End of Enemies (35 page)

“Were either of these scientists involved in targeting?” asked Cahil.

“No, but they did overhear several conversations, which tended to get loud whenever Groves was involved. The one phrase they remember hearing was
triad detonation.
”
Mason unrolled a map of Japan. Using a red pen, he circled Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the mouth of the Inland Sea, then connected the circles. They formed a near-perfect triangle.

“The blast effect would have been devastating, both spiritually and materially. The precision, the timing, the targets—all would have told the Japanese government, ‘We can strike whenever and wherever we want.' As it turned out, two bombs had the same effect.”

Mason went on to say the search of the Navy's archives had finally turned up an unsuccessful salvage hunt for
Stonefish
in 1947. The rift in which they found her had likely masked her presence to the salvage ships, which were armed only with crude sonar. After a month,
Stonefish
was classified lost, and the matter was buried.

“Until now,” said Oaken. “We have any idea how Takagi stumbled onto her?”

“No, and we probably never will. As for his motive, who knows? It could be simple greed. Last time we checked, Libya was offering a billion dollars for a ready-to-wear nuke. Syria would have no problem coming up with that much, especially with a little help from Sudan and Libya.”

“That's a lot of money, even for Takagi,” said Dutcher. “Enough to build the bomb,
Tsumago,
Toshogu,
and still clear three-quarters of a billion in profit.”

“Exactly,” said Mason. “So here's the plan: We're going on the assumption
Tsumago
is carrying the device. The president has ordered us to work on two fronts: First, the boarding of
Tsumago
to recover the device. Ian, we've decided you'll be joining the SEAL team. Any problem with that?”

“No.”

“You'll leave for Indian Head tonight; the team starts workups tomorrow. In five days, you'll hit the ship.”

Mason turned to Tanner. “Briggs, we want to penetrate the group in Beirut. Your suspicion about Azhar was correct. He's the one. How he got where he is, we don't know, but—”

“But it doesn't matter,” Tanner finished.

“Exactly. We have to put a stop to this thing, whatever it takes. Either we get the ship or we get the leadership. Given your experience and your familiarity with Azhar, you have the best chance to do that.”

To do what
?
Tanner thought.
Talk him out of it
?
If Abu was so far gone that he'd not only turned terrorist but was ready to use a nuke, there was little chance talking would do any good. Mason knew that, of course, hence his words, “Whatever it takes.”
Go to Beirut and kill Abu Azhar.

The room was silent; all eyes were on Tanner. “Can you do it?” asked Mason.

The swiftness of Briggs's answer surprised even him. “I can do it.”
But God help me if I have to.

Falls Church,
Virginia

The following morning, an hour after he was moved from Bethesda to the safe house, Ibrahim Fayyad's room was buzzing with activity as the technicians readied their equipment. Fayyad's condo phone had been routed into the safe house's main switchboard, as was Vorsalov's phone at the Marriott.

“How long?” Latham asked the communication technician.

“Two minutes.”

Coates walked into the room with a CIA linguist. “Ready for us, Charlie?” Coates asked, handing over Fayyad's script.

“Almost.”

Latham had been expecting Mason's call the night before. Would Fayyad be willing to pass something to his superiors in Beirut? the DCI had asked. Having already raised this question with Fayyad, Latham said “Yes.”
So they're sending somebody in,
he thought as he read the script. Ruthless guy, that Mason. What the DCI had planned was called the “spider and the fly.”

“This oughta get their attention,” he said to Coates.

“That's the idea. Dick wants you to call your guy at
Shin Bet,
see if we can work both ends at the same time.”

“No problem.”

“Charlie, let me ask you something: Why's Fayyad doing this?”

“Hard to say,” Latham replied. “My guess is he grew a conscience.”

Coates shook his head. “It's a crazy world.”

The technician announced, “We're set.”

Latham donned his headset and looked to Fayyad. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Latham nodded to the technician, who dialed the front number in Nicosia. When the exchange operator answered, Fayyad said, “Box one seventy-seven, please. Ricardo.”

The technician disconnected. Fayyad said, “It shouldn't take long.”

The call came an hour later. “Incoming to the condo,” said the technician.

“Start the recorders,” Latham ordered, then nodded to Fayyad, who said, “Hello.”

“Is Heloise home?”

“I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. What were you dialing?”

“Five four six two,” the voice said.

“Sony, wrong number.”

The line went dead.

Latham consulted Fayyad's safe-call map. Five four six two was a booth at the corner of Goldsboro and Bradley, two miles from the Glen Echo condo. “Janet, call Paul and have Bell route that number to us.”

“You got it.”

Once the booth was patched through to the safe house, Latham ordered the front number redialed. When the exchange answered, Fayyad said, “Box one seventy seven, please. Direct line. Ricardo.”

Ten seconds passed; after a series of clicks, Abu Azhar's voice came on. “Yes?” he said in Arabic.

“It is me.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes,” Fayyad replied, finger tracing along the script. “We've met with our suppliers. They've heard nothing about that company.”

“Do you believe them? Both of you?”

“Yes.”

There was long silence from Azhar, then: “Good. Anything else?”

“One item. Our supplier passed along a detail, something new. I do not know if it means anything. …”

“Tell me.”

“They mentioned something about another supplier, a man in Luanda—”

“Where?”

“Luanda, Angola,” said Fayyad. “I do not have any details yet, but there seemed to be a lot of interest in the product.”

“When can you find out more?”

“Soon. We're meeting with our supplier again in two days.”

“Call me immediately afterward.”

The line went dead.

Fayyad looked at Latham. “Okay?”

“Perfect.” Latham turned to the linguist. “Did we get enough?”

“I think so. I'll need a tape.”

“Jimmy, make a copy, and give it to Mr. Coates.”

Langley

After the tape had been translated and analyzed, Mason sat at his desk reading the report. “Give me the gist of it,” Mason said. “Is it the same man?”

“Absolutely,” said the linguist.

“Did he buy it?”

“I believe so. Arabic is a complex language, but it also has a singsong flow to it. It's easy to detect awkward breaks or tone changes. Aside from one exchange, I found no significant stressors.”

“Which one?”

“The part about Angola. Whatever it is, you hit a hot button.”

“Good,” said Mason. “Thanks for you help, Doctor. That'll be all.”

“Yes, sir.” At the door, the linguist turned back. “One more thing: The caller's dialect was strange. It almost sounded like a mixture of Lebanese and Iraqi Arabic. To us, it would sound like a Minnesotan using a bad Texas accent.”

Once the linguist was gone, Mason said, “What next, George?”

“Depends. Are the Israelis on board?”

“They're thinking it over, but I made my position pretty clear.”

“Tanner will be ready in three days. We can drop the other shoe the day after he's in-country.”

“Three days,” Mason muttered. Normal training time for such an operation would be eight weeks. “I hope to God we're not feeding him to the wolves.”

Williamsburg,
Virginia

Located on a swampy thumb of land between the York and James Rivers, Camp Perry had been a World War II Navy Seabee camp until it was seconded to the CIA in the 1950s. Known as The Farm, Perry is where CIA case officers go to learn the basics of the spy tradecraft, from cryptology and weapons handling to agent recruiting. Thanks to popular fiction, it is also the best known
secret
CIA facility in America.

Two hours after he accepted the mission, Tanner was lying on a cot in one of the camp's redbrick barracks. He got exactly three hours of sleep before being awakened, fed, then escorted to a classroom. He was the only student. His trainer was an old Mideast hand named Stan, no last name.

According to Stan, of the next seventy-two hours, Tanner would spend fifty-seven of them either in class or in one of the camp's field mock-ups. Course material would include cover story, Arabic language (which he hadn't spoken in years), surveillance and countersurveillance, communications, evasion and escape, and culture and politics.

“I understand you've already had training in these areas, but given your destination, every little bit helps. Any questions?”

Tanner had none. He was turned over to the Near East culture specialist.

Six hours later, he was sitting down to lunch when Dutcher appeared. “Is this seat taken?” he asked. Aside from Tanner there were only twelve trainees present. Billets to the CIA's Career Trainee Program were coveted.

Tanner smiled. “Care for some lunch? All the gruel you can eat.”

“No thanks. How're things going?”

“It's pretty clear they're not happy with the time line, but they're doing their best. How's Bear doing?”

“The team's assembled. They start live-fire mock-ups tomorrow.”

“When do they go?”

“It depends,” replied Dutcher. “If
Tsumago
turns west within the next couple days, she's probably headed for us. That'll give them an extra forty-eight hours. If she keeps heading up the coast of Africa, they'll hit her in five days, probably somewhere off the coast of Morocco. By the way, he asked me to tell you Jurens is leading the team.”

Tanner laughed. “Sconi Bob Jurens. During BUD/s he made it a point to tell everybody he was from Wisconsin … one of only three black men in the state, he claimed. He's a good man. With him and Bear on the team, their chances just went up a few notches.”

Dutcher studied Tanner. He'd known Briggs for six years and had watched his career in the Navy and the ISAG long before that. Despite the smile, Tanner was deep inside his own head playing the what-if game.

“You want to talk about anything?” he asked. “I know you're not a big fan of Beirut, and now—”

“Beirut I can handle. Believe it or not, I have mostly good memories of it. It's just that … I don't know.”

“You're not sure you can kill Azhar.”

Tanner looked hard at his boss. “If he's part of this, if he's planning to use that thing or hand it over to Syria, I'll have no problem pulling the trigger.”

“No doubts?”

“I won't lie to you: I'm having trouble believing it's him. If you'd known him like I did—”

“People change, Briggs.”

“I know that. Is this why you came here, Leland?”

Dutcher shook his head. “You'll do what you have to. I know that, and so does Dick. But it doesn't mean you have to like it.”

“Good, because I don't. So why the visit?”

“They've assigned you a controller. It's Stucky.”

Tanner put down his spoon. “Pardon me?”

“It's his division, he was running SYMMETRY, he knows the territory. If you get a chance to rescue Marcus, Stucky's the best man to be there.”

Tanner thought it over. “I guess it makes sense. How much does he know?”

“He knows about the ship and who's aboard her but not the cargo.”

“How much control will he have?”

“He'll be in Tel Aviv handling communications. Once you're on the ground, you'll send reports through him.” Dutcher paused. “Briggs, there's something else: I don't think Mason knows about Peru.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Tanner. “The Army buried it.”

“I'm going to talk to him.”

“No. It'll just muddy the waters. Stucky may hate me, but he's not going to fumble an entire operation to get me. Besides, even if he's inclined, what can he do? I'll be out of his reach.”

Tel Aviv

Hayem Sherabi stared across his desk at Avi Haron. “Unusual request, wouldn't you say?”

“Very,” replied Haron. “But I know Charlie Latham. If he says the CIA will share, they'll share. Vorsalov's product alone would be—”

“Priceless, I know. Still, I don't like being in the dark. Why go to such great lengths to rescue one agent? There must be something more to it.”

“Consider the downside. Say we don't cooperate. They'll probably run the operation anyway.”

Sherabi considered this. Haron was right: There was more to gain by playing along. But he'd be damned if he was going to let the CIA onto his turf without knowing the whole story. Perhaps, he thought, there was a way to uncover it. “Very well. I have no objections. Who is this man they want to use?”

“An Arab, a low-level stringer,” said Haron. “He's out-lived his usefulness.”

Khartoum

The man whose fate had just been sealed by Hayem Sherabi finished his cup of tea at the street-side kiosk, then walked across the street to the telephone exchange building. Inside, flies buzzed on the windows and a squeaking ceiling fan churned the hot air.

“Box twelve,” he told the counter attendant.

The attendant checked the box and came back with a slip of paper. On it was written, “Klaus. Urgent.”

Hossein Asseal tucked the message into his pocket and smiled. Once again his talents were in demand. Generous customers, too. Things were looking up.

Holystone Office,
Chesapeake Bay

In many ways Oaken was a child at heart, a fact his wife could and often did confirm. He was insatiably curious, tenacious, and driven to find the what and why behind everything.

In this case, he was grappling with several whats and whys at once.

If in fact Syria had the bomb, what were their plans for it? Despite what Bashar Assad's detractors might say, like his father, the Syrian president was a careful man with a keen strategic mind. Certainly their plans for the bomb went beyond simply having a trump card. Having nuclear capability often caused more trouble than it was worth. Did that figure into their plans?

In the end it always came down to motivation, Oaken knew. It was all about understanding what a nation or group or even a person wanted. And that was the problem. Trying to read someone's mind broke one of the cardinal rules of the intell business. Talk first about what an enemy
can
do; the answer to that question will invariably lead you to what an enemy
may
do.

Walter Oaken wasn't a big fan of cardinal rules, however, so he returned to his original question: What, aside from the obvious, did Syria hope to gain from all this?