End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  They passed through a dozen hajez, or checkpoints, each manned by teenagers carrying AK-47s, the weapon of choice for the Beiruti musallahheen. So far, Tanner had seen neither police nor soldiers. If tradition held, the authorities were holed up in their barracks, waiting for the problems to work themselves out.

  At each hajez, they were cleared through as Safir produced the correct password: sometimes a shouted slogan, sometimes a bit of torn paper taken from that particular group’s propaganda sheet, and sometimes a smile and “Keef al haal!”

  At a checkpoint near the Museum Crossing, a gunman demanded money for safe passage and reached into Tanner’s jacket. Without thinking, Briggs grabbed the hand. A dozen AKs jutted through the car’s windows. After two minutes of debate, Safir appeased the leader with a warm Coca-Cola from the glove compartment, then drove away.

  “Please excuse, effendi, but that was unwise of you.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m still trying to acclimate.”

  “I understand.” Safir swerved to miss a crater; the Playboy air freshener twirled. “So: Can I assume you will need my services while you are here?”

  “If you’re available.”

  “For you, of course.”

  “As for—”

  “No, no. Money is not discussed between friends. You will pay me what you think is fair. We will not discuss it again.”

  They followed the Corniche to American University, then on to Hamra, Beirut’s commercial center. Here there were boutiques, shoe shops, markets: everything a western business district had save the rubble-strewn streets and bullet-ridden walls.

  “Seen enough?” asked Safir.

  “Yes. I’m at the Commodore. Is it still the same?”

  “The Commodore never changes, effendi. It is bomb-proof, that place.”

  He dropped Tanner at the doors and promised to return at eight.

  Milling inside the lobby were a dozen or so journalists, all wearing either the thousand yard stare or the cheerful such-is-life visage that Beirut eventually foists on its visitors. A pair of saloon-style doors led to the bar, and through them Tanner could hear laughing. The birthplace for many an alcoholic, the Commodore’s bar saw brisk business.

  The clerk rang for the bellman, then told Tanner he must check in with the local media liaison, in this case a chain-smoking PLO man Briggs found in a small back office. Next week, Tanner knew, the liaison might be an Amal soldier or a PFLP thug. It all depended on who had the muscle.

  “Passport,” the PLO man said. Tanner handed it over. The man studied it for a long minute, then squinted at Tanner. “American?”

  “Canadian.”

  “You have media pass?”

  “No,” Tanner said. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  “How long?”

  “Five days, maybe a week.”

  “One week, fifty dollars. American.”

  Tanner counted out the money and laid a twenty on top of it. “For your help.” In the Mideast it was called baksheesh-—socially acceptable bribery.

  Now the man was all smiles. “You need help again, you see me. Ragheb.”

  Tanner found his room surprisingly clean, with a view of the Corniche from the balcony. It was a perfect Mediterranean afternoon, warm with a slight breeze blowing off the ocean.

  He scanned the shoreline until he found Pigeon Rocks, then traced backward, looking for the apartment building in which he and his parents had lived. After five minutes of searching, he realized it was gone, probably the victim of a bombing or a fire.

  He suddenly felt very alone.

  After showering and setting his watch alarm for seven P.M., Briggs connected the cell phone to the Palm Pilot, sent an encoded message to Stucky saying he was on the ground, then switched channels to the GPS system.

  After a few seconds, a map of Beirut appeared on the screen. Displayed were the six key landmarks he’d asked the CIA tech people to program into the Palm Pilot: American University, the National Museum, the airport, Tal Zaatar, the old Soviet embassy, and the junction of Tripoli Road and the Beirut River. Using these, he could navigate most of the city.

  He hit the XMIT key. A red X—his current position—appeared south of American University. It was right where it should be.

  “Time to see if the Israelis came through,” he murmured.

  He punched the RCV key. A few seconds passed, then a red square appeared near the Beirut Airport.

  The fly had arrived.

  52

  Indian Head, Maryland

  Three hours before they were to boards the C-130 that would take them to their launching point, Sconi Bob Jurens gathered his team in the briefing room. Crowded around a scale model of the ship, he gave them the news. “We’ve been given the green light, gentlemen.”

  There were smiles and nods around the table.

  “About damned time,” said Ken “Slud” Sludowski, and got laughs.

  “Also, it looks like we’re dealing with no more than thirty bad guys.”

  “Two-to-one odds,” said Smitty. “Hardly seems fair for them.”

  Jurens smiled. “We ain’t about being fair. This is a straight run and gun. Anybody you see that ain’t one of us gets a bullet.

  “Now the bad news: Last night a P-3 did some overflights of the target. Seems they picked up some interesting stuff. Our target isn’t as toothless as we thought.

  “The air- and surface-search radars we know about, but the Orion spotted a pair of suspicious-looking arrays on her superstructure. One’s probably an ESM antenna … which means they may be able to pick up radar and radio signals. The other array could be FCR.”

  There were grumbles around the table. Fire control radar meant offensive weapons, which, given their plan, could put half the team in jeopardy even before it landed.

  “Where’d they see these arrays?” asked Cahil.

  “Aft of the bridge, port and starboard sides.”

  “They weren’t there when she was in dock. Must be recent additions. God knows the wave guide was powerful enough for it.”

  “Did they have anything like a CIC?” asked Sludowski, meaning a combat information center. “Anyplace they could run FC consoles from?”

  “Not that we saw. Everything looked centralized on the bridge.

  “Okay, listen,” said Jurens. “None of this changes anything. We’re going. We’ve got eighteen hours to fine-tune the plan, so let’s get busy.”

  Morocco

  To the delight of Bernice Weinham, who Saul called “The greatest living Hebrew fan of Humphrey Bogart,” Valverde had just dropped anchor in Casablanca’s harbor. That the movie of the same name had actually been filmed in Hollywood did nothing to dampen Bernice’s excitement.

  On the bridge, the watch hardly noticed their latest port of call. Most had seen the city before, and those who hadn’t were junior officers and therefore had duty that night. “Sir, if you’ve got a moment?” the radioman called to the officer of the watch.

  The OW stepped into the radio room. “Yes?”

  “Take a listen to this.” The radioman clicked on the speaker, and the room filled with static and the faint murmur of voices.

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It happened a few minutes ago and lasted about a minute. Sounds like voices, followed by a recurring pulse tone.”

  “Source?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s not on any of our carrier frequencies. At first I thought we’d picked up some feedback from one of our channels, but I checked: It’s internal.”

  “What?”

  “The source is coming from inside the ship.”

  The OW thought for a moment. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Run a diagnostic, and I’ll have a technician check the antenna.”

  Beirut

  For nearly two millennia, the country known today as Lebanon has been at war with either itself or outside crusaders. As Phonecia, it was
conquered by Egypt, who coveted its abundant supply of cedar trees and their resin, which the pharaohs used for the mummification process. Since then, Lebanon has been ruled by a succession of invaders: Mamluks, Turks, Assyrians, European crusaders, and Romans. Some conquered and left. Others conquered, ruled, and were themselves conquered. The faces might have changed, but the essence of Lebanon’s bloody history had not. Whoever the players and whatever the era, Lebanon had always been a playground for superpowers.

  Following World War I, as the Allies began dissecting the Mideast into digestible chunks, the French gave its Maronite Christian friends control of then “greater Lebanon.” Prior to that, Christians and Muslims had been living in relative peace.

  In 1932, all that changed. A census of the country showed Christians—especially Maronite Christians—to be in the majority, so the government was constituted accordingly, with Christians holding six parliamentary seats for every Muslim’s five. The same ratio applied for every key post in the country.

  Two decades later, following the influx of Palestinian refugees and the rapid emigration of rich Lebanese Christians to America and Europe, the balance of power between the two religions had shifted dramatically. By the early 1950s, Muslims had become the majority, and the Christians knew it. Bolstered by superpower sponsors and fearing for their safety from an enemy who had sworn to expel them, Christian governments refused to relinquish their tenuous hold on the country.

  And so, through the years Lebanon had not only fought internally for self-control but had fought against the interventions of Syria, Iran, Israel, and the United States, as each sought to impose its own solution to the turmoil. Syria coveted Lebanon as the linchpin to its dream of a “Greater Syria”; Iran wanted to use Lebanon as a conduit for its export of terrorism; Israel was wary of Lebanon’s role as a breeding ground for anti-Zionist forces; and the United States, committed to Israel’s security, knew Lebanon was the powder keg just waiting to ignite the Mideast into war.

  It was into this volatile morass that Abu Azhar and General Issam al-Khatib introduced a platoon of thirty Iranian Pasdaran soldiers, each superbly trained and fully prepared to lay down his life to complete his mission.

  As Beirut fell into darkness, four very important men in four separate parts of the city were finishing the day’s business and preparing to leave for their homes. Consistent with their status, each man was surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards. Traffic was blocked off and pedestrians restrained; nearby windows and doorways were scanned for possible threats. Satisfied all was clear, the bodyguards walked their charges to their cars and drove off.

  Unseen by even the neighborhood’s residents, four separate Pasdaran teams lay hidden on nearby rooftops and in bombed-out cellars. Once darkness had fallen and the streets were quiet, each team slipped away with their sketched maps, notes, and photos.

  What Tanner had already decided—and told no one—was he had no intention of sacrificing their fly unless it was unavoidable. He understood the pragmatism behind Mason’s plan but also knew before this was over there would be plenty of death to go around. Hossein Asseal may have been double-dealing his clients, but the man did not deserve to die for it.

  The success of Tanner’s gambit depended on four factors: one, whether the disinformation Fayyad fed Azhar would goad him into action; two, whether the GPS would in fact track Asseal; three, that Azhar would kidnap Asseal instead of simply gunning him down on the street; and four, how quickly Tanner could react. When and if Asseal was taken, Briggs had to reach the location before Azhar moved on. If he failed to do so, all was lost.

  Of the four factors, the tracking system was the least fallible.

  The GPS, or Global Positioning System, is a constellation of twenty-four satellites, each equipped with an atomic clock able to fix the satellite’s position by measuring the time it takes signals to travel between fellow satellites and ground stations. The existence and accuracy of GPS—which is measured in mere feet—is common knowledge. Unknown to the general public, however, is the extreme sensitivity of the GPS’s passive receivers.

  Every chemical element on the periodic table, whether helium or cobalt or flourine, decays at a specific rate. This subatomic crumbling produces a very faint but unique radiation signature. Of all the elements, iridium produces the most readily detectible signature.

  While Asseal was being held by Shin Bet, dozens of thumbnail-sized iridium microchips were secreted in his clothes and belongings. In all, twenty-six chips were placed in the heels of his shoes, in the lining of his belts, in the collars of his shirts, and in the waistband of his silk boxer shorts.

  When he left Shin Bet headquarters, Asseal was a walking beacon.

  This technology had its limits, however. Because of the faintness of the signature, the satellite’s arrays had to be concentrated on a ten-square-mile area in and around Beirut. Any wider an area and the signal would become obscured in a sea of background radiation. Similarly, if Asseal was taken from the city, the signal would be lost. Finally, because subatomic decay is an irreversible process, Tanner had just ninety-six hours before the iridium would become too weak to detect. Past that, the fly would become just another body in a city of 1.5 million bodies.

  Promptly at eight, Nourani knocked on Tanner’s door. They embraced, and Safir stepped back. “You look well, my friend,” he said. “After your last experience in our city, I feared you would not return.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Come on, let’s sit on the balcony.”

  Once they were settled, Safir handed Tanner a cigar box. Inside was a Glock nine-millimeter pistol and five spare magazines. Tanner laid the box aside and handed Safir a photograph. “In the next few days, someone is going to kidnap this man. I want to know who they are and where they take him.”

  Safir smiled evilly. “Bait, eh? Brave man.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Poor man.”

  “He’s staying at the Riviera. As I understand it, he likes to gamble.”

  “Then that’s the place for him,” Safir said. “Give me an hour.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Dick Mason was enjoying a luncheon meeting with the president, James Talbot, and the chairman of the JCS, General Cathermeier. Halfway through his corn chowder, the president said, “Dick, what have you brought for us?”

  Mason handed the photos around the table. “These are about four hours old,” he said. “It appears the Syrians are wrapping up their exercise.”

  “How do we know?” asked the president.

  “We spotted the group’s support units heading back north. They wouldn’t do that if they were staying much longer.”

  “Makes sense,” said General Cathermeier. “No fuel, no food, no fight.”

  The president stared at the photo. “Damn, that’s a lot of firepower. How much did they put into this thing?”

  “Troops alone, almost sixteen thousand.”

  “That’s unprecedented,” said Cathermeier. “What about the Bekka?”

  “There’s where we could use some help. We show everything still dug in, but there is some activity. We’re assuming it’s the changeover, but we could use some eyeballs to make sure.”

  “No problem. I’ll ask the Indy to send a recon flight.”

  The president asked Mason, “Where are we with DORSAL?”

  “The team is en route to Rota. They hit the ship in sixteen hours. Tanner is on the ground. Comms are up, and the GPS is tracking. Now it’s just a matter of time.”

  “That’s what worries me,” said the president, setting aside his napkin. “I got a call from the Israeli prime minister this morning. He wants to know what we are doing in Lebanon. The urgency of our request wasn’t lost on them. At this point I’m inclined to put him off, but if our boarding of Tsumago fails, I’ll have no choice but to tell him what they’re facing.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. Mason understood the presiden
t’s decision, but he also knew what the Israeli response would be. Rather than let Syria have the bomb, Israel would either attempt their own boarding of Tsumago or sink her. Bias aside, Mason knew if a SEAL team couldn’t get the job done, the chances of anyone else succeeding were slim. That left the second option—sinking—which couldn’t be done quickly enough to prevent the crew from detonating the bomb.

  “Mr. President,” said Talbot, “I recommend delaying as long as possible. Not only could we be looking at an ecological disaster, but the Arab nations in the region will come down on Israel with everything they have.”

  “I know that. And so does the prime minister. Truth is, they’d rather fight it out tank to tank than have a nuke hanging over their heads. I don’t blame them.” Talbot started to speak, and the president shook his head. “I’ve made my decision. If we don’t stop Tsumago, I will inform the prime minister.”

  53

  Beirut

  After Safir returned from the Riviera and confirmed Hossein Asseal’s arrival, Tanner spent the night sitting on the balcony, staring out over the city and periodically checking Asseal’s position on the Palm Pilot.

  By sunrise the red square still had not moved.

  Where is Abu Azhar? he wondered. He still couldn’t accept the idea of his “uncle” as a terrorist, a man prepared to give Syria the power to kill hundreds of thousands of people—or worse still, a man prepared to use that power himself. The Abu he’d once known could not be that man, but what might time and war and death do to an otherwise gentle person? If history had shown anything, Tanner knew, they can turn anyone into a killer.