The Gate bo-1

by Bob Mayer

  I can, thought Lake. As can anyone who gave a shit. “What are they asking about?”

  “Looking for automatic weapons with some special adaptations. Silencers.”

  “Here?” Lake asked, surprised. This bar was the last place he’d expect a Japanese person to be searching for weapons. Besides hating the government, the Patriots hated foreigners, particularly Japanese. And Jews. And Blacks. And Hispanics. And just about everyone who wasn’t them.

  “No, not here. On the street. But word gets back. The city’s not that big.”

  “They can get all the firepower they need over in Jap town,” Lake said. “The local U.S. branch of the Yakuza has the market there.”

  “Maybe they ain’t Japs, then,” Jonas said. “Or maybe the Yakuza don’t like them. That old man who runs the Yakuza is real particular about people horning in on his turf. He’s a badass dude and I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

  “The Yakuza would still know,” Lake mused out loud. “But maybe they aren’t Japs. Might be Chinese, but if they’re chink then they can go to the Triads,” Lake added, feeling uncomfortable using the racial term.

  “Hey,” Jonas said, misinterpreting his discomfort. “I don’t know who the hell they are. I just heard a whisper here, a whisper there. What the fuck you getting so riled about?”

  “I don’t like slopes,” Lake said, idly rubbing his neck.

  “Hey, I don’t like ‘em either,” Jonas said. “I lost a lot of good buddies back in the “Nam.”

  “Can you set up a meet?” Lake asked.

  “What?” Jonas said. “With who?”

  “The slopes,” Lake said, clenching his jaw. “I’ve got guns.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t like slopes?”

  “I don’t. But I do like money.”

  SAN FRANCISCO

  FRIDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1997

  10:20 P.M. LOCAL

  Getting a person into the United States required the proper documentation and the Black Ocean Society had handled that for Nishin with no problem. But getting weapons in was a different story, and instead of the hardware, Nakanga had given Nishin a place and a name to be memorized to take care of that logistical problem.

  As he got closer to the designated place, Nishin felt more and more as if he were back in Japan. Very strange, considering he was less than two miles from the corner of Haight-Asbury, a place that had symbolized all the decadence of America during Nishin’s teenage years.

  Japantown is an approximately twenty-block section of San Francisco that has a concentration of Japanese Americans living there along with all the trappings for tourists to get a taste of the Asian homeland. The area is bordered on the south by the Japan Center, a five-acre shopping center designed as a small Ginza. The two-level area encloses various shops, restaurants, galleries, and Japanese gardens. This time on a Friday night it was packed with people and well-lit. Not exactly what Nishin had expected or desired in a covert meeting place.

  He checked the directory for the center and found his destination. The Yotoku Miyagi bookstore contained the city’s largest collection of books in Japanese. Therefore it was not strange at all when Nishin walked up to the register and made his request in his native tongue, naming a specific book he was looking for.

  The response of the young woman standing behind the counter was not normal, though. Her eyes flickered back and forth, then lowered.

  “You must go to the Morikawa Restaurant,” she said in a low voice. “Down the stairs directly across from the door you came in. Turn left. Two hundred meters. On the right. They will expect you.”

  Nishin turned and departed, glancing over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. The woman was on the phone, but she still was avoiding looking at him.

  He followed the instructions. The Morikawa was darker than the bookstore and there was a queue of people outside.

  Nishin bypassed the line. A thin, Japanese man in a very expensive suit stood next to the maitre d’, his eyes watching Nishin’s approach. He took Nishin’s right elbow in his hand. “This way,” he said in Japanese.

  Nishin felt the man’s thumb press into the nerve junction on the inside of his elbow, effectively paralyzing his right hand. They wove their way through the darkly lit bar, then through a swinging door. Another man sat on a stool in the small corridor, a raincoat folded over his lap. The two men nodded. Nishin heard a distinct click, a door unlocking. They passed the second man, going through another door. It swung shut behind them with another click. Two men stepped forward and Nishin’s guide let go of his arm. They were in a short corridor with walls of some dark material that Nishin couldn’t quite make out. The lighting was also strange.

  “Hands out.”

  One of the men ran a metal detector carefully around Nishin’s body. The other then patted him down, double checking. Then one on either side, they escorted him to a set of metal stairs. Their shoes clattered on the steel as they went up. A door opened and Nishin blinked. They were on the top of the Center in a glass-enclosed room about sixty feet long by thirty wide. The room was dimly lit by the reflected light from the surrounding city and the sky overhead. A dozen tables were spread out on the roof and the two men led him to one separate from the rest where several men dined.

  Nishin was brought to a halt facing an older Japanese man who sat at the head of the table. Nishin could see that the man’s skin was covered in various tattoos, the signs of his Yakuza clan. Serpents disappeared into the collar of his gray silk shirt and dragons peeked out from his shirtsleeves. His fingers were covered with gaudy gold rings, jewels sparkling in the street lights. Nishin shifted his gaze about, checking out the roof.

  The old man laughed. “The glass is specially made. It can take up to a fifty-caliber bullet. If my enemies wish to use something larger than that, then nothing much will stop them. It is also one-way. We can see out. Those on the outside see only black, making it also rather difficult for a sniper.”

  Nishin returned his eyes forward and waited.

  “I am Makio Okomo. Oyabun of all that you see. I received a message from your Sensei Nakanga,” the old man said. “I do not need such messages. You and your friends are out of date.” He waved a hand, taking in the Japanese Center. “My way is the new way. You fools waste much time and energy living in the past.”

  Nishin remained silent.

  Okomo leaned back in his seat. “What do you need?”

  “Weapons. Information.”

  Okomo’s hand slapped the table top. “This is my city. You are not in Japan now. You show me respect.”

  Nishin stood still.

  “I could have you killed and no one would ever hear from you again.” The old man gestured and the guards pulled Nishin’s jacket down around his shoulders. One of them flicked open a knife and with a single slash cut through Nishin’s shirt, the blade grazing the skin without leaving a mark. They pulled the cut shirt apart, exposing Nishin’s chest.

  “You do not have the Black Ocean tattoo,” Okomo said, turning back to his meal. “Kill him.”

  “Operatives of the Black Ocean do not have the tattoo Oyabun,” Nishin said as one of the guards pulled out a pistol and placed it next to his temple. The last word rolled off his tongue with difficulty. Showing any sign of respect for such a man distressed Nishin. “Only those who have been accepted into the inner circle have that honor. I am only a ronin of the Society.”

  “And that is why you are cowards,” the Oyabun snapped. “Afraid to show who you are.” He held his arms out from his sides and the tattoos on them rippled in the reflected light. “My lowest man has no fear of showing who he is or that he belongs to me. He is proud of his marks!”

  “The Sun Goddess knows who we are and what we do,” Nishin replied, holding his head up high.

  Okomo’s mood changed and he laughed. “Ah, yes, you are Black Ocean. Only one of their fools would believe that. The Sun Goddess? The Emperor? Sheer stupidity.” He gestured and the two guards let go of him, the pistol di
sappearing.

  Nishin shrugged his jacket back up over his shoulders. One of the guards put a metal briefcase at Nishin’s feet.

  “Your weapons are in there.” Okomo raised a white eyebrow. “As Nakanga asked.” He gestured for Nishin to leave and picked up his chopsticks.

  “There are North Korean agents in this city,” Nishin said. “I need to find them.”

  The sticks poised. “Why are they here?”

  “I do not know. That is why I need to find them.”

  Okomo chuckled. “The dog is chasing its own tail. Political games don’t interest me.” He stuffed food in his mouth and chewed. “I will inform you when I have something to inform you of. My men will find you. Do not come back here.”

  Nishin picked up the briefcase and followed the two guards back to the stairs.

  Behind Nishin, Okomo waited until the Black Ocean agent was gone, then the old man stood. He quickly walked to an elevator, a pair of guards surrounding him as he moved. He stepped in, leaving the guards behind. It whisked him down over a hundred and fifty feet, through the Japan Center to a level four floors below ground. When the door opened again, Okomo stepped forward into a large room, then bowed toward a figure behind a desk twenty feet in front of him, hidden in the shadows cast by large halogen lamps on the far wall. Okomo spoke from the bow, his words echoing off the heavily carpeted floor. “The Black Ocean agent is here. I gave him the weapons. He has asked for information about North Koreans in the city. It goes as you said it would, Oyabun.”

  When there was no reply, Okomo turned and reboarded the elevator to go back to his public role.

  Two blocks away a man on a dark rooftop fiddled with the controls on the small laptop computer and continued to listen to the voices from the top of the Japan Center through the headphones he wore. In front of him a black aluminum tripod held what looked like a camera. Actually it was a laser resonator. It shot out a laser beam that hit the black glass on the top of the Japan Center. The beam was so delicate that it picked up the slightest vibration in the glass. Reflecting back to a receiver just below the transmitter, a computer inside interpreted the vibrations into the sounds dial caused them.

  It had not taken the man long to tune out the background noise and get the computer to pick up the voices inside. He’d heard the entire exchange between Nishin and the old man. Satisfied that Nishin had left the room, he quickly broke down the laser and placed it into a backpack along with the computer. Within thirty seconds he was gone from his perch.

  In the small room he’d rented, Nishin opened the aluminum case. The packing held specially cut slots for the weapons stored inside. Nishin pulled out a specialized Steyr AUG. The Yakuza had done well, Nishin reflected as he checked out the weapon. He’d used one before, as he’d used almost every weapon on the world’s arms market.

  This AUG was a smaller version of the rifle that saw service in numerous Western countries. The magazine was fitted behind the trigger assembly which contributed greatly to its shorter length. A telescopic sight and laser designator was fixed on top of the barrel assembly. Nishin aimed, watching the red dot sweep around the dingy room. Very nice. There were six 30-round magazines of 9mm ammunition. The magazines were clear plastic, which allowed the firer to keep track of expenditure without having to remove the magazine from the weapon.

  There was a safety, but no selector lever such as the M 16 or AK-47 had. The AUG was designed for a more professional shooter. A slight pull on the trigger fired one round. Pulling the trigger all the way to the rear fired the weapon on automatic. A stubby suppressor was fitted on the tip of the barrel that extended forward of the front plastic grip. Nishin had to trust that the 9mm ammunition was subsonic, otherwise there would be no reason for the suppressor. Nishin carefully disassembled the gun and checked every piece to make sure it was functional. He would not put it past the Yakuza to give him a gun with a filed-down firing pin. Satisfied that he could find nothing wrong, he reassembled the gun. Then he inserted a magazine and pulled back the charging handle. He fired a shot at the wood frame around the closet. A round splintered the wood, the gun making just the slightest sound. Nishin took the magazine out, cleared the chamber, and put the gun back in the case.

  A Browning High Power 9mm automatic pistol, along with a shoulder holster, was also in the case. A reliable pistol. After checking it as he had the AUG, Nishin strapped the holster on, then slipped his jacket over it. He slid the case with the AUG under the bed.

  The room was on the second floor of a six-story hotel. Nishin had picked it as he’d been taught in the terrorist camp in the Middle East so many years ago for its transient and illicit clientele, mostly prostitutes and drug addicts. He hadn’t even had to say a word when getting the room. He’d shoved two hundred-dollar bills at the clerk and received a key in return. Very convenient and inconspicuous, just as he’d expected.

  Of course, if pressed, Nishin could have spoken in English and presented all the proper documents to prove he was an American. Nishin was no stranger to America or this type of work. The Black Ocean Society had seen to that and his present cover.

  Nishin did not know where he had been born or who his parents had been. His earliest memories were of the Home place. It was where the Black Ocean Society raised its operatives. Perhaps he had been sold to the Society by a family with too many mouths to feed. Perhaps he was an orphan whom the Society had taken under its wings. He didn’t know, they had never told him, and he didn’t care.

  He’d been cared for and schooled by the Society from the very beginning of his memories. Trained in foreign languages, martial arts, weapons, covert operations, communications — all the black arts. And above all was loyalty to the Sun Goddess, the Emperor, the Genoysha and the Society, the last two being one in the same in his mind.

  When he was sixteen he had begun his fieldwork. There was always some group somewhere, protesting something. The only requirement was that the group had taken up arms and were willing to use them. The Black Ocean Society sent its operative students to such overseas groups, regardless of the group’s cause. The key was to learn and gain experience while staying away from the eye of Japanese law.

  Libya. Lebanon. El Salvador. Yugoslavia. A short stint in Mexico with the rebels in the south when they rose up, then slipping away when a deal was struck with the government. Then to Chechnya. Nishin. had been in on the planning of the raid into Russia and the seizing of the hostages that had changed the course of that war.

  Just two years ago, after Chechnya, the Genoysha had finally ruled that Nishin was able to do Society work and would no longer be risked getting experience. Only one in twenty of those Nishin had grown up with made it to that level. Many died gaining their experience, others simply weren’t good enough and were slotted elsewhere in support positions.

  Putting aside memories of the past, Nishin left the room to take care of other preparations. He felt the soreness in his limbs as he walked the streets. He wasn’t one hundred percent recovered yet from his ocean experience. Someone else should have been sent, except for two things: he had been briefed on what was in North Korea, and he was one of the few operatives the Society had with field time in America. Despite its apparently open society, America was actually a very difficult place for covert, foreign operatives to work. The American intelligence agencies were more proficient than the media reported.

  An all-night supermarket beckoned. Nishin walked in and wandered the aisles until he found the three items he was looking for. He paid and returned to the motel by a different route, occasionally backtracking to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  Back in the security of his room, Nishin removed the objects from the bag: a clear Plexiglas ice scraper with a rubber handle, a file, and a roll of medical tape. He began filing down the ice scraper. After an hour he had turned the wide edge into a single point. He took the newly formed weapon and used the tape to secure it vertically to his stomach, above his waist; the one place the man who had patted him down had n
ot checked. The plastic would not be picked up by the metal detector.

  The next time Nishin had to visit the Yakuza, he would be ready. If action was necessary. He thought of the old man and the smile on Nishin’s face was not a pretty sight.

  Nishin turned off the light and lay down on the floor next to the bed. The AUG was locked and loaded next to him, his right hand lightly curled around the pistol grip.

  A block away, the man who had been listening to Nishin’s Yakuza meeting lowered the lid on the metal case that held the laptop computer. He slid through a curtain to the front of the rental van. He drove to the hotel he was staying at. It was much nicer than Nishin’s. He parked in the garage and retired to his room.

  CHAPTER 4

  SAN FRANCISCO

  SATURDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1997

  2:37 A.M. LOCAL

  “I got your message,” Lake said to Jonas. A group of men wearing camouflage pants, brown T-shirts, and hats with various Patriot logos on them were sitting at a table on the main floor of the bar, arguing loudly and drunkenly about what had happened years previously in Waco and Ruby Ridge and the last year in Montana. There was no disagreement about ideology, just the basic manly desire to be more outraged than the fellow sitting next to you. If they’d been talking about the World Series it would have been no big deal, but they were talking about bombs and guns and hate, and that made it more than just idle talk.

  Lake had heard it all so many times before and he’d even said it all when required. The party line was easy. He assumed that was why it was a party line. Check your brains at the door, no thinking required. But somebody was doing some thinking, that was for sure, as events of the previous week on the Golden Gate Bridge had shown him.

  “I got a list of exactly what they want,” Jonas said, echoing the message that he’d given Lake over the phone. They were seated in their usual booth. Lake had met Jonas thirteen months ago after he’d begun working the west coast. The Ranch had access to all FBI and aTF. records and from those Lake had managed to get a very good idea of where to go and who to see. The other agencies couldn’t arrest a lot of the people in their files because the evidence wouldn’t stand up in court. The Ranch could use the people in those files to run their operations and did so without a second thought.