End of Enemies

62

“They’ve made contact,” Dick Mason said, walking into the Oval Office.

The president said, “How?”

“A goddamned cell phone call to the Jerusalem Post.”

Mason slid a CD into the player on the coffee table and pressed Play. The voice spoke Arabic-accented English. “Attention government of Israel…”

“Interesting he chose English,” said Talbot. “Who—”

“Audio says it’s al-Baz,” Mason replied.

“… this is the Arab Liberation Command speaking. By now you know we are holding one hundred Israeli prisoners of war. Currently they are safe and unharmed aboard our ship, which is en route to your shores.

“Our demands are as follows: In exchange for the safe return of our prisoners, the government of Israel will fully and immediately cede the West Bank and Gaza Strip territories to Palestinian authority. Furthermore, these territories will be formally recognized by the government of Israel and the United Nations as states of a sovereign nation. These demands are not open to negotiation.

“Any attempt to attack, board, or otherwise molest this ship will be considered an act of aggression and will be responded to with maximum retribution. In addition, the passage of any military unit of any nation within twenty nautical miles of this ship will result in the execution of ten prisoners.

“Once this vessel is safely docked in Tel Aviv Harbor and Israeli forces — both political and military — have fully withdrawn from Palestine territories, and once the United Nations has taken steps to ensure there will be no more interference by Israel or its allies in Palestinian concerns, the Arab Liberation Command will release unharmed its remaining prisoners.

“In conclusion, the Arab Liberation Command will offer a demonstration of its resolve. You will dispatch an unaccompanied, unarmed helicopter from Palermo to this vessel’s position by no later than noon, Palermo time. This helicopter will contain one pilot and a two-person news crew with a video camera. If this demand is not met, we will execute ten prisoners.

“Make no attempt to contact this vessel. That is all.”

Mason switched off the player. “The Israelis have managed to suppress it, but that won’t last for long. They’re handling the helicopter. We’re monitoring the Iraqi response, but it could go either way. Even if this is a Syrian operation, Saddam might be inclined to go along for glory’s sake.”

“Interesting there was no mention of the bomb,” said Cathermeier.

“They’re holding it as a bargaining chip,” replied Talbot.

“I disagree,” said Dutcher. “If they plan to use it, why announce it? Why let the Israelis prepare? For all al-Baz knows, it’s still a secret.”

“Good point,” said Mason. “That exclusion zone is a smart move.”

“Why?” asked the secretary of state.

Cathermeier replied, “It guarantees the story will get out. To maintain that kind of zone, we’re going to have to surround Tsumago. By morning, the whole world will know about this.”

“Why only twenty miles, though? Why not farther out?”

“It’ll let them keep an eye on the escorts, but it’s far enough they’ll have plenty of warning before an attack.”

The president looked at Dutcher. “Dutch, what about your two men?”

“Cahil is trying to locate the bomb. As for Tanner…” He glanced at Mason and saw nothing on the DCI’s face. There were only a few people who could have burned Tanner, and Mason was one of them. Would Dick do such a thing? Either way, he couldn’t afford to tip his hand. “As of his last transmission, no luck. Asseal’s been taken, but given the chaos in Beirut, tracking him is going to be tough.”

“We’re just about out of options,” said the president. “If an invasion is coming, we’ve got no way to stop it, and we sure as hell can’t back out. The whole region would crumble.”

No one spoke. Dutcher knew the president was facing a terrible decision, and in this case there were no lesser evils from which to choose. Whichever way he went, lots of people were going to die.

“Gentlemen, I’ve been talking with the Israeli prime minister. We’ve reached an understanding. However unlikely, if we manage to confirm the bomb is not aboard, this will be treated as a hostage situation. It will be handled by the Israelis.

“If there’s any doubt about the bomb, or we get confirmation, Tsumago won’t be allowed within Israel’s twelve-mile limit. Hostages or not, she will be sunk. If that becomes necessary, I’ve decided that we will carry out the attack.”

Talbot blurted, “Mr. President, that would be political suicide! With the election next year—”

“This isn’t about politics, Jim. This is our mess. Our responsibility. I won’t ask the Israelis to kill a hundred of its own citizens and cause the worst environment catastrophe in history. I won’t do it.”

Dutcher felt a wave of admiration for the president. He was ignoring political considerations and simply doing the right thing. At what price, though? Talbot was right: If the worst came to pass, the president would be finished — as a leader and as a man.

“This is my decision,” the president continued. “There will be no more discussion. I’ve asked General Cathermeier to put together a plan. Go ahead, General.”

“The unit we’ve chosen will be on station in three hours,” said Cathermeier. “The moment Tsumago crosses Israeli’s territorial boundary, we can put her on the bottom in less than two minutes.”

Safir walked into the cafe, saw Camille in the corner booth, and sat down.

“Did you reach Briggs’s people?” she asked.

Safir nodded. “They asked me to try to find him.”

“Do they know about me?”

“No. It is against my better judgment, but I said nothing.” Camille had told Safir what she was; she suspected it was only his loyalty to Tanner that kept him from running.

“Safir, I know it’s hard, but you have to believe me: I’m doing this for Briggs, not for my country. My people don’t even know I’ve been in touch with him.”

Safir considered this. “They may kill you for such a thing.”

“I know.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“As do I. He is a good friend. So what do we do?”

Deep inside the ship, Saul and Bernice sat on either side of Sludowski, who lay coughing and shivering. In addition to numerous cuts and bruises, the young man had been shot twice, once in the thigh and once in the lower back. This wound worried Saul most

Bernice touched Slud’s forehead. “He’s burning up, Saul.”

“I know. He’s bleeding inside.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“He needs surgery, Bernice. There’s nothing I can do here.”

“He’s so young.”

“Yes.” He was almost the same age as their own son. Weinman felt a wave a sadness. Would they ever see their family again?

He stood up. “Wait here, Bernice.”

He made his way to the door and pounded on it. “Hello! Hello out there! Please, we have a very sick man here!”

To Weinman’s surprise, the bolt clicked back and the door swung open. A man with a handlebar mustache was standing in the doorway.

“Thank God,” Saul said. “The man there, he is very ill. He needs help.”

The man nodded to the guards, who put down their rifles and pushed past Weinman. They marched through the space, kicking and shouting at passengers too slow in moving. When they reached Bernice, they shoved her aside, lifted Sludowski, and began dragging him toward the door.

“Be careful, please,” said Weinman. “He—”

“Do not concern yourself with him,” said the man.

“He’s very sick. He needs surgery.”

“He will receive the appropriate treatment, old man. I suggest you concern yourself with your own safety.”

With nothing to do during daylight hours, Cahil listened to the waves pound the hull. In the distance he heard a faint thumping. He strained to hear. The sound increased until he recognized it: helicopter rotors. He climbed up the ladder, cracked the hatch, and peered out. A trio of men stood on the forecastle. At their head stood Mustafa al-Baz.

The beat of rotors grew louder until a white-and-blue-striped helicopter stopped in a hover off the port railing. Leaning from the door were two men, one holding a video camera, the second a microphone.

“What the hell…” Cahil whispered.

Al-Baz gestured at someone out of Cahil’s view. Seconds later, two crewmen walked forward, dragging a man between them. Slud! He was badly beaten and barely conscious. They dropped him, then reached down and jerked him to his knees. Slud swayed from side to side, head lolling as he squinted up at the helicopter.

Then Cahil realized what was happening. No, Christ, please don’t…. He drew the Glock from his holster. He counted targets: Five, all armed, the closest was forty feet away. He gripped the hatch and readied himself. Then stopped.

Even if he survived and managed to get Slud overboard, what then? What about the bomb? How many lives depended on his staying aboard and out of sight?

Even as all these thoughts raced through Cahil’s brain, he watched al-Baz draw his pistol, step forward, and place it against Slud’s temple.

No!

The pop sounded like a firecracker. Slud’s head snapped sideways, and he toppled onto the deck.