Working with extreme care he soldered the glass-encased trigger into one of the slots that had held a filter, making certain he did not allow the device to get too hot, or for any solder to splatter the board. Providing the selector switch was not turned to the shortwave band, the radio would work normally.
When he was finished with the first trigger, he soldered in the remaining thirteen devices, then resoldered the power supply wires to the proper connections, refastened the power supply board, and closed the back cover, replacing all six screws.
He was sweating lightly by the time he had cleaned up his tools and equipment and finished packing his single bag.
Making sure he had his airplane tickets and passport, and that he was leaving nothing incriminating behind, he left his room and took the elevator down to the lobby.
The time was just 2332.
Wind was gusting to forty miles per hour, sending spray a hundred yards inland from the waves crashing on the rugged rocky shoreline, and snatching away most sounds except for the wind itself.
A panel truck, its headlights out, materialized out of the darkness on a narrow dirt track that ran down toward the water and disappeared on the stony beach. A long time ago local fishermen had maintained a cooperative dock here. A few years after the revolution, however, government forces had occupied the nearby town of Dalnyaya on Cape Krilon at the extreme southern tip of Sakhalin Island. Japan was barely thirty miles south, across the Soya Strait, and this area had been abandoned.
The beat-up, dark gray truck stopped twenty feet off the beach, and Franz Hoffmann switched off the engine. He was a huge, rough-featured man with a pockmarked face and a thick barrel chest. His eyes, however, were small and close-set.
He glanced over his shoulder at the four animal cages in the back. Now that they were this close he was becoming nervous.
“Let’s get the little bastards down to the beach,” Otto Eichendorf said.
Hoffman looked at the other East German. Spranger had ordered them to take refuge inside Krasnoyarsk three months ago. Neither of them had liked the assignment, and he could see that Eichendorf was just as nervous and just as anxious to get away as he was.
“Take the light and make the landing signal first, Otto. I don’t want to get caught here.”
Eichendorf nodded, and got out of the truck. Hoffman watched as the man trudged down to the beach and raised his flashlight.
They were a half hour early, but if the boat was out there waiting for them as planned, they would see the light and signal back.
Again Hoffmann glanced into the back of the truck. Two of the cages contained a pair of wild sables, and the other two each held a pair of wild Siberian mink.
They were vicious animals, and any border patrol prick or naval rating they might encounter would certainly think twice about sticking his hand in those cages. But if he did, and if he survived with his hand intact, he would find eighty pounds of refined plutonium 239 encased in lead containers beneath the false bottoms in each cage.
They had brought it overland from the nuclear facility at Khabarovsk, where, incredibly, they had purchased it in small lots from a local black marketeer who boasted (and rightly so) that he could get them anything for the right price. On the coast they’d hired a fishing boat to take them across the Tatar Strait onto Sakhalin Island … simple fur animal smugglers that everyone was happy to deal with for a few hundred rubles.
The idea was a to commit a visible crime for which the authorities were willing to take a bribe, in order to hide their real action. So far it had worked beautifully.
Now, however, if they were caught by the KGB, or by a Japanese Coast Guard patrol, they would have a more difficult time explaining themselves. Internal smuggling was one thing, but trying to take sables out of the Soviet Union was another crime, serious enough to expect, if they were stopped, that the cages would be searched.
A pinpoint of light out to sea flashed once, then twice, and once again, and Eichendorf hurried back up to the truck.
Hoffman climbed out. “I saw it,” he shouted over the wind.
“I’ll be glad to get off this rock,” the taller, thinner man said. “Now let’s get the cages down to the beach.”
They went around to the back of the truck and opened the door. The animals went wild, hissing and snapping and banging against the wire mesh, their teeth bared.
Hoffman pulled the first cage out by the handle, careful to keep his fingers as far away from the mesh as possible. One of the sables was madly biting and chewing at the wire.
Eichendorf took the other side and between them they carried the one hundred sixty-pound cage over the rocks the rest of the way down to the beach, setting it down a few feet from the water’s edge.
They could see nothing out to sea, no lights, not even the dark form of the boat. But they’d seen the light signal in reply to theirs. So it was there. Nevertheless Hoffman was starting to get very jumpy. It was the tone of Spranger’s voice. The general had sounded … worried, upset. Hurt. It had been disconcerting listening to him.
It took them several minutes to haul the other three cages from the truck, and by the time they were finished they were both winded, and sweating lightly despite the breeze and the chill.
Hoffman held up a hand for Eichendorf to keep silent for a second as he cocked an ear. He had heard something over the wind, an engine noise perhaps.
He stepped closer to the water and held his breath to listen. The sounds were definitely there, but not out to sea, he realized with horror.
He spun around, and looked up toward the dirt track.
Eichendorf was hearing it now too. “Christ, is it a KGB patrol?”
“I don’t know, maybe not,” Hoffmann said. “Get the rifles.”
“Right.” Eichendorf raced back up to the truck, as Hoffman snatched the flashlight and turned back to face the sea. Under these circumstances he was supposed to send five short flashes, which meant there was trouble on the beach, and that the pickup was off.
But they were so close. To be caught here on the beach like this would mean certain arrest, and almost certainly death by firing squad after a very brief trial for espionage. Never mind they were ex-STASI, and had once worked for the KGB. That old alliance would not protect them now.
Eichendorf came back with the Kalashnikov rifles. “Did you send the signal?”
Hoffman threw down the flashlight and grabbed his rifle, levering a round into the firing chamber and switching the safety off. “No,” he said. “We’re getting off this beach tonight, or we’re going to die here.”
The sound of the engine faded, came back and then faded again and was gone. Hoffman took a few steps toward the road, but he could hear nothing now, other than the wind.
“Franz,” Eichendorf called urgently.
Hoffman turned as a big rubber raft, carrying two men dressed in rough dungarees and thick sweaters, surged onto the beach. One of them immediately hopped out.
“Macht schnell,” he shouted. “We have a KGB patrol boat on our ass.”
Hoffman and Eichendorf exchanged glances, and Hoffmann shook his head slightly. Whatever had been heading toward them on the road had apparently turned around and left.
Between the three of them it only took a couple of minutes to load the cages aboard the boat. Eichendorf and the sailor clambered aboard, leaving Hoffman to push them off.
“What’s going on down there?” someone shouted in Russian from behind them on the road.
Hoffman snatched his Kalashnikov and in one smooth motion turned around. He had only a moment to catch sight of two uniformed soldiers above, on the rocks, and he opened fire, cutting both of them down before they could utter another word.
For a long second or two, the night seemed suddenly still. Even the wind seemed to lessen for that time, but then Eichendorf grabbed Hoffman by the back of his jacket and dragged him into the boat.
“I hope they were alone,” one of the sailors said. “Because if someone is still al
ive up there, and can use a radio, we’re dead men.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“No,” the sailor said. “And now neither do we.”
Thoma Orff presented his passport and customs declaration form to the uniformed officer when it was his turn. Tokyo’s Narita Airport was jammed to capacity, but the noise level was surprisingly low.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Japan, Mr. Orff,” the customs official asked. He had difficulty pronouncing the name.
“Tourism. I’ve had no holiday in years.”
“How long will you be here?”
“A week, maybe a little longer.”
“Have you nothing else to declare?”
“Only the brandy,” Orff said, holding up the cardboard liquor box by its handle. “Three bottles. Good stuff. French.” The nuclear weapons initiators were hidden in two of the bottles, which were in turn wrapped in lead foil that had been sandwiched between thin layers of ordinary-looking aluminum foil.
“Welcome to Japan, Mr. Orff,” the official said, stamping the passport. “Have a pleasant holiday.”
67
THE MORNING ON THE MOUNTAIN OVERLOOKING THE PORT CITY of Nagasaki on the south island of Kyushu was pleasantly cool, the air sweetly fresh. McGarvey indulged himself in the luxury of coming slowly awake, careful to steer his thoughts away from the reasons he had returned to Japan.
Kelley was up already. She sat outside in the garden sipping green tea, and watching the sun over the mountains just beginning to illuminate the city below.
From where he lay on his tatami mat, he could see her in profile. Her dark hair was down, spilling around her tiny shoulders, and she was dressed only in one of the snow white yukatas or kimonos that the ryokan (a Japanese inn) supplied its guests. She was beautiful, he decided, yet she was a contradiction. On the one hand she was a frightened little deer, with large dark eyes and the sudden tiny movements of the animal that is always ready to bolt at the first hint of trouble. While on the other she had a surprising depth of character, of fortitude, that made her stay.
As she’d explained yesterday afternoon on the train, she had nowhere to go. “I can’t hide for the rest of my life, so I am with you to finish the assignment.”
There was an Oriental simplicity about her. Everything she did, or said, seemed to be clear-cut and obvious. Her life had been sad, and she was doing everything within her power to lay the groundwork for a big change. Like everyone else, she only wanted to be at peace, and happy.
But he was beginning to believe that that was all she wanted. She seemed to have no other ambitions, and in that she was completely opposite of his ex-wife Kathleen.
A tiny table had been set up next to his tatami mat, steam rising from a pot of tea, a cup beside it. McGarvey rose stiffly on one elbow and poured a cup of tea.
Kelley turned and looked at him, a slight smile coming to her lips. “How do you feel this morning, McGarvey-san.”
“I’ll live,” he said, returning her smile.
“I am truly glad to hear that, because today we will make our move against Fukai.”
Kelley had arranged to rent a car yesterday, and at 8 A.M. it was brought up from the city and left for them in the tiny parking lot, across the garden beyond the hotel annex. She drove because she could read Japanese—none of the road signs, what few there were, were in English—and because McGarvey’s right leg had stiffened up, making it difficult to walk, let alone manipulate the pedals.
Only a few puffy white clouds sailed over the hills and mountains ringing the city, but the sky was a hazy, milky blue, illuminating the lush green countryside with an almost magical light. This region was like a fairytale land: Important in the mid-sixteenth century when Nagasaki was the only port open to foreigners; again in 1945 when the atomic bomb was dropped here; and now because of some insane plot for revenge.
Fukai Semiconductor’s vast factory complex and world headquarters were located northeast of Nagasaki on Omura Bay. McGarvey’s briefing package had contained extensive diagrams showing the installation’s layout and something of the sophisticated security systems designed not only to detect the presence of intruders, but in some instances to neutralize them, even kill them. Fukai himself was apparently paranoid about security; and he was rich and powerful enough to maintain a substantial armed force of guards without the federal government lifting a finger to stop or in any way control him.
The compound was built like a fortress. McGarvey had spent a considerable amount of thought on exactly how it could be breached, coming to the conclusion that he would have to get close enough for a firsthand look before he could make any plan.
He had briefly discussed the problem with Carrara and the Technical Services team that had been hastily assembled to brief him, and they agreed, with one reservation.
“If Spranger is actually working for Fukai—and we don’t have any direct proof of that yet—he probably told them about you,” Carrara had cautioned.
“No doubt,” McGarvey replied. “But they won’t be expecting me to show up so soon, nor will they be expecting me to come in the front door with the proper credentials.”
“I’d like to send someone over to back you up, but it’s not possible.” Carrara shook his head. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this. A lot of political fallout.”
“I stay out of politics,” McGarvey said.
“Right. Just like a surgeon stays out of the operating theater.”
Traffic was heavy along the narrow highway until they were well clear of the city, and even then there was no time when they had the road to themselves. Kelley was a good driver, and she apparently knew the local customs and rules of the road well enough to get along without incident.
She had dressed again in the plain gray business suit she had worn at the airport, making her look like the executive secretary and translator her legend said she was. McGarvey had let her study the briefing package he’d brought out from Langley, and afterwards he had filled in whatever gaps he could, though there were holes a mile wide in the plan.
“What happens if something goes wrong out there?” she asked.
“We play it by ear.”
“I meant what if they recognize you, or me?”
“I don’t know,” McGarvey had told her, and they’d not discussed it any further. This morning she’d made no comment as she watched him reassemble his gun and then place the holster at the small of his back, but he could see that she was troubled. There was nothing he could say to reassure her, so he said nothing about the possibilities they would be facing.
They topped a rise and suddenly Omura Bay was spread out below. Fifteen miles across they could see a jetliner taking off from the Nagasaki Airport. But directly below, spread out along the western shore of the bay, the Fukai Semiconductor compound ran for at least five miles, and included the main administration area, a huge research facility, seven large processing and assembly buildings, a landing strip and several hangars for the fleet of business jets and two Boeing 747s, and an extensive dock and warehouse area for the fleet of ships the corporation maintained.
Satellite antennae were located throughout the vast compound. Several years ago Fukai had begun putting up its own communications and research satellites, buying boosts into space from the European Space Agency as well as NASA until recently, when the Japanese themselves (with a lot of Fukai money behind them) started launching their own rockets.
Carrara admitted that the National Security Agency’s current guess was that at least two of the Fukai satellites were probably being used as surveillance platforms. Parked in geostationary orbits some 22,000 miles over the western hemisphere, there was little doubt about just who was the likely surveillance target. But nothing could or would be done about it.
“Space, as it was explained to me,” Carrara said, “is still free. That means for anyone, not just any government.”
Also evident, even from a distance of several miles, were the outward signs of Fuk
ai’s security arrangements. An inner and an outer wire mesh fence (no doubt electrified) surrounded the entire compound. Separated by a twenty-five-yard-wide no-man’s-land, the fence line was punctuated every hundred yards or so by tall guard towers.
As they watched, they could see Toyota Land Rovers patrolling the perimeter not only inside the fence, but outside as well.
The place looked like a prison. Only in this case the guards were not trying to keep people in, they wanted to keep intruders out. It made one wonder what they were doing down there that they had to go to such extreme measures.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Kelley said, her voice and manner subdued.
“Yeah,” McGarvey said absently, his thoughts racing. He pulled over to the side of the road and studied the vast compound for several long minutes.
“What do we do now?” Kelley asked.
McGarvey looked at her. Security might be tight, but he thought he knew how he could get in undetected tonight.
“We’ll present our credentials,” he said. “I need to take a look at something.”
68
DIESE EGK TOSSED HER LOUIS VUITTON BAG IN THE BACK SEAT of the Jaguar convertible parked next to the Volkswagen van in the garage. She stood in the darkness for several long moments, her hands gripping the edge of the car so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Ernst was asleep in the house, and if he’d taken the sedatives she’d laid out for him he wouldn’t feel a thing for mother twelve hours. Plenty of time for her to make it down :o the waiting private jet at the Rome Airport.
But she could not leave. Not like that. Not knowing what Spranger, even in his present condition, was still capable of doing. The man was half dead, and he was a maniac, yet he was the best and most ruthless operative she’d ever known. And he still had the loyalty of the group, the contacts around he world, and the respect of a great many people who would be willing to hunt her down if it came to that.
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