“Can you find that?”
“I think so,” Zerkel said. “Is there anything else going to Guerin in this cycle?” he asked Sutherland.
“No.”
“I can find them.”
“What about security?”
“A night watchman,” Sutherland said. “Take my card. It'll get you through the gate. Just get out of here now.”
Mueller nodded. “Very well,” he said. He shot the man in the face, then he shot the woman in the forehead. “What do you think about that?” he said.
A small child cried something from the back of the house, and Zerkel flinched.
“Wait outside in the car, Louis,” Mueller said. “I'll be right out.”
Â
“You can't fight them by yourself,” McGarvey said.
It was late. They'd come back to her apartment where she made them a steak and salad. Afterward they'd talked about her past, about growing up in Detroit, being raised by her brother Newton, about coming into the airline industry with him, about her brief affair with David Kennedy, and finally about the night her apartment had been broken into.
“It has nothing to do with personalities,” McGarvey said.
“What then?”
“They don't care who or what you are. At this point there's little or nothing you could do to hurt them. But if you got in their way they'd destroy you as easily as they would swat a fly.”
“They came in here and violated my life. It was the same thing as rape. According to you, they're responsible for the crash in '90 and now this one. All those people dead. Are we supposed to forget them?” She looked tired, used up, washed out, and very vulnerable.
“That's why I was hired,” McGarvey said.
“I don't know if I can accept that.”
“I could have you arrested.”
“You've said that before.”
“I could call your brother and ask for his help.”
“Don't threaten me,” she said tiredly. Her hand shook as she raised the wine glass to her lips. “I'm not going to listen to you any longer. Leave me alone.”
“I can't,” McGarvey said.
Dominique looked out the windows at the Kennedy Center, her profile toward McGarvey. She turned her head to look at him. Her skin glowed as if she were caught in subtle stage lighting. “Why?”
This moment had been coming since the first day he'd met her. “Because I care what happens to you.”
She wanted to laugh. He could see it in the expression on her face. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to keep you out of harm's way.”
“A great movie title,” she said.
McGarvey went to her, took the wine glass and set it aside, and held her in his arms. For just a second she stiffened, but then she folded against him.
“Do you have someplace to go?” he asked. “Someplace where no one would think to look?”
She looked up at him and nodded. “But I don't know if I can just walk away from this.”
He kissed her. This time there was no hesitation, no holding back. She responded as if she were a starving woman at a banquet table, her entire body shivering with need.
They undressed each other where they stood in front of the tall windows, and he lifted her up and entered her, her legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts crushed against his chest, her lips kissing his mouth, his face, his neck.
She was tight, her body compact and in perfect proportion, a dancer's physique, and they fit together well. He stepped back and lowered her to the carpet, their movements against each other in unison.
“I wanted you from the start,” she said.
Â
Getting inside InterTech's sprawling facility was easier than Mueller thought it would be. They drove through the unattended rear gate that opened with Sutherland's security card and parked in the shadows a few yards east of the loading dock.
Almost all of the company's sensitive work involved advanced computer programming and applications. As a
result its most sophisticated security measures were geared toward protecting its computer system from unauthorized incursions. The company's mainframe was protected around the clock with armed guards, advanced electronic locks, and high-resolution, low-lux, closed-circuit television monitors. Shipping and receiving, however, was protected only by security-card-operated locks and an armed night watchman, unless Sutherland had been lying and Zerkel mistaken.
They purchased a plastic five-gallon gas can from a truck stop north of San Leandro, and in Oakland Mueller sent Zerkel on foot to get the container filled.
With the car windows down Mueller listened for several seconds, but there wasn't much to be heard except for traffic sounds from nearby Central Avenue. “Give me a minute to get inside and take care of the guard, then bring the gasoline.”
Zerkel's head bobbed once. He was nervous but holding together. Both brothers had a surprising tenacity.
Mueller mounted the loading dock, and with the silenced automatic in one hand used Sutherland's card to open the steel security door. He left it ajar. A narrow vestibule opened to a small office with a couple of desks, beyond which was the shipping and receiving warehouse. A large black man, dressed in a security guard's uniform, came from the back.
“What're you doing here tonight?” the guard said, but when he realized that Mueller wasn't the person he thought he was he grabbed for his gun.
Mueller shot the man in the chest, knocking him down but not killing him.
“Shit, shit.” The guard frantically grappled with his holster, trying to get the pistol loose. He looked up as Mueller loomed overhead, and his eyes bulged.
Mueller shot the man once in the forehead, then clicked the safety on his pistol and stuffed it in his belt. He took the guard's flashlight, and by the time Zerkel came in he'd found what he took to be the fourteen heat monitor/alarm subassemblies. They were loaded on a
pallet near the service door, each packed in a cardboard box about thirty inches long and wide and about eight inches deep.
“Is this what we're looking for?” he asked when Zerkel joined him.
“It looks like it.”
“Make sure,” Mueller said. He opened the gas can and, starting in one corner, splashed gasoline over everythingâcardboard cartons of parts, drums of cleaning and etching chemicals, the office area, and the guard's body.
“This is part of it,” Zerkel called out. He had one of the boxes open.
“What's missing?”
“The harness and frame. They must be assembled elsewhere. This is just the monitor. But it'll do for now.”
“Put it in the trunk of the car and start the engine.”
Zerkel left, and Mueller splashed the last of the gasoline over the pallet, holding the remaining thirteen heat monitor subassemblies, dribbling a trail back to the door.
He waited until Zerkel had the car started and turned around, then lit a book of paper matches, tossed them in the warehouse, and slammed the door.
T
he extraordinary events of the past few days were testament to the power of Sokichi Kamiya.
Lieutenant Commander Seiji Kiyoda, dressed in an immaculate white kimono, sat cross-legged on a raised teak platform in the sleeping quarters of his home. The night was quiet. The children were gone, and yesterday he'd sent Moriko and the house staff away.
Better to be alone now. Moriko was a traditional wife. She understood things without lengthy explanations.
From where he sat, Kiyoda could see the Yokosuka harbor, the
Samisho,
still at her berth, still bathed in harsh lights, still guarded around the clock.
Forty-eight hours ago he'd been quietly released from prison where he awaited trial on a charge of treason. The charge stood, but he was an honorable man who would be allowed to take his confinement at home where he was to consider himself under house arrest.
For the first twenty-four hours armed guards were posted at his front gate. Last night a car had come for them, and no replacements had been sent.
Since the riots downtown and in Tokyo, his story had been dropped from the newspapers and television. It was as if the incident in the Tatar Strait had never happened. As if he had simply dropped off the face of the earth. Or, as if he had never existed. All of it was utterly fantastic, leaving him with a feeling of fatalism. He wanted his
sensei.
He wanted his boat and his crew, and he wanted the freedom of the sea. More than anything he wanted to press the fight for Nippon's rightful place in the new world order.
But he needed patience. Kamiya had many plans, many purposes. Kiyoda felt a sense of awe, thinking about his mentor.
Kamiya-san
was probably the most important man for Japan's future since Mishima, and since the Emperor Hirohito himself. He had brought Kiyoda this far, and he would not forget his faithful.
For now, Kiyoda would remain here, at peace with himself in the struggle. Content in the knowledge that forces beyond his meager understanding were at work. Content to sit in the still of an evening and watch over his boat.
It was difficult, Kiyoda decided. Almost impossible not to act. At times it was as if a billion points of light danced in his head, creating a pressure so intense, so unbearable that he could not stand it any longer. But each time he found himself at the brink of some irrational
act, he stepped away from the precipice, all the stronger for it.
Something moved on the quay where the
Samisho
was berthed. Kiyoda slowly came out of his contemplative state and focused on what was happening. Two pairs of headlights moved away from the submarine. As the first vehicle passed under the streetlights he could see that it was a truck, possibly a troop transport. Moments later the second truck passed beneath the lights.
Kiyoda got to his feet and stepped outside to the broad balcony. Something was going on.
The strong lights that bathed the
Samisho
were suddenly extinguished. In one moment the submarine and the dock at which she was secured were visible, in the next they had disappeared.
A signal? Was it possible? Kiyoda crossed his sleeping chamber and in the corridor lifted the telephone to his ear. As before there was no dial tone. It was part of his isolation. But something was happening to his boat and her crew.
Returning to his sleeping quarters, he threw off his kimono and got dressed in winter blues. He contemplated the American military Beretta 9 mm automatic in its leather holster and web belt, safe in its drawer. A weapon is only as deadly as the man's will to use it.
Looking over his shoulder he could see out the broad sliding doors. The
Samisho
was still lost in darkness, while all around her the city of Yokosuka sparkled and lived. The U.S. Seventh Fleet went about its business as conqueror. No matter what colored glasses were used to look at the American naval presence here, no mistake could be made about its purpose. It was to keep Japan in her place of subservience. More specifically to keep the MSDF at bay.
Kiyoda strapped the pistol on his hip and hurried down the corridor to the entry hall. His XO Lieutenant Minori appeared out of the darkness in the front courtyard.
“Kan-cho,
we have come for you. It is time to go,” Minori called urgently.
Kiyoda's heart hammered as if he had just run up ten flights of stairs. “What is happening to my boat, Ikuo?” he said, joining his officer.
“I have a car. I'll brief you on the way. But she's ours again.”
“Are we ready for sea?”
“Hai, kan-cho.
We have need of only one thing.”
“What is that?” Kiyoda asked as they hurried out to the car.
“Our captain,” Minori said.
Kiyoda's heart wanted to burst with pride. With a crew like his, he could go anywhere in the world, vanquish any foe, meet any challenge. And they would. Starting this night.
Â
“Is that Sam Varelis?” McGarvey asked.
The NTSB investigator he'd been talking to glanced over at a bull-necked man standing alone by the outline of the port wing chalked on the hangar floor. There was a small but growing array of parts laid out within the lines.
“That's right. He's chief investigating officer on this incident. Know him?”
“Sure do,” McGarvey said, and he walked over. Varelis had his ever-present unlit cigar clamped at the corner of his mouth. McGarvey had never seen him light up, and once when he'd asked about it, Sam growled that only idiots smoked. He'd been senior to McGarvey in operations at Langley, and his had been one of the few voices raised in protest when McGarvey had been fired.
Varelis turned. “I wondered when you were going to say hello.”
McGarvey shook his hand. “Long time, Sam. How's Washington treating you?”
“Tolerably. You?”
McGarvey shrugged. “I'll live.” He motioned toward the wing outline. “Any early conclusions?”
“Overheat busted up Rolls's ceramic blades and the engine disintegrated.”
“Same as '90?”
“That's what my people tell me.”
“Any consideration being given to the possibility of sabotage?”
Varelis eyed McGarvey thoughtfully. “When I heard that Guerin had hired you, I was a little surprised, Mac. I couldn't imagine what the hell they needed your services for.”
“How about now?”
“I still can't think what you're doing here.”
McGarvey glanced at the wing outline. “Not much left.”
“No blast marks, no external damage, nothing on the flight recorders to indicate anything malfunctioned. Every system aboard this airplane was working within its parameters.”
“But it went down.”
“Rolls is sending one of its engines directly off the line for us to test. We'll know better then.”
“Rolls did that in '90, and Guerin's planning on sending AOG teams out to every P522 in service to replace every single engine.”
“Something will show up.”
“It didn't seven years ago.”
“Our methods are more sophisticated now.”
“By any chance was there an extra passenger aboard this flight?”
Varelis looked sharply at him. “That was a fatality on the ground, Mac. But to answer your question, no, we found no extra body parts this time. Now, if you've got something to say, say it and let me do my job. I'm busy.”
“I think both planes were sabotaged.”
“By whom, and for what reason?”
“By the Japanese to ruin Guerin.”
Varelis nodded tightly. “There've been a few rumors floating around. For what it's worth, I hope you're wrong, because if you are right we're all going to be in deep shit.”
“I think we already are, Sam.”
“Watch yourself. There's a lot of money involved
here. Serious international money. National debt, balance of trade, all that.”
“Have you heard something?”
Varelis shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“I'd like to keep on top of this.”
“It's a two-way street.”
“That it is,” McGarvey said, and he walked back to the office trailer set up in the hangar. Kennedy and Socrates were coming out.
“We're leaving for Portland this afternoon at three,” Kennedy said. “Al flew back last night. Do you have anything for me to tell him?”
“Maybe this afternoon. Can I hitch a ride with you?”
“Of course,” Kennedy said. “How did your meeting with JAL go yesterday?” His patience was worn thin. He looked haggard. They all did.
“It went okay. Does Vasilanti still want to press the fight?”
Kennedy nodded.
“I have a couple of things to take care of in town before we leave. I'll brief you on the way out.”
“Better yet, I'll arrange a meeting in Portland. I think it's time that we lay all the cards on the table.”
“That might not be a bad idea, because you people are going to have to make some hard decisions.”
“Don't I know it,” Kennedy said glumly.
Â
On the way back to his hotel, McGarvey stopped at a gas station outside Arlington and telephoned Dominique's office. The secretary told him that Ms. Kilbourne was out of the city for several days and perhaps as long as a week. No, she did not know where Ms. Kilbourne could be reached, but she did leave a message that Mr. McGarvey was to contact Mr. Arimoto Yamagata at Japan Air Lines as soon as possible.
As a precaution, McGarvey called Dominique's apartment and left a message on her machine that he would be in Portland sometime this evening. “If anything comes up, give me a call.”
Next, he telephoned Phil Carrara at CIA headquarters, catching the DDO just as he was heading upstairs to lunch with Lawrence Danielle.
“I'm leaving for Portland this afternoon, but in the meantime I need some information about a Japanese national working for Japan Air Lines here in Washington.”
“I don't know if I can help, Kirk.”
“His name is Arimoto Yamagata. He claims to be a special representative of JAL's president, but he was a little vague about what he was doing here in the States.”
“The name doesn't ring a bell. Have you met him?”
“I asked for a loan in exchange for exclusive purchase rights to some airplanes. He didn't turn me down, but my guess is that he either works for MITI or for an organization called Mintori Assurance.”
“Jesus,” Carrara said.
“Check with your friends at the Bureau. See if he shows up on any of their lists.”
“I'll see what I can do,” the DDO said. “But something else has come up. Do you remember Phillipe Marquand, Paris?”
“Action Service.”
“That's right. He's asked for help.”
“Is it related?”
“No reason to think so, Kirk, but your name came to mind. A former Stasi officer who was involved a few years ago in Paris when the Swissair flight was brought down might be here in the Washington area.”
McGarvey's grip tightened on the telephone. He still carried a lot of painful memories. “Who?”
“Bruno Mueller. What can you tell me about him?”
“He was a mechanic. One of the best. He worked for the BND for a few years, and even came to Langley for a few months. He should be in your files.”
“He is,” Carrara said. “Did you ever come up against him?”
“No. But I'm reasonably sure he's heard of me. Has he come to settle old scores?”
“Unknown, Kirk. Marquand's people picked up the trail of someone who might be an old friend not only of Mueller, but also of Edward R. Reid.”
“Should I know that name?”
“He's a Washington insider. Former deputy undersecretary of state for economic affairs. He puts out a newsletter called the
Lamplighter
that at the moment is calling for the disarmament of Japanese military forces before we get into another war with them. Makes you wonder why Reid is connecting with Bruno Mueller and getting help from a former BND general whom the French think might have worked for the Stasi.”
“It wouldn't be pleasant,” McGarvey said, a part of his mind reaching for something, some memory, some bit of forgotten information.
“No,” Carrara said.
“Anything else?”
“Not for now,
compar,
but as soon as I come up with something I'll call. How long will you be in Portland?”