End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “If I hear anything more, I will call,” said Haron.

  “Thanks, Avi.” Latham hung up and redialed. “George? Charlie Latham. That Vorsalov photo you’ve got … describe it to me.”

  The DDO did so.

  Latham asked, “One is Vorsalov, the other two unidentified Arabs?”

  “That’s right. What’s going on, Charlie?”

  “We’d better meet I think we’re working on the same puzzle.”

  Langley

  An hour later, Latham was in Mason’s office pitching his Vorsalov/Fayyad theory to George Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and the director of the FBI. Obviously the two photos sold to the FIS and Shin Bet came from the same source, he said. Whoever the stringer was, he was either gutsy or stupid. Double-dealing two of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agencies was not the road to a long, happy life.

  Fayyad was the prime suspect in the Delta bombing, and Vorsalov was a known freelancer. That they were meeting in Khartoum just days after the bombing was compelling; either they were connected by the bombing or by an impending operation. Latham suspected the latter, since freelance terrorists rarely bothered with postmortem briefs on their operations. Plus, it was unlikely Vorsalov would be consulted on a simple bombing; it wasn’t the Russian’s forte. The identity of the third man in the photo was still unknown, but Latham hoped by pooling the CIA’s and FBI’s resources they could not only identify him but uncover the reason behind the Khartoum meeting.

  “Find one and we find the other,” Latham said. “Find them both and we find out what they’ve got cooking.”

  By the end of the meeting, Mason ordered an interagency working group be set up. It would consist of Latham, his partner Paul Randal, and selected members of Art Stucky’s Near East Division.

  Fayyad’s and Vorsalov’s lives were to be dissected, examined, then plugged into a time line that would trace their movements over the past three years. There would be gaps, of course, but their careers had never been examined side by side. It was a logical place to start.

  Washington, D.C.

  Judith Smith left her psychologist’s office and walked two blocks to Bistro Francais. It was sunny and warm, and squirrels darted from tree to tree along the sidewalk. A popular nightspot overlooking the C & O Canal, Bistro Francais was usually uncrowded during the day. Coming here was a ritual for Judith, quiet time to mull over what she and Marsha had talked about.

  There was only one other patron on the terrace, a broad-shouldered man in his midthirties. He was engrossed in the lunch menu, so she couldn’t see much of his face, but he looked Italian—and handsome. He wore twill olive trousers, a collarless cream shirt, and a light blazer. As she took her seat, he looked up and smiled. Judith glanced away. He was handsome.

  Despite herself, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Oh stop it, Judith, she thought. She was acting like a little girl.

  “Pardon me, signora.”

  Judith’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up. She suddenly realized how long it had been since she looked into a man’s eyes. “I’m sorry?”

  “For intruding. I apologize.”

  “Oh … ah … you’re not.”

  “I am wondering. Can you help me with a … il menu?”

  “I can try. What do you—” Judith stopped, seeing the brochure in his hand.

  “You know this place? The Coco …”

  She smiled; he pronounced it “cocoa.” “The Cocoran Gallery. Yes. In fact, I’m on its fund-raising committee.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you been there?”

  He smiled; his teeth were flawless and white. “It is where I was going this morning. I got lost. Silly, yes?”

  “Washington can be confusing.”

  “I have discovered that. Perhaps you can tell me? Is it far from here?”

  “No, not at all,” Judith said. “Take the Metro to Seventeenth, then five blocks south on New York.”

  “Grazie.” He held her eyes for several moments. “I’m sure you are waiting for someone. I will leave you to your lunch.” He turned to go.

  Judith’s mind raced. Let him go. He just needed help, that’s all. But there was another voice, suddenly powerful: He’s interested, the voice said. They way he smiled and held her eyes … Besides, there was no harm in lunch, was there?

  Before she realized it, her mouth was opening. “You know, you might want to wait until Thursday to go to the Cocoran.”

  He turned. “Oh?”

  “They’re debuting some new Kramer pieces.”

  “Kathleen Kramer?”

  “Yes,” she said, then hesitated. Leap, Judith! “Would you … I mean, would you like to join me for lunch?”

  “I would not be imposing?”

  “Oh, no. We could … talk about art.”

  He smiled and extended his hand. “I am Paolo.”

  Judith took his hand. He turned it, grasping just her fingers, European style. Ever so briefly he grazed his thumb over the back of her hand.

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “Judith. My name is Judith.”

  Before she realized it, three hours had passed. Paolo was an engaging listener, asking her about her taste in art and books and theater. His eyes rarely left her face as she talked, straying away only to refill their wineglasses. It was a childishly simple thing, but it felt wonderful, nonetheless. This stranger had paid her more attention in the last few hours than Herb had in two years.

  She realized she knew nothing about him. She said so.

  “With respect, Judith, I refuse. You are much more interesting. Please tell me more about—”

  “No, I want to know about you. Where do you come from?”

  He lived in Tuscany, he said, and was here doing research for his doctoral thesis in art history. His family owned a ski resort in the Italian Alps, which he had managed until two years ago. His heart was not in business. Art was his love. Upon hearing this, his father had virtually ostracized him from the family.

  “And so, Judith, you see, I am passionate. I sometimes wonder if that is a good thing. Without it, I would be a rich businessman. With it …” He smiled, shrugged. “Well, I am here, having a wonderful lunch with you.”

  “It has been nice.”

  “So what is your opinion?”

  “About?”

  “Passion. Can it be not such a good thing?”

  Judith folded her napkin, then refolded it. “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never given it much thought.”

  “No? You appear to me as a passionate woman. The way you talk about art, your eyes shine.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Judith, I have a belief. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Please.”

  “I believe passion is a matter of finding what makes you feel alive and following it. We are alike, I think. For the first thirty-four years of my life, I suppressed my passion. I ignored what made me feel alive, but it waited patiently until I could no longer ignore it. It is the same for everyone. Whether we know it or not, our hearts know the right way. Some people listen; some do not.”

  Judith was uncomfortable. Passion had no place in her life. Everything she did and thought and felt was ruled by Herb. Passion? She’d forgotten what it felt like.

  Listening to Paolo, however, her mind cleared, and she suddenly heard what he was saying. The words combined with the voices of Bonnie Latham and Dr. Burns and bolstered that little, quiet voice in the back of her mind. She suddenly felt free and vastly confused at the same time.

  “I am sorry,” Paolo said. “I have become too personal with you. Please accept my apology.”

  “No. You don’t have to apologize. I just …” She hesitated. “It’s just hard to …”

  “You think it’s too late.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Paolo stood up and pushed in his chair. He took her hand and kissed
it. The gesture seemed more respectful than romantic. “Judith, it is never too late. Of that I am sure. I have enjoyed meeting you. Perhaps I will see you at the Cocoran show. If not, I wish you happiness.”

  Judith could only nod as he turned and walked away.

  Japan

  Tanner and Cahil took separate routes into Kobe. The meeting place, Sorakuen Garden, was near Sannomiya Station in the foothills of Mount Rokko.

  The morning after Tanner’s near mugging in Shinkansen Station, Sato Ieyasu had called. The body of a young man matching the description of the third attacker had been found in Osaka Harbor early that morning, he reported. Tanner assumed he’d been executed to insure his silence. If the other two attackers were not already dead, they soon would be.

  Later that day, they received a Federal Express package containing their equipment dump, which consisted of nothing more than a pair of ordinary-looking cellular phones and an equally ordinary 3.5″ diskette for their laptop computer.

  The phones were Motorolas adapted by the CIA’s Science & Tech Directorate. Each was equipped with twenty-four encode chips, one designed to control pulse repetition rate, the other to manage automatic frequency selection. Together they gave the user tens of thousands of secure channels on which to transmit data to a dedicated MilStar satellite.

  Any significant data would be passed via the phone’s condenser/burst function, which could record a five-minute message and condense it into a three-second digital burst. The software on the 3.5″ diskette, whose twin Oaken had at the Holystone office, would unstuff and decode the transmissions into clear text on their laptop computers.

  Once the phones were operational, Tanner sent a report describing the contents of Ohira’s locker and asking Oaken to research the words Toshugu and Tsumago, as well as the Takagi shipyard secure dock area. For whatever reasons, the facility had been important to Ohira, and Tanner wanted to know why.

  The remainder of that evening and part of the next morning, he and Cahil separately toured Osaka, servicing the dead-letter drops. Each of DORSAL’s three agents had been allocated three drops. Traditionally, drops are preceded by message-waiting signals, usually in the form of marks left in specific locations. Ohira had quickly realized this wouldn’t work, however, given the maddening efficiency of the city cleaning crews. It took him almost three weeks to realize his marks were disappearing before agents saw them and then devise another system.

  All nine drops were empty. According to Mason’s orders, they could go no further without approval. But as Tanner had guessed, Mason was unsatisfied with this and approved the Sorakuen meet.

  The rest of the afternoon they spent reconnoitering the shipyard. Though naturally inclined toward a water-borne penetration, Tanner didn’t want to discard the land approach. If security were lax enough, it might simply be a matter of scaling a fence. It was not to be, however.

  Tange Noboru knew his business. The shipyard was run with militaristic efficiency, with armed patrols (both on foot and in four-by-four trucks) guard dogs, floodlights, and electric fencing. Though these measures were not insurmountable, they made the seaward approach all the more inviting.

  Tanner disembarked the Tokkaido at Sannomiya Station and started walking. The night was balmy with a slight breeze. He turned right on Tor Road, walked north two blocks, then turned left toward the garden. Down the block he glimpsed Cahil standing in front of a shop window, studying bonsai trees.

  The Sorakuen was an amalgamation of English and Oriental styles with labyrinth hedgerows, tall cedars, and colored accent lights lining the walkways. He walked through the entrance and onto a small footbridge spanning a brook. He reached the center fountain courtyard and sat down on the southernmost bench.

  He glanced at his watch: twenty minutes to go. Hidden somewhere nearby, Cahil would be watching. One less thing to worry about. Now he waited.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was about to leave when a lone woman appeared on the path. She stopped at the fountain. Heart pounding, Tanner watched. Come on, come on … She sat down on the fountain’s rim, took off her left shoe, shook out a pebble, then put it back on.

  I’ll be damned.

  Tanner removed his coat and laid it across his left knee.

  She walked over to him. “Gomen nasai, e-ki wa do ko desu ka?” Excuse me, where is the train station?

  Now came the test. Tanner replied, “Massugu mae yu-binkyoku. Taka sugimasu.” Straight ahead in front of the post office. It’s very expensive, though. Tanner watched her carefully; she was agitated but standing her ground.

  “Yoyaku shimashita,” she said. I have a reservation.

  “Do you understand English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please sit down.”

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Sit down.”

  “No. I know Umako is dead. Tell me—”

  Tanner could see little of her face, but she looked young. “If I meant you harm, we wouldn’t be talking. Sit down.”

  She hesitated, then sat down. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Ohira’s.”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “How did I know about this meeting?”

  “Perhaps you tortured him.”

  “You know that’s not true. I was with him when it happened. He gave me a key to a locker—”

  “You’re lying! He told me he used some kind of code.”

  “He did … we did. We need to talk. Is there a place we can—”

  Abruptly, she stood up. “I don’t know you. You could be the police.”

  “I know you’re scared,” Tanner said. “I don’t blame you. I can help you. It’s your choice, though. If you decide to go, I won’t stop you.”

  She paused, thinking. “How well do you know Kobe?”

  “Enough to get around.”

  “I know a place. I will give you directions.”

  Her directions took Tanner and Cahil to a small shokudo, or neighborhood restaurant, in an old residential neighborhood. It was after midnight, and the streets were deserted. The cobblestones glistened under the streetlights.

  Even before they knocked on the paper-paned door, it opened. A teenage boy waved them inside, then led them through the kitchen and into the alley, where they climbed a wooden stairway. At the top was a door. The boy knocked, and it opened, revealing the woman. She let them inside, whispered something to the boy, then shut the door.

  “He has nothing to do with this,” she said. “I don’t want him involved.”

  “He won’t be,” Tanner said.

  “I’ve made tea.”

  Tanner smiled; even now, Japanese politeness asserted itself.

  She poured and they sat on tatami mats around a low table.

  “Now tell me what happened to Umako.”

  Tanner did so, leaving nothing out. As he finished, the woman began sobbing.

  Tanner and Cahil exchanged glances. She and Ohira had been lovers, he suddenly realized. What in God’s name had Ohira been thinking? Had the affair been genuine or simply his way of turning her? If so, what did she know that was important enough to risk such an entanglement?

  “What’s your name?” he asked softly.

  She brushed the tears away. “Sumiko Fujita.”

  “I’m very sorry, Sumiko. How long had you and Umako been …”

  “Lovers. You can say the word. I am not ashamed. Almost a year.”

  “What kind of help were you giving him?”

  “No. Not until I know who and what you are.”

  Tanner was torn. He looked to Bear and got a shrug: Your call, bud. Tanner decided to trust his instincts. He told Sumiko their names. “As far as what we are … How much do you know about Umako’s work?”

  “He was spying on Takagi.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Something about illegal arms dealing.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes.
”

  “Did he tell you who he was working for?”

  “I’m not stupid, Mr. Tanner. As soon as I saw you, I knew.”

  “How do you feel about that?” asked Cahil.

  “I knew Umako. He was a good man. I also know Hiromasa Takagi. He is not a good man. I am a lawyer in Takagi’s Office of Counsel. I have seen enough. You still haven’t told me why you are here,” Sumiko said. “But, to be honest, I’m not sure I care. Will you find who killed Umako?”

  “If we can,” Tanner replied.

  “If you want my help, you must promise to get them.”

  Cahil said, “That might be easier said than done.”

  “But not impossible.”

  “No, not impossible.”

  “Umako died in your arms, Mr. Tanner. He was working for you.”

  Tanner nodded.

  “Then you must make this right. You must do the honorable thing.”

  Tanner had already thought the same thing. Ohira had put himself in harm’s way doing what he thought was right. For him, integrity had transcended all else, and Briggs respected that. “We’ll find the man,” he said.

  “Good. Now tell me what you want to know.”

  For the next two hours, they questioned her. She held nothing back. She had a near-photographic memory and a razor-sharp mind. “Lately, Umako had been especially interested in the Tokushima Shipyard,” she said at last.

  “Why?” asked Tanner.

  “I don’t know. When we first started, he was concentrating on the electronics division: patent information, purchasing contracts, end-user certificates.”

  This made sense. Patent information and purchase agreements were logical places to start, and end-user certificates are designed to identify the buyers of restricted technology and weapons systems, who, in theory must be recognized governments. In reality, however, they were easy to circumvent.

  “When did he start asking about Takagi Maritime?” asked Cahil.

  “Two months ago. He wanted details on shipbuilding, insurance subsidiaries, underwriting … and whether Takagi handled contract salvage jobs.”