The President’s special assistant, Dale Nichols, came in from the kitchen with a glass of milk. “Don Kern is outside,” he reported, addressing Jordan.
“I believe he has an update on Soseki Island,” said Jordan.
The President gestured at Nichols. “By all means, send him in.” And as an afterthought, “Get him a cup of coffee and see if he’d like anything to eat.”
Kern only accepted the coffee and took a seat on a nearby sofa. The President stared expectantly at him, but Jordan gazed emptily into the fire.
“They’re in,” Kern announced.
“They’re in,” echoed the President. “Every one of them?”
Kern nodded. “All three.”
“Any problems?” asked Jordan.
“We don’t know. Before our British contact’s signal was mysteriously cut off, he said they’d made it safely through the tunnel.”
The President reached out and shook Jordan’s hand. “Congratulations, Ray.”
“A bit premature, Mr. President,” said Jordan. “They still have hurdles to clear. Penetrating the Dragon Center is only the first step in the plan.”
“What about my men?” demanded Sandecker testily.
“They signaled a safe landing,” answered Kern. “We have no reason to believe they were injured or harmed by Suma’s security guards.”
“So where do we go from here?” inquired the President.
“After placing their explosives and putting the Dragon Center temporarily out of commission, our people will attempt to effect a rescue of Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have breathing space to nail Hideki Suma to the nearest cross and send in our military for a wholesale destruction operation.”
The President’s face took on a concerned look. “Is it possible for two men and a woman to accomplish all that in the next thirty-six hours?”
Jordan smiled tiredly. “Trust me, Mr. President, my people can walk through walls.”
“And Pitt and Giordino?” Sandecker pressured Kern.
“Once our people signal they’re ready, a submarine will surface and launch a Delta One team to evacuate them from the island. Pitt and Giordino will be brought out too.”
“Seems to me you’re taking an awful lot for granted,” said Sandecker.
Kern gave the admiral a confident smile. “We’ve analyzed and fine-tuned every phase of the operation until we’re certain it has a ninety-six-point-seven-percent chance of success.”
Sandecker shot Kern a withering stare. “Better make that a ninety-nine-point-nine percentage factor.”
Everyone looked at Sandecker questioningly. Then Kern said uncertainly, “I don’t follow you, Admiral.”
“You overlooked the capabilities of Pitt and Giordino,” Sandecker replied with a sharp edge to his voice. “It wouldn’t be the first time they bailed out a fancy intelligence agency carnival.”
Kern looked at him strangely, then turned to Jordan for help, but it was the President who answered.
“I think what Admiral Sandecker is referring to are the several occasions Mr. Pitt has saved the government’s ass. One in particular hits close to home.” The President paused for effect. “You see, it was Pitt who saved my life along with that of Congresswoman Smith four years ago in the Gulf.”
“I remember.” Jordan turned from the fire. “He used an old Mississippi River paddle steamer to do it.”
Kern refused to back down. He felt his reputation as the nation’s best intelligence planner was on the line. “Trust me, Mr. President. The escape and evacuation will go as planned without help from NUMA. We’ve taken into account every possible flaw, every contingency. Nothing but an unpredictable act of God can prevent us from pulling it off.”
46
IT WASN’T AN act of God that prevented Mancuso, Weatherhill, and Stacy from carrying through with Kern’s exacting plan. Nor were they lacking in skill and experience. They could and occasionally did open any bank vault in the world, escape from the tightest security prisons, and penetrate the KGB headquarters in Moscow or Fidel Castro’s private residence in Cuba. There wasn’t a lock built or a security system created that would take them more than ten minutes to circumvent. The unpredictability of attack dogs could present a troublesome obstacle, but they were expert in a variety of methods to leave snarling hounds either dead or docile.
Unfortunately their bag of well-practiced tricks did not include escaping from prison cells with no windows or with doors that could only be opened from the floor when the stainless steel ceiling and walls were lifted by a mechanical arm. And after being stripped of all weapons, their martial arts training was useless against sentry robots who felt no pain and whose computerized reaction time was faster than humans’.
Suma and Kamatori considered them extremely dangerous and confined them in separate cells that held only a Japanese tatami mat, a narrow hole in the floor for a toilet, and a speaker in the ceiling. No lights were installed, and they were forced to sit alone and totally enclosed in pitch darkness, void of all emotion, their minds seeking a direction, no matter how small or remote, toward escape.
Then came a bitter realization that the cells were escape-proof. Then numbed disbelief and chagrin that despite their almost superhuman skills there was no way out. They were absolutely and hopelessly trapped.
Positive identification of Pitt and Giordino was made by Roy Orita after studying videotapes of their capture. He immediately reported his revelation to Kamatori.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, there is no doubt in my mind. I sat across a table from them in Washington. Your security intelligence staff will bear me out after a genetic code check.”
“What is their purpose? They are not professional agents.”
“They were simply diversionary decoys for the team given the assignment for destroying the control center.”
Kamatori couldn’t believe his luck in finding the man he’d been ordered to assassinate appear out of the blue into his own backyard.
He dismissed Orita and went into solitary meditation, his mind meticulously planning a cat-and-mouse game, a sport that would test his hunting skills against a man like Pitt, whose courage and resourcefulness were well known, and who would make a worthy competitor.
It was a contest Kamatori had played many times with men who had opposed Suma, and he had never lost.
Pitt and Giordino were heavily guarded around the clock by a small crew of sentry robots. Giordino even struck up a friendship of sorts with one of the robots who had captured them, calling it McGoon.
“My name is not McGoon,” it spoke in reasonable English. “My name is Murasaki. It means purple.”
“Purple,” Giordino snorted. “You’re painted yellow. McGoon fits you better.”
“After I became fully operational, I was consecrated by a Shinto priest with food offerings and flower garlands and given the name Murasaki. I am not operated by telepresence. I have my own intelligence and decision-making capability and can control appropriate operations.”
“So you’re an independent free agent,” said Giordino, astounded at speaking to a mechanism that could carry on a conversation.
“Not entirely. There are limits to my artificial thought processes, of course.”
Giordino turned to Pitt. “Is he putting me on?”
“I have no idea.” Pitt shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him what he’d do if we made a run for it.”
“I would alert my security operator and shoot to kill as I have been programmed,” the robot answered.
“Are you a good shot?” Pitt asked, intrigued with conversing with artificial intelligence.
“I am not programmed to miss.”
Giordino said succinctly, “Now we know where we stand.”
“You cannot flee the island and there is no place to hide. “You would only die by drowning, eaten by sharks, or be executed by beheading. Any escape attempt would be illogical.”
“He sounds
like Mr. Spock.”
There was a knock from the outside, and a man with a permanently scowling face pushed the fusuma sliding door with its shoji paper panes to one side and came in. He stood silent as his eyes traveled from Giordino standing beside the robot to Pitt, who was comfortably reclining on a triple pile of tatami mats.
“I am Moro Kamatori, chief aide to Mr. Hideki Suma.”
“Al Giordino,” greeted the stocky Italian, smiling grandly and sticking out his hand like a used car salesman. “My friend in the horizontal position is Dirk Pitt. We’re sorry to drop in uninvited but—”
“We are quite knowledgeable of your names and how you came to be on Soseki Island,” Kamatori interrupted Giordino. “You can dispense with any attempt at denials, self-defeating tales of misdirection, or counterfeit excuses of innocence. I regret to inform you that your diversionary intrusion was a failure. Your three team members were apprehended shortly after they exited the tunnel from Edo City.”
There was a hushed quiet. Giordino gave Kamatori a dark look, then turned to Pitt expectantly.
Pitt’s face was quite composed. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to read around here?” He spoke boredly. “Maybe a guide to the local restaurants.”
Kamatori looked at Pitt with pure antagonism in his eyes. After a lapse of nearly a minute he stepped forward until he was almost leaning over Pitt.
“Do you like to hunt game, Mr. Pitt?” he asked abruptly.
“Not really. It’s no sport if the prey can’t shoot back.”
“You abhor the sight of blood and death then?”
“Don’t most well-adjusted people?”
“Perhaps you prefer to identify with the hunted.”
“You know Americans,” Pitt said conversationally. “We’re suckers for the underdog.”
Kamatori stared at Pitt murderously. Then he shrugged. “Mr. Suma has honored you with an invitation for dinner. You will be escorted to the dining room at seven o’clock. Kimonos can be found in the closet. Please dress appropriately.” Then he spun about briskly and strode from the room.
Giordino stared after him curiously. “What was all that doubletalk about hunting?”
Pitt closed his eyes in preparation to doze. “I do believe he intends to hunt us down like rabbits and lop off our heads.”
It was the kind of dining room the most palatial castles of Europe still have to entertain royal and celebrity guests. It was of vast proportions, with an open heavy-beamed ceiling twelve meters high. The floor was covered by a bamboo carpet interwoven with red silk, and the walls were paneled in highly polished rosewood.
Authentic paintings by Japanese masters hung precisely spaced as though each was in harmony with the other. The room was lit entirely with candles inside paper lanterns.
Loren had never seen anything to match its beauty. She stood like a statue as she admired the startling effect. Mike Diaz walked around her. He also came to a halt as he gazed about the richly adorned walls.
The only thing that seemed oddly out of place, that was not distinctly Japanese, was the long ceramic dining table that curled halfway across the room in a series of curves and appeared to have been fired in one giant piece. The matching chairs and place settings were spaced so that guests were not elbow-to-elbow but sitting partially in front of or in back of one another.
Toshie, dressed in a traditional blue silk kimono, came forward and bowed. “Mr. Suma begs your forgiveness for being late, but he will join you shortly. While you wait, may I fix you a drink?”
“You speak very good English,” Loren complimented her.
“I can also converse in French, Spanish, German, and Russian,” Toshie said with eyes lowered as if embarrassed to tout her knowledge.
Loren wore one of several kimonos she found in the closet of her guarded cottage. It beautifully draped her tall lithe body, and the silk was dyed a deep burgundy that complemented the light bronze of her fading summer tan. She smiled warmly at Toshie and said, “I envy you. I can barely order a meal in French.”
“So we’re to meet the great yellow peril at last,” muttered Diaz. He was in no mood to be polite and went out of his way to be rude. As a symbol of his defiance he had refused the offered Japanese-style clothing and stood in the rumpled fishing togs he wore when abducted. “Now maybe we’ll find out what crazy scheme is going on around here.”
“Can you mix a Maiden’s Blush?” Loren asked Toshie.
“Yes,” Toshie acknowledged. “Gin, curacao, grenadine, and lemon juice.” She turned to Diaz. “Senator?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I want to keep my mind straight.”
Loren saw that the table was set for six. “Who will be joining us besides Mr. Suma?” she asked Toshie.
“Mr. Suma’s right-hand man, Mr. Kamatori, and two Americans.
“Fellow hostages, no doubt,” muttered Diaz.
Toshie did not answer but stepped lightly behind a polished ebony bar inlaid with gold tile and began mixing Loren’s drink.
Diaz moved over to one wall and studied a large painting of a narrative scene drawn in ink that showed a bird’s-eye view onto several houses in a village, revealing the people and their daily lives inside. “I wonder what something like this is worth?”
“Six million Yankee dollars.”
It was a quiet Japanese voice in halting English with a trace of a British accent, courtesy of a British tutor.
Loren and Diaz turned and looked at Hideki Suma with no small feeling of nervousness. They identified him immediately from pictures in hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles.
Suma moved slowly into the cavernous room, followed by Kamatori. He stared at them benignly for a few moments with a slight inscrutable smile on his lips. ” ‘The Legend of Prince Genji,’ painted by Toyama in fourteen eighty-five. You have excellent commercial taste, Senator Diaz. You chose to admire the most expensive piece of art in the room.”
Because of Suma’s awesome reputation, Loren expected a giant of a man. Not, most certainly, a man who was slightly shorter than she.
He approached, gave a brief bow to both of them, and shook hands. “Hideki Suma.” His hands were soft but the grip firm. “And I believe you’ve met my chief aide, Moro Kamatori.”
“Our jailer,” Diaz replied acidly.
“A rather disgusting individual,” said Loren.
“But most efficient,” Suma came back with a sardonic inflection. He turned to Kamatori. “We seem to be missing two of our guests.”
Suma had no sooner spoken when he felt a movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Pitt and Giordino were being hustled through the dining-room entrance by two security robots. They were still clad in their flying suits, both with huge garish neckties knotted around their necks that were obviously cut from the sashes of kimonos they’d declined to wear.
“They do not show respect for you,” Kamatori growled. He made a move toward them, but Suma held out a hand and stopped him.
“Dirk!” Loren gasped. “Al!” She rushed over and literally leaped into Pitt’s arms, kissing him madly over his face. “Oh, God, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.” Then she hugged and kissed Giordino. “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”
“We flew in from a cruise ship,” Pitt said cheerfully, hugging Loren like the father of a kidnapped child who had been returned. “We heard this place was a four-star establishment and thought we’d drop in for some golf and tennis.”
Giordino grinned. “Is it true the aerobics instructors are built like goddesses?”
“You crazy nuts,” she blurted happily.
“Well, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino,” said Suma. “I’m delighted to meet the men who have created an international legend through their underwater exploits.”
“We’re hardly the stuff legends are made of,” Pitt said modestly.
“I am Hideki Suma. Welcome to Soseki Island.”
“I can’t say I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Suma. It’s difficult not
to admire your entrepreneurial talents, but your methods of operation fall somewhere between Al Capone and Freddie from Elm Street.”
Suma was not used to insults. He paused, staring at Pitt in puzzled suspicion.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Giordino, boldly appraising Toshie as he edged toward the bar.
For the first time, Diaz smiled broadly as he shook Pitt’s hand. “You’ve just made my day.”
“Senator Diaz,” Pitt said, greeting the legislator. “Nice to see you again.”
“I’d have preferred meeting you with a Delta team at your back.”
“They’re being held in reserve for the finale.”
Suma ignored the remark and lowered himself into a low bamboo chair. “Drinks, gentlemen?”
“A tequila martini,” ordered Pitt.
“Tequila and dry vermouth,” answered Toshie. “With orange or lemon peel?”
“Lime, thank you.”
“And you, Mr. Giordino?”
“A Barking Dog, if you know how to make it.”
“One jigger each of gin, dry vermouth, sweet vermouth, and a dash or two of bitters,” Toshie elaborated.
“A bright girl,” said Loren. “She speaks several languages.”
“And she can make a Barking Dog,” Giordino murmured, his eyes taking on a dazed quality as Toshie gave him a provocative smile.
“To hell with this social crap!” Diaz burst out impatiently. “You’re all acting like we were invited to a friendly cocktail party.” He hesitated and then addressed himself to Suma. “I demand to know why you’ve brazenly kidnapped members of Congress and are holding us hostages. And I damn well want to know now.”
“Please sit down and relax, Senator,” Suma said in a quiet but iceberg tone. “You are an impatient man who wrongly believes everything worth doing must be done immediately, on the instant. There is a rhythm to life you people in the West have never touched. That is why our culture is superior to yours.”
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