"Ummm!" she said. "This is really very good."
"Mango, carrot, apple, celery, kiwi fruit, sorrel, parsley, red peppers, and…"
Kathleen looked at her husband. "What?" she said firmly.
"Ingredient X," said Fitzduane. "I'm like the Coca-Cola company. I keep my recipes secret. There could be billions at stake."
"Talk!" commanded Kathleen. She took another long sip. It really was extremely good. The straw got blocked and she drank straight from the glass.
"You've got froth on your nose," said Fitzduane. "It's quite becoming when you're naked. It sort of balances out your pubic hair."
"Where?" said Kathleen.
Fitzduane put down his glass. "Working from the top," he said, "if you put a fingertip on your nose and then follow it down over your mouth and chin and between your breasts and then down to your tummy button and keep on going… You find your public hair. And my hand. And you feel gorgeous."
"That's not quite what I meant," said Kathleen, her voice a little thick as Fitzduane worked on her.
Fitzduane did not reply. At the time he physically could not, since his mouth was otherwise engaged. Later on, as he entered his wife, she seemed, in turn, to be otherwise preoccupied. His nipples tingled as she tongued them, and later on she did other things.
It went on for some considerable time. There was definitely something to the idea, Kathleen thought as waves of pleasure repeated again and again and gradually subsided, that juicing promoted stamina. "What is ingredient X?" she asked dreamingly as she surfaced.
"Your wife has to be pregnant," said Fitzduane.
"You're a maniac, Hugo," said Kathleen, "and I love you."
"And love doesn’t hurt either," said Fitzduane. "But for true ecstasy, you want to add a little broccoli ginger."
*****
Their earlier conversation had focused on Reiko Oshima and Fitzduane's refusal of the mission. And then other matters had distracted them.
Now, after they had made love and eaten, they talked late until the early hours. There was much that Fitzduane would have preferred to keep for Kathleen, but that was not the way it worked. Kathleen, he felt, had earned the right to know. In truth, she did not have to earn anything. He loved her. Their child was in her womb.
"Apart from Lee Cochrane and Zarra, a whole bunch of people talked," he said. "I'll try and summarize it."
"Start with Tecuno," said Kathleen. "I'm curious to know how one state can act as if it is an independent country. Surely the Mexican government would bring it into line?"
Fitzduane smiled. "When is an independent nation truly a separate country?" he said. "It is not as simple as a geographical accident. Mostly, it is what people and power and what people can get away with. In essence, might wins. That's history in two words. Look at Ireland. It was four separate self-ruling provinces until the Normans invaded. Then it became officially British and, perversely, united. Now twenty-six counties are independent and Irish, and six counties are British. Is it a coincidence that nearly twenty thousand British troops are stationed in the North? I'm not taking sides here, merely illustrating a point."
"Might is right?"
"Close enough," said Fitzduane. "Basically I am saying that if you have the will and enough firepower, you can get away with it. Suddenly you are a nation. Strength apart, there are no inherent ground rules to this thing. As General Nathan Forrest said – more or less: ‘The secret of success is to be the firstest with the mostest.’"
Kathleen laughed. Hugo believed in doing the right thing more than most people she had encountered in her life, but he liked to talk on occasion as if he was pragmatic. His friend Shane Kilmara was pragmatic. Fitzduane would die an idealist, and she loved him for it. He was old enough to know better, but he would not change. He could assess the actuality of a situation as well as anyone, and better than most. But he was a romantic.
"Mexico is a big place," said Fitzduane, "and Diego Quintana, the governor of Tecuno, is a very shrewd man. On the one hand, he has steadily built up his power base in Tecuno to the point where he can do exactly what he wants, and to further consolidate his position, he is a leading mover and shaker of the PRI, the ruling party in Mexico since before Hitler invaded France.
"Quintana's PRI involvement means that no one will ever move against him as long as the PRI are in power. He is one of the people who run the whole of Mexico, so no one is going to worry too much about his own backyard. Also, you must realize that Tecuno is in the middle of nowhere. People think Mexico City or Acapulco when they think of Mexico. Or maybe Guadalajara or Tijuana. Who, outside Mexico, ever heard of Chiapas until recently? Well, now you have a picture of Tecuno.
"Tecuno is Quintana's private fiefdom. Not only is he one of the most powerful men in Mexico, but conveniently his cousin, General Luis Barragan, runs all the police and security forces of Tecuno.
"Quintana is a great believer in family. You want a rough parallel? Think Noriega in Panama or Saddam Hussein in Iraq. The only difference here is that Quintana has constructed his state within the borders of another. But that does not mean he will keep it there. Tecuno could shoot for independence. It won't be the first time a piece of a large entity broke away. Look at the United States of America. It used to belong to the British Empire."
Kathleen absorbed what she was hearing. Like most people in Western democracies, she had been brought up to believe in the primacy of governments and official structures and institutions and the rule of law, and in her earlier life had not really questioned these assumptions.
But living in Fitzduane's world had opened her eyes. She now was beginning to understand the fragility of so many human institutions, and the many hidden forces that swirled around them – and in so many cases actually dominated them. The public face of power was often not where the real power lay.
"It would seem to me," she said, "that Governor Diego Quintana is sitting pretty as long as his party stays in power. On the other hand, if Valiente Zarra gets enough popular backing, then who knows. But can Zarra ever get elected?"
"He could," said Fitzduane. "Mexico needs international investment and access to the U.S. and world markets big time, so a strong group of realists wants to portray the country as a thriving, growing economy with a genuinely democratically elected government.
"The means PRI's traditional approach of playing ‘stuff the ballot box’ or publicly taking a machete to your opponent and serving him up in tortillas is frowned upon. It makes for bad press.
"Quintana has emerged as the main focus of opposition to Zarra. And Quintana is not the kind of person it is much fun to be up against. Zarra and his people began to get extremely worried. No one was killed publicly, but key Zarristas started disappearing – permanently. Major financial contributors started to get cold feet."
Kathleen pursed her lips. She had, considered Fitzduane, decidedly kissable lips. She was also, he kept on finding, a very sharp lady.
"So," Kathleen deduced, "Zarra decided to do some serious investigation of Quintana. He called upon his old university buddy, gringo Lee Cochrane, for some help, and Patricio Nicanor was sent in to Tecuno to sniff around.
"But why Patricio?" she mused. "Let me think. First of all, he must be a Zarrista – because otherwise why would Zarra and Cochrane trust him? – but secondly, he must have some connection with Quintana which would give him some access. So, since we are talking about Mexico, maybe we're back to family. Patricio Nicanor was related one way or another to Quintana or one of his people."
Fitzduane grinned. "Patricio was General Luis Barragan's brother-in-law," he said, "and he was an engineer by training and apparently a very good one. He was also a qualified metallurgist. Barragan need such a man and naturally turned to a relative. Blood would have been better, but Patricio would do. He was still better than a stranger.
"However, Barragan did not know that Patricio was a Zarra supporter. So Patricio went to Zarra, who introduced him to Cochrane, and together they mounted a series of p
enetration operations of Tecuno.
"At first, all they got was useful but relatively low-grade intelligence because Patricio was working in a lab in TecunoCity, but then he got moved to a highly classified base in a place called the Devil's Footprint. Nothing for several months, because even senior employees are restricted to the compound and access to the outer world is strictly controlled, and then Patricio made a run for it. I don't know what went wrong, but his cover was blown and the word put out. I guess they had a shrewd idea where he was heading, or maybe he was followed. And the rest you know. It was a nasty way to die, but they were determined he wouldn't talk. And he surely didn't."
"But surely he brought something with him," said Kathleen. "By the sound of it, he was an intelligent man and he was a scientist. He would have brought notes or tapes or negatives or something."
Fitzduane gave a vaguely frustrating shrug. "Two packages were found on Patricio's body," he said. "Clearly, he considered the material important, because they were concealed and strapped to him under his jacket. One package contained a layout of the base and the diagram of what they say is some kind of computerized controller. The other consisted of a small metal bar and some chips of concrete.
"A controller for what?" said Kathleen.
"The lab thinks gas," said Fitzduane. "It controls the precise blending of gas. There is a self-monitoring facility built in and the processes are triplicated, and all three have to agree or the procedure is shut down. So whatever the system is, precision is vital."
"Any idea what gases," said Kathleen.
"We don't know," said Fitzduane, "except that there are indications that the quantities involved would be substantial."
"Does the layout of the base give any hints?" said Kathleen.
"It might have if it had been completed," said Fitzduane, "but though there is considerable detail of the perimeter fencing, guard posts and the like, most of the explanations are missing. It looks as if he started off with what he could see and was adding the rest as he discovered what other buildings were for. Different pens were used, for instance. Anyway, he never finished it."
"What about the metal bar?" said Kathleen. "Uranium? Plutonium? Radioactive who-knows-what? Something sexy like that?"
Fitzduane smiled slightly and shook his head. "There were no abnormal radiation readings from either the metal or Patricio's body" – he saw the question on Kathleen's face – "nor from the concrete chips."
Kathleen wrinkled her nose in mock irritation. "So what was the metal?"
"Steel," said Fitzduane, "a high-grade but relatively common steel. Maraging steel, it is called."
"It sounds like a cooking process," said Kathleen. "First ‘marage’ your steel. Then add seasoning."
"That's not so far from the way it is," said Fitzduane. "Though the final use can be less domestic. The stuff is used for all kinds of critical applications – including weapons."
"Gas, concrete, and weapons-grade steel," said Kathleen, "in a heavily guarded remote base. This does not sound like a good thing."
"Maybe not," said Fitzduane. "But they all constitute elements in a high-tech oil research facility – and that is exactly what this is supposed to be."
"What are they doing there?"
"Tecuno is mostly on a plateau," said Fitzduane. "High desert. In that part of the world, that translates into rocky, shale-festooned, waterless terrain. Blazing hot days. Freezing nights. The Badlands of New Mexico, only much worse. Most of the country is deserted since the Tuscalero Indians were wiped out. So what are you left with?"
"Oil," said Kathleen. "I don't just read the backs of cereal packages."
"Oil," agreed Fitzduane. "And a very large quantity of it. Only, some of it is locked into porous rock formations and the big question is how to get it out. So one idea is to force something or other in so that the oil comes out. Like steam or gas, for instance. Lots of stuff like that, only under high pressure. You are trying to force the stuff out of rock, after all. And rock is bloody hard stuff even when geologists describe it as porous. If I hit you on the head with a porous rock you would not be pleased."
"I'd kick you in the balls," said Kathleen, "and with precision. As to all this high-pressure stuff, I assume that is an application for maraging steel."
"So they say," said Fitzduane. "So there's your answer."
"Why did they kill Patricio?" said Kathleen.
"Maybe they didn't," said Fitzduane. "The killers were all Japanese."
"Which brings us back to Reiko Oshima," said Kathleen. "Who is supposed to be dead but seems to have surfaced. Where was she seen?"
"Tecuno," said Fitzduane, "by the CIA."
Kathleen looked genuinely puzzled. "I thought the CIA would not talk to Cochrane's people. They regard the Task Force as an impertinence. A congressional sub-committee should not be involved in counterterrorism."
"That is the official line," said Fitzduane. "But they also read and use the Task Force's stuff. Otherwise, how old they know what Cochrane and his boys are up to? Even more to the point, institutions aren't monolithic. Hell, some CIA even talk to the FBI, though only in parking lots with paper bags over their heads. Or so they tell me."
"This is cuckoo land," Said Kathleen.
"It's Washington," said Fitzduane, "a land of shifting alliances. A kind of architecturally superior Wonderland. And Maury is certainly the Mad Hatter."
"So who gets their head chopped off?" said Kathleen without thinking.
It broke the mood. There was a break in the conversation.
"That, unfortunately, we already know," said Fitzduane grimly after the pause. "But who or where is to be next is an open question."
"Why do these people do these things?" said Kathleen quietly.
"Because for a host or reasons we let them," said Fitzduane. Because they can."
He put his arms around her.
I am glad you turned them down, Hugo, said Kathleen silently. You have done enough. It's not your war. I want you alive with me and our children. I need you alive.
Let someone else do it.
4
Chifune Tanabu regarded the serried ranks of Kidotai drawn up in full riot and combat gear in the narrow lane and sighed.
In their kendo-like helmets and body armor and shields, it appeared almost as if a company of medieval samurai had invaded suburban Tokyo. They looked truly magnificent.
Unfortunately, seventy-five fine, upstanding members of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department's heavy squad was not exactly what she had in mind when she had called for backup.
The good-looking young – very young – police inspector who was her new liaison with the security unit was carrying his protective streak too far. Evidently, he had not much faith in her ability to look after herself, even though he had been briefed that she was a senior agent in Koancho, the Japanese internal security service, and had dealt with more armed terrorists than he had years in the force.
Well, Japanese men. What else could you expect? Sexism did not even begin to describe it. They did not seem to realize that times were changing. A Japanese woman today did not have to set her sights on becoming an office decoration while waiting for the right salaryman to marry. Some even carried guns, and right now Chifune felt very much like using hers on that well-meaning idiot.
She breathed in and out a few times, resolved to keep her temper under control, checked her automatic, and replaced it in the holster in the small of her back. Her suit jacket hung over it nicely. She looked like an elegant career woman in her mid-thirties, she hoped, since that was exactly what she was supposed to be. Not the kind of threat who might alarm the suspect.
On the other hand, if she arrived at the meeting with seventy-five robocops clanking behind her, even the dumbest contact might suspect something.
Inspector Oga, standing beside Tanabu- san, chuckled to himself quietly, thought there was no physical change of expression on his face except his eyes.
He had first encountered the Koancho a
gent while acting as bodyguard to the gaijin Fitzduane, and since it had been a notably successful partnership, they had been assigned to continue to work together. People continually underestimated the beautiful and decidedly feminine Chifune, he reflected, and quite a few undesirables were with their ancestors as a result. She looked a mere slip of a thing, but appearances in this case were deceptive. This was one tough and resolute human being. Oga, happily married to a good strong countrywoman though he was, was devoted to her.
Chifune beckoned the Kidotai sub-inspector to come over to her. He was huddled with his sergeants, and there was much saluting as he broke up the semicircle.
She fought to remember his name. She had christened him ‘Apple Cheeks’ for obvious reasons, and that she could recall, but it did not seem quite the right name with which to preface a little lecture. Also, to call him by such a nickname in front of seventy-five macho security police would make him an enemy for life. She had enough problems without adding to them. And they were supposed to be on the same side.
No, a degree of tact was called for, though she would not overdo the pleasantries. This young policeman had to learn. This mission was not riot control, where the main threat was having your armor dented by a brick. Their current targets were terrorist suspects, and that was a serious business. These people could kill you.
"Oga- san," she hissed. "What is…?"
Oga leaned toward her. He was used to this. Chifune rarely forgot anything about a case, but she had a terrible memory when it came to the social conventions. "His men call him Apple Cheeks," he said, "but his real name is Noda."
Chifune raised her eyebrows. "Really, they call him ‘Apple Cheeks’ too? Maybe they are not as dumb as they look."
Oga made a noise that managed to convey the polite disapproval of a concerned colleague both at Chifune's remarks about the Kidotai, and the fact that she was talking near them. Oga rated the unit highly whatever his reservations about any individual officer.
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