Carol Moss slid open the hatch from below and handed Stan Liskey two big mugs of hot beef noodle soup. The weather had closed in, covering the moon, blotting out anything beyond the ship’s running lights. Any movement, especially below, was nearly impossible. The fact she’d somehow managed to heat some soup was practically miraculous.
“No need for you to be up here,” Liskey shouted.
“Stay below out of the wind.”
“Unless you want barf all over the cabin sole, I need fresh air,” she shouted back. She waited until a wave passed under them, then levered herself over the hatch-boards into the cockpit and deftly slammed the hatch.
“How’s our track holding up?”
“We’ll be out of this soon. From what I could tell on the chart there’s at least one good anchorage along Tokuno’s south coast in the bight, and a bunch around the hump to the east.”
As soon as she hooked on with her safety harness and braced herself against the bulkhead beneath the spray dodger, Liskey handed her a cup of soup. “We’ll go for the bight. If the wind shifts it’ll give us an easier choice, east or west.”
“We’re good on this course then.” She took a ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in a paper towel from a pocket in her foul-weather gear for him. “Mustard okay?”
“You’re amazing.”
Carol laughed. “Just don’t forget it when the sun is shining and we’re on dry land and I burn your toast.”
“Never happen.”
“Count on it,” she said. She started on her soup. Liskey checked the lines on the Aires windvane that automatically steered the boat, then drank his soup. It was very hot and very good. Despite the increasing wind and waves, and the steadily decreasing temperature, he felt a sense of well-being. He was on his boat with a woman he loved in a time and place of his own choosing, doing exactly what he wanted to be doing. They were in no real danger, although there was always the possibility that a weakened swage on one of the shrouds or stays could fail and the mast would fall down. Or the windvane could break, forcing them to hand steer to their anchorage, which was a difficult and very tiring job under these conditions. Or they could hit something tossed off a passing freighter or tanker that was big enough to hole them beneath the waterline. It wasn’t an uncommon experience. There’d been cases in which small boats had been sunk in as little as ninety seconds. But even that thought did little to dampen his spirits. They had an automatically inflating life raft well equipped for just such an occurrence. They even carried an emergency position indicating radio beacon—an EPIRB—that would automatically send out a mayday signal to other boats and to high-flying commercial airplanes.
Nothing was foolproof, Liskey told himself. But then neither was life itself. He smiled to himself. A philosopher he wasn’t, but out here like this he felt a very strong sense of his own life force in sync with the ebb and flow of life in, on, and above the sea.
“What’s so funny?” Carol shouted.
“You’ll have me certified and put away if I tell you.”
“Let me guess. You love this.”
“We’re alive.” Liskey glanced at the compass and knotlog. They were sailing just east of due north and making better than five knots even under severely reefed sails. He studied their phosphorescent wake aft. The Aires steered an S pattern. “I don’t know if I can explain it any better, Carol.”
“I think I know what you mean,” she replied after a moment or two. “But it’s so goddamned macho I don’t know if I understand.”
“It’s easy.”
“If you mean that you have to put your life in danger in order to feel alive, you know, like a bungee jumper or something, then I guess you should be committed. Except if that were the criterion our asylums would be crammed to the rafters with men, leaving none of them on the outside. A situation I, for one, wouldn’t like.”
“Vive la différence.”
“Something like that,” Carol said. “But I’m not just a passenger on this sailboat. I chose to be here just as you did.” She swept an arm toward the darkness around them. “My blood is pumping too, Stan. But it doesn’t mean I have to like this part of it. For me sailing across a quiet lagoon with ten knots of wind kicking up nothing more than a ripple is pretty exciting. Gets my blood racing thinking I’d be there with you.”
“There aren’t many people who could do this.”
“Or would,” Carol said. “Doesn’t make them all bad, just different. And when we drop the hook you let out as big a sigh of relief as the next person.”
“A sense of accomplishment.”
“Yes, but for me that’s a better part than this.”
“You can’t have that part without first doing this.”
She laughed out loud. “What a load of crap, Stan. But here I am.” Again she swept an arm toward the darkness beyond. “Even if they were forty-footers, and you chose to be out here, I’d be with you.”
Liskey opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.
“Not a particularly nineties thing for me to admit. And Gloria Steinem would probably spit up if she heard me. Fact is, I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“You never said that before.”
She laughed again. “Death-bed confession.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wanted to drink her in great draughts. He wanted to absorb her entire body and personality into his. “I love you,” he shouted. He raised his head. “I love you,” he shouted into the wind. “I love you!”
Yemlin was waiting for McGarvey at Kennedy’s tomb in Arlington Cemetery. “A meeting has been arranged.”
“With whom?” McGarvey asked. They headed away from the eternal flame. The weather was once again overcast and cold. It looked like more snow.
“Somebody who might be able to help. But listen to me, my old friend. There is no guarantee that he will know anything of value to you. He has been instructed to cooperate. But don’t shoot the messenger.”
“SUR?”
Yemlin shrugged. “He is Abunai.”
“What’s his position in the network?”
“No, Mac, he is Abunai. The network, except for a few field officers—a very few field officers—is only one man. He has agreed to come from Tokyo to talk with you.”
“When, Viktor Pavlovich?”
“He’ll be here tonight.”
McGarvey stopped the Russian. “That doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he could get here from Tokyo in such a short time.”
“He’s coming from Honolulu.”
“Are you going to tell me what the hell he’s doing there, or am I going to have to wait?”
“You’ll have to wait, because I don’t know.”
“Ms. Kilbourne, you look radiant,” Edward R. Reid said.
“That’s what I like about mature men. They don’t get tongue-tied when they pay a woman a compliment.”
“The nineties do seem to have gotten away from us. But the good side is that women like you are doing well, although it puts some of us men at a disadvantage.”
“We do our best,” Dominique said as she and Reid followed the maitre d’ to their table. The restaurant was full, as usual for a weekday. People at a couple of tables waved to Reid, but she didn’t see any familiar faces. One thing she had caught, though, was Reid’s nervousness. Something was bothering him. “How’s the Lamplighter doing now that you’ve taken on the Japanese?”
“Circulation is up, as a matter of fact.” Reid eyed her speculatively. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“Some of the people I represent are worried. About the Japanese.”
“And well they should be,” Reid said as they sat down. “Although Boeing seems to be doing well working with them. Problem is-there’s no telling how long Japan can remain stable. It’s been on the brink of bankruptcy since the early nineties. Of course so have we, although we have a depth of resources that they do not.”
“You’re talking about natural resources?”
“Exactl
y. Especially oil, which it desperately needs from the Middle East. It’s completely dependent on the sea lanes. If its supplies were to be cut for even a short time, it’d suffer.”
“There are no threats now that the Soviet Union has broken apart,” Dominique said.
The waiter came, and they ordered drinks.
“Haven’t you been watching television, or reading newspapers?”
“It’s a localized problem. Or do you see it differently, Mr. Reid? Do you think the Russians will retaliate?”
“It could happen. Which would further destabilize the political situation out there.” Reid looked across the room as if he were suddenly unsure of himself. As if he were worried that someone was watching them.
“We have a problem.”
“With the Japanese?” Reid asked. Two men followed the maitre d’ across the dining room to a nearby table. They looked like cops.
“One of my companies thinks the Japanese are after them. It’s Guerin. They’re worried about the accident at Dulles last week. They think it could have been sabotage. And there’s been a move by a Japanese consortium to force an unfriendly takeover, which would be easy if Guerin’s stocks went down the drain.”
Reid moistened his lips. “I’ve heard the takeover rumors, but nothing about the accident. Is the company sure about the sabotage? The National Transportation Safety Board hasn’t made a ruling yet, has it?”
Dominique shook her head. “It’s more complicated than that, Mr. Reid. Which is why I decided to ask for your help.”
“Please call me Edward. But are you saying that you’ve come to me on your own initiative, without telling anyone?”
“Not Guerin … Edward. I don’t want to raise any false hopes. But they’re really in trouble.” Dominique glanced across the room for effect. “All this is in strict confidence.”
“Of course. How can I help?”
“They’re so desperate that they’ve hired an ex-CIA spy. But he’s got them so confused that they’re starting to believe everyone is after them. There was that American Airlines crash in ’90 that McGarvey—he’s the spy they hired—thinks was engineered by the Japanese. But the one last week, according to him, was caused by someone right here in this country.”
Reid visibly blanched.
“It’s stupid, but he’s convinced the FBI and probably even the CIA to take a look. But it has to be Japan, don’t you think? They’re the only ones who have anything to gain if Guerin goes bankrupt.”
Their drinks came and they ordered lunch, but Reid was obviously distracted.
“Have you talked to him, this fellow Kirk McGarvey?”
“Of course. He’s here in Washington now, as a matter of fact.”
“Where’s he staying?”
“I don’t know. Thing is, Edward, I need your help to convince him and Guerin that it’s the Japanese consortium that’s after them. Not somebody here. Will you do it?”
For a moment it didn’t seem as if Reid would answer her. But then he nodded. “It’ll have to wait until after the weekend.”
“Oh?”
“I’m flying with the President on Sunday to Tokyo. When I come back I’ll be happy to lend a hand.”
Ryutaro Teramura looked like a college student, McGarvey thought, not the head of a Russian intelligence-gathering network. His effectiveness stemmed, Yemlin explained, from the fact that he was the number-two most powerful man in the Japanese Socialist Party. They met in an apartment in Arlington.
“I’ve heard about you,” Abunai said. “I thought you were inactive.”
“Except for this assignment, I am. Now I need your help.”
Teramura glanced at Yemlin. “Was it explained why I was in Honolulu when the call came?”
“No,” the Russian said.
“It’s ironic, but my party sent me to Hawaii to meet the Guerin airplane America on Sunday. It’s to be a goodwill gesture to show that the government does not back Kamiya’s plans.”
“Morning Star?” McGarvey asked.
“Yes. The fool wants to somehow embroil Japan in a war with the U.S. Evidently for ultimate economic control of the western Pacific rim.”
“Is it possible without Tokyo’s cooperation?”
“Sokichi Kamiya is a powerful man. A lot depends on how your government reacts.”
“To what?” McGarvey asked.
Teramura peered at him through rimless glasses. “I don’t know. But whatever it is will happen very soon.”
“Sunday?”
“Possibly, Mr. McGarvey. But I think the issue with Guerin may be separate, and possibly just as troubling to Kamiya as it is to you. Are you aware that Mintori Assurance has a connection with one of Guerin’s subcontractors here in the States?”
“What’s the name of this company?”
“I haven’t been able to find out. One of my people was assassinated, and now our lines of communication have been severed.” Abunai took a cigarette from Yemlin. “It may be impossible for you to do anything to avert his plans.”
“What if Kamiya were to be killed?” McGarvey asked.
Teramura considered the suggestion. “His death might be of some value. But if you are concerned that some catastrophe will happen on Sunday, you are already too late. You do not have the time to get to him.”
“What about the network?”
Teramura shrugged. “My part was to pass intelligence to Moscow in order to help avoid conflict between our countries. That may be a moot point finally.” He smiled wanly. “We are at a difficult juncture. Nothing is the same, yet everything is the same.”
“As what?” McGarvey asked.
“The late twenties and early thirties, of course.”
John F. Kennedy Airport is located on Jamaica Bay at the southern edge of Queens, and La Guardia is on Flushing Bay at the northern edge of the borough. Traffic to and from both airports is almost always heavy. But security, or the lack of it, is no different from any other major airport in the country. No one seems to notice or care who comes and goes, as long as there are no snarls.
Apparently it was all the authorities could manage, Mueller thought, watching a Delta Airlines Guerin 522 come in for a landing at JFK. Why there hadn’t been more terrorist attacks in the United States was an incredible mystery to him. From what he’d read in the magazines and newspapers, it was just as big a mystery to Americans. Yet no one was doing anything about it.
He turned in his rental car at the Budget counter and took the bus over to the American Airlines terminal. The last flight to Washington’s National Airport left at 11:01 P.M. He checked in a half-hour early, got a cup of tea, and sat down with a Newsweek magazine in the boarding area.
Tomorrow he would do Dulles and on Sunday at 3:00—when Air Force One was scheduled to depart from Andrews and America from Portland—he would send the signal.
Something stirred in his gut, and he looked up for a moment. One of the gate agents, a pretty woman in an American Airlines uniform, was looking at him. He smiled, and she smiled back.
The afternoon was gray, the wind outside the bight of Tokuno Island still blew hard, kicking up big seas. Fair Winds rode easy at her protected anchorage. Nevertheless Liskey had gotten up several times to make sure they were holding. Standing now at the half-open hatch, drinking a cup of coffee he’d brewed, he studied the rockbound shoreline a hundred yards away. If the weather were better it would be interesting to take the dinghy ashore to look around. But for now he wanted to head farther north.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Carol said, emerging from the vee-berth forward.
“I was thinking about a Japanese fishing village where the food is good and the saki is cheap.”
She poured a cup of coffee. “How about warm weather?”
“If not that, how about warm saki?”
“Ugh. Tastes like snot to me.”
He shook his head and laughed. “You’ve definitely got a way with words, toots.”
“How about coming back to bed, i
n that case. I’m cold.”
Liskey ducked back inside and put his cup aside. “See what I mean,” he said.
THIRTY-FIVE
Dominique was gone. McGarvey stood in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the sounds of the house, her note in one hand, his gun in the other. She said that she was in town having lunch with Edward Reid. But that was impossible. He’d told her the situation. She understood that these people were desperate and that killing one more person would be totally meaningless to them. So what was she trying to do? Christ; the stupidity, he thought.
A car pulled up in the driveway. McGarvey raced down the corridor to the stair hall in time to see Dominique getting out of her Corvette, and then he hurried upstairs to a front window from where he could see the street. He half expected to see a white Toyota van, but there was no traffic. He stepped back away from the window, lowering his gun, allowing a measure of relief to pass through him. She hadn’t been kidnapped, nor had she been followed back here. The note was legitimate.
Dominique let herself in as McGarvey came down the stairs, and her eyes went from the note in his hand to the expression on his face. “Before you say anything, hear me out,” she said.
“There’ll be nothing to say when you’re dead,” he told her mildly. “They’ll kill you if you get too close.”
“Reid’s in this up to his ears. When I mentioned your name he practically fell down. But he knows you. I only used your last name, but he knew your first.”
“What’d you say to him?”
“I told him that Guerin hired you because it was worried about the Japanese, but now you’re convinced someone else caused the Dulles accident.”
“If he knows me, it means somebody is feeding him information. He has help. But he has a lot of contacts.”
“When I told him that you’d convinced the FBI and the CIA to investigate I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“Did he say anything about Sunday?”
“That’s the only part that didn’t make any sense to me, Kirk. When I asked him for help convincing you that the Japanese were behind the Dulles crash, he said it’d have to wait until after the weekend. He’s flying to Tokyo with the President.”
High Flight Page 64
