“Actually, I do mind,” Lake replied, keeping it in place. “I have no proof you are who you say you are and I just had two different groups of people shoot at me for no reason that I know of. So forgive me if I’m not exactly in the most friendly mood.”
“I understand your concerns about my identity,” Araki said. His English was precise and each word was enunciated clearly. “But you must know that I do not carry an identification card. I am working in your country on a mission of deep concern to my own country.”
“Pretty weak,” Lake said, checking the direction finder. The small dot indicating the Koreans had stopped a few miles to the east. “Unfortunately, I really don’t have the time to have a deep discussion with you about all this. There’s some people I have to catch up with.”
Araki nodded. “The North Koreans.”
“They’re from the North?” Lake wasn’t too surprised. “What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Araki replied.
“Why are you following them, then?”
“I am not following them,” Araki said. “I am following a man who is following them.”
“The Japanese guy with the Steyr AUG,” Lake said.
“Correct.”
“And who is he?”
“That is my concern,” Araki said.
“He tried blowing my head off back there in the tunnel,” Lake said. “That makes it my concern. Also, bud, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in America now. I could have your ass thrown in jail.”
“As you threw me in jail, would you also admit to selling the Koreans those weapons last night?” Araki asked in a level voice.
Lake pushed the barrel harder into Araki’s side, evoking a surprised grunt of pain. “Don’t fuck with me, son. I could also just make you disappear.”
“I imagine you could,” Araki said. Lake could see him swallow, trying to control his fear. The man was doing a reasonably good job of remaining calm, but Lake sensed that Araki wasn’t a seasoned agent. He didn’t have the hard edge that men in the world of covert operations gained after only a few years in the field—if they survived that long. Of course, he could also be better than most and a good actor. That made Lake wonder exactly what Araki’s role here was.
“We need each other,” Araki said.
“Why do I need you?” Lake said, checking the direction finder one more time. The dot was still stationary.
“I want the Japanese man,” Araki said. “You want the Koreans. But I do not think you know what the Koreans are up to. I do not know what Nishin—that is his name—is up to, other than the fact he is following the Koreans also. There are many unanswered questions. Two minds can answer them better than one. I have access to my agency’s resources, which are quite extensive. Remember, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Lake snorted. “You sound like fucking Confucius.”
“Confucius was Chinese,” Araki began. “I am—”
“Yes, Confucius was Chinese,” Lake interrupted. “Confucius, originally known as Kung Chiu, born 551
b.c.,
died 479.” He removed the gun from Araki’s side and holstered it. “Personal virtue, devotion to family, most especially one’s ancestors, and to justice—all are tenets of his teachings.” Lake tapped the direction finder. “In the interest of justice, let’s track these little shitheads down.”
Araki was staring at Lake. He turned the key, restarting the engine. “Yes. Let us go.”
They drove up University Avenue. The dot on Lake’s screen remained stationary. “I’d say they are about three or four miles, dead ahead,” Lake said.
At the university, Nishin watched as the four remaining Koreans parked the LTD. His own lights were off and he’d kept a more discreet distance behind ever since the gunfight in the tunnel. Obviously the Koreans had spotted the American gun dealer and in their usual abrupt manner had decided to stop him from following them. Nishin was disappointed that he had not been able to kill the American, but at least there were two less of the enemy to deal with. More importantly, whatever the North Koreans were after now must be the key to their mission, otherwise they would not have caused such an incident to prevent someone from following them.
Nishin glanced around. The University of California at Berkeley was not unknown to him. It had a reputation as a center of liberalism and protest that Nishin had heard of in his time working underground in the States during his training. The campus was practically deserted this time of night, but Nishin knew there must be some type of campus police and he kept an eye out for patrol cars as he parked the pickup truck behind a building, across the street from the lot where the Koreans had parked.
He quickly ran across, keeping the four men in sight. He had the Steyr tucked into his side, a fresh magazine in the chamber. The Koreans walked up to the side door of a large academic building and opened the door, disappearing inside. The name on the building, Wellman Hall, meant nothing to Nishin.
Nishin paused outside the door, then decided to move along the outside wall and find another way in. He found a door two hundred meters farther down and cracked it open. He was in a short corridor. Moving forward, he peeked around the edge, toward where the Koreans had entered. There was no one there, but he could hear noises, as if someone was moving something heavy. There was a light on every twenty feet, giving a faint glow to the hallway.
He got to his knees and peered around the next hallway.
A Korean, MAC-10 at the ready, stood guard outside a door, forty feet away. Nishin sat down, back against the wall and became perfectly still.
Araki drove the van into the west entrance of the UC-Berkeley campus.
“Close now,” Lake said. He continued giving directions as they wove through the campus, until he spotted the LTD parked outside one of the buildings. “There she is.”
Araki drove farther down the street and parked the van in a position where they could observe the car.
“Any ideas why they would be here?” Lake asked. He pulled his gun out of the holster and replaced the magazine with a fully loaded one, Araki watching the action.
“No.”
“So who is this guy Nishin that you’re following?”
“He is a member of the Black Ocean Society.”
“A ronin,” Lake said.
The comment earned him a surprised look from Araki. “You know of the societies?”
“A little,” Lake said. “They’re your version of our Patriot groups or militias. Bunch of wackos running around so far right of right that they aren’t even on the map board anymore.”
“But our societies have been in existence for many years,” Araki said, “while yours are a recent phenomenon. The Black Ocean dates back well before World War II. You used the term ronin,” Araki continued. “That is what an agent of one of the overseas societies used to be called. I suspect your knowledge is deeper than you are willing to admit.”
“I ain’t admitting anything,” Lake said. “And you still haven’t told me much about Nishin.”
“I do not have much to tell other than some of his background. As I told you earlier, I do not know why he is here in the United States, but there is no doubt that it is not for a noble reason.”
Lake thought about it. Could there be a connection between the Japanese societies and the American Patriots? While seemingly farfetched on the surface, the concept held intriguing possibilities if one looked deeper. Starry and Preston on the bridge with the paint sprayer. The part-Japanese man in the boat below. Most curious. Lake pulled back the slide on the Hush Puppy, insuring a round was ready in the chamber.
*****
Nishin heard someone cry out what sounded like an order, but he couldn’t make out the words. Boots pounded on the tile. Close to the floor, Nishin looked around the corner. The four Koreans were running toward the door, one of them holding a cardboard box in his arms. Nishin sprang to his feet and the second they were out the door, he sprinted after them.
*****
“There!” Araki cried out.
Four men were hurrying across the lawn toward the LTD.
“They’ve got something,” Lake noted.
“What now?” Araki asked.
“We—” Lake paused as another figure came out of the building. “Shit!” As the last figure raised the Steyr automatic rifle and opened up on the Koreans, Lake kicked open the door to the van.
The man with the box tumbled down, papers spilling out. The other three Koreans dove for cover behind some abstract concrete sculptures that decorated the lawn. Two kept up an effective covering fire as the third collected the box. The gun battle was played out in silence, the flashes of the weapons the only indication that things were amiss on the lawn in front of Wellman Hall.
“Police!” Lake called out from behind the security of his open door. “Freeze where you are!” He was too far away for the Hush Puppy to do much good.
One of the Koreans fired a half a magazine in the van’s direction, the other kept the Japanese man pinned down near the building and they beat a hasty retreat to their LTD. Fortunately MAC-10s weren’t much more effective than the Hush Puppy at ranges over twenty-five meters and the bullets passed by harmlessly.
The Koreans worked as effectively as any elite infantry squad Lake had ever seen. The Japanese man with the Steyr retreated back inside the building and out of sight. As the LTD roared out of the lot, Lake made a quick decision.
“Drive up to the body,” he ordered Araki as he regained his seat inside.
“What about Nishin and the Koreans?”
“We can find the Koreans again. Right now, we need to do some cleaning up.”
Araki did as Lake requested, parking at the curb, fifteen feet from where the body lay face down in the grass. Lake lifted the man and carried him back to the side door of the van, ignoring the blood that was staining his clothes.
“What are you doing?” Araki asked as Lake dumped the body into the back.
“Cleaning up the scene of the crime,” Lake said. He turned and walked back to where the body had been.
“Why?” Araki asked, this time accompanying Lake.
“We left two bodies back there in the tunnel, that’s enough publicity for one evening. No one heard this here. I don’t hear sirens yet, so there’s a good chance no one saw it. The less that gets in the news, the better.” He scooped up the loose papers that were on the grass. “When the sprinklers come on in the morning, it will wash away the blood. No one will ever know.” He picked up the MAC-10 the man had been carrying and added that to his load.
They got back in the van. Araki started the engine and they drove off the campus. Lake turned on his direction finder and cursed.
“What is the matter?” Araki asked.
Lake picked up the MAC-10 he had recovered. He unscrewed the back of the pistol grip and held up a small metal object. “A one-in-eight chance and of course I end up with my own bugged gun.”
“They will go back to their trawler,” Araki said confidently.
“So you were watching there, too,” Lake said.
“I did—” Araki began but caught himself. “I followed Nishin to the trawler.”
“Uh-huh,” Lake said.
“What are we doing with the body?” Araki asked.
“Drive to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area,” Lake said. “I know where to dispose of it.”
“Aren’t you worried about the Koreans getting away?”
“Aren’t you worried about Nishin getting away?” Lake asked in turn. He didn’t wait for an answer. “The Koreans are going back to the ship, like you said. That ship isn’t going anywhere this morning. You can’t just pull up anchor at one in the morning and sail away. They have to file a request and get permission from the harbormaster to leave port. The Coast Guard would be on them in a heartbeat if they didn’t and I don’t think they want that to happen.”
“You’ve checked on that?” Araki asked.
“They haven’t got a departure slot,” Lake confirmed.
“What about whatever was in the box the Koreans stole?” Araki asked. “Won’t someone at the university report that?”
Lake picked up the handful of papers. “That’s who I’m going to talk to first thing in the morning, after we get rid of the body.”
SAN FRANCISCO
TUESDAY, 7 OCTOBER 1997 1:30 A.M. LOCAL
The body hit the water with a splash and the chains wrapped around it took it instantly out of sight. Lake walked from the pier back to the van and sat down in the passenger seat. They were parked on the shoreline, just east of the south part of the Golden Gate, near the point where Lake had come ashore the previous week after spoiling the gassing plot. It was a calm place, the only sounds that of foghorns off to the west and the gentle lap of water on the shore. The Coast Guard Station was farther up the shore, well lit, but otherwise looking very quiet.
Lake took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, ignoring Araki’s look of distaste. Lake inhaled deeply, then let out a cloud of smoke. “Okay, so we’re here together,” he said, “but I still don’t know whether you are who you say you are and even if you are who you say you are, whether I ought to be sitting here with you.”
“I understand your concerns.” Araki said. “I have similar concerns. I do not know if you are truly an agent of your government and, if you are, whether I should also be sitting here with you.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your concerns,” Lake said without raising his voice. “I’ve got the home-court advantage here, which means you play by my rules.” He reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out his satellite phone. “I’m going to bounce this to my higher-up and see what he has to say about you.”
“I do not think that is a good idea.”
“Why?” Lake was punching in the numbers to the Ranch.
“Because this situation might be harmful to your country and mine, and if we keep it between us, no extra harm is done. I believe we can handle this ourselves. If you call your supervisor, then this is out of our hands.”
Lake pushed the off button and folded the phone shut. He thought of Feliks looking at him at this very spot, giving him grief for killing all three men at the bridge. If he told Feliks that there was an agent of CPI here in San Francisco, Lake knew that the long hand of the Ranch would clamp down on all operations. The Japanese material that had been found in the van on the bridge, combined with Araki’s presence, would send red flags flying. It would also slow things down. Lake knew that the freighter wasn’t leaving in the next twelve hours, but it could leave as early as this evening. The Ranch was efficient, but it wasn’t that efficient. They could lose this whole operation. The bottom line for Lake, though, was that he would lose his operational control. Already he’d had Feliks here once and Randkin here on another occasion. If they wanted to run the show, then they should be the ones getting shot at Lake reasoned.
“All right” Lake said. “We’ll work this together for now.”
“What about the papers?” Araki asked. “What do they concern?”
Lake looked at the top piece of paper in the glow of the overhead light. It was a Xeroxed page covered with Japanese writing. He handed it to Araki. “Make yourself useful.”
Araki scanned the page. “It is dated 1945. From the heading it appears to be a document of the Imperial Navy, detailing supply operations in the China Sea.”
“That’s something to kill over?” Lake wondered out loud.
Araki was thumbing through the rest of the few pages the Koreans had abandoned in their haste. “They are all Japanese naval documents, dated 1945. Some are about operations; some about logistics; some concern personnel assignments. There are several orders detailing ships to conduct certain missions. There is no readily apparent pattern.”
“Why would these be at UC-Berkeley?” Lake asked.
“Most likely there is a historical archive in the building,” Araki said. “At the end of the war, you Americans took whatever wasn’t destroyed that could be of intelligence value.”
“Why would the Koreans be interested in such documents?” Lake asked.
Araki was silent for a few moments as he read, then he glanced up. “I do not know. Obviously they are interested in something concerning the Japanese Navy in the last year of World War II.”
Lake felt stupid asking obvious questions, but he was at a loss with this development. “Why is Nishin following the Koreans? What does the Black Ocean Society have to do with this?”
Araki explained the role the societies had in Japanese culture and the strong influence they had exerted in politics, particularly during the war. “It is something difficult for Americans to understand,” he added. “For example, in 1943, the head of the Black Dragon Society made a radio broadcast directly to your President Roosevelt and to Churchill also, threatening the most dire of consequences if the Allies did not unconditionally surrender.”
“It is little spoken of or understood in the West, but much of the problem the Allies had trying to negotiate with my country near the end of the war stemmed from the fact that the secret societies and the military exerted such strong influence. Even though there were many in the government who wished to negotiate a surrender, they were unable to counter the weight of the societies until finally the Emperor himself had to make a radio announcement after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which before that time was unheard of.”
“That is why,” Araki continued, “my unit was formed a few years back when it appeared that secret societies were again rearing their head. The extremists who were behind the Tokyo gas attacks were much more radical than the traditional societies, but the fear of a repeat of events that happened prior to and during the Second World War was so great that those high in the government did not want to take a chance.”
“That’s all nice and well,” Lake said, “but it brings us no closer to explaining what is so important about these papers to both the North Koreans and the Black Ocean Society.”
“As you said,” Araki pointed out, “you must go and ask someone at the university about the papers. Maybe you can find out then.”
“You drop me off where I tell you, then you stake out the trawler,” Lake ordered. “I’ll get over to the university as soon as people are awake there.”
*****
Nishin was as frustrated as Lake, but for a very different reason. For the third time the American arms dealer had interfered. The North Koreans had whatever they had come for and were safely back on their ship. From his perch, Nishin could see guards walking the deck of the trawler, Ingrams hidden under their coats.
He knew the Genoysha would not be pleased. He had failed. Nishin very seriously contemplated boarding the ship on his own and recovering the box, but his duty passion was tempered by the bitter training he had experienced. The odds were that he would be killed and then the mission would most certainly be a failure. The ship was not yet at sea; there was hope yet.
Nishin knew he needed help and there was only one place he could get it. With great reluctance he climbed down off the crane.
TUESDAY, 7 OCTOBER 1997
9:10
a.m
. LOCAL
The campus looked very different in the light of day. Lake felt old as he walked among the crowds of students strolling to and from class. He had exchanged his bloodstained clothes of the previous evening for a fresh pair of jeans, a bulky white sweater with a turtleneck, and a faded sports jacket over the sweater. The Hush Puppy rode comfortably under his arm inside the jacket.
He also felt the irritable presence of the satellite phone in his coat’s inside pocket. He hadn’t called Feliks with the results of the previous evening, which he knew would not go over well. The report of the two dead unidentified Korean men had been on the third page of the San Francisco paper this morning and Lake knew it was a short matter of time before someone at the Ranch connected the bodies, the MAC-10s found near them, and the stolen Bronco II.
On another front, Lake believed Araki was an agent of the CPI, but even if Araki wasn’t, Lake felt confident he could deal with the man. He also believed that Araki had not told him the full story, but that was to be expected. Lake hadn’t told Araki everything he knew either. The thing that bothered Lake about this situation was that what he did know was greatly overwhelmed by what he didn’t know.
North Koreans; Japanese secret societies; a Japanese special government agent; the Patriots’ lurking presence in the San Francisco underworld—all these things troubled Lake. Beyond the fact he didn’t know what most of those people were up to, he didn’t know why they were doing what they were doing in most cases. Motive was the most critical factor in trying to outthink one’s enemy, and he didn’t know that either. He hoped he could gain some answers here.
Just inside the west entrance a large board showed the campus layout, with a large “you-are-here” arrow orienting Lake. He retraced the route they had taken last night in his head and found the building he was looking for: Wellman Hall. It housed the history department, which fit with the type of documents the Koreans had stolen. Before he went there, though, Lake made a detour to the library and spent a half hour doing some reading. Then Lake walked to Wellman Hall and went in the large double doors in the center. A glass case held a listing of all the offices in the building and Lake studied it.
There were only names, no areas of study listed, so Lake headed for the main office of the history department. Opening the door, he was greeted by a student behind the desk. “Can I help you?”
“Do you have someone here who is working on material dealing with the Japanese Imperial Navy in World War II?”
The student frowned. “I really don’t know. Dr. Harmon might be able to help you. She’s the Twentieth-Century Pacific Areas Study specialist.”
“And where might I find Dr. Harmon?” Lake asked.
“Room one forty-two.”
“Thank you.” Lake exited the office and walked down the corridor. Room 142 came up on his right and he lightly rapped on the opaque glass that made up most of the top half of the door. There was no answer, so he tried the handle. It turned and he cautiously stepped in. He was in a small foyer, about six feet long. A door was to either side of him, one half-open, the other locked. He could hear someone talking to his right, behind the half-open door. Lake peered around the corner as he tapped on the doorframe.
Lake paused. A woman was seated behind a massive wood desk which was covered with mounds of paper. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with long thick black hair cascading over her shoulders and bright green eyes that fixed him in the doorway as she talked on the phone. Lake prided himself on telling a person’s ethnic background at a glance, but he wasn’t sure with Harmon. He thought she might have some Asian blood based on her facial features, but her skin was dark, as if she had Mediterranean ancestors in her past. Whatever the combination was, it was unique and intriguing. Beyond her looks, Lake picked up a definite sense of purpose and competence, which he found a little surprising. He was used to that feeling when around others in the covert community—men and women who had something extra, beyond the norm, knew they had it and didn’t have to tell anyone.
“I’ll get back to you,” she said, her voice low and firm. She put the phone down and stood. She was tall, perhaps two inches shorter than Lake, and slender. She wore a gray pants suit and no jewelry. “May I help you?”
“Are you Dr. Harmon?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Lake,” he said, extending his hand. She took it with a firm grip, then let go.
“Is that a first name or a last name?” she asked, sitting back down.
“It’s just a name,” Lake replied, a bit off-guard.
Harmon laughed, the sound coming from deep in her throat, and Lake slid a couple of inches off his emotional center of gravity. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lake?” She pointed at a chair facing the desk and Lake gratefully sank into the leather.
“I’m interested in information concerning the Imperial Japanese Navy during the last year of World War II.”
“For what reason?” Harmon asked, steepling her fingers.
“I’m writing a book,” Lake said, “about fleet operations that year.”
“For what purpose?” Harmon asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you writing a book about the operations of the Japanese fleet in 1945?” Dr. Harmon amplified. “By that time in the war, most of the Japanese fleet had been destroyed. That which wasn’t destroyed was hiding in port, trying to avoid the onslaught of the American carrier forces.”
“To be more specific,” Lake said, “I’m interested in one ship in particular. The Yamamoto went down in April 1945.” Lake was using the information he had in the forefront of his brain from the side trip to the library. “It was the greatest battleship of the war, larger than either the Germans’ Graf Spee or the Bismarck, yet little has ever been written about it.”
“Little has been written about the Yamamoto,” Harmon said, “because it didn’t do too much damage and its end was rather unglorious. As you well know,” she added.
“Yes, but I’m still interested in the topic,” Lake said.
“Well, we do have quite a bit of material from the Imperial Naval archives,” Harmon said. “It was gathered by U.S. Naval Intelligence at the end of the war and brought back to the Naval Air Station at Alameda. It sat there unopened for decades until I went over and started looking through it about eight years ago. I forwarded some of it to the National Archives. Some of it I brought here when they shut the air base down four years ago and were going to just destroy it. I took as much as I had room for.” She reached behind her and pulled a thick three-ring binder off a bookcase.
While she looked in it, Lake checked out the rest of the office. There were the usual diplomas on the wall behind her. He noted that several of the official papers were written in Japanese. There was a picture of Harmon standing alone with Mount Fuji in the hazy distance behind her. Another of a much younger Harmon with a man who appeared to be her own age at the time and an older woman taken in a park. The old woman was seated on a bench, Harmon and the other man behind her, a hand on each shoulder. The man was outfitted in a military dress uniform. A Marine. Lake noted that.
“I’m not sure if I have anything specifically related to the destruction of the Yamamoto,’’ she added as she flipped open the binder. “But on the other hand, I haven’t been able to go through one-tenth of what I recovered from Alameda. This binder has the index for what I have gone through and filed.”