The Gate

CHAPTER 6

“… and on top of all that, you didn’t get paid.”

Lake removed the special satellite phone from his ear and looked at it for a second, then put it back. “At least I didn’t kill everyone this time,” he said.

“Thank God for little favors.” Feliks’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Where are your friends now?”

Lake looked out the grimy windshield of the battered Bronco II. He’d checked the homing device as soon as he’d got back to his hiding place and tracked down the bug he’d planted in the Ingram. It had led him to this section of the San Francisco port. He’d parked behind a large abandoned Dumpster with a clear view of the trawler the electronic device told him the Koreans — or, more accurately, the guns the Koreans had stolen — were on board. He relayed that information to Feliks along with the name of the ship: Am Nok Sung.

“It’s flying the South Korean flag,” Lake added. He’d stolen the Bronco II two days ago from the outer parking lot of the airport after making sure its parking ticket had just been issued that morning. It wouldn’t be missed for several days and Lake planned on dumping it sooner than that.

“I’ll run the registry on the ship,” Feliks said. “I don’t understand why the South Koreans would be running an operation in the United States.”

“There’s no love lost between the Koreans and the Japanese,” Lake said.

“Do you think they might be connected to the event the other night?” Feliks asked.

“I don’t know,” Lake said. “There’s no indication they are except that they went to the Patriots to get weapons, but they could have picked that information up anywhere.” “What do you think they have planned?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Lake said, a little tired of the questioning. “That’s why I’m sitting here watching them.”

“Let’s not get some friendlies killed with weapons we sold,” Feliks said. He paused. “I’ve got the registry information on the Am Nok Sung coming up on the screen right now. It might be flying the South Korean flag, but it’s registered in Nigeria. That’s a pretty common practice to save on registration fees.”

“Who registered it?” Lake asked. A burst of static rippled through the phone and he pulled the phone away from his ear for a second.

“That will take a while,” Feliks said. “We found the message that recruited Starry and Preston on the Internet. I’ll have a copy put in your drop, but it’s not much help. It simply gives them an agency to call and leave a message with their own number. We checked the agency and the drop was paid for in cash. No one remembers who placed it. It was discontinued after two weeks.”

“A dead end,” Lake said. He was surprised at that. The computer whizzes at the Ranch should have been able to do more. Unless, of course, whoever had placed the message was as smart as they were. Which pointed beyond the Patriots, who weren’t exactly known for their collective IQ level.

“We’re scanning the Internet, looking for any other similar messages in case whoever sent the first one sends another to get it done right this time.”

Not likely, Lake thought. He was beginning to respect whoever was pulling the strings here.

“By the way,” Feliks added, “who fired the other shots last night? The ones that saved your butt?”

“I don’t know.” Lake had been asking himself the same question all day. He knew it meant one of two things: either he was being followed or the Koreans were being followed. He’d used all his skills earlier in the day when he’d stolen the Bronco and gone to the meet site to make sure he wasn’t followed, so that left the latter as the only viable possibility. He told Feliks that.

“Well, if you don’t figure out what these people are up to in the next couple of days I’m going to have to tip off the aTF. and have them recover the guns,” Feliks said. “That will also take care of our Korean problem.”

“They’re moving,” Lake said.

“Excuse me?”

Lake watched a party of six men wearing long tan raincoats walking down the gangplank off the trawler. “The Koreans are moving,” Lake repeated. “I’ll send you a postcard when they get to their destination. Out.” He turned off the satellite phone and watched. He had no doubt that each man had a MAC-10 hidden under his raincoat.

The men moved to the end of the pier and turned to the east, following the waterfront. Lake started the engine and began following at a considerable distance; his direction finder told him that one of the men was carrying the MAC10 with a bug in it, so he didn’t have to keep them constantly in sight.

In the crane control room, Nishin also waited until the men were out of sight, then he carefully climbed down. He had spotted the Bronco II when it had pulled in. He now regretted his decision of the previous evening to save the gun dealer; the man was turning out to be a nuisance. Nishin assumed he wanted his money, although how he had found the North Koreans’ ship concerned Nishin.

Nishin slid into the darker shadows and followed the band of Koreans. He watched as they broke into the first two cars they found parked and hot-wired them. As they drove off, Nishin quickly broke into another car around the corner and did the same.

Not very subtle, Lake thought as he watched the Koreans steal an old model Ford LTD and a newer Camaro. They’d simply broken the glass on the driver’s side, unlocked the doors, and climbed in. They at least had the expertise to smash open the steering column and get the engines started.

He followed the two-car convoy southeast along Columbus Avenue. He noticed a black pickup following farther back and made a note to keep an eye on it. What he did not notice, because it was out of sight, was the white van four blocks back, following the entire procession.

Directly ahead, Lake could see the bulk of the Trans america Pyramid filling the night sky. Columbus Avenue ended at the base of the pyramid and the Koreans turned to the half-right, going down Montgomery Street. The black pickup was still following.

“One big happy family,” Lake muttered.

The procession continued until they were on 1-80, heading for the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. The toll was only for westbound vehicles and traffic this time of evening was relatively light. Glancing in his rearview mirror, Lake could tell that the black pickup was holding its position. The two stolen cars were ahead in the far-right lane and scrupulously staying at the speed limit. They were on the lower level of the bridge, along with all the other eastbound traffic.

Lake didn’t like his position between the Koreans and whoever was trailing. He was too close to the Koreans, and there was a good chance they would detect his presence.

He didn’t want to take a chance, though, and go behind the pickup, since he didn’t know who was at the wheel of that vehicle. For all he knew there were other Koreans in it.

They approached Yerba Buena Island, the midpoint for the four-and-a-half-mile bridge complex. If the Golden Gate Bridge wasn’t so near, the Bay Bridge would perhaps be better known to those outside of the San Francisco area. Finished within a few months of its more famous sister in 1936, it had two levels, with westbound traffic on the top five lanes and eastbound on the bottom five. A quarter million cars a day crossed the bridge, and its partial collapse in the 1994 earthquake had caused massive commuter problems for the Bay area.

The bridge actually consisted of two major sections. The western, which Lake was coming to the end of, consisted of two suspension bridges, attached in the middle by a central concrete anchorage which was sunk deep into the center of the bay. The eastern part of this section touched land at Yerba Buena Island, bore through a tunnel in the island, then hit the other section of the Bay Bridge, which was a cantilever bridge built on over twenty piers leading into Oakland.

Lake passed under the last tower of the western suspension section. He was a hundred feet behind the Camaro, which was right on the bumper of the LTD. Both cars slipped into the mouth of the tunnel and Lake kept his distance. He glanced in his rearview mirror; the pickup was also keeping its place.

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

He halted but the other car didn’t. The front bumper of the Camaro smashed into the left-front grill of the Bronco II, jolting Lake forward against his seat belt, then his head snapping back, bouncing against the headrest. The Camaro pinned the Bronco against the wall of the tunnel, the right front side of the truck hitting concrete.

Two men jumped out of the Camaro, MAC-10s at the ready. Lake ducked before they fired, the bullets shattering the windshield above him, showering him with broken glass.

He unbuckled his seat belt and slithered between the front seats into the back where the backseat was down. Bullets continued to stream by over his head. He added a few rounds of his own with the Hush Puppy, shooting out the large window in the right corner of the cargo bay.

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

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

Lake’s visual inventory was brought to an abrupt halt as the man turned the smoking barrel of the Steyr in his direction. For the second time Lake dove for cover as bullets tore chips out of the concrete above his head. Lake fired underneath, but the man was inside the pickup and all Lake could shoot at was the tires.

The firing suddenly ceased and Lake heard a vehicle accelerate away. He carefully edged his head around the rear of the Bronco. The pickup was gone. Two smashed vehicles and two dead bodies. He watched the pickup disappear down the tunnel to the east.

“Fuck,” Lake said, standing up and dusting off broken glass from his clothes. There was a bottleneck of frightened motorists in their cars to the west but no sign of police yet. Lake reached into the front of the Bronco and pulled out his homing device. There was nothing else in the truck that could identify him.

Lake brought the muzzle of his weapon up as a white van wove its way through the halted cars and raced up to him. He had a perfect sight picture on the driver who leaned over and threw open the passenger door. “Get in!” the man yelled.

Another Japanese, Lake noted, keeping his weapon steady. He heard sirens in the distance.

“Get in!” the man repeated. The sirens were getting closer.

Lake hopped in, keeping his weapon trained on the driver. The man took off, heading west. They passed through the tunnel and out into the night air on the other side of Yerba Buena Island, onto the eastern section of the bridge.

“I don’t see them,” the driver said, peering ahead.

“And you are?” Lake asked.

The driver’s attention remained focused ahead. He appeared to be young, somewhere in his mid-twenties by Lake’s best guess. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and a very nice dark gray suit. Lake pressed the barrel of his pistol into the side of that suit and repeated his question. “Who are you?”

“Yariyasu Araki,” the man replied.

Lake spared a glance out the windshield. There was indeed no sign of either the pickup or the LTD. “And you are with?” Lake asked.

“Japanese CPI,” the man said. “I assume you are with a United States government agency,” he added.

“Why do you assume that?” Lake asked. He knew what CPI was: a secret arm of the Japanese government, the Central Political Intelligence, a cousin to the Ranch, formed after the Tokyo gas attacks a few years back. Its mission was to keep track of Japan’s fringe groups. The covert world was a small one, and despite all the secrecy the various agencies had an idea of each other’s existence on a level unknown even to their own governments.

“I intercepted your recent satellite communication phone conversation with what appeared to be your boss,” Araki said.

Lake was impressed. The Ranch’s equipment was topnotch and the satellite phone was supposed to be totally secure.

“Also, you were following the Koreans,” Araki continued.

Lake wasn’t sure whether to take Araki for what he claimed, but since Lake had the gun in the man’s side, he wasn’t overly concerned at the present moment about the veracity of the other man’s claim. With his right hand, Lake flipped open the cover on his direction finder and turned it on.

Araki glanced over as they descended into Oakland. “You have a fix on them?”

Lake nodded. “They’re northeast,” Nishifl stayed with 1-80 as it turned to the north and ran along the bay.

“Coming up on due east,” Lake reported.

Nishin took the University Avenue exit and, first chance he had, pulled into a parking lot. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing at the gun which Lake still had poking into his side.

“Actually, I do mind,” Lake replied, keeping it in place. “I have no proof you are who you say you are and I just had two different groups of people shoot at me for no reason that I know of. So forgive me if I’m not exactly in the most friendly mood.”

“I understand your concerns about my identity,” Araki said. His English was precise and each word was enunciated clearly. “But you must know that I do not carry an identification card. I am working in your country on a mission of deep concern to my own country.”

“Pretty weak,” Lake said, checking the direction finder. The small dot indicating the Koreans had stopped a few miles to the east. “Unfortunately, I really don’t have the time to have a deep discussion with you about all this. There’s some people I have to catch up with.”

Araki nodded. “The North Koreans.”

“They’re from the North?” Lake wasn’t too surprised. “What are they doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Araki replied.

“Why are you following them, then?”

“I am not following them,” Araki said. “I am following a man who is following them.”

“The Japanese guy with the Steyr AUG,” Lake said.

“Correct.”

“And who is he?”

“That is my concern,” Araki said.

“He tried blowing my head off back there in the tunnel,” Lake said. “That makes it my concern. Also, bud, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in America now. I could have your ass thrown in jail.”

“As you threw me in jail, would you also admit to selling the Koreans those weapons last night?” Araki asked in a level voice.

Lake pushed the barrel harder into Araki’s side, evoking a surprised grunt of pain. “Don’t fuck with me, son. I could also just make you disappear.”

“I imagine you could,” Araki said. Lake could see him swallow, trying to control his fear. The man was doing a reasonably good job of remaining calm, but Lake sensed that Araki wasn’t a seasoned agent. He didn’t have the hard edge that men in the world of covert operations gained after only a few years in the field — if they survived that long. Of course, he could also be better than most and a good actor. That made Lake wonder exactly what Araki’s role here was.

“We need each other,” Araki said. “Why do I need you?” Lake said, checking the direction finder one more time. The dot was still stationary.

“I want the Japanese man,” Araki said. “You want the Koreans. But I do not think you know what the Koreans are up to. I do not know what Nishin — that is his name — is up to, other than the fact he is following the Koreans also. There are many unanswered questions. Two minds can answer them better than one. I have access to my agency’s resources, which are quite extensive. Remember, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Lake snorted. “You sound like fucking Confucius.”

“Confucius was Chinese,” Araki began. “I am—”

“Yes, Confucius was Chinese,” Lake interrupted. “Confucius, originally known as Kung Chill, born 551 B.C.” died 479.” He removed the gun from Araki’s side and holstered it. “Personal virtue, devotion to family, most especially one’s ancestors, and to justice — all are tenets of his teachings.” Lake tapped the direction finder. “In the interests of justice, let’s track these little shitheads down.”

Araki was staring at Lake. He turned the key, restarting the engine. “Yes. Let us go.”

They drove up University Avenue. The dot on Lake’s screen remained stationary. “I’d say they are about three or four miles, dead ahead,” Lake said.

At the university, Nishin watched as the four remaining Koreans parked the LTD. His own lights were off and he’d kept a more discreet distance behind ever since the gunfight in the tunnel. Obviously the Koreans had spotted the American gun dealer and in their usual abrupt manner had decided to stop him from following them. Nishin was disappointed that he had not been able to kill the American, but at least there were two less of the enemy to deal with. More importantly, whatever the North Koreans were after now must be the key to their mission, otherwise they would not have caused such an incident to prevent someone from following them.

Nishin glanced around. The University of California at Berkeley was not unknown to him. It had a reputation as a center of liberalism and protest that Nishin had heard of in his time working underground in the States during his training. The campus was practically deserted this time of night, but Nishin knew there must be some type of campus police and he kept an eye out for patrol cars as he parked the pickup truck behind a building, across the street from the lot where the Koreans had parked.

He quickly ran across, keeping the four men in sight. He had the Steyr tucked in to his side, a fresh magazine in the chamber. The Koreans walked up to the side door of a large academic building and opened the door, disappearing inside. The name on the building, Wellman Hall, meant nothing to Nishin.

Nishin paused outside the door, then decided to move along the outside wall and find another way in. He found a door two hundred meters farther down and cracked it open. He was in a short corridor. Moving forward, he peeked around the edge, toward where the Koreans had entered. There was no one there, but he could hear noises, as if someone was moving something heavy about. There was a light on every twenty feet, giving a faint glow to the hallway.

He got to his knees and peered around the next hallway.

A Korean, MAC-10 at the ready, stood guard outside a door, forty feet away. Nishin sat down, back against the wall and became perfectly still.

Araki drove the van into the west entrance of the UCBerkeley campus.

“Close now,” Lake said. He continued giving directions as they wove through the campus, until he spotted the LTD parked outside one of the buildings. “There she is.”

Araki drove farther down the street and parked the van in a position where they could observe the car.

“Any ideas why they would be here?” Lake asked. He pulled his gun out of the holster and replaced the magazine with a fully loaded one, Araki watching the action.

“No.”

“So who is this guy Nishin that you’re following?”

“He is a member of the Black Ocean Society.”

“A ronin,” Lake said.

The comment earned him a surprised look from Araki. “You know of the societies?”

“A little,” Lake said. “They’re your version of our Patriot groups or militias. Bunch of wackos running around so far right of right that they aren’t even on the map board anymore.”

“But our societies have been in existence for many years,” Araki said, “while yours are a recent phenomenon. The Black Ocean dates back well before World War II. You used the term ronin,” Araki continued. “That is what an agent of one of the overseas societies used to be called. I suspect your knowledge is deeper than you are willing to admit.”

“I ain’t admitting anything,” Lake said. “And you still haven’t told me much about Nishin.”

“I do not have much to tell other than some of his background. As I told you earlier, I do not know why he is here in the United States, but there is no doubt that it is not for a noble reason.”

Lake thought about it. Could there be a connection between the Japanese societies and the American Patriots? While seemingly farfetched on the surface, the concept held intriguing possibilities if one looked deeper. Starry and Preston on the bridge with the paint sprayer. The part Japanese man in the boat below. Most curious. Lake pulled back the slide on the Hush Puppy, insuring a round was ready in the chamber.

Nishin heard someone cry out what sounded like an order, but he couldn’t make out the words. Boots pounded on the tile. Close to the floor, Nishin looked around the corner. The four Koreans were running toward the door, one of them holding a cardboard box in his arms. Nishin sprang to his feet and the second they were out the door, he sprinted after them.

“There!” Araki cried out.

Four men were hurrying across the lawn toward the LTD.

“They’ve got something,” Lake noted.

“What now?” Araki asked.

“We—” Lake paused as another figure came out of the building. “Shit!” As the last figure raised the Steyr automatic rifle and opened up on the Koreans, Lake kicked open the door to the van. The man with the box tumbled down, papers spilling out. The other three Koreans dove for cover behind some abstract concrete sculptures mat decorated the lawn. Two kept up an effective covering fire as the third collected the box. The gun battle was played out in silence, the flashes of the weapons the only indication that things were amiss on the lawn in front of Wellman Hall.

“Police!” Lake called out from behind the security of his open door. “Freeze where you are!” He was too far away for the Hush Puppy to do much good.

One of the Koreans fired a half a magazine in the van’s direction, the other kept the Japanese man pinned down near the building and they beat a hasty retreat to their LTD. Fortunately MAC-10s weren’t much more effective than the Hush Puppy at ranges over twenty-five meters and the bullets passed by harmlessly.

The Koreans worked as effectively as any elite infantry squad Lake had ever seen. The Japanese man with the Steyr retreated back inside the building and out of sight. As the LTD roared out of the lot, Lake made a quick decision.

“Drive up to the body,” he ordered Araki as he regained his seat inside.

“What about Nishin and the Koreans?”

“We can find the Koreans again. Right now, we need to do some cleaning up.”

Araki did as Lake requested, parking at the curb, fifteen feet from where the body lay facedown in the grass. Lake lifted the man and carried him back to the side door of the van, ignoring the blood that was staining his clothes. “What are you doing?” Araki asked as Lake dumped the body into the back.

“Cleaning up the scene of the crime,” Lake said. He turned and walked back to where the body had been.

“Why?” Araki asked, this time accompanying Lake.

“We left two bodies back there in the tunnel, that’s enough publicity for one evening. No one heard this here. I don’t hear sirens yet, so there’s a good chance no one saw it. The less that gets in the news, the better.” He scooped up the loose papers that were on the grass. “When the sprinklers come on in the morning, it will wash away the blood. No one will ever know.” He picked up the MAC-10 the man had been carrying and added that to his load.

They got back in the van. Araki started the engine and they drove off the campus. Lake turned on his direction finder and cursed.

“What is the matter?” Araki asked.

Lake picked up the MAC-10 he had recovered. He un screwed the back of the pistol grip and held up a small metal object. “A one-in-eight chance and of course I end up with my own hugged gun.”

“They will go back to their trawler,” Araki said confidently.

“So you were watching there, too,” Lake said.

“I did—” Araki began but caught himself. “I followed Nishin to the trawler.”

“Uh-huh,” Lake said.

“What are we doing with the body?” Araki asked.

“Drive to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area,” Lake said. “I know where to dispose of it.”

“Aren’t you worried about the Koreans getting away?”

“Aren’t you worried about Nishin getting away?” Lake asked in turn. He didn’t wait for an answer. “The Koreans are going back to the ship, like you said. That ship isn’t going anywhere this morning. You can’t just pull up anchor at one in the morning and sail away. They have to file a request and get permission from the harbormaster to leave port. The Coast Guard would be on them in a heartbeat if they didn’t and I don’t think they want that to happen.”

“You’ve checked on that?” Araki asked.

“They haven’t got a departure slot,” Lake confirmed.

“What about whatever was in the box the Koreans stole?” Araki asked. “Won’t someone at the university report that?”

Lake picked up the handful of papers. “That’s who I’m going to talk to first thing in the morning, after we get rid of the body.”