Change of Heart by Jack Allen
Page 18
They drove to the police station in Mombatsu. Josh held his arm around Valeria the entire way, ostensibly to comfort her, but in reality to keep her from sulking against the door. She squirmed to get away, but the more she squirmed, the tighter he held. He was going to be glad to get her off his hands so he could get back 168
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to doing real work. If everything worked out right, somebody from the Embassy would be waiting wherever Hidaka was taking them and they could walk away. However, it was rare when things worked out right, especially for him.
The police station they returned to was hardly what Josh would think of as a police station. Mombatsu was a small town that rarely saw more crime than an occasional shoplifting by a disrespectful teenager. The station itself was no bigger than a small office on the corner of the main downtown street, with two desks and two phones. There was no jail cell. The single room was almost too small to hold the four police officers; what appeared to be the entire Mombatsu police force; plus Hidaka, Josh and Valeria.
Hidaka seemed dismayed. He spoke with one of the local officers in hushed but furious tones. Josh pretended not to listen or understand their conversation. He was able to pick up enough to determine that Hidaka demanded more sufficient and appropriate facilities and the officer apologized for not being able to accommodate him.
Josh was thankful for small favors, and tried to think of a way out of this situation, but there was little hope of that. They had no identification, no money and no way to travel. If they ran they would not get far; there were few westerners in this part of Japan.
Hidaka stood with one hand on his hip and one hand on his forehead, looking thoroughly frustrated. Finally, he and the commanding officer agreed that the three junior officers would leave, but he would stay to run the station while Hidaka conducted the interview. Apparently, there would be no separate interviews.
Josh would do all the talking.
The three uniformed officers left. Josh assumed they would patrol the city, but he wondered if they would just go to a doughnut shop to kill time, then tried to remember if Japan even had doughnut shops. As far as he was concerned, they could kill all the time they wanted.
The remaining officer took a seat behind the desk toward the Change of Heart
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back of the station and picked up the phone. Hidaka, conced-ing that he had been relegated to the remaining desk toward the front, asked Josh and Valeria to take the seats in front of it and sat himself in the chair behind it.
Looking at the papers on the desk, Hidaka appeared flustered, like he was unsure what he should do next. His lips squeezed together in concentration. He moved a pile of papers away from the center of the desk, selected a blank piece of paper, and took a pen out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Let’s begin with your names,” Hidaka said, his pen hovering over the paper, ready to write.
Josh cleared his throat and sat straighter in the chair.
“Josh and Valerie ... McClintock,” he said, and wondered why he chose that name.
He glanced at Valeria. What was going through her mind?
“Like the movie?” Hidaka said without looking up as he wrote.
“Uh, yeah,” Josh said.
He watched Hidaka write the name in English among the Japanese characters on the piece of paper. He didn’t really buy that, did he?
Hidaka stopped writing and looked up with a big smile on his face.
“I am a big fan of John Wayne movies. I’ll bet you hear that quite a bit.”
“Yeah, we do.”
He and Hidaka laughed at the joke. If this was meant to put him off his guard, it was working. Josh was terribly nervous.
Valeria, on the other hand, just looked pissed.
“Where do you live?”
“San Diego,” Josh said.
His mind worked quickly, mostly out of nervousness. San Diego seemed more appropriate than Washington D.C. or any other city on the east coast. A couple sailing the Pacific out of San Diego was more plausible than a couple out of Chesapeake.
At least it was plausible enough for Hidaka because he wrote it 170
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down.
Josh shifted in his chair. Hidaka looked up.
“Are you nervous about something, Mr. McClintock?”
“Someone from the Embassy was supposed to meet us.” Hidaka looked at the other officer.
“To my knowledge, no one has contacted the Embassy regarding your situation.”
“Could you do that, please?”
Again, Hidaka looked at the other officer, then pushed the phone across the desk to Josh.
Josh picked up the receiver. He knew the number for the Embassy from memory; it wasn’t that long since he lived in Tokyo, but how would that look to Hidaka if he dialed and spoke Japanese with the operator? He held up the receiver, looking at it like it was some strange sandwich he didn’t want to eat.
“How the hell do you call the Embassy?” Hidaka sighed and took the phone back. He dialed, waited, spoke to someone in Japanese, then to someone in English, and handed the phone to Josh again.
“Hello?” Josh said.
“This is the American Embassy, how can I help you?” said a woman’s voice on the other end.
She had a hint of a southern accent, South Carolina, probably.
“I’m glad to hear you,” Josh said. Hidaka was staring down at the sheet of paper and writing something. “My name is Josh McClintock.” He felt odd using that name. “It’s kind of a strange story. My wife and I were shipwrecked and we were rescued by a fishing boat.”
He glanced at Valeria, imagining her as his wife. She was looking back at him. He could see them being married.
“Now we’re here at this police station in, um ...”
“Mombatsu,” Hidaka said.
“Mombatsu. We lost all our possessions and identification when our sailboat sunk in the storm. I’m sure you can imagine the predicament we’re in.”
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It would have been so much easier to identify himself and ask to speak to the head of security, who was certain to recognize him, but to do that in front of Hidaka would probably put himself and certainly put Valeria in jeopardy. He could be patient and wait until they were away from Hidaka.
The woman with the southern accent transferred Josh to another person, who listened as he told his story once more. Then Josh listened as he was told the routine procedure concerning persons in their situation. Finally, he was instructed to go to Sapporo, the largest city on Hokkaido, and go to the Taiyama Hotel.
There would be a room reserved for them and money for food and traveling expenses would be wired and waiting, all of which would have to be reimbursed by Josh’s insurance company, of course. In the morning they would make arrangements to bring him and his wife to the Embassy, where they would be subjected to the next steps in the procedure, which would include a search for any missing person reports or outstanding warrants, and eventually they would be returned to the States.
Josh agreed to all of this. Once he got to the hotel in Sapporo he could call them back and explain who he was and they would certainly want to bring him in as soon as possible.
When he hung up, Hidaka was looking at him.
“The Embassy has made arrangements for us at a hotel in Sapporo.”
“I see,” Hidaka said. He set his pen down.
“Are we done here?”
“I have more questions to ask.”
“Are you gonna charge us with anything?” Hidaka looked defeated. He sat back in the chair.
“No, I have nothing to charge you with.”
“Then we can go?”
Hidaka nodded, frowning.
“You are free to go.” Then he sat forward as if an idea came to him. “How will you get to Sapporo?”
“A taxi, I suppose.”
Hidaka stood up.
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“That would be fine,” Josh said.
Hidaka gave a command to Yakita in Japanese and the police officer went out to retrieve the remaining police car. He brought it to the front of the station, where Josh and Valeria and Hidaka were waiting.
“Thanks for your help,” Josh said.
He shook Hidaka’s hand and got into the back seat of the car with Valeria.
“Have a good trip home,” Hidaka said.
* * * *
Potapemkin had not been home in forty eight hours. His wife called four or five times to ask when he was coming home; he lost count. When he was tired he slept at his desk or on the couch in the lounge. When he was hungry he ate whatever sandwich Virolchik brought him. He had no idea of the number of cups of coffee he had consumed.
It was before dawn on what day he didn’t know. He was preparing a report he would deliver in a few hours to Grigory Luzhkoi, his superior in the Party and the right hand man of Vassily Nedved, the man the Party chose to lead them back into power. It would be a good report that would cast himself and his entire department in a good light. He even found room to describe Mironov’s actions as commendable. He was careful not to go too far in his praise so as to make Mironov appear heroic.
It would not do to put his own rival in a position more favorable than his own, especially when there were promotions and power to be gained.
Potapemkin heard a knock and looked up. The door of his office was already open. Virolchik was standing in it, his wool Change of Heart
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jacket and pants looking rumpled. Did he stay overnight as well?
Many people in the office assumed Virolchik never went home.
“What is it?” Potapemkin said.
“Communications has informed me they may have a lead on the missing girl.”
Potapemkin sat up. “What sort of lead?”
“We have a wiretap on the phones at the American Embassy in Tokyo. A few hours ago they intercepted a phone call from an American named Josh McClintock. We can’t be sure he’s the man we’re looking for.”
“Where did the call originate?”
Virolchik looked down at a small piece of paper in his hand.
“Mombatsu, a small city on Hokkaido.” Potapemkin rose from his chair and turned to examine a world map on his office wall.
“Was the girl with him?” Potapemkin said, his back to Virolchik.
“He mentioned something about his wife. He had a story about being rescued in the sea north of Japan by a fishing boat.”
Potapemkin stared at the map. It had to be her. The Party’s patrol ship, the last one they were allowed to operate, was in the area and reported being close to her. They had not reported in some time.
“Has there been any word from the Mnolovrek?”
“They do not respond to any messages and there has been nothing since two nights ago when they reported finding the sailboat.”
That was bad, Potapemkin knew. He could not imagine what could have happened to that ship. Potapemkin also knew Mironov was due to make his next move by the time morning came in Washington. That would be sometime in the afternoon Moscow time.
“Who is assigned to meet Mironov?” Potapemkin asked.
“Kobalev, one of his own men.”
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“Get a message to Kobalev. Tell him to inform Mironov of a change in plans. Tell him the girl is in Tokyo and McGowan is with her.”
“Do we know that’s true?”
He was annoyed by the young man’s insolence, but if Virolchik was aware of his annoyance, it didn’t show on his face.
“For now, it’s true enough.”
Mironov stood in front of the mirror in the hotel bathroom, checking to make sure his new tie was straight. Filmore had given him the tie, along with the crisp new white cotton shirt, the tweed jacket and the dark wool slacks. The clothes were delightfully comfortable and fit as if they had been tailored especially for him.
The pair of Secret Service agents were waiting in the hallway to escort him to Langley, Virginia, where he was to be debriefed over the next several days before being allocated to some sort of protection program. He did not remember exactly what Filmore called it, but he didn’t pay too much attention when she told him.
Very little of what she said would apply to him after today. He had no intention of memorizing all the nonsense she told him since his arrival.
It hardly seemed like three days had passed since he came across the border and gave himself up to western authorities. And today he was supposed to be at CIA Headquarters. He would regret missing such an opportunity, as well as the chance to see Washington, D.C. Many men in his position longed to see the capital of the nation against which they struggled for decades.
Regrettably, he would have to pass it up.
Mironov opened the door. Both Secret Service agents turned to look at him. One, with dark hair, was standing beside the door with his back to the wall. The other, who had curly blonde hair, stood with his back against the opposite wall, facing the door.
Both wore plain trenchcoats.
“I am ready to meet the President,” Mironov said.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said the one with the Change of Heart
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curly blonde hair. “But I’m sure you’ll make a lot of new friends today.”
Mironov grinned. “I’m sure you’re right.” The three of them rode in silence in the elevator to the lobby, then the agents escorted Mironov out to the street, where an unmarked Chevy waited with another man in a trenchcoat in the driver’s seat.
The car was quiet for the entire trip to the airport. The demeanor of these men was almost as dour as that of the men who had once been assigned to protect men such as Andropov and Brezhnev. Mironov grinned. It was difficult for anyone to be more serious about their work.
Under Gorbachev they were less oppressive, but only to the point where they were more like these Secret Service agents, although he sometimes questioned their dedication to duty, especially compared to these Americans. In the new Russia, nobody’s heart seemed to be in their work, and he was certain this was a major flaw in the new Republic administration. Under the old Supreme Soviet this never would have been a problem. Today, with the help of these unsuspecting Americans, Mironov would endeavor to strike a blow against the weak Republic and take another step toward reestablishing the Soviet Party in Russia, where men would be forever dour and the work would get done properly, whether they wanted to do it or not.
They got to the airport early and would have to wait. Mironov was not bothered by this. It made the next part of his plan that much easier.
The driver stayed in the car and drove off when they got out.
Mironov and the two agents went up the steps. Once inside, Mironov’s eyes darted from side to side, glancing at each person they passed until he found the one he was looking for, a tall man with a round face and short, brown hair. His name was Vitaly Kobalev, and he wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and had a backpack on his shoulders. For an instant they made eye contact as Mironov walked past, then Kobalev turned away and bent over a drinking fountain.
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The agents had their tickets, but the plane would not depart for an hour, so they found a bench and sat down to wait. The dark haired agent picked up a newspaper someone left behind.
He sat on the opposite bench, facing Mironov and the curly haired agent.
After a couple of minutes, Kobalev walked behind the agent reading the newspaper. When he was gone, Mironov announced he needed to use the restroom. He walked around the end of the bench and went to the restroom, which was behind the bench he had be
en sitting on. The curly haired agent got up and went with him. The dark haired agent had a good look at the restroom door, but this was something Mironov had planned to deal with.
In the restroom, Mironov glanced left then right, discreetly looking for Kobalev. He wasn’t there. Another man was, with a child, washing the boy’s hands at the sink. Mironov went to one of the urinals and pretended to use it.
The boy, who seemed about five years old, asked his father endless questions. The father answered them all with equally endless patience, and they went out. Mironov smiled. He remembered when his own daughter was that age. It had been a delightful time. He longed for those days, when he could be close to his daughter and the trials of the Party were secondary to his life.
The door opened and someone came in. Mironov looked over his shoulder. It was Kobalev. The curly haired agent was at the sink, checking his teeth. He paid no attention to Kobalev.
Kobalev set his backpack on the edge of one of the sinks and looked at Mironov. Mironov nodded. The curly haired agent noticed their signals in the mirror. He glanced at Mironov, then at Kobalev. Mironov saw a sudden comprehension in his eyes, then a hint of fear. He reached for the gun in the holster on his belt, but was too late. Kobalev had already drawn his own gun, with a silencer attached to the end of the barrel. He jammed it into the curly haired agent’s gut and pulled the trigger twice.
Mironov barely heard the muffled gunshots, but he saw the man’s eyes grow wide, then roll back into his head as he slumped to the Change of Heart
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floor.
“Quickly,” Kobalev said, motioning Mironov over.
Mironov opened the nearest toilet stall. Standing behind the dead agent, Kobalev hooked his hands under the dead man’s arms and dragged him into the stall. He locked the door and climbed out over the top. Mironov looked under the door. He could see only the agent’s feet. It appeared he was sitting on the toilet.
“I’ll get the other one,” he said.
Before he could get to the door, it swung open and the dark haired agent came in. Mironov stopped at one of the sinks and turned on the water to wash his hands. The agent stopped.