End of Enemies by Grant Blackwood Page B

phone rang. “Holystone, Shiverick.”
    â€œWalter, it’s Leland.”
    â€œYou just caught me. I was about to head home.”
    â€œI’m sure Bev will enjoy the change. I’m landing at Andrews in a few minutes.”
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œNot sure. Just in case, call Ian and get him ready to travel.”
    â€œOkay.” Japan, Oaken thought. “I’ll get things rolling.”
    Japan
    It was shortly before noon when Tanner returned to the hotel. He found Camille at the pool, reclining in a chaise lounge in a black one-piece bathing suit, wide-brimmed beachcomber hat, and horn-rimmed sunglasses. She looked every bit the 1950s Hollywood starlet.
    â€œHello, sailor,” she said, lifting her sunglasses. “Running again, are we? Dinner is still on, I assume?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI was worried you would give up on me.”
    â€œNot a chance.”
    Tanner sat down and ordered lunch: seafood salad, kiwi, and iced tea. “Care to join me?”
    â€œI’ve already eaten, thanks. When you’re done, there are a few spots I couldn’t reach with the lotion.”
    Tanner smiled. Camille had the unique ability to sound mischievous, sexy, and innocent all at once. “My pleasure,” he said.
    As he ate, they chatted easily, and it felt like they’d known each other for years rather than days. She asked him about diving, the kinds of fish he saw, and whether there were any sharks. Sharks scared her, she said.
    â€œThey’re more frightened of us than we are of them. Most attacks are cases of mistaken identity.”
    â€œWhere did you learn so much about the ocean?”
    Tanner decided a half-truth was the best answer. “My family lived in Maine for a while. I earned extra money working a fishing charter.”
    Finished eating, Tanner sat on the edge of her chaise and unscrewed the cap of the suntan lotion. Camille rolled onto her stomach. He slid the suit’s straps off her shoulders and began smoothing lotion on her back.
    â€œThat feels good,” she murmured. “You have good hands.”
    Lying at his feet Tanner saw Camille’s towel and the card key to her room—the same number as before she left, one floor below his own. He picked up the card and slipped it in his sock.
    When he finished with the lotion, Camille was almost asleep. “I’m going to wash my hands,” he said. “Be right back.”
    â€œMm-mmm.”
    Tanner walked into the lobby and laid Camille’s card on the counter. “Any messages for me?”
    The attendant glanced at the number, retrieved a message from Camille’s box, and handed it to Tanner. He memorized the message—Stephan Karotovic, U.S. area code 212—then switched Camille’s card with his own.
    â€œExcuse me, this is for room four oh eight; I’m five oh eight.”
    â€œMy apologies, sir.” He returned Camille’s message to her box and checked Tanner’s. “No messages, sir.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Langley
    Leland Butcher was met in the lobby by an Office of Security escort, who took him up to the seventh floor. As the elevator doors parted, a man pushed his way inside. It took a moment for Dutcher to recognize Art Stucky.
    â€œHello, Art.”
    Stucky stared at him for a few seconds. “Leland. What brings you here?”
    â€œJust visiting.”
    Stucky smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Hmm.”
    They faced one another in silence. Finally Dutcher smiled and stepped off the elevator. As the doors closed behind them, the escort gave Dutcher an oblique glance.
    â€œOld friends,” Dutcher explained.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Dutcher hadn’t taken two steps into the DCI’s outer office when Ginny was out of her chair and running to hug him. However formal she was with Mason, she had a soft spot for Dutcher.
    â€œLeland, how are you!”
    â€œFine, Ginny, and