End of Enemies

31

After leaving Philadelphia, Vorsalov stopped briefly for breakfast at an IHOP, then got on Highway 95 and headed south in the predawn darkness. Three hours later, he was approaching the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

Following ten miles behind, Latham was anxious.

He wanted to be on the front lines, but he knew it was impossible. Vorsalov knew his face too well. Even with the van’s bank of monitors that allowed him to see everything the cars saw, it was maddening being so far removed from the action. The feeling worsened as they neared the city.

“Command, this is Mobile Lead.”

Latham picked up the handset. “Go ahead, Paul.”

“Subject is turning, heading southeast on Old Dominion.”

“Roger.”

Sixty seconds later: “Another turn… onto Dolly Madison, heading north. Subject is turning into a Denny’s. Okay, units four and five spread out, give me a wide perimeter.”

Denny’s? Something didn’t add up for Latham. Vorsalov had eaten breakfast two hours before and made a bathroom stop in Essex outside Baltimore. Was this simply a coffee break? “Paul, stay sharp. I got a weird feeling about this.”

Randal took up position a hundred yards up the road from the restaurant. Through his binoculars, he watched the hostess seat Vorsalov at a window booth, then take his order. She returned a minute later with coffee.

Ten minutes passed. The Russian sipped his coffee and read a newspaper.

“What’s he doing?” Randal’s driver asked.

“Drinking coffee, looks like.”

“Why’s the boss getting hinky about that?”

“He’s out of pattern. Why drive this far off the interstate for coffee?”

After a second cup of coffee, Vorsalov paid his bill and walked outside.

“All units, this is lead. Subject is moving. Get ready to roll.”

As Randal spoke, another car — a black Oldsmobile — pulled into the lot and parked beside Vorsalov’s Taurus. The driver, a woman in a blue blazer, got out. Vorsalov waved to her. Randal focused his binoculars on the sticker in the Olds’s rear window: Avis

“Shit! He’s switching cars, he’s switching goddamned cars!”

Latham heard Randal’s report, but even as Vorsalov was transferring his bags from the Taurus to the Olds, his mind was elsewhere: Vorsalov was switching. Fine, he’s dry-cleaning. But why here? Why not at an Avis office?

In addition to a laptop and a satellite communications console, the command van was equipped with a library of maps that would’ve done National Geographic proud. Latham found one of the Georgetown Pike area and flipped it open. It took him less than a minute to see it.

“Mobile Lead, this is Command,” he called.

“Go ahead.”

“Paul, have you got a car to the east of the parking lot?”

“Negative. That’s a one-way street. He can’t…” Then Randal understood. “Lead to Four, head east to where the one-way dumps out. Move!”

“Roger, we’re rolling.”

Randal said, “I screwed up, Charlie. Sorry.”

“Forget it. Hold your breath.”

Latham cursed himself. He should have seen this the moment Vorsalov pulled into the lot. The road to the north was a two-lane, one-way street. If Vorsalov had chosen this Denny’s for a reason other than its superior coffee, it was because it was the perfect spot to lay one of the oldest countersurveillance traps in the game.

Vorsalov waved good-bye to the rental agent, got into the Olds, then pulled up to the exit, his blinker signaling a right turn. A dozen cars flew by. The speed limit was fifty miles per hour, but no one was doing less than sixty.

Randal called, “Four, this is Lead, are you in place?”

“Not yet. Almost there…”

“Push it.”

There was a lull in traffic. Vorsalov pulled out. Abruptly, he veered left, up the one-way, and sped around the corner.

“Go, go, go!” Randal yelled to his driver. “All units, this is Lead. Subject is running, I say again, subject is running. Four, are you in place?”

“Negative.”

Randal pounded the dashboard. Damn! Vorsalov had been a lamb all the way down the coast; now this. They’d gotten comfortable, and he’d nailed them.

As often as not, spies who suspect the are under surveillance do not try to shake their watchers; they try to expose them. In doing so, the roles are reversed and the watchers must work twice as hard to not only remain invisible but to maintain contact. If Vorsalov could lure someone down the one-way street, he would gain the upper hand. The trick for Latham’s team would be to reestablish contact without letting the Russian see them. That was now in the hands of the team’s only woman agent, Janet Paschel in Mobile Four.

“Command to Four,” Latham called.

“Go ahead.”

“Janet, this is Charlie. He won’t go more than two blocks. Any farther, and he risks attracting the cops. Just get in place and look sharp. If he gets even a whiff, we’re finished. Just slide in behind him and stay there. We’ll catch up.”

“Roger.” Janet’s voice was tight.

Paul Randal called, “All units copy that?”

The units checked in one by one. The net went silent, waiting.

Sixty seconds passed.

Ninety seconds.

Finally: “Command, this is Four. I’ve got him.”

The next two hours stretched Latham’s team to the breaking point. After leaving the one-way, Vorsalov headed southwest on Kirby Road, away from the city and back toward McLean. With Paschel in the lead, Latham juggled units until they were paralleling Vorsalov on side streets, invisibly boxing him in.

The Russian hadn’t forgotten the terrain. He was taking them on a grand tour of the city: Rock Creek Park, The Mall, Union Station, Arlington National Cemetery, Dupont Circle. He made unsignaled turns and U-turns, parked suddenly and ducked inside cafés, only to reappear sixty seconds later. At one point, he parked his car and took a taxi two blocks to the Reflecting Pool, where he sat on a bench and watched the Olds for ten minutes before walking back and driving away.

Randal reported in: Vorsalov was pulling into a convenience store on Georgia Avenue outside Howard University.

What’s he doing now? Latham wondered, then caught on: Howard University had 12,000 students, the majority of them African-American. It was a smart move. Gambling that any surveillance team would be predominantly white, Vorsalov had chosen a place where they would stand out.

“Paul, has Tommy been up front recently?” Tommy was one of the six black agents on the team.

“Not since Philly. No way he’s been made.”

“Have him pull into the store and get something to drink. I want to know what our boy’s doing.”

“I copy that,” Tommy answered.

Seven minutes later, they had their answer. While Tommy was deciding between a blueberry slushy and a Coke, Vorsalov used the pay phone, then left.

“Secure that phone,” Charlie ordered. “Be discreet, but nobody uses it.”

“Command, he’s turning northeast on Rhode Island.”

Latham consulted a directory, then dialed his cell phone. He got the main switchboard at Bell Telephone. He identified himself then said, “I need to speak to a supervisor. It’s urgent.”

“One moment, sir.”

A woman came on the line. “Agent Latham, my name is Marie Johnson. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Johnson, I need some information.” Latham gave her the number of the pay phone. “There was a call made there about four minutes ago. I need to know to where.”

“No problem. Hold for a minute.” It took four. “The call went to a bank of phones on the corner of California and Kalorama. It’s a sequenced bank.”

“Okay, hold on.” Latham got on the radio. “Paul, it’s California and Kalorama. Get somebody moving.”

“On our way.”

“Ms. Johnson, what’s that mean, a sequenced bank?”

“Calls to and from that bank are routed on a single trunk line. They don’t go to individual phones until they reach the bank.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“We can’t tell exactly which phone the call went to, and all six have been pretty busy in the last few minutes. Roughly twenty-six incoming and outgoing calls.”

“Smart sons of bitches.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Can you narrow that down, give us phones with incoming only?”

“Yes, but, it’ll take some time. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“I’d be grateful.” He gave her his cell phone number.

Vorsalov continued heading southeast. The car Randal sent to California and Kalorama reported nothing unusual at the phone booths.

After ten minutes of random driving, Vorsalov turned onto fifteenth, then swung west on Constitution into the heart of Capitol Hill.

“Passing Virginia Avenue,” Randal reported.

Latham checked his watch. Come on….

“Coming up on Roosevelt Bridge…. We’re over the bridge, heading north to the George Parkway.”

Latham traced the route on his map. Vorsalov was taking the bridge over the Potomac and to Teddy Roosevelt Island. Roosevelt Island… Latham thought, reviewing what he knew about it. Good place for a meeting; plenty of trails. An easy place to spot surveillance.

“I see him,” Randal called. “All units keep driving, nobody pull in. Command, he’s pulling into the Roosevelt Island parking lot. The only exit is northbound, so we’re setting up down the parkway. The median is blocked by a barrier. No way he can get across.”

“Roger,” said Latham. There were only two ways to reach Roosevelt Island, one from the parking lot, the other a pedestrian bridge crossing from Rosslyn Station. “Don’t forget Rosslyn, Paul.”

“It’s covered. We’re also collecting plate numbers from the lot.”

Now to find out who the Russian was meeting.

Vorsalov climbed out and stretched his legs. His muscles were sore. It felt good to be out of the car. He looked around. Most of the cars in the parking lot were from other states. Tourists with children. That would make it hard for watchers. Good. He started across the footbridge.

The last few hours had been grueling but satisfying. Just like the old days. His hands shook with excess adrenaline. God, how he missed this. He was safe, he decided. Even if by chance he’d been intercepted, he’d long since lost them. He knew the city too well and had played this game too long to be trapped.

He turned his attention to the island, picking out landmarks and trails from the guidebook. A ninety-acre game preserve, the guide said, named after Theodore Roosevelt. He skimmed his fingertip along the map until he found the trail he wanted.

He turned off the bridge and east onto the path. Time was critical now. He picked up his pace.

One mile south of the island, Latham’s command van sat in the visitor parking lot of Arlington National Cemetery. Ten minutes had passed since Vorsalov had parked. Latham’s cell phone buzzed. “Latham here.”

“Agent Latham, Marie Johnson here, from Bell—”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve got the information you requested. There were only three incoming calls to that bank of phones. One wasn’t answered, the other was a busy signal. The third was picked up. The call lasted just over a minute.”

“Great,” Latham said. “Was that phone used—”

“I thought you’d ask that. About fifty seconds after the first call came in, the phone was used again, this time for two minutes.” She gave him the number, a 202 area code, 333 prefix. Inside the city.

“Where—”

“The number is registered to Brown’s Boat Rental at Virginia and Rock Creek.”

Latham froze. He knew Brown’s. It lay on the east bank of the Potomac, not three hundred yards from Roosevelt Island.

Jesus. Vorsalov wasn’t meeting anyone. He was still dry-cleaning.

“Thanks, Ms. Johnson, you’ve been great.” Latham hung up and keyed the radio. “Command to Mobile One.”

“Go ahead.”

“Paul, get somebody back across the bridge. I want one car in the parking lot of Brown’s Boat Rental and two patrolling north and south on Rock Creek.”

“What’s going on?”

“Our boy’s making a run.”

Vorsalov’s ploy was a master stroke, Latham would later admit.

Vorsalov calls a partner at the booth on California and Kalorama, who then calls Johnson’s to confirm a boat is reserved and waiting on the island, a common request during tourist season. Meanwhile, Vorsalov crosses the bridge to Roosevelt, maneuvering any pursuers into a perfect bottleneck that would trap them on the west side of the Potomac with no quick way to get back across during noon rush hour.

Latham did the calculations: Six or seven minutes for Paul to reach Rock Creek Parkway, another two minutes to reach Brown’s. Add to that the ten minutes head start Vorsalov had, plus four minutes for him to paddle across the river…

It would be close.

Twenty minutes later, they had their answer.

Randal reported finding an abandoned canoe on a beach just south of the boat center. “Are we sure it was him?” Latham asked.

“Pretty much. One of the attendants saw him ditch the canoe and take off toward the GWU Metrorail stop. The description matches.”

Latham stared into space. He was numb. They’d worked so hard….

“Charlie, are you there? Should we—”

“No,” Latham said. “Forget it. He’s gone.”