End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  Latham, Randal, Stan Wilson of HRU, and Janet Pascehl met in Latham’s office to finalize details of the sting that evening.

  “Janet, you’ll be heading the Glen Echo team. Paul, you and Stan will take the Greenbelt house, and I’ll handle Rock Creek. Once we take Vorsalov, that’ll be the signal for the other teams to go. Timing will be critical. We’ll all be moving at nearly the same time. Stay on the radio. The last thing we need is a firefight.

  “Tomorrow night is do or die for Vorsalov and his people. If they don’t get the information from Smith, or if Smith fails to show up, chances are they’ll either run or go violent.

  “There’s also another complication,” Latham said and held up a copy of the Washington Post. The headline said, “Senator Smith AWOL?” “This is an advance of what they’re running Thursday. We’re not sure how they got the story, but it reports Smith has taken an ‘unplanned vacation.’ If Vorsalov or Fayyad see this, we’re sunk.”

  “Speaking of the senator, how’d you get him to cooperate?” asked Wilson.

  “I talked his language.”

  Latham knew the U.S. attorney was not as interested in nailing Smith as they were in catching Vorsalov and Fayyad. Smith was a would-be traitor, but they were murderers. In return for his cooperation and agreement to immediate retirement without pension, Smith would avoid prosecution.

  Still half drunk from the previous night, Smith laughed at the proposal. “You’ve got nothing that ties me to either of these assholes, or whatever the hell you think they’re doing.”

  Smith’s lawyer said, “Herb—”

  “Shut up, Harmon.”

  Latham leaned forward. “Senator, I’m going to give it to you straight, so listen closely: The two men you’ve been dealing with are killers, and I’m going to get them. If I have to ruin you to do it, I will. The Russian murdered an FBI agent ten years ago, and the other man is a terrorist. You know about the Delta bombing, I assume. That’s his work. Five people killed, seven injured, including the only daughter of Congressman Hosteller. I wonder how he would react if he knew you refused to cooperate. Do you think your career would survive it?”

  Smith’s mouth was hanging open. “You can’t do—”

  “You bet I can. This is your last chance. Turn it down, and in a month’s time you’ll be the most miserable son of a bitch in Washington.”

  “You can’t talk to me—”

  Smith’s lawyer gripped Smith’s arm. “Herb, shut up. As your attorney, I’m telling you: Take this offer.”

  And it was done.

  Rock Creek Park

  Two hours before the meeting, Latham and Hank Reeves sat inside the command van on the outskirts of the park, listening to the radio chatter as the team got into position. Since dusk, heavy rain clouds had been rolling in from the east, and now they blanketed the capital. Leaves skittered across the van’s roof.

  “Pray the rain holds off,” said Reeves.

  “Amen.” Latham had a dozen agents in the park, most disguised as evening strollers, a cover that would become untenable in the rain.

  “Charlie, this plan of yours … I’m not so sure it’s—”

  “I know, but I don’t see any other way.”

  “It’s too damned risky—”

  Over the radio came Paul Randal’s voice. “Command, this is Greenbelt.”

  “Go ahead, Greenbelt.”

  “We’re in position and ready.”

  “Copy that. What about our stray?” Thirty minutes earlier, one of the Arabs had driven off in the Windstar. Latham let him go and stayed focused on the house.

  “Still no sign. The other three are inside.”

  “Roger. Glen Echo, how about you?”

  “Ready to roll,” reported Janet Paschel. “Subject is inside.”

  “Key Bridge, how about the guest of honor?”

  “Clyde’s still in his room. He just ordered supper.”

  “Okay everybody, make yourselves comfortable.”

  At nine P.M. the Key Bridge team reported Vorsalov leaving. Twenty minutes after that, the Windstar returned to the Greenbelt house and pulled into the garage, returning the count inside to four. Randall reported a brief argument, which ended in a channel change from I Love Lucy to Wheel of Fortune. At Glen Echo, Paschel reported Fayyad still in front of his own television set.

  “All units, this is Command,” called Latham. “Clyde is on the move.”

  If Vorsalov held true to form, he’d drive through the capital, do some dry-cleaning, then head for Rock Creek, where he would sit and watch.

  Fayyad stared at the television, not really seeing it.

  Whatever happened, tonight it was over. Vorsalov had ordered the mistress killed, no matter the outcome. Fayyad felt sorry for her. An empty-headed girl, really. Stupid that she had to die because she had bad taste in men.

  Vorsalov had been explicit in his instructions: If he failed to call, it would mean something had gone wrong, and they were to kill the girl, leave the capital, and scatter. If the meeting went as planned, they were to kill the girl and then stagger their departures over the next three days.

  And what of Judith? Fayyad wondered. He had no choice, really. He couldn’t stay. There was no chance for them. There had never been a chance, not from the start.

  Rock Creek Park

  At 9:20, the park’s outer surveillance team reported Vorsalov’s car pulling into the east lot. The Russian parked, shut off the engine, and sat in the darkness.

  “That’s it, Yuri. …” Latham whispered. “Keep watching.”

  A light rain began to fall.

  At 9:40, as the Glen Echo and Greenbelt teams began moving to their staging positions, Latham ordered Smith’s car brought up. “Use the north lot,” he said. “We’ve got to force Vorsalov to come to the fountain.”

  Five minutes later, the outer team called. “Command, he’s leaving. Say again, Clyde is leaving.”

  “Give me a direction.”

  “He’s pulling out, turning onto the frontage road … heading for Riggs.”

  What are you doing, Yuri? Latham wondered. Wait. … What panics a surveillance team more than a subject bolting? Vorsalov was shaking the tree. “Let him go,” Latham ordered. “All units, say put.”

  Reeves asked, “What about Smith’s car?”

  “Keep it coming.”

  Eyes glued to the rearview mirror, Vorsalov took a left onto Riggs Road and headed east, accelerating rapidly. He drove a quarter mile, stopped suddenly, backed into a driveway, and shut off his lights. Ten minutes passed. The road was empty.

  He flipped on the headlights and pulled back onto the road.

  By the time the outer ring reported Vorsalov’s return, the rain was falling heavily. Throughout the park, Latham’s strollers opened their umbrellas and kept walking. “This isn’t going to work, Hank,” said Latham. “Pull them back. Pull back into the trees and have ’em hunker down.”

  Reeves gave the order, then said, “We still go as planned?”

  “Yep.”

  Vorsalov pulled his hat lower on his head and popped up his collar. His breath steamed in the air. Rain pattered the leaves beside the trail. Down the path he could see the old-fashioned gaslights that encircled the fountain.

  An elderly couple walked by arm-in-arm. Vorsalov tensed.

  “Evening,” they said.

  Vorsalov nodded and looked over his shoulder. They were hurrying toward the parking lot now, coats pulled around their heads. He exhaled and looked left, then right. Nothing moving.

  Fifty feet from the fountain, he peered ahead. He couldn’t see Smith. Where was he? He scanned the benches around the fountain. There. The senator wore a black overcoat. Rain glistened off his umbrella.

  Vorsalov kept walking.

  Greenbelt

  As Vorsalov neared the fountain, the other teams for the go-ahead signal. “Roger,” said Randal, parked in a car at the end of the driveway. “
All units, proceed. I say again, proceed.”

  Through his night scope he watched the eight members of the HRU team slip from the trees around the farmhouse and charge forward.

  “Let’s go,” he said to his driver.

  Tires squealing, they accelerated up the driveway.

  Glen Echo

  Janet Paschel slid open the van’s door and jumped out, followed by three HRU members. They reached the condo door in seconds. “FBI, search warrant!”

  The doorman crashed his ram into the lock, and it shattered inward, wood chips and plaster flying. Paschel charged inside, gun leveled. Behind her, the rest of the team fanned out into the condo. She spun left, then right.

  “One clear!”

  “Two clear!”

  In the living room, Paschel stopped short and stared.

  The room was empty, the TV set flickering snow.

  Greenbelt

  Paul Randal was leaping from the car and racing for the front door behind Wilson when he heard Paschel call, “Greenbelt, Glen Echo, come in!”

  “Go ahead!”

  “Be advised: We have no target! The target is gone!”

  From the rear of the house, Randal heard the crashing of glass and the rapid pop pop pop of gunfire. Then a whoosh-boom as the flashbang grenades exploded. Now shouts, a mixture of Arabic and English.

  “FBI, freeze!”

  “Down, everybody down!”

  In one jumbled second, as Wilson crossed the threshold ahead of him, Randal realized what had happened. When the Windstar returned, it had parked in the garage. In the garage. They’d never done that before.

  “Stan, we may have five in the house!” he yelled.

  Too late. The HRU commander was through the door.

  Fayyad was on his way to the bathroom when the first window shattered. He hit the floor. Behind him came a pop, pop, pop, followed by a blast of bright light.

  “Freeze, FBI!”

  “Down, everybody down!”

  In the kitchen, two of Ibn’s men leapt for their guns. Gunfire erupted, and they went down. Bullets peppered the living room wall. The TV exploded. Plaster dust filled the air.

  “Get down! Get down!”

  Fayyad began crawling. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ibn snatch up his Ingram and run for the stairs. The front door crashed inward. A man in black coveralls charged through. Beside Fayyad, Tamir whipped around and raised his gun. Pop, pop. Tamir’s chest exploded, and he went down.

  What was Ibn doing? Fayyad thought. “Ibn!”

  Ibn turned, grinning, his eyes ablaze. “Allah akbar!”

  Then Fayyad understood: the girl! Something in his mind snapped. He’s going to kill her … kill her in Allah’s name … an empty-headed harlot. It was insane!

  He leapt up, ran for the stairs. Ibn was five steps ahead and moving fast.

  “Freeze!” Fayyad heard from behind. Pop, pop. The bannister shattered under his hand. He ducked, kept running. Ibn reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the girl’s room. Fayyad launched himself forward and hit him squarely in the back, slamming him into the door.

  Though only three seconds behind Wilson, by the time Randal came through the door, it was nearly over. Two Arabs were down in the kitchen, a third beside the couch. HRU members were stalking through the kitchen and dining room, guns raised, tracking for movement.

  “Freeze!” he heard Wilson call.

  Randal saw motion and turned to see a pair of men charging up the stairs. It was Fayyad.

  On the second-floor landing, Fayyad tackled the other man and drove him into the door. Locked together, they stumbled backward. The other man whipped around, tore himself free, and raised his gun. Fayyad kicked at the barrel, missed, snagged his foot in the sling. Arms cartwheeling, Fayyad crashed through the bannister, falling. He hit the floor with a sickening crunch. Above, the man took aim On him.

  Weapon already drawn and leveled, Randal beat him to it.

  Rock Creek Park

  Vorsalov stopped behind the bench. “Evening, Senator.”

  Smith stood up and began to turn. Immediately Vorsalov knew something was wrong. The build was right, but there was something about the posture. He took a step back, senses alert. In his pocket he tightened his grip on the stiletto.

  “Evening, Yuri,” said Charlie Latham.

  In that brief second, Latham saw in Vorsalov’s eyes a mixture of fear and uncertainty. He searched for signs of recognition, but saw nothing. He doesn’t remember me.

  “I’m sorry,” said Vorsalov. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. Please excuse me.” He turned to walk away.

  “Don’t bother, Yuri,” Latham called. “You’re done.”

  It was this moment ten years ago when the capture of Vorsalov had gone bad. He’d punched the arresting agent and ran. Ran into the rain, through a stand of trees, into the creek, up the bank … and straight into the agent stationed there. The young man never knew what hit him. The same instinct that spurred Vorsalov into action then gripped him now. He looked around, eyes darting. He spun on Latham.

  “Don’t even think it, Yuri. As God as my witness, this time I’ll shoot you dead.”

  43

  Washington Navy Yard

  Henry Tanner’s first steps in pursuing Briggs’s submarine was to dial directory assistance. Knowing most World War II U.S. fleet submarines had been equipped with Fairbanks-Morse engines but not whether Fairbanks-Morse was still in business, he put the question to the operator. Yes, Fairbanks-Morse still existed, but it had been taken over by Coltech Industries, headquartered in Beloit, Wisconsin.

  It took four transfers from Coltech’s switchboard before Henry reached an engineer who might be able to help. Explaining he was researching a book, Henry gave the man the serial number and explained his predicament. The engineer promised to get back to him by day’s end.

  Next Henry arranged an appointment with an old friend who was serving as an assistant curator at the Washington Navy Yard’s Historical Archives.

  Built in 1799 beside the Washington Canal, the yard is the Navy’s oldest shore establishment and home to warehouses full of archived data on naval history, from routine operational orders and recon photos of Guadalcanal to the personal diaries of Chester Nimitz. If it exists, chances are it is secreted somewhere in one of three yard warehouses.

  Henry parked his car on N Street and walked two blocks to Building 57, the home of the Operational Archives Branch. He was met at the third-floor reception desk by his friend. “Henry, how are you!”

  “Good, John. Thanks for your help.”

  “That’s what we’re here for. Come on, I’ve got a room set aside for you.”

  The first thing Henry asked for was records on U.S. fleet submarines reported missing or sunk in Japanese territorial waters during World War II. It took an hour, but the master chief returned with a two-foot stack of material. “Sorry they’re not organized any better. We’re still working to get everything on CD. It’s a big job.”

  “I can imagine. This’ll be fine. I prefer hard copy anyway.”

  Henry found thirteen submarines that might fit the bill, all of whose last known locations were well-documented, right down to latitude and longitude, and many of whom who had been cross-referenced with Japanese Imperial Navy records. Out of these thirteen, he narrowed the list to three possible matches.

  He then dug through the stack until he found each boat’s operational orders. In each case, the sub in question was lost during a routine patrol. No secrecy, no covert mission, nothing that would account for the scrubbed sail number Briggs reported. But then again, Henry thought, if the sub’s mission was that secret, she wouldn’t be listed in these archives.

  He’d reached his first hurdle. Pursuing the sub’s identity any further would depend on Fairbanks-Morse, so he turned his attention to the civilian Briggs had found in the forward torpedo room.

  Since his leg braces obviously mad
e the man ineligible for military service, Henry had a guess for whom he might’ve worked. As far as he knew, the only World War II personnel to carry .25 caliber Berettas were government employees; and the only government employees who had reason to be aboard fleet subs were operatives for the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA.

  Langley

  While Henry Tanner was chasing fifty-year-old leads, the newly resurrected DORSAL working group was sorting through all of DORSAL’s product, from Marcus’s capture in Beirut to Tanner’s discovery of Parece Kito. This last thread was being examined by Walter Oaken.

  Under his direction, half a dozen analysts were digging into the secret holdings of Takagi Industries. The industrialist covered his trail well, but the CIA had cut its teeth on tougher corporate hideaways, most notably the money-laundering labyrinths of Colombia’s drug cartels, so it wasn’t long before they found dozens of buried links to companies specializing in chemical engineering and agricultural research.

  “How hard would it have been for Takagi to keep this kind of secret?” Sylvia Albrecht asked.

  “Not very,” said Oaken. “You’ve got to understand how tough it is to track this kind of stuff. Alone, the individual chemicals are pretty benign. It’s not until you combine them that you’ve got a weapon. Take a few pesticides, refine them correctly, and you’ve got a nerve agent like sarin or tabun.”

  “The kind used in the Tokyo subway gassing.”

  “Right If the compounds are bought by front companies over a long period of time … Think of it like a jigsaw puzzle being assembled by a hundred different people in a hundred different locations, none of whom are talking to each other.”

  Not only could Takagi refine such chemicals, Oaken further explained, but given what they’d found on the salvaged Scud, he also had a workable delivery system. Add to that his connection to the JRA, whose links to Mideast groups were well-documented and …