“Destiny. The spirits have a way of bringing people together who, unbeknownst to each other, are working toward a common purpose.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else. I came to Japan to find the person who ordered my death.”
Ito smiled. “You greatly underestimate your role in history, Agent Carver. You are not famous yet, but you will be.”
“And how’s that?” Carver asked, although he feared he might already know the answer to that question.
“Patience, Agent Carver. This is a great honor for me. I used to dream about what it would be like to dine with the world’s most famous and fascinating people. In that respect, becoming prime minister was like acquiring magical powers. For example, if I want to dine with the world’s most famous physicist, or with the Queen of England, I can arrange it. But of course, when it comes to the dead, I am only left to wonder what it might be like to share a meal with them. For example, I have always wanted to share a meal with Gavrilo Princip.”
The name Gavrilo Princip was a rather esoteric reference these days, but Carver knew his history well. Up until the Kennedy assassination made Lee Harvey Oswald a household name, Princip had been the most notorious killer of the 20th century. His assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria sparked a series of events that caused World War I.
“When most scholars think of the First World War,” Ito continued, “they think of the 38 million people that died as a result of Princip’s treachery. I prefer to think of Gavrilo Princip and his employer, Emperor Taisho, as the great heroes of their time. World War I marked an era of great expansion for the Japanese empire.”
“Everyone knows Japan exploited the war for its own gain. But it seems unlikely that Princip and Emperor Taisho were connected. The emperor was known to have a severe neurological disorder. He was unable to carry out even basic imperial duties, much less influence European affairs.”
“Or so you were led to believe. History is written by the victors.”
As much as Carver hated to admit it, he was riveted by Ito’s story. “I’m listening.”
Ito gestured to the waiter to bring more sake before continuing his tale. “From the time of Emperor Taisho’s birth, the royal family received death threats on his life. And so over the years, they leaked a story that he had contracted lead poisoning as an infant due to the lead-based makeup worn by his wet nurse.”
“You’re suggesting Taisho’s illness was all a ruse?”
“Just so. To create the illusion that he was no longer a threat. They went so far as to withdraw him from school, leading to more rumors that he was sickly and feeble-minded. The plan worked. Like Taisho, Japan was no longer seen as a threat to the world community. Meanwhile, he had in fact benefitted from the finest private education in Asia. He spoke several languages fluently. He was a brilliant tactician. And when his spies in Europe told him of the secret anarchist group Princip belonged to, the Black Hand, he immediately foresaw how Japan might profit from a great war in Europe.”
“Let me guess. Taisho secretly funded the Black Hand, and in doing so, helped start the First World War.”
“Very good, Agent Carver. Taisho convinced Princip that Ferdinand’s assassination would be the spark that would collapse the ruling elite and unite the Slavic territories into an independent nation. And so Princip hired six conspirators. Together, they changed history.”
“And while European and American troops were slaughtered by the millions in trench warfare, Japan captured Germany’s islands in the Far East unopposed. All the while, the country grew into an economic superpower by filling wartime orders placed by its European allies.”
Ito paused to sip his soup. “Your knowledge of history is impressive, Agent Carver.”
“It’s the present that I’m not so clear on.” Carver unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He was burning up. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
Ito downed the rest of his sake. “The wheels of history turn by blood alone, and now, you and I must play our final roles.”
Carver felt dizzy. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Unfortunately, I have found that it is surprisingly difficult to start a war. I have brought down embassies and sunk ships and killed spies and cost both countries billions in economic damage. And yet, China and the United States refuse to fight.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to assume that you can repeat the success of your forbearers. World War I was fought in Europe. The war you’re trying to start will be waged right on your doorstep.”
“As you and your companion have already discovered, the Kuromaku have quietly formed the most lethal army of cyber soldiers on Earth. Our enemies’ fighting machines are dependent on connectivity with external systems, and that is what makes them vulnerable. The ease with which we took control of China’s fighter jets to sink the American destroyer is proof enough of that. All that is needed now is one final shocking provocation. And that’s where you come in.”
Carver understood. He didn’t have to escape to get to the Hotel New Otani. Ito was going to make sure he ended up there. Which got him to thinking about the target. Until now, he had assumed it would be President Hudson. But he now realized that notion had been wrong. If Kang was killed by an American – or at least appeared to be – then the public pressure to retaliate would be enormous. If that happened, there would be no turning back.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Carver said, but his words failed him. His mouth seemed to be filled with cotton.
The sake. There was something in it.
Ito smiled as he watched his counterpart struggle. “The daydream of pacifism prevents the Japanese people from seeing the world as it is. But they will wake up soon enough. And as the U.S. and China cripple one another, the Empire of Japan will once again rise up, with me as its ruler.”
The room spun. The American steadied himself with both hands on the table. He tried to stand, but was unable.
He watched helplessly as Ito rose from the table. “I will treasure the memory of this dinner. Because tomorrow, a new name will join the ranks of the world’s great assassins. Gavrilo Princip, John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald…and Blake Carver.”
Air Force One
Somewhere over the Pacific
Since their departure from Joint Base Andrews, the president had ensconced herself in the Oval Office aboard Air Force One, writing and rewriting her talking points, emerging only occasionally to confer with Speers and her National Security Advisor on the finer points of her speech. The United States military and intelligence forces would be actively engaged in operations during the press conference, making the task particularly tricky. She had to be both transparent and coy at the same time. Unless something changed in the next few hours, this would go down as the most important speech of her presidency.
Although Speers had agreed to get on board with the president’s agenda, he had also not abandoned his own. Barricading himself in one of just three tiny private workspaces on the aircraft, he quietly worked the phones, personally reaching out to field agents in Japan. All were stunned to find themselves speaking to the Director of National Intelligence. The G8 was a powder keg waiting to happen, he told them. They were to close ranks around the city. They were to deploy in and around Akasaka Palace and be an extension of the president’s secret service.
Speers was also mindful that Eri Sato was gathering moss at the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo. If her claims about Ito’s government were true, then it wouldn’t be long before they came for her. Still, in light of the president’s visceral reaction to her claims, Speers had not yet passed her request for political asylum to the Department of State. To do so would be to create another political firestorm from which there would be no coming back.
Perhaps, he hoped, he could find another way to get her out of the country before the entire region was engulfed in war.
The phone on his desk rang. Odd. The caller ID read SUPERMODEL. That was his codename. And it wasn’t
even his phone. He answered.
“Hector?”
“Not quite,” the caller said. Speers would have recognized Nico Gold’s whiny voice anywhere. “Did you enjoy the audio files I sent?”
Speers put his foot against the door so that he wouldn’t be interrupted. “I won’t even ask how you managed to reach me here.”
“Did you enjoy the audio files I sent?” Nico pressed.
Speers reckoned he was asking about the secret recordings from Zhongnanhai. “It was like Christmas. But some people in the White House no longer believe in Santa Claus.”
Nico sighed. “I find Eva’s lack of faith disturbing. But nevertheless, this is a business relationship. Carver and I have arrived at a compensation agreement for my services, which I am still executing in good faith. But he has unfortunately gone dark.”
Speers had no idea what compensation Nico was talking about. The very thought of it made his bowels jitter. He saw no advantage to telling lies regarding Carver’s whereabouts. If anything, perhaps Nico could help. “To be honest, we think Carver has been compromised. His last report looked like disinformation.”
“What kind of disinformation?”
Speers told him everything. It was a Hail Mary. But he had nothing to lose.
Nico was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m working on something that could turn even a scrooge like Eva into a believer.”
Hotel New Otani
Tokyo
9:44 a.m. Carver woke sitting upright. His wrists were bound behind the wooden chair he sat in. His head ached, and his eyes clamped shut in painful protest to the blazing sunlight.
He smelled carpet cleaner. Heard the steady hum of central air conditioning. He rolled his head slowly up, left and right, stretching the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. From somewhere in the distance, another form of white noise crept into his consciousness.
The rumble of traffic. And crowds. I’m in a city.
He tried to swallow. He tasted leather and, unable to see his own face, ran his tongue along the soft edge of it. After a moment, its shape registered. A leather ball gag.
Don’t panic. Breathe through your nose. Slow your heart rate. Everything in its right place.
He tried to move his feet. His ankles were bound to the chair as well. Ever so slowly, he forced his eyes open. What he saw startled him. A wall of glass overlooking central Tokyo.
He was in a hotel. On a high floor. Overlooking the city.
He broke out in an instant sweat, blood pressure skyrocketing. As his eyes adjusted to the view, he saw a labyrinthine concrete jungle that was Tokyo. And in the center of it, about 350 yards from where he was now, a large green pine grove and immaculate gardens. Akasaka Palace. The site of the G8.
Beneath sunny skies, Carver could see that the palace grounds were already crawling with security, no doubt anticipating the arrival of the leaders of the world’s most economically influential countries. The surrounding streets were lined with crowds. And protestors.
The G8 was happening after all. That meant Julian failed. Nico failed. Eri failed.
He heard a click. It was behind him. The door. Someone was coming.
A seemingly random image came to him – the possum he had seen in the road at the Two Elk Ranch. To avoid harm, it had simply played dead.
Carver had played many roles during his intelligence career, but this would be the first time he had ever played possum. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, chin resting against his chest. He let his body go slack until he was dead weight. He let his tongue fall limp against the entrance to his mouth. And he slowed his breathing as he listened to two sets of footsteps crossing the carpet.
The smell of cigarettes and heavy aftershave was overpowering. One of them poked him hard in the shoulder. He allowed his body to jerk forward, but stopped short of falling out of the chair. Carver figured they might try again.
This time the impact hit him hard behind the left shoulder. Again, Carver’s body jerked forward. This time, though, the wooden chair he was strapped to breached its tipping point. He surrendered to the sensation of falling.
Focus. Stay in character. Don’t break your fall.
Carver’s knees hit the mercifully thick carpet first, followed by his face. It hurt more than he had imagined it might, and he heard the frame of the wooden chair – which he now wore like an ungainly backpack – crack behind him.
Still, he did not move so much as a muscle. Did not emit so much as a grunt. He embodied the possum. He was the possum.
He felt fingers on his wrist now. Someone was checking his pulse.
“Is he okay?” the Eel said.
A second man answered affirmatively. “The drugs really knocked him out.”
“Get his fingerprints.”
The man lifted Carver’s right hand and opened it so that his palm faced the ceiling. He felt the unmistakable comfort of a trigger guard. It had the feel of a heavy bolt-action rifle. His index finger was pressed hard against the trigger itself, and his middle finger, third finger and thumb were pressed against the surrounding metal.
Ito’s words surged to the forefront of his mind. Because tomorrow, a new name will join the ranks of the world’s great assassins. Gavrilo Princip, John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald…and Blake Carver.
He had to admire the audacity of the plan. Exiled or not, he was still technically a federal agent. If they succeeded in framing him for the assassination of President Kang, conspiracy theorists and rational people alike would naturally assume it was a government-sanctioned hit.
Unless he could stop it.
Akasaka Palace
Tokyo
The red carpet stretched more than the length of a football field, bisecting the perfectly symmetrical rows of Japanese soldiers in white dress uniforms, snaking up the palace steps, terminating where Prime Minister Ito stood in a black suit and white silk tie. To Ito’s right was a space marked by a square of black carpet, memorializing the spot where the late emperor would have stood.
In future ceremonies, Ito mused, I will occupy both offices.
The flags of the G8 nations flew from the palace steps. The state-commissioned theme song for the G8 blared out of stacks of elevated speakers set around the property. Unlike in recent decades, when the theme song for state events was performed by J-Pop groups, Ito had hand picked a pair of brothers who were virtuosos in the shamisen, a traditional Japanese stringed instrument that looked like a guitar save for its square-shaped body. The accompanying music video played on massive screens, featuring the landscapes of the eight countries represented in the summit,
Everything was perfect, just as Ito had hoped. As the host, he had been the first to walk the red carpet. The Italian PM was up now, marching along to the strains of Italy’s national anthem. Next up would be the British PM and the German Chancellor, each of which would enter as their respective national anthems played in their entirety.
A voice in his ear told him that the Canadian PM’s helicopter would be landing at the far end of the property at any moment. Leaders from the two superpowers – the U.S. and China – would arrive by car.
Ito beamed as he stole a glance at the neighboring Hotel New Otani. The Eel had warned him repeatedly not to look at the shimmering building. There can be no evidence of your involvement. But Ito could not help himself. This was not simply the opening ceremony for the G8. It was the first volley in a battle of civilizations.
Hotel New Otani
As quickly as the Kuromaku had come into the room, Carver heard the two men leave. But something was different. When they had come in, the heavy hotel room door had thudded shut behind them. This time, the sound of the door clasping was slight and tinny.
They had gone into the adjoining suite. He suspected that the real shooter – Sho Kimura – was there as well.
Over the noise of crowds and traffic, he now heard the German national anthem. Deutschland, Deutschland über alles. Über alles in der Welt.
C
arver reckoned the German Chancellor must be walking the red carpet. The time for playing possum was over. He opened his eyes, twisted his body left, and with it, the fractured wooden chair he had collapsed in.
The first order of business was getting free. It was going to be a bit noisy, but hopefully the G8 hoopla would mask the minor racket he was about to make. He flexed his forearms, pulling the chair frame into his back. He heard another crack. Probably one of the chair legs. He jerked harder. He heard the crack spread, but not enough to splinter. He thrashed, left, then right, whipping the chair back and forth behind him like a bronco trying to shed its rider. At last he felt the wood pop and give. He rolled left one final time, and the chair back broke off into pieces.
Finally unsaddled, his hands and feet now free, Carver pulled the gag out of his mouth. He rewarded himself with some deep mouth-breathing. He hadn’t had access to a toothbrush in three days, and the smell of his own breath repulsed him. But man, all that unobstructed oxygen felt good.
His eyes searched the room, finding only a king-sized bed, night tables at either side. A seating area.
Mounted over the bed was a blowfish. Taking into account the one-inch spines all around its body, it was the size of a cantaloupe.
He eyed the door to the adjoining room. One way or another, he was going in. But how?
Near Akasaka Palace
Tokyo
The motorcade carrying President Hudson and Julian Speers wound through block after block of anonymous-looking gray office buildings. As they came within sight of the palace walls, tens of thousands of protesters lined the streets. Police in riot gear formed a line on either side of the street, keeping the crowds at bay.
As the president studied the 70-page G8 economic brief she had been handed this morning, Speers checked his phone for at least the 200th time since landing on Japanese soil. Where was that supposedly world-changing report Nico Gold had promised him? He had promised that it would be like Christmas, Halloween and Easter rolled into one. Speers needed it now. Before the Pentagon could begin executing the secret operation that would take them to a place from which there would be no coming back.
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 31
