Where was he? How long had he been here? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days?
The throbbing in his skull triggered a vivid memory. He had been at the train station in Kyoto. Two blows to the back of the head had rendered him unconscious. He winced as the full sensory memory hurt all over again. As unpleasant as it was to relive the violence in such clarity, he was, for a moment, at least grateful that his mental faculties were intact.
After that, Carver’s recollection of his journey was sketchy. He had woken once in transit. He recalled the vague sensation of flying – the unpleasant vibration of rotor blades – but he had been unable to stay awake. His inner compass told him they had traveled northeast, toward Tokyo, but he had no evidence other than gut instinct.
The more important question was this: why had he been allowed to live? After all, the Kuromaku had gone to a great deal of trouble to try killing him in Arizona. Why had they not simply finished him off at the train station when they had the chance?
Maybe they wanted information. And now that they had him, they’d stop at nothing to get it.
He thought of Eri. When he was attacked, she had been about to board the bullet train to Tokyo. She had promised him that if they got separated, or if something happened to him, that she would get to the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo and get a message to Julian. He hoped to God that she had gotten on that train.
She did. She made it. She’s heading to the embassy right now. You have to believe that.
He rolled his head slowly from side to side. The notch in his left ear felt wet and spicy all over again. The wound must have been reopened during the attack.
They had taken his shoes and socks. Damn. Those were valuable in captivity. His CIA trainers had taught him a choice bit of tradecraft that he had always followed – to wear paracord as shoelaces at all times.
Paracord was available in every conceivable color, and the type Carver wore looked much like a standard shoelace. It had many uses. The tremendously strong, all-nylon strands did not rot or mildew, and could be utilized in any survival situation. Even in space, as NASA’s 82nd space shuttle crew found when it had to make in-flight repairs to the Hubble Space Telescope.
Paracord could also be braided and frayed in such a way that made for a devastatingly effective whip. But now Carver had another use for it – as a saw. The zip ties that bound his wrists and ankles were industrial strength. Unlike normal zip ties, which could be snapped by bringing his wrists together and jerking them hard against his hipbone, that wasn’t going to work with these. He needed paracord, metal or something else to saw them in two.
Stop dwelling on what you don’t have. Explore the space.
Now he moved his bare feet left, feeling the edge of the futon mat. It was no more than two inches thick.
His right ankle was swollen. No wonder the zip tie was so incredibly tight.
It was coming back to him now. At the train station, the blur of hands and feet as he blocked blow after blow. The flash of pain in his ankle as he had twisted to fend off the attack from behind.
Despite the pain, he forced himself to stand. He needed to know whether he could put weight on it. With some difficulty, he got to his feet. The ankle pain was sharp, but tolerable. Good. It was sprained, but probably not broken.
And the silver lining? Now he scarcely noticed his bruised ribs.
He reached out in front of him in the dark, trying to find a surface. He groped and hopped blindly until he found a wall. It was some sort of rough-textured stone, without creases or tiles.
Carver dragged the futon to the edge of the room and laid on his back. He propped his feet up against the wall, elevating the ankle in hopes of making the swelling go down. He did so knowing that the Kuromaku would no doubt begin interrogating him soon, and a sprained ankle would be the least of his worries.
Still, he had to prepare himself. With that in mind, he began doing a set of crunches. Just like back home in the gym. He had to be strong. Escape was a moral duty, and so long as he was physically able, there was always a chance.
Deep Anchor
Rural Maryland
One by one, the president’s war cabinet arrived in the new emergency command bunker, located six stories below a farm in rural Maryland. While the estimated 10-year construction project was far from completed, its basic facilities were ready enough to serve as a secure temporary haven for the government’s executive branch.
Construction on the secret facility known as Deep Anchor had begun two years earlier when the farm, which had been run continuously by a single family for 71 years, was purchased by the Department of Agriculture. By all appearances, the vast grazing meadows, barns and around 300 head of cattle had remained essentially unchanged. The only difference was that now, the USDA researchers running it used the uncharacteristically rustic facility to research animal phenomics. None had any idea that far below the green facade where they worked, President Hudson and her advisors were preparing for war.
The move to a neutral locale in a heightened security situation was not without precedent. Four days after the 9/11 attacks, President Bush had formed a war cabinet that met at Camp David to outline the new war on terror. But unlike the security situation in 2001, the threat of cyber attacks was now dire. If someone like Nico Gold could infiltrate the Chinese president’s personal network so easily, what was to stop the Chinese themselves from infiltrating the Oval Office?
Now, in a decidedly unfinished war room, the president addressed the newly formed war cabinet from the end of a long walnut table. The Director of National Intelligence, FBI Director, CIA Director, Homeland Security Director, Attorney General, Secretary of State and the Joint Chiefs sat before her.
“Thank you all for coming to Deep Anchor. I realize the impact the additional travel has on your schedules. But due to the sensitive nature of our meeting, I felt the need to work from as secure a location as possible. Now, without further ado, I’d like to turn things over to Dex.”
SECDEF Jackson passed copies of a printed brief around the table. “As you all know,” he said, “Talks between the president and Kang have been rescheduled for the G8. But we should be skeptical. According to the intelligence passed to us by Ambassador Nakamura, China intends to use this time to strengthen its positions militarily and economically.”
Speers scanned the document, which proposed a variety of specific proactive attacks against China’s currency, satellite communications and its domestic energy infrastructure. It also called for the immediate roundup of remaining suspected spies in the United States. And finally, it required Special Forces to occupy several uninhabited islands in the Sea of Japan and the South China Sea. Those positions would be immediately reinforced by naval power.
“Wait,” Speers said, looking up in disbelief. “This is real? Last time we met, our strategy was to shore up our positions. These directives go way beyond that.”
SECDEF Jackson was ready with a response. “Upon further analysis, it’s my belief that the Chinese have been playing an elaborate game of chess for years. The first phase was mass intelligence gathering, stealing our intellectual property, infiltrating our security networks and economic platforms. The second phase was trading pieces to gain a positional advantage. Each side has lost pawns in the game as they tested our defenses and exploited our weaknesses. Now they’ll move in for the kill, unless we move aggressively first.”
Speers combed both fingers through his wavy black hair. “Dex, this plan completely excludes the intelligence we’ve gathered from surveillance on Kang’s offices in Beijing. Those recordings demonstrate that Kang himself is completely oblivious to the nefarious plan you describe.”
“That information is hardly conclusive,” the president countered.
“I realize that. But what we have now should at least constitute reasonable doubt. Dex’s proposal is a serious escalation.”
“Damn right it is,” Jackson said. At this, he stood with his hands flat on the table before him. “We must escalate.�
��
With this, the secretary of state spoke. “Dex, preparing to defend ourselves is one thing. But this...”
“Basketball coaches love to tell their players that defense wins championships. But we all know that’s not really true. The team that scores the most points wins.”
The president motioned for Dex to retake his seat, which he did reluctantly. “This is about ensuring the long-term safety of the United States. And the only way to do that is to check China’s capabilities before they gain an even greater strategic advantage than they already have.”
Speers laid his reading glasses on the paper and turned toward the president. “And what about the G8?”
“I will attend the opening ceremony, and the emperor’s funeral, as planned. Afterward, I will call a press conference in which I will lay out a public case against Chinese aggression. The speech will last approximately 30 minutes. And by the time I read the last word, all the offensive initiatives on this list will be in motion.”
Somewhere in Tokyo
Carver woke as artificial light streamed in through an open slot in the door. A pair of narrow brown eyes appeared, followed by a voice in heavily accented English shouting, “Move back!”
He did so as quickly as he could. The swelling in the sprained ankle had gone down a bit, but it was still weak.
The door unlocked and swung open. Carver was surprised to see an elderly man appear with negi-toro don — minced tuna over rice. There was even a radish garnish on top. The sight and smell of the food sparked hunger pangs. The old man bowed – a shocking cultural quirk, given the circumstances – and placed it just inside the room along with a glass of hot tea and a pitcher of drinking water. Carver moved his head to the right so that he could see the open doorway. As he had expected, the old man had not come alone. A guard with a Heckler & Koch machine pistol slung stood just outside the door.
He closed the door behind him, leaving Carver alone with his meal. Carver held the dish to his nose and inhaled. For what little it was worth, he smelled nothing irregular. If they wanted to drug or poison him, he reasoned, they had a multitude of other options. Still, he had to wonder. Why were they feeding him?
Don’t overthink this. Just eat. You need your strength.
He did. Afterwards, he once again surveyed the room with his hands, searching for possible weapons or tools. A wooden bowl. Chopsticks. A wool blanket.
Nothing of use.
The walls were utterly smooth. There was no way to scale them. That probably did not matter much. He had no proof, but his instinct told him that he was deep underground.
And apart from the two-inch futon cushion, there was no furniture. For a toilet, there was only a hole in the floor.
If only he could get his shoes back.
He lay on his back on the futon, gazing up at the utter darkness. The only way out of the cell, he feared, was through the door.
For that, his ankle would need to be stronger, and the swelling would need to go down. He again propped his feet up on the wall. Then he closed his eyes and visualized his escape.
U.S. Embassy
Tokyo
The CIA’s Tokyo station chief entered the conference room, unsmiling, tearing his coat off. He tossed it in the general direction of the table, pinning his full attention upon the woman standing at the window overlooking the city. He saw that she was athletic, even pretty, but her eyes were hopelessly sad. Steam rose from a cup of freshly brewed tea in her hand.
Earlier this morning, he had received a call from an embassy staffer about the presence of a woman named Eri Sato who had appeared at the embassy gates that morning. She had apparently requested diplomatic asylum in exchange for what she called time-sensitive information about an ex-CIA operative named Blake Carver and a terror threat against the G8.
The station chief figured she was probably a waste of time. Her information was hopelessly outdated. Most everyone in in the intelligence community knew that Carver had resigned his post at the CIA years earlier. Rumor was that he was working in some capacity for the Director of National Intelligence, but there was nothing on file about that. Still, her status as an employee of Japan’s Public Security Intelligence Agency had piqued his curiosity.
“Ohayo gozaimasu,” the station chief said.
“We can talk in English.”
The station chief gestured toward a chair. They both sat down. His eyes danced over her rumpled appearance. “Is that blood on your scarf, Miss Sato?”
“Yes.”
“Is that blood from an accident, or from a violent crime?”
“The latter.”
“I see. Have you been to the police?”
“As I told your assistant, I need to get an urgent message to Julian Speers. It’s from Blake Carver.”
He leaned back in his chair. “So, you’ve seen Agent Carver recently?”
“Put me in contact with Director Speers, and I’ll tell both of you everything you want to know.”
“First, let me put a finer point on my earlier question. Is that Carver’s blood on your scarf?” At that, she simply stared back at him. He let the silence simmer for a few seconds before speaking again. “Okay. Tell me why I should trust you.”
“The same people who destroyed the Chinese embassy in Tripoli are planning something here at the G8.”
He lit a cigarette. The freedom to smoke indoors was one of the many pleasures he had found during his time stationed in Japan. “According to you, or according to the agency you work for?”
“According to Agent Carver.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She stood, turned, and gazed out at the window at the bustling city she had called home for most of her life. “Let’s say you sit on this information, and President Hudson is killed at the G8. Is that something you’re prepared to live with?”
Somewhere in Tokyo
Carver woke as artificial light from the hallway illuminated the cell. He sat up, blinking through the glare. A guard entered and set a chair in the far corner.
A second man stood in the doorway. He was tall and thin, in a narrowly trimmed grey suit. A white silk pocket square puffed from his left vest. His eyes were small under a set of expensive brown eyeglasses. He smiled, revealing narrow, pointy teeth behind large lips.
The Eel. AKA Maru Kobayashi. Prime Minister Ito’s longtime head of security.
“Agent Carver. Meeting a man of your reputation is truly an honor.”
Carver had learned long ago that in most every adversarial conversation, the person talking the least would nearly always win whatever psychological battle was being waged. Of course, in this situation, winning was relative. If the situation between the U.S. and China escalated further, there would be no winners at all.
“I believe you came to Japan to look for the man who ordered your assassination. Congratulations, Agent Carver. He’s standing right in front of you.”
This came as no great shock to Carver. He had assumed as much. He had just one question. “Why?”
“We were already aware of you, of course. But when the embassy bombing happened as planned, you were of no real concern. But you can imagine our surprise when Eri Sato contacted you not just once, but multiple times. We could only assume she had connected the dots between Tripoli and Tokyo. And we could not have any loose ends.”
“So why am I still alive?”
The Eel lit a cigarette. Then he pulled a phone from his pocket. “I want you to call your boss, Julian Speers. Tell him that you have located a Chinese defector here in Japan.”
So that’s it. They want me to feed disinformation back to Washington.
“And what did this defector supposedly tell me?”
The Eel handed him a slip of paper with an address: Lan Kwai House, 5-6 Lan Kwai Fong.
“That’s in Hong Kong,” Carver noted.
“Very good. An apartment. Upon arrival, your American colleagues will find evidence that Chinese hackers were responsible for the recent attack on th
e American stock exchanges.”
Why were the Kuromaku so keen to fan the flames of war between the U.S. and China? Carver needed to stall for time. In another 24 hours, his ankle might be strong enough to bear weight. Maybe then he could figure a way out of this place.
He recalled his initial CIA training for situations like these. It was important to give your captor the impression that he was getting exclusive information. It created an unwritten bond that did not necessarily change the game, but could extend your lifespan a little while longer.
“There’s just one problem,” Carver said. “Julian doesn’t know I’m in Japan. I came on my own.”
The Eel reached into his other jacket pocket. Carver was careful not to wince or shrink away. In situations like this, it was important to seem neither threatening nor threatened. But even Carver could not keep his cool when he saw what was in the Eel’s hand: a photo of his father.
It had been taken from a distance, but there was no question that it was him. Green coveralls, wide-brim hat.
The worst part? It been taken recently. His father was mending a fence near the Two Elk Ranch sign, and the aspen leaves had just started to show their fall colors.
Carver was suddenly conscious of his breathing. Of the sweat that had broken out on his brow. Of the almost irresistible desire to gouge the Eel’s eyes out.
“Agent Carver, if you do as I say, I can guarantee your father’s safety.”
So much for creating a personal bond between him and his captor. Things were apparently moving far too fast for that.
Maybe he could use this to his advantage. He thought of how Eri had tipped him off without raising alarms during her brief captivity. Perhaps he could do the same. “Okay. But I want my shoes back. And a clean pair of socks.”
The Eel folded his arms across his chest. “How strange people are. I would have expected you to beg for your life. Or ask to keep your father’s photo. But shoes and socks?”
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 29
