End of Enemies (20 page)

Larnaca,
Cyprus

Kemal and Panos were unlikely partners. Kemal, a Turkish Cypriot, and Panos, a Greek Cypriot, had once been enemies and had in fact anonymously exchanged Molotov cocktails across Nicosia's Attila Line in 1981, six years after the failed Colonels Coup sundered the country.

While burdensome for the average Turk or Greek, this decades-old conflict makes Cyprus a paradise for terrorists and criminals, both of whom find life easy as the military and the police are focused on the ever-present threat of civil war.

Each mistaking the other for a compatriot, Kemal and Panos met in a Nicosia pub and by the time they discovered they were enemies, they were both thoroughly drunk and had realized they shared a passion stronger than their hatred.

And so, almost ten years after their first meeting, they were still in business, having graduated from pickpocketing to robbery and murder. Unknown to them, one of their frequent employers in the early eighties was the KGB. Sometimes it was a burglary, sometimes a murder, and sometimes, like today, they were simply to follow the man and gather information.

After spotting the target at the Larnaca airport, they followed him into the city proper. When the taxi took its third turn in as many minutes—this time toward the Acropolis—Kemal pushed their rickety yellow Renault to maintain the 200-yard gap.

“No ordinary tourist, this one,” said Panos. “He's acting like he knows he's being followed.”

“The driver is conning him,” said Kemal. “Taking him for a ride.”

“We'll see.” Though neither of them were NASA material, Panos was the sharper of the two, Kemal the tougher.

The taxi wound its way through Larnaca for another twenty minutes before swinging back onto Grigoris. “He's heading for the marina,” said Panos.

As the taxi turned right past the Swedish Consulate, Panos said, “Keep going, keep going! We'll catch him coming the other way.”

Kemal frowned, confused. “But—”

“Just do as I say! Go around the post office.”

Three quick right turns brought them to the waterfront. They pulled to the curb just as the man was paying off the taxi.

Panos studied the man. Something about the face bothered him. The eyes. That was it. They were a flat, expressionless blue. Panos had seen such eyes in other men, and they were usually men best left alone.

The man walked into the green-bricked ferry office.

“Wait here,” said Panos, climbing from the car. He returned five minutes later. “He bought a ticket for the Beirut ferry.”

“Beirut?” Kemal said. “Stephan said nothing about Beirut. What do we do?”

“We follow him.”

“To Beirut? Stephan said nothing about Beirut. Why are we—”

“Kemal, just do as I ask. If we don't follow him, we don't get paid. Go park the car, and I'll get the tickets.”

Panos and Kemal boarded just before departure, found the man sitting on the bow deck, then climbed to the upper deck where they could watch him. Panos took the first shift and sent Kemal down to the car deck to wait.

Two hours after leaving Larnaca, the man still hadn't moved. He sat reading a magazine and watching the ocean. Panos was about to slip away to the bathroom when another man came strolling along the deck.

This one was an Arab, with a handlebar moustache and a newspaper tucked under one arm. He lit a cigarette, then turned and gestured to the bench. The man shrugged, and the Arab sat. After a few minutes, the Arab laid the newspaper on the bench, tossed his cigarette, and left.

Panos kept his eyes on the target. Finally the man stood up, slipped the newspaper under his arm, and walked aft.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Beirut's skyline rose from the horizon. Panos could see the city's artillery-scarred buildings jutting from the landscape like denuded trees on a battlefield.

He'd followed the man to the rest room, where he entered a stall, remained inside for five minutes, then emerged without the newspaper. Panos found it behind the toilet stool; a section had been torn from an inside page.

Panos met Kemal where they could watch the passengers disembark. “Are we going to follow them into the city?” Kemal asked.

“No.” Stephan could not pay them enough for that. “There is one more ferry going back tonight; we'll follow if he takes it.”

As night fell, the ferry nudged alongside the pier. The mooring lines were secured to the bollards, and the gangway was lowered. Under the glare of spotlights, Lebanese Forces jeeps patrolled the marina, and at the head of the quay stood a roadblock of armored personnel carriers.

Panos could see lights winking in the foothills, followed seconds later by a
crump crump crump.
Artillery,
he thought. The fighting could be between any of the dozens of factions in the city. What a horrible place. The skirmishes along Cyprus's Attila Line could be fierce, but never like this. In Nicosia it was Turk against Greek; Greek against Turk. Here it was everyone against everyone.

“There, is that him?” Kemal asked.

Panos looked. The Arab was among the first off the gangway and into the customs building. He came out the other side, walked through the blockade, and climbed into a waiting blue Volvo.

The target followed ten minutes later. A second Volvo, this one gray, was waiting for him at the head of the quay. As he approached, an Arab climbed from the front seat and held open the door.

“Bodyguards,” Panos murmured.

The Volvo sped away and disappeared into the night.

Beirut

Yuri Vorsalov hated Lebanon. He hated its smell, its sounds, the grime it left on his skin. But most of all, he hated its ceaseless violence.

His twenty-two years in the KGB had taught him the value of violence. But, like any tool, violence is best applied with discipline. With its ancient hatreds, ridiculous factions, and never-ending wars, Beirut was a cesspool of base savagery. Any idiot can throw a grenade. It takes vision to apply violence as a means to an end.

Early in his career Vorsalov had urged Moscow to take a more active role in the Mideast The average Arab nation was too entrenched in tribalism and internecine warfare to understand, let alone formulate, cohesive long-term strategies, he'd argued. Pan-Arabism was a pipe dream. Alas, his assessments were overtaken by history as the fifties saw the United States rallying behind Israel. Domination, the Kremlin decided, would best be achieved through the slow and steady spread of communism. Patience, they said. America hadn't the stomach for a protracted nuclear stalemate.
A good joke,
Vorsalov thought.
Now,
instead of ruling the world,
Mother Russia struggled to feed her people.

And I am a hired gun.
Vorsalov knew why he'd been summoned, of course. Al-Baz's little project was going badly. Vorsalov was unsurprised. The entire operation was ill-advised lunacy.

The Arab in the passenger seat handed him a hood. “Put this on.”

“Why?”

“You must not see where we are going.”

“Then I won't watch,” Vorsalov said with a smile.

The car screeched to a halt. “You will put this on. Now.”

Vorsalov sighed. “God-cursed theatrics.” He took the hood and slipped it over his head.

He felt the car lurch from side to side as the driver negotiated the rubble-strewn streets. Whether they were trying to disorient him or were simply avoiding craters, he did not know, but after another five minutes, they pulled to a stop.

His door opened. He was helped out and led down some steps. The air smelled damp and musty. He heard the squeal of rats. He was led up another flight of steps, then right. They stopped. He was guided to a chair. Through the hood's weave he could see flickering candlelight.

“You may remove the hood.”

Vorsalov did so. Against the far wall stood a guard armed with an AK-47. Seated across from him was Mustafa al-Baz and a hooded man in battle fatigues. This was the leader, Vorsalov assumed, one of Khatib's sleepers. Probably aged fifty to sixty, average height and weight, physically unremarkable. This was always the case with the best terrorists. They were, in CIA franca lingua, gray men.

Sitting on the table were a pitcher of water and a bowl of bean curd. The hooded man gestured. “Please eat and drink if you would like.”

Vorsalov poured a glass of water, took a sip, and set it aside. He was ravenously thirsty, but he knew this was a test. The Arabs enjoyed tests of character. They knew he was disoriented and thirsty, and how he conducted himself even in the simple act of drinking was telling.

He folded his hands on the table and waited.

After a long five seconds, the hooded man said, “Your trip was safe, I trust? Our precautions did not inconvenience you?”

“Such measures are often necessary. I would expect nothing less from a man such as yourself.”

“What do you know of me?”

“Nothing aside from the general's praise.”

“I see.”

“The general thought I might be of assistance to you.”

“Yes.”

“In what fashion?”

The hooded man gestured to al-Baz, who said, “We are having complications. The matter we discussed in Khartoum.”

Of course you are,
you idiots,
Vorsalov thought.

“We feel our man on the scene may be … unreliable.”

“Explain.” Al-Baz did so, and Vorsalov said, “You believe he has genuine feelings for this woman?”

“Who can say? It's almost certain he doesn't have the stomach to do what is necessary.”

Vorsalov understood. They wanted to increase the pressure on the target, and Fayyad was balking. “A difficult situation,” he agreed. “But I'm not sure what I can do for you.”

“We want you to go to Washington and take command.”

“What?” Vorsalov blurted before he could catch himself. “That's impossible.”

“How so?” asked the hooded man.

“I'm known there. Their federal police want me.”

“That is not my concern. The general has guaranteed your cooperation.”

“I don't believe that. He knows I am a face there. He would never—”

“As I understand it, you are under contractual obligation, are you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“General al-Khatib has loaned you to us.”

“I am not some piece of livestock—”

“Enough!” the hooded man barked. “You will help us. You will go to Washington. You will take command of our operation. And you will get us the information we need.”

“And if I refuse?”

The hooded man's eyes blinked once. “That would be unwise.”

He means it,
Vorsalov thought. If he failed to cooperate, any number of fates awaited him: extradition to Russia, imprisonment, death. At best, he could never return to the Mideast, and with most of the major intelligence agencies hunting for him, the world would become a very small place indeed. What in God's name was driving this operation of theirs?

“For your cooperation,” the hooded man continued, “you will receive compensation in two forms: One, your obligation to General al-Khatib will be fulfilled. And two, a bonus of five hundred thousand dollars will be posted to your account at Bank Grunewald in Vienna.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is the account number, yes?”

Five hundred thousand
!
Vorsalov forced himself to remain calm. “Yes, it is correct. But the amount is—”

“Nonnegotiable. Can I assume you accept?”

“It seems I have little choice.”

“None at all.” The hooded man stood up. “Mustafa will provide you with the details.” He walked to the door, then turned. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If you fail, you will receive no money, and you will find yourself without friends. Do you understand my meaning?”

“I understand,” said Vorsalov. “Now you must understand something: The target you've chosen is a prominent figure. To get the information you seek might require … harsh methods.”

“That does not concern us. Do what you have to do. Get us the information.”

Beirut

Four hours after their target boarded the last ferry for Larnaca, Panos and Kemal stood on the uppermost deck to decide their next move. The wind whipped around them and fluttered the pennants on the buntline.

“He's in the cafe drinking coffee,” Kemal argued. “He'll have to piss sometime. The only bathroom is on the car deck. It's dark, and no one is around.”

“I don't know, Kemal.”

“You said if we don't find out his destination, we don't get paid.”

“I know. I'm not sure about this one. Something about him bothers me.”

“What?”

“I don't know. He feels … dangerous.”

Kemal grinned cockily. “More dangerous than us? He is old, we are young. We'll surprise him. Come on, we've done this a hundred times.”

Panos thought it over. Kemal was right. There
were
two of them, and this is what they did best. “Okay. But no killing. We will tie him up in the back of one of the cars. By the time he's found, the ferry will be docked, and we'll be gone.”

Whatever Kemal lacked in sheer intelligence, his estimate of their target's bladder capacity was keen. After two more cups of coffee, the man exited the salon, took the stairwell down to the car deck, and entered the bathroom. Kemal and Panos met in the corridor outside. Panos reached up and unscrewed the single lightbulb, casting the corridor in shadow.

They positioned themselves on both sides of the door. A moment later, the toilet flushed. The door swung open. Kemal stepped in front of the man and flicked open his switchblade

“Don't move. No sound.”

The man reacted as expected. He took a step back. His expression never wavered, however. Panos saw no fear in his eyes.

“I have very little money,” the man said, “but you may have it”

He's Russian,
Panos thought.

“Empty your pockets,” Kemal barked.

The man nodded, smiling slightly. “Certainly.”

“This funny to you?” Kemal growled. “What is funny?”

“Nothing.” One by one, the man began pulling items from his pockets. “I have breath mints, would you care for a breath mint?”

“What?” Kemal said. He shoved the man.

“Kemal, don't—”

“You think we are joking, mister? I will cut you!”

“I believe you would.”

“Then hurry up!”

Panos's heart pounded; nothing about this felt right. “Empty your jacket pockets,” he ordered. “Now!”

The man reached inside his jacket and handed over his wallet; Panos rifled through it, pocketed the money inside, dropped it. “The rest of it.” He took the man's passport and a plain white envelope. It was too dark to read. He backed into the light, flipped open the passport, scanned the contents, tossed it aside. The envelope contained an airline ticket Panos squinted, trying to decipher the details.

The man looked Kemal up and down. “You are a Turk, yes?”

“How do you know that?”

The man chuckled. “Why do you think I offered you a breath mint?”

“Fucker!”

“Kemal, no!”

The man parried Kemal's knife thrust, pulled him in, and lashed out with his left hand. There was a soft crunch. With a grunt, Kemal clutched his throat and fell. Panos instinctively knew his friend was dead.

“Drop the envelope, boy,” the Russian said. “Drop it and run while you can.”

“I'm sorry, mister, I—”

“I said leave it and go! You're trying my patience.”

Panos stooped, placed the airline ticket on the ground, then turned and ran.

Langley

For the past twenty hours, the OP Center had been running fully staffed, augmented by the periodic presence of Coates, Stucky, Sylvia Albrect, and Latham, all of whom came and went as their schedules dictated. The waiting was hardest for Latham.

What would he do if he found himself face-to-face with Vorsalov? Countless times he'd relived that night, and always it came out the same.
Not this time.
This time,
you son of a bitch,
if you come here
…
What was taking so long
?

Dick Mason strode into the conference room, shut the door, and snatched up the phone. “Okay, Ginny, patch it through.”

There was a series of clicks. FIS Director of Operations Pyotor Kolokov's voice came through the speaker “Hello?”

“Yes, Mr. Kolokov,” Mason said. “This is Director Mason. You're on speakerphone. Present are my DDO, DDI, Near East Division chief, and a special agent of the FBI.”

“This is a secure line, I presume? And you are recording?”

“Yes to both.”

“We have the information you requested. Whether you will consider it favorable or not, I do not know.”

“Whatever you've got, we appreciate the effort.”

“First you must know: Our mutual friend made our surveillance team; one of them was killed.”

“I'm very sorry.”

“The price of business. The target stayed in Beirut for approximately two hours. We do not know who he met. He is traveling under a passport issued to a Yan Karnovsky, a Belarus citizen working as an industrial chemical buyer. We will fax you the particulars.”

“And his destination?”

“According to the surviving member of the Larnaca team, Vorsalov was carrying an airline ticket. If he follows the route, his flight will take him first to Rome, then London for another connection. That is the interesting part.”

“How so?” asked Mason.

“His last connection is bound for New York.”

Washington,
D.C.

“So you have no new information,” Fayyad said.

“Christ, I've already told you!” Smith snapped, glancing around. The footpath leading to and from their bench was deserted. “I'm going to Langley tomorrow.” Smith flicked a fern branch from his face. “This is idiotic!”

“You're not a lover of nature, Senator?”

“Fuck nature.”

As planned, Fayyad's choice of the United States Botanic Garden as a meeting place was causing the Senator fits. Just a stone's throw from Capitol Hill, the garden was a favorite of tourists but was rarely frequented by politicians. Though Smith did not realize it, the chance of their being observed was slim.

“This trip to CIA headquarters … Was it your idea or theirs?” asked Fayyad.

“Theirs,” Smith said.

“Isn't that unusual?”

“Given what I'm asking for, no. You've got no idea how unusual these damned questions of yours are. You just don't ask the CIA for these kinds of details.”

“So you told me.”

“You've got no idea what you're doing.”

“I think I do, Senator. I know all about you. You've made quite a reputation for yourself. The king of porcupine power, they call you. You berate and belittle your opponents until they surrender. It will be the same with this. You will bully them until—”

“This is different, damn it! This is the fucking CIA—”

“Just like you bully your wife—”

“My wife? Listen, pal, just because you're fucking her doesn't mean you know shit about our marriage. Judith is perfectly happy.”

“She is not happy—” Fayyad caught himself, took a breath. “Senator, your wife and your marriage are not my concern. All I care about is the information, and your time is running out.”

“What's that mean?”

“I will be frank. Believe me or not, I want nothing more than to get this information and leave. Once I'm gone, your involvement will be over. You will be able to resume your life as before.”

“Suits me fine.”

“The problem is, I'm no longer in control. The people I work for are not so patient. They are insisting on more … stern methods.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am being honest with you. If they knew I was telling you this—”

“Bullshit. This is the good cop/bad cop routine. You watch too much TV.”

“Senator, for once in your life, stop and listen! Another man is on his way here. He is a professional. His job will be to get results, whatever it takes. Do you understand?”

Smith stared at Fayyad. His face went pale. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“That doesn't matter. I know him. I know what he is capable of.”

“Jesus, I'm trying to get it! Don't they know that?”

“I've told them.”

“I'm doing my best! Can't they give me a little more time?”

“He is already on his way.”

“Oh, God …”

“We still have a few more days, Senator. If you can get me the information before then …”

“Sure, sure. The meeting's tomorrow. I can get it tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“If I do, you can stop this, right? I mean—”

“Yes. You understand, then? To protect you, I must have the information. Otherwise I have no control over what happens.”

“Yeah, sure, I can see that. I can get it.”

Though having seen it many times before, Fayyad was amazed at Smith's transformation. The threat of violence, combined with the oblique offer of friendship had worked its magic. There were drawbacks, though. The fear would begin to gnaw at Smith, make him careless.

“I want you to go home and get some sleep,” said Fayyad. “Try to relax.”

“Right. Good idea. Okay, so I get this information, and there's no reason for this guy to bother me, right?”

Fayyad nodded. “You have my word.”