End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  Tanner tested the handrail, found it sturdy, and they started downward. Briggs counted steps, and by the time they reached the bottom they were twenty-five feet underground. Ahead lay a dark passage.

  Tanner raised the .45, clicked on the flashlight, and shined it down the passage. Ten feet away lay a stainless steel door. They walked closer. The door’s edges were bordered by a thick rubber gasket, and its handle was a lever type like those used on industrial refrigerators.

  Cahil pressed his ear against the steel, then shook his head. “Maybe Takagi’s hoarding rump roast,” he whispered.

  “He strikes me more of a veal man. Higher brutality factor.”

  They checked the door for alarms or sensors and found nothing. Tanner grasped the handle and lifted gently until he heard a soft click-click. A puff of air escaped. That meant air-conditioning, which in turn meant electricity. Tanner opened the door the rest of the way, and they stepped through.

  Two things struck him simultaneously: the coolness of air, which after the jungle heat felt like an arctic blast, and the feeling they’d stepped into a high-tech laboratory.

  Instead of stone, the walls, floor, and ceiling were made of gray Lexan plastic. So well-seamed were the walls that Tanner had a hard time telling where they ended and the floor began. There were no corners, no right angles. He felt momentarily dizzy.

  “Briggs, take a look.”

  Cahil pointed to a stack of shelves containing plastic gowns, hair caps, and booties. “Whatever they’re up to, its delicate,” he said.

  Tanner nodded. “No symbology on the walls.” Sanitary, anonymous.

  The corridor ended at a T-turn. Tanner looked left, then right. More pressure doors. “You have a preference?” he asked.

  “Let’s try right.”

  Cahil led the way to the door, eased it open, waited for the escaping air to dissipate, then slipped through. Here the walls were not made of Lexan but of concrete. Judging from its decayed state, Tanner assumed it was the original structure. Darkened lightbulbs hung from the ceiling.

  They clicked on their flashlights. The passage before them was fifty feet long. Spaced along the left side were two doors.

  Inside the first room they found half a dozen bunk beds and a washroom. Cahil opened a locker to reveal neatly folded clothes. Tanner picked up a Sidney Sheldon paperback from one of the bunks. It was written in Kanji.

  “Looks like they left in a hurry.”

  The second room was a small kitchen, its steel counters spotted with rust. Several cabinets contained canned food, loaves of bread, and bags of rice. Tanner poked the bread; it felt fresh. He opened the refrigerator and found it well-stocked.

  “Briggs.”

  Cahil was standing in front of a pantry door. He pointed at the floor. It took a moment for Tanner’s brain to register the brownish red rivulets for what they were. Heart pounding, he stepped back, raised the .45, and nodded. Cahil opened the door.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured.

  The pile of bodies almost touched the ceiling. Arms and legs and heads lay jumbled together. The stench of blood and feces filled Briggs’s nostrils.

  “There must be a dozen of them,” Cahil whispered.

  From the pile there came a moan.

  “Somebody’s alive!” Bear said.

  Together they began pulling at bodies, checking for signs of life. While most of the corpses were riddled with bullet wounds, three of them, dressed in gray coveralls, had been shot once, execution-style, in the back of the head. At the eighth body, Tanner found a pulse. The man, a Japanese, was ghostly white, his chest barely rising. His shirt and pants were blood-soaked. They carried him out and laid him on the floor. Cahil ripped off his shirt.

  There was a single bullet hole under his left nipple; they rolled him over and found the exit wound was just below his shoulder blade. Tanner found a dishcloth in a drawer and pressed it against the wound as Cahil pulled a roll of duct tape from his pack and bound the dressing.

  “I don’t see anything else,” Cahil said. “Lucky boy.”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood, but his heart’s strong. Breathing’s regular.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered; he gripped Tanner’s hand. The man opened his mouth, but only a croak came out. Tanner said, “You’re safe. What happened here?”

  “Dead … They’re all dead.”

  What happened?”

  “Have they … have they gone?”

  “Who?” Tanner asked.

  “Noboru. He was here. He … he …”

  Tanner leaned closer. “Where is he?”

  “In the work section.”

  “Why did they do this?” Cahil asked.

  In answer, the man feebly raised his arm and pointed to the ceiling. Strapped to one of the support beams was a black box. Cahil jumped onto a counter for a closer look. “Bomb,” he said. “Signal detonated. I don’t dare touch it. Briggs, if they’ve rigged more of these, this whole place will come down on itself.”

  Tanner paused, thinking. “Okay, get him out of here.”

  “But—”

  “Take him and go. He’s our only witness.”

  “You’ll get buried,” Bear said.

  “I’ll run fast. Can you handle him?”

  “Stubborn son of a … Yeah, I’ve got him.”

  With Tanner on his heels, Cahil swung the man onto his shoulder, headed for the pressure door, and pushed through. “Target!” Cahil called.

  He ducked, and Tanner raised the .45 just in time to see a man down the hall raising his own Ingram machine pistol. Tanner fired twice, and the man went down.

  “Go, Bear!”

  “See you up top.”

  They separated at the T-turn, Cahil going left, Tanner ahead to the next door. Passing the dead man, Tanner noticed his gray coveralls. The three in the pantry had been Noboru’s.

  Tanner burst through the door.

  This corridor, like the others, was lined with Lexan. To his right was a sliding glass door. He clicked on his flashlight and slipped through.

  To his left stood a Plexiglas-enclosed room. Opposite that, to his front, was a second. Clean rooms, he thought immediately. Between them ran an alleyway, ten feet wide and bordered by handrails. Set into the floor at its head was a hatch. Through it Tanner could hear the hum of machinery.

  He shined his flashlight into the first clean room and saw a long, stainless steel worktable and a bank of cabinets. He was about to turn back when something caught his eye. Lying on the floor in the corner were three more bodies.

  He checked the second room. This one contained several pieces of machinery, one of which looked like a precision lathe. Wired to its leg was what looked like a soda can. Tanner looked closer and realized what he was seeing: a MK 8 white phosphorous grenade. He scanned the rest of the room. He counted eight more grenades; with each burning at 5,000 degrees, they could turn this room—this whole level, for that matter—to molten rock in less than a minute.

  Where’s Noboru?

  From the open hatch came a metallic clang. Tanner froze. He checked the .45’s magazine: Five rounds left.

  Walking on cat feet, he kneeled beside the hatch and peeked inside. A short ladder led downward. The humming sound was louder. He slipped feet first into the hatch and crept down.

  The room was narrow, no wider than the alleyway above, and generators and transformers lined the walls. Near the back wall Tanner saw the glow of a lightbulb. Hunched beneath it was a figure. The squarish head was unmistakable: Noboru.

  Tanner ducked behind the nearest transformer, crawled around a generator, and stopped. Noboru was twenty feet away, still hunched over, intent on his work. Tanner had a fair guess what that was.

  Now what? Between them lay nothing but open floor. Could he get close enough before Noboru spotted him? He crawled around the generator, paused, then wriggled forward.

  Fifteen feet to go.

  Tanner would neve
r know why, but at that moment Tange Noboru looked up. Their eyes met. Even as Tanner raised his .45, Noboru snatched his gun from the floor and ducked left. They fired simultaneously. Tanner’s shot struck the wall beside Noboru’s head. Something buzzed by Briggs’s ear and thunked into the generator.

  Silence.

  Tanner went still. Noboru would be doing the same, he knew, each waiting for the other to make a mistake. Patience, Briggs. Make him move. That Noboru hadn’t yet used the detonator suggested one of three things: either the devices were not ready; Noboru had no wish to die; or he wanted to first kill Tanner, up close and personal. Whichever it was, Briggs didn’t care. He still had time.

  One minute turned into two. The generator hummed.

  Tanner saw a shadow of movement against the far wall. He laid his face on the ground and saw a booted foot resting beside the generator’s leg. The foot shifted, paused, then slipped forward.

  Tanner didn’t hesitate. He took aim and fired.

  The .45 slug struck Noboru just below the ankle, blowing off his heel. As he screamed and toppled over, Tanner was up and running.

  He found Noboru lying on the floor, groaning and clutching his ankle. Blood gushed from the stump. Tanner kicked his pistol away. Grimacing, Noboru pushed himself upright and kneeled on his good leg, swaying slightly.

  “You are too late,” he said.

  It was then Tanner noticed a loaf-sized package tucked against the generator. The charge was at least four pounds of plastic explosive. Whatever secret this place held, Takagi was making sure it died here. Lying beside the bomb was what looked like a transistor radio. On its face, in red letters, were two numerals: 26. As Tanner watched, the display clicked to 25.

  “You will not make it out,” Noboru said.

  Tanner swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Did you kill Ohira?”

  Noboru nodded. “Good shot, yes? I should have killed you, too. It would have been easy.”

  “Lucky for me your judgment isn’t worth a damn. What about the crew of Toshogu? That was you, too?”

  “Hai.”

  Twenty seconds …

  “And the woman? Sumiko?”

  “Hai. She fought, that one. Perhaps if you hadn’t brought her into this—”

  “One more thing: You did all this on Takagi’s orders?”

  “It was my honor to—”

  “That’s all I needed to know.”

  Tanner raised the .45 and took aim. In that last second, Noboru’s eyes went wide as he realized what was happening. He’s surprised, Tanner thought. The stupid son of a bitch is surprised. He thought he was going to have it his way.

  Briggs shot him once in the chest. Amazingly, Noboru took the slug and managed to stay upright. Dumbfounded, he looked down at the oozing wound, back up at Tanner, then toppled onto his side.

  The timer clicked past thirteen seconds. Tanner turned and ran.

  He scrambled up the ladder, through the hatch, and was almost at the sliding door when the first charge exploded. The floor heaved beneath his feet. He stumbled and fell. Behind him, a gout of flame shot from the hatch. When it cleared, the floor of the alley was gone, a gaping hole in its place.

  Almost simultaneously, blinding white flames erupted in both the clean rooms. The Plexiglas began bubbling. Tanner watched in amazement as the machinery first glowed red, then white, and then began melting like hot clay.

  He stumbled to the door. A wave of heat washed over him. His pack burst into flames. He shrugged it off and kept going. He felt a stab of pain in his calf, turned, saw a chunk of flaming Plexiglas plastered to his pants. Knife … knife! He unsheathed it and began hacking at the material, slicing skin and cloth until the pant leg fell away. He crawled through the door and rolled into the hall. Even here, the heat was intense. The Lexan walls were sloughing away, revealing the stone beneath.

  He pushed through the pressure door, turned right at the T-turn, and ran for the main door. Behind him came another explosion. He looked back. The ceiling was gone, and through it came an avalanche of rubble and dust and smoke.

  He groped for the door handle, heaved back, and charged into the passage. He ran forward until he collided with the ladder. He mounted it and began climbing hand over hand. At the top, he pulled his upper body onto the floor.

  At the far end of the bunker, the ceiling was plunging into the crater below. A car-sized chunk of concrete crashed to the floor beside him. With a shriek of steel, the ladder tore free and dropped into the darkness. His legs swung free, and he started to slide back. He scrambled for a handhold, found one, and pulled himself up.

  All around him, jagged cracks were opening on the floor. He tried to stand, but collapsed. The pain in his leg was nearly blinding. He began hopping one-legged toward the nearest gunport, eyes fixed on the sunlight peeking through the vines. It seemed miles away. Keep moving, a voice in the back of his head said. The floor was crumbling now, falling away behind him. Five feet from the gunport, he tripped and fell. Pain burst behind his eyes. He began dragging himself forward. Not gonna make it, he thought numbly. Not gonna—

  And then a hand thrust through the vines and reached for him.

  He grabbed it.

  39

  Washington, D.C.

  Latham and Randal were reviewing the previous night’s stakeout reports from Greenbelt, Glen Echo, and the Marriott Key Bridge. “Looks like Vorsalov went to bed early,” said Randal. “The Arabs stayed up late playing cards and watching I Love Lucy reruns. How about Fayyad?”

  “Straight home from the Marriott. No visitors, no outgoing calls. How about his mystery woman?”

  “No luck. We only got half the license tags. We’re running them now.”

  “Hmmpf … What’s this?” Latham said, turning a page. “The call into Fayyad’s place? Late last night, lasted fifty seconds. Here, listen to this … ‘Caller: You met with our friend? Fayyad: Yes. You approve of his plans? Caller: I do. You will assist him, I assume? Fayyad: If it is what you want.’” Latham looked up at Randal. “What do you make of that?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Latham turned to the report’s conclusion. “ ‘Voice analysis of caller indicates a Middle Eastern man, approximately fifty to sixty years of age, well-educated. Caller in position of authority. VA suggests significant stress. No significant background noise. Call traced to public telephone exchange in Nicosia, Cyprus.’”

  “So what then?” asked Randal. “Vorsalov has taken over from Fayyad?”

  “And Fayyad doesn’t like it. Something’s changed, Paul.”

  “Like what?”

  “Think about it: What’s Vorsalov do best? He runs agents.”

  “Right. And Fayyad is a terrorist. So, what are they doing together?”

  “They hired Vorsalov and Fayyad at the same time. Maybe Yuri started off as a consultant, and now he’s here, running the show. They wouldn’t bring him in for a simple terrorist op.”

  “Not likely.”

  “So maybe he’s here as a controller. If so, that means sooner or later he’ll have to start having some face-to-face meetings.”

  Latham’s prediction turned out to be prophetic. That night he was sitting down to dinner with Bonnie when the phone rang. It was Randal. “You may have called it, Charlie. He’s moving.”

  “Which one?”

  “Clyde.” For brevity’s sake, they’d given Fayyad, the Arabs, and Vorsalov code names. Vorsalov was “Clyde.”

  “Are we set up?

  “For now. If he starts dry-cleaning, we might need more bodies.”

  “I’m on my way.” Latham hung up, took a gulp of milk, and smiled at Bonnie. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  “So I gather. More bad guys?”

  “More bad guys.”

  For the next hour, as Latham waited at headquarters and listened to the radio traffic, Vorsalov led them on yet another tour of Washington and its environs.

  At 9:30 he left
the Georgetown Pike, pulled into Great Falls Park, and parked beneath a giant oak. The park, though usually closed, was open for a Boy Scout night hike. The lot was full, 80 to a 100 cars.

  “Smart boy,” Randal said. “Hiding in plain sight.”

  “You said the park’s usually closed,” Latham said. “How do you know?”

  “Charlie, I have a teenage girl. When I found out this place is a prime makeout spot, I did my research.”

  “Ah, the joys of fatherhood. You’re on scene, Paul. What do you think?”

  “If we mingle in, we might just get it covered.”

  “Do it. I’m on my way.”

  An hour later Latham was sitting with Randal on a fire road at the park’s edge. The surveillance teams reported Vorsalov was still in his car. “How’s our coverage?” asked Latham.

  “Could be better. We can see cars coming in but not where they park.”

  “Can we put anybody on the pike?”

  “Too open.”

  Another twenty minutes passed. Twenty-four cars entered the lot; sixteen left.

  One of the surveillance teams called in: “Another car pulling in.”

  Then a moment later: “Command, Clyde has just flashed his headlights.”

  “This is it,” Latham said.

  “Clyde is out of his car. Second subject is approaching.”

  “Description,” Latham said.

  “White male, midfifties. Medium height and build. They’re talking now.”

  “Command, we’ve got another vehicle pulling to the shoulder on the pike.”

  “Make and model?”

  “Minivan, Chevy, looks like. Whoa! Both subjects are moving to it.”

  “Shit!” Latham said. “Paul, get a car moving!”

  “Command, they’re getting in … van is pulling away, moving fast.”

  “License plate!”

  “Negative, negative, can’t see it.”

  Latham smacked the dashboard. “Goddamn it!” He should have expected Vorsalov would layer the meeting. Nothing the Russian did was one-dimensional.