End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “Ready?”

  “Briggs, even if this works, there’s enough C-4 inside to blow—”

  “I know, Bear.” Handling the Glock like fine china, Tanner pulled back the slide, peeked to make sure the cartridge was seated properly, then eased the slide closed. “Go ahead:”

  Cahil slipped the tail of the bullet into the barrel. It didn’t fit. “Shit.”

  “Whittle it,” Tanner said.

  Cahil flicked open his knife, scraped a sliver from the bullet’s tail, tried again.

  Still too big.

  He carved another sliver, tried again. This time it slid home. “Tight fit.”

  “Force it.”

  Using the multitool, Cahil screwed the bullet into the barrel until it could go no farther. The nose jutted from the barrel like a mushroom. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get, bud.”

  “Time?”

  “Forty seconds.”

  Tanner turned to Cahil and smiled. “Look on the bright side, Bear. If this doesn’t work, we’ll never know it.”

  “Always the optimist.”

  “You and Camille get topside.”

  “You—”

  “I’ll be there. Go, Bear.”

  Bear gave Tanner a final squeeze on the shoulder, then took Camille’s arm and pushed her toward the ladder. She turned back. “Briggs …”

  “Go on, Camille. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Tanner watched them climb the ladder and disappear through the hatch.

  Briggs turned back to the bomb. Beside his foot, the display clicked down to fifteen … fourteen …

  He took a breath, pressed the Glock against the sphere, and pulled the trigger.

  72

  Tanner’s gambit was based as much on desperation as it was on his marginal understanding of what was happening inside the bomb.

  Of the two kinds of devices Takagi could have built, the gun-type bomb would have been the easiest to disarm. Prevent the uranium bullet from being shot into the pit, the weapon fails to reach critical mass, and there is no detonation.

  The kind of weapon Tanner faced, however, was an implosion type.

  Inside the steel sphere lay a pit of stable uranium, surrounded by a second sphere known as the soccer ball, which consists of seventy-two octagonal lenses of plastic explosive, each a flawlessly designed shaped charge. Upon detonation, these lenses explode inward with equal force, leaving the pit nowhere to go but deeper inside itself, an event similar to the process that takes place inside the sun’s own internal furnace: Gravity (in a bomb’s case, exterior force) compresses hydrogen atoms until they split into helium, which in turn generates thermonuclear fusion.

  Powerful as an implosion bomb is, however, it has an Achilles’ heel: If even one of the explosive lenses fails to detonate or detonates a split second later than its counterparts or directs its force a millimeter off center, the pit escapes the implosion and fails to reach critical mass.

  When Tanner pulled the clock’s trigger, two things happened simultaneously.

  The impact of the slug against the sphere’s shell sent a shock wave through the gun and up his arm, shattering bones and rapturing blood vessels as it went. Tanner was thrown backward.

  Next, the flattened slug did not penetrate the sphere but rather created what is called the sprawl effect as the tightly focused jolt broke loose a scab from the sphere’s inner wall. Traveling at 2,500 feet per second, the BB-sized particle embedded itself in one of the lenses and tore it from the face of the soccer ball.

  Two seconds later, the bomb detonated.

  In a flash of orange, the sphere exploded. No longer focused inward, the force found the weak spot in the sphere’s wall and blasted through. With a whoosh, a ten-foot jet of white flame shot from the quarter-sized hole, passed over Tanner’s head, and seared the aft bulkhead.

  He felt the heat and concussion wash over him. He rolled into a ball, threw himself flat, and covered his face. The jet flared briefly, turned blue, then withdrew back into the sphere with a final whoosh.

  Silence.

  Tanner groaned and rolled onto his back. Blackness swirled in his eyes. He was tired, so tired. … He turned his head. Through the cargo hatch, he could see the ocean’s surface and beyond that, a slice of blue sky. In the distance, ships and helicopters crisscrossed the water.

  Water began pouring over the hatch combing. He watched absently as it rolled across the bulkhead, pushing debris and bodies before it. He reached out and touched the leading edge. The water felt cool. Soothing. God, he was tired. He would lie here for a while, he decided. Just for a little while. …

  “BRIGGS! Briggs, damn it!”

  Tanner opened his eyes. The square of sky was smaller now and partially blocked by a blurred yellow shape. What was it? He squinted, then blinked until the shape resolved into a raft. The person in it was waving at him.

  “Briggs! For God’s sake, move your ass!”

  Bear. …

  Without thinking, moving on instinct alone, Tanner rolled onto his stomach, pointed himself toward the hatch, and began paddling with his one good arm. A wave broke over his head. Seawater poured into his throat and nose. He coughed, gulped again, sputtered. He paddled harder. He felt himself slipping, being drawn down. He reached for the surface, but it seemed so far away. Too far. Just let it go. The blackness began closing in.

  And then a pair of hands appeared in the water and reached for him.

  73

  Ramstein Air Force Base, Germany

  The time following Cahil’s pulling him into the raft was a blur to Tanner.

  What he went through first in Beirut and then aboard Tsumago finally caught up with his body, and he shut down. He spent the next two days sleeping, never once stirring as he was first put aboard Ford, then helicoptered to Rota, then flown to Ramstein’s hospital.

  When the bomb went off, only half of the hostages had been evacuated from Tsumago. The rest clung to the decks or jumped into the water as the ship sank beneath them. Unaware that Tanner and Cahil had defused the bomb, the U.S. and Israeli warships encircling Tsumago remained at the edges of the exclusion zone, not daring to enter. It was not until Tsumago finally capsized and slipped beneath the surface that the rescue effort began in earnest.

  As Cahil was pulling Tanner from the water, dozens of helicopters, four destroyers, and a handful of civilian cargo ships swarmed the area.

  After two hours, all the hostages had either been picked up or accounted for.

  Of the one hundred, only three died. Saul and Bernice Weinman survived.

  By nightfall, Tsumago’s last known position was cordoned off by U.S. Navy warships pending the arrival of salvage ships and environmental containment vessels.

  With its trump card gone and the Israeli defense forces mobilizing, Syria immediately issued a statement that its intelligence services, having been similarly duped by Iraq, had misread the turmoil in Lebanon. Whatever tensions existed in Beirut appeared to be abating. Its intervention in Lebanon would be short-lived, the foreign secretary announced, and army units along the Litani river would be withdrawing by midafternoon the following day. Barring any unforeseen civil eruptions, the remainder of their forces would begin pulling out by week’s end. To ensure this, the Israeli Air Force, supplemented by F/A-18 Hornets and A-6 Intruders from Independence, began overflights of southern Lebanon and Beirut.

  The next day, as the units along the Litani began backtracking across the Syrian border, General Issam al-Khatib was recalled to Damascus and put under arrest pending court-martial. The next morning, he was found dead, hanging in his basement cell in Mucharabat headquarters.

  One by one, Tanner’s sense began flickering to life. He heard the hum of the air conditioner and caught the scent of disinfectant. The odor was unmistakable, and even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was in a hospital.

  He cracked an eyelid and found himself staring at Cahil’s grinning face.r />
  “Good morning, Mr. Van Winkle.”

  Tanner groaned and tried to sit up.

  “Uh-uh,” Bear said, pushing him down.

  Tanner opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again: “Water,” he croaked.

  One hour and a quart of water later, he felt better—beaten and battered and sore—but better. He saw the IV tube in one arm and the wrist-to-elbow cast on the other and asked, “Do I look as bad as I feel?”

  “Worse,” Cahil replied. “But it could be even worse.”

  Tanner smiled, then grimaced. “Could be dead.”

  “Leland and Walt are waiting outside. I’ll get them.”

  “Bear, wait.”

  “What?”

  “What about Camille?”

  Cahil hesitated. “I don’t know, Briggs. After Ford picked us up, I lost track of her. Last I heard, she was in Tel Aviv.”

  What will they do to her? Briggs wondered. Mossad was not known for its compassion.

  “Briggs? What about Leland and Walt?”

  Tanner shook himself. “Sure, I want to see them.”

  Dutcher and Oaken walked in.

  “Good morning,” said Dutcher.

  “Awake at last,” Oaken said with an ear-to-ear grin.

  “All things being equal, I’d rather be back at the Star-light.”

  Cahil barked out a laugh.

  “Pardon me?” said Dutcher.

  “Nothing.”

  Oaken looked at Cahil. “Did you tell him?”

  “What?” said Tanner.

  Oaken hesitated for a moment. “Stucky’s gone.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, I don’t mean dead. He’s missing. While you were aboard Ford, Bear saw him jump aboard an Israeli helo. That’s the last anybody’s seen of him.”

  “Mossad?”

  “They claim they don’t know where he is.”

  Tanner laid his head back. “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. There’s always somebody who needs a Stucky.” He looked at Dutcher. “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “The doctors say another week. In addition to cuts and bruises and burns numbering in the double digits, you’ve got that bad wing, plus some internal contusions.” Dutcher paused. “They worked you over pretty good, son. It’s a miracle you’re not dead.”

  Tanner nodded. “He stopped it, you know.”

  “Azhar? Bear told me. Looks like he was the man you knew after all.”

  Tanner smiled. “Yes, he was.”

  After a lunch of jell-o and beef boullion that Tanner unsuccessfully tried to pawn off on his guests, Dutcher checked his watch. “You feel up to some more company?”

  Tanner didn’t like the glimmer in Dutcher’s eye. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really.”

  Preceded by a trio of secret agents, the President strode in. He walked to Tanner’s bedside and shook Tanner’s hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Briggs.”

  “And you, Mr. President.”

  The president gestured to a chair. “Do you mind?”

  “Please.”

  The president sat down and groaned. “Lord, traveling in that damned overdecorated jumbo jet makes my joints ache. What am I saying? How are you feeling?”

  “Tired, but otherwise pretty good.”

  “Glad to hear it. Listen, Briggs, I thought about this all the way over. I’ve always prided myself on knowing the right thing to say at the right time. But I have to be honest, I’m a bit stumped. What you did—”

  “It wasn’t just me, Mr. President.”

  “I know, I know. I read the report. A lot of people went above and beyond the call of duty … including Leland, and Walter, and Ian here. And Abu Azhar. But you put yourself straight into the lion’s mouth. I hope a simple thank-you doesn’t fall short.”

  Tanner smiled. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good. No doubt you’ll have some medals coming your way from Mason and the Israelis, but I wanted to get to you first.” The president looked at his watch and stood up. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Tanner looked at him. “As a matter of fact, you can.”

  Once he finished talking, the President shook his head and chuckled. “Well, I’ll say this for you, you don’t do anything halfway. Have you got any idea what you’re asking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Briggs, she’s an Israeli citizen and Mossad katsa to boot. I can’t—”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Okay, I can. Whether they go along is a whole different matter.” The president paused. “I’ll look into it. That’s all I can do.”

  “I appreciate that. And my other request?”

  “As luck has it, Mason has something similar in mind. I don’t think it will take much to bring him around to your plan. I’ll have a talk with him.”

  Falls Church, Virginia

  “Can he see me?” Judith asked, staring into the one-way mirror.

  “No,” said Paul Randal. “He knows somebody’s in here—it’s procedure—but he doesn’t know it’s you.”

  “It looks like a prison cell,” she whispered.

  “It is,” said Randal. “Ms. Smith, you have to understand—”

  “You don’t need to explain it to me, Agent Randal. I know what he’s done.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

  Judith stepped closer to the glass. She was torn. Anger and confusion and longing all fought for control of her mind, but underneath it all, her heart was saying only one thing.

  Ibrahim Fayyad sat on his bed and for the hundredth time studied his room.

  Room wasn’t quite the right word, was it? Despite the comfortable bed and chairs and white walls and wonderful meals, it was a prison cell. His door was always locked, there were no windows, and every piece of furniture was bolted to the floor. Not that it mattered, of course. Even if he could escape, where would he go?

  Latham had said the debriefing might take as long as a year. After that, he would be sent to a maximum-security federal penitentiary, most likely in Marion, Illinois. Would he survive prison? he wondered. Real prison? He decided it did not matter.

  His life had come full circle. He’d lived the first fifty years of it visiting evil unto others, and now he was seeing the consequences. It was strange how prison changed one’s perspective; of course, the change had started with Judith, but the truth was becoming clearer with each passing day. Actions … consequences.

  He heard the click of his door’s bolt being thrown back.

  The door opened, and in walked Judith Smith.

  She stopped just inside the room. The door slammed shut. She jumped, and looked over her shoulder.

  She turned back. “Hello, Paol—I’m sorry. They told me. Your real name is …”

  He stood up. “Ibrahim.”

  She nodded absently. “Ibrahim.”

  “Judith, I’m so glad you came.”

  “I don’t know why I did.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No.” Sticking close to the wall, she took a step forward and looked around. “The FBI isn’t much for decorating, are they?”

  “No. But the food is good, and all things considered, it could be worse.”

  She looked up sharply; he saw a flash of anger on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Maybe it should be worse. I’m sure you’ve thought the same thing.”

  Judith’s expression softened. “When they first told me, yes, I did.”

  “And now?”

  ‘“How can you ask me that?” Tears welled in her eyes, and Fayyad felt his heart lurch. He took a step toward her. She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Just tell me—and I want the truth—was it all a lie? All of it?”

  “No, Judith. In the beginning it was, but before long, it wasn’t. For a long time I’ve had these feelings. … I don’t know how to explain.
I was so frightened they were going to hurt you. You must understand: For twenty years, this is all I’ve—”

  “Twenty years?” she whispered. “God. How many women?”

  “Judith—”

  “How many!”

  “Too many.”

  “My God.”

  “You changed me, Judith.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “You can. Why would I lie? There’s nothing to gain from it. Judith, I’m going to die in prison—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’ve come to peace with it. Besides, even if I were free, my former colleagues are not too happy with me.” He paused. “Tell me: Are you and the senator still—”

  “I’ve left him. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “You can do anything you want to do, Judith. Open a gallery.” Fayyad smiled. “Take all of his money and open a gallery.”

  For the first time Judith smiled. “That’s a thought.” The smile faded. “I really wanted to come here and hate you.”

  “I know.”

  Abruptly, she stood up and walked to the door. “I have to go.”

  “Do you have to? We could sit and—”

  “I have to go.” She knocked on the door, and it opened.

  “Judith?” Fayyad called. “Do me one favor?”

  She turned. “What?”

  “Be happy.”

  Hanover, Virginia

  To the bittersweet surprise of Charlie Latham, the Vorsalov/Smith/Fayyad affair ended with a whimper.

  Senator Herb Smith had announced his resignation on the senate floor the previous day. Rumor was he planned to move far from Washington and write his memoirs. In his secret heart, Latham hoped the son of a bitch died a lonely old man, which, of course was quite possible now that Judith had left him. In his secret heart, Charlie hoped she would move far from Washington, live another fifty years, and die a happy, happy woman.

  Despite himself, Charlie had developed a soft spot for Ibrahim Fayyad. He hated what the man had done to not only Judith and the dozens of women before her, but also the countless people he’d helped kill, still … There was no mistaking the change that had come over the man. Too bad it came so late.