“Roger, Bear. Can you exfil?”
“Gonna be dicey. I wouldn’t hold dinner. Stand by this channel. Sierra out.”
“Switch me to Coaldust,” Jurens told the engineer. “Coaldust, Boxcar, over.”
“Go ahead, Boxcar,” said Cathermeier.
Jurens explained Cahil’s situation. “Request permission to assist.”
“Negative; stay put. There’s nothing you can do for them.”
“Sir—”
“You heard me, Boxcar. Stay where you are.”
Jurens ripped off his headphones. He turned to the pilot. “Captain, how’s your service record?”
The pilot grinned. “As clean as new snow. It could stand a few spots.”
Tsumago
Cahil had been leading the team to the ladder when suddenly a crewman trotted down the ladder and landed ten feet in front of them.
Ignoring the AK slung across his chest, the man lunged for an emergency button. Cahil fired, but not fast enough. With two rounds in his chest, the man crashed into the button and slumped to the deck. Sirens began whooping. The lanterns turned to strobes, casting red shadows down the passageway.
“Move!” Cahil ordered. “I’m on point. Smitty, take rear guard.”
Cahil led them up the ladder. At the top he caught a glimpse of movement down the passageway. He ducked back. Bullets ripped into the bulkhead beside him. He side-stepped, firing, as the team climbed the last few rungs and joined him.
Ahead, a pair of heads peeked around the corner, fired, then ducked back. Their fire discipline was good, Cahil saw. No wild spraying, only controlled bursts. He and Slud poured fire down the passageway. They were running out of time. They had the edge, but that wouldn’t last long.
“Talk to me, Smitty! Where are you?”
“Second deck. We got company. We’re holding, but it ain’t good.”
“Understood. Hold for sixty, then break off. We’re leaving.”
“Roger.”
Using hand signals, Cahil told the team what he had planned, then plucked a flashbang grenade off his harness. He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade down the passageway, banking it around the corner.
“Cover!”
The team flattened against the bulkhead, eyes down and hands over their ears.
The passageway exploded in blinding light and noise.
Cahil peeked around the corner, saw nothing, then looked down the ladder. Smitty was coming up. His collar was shiny with blood, but he grinned and gave a thumbs-up. Cahil threw open the hatch. He and Slud poured fire down the passageway. One by one, the rest of the team leapt through the hatch. Cahil shoved Slud after them, then followed.
On deck it was like daylight. Spotlights blazed down on them. Past the handrails, Cahil could see nothing but blackness. For a dizzying moment, he felt suspended in a void.
“Target, six o’clock,” yelled Wilts, spinning and firing.
A trio of terrorists crouched on the afterdeck, firing through the arch. Wilts screamed, clutched his stomach, and fell. Cahil snagged his collar and dragged him back against the superstructure. The firing tapered off.
They’re thinking it over. Bear thought. Figuring out how to come at us.
“Slud, Johnson, douse those lights!”
Pop, pop, pop. The deck went dark. From above, Cahil heard voices. He looked up in time to see a pair of AK barrels come over the rail and point toward them. Cahil fired, stitching the rail and forcing them back, but they returned a moment later. The deck sparked beneath his feet.
Cahil looked around; both Wilts and Smitty were hit.
“Ideas, boss?” Slud panted.
“We’re in a funnel,” Cahil said. “We gotta go forward. We’re gonna need more time.” The forecastle would give them more cover and better fields of fire. “We’ll take rear guard while the others go overboard.”
Slud nodded and relayed the plan down the line. Johnson heaved Wilts over his shoulder and nodded ready. With a mutual nod, Bear and Slud each tossed a flashbang, one through the aft arch, the other high onto the superstructure.
“Go, Jonce!”
As one, the team charged.
The flashbangs bought them the time they needed. By the time the explosions died away, they were on the forecastle, crouched behind the derricks and capstans. Cahil gestured Smitty and the others toward the railing, then crawled over to Slud.
Through the glare of the spotlights, Cahil saw several figures on the bridge wing. He fired. They went down. AKs started chattering. A bullet thunked into the girder beside his head.
“They’re coming up the port side, Bear,” Slud said.
“I see him. Just a few more seconds. Smitty’s almost over the side.”
Cahil counted muzzle flashes. Two … seven … twelve guns firing now. Bullets whizzed. He took aim on a spotlight and fired; it went out. He glanced over his shoulder: Everyone but Johnson was overboard.
Cahil saw movement above the signal bridge. A trio of terrorists were setting up a MG3 crew-manned machine gun. West German, he thought. A thousand rounds a minute …
Slud said, “Boss—”
“I see it. Okay, time to go.”
Cahil started toward a nearby capstan, felt a sting in his leg, kept crawling. He looked down. His calf glistened with blood. The pain came a few seconds later, like someone had jammed a hot iron into his leg.
“Bad?” called Slud.
“Not bad enough to keep me here.”
The MG3 started coughing, a deep chug, chug, chug mixed with the sharper cracks of the AKs. Bullets thudded into the winch drum, showering Cahil and Slud with sparks.
Smart move, Cahil thought. While the MG kept them pinned down, the rest of the crew could charge onto the forecastle and swarm them. He peeked up and saw figures running up the port weather deck.
“Get moving, Slud!”
“Uh-uh, boss. You’re gimped. You’ll need a head start and cover.”
“No—”
“Go, Bear! By the time you hit the rail, I’ll be on your heels.”
“You better be! On three—”
Suddenly Cahil heard the muffled chopping of rotor blades. He glanced over his shoulder. Materializing from the darkness behind the pilothouse came a lone Pave Low helicopter. Banking hard, muzzles flashing from the open doorway, it swooped over the signal bridge. The MG3 went silent. The terrorists on the wings scattered. Hanging from the helo’s open door, Sconi Bob Jurens gave a wave as the helo disappeared into the night.
“I’m going, Slud!” Cahil yelled, and half-ran, half-limped to the rail. He slipped, crashed into the capstan, kept moving. Behind him, the MG3 started barking again. He looked back.
“Slud! Come on!”
Slud started running, turning every few feet to fire at the figures charging up the forecastle. More of the crew were scrambling down the bridge ladders. Cahil counted ten men, then twelve, then fifteen. He reached up and pulled himself to the rail.
Slud kept running. AKs flashed. He went down, struggled back to his feet. He was limping now, and Cahil could see his face twisted with pain.
“Go, Bear! I’m coming….Go!”
Thirty feet separated them. Bear grabbed a flashbang and pulled the pin.
Twenty men were on the forecastle now, firing as they charged.
Cahil cocked his arm and threw the grenade. It landed at the feet of the lead pursuers and exploded. They scattered. Slud stumbled the last few feet and reached for Cahil’s hand.
As their fingers touched, Cahil felt something slam into his chest. Hit, he thought numbly. I’m hit. Time seemed to slow. He stumbled backward, hit the rail, and tipped over into the darkness.
58
Beirut
Staring at Camille, Tanner felt the final pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
For a moment, he felt disconnected from what was happening, as though he were watching a scene from a movie. In the next instant, he
felt a rush of emotion: anger, betrayal, and happiness. Get ahold of yourself, he commanded.
Camille was staring back at him. In the dim light he could see her eyes were wet, but there was something else there, too: anger. He suddenly realized she was feeling the same things as he. They had trusted but not quite trusted one another.
He could think of nothing to say. “It wasn’t you,” he finally whispered.
“Pardon me?”
“The wig. It just wasn’t you.”
They spent an awkward ten minutes waiting for room service to bring up breakfast, and then, glad to have something to busy themselves with, they sat and ate.
To the southeast, a dozen pillars of smoke rose into the sky, each representing a bomb or a mortar round that had found its mark the night before. In contrast to the carnage, the ocean was an unruffled blue, and sky clear save a few cotton puff clouds.
Finally Tanner said, “So, how are we going to handle this?”
“What?”
“This. Us.”
She shrugged and averted her eyes.
Like a little girl whose feelings are hurt, Briggs thought. He set down his coffee cup. “Damn it, Camille, you lied—” He stopped himself. And you lied to her. Did he really expect her to have admitted she was a Mossad katsa?
“Lied to you?” she said. “Yes. Does that really surprise you?”
“Forget it.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“Well, so am I! Briggs, you have to understand. I can’t tell you—”
“I know who and what you are, Camille, and I know why you’re here. We asked for your help, and you want to know why. Why you, though?”
“You think it’s because of you and me?”
“I’d be stupid not to.”
“The answer is no,” she said. “I’ve been here for almost a month.”
“Why?”
She waved her hand at the city. “That. We got caught unaware in eighty-two, and we learned our lesson.”
“And Asseal?”
“I learned about him four days ago. Given his tastes and my cover, I was the obvious choice. I didn’t know you were here until last night when I saw you on the street. My people have no idea it’s you.”
“But they do know about Japan.”
“Yes.”
Tanner went silent. He’d been wrong about her in Japan. Was now any different? He felt like a fool and couldn’t decide if it was because she’d duped him or because he’d opened himself up to her. “Tell me about Japan,” he said.
“I was on vacation, Briggs. They do allow that, you know—”
Tanner chuckled without humor. “I’ll give them this: They trained you well.”
“What do you want from me! We met, we had an affair, and we parted. Briggs, I cared … I care … very much for you. Why are you doing this?”
“Okay. If this is how you want it. Do you remember Umako Ohira?”
“The man we saw killed? What about—?”
“It must’ve been a big surprise to see him jumping over the fence like that. And then when he was gunned down … I’ll bet it put a real damper on your plans.”
“What?”
“When you tried to recruit him, did you know he was already working for us?”
Camille blinked hard. She toyed with her napkin.
“The night he died, Ohira had two meetings,” Tanner continued. “The first was at the shipyard, the second with an unidentified agent who was trying to recruit him. A false flag, in fact … a Mossad specialty.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Good question; he had no idea. He decided it didn’t matter. He had a job to do, but he couldn’t simply dismiss her. As the saying went, the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them.
She asked, “Briggs, aren’t you wondering why I came here?”
“I assumed—”
“That I was here to find out why you’re in Beirut. I could have done that by following you. Do you think I am naive enough to believe you would jump into bed with me and spill the potatoes?”
“Beans.”
“What?”
“Spill the beans.”
“You understand my meaning.”
It was true, Tanner realized. She could have accomplished more by watching from a distance. What would Mossad do if they knew about her coming to him? “So why, then?” he said.
“I came for you,” Camille replied. Her eyes glistened. “It’s stupid. I think about what I’m doing … about what they’d do to me … and I don’t care.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Please, Briggs, can’t we just—”
“Camille—”
“Don’t you understand? None of this matters. Tell me to leave and stay away, and I will. But please, can’t we …” She trailed off.
Suddenly Tanner realized he believed her; he believed all of it. God help me, he thought. He opened his arms. “Come here.”
They made love for the better part of the morning, and it felt like Japan all over again. They laughed and reminisced and never said a word about what was happening outside their door. Just before ten, they got up and showered together. When they emerged, they were wrinkled and breathless with laughter.
“If every shower was like that one, I would never leave the house,” Camille said. “I’m surprised the hot water lasted. Oh, I’m starving. Let’s have a giant, unhealthy breakfast, then go back to bed.”
He ordered a breakfast of eggs, toast, date muffins, fresh fruit, and a pot of coffee. They were about to start eating when there came a knock on the door. Tanner picked up the Glock, tucked it against his leg, and walked to the door. “Aiwa? Shoo fi?”
“It is I, effendi.”
Safir. Tanner opened the door.
“Good morning, effendi, I—” Safir saw Camille, then grinned at Tanner. “Oh. Oh, you scoundrel.”
Briggs smiled. “What is it?”
He handed Tanner a morning newspaper. The English headline read:
SHUTE MULAH SLAIN
“Give me the gist of it,” Tanner said.
“Hamdi was a leader in the Shiite community, especially in neighborhoods near the airport. Last night as he was leaving his mosque, a group of nine men ambushed his car with RPGs. He and all his bodyguards were killed.”
“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
“Three so far, but I did some checking. There were eyewitnesses who swore the attackers shouted a name: the Arab Liberation Command.”
The Arab Liberation Command? The ALC was pro-Iraq. Though it wouldn’t be unusual for them to attack Shiites, they hadn’t been active in Lebanon for five or six years.
“Amal and some other splinter groups are swearing vengeance,” Safir said.
“No surprise there.” Tanner lowered his voice: “What about the warehouse?”
“Nothing. I’ll have Sadiq watch until dusk; I do not think anything will happen until then.”
“I agree. Can you find out more about this attack?”
“I will look into it.” Safir peeked over Tanner’s shoulder and grinned. “I will leave you to your breakfast.”
As Briggs returned to the table, Camille asked, “A friend?”
“He’s not involved, Camille.”
“I was just asking,” she replied with smile.
They were halfway through breakfast when Tanner’s cell phone pager went off. He retrieved it, read the display, and cleared it.
Camille smiled at him over her cup.
“Business,” he said.
“I didn’t say a word.”
They parted ways and agreed to meet later that afternoon. Neither asked what the other had planned, but Tanner was under no illusions: The issue would have to be settled sooner or later. He had no idea how, though.
Once satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he spent fifteen minutes looking for a working phone booth. When the overseas operator answered
, he gave the account number of a sanitized credit card. After two minutes, the line started ringing.
“Hello,” said Leland Dutcher.
“It’s me. I got your page.”
Whether from his distrust of Stucky or his habit of always having a backup plan, Dutcher had arranged a secure means of communication separate from that of Langley’s. “Good to hear your voice,” Dutcher said.
“You, too.”
“Tell me how you’re doing.”
“I called the branch office; the phones are working fine. As for finding a manufacturer, I’m still looking, but I’ve found a good middleman.”
Behind the padded language was the same message he had forwarded to Stucky the previous day: He hadn’t yet found Azhar, but the fly had been taken, and Tanner was tracking him.
“Good,” said Dutcher. “There’s something else, Briggs. It’s about Ian. His hiking trip. There was a storm, and he and his group got lost They’re looking, but it doesn’t look good.”
Tanner felt his heart lurch. He leaned his head against the booth’s wall and closed his eyes.
“Briggs, you there?”
“I’m here. What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. There might even be something in the papers.”
Papers? What could have gone so wrong that the mission would fall into the public eye? “Have you told Maggie?” Tanner asked.
“I’m driving over this afternoon. Briggs, if it’s true, you’re going to have to take over his share of the business.”
The message was clean Tsumago was on her way. There would be no further boarding attempts. “I understand.”
Tel Aviv
Stucky had in fact received Tanner’s last message. He’d lain awake staring at it. By dawn, he made his decision. He was considering the angles when the message from Langley arrived: The boarding had failed. Hostages were involved. Tsumago would enter the Mediterranean within twenty-four hours.
It was just the incentive he needed. The plan would work, he decided. And if not, he’d be covered. In a lot of ways, Stucky thought, this had been over a decade in the making. Time to pay the piper, Briggs ol’ buddy.
End of Enemies Page 44