End of Enemies

39

Latham and Randal were reviewing the previous night’s stakeout reports from Greenbelt, Glen Echo, and the Marriott Key Bridge. “Looks like Vorsalov went to bed early,” said Randal. “The Arabs stayed up late playing cards and watching I Love Lucyreruns. How about Fayyad?”

“Straight home from the Marriott. No visitors, no outgoing calls. How about his mystery woman?”

“No luck. We only got half the license tags. We’re running them now.”

“Hmmpf… What’s this?” Latham said, turning a page. “The call into Fayyad’s place? Late last night, lasted fifty seconds. Here, listen to this… ‘Caller: You met with our friend? Fayyad: Yes. You approve of his plans? Caller: I do. You will assist him, I assume? Fayyad: If it is what you want.’” Latham looked up at Randal. “What do you make of that?”

“Don’t know.”

Latham turned to the report’s conclusion. “ ‘Voice analysis of caller indicates a Middle Eastern man, approximately fifty to sixty years of age, well-educated. Caller in position of authority. VA suggests significant stress. No significant background noise. Call traced to public telephone exchange in Nicosia, Cyprus.’”

“So what then?” asked Randal. “Vorsalov has taken over from Fayyad?”

“And Fayyad doesn’t like it. Something’s changed, Paul.”

“Like what?”

“Think about it: What’s Vorsalov do best? He runs agents.”

“Right. And Fayyad is a terrorist. So, what are they doing together?”

“They hired Vorsalov and Fayyad at the same time. Maybe Yuri started off as a consultant, and now he’s here, running the show. They wouldn’t bring him in for a simple terrorist op.”

“Not likely.”

“So maybe he’s here as a controller. If so, that means sooner or later he’ll have to start having some face-to-face meetings.”

Latham’s prediction turned out to be prophetic. That night he was sitting down to dinner with Bonnie when the phone rang. It was Randal. “You may have called it, Charlie. He’s moving.”

“Which one?”

“Clyde.” For brevity’s sake, they’d given Fayyad, the Arabs, and Vorsalov code names. Vorsalov was “Clyde.”

“Are we set up?

“For now. If he starts dry-cleaning, we might need more bodies.”

“I’m on my way.” Latham hung up, took a gulp of milk, and smiled at Bonnie. “Sorry, gotta go.”

“So I gather. More bad guys?”

“More bad guys.”

For the next hour, as Latham waited at headquarters and listened to the radio traffic, Vorsalov led them on yet another tour of Washington and its environs.

At 9:30 he left the Georgetown Pike, pulled into Great Falls Park, and parked beneath a giant oak. The park, though usually closed, was open for a Boy Scout night hike. The lot was full, 80 to a 100 cars.

“Smart boy,” Randal said. “Hiding in plain sight.”

“You said the park’s usually closed,” Latham said. “How do you know?”

“Charlie, I have a teenage girl. When I found out this place is a prime makeout spot, I did my research.”

“Ah, the joys of fatherhood. You’re on scene, Paul. What do you think?”

“If we mingle in, we might just get it covered.”

“Do it. I’m on my way.”

An hour later Latham was sitting with Randal on a fire road at the park’s edge. The surveillance teams reported Vorsalov was still in his car. “How’s our coverage?” asked Latham.

“Could be better. We can see cars coming in but not where they park.”

“Can we put anybody on the pike?”

“Too open.”

Another twenty minutes passed. Twenty-four cars entered the lot; sixteen left.

One of the surveillance teams called in: “Another car pulling in.”

Then a moment later: “Command, Clyde has just flashed his headlights.”

“This is it,” Latham said.

“Clyde is out of his car. Second subject is approaching.”

“Description,” Latham said.

“White male, midfifties. Medium height and build. They’re talking now.”

“Command, we’ve got another vehicle pulling to the shoulder on the pike.”

“Make and model?”

“Minivan, Chevy, looks like. Whoa! Both subjects are moving to it.”

“Shit!” Latham said. “Paul, get a car moving!”

“Command, they’re getting in… van is pulling away, moving fast.”

“License plate!”

“Negative, negative, can’t see it.”

Latham smacked the dashboard. “Goddamn it!” He should have expected Vorsalov would layer the meeting. Nothing the Russian did was one-dimensional.

“We might still catch up,” Randal said.

“No, they’re gone.” A mile down the pike there were dozens of offshoot roads.

“He’s good. I’ll give him that. Now what?”

“Search Vorsalov’s car, start taking plates, and hope we get lucky.”

On an isolated dirt track of the Leigh Mill Road, Vorsalov ordered the driver to pull over and take a walk, then joined Smith in the backseat. Smith’s face was pale, and his eyes darted wildly.

Vorsalov smiled blandly at him but said nothing.

Smith blurted, “What do you want? Why did we come out here? To kill me? Is that it? Well, I—”

“Why would I want to kill you, Senator?”

“He told me about you, how you do things. I’m warning you—”

“I have no intention of harming you, Senator. You have my word.”

“Then what do you want? I tried to get the information, I really did.”

“Perhaps you lack adequate motivation.”

“What’s that mean?”

Vorsalov handed Smith a slip of paper. “Does this address look familiar?”

Smith studied it. His mouth dropped open.

“Who does it belong to?” Vorsalov asked.

“A woman I know… a friend.”

“Your mistress. Her name is Suzie Donovan.”

“Kidnapping her won’t do you any good, you son of a—”

“Shut up.” Vorsalov produced a cell phone, dialed, then said, “Put her on. Miss Donovan? Have my men told you what to say? Good. Go ahead.” Vorsalov handed the phone to Smith, who listened for few seconds, then handed it back. Vorsalov hung up.

“She… she means nothing to me. You won’t get anything this way.”

“I think we will,” Vorsalov said. “She may mean nothing to you, and your wife may mean nothing to you, but your career, I think, means a great deal to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Senator, in the top left-hand drawer of your nightstand you keep a pistol, a thirty-eight-caliber Smith and Wesson, serial number 129475. It’s registered in your name. Have you seen it lately?”

“Oh God.”

“I thought not.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Vorsalov leaned forward. “This is how it will work. You will provide us the information we require in three days, or your mistress will be found shot to death… killed by your gun. You will not have an alibi. You will be prosecuted and then sent to prison. Quite simply, Senator, your life will be over.”

Latham and his team leaders were reviewing the night’s activity. The mood in the room was bleak. Once again, Vorsalov had bested them. It was only luck that had kept them in the game.

The Russian had returned to his hotel at 11:30; Fayyad had not left his condo since their meeting; and the Arabs were tucked away in the Greenbelt house.

“Unless anybody’s got anything else, that’s it,” Latham concluded. “We stay sharp and keep watching. Vorsalov’s had one meet; there’ll be a second.”

He dismissed them. Randal walked into the room. “Got a printout of the plates from tonight. Ninety-eight of them.”

Latham scanned the list, which showed the plate number, make, and the registered owner’s last name and initials. He was about to set it aside when he stopped suddenly.

“What is it, Charlie?”

“Smith,” Latham muttered. “H. B. J. Smith. Paul, is the library still open?”

“Yeah.”

“Go grab a Washington Who’s Who.”

Randal was back in five minutes. Latham rifled through the book, set it aside, then began paging through the Glen Echo surveillance log. He pulled out a photo and stared at it.

“Charlie, what is going on? What—”

“That’s her. Good God, that’s her. I thought she looked familiar, but—”

“Who?”

“Judith Smith. That’s Judith Smith!”

Latham was out of his depth, and he knew it. By six in the morning, they were in the director’s office. Present were Latham’s boss, the director of the FBI, the U.S. attorney, and the attorney general.

It took him thirty minutes to present the case, starting with the Delta bombing and ending with the previous night’s surveillance. When he laid out the final item, there was absolute silence in the room.

Finally, the director said, “So, in short, we’ve got a U.S. senator and his wife involved with a former KGB officer and a terrorist suspected of an aircraft bombing, both of whom appear to be sponsored by a Mideast terrorist group. Is that about it, Agent Latham?”

“Roughly, sir.

“How sure are you about this?”

“It all fits. I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

“Do we know what Vorsalov is asking for?” asked the attorney general.

“No, but we do know Smith’s been holding some fairly intensive IOC hearings.”

“How intensive?”

“We’d have to ask Langley, but rumor is he’s been pushing hard. Plus, we know Vorsalov’s operation is running at a pretty fast pace.”

“Have you got enough to make a case right now?” asked Latham’s boss.

“No. We need to connect Fayyad and Vorsalov to the extortion of Smith. We need it on tape. So far, all we’ve got is Judith Smith having an affair with a bad guy and the senator keeping rotten company.”

“Any attorney Smith hires would sink that like the Titanic” said the AG.

“What do you need to put this together, Charlie?”

Latham thought it over. “Two things. First, there’s no two ways about it: This is gonna get nasty. I need the backing to see it through to the end.”

The director smiled. “You don’t want to find yourself alone when the shit starts rolling downhill, is that it?”

“To be frank, yes, sir.”

“You’ll have my full support, whatever comes. And second?”

Before Latham could answer, Randal’s cell phone buzzed. Randal listened, then whispered to Latham.

“Gentlemen, it seems the decision has been made for us,” Latham said.

“What is it?” asked the director.

“Last night, when I stumbled onto the Smith angle, I asked the DCPD and the Alexandria Sheriffs to contact us if they got a call involving the senator or his wife. Paul just got word they’re responding to the Smiths’ home.”

The driveway was blocked by the two DCPD patrol cars and an ambulance. Latham flashed his badge to the officer at the door and walked inside.

On the steps above the landing, a paramedic was working on Judith Smith. Her eye was blackened and dried blood caked her chin. She saw him. “Oh, Charlie…”

“Are you all right, Judith?”

“I… I…” She began crying.

Latham looked at the paramedic and got a positive nod.

Randal called, “Charlie.”

Latham walked into the living room. Herb Smith was sitting in a recliner with a tumbler of scotch in his hand. His eyes were red and wild. “Who the fuck are you?” he slurred.

Latham showed his badge.

“Good for you. Now get the hell out. This is none of your business.”

“I’m afraid it is, Senator,” said Latham. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”