End of Enemies (9 page)

“Y-y-yes. It was new.”

“Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.”

“From who?” Latham steeled himself.

“From a friend. A man I met on vacation, in Jamaica.”

Son of a bitch.
“What was his name?”

“Ricardo.”

“Ricardo what?”

“I don't … I can't remember. He was Italian. He's coming to visit me in a few days.”

“Describe him for me.”

She did so, but the image was vague. Latham was unsurprised; these people knew how to pick their targets.

“I don't get it,” she said. “What's going on? What are you saying?”

“Cynthia, I'm sorry. We think it came from him.”

“What?”

“The bomb. We believe he may have planted it.”

“No, no, he wouldn't. He said he loved me. He … Oh, God.”

She curled herself into a ball and began sobbing. Latham squeezed her arm and pulled the doctor toward the door. “You have someone who can stay with her?” Latham whispered.

“You think she might hurt herself?”

Latham shrugged.
What the hell do you think,
Doc
?
he thought.
The man of her dreams lied to her,
betrayed her,
then used her to kill five people.
Yes,
I think she might want to hurt herself.

Latham said, “She's going to need help, Doctor. Lots of it.”

Japan

Following Butcher's orders, Tanner loitered about, sunbathing and drinking Alcapulcos, neither of which he minded, but he quickly grew restless. He wanted to either jump into the mystery of Ohira's murder or be done with it.

The previous night Camille had left him a message saying her business in Tokyo was taking longer than she anticipated, but she would be returning in a day or so. She was looking forward to dinner. In spite of himself, Tanner was, too.

Lurking in the back of his mind, however, was a hesitancy to get involved with her or with anyone else for that matter. It was a familiar feeling, one with which he had made a shaky truce after Elle's death. There had been other women since her, but nothing of any permanence. He'd never been a fan of the “better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” theory. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out.

He'd been at Holystone a year when Elle died. Dutcher had pushed him to go see a counselor. Tanner balked, so Dutcher made it easy. “Go. You're on vacation until you sort out what's going on in your head.”

To Tanner's surprise, the half-dozen visits to the counselor had helped. He hadn't talked to anyone about the accident, or his feelings, or that hollow ache he carried around in his chest. “You're going to find it hard to trust again,” the psychologist had warned him. “No matter what your head says, subconsciously you believe anything is better than going through this again. It's a kind of self-preservation mechanism … and given the business you're in, that mechanism is pretty damned strong. Problem is, left unchecked, it'll do more damage than good.”

Even before he heard the words, Tanner knew they were true. Time had dulled the mechanism, but at times—like right now—it still talked to him.

He picked up his jogging pace and turned away from the tide line, digging his heels into the softer sand. A quarter mile ahead, a figure sat on a driftwood log. Tanner stopped and sat down.

“You did not have to run, Mr. Tanner,” said Sato Ieyasu. “But I admire your desire to be punctual.”

Tanner laughed. “Exercise, Inspector.”

“Ah, I see. I admire your discipline. Thank you for meeting me.”

“My social calendar is uncluttered at the moment.”

“I brought something for you.” Ieyasu handed him a photograph. “Tange Noboru, Takagi's chief of security.”

“That's him. He was the one driving.”

“At the murder.”

“No, here.”

“Well, if he's watching you, you can be sure it's on direct orders from Takagi himself. Have you seen him again?”

“No.”

“That is best,” Ieyasu said. “You don't want Noboru interested in you.”

Too late,
Tanner thought.
Now I'm interested in him.

Chesapeake Bay,
Maryland

It was midevening, and Walter Oaken was still at the Holystone office. As Dutcher's deputy, most of the routine administrative tasks fell to Oaken, but unlike most men, he thrived on detail work. In his world there was a place for everything, and everything had its place. A dedicated indoorsman, Oaken preferred the neatness of the office. So strong was this idiosyncrasy that Tanner had long since given up trying to lure Oaken on a camping or hiking trip.

“No chance,” was Oaken's standard reply. “I like my adventure predictable, preferably on the pages of a magazine.”

“Planned spontaneity?”

“Exactly. You'll be happy to hear, however, I just renewed my subscription to
National Geographic.
”

“I'm proud of you.”

Oaken smiled at the memory. Though opposites in many ways, he and Tanner counterbalanced one another, and their friendship was stronger for it. He wondered what Briggs's love of the unknown had gotten him into this time.

A voracious reader and an information pack rat, Oaken loved reports, forms, cereal boxes; if it had print on it, he read it. His wife Beverly fought an ongoing battle to keep his “gonna get to 'em soon” magazine stacks below three feet tall, lest one of their daughters bump one of the monoliths and be crushed by an avalanche of
U.S.
News
&
World Report.
Whether at his home office or at work, a television was always tuned to CNN, and whenever Bev came in to clean, her opening of the door stirred up a blizzard of newspaper clippings that took hours to settle—or so she joked.

At forty-eight years old, Oaken had assimilated enough knowledge about the world—past and present, scientific and cultural, obscure and pertinent—to speak authoritatively on almost any subject. That which he didn't know, he learned.

Standing six and a half feet tall, his chronically rumpled suits hung from his shoulders like lab coats, and he lacked any modicum of fashion sense. He looked every bit the absentminded professor.

The phone rang. “Holystone, Shiverick.”

“Walter, it's Leland.”

“You just caught me. I was about to head home.”

“I'm sure Bev will enjoy the change. I'm landing at Andrews in a few minutes.”

“What's up?”

“Not sure. Just in case, call Ian and get him ready to travel.”

“Okay.”
Japan,
Oaken thought. “I'll get things rolling.”

Japan

It was shortly before noon when Tanner returned to the hotel. He found Camille at the pool, reclining in a chaise lounge in a black one-piece bathing suit, wide-brimmed beachcomber hat, and horn-rimmed sunglasses. She looked every bit the 1950s Hollywood starlet.

“Hello, sailor,” she said, lifting her sunglasses. “Running again, are we? Dinner is still on, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“I was worried you would give up on me.”

“Not a chance.”

Tanner sat down and ordered lunch: seafood salad, kiwi, and iced tea. “Care to join me?”

“I've already eaten, thanks. When you're done, there are a few spots I couldn't reach with the lotion.”

Tanner smiled. Camille had the unique ability to sound mischievous, sexy, and innocent all at once. “My pleasure,” he said.

As he ate, they chatted easily, and it felt like they'd known each other for years rather than days. She asked him about diving, the kinds of fish he saw, and whether there were any sharks. Sharks scared her, she said.

“They're more frightened of us than we are of them. Most attacks are cases of mistaken identity.”

“Where did you learn so much about the ocean?”

Tanner decided a half-truth was the best answer. “My family lived in Maine for a while. I earned extra money working a fishing charter.”

Finished eating, Tanner sat on the edge of her chaise and unscrewed the cap of the suntan lotion. Camille rolled onto her stomach. He slid the suit's straps off her shoulders and began smoothing lotion on her back.

“That feels good,” she murmured. “You have good hands.”

Lying at his feet Tanner saw Camille's towel and the card key to her room—the same number as before she left, one floor below his own. He picked up the card and slipped it in his sock.

When he finished with the lotion, Camille was almost asleep. “I'm going to wash my hands,” he said. “Be right back.”

“Mm-mmm.”

Tanner walked into the lobby and laid Camille's card on the counter. “Any messages for me?”

The attendant glanced at the number, retrieved a message from Camille's box, and handed it to Tanner. He memorized the message—Stephan Karotovic, U.S. area code 212—then switched Camille's card with his own.

“Excuse me, this is for room four oh eight; I'm five oh eight.”

“My apologies, sir.” He returned Camille's message to her box and checked Tanner's. “No messages, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Langley

Leland Butcher was met in the lobby by an Office of Security escort, who took him up to the seventh floor. As the elevator doors parted, a man pushed his way inside. It took a moment for Dutcher to recognize Art Stucky.

“Hello, Art.”

Stucky stared at him for a few seconds. “Leland. What brings you here?”

“Just visiting.”

Stucky smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Hmm.”

They faced one another in silence. Finally Dutcher smiled and stepped off the elevator. As the doors closed behind them, the escort gave Dutcher an oblique glance.

“Old friends,” Dutcher explained.

“Yes, sir.”

Dutcher hadn't taken two steps into the DCI's outer office when Ginny was out of her chair and running to hug him. However formal she was with Mason, she had a soft spot for Dutcher.

“Leland, how are you!”

“Fine, Ginny, and you?”

“You've made ray day!” She leaned in and whispered, “I wish you'd never left. It just isn't the same.”

Dutcher smiled. “Oh? Dick's a slave driver, is he?”

“No, it's not that. It's just not the same.”

-“Thanks, Ginny.”

“You'd better go in. Director Mason is waiting for you.”

“Something big? Do I have time to skulk out the back?”

Ginny laughed. “Go.”

Mason was standing at the window. “Dutch. Thanks for coming. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

They sat in a pair of captain's chairs around a low coffee table. Mason filled two mugs from the pot and passed one to Dutcher.

“I saw Art Stucky in the hall,” Dutcher said. “Where have you got him?”

“Near East Division. He just got back from Tel Aviv. I didn't know you two knew each other.”

“Years ago. The Peru thing. He was Army, a Green Beret top sergeant. Counterinsurgency work.”

“Interesting. I don't know much about him. What's your take?”

Warning bells went off in Dutcher's head.
They don't know,
he thought.
How could they not
?
But then again, outside of the Army, only he, Briggs Tanner, and Bud Grenson of ISAG knew what Art Stucky had done in Peru. Briggs had been the only one to witness it firsthand.

Dutcher was careful with his answer. “Dick, it's not my place.”

The response had the desired effect. “Something I should know?”

“If I were in your place?”

“Yes.”

Dutcher nodded.

“Okay. Let's get down to business. You know why you're here?”

“I have a guess,” said Dutcher.

“The man Tanner saw murdered was an agent of ours.”

“Industrial target?”

“Yes. Takagi Industries.”

“You're getting bold in your old age, Dick.”

“The stakes were worth it. You think Tanner is up to doing some legwork?”

“Tell me the story.”

“I'll give you the condensed version. Back during the Gulf War, about a week into the air campaign, a Navy Prowler brought back some data on a couple of Baghdad's SAM sites that CENTCOM was having a tough time killing.

“CENTCOM sent in an SAS team, which toasted one of the batteries and grabbed some of the hardware. CENTCOM looked at it but couldn't make much of it, so they sent it to the DIA, who didn't get anywhere, either. Finally the NSA took a stab. It turns out this site, along with the five others, were using a new kind of frequency agile radar. It was way beyond anything we had, beating our frequency skip rates by eighty percent or more. There wasn't a missile in our arsenal that could keep up with it.”

Dutcher was stunned. If widely distributed, that kind of technology would require U.S. forces to first develop effective countermeasures, then play catch-up as weapons systems were refitted. It would take years and billions of dollars, not to mention the huge window of vulnerability it created.

“Lucky for us, the Iraqis didn't have many of them,” Mason continued. “The one we got gave us some good countermeasure stuff. Better still, we were able to track down the manufacturer.”

“Takagi Industries,” said Dutcher.

“Yep. Through several front companies, that is. The following year, we started DORSAL. At first it didn't generate much; then along came Umako Ohira.”

“Straight recruitment?”

“A walk-in—with bona fides.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Believe me, we put that man under the microscope. He was the real thing, and his product proved it.”

A walk-in differs from a recruited agent in that the former presents himself to an agency and volunteers to spy for them, while the latter must be courted into doing the same work. Generally, walk-ins generate better product, but they are rare beasts and rarer still are they genuine. Nine times out of ten, walk-ins are planted by an enemy agency to spread disinformation.

“He was an engineer,” Mason continued. “He worked on the hardware we pulled out of those fire control radars. He thought they were headed for the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces, and when he found out Takagi was selling them to Saddam, he couldn't stomach it.”

“That's it?” asked Dutcher. “A good conscience?”

“Yep. His product was stellar, Leland. And now that he's been murdered …”

“His bona fides are all the more solid,” Dutcher finished.

“Right.”

“How was the network set up?”

“No cutouts, no controller,” replied Mason. “Ohira ran the whole thing. It was a tough choice, but given the territory, that's the call we made. The cultural barrier alone was hard enough, but Takagi's physical security and information protection is top notch. With Ohira, we had the perfect conduit, and his job gave him almost unlimited access.”

Dutcher considered this. “What do you want from us?”

“Just a circuit check. We just want to know if the network is viable. If so, we'll start figuring out how to restart it.”

Dutcher nodded; it seemed straightforward enough. “Usual terms?”