End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “That does not concern us. Do what you have to do. Get us the information.”

  23

  Beirut

  Four hours after their target boarded the last ferry for Larnaca, Panos and Kemal stood on the uppermost deck to decide their next move. The wind whipped around them and fluttered the pennants on the buntline.

  “He’s in the cafe drinking coffee,” Kemal argued. “He’ll have to piss sometime. The only bathroom is on the car deck. It’s dark, and no one is around.”

  “I don’t know, Kemal.”

  “You said if we don’t find out his destination, we don’t get paid.”

  “I know. I’m not sure about this one. Something about him bothers me.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. He feels … dangerous.”

  Kemal grinned cockily. “More dangerous than us? He is old, we are young. We’ll surprise him. Come on, we’ve done this a hundred times.”

  Panos thought it over. Kemal was right. There were two of them, and this is what they did best. “Okay. But no killing. We will tie him up in the back of one of the cars. By the time he’s found, the ferry will be docked, and we’ll be gone.”

  Whatever Kemal lacked in sheer intelligence, his estimate of their target’s bladder capacity was keen. After two more cups of coffee, the man exited the salon, took the stairwell down to the car deck, and entered the bathroom. Kemal and Panos met in the corridor outside. Panos reached up and unscrewed the single lightbulb, casting the corridor in shadow.

  They positioned themselves on both sides of the door. A moment later, the toilet flushed. The door swung open. Kemal stepped in front of the man and flicked open his switchblade

  “Don’t move. No sound.”

  The man reacted as expected. He took a step back. His expression never wavered, however. Panos saw no fear in his eyes.

  “I have very little money,” the man said, “but you may have it”

  He’s Russian, Panos thought.

  “Empty your pockets,” Kemal barked.

  The man nodded, smiling slightly. “Certainly.”

  “This funny to you?” Kemal growled. “What is funny?”

  “Nothing.” One by one, the man began pulling items from his pockets. “I have breath mints, would you care for a breath mint?”

  “What?” Kemal said. He shoved the man.

  “Kemal, don’t—”

  “You think we are joking, mister? I will cut you!”

  “I believe you would.”

  “Then hurry up!”

  Panos’s heart pounded; nothing about this felt right. “Empty your jacket pockets,” he ordered. “Now!”

  The man reached inside his jacket and handed over his wallet; Panos rifled through it, pocketed the money inside, dropped it. “The rest of it.” He took the man’s passport and a plain white envelope. It was too dark to read. He backed into the light, flipped open the passport, scanned the contents, tossed it aside. The envelope contained an airline ticket Panos squinted, trying to decipher the details.

  The man looked Kemal up and down. “You are a Turk, yes?”

  “How do you know that?”

  The man chuckled. “Why do you think I offered you a breath mint?”

  “Fucker!”

  “Kemal, no!”

  The man parried Kemal’s knife thrust, pulled him in, and lashed out with his left hand. There was a soft crunch. With a grunt, Kemal clutched his throat and fell. Panos instinctively knew his friend was dead.

  “Drop the envelope, boy,” the Russian said. “Drop it and run while you can.”

  “I’m sorry, mister, I—”

  “I said leave it and go! You’re trying my patience.”

  Panos stooped, placed the airline ticket on the ground, then turned and ran.

  Langley

  For the past twenty hours, the OP Center had been running fully staffed, augmented by the periodic presence of Coates, Stucky, Sylvia Albrect, and Latham, all of whom came and went as their schedules dictated. The waiting was hardest for Latham.

  What would he do if he found himself face-to-face with Vorsalov? Countless times he’d relived that night, and always it came out the same. Not this time. This time, you son of a bitch, if you come here … What was taking so long?

  Dick Mason strode into the conference room, shut the door, and snatched up the phone. “Okay, Ginny, patch it through.”

  There was a series of clicks. FIS Director of Operations Pyotor Kolokov’s voice came through the speaker “Hello?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kolokov,” Mason said. “This is Director Mason. You’re on speakerphone. Present are my DDO, DDI, Near East Division chief, and a special agent of the FBI.”

  “This is a secure line, I presume? And you are recording?”

  “Yes to both.”

  “We have the information you requested. Whether you will consider it favorable or not, I do not know.”

  “Whatever you’ve got, we appreciate the effort.”

  “First you must know: Our mutual friend made our surveillance team; one of them was killed.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “The price of business. The target stayed in Beirut for approximately two hours. We do not know who he met. He is traveling under a passport issued to a Yan Karnovsky, a Belarus citizen working as an industrial chemical buyer. We will fax you the particulars.”

  “And his destination?”

  “According to the surviving member of the Larnaca team, Vorsalov was carrying an airline ticket. If he follows the route, his flight will take him first to Rome, then London for another connection. That is the interesting part.”

  “How so?” asked Mason.

  “His last connection is bound for New York.”

  Washington, D.C.

  “So you have no new information,” Fayyad said.

  “Christ, I’ve already told you!” Smith snapped, glancing around. The footpath leading to and from their bench was deserted. “I’m going to Langley tomorrow.” Smith flicked a fern branch from his face. “This is idiotic!”

  “You’re not a lover of nature, Senator?”

  “Fuck nature.”

  As planned, Fayyad’s choice of the United States Botanic Garden as a meeting place was causing the Senator fits. Just a stone’s throw from Capitol Hill, the garden was a favorite of tourists but was rarely frequented by politicians. Though Smith did not realize it, the chance of their being observed was slim.

  “This trip to CIA headquarters … Was it your idea or theirs?” asked Fayyad.

  “Theirs,” Smith said.

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Given what I’m asking for, no. You’ve got no idea how unusual these damned questions of yours are. You just don’t ask the CIA for these kinds of details.”

  “So you told me.”

  “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”

  “I think I do, Senator. I know all about you. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself. The king of porcupine power, they call you. You berate and belittle your opponents until they surrender. It will be the same with this. You will bully them until—”

  “This is different, damn it! This is the fucking CIA—”

  “Just like you bully your wife—”

  “My wife? Listen, pal, just because you’re fucking her doesn’t mean you know shit about our marriage. Judith is perfectly happy.”

  “She is not happy—” Fayyad caught himself, took a breath. “Senator, your wife and your marriage are not my concern. All I care about is the information, and your time is running out.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I will be frank. Believe me or not, I want nothing more than to get this information and leave. Once I’m gone, your involvement will be over. You will be able to resume your life as before.”

  “Suits me fine.”

  “The problem is, I’m no longer in control. The people I work f
or are not so patient. They are insisting on more … stern methods.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I am being honest with you. If they knew I was telling you this—”

  “Bullshit. This is the good cop/bad cop routine. You watch too much TV.”

  “Senator, for once in your life, stop and listen! Another man is on his way here. He is a professional. His job will be to get results, whatever it takes. Do you understand?”

  Smith stared at Fayyad. His face went pale. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I know him. I know what he is capable of.”

  “Jesus, I’m trying to get it! Don’t they know that?”

  “I’ve told them.”

  “I’m doing my best! Can’t they give me a little more time?”

  “He is already on his way.”

  “Oh, God …”

  “We still have a few more days, Senator. If you can get me the information before then …”

  “Sure, sure. The meeting’s tomorrow. I can get it tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “If I do, you can stop this, right? I mean—”

  “Yes. You understand, then? To protect you, I must have the information. Otherwise I have no control over what happens.”

  “Yeah, sure, I can see that. I can get it.”

  Though having seen it many times before, Fayyad was amazed at Smith’s transformation. The threat of violence, combined with the oblique offer of friendship had worked its magic. There were drawbacks, though. The fear would begin to gnaw at Smith, make him careless.

  “I want you to go home and get some sleep,” said Fayyad. “Try to relax.”

  “Right. Good idea. Okay, so I get this information, and there’s no reason for this guy to bother me, right?”

  Fayyad nodded. “You have my word.”

  24

  Langley

  Pleasantries exchanged and coffee poured, Dick Mason said, “Senator, George tells me you have some questions regarding SYMMETRY.”

  “Ever the diplomat, your Mr. Coates,” Smith replied. “Grave reservations would be the more appropriate phrase. And I’ll tell you this, Director Mason: Before we’re through here, I’ll have answers.”

  The other attendees, Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and Senator Dean, shifted nervously in their chairs as Mason and Smith faced one another across the table.

  Though Mason had never considered Smith a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, today the senator had underdone himself; red-eyed, hair askew, and jacket rumpled, he looked like he had just come off a three-day binge, which, Mason reminded himself, was a distinct possibility.

  “You’ve reviewed our report, I assume?” Mason said.

  “And found it lacking. I’m looking for the truth, not rhetoric.”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  Smith flipped open his legal pad and read off a list of questions: names of terrorist groups Marcus’s network had penetrated, particularly those in Lebanon; the network’s communication protocols; what, if any, side-lobe product had been uncovered by the network. …

  George was right, Mason thought. Smith was far out of bounds. Such details were beyond even the DCI’s purview.

  Mason’s first instinct was to be suspicious, but regardless of his personal dislike for the man, Smith’s handling of IOC matters had thus far been beyond reproach. Herb Smith a traitor? Mason didn’t buy it. The man was a grade-A son of a bitch, but he wouldn’t sell out his country. So what, then? Mason wondered.

  “How long have you been chairman of the IOC, Senator?” Mason asked.

  “You know very well how long. Four years.”

  “In all that time have we ever given you these kinds of operational details?”

  “Damn it, don’t patronize me! Your agency’s history of withholding information is well-documented. You don’t like us shining the light on you and your pet projects; it makes you scurry for the corners.”

  “I’m sorry you feel—”

  “You’re perfectly happy keeping your secrets and playing your games. You’ve wasted millions of dollars and a man’s life on this fiasco, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Senator, there are reasons for withholding certain details—”

  “To cover your collective asses. Yes, I—”

  “It’s called compartmentalization and need-to-know. The theory behind—”

  “I don’t need a lecture, Mason.”

  “I think you do. Operations are compartmentalized so damage to one part doesn’t spread. And need-to-know is just that: If you don’t need access to classified information, you don’t get it. Period. Even I’m not privy to the particulars of all ongoing ops.”

  “Including SYMMETRY?”

  “Including SYMMETRY.”

  Smith grinned, shook his head. “Looks like I just found one of the problems. Do you even know what’s going on in your own agency, Mason? Maybe this fiasco is just the tip of the iceberg. I wonder what else I might find with some digging?”

  “You haven’t been listening, Senator.”

  “Oh, I’ve been listening—maybe too well, and it’s got you worried. All of a sudden you’re finding yourself up against somebody who doesn’t buy your spook-speak bullshit!”

  Senator Dean laid a hand on Smith’s forearm. “Herb, why don’t we—”

  “No! No, goddamn it! I’ve listened to this double-talk for too long.” He jutted his finger across the table. “I’ve watched you people dance in the dark and play your games long enough. The president has given you people too much power, and this SYMMETRY disaster proves it. You haven’t got the slightest idea of the concept of accountability to the public you serve. Well, guess what? That’s about to change. Starting now. Starting with you answering my questions!”

  Smith’s left eye twitched. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Are you feeling all right, Senator?” asked Sylvia Albrecht.

  “I’m fine! I’m waiting, Mason.”

  “Senator, since you’ve been so frank with us, I feel obliged to do the same. I don’t care—even remotely—about your impressions of this agency. I’m proud of our accomplishments, and I stand behind every project we’ve undertaken during my tenure.”

  “That’s very moving, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”

  “And I don’t intend to. Everything you need to know is in that briefing folder.”

  “That’s not good enough. I want—”

  “Senator, I don’t pretend to understand politics, and I have no desire to. I’m not sure where this agenda of yours is coming from, but I suggest you drop it. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

  Smith blanched. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “I just did. Now, if that’s all—”

  Smith pounded the table. “No, that’s not all, you son of a bitch!”

  Senator Dean blurted, “Jesus, Herb!—”

  “Shut up! Mason, you—”

  The DO stood up. “This meeting is over. George, Senator Smith is leaving; let’s get him an escort. Senator Dean, it’s been a pleasure.”

  Smith bolted up. “I’m not going anywhere! You can’t … can’t …” His face flushed. He plopped down in his seat, gasping.

  “Senator?” Mason asked.

  Smith waved him away. “I’m fine …” he croaked.

  Mason said, “George, call Medical.”

  Seven floors below Mason’s office, Latham hung up the phone and turned to the other team members. “He just deplaned in Heathrow. They’ve got him.”

  Vorsalov was now under the watchful eyes of MI-5, the British counterpart to the FBI. If the world’s intelligence services were to hold Olympic contests, Latham was convinced MI-5 would come out the undisputed champion of mobile ground surveillance. Vorsalov wouldn’t be able
to use the toilet without eyes on him.

  “How long before his connection?” asked Randal.

  “Forty minutes.”

  “Plenty of time for something to go wrong,” muttered Art Stucky.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” Latham said. He hadn’t liked Stucky upon their first meeting four years ago and liked him even less now. He was a narrow-minded bigot and generally an asshole. Latham had encountered enough sociopaths to recognize their aura, and Stucky was steeped in it.

  “You hope nothing goes wrong,” Stucky replied.

  “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Always the bright side, eh, Charlie?”

  Paul Randal asked, “Did he come in on the Karnovsky passport?”

  “Yep.”

  “Surprised he hasn’t switched.”

  “Me, too. If he’s going to do it, Heathrow’s his last chance.”

  “Does MI-5 know that?” Stucky asked.

  “They wrote the book on this, Art,” Latham said.

  “Right. Nobody tighter-assed than the Limeys.”

  Latham began reviewing his mental checklist. They had eight hours from the time Vorsalov boarded at Heathrow until he touched down in New York. As of two hours ago, Harry Owen and the New York FO were putting the finishing touches on the surveillance net. The machinery was in place. Now they waited.

  Why had the Russian come back? he wondered. The man knew how badly they wanted him, so what could be worth it? Whatever it was, Latham wasn’t about to question his good fortune.

  Aside from the details of Vorsalov’s itinerary, the most interesting piece of information from the FIS’s Larnaca team was their description of his contact aboard the ferry. Though far from a positive match, it sounded like the unidentified Arab from Khartoum. Latham played the scenario in his head: The Arab, based in Beirut, hires Vorsalov and Fayyad in Khartoum; Vorsalov’s travel is related to the job. But in what way? And where was Fayyad now? The most obvious answer was also the most frightening: the United States. Again, Latham found himself asking the same question: What had drawn Fayyad here only weeks after the Delta bombing?