“Where'd that come from?”
“An old friend over at Langley. But some of that is guesswork.”
“Was the crash an accident?”
“NTSB is still working on it, but there are some similarities to a crash in 1990, same type of Guerin airplane, same type of malfunction. Nothing was found at that time.”
“Go on.”
“A night watchman was killed last night at Guerin's research and development facility outside Portland. The chief of security for the company thinks the Japanese might have had something to do with it.”
“The Japanese again,” Wood said.
“The French have asked for help finding Bruno Mueller and Karl Schey, both of whom probably worked for the East German Secret Service. There is a possible connection between them and Reid, and a definite connection between Mueller and McGarvey.”
Wood was silent for a moment. “Our initial pass showed Reid was clean.”
“Except that he may have been seen having drinks and dinner with Benjamin Tallerico before Tallerico was murdered.”
“Where's that connection, John?”
“Tallerico may have been buying industrial secrets from a San Francisco psychologist named Jeanne Shepard, who was the psychologist for an engineer by the name of Louis Zerkel. Zerkel worked for InterTech until he disappeared. Point is InterTech builds some electronic components for Guerin airplanes. The company may have a connection with a Japanese microchip supplier. But Zerkel's psychologist and his immediate supervisor and the man's family were all murdered, and an InterTech facility was broken into, a night watchman killed, and the place set on fire.”
“Through Tallerico another possible tie with Reid.”
Whitman nodded. “Louis Zerkel's brother, Glen, is an environmental terrorist on our top twenty-five.”
“All of it very, very circumstantial,” Wood said.
“But there's so much of it,” Whitman countered.
“I'll take it up with the director in the morning. But you're going to have to have some help.”
“That's for sure, Ken, because besides Reid, I want to go after McGarvey.”
Â
“I didn't hear you drive up,” Louis Zerkel said.
His brother Glen looked tired and disheveled. “I hitched a ride from town and hiked up from the highway. Where's everybody?”
“The German left right after supper, and Mr. Reid went back to the city a couple of hours ago. Around ten, I
think. Are you okay, Glen? Was there any trouble in Portland? Did you find out what Mr. Reid wanted?”
“I found out enough to know that if we go through with this we'd better get it right, because afterward the sky is going to fall in. Guerin Airplane Company is a hell of a lot bigger than I thought it would be. I mean intellectually I knew the figures, but, Louis, you ought to see it. Christ, half the city belongs to them. Half the state.”
“What happened out there?” Louis asked.
“I had to take out a night watchman. But that's beside the point. If we take on Guerin like Mr. R. wants us to do, it'll be more than a federal rap. Every agency in the country will be gunning for us. And whether you know it or not there's a lot of fucking good talent out there. This won't be like hitting a ski resort or an open pit mine, this'll be like the Munich Olympics, or the Marine barracks in Beirut, only bigger. Much bigger.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“No. I don't think so. And if we're lucky the local cops will handle the case as a break-and-enter. Happens all the time out there. One guy in a bar offered me a job. Told me that's how he made his living. Stealing shit from Guerin. They don't even miss it.”
“You said no one saw you.”
“Nobody important. The guys I talked to sure as hell won't blow any whistles.”
“What guys? How did you find them?”
Glen shrugged. “They're around. You just find them.”
Louis needed time to think it out. Circuit design and analysis were easy by comparison. He wished that he could talk it over with Dr. Shepard. She would understand.
“How is your end coming?” Glen asked. “Can we do it without leaving a trail back here?”
“I think so.”
“Don't
think
man,” Glen shouted. “You'd better be goddamned sure. Our asses are on the line, you understand? Come out of the drift factor, Louis. Can we do it without leading them back to us?”
“When I'm finished no one will be able to electronically trace the signals back here. But we have another problem.”
“I know,” Glen said. “Mr. R. has no intention of paying us off. He's going to have Mueller kill us. That's why I'm going to kill the bastard before we push the switch. On his own Mr. R. will have to keep his word to us.”
“Besides that, I think Mr. Reid may be under investigation by the FBI,” Louis blurted.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Glen pulled a chair over to where Louis sat by one of the terminals and slumped down on it. “Did you get into the Bureau's system?”
“There's nothing in the system, but Mueller thinks it's possible because of that German who called here from Paris.”
“Karl Schey? Did he show up here?”
“Yes, and Mueller killed him. He told Mr. Reid that Schey would never have left Germany unless he was in some kind of trouble. If that were the case, Interpol and probably the FBI would be looking for him. The investigation might include Mr. Reid. What do you think about that?”
“We either get the hell out of here now, or we get on with it. as fast as possible.”
“I've got nowhere to go, Glen.”
“We have to get out of the country, that's for damn sure. And to do that takes money. So let's get on with it and hope that Reid has enough connections to stall the feds until we're out of here.”
Â
Mueller presented himself at the Visitors Information Bureau at Oakland International Airport a minute before 3:00 P.M. and handed the young woman behind the counter his business card, which identified him as Thomas Reston, a freelance writer for
High Technology Business
and
Aviation Week & Space Technology
magazines.
“Have you an appointment, sir?” the receptionist asked.
“I telephoned the Tower Chief, Mr. Franklin, and he promised someone would be meeting me here.”
“Let me call for you.”
Mueller had lightened his hair and wore blue contact lenses, which along with a lightweight silk suit, Italian tie, and a butter-soft leather briefcase made him appear successful and at least ten years younger than his actual age.
InterTech was nearby, but he felt no unease returning to the area so soon. Even if someone had seen and identified him last week it was unlikely the police would expect him back, nor would he be recognizable to anyone who didn't know him intimately. He'd had the business cards printed at a Kinko's shop in San Francisco and had done a few hours homework at the periodic-literature section of the public library.
“That's all right, Tammy,” a short man with gray hair and a gray beard said, coming across the lobby. His complexion was sallow as if he'd spent most of his life indoors.
“Mr. Franklin?” Mueller asked, stepping away from the counter.
“No. R.C. sent me over. I'm Bill White, chief air traffic control instructor here. Mr. Reston?”
“Yes, that's right.” Mueller handed the man a card and they shook hands.
“I'm a little vague on what you'd like to know. Maybe you can fill me in on the way over to the tower. I'm assuming you want to see what we're doing in approach and departure control. But I can tell you right now that our progress since you people were out here last month is bang on.”
“That's good to hear. I'm assuming then that your IBM Initial Suite Sector System is up and fully operational.”
“It is.”
There'd been a lot written about the new air traffic control network in this country. It was called the Advanced Automation System Project and was part of a Washington-driven capital investment plan to spend
around thirty billion dollars by the year 2000. IBM had helped design it.
During the five-minute drive across to the tower, White was silent. Before they went up, however, he stopped Mueller. “Just what are you looking for this time? You know the situation out here. We're being squeezed both ways. High tech costs big bucks, and in the middle of it all we need the controller. The human voice talking to human pilots. That hasn't changed and won't.”
“The National Airspace Plan ⦔
“That's a worn-out joke, and everybody knows it,” White said. “You're dealing with big egos here. Controllers are hotshots, so what's new? But you've got to tell me why you really came out here today. You're after something specific, so you play straight with me, and I'll play straight with you.”
“The AAS ⦔
“You've already asked about that, and I told you that we're on track. No problems there. What are you driving at?”
Mueller was at a loss. From his reading he'd gathered that there was a lot of infighting going on between the airline industry, the Federal Aviation Administration, and the management commissions of the various large U.S. airports. But like in most bureaucratic entanglements more was said and written between the lines than was stated openly. His homework had been extensive enough to understand that such a situation existed, but not enough to come up with the answers that a man who claimed to be a technology writer should have. He had stumbled into dangerous territory, with no easy way to escape.
A hint of suspicion was beginning to show in White's eyes. He was waiting for the right answer. But the man had admitted that his own ego was big.
Mueller shrugged. He would have to guess. “I was going to feel you out first, Bill, before I mentioned it. I didn't want you to bite my head off.”
“About what?”
“What they're doing at Haren near Brussels International Airport.”
“Europe's supposed Central Flow Management Unit plan, is that what you're talking about?” White asked. “Come with me and I'll show you why it's the only way for them to go, but would be totally useless and a damned big waste of money in this country.”
Â
Sokichi Kamiya had come to think of himself as a segregationist. There were those who maintained a more accurate description might be isolationist, but they were wrong. Japan could not exist in a vacuum, and he had never preached such a doctrine. International trade and cooperation were facts of life, although that fool Ichiro Enchi had gone completely over the edge with his announced Japan Free World Trade Zone. If the prime minister's plan were somehow to come to pass, Japan would go bankrupt and probably drag the U.S. down with it.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Imperial Hotel's thirtieth-floor suite looking out across the Imperial Gardens. How Western a spot in which to meet, he thought. And yet how Japanese the view. Storm clouds were gathering in more than just a figurative manner. The horizon to the northwest was ominously black. The coming days promised to be bleak.
He was a man who understood that the soul of Japan hung in the balance. There were two hemispheres and two races that mattered. He would see to it that the purity of his remained intact, even if he had to carry on the fight singlehandedly. But the timing was wrong. Other forces were out there, meddling. Everything was coming to a head faster than he thought possible, which left him only two choices: either step aside and let events take their natural course or proceed as plannedâmuch faster than planned. One choice, actually, he told himself.
“We are reasonable men,
Kamiya-san.
Between us we
will find a way,” Tadashi Ota said from the buffet across the room.
“Not by giving away our hard-won advantage,” Kamiya grumbled. He turned away from the window.
“My dear old friend, if you mean by that our financial position against that of America's, then your concern is as touching as it is misplaced.” Ota was twenty years younger than Kamiya, and neither as an old friend nor as Deputy Director General of Defense was he directly involved with the government's finances.
“Then why are you here?”
“To ask for your help, of course,
Kamiya-san
.”
“Who directed you to speak with me?”
Ota smiled wanly. “A delicate situation has arisen that involves a ⦠disciple of yours.”
Kamiya's left eyebrow rose. He turned back to the window. The trouble had always been that Japan's population was concentrated in a few cities. The nation's international commerce was gathered into definable regions that the military would term primary targets. Japan was an easy mark for destruction. Not a day went by that some event or some comment would not trigger his memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He knew exactly what he'd been doing on those days, at precisely those instants when the bombs had burst. It was the same in America. Depending upon what generation you spoke with, they either remembered the day Pearl Harbor was attacked or the day on which President Kennedy was assassinated. Those events had become national benchmarks. Pearl Harbor had given Americans the resolve to enter the war. Kennedy's assassination had jarringly awakened the nation to a new era. On that day the earth had shrunk by a quantum leap. But the nuclear destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had made Japan a shy nation. It wasn't so much that her people had become peace-loving overnight; it was that they had embraced the attitude of the loser. We cannot win, so let us not fight. It was the very reason that Japan had become so stunningly successful at rebuilding herself in the fifty years since the war, at creating a vibrant
economy out of the ashes. Her national energy went from war to commerce. Japan became, in a few short decades, one of the leading economic powers in the world. That, of necessity since the end of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and United States, put Japan on a collision course with America. Like a marriage going bad, the danger existed that the husband would vent his anger at his wife by striking her down. In Kamiya's analogy Japan was the bride at her most vulnerable point. Enchi's offer to create a free trade agreement was the same last-ditch conciliatory gesture a frightened wife might make to her husband in an effort to save the failing marriage. It would not, could not, work.