Kurtzman came in carrying a tray with four full mugs and a large brown envelope tucked under his arm. "Found the makings for coffee in the lab. Thought we could all do with one."
Aaron Kurtzman—The Bear, as he was known—was Stony Man's resident computer expert. He had been checking through Shinoda's latest project material to round out the profile that had been prepared by April Rose.
April picked up two of the mugs and handed one across to Bolan. "Here, Striker. Hope it's strong enough for you."
Brognola drew at his cigar, then tipped his head at April, signaling it was time to begin.
She flipped open the file and glanced at her notes for a moment. "Kenji Shinoda was thirty-seven. His family had been here for two generations; they were honest and hardworking. His father had served bravely with a special nisei detachment in the Pacific."
"That's a part of the war too few people know about," noted Brognola. "Most of the writers today concentrate on the Japanese-Americans who were interned. But a lot of them fought for the Stars and Stripes."
"Shinoda's father was decorated for valor at Iwo Jima," continued April Rose. "And his uncle was a top cryptanalyst—he decoded ultrasecret communications from the Japanese High Command."
"Seems to have run in the family," observed Bolan.
"Kenji was bright at school. He got the highest grades from the start. He was a real achiever—maybe an overachiever. Specialized in math and computing at college. He won a postdoctoral fellowship at M.I.T., then came back to the West Coast to work in a think tank up in the Silicon Valley. Since then he'd headed several projects for both government and private industry."
"Sounds like a workaholic," grunted Brognola, scarcely the man to level such a criticism. "He couldn't have had much time for play."
"The opposite was true," corrected. April Rose. "He was into martial arts, photography, and he liked to travel. His most recent trip was to Japan to visit the Shinodas' ancestral home—it's on the coast of a small peninsula south of Tokyo."
"Yeah, I saw his holiday snaps," muttered Mack Bolan.
"He was also an excellent chess player. He once advanced to the Pan-American finals but was beaten by Luis Domingo, who used the tricky Von Steinberg sacrifice. I'm afraid it was a bad year for Shinoda. He was also up for an American Science Award but he lost that to.. .. Let's see, a chemist . . ."
She ran her fingertip down the sheet to check the name. Kurtzman, who had been busy filling his pipe, looked up. "Okawa. And he's a biochemist."
"Right. Akira Okawa, another Japanese-American. Apparently the friction between them has continued for some time. Shinoda tried to get Okawa to work with him, but Okawa declined. Anyway, from what I can gather, if most of Shinoda's work hadn't been so secret he would probably have been nominated for a Nobel Prize."
"That's for sure," Kurtzman concurred. He turned over the envelope on which he had made a series of notes. "I've been going through some of his papers. There's no question that the man was a genius. He was working on something quite revolutionary, and he was years ahead of anyone else in the field. He was brilliantly inventive when it came to codes and ciphers. His latest success is the Checkmate program."
Kurtzman looked around to make sure that recognition registered in his listeners.
"The problem in recent years was that the techniques Shinoda devised were outstripping the capabilities of the machines available, so he turned to developing a new generation of computers. No, that's misleading—to use the word 'generation' suggests they'd merely be an improvement on the existing models. Shinoda was designing a whole new species of computer—one that would have organic or, in a sense, living components."
"Sounds like science-fiction," said Bolan.
"It's science-reality, I assure you." Kurtzman looked at the jottings he had made and shook his head in private admiration, the kind of respect that only one expert could have for another.
"The first modern large-scale electronic digital computer—ENIAC—had more than thirty tons of hardware, including eighteen thousand vacuum tubes," he explained. "The development of transistors meant a huge improvement, but the major breakthrough came with the silicon chip. As the hardware got smaller it was still able to handle increasingly more complex software."
"But this wasn't enough for Shinoda?" prompted Brognola.
"Exactly. He abandoned further miniaturization in order to work directly on the molecular level. Shinoda was completing the blueprint needed to utilize crystal lattices and bacteria as the heart of a new computer system."
"So the bugs would be back in the computer," joked April Rose.
"You could say that," smiled Kurtzman. "Controlled bacteria would provide the switching process within these protein-based biochips. This strange mix of genetic engineering and electronics could produce a machine that could calculate at perhaps a million times the speed of the fastest equipment available today, and it would have maybe ten million times the memory capacity."
"Too much," April heard herself saying.
"Truly awesome," agreed Kurtzman. "These new machines could handle coded communications of a complexity undreamed of—except by a man like Kenji Shinoda."
"Computers like that could do a lot of other things, too," said Bolan.
"And that's what we've got to worry about," said Brognola. "The implications are extraordinary and terrifying."
"Think what it would mean to the space race," said April Rose, doodling on the cover of her file. "Whoever developed this organic component, this biochip, will be able to leap years ahead."
"Don't forget weapons' development and the coordination of defense systems," added Kurtzman. "In the areas of storage, retrieval and processing of intelligence data, it would make the present systems obsolete."
Bolan had the picture. He did not need any more of the colors filled in. Now he knew with chilling clarity that Brognola had not been exaggerating when he had likened Shinoda's murder to the Nazi shots that sparked World War II. The nation that controlled the new computers would be assured of a military and technological edge for many years, perhaps decades, to come.
The man from Washington put Bolan's thoughts to words when he said: "For my money, this thing's got nothing to do with the codes specifically but everything to do with this new computer idea."
Each of the experts in counter-terror nodded in agreement.
Bolan glanced across at Kurtzman and the-strikingly beautiful woman who were such an essential part of the Stony Man team. "I think you two should concentrate on the computer angle—you both have the qualifications. Find out just how far he'd gotten, who he'd worked on it with and if he had any real rivals in the field."
"Quite a few papers will have to be cleared," warned Kurtzman.
"It'll be done. You can count on it," Brognola cut in. He then turned to look at Bolan. "And you, Mack, you've got to find out what a 'dead' terrorist has to do with organic computer science. We've got to know who the hell Zeko Tanaga is working for—there's obviously been nothing on him since he was reported blown away in Yemen."
April Rose flipped to another page in her notes. "Even before the KGB recruited him as an instructor, the Japanese Red Army had disowned him—he was too violent for them."
No one smiled at her understatement.
"I'll need some hours to rig a good cover for you, Striker. After that you're on your own," said Brognola.
Bolan nodded.
He knew exactly where he was going to start.
6
THEY CAME AT HIM from the front: two big men angling in from left and right. Bolan took on the black giant in the white combat suit first. As an ebony hand lunged forward, fingers opening for a face claw, Bolan weaved sideways and parried the intended strike.
Karl Brandt, standing at the edge of the mat, folded his arms in satisfaction, admiring the way their visitor had quickly shifted his ground so that the first attacker's body effectively blocked the second man from launching his own assault. In fact, the other guy never got
the chance. Bolan applied the necessary leverage to propel the black man backward into his partner.
"Great!" Brandt clapped his hands once. The bout was over. Bolan's two opponents each gave him a short, respectful bow. He exchanged the courtesy before walking away with Karl Brandt, the owner and organizer of the Iron Fist Association. There was a confident spring in his step.
"Excellent, Colonel Phoenix. You have an interesting technique. Unorthodox, but effective."
"It works."
"That's what counts."
Bolan had arrived during an expert-level sparring practice. He had accepted the friendly challenge to join in as a useful prelude to questioning the martial arts instructor about Kenji Shinoda.
He had acquitted himself well.
Brandt was willing to talk to him.
"Let's go to my office. But I don't know if I can tell you anything that'll help."
The office was impressive. Neo-barbarian with lots of leather, metal, dark polished wood. Since returning from Nam, ex-Green Beret Brandt had enjoyed considerable success by capitalizing on the popularity of combat sports following the fad for kung fu movies. Actually he had made most of his money from the expanding chain of Tomorrow's Woman fitness centers, but his first love remained the private karate sessions with a circle of select students.
Bolan recognized Brandt as the sparring partner who had been featured in the photographs found on the floor of Shinoda's apartment.
"How good was he?"
"Shinoda? He was good—technically, that is. Very competitive. Perhaps too much so," Brandt told him. "Ken could think fast on his feet, but he could never get beyond that."
"What do you mean?"
"He never emptied out his mind. He never trusted that the movements would flow from pure instinct." Brandt appreciated that the big man on the other side of his desk could grasp very clearly what he was trying to say. "To achieve the maximum physical effect, the intellect must be stilled, bypassed even. Ken Shinoda was always thinking about something, even on the practice mat ... thinking about his work, money, women, maybe just the next stance, the next throw."
The phone rang.
"Excuse me."
It was Brandt's lawyer. They discussed a legal complexity concerning the latest franchise for a Tomorrow's Woman spa that someone wanted to open in Boulder, Colorado.
With his smoothly tanned shaven head and square, toughened hands, Karl Brandt looked out of place in his West Los Angeles business office. He dug into the informal clutter of promotional material to find the contract the lawyer was talking about. Give him a gold earring and some black leather, thought Bolan, and he could have passed for one of those killer bikers on Catalina that Carl Lyons and his Able Team colleagues had blown away in the nick of time. But there was a lively intelligence in Brandt's eyes that said he was too smart to turn the deadly skills he had learned in a faraway combat zone into psychopathic behavior.
They were arguing over clause 23(d). It gave Bolan a chance to look around the office. The counter of the long, low side-cabinet was crammed with competition trophies, souvenirs of Nam, a vegetable-juice blender, the model of a very beautiful yacht and some framed photos.
Bolan recognized two of the pictures. One showed Brandt working out with Richard Gere. The actor had signed it with a personal message for Karl. The other photo was of a bout with Shinoda.
Brandt put the phone down.
"When did you last see him?" Bolan asked, nodding toward the photo.
"About three weeks ago. I'd been expecting to hear from him, then you turned up with the news.
He'd just got back from Japan. The holiday had done him good—he seemed to be on top of the world."
"Why were you expecting to hear from him?"
"Oh, he'd finally decided to buy the Diana." Brandt tipped his head toward the model of the magnificent ketch-rigged motor sailer. "First he wanted her, then he didn't, but when he came back from Japan he said he wanted to buy her for sure."
"Could I ask how much a boat like that would cost?"
The phone rang again.
Brandt picked it up but cupped his hand over the mouthpiece as he replied to Bolan's inquiry, "I wouldn't give you much change out of a quarter of a million."
It was obvious that such a large and luxurious boat could bring in big money on the open market, but this asking price was steeper than Bolan had expected. Karl Brandt was doing all right for himself. And Shinoda had apparently found some way to come up with that kind of bread. Bolan assumed it did not involve a loan from the local bank.
Maybe there was a lot more to this than simple blackmail.
Maybe Shinoda was going to market his plans for the bio-organic computer device to the highest bidder.
If indeed he had been prepared to sell out his country, then Kenji Shinoda had paid in full for his intended treachery. But Bolan had a sour taste in his mouth nevertheless.
And it was imperative to find out who the computer genius was dealing with.
"Yeah, after you've paid the membership fee, you can pay for specialized tuition on a monthly basis." This routine call should have been handled in the reception area but, although he raised his eyebrows to signal an apology for the interruption, Brandt did not seem to mind dealing with it—after all, business was business. "So you're interested in the ninja program. Let me check when the next series of classes is due to start.' '
Brandt pushed the contract he had previously dealt with to one side and slid out one of the promotional brochures.
Bolan, who looked at the folder from the far side of the desk, was startled to see the cover shot of a man in an all-black combat outfit. It might have been himself in action.
Not realizing his guest's attention was focused on the publicity photo, Brandt flipped open the booklet. "We've got a new group starting in two weeks. It'll he taught by Don Kalamoko. He's very good. It's not for beginners, you know.... I see, two years of tae kwon-do.. . . That's good, hope we'll see you then. Goodbye."
"What is that?" Bolan's eyes indicated the brochure.
"Oh, it's a gimmick, really," confessed Brandt. "First they all wanted to be the new Bruce Lee... then they wanted to be the next Chuck Norris.... Now all the hotshots want to get ninja training. Well, we try to give them what they want!"
"Give me your opinion of the ninja."
"They're probably the most feared martial artists in the world," Brandt said. "And the most secretive, as I'm sure you know. They started out in feudal times as the trusted messengers and bodyguards of the Japanese warlords, but gradually they evolved into spies and assassins. Their special skills, or ninjutsu, are the arts of stealth and invisibility."
Brandt shifted the papers on the desk again and revealed a wooden filing tray. He fished out a metal throwing star and slid it across the desk for Bolan to inspect.
"Nasty little thing, isn't it? You've seen it—it's called a shaken. It's razor sharp, so watch your fingers. And that's just one item from their bag of tricks. The ninja can use anything from blowpipes to a bizarre sickle-and-chain weapon called a kusarigama . If they get close enough, which they can do with ease, the ninja can kill a man with one finger."
Bolan could vouch for that, as could his Phoenix Force, recent victors over the most extreme ninja forces—but The Executioner chose to say nothing.
"Many of the ninja are trained from childhood, the secrets passed down from father to son. They are taught running, swimming and climbing from the time they are infants. It requires fantastic discipline. That's why I called our program something of a gimmick. We in the West don't know half their tricks and methods, and even if we did, can you imagine teaching some overweight stockbroker how to scale a smooth wall using a ninja's cat's claws? No, they just want to impress their buddies or their girl friends, so we play along."
Bolan nodded with a smile. At least Brandt was honest with himself. But Bolan had recently crossed paths with a man who could kill with one hand and then escape down a high wall. And he had to find hi
m.
The instructor might as well have been reading his mind, for the next thing Brandt said was, "If anyone really wants to learn the secrets of the ninja, they have to go to Japan."
7
BOLAN HOPED Kingoro Nakada would be there to meet the plane. The newly appointed head of Japanese security would be able to clear him through customs and immigration via the back door, just as Hal Brognola had attended to such matters in Los Angeles. Otherwise there might be some awkward questions about what was in Bolan's briefcase. He had chosen to bring overseas only one weapon—the Beretta 93-R, distant cousin of his original Brigadier "Belle," an automatic tooled for the kind of action Mack Bolan, a.k.a. John Phoenix, could expect to run into anywhere in the world.
His cover was simple. It had been worked out by the head Fed from Washington Wonderland.
John Phoenix, a "retired officer and advisor on high-level selected security arrangements for both federal and selected local agencies," was on a roving commission prior to submitting a report "for updating the organization and the effectiveness of certain security details." His suggestions might affect a lot of units—from the LAPD to the President's own bodyguard.
Commander Nakada, whose own background seemed to parallel the one contrived for Colonel Phoenix—at least the version given to him during the long-distance call from Brognola—was happy to play host to such an expert visitor. They would have a lot to talk about, and he looked forward to a frank and useful exchange.
That was just what Brognola wanted Nakada to think. Although Bolan was operating a long way from home base and without any of the customary support systems of Stony Man Farm, the cover plan gave him a some immunity, freedom of movement, and invaluable contacts.
The No Smoking sign went out and Bolan reached for the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket. Suzy Kenton, a stewardess, watched him light up and take a deep drag before she turned away to check on the coffee that was brewing; she would like to offer this man something stronger, but a sixth sense told her the big guy would take coffee, black.
Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins Page 4