End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “I know. Let’s go.”

  Swimming hard against a crosscurrent, they reached the shore eighteen minutes later and climbed out just as Tsumago was reaching the fence. Once through the gate, the tugboat disengaged its towlines and peeled away. Almost immediately, Tsumago’s wake broadened, white against the dark water.

  “She’s moving fast,” Cahil said.

  Tanner nodded. “How long since you’ve done a five-minute mile?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Once she makes the turn around the headland, we’ll lose her. We have to know which direction she’s headed.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  It was almost two miles to the end of the peninsula. For the first mile, Tanner caught glimpses of Tsumago as she steered for open water, but soon the forest thickened and they lost sight of her.

  The path they chose was a hiker’s trail, and they made good time despite falling several times in the darkness. By the time they reached the headland, their shins were bruised and bloody. Panting hard, they scrambled up the rocks at the water’s edge.

  “You see her?” Tanner asked.

  “No. Wait … there.” Cahil pointed at a pair of lights in the distance.

  “Give me a fix.”

  Cahil pulled out their map, picked out a couple landmarks, and did a quick calculation. “She’s at one-five-zero.”

  “I see green running lights.”

  “That makes her starboard side to us. She’s heading south; make it one-eight-five.”

  Across the cove they heard the thumping of the helicopter rotors, followed a moment later by a strobe light streaking across the water. Five minutes later, the strobe merged with the Tsumago’s outline and blinked out.

  “Bad news,” Tanner told Oaken an hour later, then explained.

  “You’re sure she was heading south?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I might have something. It’s not gonna be as accurate as data from the helm, but I’ve got a guess where she’s headed.”

  “Oaks, I’m certainly not one to complain, but it would’ve been nice if you’d thought of this a few hours ago,” said Cahil.

  “I know, sorry. There’s just so much information—”

  “I’m kidding, Walt.”

  Tanner asked, “How long until you can give us a guess?”

  “Tomorrow. In the meantime, we’re getting you out. Got a map?”

  “Yep. Go ahead.”

  “There’s a small airstrip outside Iyo on Shikoku’s northwestern shore.”

  “I see it.”

  “Go there. A charter will be waiting.”

  35

  Washington, D.C.

  Vorsalov was gone. Latham and his team were angry and demoralized. He did his best to rally them, but in his heart he wasn’t hopeful. The odds were against them and getting worse with each passing hour.

  The repercussions of Vorsalov’s escape would not be long in coming. This operation was under scrutiny by not only the FBI and the CIA, but by Senator Hostetler and his allies on Capitol Hill as well. Hostetler wanted the man who’d almost killed his little girl, and the nation—when and if it found out about this operation—would want the man who’d visited terror on its shores. Once the ax started falling, Latham knew his head would be on the short list.

  He forced himself to focus on their next step. There was only one, really: interviewing and canvassing. So while his agents discreetly beat the bushes, Latham waited.

  Sixteen hours after Vorsalov escaped, they struck gold in the form of a xenophobic deli owner.

  According to Paul Randal, the deli owner claimed to have seen a pair of “Eye-rabs” parked in a minivan two blocks from Brown’s Boat Center around the time of Vorsalov’s escape. Suspicious of Middle Easterners and their well-known fondness of wanton destruction, the deli owner not only remembered the license plate but also the movements of the occupants, one of whom left the van for ten minutes, then returned. This in itself was not significant until Randal questioned an employee at Brown’s, who confirmed that Vorsalov’s canoe had been reserved and paid for by an Arab. The time frame fit, as did the general description.

  “Why didn’t they just rent it over the phone?” Latham asked Randal.

  “They tried, probably. Last year during homecoming a bunch of high school kids reserved a dozen paddle boats by phone, then took them out and played a little demolition derby. Since then, they only take reservations face-to-face … credit card, waivers, all that.”

  “What else?”

  “This is where it gets good. The deli guy says the van sat there for about twenty minutes. Just sitting there. He’s getting nervous; the Arabs look nervous. Then all of a sudden a white guy, walking fast from the direction of Brown’s, climbs in, and they pull away.”

  “I’ll be damned. And the van?”

  Randall handed him the report. “Rented by a Henry Awad, a naturalized citizen. He’s a cook at a diner in Hyattsville. Wife, no children. The van goes for three hundred a week. He pulls down four.”

  “Henry must really love minivans,” Latham said. “Okay, put him under the microscope.”

  Within twenty-four hours they knew more about Henry Awad than did his closest neighbors. Most of the information was trivial, but several things caught Latham’s eye.

  According to INS, Awad had come to the U.S. from Egypt six years before. Ever the skeptic, Latham called in a favor from the FBI’s Linguistics Department and had a Near East expert visit the diner for lunch. While eating her cheeseburger and fries, she listened closely to the voice in the kitchen.

  “Wherever he’s from,” she later told Latham, “it isn’t Egypt.” Her best guess was Syria or Iraq. Latham knew this proved nothing, but it piqued his interest.

  The second curiosity was that the Awad family’s Wind-star—the one costing Henry three-quarters of his weekly income—was nowhere to be seen. Awad drove a brown Dodge Aries K, and his wife never left the house aside from walking trips to the grocery store.

  During the second day of surveillance, Randal called Latham. Charlie could hear the excitement in his partner’s voice. “Remember that load of groceries Henry’s wife bought yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s loading them into the trunk of his car.”

  “Picnic, maybe?”

  “Doubt it. It’s just him, no basket, no blanket.. .just him.”

  Latham had worked enough cases to know the majority of them are exercises in tedium, broken by occasional moments of excitement. Seemingly dead cases can turn 180 degrees in a matter of hours. This is exactly what happened when Randal tailed Henry Awad.

  Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Awad drove straight to a strip mall in Greenbelt and parked. Five minutes later, the blue Windstar pulled up beside him.

  “Charlie, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  “Henry’s loading groceries into our wayward minivan. He’s being helped by a pair of Arabs that look a whole lot like the ones our deli owner described.”

  “Okay, forget Henry for now. Stay on the van. We pin them down, we’re back in the game. I’m sending backup. Stick with them.”

  An hour after sunset, Latham parked in a clearing of pines in rural Greenbelt, old horse country about five miles off Highway I-95. He got out and walked up a path leading into the trees. He was met by Janet Paschel.

  “How’s it look?” he asked.

  “Good. The HRU boys are already here.”

  Following his call, it had taken the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Unit only thirty minutes to get mobilized. HRU was perhaps the best hostage team in the U.S., military or civilian.

  Paschel led him to a ranch-style house fronted by a long porch. Latham found Randal and Stan Wilson, the HRU commander, standing in the darkened living room before a bay window that overlooked a meadow.

  Latham shook hands with Wilson. “Thanks for ge
tting here so quick, Stan.”

  “Sure. This is Hank Reeves, my second-in-command.”

  “Good to meet you, Hank.” To Randal: “Nice digs. Whose is it?”

  “Belongs to the Taub family. They own the stables and corral, too. They’re in Kentucky for a month or so. We ran into a caretaker who gave us their number. Seems Mr. Taub is an ex-DEA agent. He said—and I’m quoting here—as long as we don’t bring in any hookers and promise to clean up after ourselves, we can have the run of the place.”

  Latham laughed. “I think we can manage that. Stan, how’s it look?”

  “Depends on what you want.”

  “Let’s see the layout.”

  Wilson handed him a pair of binoculars. In the distance he could see a two-story, whitewashed farmhouse. Several windows were lit, but Latham saw no activity. A narrow access road led from the house, around the edge of the meadow, and out to the main road.

  “Can’t see it from here, but there’s a garage to the right,” Wilson said. “Van’s parked in front of it.”

  They had chosen a good hidey-hole, Latham decided. There were only three ways to approach the farmhouse: the road, through the pine trees surrounding the house, or across the meadow.

  “Have we got blueprints?” Latham asked.

  Randal handed them over. “Care to guess who’s listed as the renter?”

  “Good ol’ Henry Awad?”

  “You got it.”

  “Stan, how thick are the trees?”

  “A good mile in all directions.”

  “How close to the farmhouse?”

  “About a hundred feet of clearance on all sides. The meadow grass is maybe six inches tall,” Wilson added. “No cover there.”

  “Okay, this is what I need: Bore mikes on each major room, plus the upstairs if possible, an eyeball map of the grounds, pictures of the occupants, and a wire tap.”

  “Can do. You’ll handle the warrants?”

  “Yep.” Latham called Janet Paschel over, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “Janet, start driving. They’ll be ready when you get there.”

  If there was any silver lining to the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City bombings, it was the legislative and judicial system’s increased support of the FBI’s antiterrorist efforts. As Latham stood in the Taub house in rural Greenbelt, the FBI’s power to pursue terrorists was greater than it had been since the days of J. Edgar Hoover. Within two hours of sending Paschel to fetch the warrants, Latham was listening to the radio as the HRU team moved into position around the farmhouse.

  It was cold outside, in the low fifties, and from where Latham sat, he could see dew glistening on the meadow grass. In the distance came the occasional whinny of a horse. Randal sat beside an audio tech at the coffee table.

  Wilson’s voice came over the radio. “Eyeball, give me a report.”

  “I count three tangos in the kitchen. All windows clear. No other lights.”

  “Roger, move in.”

  Latham peered through the infrared scope and could barely make out two of Wilson’s men crawling from the trees and merging with the shadows along the farmhouse wall.

  Thirty minutes later, it was done. His hair soaked with sweat, Wilson walked into the living room. “Any problems?” Latham asked.

  “Couldn’t get to the upstairs. Maybe if they leave, but not while they’re home. We’ve got mikes on all the ground-floor rooms, plus a wiretap on the phone, a map, and some good pics of the inside.”

  “Great job, Stan; thanks. How about the two we’re looking for?”

  “Didn’t see them.”

  Short of canvassing area hotels for Vorsalov, Latham had no choice but to hope these Arabs would lead him to the Vorsalov and Fayyad—if in fact the Jordanian was part of the operation.

  He turned to the audio technician. “How about it?” he asked.

  “Perfect. It’s like we’re sitting in the same room.”

  Latham nodded. “Start the tapes and pray they’re talkative.”

  Born from a combination of arrogance and a firm belief in hiding in plain sight, Vorsalov took a room at the Marriott Key Bridge at the bend of the Potomac, a stone’s throw from Roosevelt Island and Brown’s Boat Center.

  After showering and calling room service for a seafood quiche and a bottle of white Coutet, he took a chair by the window and read Fayyad’s report. He was impressed by the Jordanian’s progress. The seduction had been swift and complete. Fayyad had read her perfectly.

  The turning of the senator had also gone smoothly, though Fayyad was a bit too congenial for Vorsalov’s taste. Fayyad reported Smith was compliant, frightened, and slightly desperate—a powerful combination. But would it be enough? And what of the ridiculously short time line? Would these Arabs never learn? Yet another case of zealotry-induced blindness.

  He finished the report and set it aside. Ill-advised as it might be, tightening the vise on Smith was their only recourse. Vorsalov scanned the report again until he reached the page he sought. He read the passage twice more before the germ of a plan began to form. It was workable, he decided, but very dangerous.

  But this was America, he reminded himself. Security here was a sieve, and their police were restricted by rules and regulations and other such niceties. Yes, he decided, it could be done.

  36

  Philippine Sea, 30°28‘ N140°18‘ E

  Though the end of the war was still a year away, by the early summer of 1944, America’s island-hopping campaign had already obliterated Japan’s forward bases and the Allied forces were steadily tightening the noose on the Japanese Empire. Destroyed or bypassed were the island fortresses of Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Rabaul, and dozens of other atolls standing between the U.S. advance and the Japanese mainland.

  By mid-June, two months after Truk’s airfields and lagoon were decimated by the Hellcats of Task Force 58, Vice Admiral Kelly Turner’s amphibious landing forces were swinging north. Blocking their way were the Marianas and Saipan, the headquarters of Japan’s Central Pacific Fleet.

  Unlike Truk, however, the Marianas could not be bypassed. Doing so would leave Nimitz’s flanks exposed and deprive the allies of Saipan’s airfields, which they needed to launch B-29 bombing raids on the mainland. Consequently, the Japanese high command knew Saipan and the Marianas would bear the full fury of U.S. forces, and they had been preparing for it since February of that year. Clinging to what had become their standard of battle, they chose to fortify not only Saipan but every island, atoll, and rock they had captured since 1941.

  One such island, Parece Kito, situated roughly 350 miles northwest of Saipan, had begun its fortification in March of 1944. Here, as before, Japan had not learned from its previous battles with the U.S. American commanders had no interest in forward naval bases. They wanted homes for their bombers, and Parece Kito’s four square miles of jungle and mangrove swamps did not fit the bill. Even if Nimitz had hand-delivered this information to Tokyo, however, it would not have mattered, for the empire’s defense strategy was based as much on stubbornness as it was on sound military planning. Not a scrap of ground was to be yielded. Not a palm tree, not a spit of sand.

  And so by June of 1944, Parece Kito was home to a regiment of Japanese Marines, a sprawling underground bunker complex, and an interwoven system of eight-inch gun batteries designed to decimate any landing force trying to enter its lagoon.

  Alas, the guns never fired a shot in anger.

  They and the troops remained on Parece Kito, unused and ignored until the end of the war thirteen months later, when the island’s commander received word of the Empire’s surrender. The closest it had come to seeing an invasion force were three overflights by U.S. Navy PBYs, whose photos convinced Nimitz to bypass the island and let it wither on the vine.

  Six weeks after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, a dozen ships arrived at Parece Kito, took aboard the demoralized Japanese troops, and transported them back to in
ternment camps in Japan. The guns were destroyed in place, and the bunker complex was sealed, an overnight ghost town.

  It was to this island, over fifty years later, that Walter Oaken was sending Briggs Tanner and Ian Cahil on the trail of Tsumago.

  After reaching the airstrip outside Iyo, they had boarded the charter plane awaiting them, and three hours later, they touched down at a rural airstrip on Okinawa. They were cleared through customs without incident, and Tanner assumed that either Takagi had not yet contacted the Okinawan authorities or Oaken had pulled some of his own strings. They found a secluded phone booth and called Oaken.

  “I wish we had Tsumago’s helm data to confirm it, but this is about as close as we’re going to get,” Oaken began. “The log listed Tsumago as sailing eight times in the last six months, average duration three days, give or take twelve hours.”

  Armed with the ship’s cruising speed of twenty knots and the longest time she’d been gone (eighty-five hours), Oaken had multiplied the two figures and halved the answer, leaving a maximum one-way range of 950 miles. With the shipyard at its center, the arc encompassed eastern China, Korea, Taiwan, all of Japan, and a good-sized chunk of the Pacific Ocean, including thousands of tiny, uninhabited islands.

  Oaken checked all the major ports in Korea, China, and Japan for record of Tsumago’s docking. He found nothing. Like her sister ship Toshogu, Tsumago was a ghost. So why, he asked, wouldn’t Takagi use similar methods to hide her existence and destination? It was the right question.

  Like Toshogu, which had been purchased by Skulafjord Limited, a secret subsidiary of Takagi Industries, Tsumago had been purchased by yet another secret Takagi holding called Caraman Exports, among whose many offshoots was a company called Daito Properties. Daito openly owned real estate in Taipai, Malaysia, and Sumatra. It was one of Daito’s buried holdings that interested Oaken, however, namely a small 100-acre island in the Philippine Sea called Parece Kito.