"The truck is turning onto the Harbor Freeway," said Stacy. "Drop back out of the driver's sight and we'll follow on Timothy's beam."
"We should have better backup," McCurry said seriously. "With no team following in vehicles on the ground, and no copter to replace us in case we have engine problems, we could lose the chase and endanger Weatherhill."
Stacy shook her head. "Timothy knows the score. You don't. Take my word for it, we can't risk using ground vehicles or a flight of helicopters milling about. Those guys in the truck have been alerted and are watching for a surveillance operation."
Suddenly Weatherhill's Texas drawl came through their earphones. "You up there, Buick Team?"
"We read you, Tim," answered McCurry.
"Safe to transmit?"
"The bad guys did a bug sweep," replied Stacy, "but you're okay to send."
"Do you have visual contact?"
"Temporarily, but we're dropping a few kilometers back so we won't be spotted from the driver's cab."
"Understood."
"Don't forget to keep transmitting on the fixed frequency."
"Yes, mamma," said Weatherhill jovially. "I'm leaving this sweat box now and going to work."
"Keep in touch."
"Will do. I wouldn't think of running out on you."
Removing the false panel from behind and below the rear seat and unraveling his body from its contorted position, Weatherhill crawled into the enclosed luggage area of the third Murmoto loaded in the trailer. He sprung the lock from the inside and swung the rear hatch up and open. Then he climbed out, stood up, and stretched his aching joints.
Weatherhill had suffered in his cramped position for nearly four hours after a special team of customs agents helped conceal him in the car before Furukawa and the truck arrived. The sun beating on the roof and the lack of ventilation-- the windows could not even be cracked for fear of arousing suspicion by the truck drivers-- soon had him drenched in sweat. He never thought he would find himself sick of a new car smell.
The interior of the trailer was dark. He took a flashlight from a pouch he carried on the belt of a nondescript auto mechanic's uniform and beamed it around the cars tied down inside the trailer. Two were on ramps above the two on the floor below.
Since the truck was traveling over a level California freeway and the ride in the trailer was smooth, Weatherhill decided to examine the Murmotos on the upper ramp first. He climbed up and quietly opened the hood of the one nearest the driver's cab. Then he removed a small radiation analyzer from the pouch and studied the readout as he circled it around the auto's airconditioning compressor unit.
He wrote the readings on the back of his hand. Next he laid out a set of compact tools on the fender.
He paused and spoke into the radio.
"Hello, Team Buick."
"Come in," Stacy answered.
"Beginning exploratory operation."
"Don't slip and cut an artery."
"Never fear."
"Standing by."
Within fifteen minutes, Weatherhill had disassembled the compressor case and examined the bomb.
He was mildly disappointed. The design was not as advanced as he predicted. Clever, yes, but he could have devised and built a more efficient and destructive unit by himself.
He froze as he heard the sound of the air brakes and felt the truck slow. But it was only taking an off-ramp to another freeway and soon speeded up again. He reassembled the compressor and signaled Stacy.
"Still with me'?" he asked briefly.
"Still here," answered Stacy.
"Where am I?"
"Passing through West Covina. Heading east toward San Bernardino."
"I've withdrawn the account and have no more business at the bank," he radioed. "What stop should I depart the bus?"
"One moment while I check the schedule," Stacy acknowledged. After a few moments she came back. "There's a weight station this side of Indio. It's mandatory. The drivers will have to stop for inspection. If for some reason they turn off, we'll plan on having them pulled over by a sheriff's car.
Otherwise you should arrive at the weight station in another forty-five or fifty minutes."
"See you there," said Weatherhill.
"Enjoy your trip."
Like most undercover agents, whose adrenaline pumps during the critical stages of an operation, now that the difficult part was behind him, Weatherhill quickly relaxed and became bored with nothing to do.
All that remained now was for him to climb through the fume ventilators on the roof and drop down behind the trailer out of view of the drivers' side mirrors.
He opened the glove box and pulled out the packet containing the car's warranty papers and owner's manual. Switching on the interior lights, Weatherhill idly began thumbing through the manual. Though his prime expertise was nuclear physics, he was always fascinated by electronics. He turned to the page displaying the Murmoto's electrical diagram with the intention of tracing out the wiring.
But the page in the manual was no electrical wiring diagram. It was a map with instructions for placing the cars in their designated positions for detonation.
Suma's strategy became so boldly obvious to Weatherhill that he had to force himself to believe it. The car bombs were not simply part of a threat to protect Japan's economic expansionist plans. The fear and the horror were real.
They were meant to be used.
>
At least ten years had passed since Raymond Jordan forced an entry, certainly not since he worked up through the ranks as a field agent. On a whim he decided to see if he still had the touch.
He inserted a tiny computer probe into the wires on the security alarm system of Pitt's hangar. He pressed a button and backwashed the combination into the probe. The alarm box recognized the code and gave it to him on an LED display. Then with a deceptive ease and nonchalance, he punched the appropriate combination that turned off the alarm, picked the lock to the door, and stepped soundlessly inside.
He spied Pitt kneeling in front of the turquoise Stutz, back toward him, at the far end of the hangar. Pitt seemed intent on repairing a headlight.
Jordan stood unobserved and gazed over the collection. He was astonished it was so extensive. He'd heard Sandecker speak of it, but verbal description failed to do it justice. Softly he walked behind the first row of cars, circled around, and approached Pitt from under the apartment side of the hangar. It was a test. He was curious as to Pitt's reaction to an intruder who suddenly appeared within arm's reach.
Jordan paused before he closed the final three meters and studied Pitt and the car for a moment. The Stutz was badly scratched in many areas and would require a new paint job. The windshield was cracked and the left front headlight seemed to be dangling by a wire.
Pitt was dressed casually, wearing a pair of corduroy pants and a knit sweater. His black hair was wavy and carelessly brushed. There was a decisive look about him, the green eyes were set under heavy black eyebrows and had a piercing quality that seemed to transfix whatever they were aimed at. He looked to be screwing the headlight lens into a chrome rim.
Jordan was in midstep when Pitt suddenly spoke without turning. "Good evening, Mr. Jordan. Good of you to drop in."
Jordan froze, but Pitt went on with his work with the indifferent air of a bus driver expecting the correct change from a fare.
"I should have knocked."
"No need. I knew you were on the premises."
"Are you hyperperceptive or do you have eyes in the back of your head?" asked Jordan, moving slowly into Pitt's peripheral vision.
Pitt looked up and grinned. He lifted and tilted the old headlight's reflector that revealed Jordan's image on its silver surface. "I observed your tour of the hangar. Your entry was most professional. I'd judge it didn't take you more than twenty seconds."
"Missed spotting a back-up video camera. I must be getting senile."
"Across the road on top of the telephone pole. Most visitors spot th
e one hanging on the building.
Infrared. It activates an alert chime when a body moves near the door."
"You have an incredible collection," Jordan complimented Pitt. "How long did it take you to build it?"
"I began with the maroon forty-seven Ford club coupe over there in the corner about twenty years ago, and collecting became a disease. Some I acquired during projects with NUMA, some I bought from private parties or at auctions. Antique and classic cars are investments you can flaunt. Far more fun than a painting." Pitt finished screwing the headlight rim around its lens and rose to his feet. "Can I offer you a drink?"
"A glass of milk for an overstressed stomach sounds good."
"Please come up." Pitt gestured toward the stairs leading to his apartment. "I'm honored the head man came to see me instead of sending his deputy director."
As Jordan reached the first step, he hesitated and said, "I thought I should be the one to tell you.
Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz have been smuggled out of the country."
There was a pause as Pitt slowly turned and glared at him through eyes suddenly filled with relief.
"Loren is unharmed." The words came more as a demand than a question.
"We're not dealing with brain-sick terrorists," Jordan answered. "The kidnap operation was too sophisticated for injury or death. We have every reason to believe she and Diaz are being treated with respect."
"How did they slip through the cracks?"
"Our intelligence determined she and Diaz were flown out of the Newport News, Virginia, airport in a private jet belonging to one of Suma's American corporations. By the time we were able to sift through every flight, scheduled or unscheduled, from airports within a thousand-square-kilometer area, trace every plane's registration until we nailed one to Suma, and track its path by satellite, it was heading over the Bering Sea for Japan."
"Too late to force down on one of our military bases by a military aircraft?"
"Way too late. It was met and escorted by a squadron of FSX fighter jets from Japan's Air Self-Defense Force. Aircraft that were built in partnership between General Dynamics and Mitsubishi, I might add."
"And then?"
Jordan turned and gazed at the gleaming cars. "We lost them," he said tonelessly.
"After they landed?"
"Yes, at Tokyo International. Little need to go into details why they weren't intercepted or at least followed, but for reasons known only to the idiot mentality at the State Department, we have no operatives in Japan who could have stopped them. That's all we have at the moment."
"The best intelligence minds on the face of the earth, and that's all you have." Pitt sounded very tired.
He went into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured some milk, then handed the glass to Jordan.
"What about all your big specialty teams in Japan? Where were they when the plane touched down?"
"With Marvin Showalter and Jim Hanamura murdered--"
"Both men murdered?" Pitt interrupted.
"Tokyo police found Hanamura's body in a ditch, decapitated. Showalter's head, minus the body, was discovered a few hours ago, impaled on our embassy's fence. To add to the mess, we suspect Roy Orita is a sleeper. He sold us out from the beginning. God only knows how much information he's passed to Suma. We may never be able to assess the damage."
Pitt's anger softened when he read the sadness along with the frustration in Jordan's face. "Sorry, Ray, I had no idea things had gone so badly."
"I've never had a MAIT team take a battering like this."
"What put you onto Orita?"
"A couple of broad hints. Showalter was too clever to be snatched without inside help. He was betrayed by someone who had his confidence and knew his exact movements. And there was Jim Hanamura-- he expressed bad vibes on Orita but had nothing solid to go on. To add to the suspicion, Orita has dropped out and gone undercover. He hasn't reported to Mel Penner since Showalter vanished. Kern thinks he's hiding under Suma's skirts in Edo City."
"What of his background?"
"Third-generation American. His father won the Silver Star in the Italian campaign. We can't figure what bait Suma used to recruit him."
"Who handled the execution of Hanamura and Showalter?"
"The evidence isn't in yet. It appears a ritual killing. A police pathologist thought their heads were taken off by a samurai sword. Suma's chief assassin is known to be a lover of ancient martial arts, but we can't prove he did it."
Pitt sank slowly into a chair. "A waste, a damned waste."
"Jim Hanamura didn't go out a loser," Jordan said with sudden doggedness. "He gave us our one and only lead to the detonation control center."
Pitt looked up expectantly. "You have a location?"
"Nothing to celebrate yet, but we're half a step closer."
"What information did Hanamura turn up?"
"Jim penetrated the offices of Suma's construction designers and found what looks to be rough drawings of an electronic control center that fits the layout we're looking for. Indications suggest it's an underground installation reached by a tunnel."
"Anything on the whereabouts?"
"The brief message he wrote on the back of an envelope that was delivered to the embassy by the driver of an auto parts delivery truck is too enigmatic to decipher with any accuracy."
"The message?"
"He wrote, `Look on the island of Ajima.' "
Pitt made a slight shrug. "So what's the problem?"
"There is no Ajima Island," Jordan answered defeatedly. He held up the glass and examined it. "This is skim milk."
"It's better for you than whole milk."
"Like drinking water," Jordan muttered as he studied a glass case of trophies. Most were awards for outstanding automobiles at concours shows, a few were old high school and Air Force Academy football trophies, and two were for fencing. "You a fencer?"
"Not exactly Olympic material, but I still work out when I get the time."
"Epée, foil, or saber?"
"Saber."
"You struck me as a slasher. I'm into foil myself."
"You prefer a deft touch."
"A pity we can't have a match," said Jordan.
"We could compromise and use the epee."
Jordan smiled. "I'd still have the advantage, since touches by the foil and epee are made with the points, while the saber is scored by hits on the edges."
"Hanamura must have had a good reason for suggesting Ajima as the control center site," said Pitt, returning to business.
"He was an art nut. His operation to plant bugs in Suma's office was designed around his knowledge of early Japanese art. We knew Suma collected paintings, especially works by a sixteenth-century Japanese artist who produced a series on small islands surrounding the main isle of Honshu, so I had one forged. Then Hanamura, posing as an art expert, sold it to Suma. The one island painting Suma does not own is Ajima. That's the only link I can think of."
"Then Ajima must exist."
"I'm sure it does, but the name can't be traced to any known island. Nothing on ancient or modern charts shows it. I can only assume it was a pet name given by the artist, Masaki Shimzu, and listed as such in art catalogs of his work."
"Did Hanamura's bugs record any interesting talk?"
"A most informative conversation between Suma, his butcher Kamatori, old Korori Yoshishu, and a heavy hitter named Ichiro Tsuboi."
"The financial genius behind Kanoya Securities. I've heard of him."
"Yes, he was in a heated debate with the senator and congresswoman during the select subcommittee hearing on Capitol Hill a few days before they were seized."
"And you say he's tied to Suma?"
"Tighter than a banjo string," answered Jordan. "Thanks to Jim's bugs in Suma's office, we learned Tsuboi juggled the funding for the construction of the nuclear arsenal behind the backs of Japan's political leaders, and most certainly their people. We also heard the code name Kaiten Project for the fi
rst time."
Pitt poured a cup of old, cold coffee and stuck it in the microwave. He stared through the glass window at the cup as it revolved, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Jordan broke the spell. "I know what you're thinking, but I haven't been given the manpower to rescue Diaz and Smith and break up the Kaiten Project in one operation."
"I can't believe the President is turning his back on them."
"He's not about to go public and threaten a war over the abductions when he's at a distinct disadvantage. Our first priority is to dismantle the Kaiten Project. Once we've accomplished that matter, only then will the President give us his blessing to use whatever force it takes to free Smith and Diaz."
"So we're back to mystical Ajima Island," Pitt said harshly. "You say it's the only painting of the series Suma doesn't own?"
"Yes," Jordan replied. "Hanamura said he acted almost desperate to get his hands on it."
"Any clue to where it might be?"
"The Ajima painting was last seen in the Japanese embassy in Berlin just before Germany fell. Old OSS records claim it was included with art the Nazis plundered from Italy, and transported by train to northwestern Germany ahead of the advancing Russian Army in the last weeks of the war. Then it disappeared from history."
"No record at all of it having been recovered?'
"None."
"And we have no idea as to the island's general location or its appearance?"
"Not a scrap."
"Unfortunate," Pitt commented. "Find the painting, match the shape of the shoreline portrayed by the artist, and you have the location of Hideki Suma's extortion hideaway, or so it says in a bedtime story."
Jordan's eyes narrowed. "It happens to be the best lead we've got going for us."
Pitt wasn't convinced. "Your spy planes and satellites should easily detect the installation."
"The four main islands of Japan-- Honshu, Kyushu, Hokkaido, and Shikoku-- are surrounded by nearly a thousand smaller islands. Finding the right one can hardly be called easy."