It was a good question. Tanner had felt certain Ohira’s markings on the chart had meant something, but now he wasn’t so sure. What did they have, really? A sunken World War II submarine, and a dead man’s insinuation that a nonexistent Takagi salvage ship had been lurking in the same area.
“I don’t know, Bear,” Tanner replied. “I don’t know.”
Back at the hotel, Tanner stopped at the front desk for messages. “Yes, sir,” the receptionist said. “One. From a woman. She did not leave her name.”
Tanner read: “Must postpone our date; called to office for urgent meeting.”
Inexplicably, Tanner felt a chill. How unusual was it for Sumiko to get a late-night summons to Takagi headquarters?
“What is it?” Cahil asked.
“Maybe nothing.”
Briggs walked into the deserted Tiki Lounge, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed Sumiko’s office number. He let it ring a dozen times and was about to hang up when the line clicked open.
“Hello?” Tanner said in Japanese.
Silence. Breathing in the mouthpiece.
“Hello?”
The line clicked dead.
His next call went to Inspector Ieyasu. He explained an acquaintance of his might be missing. They’d already checked her apartment and could get no information from the Takagi corporate office. As Tanner expected, Ieyasu only half bought the story but immediately agreed to look into it. He knew several officers in the prefect. He would have them drive by Takagi Headquarters.
Ieyasu called back an hour later. “Noboru and his security people were already there in force,” he said. “They tried to bar the police from entering, but they finally gave in.”
“And?”
“This friend of yours was a woman?”
“Yes.”
“What is her name?”
“Sumiko Fujita.”
“I’m sorry, Briggs. I’m so sorry. She was found dead in the parking lot.”
28
Upon hearing of Lemond’s impromptu tailing of Vorsalov, Latham promised to buy the Mountie a steak dinner. Upon further hearing Lemond had requested the Yarmouth constabulary canvass Nova Scotia’s only two departure points to the U.S. (the local airport and a ferry terminal) for any sign of the Russian, he upped the ante to a case of scotch. As it turned out, their luck was holding: Vorsalov had chosen the ferry.
Now, almost eight hours after Vorsalov had left Montreal, and with just an hour to spare, Latham and his thirty-agent team had arrived in this quaint town of 5,000 people and, with the help of the local police, quietly hijacked the marina area.
Latham sat inside his command van, watching the ferry terminal and listening to the radio chatter as the agents got into position. Through his binoculars he could see the Bluenose ferry edging past the breakwater. Beside him, Randal was donning his customs uniform. “Ready?” Latham asked.
“Ready.”
The churning in Yuri Vorsalov’s stomach had worsened with each passing mile and now, as the ferry’s bow slipped past the breakwater and into the harbor, he began to sweat. A gust of cold wind whipped across the deck and cooled his face.
How had this happened? he asked himself. What was he doing back here?
It was simple, of course. It was the lesser of three evils. Either come here and salvage this operation for the Arabs, live the rest of his life in a cave, or die.
Since going freelance Vorsalov had found it relatively easy to stay hidden in the underworlds of the Mideast, Africa, and the Mediterranean, but if he failed here, he would find himself persona non grata in those areas as well. That was, of course, providing he managed to stay alive at all.
Like it or not, this was his best course. Besides, how many times had he beaten the Americans at this game? He’d done it before and would do so again. He allowed himself a smile. He would be done and gone before they realized he was here.
Latham kept his eyes fixed on the two immigration checkpoints, each a small whitewashed shack through which the ferry’s passengers were funneled. He scanned each passenger’s face, then moved to the next. “Come on, where are you?”
There!
The Russian had aged, but there was no mistaking him. His hair had thinned, his face was more worn, but the eyes were the same flat, cold blue.
Latham keyed his radio. “Paul, I’ve got him: Gray trench, black garment bag.”
“Roger.”
On the dock, Randal began strolling that way. At the head of the quay, a second agent, Jim Stephans, moved to join him.
Vorsalov stepped forward in line. This was the time he hated most. Getting past customs was virtually the last hurdle. Movie portrayals aside, most spies are not captured in a wild shoot-out or car chase but rather as they enter a target country. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. But from where? Where would they—
From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a customs agent turn in his direction. Alarms went off in Vorsalov’s head. He scanned the crowds, searching for telltale signs of surveillance: shielded radios, averted eyes, movements out of sync with the crowds. If this was a trap, other agents would be converging.
Across the quay, the customs agent kept coming.
Vorsalov clutched his bag tighter.
Latham saw Vorsalov’s body language change. “Jim, breakoff,” he called. “He’s eyeballing you.”
On the quay, Stephans stopped, consulted his clipboard, then turned toward the other shack. Latham watched Vorsalov. After a full minute, the Russian’s posture eased, and he picked up his bag and stepped forward.
Latham exhaled. “All units, ease up. Our boy’s on a hair trigger.”
As Vorsalov cleared customs and walked into the tourist center, the FBI watchers began their ballet. What happened in these next few minutes would decide a lot. As at Mirabel, Vorsalov had several transportation choices — taxi, shuttle bus, or rental car — all of which would require adjustments on their part.
“Command, subject is inside,” radioed Pearson, the agent in the tourist center.
Three minutes passed. Everything now hinged on the single word from Pearson. It came a minute later: “Command, Pearson. Rental.”
Thank God, Latham thought.
This was a break for which they’d been hoping. Doubting the Russian planned on staying in Bar Harbor, they’d posted an agent at the terminal’s only rental car desk.
“Command, subject is heading for the parking lot.”
Latham turned his binoculars to the hedge-lined rental lot and picked out the blue Ford Taurus. He froze. On the ground below the bumper was a square black box.
“Paul, where are you?”
“The east lot.”
“The transmitter has—” Latham broke off. Vorsalov was exiting the tourist center and starting toward the Taurus. “The transmitter’s dropped off, Paul. Stand by. Command to Pearson.”
“Go ahead.”
“Catch the subject, stall him!”
“Roger.”
“Paul, get moving—”
“On my way.”
Latham kept his attention divided between Vorsalov, who was being hailed from behind by Pearson, and the Taurus. Behind it, crawling through the hedges, came Paul Randal. Pearson was offering Vorsalov a brochure. Latham changed channels on his radio so he could listen.
“… I’m sorry, sir, I’m sort of new at this. I forgot to offer you supplemental insurance on your vehicle—”
“I’m not interested,” Vorsalov replied. “I must go now.”
“One more thing, sir.”