What the hell is that?
He turned to his computer, double-clicked a file, then ran his finger down the screen. He frowned and picked up the phone. “Hey Linda, is Jerry around? I’ve got something he should take a look at.”
Japan
At dusk Tanner took a taxi into Tanabe and found a secluded shokudo, or neighborhood restaurant. At the front door he was greeted by a smiling hostess who bowed, offered him a pair of cloth slippers, and led him to a table overlooking a small garden. Paper lanterns lined the roof’s overhang.
He started with ocha, or green tea, then had an appetizer of chawan-mushi, a dish of vegetables and steamed shrimp. For the main course he ordered tempura and mizu-taki, a dish of chicken, leeks, and vermicelli boiled in a fish stock. It took all his willpower not to order a second course and simply settle for a pot of hot saki.
He was savoring his second cup when the hostess approached and handed him a small white card:
SATO IEYASU
INSPECTOR, (RETIRED)
CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE BUREAU
Tanner looked up at the hostess, who merely smiled.
Interesting. The CEB was the Japanese equivalent of the FBI. He shrugged. “Ask the inspector to join me, please.”
She returned with a Japanese man in his early sixties. “Mr. Tanner?”
“Inspector Ieyasu.”
Ieyasu nodded and bowed. He was a short man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“What can I do for you?” Tanner asked, gesturing for him to sit.
“It is not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“We have a mutual friend: Walter Oaken. He thought I might be of some help. As I understand it, you found yourself in a bit of trouble last night.”
“I see. At the risk of sounding paranoid—”
Ieyasu raised his hand. “I understand. Call him if you wish. I will wait here.”
Tanner went to the lobby and borrowed the house phone. He waited through two minutes of clicks before Oaken answered.
“Oaks, its me.”
“Funny you should call,” Oaken said.
“I’ll bet. Guess who I’m having dinner with?”
“Sato. Sorry I didn’t have time to warn you.”
“No harm done. Describe him.”
Oaken did so, and Tanner said, “That’s him.”
“If there’s anybody who might have some answers, it’s him. Talk to him, then call me. One piece of advice, though: Don’t get into a saki drinking contest with him. He’s dangerous.”
Tanner laughed. “Okay.”
He hung up and returned to the table.
“Well?” Ieyasu asked.
“Oaks told me not to drink with you.”
For the first time, Inspector Ieyasu smiled. “A wise man, Walter.”
After a second pot of tea, Ieyasu came to business. “What did Walter tell you about me?”
“Aside from the fact that I can trust you, nothing.”
“It’s important you understand that I do not work for your government”
“I do.”
“Walter and I have a long-standing relationship. In matters of mutual interest we have been known to share information. So. Why don’t you start by telling me about the incident”
Tanner did so, giving Ieyasu the same details he gave Dutcher, and finishing with his second sighting of the pickup truck.
“The night of the murder, you saw none of the men’s faces?”
“No.”
“The victim, Umako Ohira, had you ever seen him before?”
“Never.”
“I don’t suppose Inspector Tanaka told you he was assaulted three days ago?”
“Again, no.”
“I’m unsurprised. You see, I know Tanaka. He lives beyond his means, if you understand me. Ohira was very specific about his description of his attackers; he even picked one out of a photo file.”
“For a retiree you certainly have solid information.”
“I have many friends. The man Ohira identified is named Tange Noboru. Your description of the driver at the beach matches him perfectly. Noboru is a former yakuza—what you call the Mafia—enforcer. He now works for one of our largest industrialists—some say for the richest man in Nippon—Hiromasa Takagi.”
“Of Takagi Industries?”
“The same.”
Tanner’s interest was piqued. Takagi Industries was a multinational conglomerate with holdings in everything from textiles to nuclear energy. That alone made Hiromasa Takagi influential, but it was his alleged connection with the Black Ocean Society that most concerned Western intelligence agencies. Though never proven, Black Ocean is said to consist of Japan’s richest men, a group whose clout not only dictated the direction of Japanese industry but also the policies of the Japanese government.
“This man that was murdered last night,” Ieyasu continued, “was an employee of Takagi’s, in his maritime division. He worked as an engineer at the shipyard south of Anan.”
“Let me see if I understand this,” Tanner said. “First Ohira is mugged by Takagi’s chief of security, then three days later he’s shot dead, and the police have missed the connection?”
“I doubt anyone has missed the connection. Certainly not Inspector Tanaka. As you Americans say, he knows where his bread is buttered.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do. Over the past year, eight Takagi employees have either gone missing or have died in accidents.”
“Takagi employees probably number in the thousands, many doing hazardous work,” Tanner countered. “Besides, most conglomerates have skeletons in their closets. Takagi is probably no different.”
“That might be true if there weren’t more to it. Do you remember the Tokyo subway gas attack a few years ago?”
“Of course.”
“I was still with the CIB then. I was assigned to the task force. Eventually, we found an informant who claimed the cult was simply a front. You see, the components used were more sophisticated than the government allowed. This informant alleged a connection between the cult, the Japanese Red Army, and Takagi Industries.”
“What connection?”
“The JRA supplied the material—most of which was very hard to obtain—to make the gas bombs, who was in turn supplied by contacts at Takagi Chemical. I pursued this but was told to stop. I refused, so I was … invited to retire.”
“And you think Ohira’s murder is somehow connected to that?” said Tanner.
“Not necessarily, but his makes nine mysterious deaths of Takagi employees in the last year. Perhaps it is my background, but I have never been a believer in coincidence.”
Tanner smiled; he liked this man. “That makes two of us. You said the previous eight employees either disappeared or had not-so-accidental accidents?”
“That’s correct.”
“So by simply murdering Ohira they broke tradition. I wonder why.”
“That, Mr. Tanner, is a very good question.”
6
Washington, D.C.
The President, DCI Dick Mason, and National Security Adviser James Talbot sat in the Oval Office reviewing the president’s daily brief. Classified top secret and tightly restricted, the PDB offers the president a condensation of what’s new in the world. Over the years, presidents have varied in how they got the PDB’s information. The current president liked to read the PDB personally and in an informal setting. Shirtsleeves, coffee, and bagels were usually the order of the day.
Dick Mason watched the president put down his bagel. He knew which section his boss was reading: a transcript of the Iranian prime minister’s most recent speech to a group of senior Pasdaran officers. The Pasdaran, also known as the Islamic Revolutionary Guards, was one of Iran’s deadliest terrorist exports.
The CIA had long believed the prime min
ister was being influenced by the current ayatollah, which in itself was unremarkable, but the content of this particular speech contradicted the call for reconciliation he’d been spouting for the past eight months. In Mason’s eyes, this meant that while Iran’s goals remained unchanged, their methods were leaning more toward the covert.
“This is an accurate translation, Dick?” the president asked, running his finger along the text. “ ‘At every turn we lure the Great Satan into our traps, and then crush him under our heel like a squirming beetle. We have countless allies, more than there are stars in the heavens, and when the sky rains fire, our enemies will be pushed into the sea.’” The president looked up.
“It’s accurate, sir. But to be fair, we couldn’t expect him to talk nice about us in front of a group of fanatical Pasdaran officers.”
“How much is just talk and how much is real?”
“Not an easy question, Mr. President Islam is more than religion for them; it influences every aspect of their lives, including government. The U.S., along with the rest of the nonbelievers, are evil incarnate. Failing to set us straight jeopardizes their own souls. For them, that’s serious business. The only change we can likely expect is a heavier reliance on covert action. Same goes for Syria and Sudan.”
“Define covert,” said James Talbot.
“Increased use of surrogates, front groups, political interference. In short, deniable operations.”
The president was silent for a few moments. “Okay. Next topic.”
“Still Iran,” said Mason. “Latest estimates have their oil exports down four percent in the last six months, but production itself hasn’t changed. Same with the peripheral industries.”
“Where’s it going?”
“Into diesel production, then storage. This could mean a lot of things, but the clearest analogy we have is the Iran-Iraq war, we saw this same trend in the years prior to it Iran was stockpiling for tanks and trucks and the like.”
“Are you telling me something, Dick?”
“Not necessarily, sir. As I said, there could be any number of reasons. We know next month they’re conducting an army exercise outside Hamadan. They’ve done it at this time every year, four years running.”
“Did they stockpile for previous exercises?” asked Talbot
“No. The point is, though, we’ve got nothing to suggest they’re on the warpath. It does bear watching, and we’re doing that”
“Jim,” the president said to his national security adviser, “OPEC’s meeting in Bahrain next week. Talk to State, see if the Saudis will do a little probing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Dick, what’s next?”
“Syria.”
“Good news or bad news?”
“Good news and undecided news, sir. Routine ELINT shows the Golan is still stable, no changes. But yesterday the NPIC caught a side-lobe image of what looks like a group of Syrian APCs, tanks, and even a few companies of airborne troops making a drop a couple hundred miles south and east of the Bekka.”
“An exercise?”
“It appears so. It’s an odd mix of forces: elements from the First Armored Division and the Seventh and Ninth Mechanized, which will probably be replacing their counterparts in the Bekka in a couple months. It’s a routine rotation, but we’ve never seen them exercise this close to a changeover period. The other elements are remnants from the downsized Golan Task Group—the Third Armored and Tenth and Eleventh Mechanized. On the upside, the Dar’a Task Group isn’t involved; all its units are accounted for.”
“Pretty big exercise,” said Talbot. “They moving in any particular direction?”
“It’s early yet, but it doesn’t look like it. We have no idea about the mission or duration, but it matches previous exercise profiles, if a little larger. The other interesting thing is the commander in charge: General Issam al-Khatib.”
“How do you know he’s in charge?”
“He was at the site.”
“So?”
“We photographed him.”
Both the president and Talbot glanced up in amazement.
“Khatib was formerly in charge of the Saraya and Difa Defense Companies, about twenty-five thousand special forces soldiers, until it was re-formed into Unit five sixty-nine, ostensibly a regular armored and mechanized group,” Mason said. “He’s also part of Assad’s inner circle, fanatically loyal, and an Alawite to boot.”
“Alawite?” said Talbot.
“Assad’s religious sect,” Mason explained. “It’s a Muslim minority group, but it has key members in positions of power in both the government and the military. After Khatib left the defense companies, we lost track of him for a year. There were rumors he was attached to Air Force intelligence, which handles terrorist liaison: recruitment, training, supply, that sort of thing.”
“Is that significant?” asked the president
“Maybe, if it’s true. Like his father, Bashar Assad has always placed someone from his inner circle in those kinds of roles. It could have been nothing more than a career builder. At any rate, wherever Khatib was, he’s in the desert now.”
The president said, “So, bottom line?”
Mason paused. His boss wanted a prediction. Like most laypeople, the president didn’t recognize the difference between capabilities and intentions. In the intelligence community the rule was: Never talk about intentions; talk about capabilities. Talk about what the enemy can do if he decides to do it. Intentions were, after all, products of the human brain, which is an unpredictable organ at best
Mason smiled, spread his hands. “Syria is conducting a military exercise.”
The president smiled. “Okay. Jim, any statements from Syria?”
“No, Mr. President”
“Let’s let ’em know we’re curious. Have State handle it and do it quick, before the Israelis get nervous. Dick, your boys will be paying close attention, I assume?”
“We’ve retasked the bird to include the exercise area in the Golan sweep.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“One thing, sir. SYMMETRY.”
“The Beirut operation.”
“Yes.” Mason briefly explained their loss of Marcus.
“Damn it! How in hell does something like this happen!”
“It just does, sir. Not often, but it does happen. Especially in Beirut”
“So I’ve heard. What are we doing?”
“We’ve ordered the network to go quiet and we’re working the product. Maybe Marcus was onto something we missed. Also, we’re checking OpSec—”
“OpSec?” asked Talbot.
“Operational security. That includes all the communication and cover procedures we had in place: dead letter drops, safe-call locations. As far as who took him, we’re stumped. No ransom, no body … nothing. No one is taking credit for it, either. That worries me. Usually, they can’t wait to let the world know they’ve snatched someone.”
“Suppose this isn’t a routine kidnapping. Suppose somebody took him for a reason,” Talbot said. “What then?”
“If they’ve got him, he will talk. How long he holds out is the only question.”
“And the network?”
“We’d have to assume it’s blown.”
The president took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dick, we’ve got a lot riding on this thing—on that whole damned region—and SYMMETRY is part of the big picture. You know that.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then fix it, Dick. Whatever it takes, fix it.”
7
La Guardia Airport, New York
If polled, any pilot, military or civilian would ran takeoff and landing as the worst times for an in-flight emergency. These are times when the plane and its crew are performing their most complex functions, from braking to throttle adjustments to glide-path trimming. It’s also the time when aircraft is most vulnerable, those moments when i
t’s poised between being a 125-ton aircraft and a lumbering 125-ton bus with wings.
A former Thud driver in Vietnam, Carl Hotchkins was a seventeen-year veteran of the airline industry, the last five of which he’d spent in aircraft just like this 737. Today he was carrying 104 passengers, most returning from vacation in Kingston, Jamaica, and Orlando, Florida.
Crossing the runway threshold at 120 feet, Hotchkins was easing back on the throttle when the explosion came. In the cockpit it sounded like a dull crump, but Hotchkins instinctively knew what it was.
The blast had ripped a hole in the aluminum fuselage just below and aft of the port wing. Fire and shrapnel tore into the passenger cabin, most of it directed upward, but some of it engulfing the passengers on the right side of the aisle. Those opposite them tumbled, still buckled into their seats, through the gaping hole. At the wing root, shrapnel ripped open a pair of fluid lines, both of which immediately began gushing.
Hotchkins reacted instantly. Even as the 737 heeled over, he throttled down and punched a button that immediately sealed the fuel system. With his airspeed dropping rapidly, the landing gear down, and less than sixty feet of air between them and the Tarmac, his first concern was leveling the aircraft. If he could do that, the 737 could almost drop out of the sky, and they’d still have a fair chance of survival.
“Tower, this is Delta nineteen alpha declaring emergency,” Hotchkins radioed.
“Roger, Delta, we see you. Emergency crews rolling. Luck.”
Hotchkins switched to intercom. “Flight crew, prepare for emergency landing.”
“Fuel leak, Carl, port side system,” called the copilot. “Hydraulic malfunction, port side system. The wing took most of it.”
“Yeah,” Hotchkins grunted, struggling with the yoke. “Altitude?”
“Fifty feet … coming level.”
“More flap. Landing gear?”
“Starboard and nose are down and locked. … Shit! Port side’s shows half.”
“Right,” Hotchkins said, and thought: Gotta assume we’re streaming fuel. One spark and we’re gone. And they were going to spark when mat gear collapsed.
End of Enemies Page 6