Critical Mass

Chapter 62

Roland Murphy watched from his seventh-floor office at CIA Headquarters as the sun came up on what promised to be a beautiful day. His mood, he decided, should be expansive, instead it was dark with worry.

Unable to sleep, he’d had his driver bring him back at four this morning, and he’d had the overnight supervisor bring him up to speed. The world situation was reasonably calm; no major wars or conflicts involving American interests, no serious threats to any of their in-place networks, no crises needing immediate attention.

Nothing doing, in fact, except for the situation they’d hired McGarvey to investigate.

It had not changed. The threat still existed, but no one had so much as a clue what to do about it.

Murphy’s secretary wasn’t here yet, so he got an outside line himself and called the fifth-floor isolation ward at Bethesda National Naval Medical Center.

“This is Roland Murphy. If you need to confirm that, I’m at my office. I’ll instruct the Agency operator to put your call through.”

“I’m Dr. Singh, and that won’t be necessary, Mr. Director, I recognize your voice.”

“How is your patient?”

“We’ve had him here for less than twelve hours,” the doctor said cautiously. “But he is by all appearances a singularly remarkable man. He is already on the mend.”

“How long?”

“For what, General?”

“Until he will be fit to resume his… duties.”

“Under normal circumstances, three months, perhaps four,” Dr. Singh said. “But if his presence is of vital importance, all other considerations secondary, I would say six weeks at the minimum.”

“Is he conscious?” Murphy asked, masking his bitter disappointment. McGarvey was a man after all, not a superman.

“Oh, yes, he is very much conscious. He refuses all pain medications and sedatives.”

“Someone will be along this morning to interview him,” Murphy said.

“Seven days.”

“This morning.”

“General, I could refuse you.”

“I think not,” Murphy said. “But we’ll wait until this afternoon. We’ll give you that much time.”

“Him, General, not me. You need to give him time to heal.”

Murphy called a meeting for his top three at 8:30 a.m. in the small dining room adjacent to his office. Besides the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence Lawrence Danielle, the Deputy Director of Intelligence Tommy Doyle and of course the Deputy Director of Operations Phil Carrara, CIA General Consul Howard Ryan was at the breakfast gathering.

Murphy dropped the bombshell.

“I was told earlier this morning that McGarvey will recover from his wounds, but he’ll be out of commission for at least six weeks, perhaps longer.”

“Shit,” Carrara swore crudely, but he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Ryan had a smug look. “Then whatever did or did not happen on Santorini, K-l was successful.

They wanted him off the case, and that’s what they got.”

“It would seem so,” Murphy answered heavily. “He’s awake and apparently coherent.

Phil, I want you to go over there this afternoon and talk to him. He must have seen or heard something that’ll be of use to us.”

“Yes, sir,” Carrara said. “In the meantime we’ve come up with a tentative identification on the woman that Elizabeth described for us.” He took several black and white glossy photos from a file folder and passed them across the table to Murphy. “Her name is Liese Egk.”

“Former STASI?” Murphy asked, studying the photos, then passing them over to Danielle.

“Yes. Her speciality is assassination.”

Danielle’s eyebrows rose, and Ryan took the photos with interest.

“Still no trace of her or Ernst Spranger?”

“None,” Carrara said. “The Greeks are, needless to say, oversensitive just now. Apparently there were two local businessmen who somehow got involved, and got themselves killed, in addition to the two fishermen whose boat was found abandoned in the port of Thira.”

“The Navy wants to be keyed in to what we’re doing,” Danielle said softly. “Admiral Douglas telephoned yesterday afternoon after you’d already gone for the day. One of their boys was killed on the island.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we’d get back to him, but that the young man definitely did not give his life on some fool’s errand.”

“That’ll have to do for now,” Murphy said. “If he presses, invite him over for lunch.

I’ll talk to him then.”

There was a momentary silence that Tommy Doyle finally broke.

“Which brings us back to Tokyo. We’re getting a lot of mixed signals from the Japanese on the official as well as the unofficial level.”

“What about the news media?”

“So far they’ve been relatively silent about the killings, which in itself is spooky.”

They were all looking at Doyle.

“What are you trying to say, Tommy?” Murphy asked.

“It’s my guess that whatever is going on has at least the tacit approval of someone at ministry level or higher.”

“Tough charge,” Ryan suggested, but Murphy ignored the comment.

“It’s time we pulled Kelley Fuller out of there,” the DCI said. “With McGarvey out of commission she’s on her own.”

“You don’t mean to write off our Tokyo station,” Carrara said. “Not now, General.”

“We’ll have to restaff. There’s not much else for it. In the meantime it’s possible that McGarvey’s action on Santorini scared them off, or at least delayed their plans.”

“Six weeks is a long time,” Doyle said.

“Send someone else,” Ryan suggested.

“Who?” Murphy asked bluntly.

“I don’t know. We must have a Japanese expert on staff somewhere who could make some quiet inquiries for us.”

No one said a thing.

“We don’t have to send a maniac whose solution to every problem seems to be shooting up the local citizenry.”

“Right,” Murphy said. He turned back to Carrara. “As soon as you talk to McGarvey get back to me, would you, Phil?”

“Yes, sir,” Carrara said. “Maybe we’ll have something by then.”

Chapter 63

The morning was beautiful. McGarvey stood at the window, his body cocked at an odd angle, his neck, right arm and shoulder and his right leg swathed in bandages. He’d gone from night into day; from danger to safety, but the assignment wasn’t over.

A CIA psychiatrist who’d examined McGarvey after a particularly harrowing operation early in his career had come to the conclusion that though McGarvey had a low physical threshold of pain response, he had an extremely high psychological threshold. He felt pain easily, but he was able to let it flow through and around him without it affecting his ability to function.

He was in pain now, but he continued to refuse any medication, preferring to keep his head straight. Spranger and the woman with him were gone. Lipton had admitted it before they’d left Santorini. And as long as that monster was still on the loose none of them would be truly safe.

McGarvey’s right shoulder had stiffened up and his burns still hurt, but his biggest problem was the flesh wound in his right thigh. Walking was difficult at best. If he found himself in a situation where he had to move quickly to save his life, he might not make it.

But lying in a hospital bed fretting wouldn’t help despite what the doctors told him. They’d backed up their warnings by posting a guard at the door. At least he hoped the hospital had ordered the security and that it hadn’t been done at the Agency’s request.

Someone knocked at the door and he turned around as Kathleen came in. Her left eyebrow arched when she saw him standing at the window, but she said nothing, closing the door.

“Good morning,” McGarvey said. He decided that she didn’t look any the worse for wear, except in her eyes, which seemed to have lost their usual haughtiness. She was dressed in street clothes, a blue scarf on her head.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll live. You?”

“I’m all right.”

“Elizabeth?”

“She wants to see you.”

McGarvey tried to read something from his ex-wife’s expression, her tone of voice, but he couldn’t. He’d never been able to predict her.

“How is she holding up?”

Kathleen shook her head, but she made no move toward him. “I honestly don’t know, Kirk. She’s definitely your daughter. She stood up to them, and probably saved my life in the doing despite what they… did to her. But she won’t talk to me about it. She just sidesteps the questions. Says she’ll live, whatever that means.”

“What now?”

“You tell me,” she said. “The FBI is guarding us. They said something about temporarily placing us in the Witness Protection Program. Either that or taking us into protective custody.”

“Not such a bad idea…“

“For how long, Kirk?” Kathleen cried. “From the day I met you this has been going on. How much longer must I endure it?”

“I’m sorry…“

“We’re divorced. Stay away from me and Elizabeth! Please! If you love your daughter, as you profess you do, then leave us alone!”

He felt badly for her, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to alleviate her pain and fear except do as she was asking: Stay away from her, and in the meantime go after Spranger and what remained of his organization.

“If you think it’s for the best.”

“I do,” she replied.

McGarvey nodded. “Will you let me talk to her now, for just a minute?”

Kathleen stared at him for a long second or two, her rigid expression softening a little. “I don’t think I could stop her,” she said. “The doctor certainly could not.”

“Get out of Washington, Katy. Let the Bureau take care of you.”

“My name is Kathleen,” she corrected automatically. “And Elizabeth and I are going to do just that. No one will know where we are. No one.”

She turned and left the room, giving McGarvey a brief glimpse of Dr. Singh in the corridor before the door closed again. He hobbled back to the bed and got in. A moment later Elizabeth, wearing faded jeans, a pink V-neck sweater, and a head scarf, came in.

For a long time she stood stock-still, looking at her father, the expression on her face even less readable than her mother’s, except that she was frightened.

“Liz?” McGarvey prompted.

“Daddy,” she cried and she came into his arms, a sharp stab of pain hammering his right side.

He grunted involuntarily, and Elizabeth immediately reared back.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she apologized, her hands going to her mouth.

“It’s okay, Liz,” he said. “It’s okay.” He held out his hand to her.

She hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Now come over here and sit down. I want to hear everything that happened to you and your mother, and then I want you to do me a favor.”

“Anything,” Elizabeth said, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to need some clothes.”

She looked sharply at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m getting out of here.”

“But you can’t. You’re hurt.”

“It’s all right,” he said, patting her hand. “Believe me. But first I want to know about Ernst Spranger and the woman with him.”

A dark cloud passed over Elizabeth’s features and she flinched. “Her name is Liese.

The others are murderers, but she’s worse. Much worse.”

“What happened?”

Elizabeth turned away. “I can’t…“

“Your mother said you won’t tell her.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re safe here.”

She turned back to her father. “Not for me,” she said. “For you.”

Suddenly McGarvey was cold. He’d been told what condition Kathleen and Elizabeth were in when Lipton’s team had found them but he’d not seen either of them until this morning. They both wore wigs beneath their scarves, and although they seemed pale they appeared to be uninjured. Yet he wondered, his mind going down a lot of dark corridors he wanted to avoid.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No,” she blurted. “That’s wrong.

Mother’s wrong. You’re not responsible for the bad people in the world. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If I hadn’t been involved none of this would have happened to you and your mother.”

“Don’t say that,” she cried, tears suddenly filling her eyes. “Don’t ever say that.”

“It’s okay, Liz,” McGarvey said, reaching for her.

Elizabeth stared at him for a long time, as if she’d never seen him before. “If not you, who can I believe in?” she asked finally.

A battered Volkswagen van with Italian plates pulled up at the Villa Ambrosia overlooking Monaco around five in the afternoon. So far as Liese could determine the compound was just as they had left it. She’d half-expected to see yellow Do Not Pass tapes across the doors, or an Interpol surveillance unit parked nearby. But she’d made three different approaches to the house, and had spotted nothing.

“How does it look?” Spranger asked from the back of the van. His voice was muffled but recognizable, which was, as far as Liese was concerned, enough for the moment.

“Clear,” she answered. “I’m going to release the alarms and open the gate.”

“Watch out for a trap.”

They’d been over this same ground for two and a half days all the way from Athens, across Italy and along the Riviera. Spranger’s intense hatred and desperate need for revenge had distorted his perception of everything. He had ranted and raved about striking back, getting even, killing,

More than once Liese had been brought to the brink of putting a gun to the back of his head and pulling the trigger. But each time she’d backed off at the last moment because she needed him. Needed his voice for what remained to be done. Their field officers were in place and ready to go to phase two, but they would only move on Spranger’s direct orders. Without him the entire operation would fizzle and die.

Checking the rearview mirror again to make certain no one was coming up the road, Liese got out of the van and cautiously approached the tall wooden gate in the thick concrete wall that surrounded the compound.

None of the three hidden switches that activated the villa’s extensive alarm system had been tampered with, and she released each of them, the gate’s electric lock cycling open, and the gate swinging inward.

Back in the van she drove into the compound, and parked at the rear of the house.

Before she helped Spranger out, she closed and locked the gate, and reset the alarm system.

Spranger was a mess. The Greek doctor on Santorini had been an incompetent fool, his methods and most of his equipment 1940s-vintage war surplus. He’d dug McGarvey’s bullet out of Spranger’s shoulder successfully, but he’d done too much cutting and when the wound healed, scar tissue would be bunched up as big as a clenched fist.

He’d set Spranger’s broken arm and collarbone poorly, and whatever salve he’d used on the extensive burns had a terrible odor. Within twenty-four hours noisome fluids were freely suppurating from it, horribly staining his clothing and bandages.

His broken nose and cheeks had swollen up and discolored black and blue and yellow.

But he was alive, and coherent, and therefore still useful.

Inside the house, Liese poured him a brandy, then made the first of four telephone calls, this one to a number down in Monaco. It was answered on the first ring by a man speaking French with a Japanese accent.

“Out”

“Mr. Spranger calling for Mr. Endo, please,” Liese said. Spranger was watching her closely.

A second later their Japanese contact came on. “Yes, you have something to report, Ernst?”

“This is me,” Liese said, and she caught the slight calculating hesitation in Endo’s voice.

“Yes, I understand, please proceed.”

“Mr. McGarvey has been eliminated as a problem.

“I see. And will you now be able to make your deliveries as contracted.”

“Within seventy-two hours,” Liese said, and Spranger nodded, his hand gripping the brandy glass so tightly she thought it would shatter at any moment.

“Very well. We look forward to concluding our business then.”

Liese hung up, got the dial tone again and called the first of their three teams standing by in the field; This one outside of Lausanne, Switzerland, and Spranger put down his drink, ready to do his part.

Chapter 64

Elizabeth was back a few minutes before one in the afternoon with a change of clothes for her father. This time she was dressed in a sheer blouse and skimpy knit miniskirt.

She looked like a healthy, extremely sexual young animal, and the sight of her like that took McGarvey’s breath away.

“Mother is waiting downstairs,” she said, laying the straw bag in which she’d brought the clothes on the end of the bed. “We’re leaving this afternoon from the Baltimore airport.”

“Did you have any trouble getting back in?” McGarvey asked, getting out of bed, and pulling the clothes out of the bag. “Turn around.”

She turned away as her father got dressed. “No. I think they like my smile out there.”

McGarvey chuckled to himself. She was a little girl playing with fire, he thought.

But then something else struck him and he looked up at her. She was only a girl in his mind. In reality she was a vital, intelligent young woman.

“Is the guard still out there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you get him away from the door for a minute so that I can get out of here?”

“Where are you going?” she asked in a small voice after a moment.

“To finish what I started,” he answered her. There was no use lying now. Not after what she’d been through.

“If something happens… I may never see you again.”

“You will,” McGarvey said, his throat suddenly thick. “Count on it.”

When he was finished dressing, he took his daughter into his arms and held her closely for a long time. “It’ll be okay, Liz.”

She looked up into his eyes. “You’ll make it, won’t you, Daddy?”

“Sure.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now, go wiggle your tush at the guard and get him to show you the way to the cafeteria.”

She smiled demurely, and left.

McGarvey waited for a half minute then carefully opened the door a crack. Elizabeth and the guard were gone, and for the moment no one else was in sight. He slipped out into the corridor and headed toward the stairwell door in the opposite direction from the nurses’ station.

At any moment he expected someone to shout for him to stop, and then come running.

But no one did, and a few minutes later he had made his way painfully down three flights of stairs to the ground floor, then along the main corridor to the entry lobby and information desk.

Otto Rencke, his long hair flying, his sleeveless sweatshirt dirty, and his sneakers untied, came through the front doors and started toward the information desk when he spotted McGarvey. He came over, his expression falling as he got closer.

“Holy cow, Mac. Do you know that you really look like shit?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, but wow, I didn’t think you’d be ambulatory, you know. The hotshots across the river have got you half dead.”

“Did you bring your car?”

“Sure.”

“Then get me out of here.”

“Where to?”

“I’ll tell you on the way, and in the meantime you can fill me in.”

Rencke’s face brightened again. “Kiyoshi Fukai.”

They were on their way out and McGarvey stumbled and nearly fell on his face. “What?”

“The bad guy. His name is Kiyoshi Fukai. As in Fukai Semiconductor. Fourth richest man in the world. Worth in excess of twelve billion U.S. But I don’t think that’s his real name.”

Kathleen was waiting in a cab in front of the hospital, and when McGarvey emerged with Rencke she sat forward in the back seat, her eyes wide. McGarvey nodded to her, but hobbled after Rencke to the parking lot across the driveway. As long as Elizabeth joined her soon she wouldn’t make any noise. And within a few hours they’d be out of the Washington area and relatively safe for the time being.

Rencke’s “car” was a beat-up green pickup truck, the U.S. Forest Service logo faded but still legible on the doors. Heading away from the hospital, McGarvey caught another glimpse of Kathleen waiting in the taxi, Elizabeth just coming out to her, and he allowed himself to relax a little.

“Where are we heading?” Rencke asked.

“You can take me to the Marriott across the river. I’ll catch a cab from there.”

“Are you going out to Langley?”

McGarvey nodded. “Now, what makes you think that Kiyoshi Fukai is our bad guy?”

“Well, it’s actually quite simple once you get on the correct side and look back. But you’ve got to think about all the elements. Sorta like a big jigsaw puzzle, only in four dimensions. We’ve got to add time, you know.”

McGarvey said nothing.

“Start out with the man who says he’s Kiyoshi Fukai right now. If you talk about Japanese electronics and research his name will come up every time. For the past few years, he’s been buying up American and British electronics companies … or at least he’s been trying to do it. The feds-our feds who art here in Washington-have been putting the kibosh on his efforts to take over TSI Industries on the West Coast. Silicon Valley. Guess they’re doing too much research in sensitive areas. Word is that it won’t be long before they’re-TSI that is-the number one chip producers worldwide.”

“If Fukai owns TSI, then he’ll maintain his dominance of the world market.”

“Owns or destroys,” Rencke said. “So, we’ve got a possible motive, and a man with the money to do something about it. On top of that, Fukai hates America and Americans, and he doesn’t care who he tells it to. Tokyo has tried to shut him up on more than one occasion. And it was probably him, or someone he controls, who is writing anti-American books and distributing them to all the top Japanese businessmen and government honchos. See where I’m going with this?”

“So far,” McGarvey replied.

“Of course that profile also fit a number of other fat cats, but Fukai caught my interest because of the background he claims. He says that before and during the war he was nothing more than a humble chauffeur. His is sort of a rags-to-riches story. Only it doesn’t wash.”

Rencke concentrated on his driving for a minute or two as they entered the District of Columbia at Chevy Chase, the traffic heavy.

“First of all, humble chauffeurs do not rise to become industrial giants. At least they didn’t in the Japan of the late forties and fifties. But if Fukai had actually done just that he would have crowed about his achievement. But there’s never been a peep out of him.”

“Then how’d you find out?”

“Army records. Fukai surfaced at a verification center in Mat-suyama in December of 1945, claiming he was Kiyoshi Fukai, the chauffeur. He was friendly and cooperative with the occupying forces, and no one thought to question his identification.”

“Whose chauffeur was he?”

Rencke grinned. “Ah, that’s the point, isn’t it? His boss was a man by the name of Isawa Nakamura. A designer and manufacturer of electronic equipment. A black marketeer.

A staunch supporter of the Rising Sun’s military complex. A regular user of Korean and Chinese slave labor.”

“There’s more?” McGarvey asked, knowing there was.

“You bet,” Rencke said. “Guess where Nakamura’s wife and kiddies were killed?”

McGarvey shook his head.

“Nagasaki.”

McGarvey telephoned Phil Carrara from the Marriott Hotel.

“I’m coming out by cab. Meet me at the gate.”

“Where the hell are you?” the DDO demanded. “Your doctors are screaming bloody murder, claiming we’ve kidnapped you, and the FBI wants to know what’s going on.”

“I’m going to need my gun, my passport, and some clothes and shaving gear.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m going back to Tokyo. I know who’s behind all of this.”

Chapter 65

McGarvey flew first class from Washington to Los Angeles, and then the long haul across the Pacific to Tokyo. The cabin attendants wanted to fuss over him, but on his insistence they left him alone for the most part.

He took sleeping tablets to make sure he would get some much-needed rest, yet he dreamed about the monastery on Santorini. It was night again, the wind-swept rain beating against the stained glass windows, and Elizabeth’s screams echoing down the long, dank stone corridors. But he couldn’t do a thing to help her; he’d been crucified.

His hands and feet had been nailed to the cross above the altar, while the congregation of STASI killers watched him bleed to death.

Elizabeth was going to die unless he could help her, but it was impossible and he knew it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Please… Elizabeth… forgive me.”

McGarvey looked up into the eyes of a flight attendant, an expression of concern on her face. “You must have been having a bad dream,” she spoke softly to him.

“What time is it?” he asked, still half in his nightmare. He felt distant, almost detached.

“Seven-thirty in the morning. Tokyo time. We’re about forty minutes out. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please,” McGarvey said, and the girl helped him raise his seat.

“The restroom is free,” she suggested.

“I’ll have the coffee first. And put a shot of brandy in it.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling.

When she was gone, McGarvey raised his windowshade, the morning extremely bright and nearly cloudless. They were flying west, nothing yet but the empty Pacific beneath them. But he got the feeling that somebody was waiting and watching for him to show up. Ernst Spranger or Kiyoshi Fukai. He knew that he would have to fight them both, sooner or later, but he wasn’t at all sure of the outcome.

Narita International Airport’s Customs and Arrivals hall was a jam-packed mass of humanity. All the Japanese officials, airline representatives and redcaps were courteous, efficient and even outwardly obsequious, though, handling the jostling crowds as if they couldn’t think of anything that would give them more pleasure.

All a sham, McGarvey wondered, presenting his passport, their smiles no more than a facade over their real emotions? The old newsreels came immediately to mind of the smiling, bowing Japanese diplomats in Washington on the day before the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was an unfair comparison, then and now, yet he couldn’t help but make it.

“The purpose of your visit, Mr. Fine?” the passport officer asked, looking up.

“I have business in Nagasaki,” McGarvey answered. “With Fukai Semiconductor.”

“Yes, very good,” the official said, smiling. He handed back McGarvey’s passport.

“Have a pleasant, profitable stay in Japan.”

“Arigatd,” McGarvey answered, and the official shot him a brief scowl that changed instantly back into a smile.

In three hours flat Technical Services had come up with a passport and legend for McGarvey as Jack Fine, a sales rep for DataBase Corporation, a small but upcoming competitor of TSI industries. If anyone called the Eau Claire, Wisconsin number, or asked for information to be faxed, they would be told that McGarvey was indeed who he presented himself to be. DataBase Corp was a legitimate company that sometimes acted as a front for the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division, and in this case as a special favor to the CIA.

Of course if Spranger was here, and got a look at McGarvey, the fiction would immediately fail. The confrontation would come then and there. He almost hoped it would happen that way.

Kelley Fuller was waiting for him on the other side of the customs barrier after he’d retrieved his single bag and had it checked. Dressed in a conservatively cut gray business suit, her hair up in a bun in the back, and very little makeup on her face, she looked like somebody’s idea of an executive secretary for an American or Canadian firm.

He hadn’t expected her to be here like this, but he had to admit he was pleased to see her, and to see that she seemed none the worse for wear.

“I have a taxi waiting for us,” she said in greeting. “Our train does not leave for another three hours, but we may need that time to reach the train station.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Nagasaki, of course.”

“But you’re not coming with me.”

“Yes I am, I have taken a great risk to speak on the telephone for so long with Phil.

He thinks the Japanese are becoming sensitive just now about such calls between Tokyo and the U.S.”

“There’ll probably be a fight. You could get hurt.”

“Yes,” she said outwardly unperturbed. “Afterwards you will need someone who understands Japanese to speak on your behalf to the authorities. Now, let’s hurry, please.”

He shuffled as fast as he could to keep up with her across the main ticket hall to the taxi ranks outside. She didn’t say anything to him about his condition, but he noticed her watching how he limped and favored his right side.

Something had happened to change her in the week since he had left her at the Sunny Days Western Ranch in Shinjuku’s Kabukicho. She was still frightened. He could see that in her eyes, but fear no longer seemed to dominate her as it had before. She’d gained self-confidence; either that or she had, for some reason, resigned herself to her fate, whatever that might be.

The cab was pleasantly clean and very comfortable. The doors automatically opened and closed for them, and when they were settled the driver took off toward the city at a breakneck speed through the unbelievable morning traffic.

“What happened while I was gone?” McGarvey asked as they careened onto a crowded freeway.

Kelley looked over at him. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“If need be I’ll telephone Phil and force him to keep you here, or better yet, order you back to Washington.”

“No,” she said so sharply that the cabbie looked at them in his rearview mirror.

“Tell me what happened, then,” McGarvey gently prompted.

Kelley’s hands were in her lap. She looked down at them, her upper lip quivering, but her eyes remained dry. It was obvious she was trying to hold herself together.

“I had this friend in Washington. Her name was Lana Toy. We used to work together at the State Department. We were roommates too. Even fought over the same boyfriend a couple years ago.”

McGarvey thought he knew what was coming.

“She’s dead. Burned up in a car accident. But it was no accident, you know. That’s how they killed Jim and Ed Mowry… with fire.”

“Who told you about it?”

She looked up. “Phil Carrara,” she said. “How else did you think I’d find out?”

Chapter 66

Hermann Becker was running late, and he was getting the feeling that someone was following him, though he’d been unable to detect any signs of it. He parked his rental car in the Cointrin Airport Holiday Inn parking lot, and walked directly from it, stopping a hundred yards away in the shadows to look back. No one was there.

It was coming up on 2300 hours, and his Swissair flight to Tokyo was due to take off at midnight. He couldn’t miss the plane because there was no other flight out until tomorrow afternoon, and he had to be in Japan by evening, Tokyo time. But he was worried about more than time.

Liese Egk had sounded strained on the telephone, but Spranger had sounded worse; so bad in fact that Becker had hardly recognized his voice. But the general’s orders had been clear and concise. The time was now.

“You must make delivery as planned. There can be no delays for any reason whatsoever.

Are you perfectly clear in this?”

“Yes, of course,” Becker had replied, his mind already racing ahead to the various steps he would have to take to insure his unimpeded arrival in Tokyo and then Nagasaki.

But the scenario had been worked out in beautiful detail months ago. They’d even made several dry runs with absolutely no difficulties. This time would be no different.

Except that Becker was worried about how Spranger had sounded on the telephone, and he had become jumpy.

Carrying his leather purse under his left arm, Becker, a small, dark-complected intense-looking man, entered the hotel, crossed the lobby and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. His room looked out toward the airport terminal a little over a mile away.

He was assured that the hotel shuttle would run until the last flights arrived and departed.

It would take ten minutes to get downstairs and check out. Another ten minutes for the shuttle ride over to the terminal and another ten minutes to check in, which gave him something under twenty minutes to finish here if he wanted to be five or ten minutes early for his flight.

He threw the deadbolt on his door and slipped the security chain into its slot, then telephoned the front desk.

“This is Becker in eleven-oh-seven. I’ll be checking out in time to catch a midnight flight. Please have my bill ready.”

“Yes, mein Hen. Will there be any further room service charges this evening?”

“No,” Becker said irritably, and he hung up, turning his attention next to the Grundig all-band portable radio receiver.

With a small Phillips head screwdriver he removed the six fasteners holding the radio’s backplate in place. It unsnapped out of three slots at the top, slid down a fraction of an inch and then pulled directly off, exposing the outermost printed circuit boards.

Selecting a small nut driver, he loosened four fasteners holding the power supply board in place, and carefully eased it outward to the limit of its soldered wires.

Using a tiny propane torch about half the size of a ballpoint pen, he unsoldered three of the wires, and swung the power supply board completely out of the way, exposing the circuit board containing the first and second IF stages, and a series of low-and high-pass filters.

Working again with the torch, Becker unsoldered fourteen of the filters and removed them. The tiny devices were each housed in a pale gray metal container a little less than a quarter-inch long, and half that in thickness and width.

These he took into the bathroom, wrapped them in tissue paper and flushed them down the toilet.

Back at his work table he took a small plastic box out of his purse, opened it and from within drew out a tiny device to which a pair of wires were attached. Oblong in shape, the triggering device, which had been designed and manufactured by the Swiss firm of ModTec, was not much larger than the filters he’d removed from the radio.

Working with extreme care he soldered the glass-encased trigger into one of the slots that had held a filter, making certain he did not allow the device to get too hot, or for any solder to splatter the board.

Providing the selector switch was not turned to the shortwave band, the radio would work normally.

When he was finished with the first trigger, he soldered in the remaining thirteen devices, then resoldered the power supply wires to the proper connections, refastened the power supply board, and closed the back cover, replacing all six screws.

He was sweating lightly by the time he had cleaned up his tools and equipment and finished packing his single bag.

Making sure he had his airplane tickets and passport, and that he was leaving nothing incriminating behind, he left his room and took the elevator down to the lobby.

The time was just 2332.

Wind was gusting to forty miles per hour, sending spray a hundred yards inland from the waves crashing on the rugged rocky shoreline, and snatching away most sounds except for the wind itself.

A panel truck, its headlights out, materialized out of the darkness on a narrow dirt track that ran down toward the water and disappeared on the stoney beach. A long time ago local fishermen had maintained a cooperative dock here. A few years after the revolution, however, government forces had occupied the nearby town of Dalnyaya on Cape Krilon at the extreme southern tip of Sakhalin Island. Japan was barely thirty miles south, across the Soya Strait, and this area had been abandoned.

The beat-up, dark gray truck stopped twenty feet off the beach, and Franz Hoffmann switched off the engine. He was a huge, rough-featured man with a pockmarked face and a thick barrel chest. His eyes, however, were small and close set.

He glanced over his shoulder at the four animal cages in the back. Now that they were this close he was becoming nervous.

“Let’s get the little bastards down to the beach,” Otto Eichendorf said.

Hoffman looked at the other East German. Spranger had ordered them to take refuge inside Krasnoyarsk three months ago. Neither of them had liked the assignment, and he could see that Eichendorf was just as nervous and just as anxious to get away as he was.

“Take the light and make the landing signal first, Otto. I don’t want to get caught here.”

Eichendorf nodded, and got out of the truck. Hoffman watched as the man trudged down to the beach and raised his flashlight.

They were a half hour early, but if the boat was out there waiting for them as planned, they would see the light and signal back.

Again Hoffmann glanced into the back of the truck. Two of the cages contained a pair of wild sables, and the other two each held a pair of wild Siberian mink.

They were vicious animals, and any border patrol prick or naval rating they might encounter would certainly think twice about sticking his hand in those cages. But if he did, and if he survived with his hand intact, he would find eighty pounds of refined plutonium 239 encased in lead containers beneath the false bottoms in each cage.

They had brought it overland from the nuclear facility at Khabarovsk, where, incredibly, they had purchased it in small lots from a local black marketeer who boasted (and rightly so) that he could get them anything for the right price. On the coast they’d hired a fishing boat to take them across the Tatar Strait onto Sakhalin Island … simple fur animal smugglers that everyone was happy to deal with for a few hundred rubles.

The idea was a to commit a visible crime for which the authorities were willing to take a bribe, in order to hide their real action. So far it had worked beautifully.

Now, however, if they were caught by the KGB, or by a Japanese Coast Guard patrol, they would have a more difficult time explaining themselves. Internal smuggling was one thing, but trying to take sables out of the Soviet Union was another crime, serious enough to expect, if they were stopped, that the cages would be searched.

A pinpoint of light out to sea flashed once, then twice, and once again, and Eichendorf hurried back up to the truck.

Hoffman climbed out. “I saw it,” he shouted over the wind.

“I’ll be glad to get off this rock,” the taller, thinner man said. “Now let’s get the cages down to the beach.”

They went around to the back of the truck and opened the door. The animals went wild, hissing and snapping and banging against the wire mesh, their teeth bared.

Hoffman pulled the first cage out by the handle, careful to keep his fingers as far away from the mesh as possible. One of the sables was madly biting and chewing at the wire.

Eichendorf took the other side and between them they carried the sixty-pound cage over the rocks the rest of the way down to the beach, setting it down a few feet from the water’s edge.

They could see nothing out to sea, no lights, not even the dark form of the boat.

But they’d seen the light signal in reply to theirs. So it was there. Nevertheless Hoffman was starting to get very jumpy. It was the tone of Spranger’s voice. The general had sounded… worried, upset. Hurt. It had been disconcerting listening to him.

It took them several minutes to haul the other three cages from the truck, and by the time they were finished they were both winded, and sweating lightly despite the breeze and the chill.

Hoffman held up a hand for Eichendorf to keep silent for a second as he cocked an ear. He had heard something over the wind, an engine noise perhaps.

He stepped closer to the water and held his breath to listen. The sounds were definitely there, but not out to sea, he realized with horror.

He spun around, and looked up toward the dirt track.

Eichendorf was hearing it now too. “Christ, is it a KGB patrol?”

“I don’t know, maybe not,” Hoffmann said. “Get the rifles.”

“Right.” Eichendorf raced back up to the truck, as Hoffman snatched the flashlight and turned back to face the sea. Under these circumstances he was supposed to send five short flashes, which meant there was trouble on the beach, and that the pickup was off.

But they were so close. To be caught here on the beach like this would mean certain arrest, and almost certainly death by firing squad after a very brief trial for espionage.

Never mind they were ex-STASI, and had once worked for the KGB. That old alliance would not protect them now.

Eichendorf came back with the Kalashnikov rifles. “Did you send the signal?”

Hoffman threw down the flashlight and grabbed his rifle, levering a round into the firing chamber and switching the safety off. “No,” he said. “We’re getting off this beach tonight, or we’re going to die here.”

The sound of the engine faded, came back and then faded again and was gone. Hoffman took a few steps toward the road, but he could hear nothing now, other than the wind.

“Franz,” Eichendorf called urgently.

Hoffman turned as a big rubber raft, carrying two men dressed in rough dungarees and thick sweaters, surged onto the beach. One of them immediately hopped out.

“Macht schnell,” he shouted. “We have a KGB patrol boat on our ass.”

Hoffman and Eichendorf exchanged glances, and Hoffmann shook his head slightly. Whatever had been heading toward them on the road had apparently turned around and left.

Between the three of them it only took a couple of minutes to load the cages aboard the boat. Eichendorf and the sailor clambered aboard, leaving Hoffman to push them off.

“What’s going on down there?” someone shouted in Russian from behind them on the road.

Hoffman snatched his Kalashnikov and in one smooth motion turned around. He had only a moment to catch sight of two uniformed soldiers above, on the rocks, and he opened fire, cutting both of them down before they could utter another word.

For a long second or two, the night seemed suddenly still. Even the wind seemed to lessen for that time, but then Eichendorf grabbed Hoffman by the back of his jacket and dragged him into the boat.

“I hope they were alone,” one of the sailors said. “Because if someone is still alive up there, and can use a radio, we’re dead men.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“No,” the sailor said. “And now neither do we.”

Thoma Orff presented his passport and customs declaration form to the uniformed officer when it was his turn. Tokyo’s Narita Airport was jammed to capacity, but the noise level was surprisingly low.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Japan, Mr. Orff,” the customs official asked.

He had difficulty pronouncing the name.

“Tourism. I’ve had no holiday in years.”

“How long will you be here?”

“A week, maybe a little longer.”

“Have you nothing else to declare?”

“Only the brandy,” Orff said, holding up the cardboard liquor box by its handle.

“Three bottles. Good stuff. French.” The nuclear weapons initiators were hidden in two of the bottles, which were in turn wrapped in lead foil that had been sandwiched between thin layers of ordinary-looking aluminum foil.

“Welcome to Japan, Mr. Orff,” the official said, stamping the passport. “Have a pleasant holiday.”

Chapter 67

The morning on the mountain overlooking the port city of Nagasaki on the south island of Kyushu was pleasantly cool, the air sweetly fresh. McGarvey indulged himself in the luxury of coming slowly awake, careful to steer his thoughts away from the reasons he had returned to Japan.

Kelley was up already. She sat outside in the garden sipping green tea, and watching the sun over the mountains just beginning to illuminate the city below.

From where he lay on his tatami mat, he could see her in profile. Her dark hair was down, spilling around her tiny shoulders, and she was dressed only in one of the snow white yukatas or kimonos that the ryokan (a Japanese inn) supplied its guests. She was beautiful, he decided, yet she was a contradiction. On the one hand she was a frightened little deer, with large dark eyes and the sudden tiny movements of the animal that is always ready to bolt at the first hint of trouble. While on the other she had a surprising depth of character, of fortitude, that made her stay.

As she’d explained yesterday afternoon on the train, she had nowhere to go. “I can’t hide for the rest of my life, so I am with you to finish the assignment.”

There was an Oriental simplicity about her. Everything she did, or said, seemed to be clear-cut and obvious. Her life had been sad, and she was doing everything within her power to lay the groundwork for a big change. Like everyone else, she only wanted to be at peace, and happy.

But he was beginning to believe that that was all

she wanted. She seemed to have no other ambitions, and in that she was completely opposite of his ex-wife Kathleen.

A tiny table had been set up next to his tatami mat, steam rising from a pot of tea, a cup beside it. McGarvey rose stiffly on one elbow and poured a cup of tea.

Kelley turned and looked at him, a slight smile coming to her lips. “How do you feel this morning, McGarvey-san.”

“I’ll live,” he said, returning her smile.

“I am truly glad to hear that, because today we will make our move against Fukai.”

Kelley had arranged to rent a car yesterday, and at 8 a.m. it was brought up from the city and left for them in the tiny parking lot, across the garden beyond the hotel annex. She drove because she could read Japanese-none of the road signs, what few there were, were in English-and because McGarvey’s right leg had stiffened up, making it difficult to walk, let alone manipulate the pedals.

Only a few puffy white clouds sailed over the hills and mountains ringing the city, but the sky was a hazy, milky blue, illuminating the lush green countryside with an almost magical light. This region was like a fairytale land: Important in the mid-sixteenth century when Nagasaki was the only port open to foreigners; again in 1945 when the atomic bomb was dropped here; and now because of some insane plot for revenge.

Fukai Semiconductor’s vast factory complex and world headquarters were located northeast of Nagasaki on Omura Bay. McGarvey’s briefing package had contained extensive diagrams showing the installation’s layout and something of the sophisticated security systems designed not only to detect the presence of intruders, but in some instances to neutralize them, even kill them. Fukai himself was apparently paranoid about security; and he was rich and powerful enough to maintain a substantial armed force of guards without the federal government lifting a finger to stop or in any way control him.

The compound was built like a fortress. McGarvey had spent a considerable amount of thought on exactly how it could be breached, coming to the conclusion that he would have to get close enough for a firsthand look before he could make any plan.

He had briefly discussed the problem with Carrara and the Technical Services team that had been hastily assembled to brief him, and they agreed, with one reservation.

“If Spranger is actually working for Fukai-and we don’t have any direct proof of that yet-he probably told them about you,” Carrara had cautioned.

“No doubt,” McGarvey replied. “But they won’t be expecting me to show up so soon, nor will they be expecting me to come in the front door with the proper credentials.”

“I’d like to send someone over to back you up, but it’s not possible.” Carrara shook his head. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this. A lot of political fallout.”

“I stay out of politics,” McGarvey said.

“Right. Just like a surgeon stays out of the operating theater.”

Traffic was heavy along the narrow highway until they were well clear of the city, and even then there was no time when they had the road to themselves. Kelley was a good driver, and she apparently knew the local customs and rules of the road well enough to get along without incident.

She had dressed again in the plain gray business suit she had worn at the airport, making her look like the executive secretary and translator her legend said she was.

McGarvey had let her study the briefing package he’d brought out from Langley, and afterwards he had filled in whatever gaps he could, though there were holes a mile wide in the plan.

“What happens if something goes wrong out there?” she asked.

“We play it by ear.”

“I meant what if they recognize you, or me?”

“I don’t know,” McGarvey had told her, and they’d not discussed it any further. This morning she’d made no comment as she watched him reassemble his gun and then place the holster at the small of his back, but he could see that she was troubled. There was nothing he could say to reassure her, so he said nothing about the possibilities they would be facing.

They topped a rise and suddenly Omura Bay was spread out below. Fifteen miles across they could see a jetliner taking off from the Nagasaki Airport. But directly below, spread out along the western shore of the bay, the Fukai Semiconductor compound ran for at least five miles, and included the main administration area, a huge research facility, seven large processing and assembly buildings, a landing strip and several hangars for the fleet of business jets and two Boeing 747s, and an extensive dock and warehouse area for the fleet of ships the corporation maintained.

Satellite antennae were located throughout the vast compound. Several years ago Fukai had begun putting up its own communications and research satellites, buying boosts into space from the European Space Agency as well as NASA until recently, when the Japanese themselves (with a lot of Fukai money behind them) started launching their own rockets.

Carrara admitted that the National Security Agency’s current guess was that at least two of the Fukai satellites were probably being used as surveillance platforms. Parked in geostationary orbits some 22,000 miles over the western hemisphere, there was little doubt about just who was the likely surveillance target. But nothing could or would be done about it.

“Space, as it was explained to me,” Carrara said, “is still free. That means for anyone, not just any government.”

Also evident, even from a distance of several miles, were the outward signs of Fukai’s security arrangements. An inner and an outer wire mesh fence (no doubt electrified) surrounded the entire compound. Separated by a twenty-five-yard-wide no-man’s-land, the fence line was punctuated every hundred yards or so by tall guard towers.

As they watched, they could see Toyota Land Rovers patrolling the perimeter not only inside the fence, but outside as well.

The place looked like a prison. Only in this case the guards were not trying to keep people in, they wanted to keep intruders out. It made one wonder what they were doing down there that they had to go to such extreme measures.

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Kelley said, her voice and manner subdued.

“Yeah,” McGarvey said absently, his thoughts racing. He pulled over to the side of the road and studied the vast compound for several long minutes.

“What do we do now?” Kelley asked.

McGarvey looked at her. Security might be tight, but he thought he knew how he could get in undetected tonight.

“We’ll present our credentials,” he said. “I need to take a look at something.”

Chapter 68

Liese Egk tossed her Louis Vuitton bag in the back seat of the Jaguar convertible parked next to the Volkswagen van in the garage. She stood in the darkness for several long moments, her hands gripping the edge of the car so hard that her knuckles turned white.

Ernst was asleep in the house, and if he’d taken the sedatives she’d laid out for him he wouldn’t feel a thing for another twelve hours. Plenty of time for her to make it down to the waiting private jet at the Rome Airport.

But she could not leave. Not like that. Not knowing what Spranger, even in his present condition, was still capable of doing. The man was half dead, and he was a maniac, yet he was the best and most ruthless operative she’d ever known. And he still had the loyalty of the group, the contacts around the world, and the respect of a great many people who would be willing to hunt her down if it came to that.

She walked slowly to the door and looked across the compound toward the dark house and shivered even though the night was warm.

If she left like this tonight, Ernst would recover eventually and he would come looking for her. Even Fukai’s promise of protection would do her no good. Ernst would find a way to get to her. And when he did he would kill her … unless she killed him first.

She turned that thought over in her mind. On the way up from Greece she had toyed with the idea on several occasions; putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger would have been child’s play. But in her heart of hearts she’d known that she wouldn’t do it.

That was then. Now that she was abandoning him, she’d come back to her original decision; to kill him, when the time was right, for everything he’d done to her. For everything he’d made her do.

She shivered again.

Spranger had taught her about sex-sex with men, that is-in East Berlin when she was still a teenager. And when he was finished with her, he’d used what he called her “certain charms” to help the STASI’s aims. She’d been ordered to sleep with Russians, with West Germans, Americans, and even Frenchmen.

The worst had been the most recent. She’d slept with Fukai himself on four different occasions, each time worse than the previous, because each time the old man had come to learn more and more about her body, exactly what made her respond, and she hated him and Spranger for it.

Stepping out of the garage, Liese moved silently across the courtyard and into the house. She halted just within the great room, a light breeze billowing the window shears at the open patio doors.

In the distance she heard a train whistle, and in back the pool pump kicked on. Other than those sounds the night was still. Not even insects were chirping, a fact that somehow did not register with her.

She was dressed in a short khaki skirt, a sleeveless blouse, and sandals without nylons. Reaching down she undid the sandal straps and stepped out of them.

The tile was cool on her bare feet as she moved across the great room, down a short corridor and stopped just outside the open door into the master bedroom wing.

This part of the house faced the opened veranda, and the glow of Monaco’s lights provided enough illumination so that she could see the big bed was empty, the sheets thrown back.

Going the rest of the way in, she went to the night table where she’d left the glass of water and sedatives. The water was down and the pills were gone, which meant he’d be unconscious by now. He’d probably gotten out of bed and had collapsed somewhere.

She hurriedly checked the bathroom and dressing alcove, but he wasn’t in either place and as she started back to the corridor, thinking he might have gone to the kitchen, she spotted him standing on the veranda at the low railing, his back to her.

Careful to make absolutely no noise she went back to the nightstand, opened the drawer and took out the big Sig-Sauer automatic he kept there. She switched the safety off, cocked the hammer, and went to the open glass doors.

Either he’d thrown the pills away, or he’d just taken them and the sedatives had not had a chance to effect him.

In any event he seemed awake and alert enough to still be a significant danger to her if he realized that she was planning on abandoning him.

She stepped out into the night and padded softly around the end of the pool, stopping barely three yards away from him. If she shot him now, his body would pitch over the rail and plunge three hundred feet onto the rocks and thick bush. If no one heard and pinpointed the shot, which she didn’t think they would, it might be a very long time before his body was discovered.

“Do you mean to shoot me now, and leave me for the carrion eaters?” he asked, his voice barely rising above the gentle breeze.

Liese was so startled that her hand shook and she nearly fired the pistol. But she got control of herself.

“You won’t be missed,” she said.

Spranger turned around to face her. He leaned back against the rail for balance and smiled wanly. “Haven’t you realized by now, my dear, that alone you are nothing?

Even less than nothing, because your sexuality gets in the way of any sort of rational thought?”

Liese raised the pistol and started to bear down on the trigger. Spranger’s smile broadened.

“You have been the means to many ends,” he said. “You must understand that you are only a very pretty tool; of no value without the hand of the craftsman to guide it.”

“I would rather it be Kiyoshi Fukai than you.”

“That’s not true,” Spranger said. “You hate the man even worse than you hate me.”

“He is a means to my end.”

“That’s possible. If you could leave here and catch the plane in Rome.”

“What’s to stop me…“ Liese asked when she suddenly realized what Spranger had done.

She pulled the trigger and the hammer slapped on an empty firing chamber. He’d foreseen what she would do, and had unloaded the gun.

He reached into the pocket of his robe and started to withdraw a pistol, when Liese suddenly came to her senses. With a small scream she leaped forward, raising her hands, her elbows stiff.

Because of his condition he was too slow to react. Liese hit him squarely in the chest with the palms of both hands, the Sig-Sauer still in her right hand, shoving him backwards over the low stone railing.

He fell without a sound, his body hitting the face of the cliff about ninety feet down, and, turning end over end, finally landing in the rocks at the bottom.

For a long time she just stared down at him, unsure of what she felt. But then she dropped the Sig-Sauer over the edge, turned and went back through the bedroom and out to the great hall where she retrieved her sandals.

Before she left the villa she washed her hands in the guest bathroom. One more job and Fukai would pay her. After that no man would ever touch her again.

Chapter 69

A polite young man in a three-piece business suit was sent over to escort McGarvey and Kelley from the main gates to the administration complex overlooking the bay.

They had to leave the rental car parked outside and take an electrically powered shuttle across the compound.

“We employ more than eighty thousand people at this location alone, Mr. Fine,” their escort explained. “Traffic would be worse than Tokyo’s if we allowed everybody to bring their personal vehicles inside.”

“Where do your employees park?” Kelley asked.

Their escort smiled. “Very few of our employees feel the need to drive, Ms. Fuller.

Fukai Semiconductor provides bus service for the majority of employees, limousine service for some, and helicopter shuttle service for others. It is very efficient.”

“How about Mr. Fukai himself?”

The young man’s smile broadened. “Ah, Mr. Fukai maintains a private residence here on the grounds.”

“Will we be able to meet with him this morning?” McGarvey asked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fine, but that will not be possible. Mr. Fukai will be involved with meetings all day.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” McGarvey pressed.

“Bad luck. Mr. Fukai will be out of the country tomorrow. Paris.”

“I see. Then I will have to try again the next time I come to Nagasaki. My company hopes to do much business with Mr. Fukai in the future.”

“Yes, I have seen the preliminary proposals. We are most anxious to do business with your firm.”

Evidently Fukai had contacted DataBase, and they’d upheld the legend. McGarvey made mental note to pass along his thanks through Carrara.

The world headquarters of Fukai Semiconductor was housed in a mammoth, sprawling building of glass, polished aluminum and native rock that seemed to be a hybrid design between traditfonal Japanese architecture and something off the drawing board of Frank Lloyd Wright, though there was almost nothing Western about the place. Situated along the shore of the bay, the massive structure rose in some places five stories above the water, each level cantilevered at a different angle thirty and sometimes fifty or sixty yards without apparent support. In other places the building was low, and followed the sinuously twisting shoreline as if it had grown out of the rock.

About a half-mile north, still along the bay, the end of the main runway was marked by a cluster of hangars, a 747 jetliner with Fukai’s stylized seagull emblem painted in blue on the tail, parked in front of one of them.

On the way across they were stopped four times by red lights. Electric cart and truck traffic was very heavy.

“Is it like this all the time, or just on weekdays?” McGarvey asked.

“All the time, Mr. Fine,” their escort said. “Twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week. We must be ready to accommodate all of our offices and branch factories worldwide … in every time zone.”

“Almost looks like a factory on war footing,” McGarvey said.

Their escort glanced sharply at him, then smiled again. “Business is war, one’s competitors the enemy, don’t you agree?”

“Of course,” McGarvey said.

They left their electric cart with one of the security people in front and went up a broad wooden walkway to the headquarters dramatic main entrance. There were no doors, only an opening thirty or forty yards wide and a couple of stories tall blocked by a shimmering curtain of water. Whether it was falling from above or being pumped straight up was impossible to tell, but as they approached the entry the curtain of water parted, leaving them a dry opening wide enough to pass through.

The entry hall was just as dramatic, with curtains and ribbons and tubes of water angled through the air as if to defy gravity, multicolored laser beams piercing the flowing water in seemingly random patterns.

“It’s beautiful,” Kelley said.

“It represents the inside of one of our new computer chips,” their escort said. “It has the same architecture.”

They followed their guide along a series of moving ramps and walkways, to a reception area on one of the cantilevered floors jutting out over the bay. Docked just below was a sleek pleasure vessel that McGarvey figured had to be two hundred twenty feet or longer.

“If you will just rest here for a moment, I shall return,” their escort said, and left them.

They were in a large open area, furnished with groupings of couches and chairs. Flowers, living trees and other plants were everywhere in profusion. It was almost like being in a futuristic greenhouse.

McGarvey moved down the line of windows until he could read the vessel’s name. She was the Grande Dame II

out of Monaco. Another connection between Fukai and K-1, who were said to be based somewhere in the south of France? The Japanese flag flew at the stern, and Fukai’s blue seagull ensign was hoisted on the port halyard.

But the boat was docked here, not at Monaco, which was half a world away.

A hostess dressed in a traditional kimono offered them tea, or anything else they would like to drink, but before they could order anything their escort returned, an apologetic expression on his face.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Fine, but the gentleman who was to have met with you this morning has been unavoidably detained. He asked me to convey his sincerest apologies, but he asks if you could postpone your business until tomorrow. A helicopter would be sent for you.”

McGarvey remained by the windows. He looked down at the boat, and studied the line of the dock running south, until he had his answer. He turned.

“Regretfully I will have to first check with my company. I was supposed to return to Tokyo first thing in the morning.”

“We could arrange for your meeting here, and still get you to Tokyo faster than you could get there on public transportation.”

“We will see,” McGarvey said. “I will telephone from my hotel in the morning.”

“Very good, Mr. Fine.”

“Who shall I be calling?”

“Mr. Endo, ” their escort said. “He is in charge of special projects.”

Chapter 70

The highly modified Sea King helicopter touched down on the rooftop landing pad of Fukai Semiconductor’s headquarters building a few minutes before nine in the evening.

The strobe light on the machine’s belly flashed across the registration numbers and the stylized blue Seagull painted on the fuselage.

A short, slightly built Japanese man, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, had been waiting in an elevator alcove. He hurried across the pad to the chopper as the hatch slid open. A pair of technicians in white coveralls came directly after him, guiding a motorized hand truck.

“Any trouble?” he called up to the helicopter crewman at the hatch.

“None getting down here, Endo-san. But they had to shoot their way off Sakhalin.”

Endo wanted to hit something, anger instantly rising up like bile in his throat, but he restrained himself. “Was the boat spotted?”

“No.”

Franz Hoffmann’s bulky frame filled the hatch opening and he shoved the Japanese crewman aside. “Is Ernst here yet?” he demanded in German.

Endo looked mildly up at the man. “Not yet, but I expect him to come for his payment very soon.”

“Well, let’s get this shit unloaded and verified. I want to get out of here.”

“Very good,” Endo said, and he stepped aside to let his technicians move in with the hand truck.

Hoffmann and the other East German, Otto Eichendorf, unstrapped the animal cages from the restraining rings in the chopper’s cargo deck, and carefully passed them out the hatch one by one, the sables and minks hissing and snapping wildly as they threw themselves against the wire mesh.

The Japanese technicians handled the cages with extreme caution, and when all four were loaded, they maneuvered the hand truck around and headed back to the elevator.

Endo had remained to one side, an unreadable expression on his face, the strobe light making him look pale, almost ghostly.

Hoffmann jumped down from the helicopter, and reached back inside for his Kalashnikov rifle.

“There’ll be no need for that here,” Endo said.

Hoffmann looked at him, startled, but then he relaxed and put the rifle back. “Right,” he said, and he stepped back as Eichendorf jumped down.

“Just this way, gentlemen,” Endo said graciously pointing the way toward the elevator.

The two East Germans turned and started across the landing pad. Before they got ten feet, Endo pulled out a Heckler and Koch VP70, nine-millimeter automatic, and fired two bursts of three rounds each, Hoffmann and Eichendorff stumbling and going down.

They were dead before they hit the deck.

“Strip their bodies and dump them at sea,” Endo said, without bothering to turn around as he headed toward the elevator. “And have someone clean up this mess immediately.”

“What about the others, Endo-San?” the crewman from the helicopter called.

“They have already been taken care of,” he said. The elevator came and he took it down to a sub-basement, still much work to be done before this night was over.

The pit had been carved out of the living rock three hundred feet beneath Fukai Semiconductor’s headquarters. Sixty feet on a side and fifty feet deep, the room and anything that happened within its confines was totally undetectable from outside, and from anywhere within the normal areas of the building above.

It had been built nearly thirty years ago for just the purpose it was finally being used for this night. All during that time Fukai’s most trusted aides and scientists had continually updated its equipment so that at any given time the place was a state of the art laboratory-factory for the assembly of nuclear weapons.

Endo watched from behind thick Lexan plastic windows in an upper gallery as one of the technicians wheeled a small equipment cart over to the four cages set side-by-side on a long steel table. The restless animals paced back and forth, stopping frequently to see what the human was doing.

The tech flipped a couple of switches on the piece of equipment that looked like a heart-cart. Two leads snaked from the front panel. The tech clipped one of the leads to the wire mesh of one of the cages, and poked the second lead inside that cage, the probe barely touching the side of one of the sables.

The animal leaped straight up, its back violently arching. Endo had the speaker on, and he heard the sable scream once before it fell dead.

There was pandemonium in the cages as the other animals went berserk, understanding instinctively what was happening. But within a couple of minutes all eight of them were dead, and the technician turned off the machine, unclipped the lead and pushed the cart away.

A pair of technicians, these dressed in radiation suits, came from behind a lead shield in the assembly area across the lab. One of them opened the cages and removed the animals’ bodies, handing them to the other tech who dumped them in a lead-lined bin. It was a simple precaution in case the animals had somehow become contaminated.

The bin would be buried in a hole bored one thousand yards into the bedrock beneath the laboratory level so that no radiation would ever be detected here, even if someone managed to penetrate this far.

Endo had turned that thought over many times, and he’d discussed it once with Fukai, who’d agreed that extraordinary measures would be taken to discover who was behind the… attack. Therefore every effort would have to be made to thwart the ensuing worldwide investigation.

When the last of the animals’ remains had been disposed of, the technician removed the false bottom from the first cage, and from within gingerly withdrew a gray cylinder about the size of an ordinary thermos flask, and cradling it in both hands very carefully handed it to the second technician.

There was little or no danger of harmful radiation at this point, because the cylinders they were handling were lead-lined containers for the weapons-grade plutonium.

But there was always the possibility of accidents, and every man working on the project understood that the amount of material they would be handling this evening constituted a critical mass.

It would take the precise mechanism of the bomb itself to cause the material to actually explode. But if a critical mass were to be accidentally assembled, a meltdown would occur that would kill everyone in the lab, and possibly burn as much as ten or fifteen yards through the solid rock. Nothing would live down here for a very long time to come; possibly as long as ten thousand years. So the technicians were all taking extreme care with their work.

Endo leaned forward on the balls of his feet, practically pressing his nose against the window so that he could get a better look. Power had always impressed him. It was one of the reasons he had gone to work for Fukai in the first place, and one of the reasons he’d become the old man’s right hand. For power, Endo would do anything.

Literally anything.

But this, now, below in the assembly laboratory, was the ultimate of powers on earth.

A few pounds of dull gray metal; not so heavy that a man couldn’t lift the weight, was enough to kill 100,000 people. Powerful enough to change the course of world events-witness what had happened because of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Endo felt the flush of his bitter shame reach his neck, and he rocked back.

That would change, after all these years. The score would be evened.

Chapter 71

Kelley Fuller watched as McGarvey pulled on the single scuba tank, adjusted its weight on his shoulders, and fastened the Velcro straps holding his buoyancy control vest in place.

They were huddled out of the wind behind some rocks twenty-five yards below the highway, and barely six feet above the waters of the bay. In the distance, to the north, they could make out the lights of Fukai Semiconductor. It was 11:00 p.m.

“You still haven’t told me what you hope to find over there,” she said. “Or how you’re going to get inside. There’ll be security on the docks.”

“I’m going to get aboard the boat first, and then go ashore as one of the crewmen,”

McGarvey said, checking the seals on the waterproof camera case which they’d picked up at the dive shop where they’d rented the scuba gear. Earlier in the afternoon they’d purchased a compact Geiger counter from a scientific school supply house in Nagasaki. The unit fit perfectly in the camera case.

“What if the crew is all Japanese?”

McGarvey looked up. “It’s possible,” he said. “But I saw a good number of Westerners in the compound this morning. So it stands to reason there’ll be Westerners as crew aboard a pleasure boat that’s registered out of Monaco.”

“Once you’re ashore, what then? It’s a big place.”

“If there’s a lab to handle nuclear material, it’ll be beneath ground. In a sub-basement or even lower, which means it’ll have to be equipped with an elevator, perhaps an emergency stairwell, or access tunnel, and probably an air shaft or two. I’ve seen these sorts of things before.”

“If you don’t find it?” she persisted.

He smiled. “I don’t give up that easily. Especially now that we’ve come this close.

Besides, I owe this one to someone I’m very close to.”

Kelley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What if you don’t find it?”

“Then I’ll find Kiyoshi Fukai, and ask him to show it to me.”

“He won’t tell you anything.”

“Then if I can prove that he’s involved, I’ll kill him,” McGarvey said evenly, and Kelley shivered because she believed him.

“Good,” she said, and she helped McGarvey pick his way across the rocks and into the water. His leg was giving him trouble because of the weight of the equipment he was carrying.

McGarvey spit on the inside of his mask, spread it around with his fingers, then rinsed it off in the bay. “If I’m not out of there by daybreak, I want you to call Carrara and tell him what’s happened.”

She nodded. “Is she beautiful?”

McGarvey donned the mask. “Very,” he said.

“Who is she?”

“My daughter.”

He had timed his entry into the bay to coincide with slack tide. Even so he briefly surfaced twice to make sure he was swimming a straight line underwater. The Grande Dame 11 was at least a mile from where he’d started at the edge of the Fukai compound, and being off by one or two compass degrees he could have swum past it in the pitch-black water.

But he was right on course, and the second time he surfaced he was close enough to pick out a lot of activity on the dock.

From the window of the headquarters building this morning he had spotted closed-circuit television cameras and what he took to be proximity alarm detectors along the line of the docks, which meant they were more concerned about someone coming ashore than anyone in the water.

Storm sewer openings would be screened and equipped with integrity alarms. And although he’d hoped to find the ship dark, and possibly even unattended, the unexpected activity would serve his purpose just as well, distracting attention away from the bay side of the ship’s hull.

The other thing he’d seen from the waiting room above the dock was the Grande Dame II’s

anchor chain. Apparently because of tidal currents, the anchor had been dropped to keep the ship from swinging too hard against the docks. It would also provide a way aboard.

Of course there was still a high probability that he would be spotted and challenged.

But if it happened, it happened, he told himself, biting down so hard on his mouthpiece that he nearly severed the thick rubber.

The expression in Elizabeth’s eyes that night off Santorini had not faded days later when she came to him in the hospital. He didn’t think it would ever go away, because she had become a frightened woman. Her self-confidence had been taken away from her by these people. And now if someone got in his way … it would be too bad.

Twenty minutes later the ship’s hull loomed up out of the darkness, and McGarvey reached out and touched it. He could feel the vibration of machinery through the bottom plates, probably a generator or generators supplying the ship with power.

A vessel this size never truly shut down unless she was in dry dock.

He followed the line of the hull to the bows, then turned away, to the right, coming at length to the anchor chain leading at an angle through the murk. Some of the light from the dock filtered a few feet down into the water, sparkling on the suspended particles of mud, like dust motes in sunlight.

Slowly he swam up the angle of the chain, breaking the surface ten or fifteen yards away from the looming white hull.

At this point he was practically invisible from the dock, but as soon as he started up the chain, anyone looking up from shore would be able to see him. There was no other way.

Careful to make absolutely no noise, he pulled off his BC vest and scuba tank, then unclipped his weight belt and draped it around the harness. It floated on its own until he opened a valve in the vest and released the air it contained and the entire assembly slowly sank.

He took off his fins and pushed them away, and, making sure that the strap holding his Geiger counter to his side was secure, started up the chain, one link at a time.

For the first three feet or so, he nearly lost his grip on the slimy chain several times, but when he reached the part that had never been in the water, or hadn’t been in the water for a long time, the going became easier.

Twice he stopped, holding himself absolutely still, stretched out along the chain as a security guard came to the edge of the dock and spit into the water.

The second time, the man looked up directly at McGarvey for several long seconds as he scratched himself, but then he turned away and walked back out of sight.

At the top, McGarvey was just able to squeeze his way through the hawse hole onto the bow deck, behind a thick bollard, where he crouched in the relative darkness.

His leg and arm were throbbing, and it felt as if some of his stitches had broken open. He thought he might be bleeding.

Five decks above and forward of midships the bridge was lit up, and as he watched he could see several people moving around.

It was possible, he thought, that the parts for the nuclear device had already been delivered and assembled, and would be transported aboard this boat to wherever Fukai intended on igniting it. It would mean the target would probably be somewhere on the U.S. West Coast.

But it would take ten days or more for the ship to make that distance. And somehow McGarvey didn’t think Fukai would be willing to wait that long. Because of what had happened to the STASI on Santorini, and what had happened up in Tokyo, the Japanese billionaire had to realize that someone would come poking around his operation sooner or later. Every hour he had possession of the bomb parts, especially the weapons-grade plutonium or uranium, he was risking detection.

McGarvey unzipped the front of his drysuit, took out his Walther and cycled a round into the firing chamber.

Next, he unsealed the camera case and took out the Geiger counter. He flipped on the switch, but there was no reading above ambient on the dial, nor had he expected any. If the bomb material was here, it would be well enough shielded to avoid detection except at close range.

Certain that no one on the well-lit bridge deck would be able to see him down on the dark foredeck. McGarvey darted out from behind the bollard and took the first hatch into the ship.

What he needed now was to find a crewman willing to give up his uniform.

Chapter 72

The Fukai shuttle helicopter touched down on the rooftop landing pad of the headquarters building around midnight. As the rotors began to slow down, a crewman opened the hatch, fitted the aluminum steps over the edge and helped Liese Egk climb down. He’d stared up her short skirt all the way down from Tokyo’s Narita Airport, and his hand shook when he touched the bare flesh of her arm.

She smiled back up at him when he passed down her single bag. “Domo arigato,” she said.

“Do itashimashite,” the young man said breathlessly.

“Your charms are still intact, I see,” someone said, coming from the elevator alcove.

Liese turned as Endo, still dressed in a crisp suit and tie, came across the pad.

He said something in Japanese in a very sharp tone to the crewman, who immediately answered,

“Hai,” and closed the hatch.

“I assume all of our shipments arrived on time and intact,” she said, coldly.

“Yes, we are most pleased. Now, I imagine, you have come here to arrange for payment.

Your situation must be very difficult after Santorini.”

“We are reorganizing. Within the month we will be ready to accept new assignments.”

“What about Ernst? How is he faring?”

“I killed him.”

“I see,” Endo replied, smiling faintly. “It must leave you short-handed.”

“Besides my couriers who made deliveries…“

“They have been eliminated,” Endo interrupted, but instead of reacting the way he thought she might, Liese continued smoothly.

“Besides the couriers, I have twenty frontline officers, plus the usual network.

We lost some very good people in this operation, but of course we expected as much.

It is one of the reasons, as you may recall, that you agreed to pay so dearly.”

Endo had to admire the woman’s coolness. It was almost a pity, he thought, that she would have to die tonight.

He took her bag, and pointed the way toward the elevator, but she stepped back a half pace.

“You first,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to get lost.”

Endo stared at her for several long seconds. He could take out his pistol and kill her, here and now. Fukai-san understood the danger she presented. But she reached inside her shoulder bag, as if for a compact or a handkerchief… or a gun… and he forced a smile.

“No, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, and he led the way across the landing pad to the elevator and held the door for her.

“I’ll stay the night,” Liese said on the way down. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her nose. “We can conclude our business in the morning and I will be out of Japan by noon.”

“You may stay the evening, of course, but we’ll have to make our business arrangements immediately. Unfortunately Mr. Fukai leaves for Paris first thing in the morning.”

“That’s just as well. Your shuttle can take me back to Narita.”

“Yes, of course.”

The elevator opened to a broad empty corridor of very low ceilings, scrubbed wooden floors and rice paper sliding doors. Traditional Japanese music played softly from hidden speakers, and from somewhere they could hear the sound of water gently splashing as if on rocks at the bottom of a small waterfall. The fragrant odor of incense was on the pleasantly warm, moist air.

Near the far end of the corridor, Endo slid open a rice paper door and went in. The room was sparsely furnished as a tea place or as a waiting area in a traditional Japanese home. Putting her bag down, Endo went to the sliding doors along the opposite wall and opened them onto a broad rock garden, beneath a fake sky that was made to look like dusk, just after sunset or just before dawn. Water tumbled down a pile of rocks that rose at least thirty feet into the sky, falling into a pool in which a dozen large golden carp lazily swam. The sandy areas had been carefully raked, and a cedar tub filled with steaming water was ready on the broad, low veranda. Even birds were singing.

“You may refresh yourself, Ms. Egk. Mr. Fukai will see you in one hour. If you have any needs in the meantime, just speak out loud, and you will be attended to.”

Liese had been here to Nagasaki before, but she had never seen this place. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

Endo smiled. “It is restful,” he replied, and he bowed and left.

For a full minute Liese remained standing in the middle of the room, drinking it all in; the sights, the smells, the sounds, all carefully engineered to seem authentic, and all designed to promote a feeling of peace and security. Nothing bad could ever happen here.

This place had obviously cost Fukai a great deal of money. But as a business tool it had to have paid for itself dozens of times over each year by disarming those who came here seeking to do hard, fast business.

She crossed the room and stepped out onto the veranda. A very gentle breeze was blowing from the left, and it smelled faintly of the sea.

The evening (she decided the atmosphere was meant to be sunset) was balmy. Perfect.

She stepped out of her sandals as she unbuttoned her blouse and padded down the veranda to the shower head just beyond the tub. She wore no bra, and already her nipples were erect in response to the sensuous surroundings. She took off her skirt and panties, and layed them over the low wooden rack provided for just that purpose, and stepped under the shower head, the weight of her body on some hidden control beneath the floor boards turning on the water.

The spray was perfect in strength and temperature, and she turned slowly beneath it as she lathered her well-tanned, almost athletic body.

Endo stood just within an alcove at the far end of the veranda watching Liese take her shower, and he felt aroused. She was a beautiful creature, he decided. Mores the pity that he would have to kill her tonight.

Ernst Spranger had hinted that the woman was a lesbian, but watching her lather herself, he found that hard to believe. And, recalling the occasions she’d spent with Fukai-san, Endo felt that Spranger had hoped to gain something by such a lie. Now that he was dead, it had become a moot point.

When she was finished under the shower, clean and well rinsed as was the Japanese tradition, she moved gracefully, like a cat or some night animal, off the veranda, and across the stepping stones to the pool. She hunched down and dabbled her fingers in the water.

From where he stood, Endo had a perfect view of the curve of her haunches, and the delicate line of her backbone merging with the crease of her buttocks. He fought an almost overwhelming desire to go out there and touch her.

“She is a lovely animal, isn’t she,” Fukai said from within the alcove’s entrance hall.

Endo turned to face his master. Fukai was nearing eighty, but his hair was still jet black, his eyes still dark and clear, and his lean, compact body still well muscled because of the workouts he did every day of his life. But there was a cruel streak to his face; the set of his mouth, the expression in his eyes. Each time Endo looked at Fukai, he felt like a prize butterfly in the presence of a ruthless master collector.

“Yes, indeed she is,” Endo said. “Do you wish for me to kill her now, or would you like to watch her for a while?”

“Perhaps it won’t be necessary for us to kill her this evening,” Fukai said. “We shall see.” He was dressed in a spotlessly white kimono, wooden block sandals on his feet.

“Ernst Spranger is dead.”

“It is of no consequence.”

“Possibly…“ Endo said, but Fukai silenced him with a glance.

Liese straightened up, watched the fish swim beneath the waterfall for a long time, then turned and lanquidly went back up to the veranda where she slowly lowered herself into the scented, very hot water.

Fukai stepped around Endo onto the veranda. “You look like a fawn at peace in the forest.”

Liese turned. “Kiyoshi-san,” she said, apparently with pleasure.

Endo backed out of the alcove and left, certain that Fukai was making a mistake with the woman that might cost him his life.

Chapter 73

McGarvey stepped through a hatch onto a dimly lit catwalk that looked down into the engine room. The generators were humming, and one of the main engines was turning, but there were no crewmen.

Except for the few people on the bridge, the Grande Dame II seemed to be deserted. Below decks should have been alive with activity if the ship was being readied for departure, as she seemed to be. Yet the passageways were empty, as were the cabins he’d looked into, the galley, the crews’ dining area, and now the machinery spaces.

It made no sense unless something had happened ashore that had drawn the crew away.

Something incredibly powerful slammed into his right shoulder, sending him crashing against the railing, a tremendous pain rebounding throughout his body, nearly making him lose consciousness. Before he could recover, his pistol was snatched from his hand so violently his body was spun around.

Heidinora Daishi, the squat bulldog of a man from the Imperial Gardens in Tokyo, stood grinning at McGarvey, whose heart was hammering painfully in his chest. He was having trouble catching his breath and his vision was blurring.

“I hoped that I would see you again,” the Japanese killer said, his voice low-pitched and rough, and his English difficult to understand.

“This time you have lost your weapon, so the fight will be equal.” He casually tossed the Walther back into the passageway, sending it clattering along the deck.

McGarvey’s head was spinning as he desperately tried to work himself fully conscious.

Under the best of conditions this fight would have been unequal; the man he was facing was built like a Sherman tank, probably was an expert in any number of martial arts, and, more important, seemed to want to vent his power here and now.

“Stand up now,” Heidinora said, taking a handful of McGarvey’s drysuit and shaking him like a rag doll.

McGarvey feinted left, then came in under Heidinora’s right arm, and hammered three quick blows with every ounce of his strength to the man’s chest just over his heart.

Heidinora grunted in irritation, not pain, and batted McGarvey away like an insect, sending him sprawling on the catwalk, stars again bursting in his eyes.

Before he could move out of the way the Jap was on him, kicking him viciously in the side with his steel-toed shoe.

The pain was exquisite, and he knew that he could not take very much more punishment before he became totally helpless.

Heidinora kicked him again, this time on the hip, nearly dislocating his back.

Christ! The man meant to kick him to death. It could not continue. But he had no way of defending himself.

Heidinora kicked again, but this time McGarvey managed to rear up and deflect the blow with his left arm, momentarily pushing the man off-balance.

Rolling right, McGarvey pulled himself under the catwalk railing, and before Heidinora could react, twisted over the edge, and dropped the ten or twelve feet to the engine room floor, the hard landing knocking him temporarily senseless.

When he finally looked up, Heidinora was gone, on his way down to finish the job.

His head still spinning, McGarvey frantically looked around for something to use; anything. But the engine room was spotlessly clean. Not even an oily rag lay out; no empty coffee cups, no ashtrays, no tools.

He managed to get to his feet, where he had to support himself against a piece of machinery for a long moment until he regained his balance. The entire ship seemed to be spinning around, the decking heaving and bucking as if they were at sea in a heavy storm.

Straight ahead was a thick steel waterproof door on massive hinges. The sill was high, so that whoever came through would have to lean forward to step over it.

McGarvey stumbled as quickly as he could to the door and pulled it all the way open.

As he’d hoped, it was well-balanced, and swung easily.

Someone was coming down the stairs at the end of the short passageway, and McGarvey stepped back behind the door, out of sight.

A moment later Heidinora started through the doorway, his right leg first, his right hand on the doorjamb, and his head and shoulders bent forward.

McGarvey heaved the door closed with everything he had, the thick steel smashing into the Japanese killer’s face, driving him backward, and then catching the man’s leg against the jamb, crushing his kneecap.

Heidinora roared in pain and rage, and he shoved the door back, and tried to pull his way through.

McGarvey smashed the heavy door into the man’s face and forehead again, pulled it back, and shoved it again with all of his might, this time hitting the top of Heidinora’s skull with a sickening crunch, and then closing on his hand, severing all four fingers at the roots.

Heidinora was in trouble. His eyelids were fluttering and his breath came in big, blubbering gasps as if he were a drowning man trying desperately for one last breath of air. Blood pumped out of a wicked rent in his skull. The man’s chest heaved once, and then he slumped back. He was dead.

McGarvey hung on the doorframe for a long time, catching his breath, pain coming at him in waves, but the blurred vision and dizziness finally subsiding.

A plastic security badge was clipped to the lapel of Heidinora’s coveralls. McGarvey peeled off his drysuit, stashed it in a dark corner behind some machinery and back at the doorway took the security badge from the body and clipped it to his jacket.

The ruse would not stand up to close scrutiny, but all he needed was to get off the ship, across the dock and into the main building.

Careful not to step in the blood, McGarvey made his way down the corridor and painfully up the stairs to the catwalk where he retrieved the Geiger counter. Its case was cracked, but otherwise it seemed undamaged.

He found his gun in the upper passageway, and from there worked his way up to the main deck. He held up at the portside hatch. Ten feet away the rail opened to the boarding ladder down to the dock. The moment he started down he would be in plain view of everyone below, as well as anyone watching from the bridge. But there was no other way ashore.

Shoving the Walther in his belt beneath his jacket at the small of his back, he stepped across the covered passageway on deck, and started down the boarding ladder, making every effort not to limp or in any way show that he was in pain.

Two men in white coveralls, Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders, stood talking on the forward dock, near the ship’s bows. They looked up as McGarvey descended, said something to each other, then looked away, apparently uninterested, even though they could not have seen the security pass from that distance.

At the bottom, McGarvey crossed the dock without hesitation, and entered what turned out to be a ship’s stores and holding area within the main building. Someone was working with a forklift to the right, at the end of a long file, but there was no one else in sight.

Moving quickly now, McGarvey went to the far end of the warehouse, and through a door which led down a short corridor to a freight elevator.

The elevator was up one floor. He called it down, and then pulled out his pistol, switching the safety catch off, stepping to one side as the doors slid open on an empty car.

Inside, he studied the board. This floor was indicated by a light. There were four floors beneath it. He punched the button for the lowest floor and then moved back and to the side.

Something was nagging at the back of his mind. Something about the ease with which he’d gotten off the ship, across the dock and this far into the building.

The elevator opened on the fourth sublevel to a T-intersection of two corridors that disappeared both ways into the darkness. This place was deserted too; another fact that was somehow bothersome.

A few yards down the left corridor a pair of tall wire mesh doors led into a high-voltage electrical distribution cabinet. McGarvey glanced inside. This set up could accommodate the power needs of a big skyscraper, yet he didn’t think it was the main distribution center for the headquarters complex. No, this supplied power for some specific section of the complex. Some installation. Something that required a huge amount of amperage.

The elevator doors closed and the car started up. McGarvey turned and hurried back to the head of the corridor to watch the floor indicator. The car stopped one level up, and almost immediately started back down.

McGarvey turned and looked both ways down the corridor, but there were no doors, nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

In desperation he rushed back into the darkness to the electrical distribution cabinet, yanked open the door and crawled inside, taking extreme care not to brush up against any of the yard-long bus bars that carried so much power. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

He closed the door and eased back into the deeper darkness as the elevator slid open and two men armed with Uzi submachine guns stepped out into the corridor, sweeping their weapons left to right, as if they’d been expecting trouble.

Moments later one of them said something into a walkie-talkie, and when he had his reply, said something to the other man who sent the elevator back up.

McGarvey could not make out what they were saying, but it was evident they were nervous. They kept a wary eye on both branches of the corridor.

The elevator returned and two white-suited technicians got off with a motorized cart.

Without hesitation the four of them started down the left corridor and as they came even with McGarvey’s hiding spot, his Geiger counter began to react, the volume just loud enough for him to hear the crackle.

He pulled the device off his shoulder and stared at the gauge. The needle was jumping well above ambient.

On top of the cart was an oblong metal box about one yard on the long axis and half that on the short side. It was marked in French: PORTSIDE SEWAGE LIFT PUMP.

As the technicians disappeared with the cart into the darkness, the Geiger counter reading rapidly subsided. Whatever the box contained, he decided, it definitely was not a sewage lift pump.

Chapter 74

Roland Murphy sat at his huge desk listening to what his Deputy Director of Operations, Phil Carrara, was saying. It was coming up on noon, and besides Carrara, the DCI had called Ryan and Doyle in to listen. The general was tired, and he had every right to be. He’d been going almost twenty-four hours a day since the Japanese crisis had come up, and he wasn’t as young as the others.

“She won’t do anything foolish, will she?” he asked his DDO.

“I don’t think so,” Carrara said.

“How’d you get her to stay?” Ryan asked.

Carrara sighed. “I told her a lie.”

“Her friend, Lana Toy?”

“We have her in protective custody. Told her that we needed her cooperation if we were going to save Kelley’s life.”

“What happens if they blow the whistle when this is all over?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know,” Carrara said wearily. “But in the meantime Kelley is damned frightened.

I think McGarvey has made a believer out of her. She’ll stick, no matter what happens.”

“Which gives us just a few minutes before she calls back. What time is it over there now?”

“A little before 2:00 a.m.,”

Carrara answered. “Dawn will be in another three hours, which will put her in an exposed position if we order her back to Fukai’s perimeter.”

“No word from McGarvey?” Murphy asked. “Not so much as a sign?”

“I’m afraid not, General,” Carrara said. “She told us that he went into the water around twenty-hundred hours their time, about four hours ago, with the intention of somehow getting aboard a ship tied to the Fukai docks, and from there getting ashore.”

“What do we have on the boat?” Murphy asked, turning to Doyle, his Deputy Director of Intelligence. Doyle had worked with the National Photo Reconnaissance Office over the past days. He opened a file folder and withdrew a satellite shot of the Fukai compound. He passed it to Murphy.

“She’s the Grande Dame II, one of the two Feadship pleasure yachts in Fukai’s fleet.

The other, sister ship, the Grande Dame,

has been sailing in the Mediterranean for the past year. Evidently number two is being made ready to replace number one for the fall and winter season. They’re identical; 243 feet at the waterline, twin MTV diesels, state-of-the-art electronics. Either ship is capable of crossing any ocean in style at cruising speeds in excess of twenty knots.”

“Impressive toys,” Ryan mumbled taking the photograph from the DCI. “The bomb, if one exists, could easily be transported aboard either ship.”

“Of course,” Doyle said. “But I don’t think it’s likely. By now Fukai has to realize that he’s come under suspicion.”

“Especially with McGarvey poking around,” Ryan put in.

“If he has the bomb parts there in Nagasaki where his technicians are putting them together, he’ll want to get rid of the device as quickly as possible.”

“He could load it aboard the ship at his dock in under an hour, I would suspect,”

Murphy said.

“I don’t mean just get it out of Japan, General. I meant deliver it to its target and… fire it … as soon as possible.”

“By air,” Carrara said. “Fukai Semiconductor maintains a fleet of jetliners. They’ve even got a pair of Boeing 747s.”

“One of which is currently on the ground at Fukai, for routine maintenance,” Doyle said. “Kiyoshi Fukai himself is scheduled to fly out to Paris in a few hours.”

“Paris as a target?” Murphy said. “That doesn’t make sense. Nor would he risk riding on the same plane with a bomb. He’ll want to keep his distance.”

“Pardon me, General, but I don’t agree,” Carrara said, sitting forward. He turned to Doyle. “He’s going to Paris by what route Tommy? East or west?”

“East,” Doyle replied. “With a stopover for fuel in San Francisco.”

“Where the bomb would be off-loaded,” Carrara said, turning back to the DCI. “A customs check on a man such as Fukai would be perfunctory at best. He could drop the bomb off, set on a timer to explode after he was well on his way to Paris. There’d be no evidence left behind to connect him with the device.”

“Then we stop the plane from taking off,” Murphy suggested.

“That wouldn’t be so easy,” Ryan cautioned. “As you say, Fukai’s stature puts him above that of an ordinary citizen.”

“I can convince the President.”

“And if we were wrong, what then?” the Agency’s general counsel asked. “Maybe McGarvey’s presence has been detected and the bomb would not

be loaded aboard that plane. There’d be an international stink if we convinced the Japanese government to go after its richest man and nothing was found. I suggest we wait until the plane lands on U.S. soil and make a routine but thorough customs check. If a bomb is aboard, we’ll not only find it, but we’ll have Fukai himself in custody.”

“Unless he’s insane,” Carrara said softly. “If he’s cornered mightn’t he trigger the bomb anyway?”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Doyle said. “But it’s a possibility we should consider.”

“What do you suggest?” Murphy asked.

“Let me call my office first,” Doyle said. “There’s been a satellite pass within the past few minutes. Photo Recon has got a realtime link.” Doyle picked up the phone and called his chief of Analysis. He had his answer almost immediately.

“Well?” Murphy demanded impatiently.

“The 747 that was parked on the apron has been moved to a hangar near the Research and Administration complex. We caught a view of her tail section, but nothing else.”

Doyle looked at the others then back to Murphy. “Call the President, Mr. Director, and lay it out for him. Our alternatives, as I see them, are to stop the plane on the ground now, before it leaves Japan; let our customs people take care of it in San Francisco; or…” Doyle hesitated a moment. “Or divert the flight to a deserted airport somewhere well away from any civilian population so that if the bomb is triggered, casualties will be at a minimum.”

“If the pilot refuses?” Ryan asked.

“Then we’d better be ready to shoot it down over the ocean.”

Kelley Fuller called two minutes later from a roadside phone three miles from the main gate into the Fukai compound, but still within sight of the airfield. She sounded bad.

“There is still no sign of him,” she said, obviously at the edge of panic. “I think he must have drowned. There were small boats swarming all over the harbor until just a little while ago.”

“Listen to me, I want you to do one more thing for us,” Carrara said. The call was on the speaker phone so everyone could hear.

“Yes, I’m listening,” she said.

“Can you see that big airplane from where you are?”

“Yes,” she answered uncertainly.

“I want you to keep watching it. The moment it moves toward the runway I want you to call us. Then you can get out of there. But only then. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Kelley said. “But what about Kirk?”

“We’ll help him,” Carrara said. “Trust me.”

Chapter 75

One hundred yards from the intersection, the corridor ended at an elevator that could only be operated with a key. There were no indicators on the outside telling if the car was on the way down or up, or even if the elevator went both ways.

McGarvey figured it was a fair bet that the car only went to some lower level where he supposed the bomb was being assembled now. But there was no indication of any radioactive source nearby, nor could he hear anything from below by putting his ear to the elevator door. It was as if no one had ever come this way, yet the technicians with the cart had to have used this elevator. There were no other doors in the corridor.

Which meant that unless there was some other underground passage out, which he doubted, the assembled bomb would have to be brought out this way.

He looked back the way he had come. His position was exposed here. If someone else came down the corridor from the freight elevator, he would have nowhere to run. He would have to shoot his way out, which would alert Fukai’s security people that he was here.

He had found what he had come looking for; evidence that Fukai Semiconductor had in its possession material that was radioactive. Enough evidence to launch an immediate investigation.

All he had to do was turn around now, and retrace his steps. He didn’t think he would have much trouble swimming down the bay, past the Fukai perimeter to where Kelley Fuller was waiting.

Together they could return to the hotel, or even Tokyo, and take refuge in the U.S. Embassy.

But that wasn’t enough. The look in Liz’s eyes, and the expression in her voice back in Washington was still very fresh in his mind. Fukai and Spranger were going to be held accountable for what they’d done. He was going to make sure of it.

It was past 2:30. The technicians had been down here at least a half hour. To do what? Make some final assembly? Perhaps install the initiator into the bomb itself, assuming that the sewage lift pump contained it. Unless he misunderstood the relatively simple construction of a nuclear device, he didn’t think that sort of an operation would take very long. A few minutes at the most.

And, if the assembled bomb was to be installed aboard the ship, it would probably be done under cover of darkness. Except for the people on the bridge, and the man he’d fought with, the ship had been deserted.

The time was now. The bomb was going to be put aboard tonight. In the morning the regular crew would come aboard and the Grande Dame II would sail east; perhaps for San Francisco, where a nuclear explosion would wipe out TSI Industries. Perhaps Honolulu, as a reprise of the start of World War II.

Or perhaps even the Panama Canal, which would isolate the Pacific Basin, making an eventual Japanese takeover more feasible.

Once the body was found just outside the engine room, however, there was no telling what Fukai would do. Obviously he would have to change his plans.

The elevator door rattled slightly with a change of air pressure inside the shaft.

McGarvey again put his ear to the door, and this time he could definitely hear the car coming up.

He sprinted down the corridor and slipped back into the electrical distribution cabinet, softly closing and latching the mesh gate, then easing farther into the shadows.

A minute later the same technicians and guards came down the corridor with the motorized cart, but as they passed McGarvey’s hiding place he got a good look at what they had brought up. It was an oblong metal container about the same size and shape as the one they’d brought down. But this unit was marked in English: HYDRAULIC DISTRIBUTION

SYSTEM-SECONDARY, beneath which were the letters TBC. The Boeing Company? It was a Boeing 747 they’d seen parked on the ramp to the north of the headquarters building.

Perhaps the parts had arrived by boat, and would be leaving by plane.

The group turned right, past the freight elevator, and disappeared from McGarvey’s view down the opposite corridor. As before, the Geiger counter went crazy, but unlike earlier, the guards were not so jumpy. As they’d passed the electrical distribution cabinet McGarvey had gotten a close look at them. They’d been wary, alert, on edge, but definitely not jumpy. They’d learned something in the past half hour. What?

McGarvey waited a full half minute then carefully opened the gate and stepped out, his pistol still in hand. At the corner he flattened himself against the wall and eased around the edge.

This corridor was in darkness too, the light fading thirty yards away. One of the guards switched on a flashlight and led the way. Within a minute or so they had disappeared in the distance. And unless it was an optical illusion, McGarvey thought that the corridor sloped upward at a very slight angle.

Like the other wing, no doors led off this corridor, and within seventy or eighty yards he came again within sight of the four men. He slowed down so that he just matched their pace, keeping well back so that even if they did stop and turn around, he would be outside the range of their flashlight and would have plenty of time to get back to his hiding spot.

But they didn’t turn or alter their pace and fifteen minutes later McGarvey thought he could see the first faint glimmers of light from somewhere well ahead.

He figured they had come at least half a mile or more from the freight elevator, which had to put them at the edge of the main building, and probably near the airfield.

He was also certain that the corridor was sloping upward at a gentle angle, and what he had guessed at before was not an optical illusion.

An assembled nuclear device was going to be loaded aboard a Fukai jetliner, probably one of his 747s, which would take him to Paris via the West Coast of the United States.

When they stopped for refueling in San Francisco, the bomb would be off-loaded and stored at an in-transit warehouse, timed to explode after Fukai was well clear of the area. Possibly even days later.

But Fukai was too brilliant to leave anything to chance. The bomb would probably be equipped with some sort of a proximity detonator, or certainly a tamper-proof firing mechanism. It could possibly even be fitted with a remote control, the triggering impulse sent by radio, or perhaps cellular telephone.

The problem was there would be no way of knowing any of that for certain without actually being aboard the airplane.

McGarvey stopped fifty yards later when he could make out the end of the corridor, which seemed to open into a large room or open space of some sort.

The technicians turned left through the opening and disappeared, leaving McGarvey alone in the dark corridor. It struck him again how simple it all had been, getting off the ship and following the technicians here. Almost as if they had been expecting him, and this was a setup.

He glanced up at the light fixtures on the ceiling. They were spaced every fifteen feet or so, and had they been lit the corridor would have been so brightly illuminated he could not possibly have followed the technicians this far.

But it changed nothing, he thought, tightening the grip on his pistol. He still had to find out what Fukai’s exact plan was, and he didn’t want to back off until he had extracted his own revenge for what they had done to Kathleen, and especially to Liz.

Also, when it came down to it, he too had been backed against a wall and left for dead. It was no love of country (though he thought he loved his country) that motivated him. Nor, he supposed, was it simply revenge.

He had been in this position before, where backing off would have been the most sensible option, but where each time he not only hadn’t turned away, he found that he could not.

In the end it was shame, he supposed, that made him who he was. Who he had become.

Though he seldom had the courage to admit it, even to himself.

The sins of the fathers shall visit their sons, from cradle to grave. That would be chiseled on his tomb should the truth ever be known.

“Good evening, Mr. McGarvey,” a man’s voice came from an overhead speaker.

McGarvey stepped back against the wall as the corridor lights came slowly up.

“It’s all right, no one will harm you for the moment,” the man said. His English was heavily accented with Japanese, but clearly understandable.

“What do you want?” McGarvey asked, again looking back the way he had come. The corridor was fully illuminated now, and he could see no one back there.

“For you to be my guest this morning. We’re flying to Paris, and it would only be correct of me to take you as far as San Francisco.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“We’ve been following your progress all evening, Mr. McGarvey. The only time you had us confused was when you slipped into the electrical distribution box. Our motion detectors lost you. But we figured it out. Now, come along please.”

Chapter 76

Two Fukai Air Transport Division crewmen, armed with Ingram Model 11 submachine guns, relieved McGarvey of his pistol and the Geiger counter, then stepped aside and motioned for him to go first.

The corridor opened onto a broad balcony that looked down into a vast aircraft hangar, easily large enough to accommodate two 747s. One of the gigantic airplanes was parked three-fourths of the way into the building, with only its tail section outside. Its hatches and cargo bay doors were open and from what McGarvey could see it looked as if the plane were in the final stages of being loaded and readied for takeoff.

A jetway connected the front passenger door of the plane to a spot one level below this balcony. The armed crewmen motioned for McGarvey to cross to an open freight elevator just at the end of the balcony, five yards from the corridor.

Dawn was only a couple of hours away, and from here McGarvey could smell the odors of the sea and even the mountains. Freedom.

Below, on the floor of the hangar, there was no sign of the white-suited technicians and the cart containing the bomb, but there was little doubt they were already aboard, or soon would be, and by the time morning came they would be well on their way east, into the rising sun. It would be a dramatic moment; fitting, in Fukai’s mind, after forty-seven years of waiting for revenge.

The crewmen let McGarvey ride alone down the one floor. They were taking no chances being with him in such a confined space. He had hoped for such an opportunity, but he hadn’t thought they’d be that dumb.

Two other armed crewmen waited for him on the lower balcony, at a respectful distance, and they motioned for him to proceed down the jetway into the airplane.

He hesitated only a moment before complying, and they followed him the thirty feet or so to the hatch. He wondered at what point they had spotted him tonight. Getting off the ship, perhaps. Which meant they’d followed his every move.

The flight across the Pacific to the West Coast of the United States took nine or ten hours. He didn’t think they would kill him until they were almost there, which would give him time for an opening.

He smiled grimly to himself, his gut tightening. There would be an opening. He would make sure of it.

Traditional Japanese music played softly from loudspeakers aboard the airplane. A pretty young Japanese stewardess dressed in a flowered kimono smiled demurely and bowed slightly.

“Welcome aboard, McGarvey-san,” she said in a lovely sing-song voice. “If you will please take your seat, the others have been waiting for you for some time now.”

A crewman armed with an Ingram blocked the stairs up to the flight deck. He wore shoulder tabs with three stripes. The copilot, no doubt, doing double duty for the moment.

To the left, in the area that was normally laid out as business-class seating, a door was ajar, and McGarvey could see what appeared to be an extensive communications console. Wherever Fukai went in the world, he would have to be connected with his business enterprises, via satellite. Just then, however, no one was seated at the console, though its lights and gauges were lit, indicating that it was functioning.

“Just this way, please,” the stewardess prompted, pointing aft. The armed guards from the balcony stood at the open hatch.

“Domo arigato,” McGarvey said pleasantly, and went aft, the young woman opening a sliding door for him.

The main cabin was furnished Japanese ultra-modern, in soft leathers and furs, muted tones, delicate watercolors, and beautifully arranged living plants.

A compactly built Japanese man dressed in a three-piece business suit was seated next to a stunningly beautiful white woman. They both looked up when McGarvey came in, and the man got lanquidly to his feet. He did not smile, nor did he seem pleased.

But he definitely did not appear to be concerned, and he wasn’t holding a gun.

“Ah, Mr. McGarvey, we have been waiting for you,” the man said.

“You have me at the disadvantage,” McGarvey said conversationally. There was something about the man that reminded him of a cobra.

“You may call me Mr. Endo.”

McGarvey nodded and turned to the woman, knowing who she was even before Endo said a word, and he had to hide his almost overwhelming urge to step across the cabin, pull her off the couch and snap her neck.

“Liese Egk, permit me to present the infamous Kirk Cullough McGarvey,” Endo said dryly. “I believe you two have much to talk about.”

McGarvey controlled himself, although he was shaking inside. “You were at the monastery on Santorini with Ernst Spranger and the others?”

She nodded. “Yes. But I’m surprised to see you here so soon. We all thought that you were dead, or close to it.”

“Spranger isn’t aboard yet?”

“I killed him,” Liese said.

“That’ll make my job so much easier, then,” McGarvey said, sitting down across from them.

Endo warily took his seat. “Although you are not armed, I believe you still constitute a threat to the safety of this aircraft, Mr. McGarvey. Be advised that I am armed, and quite a good shot. In addition, you are being watched at all times by at least one of our crewmen, also armed, and also an expert marksman.”

A stewardess came in, took McGarvey’s drink order, and until she came back with it, Endo and Liese said or did nothing except stare at him, as if they expected him to jump up at any moment and strike at them.

When the young stew returned with his cognac, Endo said something to her in Japanese.

She replied politely and then left.

“We will be taking off within the next few minutes,” Endo said.

“The bomb is already aboard, I presume,” McGarvey said.

Endo ignored the question. “If you make no untoward moves during the flight, no immediate harm will come to you. But again I warn you that you are being watched.”

McGarvey rudely crossed his legs and sipped his drink as Endo talked, his eyes on the woman.

“What did you mean?” Liese asked. “What job of yours will be so much easier now that Ernst is dead?”

“Killing you, of course.”

“Rich,” Endo said. He got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll see to our final preparations.”

Liese was about to say something, but then bit it off as Endo turned and left the main cabin.

McGarvey sat absolutely still. He’d spotted the armed crewman at the partially open sliding door.

Nervously, Liese reached for her purse and took out a small automatic; what looked to be an Italian-made .32-caliber. Probably a Bernadelli Model 60, McGarvey thought. Very effective at close range. She pointed it at him. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

He put down his drink and complied. “If you’re going to shoot me, I suggest you do it now. If you’re using steel-jacketed ammunition, or if you miss when we’re at thirty-five thousand feet, you might kill everyone aboard.”

“I use soft points, Mr. McGarvey, and I don’t miss,” she said, more confident now that the odds, at least in her mind, had tipped in her favor. “I am really surprised to see you here.”

“Not staying to make sure I was dead was the second biggest mistake of your life.”

“What was my first?”

“You know,” McGarvey said, his voice suddenly very soft.

Liese flinched. “You mean the little girl? Your daughter? You and she have talked?”

McGarvey could feel every muscle in his body tensing. He had buckled his seatbelt, but he had made certain the latch hadn’t caught. He could be out of his seat in a split second. She would fire, and miss, and he would be on her before she could recover, her body blocking any shot from the crewman at the door. But he continued to maintain his control, though the effort was costing him dearly.

“Yes,” he said, still softly, his eyes locked into the woman’s.

She began to shiver, her nostrils flared, color coming to her bronzed, high cheeks, and a blood vessel throbbed at the side of her neck. McGarvey figured she was on the verge of firing and he got ready to spring.

The sliding door opened all the way, and an old, but very well built, almost athletic man came in. He wore a light polo shirt, slacks and Western-style loafers. Endo, a Heckler and Koch pistol in hand, was right behind him.

“That won’t be necessary just yet, my dear,” the old man said.

Slowly Liese dragged her eyes away from McGarvey’s, and looked up. “He is a very dangerous man, Kiyoshi-san. He means to kill us all.”

“Yes, I know.”

McGarvey made himself relax. “A pleasure to meet you… Nakamura-san,” he said.

The old man’s expression darkened.

“You do understand, of course, that my government will block you because they know your true identity… Isawa Nakamura, a favored son until the defeat in 1945.”

Chapter 77

Deputy Director of Intelligence Tommy Doyle knocked once then stepped into the darkened room just off Roland Murphy’s seventh-floor office. The general was asleep on the cot that had been brought up.

“Mr. Director,” Doyle called from the doorway.

Murphy looked up immediately. “What is it?”

“Fukai’s 747 took off thirty-two minutes ago and headed east as it climbed to altitude.

The pilot filed a flight plan direct to San Francisco.”

The DCI sat up. “What time do we have?”

“Coming up on one-thirty in the afternoon,” Doyle said. “Three-thirty Tokyo time.”

“What’s their ETA in San Francisco?”

“Another nine and a half hours would make it eight tonight, their local.”

“All right, it gives us a little time.” Murphy shook his head and looked up. “No word from Kelley Fuller about McGarvey?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell Phil to pull her out of there right now. Bring her back here to Washington.

Then have my secretary call the President for me. We’ll get the FAA and, I suppose, the Air Force started.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Director, but I have a better idea. Their ETA over Honolulu is around six this afternoon, local. It’ll still be daylight. Why don’t we have the Navy send up an intercept from one of their carriers out there? Seventh Fleet. The Carl Vinson is five hundred miles west of the islands right now.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Murphy said. “I’ll check with the President first. But he’s going to want to know what happened to McGarvey.”

“Yes, sir, we all want to know.”

“Who was Kiyoshi Fukai, or was that just a fictitious name?” McGarvey asked conversationally.

They had raced east into a brilliant sunrise, after which the two stewardesses served them breakfast of tea, steamed rice, fish, raw eggs and other delicacies, which everyone but Liese seemed to enjoy. The dishes had just been cleared.

“Actually he was my chauffeur, Mr. McGarvey,” Nakamura said. “A loyal, if somewhat unimaginative fellow, who was killed in Hiroshima in the atomic blast.”

“You would be well advised to curb your tongue, McGarvey,” Endo warned, the automatic on the couch at his side, but Nakamura held him off with a gesture.

“Actually I am curious about one thing. Perhaps Mr. McGarvey will tell us how his government has supposedly uncovered our little adventure. If they have.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” McGarvey replied.

“I don’t think that’s the case,” Nakamura countered. “If the CIA had its proof we would not have been issued clearance to land at San Francisco, or to overfly the entire continent. No, I think that you were here for two reasons: To get the proof, and for revenge.”

McGarvey shrugged. “In any event my absence will be reported.”

“By the woman who visited headquarters with you?” Endo asked. “My people will soon find her. And kill her.”

Again Nakamura held him off with a gesture. “Let us spare Mr. McGarvey the details.

For now, my curiosity remains about how my real identity was guessed.”

“It was simple, actually,” McGarvey said, watching Liese out of the corner of his eyes. She’d put away her gun, but she was still very nervous. The armed guard was no longer at the forward door, which meant only Endo’s weapon was close at hand.

“Yes?” Nakamura prompted.

“We understood early on that some organization or individual was assembling the materials to build a nuclear device, using General Spranger’s group of losers as mules. That’s why I was hired in the first place, and that’s why they kidnapped my wife and daughter-to lure me away from you. Of course, it didn’t work. They’re not very good at what they do.”

“At least you won’t survive this flight,” Liese said sharply.

“And do you think you will?” McGarvey asked. When she didn’t respond he turned back to Nakamura. “It left two questions: Who could afford to finance such a big project, and who would have the motive? In other words, what was the target?”

“Why did you turn to Japan?” Endo asked, his right hand resting loosely on the pistol.

“We wouldn’t have, except for the murder of Jim Shirley in Tokyo. It was a mistake on your part.”

Endo said something in Japanese to Nakamura, who responded in English. “We will be perfectly open and aboveboard here. The murder of Mr. Shirley was a mistake, at least in its timing. But we were given reliable reports that James Shirley was involved in financial dealings with the same party we were using to transfer funds into Ernst Spranger’s European bank accounts. It was a most unfortunate coincidence. But it still does not explain how you connected what was happening with me.”

“I was in Paris when the Airbus was shot down. I recognized one of the terrorists as an ex-STASI hitman. During the investigation the French found one of your encrypted walkie-talkies, and the same sort of device was found in Tokyo after Ed Mowry was killed.”

“There was more?”

“The French Action Service told me that they’d been investigating Spranger’s organization for some time, and with the cooperation of the Swiss they learned that Spranger had been recently paid a substantial amount of money in yen.”

“My name?” Nakamura asked.

“You could afford it, you have been very vocal and outspoken about your hate for America, and if TSI Industries were to be destroyed in a nuclear blast, you would stand to gain billions of dollars.” McGarvey smiled blandly as he tensed. “And, you stupid, vain little man, humble Japanese chauffeurs do not rise up to become multi-billionaires.

It’s the fatal flaw in your system.”

Nakamura reared back as if he had been slapped in the face.

“If you think you’ll get anywhere near U.S. territory with this aircraft, you are even more foolish than I thought.”

Liese grabbed her purse and started to pull out her gun. But Endo, his face a mask of rage, snatched his own weapon and leaped up, blocking her line of fire as McGarvey hoped he would.

Nakamura shouted something in Japanese, but it was too late.

At the last possible instant, McGarvey shoved aside his seatbelt, jumped up, body-blocked the charging Endo, and brought his left knee up into the Japanese’s groin with every ounce of his strength.

All the air left Endo’s lungs with a grunt as he fell back on top of Liese. She had managed to get her pistol out and it discharged, tearing through the man’s back into his heart, killing him instantly.

Nakamura jumped up from his seat with surprising agility for a man his age, and scrambled on the deck for Endo’s gun.

McGarvey roughly pushed him aside at the same moment Liese got herself untangled from Endo’s body, and brought up her weapon.

McGarvey was on her in two steps, snatching the gun out of her hand before she had a chance to fire, and nearly breaking her wrist in the process.

She was like a wild animal, hissing as she shoved Endo’s body completely away with almost inhuman strength. She jumped up directly at McGarvey, who managed to sidestep her charge. He hit her in the jaw with his right fist in a round house punch that snapped her head back, knocking her unconscious.

McGarvey spun on his heel, swinging the Bernadelli in a short arc, left to right.

But Nakamura was gone. Probably up to the flight deck to warn the crew. They were still hours from the U.S. West Coast which gave them a little leeway, but as desperate as they might be, Nakamura’s people would be very careful about firing any weapon at this altitude.

One of the stews screamed and an instant later there was a shot, and then a second, from somewhere forward and above.

McGarvey braced himself for the explosive decompression, but after a second or two, when it didn’t occur, he went to the half-open sliding door and cautiously looked out into the galley, toward the stairway and the door to the communications center.

The two young stewardesses were huddled together in the galley, a look of abject terror on their faces. They shrank back when they spotted McGarvey.

For a long beat McGarvey couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Two shots had been fired. At whom? The crew on the flight deck? Why?

But then it came to him in a rush, and he had the very bad feeling that it was already too late. Nakamura was insane, but he was also dedicated and brilliant.

Shoving the sliding door the rest of the way open, McGarvey stepped across to the stairway. There was no sound from above, only the dull roar of the jet engines.

He turned back to the young women. “Did Fukai-san go upstairs to the flight deck?”

The women shrank even farther back into the corner. They were shaking, tears coursing down their cheeks.

“This is important for all of us. We may be killed. Did he go upstairs?”

One of the stews nodded. “Hai,” she whispered.

“Is there anyone else up there except the pilot and copilot?”

The young woman shook her head.

“Where did the guards go?”

“They did not come with us.”

“What about in there?” McGarvey asked, motioning toward the communications bay.

“No one there. Fukai-san operates the equipment. No one else.”

“Hide yourself somewhere,” McGarvey said. “And no matter what happens do not come out until we have landed.”

Making sure that the Bernadelli’s safety catch was in the off position, McGarvey made his way upstairs. At this point it didn’t seem likely that any of them would survive this flight, but he’d at least wanted the young women out of the way for now.

Except for the light coming from the open door to the flight deck, the upper level was in darkness, all the windowshades pulled down.

He could see the pilot and copilot still strapped in their seats, slumped forward.

They were not moving.

Nakamura had killed them, leaving no one to fly the plane.

McGarvey cautiously came up the last two stairs at the same moment Nakamura stepped out of the shadows to the right.

“Don’t shoot or the bomb will explode,” the Japanese billionaire said. His voice was gentle, almost dreamy. In his right hand he held Endo’s Heckler and Koch, in his left a small electronic device like a television remote control, his thumb poised over the button.

McGarvey pointed the pistol at him. He could not miss at this range. The bullet would kill the man, but it would not exit his body to penetrate the pressure hull of the airplane.

Nor would it stop Nakamura from pressing the button, even if it was only by reflex action. If the man was telling the truth, and there was no reason to think he was not, the bomb would explode.

But before they made it to the West Coast, if they got that far with no one flying the plane, McGarvey told himself that he would have to take the chance. There was no other choice. But for the moment, at least, there was still a little time.

“What do you want?”

“Drop your gun.”

“I won’t do that,” McGarvey said. “You won’t shoot me, because I might manage to fire back, and the bomb would explode. Out here over the Pacific, it would do no harm. Nor will I shoot you first. I don’t want to die. So it’s a stalemate.”

Nakamura thought about it for a moment. “They’re dead in there. The crew. But what about Endo, and Ms. Egk?”

“He’s dead, she’s out of commission. Put down your gun and I’ll put mine down. You’ll still have the detonator.”

“As you wish,” Nakamura said, and he uncocked his pistol and casually tossed it aside.

“Now yours.”

“I lied,” McGarvey said.

“I’ll push the button,” Nakamura shouted, raising the remote control.

“Go ahead,” McGarvey replied calmly. “Push it, you crazy bastard. It’s just us now.

Push it. Do it.”

Chapter 78

Lt. Commander Donald Adkins, chief of the Combat Information Center aboard the CVN Carl Vinson, was in a foul mood. He figured that from the captain on down, every line officer aboard the carrier was going to end up in deep shit if this mission somehow got away from them, or if the slightest screwup were to occur. The White House is watching: It was the word of the day.

Adkins stood just behind the senior operator’s console in the Air Search Radar Bay, watching the inbound track of the Japanese civilian aircraft. A decision was going to have to be made, and soon. They were expecting it topsides right now.

“Talk to me, Stewart,” he said.

Chief Petty Officer Stewart Heinz adjusted a control on his console. “No change, Commander,” he said. “She’s still losing altitude at a very slow rate, and still inbound at 603 knots on a 281 radial.”

The Vinson was steaming west, into the wind, nearly 435 nautical miles north-northwest of the Hawaiian Islands. The moment the airliner had come up on their Long Range Radar system, the captain had ordered them into the wind at their best launch speed of 38 knots.

A pair of F/A-18 Hornets were waiting in position on deck for the go-ahead.

Adkins glanced over at his chief plotting officer, who shook his head. Nothing had changed. Their best estimate at this point was that the 747 was probably on autopilot, on an easterly course, and descending, that would put it at an altitude of about 5,000 feet somewhere over San Francisco.

“Perfect for a maximum damage nuclear airburst,” Air Wing Commander Roger Sampson had replied when told.

“If he doesn’t stand down, we nail him,” the captain said. “It’s going to be as simple as that.”

“How far out is he now?” Adkins asked.

“He’s just coming across my 125 mile ring,” Heinz said. “If nothing changes, he’ll be overhead in just under thirteen minutes.”

Adkins turned and went immediately to his console, where he picked up his direct line phone with the Air Wing Command Center. “Adkins, CIC,” he said. “The time is now.”

“Red Dog One, ready to launch on my mark,” the command came from Air Wing.

Lt. Joe Dimaggio, in the lead F/A-18 on the steam catapault, sat well back in his seat, bracing his helmet against the headrest. “Red Dog One, ready,” he radioed.

“Three, two, one,” and it was as if a gigantic foot had kicked him in the ass, as the steam-driven ram accelerated his aircraft down the short length of deck, off the bow of the carrier.

Immediately he hit his afterburner, pulled back sharply on his stick, and a second later hit the landing-gear retract button.

Before he passed five thousand feet, his wingman, Lt. (j.g.) Marc Morgan joined him just below and behind his port wing.

“Intercept course coming up,” Dimaggio radioed, as the data was relayed from the Vinson’s

CIC directly into his aircraft computers, and flashed on his HUD (Head-Up Display).

Among other information, he was given the best course and speed to his target. Time to intercept, in this case, was less than four minutes.

“Let’s take a looksee,” Morgan radioed. They were friends, and like most pilots enjoyed an easy comradery, even in combat missions. They’d both flown in the Gulf Crisis.

“Good idea,” Dimaggio replied, and they pushed their throttles to the stops in unison.

“I won’t push the button, unless I’m forced into it, until we reach our destination,” Nakamura said. “But you won’t shoot me, you’ll wait for me to make a mistake so you can take the detonator.”

“We’re heading for San Francisco,” McGarvey said. “But how do you intend on landing the plane…” He cut himself off, and turned to look across at the flight deck and the dead officers. He took a step in that direction.

“Stay away from there or I’ll detonate the bomb now,” Nakamura warned.

“We’re on autopilot heading for San Francisco. But you don’t intend on landing. Once we’re over the city… what, five, ten thousand feet?… you’ll push the button.”

Nakamura’s eyes were mesmerizing. He was a powerful, purposeful man, and had been all of his life. But he was insane, and therefore unpredictable.

“Do you believe that I will do this thing?” he asked.

McGarvey nodded.

“I will, but it is good that you know it. It will make the remainder of the flight more pleasant.” Nakamura motioned toward the stairs. “We’ll go down to the lounge.

I would like to have a drink.”

“We should be near Hawaii,” McGarvey said. “The Navy will probably send someone up from Pearl to check us out.”

“We’re on a legitimate flight plan, approved by your traffic control authorities.

No one will bother us.”

“I’m missing.”

“You won’t be connected with this flight. In any event your government would not dare interfere with me.” Nakamura shrugged. “Even if they are suspicious, they will wait until we land to ask any questions, or to seek my permission to search the aircraft.”

The bastard was right.

“Even in that unlikely event, it wouldn’t matter,” Nakamura was saying, but McGarvey wasn’t really hearing the man. Somewhere between here and the West Coast he was going to have to take the detonator, no matter the risk.

“A drink,” McGarvey said. He uncocked the pistol and stuffed it in his pocket, then turned and went downstairs, Nakamura right behind him. The women were gone.

Nakamura stopped at the galley. “Where are they?”

“They’re hiding. They think you’re crazy.”

“Different,” Nakamura said wistfully. “I’ve always been different.”

There was no answer to that statement. McGarvey led the way into the main cabin.

Liese had evidently regained consciousness long enough to shift position. Her eyes were closed now and her breathing was labored, but she was lying on her back a few feet away from Endo’s body, her left arm twisted under her head as if she were merely lounging. Her long, tanned legs were spread, and her skirt had rucked up over her thighs, exposing a thin line of dark pubic hair. She wore no panties.

“She was a lesbian,” Nakamura said looking at her. “Ernst Spranger told me that at the beginning, though he said she would do my bidding.” He smiled fondly. “And she did. Once she unlearned her bad, Western habits, she became quite good.”

“You’ll miss her,” McGarvey said, going around to a wet bar at the rear. He poured himself a cognac. “You?” he asked over his shoulder.

“A cognac will be fine,” Nakamura said. “Yes, I suppose I will miss her, but at my age I’ll miss almost everything.”

It was the most human statement the man had made, though it was the direct opposite of what most eighty-year-olds might say. In his life he had gotten everything he wanted, and he had wanted practically everything. Now that he was at the end, he wanted even more.

McGarvey turned with the drinks, but then froze. Nakamura was kneeling at Liese’s side, the detonator still in his left hand.

“Liese,” he said gently. He touched her thigh with the fingers of his right hand, then traced a pattern on her skin.

Nakamura was looking at her legs and pubis, but McGarvey had seen her eyes flutter.

She was feigning unconsciousness.

“Liese,” the old man cooed softly. His fingertips flitted lightly over the lips of her vagina. He slowly bent forward and kissed her there.

Liese moaned softly, her legs spreading slightly, and Nakamura leaned even farther forward.

Her right hand came down to his face to guide him, and her touch spurred him on.

Suddenly she was holding a long, wicked-looking stiletto in her left hand, and before McGarvey could move or say a thing, she plunged the blade all the way to the haft into the back of Nakamura’s neck, angling it upwards into the base of his skull.

McGarvey’s breath caught in his throat. If the bomb went off now, he wouldn’t feel a thing. The entire airplane would be vaporized in a matter of milliseconds, much too fast for his senses to react in any way.

But Nakamura simply relaxed down on top of Liese, every muscle in his body instantly going limp, the detonator slipping out of his hand, the weight of his body pressing against her thighs.

McGarvey dropped the drinks, and sprinted forward to grab the detonator at the same moment Liese shoved Nakamura away and grappled for it.

She reached it first, and held it up in his face, a triumphant look in her eyes, then pushed the button.

Dimaggio came in from above and to the north of the eastbound 747, made a tight nine-G turn, cutting back on his engines and almost instantly dropping his speed out of the supersonic range.

Morgan dropped in on the starboard side of the big jetliner and together they matched speeds, hanging just a few yards off the big plane’s flight-deck windows.

For a moment or two Dimaggio wasn’t sure what he was seeing, although the tail numbers and dove insignia matched his intended target. But he could see the pilot and copilot.

“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading, north of the Hawaiian Islands, please come back. This is the U.S. Naval warplane off your port side,” he radioed.

There was no answer. His communications would be monitored and recorded aboard the Vinson, just ahead of them now.

He pulled out his motorized drive Haselblad camera and took a half-dozen shots of the 747’s flight-deck area, then got back on his radio.

“Red Dog Two, this is One. Marc, what do you see over there?”

“I see the crew, but they look… dead to me, Joe,” Morgan radioed.

“Brood House, this is Red Dog One, you monitor?”

“Roger.”

“What do you advise?”

“Stand by.”

Dimaggio dropped a couple of meters lower, and mindful that the 747’s wing was just aft of his own tail, he eased in a little closer.

From here he could definitely see that the crew was dead.

“Brood House, this is Red Dog One. The crew are definitely dead. I see blood on the back of the pilot’s head.”

“Roger,” the Air Wing CO radioed. “You are authorized to arm and uncage your weapons.

Designator, Yellow Bird three-easy-love.”

Dimaggio quickly flipped through his authenticator book. “Wild Card seven-one-delta.”

“Roger,” the Vinson radioed dryly.

“Red Dog Two, I’ll take aft and starboard.”

“Right,” Morgan radioed back, and they both peeled away, making looping turns right and left, as they climbed to get above and behind the big airliner. They both uncaged their AIM-7F Sparrow air-to-air missiles.

Nothing happened. Liese pushed the button again, but still nothing happened. Nakamura had been lying. The bomb was evidently set on a timer, or there was some sort of a coded sequence in which to push the button.

McGarvey yanked the device out of her hand and got up. But again she was like a wild animal, driven by some inner compulsion to attack and kill. She viciously yanked the stiletto out of Nakamura’s skull and leaped up.

McGarvey stepped aside, pulled out the Bernadelli, cocked the hammer with his thumb and shot her point-blank in the face.

The bullet entered her skull just above and to the left of the bridge of her nose, destroying her face and snapping her head back. She was dead before she crumpled to the deck.

McGarvey turned and sprinted back up to the flight deck, manhandling the pilot’s body out of its chair in time to hear someone on the radio.

“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading north of the Hawaiian Islands, this is your last chance to respond before we fire.”

Chapter 79

“Brood House this is Red Dog One, negative response, advise,” Dimaggio radioed.

The jetliner was one mile ahead and five hundred feet below them. Dimaggio had illuminated it with his doppler radar and had a positive lock for the Sparrow.

“Red Dog One, you have permission to fire,” his confirmation < came. “Repeat, you have permission to fire.”

“Roger,” Dimaggio said, and he reached with his thumb for the air-to-air weapon-release button on his stick.

McGarvey scrambled into the pilot’s seat, snatched up the microphone and frantically searched for the proper transmit frequency selector. Outside, the afternoon was beautiful, with only a few low clouds beneath them, and the pale blue of the Pacific Ocean lost in the haze on the horizon. There were no signs of any warplanes, but McGarvey figured they would by now be above and behind, ready to shoot.

He pushed the microphone button. “U.S. warplanes about to shoot at the Fukai Semiconductor 747 aircraft, do you copy?”

The radio was silent. McGarvey leaned forward as he tried to get a look aft, but he still couldn’t see anything but blue sky. Of course the warplanes did not have to be within sight in order to attack. Some of their missiles were accurate forty nautical miles out.

“U.S. warplanes, this is the Fukai 747 north of the Hawaiian Islands, do you copy?”

“Roger, we copy. You are required to immediately break away from your present heading, do you understand? If so, acknowledge.”

“Negative,” McGarvey radioed. “You’re going to have to get confirmation of what I tell you, but we’ve got to get this aircraft on the ground and soon.”

“Repeat, you are required to immediately break away from your present heading. This is your last warning. If you do not comply immediately you will be shot out of the sky.”

“Listen to me. My name is Kirk McGarvey. I am an American intelligence officer, something you can verify by calling Washington. Everyone else aboard this airplane is dead, including the crew. We’re carrying a nuclear device that is probably set on some sort of timer. It’s hidden in a unit marked hydraulic distribution system-secondary.

Have you got that?”

There was no answer.

“Goddamnit, ace, I asked, did you get that?”

“Stand by.”

McGarvey sat back in the seat for a long moment, closing his eyes and trying to let his mind go blank. He wanted to crawl away and curl up in some dark corner somewhere, to lick his wounds-both mental and physical. But it was not possible now, nor had it ever really been possible ever since his parents had been killed in Kansas … a century ago? Ten lifetimes?

And, as before, the death and carnage that always seemed to surround him solved nothing, offered no satisfaction. Even the woman’s death, for what she had done to Elizabeth, had been empty. Liz’s life would not be changed for the better because of it. Nor would his. The deaths were nothing more than another chapter in his continuing nightmare.

Minutes later the F/A-18s showed up just off both sides of the 747.

“Mr. McGarvey, you still with us?” Dimaggio radioed. McGarvey could read the pilot’s name and rank stenciled on the Hornet’s fuselage beneath the canopy.

“That’s a famous name you got there, Dimaggio. Any relation?”

“I wish,” Dimaggio said. “You’re it aboard?”

McGarvey was looking directly at the young man. “Except two female flight attendents,”

he said. “That’s the good news. The bad is that the biggest plane I’ve ever flown was a V-tail Bonanza, and that was fifteen years ago. I never did get my license.”

“Did you land it?”

“Badly.”

“But you walked away from the landing,” Dimaggio said. “So things aren’t as bad as we thought they might be. Now listen up, Mr. M, this is what we’re trying to work out for you.”

Twenty-three U.S. Navy and Marine Sea Stallion helicopters out of Pearl and off the CVN Nimitz

showed up almost simultaneously along the west coast of Niihau, the most isolated island in the Hawaiian chain, and immediately began announcing the evacuation of all residents.

Eighteen miles long and five miles wide the island was home to less than two hundred people who spoke only Hawaiian, though they understood English, who did not use electricity, plumbing or telephones, and who got around by bicycles and horses.

During the Second World War an airstrip had been laid down on the island’s arid interior, and although it had been lengthened to take jets almost twenty years ago, it had never been used except in emergencies.

Even before the evacuation had begun, a C-130 Hercules was touching down on the strip with fire fighting and medical units out of Pearl, while another C-130 circled overhead, ready to lay down a thick blanket of foam along the entire runway and surrounding area the moment the supplies and personnel were secured and the first C-130 took off.

Also among the personnel were two Air Force nuclear weapons specialists on loan to the Navy at Pearl. Everything humanly possible to secure the bomb aboard the 747

when the jetliner landed was being done. McGarvey’s survival was secondary, even though it was up to him to bring the big jet in.

“Ten to one he doesn’t make it,” one of the technicians aboard the circling AWACS

commented. “But the device should survive a controlled crash landing with no real problem.”

The 747’s controls were surprisingly light, the jetliner even easier to fly, in some ways, than the small four-place Beech Bonanza.

Ted Kinstry, a veteran 747 pilot for United Airlines, had been brought out from Honolulu aboard the AWACS to talk McGarvey in, and although he figured the chances of pulling off a survivable crash landing were far less than ten to one, he instantly established a rapport with McGarvey and talked him through the motions, step by step.

“I have the island and the runway in sight now,” McGarvey radioed. On instructions he had dumped most of the 747’s fuel out over the ocean before changing course for the nearly five hundred mile straight-in approach.

While still well away from any land, Kinstry had McGarvey make two simulated landings, using an altitude of twenty thousand feet as the imaginary ground level. On the first landing, McGarvey managed to pull up and level off at eighteen thousand five hundred feet; the second time at nineteen thousand seven hundred.

“You crashed and burned both times,” Kinstry had told him. “But there was an improvement.”

“Let’s try it again,” McGarvey suggested.

“No time or fuel. Sorry, Mac, but the next time is the big one.”

Which was now.

“We’re going to start using flaps now,” Kinstry’s voice came into McGarvey’s headphones.

“Why so soon?” McGarvey asked.

“Because we need to slow you down sooner. This time we’re not using landing gear.

You’re going to belly her in. It’ll tear hell out of the aircraft, but the landing will be easier.”

“You’re the boss,” McGarvey said, trying to blink away the double vision that was coming in and out now, at times so badly he could barely read the instruments. He hadn’t told that to Kinstry. It wouldn’t have helped.

“You don’t have to reply from now on unless you have a question,” Kinstry said calmly.

“Reduce throttles to the second mark.”

McGarvey pulled back on the big handles on the center console, and the aircraft’s nose immediately became impossible to hold.

“Don’t forget to adjust your trim each time you change a throttle or flap setting,”

Kinstry cautioned, and McGarvey did as he was told, the jetliner’s nose immediately coming up, the pressures on the control column easing.

“Now we’re going to five degrees of flaps. Again, watch your trim.”

McGarvey lowered the flaps which acted as huge air brakes, slowing the plane even more, the roar of the wind over the added wing surface suddenly loud.

Ahead, the runway seemed impossibly narrow and much too short.

“I have you in sight. Come right slightly to line up with the runway.”

McGarvey turned the wheel very slightly to the right as he applied a little pressure to the right rudder pedal. The big jet ponderously swung on line, then passed to the right. He had to compensate left, then right before settling in.

“You’re at eight thousand feet, glide path a little high. Reduce throttles to the third mark, and flaps to ten degrees.”

McGarvey did both, remembering to adjust the trim each time, and the plane slowed even further, the roar now very loud.

“Looking good,” Kinstry said. “Reduce throttles to the fourth position, and increase flaps to twenty degrees-maximum.”

The big jetliner was no longer so easy to handle even with the trim tabs properly adjusted. The controls seemed sluggish and unresponsive, and McGarvey got the unsettling impression that the jetliner was hanging in the air by the very narrowest of speed margins just above a stall.

“Your glide path is a little low, pull up the nose.”

McGarvey eased the wheel back, and the stall horn began 368

beeping shrilly, a red stall-indicator lighting on the panel flashing brightly.

“I’m getting a stall warning,” McGarvey radioed.

“Don’t worry about it. Your glide path is looking good, bring it right a little more.

From now on you’ll probably have to hold a little right rudder, looks as if you have a slight crosswind.”

The plane came right and lined up perfectly this time. The stall warning continued to buzz.

“At one thousand feet, glide path is a little low, pull up,” Kinstry said.

The stall warning continued to buzz, and now the runway was definitely too small by at least a factor of ten, maybe more.

“At eight hundred feet, glide path still a little low, pull up.”

The jetliner began to shudder, the control column vibrating in his hands. McGarvey knew enough to understand that the wings were on the very verge of stalling.

“Four hundred feet,” Kinstry said. “Three hundred feet, your glide path is perfect.”

The end of the runway was less than one hundred yards out.

“Two hundred feet… one hundred feet… You’re over the end of the runway, chop power now!”

McGarvey hauled back on the throttles, cutting all power to the engines, but instead of dropping out of the sky like a stone, the ground effect between the wings and the runway took effect and the 747 seemed to float for a second, or longer, then it touched down with a terrible crash. The big airliner bounced once, hit on its belly again, and then the controls were yanked out of McGarvey’s hands, everything outside his windows turning opaque white as the plane plowed through the fire retardant foam.

He could do nothing but brace himself against the inevitable crash, and he finally let himself succumb to his wounds, his loss of blood, and lack of rest over the past weeks.

Slowly the big jetliner began to decelerate, turning almost gently to the right.

And finally something crashed against the portside wing, the plane slewed sharply left, and came to a complete halt.

For a long time McGarvey allowed himself the luxury of breathing, and of not having to think or concentrate for his own life, and his world collapsed around him into an indistinct but pleasant grayness.

Chapter 80

Very early on the morning of the seventh day of McGarvey’s hospitalization at San Francisco’s General, Kelley Fuller, wearing a pretty knit dress and sandals, showed up. She was still deeply frightened, and when she touched his lips with her fingertips she was shaking.

“Phil said he pulled you out of there just in time,” McGarvey said. Most of the past week had gone by in a blur for him. Until today the doctors had kept him sedated most of the time to hold him down.

“I was going crazy,” she said. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought maybe you had drowned.”

“I found the bomb.”

“I know, and Fukai is dead. All the papers are saying he died of a heart attack when his plane crashed-landed on that island. They’re calling him a national hero in Japan.”

“It doesn’t matter,” McGarvey said. “He’s dead and it’s over.”

She was staring at him, an odd expression in her eyes. “You’re really an extraordinary man,” she said softly. She went to the door and closed it, then propped a chair under the knob so that no one could come in. “I came to see how you were, and to thank you for saving my life,” she said, coming back to the bed. She stepped out of her sandals, and then pulled the dress off over her head. She wore nothing beneath it.

“If you pull my stitches my doctors will have your hide,” McGarvey said, throwing back the covers.

“So let them sue me,” she said, gently slipping into bed with him, and easing her body on top of his. Her skin was like silk against his, and the nipples of her breasts were hard, her breath warm and fragrant.

He let his hands run down her back, along her hips and the mound of her buttocks, feeling himself responding almost immediately.

The bedside telephone rang, and he reached over and picked it up. “Later,” he said, “One hour.” He broke the connection, but left the phone off the hook.

“I don’t know if that will be long enough,” Kelley said, kissing his forehead.

“Let’s try,” McGarvey said. “We can at least do that.”

“Who was that on the telephone?” Kelley asked when they were finished. She’d gotten out of bed, used the bathroom and then put on her dress and stepped into her sandals.

All through their lovemaking she had asked him questions about what he had seen and done while in the Fukai compound. Each answer had seemed to spur her on, almost as if she were playing some sort of sexual game with him.

“It was Phil Carrara,” McGarvey said tiredly. Because of his wounds he had no energy, no stamina. He felt very weak.

Kelley’s breath caught in her throat, but McGarvey didn’t see it. “Get some sleep before you call him,” she said. “You need it.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“I have to go. But I’ll come again tomorrow.”

McGarvey was beginning to drift again. He watched as Kelley pulled the chair away from the door. She blew him a kiss and then was gone.

For a long time he let his mind drift, his eyes half closed. Odd, he thought, that she had left so suddenly. Odd that she hadn’t even kissed him goodbye.

He turned that over in his head, worrying it like a dog might worry a bone. Something wasn’t adding up, but it was hard to make his brain work.

A nurse bustled into the room, a stern look in her eyes. “Are you awake?” she demanded.

McGarvey opened his eyes. “Just barely,” he answered, smiling, but something was bothering him. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Well, your telephone is off the hook, and somebody from Washington wants to talk to you,” she said. She replaced the phone on its cradle, and almost immediately it rang. She answered it. “Yes, he’s awake.” She handed the phone to McGarvey. “As soon as you’re done, I want you to get some rest.” She breezed out of the room, shaking her head.

“Kirk, is that you?” Phil Carrara asked.

“Sorry I hung up on you before, but something came up,” McGarvey said, his attempt at humor as weak as he felt.

“They said Kelley Fuller was out there to see you. Is she there now?”

“Just left.”

“I wanted to tell her that her friend Lana Toy is all right.”

“She’s not dead?”

“No. We have her in protective custody.”

“But you told Kelley…“ McGarvey let it trail off.

“We needed her help, Kirk. In the meantime how are you feeling?”

“I’ll live,” McGarvey said, understanding now what was wrong with Kelley. It was the business. There was no honor to it.

“The general is grateful, I mean that sincerely. And the President will be calling you in a couple of days to thank you.”

“What about Kathleen and Liz? Are they all right, Phil?”

“They’re back in Washington. Your daughter insisted on coming out to be with you, but we convinced her to stay here for the moment. Just in case.”

McGarvey’s heart was jolted. “Just in case what, Phil?”

“We finally came up with some answers in Switzerland. Two sets of triggers were taken from ModTec, not one. Which means it’s very possible there’s a second bomb floating around out there somewhere.”

McGarvey closed his eyes, and tried to make his muddled brain work. Something just outside his reach was nagging at him. Something Nakamura had said to him aboard the airplane. He tried to bring it back.

Carrara was saying something about tracking down the British-made initiators, but McGarvey was back on the 747.

“your government would not dare interfere with me,” the Japanese billionaire had said.

“Even if they were suspicious, they would wait until we landed to ask my permission to search the aircraft.”

McGarvey remembered having thought that the man was probably correct, but then Nakamura had said something else. Something odd.

“Even in that unlikely event, it wouldn’t matter.”

McGarvey opened his eyes. “Was the bomb aboard the plane set on a timer?”

“Yes, it was,” Carrara said. “But we had all the time in the world to disarm it, because it hadn’t been set to go off for another 98 hours.”

McGarvey did the arithmetic. A little over four days. “What day would it have gone off?”

“Thursday.”

“I mean the date, Phil. What date was it set to explode in San Francisco?”

“The sixth of August.”

McGarvey was suddenly very cold. He had no idea what the date was now. “What day is it today, Phil?”

“It’s Sunday, August ninth… Oh, my, God.”

“On August 6, 1945 we dropped an atomic bomb on the seaport city of Hiroshima. Three days later, on August 9th, we dropped a second bomb on a seaport city, Nagasaki, south of Hiroshima. Nakamura’s first bomb was set for San Francisco. His second is set for Los Angeles.”

“Today,” Carrara said, amazed.

“What time was the Nagasaki bomb dropped?” McGarey asked. He looked up at the digital clock in the overhead television. It was 8:47 a.m.

Carrara was back a few seconds later. “The bomb was dropped on Hiroshima at 8:05 on the morning of August sixth. Nakamura’s bomb was originally set to go off in San Francisco at exactly that time.”

“What about the second bomb?”

“This morning at 11:02,” Carrara said. “Your time, I hope, which gives us less than two and a half hours. But where the hell is it?”

“Call the FBI,” McGarvey said, throwing off his covers and painfully crawling out of bed. “Have them standing by with the fastest plane they have to get me down to Los Angeles. I’m leaving here immediately. I know where the bomb is located-exactly where.”

“Where?” Carrara shouted.

“Aboard the Grande Dame II disguised as a sewage lift pump.”

Kelley Fuller was just climbing into a cab when McGarvey emerged limping from the hospital. He’d found his freshly laundered clothes in the closet and over the doctor’s protestations and threats had bullied his way out. Kelley fell back in shock.

“What’s happening, Kirk?”

“There’s a second bomb down in Los Angeles,” McGarvey shouted, shoving her aside and climbing in.

“What’s this about a bomb?” the cabbie demanded.

“Never mind, just get me to the airport as fast as you can. The general aviation terminal.”

“I’m going with you,” Kelley said, trying to climb in after him, but he pushed her back.

“You’re staying here.”

“I have to go with you,” she cried.

“Your friend Lana Toy is not dead.

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly wide. “What?”

“She’s in protective custody. She’s not dead, I swear it.”

“Was it Phil Carrara?” she asked in a small voice. McGarvey nodded. “Why?”

“He needed your help, and he was willing to tell you anything.” “Now you?” “I’m different.”

She looked into his eyes. “Yes, you are different,” she said, stepping back. After a moment she turned and walked away.

A Learjet with the FBI seal emblazoned on its fuselage was warming up on the apron for McGarvey when he arrived at the airport-and paid off the very impressed cabbie.

Special Agent Sam Wilke helped him aboard and even before he was strapped in they were taxiing toward the active runway, Special Agent Richard Conley piloting.

“We’ll be in L.A. in about an hour,” Wilke said as they started their takeoff roll.

“Washington wasn’t real specific about what was going on, except that you’re CIA, you need help, it’s damned important, and we need to go like a bat out of hell.”

“All of the above,” McGarvey said, sitting back. “Can you have a helicopter standing by for me?”

Wilke nodded. “Where are we headed?”

“To wherever the Grande Dame Two is docked. She’s a pleasure vessel out of Nagasaki, but registered in Monaco. Should have pulled in yesterday or maybe even this morning.”

“Do you want her and the crew impounded?”

“Negative,” McGarvey said, opening his eyes. “Under no circumstances is that ship or her crew to be approached by anyone.”

Wilke was looking at him. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” McGarvey said, lying back again as they climbed. He closed his eyes, and he could see the look on Kelley’s face when she’d learned that Carrara had lied to her, and that her friend was still alive. Relief. Hurt. Finally, fear.

An FBI 206 JetRanger helicopter was waiting for them on the pad at Los Angeles International Airport. Wilke came along with McGarvey and Kelley, and minutes after they stepped off the Learjet they were airborne toward the waterfront.

“The Grande Dame Two came in last night, and just cleared customs about two hours ago,” Wilke shouted over the roar. He’d been on the radio most of the way down.

“Where?” McGarvey asked.

“The Long Beach Marina. About twenty miles from here. We’ll make it in a few minutes.

But would you mind telling me what the hell is going on? Your boss said he’s on the way out.”

“What’s nearby?” McGarvey asked.

“Huntington Beach, Long Beach, of course.”

“Strategic targets.”

Wilke’s left eyebrow rose. “Long Beach Naval Shipyard, Los Alamitos Naval Air Station.”

“Anything high tech?”

“TSI Industries is building a new research unit somewhere down there, I think.”

McGarvey looked at him. “There’s an atomic bomb aboard that ship.”

Wilke didn’t know whether or not to believe him. “Set to explode when?”

“Two minutes after eleven, this morning.”

“Christ,” Wilke swore. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” McGarvey said. “I think I’ll be able to find it, but the problem might be the crew. Could be someone aboard who’ll push the button if we show up in force.”

Wilke was shaking his head. “It won’t matter,” he said. “At least it won’t in another fourteen minutes. That’s all the time left.”

The Grande Dame II was tied up at the end pier, and although the marina was very busy there was no one to be seen on deck.

The chopper had set down in a parking lot a quarter mile from the ship, and they’d commandeered a delivery truck from a confused, angry UPS driver.

Wilke remained with his walkie-talkie in the truck parked at the side of the office about fifty yards from the ship. He’d called for a SWAT team, a hostage negotiator, and the Bureau’s Interpol liaison man. A pair of nuclear weapons experts had already been dispatched from nearby Travis Air Force Base on Carrara’s orders and were expected on the scene at any minute.

McGarvey walked directly down to the ship and climbed the ladder, absolutely no time now for explanations or any sort of delicacy. Even if they tried to run, they couldn’t possibly get far enough away to escape the probable blast radius.

At the top he halted for a moment, listening, his ear cocked for sounds aboard. Some machinery was running below decks, but there were no other noises.

Nakamura’s people would have abandoned ship in time to get well away. At least they would have if they knew what they carried and when it would explode.

Wilke had given him a 9-millimeter Ruger automatic, which McGarvey pulled out of his belt an cocked. He didn’t bother checking his watch; knowing exactly how much time remained wouldn’t help.

He ducked through the hatch, and hurried as best he could down the stairs into the machinery spaces where he’d had his confrontation with Heidinora back at Fukai’s docks. The big Jap had been doing something down here. Maybe making sure that the area was clear so that the sewage lift pump could be readied for the bomb.

Stepping out on the same catwalk he stopped. Below, the engines had been shut down, but a generator was running, and the lights had been left on.

There were pipes and lines running everywhere in a seemingly jumbled maze. Nothing seemed to make any sense, nothing seemed familiar.

Time. It always came down to time.

The same Company psychologist who’d once told him that he had a low threshold of pain had also told him that he was a man who did not understand when it was time to quit.

“I suppose I could study you for ten years and still not find the answer to that one,” the shrink had said. “If there is an answer-“

He spotted the oblong metal container, marked in French, PORTSIDE SEWAGE LIFT PUMP, attached to a series of pipes on the interior of the hull.

But there was no time left. It had to be nearly 11:02, and he could see with a sinking feeling that it would take a wrench or a pair of pliers to open the cover of the bomb. Two nuts held it in place.

Now there were only seconds. No time to search for tools. No time to call for help.

“Goddamnit!” McGarvey shouted in frustration.

He stepped back, raised the pistol, turned his head away and fired a shot nearly point blank at the left-hand nut holding the cover in place.

The bullet ricochetted off the metal, bending but not breaking the nut and bolt assembly.

“Goddamnit!” McGarvey shouted, and he fired a second shot, and a third, and a fourth, bullet fragments and bits of jagged metal flying everywhere.

But the bolt was off. Tossing the pistol aside, McGarvey pulled the left side of the cover away from the case, bending the metal back by brute strength, three of his fingernails peeling back.

The inside of the device was simple. A long, gray cylinder took up most of the space, while tucked in one corner was the firing circuitry and timing device.

The LED counter showed three seconds.

McGarvey reached inside to grab one of the blue wires, when someone came out onto the catwalk behind him. He looked over his shoulder as the LED counter switched to two.

A short, wiry man with bright red hair, wearing an Air Force master sergeant’s uniform, came up, reached over McGarvey’s shoulder into the bomb’s firing circuitry, and as the counter switched to one, pulled out a yellow wire.

The counter switched to zero, and nothing happened.

“Sorry, sir,” the sergeant said. “No time to explain. But you had the wrong wire.”