The Patriot Attack

  “Relax, Eric. We’re just here to talk.”

  “Who the hell is he? I told you to come alone!”

  “I know. And I apologize. He insisted on tagging along.”

  Smith took a seat on the bumper of the jeep and gave Fujiyama a disarming smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Eric.”

  He didn’t seem particularly happy about the change in the meeting’s dynamic, but understood that there wasn’t a lot he could do about it at this point.

  “So, let me guess. Masao Takahashi is suddenly starting to look a little crazy and Laurel and Hardy can’t figure out why. Now the CIA’s worried and you need the help of the guy you fired because you thought he had a tinfoil hat in his desk drawer.”

  “I didn’t fire you,” Randi clarified. “I’d never even heard of you until a few days ago.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  Smith laid his gun down on the bumper and pushed it to a less intimidating distance. “You nailed it on the head, Eric. Takahashi seems to be almost anxious to start trading blows with an eight-hundred-pound gorilla. And sure, we’re obligated to help out, but Japan’s still going to get the shit kicked out of it. What’s his angle?”

  “What’s his angle,” Fujiyama repeated with a smirk. “Did you know that Japan, a country with no official military, has the fifth-largest defense budget in the world?”

  “I did know that, actually.”

  “What you don’t know is that the published figure is probably less than half of their actual expenditures. It’s one of the reasons their recession lasted so much longer than anyone predicted.”

  “That would put it pretty close to equal with China,” Randi pointed out. “Doesn’t seem like they’re getting value for their money.”

  “No it doesn’t, does it? The Japanese are famous for their efficiency and yet they manage to spend over a hundred billion dollars a year on defense and not have much to show for it.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Who would have thought?”

  “So you’re saying that they do have the weapons,” Smith said. “We just aren’t aware of it.”

  “Seems like we’d notice all those ships and tanks,” Randi said, baiting him. Based on what they knew about the nanotech, it was obvious where Fujiyama was headed with this.

  “The Japanese don’t have the option of building an old-school military. There’s the cultural push-pull inside the country relating to what happened in World War Two, the constitution MacArthur wrote for them, the possibility that it would create an Asian arms race—”

  “And they don’t have the population base or natural resources to support it,” Smith said, finishing his sentence.

  “Ding! Give that man a cigar! So they had to create something new.”

  “What about the battleship they put to sea?” Randi said. “That was pretty standard stuff.”

  “The one that’s on the bottom of the ocean now? It was just a diversion. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Takahashi sank that thing himself.”

  Smith opened his mouth to question him on that point, but the young analyst seemed to be warming up to his subject. Better to just let him talk.

  “Look, do you remember back in the day when all the cool technology came out of Japan? Betamax, DVDs, video games, portable music players…”

  “Sure,” Randi said.

  “What happened?” Fujiyama asked rhetorically. “Suddenly, right around the time Takahashi went to work as an aide to the former head of the Japanese defense forces, that innovation started to fade and America took over. Where did all those brilliant people go? The CIA seems to think they just went up in smoke.”

  “But you don’t,” Randi said. “You think Takahashi got hold of them and paid them to develop a next-generation arsenal.”

  Smith kept his face passive, but his mind was trying to churn through what he was hearing. The pieces were starting to fall into place. And the picture they created was terrifying.

  “Let’s talk Akito Maki,” Fujiyama continued.

  “Who?” Randi said.

  “He’s was a young chemical engineer who in the early nineties was on his way to increasing the stored energy in a given amount of rocket fuel by an order of magnitude. Then he went to work for one of the Takahashi family’s companies and doesn’t seem to have produced anything salable. Or Genjiro Ueda, a materials engineer who was combining carbon fiber and ceramics into incredibly tough materials. He went to work for a private contractor and makes an excellent living not producing anything. Then there’s granddaddy of them all: Hideki Ito.”

  Smith glanced at Randi at the mention of the familiar name. To her credit, her expression didn’t even flicker.

  “Ito’s one of the fathers of nanotech. Decades ago he was doing really interesting things with it and then he went to work for himself and no one really ever heard from him again. And that’s only a few of the programmers, biologists, engineers, and nuclear physicists who’ve just kind of faded into Japan’s woodwork over the last three decades.”

  “Do you have any evidence to back up what you’re telling us?” Smith asked.

  Fujiyama stared at him, looking a bit uncertain. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision and motioned with his head to a tall, tree-covered knoll to the east. “A bunch of files buried up there in a safe I designed myself.”

  “Files?” Randi said. “You mean, paper? Why wouldn’t you just keep it on an encrypted disk?”

  Fujiyama laughed. “Did you wonder why I wouldn’t let you contact me over e-mail? Why I said no modern cars or electronics?”

  “You think the Japanese are using them?”

  “Are you kidding? I guarantee it. They say they really don’t have much of an intelligence network, but Takahashi recognized how important computers would become when we were still churning out slide rules. What modern car or electronic device doesn’t contain something either designed by or made by the Japanese? You know all this large-scale hacking that we blame on the Chinese?”

  “You’re saying that it’s actually the Japanese intelligence network?”

  “Of course it is! China is a mess—they still farm with donkeys, for Christ’s sake. And while they’re definitely starting to flex their muscles, they’re an inward-looking people by nature. Not the Japanese, though. They’re always peeking out from that little island of theirs at what their neighbors have that they can use.”

  “Okay then,” Randi said. “Can we assume you asked us to bring the shovels because you’re agreeable to letting us make some copies?”

  Again his expression turned uncertain, and again his reticence didn’t last long. “Yeah. I know your rep, Randi. But you didn’t get any of this from me, right?”

  “Never heard of you,” she said, opening the hatch on the Gremlin and pulling out two of the three shovels inside. She handed one to Fujiyama, who immediately pointed at Smith. “What about him?”

  “He’s going to hang back, watch the cars, and keep an eye on our six.”

  She set off with Fujiyama hustling to keep up with her and Smith said a silent thanks. Normally, he’d think a knoll like that looked good for running a few laps. Today it looked like Mount Everest.

  * * *

  Randi knew she was going too hard up the steep grade but getting her blood pumping helped her think. She had one hand wrapped around a shovel and the other around a Beretta, but was still starting to wish she hadn’t let Smith off the hook. They were exposed as hell—no electronics, no backup, and in terrain that favored an ambush.

  That wasn’t what scared her the most, though. What had her charging up the mountain at a pace few people could follow was the fact that the wild tale they’d just heard seemed completely plausible. She almost wanted to turn around and drive away. To never have to look at a stack of paper that told her World War III was winding up a few thousand miles to the east.

  She couldn’t hear Fujiyama’s ragged breathing anymore and she slowed to let him catch up.

&n
bsp; “Is it all the way at the top?” she asked as he dropped his shovel and bent at the waist to breathe. A weak nod.

  “Why here?” she said, starting out again, this time at a slower pace.

  “No reason,” he managed to get out. “That’s the point. No trail to lead here.”

  It took another fifteen minutes to cover what she estimated at about five minutes’ worth of ground, but without him she wasn’t going to find much. When they finally crested the top, Fujiyama pulled out a compass and a measuring tape, starting to make calculations based on a jagged rock set into the ground next to a stump.

  Randi watched in silence as he crawled around, making marks in the dirt and then setting his bearing from them to get to the next point. A GPS would have sped things up, but he obviously wasn’t interested in taking the risk that the device could be tracked.

  It took about five minutes, but Fujiyama finally jammed a stick in the ground as a marker and went for his shovel.

  “This is the spot?” Randi said, walking over to help.

  “Yeah. It’s about four feet down, though, and I remember the ground not being all that soft.”

  They each picked a side and started attacking the dirt. Unfortunately, he was right about the digging. Roots and grass had tangled the area since he’d buried his little treasure, slowing their progress.

  The fall air wasn’t cool enough to counteract the sun coming directly overhead. Sweat dripped off Randi’s nose as she slammed the shovel repeatedly into the ground and tossed the dirt onto an ever-growing mound behind her.

  Fujiyama was trying to keep up, but his side of the hole was barely enough to trip over, while she was down almost a foot and a half. As bad as the hike up had been, standing on top of this knoll under clear skies was making her feel even more exposed. Better to get this thing and get the hell out of Dodge.

  She stuck the blade of the shovel in and jumped on the back of it, barely catching herself when she was suddenly thrown backward. It took a moment to figure out what had happened, but the fact that the blade was still in the dirt and the handle was still in her hand was a good clue.

  “Damn it!” she said, throwing the broken handle aside.

  “You can use mine,” the young analyst said hopefully.

  “No, we need to get this done and get the hell out of here. There’s another shovel in the car. I’m going to run down and get it. Keep digging.”

  “I’m getting really tired, Randi. Maybe—”

  “Would you rather go back to the clearing and then have to climb up again?”

  He looked down the steep slope. “No, but—”

  “Then shut up and dig. You’re the one who buried the damn thing.”

  Randi set off at a hard jog, leaping rocks and fallen logs as she retraced their steps toward the cars. She kept an eye on the shadows and the Beretta in her hand but at the pace she was going, there was no way to make out much detail. Sometimes fast was better than cautious.

  Randi was about a quarter of the way down the hill when an unmistakable sound reached her. She bounced off a tree and turned just in time to see a pillar of flame rising from the top of the knoll. Burning debris, including charred pieces of Eric Fujiyama, arced across the blue sky.

  She took a few steps uphill but then turned and started running toward Smith again. Whoever had planted that bomb would know they were there, and he wasn’t in any condition to defend himself alone.

  37

  Tokyo

  Japan

  Takahashi followed Akio Himura through the heavy doors that led to the most secure part of the building. Officially Japan didn’t have any significant intelligence capability, and the existence of this facility—ostensibly a division of the government’s accounting office—was one of Japan’s most closely guarded secrets.

  The walls were lined with two-way mirrors, and Takahashi knew they were being watched from all sides by Himura’s elite security. At the first sign of a breach, the multiple automatic doors they’d come through would lock down, trapping them and anyone else trying to gain access.

  The encrypted text message had come during their pointless meeting with the prime minister but Takahashi had been unable to act on it, instead sitting obediently through another twenty excruciating minutes. With no helicopter available, he and Himura had been forced to go by car, spending almost another hour in Tokyo’s heavy afternoon traffic.

  They stopped in front of a white door with a visible carbon fiber weave and Himura raised his arms above his head. Takahashi did the same, submitting to the highly advanced body scan that would search not only for weapons but also for digital storage devices, cameras, and even pens—anything that could be used to record what transpired inside.

  A green light flashed and the door slid open.

  “Report,” Himura said as they entered the inner sanctum of his intelligence apparatus. It was surprisingly unremarkable. No larger than twenty meters square with stark white walls and three stainless steel desks containing only computer terminals. Behind those terminals were men who seemed far too young to be working at this level of responsibility. The technical expertise necessary, though, eluded earlier generations.

  “Two unknown people contacted Eric Fujiyama at the file site,” the man closest to them said without looking up from his screen. Takahashi bristled a bit at his brusque demeanor but then reminded himself that the intelligence business was very different from the military. These were not people who snapped to attention when a superior entered the room.

  “Do we have any idea who they are?” Himura asked, walking up behind the man.

  “We’ve accessed an American satellite, but the angle isn’t optimal. A blonde woman and a man with dark hair. The man stayed at the car while the woman went to the knoll with Fujiyama. She seemed to break her shovel and started down again while Fujiyama kept digging. She was halfway back to the clearing when the mine went off.”

  “Was she injured?” Himura asked.

  “Not as near as I can tell.”

  “Russell and Smith,” Takahashi said quietly. Himura nodded.

  They’d been tracking Fujiyama for years and in fact had been subtly involved in discrediting him sufficiently for the CIA to fire him. After he was let go, though, he’d continued working on his theories and buried a cleverly designed safe with what they assumed was physical evidence supporting his ideas.

  When Takahashi had discovered the existence of this buried treasure, he’d ordered it dug it up and replaced it with an explosive. The theory was that Fujiyama and anyone interested in what he’d compiled would be vaporized before they could do any damage. Obviously, that hadn’t worked as planned. Leaving Fujiyama alive had proved to be a poor decision.

  “Where are they now?” Himura said.

  “Driving on Interstate Five in the American state of Oregon.”

  “Destination?”

  “Our assumption is the airport. Russell has been known to steal vehicles from long-term parking and based on the make and model of the car, we know it’s not a rental.”

  “Can we control it?” Takahashi asked.

  “No. It’s probably more than thirty years old.”

  “Have they contacted anyone?” Himura said.

  “Doubtful. They haven’t stopped and Fujiyama typically insists that people he meets with carry no electronics.”

  “Do we have human assets in the area? Anyone who could intercept them?” Takahashi said.

  “None.”

  Takahashi took his intelligence director’s arm and pulled him back toward the wall. “There’s no way to know what Fujiyama told them before he died. We have to assume he gave them something—a thread to pull on.”

  Himura nodded. “If we’re going to act, we need to act now. Before they can talk to their superiors. If we lose them again…” His voice faded.

  “How?”

  “We can’t use their car, but we can use others. I must caution you, though, General. The risk of exposure is incredibly high. In fact, it??
?s almost certain.”

  Takahashi looked across the room at the screen being used to monitor Smith and Russell’s vehicle. Himura was right. It was impossibly dangerous. But doing nothing was equally dangerous. If they’d gone to Fujiyama, it seemed likely that they’d discovered the nanotech and suspected Japan of having a hand in its development.

  “Do it,” Takahashi ordered.

  Himura gave a short bow and walked up behind the young man at the terminal. “Are there other vehicles available?”

  “Yes. But we’re going to lose the satellite image and the traffic around them is fairly light at this point. Their ETA to the airport is ten minutes. That’s plenty of time for us to tie into the security cameras. We’ll have good coverage and a higher density of modern vehicles.”

  Himura put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Russell and Smith are not to enter the terminal. Is that understood?”

  38

  Portland International Airport

  Portland, Oregon

  USA

  Randi Russell eased the Gremlin into long-term parking, keeping a close eye on the rearview mirror. The sun was still up in a cloudless sky, creating a distracting glare on the sea of cars in front of the terminal. Her well-trained eye couldn’t spot anyone following, but she wasn’t sure that meant much anymore.

  “Wait a minute,” Smith said, staring down at the notes he’d scrawled on a crumpled napkin from the glove box. “Was it Wedo?”

  “Which one?”

  He let out an exasperated breath. “Maki was the rocket fuel guy he told us about. His first name was something like Akido. This is the materials engineer. Genjiro Wedo?”

  She shook her head. “Not Wedo. It ended in an a. Maybe Weda?”

  “Yes!” he said, scribbling the name down. “That’s it. Genjiro Weda. Now all we need to do it figure out a way to get this to Star.”

  She eased up to the parking kiosk and took a ticket before driving through the gate. “We’ll have our cell phones back in a few minutes, but even with Covert-One’s encryption protocols, I’m not sure we should use them. Fujiyama’s paranoia is rubbing off on me.”