End of Enemies (23 page)

Bar Harbor,
Maine

Upon hearing of Lemond's impromptu tailing of Vorsalov, Latham promised to buy the Mountie a steak dinner. Upon further hearing Lemond had requested the Yarmouth constabulary canvass Nova Scotia's only two departure points to the U.S. (the local airport and a ferry terminal) for any sign of the Russian, he upped the ante to a case of scotch. As it turned out, their luck was holding: Vorsalov had chosen the ferry.

Now, almost eight hours after Vorsalov had left Montreal, and with just an hour to spare, Latham and his thirty-agent team had arrived in this quaint town of 5,000 people and, with the help of the local police, quietly hijacked the marina area.

Latham sat inside his command van, watching the ferry terminal and listening to the radio chatter as the agents got into position. Through his binoculars he could see the
Bluenose
ferry edging past the breakwater. Beside him, Randal was donning his customs uniform. “Ready?” Latham asked.

“Ready.”

The churning in Yuri Vorsalov's stomach had worsened with each passing mile and now, as the ferry's bow slipped past the breakwater and into the harbor, he began to sweat. A gust of cold wind whipped across the deck and cooled his face.

How had this happened? he asked himself. What was he doing back here?

It was simple, of course. It was the lesser of three evils. Either come here and salvage this operation for the Arabs, live the rest of his life in a cave, or die.

Since going freelance Vorsalov had found it relatively easy to stay hidden in the underworlds of the Mideast, Africa, and the Mediterranean, but if he failed here, he would find himself persona non grata in those areas as well. That was, of course, providing he managed to stay alive at all.

Like it or not, this was his best course. Besides, how many times had he beaten the Americans at this game? He'd done it before and would do so again. He allowed himself a smile. He would be done and gone before they realized he was here.

Latham kept his eyes fixed on the two immigration checkpoints, each a small whitewashed shack through which the ferry's passengers were funneled. He scanned each passenger's face, then moved to the next. “Come on, where are you?”

There
!

The Russian had aged, but there was no mistaking him. His hair had thinned, his face was more worn, but the eyes were the same flat, cold blue.

Latham keyed his radio. “Paul, I've got him: Gray trench, black garment bag.”

“Roger.”

On the dock, Randal began strolling that way. At the head of the quay, a second agent, Jim Stephans, moved to join him.

Vorsalov stepped forward in line. This was the time he hated most. Getting past customs was virtually the last hurdle. Movie portrayals aside, most spies are not captured in a wild shoot-out or car chase but rather as they enter a target country. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. But from where? Where would they—

From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a customs agent turn in his direction. Alarms went off in Vorsalov's head. He scanned the crowds, searching for telltale signs of surveillance: shielded radios, averted eyes, movements out of sync with the crowds. If this was a trap, other agents would be converging.

Across the quay, the customs agent kept coming.

Vorsalov clutched his bag tighter.

Latham saw Vorsalov's body language change. “Jim, breakoff,” he called. “He's eyeballing you.”

On the quay, Stephans stopped, consulted his clipboard, then turned toward the other shack. Latham watched Vorsalov. After a full minute, the Russian's posture eased, and he picked up his bag and stepped forward.

Latham exhaled. “All units, ease up. Our boy's on a hair trigger.”

As Vorsalov cleared customs and walked into the tourist center, the FBI watchers began their ballet. What happened in these next few minutes would decide a lot. As at Mirabel, Vorsalov had several transportation choices—taxi, shuttle bus, or rental car—all of which would require adjustments on their part.

“Command, subject is inside,” radioed Pearson, the agent in the tourist center.

Three minutes passed. Everything now hinged on the single word from Pearson. It came a minute later: “Command, Pearson. Rental.”

Thank God,
Latham thought.

This was a break for which they'd been hoping. Doubting the Russian planned on staying in Bar Harbor, they'd posted an agent at the terminal's only rental car desk.

“Command, subject is heading for the parking lot.”

Latham turned his binoculars to the hedge-lined rental lot and picked out the blue Ford Taurus. He froze. On the ground below the bumper was a square black box.

“Paul, where are you?”

“The east lot.”

“The transmitter has—” Latham broke off. Vorsalov was exiting the tourist center and starting toward the Taurus. “The transmitter's dropped off, Paul. Stand by. Command to Pearson.”

“Go ahead.”

“Catch the subject, stall him!”

“Roger.”

“Paul, get moving—”

“On my way.”

Latham kept his attention divided between Vorsalov, who was being hailed from behind by Pearson, and the Taurus. Behind it, crawling through the hedges, came Paul Randal. Pearson was offering Vorsalov a brochure. Latham changed channels on his radio so he could listen.

“… I'm sorry, sir, I'm sort of new at this. I forgot to offer you supplemental insurance on your vehicle—”

“I'm not interested,” Vorsalov replied. “I must go now.”

“One more thing, sir.”

Vorsalov turned back. “What?”

“The state of Maine requires all drivers be insured, so if you'll just sign here. …”

“What is this?”

“A waiver, sir, stating that …”

Latham switched channels. “Talk to me, Paul.”

“It's back on.”

Latham looked through the binoculars: Vorsalov was walking toward the car.

Latham exhaled and got on the radio. “Mobile units, get rolling.”

Aside from two stops for fuel, one meal break at a McDonald's in Boston, and several U-turns, which Latham and his team assumed were routine attempts at countersurveillance, Vorsalov had been driving steadily south for nine hours. They were approaching Philadelphia. The transmitter, which had a range of fifteen miles, was working flawlessly. Latham could hear its steady beep through the van's speakers.

The mobile teams—comprised of twelve cars and a helicopter disguised with changeable hospital and charter service markings—were working in four-hour shifts. The armada ranged from minivans to beat-up VW bugs. The agents were disguised as yuppie couples complete with Baby on Board stickers; gray-haired spinsters in Buicks; and even a bearded agent on a Harley.

It was a painstaking process, but it was paying off. The Russian was giving no indication he was aware of the surveillance. Even if he were, it would do him little good, Latham felt. His team was first rate, the majority of them having cut their teeth chasing dedicated KGB and GRU agents during the Cold War. More importantly, he'd been up against Vorsalov before. He knew the man's methods … he hoped.

“Almost two A.M.,” Paul Randal said. “You think he'd stop to sleep.”

“Old habits,” Latham replied.

The van's speaker's came to life. “Command, this is Mobile Lead.”

“Go ahead.”

“Subject's pulling into the Days Inn on Island Avenue.”

Randall consulted the map. “Right by the airport, Charlie.”

Latham nodded. “Lead, once he's settled in, let's put a tight lid on him. We've got an airport close by.”

“Roger.”

“Paul, you got your wish. Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” Randal yawned. “I guess you know we're running out of cities.”

Latham nodded. “Yep.”

The farther south Vorsalov drove, the stronger Charlie's hunch grew. They'd passed Boston and New York. Washington was looming. Vorsalov could be headed anywhere, but he couldn't shake his gut feeling.

Same city, same players. But what were the stakes this time?

Japan

Tanner's report of Sumiko's death got an immediate reaction from Dick Mason, who ordered them out “We've done all we can, Briggs,” Dutcher told them. “Come on home.”

He and Cahil had anticipated the order and agreed to withhold their discovery of the submarine. The more they discussed it, the more they doubted its significance; mentioning it would be the proverbial last straw. As it turned out, Sumiko's murder fulfilled that role itself.

According to Ieyasu, the police were calling her death a robbery gone bad. Her empty purse had been found a few blocks from the Takagi headquarters. The coroner's report was expected to support what Ieyasu's contacts reported: Sumiko's throat had been slit. So severe was the wound that her larynx had been severed, as had the carotid artery and jugular vein. It wasn't the signature of a strong-arm robber, Tanner thought Cutting a throat is neither easy nor clean. She'd either been ambushed from behind or been subdued while the attacker worked on her.

The police, led by none other than Inspector Tanaka, were not able to explain how the alleged assailants eluded Takagi's security force or why a mugger would go to such lengths when easier targets were walking the streets of Kobe. Not that it mattered; Tanner knew who was responsible.

This felt more personal than ever. He'd gotten Sumiko killed. He was in dangerous water, he knew, but he refused to quit until Takagi and Noboru answered for what they had done. First, however, he had to deal with Mason's order.

“Leland, I don't—”

“I know you don't, Briggs. But look at this from his perspective,” Dutcher said. “He's got one dead agent, a dead stringer he was sleeping with, another missing from the shipyard, and a gutted network. This is the CIA's show. It's their call.”

“What about Sumiko's last delivery? From the looks of it, Takagi has his hands in dozens more conglomerates, including several in the Mideast.”

“It'll be analyzed. Listen: Don't let this get personal. This is what we get paid for. We go in, we do the job, we get out. Unless you've got some angle we haven't considered, we're done.”

Tanner recognized his boss's tone of voice: You don't have to like it, but accept it and move on. …
Unless you've got some angle we haven't considered.
But there would be a proviso: They would have to produce results, and quickly. Dutcher could run interference for them for a few days at most.

“The salvage ship,” Tanner replied. “She doesn't exist on paper; a Takagi engineer who worked on her is gone; and until she skulked out of port, she was hidden away next to a ship that was more destroyer than freighter. If that doesn't interest Mason, okay, but what's to stop us from checking it out?”

“Better question is, why bother?” Dutcher asked.

“Why sell her to a company on whose board you hold a secret majority? Why murder a man because he's nosing around her? It stinks, Leland, from top to bottom, and I want to know why.”

“This sounds a lot like a pitch I got from Walt last week.”

“Oh?”

“You have any idea what you're asking for? Do you know what it takes to retask a satellite for that kind of search?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. But I doubt there'd be much retasking involved.”

“Explain.”

“The Russians are scrapping some of their boomers at Pavek. I'm sure we've got some eyes on them.”

“And the Eastern Siberian Sea is right next door.”

“Worst case, we get some side-lobe images. It's a place to start.”

Dutcher was silent for a few moments. “Okay, you two sit tight and stay low. I'll turn Walter loose on
Toshogu.
”

National Photographic Interpretation Center,
Washington,
D.C.

Oaken settled into one of the theatre-style seats and opened his notepad. Aside from him and the AV technician sitting at the control podium near the back, the theater was deserted. Oaken rolled down his sleeves against the chill.

“What's your name, by the way?” he called over his shoulder.

“Skip, sir.”

“Why the deep freeze in here, Skip?”

“Computers. We've got a couple Crays running for image enhancement. Okay, sir, where to?”

Good question,
Oaken thought Finding a ship of
Toshogus
dimensions in the expanse of the Arctic Ocean was a daunting task.

The real work had started back at Holystone as he first checked with the Coast Guard for sightings that might correspond to
Toshogu.
He was amazed at the number of distress reports they had on file. As cold and forbidding as the Arctic Ocean was, it saw a brisk traffic, and in any given month a good 10 percent of them radioed Guard stations for help.

Oaken knew the Arctic Ocean held a special place in the nightmares of seamen since the first keel was laid centuries ago. Once submerged in those waters, the average human life expectancy was less than ten minutes, the last six of them spent unconscious as the body's systems were overwhelmed by the numbing cold.

No thanks,
Oaken decided. If he wanted that kind of adventure, he'd watch The Discovery Channel.

It had taken him half the night to sort through the list provided by the Coast Guard and determine none of the sightings matched
Toshogu.
That left two possibilities: Either she hadn't been spotted, or she had taken an altogether different route to her destination.

“What have you got watching the Arctic?” Oaken asked.

“Two satellites. A Keyhole over the Kamchatka Peninsula watching Ivan dismantle some SLBMs, and a commercial LandSat bird doing topography for Exxon in the Chukchi Sea.”

“A LandSat? How'd we get access to that?”

“Don't ask.”

“Oh. Okay, let's see what the Keyhole's got.” Based on
Toshogu
's cruising speed and the weather conditions, Oaken recited the general coordinates where he felt she might be found. “Let's start there.”

Five seconds later, the screen was filled with a black-and-white image of the eastern shore of Siberia and a portion of the Arctic Ocean. Oaken watched, fascinated, as the image moved ever so slowly as the Keyhole orbited the earth.

“This is real time,” said Skip. “Given the area and time frame, this is about as good as it's going to get.”

“Okay. Can you freeze it and put a grid on it?”

“Sure.” Skip typed a command, and a moment later the computer superimposed an alphanumeric grid over the image. “Just call out the coordinates. The Cray will do the rest.”

For the next two hours, they checked each and every square of ocean. They found forty-three possible targets, twenty-two of which the computer decided were icebergs. That left twenty-one. After another hour, Oaken determined none of them matched
Toshogu.

“How close are the computer's size estimates?” asked Oaken.

“Give or take a meter, I guess. What now, sir?”

“Let's see the LandSat.”

“Thermal or standard?”

“Standard.”

The LandSat images showed more of the Chukchi, Siberian, and Alaskan peninsulas. As with the Keyhole image, there were dozens of shiplike dots on the ocean's surface. Of these, eighteen turned but to be ships, but after two more hours, the Cray eliminated all of them as possible matches.

Where is she
?
Oaken wondered. Given her speed, range, and the prevailing weather conditions, she could have only gone so far. “Well, we might as well take a look at the LandSat's thermal pics,” Oaken said.

“I wouldn't recommend it, sir. It's like watching grass grow. The computer's got to convert the digital pixels into the visible spectrum. Looking at them now would be like trying to make sense of a bad Jackson Pollack painting.”

“How long?”

“Five, six hours. Leave me your number. I'll call you when they're ready.”

True to his word, Skip called the moment the computers finished. Oaken got dressed, whispered an explanation to Bev, and drove to the NPIC.

It was even colder than before in the amphitheater. “AC still works, I see.”

Skip laughed. “Yep.”

“Don't you have a home? I hate to think there's a wife out there cursing me.”

“She's the understanding type. Take a look. I think you're going to like this.”

An image appeared on the screen. The background was uniformly black but was speckled with dozens of white, blue, and red dots.

“Each of the dots represents a surface anomaly … icebergs, ships, whatever,” said Skip. “While you were on your way over, I matched this plate against the Keyhole pics and eliminated ships we'd already checked. This is what I got.”

One by one, the computer began erasing dots until all that remained were a dozen white blobs and one tiny blue dot.

“The white ones are icebergs,” Skip said. “The blue one is—”

“A ship,” Oaken finished.

“You got it. Same dimensions as our target, too. Its temperature signature is just a couple degrees above the bergs. That's why we missed it on the Keyhole pictures.”

“I'll be damned. Her decks must be iced over, the engines shut down.”

“That's my guess. At that latitude, if you haven't got crews working constantly, you can get some serious buildup real quick.”

“So how do we know it's the one we're looking for?”

“I backtracked her using the six previous hours of LandSat shots. Up until hour four—when she started drifting—her course matched the one you gave me.”

“Skip, you're a miracle worker. Bring up the rest of the shots.”

“That's the problem. This is the last one. The LandSat's out of angle now.”

Oaken stared at the blue dot. “How old is this image?”

“Nine hours.”

“Damn,” Oaken muttered. “Plenty of time for her to capsize under all that ice.”