End of Enemies (45 page)

From the corner of his eye he saw a figure standing in the doorway. The figure was dressed all in black except for a white flour sack hood. Two eyeholes had been cut in the material. Tanner felt his heart thumping.

“Out!” ordered Bucket. “Out!”

The rest of the guards left.

The hooded man walked over and stopped in front of Tanner. The eyes flicked over his face. Tanner stared back. The eyes were blank and emotionless.
Like he's watching a lab experiment,
Tanner thought. He studied Tanner for a few more seconds, then turned for the door.

Briggs lifted his head enough to ease the tension on his larynx. “The boy …”

The man stopped.

“The boy,” Tanner croaked. “What happened to the boy?”

The man tilted his head, then looked to Bucket, who walked over and whispered something. “The boy is safe,” the hooded man said. “We sent him home.”

With that, he walked out. The door slammed shut.

Tanner felt sick to his stomach. He recognized the voice. It was Abu Azhar.

White House

“They've made contact,” Dick Mason said, walking into the Oval Office.

The president said, “How?”

“A goddamned cell phone call to the
Jerusalem Post.
”

Mason slid a CD into the player on the coffee table and pressed Play. The voice spoke Arabic-accented English. “Attention government of Israel …”

“Interesting he chose English,” said Talbot. “Who—”

“Audio says it's al-Baz,” Mason replied.

“… this is the Arab Liberation Command speaking. By now you know we are holding one hundred Israeli prisoners of war. Currently they are safe and unharmed aboard our ship, which is en route to your shores.

“Our demands are as follows: In exchange for the safe return of our prisoners, the government of Israel will fully and immediately cede the West Bank and Gaza Strip territories to Palestinian authority. Furthermore, these territories will be formally recognized by the government of Israel and the United Nations as states of a sovereign nation. These demands are not open to negotiation.

“Any attempt to attack, board, or otherwise molest this ship will be considered an act of aggression and will be responded to with maximum retribution. In addition, the passage of any military unit of any nation within twenty nautical miles of this ship will result in the execution of ten prisoners.

“Once this vessel is safely docked in Tel Aviv Harbor and Israeli forces—both political and military—have fully withdrawn from Palestine territories, and once the United Nations has taken steps to ensure there will be no more interference by Israel or its allies in Palestinian concerns, the Arab Liberation Command will release unharmed its remaining prisoners.

“In conclusion, the Arab Liberation Command will offer a demonstration of its resolve. You will dispatch an unaccompanied, unarmed helicopter from Palermo to this vessel's position by no later than noon, Palermo time. This helicopter will contain one pilot and a two-person news crew with a video camera. If this demand is not met, we will execute ten prisoners.

“Make no attempt to contact this vessel. That is all.”

Mason switched off the player. “The Israelis have managed to suppress it, but that won't last for long. They're handling the helicopter. We're monitoring the Iraqi response, but it could go either way. Even if this is a Syrian operation, Saddam might be inclined to go along for glory's sake.”

“Interesting there was no mention of the bomb,” said Cathermeier.

“They're holding it as a bargaining chip,” replied Talbot.

“I disagree,” said Dutcher. “If they plan to use it, why announce it? Why let the Israelis prepare? For all al-Baz knows, it's still a secret.”

“Good point,” said Mason. “That exclusion zone is a smart move.”

“Why?” asked the secretary of state.

Cathermeier replied, “It guarantees the story will get out. To maintain that kind of zone, we're going to have to surround
Tsumago.
By morning, the whole world will know about this.”

“Why only twenty miles, though? Why not farther out?”

“It'll let them keep an eye on the escorts, but it's far enough they'll have plenty of warning before an attack.”

The president looked at Dutcher. “Dutch, what about your two men?”

“Cahil is trying to locate the bomb. As for Tanner …” He glanced at Mason and saw nothing on the DCI's face. There were only a few people who could have burned Tanner, and Mason was one of them. Would Dick do such a thing? Either way, he couldn't afford to tip his hand. “As of his last transmission, no luck. Asseal's been taken, but given the chaos in Beirut, tracking him is going to be tough.”

“We're just about out of options,” said the president. “If an invasion is coming, we've got no way to stop it, and we sure as hell can't back out. The whole region would crumble.”

No one spoke. Dutcher knew the president was facing a terrible decision, and in this case there were no lesser evils from which to choose. Whichever way he went, lots of people were going to die.

“Gentlemen, I've been talking with the Israeli prime minister. We've reached an understanding. However unlikely, if we manage to confirm the bomb is
not
aboard, this will be treated as a hostage situation. It will be handled by the Israelis.

“If there's any doubt about the bomb, or we get confirmation,
Tsumago
won't be allowed within Israel's twelve-mile limit. Hostages or not, she will be sunk. If that becomes necessary, I've decided that we will carry out the attack.”

Talbot blurted, “Mr. President, that would be political suicide! With the election next year—”

“This isn't about politics, Jim. This is
our
mess.
Our
responsibility. I won't ask the Israelis to kill a hundred of its own citizens and cause the worst environment catastrophe in history. I won't do it.”

Dutcher felt a wave of admiration for the president. He was ignoring political considerations and simply doing the right thing. At what price, though? Talbot was right: If the worst came to pass, the president would be finished—as a leader and as a man.

“This is my decision,” the president continued. “There will be no more discussion. I've asked General Cathermeier to put together a plan. Go ahead, General.”

“The unit we've chosen will be on station in three hours,” said Cathermeier. “The moment
Tsumago
crosses Israeli's territorial boundary, we can put her on the bottom in less than two minutes.”

Beirut

Safir walked into the cafe, saw Camille in the corner booth, and sat down.

“Did you reach Briggs's people?” she asked.

Safir nodded. “They asked me to try to find him.”

“Do they know about me?”

“No. It is against my better judgment, but I said nothing.” Camille had told Safir what she was; she suspected it was only his loyalty to Tanner that kept him from running.

“Safir, I know it's hard, but you have to believe me: I'm doing this for Briggs, not for my country. My people don't even know I've been in touch with him.”

Safir considered this. “They may kill you for such a thing.”

“I know.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“As do I. He is a good friend. So what do we do?”

Tsumago

Deep inside the ship, Saul and Bernice sat on either side of Sludowski, who lay coughing and shivering. In addition to numerous cuts and bruises, the young man had been shot twice, once in the thigh and once in the lower back. This wound worried Saul most

Bernice touched Slud's forehead. “He's burning up, Saul.”

“I know. He's bleeding inside.”

“Can't you do something?”

“He needs surgery, Bernice. There's nothing I can do here.”

“He's so young.”

“Yes.” He was almost the same age as their own son. Weinman felt a wave a sadness. Would they ever see their family again?

He stood up. “Wait here, Bernice.”

He made his way to the door and pounded on it. “Hello! Hello out there! Please, we have a very sick man here!”

To Weinman's surprise, the bolt clicked back and the door swung open. A man with a handlebar mustache was standing in the doorway.

“Thank God,” Saul said. “The man there, he is very ill. He needs help.”

The man nodded to the guards, who put down their rifles and pushed past Weinman. They marched through the space, kicking and shouting at passengers too slow in moving. When they reached Bernice, they shoved her aside, lifted Sludowski, and began dragging him toward the door.

“Be careful, please,” said Weinman. “He—”

“Do not concern yourself with him,” said the man.

“He's very sick. He needs surgery.”

“He will receive the appropriate treatment, old man. I suggest you concern yourself with your own safety.”

With nothing to do during daylight hours, Cahil listened to the waves pound the hull. In the distance he heard a faint thumping. He strained to hear. The sound increased until he recognized it: helicopter rotors. He climbed up the ladder, cracked the hatch, and peered out. A trio of men stood on the forecastle. At their head stood Mustafa al-Baz.

The beat of rotors grew louder until a white-and-blue-striped helicopter stopped in a hover off the port railing. Leaning from the door were two men, one holding a video camera, the second a microphone.

“What the hell …” Cahil whispered.

Al-Baz gestured at someone out of Cahil's view. Seconds later, two crewmen walked forward, dragging a man between them.
Slud
!
He was badly beaten and barely conscious. They dropped him, then reached down and jerked him to his knees. Slud swayed from side to side, head lolling as he squinted up at the helicopter.

Then Cahil realized what was happening.
No,
Christ,
please don't
. … He drew the Glock from his holster. He counted targets: Five, all armed, the closest was forty feet away. He gripped the hatch and readied himself. Then stopped.

Even if he survived and managed to get Slud overboard, what then? What about the bomb? How many lives depended on his staying aboard and out of sight?

Even as all these thoughts raced through Cahil's brain, he watched al-Baz draw his pistol, step forward, and place it against Slud's temple.

No
!

The
pop
sounded like a firecracker. Slud's head snapped sideways, and he toppled onto the deck.

Beirut

Tanner could only guess at the time. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he watched the sun's rays shorten on the floor and draw up the wall. Noon or close to it. God, he hurt. …

The noose had already chafed his throat raw, and every time he moved, it felt as though the wound was being scraped with a wire brush. For the first two hours he had managed to remain on his toes without much problem, so breathing had been easy. At the end of the third hour, however, his calves began cramping, and he had to clench his jaw against the pain. His muscles began twitching violently. Halfway into the fourth hour, he began experimenting, taking a deep breath, then lowering himself for a few seconds at a time. It only made the pain worse when he raised himself up again. His head began to swell and pound. Blood rushed to his face. He felt like he was drowning.

Now, in what he guessed was the fifth hour, his body was almost numb, which scared him more than the pain. It was now that he could strangle himself without realizing it. But they wouldn't allow that, would they? The questioning hadn't started yet. Though he saw no one, he knew a guard was probably watching.

After a time, the numbness became almost soothing. The pain faded until it hovered at the edges of his consciousness. There was no contrast, no good against which he could measure the bad. It was then his mind suddenly cleared and the questions flooded in.

Who had burned him? What had happened to Bear? How far away was
Tsumago
?
He tried to remember what day it was. By now, she was probably somewhere the Mediterranean, but where? Couldn't be more than two days away.

As for the first question, he had some ideas. Safir hadn't done it; he was too loyal. That left Stucky or Camille. As the old homicide rule went, both had motive and opportunity. The method seemed clear: Just as they had used Asseal, somebody was using him, probably tracking him through Mossad's network of stringer agents. How quickly would they find him? And how soon after that would the Israelis send in a team?

Outside, boots clumped down the corridor.
Time for round two,
he thought dully. He almost welcomed the pain; it would help him stay focused.

The bolt clicked back. The door swung inward. Two guards walked in, one carrying a square wooden table, the other a pair of chairs. They arranged the table and chairs, then withdrew to the corners.

Bucket walked in, followed by the hooded man Tanner believed to be Azhar. He sat down in the chair, folded his hands, and stared at the wall. Tanner could see the hood's mouth hole sucking in and out.

Bucket loosened the noose from around Tanner's neck and lifted it away. Tanner knew what was coming, tried to brace himself for it, but as his full weight came down, his knees buckled, and he collapsed. Pain shot up his legs and into his lower back. He felt his bladder start to go. He clenched his jaw against it.
No no no
…
The room swam around him.

Azhar's gaze remained fixed on the wall.

Bucket dragged Tanner to the opposite chair, plopped him down, and placed a glass of water before him. It was only then that Briggs noticed the leather wrist straps bolted to the tabletop. The wood beneath was scarred and flecked with brown stains.

“Drink,” Azhar said.

Tanner didn't hesitate. As he drank, he could feel the scabs on his throat splitting open. When he was done, Bucket took the glass away.
They're very careful,
Tanner thought. No potential weapons, no missteps.

“How do you feel?” Azhar asked. “Are you in pain?”

Tanner saw no point in lying. “Yes.”

“If you want it to end, you will answer my questions. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“If you do not answer, things will go worse for you. Do you understand?”

Tanner nodded.

“Why are you here?”

Against all his training Tanner had already decided his course:. If he had any chance to not only survive this but to also stop
Tsumago,
he had to go straight at Azhar. “I came to find you,” Tanner said.

“Why?”

“Not with the others here. Order them out, and I'll tell you.”

“You think I am stupid?” Azhar said. “They stay. What do you know of me?”

“Dismiss them, and I'll tell you,” Tanner said.

Azhar half-bolted from his chair. “Answer me!”

“Once we're alone. Why does that frighten you? What can I do?”

Azhar sat back down. Through the hood's eyeholes, he could see Azhar's left eye twitching. He barked a command.

Bucket grabbed Tanner's hands, forced each of them under a leather strap on the tabletop, and tightened the wing nuts until his palms were pressed flat.

Azhar barked another command. The word sounded vaguely familiar to Tanner, and it took several moments to place it.
Oh,
God
…

Bucket stepped forward. Clenched in his right hand was a hammer; the head was flecked with what looked like blood and matted hair.

“I order you again,” said Azhar, “answer my questions.”

Tanner took a deep breath. “When we're alone.”

Azhar nodded to Bucket. With an evil grin, he splayed Tanner's left little finger apart from the others and pressed it to the wood. Tanner felt his stomach boil. He swallowed hard, and he kept his eyes locked on Azhar's.

“Well?” Azhar asked Tanner.

Tanner shook his head.

“Break it.”

Tanner inhaled and set his jaw. As if seeing it in slow motion, he watched the hammer arcing downward. He heard a dull
crunch-pop.
White-hot pain exploded in his hand. He screamed and doubled over. Bile filled in his mouth. He swallowed it, tried to take a breath. In his ears he heard what sounded like distant cannon fire, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own heartbeat.

Bucket pushed him upright.

“You have an hour to decide,” Azhar said. “After that I will break all your fingers, then move to your ankles, and then your knees.”

Bucket released Tanner's hands, cuffed them behind his back, and shoved him against the wall. Tanner barely felt the noose slip back over his head. Black spots danced before his eyes. He heard the rope creaking, then felt the noose bite down.

Azhar looked up at him. “I will get what I want,” he said. “I promise, before this day is over, you will answer my questions.”

Tanner stared back into Azhar's eyes. As before, he saw nothing.
Like a doll's eyes,
Tanner thought.
Empty.

Azhar turned and walked out.

They returned an hour later, but to Tanner it could have been minutes or days. He felt fuzziness creeping back into his thought processes. His shattered finger throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he could feel it pressing against his other hand, swollen and hot. Sights and sounds dimmed around him. A breeze blew through the window. It felt cool.

Stay alive
!
You'll either reach him,
or you'll die.
But talk only to him
…
no one else.
If he managed to turn Azhar, there was no telling who in his group would stay loyal and who would rebel.

The door creaked open. He kept his eyes closed. The noose slackened. Rough hands untied him, pushed him into the chair, and shoved his wrists under the straps. He opened his eyes and saw Azhar sitting across the table.

“Have you had a chance to reconsider?”

“I've been preoccupied.”

Azhar said nothing; he gestured to Bucket.

Bucket stepped forward, splayed Tanner's ring finger apart from the others, and smashed it with the hammer. Briggs screamed and hunched over. Bucket shoved him upright.

They won't stop.
They'll keep going until I die or I break
There had to be a way to reach him. Then he remembered. “My lugg—” The sound stuck in his throat; he coughed and tasted blood. “My luggage,” he rasped.

“What?” asked Azhar.

“My luggage. Have you searched my room?”

Azhar looked at Bucket, who shook his head.

“The Commodore,” Tanner whispered. “In the side pocket of my duffel, you'll find a black box. Bring it.”

“I have no time for games—”

“No games. Get the box.”

“If you're lying, you'll wish you were dead.”

“I know.”

Azhar was silent for several moments. The cloth sucked in and out, in and out. “Go to the hotel, bring the box. In the meantime, put him back on the wall.”

For the next hour, perhaps two, Tanner stood against the wall gasping for breath, his ankles and legs burning. Azhar sat at the table and stared straight ahead, not even flinching as mortar rounds exploded outside.

Tanner could feel a knot of fear in his belly.
What if I'm wrong about him
?
If this gambit failed, Azhar would surely kill him. He imagined Abu placing the gun against his skull and felt tears welling in his eyes.

The door swung open. Bucker walked in, whispered to Azhar, and placed a small black box on the table. “Get him down.” Once Tanner was again secure in the chair, Azhar asked, “Is this it?”

“Yes. Open it.”

Azhar looked at Bucket, who said, “It is safe.”

Slowly, Azhar drew the box to him, unhooked the clasp, and lifted the lid. For a full thirty seconds he stared at the contents. His eyes blinked once.

Using both hands, Azhar lifted out the carved cedar camel. Across its hump was draped a square of turquoise cloth. The bit was made of a tiny gold nail, the bridle of gold chain. Azhar cradled it like a wounded bird.

“My name is Briggs,” Tanner whispered. “Briggs Tanner. You gave that to me. It had been in your family for ten generations. You told me it was carved from the same cedar that was used to build your ancestral home in Afqa …”

Staring at the camel, Azhar shook his head.

“Yes, Abu! You know me.”

“This is a trick! You are lying!”

“No!” Tanner said. “When you gave it to me you told me—”

“Shut up!”

“—that it had been given to you by your father, and to him by his father—”

“No!” Azhar pounded the table. He returned the camel to the box and closed the lid. “Put him back up.”

The guards grabbed Tanner.

“No, Abu! You know me! My father's name is Henry. He taught at American University. My mother is Irene. We lived here, on the Corniche! You
know
me!”

“Shut up
!
Silence him!”

Bucket slammed his rifle butt into Tanner's groin. The air blasted from his lungs. He dropped to his knees. Another guard stuffed a rag in his mouth, pulled him upright, and slammed him against the wall. The noose was cinched tight.

Azhar turned in the doorway. “We've wasted enough time with him,” he said. “Beat him. Beat him until he pisses blood.”