“I told him to take a walk.”
“You what?” He looked around the kitchen, noting the unattended pots of meat and vegetables. He imagined the nine guests that would soon arrive in the expectation of a five-star meal. “We open in less than an hour!”
Carver kicked the chair opposite him back from the table. “Sit. The faster you start talking, the sooner I leave.”
Sho plopped down in it like an ill-behaved child, arms folded across his chest. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with what happened today.”
Sho described the helicopter ride to the irradiated town in Fukushima prefecture. “The Eel made me walk to the 18th floor of an empty hotel. To practice the exact shooting conditions, including angle and distance.”
“Go on.”
“There were at least 200 mannequins,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “They were lined up like it was some sort of department store parade. There was even a red carpet. Mannequins on either side, and on bleachers, facing the other mannequins on the red carpet.”
Carver pulled a notepad off its hook above the stove, and pushed it across the table. “Sketch it for me. The hotel. The field with the targets. Every detail is important. What angle were you shooting at? How far away were the targets? How, specifically, were they arranged?”
“You want me to draw all that? Now?”
“This can’t wait.”
Carver sat quietly, watching as ink was committed to paper. Sho worked fast, recalling minor details. The precise distance. The precise angle. The kind of ammunition he had used.
Fifteen minutes later, he rested the pen on the paper. “Any questions?”
“The name of the target,” Carver said.
“I told you. I’m the last to know. Usually, I don’t know until I arrive.”
“So where is it?”
Sho shook his head. “A hotel in a big city. In daylight. That is all I know.”
Carver took the paper, folding the sketch into a neat square. “And what about the escape plan?”
“He said I will be gone only one day. I will travel by train there and back. He instructed me not to cancel dinner service that night. He said I must be back in time to cook.”
“It’s called creating an alibi. But what about the hours before? If you’re stopped and questioned, what’s your reason for traveling that day?”
“I will not need one. It seems that the Eel already has...how do you say it in English? Someone to transfer blame to.”
“A patsy,” Carver translated. “That can mean just one thing. You’re going to kill someone truly important this time. And the Kuromaku will frame someone else for it.”
Sho sighed. “Go ahead, Carver. Judge me. Call me weak. But what if it was your family they had threatened?”
Carver didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. Although the photo looked as if it had been taken some years ago, its subject - a thin, spectacled man who was relaxing with friends in an outdoor onsen – was all too familiar.
Sho stabbed the photo with his finger. “The Eel!”
“His real name is Maru Kobayashi. According to Eri, he and Ito went to the same private school growing up. Later, Kobayashi was Ito’s campaign manager, and later, his chief of staff. He was said to have retired.”
Sho felt the blood drain from his face. “So the Eel... works directly for Ito?”
“Your kill order comes from the very top.” With that, Carver put the sketches and the photograph back into his pocket. Then he stood and headed for the door.
Sho stood. “Wait. What happens now?”
Carver paused at the service entrance door. “I have to end this.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then you’re the last hope.”
“Don’t say that. Maybe you should just kill me now.”
“I would if I thought it would help. But they would just find someone to take your place. Maybe someone who shoots well enough to win an Olympic medal.”
East China Sea
Captain Todd Peters stood on the bridge of the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer that he had commanded for nearly a year. Through high-powered night vision binoculars, he surveyed the massive Chinese container ship on the horizon. God, it was huge. A Triple-E class. Longer than the Eiffel Tower was tall, and loaded with shipping containers. He counted 10 rows of containers above deck. There were probably another eight to 10 rows below as well.
Peters’ orders were to prevent any further supplies from being delivered to objective SCS-13, the Pentagon-designated name for the man-made island directly north of them. Until not long ago, the bathtub-shaped island had been little more than a shallow coral reef 2.5 miles long.
He couldn’t imagine how many ships full of garbage and sand had been dumped there in order to establish the port that existed now. Concrete sea walls had been erected to protect the island from tsunamis. An airstrip was close to completion. A harbor had been completed with industrial cranes and facilities large enough to handle Triple-E-size ships like the one heading his way.
Commander Shiba, the Japanese coast guard officer standing next to him, cleared his throat, but said nothing. Considering that Japan claimed these waters as its own, Shiba had been permitted to ride along as a Japanese observer. So far, he had been extremely patient and respectful of the American operations. But now, Peters sensed that patience wearing thin.
“Try again,” Peters said, addressing the Warrant Officer on the other side of the bridge. The young officer had been raised in Taiwan before his family had immigrated to the United States. He spoke fluent Mandarin.
Their calls in Mandarin and English were again met with silence. The container ship simply continued its trajectory toward SCS-13. Yesterday, during his call with the Seventh Fleet brass, there had been talk of landing a Navy Seal team on the island itself. The idea had ultimately been vetoed by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as it was considered too provocative. What if Chinese soldiers were already on the island? What if a firefight ensued?
The incidents of the past several days had put the U.S. in an untenable defensive position. Relations were on a hair trigger.
“Captain,” Commander Shiba said finally, “The container ship has no weapons. With respect, I request that you fire a shot across the ship’s bow.”
“I’m unable to, Commander.” Peters wanted nothing more than to comply with that request. He had been training his whole life for this kind of situation, and the destroyer was well-armed for anti-ship combat, with Harpoon missiles, 127-mm guns and several cannons. Should a submerged Chinese vessel escort the cargo ship, the U.S.S. Fitzgerald's anti-submarine weapons system was ready.
Shiba wasn’t about to let this go. “As the official allied observer on this mission, I request that you inform your superior of my request.”
“Very well.” He picked up the phone and called USPACOM, the United States Pacific Command. He spoke to his contact, explaining the situation as succinctly and professionally as possible, and waited for a reply.
To his surprise, Admiral Bennington, one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, appeared on the radio. It was the first time Peters had ever spoken directly to one of the Joint Chiefs.
“I just spoke with the president,” the Admiral said. “You are now authorized to put your ship directly in front of the harbor. You may fire a warning shot if needed. The new objective is to prevent the island from being resupplied until a diplomatic resolution is achieved.”
Suddenly, the boat Warrant Officer handed Captain Peters a note. He felt the eyes of the Japanese observer on him. He turned his back so that he faced the observation windows as he spoke.
“Admiral, we have two PLA planes inbound.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Captain. The Japanese get buzzed by a few hundred Chinese fighters every year. It’s just intimidation.”
Suddenly, the ship’s missile warning indicator sounded. The Admiral was still o
n the line 15 seconds later, when the Chinese YJ-12 missile slammed into the ship’s hull.
Kyoto
The white-gloved taxi driver drove Carver along the Kamogawa River, skirting the glowing edge of Kyoto’s nightlife district. Carver was oblivious to the bright lights whizzing by. He removed Sho’s sketch from his pocket and held it in both hands, angling it toward the window as the ambient light morphed with each passing neon sign.
Carver had, of course, memorized every detail of the sketch upon seeing it the first time at the Blue Monk. But he hoped that the act of holding it — the texture of the recycled paper against his fingertips – might yield some useful insight. If he was being honest, he hoped that the conclusion he had reached was wrong. If his theory about when and where the assassination would take place was right, then the Science and Security Board that governed the Doomsday clock might as well move the second hand to one minute ‘til midnight.
He went over the whole thing again, replaying Sho’s exact words in his head.
The Eel said I will be gone only one day. I will travel by train there and back. He instructed me not to cancel dinner service that night. He said I must be back here in time to cook.
From Kyoto, Tokyo was reachable by bullet train in a little over two hours. Sho would have time to go up in the morning, pull the trigger, and get back by dinner service at the restaurant.
They were lined up like it was some sort of department store parade. There was even a red carpet. Mannequins on either side, and on bleachers, facing the other mannequins on the red carpet. Very strange, isn’t it?
Carver closed his eyes. He had seen this layout before, at least in photos. Tokyo’s Akasaka Palace, informally known as the State Guesthouse, built in 1909 as the residence of the imperial Crown Prince. Unlike the traditional Japanese architecture seen in the Imperial grounds, the State Guesthouse was an oddity – a 160,000 square-foot, neo-Baroque monster.
The palace was the official location of the G8 Summit. The photos in Carver’s mind always featured a magnificent red carpet. And the bleachers Sho had described could have been a stand-in for the palace steps. As for the rows of mannequins flanking the red carpet? Japanese soldiers flanked the dignitaries making their way from their cars to the palace.
The Eel made me walk to the 18th floor. To practice the exact shooting conditions, including angle and distance.
As the taxi careened along the winding road, Carver booted up his phone and summoned an aerial map of central Tokyo, zooming in on Akasaka Palace. There were several skyscrapers surrounding the palace grounds, one of which was the Hotel New Otani. At about 350 yards from the Akasaka Palace steps, it was the only hotel in Tokyo that could offer such a magnificently close view of the opening G8 ceremonies.
Carver had never been to the palace, but he had been to the New Otani. Long ago, in the heat of his first and only July in Tokyo, Eri had taken him for Sunday brunch at the hotel restaurant, Trader Vic’s. Home of the Mai Tai! But neither of them actually had Mai Tais that day. He didn’t touch booze back then, but Eri discovered that Sunday brunch included unlimited champagne refills – even if you asked 11 times, as she had. The drinking, combined with the warm weather, caught up with her. Seventy-one minutes into the meal, she slid off her chair.
He recalled with perfect vividness the embarrassment he had felt as he helped his giggling date to her feet. His neck was hot as he noted the wait staff watching, judging. Even with his help, Eri was wobbly as she took her seat again. I’m going to have to carry her home, he had thought, imagining the 12 sticky city blocks between them and the apartment she shared with her parents.
Bad plan, he had decided. His father wasn’t wild about her dating a foreigner, and he would only make things worse by bringing Eri home sweaty and drunk. He ended up splurging for a hotel room, a luxury he could scarcely afford on a student’s wages.
After a brief check-in at the front desk, they had gone up to the 15th floor with a north-facing view of the palace. They had just less than two minutes to enjoy the view before Eri fled to the bathroom. She puked up a vile-smelling concoction of pineapple and rice and eggs as Carver held her hair back behind her. Later, as Eri slept, he reclined on the couch and listened to the couple next door chatting.
Beautiful room, he had thought. Thin walls.
Now the cab stopped at a red light. Something in Carver’s peripheral vision interrupted his trip down memory lane. He noted a crowd of people standing around a giant television in a sports bar. Only they weren’t watching a sports highlight reel. Carver couldn’t tell just what had captured their attention, but he could see footage of black smoke on a vast ocean.
The crowd looked typical for a sports bar anywhere in the world. Mostly men with beer guts wearing oversized jerseys. But he didn’t like the look of shock on their faces. It was the way he remembered people standing around TVs on 9/11. Or the night of the ISIS attacks in Paris. Aghast. Disbelieving.
Carver pressed a wad of cash into the driver’s white-gloved hand, stepped out of the cab and crossed the street. Inside, the stench of unfiltered cigarette smoke was only slightly outdone by the aroma of tempura-fried bar food. Baseball pennants and soccer jerseys hung from the ceiling. Somewhere in the back, a video game bleeped hysterically.
The largest TV was mounted high on the far wall. Carver edged his way past the crowd until he could see the image on the screen for himself.
An American naval destroyer in flames listed badly. U.S. helicopters lifted sailors from lifeboats.
Then the broadcast cut to footage of Chinese President Kang, who was about to make a statement. Kang was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and red tie, but he looked rattled, like a child that had been pushed onstage to perform.
Carver couldn’t understand Chinese, but he understood body language. Whether Kang liked it or not, he was about to deliver an ultimatum.
The White House
The president and her executive team gathered in the Situation Room as the live feed of President Kang’s broadcast played on the room’s main monitor. A translator furnished by the State Department stood behind President Hudson, translating Kang’s statement in real time.
“The American Seventh Fleet created a dangerous situation by occupying waters and territories claimed by China. Our pilots responded appropriately. As a result, the sailors aboard an American destroyer have paid with their lives, and so have our pilots.”
Speers, who had remained standing, scoffed. “Responded appropriately? It was needlessly aggressive!”
The president shushed him and focused on the translator’s voice. “We ask that the United States prevent further incidents by retreating to its established bases in the region. In light of this military escalation, I have suspended plans to attend the G8 so that I might focus on my country’s defense. Know that we will defend ourselves against further aggression, and I promise you, Madam President, our next response to aggression will not be limited to the oceans. “
Kang moved away from the podium, and the monitor cut to black. The president’s chief of staff was next to speak. “Excuse me, Madam President, I have Admiral Bennington on the line.”
The president thanked the translator and waited for him to leave the room. Then she swiveled her chair a half-turn. “Put him on speaker.”
The Admiral’s voice was tinny over the satellite phone. “Madam President,” he said, “A few minutes ago, we intercepted a transmission that you should know about.”
“Go ahead.”
“China has a new forward listening station on one of those islands they built. We were able to intercept some of the chatter off an insecure line. Moments before we lit up the Chinese fighters, one of them radioed in that he wasn’t ‘hot’ when he fired on our destroyer.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it might have been some sort of accident.”
The president leaned back, arms tight against her chest. “Admiral, we all heard Kang say his pilots responded appropriately.”
<
br /> Speers stepped closer to the phone. “Of course he did. Whether it was or wasn’t an accident, he can’t show any weakness now. But if our drone weapons system was hacked, who’s to say those Chinese fighters weren’t hacked too?”
SECDEF Jackson sat forward. “Madam President, we can speculate about what happened all day. But I would like to remind you about the intelligence delivered by Ambassador Nakamura. Remember, Beijing is patterning their strategy after Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine. First, they slipped behind Japanese territory. Next, they occupied the land overtly. After they were discovered, they offered peace talks at the G8. And what did they do then? Step up their activities to fortify their positions. Unless we do something, the next step may be an all-out invasion.”
“Noted. So what do you suggest?”
“A surge. We should quietly put more forces into the region. Flood the East China Sea with submarines that will be in position to strike at the first sign of trouble. And get Special Forces on the ground on those contested islands. We can call them observers, if you want. We can dress them up as missionaries, for all I care. But we have to get into a defensible position before it’s too late.”
President Hudson looked in turn at Speers, the Secretary of Defense, and the Joint Chiefs. A silent poll. Each nodded reluctantly.
Kyoto
After gleaning what he could from Kang’s speech, Carver stepped outside the sports bar to call Eri. He felt sure of the time and place now. Ito had played his hand perfectly. An assassination at the G8 would be the tipping point.
If they were to stop it, they needed to leave for Tokyo tonight.
Eri answered her burner phone on the third ring.
“Hello, Agent Martyr.”
Were his ears playing tricks on him? Agent Martyr was a rhyming nickname she had invented during their first few months living together in D.C. She had passed it off as a term of endearment for a while, but Carver had correctly suspected it was actually a psychological elbow to the ribs. Had she forgotten how it had blown up into a colossal argument one day? Or had she been drinking?
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 26
