End of Enemies (8 page)

“Five dead, seven injured.”

“Accident?”

“Don't know yet. I've got a call in to the FBI director. I meant to ask: How was your heart-to-heart with Smith and the IOC?”

“Manageable,” replied Coates. “He's a prick, but there's not much to him. I think he gets a thrill out of seeing himself as part of the spy business.”

“That was my impression, too.” Mason muted the TV. “Does the name Umako Ohira mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand.”

“Check.”

Coates opened the DORSAL file to the bio section. There was only one agent, the primary:
“Code name,
Kingfisher.
Identity,
Umako Ohira.
”
Coates turned the file for Mason to see.

Mason nodded. “Ohira was murdered two days ago outside Osaka.”

“What
?”

“A shooting. The report just landed on the embassy LegAt's desk. Aside from the fact that an American saw the whole thing, it didn't mean anything to him or the station chief.”

“No, it wouldn't.” Kingfisher—Ohira—had been working alone, with no controller. “That's where we got it, the LegAt?”

“No. Blessing or curse, the witness is—or used to be—an operator.”

“Used
to be?”

“I'll explain later. He's one of Dutcher's people.”

Coates nodded. “I know Dutch. Good man. You've lost me though. How—”

“Dutcher's man claims there's more to it. The car Ohira had been driving was shot up, and the next day Dutcher's man—”

“What's his name?”

“Tanner. The next day he was followed by the same kind of truck used in the shooting.”

“That's a problem.”

“Understatement of the year. In a span of forty-eight hours, two of our biggest ops have been gutted.”

“You think they're connected?”

“Doubtful, but we can't rule it out till we know more. I want you and Sylvia to dissect this thing from top to bottom, just like we're doing with SYMMETRY. All the product, all the OpSec.” Mason pushed a file across the table. “Dutcher's report.”

Coates scanned it, then said, “We're worse off here than with SYMMETRY. Ohira ran the network. We don't know much about it—next to nothing, in fact.”

Mason heard the self-reproach in his deputy's voice. “It was the only way, George. Running an op on Japanese soil is about as dicey as it gets. It was either let him run it or get nothing. Besides, we may have a trump: Tanner. He's on the ground. He might be able to—”

“Dutcher's guy? I don't know—”

“It's a possibility.”

“Not unless I sign off on it, it isn't.”

Mason wasn't offended. In all things operational, Coates was king unless Mason decided to overrule him, and that wasn't his style. You didn't give your people the authority unless you trusted them, and trust was not something you awarded and withdrew capriciously.

“Understood,” Mason said. “Before we take that route, you'll know everything you need to know about him.”

Tunis,
Tunisia

In the city's old quarter Ibrahim Fayyad stood on his veranda at the Hotel M'Rabet and watched the bustle of the souk market below. Here, not five miles from the heart of Tunis proper, few tourists ventured into the mazelike medina without a guide. He did not blame them.

For thousands of years, Roman, Turk, and Arab conquerors had built and rebuilt the streets and alleys of the medina, each hoping not only to memorialize their supremacy but also to thwart invaders. The result was Old Tunis, the epitome of ancient Arabism.

Fayyad enjoyed Tunis not only for the anonymity it provided him but also for the irony. Here he was, hiding just a few miles from the one-time headquarters of
al-Fatah,
where Arafat himself had signed Fayyad's death warrant. Back then, as the PLO was growing cozier with the Israelis, certain activities and individuals—like Fayyad—became unpopular, and
al-Fatah
decided his execution would make a wonderful sign of goodwill.

Fayyad turned away from the window. On the television, CNN was repeating the top story of the day. He turned down the volume and watched the images of the crippled plane sitting on the Tarmac.

The bomb had malfunctioned. The engineer had come highly recommended, a well-trained former Egyptian soldier. Apparently his reputation was ill-deserved. No matter, Fayyad thought. He'd done his part; he was safe. She would not remember his face as clearly as she would remember her feelings for him. It would confuse her, this fuzziness.

Fayyad knew the female mind: Once in love, a woman's emotions color everything. Appearance becomes subjective. It would all become random bits of memory: the way he smiled, the sparkle of his eyes, his way of making love to her.

Yes, he was safe.

Still, something bothered him. He stared at the TV. Five dead, seven injured. Suddenly, from nowhere, the thought came: Was she one of the dead?

“Stop,” he muttered.

Why was he thinking about her? And then another unbidden thought: If alive, what must she be feeling now? Betrayed … heartbroken?

Enough.
He stood up, turned off the TV.

A knock came at the door.

From the nightstand drawer, Fayyad removed a Browning nine millimeter, palmed it behind his back, and crept to the door. “Yes?”

“A message,
effendi,
for a Mr. al-Kabar.” A boy's voice.

Fayyad opened the door a crack; the boy was alone. “Give it to me.”

The boy handed him the note. Fayyad gave him a dinar and closed the door.

The note instructed him to go to the Café Afrique on Bourquiba Avenue. There would be a public phone that would ring in precisely two hours. Fayyad knew the cafe, and such a time limit would not have been chosen by the authorities; it gave him too much time to reconnoiter. Who, then?

An hour later he was sitting in a cafe across the street from the Afrique. The table he'd chosen was perfect, casting him in shadow.

Fayyad, a Jordanian, was just shy of fifty years old but looked fifteen years younger. He had smooth olive skin and chiseled features offset by an easy smile. More often than not, he was mistaken for being Italian, which suited him perfectly.

For the next hour, he drank tea and watched the Afrique, searching for repeat customers; customers who lingered too long over their cups. He saw nothing. Cars and motor scooters came and went, none routinely.

He checked his watch.
Almost time.
He paid the bill and walked across the street. As he drew even with the booth, the phone rang. He lifted the receiver. “Yes.”

“Do you recognize my voice? We met four months ago in Sidi Damah.”

Fayyad remembered. “Yes.”

“Are you free to travel?”

“That depends.”

“It will be worth your time. Meet me in Khartoum. You know the old berber's cafe on the Street of Canals?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Two days' time, at noon.”

Washington,
D.C.

Dr. Marsh Burns's heart ached for the woman seated across from her. A marital abuse survivor herself, Burns understood what she was going through. At last her patient was beginning to question some of the false beliefs that were imprisoning her.

This woman's case was different than most, not because of the celebrity of her spouse but because of how thoroughly she'd convinced herself she must remain in the union. As far as Burns knew, the abuse had not become physical, but the husband certainly sounded capable of it.

The woman accepted a tissue from Burns and dabbed her eyes. “He tells me I'm ugly,” she said. “I try hard to look good, especially when we go out, but he always finds something.”

“Judith, he's wrong. You're beautiful.”

Burns meant it. Judith was in her early fifties, with flowing, frosted silver hair, delicate features, and flawless skin. She dressed stylishly and carried herself with poise. Burns bet the woman drew plenty of admiring stares.

“He says those things out of his own weakness. It's his own lacking, not yours. In his heart, he's afraid you
are
too good for him. By doing what he does, he keeps you inferior to him.”

“I know, I know. It's just …”

“Hard to listen to the man you once loved say those things?”

“Yes.”

“You're asking yourself, ‘How can he do this to me? Doesn't he love me?'”

“Yes.”

“Judith, the hard truth is, he doesn't love you. He probably never did. Not really, anyway. It's not about you; it's because he doesn't know
how
to love. Look at his life outside of you. He has no real friends, only colleagues. He uses intimidation to get what he wants. What you need—what you deserve—from him is something that isn't even in his dictionary.”

Burns went silent as Judith digested this. They'd discussed the idea before, but only recently had Burns felt Judith was absorbing the concept. “Have you considered what we talked about last week?” Burns asked.

“About leaving him? I … I don't know.”

“Does it frighten you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That means you're thinking about it. Listen, I'm not telling you to leave your husband. That's your decision to make. I just want you to remember: You are
not
stuck. Your life is
not
over. You deserve happiness, and it's out there.”

Judith laughed, embarrassed. “I'm fifty-two years old. Who would want—”

“Judith, if you were available, you'd have more men than you'd know what to do with. Hell, you'd have more
sex
than you'd know what to do with.”

“Marsha!” Judith gasped, but Burns saw the hint of a smile, too.

“It's true!” Burns glanced at the clock. “Okay, until next week, just think about what we've talked about. You don't have to make any decisions—just think. Okay?”

“Okay.”

New York

As the remnants of the device and the residue samples were on their way to the FBI Laboratory Division at Quantico, Latham and Randal had identified the owner of the luggage.

A twenty-four-year-old American citizen, an honor graduate of Princeton and a former candy-striper and Meals-on-Wheels volunteer, Cynthia Hostetler was about as likely a terrorist as was Mother Teresa.

“I've saved the best for last,” Randal said. “It also seems Ms. Hostetler is the only daughter of one Delaware congressman, Stanley Hostetler.”

“Oh, shit,” muttered Latham.”

“Yep.”

“What's out?”

“Nothing except she was aboard and injured. She's at Bellevue. Doctors say she's okay: broken femur in five places, crushed an artery, but she'll recover. She's coming out of surgery now.”

“Let's go.”

They were halfway there when Latham's cell phone rang. It was his boss, the assistant director of investigations. “Where are you, Charlie?”

“Heading to Bellevue. We've got the bag and its owner.”

“Good. Listen, there's something you should—”

“I heard. Congressman Hostetler.”

“How did you—”

“It's his daughter we're going to interview.”

“Shit.”

“My words exactly. We'll know more in a couple hours, but my guess is she's not involved. She was probably just a mule.”

“That's the upside, then. Hostetler is already breathing down the director's neck, and when he finds this out, it's going to get ugly.”

“I know.”

“Then get hot, Charlie. This goes to the top of your list, got it?”

After Latham hung up, Randal asked, “Too late to request vacation, partner?”

Latham laughed. “ 'Fraid so.”

Twenty minutes later the were standing outside Cynthia Hosteller's room. The congressman had not yet arrived. “We've repaired the damage,” said the doctor, “but her recovery will be tough. Considering the alternative, she's one lucky girl.”

“Can we see her?” asked Latham.

“For a few minutes. The anesthesia hasn't worn off entirely, but she's fairly lucid. If you don't mind, I'll stand by.”

The room was lit only by a small table lamp in the corner. Already there were a half-dozen flower baskets on the window credenza. Cynthia was pretty, slightly plump, but Latham bet that bothered her more than anyone else.

“Ms. Hostetler, my name is Charlie Latham, and this is Paul Randal. We're with the FBI. How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she said fuzzily. “Where's Daddy?”

“He's on his way. Do you feel up to talking to us?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you remember anything about the accident?”

Cynthia shook her head. “We were almost on the ground, then there was a loud boom, and I looked over, y'know, across the aisle, and there it was.”

“What?”

“The hole, and the ground going by really fast. There was a flash, too, and then heat.” She bit her lip and her eyes welled with tears. “Those people, they … they were just gone, their seats and everything.” She started crying. “Are they dead?”

“Yes.”

“What was it, what happened?”

“A bomb.”

Latham wasn't sure how to proceed. He had a guess about where his questions would lead; if he were right, it would mean more pain for her. On the other hand, once her father arrived, their access to her might disappear.

“Cynthia, I want you to listen to me: You haven't done anything wrong, okay? You're not in trouble. Do you understand?”

“Yes. …”

“We think the bomb came from your bag.”

She stared at him. “What? No, no … that can't be….”

“We need to know—”

“I didn't …” She broke into tears again. “Where's Daddy?”

“Cynthia, your bag was leather, right, green-checkered leather?”