End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “And the woman?”

  Takagi shrugged. “She is a traitor. See that she gets a traitor’s reward.”

  Bering Strait, Alaska

  Forty-six miles south of the Arctic circle, Toshogu sliced through the waves. Forty miles off the port beam lay the east coast of Siberia; to starboard, Alaska.

  Skulafjord Limited’s representative, Hallvard Sogne, stood on Toshogu’s bridge wing, bundled in foul weather gear, and stared at the water hissing down the hull. God, even in his native Norway he’d never felt cold like this before. If not for the spectacular view of the night sky, he would never leave his cabin.

  For the hundredth time Sogne cursed his luck. He was a marine engineer, not a sailor. But evidently Skulafjord thought he was the best man for the job. Three weeks at sea! The plan was to put the ship through its paces as it sailed west through the Arctic Circle, along Russia’s northern coast, into the Barents Sea, and finally to Skulafjord’s docks on Svalbard Island.

  So far Toshogu’s captain and crew had been very accommodating, and the ship was performing as designed, which was fine with Sogne. Perhaps if they finished early, his boss would send a helicopter to pick him up.

  The bridge hatch opened, and a seaman poked out his head. “Mr. Sogne, the captain asks if you would step inside.”

  Sogne ducked inside.

  The pilothouse was warm and illuminated only by the green-lighted helm console.

  “Ah, Mr. Sogne,” said the captain. “Would you care for some hot chocolate?”

  “Not tea?” These Japanese were fanatical about their tea.

  Namura laughed. “For you, we have hot chocolate.”

  “Thank you. Or should I say domo arigato.”

  “Ah! Do itashimashite. Your Japanese is improving.”

  “I hope so. You know, Captain, I’m amazed at how little crew Toshogu requires. Eight men aboard, correct?”

  “That is correct. She is quite self-sufficient. Most of her functions are computer-controlled. Your company is receiving a fine vessel.”

  “Indeed. Tell me, are the maneuvering trials still on for the morning?”

  “Yes.” Namura checked his watch. “In fact, you would be wise to get some sleep. It promises to be a long day.”

  “Good idea. In the morning, then.”

  Four hours later, Toshogu was thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle in the Chuckchi Sea. Hallvard Sogne lay wide awake in his private cabin, listening to the ocean lap against the ship’s hull. Too late he remembered hot chocolate had caffeine, something he’d given up at his wife Ilga’s insistence. Perhaps a walk would do the trick.

  Five minutes later, he was out the door. The passageway was deserted and lit only by those eerie red lamps all ships seemed equipped with. Why was that? Why not some nice, bright lighting? He looked down the passageway, hoping to see a crewman. He didn’t know the ship very well. He saw no one. Which way, then? The after hold area, he decided. That was one place they hadn’t yet shown him.

  He headed to the nearest ladder and took it down. As he reached the next deck, he felt the ship’s motion change, rocking from side to side. The hum of the engines faded. They were slowing. Why? The fan blowers cut out. Sogne stood in the darkness, feeling dizzy. He had gotten so used to the ship’s motion and sounds, the sudden change was unnerving.

  From below, there came a shout.

  “Iye … Iye! Onegai shimas—”

  The voice was cut off. Silence. Outside, the sea lapped at the hull. The ship’s rocking was more pronounced now. What was happening?

  He leaned over the ladder rail. “Hello down there?”

  Silence.

  “Hello, is anybody down there?”

  Sogne started down the ladder until he reached Sub-3, the lowermost level of the after hold area, a large, cavern-like space lined with catwalks and storage bays. He stepped through the hatch.

  “Hello?”

  Down the catwalk Sogne spotted a pile of twisted metal, half of which had spilled over onto the deck below. Walking closer, he saw it was debris of some sort, most of it covered in rust and algae. Sogne knelt down and picked up a few pieces, causing a small avalanche.

  “What is this?” he whispered.

  Behind him came a click-click sound. He spun around.

  A shadowed figure stood on the catwalk.

  “Oh, thank God!” Sogne said. “I’m glad you—” He stopped and peered closer at the man’s face. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

  20

  Washington, D.C.

  For the third time in as many weeks, George Coates found himself before the Intelligence Oversight Committee. Aside from Coates, the CIA’s chief legal counsel, and the IOC panel, the hearing room was empty. Their amplified voices echoed off the walls.

  This hearing was unavoidable, Coates knew. The decision to shut down SYMMETRY had ensured that. Just as the CIA was obligated to inform the IOC of all ongoing operations, it was bound to disclose failures as well.

  Thinking of SYMMETRY and Marcus—a man he’d never met—Coates found himself almost hoping the man was dead. It would be far better than spending months—perhaps years—chained in a Beirut basement while his captors decided how to best dispose of him.

  With that image in his mind, Coates had a hard time finishing the rather clinical statement his staff had drafted. “… and so, given the agent’s capture, and fearing he would be forced to disclose operational details of the network, we’ve suspended operations pending future review.”

  “Pending future review,” Smith repeated. “ ‘Future review’ certainly can’t help your captured agent, can it.”

  “I disagree. If his captors manage to extract information from him, it’ll lead them nowhere. SYMMETRY is a dead conduit. Finding nothing of interest, they may choose to release him.”

  Smith barked out a laugh. “How very naive of you, Mr. Coates.”

  Coates was opening his mouth to reply when the chief counsel laid a hand on his forearm. Coates took a breath. Don’t give him the satisfaction. “You might think it naive, Senator. I like to call it solution-oriented thinking. We already know SYMMETRY has failed. Dwelling on that fact won’t get us anywhere.”

  “No sale, Mr. Coates. Who do you think you’re talking to? You think you can hide the fact that the CIA has not only wasted over four million dollars of taxpayers’ money, but it has also got an agent murdered?”

  “We don’t know that, Senator. Marcus may still—”

  Smith banged his fist on the table. “Stop trying to paint a happy face on this thing! You screwed up, and we’ve got nothing to show for it! Nothing!”

  “You’re wrong, sir. Before his capture, Marcus had been forwarding valuable product, which we are currently—”

  “What kind of product?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me, Mr. Coates. I said, what had Marcus been delivering? In fact, I think we’d be wise to hear a lot more about SYMMETRY.”

  “Such as?”

  “Anything that might help us understand what went wrong. For example, what exactly was Marcus’s task in Lebanon? What type of information was he gathering? Had he penetrated any terrorist operations, and if so, which ones?”

  “Senator, I don’t—”

  “I know you don’t want to answer, Mr. Coates. I know the CIA wants to protect its ass. Well, the time for dodging is over.”

  Coates was stunned. Several members of the panel glanced nervously at Smith. The IOC vice chairman, Senator Dean, leaned toward Smith, only to be waved off.

  Smith had just crossed a very big line in the CIA-IOC relationship. In his four years as DDO, Coates had never been asked such questions. The premise behind the IOC could be found in its very name: oversight. The CIA was not expected to divulge tradecraft particulars such as raw product or op sec measures. It just wasn’t done.

  “The question stands, Mr. Coates,” Smith said.

  What w
as Smith up to? Coates wondered. Was he simply flexing his muscles, looking for ammunition? If so, he might be appeased with some juicy yet insubstantial answers. He leaned over and put the question to the chief counsel.

  “Fine, but not today. Don’t talk off the top of your head.”

  “We’re waiting, Mr. Coates.”

  “Senator, I did not come prepared with the information you’re looking for.”

  “I’m unsurprised.”

  “If we can reschedule for another day, I can—”

  “No, Mr. Coates, I will not—”

  Smith was cut off as Senator Dean put a hand over the microphone. They whispered for several minutes, then Smith said, “Fine, Mr. Coates, we’ll reconvene in three days. But be advised: Bring answers.”

  Coates was walking down out of the room when Senator Dean stopped him. “Got a minute, George?”

  “Depends. On or off the record?”

  “Off.”

  “Then sure,” Coates said. He and Dean had a solid relationship.

  “It’s Smith. His questions were news to the rest of us. In fact, he and I had discussed the format yesterday. This wasn’t part of it.”

  “So he’s got a burr under his saddle. What’s new?”

  “What I’m saying is, whatever his agenda, he’s keeping it to himself.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I give him what he wants, Harry. What he’s asking for is need-to-know stuff, details even the DCI doesn’t have. And if Dick Mason doesn’t need to have them, Smith sure as hell doesn’t.”

  “I agree. Take my advice, George: Next time we meet, give him a few details … minor stuff. Chances are it’ll satisfy him. You know Smith, if he’s not pissed off, he’s not happy. Whatever witch hunt he’s on, he’ll get tired and move on to something else.”

  “He’d better, Harry, because he’s on thin ice.”

  Glen Echo

  Near dusk, Judith Smith and Fayyad lay together in bed.

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “I stopped by earlier. I missed you.”

  “Oh? What time?”

  “About four. I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “I went for a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Up to Harper’s Ferry. It was beautiful; we should go.” In truth, Fayyad had met Smith and collected his notes from the hearing. Fayyad had yet to review them.

  Judith played with his chest hair. “I hear they have wonderful B and Bs in Harper’s Ferry.”

  “B and Bs?”

  “Bed-and-breakfasts. The emphasis being on the former, of course.”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  Fayyad was pleased with the relationship. They made love often and in every imaginable way, which was to be expected. What he hadn’t expected was his reaction to her. She was a remarkable woman: intelligent, bright, and warm, and he found himself responding to her. He found himself torn between his two selves. Which was real? he found himself wondering.

  “What are you thinking about?” Judith asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You look so far away. Were you thinking of something?”

  Fayyad smiled. “Yes. You.”

  The bedside phone rang, and Fayyad reached for it. “Hello.”

  “Is Heloise home?” said the voice.

  Fayyad felt his heart skip. Damn them! “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

  “This is not six seven two four?”

  “No, sorry, wrong number.” Fayyad hung up.

  “What is it, darling?” asked Judith.

  “Nothing, wrong number.” He checked his watch. “It’s late. We must get you home.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said.

  “Are things bad?”

  “No more than usual. He’s drinking more, and he’s nastier, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Do you think he suspects anything?”

  “He’s oblivious to anything but work, scotch, and his little bimbo.” She looked at him. “You’re very curious about him all of the sudden.”

  “I know he hurts you. I want to understand.”

  “It feels good to have someone worry about me.”

  “Is this increased drinking of his unusual? Or the meanness?”

  “Whenever he’s under stress he gets that way. I’m first in the pecking order. Can we stop talking about this? I don’t want to ruin our time together.”

  “I’m sorry. Speaking of time—”

  “I know,” she said, slipping her hand beneath the covers. “Just a few more minutes … ?”

  “You are a beast, Judith.”

  She smiled and rolled on top him. “Blame yourself, lover.”

  Once alone, Fayyad drove to the phone booth and dialed.

  Al-Baz answered. “What took you so long?”

  “She was with me.”

  “More film for the library? When this is over, I think I would like to see—”

  “Is this why you contacted me, to exchange entendres?”

  “Exchange what?”

  “Never mind. What do you want?”

  “We are considering a change.”

  “What kind of change?” Fayyad asked.

  Al-Baz explained. “In fact, we’ve already sent for him.”

  “Mustafa, I know this man’s methods. He’ll ruin what we’ve accomplished.”

  “Accomplished? What have you accomplished? The bedding of a middle-aged slut?”

  “Damn you! I—”

  “You have lost your objectivity. Whether you approve or not is irrelevant. The only question is whether we can count on you. I trust we can.”

  Fayyad read between the lines. He leaned his head against the booth’s glass and forced himself to think. Al-Baz said they were considering a change. What did that mean? Were they having trouble convincing the Russian? He was wanted by the FBI; perhaps he was reluctant. Fayyad hoped so. Once in charge, the Russian would ratchet the pressure on Smith, either directly or indirectly, and that would mean using either the mistress or Judith. Oh, lord, what if he wants to take her?

  “And if I refuse?” Fayyad whispered.

  “You are not listening, Ibrahim. You have no choice.”

  Langley

  “He asked for what?” Mason asked.

  “Operational details,” George Coates replied. “Nuts and bolts stuff.”

  “Give me the whole thing, from start to finish.”

  Coates recounted his testimony and ended with his conversation with Senator Dean.

  Sylvia Albrecht said, “Witch hunt or not, it’s absurd. Smith has to know that. Obviously he’s got another agenda.”

  “My thinking, too,” said Coates. “He wants another meeting the day after tomorrow.”

  What is Smith’s game? Mason wondered. He knew the senator had long-term designs on the Oval Office—if not for himself, at least for his party—and was looking for leverage against the current administration. Or was this in fact just another Herb Smith tirade? Either way, Mason didn’t like the feel of it.

  “We’ve done our part,” he said. “A postmortem is all we’re required to give.”

  Coates said, “Dick, if we clam up, we’ll be handing him a banner. Look, we give him a few scraps—just enough to placate him—and he goes away.”

  Mason looked at his DDL “Sylvia?”

  “Might be the best course.”

  “Okay. George, put something together. But this time, he’s coming to us. Let’s find out what’s on the good senator’s mind.”

  Japan

  Tanner finished decoding Oaken’s last message on the laptop.

  “Good news or bad?” Bear asked.

  “A little of both. We have a week before they pull the plug.”

  “No surprise there. And the good?”

  “The verdict is still out on our haul from the shipyard, but Oaks has figured out the Toshogu angle. Tak
agi sold her—and I use that word loosely—to a Norwegian company called Skulafjord Limited on whose board he just happens to have a secret seat.”

  “What’s their business?”

  “Salvage and mining. Apparently Toshogu’s destination is a Skulafjord station on Svalbard Island.”

  “So it’s a dead end.”

  “Not necessarily. Oaks wants to put a satellite track on her.”

  “Good luck. Even if Leland gets the tasking order, it’ll be like looking for a snowflake on a bedsheet. Besides, why go to all the trouble?”

  “You mean besides the fact Leland trusts our uncanny instincts?”

  “Yeah, besides that,” said Cahil.

  “Oaks also found Toshogu was supposed to have been delivered four months ago,” Tanner said. “Takagi Maritime blamed the delay on defects in the rudder post. Supposedly, it was just fixed last week.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Me neither. Takagi went to a lot of trouble to run interference for her. I’d like to know why.”

  “Speaking of Oaks, did he find anything on our other request?”

  “Nothing. No wrecks in the last forty years.” One of Tanner’s theories regarding Toshogu’s visits to the waters off the village was that somebody had lost a ship in the area, and Takagi had salvaged it for reasons unknown. “On paper, it’s a dead end.”

  Cahil eyeballed his friend; he knew the look on Briggs’s face. Tanner was not about to let a lack of solid evidence throw him off track—not yet.

  “But you still want to take a look,” Cahil said.

  Tanner smiled. “How’d you guess?”

  21

  Washington, D.C.

  To his own amusement, Charlie Latham loved grocery shopping. It had started when their children were old enough to baby-sit themselves for an hour or two, and he and Bonnie needed time alone. Even now, though the kids had moved away, they still practiced the ritual, pushing the cart up and down the aisles, pricing toilet paper and debating the quality of off-brand canned peaches.