End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “I saw Art Stucky in the hall,” Dutcher said. “Where have you got him?”

  “Near East Division. He just got back from Tel Aviv. I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  “Years ago. The Peru thing. He was Army, a Green Beret top sergeant. Counterinsurgency work.”

  “Interesting. I don’t know much about him. What’s your take?”

  Warning bells went off in Dutcher’s head. They don’t know, he thought. How could they not? But then again, outside of the Army, only he, Briggs Tanner, and Bud Grenson of ISAG knew what Art Stucky had done in Peru. Briggs had been the only one to witness it firsthand.

  Dutcher was careful with his answer. “Dick, it’s not my place.”

  The response had the desired effect. “Something I should know?”

  “If I were in your place?”

  “Yes.”

  Dutcher nodded.

  “Okay. Let’s get down to business. You know why you’re here?”

  “I have a guess,” said Dutcher.

  “The man Tanner saw murdered was an agent of ours.”

  “Industrial target?”

  “Yes. Takagi Industries.”

  “You’re getting bold in your old age, Dick.”

  “The stakes were worth it. You think Tanner is up to doing some legwork?”

  “Tell me the story.”

  “I’ll give you the condensed version. Back during the Gulf War, about a week into the air campaign, a Navy Prowler brought back some data on a couple of Baghdad’s SAM sites that CENTCOM was having a tough time killing.

  “CENTCOM sent in an SAS team, which toasted one of the batteries and grabbed some of the hardware. CENTCOM looked at it but couldn’t make much of it, so they sent it to the DIA, who didn’t get anywhere, either. Finally the NSA took a stab. It turns out this site, along with the five others, were using a new kind of frequency agile radar. It was way beyond anything we had, beating our frequency skip rates by eighty percent or more. There wasn’t a missile in our arsenal that could keep up with it.”

  Dutcher was stunned. If widely distributed, that kind of technology would require U.S. forces to first develop effective countermeasures, then play catch-up as weapons systems were refitted. It would take years and billions of dollars, not to mention the huge window of vulnerability it created.

  “Lucky for us, the Iraqis didn’t have many of them,” Mason continued. “The one we got gave us some good countermeasure stuff. Better still, we were able to track down the manufacturer.”

  “Takagi Industries,” said Dutcher.

  “Yep. Through several front companies, that is. The following year, we started DORSAL. At first it didn’t generate much; then along came Umako Ohira.”

  “Straight recruitment?”

  “A walk-in—with bona fides.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. Believe me, we put that man under the microscope. He was the real thing, and his product proved it.”

  A walk-in differs from a recruited agent in that the former presents himself to an agency and volunteers to spy for them, while the latter must be courted into doing the same work. Generally, walk-ins generate better product, but they are rare beasts and rarer still are they genuine. Nine times out of ten, walk-ins are planted by an enemy agency to spread disinformation.

  “He was an engineer,” Mason continued. “He worked on the hardware we pulled out of those fire control radars. He thought they were headed for the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces, and when he found out Takagi was selling them to Saddam, he couldn’t stomach it.”

  “That’s it?” asked Dutcher. “A good conscience?”

  “Yep. His product was stellar, Leland. And now that he’s been murdered …”

  “His bona fides are all the more solid,” Dutcher finished.

  “Right.”

  “How was the network set up?”

  “No cutouts, no controller,” replied Mason. “Ohira ran the whole thing. It was a tough choice, but given the territory, that’s the call we made. The cultural barrier alone was hard enough, but Takagi’s physical security and information protection is top notch. With Ohira, we had the perfect conduit, and his job gave him almost unlimited access.”

  Dutcher considered this. “What do you want from us?”

  “Just a circuit check. We just want to know if the network is viable. If so, we’ll start figuring out how to restart it.”

  Dutcher nodded; it seemed straightforward enough. “Usual terms?”

  “Yes.”

  For Tanner, that meant he was on his own. He would be disavowed if caught and ignored if imprisoned, a private citizen breaking Japanese law.

  “Support?” asked Dutcher.

  “We can give you equipment and information, but you’ll have to work out the logistics.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as George signs off. Give me a couple days.” Mason looked hard at Dutcher. “This is big for us, Dutch. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Dutcher had discretion over which projects Holystone undertook. He weighed the pros and cons and decided Mason was right: This was big. If Takagi Industries was dabbling in the underground weapons market, the U.S. would have to deal with it sooner or later. Sooner would be better.

  “Let me see the file,” said Dutcher.

  Syrian/Lebanese Border

  Six thousand miles away, Abu Azhar and General Issam al-Khatib stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Syrian desert. Every few seconds, the horizon bloomed with bursts of orange; even at this distance al-Khatib could feel the accompanying explosions in his belly.

  Azhar raised his binoculars. “Artillery?” he asked.

  “And tanks. Integrated warfare: armor, infantry, artillery, and aircraft working together.”

  “It is impressive, but is such a large force necessary?”

  “We must not only get their attention but keep it as well.” General al-Khatib smiled. “Abu, yours is the difficult job. Your men are ready?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I know how you feel about this, but I think you should consider—”

  “We’ve already discussed this. The answer is—”

  “You’ve chosen your target well, but we gain more leverage if—”

  “No! No children! That was my only condition. You knew that from the start.”

  General al-Khatib nodded and clapped Azhar on the shoulder. “Yes, of course. We won’t discuss it again. So, what was so urgent you needed to see me?”

  “We have captured a spy.”

  “What? When?”

  “Last week. He’s working for the Americans, that much he has already admitted. Otherwise, he is resisting well.”

  “Give him to me,” General al-Khatib said. “I will—”

  “No, we will keep him. My concern is the operation. This close to the final phase, I am worried the Americans may know something.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Improbable, but not impossible. We need to be sure before we’re committed.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Azhar explained. “Mustafa has already contacted the Jordanian. We have the funds and the target, and the logistics are fairly simple once we’re in-country. What we need is a man who has experience in this area.”

  “For participation?”

  “No. Consultation,” said Azhar. “Mustafa tells me you know a man, a former KGB officer.”

  General al-Khatib hesitated. The operation Azhar was proposing was one of unprecedented daring. His first instinct was to forbid it, but al-Khatib heard the resolve in Azhar’s voice. He’d heard it many times before.

  In the years after the loss of Azhar’s child, he’d provided Azhar with refuge and friendship. He’d also grown to love him like a brother, all the while seeing the hidden potential. Azhar was a brilliant planner, a fierce soldier, and a charismatic leader.

  Were Azhar’s wor
ries justified? al-Khatib wondered. Could this tangent of his jeopardize the operation? No, he decided, compromise was unlikely; they were well insulated. The most important part of that insulation was Azhar himself. In fact, without him the heart of the plan would collapse. Perhaps appeasement was the wisest course. Besides, this new venture might provide necessary distraction.

  “Very well,” al-Khatib said. “I’ll send him. Where?”

  “Khartoum.”

  “His price will be high.”

  “We will pay it,” Azhar said. “The price of failure for us is even higher.”

  Japan

  The pool patio was nearly deserted. Their table was lit by a hurricane lantern. Candle rafts drifted on the surface of the pool. The dinner Tanner had arranged was simple but delicious. They started with fresh shrimp cocktail and fruit salad, followed by braised albacore fillets and baby asparagus with hollandaise sauce.

  “So,” Camille said, sipping her wine. “You were telling me about the Navy.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I seem to be doing all the talking.”

  “Not so,” she said. “You know I am Ukrainian, you’ve heard the woes of my childhood: strict, religious parents, our small backward village. …” Camille smiled suddenly. “Would you like to hear about my first lover? I was nineteen,” she said. “He was a sailor … like you.”

  Tanner laughed. “Like me because he was a sailor, or like me because we’re alike?”

  “You are nothing like him. You are genuine and warm and have a wonderful heart, though you try to hide it sometimes.”

  Be careful with this one, Tanner thought. “You’re very insightful, Ms. Sereva.”

  “Yes, but am I very correct?”

  “So, this sailor …”

  “I loved him, and he loved sleeping with me. I was a naive little girl.”

  “Gender has little to do with naïveté.”

  “So you’ve been in love and made a fool of yourself?”

  “More times than I care to admit.”

  She leaned forward. “I want to hear about it.”

  “You’ve steered the conversation away from yourself again.”

  “Have I?” Camille said. “By what miracle are you not married?”

  Tanner paused and took a sip of coffee. “I was.”

  “Was?”

  “It was a long time ago. She died in an avalanche in Colorado. We were skiing. Some teenagers had stolen the boundary markers as a prank, and we ended up where we shouldn’t have been.”

  After the avalanche he’d tried to get to her, but he couldn’t. The snow was so dense, so heavy; it was nearly impossible to dig. For a while he thought he heard her voice, and he called to her but heard nothing. With two ribs cracked and his collarbone shattered, he clawed at the snow, every move agony, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness, everything white and cold and dank.

  After twelve hours, the rescuers found him. He was within four feet of where they eventually found Elle’s body. As they’d loaded him on the stretcher, he stared at her still lying in the snow, her face blue, eyes open. …

  That had been four years ago last month. He’d sensed its passing but hadn’t actively noted it. Elle had always loathed what she called “morbid anniversaries,” like the day Kennedy was shot, or Pearl Harbor Day, or the day you buried a loved one’s body in the ground. She thought it better to dwell on the time someone was here, not on the single day on which they left.

  When he remembered her, it was the peculiarities that stood out, the bits of memory that defined her in his mind: Elle demanded all their houseplants have names; Elle cried at happily-ever-after films, giggled at horror movies; Elle loved to fish, refused to bait the hook. Elle was unique and irreplaceable, and her death had been pivotal in his life.

  Afterward, there had been times of drinking, of staring at the walls, and of listening to the phone ring but not answering because he knew it was a well-wisher, and he no longer had the strength to muster another “I’m fine, thanks.”

  He sometimes wondered—though not too often lest he give it real consideration—whether any woman would feel right again. This, he realized later, would have bothered Elle most of all.

  But getting to that realization had taken many months. He didn’t like the person he saw in the mirror. It was the face of someone who’d stopped trying. She was gone. It was done. He could stay in limbo or choose to live. He chose the latter. Later, he realized Elle had given him something else: her ability to live each day as it came. Moments were important, each one a sliver of time you could only experience once, each one a building block of a life.

  “You blame yourself,” Camille said.

  “Some.”

  “A lot, I think. I’m sorry, Briggs. What was her name?”

  “Elle … Susan Ellise.”

  They sipped their coffee in silence. Inside the Tiki Lounge, a Frank Sinatra tune was playing on the jukebox. “What is that?” Camille asked.

  “‘Summer Wind’ by Frank Sinatra.”

  “Aren’t you a bit young to be a Sinatra fan?”

  “I grew up listening to him and Henry Mancini and old Herb Alpert stuff. Hated it back then. Now … I guess it sort of grew on me.”

  The waiter approached their table. “Mr. Tanner, a message for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tanner opened the slip and read: “Meet me, Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. Dutch.” At the bottom there was a postscript. “Regarding your new business partner, still checking references.” Feeling mildly guilty, Tanner had forwarded the name Stephan Karotovic to Oaken.

  “Bad news?” Camille asked.

  “Just business. I have to go out of town for a couple days.”

  “When? Not tonight, I hope.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Good. I’m due to leave day after tomorrow. I may not be here when you return.” She paused. “Unless, of course …”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless you pleaded for me to stay until you get back.”

  Tanner smiled. “My pleading skills are a tad rusty.”

  “Ask, then.”

  “All right. Will you stay until I get back?”

  “Well, since you asked …”

  They strolled arm-in-arm on the beach, watching the tide curl around their ankles and talking until almost midnight. When they reached the door to her room, she leaned against the jamb as he opened it for her.

  “Good night, Camille.”

  She put her arms around his neck and drew him against her. She turned her mouth upward, waiting for his.

  Their first kiss was unhurried as their tongues touched, withdrew, and touched again. Briggs pressed his hands into the small of her back and drew her hips against his. She gasped and arched herself. “Please, Briggs, take me to the bed.”

  “Camille—”

  “I want you. Please … What?” she breathed. “What is it?”

  “I have to go,” Tanner said, then thought, What are you doing?

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Then—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “We have time, Camille. There’s no hurry.”

  Her expression softened into a smile. “You’re sure about this?”

  He chuckled. “Not entirely. I’ll find you when I get back.” He pulled away.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Camille swung the door closed. Just before it clicked shut, she poked her head out. “I’ll tell you this, Briggs Tanner, if you die in a plane crash or from food poisoning or anything else, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Tanner smiled. “That would make two of us.”

  9

  Hong Kong

  Tanner loved Hong Kong, its vitality and its mysterious blend of Old and New Worlds. While many things had changed here since China took over from Great Britain, few of them were visible to the tourist. One thing
that would never change, Tanner guessed, was the taxis.

  He clutched the taxi’s door handle tighter as his driver weaved from lane to lane, shouting Mandarin curses out the window and flailing his arms. To their right lay Victoria Harbor, teeming with hundreds of junks, and through the windshield he could see Victoria Peak, its upper reaches cloaked in mist.

  The driver veered left off Connaught Road, then again onto Charter before screeching to a halt in front of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. “We here,” he announced.

  “And then some.”

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing,” Tanner replied, handing him the fare.

  Tanner stepped onto the curb. The driver retrieved his bag from the trunk and deposited it on the curb, where a bellman smiled, took Tanner’s passport, then scurried into the lobby. In all, the operation had taken four seconds.

  “Gotta love Hong Kong,” Tanner murmured.

  “Eh?” asked the driver.

  “Nothing.”

  The Mandarin Oriental Hotel combines British Old World taste with Oriental opulence. Two of the city’s finest restaurants, the Pierrot and the Man Wah, share the top floor, while on the ground floor guests can choose from the Mandarin Grill, the Clipper Lounge, and the Captain’s Bar.

  By the time Tanner reached the main desk, his bag was already en route to his room and the register ready for his signature. Two minutes later, the bellman was escorting him to his room.

  He had a half hour before he was to meet Dutcher, so he unpacked and took a long shower, then dressed and headed downstairs to the Gunnery.

  Beside the bar’s double oak doors was a brass plaque that read, Men Only. Sexism notwithstanding, this, too, was part of the Mandarin’s Old World charm, Tanner admitted. Inside, the pub was all polished walnut and teak and brass lanterns. Nautical paintings and memorabilia dominated the shelves and display cases. At the bar, patrons hefted imitation pewter tankards.

  Tanner spotted Dutcher in a corner booth.

  “How was your flight?” Dutcher asked, rising to shake Briggs’s hand.

  “Good. And yours?”

  “Uneventful.”