The Citadel

CHAPTER 3

Switzerland

Lake Geneva, or Lac Léman, as it is locally known, stretches in a northward arc from Geneva at one end, in the west, to Montreux at the other end, in the east. Built atop a rocky outcrop on the shore of the lake is Chillon Castle, just south of Montreux.

As castles should be and usually are, Chillon is located at a strategic point, controlling the narrow road that ran between the lake and adjacent mountains. This road had been a major north-south thoroughfare dating back at least to the days of the Roman Empire. It led to the Great St. Bernard Pass, the only connection between northern and southern Europe for hundreds of miles in either direction, east or west.

On top of the original Roman outpost, a castle had been built in the ninth century A.D. to guard the road. The counts of Savoy razed that rudimentary structure and began building the current castle in the middle of the twelfth century. It was modified and rebuilt numerous times over the centuries that followed.

The castle has a unique design because of the spot on which it sits. The side facing the road and landward is a typical fortress wall, designed for military purposes. The side facing the lake, however, has the air of a summer residence for very rich people, which it has been over the centuries. It was very unlikely that an enemy would come over the Great St. Bernard Pass hauling boats with them, which determined the unique construction of the castle complex.

During the Romantic Era of the nineteenth century, the castle gained fame throughout the world in narratives by writers and poets such as Victor Hugo, Rousseau, Shelley, Dumas, and most notably, Lord Byron. The Prisoner of Chillon by Byron revolved around the legend of the imprisonment of Bonivard in the castle's dungeon in the sixteenth century.

All this is the known history of the castle.

The unknown history is much more interesting, for it was here that the Organization, whose name was always kept secret, established their headquarters in the Year of our Lord 1289. It was from Chillon that the High Counsel who oversaw the destruction of the Knights Templar and the burning of Jacques De Molay at the stake in 1314 rode forth, and it was to Chillon that he returned from Paris.

The Organization understood the concept that their headquarters had to be both secure and accessible, as they had dealings around the world. Long before The Purloined Letter was written, the Organization decided that the best place to hide their headquarters was in plain sight. At that time Switzerland was in the center of the known civilized world. The lords of Savoy owed their good fortune-as did almost all the great families in Europe-to the Organization, so it was not difficult to have two parts to the castle: the part that even today a tourist can go and see, and the part that no one except those who are part of the Organization's highest ranks can enter or even know exists.

It is not by chance that Switzerland has gone to extreme lengths to maintain its neutrality through numerous wars, including both world wars, an amazing feat considering its central location in Europe. It is also not by chance that Switzerland is the banking center of the world. The Organization did not deal in chance. They dealt in logic, power, and control. In essence, much like Vatican City is run by the Pope and Church, Switzerland has been controlled by the Organization for centuries.

In the early days of the castle, the Organization met in a secret room adjacent to the dungeon, where the sound of the waves of Lake Geneva lapping against the stone walls could be heard intermingled with the moans and cries of the prisoners, a mixture that seemed to be indicative of the way the group conducted itself.

As time went on and technology improved, the Organization dug deeper into the granite below the castle. Today it is not a large complex, but contains perhaps the most sophisticated computer and intelligence center in the world, rivaling anything in the Pentagon or at Microsoft.

The center of the complex is known simply as the Intelligence Center, or I.C. It is a circular chamber, exactly ten meters across. The walls are lined with the largest flat-screen displays available, all of which are hooked into the main computer. In the center of the I.C., on a series of four progressively raised platforms, much like a large wedding cake, sat four men. Each level could rotate at the man's command who occupied it, allowing each a 360-degree view of the displays.

The seating arrangement also reflected pecking order in the four levels, with the man at the bottom being senior. The four men, called "Assessors," work six-hour shifts, which can be extended indefinitely during periods of crisis to allow someone who was on duty during the initiation of the crisis to always be present until the crisis is resolved.

The Assessors sat in comfortable chairs, with a keyboard extended across their laps. They didn't use a mouse, but rather, wore gloves that had photo-optic leads attached with which they could interact with whatever data came up on the screens by pointing and bending their fingers. It was a complicated system that required six months of full-time equipment training before a new Assessor was allowed into the I.C. for his or her first shift.

While sophisticated and cutting edge, the true genius of the I.C. was buried one level below: the computer that ran the system. It was the most powerful mainframe in the world. The Organization could afford it. As important as the hardware was the software. The Organization had its own software company located in Geneva that worked only on its projects, the primary one called the COAP: Course of Action Projector.

Understanding that human beings were flawed in the analysis of information and intelligence, the Organization was trying to develop a software program to do it more efficiently. At present, version 3.2 was loaded into the mainframe below the I.C., while the programmers in Geneva labored on 3.3. The COAP took in all the data it could gather-a staggering amount, given the capabilities of the Internet-and tried to project what was going to happen based on probabilities. It was cold, it was logical, and it worked 72.3 percent of the time, at least based on results for the past five years. With 3.3, the Organization was hoping to get that rating up over 80 percent.

The machine, however, never had the final word. That was left to the High Counsel, who had his office in a chamber forty-two meters from the center of the I.C. He communicated via secure intercom with the Assessors and had no direct access to COAP, an interesting arrangement, in that it meant the computer's projections came to the High Counsel through humans.

A problem now on the screens and being considered by the Assessors was the disturbing information being forwarded from the Philippines. The intercepted conversations between Fatima and Takase, and then Fatima and Takase's representative, had just been played, and all four Assessors were lined up, like blocks ready to tumble over each other, listening to it.

As the tape came to a close, the High Counsel's voice echoed out of the speakers in the I.C. ceiling: "Do we know for sure it was Lansale who sent the information to Fatima?"

COAP had been analyzing intelligence concerning this for over twelve minutes now, an eternity for the machine. One of the Assessors shifted his ring and seat slightly to the left to look at the results to answer the High Counsel.

"Eighty-two percent probability that Lansale was behind it."

"And the probability that Fatima can track I-401?"

A different Assessor had been working on that. "That's difficult to figure because we don't know what exactly was in the packet that Lansale sent her."

"Do we know where I-401 went?"

"No, sir. That was a joint Far East and North American Table operation at the end of World War II."

"Why would Lansale send the Abu Sayif this information?" the High Counsel wondered out loud.

To that, no one had an answer, as no one dared point out the fact that the Organization had just recently "retired" Lansale with extreme prejudice after over half a century of faithful service. A man who knew so many secrets was a dangerous man. Even now in death.

The High Counsel had not expected an answer. "Has Royce reported?"

"Yes, sir. He says he can bring a team together to deal with Fatima."

"Authorized and execute," the High Counsel ordered. There was a short pause. "And what of the Citadel?"

Another awkward silence descended.

"I want an answer," the High Counsel demanded.

The Senior Assessor cleared his throat. "Sir. The Citadel was apparently part of the North American Table and is somehow connected with this submarine I-401, which means the Far East Table was also involved. It explains why Fatima went after Kaito. She was the most junior member of the Far East Table."

One of the other Assessors spoke up. "Fatima going after Kaito might have been revenge over the Golden Lily, Hong Kong auction that Kaito ran. She betrayed the Abu Sayif."

The Senior Assessor shook his head. "I would think that also, except for the information we just received from our agent that she was given information. And the computer agrees with me."

"I know Royce will be on it," the High Counsel said, "but to expedite things, give our agent in the Philippines the authorization to take direct action to stop this line of inquiry by Fatima. Whatever Lansale sent to Fatima, it had to be something very important. He wasn't a stupid man by any stretch."

The Senior Assessor blinked. "Sir, doing that before we have complete data might not be the best move. I recommend-"

"Action in the Philippines," the High Counsel ordered. "We will wait on more information to determine what else to do. But right now, Fatima and those she is trying to contact is a problem that needs to be eradicated."

"Yes, sir."

"Back to the Citadel," the High Counsel said. "What do we know about it?"

The Senior Assessor answered. "It appears when they formed Majestic-12 they not only established Area 51, which they still use, but the Citadel."

"'Apparently'? 'Appears'?" The High Counsel turned in his chair and faced his Assessors on screen. "Does this place exist?"

"Not in our computers," the Senior Assessor admitted. "The formation of Majestic in 1947 naturally predates the use of computers and-"

"The vast majority of our history predates the use of computers," the High Counsel interrupted.

"Yes, sir. But we can only process information the North American Table sent us. And apparently, we never received any data from the North American Table about it."

The High Counsel leaned back in his chair, considering this. "So there are two possibilities. The Americans withheld the information. Or they lost it."

"Sir, there is a third possibility," the Senior Assessor said. "Lansale was the man who sent the packet to Fatima and the Abu Sayif. Lansale was one of the senior-if not the senior-field operative for the North American Table for half a century. The things he did and was involved in, well-there is no need to say there are far more significant things than this Citadel and a lost World War II submarine."

"As noted, Lansale wasn't stupid," the High Counsel said. "He picked this one thing to send to Fatima in case of his death. Summon the head of the North American Table. Tell him to bring everything they have on this Citadel. Inform the Far East Table of our concerns and find out what they know about this I-401 submarine."

Oahu , Hawaii

"That's him," Tai said.

Vaughn stared at the bent-over old man who was slowly walking down the street, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. Royce had tracked down former First Lieutenant MacIntosh using his Organization resources without much trouble. MacIntosh had retired as a lieutenant colonel from the Army right here on Hawaii after putting in thirty years of service. According to the file, his wife had died eight years ago and he lived alone in the small bungalow.

"Let's hope he doesn't have Alzheimer's," Vaughn said as he opened his car door.

They walked down the sidewalk and came up on MacIntosh, one on either side. He didn't notice their presence until he turned for the walkway to his small house.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded as Vaughn blocked his path. Then he noticed Tai and his demeanor changed. "And who are you?" he added with a smile.

Tai shot Vaughn a look, and he knew what she was thinking.

"We have some questions, Colonel MacIntosh," Tai said.

He looked her up and down. "You still haven't said who you are."

"I'm a reporter with CNN," she replied.

"And him?" MacIntosh jerked his head at Vaughn.

"My assistant," Tai said. Vaughn rolled his eyes but didn't say anything.

"And why would a beautiful young woman like you want to talk to me?" MacIntosh asked. "Not that I object," he hastily added.

Tai smiled. "It has to do with when you were in the Army."

"I assumed that when you called me 'Colonel,'" MacIntosh said. "And to be precise, I retired as a lieutenant colonel." He nodded toward his bungalow. "Why don't you come inside and sit down."

They followed him in. Vaughn glanced at Tai as MacIntosh pulled a bottle of vodka out of the plastic bag. He made no attempt to hide it, indeed, he offered some to them. "A glass?"

Both Tai and Vaughn politely declined. MacIntosh poured himself a glassful over the rocks and then lowered himself into a chair around an old wooden kitchen table. Tai and Vaughn flanked him, Tai pulling out an iPod with an iTalk recorder on top. "Do you mind if I record this?"

MacIntosh shrugged. "I'm not supposed to talk about what I did in the military. Secrets and all that good horseshit. But, hell, I retired a long time ago. And I'm dying." He said it matter-of-factly. He held up the glass. "Yeah, I drink all the time. Why the hell not? Doc said I got about six months. Fuck it. Nothing's been worth it since Meg died." He took a drink. "So what do you want to know?"

Tai leaned forward. "We've learned that the Army built a secret installation, called Citadel, in Antarctica in 1948-49."

MacIntosh frowned. "What kind of secret base?"

"We don't know," Tai said. "That's why we're asking you."

MacIntosh gave a sly smile. "Why are you asking me specifically?"

Vaughn pulled out the black and white photo and laid it on the table. "Because you took this picture. And others."

The smile was gone from MacIntosh's face as he looked at the picture. "Yeah, I took that." His voice sharpened. "Listen, we were told everything about that place was classified. I mean, it was a long time ago and all that, but still, a guy can get in trouble."

Tai leaned forward in her seat once more and flipped the picture over. "They have your name on the back."

There was a long pause, and finally MacIntosh spoke, his voice resigned. "Yeah, I took those damn pictures. At first I didn't see what the big deal about the whole thing was anyway. It was an additional duty I was assigned: battalion historian. But they told us not to talk about it-national security and all that."

"Who are 'they'?" Tai asked.

"The big shots. High-ranking officers. Except I could tell they didn't know shit either."

Tai leaned back. "What about the air crews that flew you in there? Do you know where they were from?"

"There was only one air crew that did all the flights. I think they were home-based out of here- Hawaii. They sure didn't like the cold. Flew a big-ass seaplane that had been modified to land on ice." His eyes got a distant look. "No one liked the cold."

"You were with the 48th Engineers," Vaughn said.

"Yes."

"A company?" Vaughn added.

MacIntosh shook his head. "No. I was with Battalion staff. If I'd been with A Company, then…" His voice trailed off.

"Then what?" Tai pressed.

"Then I wouldn't be here. They all died."

"How?"

"Plane went down on the way back," MacIntosh said. "No survivors. Hell, they never found the plane or the bodies. Went down in the ocean. And it was a damn floatplane, so it had to have crashed, not made an emergency landing."

Vaughn glanced at Tai. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was-very convenient. And exactly the way Lansale had died.

"Why weren't you on the plane?" Tai asked.

"I should have been," MacIntosh said. "But I got evacuated during one of the supply runs. Actually, the last supply run before they pulled the company out. And since I wasn't on the company roster, I guess no one missed me on the last flight." He held up his left hand. "Frostbite. From taking those damn pictures. I got careless. You'd think I'd have known better after three months, but-anyway, I got the bite bad and needed to be medevacked. I hopped a ride on that plane. Never got listed on the manifest.

"From there they sent me on back here to Hawaii. One plane early. If I hadn't been medevacked…" MacIntosh fell silent.

"Where was the Citadel?" Tai asked.

"I don't know."

Tai frowned. "What do you mean you don't know? You didn't know where you were?"

MacIntosh tried to explain. "I mean, I knew we were in Antarctica, but I couldn't tell you where. We weren't allowed any maps. When we flew, they blacked out the windows in the hold of the MARS. No one in that company knew where the hell they were the entire time they were there."

"You had to have some idea," Tai pressed. "What direction from High Jump Station?"

"You ever been to Antarctica?" MacIntosh didn't wait for an answer. "The goddamn place is one big jumbled-up mass of ice and mountains. North or south?" MacIntosh laughed. "Compasses don't work too well down there. Do you know that the magnetic pole is farther north of the true South Pole than where they had High Jump Station? In fact, magnetic south from High Jump Station, which is now where McMurdo Station is located, is actually west if you look at a map. That was the most screwed-up place I've ever been. All I know is that the site was a little less than a four-hour flight by MARS seaplane from High Jump Station. You look at the pictures and you got as good an idea of where that place was as I do."

"What did the engineers build there?" Tai asked.

"They didn't really 'build' anything per se," MacIntosh said. "They put together a Tinkertoy set. It was all prefab," he explained. "They flew this thing in by sections, and the MARS was the only plane big enough to fit them inside of. Someone with a lot more brains than we had in our outfit designed that thing. Each piece could just fit inside the plane, yet when they put it all together it was surprisingly big. Of course, there was a shitload of cargo coming in. Hell, they spent almost an entire week just bringing in fuel bladders. That plane flew every moment the weather allowed. Must have made over a hundred trips at least. That I know of. And I heard whispers that other stuff was brought in over land by those big snow cats they-huge tractors with treads."

"Whispers from who?" Vaughn asked.

"Some of the guys," MacIntosh said vaguely. "We weren't supposed to talk about anything. But you know how the Army is."

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed.

MacIntosh smiled. "You had the look. Can't ever get rid of it." He looked at Tai. "You too. You were military, weren't you?"

Tai nodded. "Yes. I was." She tapped the photo. "What was it that A Company put together?"

"They put it under the ice." MacIntosh shrugged. "My best guess is that it was some sort of C and C structure-Command and Control. They blasted out deep holes in the ice, then used 'dozers to clear it. Then just put the buildings together in the holes. Then the bulldozers and weather would cover them up fast. Ice would seal in around the walls. Before we were even done, they brought in other guys to put in other stuff. I remember a lot of commo equipment. They sealed off sections of the place as we finished, so I really couldn't tell you what it looked like on the inside when it was completed. None of the other specialists they brought in had a clue where the hell they were or what they were working on.

"The guys in the 48th stayed in several prefab Quonset huts on the surface, and we broke those down and took them back out with us when we left. All that you could see when we took that last flight out was the entry and ventilation shafts. Everything else was underground."

"What did it look like underground?" Vaughn asked.

"There were twelve of the prefab units."

"How were the units laid out?"

"We set them up in three rows of four, about eight to ten feet apart, and roofed over the space between, which just about doubled the underground area of the main base."

"That took four months?"

"What took the most time was blasting out that much ice and snow even before they brought in the first unit. They also dug two really big tunnels on either side for storage and two areas for fuel. Plus the long tunnel and area for the power station."

"Do you have any idea who was stationed there?"

"You know, that was the funny thing. When I flew out, I really don't think there was anybody left behind besides Alpha Company, and they were all on that last plane out."

Vaughn sat back in his chair and stared out at MacIntosh's small backyard. It seemed strange to be talking about this, looking at the bright Hawaiian sunshine.

"I don't get it," Vaughn said, trying to process everything. "Why go through all that trouble to build something if no one was going to use it?"

"Hey, you got me." MacIntosh snorted. "I'm just a poor taxpaying schmuck like everyone else. I don't know why the government spends money like it does."

"What about nuclear weapons?" Tai threw in.

MacIntosh was startled. "What?"

"Mark-17 nuclear bombs," Tai said. "You can't miss them. Big suckers."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, miss. I didn't see no bombs, that's for sure." He paused in thought. "But then again, I didn't see everything in that place. I don't think anyone from the 48th saw the entire thing. Everyone's job was very compartmentalized."

Vaughn tapped the photo. "So you have no clue what this base was built for? Who it was built for?"

"We followed orders," MacIntosh said.

"Ever occur to you that the people issuing the orders were…" Vaughn tried to figure out how to phrase it and then simply gave up, knowing it didn't matter.

MacIntosh stirred. "There was this guy who came out every so often on the MARS. He was a real strange fellow. Spooky."

"Military?" Vaughn asked.

"He didn't wear a uniform," MacIntosh replied.

"Why was he spooky?" Tai asked.

"Just was. Cold eyes."

"Did he have a name?"

"David Lansale."

Vaughn took a deep breath and glanced at Tai. They both stood.

"Thank you for your time," Tai said as she turned off the iPod and put it in her pocket.

MacIntosh took another deep drink of vodka. "Come back any time. I don't get many visitors."

Manila , Philippines

Fatima watched her figure in the mirror. Muscles flowed as her legs and arms performed one of the required movements of a fifth-degree tae kwon do black belt.

"Hai!" she shouted, her fist halting a millimeter from its reverse image. She slowly pulled the fist back as she returned to the beginning stance. The windows in the one room motel room were open, and the chill night air hit the sweat pouring off her skin, creating a thin layer of steam. She wore only a pair of cutoff white shorts and a sports bra. Her feet slid across the floor as she began another formalized kata. The calluses that years of working out had built up made her hardly notice the rough wood floor.

The room was empty except for the rest of her clothes hung and stacked in the closet. A bed sat near the window, but Fatima had not used it. If she had to rest, she slept on a thin mat, moving its location on the floor every night. Sometimes she slept right under the window; sometimes just behind the door; sometimes she folded her body into the scant space in the bathroom, a gun always close at hand.

Fatima 's leg snapped up high: front kick to the face. She froze for a second, then slowly lowered the leg, her head canted to one side. Her cell phone was vibrating. She went over and picked it up. "Yes?"

"Shibimi's tug is docking at Pier 23 in an hour. He thinks you are an arms dealer. Black market. He will talk to you but he wants something in exchange."

"What?"

"Weapons. Ten M-16s. With a thousand rounds of ammunition."

The phone went dead.

Two and a half miles away from Fatima 's location, the computer awoke with a chime. The man had been reading a book, and he carefully marked his page before flipping open the computer's lid. The display told him Fatima was moving. He shut the lid and gathered his equipment.

Oahu , Hawaii

"Lieutenant Colonel MacIntosh, retired, United States Army?" Royce asked.

"Yes?" MacIntosh's eyes were blurry and his speech slurred. He stood in the door of his cottage, one hand on the frame to steady himself.

"I have a couple of questions," Royce said as he brushed by the old man.

MacIntosh shut the door and turned. "Are you from Intelligence?"

Royce nodded. "Yes. You talked to that couple that was just here, didn't you?"

MacIntosh sighed. "That was so long ago, who cares now?"

"You told them everything you know about the Citadel?"

MacIntosh went over to the table and picked up his glass. "Yeah. What are you going to do? Court-martial me?"

"I don't have a problem with you talking to them," Royce said. "In fact, I sent them to you."

MacIntosh frowned. "Then what do you want?"

"I want to make sure you don't talk to anyone else." Royce stepped up to the confused old man and lightly slapped him on the back of the neck.

MacIntosh started and reached up to feel where he'd just been touched. "What the hell was that?"

Royce slid off the metal ring he had on his middle finger, carefully avoiding the small barb that protruded from it. He slipped it into a metal box and put it in his pocket. "Good-bye, Colonel."

MacIntosh was still rubbing the back of his neck. "What did you do?" The words came out slowly and even more slurred than before.

"Killed you," Royce said as he turned for the door.

MacIntosh tried to get to his feet but couldn't move. He tried to speak again but the muscles wouldn't respond. Royce paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. MacIntosh's eyes had lost their focus and his chest wasn't moving. His head slumped forward.

Royce pushed open the door and left the dead man behind.

Philippines

An hour was not much time. Fatima made a couple of calls as she gathered her gear and left the room. She knew she would not be coming back to it.

Weapons, especially M-16s, were not hard for her to get her hands on. The Abu Sayif had numerous stores of weapons. She had called to find out the closest location for these specific guns.

The drop site she'd been given was in a storage unit. Fatima unlocked the combination padlock and pulled up the door. Two crates and one small box lay just inside, in front of other boxes containing various equipment. The Abu Sayif was efficient. She didn't know who had put the guns in there, and she was sure that whoever had didn't know she was taking them out. The storage unit was a good cutout between operatives and support personnel. The Filipino government took a hard line with the Abu Sayif, especially right in Manila.

Fatima uncrated the ten M-16s and the ammunition. The M-16s were brand new, probably stolen from a government warehouse or even bought right out of government soldiers' hands.

Fatima worked on one of the M-16s, secreting a small transmitter inside the hollow of the pistol grip; a place no one would have any reason to look. Then she broke each gun open, removed the firing pins and then reassembled them. She tied the guns together, then wrapped plastic bags around them, waterproofing both them and the ammo. The package was bulky, but she managed to stuff it into a large rucksack.

Fatima relocked the door to the bin. She just barely had time to make it to the designated meet site. She put the rucksack on the passenger seat of her old Chevy and began driving through the streets of Manila.

By the time she arrived at the old American naval base in Subic, she was shifting into her action mode. There was some activity, but nothing nearly as it used to be when the Americans ran their fleet out of it. She drove past the empty guard shack and toward the piers.

When she got close to the designated pier, she parked the car and looked around. There was indeed an old, rusting tug moored at the designated pier. But all its lights were off and it looked deserted. To her left there was an old ammunition bunker, built like a small fort, with a gate entry wide enough to take a truck. The steel gates were wide-open, and she could see a light inside with flickers of shadows, which indicated people moving.

Taking the rucksack full of weapons, she left the truck. Fatima felt almost naked walking across the street toward the ammo bunker, and she had a feeling she was being watched. She noted that there were no other vehicles about. As she entered the brick archway, she sensed someone behind and spun around. Two dark figures stood there, blocking her way out.

"Come in!" someone who spoke English said, his voice echoing in the courtyard. Fatima turned and walked forward. The small courtyard was surrounded by the bunker's walls, two stories high on all sides, with brick arches opening to the ammunition mezzanines. She couldn't see who had called out. The voice could have come from one of dozens of arched openings on any side, from any floor.

Fatima walked directly to the middle and put the rucksack down. She folded her arms over her chest and waited. The two men who had followed her were now standing inside the entrance, also waiting.

A shuffling sound drew her attention, and Fatima turned to her right. Two other men were walking out of the shadows from the north wall.

"You have the guns?" one of the men asked, again in English, which most Filipinos knew. As he cleared the shadows, Fatima finally got a good look at his face. Japanese. There was no mistaking the facial features. But too young to have been alive during World War II.

"I have them."

The man gestured, and the man at his side came forward and opened the rucksack, checking the weapons and ammunition.

"Where is Shibimi?" Fatima asked.

The man was breaking down one of the weapons, his hands moving expertly over the metal pieces despite the lack of light.

"It is functional," the man called out to his leader in Japanese. Fatima realized they didn't know she understood their language.

"Where is Shibimi?" Fatima repeated.

"He will be here shortly," the leader said in English. "Kill her," he called out in Japanese to his men.

The man with the M-16s near Fatima was sliding a magazine into one of the weapons. Fatima considered it a fundamentally unsound business practice to be killed by her own merchandise. She turn-kicked toward the man with the M-16, only to see him sidestep the strike, grab her leg and twist, dumping her on her back. The Japanese put the stock of the M-16 into his shoulder and aimed down at her. He pulled the trigger, and nothing happened.

In his moment of confusion, Fatima drew her silenced pistol and fired twice, both rounds hitting him in the head and knocking him backward. A second man came running forward, a silenced submachine gun at the ready, and then abruptly halted as sparks flew off the concrete floor near him. Fatima could feel the presence of bullets flying by, although she heard no sound of firing. She rolled and looked up, spotting the muzzle flash of a weapon being fired high up on the south wall. The Japanese who had been about to shoot her jumped right, out of the way of the unexpected firing, grabbing the duffel bag with the other weapons and getting behind the cover of one of the large crates.

Fatima didn't stop to savor her reprieve. She scuttled on her back, the concrete ripping through her shirt, managing to get behind a large pile of boxes. At least she was concealed from the Japanese, she realized. Whoever the gunman on the wall was had a perfect shot at her, but he'd had a perfect shot at her earlier and hadn't taken advantage of it, so she felt she had to take the chance.

The second Japanese man let loose a sustained burst of fire up at the wall, but the man was firing blindly, not sure where his target was. The gun battle was eerie, played out in almost total silence, only the flaming strobe of the muzzle flashes and the sparks of rounds ricocheting giving any hint as to what was happening.

Fatima peered around the crates, keeping low. The Japanese leader had joined the gunman. While the leader provided cover, the other ran with the duffel bag toward the archway where the other two waited. And was cut down in mid-stride by a burst of automatic fire from the unseen gunman. The leader took that as a hint to escape and sprinted for the exit, grabbing the duffel bag as he went by the body. And then he was gone. Fatima twisted toward the entrance where the last two Japanese had been, but there was no sign of them now, and she assumed they were most likely leaving with their leader.

She turned toward the wall behind her, pistol at the ready, and waited, but spotted no movement. "Who is there?" she finally called out in English. Her words echoed off the wall with no reply.

Silence reigned, and Fatima did nothing to break it. She gave the surviving Japanese and unknown gunman plenty of time to escape, then stood. She didn't hear any sirens. Time to be going. First, though, she went to the closest body. She checked for tattoos, and as she had suspected, found the mark of the Black Tentacle on it. She then cautiously made her way to the entryway and slipped through, ran to her Chevy and jumped in.

As she drove away, she opened up the GPS tracker and turned it on. She drove slowly and carefully, in no rush, wanting the Japanese to think they had escaped her. The unknown gunman bothered her, a wild card, and she had no clue who had played it.

Fatima glanced at her cell phone, considering whether it was time to call in more firepower. That's when she noticed that the bug had stopped moving. It was about two miles ahead of her, still inside the sprawling Subic Bay compound. She cut her lights and drove closer, coming to a halt when she rolled to a stop close to the flashing green dot on her GPS screen.

She looked ahead. A trawler was tied to the pier in front of her. She reached down, retrieved a set of night vision goggles and put them on. Through them she could see the boat clearly.

Two hundred meters away a stranger watched Fatima watch the boat. She sat cross-legged on top of a warehouse, a silenced submachine gun across her knees. She knew who the extra shooter was on the wall during the ambush. So even though her main focus was on Fatima, she also checked out the surrounding area, trying to find if the shooter was still after the same scent.

While she was searching the shadows through a night vision scope, her attention was distracted by movement on the boat.

Through the night vision goggles, Fatima watched four men come down the gangplank. They did not have the duffel bag of weapons with them, but she didn't care about that. What she did care about was the man who appeared to be in charge: he was old, definitely with enough years to have served in World War II. She observed as the Japanese got into an old model Ford LTD and a newer Camaro parked nearby. As they peeled out of the lot, she followed. When they cleared the old Navy base, traffic got heavier. Checking her rearview mirror, she noticed a black van following farther back and made a note to keep an eye on it.

The procession continued until they were heading into the mountainous countryside surrounding Subic Bay. Glancing in her rearview mirror, Fatima could tell that the black van was holding its position. The two cars were ahead in the far right lane and scrupulously staying at the speed limit.

She didn't like her position between the Japanese and whoever was trailing. She was too close to the Japanese Yakuza, and there was a good chance they would detect her presence. She didn't want to take a chance, though, and go behind the van, since she didn't know who was at the wheel of that vehicle. For all she knew, there were other Japanese.

They approached a point where the road cut a tunnel through the knee of a mountain. Fatima was a hundred feet behind the Camaro, which was right on the bumper of the LTD. Both cars slipped into the mouth of the tunnel, and she kept her distance. She glanced in her rearview mirror; the van was also keeping its place.

As Fatima returned her attention to the front, she automatically pulled her foot off the gas pedal. The brake lights on the Camaro were bright red in the tunnel ahead. She heard the squeal of rubber as the Camaro spun about. A car in the other lane narrowly avoided collision, swerving out of the way. Fatima slammed her foot on the brake as the headlights of the Camaro fixed on her windshield.

She halted, but the other car didn't. The front bumper of the Camaro smashed into the left front grill of the Chevy, jolting Fatima forward against her seat belt, then snapping her head back, bouncing it against the headrest. The Camaro pinned the Chevy against the wall of the tunnel, the right front side hitting concrete.

Two men jumped out of the Camaro, M-16s at the ready. Fatima ducked before they fired, the bullets shattering the windshield above her, showering her with broken glass. Either the M-16s weren't those she had given them or the missing firing pins had been replaced.

She unbuckled her seat beat and slithered between the front seats into the back, where the backseat was down. Bullets continued to stream by over her head. She added a few rounds with her pistol, shooting out the right rear window of the car.

Gathering herself, she dove out through the opening she had just created. She bounced off the right wall of the tunnel, grunting as she felt pain jar through her shoulder. Hitting the pavement, she rolled, pistol at the ready, peering underneath her Chevy. She could see the legs of the Japanese on the near side of the Camaro. She fired twice, both rounds hitting the man in the ankle, tearing his leg out from under him. Fatima fired again at the prone figure, this time a head shot, killing the stunned man instantly. All of four seconds had elapsed since the accident, and the only noise had been that of the collision and the bullets shattering glass.

Now there was the sound of another car coming to a hurried halt, and Fatima took a chance, popping her head up over the trunk to see what the tactical situation was. She expected the LTD to be there, disgorging more gunmen, but was surprised instead to see the black van twenty feet away and a man leaning out the passenger's side, a silenced Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. He hosed down the second Japanese, blowing blood and guts all over the right side of the Camaro. Fatima froze an image of the man in her memory: Oriental, mixed, although more Japanese features than Korean, short and thin, and from the way he handled the gun, a professional at the job of killing.

Her visual inventory was brought to an abrupt halt as the man turned the smoking barrel of the Steyr in her direction. For the second time, she dove for cover as bullets tore chips out of the concrete above her head. Fatima fired underneath, but the man was inside the van, and all she could shoot at were the tires.

The firing abruptly ceased, and she heard a vehicle accelerate away. She carefully edged her head around the rear of the Chevy. The van was gone. Two smashed vehicles and two dead bodies. She watched the van disappear down the tunnel to the east.

"Fuck," she said, standing up and dusting off broken glass from her clothes. There was a bottleneck of frightened motorists in their cars to the west, but no sign of police yet. Fatima reached into the front of the Chevy and pulled out her homing device. There was nothing else in the vehicle that could identify her.

She brought the muzzle of her weapon up as a white van wove its way through the halted cars and raced up to her. She had a perfect sight picture on the driver, who leaned over and threw open the passenger door. "Get in!" the woman yelled.

Another Japanese person, Fatima noted, keeping her weapon steady. She heard sirens in the distance.

"Get in!" the woman repeated. The sirens were getting closer.

Fatima hopped in, keeping her weapon trained on the driver. The woman took off, heading west. They passed through the tunnel and out into the night air on the other side of the mountain.

"I don't see them," the driver said, peering ahead.

"And you are?" Fatima asked. The woman appeared young, somewhere in her mid-twenties by Fatima 's best guess. She wore gold-rimmed glasses and a very nice dark gray outfit. Fatima pressed the barrel of her pistol into the side of that suit and repeated her question. "Who are you?"

"My name is Araki," the woman replied. She appeared not to notice the gun poking into her side.

Fatima spared a glance out the windshield. There was no sign of either the van or the LTD. "And you are with?" Fatima asked.

"Japanese CPI," the woman said. "I assume you are with a Filipino government agency," she added.

"Why do you assume that?" Fatima asked. She knew what CPI was: Central Political Intelligence, a secret arm of the Japanese government formed after the Tokyo gas attacks a few years back.

"You were following the Japanese Yakuza," Araki said.

"And?"

"Who else would be following them?" Araki asked. "Other than police or other Yakuza. And you do not appear to be Japanese, thus I deduce you are police."

Fatima wasn't sure whether to take Araki for what she claimed to be, but since she had the gun in the woman's side, she wasn't overly concerned at the present moment about the veracity of her claim. If Araki wanted to think she was police, that was fine with her. With her right hand, Fatima flipped open the cover on her direction finder and turned it on.

Araki glanced over as they wound into the jungle between Subic and Manila. "You have a fix on them?"

Fatima nodded. "They're southeast."

Araki accelerated.

"Coming up on due east," Fatima reported.

Araki took a turn onto a dirt road in that direction.

"Do you know of a man named Shibimi?" Fatima asked.

"Yes. He was in the Ford LTD. He is a senior member of the Black Tentacle Yakuza." Araki slowed as the road narrowed. "Do you mind?" she asked, pointing at the gun that Fatima still had poking into her side.

"Actually, I do mind," Fatima 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. Her English was precise, and she enunciated each word 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," Fatima said, checking the direction finder. The small dot indicating the Japanese had stopped less than a kilometer ahead. "Unfortunately, I really don't have the time to have a deep discussion with you about all this. There is someone I have to catch up with."

Araki nodded. "Shibimi. Why are you following him?"

"Why are you?" Fatima asked.

"I am not following Shibimi," Araki said. "I am following a man who is following them."

"The Japanese guy in the black van with the Steyr AUG," Fatima said.

"Correct."

"And who is he?"

"That is my concern," Araki said.

"He tried blowing my head off back there in the tunnel," Fatima said. "That makes it my concern. Also, in case you haven't noticed, you're in the Philippines now. I could have your ass thrown in jail," she bluffed.

"As you threw me in jail, would you also admit to selling the Japanese Yakuza those weapons back at Subic?" Araki asked in a level voice.

Fatima pushed the barrel harder into Araki's side, evoking a surprised grunt of pain. "Do not fuck with me. I could also just make you disappear."

"I imagine you could," Araki said.

Fatima could see her swallow, trying to control her fear. The woman was doing a reasonably good job of remaining calm, but Fatima sensed that Araki wasn't a seasoned agent. She didn't have the hard edge that people in the world of covert operations gained after only a few years in the field-if they survived that long. Of course, she could also be better than most and a good actor. That made Fatima wonder exactly what Araki's role here was.

"We need each other," Araki said.

"Why do I need you?" Fatima asked, checking the direction finder one more time. The dot was still stationery. "They've stopped about five hundred meters in front of us." Looking ahead, she could see that the road descended through the jungle, and there was the glow of lights ahead, indicating some form of civilization.

Araki stopped the van and turned off the lights. She looked at Fatima. "I want the Japanese man," she said. "You want this Yakuza, Shibimi. But I do not think you know what these people are up to. I do not know what Nishin-that is his name-is up to, other than the fact he is following the Yakuza 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. And as you've noted, this is your country, so you have the local contacts. Remember, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Fatima snorted. "You sound like Confucius."

"Confucius was Chinese," Araki began. "I am-"

"Yes, Confucius was Chinese," Fatima interrupted. "Confucius, originally known as Kung Chiu, born 551 B.C., died 479." She 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."

"Very impressive," Araki said.

"Why are you following this Nishin?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Cannot or won't?"

Araki shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "I am not authorized."

Fatima tapped the direction finder. "In the interests of each of our goals, let's go talk to these people."

"We just drive down there?" Araki asked.

Fatima had the pistol on her lap. "Yes. Do you have any weapons in here?"

Araki nodded. "Behind you. That plastic case."

Fatima twisted in the seat and opened the lid. Set in foam padding were two MP-5 submachine guns with silencers, along with two dozen loaded magazines. "Very nice," she said as she pulled them out. She passed one to Araki and took the other. They split the ammunition between them, locking and loading the guns.

"This is not much of a plan," Araki said as she started the engine. "We could be driving right into a Yakuza base."

Fatima smiled. "I know where we are, and I know what's down there. And it is a good plan because of that."

"And you are averse to sharing this information?" Araki asked.

"I am not authorized," Fatima said, and laughed. "Don't worry. It is not a Yakuza base. It is a rebel base. A splinter cell of the Abu Sayif. They do business with the Yakuza on occasion."

"That is even worse," Araki said. "The Abu Sayif are terrorists, as bad as the Yakuza."

"I have had dealings with the Abu Sayif," Fatima said. "Do not worry. We will be all right. So drive."

Araki reluctantly put the van in gear, and they rolled forward down the dirt trail. "There is no reason for us to trust each other."

"Were you on the wall in the compound when I switched the weapons?"

"Yes. But I didn't shoot at the Yakuza, that was Nishin."

"Why didn't he shoot me?"

"Because he actually didn't have an angle on you. Also, I think he probably wanted to figure out who was who first. Or perhaps he wanted to speak to you before shooting you. I do not know for certain."

"Close now," Fatima said, checking the display. They continued down the road until the jungle pulled back on either side and they could see the source of the lights: a ramshackle village of about twenty buildings. "There's the LTD." Fatima pointed. There was no sign of any people around the buildings. The LTD was parked outside of what appeared to be warehouse.

Araki drove farther down the road and parked the van in a position where they could observe the car but be hidden in the shadow of one of the buildings. "Any ideas why they would be here?" she asked.

"They're probably trying to sell the weapons they just purchased to this Abu Sayif group." Fatima was finding the entire thing rather ironic but didn't think this was the appropriate time to mention that. "There's no sign of the black van and your Nishin fellow. Perhaps it might be the time to tell me exactly who he is and why you are after him."

"He is a ronin for a secret organization," Araki said.

"A ronin?"

"A bit more complicated in definition than hit man. Nishin does not work for hire. He is sworn to do his master's bidding."

"And his master is?" Fatima noticed movement by one of the windows of the warehouse the LTD was parked outside of.

"I have only heard it referred to as the Far East Table."

"What the hell is that?"

"That is what I wish to ask Mr. Nishin."

The door to the warehouse slid open, and Shibimi stomped out, followed by his guard.

"Let's go," Fatima said, opening her van door and getting out. "Shit," she cursed as a dark figure with a silenced Steyr automatic stepped out of the shadows twenty meters to the right. The suppressor on the end of the barrel spit silent flame. The guard was slammed back into the metal wall, where he left a trail of blood as he slid to the ground.

Shibimi drew a pistol and ran for cover.

Fatima moved forward, sticking to the shadows of the buildings, getting closer to Shibimi's position, keeping one eye on the ronin, who was slowly moving forward also, focused on the car.

"Do not kill him," Araki hissed, weapon at the ready just behind Fatima 's left shoulder.

Fatima had a feeling one of them was going to get their man as Shibimi fired a couple of rounds at Nishin, who then fired back. The crack of Shibimi's pistol going off reverberated through the small village, and people began to spill out of doorways, some of them armed with automatic weapons.

Fatima realized this was going to turn into a disaster, and she needed it to be over quickly. She snapped a shot at Nishin, hitting him in the side. As Shibimi turned in confusion to see who had fired, she sent a three-round burst into the old man's legs.

"Abu Sayif!" Fatima cried out, stepping out of the shadow into the glow of one of the arc lights. "Bind those two men," she ordered as the closest armed villagers recognized her.

Araki turned to her in surprise as a half-dozen men ran to the two wounded men, securing them. "Who are you?"

Fatima turned the smoking muzzle of her weapon toward Araki. "I am the leader of the Abu Sayif. And perhaps now you can tell me who you really are before I kill you. And then I will extract the truth from our two wounded friends over there."