End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “When was he last seen?”

  “Four nights ago. No one has seen him since, either at work or home.”

  Four nights ago, Tanner thought. The same night Toshogu sailed.

  18

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Herb Smith was nursing a raging hangover when his secretary poked her head in the door. “Morning!”

  “Who the hell says?”

  Heidi frowned, puzzled. She wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, Smith knew, and she couldn’t type to save her life, but she had a great pair of tits, so it was a fair trade.

  “Did Senator Dean reach you?” Heidi asked. “He wants—”

  “I know,” Smith said.

  “He really needs the report on—”

  “I heard you, Heidi. Get me a cup of coffee.”

  “Sure,” Heidi chirped.

  His hangover was only partially responsible for his foul mood. He’d spent the previous evening at Suzie’s apartment, listening to her commiserate with the characters of Melrose Place. As the end credits rolled, he slid his hand up her thigh. “Uh-uh, honey,” she said. “My friend is visiting.”

  “Your friend? What the hell does that mean?”

  “You know … that time of the month. I feel awful.”

  “Well, Jesus, you could have told me that before I came over!”

  “Well, I thought we could, you know, cuddle.”

  “Cuddle? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Suzie pouted. “Herb, sometimes I think you only want me because I let you fuck me.”

  “Let me?” he roared. “Is that what you said? Let me!”

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I—”

  “Would that be anything like me letting you live here rent free?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it I just don’t feel good, Herb. Can’t we just sit and talk? You know, have some quality time?”

  “Been watching Oprah again, I see. Okay, forget it.” He lay back on the couch. “Just give me a blow job, then.”

  “Herb! I told you I don’t feel good!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” He picked up his coat and stormed out.

  At home, Judith was sitting in bed reading. He climbed in beside her and pressed himself against her hip. To his amazement, she said, “Not tonight, Herb,” rolled over, and turned out the light. Just like that—as though she were in charge.

  In fact, thinking back, she’d been acting strangely for the past week. Bubbly—that was the word for it. She was downright bubbly. She hummed in the shower, flitted about the bedroom, fussed with her makeup as she prepared for one of her meetings or openings or whatever the hell she did. What was going on?

  Then it hit him: She’d started acting this way after he’d come home the other night and she was all hot and bothered. Had he been that good? Sure, he decided, why not? Then what about last night? Smith thought, rubbing his temples. Maybe she had been tired. Tonight maybe he’d try again, give her another chance.

  Heidi’s voice came over the intercom. “Senator, it’s a Dr. Burns’s office on line one.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Burns. Regarding your wife.”

  “What. … okay, send it through.” His phone rang. “Senator Smith, here. Listen Doctor, I’ve got a busy schedule, so—”

  “You’ll want to make time for me, Senator.” The voice was male.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “You can call me Antonio. I apologize for the ruse, but I needed to get your attention.”

  “Well, you’ve lost my attention. Good-bye—”

  “Hang up and your life is over, Senator.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I have information regarding your wife. It is a delicate matter.”

  “Listen, you dirtbag, if you’re playing some kind of game, I’ll wreck you! I’m the last guy in the world you want to mess with! Do you know who I am?”

  “I know precisely who you are, Senator. Tonight at ten o’clock. Meet on Bison Bridge in Rock Creek Park. You will come alone; you will not alert the police.”

  “Not gonna happen, my friend. I’m busy.”

  “With Miss Donovan, I presume.”

  Smith’s breath caught in his throat. “Hey, asshole, if this is about money—”

  “This is not about money, Senator.”

  “What, then?”

  “Tonight, ten o’clock, Bison Bridge.”

  Smith hesitated. Whoever this guy was, he’d done his homework, and he sounded very serious. “Listen … Antonio, right? You’ve got my attention, but without knowing more, I can’t—”

  “You can, and you will,” the man said firmly. “And Senator?”

  “What?”

  “If you mention this to anyone, your world will come crashing down around you. Do you understand me?”

  Suddenly Smith did understand: He was in trouble. “Yeah, I understand.”

  The phone went dead.

  Langley

  Dick Mason finished reading Tanner’s report and looked across the desk at Dutcher and Oaken. “Dutch, where exactly did your boys get the okay to penetrate Takagi’s shipyard?”

  “I gave it to them.”

  It was true—for the most part. He had approved the mission, albeit after the fact, but Mason didn’t need to know that. Dutcher trusted Tanner’s instincts; that was enough for him. Plus, they’d pulled it off. Nothing succeeds like success.

  So now they had new information but also more questions. For whatever reason, Ohira had been interested in Takagi’s shipyard and a pair of ships named Toshogu and Tsumago. Tanner called them mystery ships. It was an apt term. Toshogu, the salvage ship, had skulked out of port in the dead of night, and Tsumago was locked away in a secure dock undergoing a refit worthy of a destroyer.

  “Dick, time was short,” Dutcher continued. “One of the ships had already sailed, and they wanted to catch the other one before she did the same.”

  Mason considered this. “Fair enough. What do we know about them?”

  “Not much,” Oaken replied. “We’re looking for a paper trail on them, but so far nothing. Same with the product from the Fujita woman. Lots of info, just nothing on these ships.”

  “When can we expect some conclusions?”

  “A week.”

  “Good. Dutch, I have to tell you, I’m thinking about pulling the plug.”

  “Why?”

  “The last few months—about the time Tanner says Ohira got interested in Takagi Maritime—a lot of his product had a doctored feel about it. Everything was a little too pat. It didn’t have the jigsaw look to it, like pure field stuff.”

  “You think he was being fed?”

  “Hard to say. Either way, he was on a tangent, and aside from an interesting mystery, we’ve got nothing to show for it.

  “That I can deal with,” Mason continued. “What bothers me is the body count. Ohira’s dead; another’s missing and presumed dead; another was sharing a bed with Ohira; Tanner was attacked in a subway. The harder we work to keep DORSAL alive, the greater the chance Takagi will bury his connections to the arms market. It might be better to roll over and play dead, then take a look again in a few months. In the meantime, we’ll pick apart what we’ve got, see where it takes us.”

  Dutcher was inclined to agree, but Tanner and Cahil were the ones on the ground, and they thought this new angle was worth pursuing. Briggs especially would be reluctant to give up—not as long as there was any chance of seeing it through.

  “I agree with you,” said Dutcher. “But—”

  “But you’d like to give them a little more time,” Mason said. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Okay. One week, then they’re out”

  Rock Creek Park

  Smith arrived at Bison Bridge a few minutes early and waited, growing angrier by the minute, until 10:30, when he gave up. He looked down the adjoining paths and saw no one. “Screw this
,” he muttered.

  He was turning to leave when footsteps clicked on the wood behind him.

  “Good evening, Senator.”

  Smith turned. The man was of medium height with broad shoulders, slim hips, and black wavy hair. “Who are you?” Smith said.

  The man extended his hand. “Antonio.”

  “Fuck you. You’re late.”

  “I’ve been here for an hour. I wanted to make sure you were alone.”

  “Well, aren’t we the little spymaster. What do you want?”

  The man gestured to the bench. “Shall we?” Without waiting, the man sat down and waited until Smith did the same. “Thank you for coming, Senator.”

  “You’re lucky; I almost didn’t. Now talk.”

  The man shrugged, pulled a manila envelope from his pocket, removed a five-by-seven photograph, and handed it to Smith.

  Smith gaped at the photo. “Oh, good God.”

  The photo showed a nude Antonio sitting on the edge of a bed. Kneeling at his feet with his penis in her mouth was Judith Smith.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Senator, I want you to listen carefully. This is how our relationship will work. I will give you orders, and you will obey them without hesitation. If you do not, or if you contact the police or speak to anyone about this, I will destroy you. Is that clear?”

  Smith was still staring at the photo. “Uh-huh.”

  “I know everything about you, Senator. I know where you go, I know what you do. I know you are a drunk and a womanizer. I’ve been in your home—”

  “You what!”

  “And most important of all, Senator, I own your wife.”

  Smith felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I don’t believe you.”

  “No?” The man gestured to the photo. “Has she ever done that for you? Or this?” The man produced another picture, this one showing Judith on her hands and knees, her face pressed into the pillow as the man took her from behind. “She especially enjoys this position.”

  “This can’t be Judith,” Smith whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “She is a lovely woman, Senator, and quite open to experimentation.”

  “What do you want?”

  “First of all: These photos were taken from a videocassette. If you fail me, copies of the video will be sent to the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times, the four major news networks, a few of those trendy tabloid magazines, and finally to the FBI.

  “Within days, three things will happen. One, I will disappear. Two, America will know that Senator Herb Smith is not man enough to keep his wife. And three, the FBI will begin asking questions about your relationship with your wife’s lover, a man who will eventually be linked to several European terrorist groups.”

  “Don’t do that,” Smith whispered. “Don’t. Tell me what you want.”

  “Information. Once you provide it, you get all originals and copies of the videos and photos, and you’ll never be bothered again.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “If you cooperate, I’ll keep my word. The sooner you deliver what I want, the sooner this will be over.”

  Smith considered the alternatives. He could go to the FBI. He had dozens of contacts, people who owed him favors. But how could he be sure the news wouldn’t leak? He also had plenty of enemies. He could imagine the gossip: If Smith doesn’t have the power over his wife, how can he possibly hold a seat in the United States Senate? He would be emasculated. He would be the laughingstock of the country!

  And if he cooperated? All the man wanted was information. That was the real currency of power in Washington, after all. Trading information was something Smith understood. It was how things got done. Plus, after this nightmare was over, there would be plenty of time for payback. And she would pay. Stupid bitch.

  He turned to the man. “Tell me what you want.”

  19

  Chesapeake Bay

  Walter Oaken stared bleary-eyed at the stacks of reports and computer printouts on his desk. Had he been able to tell Beverly about the project, she would have accused him of obsessing. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something. What was it? There had to be good reason why Ohira had switched his attention to Takagi Maritime.

  For Oaken, research was an adventure full of hidden facts, buried leads, and dead ends. As far as he was concerned, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot were nothing compared to a fact that didn’t want to be found.

  The more he dug into Takagi’s operations, the more he realized Toshogu and Tsumago were aberrations. Takagi had delivered on hundreds of contracts, and each one had been handled identically, from purchase agreement and blueprint design to owner’s acceptance trials. Until now.

  He’d started with maritime insurance. With Toshogu and Tsumago’s price tags in the millions of dollars, he felt certain Takagi would have underwritten them against loss or damage. He found nothing.

  Next he turned to customers. Tsumago’s warshiplike characteristics made the Japanese MSDF the most likely buyer, but Oaken could find no open marine contracts between Takagi and the Japanese government.

  That left two options. One, Toshogu and Tsumago were not only Takagi-built, but Takagi-owned as well, which probably meant Takagi had either bonded them or underwritten them with Lloyd’s of London.

  This theory also went nowhere. He found no listing in Lloyd’s Shipping Index, and none of Sumiko’s information indicated Takagi Industries was itself carrying the financial burden.

  The second possibility was the ships had been commissioned for a foreign company, which again meant they would be bonded by the purchaser or underwritten by Lloyd’s. Another dead end.

  And then, out of the blue, he got his break.

  He ran across two entries in Lloyd’s Shipping Index, the first of which described a Belgian shipbuilder who, after conducting sea trials for a South African client, had delivered the ship to Capetown, at which point the client—a subsidiary of the Belgian shipbuilder—took possession. This was a simple and perfectly legal cost-saving device, in which the builder and purchaser—in truth the same entity—split the cost of underwriting the vessel. Could this be what Takagi had done?

  The second Lloyd’s entry described an oil tanker, but gave only the company’s name, a synopsis of the contract, the vessel’s dimensions, and the method of delivery. There was no mention of the builder’s name. Oaken scanned for similar entries and found dozens.

  This gave him a trail to follow. In less than an hour he found what he wanted.

  Like most industrialists, Takagi had his fingers in hundreds of businesses around the world, either as a shareholder, an investor, or a board member. His interests ranged from textiles and mining to entertainment and auto parts. Most of these ventures were well-documented, but some were not. Among the dozens of boards on which Takagi secretly sat, Oaken found one, a Norwegian company named Skulafjord Limited, that dealt exclusively in marine salvage and mining.

  Now in the tenth hour of his hunt, he logged onto to the Lloyd’s Shipping Index and the United Nations International Maritime Bureau’s databases, then ran a keyword search using the word Skulafjord. The response came back in less than a minute:

  SKULAFJORD LIMITED (BUYER)

  DATE OF BID ACCEPTANCE: 10/10/98

  DATE OF PURCHASE AGREEMENT: 12/1/98

  DATE KEEL LAID: 2/9/99

  VESSEL OF RECORD: UNNAMED ICEBREAKER, MARINE SALVAGE; 410 FEET/ 55 FEET/GWD 12,500 TONS

  The dimensions seemed to match those of Toshogu. Oaken kept scrolling:

  PROPOSED METHOD OF DELIVERY: AT-SEA BUILDER’S TRIALS; BUYER REP ABOARD; VESSEL DELIVERED TO BUYER-DESIGNATED POINT.

  “Come on. …” Oaken muttered, scrolling. “Gimme the delivery date. … Gotcha!” He glanced at the wall calendar, then back at the screen. “What the hell … ?”

  Japan

  “So you lost them,” Hiromasa Takagi said.
>
  “Yes, sir,” said Noboru.

  Takagi now knew Tanner was more than a simple tourist. Nor was he working alone. Despite this, Noboru’s men could not pin down their activities, let alone maintain surveillance. The pair was wandering about Honshu and Shikoku, and no one could tell him what they were doing. That wasn’t quite true, though. While their activities were a mystery, the identity of one of their contacts was not. That would be settled soon enough.

  “What did they do after leaving the ferry?” Takagi asked.

  “We know they went south—”

  Takagi shot forward in his chair. “Toward Anan? Toward the shipyard?”

  “Yes, but past it, south toward Mugi. We lost them on the coast road.”

  Takagi grunted. “Did they return the same way?”

  “No. We’re not sure how, but they returned to the hotel just before sunrise.”

  “And this is where Tanner met her?”

  “Yes, sir. She had been waiting for him.”

  His watchers recorded the name of the taxi company she’d used, Noboru explained. The rest had been simple. From the hotel she was taken to a neighborhood in Kobe and dropped off outside a shokudo owned by an elderly couple named Yokeisha, the maternal grandparents of one Sumiko Fujita.

  This answered many questions for Takagi, first of which was: What had sparked Ohira’s interest in the shipyard? In her position, she certainly had access to the right kind of information, but thankfully, not enough to derail the transaction.

  What should be done about Ms. Fujita and her partners in crime? Takagi wondered. They were the only remaining loose ends. So close to Tsumago’s departure, could he afford the complication? The Arabs were already skittish. Any hint of trouble, and they might pull out He could not allow that. He had invested too much, and the stakes were too high.

  “Where is Toshogu now?” Takagi asked

  “She should be nearing the Bering Strait.”

  “Who did you send?”

  “Yamora.”

  “Good. From this point on, you will handle everything personally. You will see that Tsumago safely reaches the facility, you will make sure the transfer goes smoothly, and you will make sure all the loose ends are tied up.”