End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “Stand by….”

  Lemond hesitated. No time, no time … He holstered his radio. The problem with a surveillance net this big was it took time to adjust. And the problem with following a subject without backup was he could find himself in trouble very fast. He’d read the KGB man’s file; better to not be caught alone with him.

  He took a deep breath, then turned the corner at a stroll. Ahead, the taxi was pulling away from the curb. Lemond waited until it turned the corner, spun, and raised his hand for a cab. “Command, subject is in a La Salle, number 4201, heading south on Iberville. I am following.”

  “Negative, negative, wait for backup.”

  “Negative, Command, he’ll be gone by then. I’ll contact you.” He climbed inside and flashed his badge to the driver, a turbaned Pakastani. “Did you see that La Salle that just turned the corner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow it.”

  “Certainly you are not serious, Officer?”

  “Certainly I am. Move!”

  However tenuous the cabbie’s grasp of English was, he was a good driver. They had closed to within fifty meters of the La Salle. “What’s your name?” Lemond asked. “Punjab.”

  “Stay with him, Punjab.”

  “Certainly I will, Officer.”

  Ahead, the La Salle took a sharp left.

  “He’s turning!”

  “Indeed he is,” Punjab replied, going straight ahead.

  “Follow him!”

  “Oh no, he will be coming out ahead of us. Three blocks, you will see.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I am a taxi driver for twelve years now. They can only go east from there. All one-way streets, you see. Also, I know that driver. Only airport runs for Henri. The hotel district to Dorval Airport only. You will see.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  True to Punjab’s prediction, the La Salle appeared ahead of them and turned back onto Iberville. Through the La-Salle’s rear window Lemond could see a black fedora.

  “There is Henri,” Punjab said. “Dorval Airport, you see.”

  Lemond noticed a black duffel bag lying on the front seat. “Is that yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Athletic attire. I play squash.”

  “May I borrow it?”

  “My bag? It contains my lucky racket. Why must you have it?”

  “Police business.”

  Punjab grinned. “Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

  “Thanks. Give me one of those airport maps, too.”

  Why Dorval? Lemond thought. Dorval handled only domestic flights.

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled under the terminal’s awning. Ahead of them, the La Salle pulled away from the curb. Vorsalov was gone.

  With Punjab’s bag in one hand and the airport map in the other, Lemond climbed from the cab. “I’ll contact you about your bag.”

  “Before tonight, I am hoping,” said Punjab “You see, it contains my—”

  “Your lucky racket, I know. Thanks.”

  Lemond made a show of studying the map as he walked down the sidewalk. He spotted a security guard. “Excuse me, can you help me?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “RCMP,” Lemond whispered, unfolding the map to reveal his badge. “Take me to the security office immediately.”

  As Latham was getting the bad news and the Mounties were converging on Dorval, Lemond was standing before a bank of camera monitors. Where are you? These next few minutes might well decide his future with the RCMP—and whether he had one at all. He could imagine the charges: disobeying orders, misappropriating civilian property, endangering the welfare of the public.

  Where in the hell is the man?

  “You can thank terrorism,” said the security director.

  “What?”

  “Up until five years ago, we only had three cameras in the whole terminal. Terrorists have the government scared of its own shadow, so here we are … more cameras, more guards, more everything.”

  “What have you told your people, Mr. Director?”

  “To look for a man matching your description but not to interfere with him. The gate attendants and the security guards are watching for him.”

  “Good. When is the next flight due to leave?”

  The director consulted a sheet. “Five minutes, gate seven. That screen, there.”

  “We can transfer images to that big screen, also,” said the operator.

  “And we can see all of the gates?” Lemond asked.

  “Plus the waiting areas.”

  “Put gate seven on the big monitor, please.” Lemond leaned closer, studying the gate’s waiting area. “Can you pan?”

  “Sure,” said the operator.

  The camera scanned the lounge from corner to corner, but Lemond saw no sign of the Russian. “How many guards are assigned to that area?”

  “Two,” replied the director.

  “Have them walk through. And for God’s sake, if they see him, tell them to stay clear.”

  As the director relayed the orders via radio, Lemond studied the other cameras. Twelve gates, twelve waiting areas … lots of territory. “Wait! Gate ten.”

  “You see him?” asked the director.

  Lemond peered closer, shook his head. “No, the height is wrong.”

  Gate seven announced its final boarding. The attendants began closing the jet way doors.

  “Well, so much for that one,” said the security director. “Next we’ve got two flights leaving at the same time. Gates one and four. Bring them up, Jorge.”

  As the operator reached for the switch, Lemond saw a flash of movement at the corner of the monitor. “Hold it! Pull back and pan right.”

  “What is it?” asked the security director.

  The camera moved just quickly enough. On the monitor, a trench coat-clad figure handed his boarding pass to the attendant and slipped through the door.

  Lemond grinned. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s him! Where’s he going?”

  The director consulted the schedule. “Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.”

  27

  Japan

  Seeing the wreck with fresh eyes, Tanner recognized it immediately as a World War II U.S. fleet submarine. A dozen questions filled his mind, chief among them: What was it doing here, less than 400 yards off the mainland?

  Tanner finned up to join Cahil on the bridge. Both periscopes were snapped off at their midpoint, but the masts for the surface- and air-search radars were intact. Below them, the foredeck sloped into the darkness, casting everything forward of the escape trunk in shadows. Had the trunk been used? Briggs wondered. Had there been any survivors left alive to use it? There was only one way to find out, he knew, but the trick would be getting inside. With a nod from Bear, he finned over the rail.

  Beneath the bridge they found a gash in the hull. Tanner tried to recall what he knew about a fleet sub’s layout. As a child he’d been fascinated by submarines and spent many hours poring over artists’ diagrams. They had to be somewhere near the forward battery compartment, he decided.

  Working together, he and Bear dug through the rubble until the gash was wide enough to accommodate them. Tanner shined his flashlight inside. The beam revealed nothing but darkness and swirling silt. His heart was pounding. He forced himself to take a deep breath. It was likely that no human had seen the inside of the submarine for better than fifty years. How many of the crew were still trapped inside? He looked at Bear’s face and his own emotions reflected there: anticipation and fear.

  He checked his watch, then signaled, Ten minutes left. Bear nodded.

  Tanner turned sideways, wriggled through the hole, then waited for Cahil to join him. They were in the main pump room, Tanner realized, looking around. Above them would be the control room, diving station, and conning tower.

  They swam aft through the hatch to the fr
esh water tank, into the radio room, then through to the galley and crew’s mess. Pots and pans littered the deck and flotsam swirled in their flashlight beams. A cabinet door wafted open and shut with a muffled banging sound. Tanner found an escape trunk hatch, rubbed the grime from the porthole, and peered inside; it was flooded. From damage or use?

  They swam aft into the crew’s quarters. The bunks were empty, mattresses long ago rotted to pulp that billowed with their passage. There were no skeletal remains, which surprised Tanner. Had all of the crew gotten out? He hoped so. The only other option was grim: The boat had sunk so quickly that everyone had died at their battle stations.

  The door to the washroom stood open, revealing a toilet fuzzy with algae. Tanner saw a light wink at him from the darkness, and his heart skipped. It was his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  They continued into the forward engine room, found it empty, and continued into the after engine room. On either side of the catwalk lay the boat’s two Fairbanks-Morse 1600-horsepower engines. They were in the heart of the sub now, and this is where Tanner hoped they might find a clue to its identity.

  With Cahil’s help, he pried open the catwalk hatch, slipped feet first past the barrel-like generator, and rolled over onto his belly. On elbows and knees, air tank banging on the catwalk above, he wriggled forward, shining his flashlight along the engine casing. Silt swirled in the light beam. He could feel the press of tons of steel hanging over him; he forced it from his mind.

  There! Stamped in the engine casing were a series of numbers. He rubbed away some of the algae and peered closer. 5-4-7-9-1-1-2-3-6. He committed the serial number to memory, then wriggled backward and let Cahil pull him back up.

  Well? Bear mouthed.

  Tanner gave him a thumbs-up, then checked his watch: four minutes of air left. With their reserves, they had just enough time to explore the rest of the boat.

  They found the first skeleton in the officer’s wardroom.

  It lay face up on the deck, both arms crossed over the chest cavity. Nearby lay a cap, dissolved save the plastic brim and a badly corroded steel emblem. It was an officer’s insignia: a lieutenant junior grade. Tanner shined his light over the skull and caught a glint of something inside the eye socket. Using his hand, he fanned away the silt and looked closer.

  In the center of the forehead was a perfectly round hole. Gently, Tanner turned the skull until he found a matching hole at the back, this one larger and more jagged. Out of it dropped a lump of metal. He picked it up. It was badly corroded and partially squashed but unmistakably a bullet.

  Swimming through the after torpedo, they found their second skeleton. Here also was the cause of the sub’s demise. The skeleton lay at the edge of a gaping shell hole in the deck, which began above their heads, arced through the compartment, and exited below their feet. Tanner shined his light up through the hole and could see the rocky edges of the rift. Amazing the torpedoes hadn’t detonated, he thought, running a hand over the blunt nose of one of them. The shell had probably been a dud. If not, the bow would have been blown off.

  He turned back to the skeleton. It lay sprawled beside the torpedo rack, one wrist chained to a stanchion, the other to a rotted leather briefcase. Gently, Tanner opened the case’s lid. Inside was a manila folder and a small automatic pistol, a .25 caliber Beretta. As he touched the folder, it dissolved into a cloud of pulp. He slipped the gun into his rucksack.

  Cahil tapped him on the shoulder. He pointed at the skeleton’s lower legs. Half covered in silt were a pair of stainless steel braces, the leather straps still encircling both tibias at the knee and ankle. These, too, Tanner slipped into the rucksack.

  Cahil tapped his watch.

  Tanner nodded and pushed off the deck into the shell hole. Bear followed. Once on the foredeck, Tanner finned toward the canopy of sea grass. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Bear was gone. He could see a flashlight beam moving inside the shell hole. He swam back.

  Cahil gestured him closer, then pointed to the edges of the hole.

  They were smooth and freshly blackened by a blowtorch.

  When they got back to the Range Rover, Mitsu was waiting.

  “Did we have any company?” Tanner asked.

  “No.”

  Tanner squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, scout. You did good. Run on home.”

  Mitsu ran off into the darkness.

  As Tanner started the engine, Cahil said, “So tell me: Aside from the obvious, what the hell did we just find down there?”

  It was a good question. Tanner had felt certain Ohira’s markings on the chart had meant something, but now he wasn’t so sure. What did they have, really? A sunken World War II submarine, and a dead man’s insinuation that a nonexistent Takagi salvage ship had been lurking in the same area.

  “I don’t know, Bear,” Tanner replied. “I don’t know.”

  Back at the hotel, Tanner stopped at the front desk for messages. “Yes, sir,” the receptionist said. “One. From a woman. She did not leave her name.”

  Tanner read: “Must postpone our date; called to office for urgent meeting.”

  Inexplicably, Tanner felt a chill. How unusual was it for Sumiko to get a late-night summons to Takagi headquarters?

  “What is it?” Cahil asked.

  “Maybe nothing.”

  Briggs walked into the deserted Tiki Lounge, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed Sumiko’s office number. He let it ring a dozen times and was about to hang up when the line clicked open.

  “Hello?” Tanner said in Japanese.

  Silence. Breathing in the mouthpiece.

  “Hello?”

  The line clicked dead.

  His next call went to Inspector Ieyasu. He explained an acquaintance of his might be missing. They’d already checked her apartment and could get no information from the Takagi corporate office. As Tanner expected, Ieyasu only half bought the story but immediately agreed to look into it. He knew several officers in the prefect. He would have them drive by Takagi Headquarters.

  Ieyasu called back an hour later. “Noboru and his security people were already there in force,” he said. “They tried to bar the police from entering, but they finally gave in.”

  “And?”

  “This friend of yours was a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Sumiko Fujita.”

  “I’m sorry, Briggs. I’m so sorry. She was found dead in the parking lot.”

  28

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  Upon hearing of Lemond’s impromptu tailing of Vorsalov, Latham promised to buy the Mountie a steak dinner. Upon further hearing Lemond had requested the Yarmouth constabulary canvass Nova Scotia’s only two departure points to the U.S. (the local airport and a ferry terminal) for any sign of the Russian, he upped the ante to a case of scotch. As it turned out, their luck was holding: Vorsalov had chosen the ferry.

  Now, almost eight hours after Vorsalov had left Montreal, and with just an hour to spare, Latham and his thirty-agent team had arrived in this quaint town of 5,000 people and, with the help of the local police, quietly hijacked the marina area.

  Latham sat inside his command van, watching the ferry terminal and listening to the radio chatter as the agents got into position. Through his binoculars he could see the Bluenose ferry edging past the breakwater. Beside him, Randal was donning his customs uniform. “Ready?” Latham asked.

  “Ready.”

  The churning in Yuri Vorsalov’s stomach had worsened with each passing mile and now, as the ferry’s bow slipped past the breakwater and into the harbor, he began to sweat. A gust of cold wind whipped across the deck and cooled his face.

  How had this happened? he asked himself. What was he doing back here?

  It was simple, of course. It was the lesser of three evils. Either come here and salvage this operation for the Arabs, live the rest of his life in a cave, or die.

 
Since going freelance Vorsalov had found it relatively easy to stay hidden in the underworlds of the Mideast, Africa, and the Mediterranean, but if he failed here, he would find himself persona non grata in those areas as well. That was, of course, providing he managed to stay alive at all.

  Like it or not, this was his best course. Besides, how many times had he beaten the Americans at this game? He’d done it before and would do so again. He allowed himself a smile. He would be done and gone before they realized he was here.

  Latham kept his eyes fixed on the two immigration checkpoints, each a small whitewashed shack through which the ferry’s passengers were funneled. He scanned each passenger’s face, then moved to the next. “Come on, where are you?”

  There!

  The Russian had aged, but there was no mistaking him. His hair had thinned, his face was more worn, but the eyes were the same flat, cold blue.

  Latham keyed his radio. “Paul, I’ve got him: Gray trench, black garment bag.”

  “Roger.”

  On the dock, Randal began strolling that way. At the head of the quay, a second agent, Jim Stephans, moved to join him.

  Vorsalov stepped forward in line. This was the time he hated most. Getting past customs was virtually the last hurdle. Movie portrayals aside, most spies are not captured in a wild shoot-out or car chase but rather as they enter a target country. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. But from where? Where would they—

  From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a customs agent turn in his direction. Alarms went off in Vorsalov’s head. He scanned the crowds, searching for telltale signs of surveillance: shielded radios, averted eyes, movements out of sync with the crowds. If this was a trap, other agents would be converging.

  Across the quay, the customs agent kept coming.

  Vorsalov clutched his bag tighter.

  Latham saw Vorsalov’s body language change. “Jim, breakoff,” he called. “He’s eyeballing you.”