“We do, yes.”
“Can I ask why the American government is so interested in lost works of Japanese art?”
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said honestly. “We can’t give out that information. But I can assure you our search poses no problems for the German government.”
“I’m thinking of the Japanese. They’ll demand their property be returned.”
“Possession is not our intent,” Mancuso assured Haider. “We only wish to photograph a few pieces.”
“All right, gentlemen.” Haider sighed. He gave Pitt a hard stare. “I trust you, Herr Pitt. We have an agreement. Do what you say, and I’ll guarantee to look the other way.”
As they left Haider’s office, Mancuso whispered, “What was he talking about? What agreement?”
“Recruitment.”
“Recruitment?” Mancuso repeated.
Pitt nodded. “He talked me into joining the Luftwaffe.”
They found the rack containing the inventory from the Japanese embassy about fifty meters back of the sculptured figures that once graced the museums of Europe. The Germans had already installed a string of lamps that ran off a portable generator, throwing light on the great hoard that seemed to stretch into infinity.
The Japanese section was easy to identify, the packing boxes having been marked by kana characters and handcrafted with far more finesse than the crude crates knocked together by the Nazi looters.
“Let’s start with that one,” said Mancuso, pointing to a narrow container. “That looks to be about the right size.”
“You spent time prospecting in Japan. What does it read?”
” ‘Container number four,’ ” Mancuso translated. ” ‘Property of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Japan.’ “
“That’s a big help.” Pitt went to work and carefully lifted the lid with a hammer and pry bar. Inside was a small, delicate folding screen depicting birds flying around several mountain peaks. “Definitely not an island.” He shrugged.
He opened two more, but the paintings he pulled into the dim light were of a later period than the sixteenth-century master Masaki Shimzu. Most of the smaller crates were carefully packed with porcelain. There was only one more crate in the rear of the rack that might conceivably hold a painting.
Mancuso showed signs of stress. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and he nervously fidgeted with his pipe. “This better be it,” he muttered. “Or we’ve wasted a lot of time.”
Pitt said nothing but went about his work. This box seemed more heavily constructed than the others. He pried the lid and peered inside. “I see water. I think we’ve got a seascape. Better yet, it’s an island.”
“Thank God. Pull it out, man, let’s see it.”
“Hold on.” There was no ornate outer frame, so Pitt gripped the painting under its rear support and painstakingly eased it out of the crate. Once free, he held it up under the light for inspection.
Mancuso hurriedly pulled a small catalog showing color plates of Masaki Shimzu art from his pocket and flipped through the pages, comparing the photos with the painting. “I’m no expert, but that looks like Shimzu’s style.”
Pitt turned the painting around and studied the other side. “There’s some writing. Can you make it out?”
Mancuso squinted. ” ‘Ajima Island by Masaki Shimzu,’ ” he burst out triumphantly. “We’ve got it, the site of Suma’s command center. Now all we have to do is match its shoreline with satellite photos.”
Mechanically, Pitt’s eyes traveled over the picture Shimzu had painted four hundred and fifty years ago of an island then called Ajima. It would never make a tourist paradise. Steep volcanic rock cliffs towering above pounding surf, no sign of a beach, and almost total absence of vegetation. It looked barren and forbidding, grim and impregnable. There was no way to approach and make a landing from sea or air without detection. A natural fortress, Suma would have it heavily defended against assault.
“Getting inside that rock,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “is going to be damn near impossible. Whoever tries it will surely die.”
The triumphant expression on Mancuso’s face quickly vanished. “Don’t say that,” he murmured. “Don’t even think it.”
Pitt looked into the mining engineer’s eyes. “Why? Gaining entrance is not our problem.”
“But you’re wrong.” He made a weary swipe at the sweat from his forehead. “With teams Cadillac and Honda down the dumper, Jordan has no choice but to send in you and me and Giordino. Think about it.”
Pitt did, and Mancuso was right. It was all too clear now. Wily Jordan had been saving the three of them in reserve for a covert strike on Suma’s nuclear bomb detonation center.
38
THE PRESIDENT STARED down at the open file on his desk. His face had a bleak expression as he looked up. “They really intend to set these things off? It’s not a bluff?”
Jordan’s face was impassive as he nodded. “They’re not bluffing.”
“It’s unthinkable.”
Jordan did not answer, but let the President gather his own thoughts. The man never seemed to change. He looked exactly as he did the first day Jordan was introduced to the newly elected senator from Montana. The same lean build, bright blue eyes, the same warm, outgoing personality. The incredible power never fazed him. He was polite and cordial to the White House staff, and seldom missed remembering a birthday.
“It’s not like we’ve ringed their islands with an invasion fleet, for God’s sake.”
“They’ve become paranoid because global opinion has suddenly come down on them,” said Donald Kern. “With China and Russia embracing democracy, the Eastern Bloc countries going independent, South Africa holding free elections, and the Middle East simmering on the back burner, world focus has fallen on the Japanese for going too far too fast.”
Kern nodded. “Their economic aggressiveness hasn’t exactly been tempered with subtlety. The more markets they conquer, the more hard-nosed they become.”
“But you can’t blame them for creating an economic world the way they want it to be,” said Jordan. “Their business ethics are not the same as ours. They see nothing immoral in exploiting commercial opportunities and taking advantage of trade weaknesses, regardless of the flak. The only crime in their eyes is any attempt to prevent their systematic progress. Frankly, we were no different in our overseas trade practices after World War Two.”
“I can’t argue with you,” conceded the President. “Few of our past and present business leaders will ever qualify for sainthood.”
“Congress and the European Market countries are on an anti-Japanese business kick. If they vote for trade embargoes and nationalization of Japanese corporations, Tokyo will attempt to negotiate, but Suma and his cronies are dead set on retaliation.”
“But to threaten nuclear death and destruction…”
“They’re playing for time,” explained Jordan. “Their worldwide commercial thrust is only part of a broader plan. The Japanese live under terrible conditions of high density. A hundred and twenty-five million people on a land mass the size of California, with most of it too mountainous to live on. Their unadvertised long-range goal is to export millions of their best-educated people into other countries and form colonies while maintaining loyalty and strong ties to Japan. Brazil is a case in point, and so is the United States when you consider their mass immigration into Hawaii and California. The Japanese are obsessed with survival, and unlike us, they plan decades into the future. Through economic trade they’re building a vast economic global society with Japanese traditions and culture as the hub. What even they don’t realize is that Suma intends to set himself up as executive director.”
The President glanced at the open file again. “And he protects his criminal empire by strategically placing nuclear bombs in other nations.”
“We can’t blame the Japanese government or the great mass of their people,” Jordan qualified. “I’m firmly convinced Prime Minister Junshiro was misled and duped by
Hideki Suma and his cartel of industrialists, financiers, and underworld leaders who secretly built a nuclear arsenal and expanded it into the Kaiten Project.”
The President opened his hands. “Perhaps I should set a meeting with Junshiro and inform him of our intelligence revelations.”
Jordan shook his head. “I don’t recommend it just yet, sir. Not until we have a chance at cutting off the Kaiten Project at its head.”
“When last we met, you didn’t have the location of the command center.”
“New information has put us in the neighborhood.”
The President looked at Jordan with renewed respect. He understood his chief intelligence gatherer, the dedication to his country, the many years of service beginning when he was still a few years shy of high school and already entered into training for the intelligence fieldwork. The President also saw the toll that years of incredible stress had taken. Jordan consumed a steady stream of Maalox tablets as if they were popcorn.
“Do you know yet where the car bombs are to be placed for detonation?”
Kern answered. “Yes, sir, one of our teams discovered the plan while tracking a shipment of the cars. Suma’s engineers have created a diabolic and well-contrived disaster.”
“I assume they’ll be parked in densely populated areas to slaughter the largest number of American citizens possible.”
“Dead wrong, Mr. President. They will be strategically located for a minimal loss of life.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Throughout the United States and the industrialized world,” Kern briefed, “the cars will be staged in systematic grids in deserted areas so their synchronized explosions will set off an electromagnetic pulse on the ground that rises into the atmosphere. This will create an umbrellalike chain reaction that shuts down uplinks to worldwide satellite communications systems.”
“All radio, television, and phone networks simply cease to exist,” added Jordan. “Federal and local governments, military commands, police and sheriff departments, fire departments, ambulances, and all transportation will roll to a halt because they can’t operate deaf.”
“A world without communication,” murmured the President. “It’s unimaginable.”
“The picture gets worse,” Kern continued ominously. “Much worse. You know, of course, Mr. President, what happens when you wave a magnet near a computer disk or a cassette tape.”
“They’re erased.”
Kern nodded slowly. “The electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear explosions would do the same thing. For hundreds of miles around each explosion the memories of every computer would be totally erased. Silicon chips and transistors, the backbone of our modern computerized world, are defenseless against a pulse running through electrical and telephone circuits and aerials. Anything made of metal would carry the pulse from pipes to rails to microwave towers and steel supports inside of buildings.”
The President stared at Kern with unbelieving eyes. “We’re talking total chaos.”
“Yes, sir, a complete national breakdown with catastrophic results that are beyond recovery. Any and every record ever programmed into a computer by banks, insurance companies, giant corporations, small businesses, hospitals, supermarkets, department stores—the list is endless—would vanish, along with all stored scientific and engineering data.”
“Every disk, every tape?”
“In every home and office,” said Jordan.
Kern kept his eyes on the President to reinforce his dire commentary. “Any computer electronics that runs on memory, and that includes ignition and carburetion on modern autos, operation of diesel train engines, and controls on aircraft in flight, would stop functioning. The aircraft especially could suffer horrible consequences, since many would fall to the ground before their crews could take manual command.”
“And there are also the mundane everyday devices we take for granted,” said Jordan, “that would also be affected, such as microwave ovens, video cassette recorders, and security systems. We’ve come to rely so heavily on computer chips that we’ve never considered how vulnerable they are.”
The President picked up a pen and tapped it nervously on the desk. His face was drawn, his expression distraught. “I cannot allow that curse to paralyze the American people well into the next century,” he stated flatly. “I have to seriously consider a strike, nuclear if necessary, on their warhead arsenal and detonation command center.”
“I advise against it, Mr. President, said Jordan with quiet conviction, “except as a last resort.”
The President looked at him. “What’s your angle, Ray?”
“Suma’s installation won’t be on-line for another week. Let us try to devise a penetration plan to destroy it from within. If successful, it will save you enormous fallout from a hailstorm of international condemnation for what will be looked upon as an unprovoked attack on a friendly nation.”
The President was silent, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he said slowly, “You’re right, I’d be forced into making excuses no one would believe.”
“Time is on our side as long as no one but our MAIT team and the three of us knows what’s going down,” Jordan continued.
“Good thing,” Kern muttered. “If the Russians knew their landscape was littered with foreign warheads, they wouldn’t hesitate to threaten a full-scale invasion of Japan.”
“And we don’t need that,” the President said quietly.
“Nor do the innocent Japanese, who have no idea of Suma’s insane threat,” said Jordan, hammering in another nail.
The President came to his feet, ending the briefing. “Four days, gentlemen. You have ninety-six hours.”
Jordan and Kern exchanged tight smiles.
The assault on Suma had been planned before they walked into the Oval Office. All it took was a phone call to set it in motion.
39
AT FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning the small landing strip on a government reservation near Woodmoor, Maryland, looked to be deserted. There were no lights bordering the narrow band of asphalt. The only guide to a pilot making a night landing was a triangle of blue mercury vapor streetlights arched over an intersection of two dirt roads that pointed to the south end of the runway.
Then the early morning stillness was broken as the whine of throttled-back jet engines cut the still air. A pair of headlights flashed on, their beams falling across the center of the landing strip. The Gulfstream jet transport with CIRCLEARTH AIRLINES painted across the top of the fuselage touched down and taxied to a stop beside a Jeep Grand Wagoneer station wagon.
Less than three minutes after the passenger door opened and two men and their luggage were on the ground, the plane rolled toward the end of the runway and was airborne again. As the roar faded in the black sky, Admiral Sandecker shook hands with Pitt and Giordino.
“Congratulations,” he said warmly, “on a very successful operation.”
“We haven’t heard the results,” said Pitt. “Did the photos of the painting Mancuso transmitted match an existing island?”
“Right on the money,” replied Sandecker. “Turns out the island was called Ajima by fishermen after one of them became stranded on it in the seventeen-hundreds. But it remained on the charts as Soseki Island. And like many geographical sites connected with local folklore, the name Ajima was eventually lost.”
“Where’s the location?” asked Giordino.
“About sixty kilometers off the coast due east of Edo City.”
Pitt’s face suddenly became etched with anxious concern. “What word of Loren?”
Sandecker shook his head. “Only that she and Diaz are alive and hidden in a secret location.”
“That’s it?” Pitt said, irritated. “No investigation, no operation to free them?”
“Until the bomb-car threat is eliminated, the President’s hands are tied.”
“Bed,” mumbled Giordino, cagily changing the subject to cool Pitt down. “Take me to my bed.”
Pitt dipped his
head at the little Italian. “Get him. His eyes haven’t been open since we left Germany.”
“You made good time,” said Sandecker. “Have a pleasant flight?”
“Slept most of it. And with the jet lag working in our favor flying west, I’m wide awake.”
“Frank Mancuso remained with the art objects’?” Sandecker inquired.
Pitt nodded. “Just before we took off, he received a message from Kern ordering him to pack up the Japanese embassy art and fly it to Tokyo.”
“A smoke screen to pacify the Germans.” Sandecker smiled. “The art is actually going to a vault in San Francisco. When the time is ripe, the President will present it to the Japanese people as a goodwill gesture.” He gestured to the seats of the Jeep. “Get in. Since you’re so bright and bushy-tailed, I’ll let you drive.”
“Fine by me,” Pitt said agreeably.
After they threw their bags in the luggage compartment, Pitt slid behind the steering wheel as the admiral and Giordino entered from the opposite side. Sandecker took the front passenger seat, Giordino the back. Pitt shifted the running engine into drive and wheeled the Jeep down a dark road to a gatehouse that stood hidden in a grove of trees. A uniformed security guard stepped out, peered inside the car a moment, then saluted Sandecker and waved them through to a back-country highway.
Three kilometers later, Pitt turned the Jeep onto the Capital Beltway and headed toward the lights of Washington. Traffic at that time of morning was almost nonexistent. He set the cruise control on 110 kilometers and sat back as the big four-wheel-drive rolled effortlessly over the pavement.
They drove in silence for several minutes. Sandecker stared absently through the windshield. Pitt didn’t need a strong imagination to know the admiral didn’t leave a warm bed to meet them without a good reason. The huge Havana was strangely missing from his mouth, and his hands were clasped across his chest, sure signs of inner tension. His eyes were like ice cubes. He definitely had something heavy on his mind.
Pitt decided to give him an opening. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.
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