“We might still catch up,” Randal said.
“No, they’re gone.” A mile down the pike there were dozens of offshoot roads.
“He’s good. I’ll give him that. Now what?”
“Search Vorsalov’s car, start taking plates, and hope we get lucky.”
On an isolated dirt track of the Leigh Mill Road, Vorsalov ordered the driver to pull over and take a walk, then joined Smith in the backseat. Smith’s face was pale, and his eyes darted wildly.
Vorsalov smiled blandly at him but said nothing.
Smith blurted, “What do you want? Why did we come out here? To kill me? Is that it? Well, I—”
“Why would I want to kill you, Senator?”
“He told me about you, how you do things. I’m warning you—”
“I have no intention of harming you, Senator. You have my word.”
“Then what do you want? I tried to get the information, I really did.”
“Perhaps you lack adequate motivation.”
“What’s that mean?”
Vorsalov handed Smith a slip of paper. “Does this address look familiar?”
Smith studied it. His mouth dropped open.
“Who does it belong to?” Vorsalov asked.
“A woman I know … a friend.”
“Your mistress. Her name is Suzie Donovan.”
“Kidnapping her won’t do you any good, you son of a—”
“Shut up.” Vorsalov produced a cell phone, dialed, then said, “Put her on. Miss Donovan? Have my men told you what to say? Good. Go ahead.” Vorsalov handed the phone to Smith, who listened for few seconds, then handed it back. Vorsalov hung up.
“She … she means nothing to me. You won’t get anything this way.”
“I think we will,” Vorsalov said. “She may mean nothing to you, and your wife may mean nothing to you, but your career, I think, means a great deal to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Senator, in the top left-hand drawer of your nightstand you keep a pistol, a thirty-eight-caliber Smith and Wesson, serial number 129475. It’s registered in your name. Have you seen it lately?”
“Oh God.”
“I thought not.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Vorsalov leaned forward. “This is how it will work. You will provide us the information we require in three days, or your mistress will be found shot to death … killed by your gun. You will not have an alibi. You will be prosecuted and then sent to prison. Quite simply, Senator, your life will be over.”
FBI Headquarters
Latham and his team leaders were reviewing the night’s activity. The mood in the room was bleak. Once again, Vorsalov had bested them. It was only luck that had kept them in the game.
The Russian had returned to his hotel at 11:30; Fayyad had not left his condo since their meeting; and the Arabs were tucked away in the Greenbelt house.
“Unless anybody’s got anything else, that’s it,” Latham concluded. “We stay sharp and keep watching. Vorsalov’s had one meet; there’ll be a second.”
He dismissed them. Randal walked into the room. “Got a printout of the plates from tonight. Ninety-eight of them.”
Latham scanned the list, which showed the plate number, make, and the registered owner’s last name and initials. He was about to set it aside when he stopped suddenly.
“What is it, Charlie?”
“Smith,” Latham muttered. “H. B. J. Smith. Paul, is the library still open?”
“Yeah.”
“Go grab a Washington Who’s Who.”
Randal was back in five minutes. Latham rifled through the book, set it aside, then began paging through the Glen Echo surveillance log. He pulled out a photo and stared at it.
“Charlie, what is going on? What—”
“That’s her. Good God, that’s her. I thought she looked familiar, but—”
“Who?”
“Judith Smith. That’s Judith Smith!”
Latham was out of his depth, and he knew it. By six in the morning, they were in the director’s office. Present were Latham’s boss, the director of the FBI, the U.S. attorney, and the attorney general.
It took him thirty minutes to present the case, starting with the Delta bombing and ending with the previous night’s surveillance. When he laid out the final item, there was absolute silence in the room.
Finally, the director said, “So, in short, we’ve got a U.S. senator and his wife involved with a former KGB officer and a terrorist suspected of an aircraft bombing, both of whom appear to be sponsored by a Mideast terrorist group. Is that about it, Agent Latham?”
“Roughly, sir.
“How sure are you about this?”
“It all fits. I wish it didn’t, but it does.”
“Do we know what Vorsalov is asking for?” asked the attorney general.
“No, but we do know Smith’s been holding some fairly intensive IOC hearings.”
“How intensive?”
“We’d have to ask Langley, but rumor is he’s been pushing hard. Plus, we know Vorsalov’s operation is running at a pretty fast pace.”
“Have you got enough to make a case right now?” asked Latham’s boss.
“No. We need to connect Fayyad and Vorsalov to the extortion of Smith. We need it on tape. So far, all we’ve got is Judith Smith having an affair with a bad guy and the senator keeping rotten company.”
“Any attorney Smith hires would sink that like the Titanic” said the AG.
“What do you need to put this together, Charlie?”
Latham thought it over. “Two things. First, there’s no two ways about it: This is gonna get nasty. I need the backing to see it through to the end.”
The director smiled. “You don’t want to find yourself alone when the shit starts rolling downhill, is that it?”
“To be frank, yes, sir.”
“You’ll have my full support, whatever comes. And second?”
Before Latham could answer, Randal’s cell phone buzzed. Randal listened, then whispered to Latham.
“Gentlemen, it seems the decision has been made for us,” Latham said.
“What is it?” asked the director.
“Last night, when I stumbled onto the Smith angle, I asked the DCPD and the Alexandria Sheriffs to contact us if they got a call involving the senator or his wife. Paul just got word they’re responding to the Smiths’ home.”
The driveway was blocked by the two DCPD patrol cars and an ambulance. Latham flashed his badge to the officer at the door and walked inside.
On the steps above the landing, a paramedic was working on Judith Smith. Her eye was blackened and dried blood caked her chin. She saw him. “Oh, Charlie …”
“Are you all right, Judith?”
“I … I …” She began crying.
Latham looked at the paramedic and got a positive nod.
Randal called, “Charlie.”
Latham walked into the living room. Herb Smith was sitting in a recliner with a tumbler of scotch in his hand. His eyes were red and wild. “Who the fuck are you?” he slurred.
Latham showed his badge.
“Good for you. Now get the hell out. This is none of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is, Senator,” said Latham. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”
40
Agana, Guam
Twelve hours after he pulled Tanner from the bunker, Cahil wheeled him down the hallway of Agana’s main hospital. “Bear, where are we going? And why the wheelchair? I’m fine.”
“Hospital rules. You don’t want to piss off Nurse Ratchet.”
“They have a Nurse Ratchet?”
“Every hospital has a Nurse Ratchet. Besides, I doubt that deep-fried leg of yours would take much weight.”
“Speaking of that, have I thanked you yet?”
“A couple times.”
“Good. So
tell me again: What happened after you pulled me out?”
“Figuring Takagi wouldn’t mind if we borrowed it, I loaded you aboard the helo, said good-bye to Fantasy Island, and set a course for the nearest land. Guam had the best chance of having a hospital worth a damn, so here we are.”
“I wish I could remember it.”
“You might have if I hadn’t shot you full of morphine. You’re gonna have a dandy-looking scar.”
“Where did you land, on the hospital lawn?”
“Of course not! I set her down in a field a couple miles out of town and traded it to a farmer for a ride here.”
Tanner started laughing and suddenly found himself unable to stop. It felt damned good to be alive.
“What?” Cahil said. “He can sell it. The damn thing’s worth more than he’ll earn in a lifetime.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re rabidly practical?”
“Only you. Now, as for where we’re going … Somebody wants to see you.”
Cahil turned into a room. On the bed lay the Japanese man they’d rescued from the bunker. Behind the oxygen mask he smiled feebly and waved to them.
“How is he?” Briggs whispered.
“Two of his ribs are broken, and he lost a lot of blood, but it could be worse.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ezoe. He was the cook.”
Ezoe was reaching toward Tanner. Cahil wheeled him closer, and Tanner took the hand. “Domo arigato,” Ezoe said. “Domo.”
“You’re welcome. Do you speak English?”
Ezoe nodded.
“Good, because my Japanese is terrible. Ezoe, do you remember what happened at the island?”
“I remember.”
“Would you be willing to talk to us about it?”
“Yes.”
“First, though, we have a problem. I think it would be a bad idea for you to go home right now. If you’d like, you can come with us. We can’t force you, but—”
Ezoe’s eyes lit up. “To America?”
“Yes.”
“When do we leave?”
Lebanon
Abu Azhar seated General al-Khatib and their guest near the fireplace and pulled the drapes shut. Outside, the temperature hovered around freezing; the peaks of the Anti-Lebanese Mountains were capped in snow.
Azhar sat down and studied his visitor. “You are Pasdaran?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man replied proudly.
Indeed, Azhar thought, he has the eyes of a fanatic. Tough, well-trained, and only too ready to die for Islam, the Pasdaran were Iran’s elite revolutionary guard corps. This man’s presence spoke volumes of al-Khatib’s influence. Their role was the linchpin of the operation.
“How many men under your command?” Azhar asked.
“Thirty.”
“Have you been briefed on your mission?”
“No. Whatever it is, we will succeed, inshallah.” God willing.
Azhar handed the man a sheet of paper. “We want these men killed.”
The Pasdaran officer studied the list. “If it pleases Allah. When—”
“Listen to me,” Azhar said. “Do you understand who these men are? They are important and well-guarded. When I ask you if you can kill them, I want an answer, not a fanatical platitude. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the man stammered. “Yes, I understand. I know who these men are. We can do this for you. We will succeed or die in the attempt.”
“Succeed first. What you do afterward is not my concern. All the deaths must occur within twenty-four hours of one another, two to three weeks from now. We will give you the precise schedule.”
“It will be done.”
Azhar handed him a file. “You’ll want to conduct your own surveillance.
“Of course.”
Azhar stood. “May Allah guide you.”
Once the man was gone, al-Khatib smiled and said, “You were hard on the young pup. Are you satisfied?”
“Not until it’s done.”
“Ever the cynic, Abu. Tell me, how goes your Washington operation?”
“I expect to have the information within a few days. Time enough to adjust our plans, if necessary. What about the ship?”
“She sailed two days ago.”
Azhar nodded and stared vacantly out the window. “Now it is all timing.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Oh, Saul, there it is!” Bernice Weinman called. “There!”
They’d chosen this spot in Charles Clora Park in hopes of seeing the ship sail into port. Saul Weinman could just make out her white superstructure beyond the breakwater. “I see her, Bernice. She’s beautiful.”
“Tell me again, what is she called?”
“The Valverde. She’s named after one of the Canary Islands.”
“Are we going there? Is that one of the stops?”
“Yes, Bernice,” Saul replied with a laugh, delighted at her excitement. “There and other places, too: Spain, Portugal, Casablanca—”
“Like the movie? Oh, how wonderful!”
After thirty-two years of private medical practice in Tel Aviv, Saul Weinman had retired the previous month. This cruise was to be their first trip alone together since their honeymoon. Bernice had waited so long for this—as had he. This would be the start of the most wonderful years of their life.
“Oh, Saul! What do you think our stateroom will be like? Will it be big? Do you think they’ll serve those drinks with the umbrellas? Or dancing! Do you think there will be dancing?”
“They’ll have everything. It’s going to be wonderful.”
“I wish we were going today, right now.”
“Patience, Bern. Day after tomorrow.”
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
Within minutes of receiving Tanner’s call from Guam, a relieved Leland Dutcher and Walter Oaken set to work getting them home. Two hours and a few phone calls later, a VC-20 lifted off from the U.S. air base at Misawa bound for Guam, where it picked up the trio, then headed east.
Now, some 7,000 miles later, Dutcher and Oaken stood on the Tarmac watching the VC-20 taxi to a stop. Aided by a cane, Tanner came down the ladder, followed by Cahil, who turned to help Ezoe down. Oaken ran forward to help.
Dutcher shook Tanner’s hand. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore, but working.”
“And our guest?”
“Better than he looks. Considering what he saw, he’s doing great.”
With Cahil and Oaken under each arm, Ezoe walked past them toward the car.
“How many dead?” asked Dutcher.
“Twelve that I could count. How did Mason react when he found out we hadn’t pulled out?”
“What could he say? I fell on my sword, told him DORSAL wasn’t as dead as we thought, and gave him the news. That bunker complex has all the markings of a chemical or biological facility. Trust me, they love you.”
“Glad to hear it. Leland, there’s something I didn’t tell you. On the plane we had a little chat with Ezoe. Three days before we got to the island, a ship arrived. From his description, I’m pretty sure it was Tsumago. That night, Noboru and his men loaded something aboard her. Ezoe didn’t know what. The next day, about two hours before the shooting started, a Chinook helicopter landed carrying about a dozen men. After they were aboard the ship, she sailed.” Tanner paused. “He says he got a good look at them. They were Arabs.”
Langley
They were met in the lobby by an escort from the Office of Security and escorted up to the DCI’s conference room. Mason, Coates, and Sylvia Albrecht were waiting for them, as was a sumptuous lunch buffet. Ezoe shook hands absently and eyeballed the food.
“I understand you’ve been through a lot,” Mason said to him. “You must be hungry. Let’s eat before we talk.”
Ezoe needed no encouragement. Tanner couldn’t help but smile at the scene. This man, this simple cook, who’d not only witnes
sed the execution of eight of his friends but had also been buried alive under their corpses and possibly held the secret to Takagi’s Parece Kito complex, sat before the CIA’s top spymaster shoveling meat loaf into his mouth. As for Mason, Tanner was impressed; however important Ezoe’s information might be, Mason was going to let the man eat first.
Finally, Ezoe folded his napkin and let out a satisfied sigh. He looked up, saw that everyone had finished long ago, and grinned sheepishly. “Thank you for lunch.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Mason. “Can we get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m sure you’re tired, but would you be up to answering some questions for us?”
“I will try.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning. How did you get involved?”
Ezoe’s story was short. Five months ago, while working as a cook at the Anan shipyard, he was approached by Tange Noboru, who asked if he would be interested in a special job. A fifteen-year veteran of Takagi Industries, Ezoe had come to consider it home, so he proudly accepted. A week later, he was flown to Parece Kito.
Over the next four months, Ezoe saw no one else aside from the complex’s other maintenance and housekeeping personnel. Only a few workers were allowed on the “other side,” as he called the clean room area. He described the basic routine of the complex, who came and went, and how often Tsumago visited.
He ended his story with Tsumago’s final visit. “It was almost midnight when it started. They just walked into the kitchen and started shooting. They never said a word. I fell down, and I felt …” Ezoe touched his chest. Tears seeped from the corner of his eyes. Sylvia Albrecht handed him a tissue.
“It’s hard, I know,” Mason said. “You’re a lucky man.”
Ezoe nodded at Tanner and Cahil. “Not luck … them.”
For the next hour Mason, Albrecht, and Coates questioned him. This was just the first round, Tanner knew. Later would come the full debrief. “One more thing,” Mason said. “How certain are you about the men in the helicopter? You said they were Arabs. How can you be sure?”
“They looked like Arabs and they spoke their language. And their leader was carrying one of their books … umm, like your Bible?”
End of Enemies Page 31