Feliks touched Lake’s arm and indicated that they should walk over to the van now that everything was loaded. “And? With your cover intact? What then? Can you find out whose cage is getting rattled?”
“I’ll try.”
“You have any leads?”
“I don’t know,” Lake said. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“You don’t know. Rumors,” Feliks repeated. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right. You have two weeks.”
HUNGNAM, NORTH KOREA
MONDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1997 2:47
a.m.
LOCAL
“The helicopter cannot take off,” Nagoya said, removing the earplug for the satellite radio.
Nishin simply looked at his partner, waiting for an explanation. The two men were crammed into a niche two-thirds up the side of a six thousand foot mountain. The only thing keeping them from tumbling down to the valley floor below were snap links hooked into ropes attached to cams they had lodged in small cracks farther in the niche. It had taken them four days of climbing, all done at night, to go over the top of the mountain and make their way down to their present position. They’d been here for six hours, watching and waiting for the final word.
“The North Koreans have spotted the ship and are shadowing it,” Nagoya explained, carefully coiling the earplug cord.
Getting in was always easier than getting out, Nishin knew. Getting in they’d been flown on a CH-47 Chinook helicopter to a point forty miles off the North Korean coast. The entire flight had been made barely ten feet above the wave tops to avoid radar. Then the helicopter had slowed to a forward speed of ten knots, the back ramp had been lowered, and a rubber boat had been pushed off the rear, Nishin and Nagoya following right behind in their wet suits.
They’d used the engine to get within a kilometer of the shore just south of Hungnam Harbor, checked their position, and then sunk the boat, swimming the rest of the way. Then across the rocky shore, to the base of the mountain, over the mountain, and now here overlooking the valley.
They both knew the ship could not launch the recovery helicopter with the North Koreans watching. It would be like turning a spotlight on the entire mission.
“What did Nakanga say we should do?” Nishin asked, looking into the valley. Smokestacks billowed black smoke filled with sparks into the night. With almost unlimited power fed to it from reservoirs such as Chosin, the Hungnam Valley was one of the manufacturing centers of North Korea and had been so for over sixty years, ever since an enterprising Japanese industrialist had first spied the valley’s potential in the decade before the Second World War. It was one of the spinoffs of that industrialist’s efforts and vision so long ago that had led to the two men clinging to the side of this mountain on this early fall night.
“The mission must go,” Nagoya said.
Nishin’s face didn’t betray any reaction, even though he knew Nagoya’s statement was a death sentence. He peered down the rocky slope. A hundred feet below them arc lights brightly lit the mountainside. A new path from the valley floor had been cut with great effort into the rock, switching back and forth up to an opening in the side of the mountain. It was impossible to get heavy equipment up the slender path. So a line of men slithered into the opening every day with shovels and picks, carefully unearthing what had lain hidden inside for the past fifty-two years.
At night there was a squad of guards protecting the dig, their main post on the path itself. The guards would not be a problem, Nishin knew. The men were oriented toward the road and downward. The guards did not suspect that someone would come from above. As far as the North Koreans were concerned the mountain was impassable. In fact, they probably were not expecting anyone since Nishin had no doubt that they did not know what they guarded. He himself did not know exactly what the cave held. He only knew that whatever was in there must be kept in there.
The site could not be spotted from the air. Camouflage nets draped over the cave mouth and the vertical slope prohibited that. If Nishin and Nagoya had not been given the exact location during the mission briefing they would have never found it. He briefly wondered if Nakanga, the man who had briefed them on the mission and given them their orders, knew what was so important. It had to date back to the war. Of that Nishin had no doubt. He also wondered how Nakanga knew the cave had been opened if it couldn’t be seen from the air. Information did not flow freely out of North Korea.
Why now, why here? These were questions Nishin accepted he would never know the answer to. Nagoya was checking the charges one last time. They were a powerful new explosive. Each contained three kilograms of liquid in a thick rubber container shaped like a large sausage. The fuse was built into the end of the container and Nagoya was checking the connections. They had twenty-four of the charges, twelve each, and Nakanga had assured them it would be more than enough to take down the mountainside around the cave.
“Now that we have made it this far, I can plant the charges myself,” Nagoya said, not looking up from his hands, the delicate fingers tracing wires in the dark.
“Without the helicopter ...,” Nishin began.
“You can head back up as I start down,” Nagoya said. “I will give you enough time to get over the top of the mountain before I proceed. They will find my body among the rubble, but that will not be a problem and it should make any further search less intensive as they will think they have found the infiltrator. You can also remove all signs of us having climbed down as you go back over. It will confuse them greatly. They will suspect a traitor in their own ranks.”
Nagoya was half-Korean. His mother one of the many women who came over to Japan in the sixties to do domestic work and his birth was never legitimized. If his father had not been a member of the Society—and Nagoya’s loyalty tested on several missions—Nishin would have had his own doubts about the man and the new course of action he was proposing. But he knew Nagoya was true.
“If they find your body, that will not be good,” Nagoya continued. There would be no denying Nishin’s racial makeup. He was pure Japanese. “You must escape or, at the very least, your body must not be found. You can make it to the ocean. Swim out and activate your beacon. Maybe you will be picked up. If not, you must make sure you puncture your life vest so that your body sinks.”
Nagoya’s logic was cold and practical, something Nishin could appreciate. The other man was not suggesting he plant the charges alone out of some sense of misguided heroism. It was what would be best for the mission, and the mission always came first. Nishin did not consider the new course of action in terms of his own survival but in terms of mission accomplishment. It would be best.
Nishin grunted his assent. He pulled his pack off and passed it to his partner.
“You must go now,” Nagoya said. “You must be at the ocean by dawn.”
Nishin stood and looked up.
“For the Emperor and the Sun Goddess,” Nagoya said, his face pointed down at the explosives.
“For the Emperor and the Sun Goddess,” Nishin repeated. He reached up and his hand curled around a knob of rock. He began the climb.
*****
Two hours later, Nishin’s fingers were torn and bleeding but he hardly felt the pain. He was at the crest of the mountain. It was downhill from here to the ocean.
He swung his head to the side as he heard the faint crack of gunfire. Looking, he could see a line of green tracers far below. The firing lasted for almost a minute and then the side of the mountain erupted. The charges had worked even better than Nakanga had promised from the way the earth shook underneath Nishin’s feet.
Nishin stuffed his climbing gear into his backpack and continued on.
SEA OF JAPAN
WEDNESDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1997 3:22
p.m.
LOCAL
Nishin’s eyes were swollen shut from exposure to saltwater and the sun. The life vest he had inflated on entering the ocean two and a half days ago kept him on the surface, but the way it was designed, it also kept his face turned up to the sky and there was no way to avoid either the harsh rays of the sun or the waves that broke over him every few seconds. He would suck in a mouthful of saltwater and spit it out the side, gasping in air before the next wave repeated the process.
After swimming out for an hour, the current had taken hold, and his best guess was that he was somewhere to the north of Hungnam in the Sea of Japan. Just before his eyes had swollen shut completely yesterday morning, he had waited until he’d ridden to the top of a swell and then kicked vigorously, rising out of the water as far as possible and looking about. Nothing but sea.
He remembered Nagoya’s words in the crevice. The vest would keep the body afloat, but the ocean and sun were draining the life out of him. If he was not careful, he would lapse into unconsciousness and then death would come while he was still afloat. That was not acceptable.
His waterlogged hand slid down his side, feeling for the knife hung on his harness. With great difficulty, his fumbling fingers flipped open the clasp on the sheath and pulled the knife out. The cuts in his hands from climbing the mountain were invaded anew by the saltwater as scabs ripped open. Pain ripped into his brain, shocking him into consciousness as he grasped the knife tightly.
Using his free hand to aim it, Nishin placed the tip of the knife against the flotation device. He knew there were two chambers. First the left then the right. It would be over in a little while. He just needed a second of rest before he pressed the blade home.
Nishin came awake. He did not know how long he had slept. He panicked until he realized the knife was still in his hand. His training had worked when his mind wouldn’t. He had even been able to breathe and spit out water while unconscious so used to this he had become.
Nishin shifted the point until it was pressed against his neck. Would it be better to end it quickly? His feverish mind thought. No. That was stupid. His body would then continue to float and be found no matter what, he must cut the vest first. He guided the blade back lower and pushed.
Air hissed and Nishin felt his body tilt to the left. A wave, larger than what he had been experiencing, washed over him and he was completely submerged. He instinctively kicked furiously and broke through to the surface, gasping for air.
He laughed, it coming out more as a rasp as the sound passed his dehydrated mouth and lips. He was going to die, but he still wanted to live. He had wondered what this moment would be like. The nature of his job and his life had caused him to reflect on this often.
He must puncture the other chamber of his vest. He shifted the knife to his left hand. There was a strange noise, then another large wave slammed into and over him. Nishin flailed about, uncertain in his blindness and exhaustion which way the surface was. The hand with the knife slammed into something solid and the shock tore the knife from his fingers and it disappeared into the depths.
He reached out, lungs bursting and felt what had knocked the knife free: a metal wall!
Hands were grabbing him, pulling him. He broke the surface, again gasping for air and felt a line being put over his shoulders and cinched about his waist. Then he was being hoisted up, clear of the water, sliding along the metal wall he had felt.
As he was set down on a deck, he twisted his head and reached with his teeth for the small capsule sown into the right shoulder of his wet suit.
A hand slapped his face. “No!” a voice called out in Japanese and Nishin finally allowed himself to collapse into unconsciousness as he recognized Nakanga’s voice.
SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN
THURSDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1997 9:00
a.m.
LOCAL
The swelling in his face had gone down enough so that Nishin could see—just barely. His hands were wrapped in gauze and they had only removed an IV from his arm fifteen minutes ago. He was seated on a hard iron chair on the balcony of what had once been a Buddhist temple. The building was perched on the side of a pine covered hill. Below, the view encompassed rice paddies as far as the eye could see, lit by the sun rising slowly in the east. Behind the temple, mountains ranged up, their slopes bathed in the morning light.
It was a beautiful location and Nishin could well imagine the monks who had once inhabited the temple sitting cross-legged on this very spot, meditating. The wood floor was polished smooth by generations of bare feet, and the thick stone columns holding up the roof to the balcony were painted with intricate religious scenes. To his rear there was a room that had once been the main room of the temple. An opaque curtain covering heavy metal doors of modern design separated the room.
Nishin twisted his head as he heard a noise. The doors slid open on smooth bearings. Someone was moving in the darkened room. He made out the silhouette of a man pushing another in a wheelchair. The pair halted, then the first man walked forward and through the curtain. It was Nakanga.
Nishin got to his feet and stood at rigorous attention, ignoring the pain. Nakanga stood, arms folded across his chest, staring hard at Nishin.
Nishin bowed his head. Nakanga was the right arm of the Genoysha, the head of the Black Ocean Society, and as such he held the power of life and death over all members. He was also the voice of the Genoysha since no one other than Nakanga, as far as Nishin knew, had ever spoken to the Genoysha. As such he was known as the Sensei of the Society. He issued the orders to the most trusted agents of the Society of which Nishin felt honored to count himself one.
“Ronin Nishin,” Nakanga said, greeting him in the traditional form.
“Sensei Nakanga,” Nishin replied in return.
“Sit down,” Nakanga said. “I have listened to your after-action report again and played it for the Genoysha.”
Nishin’s eyes involuntarily flickered to the shadowy figure inside the room and he felt his heart pick up pace. No one he had ever met, other than Nakanga, had ever seen or met the Genoysha in person. He carefully sat down.
Nakanga had questioned Nishin on the submarine that had picked up the signal from the transponder Nishin had activated once he was in the ocean. Even before the ship’s doctor had been allowed into the small cabin to tend to him, Nishin had been questioned in detail about the mission, a small tape recorder taking down his words. The submarine’s crew were dressed in a strange uniform—not that of the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force. Nishin had not known that the Society controlled its own submarine, but it did not surprise him. After all, the company that built submarines for the Self-Defense Force was owned by the Society as so much else of Japan’s small but very efficient military industrial complex was. The wealth of the Society was greater than that of many countries.