He reached down for the two-way radio mounted above the console as he put the field glasses away.
"Sir?" a man's voice said after a burst of static.
Picard thumbed the button. "Yes, McMorgan?"
"All clear, sir. You may pick up your visitor."
"Thank you, McMorgan." Picard slid into the seat and hung up the microphone. He engaged the transmission and drove out of the thick press of jungle surrounding the airstrip.
The pilot dusted himself off as Picard rolled to a stop beside him. He thumbed down the electric window and said, "Get in."
"Your boys play rough, Sacker," Eric De Luca said as he dropped into the seat.
Picard pulled way from the mercenaries, making a slow circle around the Piper that would take them back to the mansion on the other side of the island. "Don't call me Sacker here," he said, referring to the code name the CIA had given him during the fifties. He'd been young then, and especially vicious in pursuing the different quarries they had given him to pursue. He had found his talent in counterattacks in the quiet and deadly little cold war that had blossomed in the wake of World War II. An expert in behind-the-lines assassinations, he'd become known in spy circles as "the quarterback sacker," though he doubted many of the young men who knew him by that name were aware of the reasons behind it. "Most of these men think I'm just an old fart with too much money and a closet full of paranoias."
"So what do I call you?" De Luca asked.
Picard looked at the man and smiled. "My friends call me Philip."
"Philip," De Luca repeated, attracted by the sight of the flora and fauna outside his window.
"This is your first time to the island, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I figured Tuley was pulling my leg when he described this place to me. Jesus, look at all those flowers. Did you have them planted here?"
"No, they're all common to the island," Picard replied. "How did the talk with Winterroad go?"
De Luca turned to face him. "I'm not sure. I gave it to him the way you suggested, told him I thought you were crazy with your idea of saving the United States from the Japanese business influence. The situation was kind of wild and crazy. He caught up with me in Vermont, just like you planned, dead tired just the way you said he'd be."
"Winterroad is like a bull terrier. Once he gets his jaws locked on something he won't let go. That's one of the reasons he's never advanced any farther in the Agency than he has."
"Well, I promise you one thing. Winterroad hasn't lost anything when it comes to working in the dark. He took me out before I ever saw him, and I was damn lucky he knew who he was hunting out there or he would have killed me instead."
"His knowing who you were was one of the things we planned on."
"Yeah, well, I wondered plenty about that very thing while I dragged my ass around in the dark last night." De Luca scratched his stubbled face tiredly and yawned.
"How did he take it when you mentioned the Japanese problem?"
"Like I said, I don't know. It was dark. I couldn't read his face. He didn't try to convince me I was crazy for believing you, but that wouldn't have been one of the topics we were interested in. His partner was busy scouting around for us."
"Harry Vachs?"
"That's the guy. I didn't know you knew about him."
"I know about a lot of things, Eric, remember? I knew enough to send Tuley and his men down to El Salvador and have you busted out of that prison."
"True."
"I've got a file on Vachs. He's a nobody. Winterroad's the man I want. That same dogged determination that keeps him running afoul of Langley will be something I can turn to our advantage, once I convince him his loyalty's in the wrong place." Picard put the car into gear once more.
"What about Tucker?" De Luca asked.
"I can't leverage Tucker," Picard said. "He's part of the new Agency section chiefs. His background is clean from what I've been able to find out, which is one of the reasons Langley has him stationed in Tokyo. They've known for some time that Japan was going to be a hot spot again."
"Too bad," the pilot commented.
Picard nodded, but knew it was more Tucker's misfortune than his.
* * *
"Coffee?" Captain Goro Fujitsu asked as he lifted the pot from the hot plate in one corner of the interrogation room.
Bolan started to shake his head, then nodded. If Fujitsu intended to try to drug him, it would have been done in the hospital. He declined sugar or cream.
The Foreign Affairs man poured two cups, one ceramic and the other plastic. He placed the plastic cup on the table in front of Bolan, staying well out of reach. The liquid was scalding, but he drank it anyway. The last thing a soldier griped about in enemy territory was hot coffee, and he had the feeling that he was definitely in enemy territory.
The interrogation room was small, continuing the overall appearances of the tiny, out-of-the-way police station Fujitsu had found to continue their one-sided conversation. The table between them was short and narrow, framed by four metal chairs. Fujitsu sat comfortably in his by the closed door. So far the Executioner had seen no weapons on the man, but two policemen stood guard just outside.
The pain in Bolan's side had subsided considerably, and the wound in his thigh only twinged when he moved. More than anything else he needed sleep. He stared into Fujitsu's hard eyes and sipped his coffee.
"How well do you know Hal Brognola?" the Foreign Affairs man asked.
"We go back a long way," Bolan replied.
"So you trust him?"
"Yes."
"What about Alan Tucker?"
"I don't know him."
The frown on Fujitsu's face was slight. "Tucker is the CIA section chief on this operation."
"We've never met."
"I do not understand. How could you be brought in on an operation and not know some of the key people?"
"That's the way this one worked out."
"You seem undisturbed by that. Is this a usual occurrence in your job?"
"No, but it happens." Bolan flashed the man a mirthless smile. "It doesn't bother me nearly as much as being told the Japanese police and Foreign Affairs people were working with us on this."
Fujitsu grimaced. "There are reasons that everything is not being, as you would put it, played completely aboveboard."
"There always are."
"You have a very caustic sense of humor."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Bolan sipped his coffee and wondered where the man was headed this time. Fujitsu had a talent for asking the same question nineteen different ways, then pulling a twentieth one out of left field.
"Would you be as ambivalent about the matter if I told you my government has reason to believe that at least one of those two men is a traitor to the mission you have been engaged on?"
Bolan remained silent. His palms soaked up heat from the plastic cup as he wondered how big the hornet's nest was that Brognola had invited him to invade.
* * *
"So Japanese investments are definitely on the downswing in the markets?" Picard asked. He cradled the telephone on his neck while he typed commands into the computer keyboard on the teakwood desk he'd commissioned.
"Shit," Keith Caputo said on the other end, "the goddamn yen flow is drying up like a cow pond in a drought. The federal finance people are getting pretty tense about it, but, hell, you can't blame the Japanese for wanting to keep their investments close to home so that they can keep an eye on them. This shit that's been going on over in the States is really fucking everything up." The financial adviser sounded like a man with his back against the wall. "If this heartbreak don't let up in the next few months, I wouldn't be surprised if they start scraping stockbrokers up from the streets like they did back in 29."
Picard studied the figures and quotes as they streamed across his monitor from the financial man's data base. "It can't be as bad as you're making out," he said. The figures didn't get as emotional as the man at the other end of the phone con
nection, but they bore his words out. Picard enjoyed the triumphant feeling building inside.
"Come on," Caputo said in mock derision, "the Japanese investors pulled us out of that economic disaster of 1987. The falling American dollar that year put the Japanese yen on the map as a viable international commodity. If I remember correctly, you made a pretty good lump of cash from their investments. Remember me asking you how you knew when they'd come across?"
Ignoring the question, Picard switched off the computer and blanked the screen. "So there's no telling how far down the market may go?"
"I'm trying to tell you that at the present rate the market may never get back up again."
"I think you're wrong."
"I'm praying I am."
Picard made a notation in a ledger culled from the desk. "I'm having some money wired to your offices from some of my Zurich accounts," he said. "Feel free to play it in the money market for Japanese interests however you wish to as long as it stays liquid and ready to sink into the market. I'll let you know the properties I want to purchase when I'm ready."
Caputo was hesitant. "How much money are we talking about here?"
"One hundred million dollars."
There was silence at the other end of the connection for a moment. "That's a lot of money."
"You're right. It is."
"Maybe you didn't understand what I said earlier," Caputo said in a hushed voice. "The market's taking a definite downswing because of the attacks on Japanese businesses here in the States. You could stand to lose all of it if you're not careful."
"I've got a hunch." Picard smiled as he waited for the man's coming outburst.
"Jumping Jesus! A hunch? Seriously, tell me you're kidding! God, we've never met, and already I'm going to miss you!"
"Don't worry. I've had all of the high windows taken out of my home. And I really do have a feeling about this. After all, we both got quietly rich during the fall in 87 when everyone around us lost their shirts." Picard soothed the man a few moments more, moving the conversation into small talk.
He left the expensively furnished den in a good mood. Everything was on course now. Soon there would be no way to stop the designs he'd put into motion since 1987.
He found Cherie in the indoor swimming pool in the west wing of the mansion as he knew he would. She was rigorous about her exercise, and the majority of her workout time was spent here. He made himself a drink from the large stock in the portable bar within easy reach of the chaise longue that he sank into.
"You look like the cat who ate the canary," Cherie observed as she stepped from the pool.
"I've had a good morning." He threw her a plush towel.
"Playing boy millionaire again?" she asked with a teasing smile.
Picard nodded and sipped the gin.
"Seriously, how much is too much? I don't know what your assets are, but I know they've got to be considerable. Why do you remain so involved with making money?" She straddled him with the towel around her neck, arms resting on his shoulders.
He touched her face gently, tracing a forefinger down the curve of her cheek. "It isn't the money, my dear. It's the game. Dollars are only a way of keeping score."
The phone rang, and Cherie answered it. "It's for you. It's that man, Tuley." She handed him the receiver and walked back to the pool.
"Ross?"
"We've got a problem," Tuley said gruffly.
"That's why you haven't contacted me in the past twelve hours to let me know how your assignment went?" Picard asked with steel in his words.
Tuley blew out a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was more humble. "The assignment is the problem. I've been dodging interested parties for that whole time and taking stock of our losses. Over half the team you detailed for this has been neutralized."
"How badly?"
"Most of them won't be rejoining us, sir. The others depend on whether they pull through and how hard the locals lean on them."
"I'd learned through CNN that it went pretty badly over there."
"It looked even worse from our side. A lot of good men went down on this one."
"What about the men the local people have?"
"They know how to keep their mouths shut. You know that."
"Good. I've already got three legal staffs working on cutting deals for them with the Japanese government now. I should be hearing about that soon. I don't expect any problems, but it may take some time. In a few days, as things escalate over there, those men should be all but forgotten in the media."
"Understood, sir." There was a pause. "If I could, I'd like to pursue this assignment solo."
"And file it yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"No. Not at this point. Things have already been scheduled that we need to follow through on."
"But, sir, this guy's hell on wheels. We weren't expecting anything like…"
"All the more reason to be patient," Picard interrupted. "You're riding the crest of your emotions at the moment. That's bad enough, but trying to take the assignment on again without researching the subject further is foolish."
"Yes, sir."
"Let me do some more digging and see what I come up with on this end. You just stay with your present agenda."
"Yes, sir."
"And Ross?"
"Sir?"
"I'm counting on you."
"I know. I won't let you down."
"Good. You have another assignment coming up in a few hours, don't you?"
"It's about fifteen hours away."
"Are you staffed for that?"
"Yes, sir. We set up two different teams for the encounters."
"Right. Keep that in mind. Remember, this assignment's even more important than the first."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll get back to you about the other when you call in again." Picard broke the conversation, then dialed a Virginia number from memory. "Gene, this is Picard. I need research done on a Belasko, Michael, currently assigned to Hal Brognola of the Justice Department, and at present stationed in Tokyo. Have that ready for me in one hour." There was hesitation at the other end. "Can do. Gene?"
"Can do, sir." The man sounded reluctant.
Picard grinned. He still owned a few souls in Langley, and the knowledge was comforting. "And, Gene?"
"Yes?"
"I'll also need John Winterroad's extension number."
Chapter Ten
"I am the chief investigating officer of this operation in Tokyo," Fujitsu said as he poured Bolan a refill and placed it on the table. "I have agents in the United States working at that end, but I believe — as the CIA and your President evidently believe — that the root of this problem lies here in Japan." He tapped on the wooden door.
Bolan remained silent as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips and wished Brognola had been able to inform him about the purpose of the current mission before he'd set foot on Japanese soil. The course he'd set for himself since being ambushed had dictated swift reaction, yet it was hard to see how the two things were connected other than as an action to take him out before the opening play. He waited patiently for the Foreign Affairs man to continue.
The door was opened quickly and quietly by one of the uniformed policemen. Fujitsu said something in Japanese, and the man nodded and hurried away. He resumed his seat. "My immediate problem is finding out if the traitor in your ranks is Tucker or Brognola while maintaining protection over Japanese businesses in your country and searching for the supervisor of those actions here."
Bolan noticed the man took care to dismiss the American forces from his investigation except as suspects. "Why tell me this?"
"Because I have pursued the question as far as I am able. I am at an impasse. Do not make the mistake of believing I have told you this because I trust you." Fujitsu sipped his coffee. "I find an interesting paradox set before me. Apparently Brognola and Tucker have been placed together in this investigation by their respective agencies without their consent. And you seem both w
illing and able to choose your own path to follow, leading me to assume you are something of a free agent yourself."
"How did you arrive at this conclusion?"
"I bugged their rooms, of course, and I had directional microphones trained on them every chance I got. I have got hard copy of the first conversation they had when arriving at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as well as the one they had when visiting the homicide zones at the Sumida River." Fujitsu smiled. "As I understand it, Tucker is not convinced about the validity of your identity, either, and seems very concerned by it. After the display at the Sumida River this morning, I cannot say that I blame him."
Bolan let that pass.
A knock sounded at the door. Fujitsu got up and answered it, coming back with a slender file. "So, to flavor the confusion I find around me concerning American involvement in this matter, I want to impart some of the knowledge I have."
Bolan understood the reasoning Fujitsu based his actions on. During some of his own campaigns, the Executioner had found it necessary to rattle some cages to see what turned up just to keep the numbers in play. He sipped his coffee again and kept his eyes away from the manila folder the Foreign Affairs man placed in the center of the table. "Why me?"
"A fair question, Belasko-san, and I have only this to offer." Fujitsu made a fist and tapped his stomach. "Because, in here, I feel that this is the decision I must make. The head rationalizes the situation the same way, which is good, but for different reasons. I understand you to be apart from either Tucker's or Brognola's investigative efforts, yet working in conjunction with them. Evidently you answer more to yourself than they do, judging from the clarity of your decision to follow your own intuitions. You, I feel, will be able to deal with the evidence I am about to give you without resorting to following a chain of command as they will." He smiled. "If you are a free agent in this as I believe you to be, perhaps I can persuade you to help my cause, as well."
"And screw up the working relationship of the American team at the same time."
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