Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Annie walked the Ducati backwards out of the parking spot. “What’s he doing, setting up book-of-the-month clubs?”

  “This guy’s a bad dude, and he’s here for a reason. He blows crap up for fun. You know—cafes, train stations, stuff like that. For some reason he hasn’t ticked off any of the Homeland Security lists, so it’s on us. He’s arriving at Dulles on a Delta flight. I’m sending you his landing information. We need you to find him and stay on his ass to figure out why he’s here.”

  She kicked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle, speeding out of the hotel parking lot without giving Room 102 a second glance. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she’d see him again. Annie wasn’t done with him yet—she was just getting started. And then the Widow would have her turn with the dirty cop.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “You wish.”

  Even at three o’clock in the morning, Dulles International Airport was busier than most airports were during prime time. Still, it was far better than arriving at three o’clock in the afternoon. The line of waiting cabs and Uber drivers in the pickup lane was already full, and drivers stood around chatting, smoking, and playing on their phones, all waiting for the next fare.

  Annie parked at the east end of Saarinen Cir, at the edge of the sidewalk. Wagner’s flight had touched down fifteen minutes ago, and she expected him to come walking out the exit doors any minute.

  As she waited, the built-in high-resolution camera in her glasses sent images back to headquarters, which ran the pictures through its facial-recognition algorithms. Confirmed identity information was sent back to her, and the faces, names, and other relevant data was displayed on her smart-lenses’ heads-up display.

  Five minutes later her camera identified Frederick Wagner stepping into the pickup area. A red line appeared around the man as he crossed to the street, marking him for easier tracking.

  A black Mercedes-Benz passed Annie and stopped in the middle of the lane, pausing just long enough for Wagner to hop into the back seat. Then it sped off, cutting off two Ubers on its way out of the terminal.

  Annie gunned the bike’s engine and followed.

  Chapter Six

  “… and don’t even get me started on the sushi,” George Tanaka said, shaking his head. “Come on! Get out of the way!” The station chief of the CIA’s field office in mainland Japan threw a hand into the air.

  Connor groaned as the man abruptly changed lanes for the third time in less than a minute. He braced his leg against the passenger door, one hand on the roof handle, the other on the side of Tanaka’s seat.

  “You know, this is important, but if we don’t make it there alive…” Connor broke off, gritting his teeth as Tanaka changed lanes yet again.

  The olive-skinned man flashed Connor a million-dollar smile, strands of his jet-black hair hanging across his face. Tanaka was in his late twenties, short but athletic, and put too much attention on his teeth. By the look of his brilliant whites, Connor guessed he’d had them professionally polished and cleaned on a weekly basis. They almost looked fake. The man clearly prided himself on his appearance, a fact made obvious by his expensive clothes, his shined leather shoes, and his over-starched blue shirt.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Tanaka said. He brushed a strand of hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear. “Folks around here can’t drive for shit. It’s like they completely forget the actual driving portion of the mandatory class once they get their license. Son of a bitch!”

  Tanaka hit the brakes, throwing both men forward as red lights appeared on the car in front of them. “For Christ’s sake, pay attention!” he yelled at the car in front of him.

  Trying to keep his mind off the chaos of the traffic that surrounded them, Connor asked, “How long you been on station here?”

  “Thirteen months. Give or take a couple days. It’s actually not that bad, once you get used to the fact that a hundred and twenty-seven million people live in a region the size of California. You know, I considered doing a few semesters here during my college days.” Tanaka shrugged. “Didn’t work out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eh, alcohol, women, a little of both. Just kind of got carried away with trying to balance my partying and studying, and before I knew it, school was over.” Tanaka slowed the four-door Honda, turned left and accelerated again. “All worked out though. I’ve got another six months here. Maybe I’ll ask for an extension, who knows? It’s kind of growing on me.”

  Connor knew that by “growing on me” Tanaka meant that he was building up quite the little empire in southern Japan. His fancy clothes weren’t purchased on his CIA salary, that was for sure. Connor had heard rumors that the field agent had interests in several side businesses run through relatives of his, including a personal security consulting firm that was making him at least double what he made working for the agency. And because Tanaka stayed at his uncle’s home, he didn’t have to pay rent or utilities, so all of that money went straight into his pocket.

  Or his clothes, Connor thought.

  He’d never worked with Tanaka directly before, but he knew the name, and he’d done some homework on his in-country contact. This man was living the life Connor had envisioned for himself when he’d first joined the agency—which Connor found irritating. Tanaka had made a niche here, and was doing extremely well for himself. More to the point, he wasn’t stuck behind a desk at Langley for ten hours a day.

  I wonder how long Pennington is going to let you get away with it before he recalls you, Connor thought.

  As if reading Connor’s mind, the operator asked, “So what’s up with the op, anyway? Didn’t come through regular distro channels. That means that Boss Man didn’t see the order.”

  “It’s an exploratory mission,” Connor said.

  Tanaka shot him a sidelong glance. “Uh-huh. I know I’ve only been here a year or so, but generally when the paperwork doesn’t come down from the Man’s office, the Man don’t know about it. Which means this op ain’t, strictly speaking, kosher.”

  Connor tried to work out from the man’s curious expression whether or not his completely accurate assessment of the situation left a bad taste in his mouth. But even if he was on the fence, Connor knew that, with just the right amount of motivation, Tanaka could be persuaded to see reason.

  “It’s off the books for now,” Connor said.

  Tanaka sniffed and turned his eyes back to the road. After a moment, his pearly whites flashed again, and he smacked the steering wheel. “Ha! I like it. Any chance to get one over on that pencil-neck son of a bitch.”

  Connor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Don’t like Pennington either, huh?”

  “Like? That bastard hasn’t approved a single expense form since I’ve been on station. I mean, how the hell does he think I’m going to blend in with the locals if I’m forced to wear some bland, Americanized slacks and polo? Come on, man!” He pulled at his stiff collar. “And these things aren’t cheap, let me tell you.”

  Connor considered letting the man know that everyone back at the office was on to his little scheme out here, which was likely why the deputy director denied the operative’s requests for additional wardrobe expenses. But he decided against it. If Connor’s direct plan of action didn’t work, he would need Tanaka’s connections. And if Connor was honest with himself, having local connections was almost more important than having a good relationship with the home office.

  “Here we are,” Tanaka said, pulling off the main road onto a narrow single lane street that weaved back and forth down a slight hill to the Port of Makurasaki.

  Makurasaki was the southernmost port on Japan proper, located thirty-five miles south of Kagoshima, where the deep-sea research and salvage company was headquartered. Christina had been able to track down the specific ship used in the operation mentioned in the memo, which had been docked at Makurasaki since it had completed its assig
nment.

  Tanaka slowed to a stop beside a small guard shack, and an older man, sporting a patchy beard and long salt-and-pepper hair, stepped out.

  “Where you going?” the man muttered in Japanese.

  Tanaka pointed through the windshield and answered him in perfect Japanese. “There’s a boat docked here. I’m going to see her captain.” He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his navy-blue sport jacket. “Insurance.”

  The old man frowned, leaned forward, and squinted to inspect the card. His eyes flicked back and forth between the card and Tanaka for several seconds before he finally straightened and waved a dismissive hand. “Go.” He turned and hobbled slowly back into the shack.

  Tanaka gave the old man’s back a two-fingered salute and accelerated forward, shaking his head. “You’ve got to love the extreme security measures around this place.”

  “Insurance?” Connor asked, more than a little bit curious.

  Tanaka laughed. “All these boats have ridiculous insurance premiums—it’s the way of life here, right? On the coast, if you don’t have a boat, you don’t have anything. And this entire damn country is an island, so boats are more important than homes, much less cars. They’re inspected randomly by the insurance companies to make sure they’re keeping them up to code. Believe it or not, there’s a ton of insurance fraud that goes on here.”

  Tanaka pulled into a spot along the upper edge of the dock, and he and Connor climbed out. They made their way through the loading area, dodging workers in overalls and hard hats and the occasional beeping forklift. From the road, it hadn’t looked that busy, but as they crossed to the main area, it became apparent that there was a lot of work happening in this small port.

  Or maybe I just don’t know what to look for, Connor thought.

  “It should be right over there,” Tanaka said, consulting his notepad and pointing to the end of the dock.

  A barge sat anchored at the end of the main dock, tethered to clamps above the walkway. Two massive cranes sprouted from the ship’s deck, one near the bow, another amidships, and both were folded up onto themselves, preserving what little deck space was available. Several deckhands worked at loading supplies, carrying them up ramps from flatbed trucks parked on the docks.

  A man dressed in light-blue overalls stood amidships, hands on the gunwale, shouting in rapid-fire Japanese at the workers carrying the supplies, and pointing wildly in multiple directions.

  As Connor and Tanaka approached, he frowned at them and waved his hand through the air, indicating the far side of the dock. “Tours on north end, not here. You go!” he shouted.

  Tanaka responded in the man’s native tongue. “We’re here to talk to your captain about his last assignment.” Tanaka motioned between Connor and himself. “We’re with the United Nations Council on Maritime Regulations and Licensing.”

  The worker’s demeanor changed at the mention of the UN. He left the gunwale and jogged down the ramp to the newcomers. His name and rank were stenciled on his shirt in Katakana script: Kansuke Nakamura, First Officer.

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “The inspector just cleared us for departure not three hours ago.” He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Tanaka shrugged and pulled out another card. “What can I tell you? Apparently there were some discrepancies in your report to headquarters, I don’t know. Look, don’t give me grief, I just go where the back office tells me.”

  Nakamura took the card from Tanaka. “Nothing was wrong with our report. I filled it out myself.”

  “Like I said, I just work here. I have a couple of clarifying questions for your captain, and then I can be on my way. I mean no disrespect, Nakamura-san.”

  “What questions?”

  Tanaka bowed slightly at the waist. “I apologize, Nakamura-san, I have been instructed to speak directly with your captain about this matter.”

  The first officer glared at Tanaka for a long moment, then grunted and turned away, motioning for the two men to follow him.

  Connor gave Tanaka a sidelong smile and said under his breath, “Nice work.”

  Chapter Seven

  The first officer led them up the ramp and across the deck. They weaved through the crew, who never slowed as the three men made their way to the bridge castle. As they climbed the stairs, Connor noticed several security cameras around the ship, most of them pointed at the main deck.

  The bridge of the salvage ship was four decks up, looking over the main deck, giving them an unobstructed view of the cranes and bow. The handful of crew up here kept busy, barely sparing Nakamura or the visitors a glance as they ducked through the hatch.

  A gray-haired man stood with his back to them, studying an array of monitors, each one displaying something about the ship or the ocean around them. His light-blue overalls were worn and faded. Nakamura motioned for Connor and Tanaka to wait, then he moved up behind the captain and whispered into his ear.

  Wisps of steam rolled up from the captain’s mug, held just in front of his lips, as he listened. Then he turned, his expression a mixture of confusion and irritation. The faded lettering on his overalls read Captain Tsujihara.

  “What is this?” he snapped. “We passed our last inspection. Kuwano-san was just here not three hours ago.”

  Tanaka took a step forward and bowed at the waist. “Please, I wish no offense. I wonder, may we speak in private?”

  Tsujihara considered the request, still holding his navy-blue mug, the edges chipped white, the company’s logo painted yellow on the side. Finally, he nodded. “Out. Everyone.”

  The crew didn’t hesitate. They dropped what they were doing as soon as the captain spoke, practically climbing over each other in an effort to evacuate the cabin. Nakamura stayed behind, and the captain didn’t seem to mind. He took a slow sip of his drink, never taking his eyes off his two visitors.

  “You are not United Nations.” The statement, spoken in English, wasn’t a question. He said it with the confidence of someone accustomed to reading people. Connor got the impression that the man wasn’t just guessing. He knew.

  When Tanaka hesitated to respond, Connor nodded. “That’s right. We’re not.”

  Nakamura gasped, looking from the two agents back to the captain. “Captain, I—”

  Tsujihara raised his free hand. “Peace, Kansuke, don’t be troubled.” He held Connor’s gaze for a long moment, then said, “So, you are Americans.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who do you work for? Seasquare? International Salvage?”

  “No, uh,” Connor stepped forward, holding out a set of credentials for the captain to see. “I work for a different agency.”

  Tsujihara frowned as he leaned forward to examine Connor’s picture ID with the CIA logo emblazoned on it. His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced over at Tanaka, who also held up his CIA credentials. “What is this about?”

  “Mr. Tsujihara …” Connor started.

  “Captain,” Nakamura corrected.

  “Captain. I apologize for the misdirection. Though we’d much prefer it if no one ever learns of our conversation today. It’s vital to the national security of both of our countries.”

  Tsujihara set his mug down on a small table covered with all variety of paper charts. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about a recent job you completed in the East China Sea.”

  Tsujihara’s eyes flickered with recognition, but while his body language said one thing, his mouth said another. “We have many clients that are interested in that area. Plenty of opportunity for good salvage out there, if you know where to look. On occasion, it’s very lucrative.”

  “Listen, Captain, we’re not here to ruin your company or freeze assets or anything like that, trust me. We just need information.”

  “My company requires strict confidence and privacy for any and all contracts we take on. It is why we have so many repeat clients.”


  Connor hadn’t even considered the possibility of repeat clients in this kind of work. “Like I said, we don’t have any wish to interfere with what you’re doing here. When we leave, you’ll probably never hear from us again. And no one will ever know that we were here. I promise, our conversation here will never come back around to cause problems for your business.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Your recent job in the East China sea,” Connor said. “You found something for a client? Salvaged something?”

  Tsujihara and Nakamura exchanged a look. The captain turned back to Connor and said, “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “An airplane.”

  Blood pounded in Connor’s ears. “Can you be more specific? It’s key that we’re accurate. What kind of plane?”

  “An old one from the war. It looked like a fighter plane. It was severely damaged. Wings gone, tail gone. We did not find any human remains of a pilot, if that’s your concern.”

  Connor nodded toward the bow. “I noticed you have a bunch of video surveillance, any chance you still have some of that footage?”

  “Yes, for insurance purposes. In the nature of our business, the things we find aren’t in the best condition, which has occasionally led to clients wrongly blaming us for doing damage during the recovery process. Because of that, the main office installed these cameras on all of our ships.”

  “Can we see that footage?”

  “Unfortunately, no. All of the footage is sent to the main computers back at headquarters, where it is kept secured at all times so it cannot be lost or modified. The management in Tokyo trusts no one, not even captains who’ve been with the company since its creation.”

  The tone in the captain’s voice suggested he was more than a little bitter about that. Connor made a mental note, saving that bit of information in case he needed it later.

  “And there’s no way for you to retrieve the video?”