There was a thump, a scream of what he assumed was recognition, then a concussive blast that traversed the length of the hallway to shove the windows from their frames in an explosion of shattered glass.
Partially deafened from the blast, Bolan reached for another grenade, pulled the pin and heaved it into the middle of the room. The explosion sounded just as he triggered another burst from the Uzi that let him into the second room. This room was immense, honeycombed from the rooms behind and around it, and filled with furniture that allowed it to become a bedroom, living room, kitchen or anything else a director wanted it to be.
He moved on to the next room, ears ringing from the two grenades, sweeping his eyes back and forth in case the blast hadn't taken out all of the pursuit. The woman remained huddled against the wall, covering her head with her arms. The third room contained developing chemicals and equipment. He tossed a grenade inside and ran toward the woman, wanting to make sure she got out of the building in one piece. He locked his fingers around her elbow just as the grenade went off. The blast seemed to shake the building.
"You're dead, Yank," Gina reminded him.
"Not yet, at any rate."
"How will they get in touch with you?"
"I'll get in touch with them. Give me a number where I can reach you."
She hesitated, then gave him one.
"Tell Ishikure that I'll call once and only once every hour. If I don't get an answer, something else burns. Hosaka isn't part of the Yakuza family. He wants to be, but they won't protect him. Tell Ishikure I know that, too."
Dragging her toward the exit, Bolan mentally moved on to the next strike. The pressure was now on, and the Executioner wasn't going to let up.
Chapter Seventeen
Wolf Trap Park Farm was just about deserted when Winterroad arrived. He kept the windows up and the air-conditioning on high. The quick shower and change of clothes had done wonders toward reenergizing him, but a tremor at the core of Winterroad's Agency persona troubled him over the meeting with Sacker.
He shifted in the bucket seat again, struggling to find a comfortable position where the Chief's .38 Special tucked into his waistband wouldn't scrape against his backbone. He didn't want to attempt hiding the pistol there as he got out of the car because Sacker's trained eye would spot the movement immediately, and he definitely didn't want to go unarmed.
His palms were sweating, and he rubbed them across his thighs to dry them. The physical reality of the tension he tried to conceal from himself amused him.
He followed the winding road past the red cedarwood amphitheater that was the park's primary attraction. Ballet, jazz, opera and dance were all there during the heavy season, followed by and preceded by an impressive schedule of nationally known folk and acoustic acts in the Barns. Usually, when he got the chance to attend, he skipped the big productions and favored the smaller groups. The atmosphere was more intimate and rustic, qualities he found himself in need of after getting back from international assignments that took him away from home for long periods.
He switched off the radio, stroked his pants pocket where the extra five rounds for the .38 were mixed in with three another burst from the Uzi that let him into the second room. This room was immense, honeycombed from the rooms behind and around it, and filled with furniture that allowed it to become a bedroom, living room, kitchen or anything else a director wanted it to be.
He moved on to the next room, ears ringing from the two grenades, sweeping his eyes back and forth in case the blast hadn't taken out all of the pursuit. The woman remained huddled against the wall, covering her head with her arms. The third room contained developing chemicals and equipment. He tossed a grenade inside and ran toward the woman, wanting to make sure she got out of the building in one piece. He locked his fingers around her elbow just as the grenade went off. The blast seemed to shake the building.
"You're dead, Yank," Gina reminded him.
"Not yet, at any rate."
"How will they get in touch with you?"
"I'll get in touch with them. Give me a number where I can reach you."
She hesitated, then gave him one.
"Tell Ishikure that I'll call once and only once every hour. If I don't get an answer, something else burns. Hosaka isn't part of the Yakuza family. He wants to be, but they won't protect him. Tell Ishikure I know that, too."
Dragging her toward the exit, Bolan mentally moved on to the next strike. The pressure was now on, and the Executioner wasn't going to let up.
Chapter Seventeen
Wolf Trap Park Farm was just about deserted when Winterroad arrived. He kept the windows up and the air-conditioning on high. The quick shower and change of clothes had done wonders toward reenergizing him, but a tremor at the core of Winterroad's Agency persona troubled him over the meeting with Sacker.
He shifted in the bucket seat again, struggling to find a comfortable position where the Chief's .38 Special tucked into his waistband wouldn't scrape against his backbone. He didn't want to attempt hiding the pistol there as he got out of the car because Sacker's trained eye would spot the movement immediately, and he definitely didn't want to go unarmed.
His palms were sweating, and he rubbed them across his thighs to dry them. The physical reality of the tension he tried to conceal from himself amused him.
He followed the winding road past the red cedarwood amphitheater that was the park's primary attraction. Ballet, jazz, opera and dance were all there during the heavy season, followed by and preceded by an impressive schedule of nationally known folk and acoustic acts in the Barns. Usually, when he got the chance to attend, he skipped the big productions and favored the smaller groups. The atmosphere was more intimate and rustic, qualities he found himself in need of after getting back from international assignments that took him away from home for long periods.
He switched off the radio, stroked his pants pocket where the extra five rounds for the .38 were mixed in with three dollars' worth of quarters he'd purchased at his bank to disguise their presence, and let the silence push him into the professional thinking that had kept him alive. Almost ten minutes later he found Sacker just where the man had said he would be.
Winterroad pulled his car into the parking area provided at the side of the byway beside the new gold-colored Lincoln Continental. He took a moment to study the lay of the land before getting out. The Chiefs felt like an iron taped to his spine.
Sacker sat in a lawn chair under the spreading branches of an elm tree. Winterroad felt he could have picked the man out of a crowd of a thousand people within an eye blink. Sacker wore loose slacks, a golf shirt, sunglasses and brilliant white tennis shoes.
As the agent closed the door behind him, he tried to remember how long it had been since he'd seen the man. It shocked him to realize almost twelve years had passed.
Sacker smiled and stood. "Hello, John."
Winterroad shook the man's hand. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting."
"Not at all." The creak of age was noticeably absent from the man's voice.
Glancing at the foliage surrounding them, Winterroad couldn't help but search for the people he was sure Sacker would have watching them.
A slow grin spread across Sacker's face. "They're there. There's no need to check." He held up a hand with three fingers extended. "There's three of them, all crack shots, all positioned so that at least two of them will have a clear shot at all times." He let the hand drop away. "You wouldn't have expected anything less, would you?"
Trying not to show how the thought of three snipers looking at him through their scopes affected him, Winterroad shook his head. "No, I guess not."
"Just as I didn't expect you to come unarmed."
Winterroad felt his cheeks burn.
Walking back to the Continental, Sacker retrieved a small red-and-white ice chest and a blanket from the back seat. He gave them to Winterroad while he stored the lawn chair in the trunk and locked the car, then took them back.
Falling i
n behind the older man, Winterroad tried to pick out the positions of the snipers.
"Have you found them?" Sacker asked without turning around.
"No."
The man laughed. "If you knew where they were, would it make you feel any better?"
"Probably not."
"It might even make you feel less secure."
Sacker stopped, not surprising Winterroad by choosing an area that was relatively free of low-hanging branches that would interfere with a sniper's line of fire. He spread out the blanket and sat down in a lotus position with ease. "Sit down. We came here to talk, remember? We're just two old friends." Winterroad sat. "And take that pistol out of your waistband. It must be uncomfortable as hell." Sacker held up a hand.
Winterroad pulled the .38 into view quickly and tucked it under his thigh. Sacker lowered his hand. "Please don't try to touch it again without telling me first."
"All right." Winterroad's throat was dry as his mind tumbled through queries concerning what fraction of a pound of pull he'd been away from death while moving the Chiefs.
"I took the liberty of selecting a wine," Sacker said as he pulled a wine bottle from the ice chest. He held it out, displaying the label.
Winterroad glanced at it but didn't feel enlightened. Wine had never been his drink of choice. His taste ran more to beer and wine coolers.
"Rye bread or white?" Sacker asked, holding up two loaves.
Feeling silly for making a decision like that while three snipers kept him in their cross hairs, Winterroad said, "Rye." But this whole picnic scene fitted in with the way Sacker handled his affairs — always simple, and he was always in control.
Sacker shook out a small red-and-white checked tablecloth and littered it with mustard, mayonnaise and ketchup, covered dishes containing sweet and dill pickles, onions, sliced tomatoes and lettuce, packages of cheeses, pastrami, ham and salami. A plastic pouch held silverware. The wineglasses, individually wrapped, were chilled, as well. Sacker poured without spilling a drop. Winterroad hoped his hand didn't shake as he accepted the glass.
"To your health," Sacker said, lifting his glass.
"And yours." Winterroad sipped, finding the wine almost too dry for his taste.
Sacker assembled a sandwich as he spoke. Winterroad watched the man, his eye drawn to the small red-and-yellow kite fluttering in the morning breeze over Sacker's shoulder. Other people, couples, families, a few individuals, occupied different areas in the distance. "I've talked to Eric De Luca recently," the man said.
"How recently?" Winterroad couldn't keep the suspicion from his voice.
"Since the night you let him go."
"Maybe that was a mistake," Winterroad said as he picked up two pieces of bread.
"Letting him go?" Sacker shook his head. "Probably the smartest thing you've done in the past few years. It reminded me that you were out there and let me know you might be interested in our cause."
Winterroad didn't comment as he finished making his sandwich. "The cause being the Japanese economic base in the United States?" he finally asked.
"Yes."
"When De Luca told me that, I thought you'd have to be insane to try to fight Japanese profits."
Sacker smiled, taking no offense. "We've fought for a lot of lost causes over the years. Why should this one be any different? Vietnam, Nicaragua, El Salvador, the list goes on. Only now the war's finally starting to take shape here in our own backyard."
"You really believe that?"
"You bet your ass I do. Look around you. Everywhere you look someone in this country is trying to get into the pockets of some foreign investor. It isn't just the national government, either. State governments, hell, city and town councils are just as guilty of trying to sell their souls for the wealth the Japanese and other countries have to pour into our empty coffers. Japan, in recent years, has become the third largest investor in this country, after the British and the Dutch. They buy the third largest amount of U.S. Savings Bonds, own banks, car dealerships and assembly plants, half of the National Steel Corporation, twelve and a half percent of Goldman Sachs & Co., thirteen percent of Shearson Lehman Brothers, and a whole cross section of American businesses and real estate. The Japanese have invaded politics in a big way, and it's getting larger. By having plants and businesses within the continental United States, they've assured themselves of lobbyists to take care of them before both houses of Congress. Remember the Tennessee senatorial election a few years ago that sparked the debate over the Nissan U.S.A. people?"
"No."
"The Tennessee junior executive up for reelection discovered that his opponent was receiving political and financial support from the Nissan people through the American executives. The junior exec was on the outs with the Japanese because of his neutrality on a bill that would require a portion of every car sold in the United States to be manufactured in the United States. Their guy opposed such legislation. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. What are we going to find out when we start kicking over the rest of the rocks?"
Winterroad watched the man in silence, feeling the old and familiar pull of the words.
"What I'm trying to do is get the American people to start looking, to start kicking over those rocks and seeing the slugs beneath. They should get mad about it. They should see how much of this great land has already been sold out by people who are living for today and to hell with tomorrow. I want to wake them up. We're suckling a parasitic viper, and it's becoming a drug even more dangerous and even more addictive than any chemical dependency could be."
Winterroad finished his sandwich and felt it sit at the bottom of his stomach like a lump of grease. The thought of all the deaths connected to the man sitting across from him swirled through his mind. "Where do I fit into this?"
Sacker refilled their glasses. "I need good people. This country needs good people. For my money, you're one of the best. You always have been, even though those assholes in Langley have trouble understanding that."
Winterroad kept his face neutral. He had forgotten how persuasive Sacker could be, how the man could play to a person's vanities.
"The post-cold war existence is over," Sacker continued. "The chess game between the behind-the-scenes armies of the United States and Russia have outlived their usefulness, and their affordability. There's a new world emerging out there, and for America to become a part of it, we're going to have to play catch-up for a while. The good life's over, and it's going to take work to put us back on top. It's back to basics. The bottom line is the dollar — and people are beginning to see that now."
"Why have you been staging the hits on the Japanese businessmen in the States?" Winterroad asked.
"If you go back to the files and look," Sacker said, "you'll see that every one of those businesses was owned by a member of the proposed consortium Joji Hosaka is assembling in Tokyo. If Hosaka is able to weld those people into a cohesive unit, it could spell a sudden demise for the American economy. Ever since the 1987 save by the Japanese, economists have been warning that a sudden sellout by those same people could trigger a fall that Wall Street would never recover from." He paused. "People used to fear the atomic bomb. Can you imagine what it would be like for the United States to suddenly go belly-up?"
The words created harsh and frightening images inside Winterroad's head.
"People would be out of work. Things like televisions, radios, other technological devices that we take for granted in our everyday life, would be gone. You'd see this country ripped apart by looters, criminals and whoever else decided to cross our borders to pick the bones." Sacker made a fist. "That's what I'm fighting for — our right to survive. By attacking these people, by exposing them for what they really are and the fact that they couldn't care less about us, I'm going to wake some people up to the threat of their existence. To recover, the American economy would have to have a new infusion of capital to get back into assembling a lot of the things we need every day, but where would we get it? Other countries inves
t in us now because they can make money off the deal. What if they couldn't? Do you think they'd be interested in helping us?"
Winterroad didn't reply. The nightmare Sacker had described seemed all too real, too near.
"It's your fight, too," Sacker went on. "And I can promise you'll get more out of it than the pension you're hanging on to your Agency job for. You were never one to wait around for the glory. You've dwelt in the shadows for a long time, nurturing yourself with the thought that you did the best job you could on something that really mattered. I want to give that sense of honor and self-respect back to you. This is where the real battle for America's future is, and I'm guiding the front line."
Winterroad rolled up the napkin, carefully brushing the crumbs onto the blanket.
"What's it going to be?" Sacker asked.
A small boy topped a hill in the distance, tugging a stubborn kite after him that refused to get airborne. Winterroad tried to imagine the park filled with the desperate people Sacker had described. "I'm in," he said quietly.
* * *
Philip Picard, aka Sacker, pulled into the early-morning traffic coursing through Vienna, Virginia. He lifted the mobile telephone, punched a two-digit number programmed into his speed dialing and said, "Report."
The man's voice at the other end was crisp and efficient. "Winterroad's leaving now, sir. There are no other vehicles in sight that appear to be covering him."
Picard pressed harder on the accelerator as he steered around a silver travel trailer. "Good. Stay on him. Make sure the four teams move in constant rotation. Winterroad is good. Don't think for a moment he isn't."
"Yes, sir."
Breaking the connection, Picard dialed another number. Cherie answered, her voice cool honey. "Miss me?" he asked, unable to avoid the grin reflected in his rearview mirror.
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