for the past six months, returned the log to the cabinet, and left.
The ship Tanner now knew to be called Tsumago measured 350 feet from bow to stern and 60 feet from beam to beam. As ships went, she was a fireplug. Her two-story superstructure housed a glass-enclosed bridge and overhanging wings. Between the pilothouse and smokestacks stood a mainmast, much of its latticework covered in tarpaulins.
He took the easiest, if least covert way aboard by trotting up the midship gangplank. He found Bear on the bridge, studying the wave guide, the vertical conduit containing the intestines of the ship’s radar system.
“Anybody aboard?”
“No,” Cahil said. “I tell you this, bud, this ain’t your ordinary cargo ship.”
“How so?”
“This, for one thing. It belongs on a battleship, not a banana hauler. Hell, there’s enough conduit here to handle power for both air and surface search.”
“Civilian?”
“Military. OPS-eighteen or twenty-eight at least. Here, look at this.”
Cahil pulled aside a curtain on the aft bulkhead, revealing a small alcove containing two radar scopes and what looked like an ESM (electronic surveillance measures) console.
“Serious hardware,” Tanner said. “How about the mainmast?”
“Climbed it. There’s nothing under the tarp. Here’s something else.”
Cahil walked to the hatch and pointed to exposed bulk-head lining. “Kevlar, an inch thick.”
Kevlar was a DuPont product famous for its bullet-resistant characteristics. A quarter inch of it could stop a .44 Magnum round. Despite outward appearances, Tsumago was not a run-of-the-mill cargo ship. She was a floating tank.
“Look at this hatch,” Tanner said. “The hinges are mounted on the inside; impossible to pop from the outside. Christ, she’s siege proof.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Have you checked the rest of the ship?”
“And let you miss out on the fun? No way.”
Tanner smiled. “You take engineering, I
’ll cover the rest.”
They met back in the pilothouse armed with sketches and two rolls of film between them. Cahil opened his mouth to speak, but Tanner shook his head and pointed out the window. On the pier, a pair of security guards stopped at the gangplank and started up, their flashlights playing over the superstructure.
“Time to go,” Tanner whispered.
They made their way down to the forecastle and shimmied down the mooring line to the pier, where they slipped back into the water. Once back in their dive gear, they ducked under, squeezed back under the hangar door, and finned to the surface.
The shipyard was quiet. In the distance, the spotlights on the guard shack reflected off the water. The rain and wind had picked up.
“How long before our ride?” Cahil asked.
Tanner checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes.” They were both tired and cold, but if they kept moving, they would be okay. He glanced at Cahil, got a broad I’m with you grin in return, and reminded himself how lucky he was to have him along. There was no one better in a storm.
“Last one to the gate buys Irish coffee?” Tanner asked.
“Deal.”
They reached the hotel just before sunrise. Tanner stopped at the main desk to check messages. There were none. “But a woman has been waiting for you, sir.”
“Where?” he asked.
“On the pool patio. She insisted on waiting.”
He found Sumiko asleep in a patio chair. His first instinct was to turn around and sever all contact with her. Takagi had them under surveillance, and while they had so far managed to shake the watchers, Sumiko was a different matter. Takagi had already killed one person and possibly dozens more. What was another?
Sumiko opened her eyes. “Briggs?”
“What is it, Sumiko? Is everything all right?”
“The engineer you were asking about … He’s disappeared.”
End of Enemies Page 17