End of Enemies (3 page)

Camille was standing beside one of the tables. A few feet away, a plainclothes police officer was talking to the resort's manager. Tanner walked over to Camille. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. Why did they shoot him, Briggs?” she whispered.

“I don't know.”

“Mr. Tanner?” The inspector walked over.

“Yes.”

“I am Ishu Tanaka, homicide investigator for the Kagoshima Prefect.”

Camille was still staring at the puddle. Tanner put his arm around her and walked her away. “I'm sure he felt no pain,” Tanaka said, sitting down. “How are you feeling, then? No injuries to you or Miss …”

“Sereva,” Camille replied. “I'm fine.”

“Glad to hear it. I'll take as little of your time as possible.” Tanaka opened his steno pad. “First, your full names, please.”

“Briggs Tanner.”

“From the United States, I assume. Vacationing?”

“Yes,” said Tanner. He was in no mood for talking.

“Ms. Sereva?”

“I am Ukrainian. Vacationing also.”

“Now, please, in you own words, tell me what you saw tonight.”

Tanner did so, leaving out mention of the key. Unsure if Camille had seen it, Tanner half expected her to interject, but she said nothing.

“Witnesses said there were two shots,” Tanaka said. “Where did they strike, can you tell me?”

“As far as I can tell, one entered his upper back, the other the top of his skull.”

“The shots came from the fence?”

“That's correct.”

“You were hunched over the body when the second shot came. Why is that?”

“I was trying to stop the bleeding. I thought if I could—”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“A bold move, jumping over that fence.”

“I didn't really think about it.”

“Mr. Tanner, why were you near the car when we arrived?”

“I was looking for anyone else who might have been injured.”

“Had you ever seen this man before tonight?”

“No.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Nothing that made any sense. He was panicked, scared.”

“And you, Ms. Sereva?”

Camille shrugged. “I didn't see much. I'm sorry.”

Inspector Tanaka nodded. “Mr. Tanner, you told the responding officers you saw the truck carrying the gunman. Can you tell me anything else?”

“As I reached the top of the fence, they were pulling away. It was black or dark blue, no license plate. There was a driver and the gunman—”

“You saw the gun?”

Tanner nodded. “A rifle, bolt action, medium length, with a scope.”

“Please go on.”

“The gunman and another man were in the back,” Tanner replied, then thought:
How long from the time the truck left to when the police arrived
?
Thirty seconds,
a minute
?
Surely they had to have passed the truck.

As if reading Tanner's mind, Tanaka said, “We found some fresh tire tracks just inside the woods about a hundred yards down the drive. We believe the truck pulled off, doused his lights, and let us pass.” Tanaka stood up. “This was an unfortunate incident. You and Ms. Sereva may rest assured we will get to the bottom of it. You are both certain you are not injured?”

“We're fine, thank you,” Tanner replied.

“Then I'll say good night. You will be staying a few days, in case we need to ask more questions?”

Tanner and Camille nodded.

“Very good.” Tanaka stood, shook both their hands, and left.

After seeing Camille safely to her room, which was directly one floor below his, Tanner took a shower. He stood under the spray for twenty minutes, then got out, toweled off, poured himself a vodka, and stepped onto the balcony. The moon was high and the sky clear.

So much for a quiet vacation,
he thought.

It had been a professional killing, that much was certain. The gunman—whoever he was—was not a paper target shooter. If the first shot had been a few inches to the right, it would have struck at the base of the skull. Even so, the first shot had been fatal. Why the second shot, then? Insurance?

This was no murder, Tanner decided. It was an execution.

And now, because of a stupid impulse—no, two impulses—he was involved.
Not very smart,
Briggs.
There was something about the man named Umako Ohira, though. … He'd been desperate for help, as would have anyone, but he'd seemed especially glad Tanner was American. Why? And the key … Of all the things to be carrying, why that?

He took a sip of vodka, felt it wanning in his belly, and leaned on the railing. Below him, Camille stood on her own balcony. He was about to call down when he saw movement in the trees below. It moved again: a figure in dark clothing. After a moment, it slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.

Tanner looked again for Camille, but she'd gone inside.

Beirut, Lebanon

The man known as Marcus stumbled over a discarded tire and fell, gashing his shin. He cursed. God, what he wouldn't give for a working streetlight! But in Beirut—especially in Muslim West Beirut—they were as rare as mortar attacks were common. He could feel the cuts and bruises on his hands and face. His clothes were shredded. He'd lost count of the number of times in the past hour he'd fallen.

He sat down to catch his breath. At the end of the alley he could see a gutted apartment building, half its facade crumbled and blocking the adjoining street. Here and there, rifles cracked and he could hear the faint
crump
of grenades. The Shia and the Phalange were fighting again, somewhere near the airport shantytowns.

Suddenly an engine revved. Marcus froze.

He strained to listen.
Where are they
?
The engine faded, went silent. A dog barked. Silence. Maybe he'd lost them. In the past half hour he'd done so several times, but still they managed to catch up. They knew the city at least as well as he did, perhaps better.

He patted his coat pocket and realized the pieces of colored chalk were still there. He emptied his pockets. He couldn't afford to be caught with them. His pursuers were simple men but not stupid. They would make the connection.

Behind him an engine growled. Headlights swept over him.
Run
!
He climbed to his feet and half limped, half ran down the alley and into the street.

He was pinned by spotlights. Behind the glare, he could make out the outline of a pickup truck. Half a dozen men stood alongside it, their weapons leveled at him. Behind him, a car skidded to a stop; doors opened. Footsteps pounded toward him.

Marcus turned, looking for an exit. Left … right … Nothing, nowhere to go.

Allah be merciful,
he thought.
I'm caught.

Two hours later, when Marcus still hadn't appeared for their meeting, the old Armenian named Salah knew something was wrong. Marcus had never been late without giving a … What did he call it? A wave-off. He had checked all four drops and found no markings, but still no Marcus.

Salah was old enough that the various factions in the Muslim Quarter paid him little attention. Tonight, three patrols had stopped him at their
hajez,
or checkpoints—in each case a pair of burned out cars sitting diagonally across the particular street they governed. In each case he had been waved on.

At last he reached Marcus's neighborhood. The street was quiet. Rats skittered in the shadows. This was a good neighborhood by Beirut standards; aside from a few bullet scars, most buildings were undamaged. Here a building wasn't considered uninhabitable until it had collapsed. Beirutis had a sixth sense about the many dangers of their city, structural integrity being only one of them.

Salah turned the corner, then stopped, ducked back.

A car sat in front of Marcus's apartment building. A pair of men, both armed with AK-47s, stood at the curb. Through the curtains of Marcus's apartment Salah could see shadows moving. The light clicked off.

Moments later, four men trotted down the building's front steps. The lookouts waved an all clear, and the group came forward, pushing a man between them.

Marcus
!
They shoved him inside the trunk and slammed it shut. The group piled into the car, and it pulled away.

Forty-five miles east of Beirut in the foothills of the Anti-Lebanese Mountains near the village of Ma'rubun, Abu Azhar sat before the glowing fireplace in his cottage, flipping through a cracked leather photo album.

The album was ordered chronologically, so many of the older photos were tinted sepia, but the newer ones, the images that should have evoked in him stronger memories, seemed as distant as the older ones. Photos of his mother and father; of brothers and sisters; of the now-abandoned An Nabatiyah refugee camp north of the Litani River; of a group of young men huddled around a table, smiling and drinking.

Without realizing it, Azhar smiled, a reflex. The images meant nothing to him. He turned the page.

Here the photos were of a young girl of perhaps two years old surrounded by balloons and streamers, her friends in the background, laughing and blowing noisemakers. A woman bent over the girl's shoulder, their smiling faces pressed together for the camera.

Azhar turned to the next page and he felt his heart fill his throat.

The headline was from
Al Quds,
an Israeli-Arab newspaper:

YOUNG GIRL DEAD:
AUTHORITIES SUSPECT ABUSE

Tel Aviv—Authorities today charged a young Levanda couple in the negligent death of their seven-year-old daughter. Though the names of the girl and her family have not yet been disclosed, sources say the cause of death appears to be …

The next page, another headline, this one from the
Jerusalem Post:

COUPLE SUSPECTED OF CHILD ABUSE FOUND SLAIN

Tel Aviv—The bodies of Helena and Ira Yakov, who were acquitted last month of the negligent death of their adopted daughter, were found murdered in their apartment yesterday morning. Details of the murder have not been disclosed, but police investigators state the Yakovs both died of single bullet wounds to the head. As yet, neither motives nor suspects have been found. …

“Abu, why do you do this to yourself?”

Azhar turned to see his wife sitting in the doorway. She jostled the wheels of her chair and pushed herself into the room. A petite woman of fifty, Elia Azhar would have been beautiful if not for the worry lines creasing her face. Allah, how he loved her. For all she had been through, she never felt sorry for herself but was instead a quiet rock for him.

“Why aren't you in bed?” he asked her.

“You cried out.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Husband, you are killing yourself. It was so long ago. … Please let it be.”

“I cannot.”

“You must!” She lashed out, knocking the album to the floor. “Please—”

“Stop it, Elia.” He gripped her hands. “Stop it.”

She leaned forward into his lap and began sobbing.

“It is not over, Elia,” he said. “She was ours. Ours! And you … you are …”
Sweet wife
..
.
so forgiving,
Azhar thought.

“Barren,” she finished. “You should find another wife who can give you sons. I will take care of the house and you can—”

“No,” he replied. “No. Allah be witness, I will not bring another child into this world.”

After a while, he carried her back to bed and lay beside her until she fell asleep, then returned to the fire. On the floor, the album had flipped open to a photograph he hadn't seen in years.

It showed him and another man, a Westerner with coffee-brown hair and laugh-lined, ocean-blue eyes, at a dinner table. Their arms were draped around one another's shoulders, and they were smiling. The man wore one of those silly hats with the flat top and the tassel … What was it called? Such a ridiculous hat. The scene seemed so familiar, yet so distant, as though he were enjoying someone else's well-told story. Who was he? Why couldn't he remember this?
Why
?

Azhar closed the album and laid it aside. It didn't matter. None of it. Only one thing mattered anymore, and before long, that, too, would be over.

He was awakened by a tapping on the door. He picked up the Makarov pistol from the table and crept to the door. “Yes?”

“It is Mustafa.”

Azhar opened the door a crack, saw the man was alone, and let him enter.

Mustafa al-Baz had been Azhar's closest friend and ally for four years. A dedicated soldier, al-Baz wore many hats as Azhar's second-in-command: operations officer, intelligence officer, and chief enforcer.

“
Shu fi
?”
asked Azhar. What's going on?

“He was watching the building in Basta,” said al-Baz. “We caught him near
al-Mataf.
He was trying to slip across.”

“Going where?”

“We don't know. We searched his apartment but found nothing of use.”

“Where is he now?”

“We took him to the warehouse.”

“Good. We must vacate Basta—”

“I've already ordered it.”

“Have you gotten his name yet?”

“We've just started on him. He claims his name is Marcus.” Al-Baz hesitated. “Abu, I think he's American.”

“American!”

“Or their agent. Also, after we started questioning him, he mentioned a ship.”

Azhar bolted forward. His teacup clattered to the floor. “What!”

“We could not get any more; he lost consciousness.”

“Find out what he knows—quickly. We must know before the final phase.”

“We may get what we need from him, and we may not. He may have only a small view of his operation. This is common; it is what the Westerners call ‘compartmentalization.'”

“Then we may need to go to the source.”

“My thinking as well. For that, I have a thought.”

“Tell me.”

Al-Baz did so, briefly outlining his idea.

Azhar was silent for several minutes. “It is risky.”

“So is going ahead with the operation blindly. When I was in Khartoum last year, I saw a training transcript from a former KGB officer who specialized in this kind of operation. He is retired but does contract work, I believe. And from what I have heard, he is in Damascus.”

“And the man on the ground? Who do you have in mind?”

Al-Baz told him.

“The timing would be difficult,” said Azhar.

“Perhaps,” al-Baz said. “But the information we require is simple. Either they know, or they do not. We, too, can play the compartmentalization game. Once we know why this Marcus has come here, we can make the decision. Better to know now, while we can stop it. Once the operation has reached a certain point, it cannot—”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“Besides, I grow tired of being the target. Always
Al-mu ammara
!
Always it is American agents, Mossad—they all think Lebanon is their playground. Perhaps it is time to play our own games.”

Azhar nodded, sharing his deputy's feelings.
Al-mu ammara
was a distinctly Lebanese term meaning “the conspiracy.” For decades Lebanon had been the world's chosen surrogate battlefield. Superpowers played their spy games, tested their weapons, exercised their tactics and strategies, and Lebanon paid in blood and ruination. But truth be told, Azhar was also using Lebanon. But this was different, he told himself. What they were doing was for the good of all. Strife always preceded change. The coming months would either ruin Lebanon or save it.

Mustafa was right, Azhar decided. They would take the initiative. “I will contact the general. You find the other man and arrange a meeting. Before we go ahead, I want to know if this is feasible.”

“And Marcus, the agent?”

“Work on him. But for the time being, he stays alive.”

Israel

In his Tel Aviv apartment, Art Stucky, the CIA'S Near East division chief, awoke to the ringing of his phone. He groaned and reached across the nightstand, knocking over an empty bottle of gin. “Fuck …” He fumbled the receiver, found it. “Yeah.”

“Sir, this is the embassy communications center. We have traffic for you.”

Stucky looked at the clock: 5:00 A.M. His head pounded. “What kind?”

“Pardon me?”

“I said what kind
!”
The voice on the other end sounded young. These college punks were worthless, but they were easy to fluster, which was always fun. “You call me at five in the morning, and you don't know what kind? What's your name?”

“Peterson, sir.”

“Well, I'm waiting, Peterson, what kind of message?”

“Uh … uh …” Paper rustling. “Landline, sir. It was a SYMMETRY—”

“What!”

“SYMMETRY. Alternate three, off protocol.”

Shit,
thought Stucky. One of SYMMETRY'S agents had panicked about something—probably lost his goddamned camel or turban or something—and made contact. In covert operations the terms
protocol
and
off protocol
indicated whether the method of contact followed ComSec (communication security) guidelines. In short, whoever this “alternate” was, he'd fucked up.

“What'd you tell him?” Stucky asked.

“To call back in an hour on a scrubbed line That's in … another forty minutes.”

“Jesus, why didn't you call me earlier!”

“We did, sir. You didn't answer. And your pager is off.”

“Huh.” Stucky smiled.
Really tied one on,
Art.
Didn't even hear the phone.
“Okay, I'm on my way.”

Stucky hung up and lit a cigarette. His mouth tasted like wool. He downed the last dribble of gin from the bottle, swirled it around his mouth, swallowed, then forced himself upright and began looking for his pants.

Thirty minutes later, he walked through the embassy's gate, flashed his ID at the Marine sentry, then took the elevator up two floors to his cubicle, passing the CIA station chief's office as he went. “Let me know as soon as you hear something, Art?” called the station chief.

Fucking Peterson.
“Sure, boss,” he muttered. The current chief—working under the same diplomatic cover as Stucky, Office of Economic Liaison—was another bureaucrat in a long line of lifers who knew nothing about operational intelligence. And as far as Stucky was concerned, the guy didn't know a dead letter drop from his asshole.

For that kind of discernment he relied on case officers like Stucky, the backbone of the Operations Directorate.
Spy
and
agent
are widely misused terms, as both refer to controlled intelligence sources, not the people like Stucky who did the controlling. In the intelligence community there is no greater insult than calling a case officer an agent.