To Free a Spy (31 page)

Komeito thought for a moment. “Uh-oh. Left in Aoki’s car.”

“Did you read it, Komeito?”

“First page. Looks like a diary.”

The file might give Warfield what he needed to sell Cross, but time was short. “Call Guido’s and speak with Norio. Get him to bring it here ASAP.”

“ASAP?”

“
Means
now,
Komeito. In a pizza box to Rolf Geering at the concierge desk.”

Warfield stood out of view and watched as Aoki dropped off the box less than ten minutes later. He’d told the concierge to expect it and gave her cash for the driver. She was all smiles when Warfield retrieved the box. He stuffed the Guido’s delivery form into his pocket and hurried back to the telephone lobby, where Komeito was trying to reach the hazmat authorities, and took out the Jotaro file. “Translate this, Komeito, quickly!”

Warfield listened impatiently as Komeito read excerpts aloud, yet he needed every nuance of Yoshida’s thoughts if he was going to move Cross. Fumio Yoshida had started the file diary-style when he was nine, recording his musings about his family’s devastation. It included his earliest awareness something was wrong with Jotaro and identified the beginnings of Fumio’s hatred for the Americans who caused it.

His desire to get revenge showed up when he was twelve, and he had thought out the framework for a plan before he was twenty. He drove the first stake in the ground by taking a job with the Ministry of Transport. Entry after entry in the diary of RERF’s periodic evaluations of Jotaro’s progress, or lack thereof, revealed Fumio’s growing despair. His frustration and hatred grew unchecked.

Komeito read Yoshida’s last entry, dated two years ago: “The Emperor in surrender (to the Americans at the end of World War II) did not speak for Fumio and Jotaro Yoshida, to whom the only acceptable alternative to victory is a fight to death. The instruments are now in place to achieve a modicum of justice for Jotaro and for other Japanese lives destroyed by the Americans.”

Warfield was certain what was coming down and knew it was time to contact the president. But Cross hadn’t seen what he had seen, been where he’d been these last few days and wouldn’t buy it without a fight. The average wild-eyed conspiracy theorist would have more convincing evidence about his latest wacko extrapolation than Warfield had about Yoshida, and how many of those kooks even got beyond the three a.m. radio shows? To act on Warfield’s combination of circumstances and facts, the president would have to immediately commit to a course of action that had serious or even irreversible consequences no matter whether Warfield was right or wrong.

If Warfield had a best, it was during a crisis. All his systems responded well. His pulse was steady, his thoughts clear. He had an ability to convince others with logic and reason. All these would be on the line now as he attempted to convince the President of the United States to take action on this. Time was again the enemy. Warfield went into a phone cubicle in the lobby wing and closed the door, which had a small rectangular slit for a window. At least there was privacy. He sat down and dialed the access number Cross gave him. It seemed so long ago.

“State your name and I.D. code,” a live voice said seconds later.

“Cameron Warfield,” he said, and gave him the code Cross had written for him.

The voice told Warfield to hold and as he waited he thought for the first time how he would put it to Cross.
That there was a madman in the air who was going to drop a nuclear bomb on the United States in two hours and so many minutes? How many disaster movies had done that? But he had to somehow convince the president this was real, that a Japanese madman had arranged for nukes and for someone to make them into a deliverable atomic bomb—remember Habur, Mr. President?—and that this man who was crazed by the bitter fruits of World War II was at this moment flying that bomb over the Pacific toward Los Angeles. He was aiming for revenge, and would get it on this, the day that would be the most symbolic for him: The anniversary of the first wartime nuke; the day Japan had realized raw defeat and humiliation at the hand of the United States. The day Jotaro’s, their mother’s and his fates were sealed. Oh, don’t discount the role of the Russian, Petrevich; he’s the crucial tool of the mastermind behind the plan and maybe it couldn’t have been done without him, but the day would go to the creator of it all who had suffered in mind and body and soul every day, every minute, for more than half a century. Who had neither forgiven nor forgotten nor moved beyond. Who self-generated the fuel necessary for hate to survive for so long. Who allowed himself to become a perpetual victim until he was no less evil than the evil he imagined had destroyed his life.

The voice was back on the line. “Connecting you with the president, Mr. Warfield.”

A click, then, “Cam! Is that you?”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pr—”

“Forget that! Where th’ hell are you, anyway?” The president’s voice was clear and alert and gave no hint he had just been awakened.

“Tokyo. And as you can imagine, it’s an emergency.”

“I should hope so. Haven’t had a good crisis in hours.”

“Wish I could say you’ll like this one.” Warfield took a breath, searching his brain for the best place to begin. “Look, sir, this call is either too early or it’s too late. I take responsibility for that. But I’m holding a short fuse. Some of what I’m going tell you is speculation at this point, but it will prove out. I may have that proof at any moment.”

“You have my attention. Talk to me!”

“It relates to the Turkey-Iraq border incident that got me in trouble with Fullwood.”

“That Habur border gate, yeah.”

“Few days ago in Washington I received a message from an army general I know in Russia from Soviet days. He retired after the Soviet breakup and started working to keep nuke materials out of the wrong hands.”

“What’s his name?”

Cross, as the former CIA director, could have known of him. “Aleksei Antonov.”

“Nope.”

“Well, Antonov notified me he’d located the Russian I tracked from Russia and then lost at Habur, and invited me to meet him in Tokyo.”

“You didn’t notify anyone here?”

“I’ve second-guessed myself about that a few times in the last few days. But I’m a Washington outsider now, certainly with Fullwood and the FBI. And on short notice, this wouldn’t have been strong enough to arouse the NSC’s attention. Not until now, at least.”

“So where does it stand now that you’ve met this General Antonov?”

Warfield checked his watch. Precious seconds Cross would need later were slipping away but he was bringing the commander-in-chief up to date as fast as possible.

“The transfer of the uranium into Iraq was a red herring. The Russian smuggler, Petrevich, wanted us to think his destination was Iraq or somewhere in the Middle East. I fell for it, but he’s here in Tokyo, or was. I will know soon whether the uranium was with him. I’m betting it was.”

“
Was,
you say?”

“Yes,
was.
Let me give you the fast version. Time is critical and—”

“Go as fast as you want but I’m going to ask questions and I expect answers.” Cross was snappish.

“Okay, ask them.” Warfield’s impatience bled through as well.

“How did Antonov know the Russian was in Japan?”

“Former KGB agent tipped him, said they suspected him before it happened but didn’t pursue it, I think because of the turmoil they were in after the Cold War.”

“Go on.”

“So I met Antonov here in Tokyo two nights ago. He said Russia acknowledged a little late that uranium was missing from Arzamas-16, where Petrevich worked.”

“Arzamas-16!”
Cross was knowledgeable about the old Soviet nuclear center. “How much was missing?”

“More than we used on Hiroshima.”

“You’re certain Petrevich is in Tokyo?”

“General Antonov saw him at a Russian hangout here in Tokyo. And Petrevich saw Antonov. That’s when Antonov contacted me. He knew from our history together that I was interested in this case.”

“So is Antovov getting Russia involved?”

“Antonov’s dead.”

“
What?
”

“Somebody killed him in the john at the restaurant where I met him that night.”

Cross took a second to respond. “What’s your take on that?”

“Petrevich. He had reason to be worried about Antonov.”

“And you got input from Antonov before he died?”

Warfield glanced at his watch and wished he had called Cross earlier. “Not enough. Antonov told me of this hunch he had, based on an observation he’d made. It seemed off the wall to me but I followed it up and that brings me to the present. I can’t prove this yet, but I know it’s fact: There’s a madman here, a Japanese, who paid to get Petrevich and the uranium to Japan. Then Petrevich and two technicians he imported from Russia built a nuclear bomb and modified a 747 to deliver it.”

“Oh my God!
Do you hear what you’re saying, Cam?”

“This lunatic filed a flight plan to L.A. and he’s in the air
right now
flying a 747 with this bomb on board. Look, sir, I just left the hangar at Narita where the work was done. The 747 that was there is gone. Yoshida’s office says he’s on a training flight and everything looks routine to them, but I know it’s not. The last bit of evidence I need is confirmation from a hazmat squad that there’s radioactivity in the hangar where the modification of the 747 took place. They should be at the hangar by now. But you can’t afford to wait another minute to at least put something in gear, Mr. President.”

Cross groaned.

Warfield’s tone and volume had risen to a level not acceptable in conversation with the President of the United States and he tried to rein it in. “With all respect, sir, this man Yoshida’s the number two man at the Japanese Ministry of Transport. He’s a pilot. He has access to airplanes and airport facilities. Set up shop in a hangar here at Narita. This 747’s been undergoing modification in the hangar for a long time but it’s gone now. That’s the plane Yoshida is flying. He told his office he’s on a training flight. That’s what I would say if I’m doing what I think Yoshida’s doing.”

“How do you know the plane was undergoing modification?”

“There’s this pizza boy. He’s made regular deliveries to the Russians at the hangar for a while. He went there with me today.”

Cross was silent for a second. “You’re telling me all of this on the basis of some pizza boy’s story, Cam?”

Warfield’s frustration edged through again.

“
Hell
no. He’s one part of the story, sir. Look, this Yoshida, he’s a triple victim of Hiroshima. Father was a kamikaze pilot, mother died from radiation. Brother’s retarded because of the bomb and Yoshida sacrificed his own life to take care of him all these years. Today I went to Yoshida’s house and found the brother whose brain was fried at Hiroshima. He’s got a fresh bullet hole in his head. I’m sure his older brother, our man Yoshida, killed him, knowing he’s not going to be there to take care of him any more. And that’s because he’s going to kill himself today along with half of Los Angeles. It’s revenge he’s after, for what he sees as the price his family paid because of the United States. And you know today is August sixth.”

Out of frustration, Warfield jerked the phone booth door tighter. He hoped Cross’s silence meant he was yielding. “Mr. President, there’s not time to convey to you everything that has gone into my thinking but I’m saying you don’t have a choice here. You have
got
to act. I wish I’d called you sooner but I can’t redo that now. I’ll bet my life I’m right.”

Cross was silent for a long moment. “When’s he due in L.A., Cam?”

“Five a.m. L.A. time. Two hours from right now.”

“Give me the details.”

Warfield read off the 747’s identification and the other information on the flight plan.

“Listen, I’m going to wake up some people but I can’t do more until you tell me that hangar is radioactive. Anything else you can confirm will help. I may need some official word from Tokyo, as well. I’ll be standing by.”

After they hung up, Warfield sat in the phone booth for a moment and thought of the steps Cross would take. It was five-fifty-seven a.m. in Washington and he’d wake up his national security team. Plantar Scrubb chaired the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon. He’d have the military on alert in less than half an hour. Air Force F-15s would patrol the waters off the West Coast. Yoshida’s estimated time of arrival in Los Angeles would be confirmed. Otto Stern would notify State, Defense and others. Someone would call Paula in to take care of admin details. There was no time to lose. Yoshida’s ETA in Los Angeles was two hours and three minutes away. Sooner than that: They couldn’t wait until he was over the city to act.

Warfield understood the tight spot he’d put the president in. The national security apparatus and the military get a little out of sorts when they’re thrown a juicy bone and then denied the pleasure of gnawing on it, but that wasn’t the end of the world. Taking action on a false alarm based on a last-minute phone call from a retired army colonel playing unauthorized spy games in Tokyo would provide a lot of fodder to the press and Cross’s political opponents; that was a little more serious. There was zero chance it wouldn’t hit the newspapers and talk shows and trigger endless congressional investigations. Cross and his administration would be painted as inept, paranoid and trigger happy. But the worst scenario would be to fail to act in time on what turned out to be an actual threat that materialized into disaster. Those consequences were too horrible to imagine.

Komeito was on the phone in the booth across from Warfield with the door open. He caught Warfield’s eye and gave him a thumbs down, meaning he hadn’t reached the right authorities to check the hangar for radiation. Warfield couldn’t believe the delay. As he started to emerge from his booth he noticed four or five police officers walking toward the phones from the hotel entrance. Other officers fanned out across the main lobby.

Warfield crumpled to the phone booth floor. He couldn’t tell what was going on but he heard the officers yelling right outside his booth and Komeito trying to explain himself in Japanese. The police sounded demanding. Soon all the voices faded into the background. Warfield remained still. Less than a minute later several police officers returned and Warfield heard other phone booth doors opening and slamming shut. He didn’t breathe. There were ten or so of the cubicles but they checked only a few and left again. Had they missed him? Did they leave this time?