“Are you free to travel?”
“That depends.”
“It will be worth your time. Meet me in Khartoum. You know the old berber’s cafe on the Street of Canals?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Two days’ time, at noon.”
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Marsh Burns’s heart ached for the woman seated across from her. A marital abuse survivor herself, Burns understood what she was going through. At last her patient was beginning to question some of the false beliefs that were imprisoning her.
This woman’s case was different than most, not because of the celebrity of her spouse but because of how thoroughly she’d convinced herself she must remain in the union. As far as Burns knew, the abuse had not become physical, but the husband certainly sounded capable of it.
The woman accepted a tissue from Burns and dabbed her eyes. “He tells me I’m ugly,” she said. “I try hard to look good, especially when we go out, but he always finds something.”
“Judith, he’s wrong. You’re beautiful.”
Burns meant it. Judith was in her early fifties, with flowing, frosted silver hair, delicate features, and flawless skin. She dressed stylishly and carried herself with poise. Burns bet the woman drew plenty of admiring stares.
“He says those things out of his own weakness. It’s his own lacking, not yours. In his heart, he’s afraid you are too good for him. By doing what he does, he keeps you inferior to him.”
“I know, I know. It’s just …”
“Hard to listen to the man you once loved say those things?”
“Yes.”
“You’re asking yourself, ‘How can he do this to me? Doesn’t he love me?’”
“Yes.”
“Judith, the hard truth is, he doesn’t love you. He probably never did. Not really, anyway. It’s not about you; it’s because he doesn’t know how to love. Look at his life outside of you. He has no real friends, only colleagues. He uses intimidation to get what he wants. What you need—what you deserve—from him is something that isn’t even in his dictionary.”
Burns went silent as Judith digested this. They’d discussed the idea before, but only recently had Burns felt Judith was absorbing the concept. “Have you considered what we talked about last week?” Burns asked.
“About leaving him? I … I don’t know.”
“Does it frighten you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That means you’re thinking about it. Listen, I’m not telling you to leave your husband. That’s your decision to make. I just want you to remember: You are not stuck. Your life is not over. You deserve happiness, and it’s out there.”
Judith laughed, embarrassed. “I’m fifty-two years old. Who would want—”
“Judith, if you were available, you’d have more men than you’d know what to do with. Hell, you’d have more sex than you’d know what to do with.”
“Marsha!” Judith gasped, but Burns saw the hint of a smile, too.
“It’s true!” Burns glanced at the clock. “Okay, until next week, just think about what we’ve talked about. You don’t have to make any decisions—just think. Okay?”
“Okay.”
New York
As the remnants of the device and the residue samples were on their way to the FBI Laboratory Division at Quantico, Latham and Randal had identified the owner of the luggage.
A twenty-four-year-old American citizen, an honor graduate of Princeton and a former candy-striper and Meals-on-Wheels volunteer, Cynthia Hostetler was about as likely a terrorist as was Mother Teresa.
“I’ve saved the best for last,” Randal said. “It also seems Ms. Hostetler is the only daughter of one Delaware congressman, Stanley Hostetler.”
“Oh, shit,” muttered Latham.”
“Yep.”
“What’s out?”
“Nothing except she was aboard and injured. She’s at Bellevue. Doctors say she’s okay: broken femur in five places, crushed an artery, but she’ll recover. She’s coming out of surgery now.”
“Let’s go.”
They were halfway there when Latham’s cell phone rang. It was his boss, the assistant director of investigations. “Where are you, Charlie?”
“Heading to Bellevue. We’ve got the bag and its owner.”
“Good. Listen, there’s something you should—”
“I heard. Congressman Hostetler.”
“How did you—”
“It’s his daughter we’re going to interview.”
“Shit.”
“My words exactly. We’ll know more in a couple hours, but my guess is she’s not involved. She was probably just a mule.”
“That’s the upside, then. Hostetler is already breathing down the director’s neck, and when he finds this out, it’s going to get ugly.”
“I know.”
“Then get hot, Charlie. This goes to the top of your list, got it?”
After Latham hung up, Randal asked, “Too late to request vacation, partner?”
Latham laughed. “ ’Fraid so.”
Twenty minutes later the were standing outside Cynthia Hosteller’s room. The congressman had not yet arrived. “We’ve repaired the damage,” said the doctor, “but her recovery will be tough. Considering the alternative, she’s one lucky girl.”
“Can we see her?” asked Latham.
“For a few minutes. The anesthesia hasn’t worn off entirely, but she’s fairly lucid. If you don’t mind, I’ll stand by.”
The room was lit only by a small table lamp in the corner. Already there were a half-dozen flower baskets on the window credenza. Cynthia was pretty, slightly plump, but Latham bet that bothered her more than anyone else.
“Ms. Hostetler, my name is Charlie Latham, and this is Paul Randal. We’re with the FBI. How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said fuzzily. “Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s on his way. Do you feel up to talking to us?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember anything about the accident?”
Cynthia shook her head. “We were almost on the ground, then there was a loud boom, and I looked over, y’know, across the aisle, and there it was.”
“What?”
“The hole, and the ground going by really fast. There was a flash, too, and then heat.” She bit her lip and her eyes welled with tears. “Those people, they … they were just gone, their seats and everything.” She started crying. “Are they dead?”
“Yes.”
“What was it, what happened?”
“A bomb.”
Latham wasn’t sure how to proceed. He had a guess about where his questions would lead; if he were right, it would mean more pain for her. On the other hand, once her father arrived, their access to her might disappear.
“Cynthia, I want you to listen to me: You haven’t done anything wrong, okay? You’re not in trouble. Do you understand?”
“Yes. …”
“We think the bomb came from your bag.”
She stared at him. “What? No, no … that can’t be….”
“We need to know—”
“I didn’t …” She broke into tears again. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Cynthia, your bag was leather, right, green-checkered leather?”
“Y-y-yes. It was new.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?” Latham steeled himself.
“From a friend. A man I met on vacation, in Jamaica.”
Son of a bitch. “What was his name?”
“Ricardo.”
“Ricardo what?”
“I don’t … I can’t remember. He was Italian. He’s coming to visit me in a few days.”
“Describe him for me.”
She did so, but the image was vague. Latham was unsurprised; these people knew how to pick their targets.
“I don’t
get it,” she said. “What’s going on? What are you saying?”
“Cynthia, I’m sorry. We think it came from him.”
“What?”
“The bomb. We believe he may have planted it.”
“No, no, he wouldn’t. He said he loved me. He … Oh, God.”
She curled herself into a ball and began sobbing. Latham squeezed her arm and pulled the doctor toward the door. “You have someone who can stay with her?” Latham whispered.
“You think she might hurt herself?”
Latham shrugged. What the hell do you think, Doc? he thought. The man of her dreams lied to her, betrayed her, then used her to kill five people. Yes, I think she might want to hurt herself.
Latham said, “She’s going to need help, Doctor. Lots of it.”
8
Japan
Following Butcher’s orders, Tanner loitered about, sunbathing and drinking Alcapulcos, neither of which he minded, but he quickly grew restless. He wanted to either jump into the mystery of Ohira’s murder or be done with it.
The previous night Camille had left him a message saying her business in Tokyo was taking longer than she anticipated, but she would be returning in a day or so. She was looking forward to dinner. In spite of himself, Tanner was, too.
Lurking in the back of his mind, however, was a hesitancy to get involved with her or with anyone else for that matter. It was a familiar feeling, one with which he had made a shaky truce after Elle’s death. There had been other women since her, but nothing of any permanence. He’d never been a fan of the “better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” theory. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out.
He’d been at Holystone a year when Elle died. Dutcher had pushed him to go see a counselor. Tanner balked, so Dutcher made it easy. “Go. You’re on vacation until you sort out what’s going on in your head.”
To Tanner’s surprise, the half-dozen visits to the counselor had helped. He hadn’t talked to anyone about the accident, or his feelings, or that hollow ache he carried around in his chest. “You’re going to find it hard to trust again,” the psychologist had warned him. “No matter what your head says, subconsciously you believe anything is better than going through this again. It’s a kind of self-preservation mechanism … and given the business you’re in, that mechanism is pretty damned strong. Problem is, left unchecked, it’ll do more damage than good.”
Even before he heard the words, Tanner knew they were true. Time had dulled the mechanism, but at times—like right now—it still talked to him.
He picked up his jogging pace and turned away from the tide line, digging his heels into the softer sand. A quarter mile ahead, a figure sat on a driftwood log. Tanner stopped and sat down.
“You did not have to run, Mr. Tanner,” said Sato Ieyasu. “But I admire your desire to be punctual.”
Tanner laughed. “Exercise, Inspector.”
“Ah, I see. I admire your discipline. Thank you for meeting me.”
“My social calendar is uncluttered at the moment.”
“I brought something for you.” Ieyasu handed him a photograph. “Tange Noboru, Takagi’s chief of security.”
“That’s him. He was the one driving.”
“At the murder.”
“No, here.”
“Well, if he’s watching you, you can be sure it’s on direct orders from Takagi himself. Have you seen him again?”
“No.”
“That is best,” Ieyasu said. “You don’t want Noboru interested in you.”
Too late, Tanner thought. Now I’m interested in him.
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland
It was midevening, and Walter Oaken was still at the Holystone office. As Dutcher’s deputy, most of the routine administrative tasks fell to Oaken, but unlike most men, he thrived on detail work. In his world there was a place for everything, and everything had its place. A dedicated indoorsman, Oaken preferred the neatness of the office. So strong was this idiosyncrasy that Tanner had long since given up trying to lure Oaken on a camping or hiking trip.
“No chance,” was Oaken’s standard reply. “I like my adventure predictable, preferably on the pages of a magazine.”
“Planned spontaneity?”
“Exactly. You’ll be happy to hear, however, I just renewed my subscription to National Geographic.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Oaken smiled at the memory. Though opposites in many ways, he and Tanner counterbalanced one another, and their friendship was stronger for it. He wondered what Briggs’s love of the unknown had gotten him into this time.
A voracious reader and an information pack rat, Oaken loved reports, forms, cereal boxes; if it had print on it, he read it. His wife Beverly fought an ongoing battle to keep his “gonna get to ’em soon” magazine stacks below three feet tall, lest one of their daughters bump one of the monoliths and be crushed by an avalanche of U.S. News & World Report. Whether at his home office or at work, a television was always tuned to CNN, and whenever Bev came in to clean, her opening of the door stirred up a blizzard of newspaper clippings that took hours to settle—or so she joked.
At forty-eight years old, Oaken had assimilated enough knowledge about the world—past and present, scientific and cultural, obscure and pertinent—to speak authoritatively on almost any subject. That which he didn’t know, he learned.
Standing six and a half feet tall, his chronically rumpled suits hung from his shoulders like lab coats, and he lacked any modicum of fashion sense. He looked every bit the absentminded professor.
The phone rang. “Holystone, Shiverick.”
“Walter, it’s Leland.”
“You just caught me. I was about to head home.”
“I’m sure Bev will enjoy the change. I’m landing at Andrews in a few minutes.”
“What’s up?”
“Not sure. Just in case, call Ian and get him ready to travel.”
“Okay.” Japan, Oaken thought. “I’ll get things rolling.”
Japan
It was shortly before noon when Tanner returned to the hotel. He found Camille at the pool, reclining in a chaise lounge in a black one-piece bathing suit, wide-brimmed beachcomber hat, and horn-rimmed sunglasses. She looked every bit the 1950s Hollywood starlet.
“Hello, sailor,” she said, lifting her sunglasses. “Running again, are we? Dinner is still on, I assume?”
“Of course.”
“I was worried you would give up on me.”
“Not a chance.”
Tanner sat down and ordered lunch: seafood salad, kiwi, and iced tea. “Care to join me?”
“I’ve already eaten, thanks. When you’re done, there are a few spots I couldn’t reach with the lotion.”
Tanner smiled. Camille had the unique ability to sound mischievous, sexy, and innocent all at once. “My pleasure,” he said.
As he ate, they chatted easily, and it felt like they’d known each other for years rather than days. She asked him about diving, the kinds of fish he saw, and whether there were any sharks. Sharks scared her, she said.
“They’re more frightened of us than we are of them. Most attacks are cases of mistaken identity.”
“Where did you learn so much about the ocean?”
Tanner decided a half-truth was the best answer. “My family lived in Maine for a while. I earned extra money working a fishing charter.”
Finished eating, Tanner sat on the edge of her chaise and unscrewed the cap of the suntan lotion. Camille rolled onto her stomach. He slid the suit’s straps off her shoulders and began smoothing lotion on her back.
“That feels good,” she murmured. “You have good hands.”
Lying at his feet Tanner saw Camille’s towel and the card key to her room—the same number as before she left, one floor below his own. He picked up the card and slipped it in his sock.
When he finished with the lotion, Camille was almost
asleep. “I’m going to wash my hands,” he said. “Be right back.”
“Mm-mmm.”
Tanner walked into the lobby and laid Camille’s card on the counter. “Any messages for me?”
The attendant glanced at the number, retrieved a message from Camille’s box, and handed it to Tanner. He memorized the message—Stephan Karotovic, U.S. area code 212—then switched Camille’s card with his own.
“Excuse me, this is for room four oh eight; I’m five oh eight.”
“My apologies, sir.” He returned Camille’s message to her box and checked Tanner’s. “No messages, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Langley
Leland Butcher was met in the lobby by an Office of Security escort, who took him up to the seventh floor. As the elevator doors parted, a man pushed his way inside. It took a moment for Dutcher to recognize Art Stucky.
“Hello, Art.”
Stucky stared at him for a few seconds. “Leland. What brings you here?”
“Just visiting.”
Stucky smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Hmm.”
They faced one another in silence. Finally Dutcher smiled and stepped off the elevator. As the doors closed behind them, the escort gave Dutcher an oblique glance.
“Old friends,” Dutcher explained.
“Yes, sir.”
Dutcher hadn’t taken two steps into the DCI’s outer office when Ginny was out of her chair and running to hug him. However formal she was with Mason, she had a soft spot for Dutcher.
“Leland, how are you!”
“Fine, Ginny, and you?”
“You’ve made ray day!” She leaned in and whispered, “I wish you’d never left. It just isn’t the same.”
Dutcher smiled. “Oh? Dick’s a slave driver, is he?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just not the same.”
-“Thanks, Ginny.”
“You’d better go in. Director Mason is waiting for you.”
“Something big? Do I have time to skulk out the back?”
Ginny laughed. “Go.”
Mason was standing at the window. “Dutch. Thanks for coming. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
They sat in a pair of captain’s chairs around a low coffee table. Mason filled two mugs from the pot and passed one to Dutcher.
End of Enemies Page 8
