End of Enemies (43 page)

Tanner was surprised how easily the lie came, and he hated himself for it. “No, it's nothing to worry about.”

She stared into his eyes. “Okay.”

“I'll walk you downstairs.”

“Please don't.”

They embraced for several moments, and then she looked up and smiled bravely. “Another time, then?” she whispered.

“Another time.”

She kissed him and left.

Tanner felt empty. What had he just done? What else could he have done?

He splashed cold water over his face, stared into the mirror, then dressed and took the elevator downstairs.

The lobby was bustling with journalists and photographers hurrying about, shouting, and talking on the phone. A pair of policemen stood near the reception desk. Tanner spotted the Spanish writer. “What's going on?” he asked.

“You haven't heard?”

“What?”

“There's been two more assassinations! It looks like Amal made good on its threat of retaliation for the mullah's murder.”

“Against who?”

“The Maronites.”

At first Tanner didn't understand. The ALC was responsible for the mullah. Why attack the Maronites? Then he remembered: Iraq had a long history of supporting Lebanese Maronite factions. Unable to get to the ALC directly, Amal had attacked one of its clients.

“You said two. Who else?”

“Hezbollah. Someone ambushed the operations chief and his family. There's fighting all over the city!”

As Tanner was making his was east toward the waterfront, Camille was walking into her apartment in Mar Elias. She closed the door and leaned against it. Outside, she could hear the occasional shriek of falling Katyusha rockets.

In the darkness she saw the answering machine light blinking. She walked over and hit Play. There was a double burst of static, followed by three more.

“Damn it, not now,” she muttered.

She removed the microcassette and laid it on the coffee table. Next she went through the apartment, retrieving various items: a cassette player, notepad and pen, and a half-dozen books, each of which she opened to a specific page. Pen in hand, she inserted the cassette into the player and hit Play.

This time what came out was not static but rather a decelerated version of the burst voice transmission that had created it. She copied down the forty-two character groups, rechecked it, then began decoding. The method was a simple book code, old-fashioned but reliable. It took ten minutes.

She stared at the message. “No,” she murmured. “God no….” Frantic now, her hands trembling, she replayed the message, decoded it again. The result was the same. “You bastards!”

Tel Aviv

Sherabi had a chance to act on Stucky's information before he was summoned to the prime minister's residence. Including himself, sitting at the conference table were the director of Aman (military intelligence), the director of
Shin Bet,
the minster of defense, and the IDF's chief of staff. They represented only a fraction of the full cabinet, which was Sherabi's first clue the matter was grave.

The prime minister poked at the logs in the fireplace until coffee was served, then took his seat. He came to the point immediately: “I've just received a call from the American president He informed me there's a ship in the Mediterranean we should be concerned about.

“This is what we know: This ship's name is
Tsumago
;
she is manned by approximately three dozen terrorists; these terrorists have taken one hundred Israeli hostages; and the ship is carrying a medium-yield nuclear device.”

The table erupted. Shouted questions overlapped one another. Sherabi was stunned.
A bomb
!
Had Stucky known
?
he wondered.
Had the bastard known
?
'.

The tumult was interrupted by the prime minister tapping his spoon on his cup. “First and foremost, this information does not leave this room. If it does, as God is my witness, I will have that man's balls in my pocket. Understood?”

He got nods all around.

“I will be asking for full disclosure from the Americans, but for now, we will concern ourselves with only one goal: rescuing the hostages and seizing the device. To that end, here is the background.

“The terrorists claim to belong to a pro-Iraq group called the Arab Liberation Command. The Americans believe this is either true or it is a Syrian ruse.

“The hostages were taken last night from a cruise liner named
Valverde.

“Also last night the Americans—unaware of the hostages—attempted an assault of
Tsumago
;
when the hostages were discovered, the operation was aborted.

“The CIA is currently running an operation in Beirut to penetrate the group responsible, but they gauge its chance of success as low.

“The nuclear device is estimated to have a yield of twenty to thirty kilotons. The Americans feel it will either be transported to Lebanon for delivery to Syria or Iraq, or it will be used against this country outright”

The prime minister looked around the table. “We have three days before the snip reaches our shores. Comments?”

“How much can we trust this information?” the defense minister asked.

“We can't afford not to. General, tell me about military options.”

“Limited,” said the chief of staff. “We have no idea where the bomb is or how it's set to detonate. Nor do we know the location of the hostages. Unless something changes, any boarding attempt would risk detonation.”

“Which would pollute half the Mediterranean,” muttered the defense minister. “As if we don't have enough enemies. We would be a pariah!”

“Better that than have Iraq or Syria get the damned thing,” said the director of
Shin Bet.

“Let's save the speculation and debate for another time,” said the prime minister. “The Americans have promised their full cooperation, and I suggest we use it. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the CIA's operations director are awaiting your calls. Questions?”

“I have one,” the director of Aman said and turned to Sherabi. “How is it you missed this, Hayem? The CIA is running this operation in our own backyard, for God's sake.”

In for a penny,
in for a pound,
Sherabi thought. “I knew about it In fact, we assisted the CIA with its preparations.”

“What!”

“We knew about the operation but not its purpose. It was a favor for an ally.”

“Good God, you simply sat there—”

“We did nothing of the kind. In fact, we've mounted our own counter-operation. The CIA's agent is under surveillance as we speak. If he manages to penetrate the group, we will know immediately.”

“Little good that will do us now.”

“Enough!” the prime minister shouted. “Stop your bickering and hear me clearly: We will not allow this ship to reach our shores. And we will not allow the device to fall into enemy hands. Hostages or not, environmental disaster or not, that ship will be stopped.”

Tsumago

Twenty-four hundred miles west of Tel Aviv,
Tsumago
had just passed the Strait of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean. Inside the forepeak, Cahil sat against the bulkhead and considered his options.

He could not stop the ship, of that he was sure. The crew was on full alert, and every vital area would be guarded. In fact, since nightfall he'd heard the regular clump of sentrys' boots on the deck above.

His supplies were meager. He had his Glock and three spare magazines; two pencil detonators, one flashbang, a penlight, and his tactical radio with a range of three to four miles.

It could be worse,
he decided.

“Could be dead,” he whispered. It was an old bit of grim humor he and Briggs shared. No matter how bad it got, there was always an upside. Sometimes you had to look very hard to find it, but it was there.

He wondered about Tanner. Strange how it worked out, he thought. Tanner a couple thousand miles away, and him here, both of them working to stop this damned ship. They'd come through tougher spots. But those were different, weren't they? If they failed this time, it would cost not just their lives but hundreds of thousands of others as well.

Okay,
time to set priorities.
He knew what he
couldn't
do. He had to decide what he could do. First, he needed to get a feel for the ship and its crew. Second, try to make contact with the outside world.

Beirut

It was almost midnight by the time Camille reached the Commodore.

It had taken an hour to find a taxi driver willing to travel north of the Museum Crossing, where the heaviest fighting had broken out, then another hour to cover the five miles to the hotel. Many of the streets were blocked by various factions, each trying to secure their own fiefdom. Smoke filled the air, and the horizon glowed orange with fire. Rifle muzzles winked from darkened windows. With each passing mile, the driver's protests grew louder, and Camille kept throwing money over the seat. She had to reach Tanner.
God,
what had they done
?
In truth, she knew exactly what they had done.

To keep an eye on its volatile neighbor to the north, Mossad runs a vast network of informants, most of them in Beirut and its southern districts, but some in the Syrian-controlled Bekka Valley and the Iranian-dominated Baalbek. Known as
falach,
these stringer agents supply Mossad with thousands of bits of information every year.

It was into this network that Tanner's identity had been leaked. By now hundreds of
falachs
in Beirut were circulating the word:
This man is an American CIA agent.
He is looking for a man named al-Baz.
He will be taken.
The
falach
who identifies his captors and their location will be rewarded.

Though Lebanon is awash in rumors of superpower plots, all are taken seriously, and none are ignored. It would take only hours for the leak to reach the city's largest factions and groups. Patrols would be sent out, informants probed. By morning, no place would be safe for Tanner.

The taxi—sporting a dozen new dents and scratches—screeched to a stop in front of the Commodore. “Get out!” cried the driver. “Out, out!”

She threw another wad of bills over the seat, ran into the lobby, and up the stairs to Tanner's door. “Briggs, it's me! Open the door!”

The door opened, revealing a man: not Tanner. He looked familiar, but … “You're his friend, aren't you?” she said. “Briggs's friend?”

“Yes. My name is Safir. What—”

Camille shoved past him. “Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“You must!”

“Tell me what has happened.”

Camille paced the room. “I can't explain, but I have to reach him!”

Safir stared at her.

Damn it,
damn it,
damn it
!
“Okay, I know why Briggs is here, and I know who he works for. And now so does everyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“They burned him,” Camille cried. “Don't you understand? Whoever he's hunting, is hunting him.”

Safir's eyes widened and he went pale. “Oh merciful Allah …”

“We have to help him! Do you know how to reach him?”

Safir hesitated.

“Look, don't trust me, I don't care. But if you can reach him, do it!”

“Very well.” Safir pulled out a cell phone, dialed, and handed it to her.

The line was full of static, but she could hear the ringing: Four … five … six …
Come on,
Briggs,
pick up
!
Twelve rings … thirteen …

“Are you sure this is the right number?” she said.

“Yes.”

She let it ring three dozen times, and still Tanner didn't answer.

White House

Oaken walked to the podium and arranged his notes. He took a deep breath and looked out at his audience.
You better be right about this,
he thought.

James Talbot said, “Mr. Oaken, Leland says you have some information for us. As you know, we're in the middle of a crisis, so if you don't mind …”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Mr. President, gentlemen, I believe I know the purpose behind
Tsumago's
voyage and the bomb she's carrying. Quite simply, the operation is designed to facilitate a full-scale Syrian invasion of Lebanon and possibly of Israel itself.”

Half a dozen voices began shouting at once. Dutcher had warned Oaken to expect such a reaction, but he was taken aback as he heard the words “preposterous” and “idiotic” amid the clamber of voices.

“Gentlemen!” the president called. “Gentlemen!” The voices died down. “Let's hear Mr. Oaken out.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Oaken said. “First, let's look at some facts:

“Syria is a dictatorship … a well-run, even somewhat benevolent dictatorship, but a dictatorship nonetheless. It's controlled by Bashar Assad and his inner circle, most of whom are members of the minority Alawite sect … first loyal to Bashar's father and now to him. There are plenty of groups who'd love to see Assad fall, and he knows it. His power base depends on keeping the country militarized, remaining at odds with Israel, and projecting an image of strength to the rest of the Arab world. Combine these with Syria's centuries-old ambition of re-creating a Greater Syria—an area that once encompassed present-day Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Israel—and you have all the ingredients for an invasion.

“For decades, Syria has occupied portions of Lebanon, which it sees as a stepping-stone for a Greater Syria. There are some 30,000 troops in the Bekka and another 8,000 or so around Beirut ostensibly serving as peacekeepers. Their real purpose has always been to attempt to control the government. If they can't own Lebanon outright, the next best thing is to have a malleable government at their disposal.

“So the question is, why hasn't Syria made a serious play for Lebanon? It has, in fact, several times in the last two decades. Each of those invasions failed because of three reasons: one, afraid to leave its eastern half vulnerable to Iraq, Syria never fully committed itself to the attempts; two, its intrusion was unwanted by almost all the major factions in Lebanon … in other words, the watershed motivation wasn't there; and three, the Israeli IDF had always been too quick and too effective in its reaction.”

Oaken paused. “I think if you look at the current situation, you'll find those conditions have either been remedied, or they soon will be.”

“Explain,” said Dick Mason.

“Condition one: The Iraqi threat. Iran is running a large exercise along its border with Iraq. This is not a coincidence. It was designed to draw a reaction from Saddam, and it's working. Iraq has shifted a good portion of its troops east, away from the Syrian border, thereby taking the pressure off the Syrian army.

“Condition two: No watershed. Before undertaking this operation, I suspect General Khatib brushed up on his history. Specifically, World War II history and a small Polish town named Gleiwitz.”

“Gleiwitz?” said the secretary of state.

General Cathermeier answered. “In 1939, Gleiwitz was a German town on the Polish border. Hitler needed an excuse to invade Poland, so he dressed up a squad of SS in Polish uniforms, had them take over the town's radio transmitter, then broadcast a call for all Poles to rise up and attack Germany. It gave Hitler the excuse he needed. The next day, he unleashed the Blitzkrieg.”

“So what are you saying, that Syria will create its own Gleiwitz?”

“It's happening as we speak,” replied Oaken. “In the last four days there have been four assassinations, starting with a Shiite mullah, which the ALC has taken credit for. This was followed by a Maronite leader, ostensibly a revenge killing by Amal, then a Hezbollah operations chief. And last, just hours ago, the deputy head of the Phalange. Beirut is on the edge of full-scale civil war. This will be Syria's excuse. They'll probably call it a ‘peacekeeping intervention,' but it'll be an invasion, plain and simple.”

The president said, “You mentioned three conditions.”

“Yes, sir. The third involves the Israeli response. Syria knows it can't beat Israel in a head-to-head fight. It's tried in the past and has gotten mauled each time. It can't afford that again. They need a trump card,” Oaken said.
“Tsumago's
bomb is that card.”