End of Enemies

50

Tanner’s days became a blur of lectures and mock-ups. As Stan put it, “Learning something is one thing. Doing it on the ground over and over until it comes naturally is another.”

A series of planned exercises tested his cover story, language skills, and surveillance techniques, while others were impromptu affairs, one of them a late-night “kidnapping” that ended with a frighteningly real interrogation that took Tanner straight back to that Beirut basement. As the memories came flooding in, he found himself fighting to keep a grip on his emotions.

The afternoon of the last day, Stan pronounced Tanner “ready as you’re gonna get,” toasted him with a cup of coffee, then gave him an overview of what he could expect once he was in-country.

The previous few days had seen increased factional fighting in Beirut, Stan reported. Several artillery duels and dozens of skirmishes had erupted along the city’s Green Line, which had officially been abolished three years before but still unofficially separated Muslim West Beirut from Christian East Beirut. Mortar attacks had been reported in several districts and the Beirut Airport, though still operating, had curtailed its flights by 20 percent, a sure sign all was not well.

In the Bekka Valley, Syrian troops appeared to be gearing up for the upcoming rotation, which was expected within ten days, depending on when the relieving force wrapped up its exercises in the desert.

“And we ain’t helping much,” Stan said. “The two battle groups in the area are making everyone nervous, including Iraq, who’s getting antsy about Iran playing so close to the border. But I suspect that’s why Iran’s doing it.”

It was relatively quiet along the southern Lebanon-Israeli border and the Golan Heights, Stan continued. Relatively quiet for the Mideast, that was. “Stick to the central sections of Beirut and don’t wander along the Green Line, or you’re likely to find yourself being shot at,” Stan concluded.

Tanner nodded. He knew all this, but hearing it again was reassuring. He felt himself slipping back into the Beirut mind-set, where chaos was a way of life and on opposite sides of any given street you can see a posh cafe and a demolished building.

“My best advice is to be anonymous.”

“That could be difficult,” Tanner replied. “I’ll be short on time.”

“So I gathered. Do what you gotta do, but remember: Beirut can change overnight. You go to bed on a Monday, and Tuesday morning you’re at war. I’ve lived and breathed Lebanon for twenty years, and I’ll tell you this: Right now the average Beiruti citizen is stocking up on canned peaches and water.”

After leaving Perry, Briggs drove to Indian Head, where a phone call from the guard shack brought Cahil to meet him. Bear pulled up in a Suburban and jumped out. He was dressed in black BDUs, and his face was streaked with camouflage paint.

“Welcome to Camp Not-on-the-Map,” he said as Tanner climbed in.

“It hasn’t changed much,” Tanner replied with a smile. Indian Head felt like home. Located a few miles north of Quantico on the Potomac, Indian Head once specialized in NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) training. Now the 200-acre backwater base was used by SEALs and Marine Force Recon to conduct exercise assaults on oil platforms and ships.

Cahil stopped beside a pier. Anchored a hundred yards offshore was an old, rust-streaked freighter roughly the size of Tsumago. Tanner could see several black-clad figures crawling over her superstructure. The muffled booms of concussion grenades and the chatter of assault rifles drifted across the water. Down the pier stood a group of trainers armed with bullhorns and stopwatches.

Tanner asked, “How many on the team?”

“A full platoon… sixteen. We just heard Tsumago is still headed north. Plan is, we’re going to take her near the Canary Islands.”

“Two more days, then. Will it be enough time?”

“I think so. We’re working it hard.” Bear laughed. “Hell, I can see the layout in my sleep.”

“What’ve you told Maggie?” Tanner asked.

“That I’d be out of town for a few days. She’s figured it out, though.”

And she won’t say a word, Tanner thought. It was a silly superstition he and Bear shared, and one that had rubbed off on Cahil’s wife. Don’t talk about the worst and it won’t happen.

Tanner had already begun what he’d come to call “the narrowing.” Bit by bit, his mind was discarding excess baggage and focusing on the essentials: Get in, get the job done, get out. Grocery shopping, doing laundry, friends, family… he could feel them all slipping away. It was a hugely selfish process but a necessary one. It was even harder for Bear and his family, Tanner knew.

A motor whaleboat pulled alongside the pier and a figure hopped out.

“Sconi Bob,” Tanner said.

“The one and only,” said Cahil.

Jurens jogged up to the Suburban. Tanner rolled down the window and stuck out his hand. Jurens shook it. “Briggs, how’re things?”

“Good, Sconi, how about you?” Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a shaved head, a goatee, and an easy smile.

“Damned fine. Aside from having to put up with ol’ Mama Bear here.”

“He tells me you’ve got a good team.”

“The best. We’re ready. Two more days is just icing on the cake.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably everyone. Slud’s here, Johnson, Smitty, Wilts…”

Tanner nodded. He’d worked with all of them; good men. The Navy spec war community was a close-knit family, and he often missed it.

“Listen, Briggs, good to see ya. Coming, Bear?”

“In a minute.”

They watched Jurens hop back into the whaleboat and head back toward the freighter. After a long silence, Cahil asked, “When do you go?”

“Tonight.”

Cahil stared at the windshield. “CNN says things are heating up over there.”

“So I heard.”

“Listen, bud, just make sure you watch yourself….”

Tanner smiled. “I will, Bear. You too. Come on, drive me back.”

Tanner’s next stop was his parents’ home. Part of him knew he was making the rounds, saying his good-byes, but he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Over a dinner of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, he told them he’d be gone for a while. No, nothing to worry about, just business. Yes, he’d call if he got a chance. Henry simply nodded; his mother excused herself and wandered into the kitchen.

Briggs wanted to ask his father about Azhar, but he didn’t dare. Henry would make the connection, and he loved Abu as much as Briggs did. If the worst came to pass, how could Tanner ever explain what he’d done?

Finally, he said good-bye, shook his father’s hand, hugged his mother, accepted a plate of leftovers, and left.

Waiting for him in the Operations Center were Mason, Coates, Dutcher, and Art Stucky. Coates handed Tanner his passport, wallet, and duffel bag containing clothes and toiletries, all of Canadian manufacture.

“You’re backstopped as a freelance writer working on a piece for a Montreal-based travel agency,” said Coates. “You already know the cover particulars and fallback stories. If you’re pressed, you’ve got two to work with.”

Tanner smiled to himself. Pressed was spook-speak for interrogated. A fallback story is designed to convince captors they have extracted the truth from their prisoner, when in fact they’ve simply uncovered yet another layer of the lie.

Coates continued. “You’ll have two cell phones, one primary and one backup. They’re similar to the ones you had in Japan. Same daily changing crypto, same rotating frequency. If you’re compromised, press star zero one three; the internal software will be scrambled.” Next, Coates showed Tanner how to connect the phone to a modified Palm Pilot. “You’ve got a dedicated MilStar satellite for the next ten days and priority access to GPS.”

The Palm Pilot would perform two functions: One, it would allow Tanner to encode reports and send them via burst transmission to the MilStar, which would bounce them down to Stucky in Tel Aviv for routing to Langley; and two, it would supply tracking information from the Global Positioning System.

“Questions?” asked Coates.

“None,” said Tanner.

Coates and Mason shook his hand and left. Dutcher took him aside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Travel safe. I’ll see you when you get back. Dinner’s on me.”

“Deal.”

Dutcher nodded at Stucky, then left.

When the door shut and they were alone, Stucky said, “Small world, huh?”

“How so?”

“You working for me. Ironic.”

Tanner gave him a hard stare. “Let’s get something straight, Art: You don’t like me; I don’t like you. I can live with that. But if you can’t do your job, say so now.”

“I can do my goddamned job. I don’t need you telling me—”

“Good. And I’ll do mine, and we’ll get the job done.”

Stucky chuckled; his teeth were nicotine-yellow. “Suit yourself. Come on, I’ll show you the comms.”

An hour later, the center was empty except for Mason. Coates, Dutcher, and a lone technician. “When does Stucky land?” Dutcher asked Coates.

“Four hours before Tanner. Shin Bet will meet him at Ben-Gurion. The fly arrived this morning, their time.”

Dutcher looked at Mason and found himself wondering if the DO knew about Stucky. As much as Dutcher liked Mason, he knew the DCI was grimly practical. If Stucky was the right man for the job, his past might not matter — especially given the stakes.

The phone rang. Coates snapped it up, listened for a moment, then hung up. He turned to the group. “Tanner’s airborne.”