Critical Mass

by David Hagberg

  ELIZABETH WAS BACK A FEW MINUTES BEFORE ONE IN THE afternoon with a change of clothes for her father. This time she was dressed in a sheer blouse and skimpy knit miniskirt. She looked like a healthy, extremely sexual young animal, and the sight of her like that took McGarvey’s breath away.

  “Mother is waiting downstairs,” she said, laying the straw bag in which she’d brought the clothes on the end of the bed. “We’re leaving this afternoon from the Baltimore airport.”

  “Did you have any trouble getting back in?” McGarvey asked, getting out of bed, and pulling the clothes out of the bag. “Turn around.”

  She turned away as her father got dressed. “No. I think they like my smile out there.”

  McGarvey chuckled to himself. She was a little girl playing with fire, he thought. But then something else struck him and he looked up at her. She was only a girl in his mind. In reality she was a vital, intelligent young woman.

  “Is the guard still out there?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get him away from the door for a minute so that I can get out of here?”

  “Where are you going?” she asked in a small voice after a moment.

  “To finish what I started,” he answered her. There was no use lying now. Not after what she’d been through.

  “If something happens … I may never see you again.”

  “You will,” McGarvey said, his throat suddenly thick. “Count on it.”

  When he was finished dressing, he took his daughter into his arms and held her closely for a long time. “It’ll be okay, Liz.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “You’ll make it, won’t you, Daddy?”

  “Sure.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now, go wiggle your tush at the guard and get him to show you the way to the cafeteria.”

  She smiled demurely, and left.

  McGarvey waited for a half minute then carefully opened the door a crack. Elizabeth and the guard were gone, and for the moment no one else was in sight. He slipped out into the corridor and headed toward the stairwell door in the opposite direction from the nurses’ station.

  At any moment he expected someone to shout for him to stop, and then come running. But no one did, and a few minutes later he had made his way painfully down three flights of stairs to the ground floor, then along the main corridor to the entry lobby and information desk.

  Otto Rencke, his long hair flying, his sleeveless sweatshirt dirty, and his sneakers untied, came through the front doors and started toward the information desk when he spotted McGarvey. He came over, his expression falling as he got closer.

  “Holy cow, Mac. Do you know that you really look like shit?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you, but wow, I didn’t think you’d be ambulatory, you know. The hotshots across the river have got you half dead.”

  “Did you bring your car?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then get me out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way, and in the meantime you can fill me in.”

  Rencke’s face brightened again. “Kiyoshi Fukai.”

  They were on their way out and McGarvey stumbled and nearly fell on his face. “What?”

  “The bad guy. His name is Kiyoshi Fukai. As in Fukai Semiconductor. Fourth richest man in the world. Worth in excess of twelve billion U.S. But I don’t think that’s his real name.”

  Kathleen was waiting in a cab in front of the hospital, and when McGarvey emerged with Rencke she sat forward in the back seat, her eyes wide. McGarvey nodded to her, but hobbled after Rencke to the parking lot across the driveway. As long as Elizabeth joined her soon she wouldn’t make any noise. And within a few hours they’d be out of the Washington area and relatively safe for the time being.

  Rencke’s “car” was a beat-up green pickup truck, the U.S. Forest Service logo faded but still legible on the doors. Heading away from the hospital, McGarvey caught another glimpse of Kathleen waiting in the taxi, Elizabeth just coming out to her, and he allowed himself to relax a little.

  “Where are we heading?” Rencke asked.

  “You can take me to the Marriott across the river. I’ll catch a cab from there.”

  “Are you going out to Langley?”

  McGarvey nodded. “Now, what makes you think that Kiyoshi Fukai is our bad guy?”

  “Well, it’s actually quite simple once you get on the correct side and look back. But you’ve got to think about all the elements. Sorta like a big jigsaw puzzle, only in four dimensions. We’ve got to add time, you know.”

  McGarvey said nothing.

  “Start out with the man who says he’s Kiyoshi Fukai right now. If you talk about Japanese electronics and research his name will come up every time. For the past few years, he’s been buying up American and British electronics companies … or at least he’s been trying to do it. The feds—our feds who art here in Washington—have been putting the kibosh on his efforts to take over TSI Industries on the West Coast. Silicon Valley. Guess they’re doing too much research in sensitive areas. Word is that it won’t be long before they’re—TSI that is—the number one chip producers worldwide.”

  “If Fukai owns TSI, then he’ll maintain his dominance of the world market.”

  “Owns or destroys,” Rencke said. “So, we’ve got a possible motive, and a man with the money to do something about it. On top of that, Fukai hates America and Americans, and he doesn’t care who he tells it to. Tokyo has tried to shut him up on more than one occasion. And it was probably him, or someone he controls, who is writing anti-American books and distributing them to all the top Japanese businessmen and government honchos. See where I’m going with this?”

  “So far,” McGarvey replied.

  “Of course that profile also fit a number of other fat cats, but Fukai caught my interest because of the background he claims. He says that before and during the war he was nothing more than a humble chauffeur. His is sort of a rags-to-riches story. Only it doesn’t wash.”

  Rencke concentrated on his driving for a minute or two as they entered the District of Columbia at Chevy Chase, the traffic heavy.

  “First of all, humble chauffeurs do not rise to become industrial giants. At least they didn’t in the Japan of the late forties and fifties. But if Fukai had actually done just that he would have crowed about his achievement. But there’s never been a peep out of him.”

  “Then how’d you find out?”

  “Army records. Fukai surfaced at a verification center in Matsuyama in December of 1945, claiming he was Kiyoshi Fukai, the chauffeur. He was friendly and cooperative with the occupying forces, and no one thought to question his identification.”

  “Whose chauffeur was he?”

  Rencke grinned. “Ah, that’s the point, isn’t it? His boss was a man by the name of Isawa Nakamura. A designer and manufacturer of electronic equipment. A black marketeer. A staunch supporter of the Rising Sun’s military complex. A regular user of Korean and Chinese slave labor.”

  “There’s more?” McGarvey asked, knowing there was.

  “You bet,” Rencke said. “Guess where Nakamura’s wife and kiddies were killed?”

  McGarvey shook his head.

  “Nagasaki.”

  McGarvey telephoned Phil Carrara from the Marriott Hotel.

  “I’m coming out by cab. Meet me at the gate.”

  “Where the hell are you?” the DDO demanded. “Your doctors are screaming bloody murder, claiming we’ve kidnapped you, and the FBI wants to know what’s going on.”

  “I’m going to need my gun, my passport, and some clothes and shaving gear.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m going back to Tokyo. I know who’s behind all of this.”

  65

  MCGARVEY FLEW FIRST CLASS FROM WASHINGTON TO LOS Angeles, and then the long haul across the Pacific to Tokyo. The cabin attendants wanted to fuss over him, but on his insisten
ce they left him alone for the most part.

  He took sleeping tablets to make sure he would get some much-needed rest, yet he dreamed about the monastery on Santorini. It was night again, the wind-swept rain beating against the stained glass windows, and Elizabeth’s screams echoing down the long, dank stone corridors. But he couldn’t do a thing to help her; he’d been crucified. His hands and feet had been nailed to the cross above the altar, while the congregation of STASI killers watched him bleed to death.

  Elizabeth was going to die unless he could help her, but it was impossible and he knew it.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Please … Elizabeth … forgive me.”

  McGarvey looked up into the eyes of a flight attendant, an expression of concern on her face. “You must have been having a bad dream,” she spoke softly to him.

  “What time is it?” he asked, still half in his nightmare. He felt distant, almost detached.

  “Seven-thirty in the morning. Tokyo time. We’re about forty minutes out. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” McGarvey said, and the girl helped him raise his seat.

  “The restroom is free,” she suggested.

  “I’ll have the coffee first. And put a shot of brandy in it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling.

  When she was gone, McGarvey raised his windowshade, the morning extremely bright and nearly cloudless. They were flying west, nothing yet but the empty Pacific beneath them. But he got the feeling that somebody was waiting and watching for him to show up. Ernst Spranger or Kiyoshi Fukai. He knew that he would have to fight them both, sooner or later, but he wasn’t at all sure of the outcome.

  Narita International Airport’s Customs and Arrivals hall was a jam-packed mass of humanity. All the Japanese officials, airline representatives and redcaps were courteous, efficient and even outwardly obsequious, though, handling the jostling crowds as if they couldn’t think of anything that would give them more pleasure.

  All a sham, McGarvey wondered, presenting his passport, their smiles no more than a facade over their real emotions? The old newsreels came immediately to mind of the smiling, bowing Japanese diplomats in Washington on the day before the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was an unfair comparison, then and now, yet he couldn’t help but make it.

  “The purpose of your visit, Mr. Fine?” the passport officer asked, looking up.

  “I have business in Nagasaki,” McGarvey answered. “With Fukai Semiconductor.”

  “Yes, very good,” the official said, smiling. He handed back McGarvey’s passport. “Have a pleasant, profitable stay in Japan.”

  “Arigatò,”McGarvey answered, and the official shot him a brief scowl that changed instantly back into a smile.

  In three hours flat Technical Services had come up with a passport and legend for McGarvey as Jack Fine, a sales rep for DataBase Corporation, a small but upcoming competitor of TSI industries. If anyone called the Eau Claire, Wisconsin number, or asked for information to be faxed, they would be told that McGarvey was indeed who he presented himself to be. DataBase Corp was a legitimate company that sometimes acted as a front for the FBI’s CounterIntelligence Division, and in this case as a special favor to the CIA.

  Of course if Spranger was here, and got a look at McGarvey, the fiction would immediately fail. The confrontation would come then and there. He almost hoped it would happen that way.

  Kelley Fuller was waiting for him on the other side of the customs barrier after he’d retrieved his single bag and had it checked. Dressed in a conservatively cut gray business suit, her hair up in a bun in the back, and very little makeup on her face, she looked like somebody’s idea of an executive secretary for an American or Canadian firm.

  He hadn’t expected her to be here like this, but he had to admit he was pleased to see her, and to see that she seemed none the worse for wear.

  “I have a taxi waiting for us,” she said in greeting. “Our train does not leave for another three hours, but we may need that time to reach the train station.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Nagasaki, of course.”

  “But you’re not coming with me.”

  “Yes I am, I have taken a great risk to speak on the telephone for so long with Phil. He thinks the Japanese are becoming sensitive just now about such calls between Tokyo and the U.S.”

  “There’ll probably be a fight. You could get hurt.”

  “Yes,” she said outwardly unperturbed. “Afterwards you will need someone who understands Japanese to speak on your behalf to the authorities. Now, let’s hurry, please.”

  He shuffled as fast as he could to keep up with her across the main ticket hall to the taxi ranks outside. She didn’t say anything to him about his condition, but he noticed her watching how he limped and favored his right side.

  Something had happened to change her in the week since he had left her at the Sunny Days Western Ranch in Shinjuku’s Kabukicho. She was still frightened. He could see that in her eyes, but fear no longer seemed to dominate her as it had before. She’d gained self-confidence; either that or she had, for some reason, resigned herself to her fate, whatever that might be.

  The cab was pleasantly clean and very comfortable. The doors automatically opened and closed for them, and when they were settled the driver took off toward the city at a breakneck speed through the unbelievable morning traffic.

  “What happened while I was gone?” McGarvey asked as they careened onto a crowded freeway.

  Kelley looked over at him. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “If need be I’ll telephone Phil and force him to keep you here, or better yet, order you back to Washington.”

  “No,” she said so sharply that the cabbie looked at them in his rearview mirror.

  “Tell me what happened, then,” McGarvey gently prompted.

  Kelley’s hands were in her lap. She looked down at them, her upper lip quivering, but her eyes remained dry. It was obvious she was trying to hold herself together.

  “I had this friend in Washington. Her name was Lana Toy. We used to work together at the State Department. We were roommates too. Even fought over the same boyfriend a couple years ago.”

  McGarvey thought he knew what was coming.

  “She’s dead. Burned up in a car accident. But it was no accident, you know. That’s how they killed Jim and Ed Mowry … with fire.”

  “Who told you about it?”

  She looked up. “Phil Carrara,” she said. “How else did you think I’d find out?”

  66

  HERMANN BECKER WAS RUNNING LATE, AND HE WAS GETTING the feeling that someone was following him, though he’d been unable to detect any signs of it. He parked his rental car in the Cointrin Airport Holiday Inn parking lot, and walked directly from it, stopping a hundred yards away in the shadows to look back. No one was there.

  It was coming up on 2300 hours, and his Swissair flight to Tokyo was due to take off at midnight. He couldn’t miss the plane because there was no other flight out until tomorrow afternoon, and he had to be in Japan by evening, Tokyo time. But he was worried about more than time.

  Liese Egk had sounded strained on the telephone, but Spranger had sounded worse; so bad in fact that Becker had hardly recognized his voice. But the general’s orders had been clear and concise. The time was now.

  “You must make delivery as planned. There can be no delays for any reason whatsoever. Are you perfectly clear in this?”

  “Yes, of course,” Becker had replied, his mind already racing ahead to the various steps he would have to take to insure his unimpeded arrival in Tokyo and then Nagasaki.

  But the scenario had been worked out in beautiful detail months ago. They’d even made several dry runs with absolutely no difficulties. This time would be no different. Except that Becker was worried about how Spranger had sounded on the telephone, and he had become jumpy.

  Carrying his leather purse under his left arm, Becker, a small, da
rk-complected intense-looking man, entered the hotel, crossed the lobby and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. His room looked out toward the airport terminal a little over a mile away. He was assured that the hotel shuttle would run until the last flights arrived and departed.

  It would take ten minutes to get downstairs and check out. Another ten minutes for the shuttle ride over to the terminal and another ten minutes to check in, which gave him something under twenty minutes to finish here if he wanted to be five or ten minutes early for his flight.

  He threw the deadbolt on his door and slipped the security chain into its slot, then telephoned the front desk.

  “This is Becker in eleven-oh-seven. I’ll be checking out in time to catch a midnight flight. Please have my bill ready.”

  “Yes, mein Herr. Will there be any further room service charges this evening?”

  “No,” Becker said irritably, and he hung up, turning his attention next to the Grundig all-band portable radio receiver.

  With a small Phillips head screwdriver he removed the six fasteners holding the radio’s backplate in place. It unsnapped out of three slots at the top, slid down a fraction of an inch and then pulled directly off, exposing the outermost printed circuit boards.

  Selecting a small nut driver, he loosened four fasteners holding the power supply board in place, and carefully eased it outward to the limit of its soldered wires. Using a tiny propane torch about half the size of a ballpoint pen, he unsoldered three of the wires, and swung the power supply board completely out of the way, exposing the circuit board containing the first and second IF stages, and a series of low-and high-pass filters.

  Working again with the torch, Becker unsoldered fourteen of the filters and removed them. The tiny devices were each housed in a pale gray metal container a little less than a quarter-inch long, and half that in thickness and width.

  These he took into the bathroom, wrapped them in tissue paper and flushed them down the toilet.

  Back at his work table he took a small plastic box out of his purse, opened it and from within drew out a tiny device to which a pair of wires were attached. Oblong in shape, the triggering device, which had been designed and manufactured by the Swiss firm of ModTec, was not much larger than the filters he’d removed from the radio.