by Tom Clancy
“In the One-Oh-One, they told us to kill them all and count the bodies.” The President grinned. It actually pleased him that Ryan was now secure enough in his position to feel free to offer gratuitous advice. “This is out of your field, Jack. This isn’t a national-security matter.”
“Yes, sir. I know that. Look, I was in the money business a few months ago. I do have a little knowledge about international business.”
Durling conceded the point with a nod. “Okay, go on. It’s not like I’ve been getting any contrarian advice, and I suppose I ought to hear a little of it.”
“We don’t want Koga to go down, sir. He’s a hell of a lot easier to deal with than Goto will be. Maybe a quiet statement from the Ambassador, something about how TRA gives you authority to act, but—”
The President cut him off. “But I’m not really going to do it?” He shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. It would have the effect of cutting Al Trent off at the ankles, and I can’t do that. It would look like I was double-dealing the unions, and I can’t do that either.”
“Do you really plan to implement TRA fully?”
“Yes, I do. Only for a few months. I have to shock the bastards, Jack. We will have a fair-trade deal, after twenty years of screwing around, but they have to understand that we’re serious for once. It’s going to be hard on them, but in a few months they’re going to be believers, and then they can change their laws a little, and we’ll do the same, and things will settle down to a trading system that’s completely fair for all parties.”
“You really want my opinion?”
Durling nodded again. “That’s what I pay you for. You think we’re pushing too hard.”
“Yes, sir. We don’t want Koga to go down, and we have to offer him something juicy if we want to save him. If you want to think long-term on this, you have to consider who you want to do business with.”
Durling lifted a memo from his desk. “Brett Hanson told me the same thing, but he’s not quite as worried about Koga as you are.”
“By this time tomorrow,” Ryan promised, “he will be.”
“You can’t even walk the streets here,” Murakami snarled.
Yamata had a whole floor of the Plaza Atheneé reserved for himself and his senior staff. The industrialists were alone in a sitting room, coats and ties off, a bottle of whiskey on the table.
“One never could, Binichi,” Yamata replied. “Here we are the gaijin. You never seem to remember that.”
“Do you know how much business I do here, how much I buy here?” the younger man demanded. He could still smell the beer. It had gotten on his shirt, but he was too angry to change clothes. He wanted the reminder of the lesson he’d learned only a few hours earlier.
“And what of myself?” Yamata asked. “Over the last few years I’ve put six billion yen into a trading company here. I finished that only a short time ago, as you will recall. Now I wonder if I’ll ever get it back.”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Your confidence in these people is touching, and does you credit,” his host observed. “When the economy of our country falls into ruin, do you suppose they will let me move here to manage my American interests? In 1941 they froze our assets here.”
“This is not 1941.”
“No, it is not, Murakami-san. It is far worse today. We had not so far to fall then.”
“Please,” Chavez said, draining the last of his beer. “In 1941 my grandfather was fighting Fascists outside St. Petersburg—”
“Leningrad, you young pup!” Clark snarled, sitting next to him. “These young ones, they lose all their respect for the past,” he explained to their two hosts.
One was a senior public-relations official from Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, the other a director of their aircraft division.
“Yes,” Seigo Ishii agreed. “You know, members of my family helped design the fighters our Navy used. I once met Saburo Sakai and Minoru Genda.”
Ding opened another round of bottles and poured like the good underling he was, dutifully serving his master, Ivan Sergeyevich Klerk. The beer was really pretty good here, especially since their hosts were picking up the tab, Chavez thought, keeping his peace and watching a master at work.
“I know these names,” Clark said. “Great warriors, but”—he held up a finger—“they fought against my countrymen. I remember that, too.”
“Fifty years,” the PR man pointed out. “And your country was also different then.”
“That is true, my friends, that is true,” Clark admitted, his head lolling to one side. Chavez thought he was overdoing the alcohol stuff.
“Your first time here, yes?”
“Correct.”
“Your impressions?” Ishii asked.
“I love your poetry. It is very different from ours. I could write a book on Pushkin, you know. Perhaps someday I will, but a few years ago I started learning about yours. You see, our poetry is intended to convey a whole series of thoughts—often tell a complex story—but yours is far more subtle and delicate, like—how do I say this? Like a flash picture, yes? Perhaps there is one you could explain to me. I can see the picture, but not understand the significance. How does it go?” Clark asked himself drunkenly. “Ah, yes: ‘Plum blossoms bloom, and pleasure-women buy new scarves in a brothel room.’ Now,” he asked the PR guy, “what is the meaning of that?”
Ding handled the eye contact with Ishii. It was amusing in a way. Confusion at first, then you could just about hear the eyeballs click when the code phrase sliced through his mind like the killing stroke of a rapier. Sasaki’s eyes zeroed in on Clark, then noticed that it was Ding who was maintaining eye contact.
That’s right. You’re back on the payroll, buddy.
“Well, you see, it’s the contrast,” the PR official explained. “You have the pleasant image of attractive women doing something—oh, feminine, is that the word? Then the end, you see that they are prostitutes, trapped in a—”
“Prison,” Ishii said, suddenly sober. “They are trapped into doing something. And suddenly the setting and the picture are not as pleasant as they seem at all.”
“Ah, yes,” Clark said with a smile. “That is entirely sensible. Thank you.” A friendly nod to acknowledge the important lesson.
Goddamn, but Mr. C was smooth, Chavez thought. This spy stuff had its moments. Ding almost felt sorry for Ishii, but if the dumb son of a bitch had betrayed his country before, well, no sense in shedding any tears for him now. The axiom in CIA was simple, if somewhat cruel: once a traitor, always a traitor. The corresponding aphorism in the FBI was even crueler, which was odd. The FBI boys were usually so upright and clean-cut. Once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker.
“Is it possible?” Murakami asked.
“Possible? It’s child’s play.”
“But the effects ... ” Yamata’s idea had obvious panache, but ...
“The effects are simple. The damage to their economy will prevent them from building up the industries they need to replace our products. Their consumers will recover from the initial shock and, needing products which their own corporations cannot manufacture, they will again buy them from us.” If Binichi thought he was going to get the whole story, that was his problem.
“I think not. You underestimate the Americans’ anger at this unfortunate incident. You must also factor in the political dimension—”
“Koga is finished. That is decided,” Yamata interrupted coldly.
“Goto?” Murakami asked. It wasn’t much of a question. He followed his country’s political scene as much as any man.
“Of course.”
An angry gesture. “Goto is a fool. Everywhere he walks he’s following his penis. I wouldn’t trust him to run my father’s farm.”
“You could say that of any of them. Who really manages our country’s affairs? What more could we want in a prime minister, Binichi?” Raizo asked with a jolly laugh.
“They have one like that in their government, too,�
� Murakami noted darkly, pouring himself another generous jolt of Chivas and wondering what Yamata was really talking about. “I’ve never met the man, but he sounds like a swine.”
“Who is that?”
“Kealty, their Vice President. You know, this upstanding President of theirs is covering it up, too.”
Yamata leaned back in his chair. “I don’t understand.”
Murakami filled him in. The whiskey didn’t impede his memory a jot, his host noted. Well, though a cautious man, and often an overly generous one in his dealings with foreigners, he was one of Yamata’s true peers, and though they often disagreed on things, there was genuine respect between them.
“That is interesting. What will your people do about it?”
“They are thinking about it,” Binichi replied with an eloquent arch of the eyebrows.
“You trust Americans on something like this? The best of them are ronin, and you know what the worst are ...” Then Yamata-san paused and took a few seconds to consider this information more fully. “My friend, if the Americans can take down Koga ...”
Murakami lowered his head for a moment. The smell of the thrown beer was stronger than ever. The insolence of that street creature! For that matter, what of the insolence of the President? He could cripple an entire country with his vanity and his clearly feigned anger. Over what? An accident, that was all. Had the company not honorably assumed responsibility? Had it not promised to look after the survivors?
“It is a large and dangerous thing you propose, my friend.”
“It is an even more dangerous thing not to do anything.”
Murakami thought about it for a moment.
“What would you have me do?”
“The specifics about Kealty and Durling would be welcome.”
That required only a few minutes. Murakami made a call, and the information was sent to the secure fax machine in Yamata’s suite. Perhaps Raizo would be able to put it to good use, he thought. An hour later his car took him to Kennedy International, where he boarded a JAL flight to Tokyo.
Yamata’s other corporate jet was another G-IV. It would be busy. The first flight was to New Delhi. It was only on the ground for two hours before taking off on an easterly heading.
“Looks like a course change,” Fleet-Ops said. “At first we thought they were just doing some extended flight operations, but they’ve got all their birds up already and—”
Admiral Dubro nodded agreement as he looked down at the Link-11 display in the carrier’s Combat Information Center. It was relayed in from an E-2C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft. The circular formation was heading due south at a speed of eighteen knots. The carriers were surrounded by their goalkeeper force of missile-armed destroyers and cruisers, and there was also a screen of picket destroyers well in advance. All their radars were on, which was something new. The Indian ships were both advertising their presence and creating a “bubble” through which no one could pass without their knowledge.
“Looking for us, you suppose?” the Admiral asked.
“If nothing else, they can make us commit to one ops-area or another. We can be southwest of them or southeast, but if they keep coming this way, they split the difference pretty clean, sir.”
Maybe they were just tired of being shadowed, Dubro thought. Understandable. They had a respectable fleet, manned with people who had to be well drilled in their duties after the last few months. They’d just topped off their bunkers again, and would have all the fuel they needed to do ... what?
“Intel?”
“Nothing on their intentions,” Commander Harrison replied. “Their amphibs are still tied up. We don’t have anything on that brigade J-2 was worried about. Bad weather for overheads the last few days.”
“Damn those intel pukes,” Dubro growled. CIA depended so much on satellite coverage that everyone pretended the cameras could see through clouds. All they had to do was put a few assets on the ground ... was he the only one who realized that?
The computer-generated display was on a flat glass plate, a new model just installed on the ship the previous year. Far more detailed than the earlier systems, it gave superb map and chart data on which ship and aircraft locations were electronically overlaid. The beauty of the system was that it showed what you knew in exquisite detail. The problem was that it didn’t show anything else, and Dubro needed better data to make his decision.
“They’ve had a minimum of four aircraft up for the past eight hours, sweeping south. By their operating radius I would estimate that they’re carrying air-to-air missiles and aux fuel tanks for max endurance. So call it a strong effort at forward reconnaissance. Their Harriers have that new Black Fox look-down radar, and the Hummers caught some sniffs of it. They’re looking as far as they can, sir. I want permission to pull the Hummer south another hundred miles or so right now, and to have them go a little covert.” By which he meant the surveillance aircraft would keep its radar on only some of the time, and would instead track the progress of the Indian fleet passively, from the Indians’ own radar emissions.
“No.” Admiral Dubro shook his head. “Let’s play dumb and complacent for a while.” He turned to check the status of his aircraft. He had ample combat power to deal with the threat, but that wasn’t the issue. His mission was not to defeat the Indian Navy in battle. It was to intimidate them from doing something which America found displeasing. For that matter, his adversary’s mission could not have been to fight the United States Navy—could it? No, that was too crazy. It was barely within the realm of possibility that a very good and very lucky Indian fleet commander could best a very unlucky and very dumb American counterpart, but Dubro had no intention of letting that happen. More likely, just as his mission was mainly bluff, so was theirs. If they could force the American fleet south, then ... they weren’t so dumb after all, were they? The question was how to play the cards he had.
“They’re forcing us to commit, Ed. Trying to, anyway.” Dubro leaned forward, resting one hand on the map display and tracing around with the other. “They probably think we’re southeast. If so, by moving south they can block us better, and they know we’ll probably maintain our distance just to keep out of their strike range. On the other hand, if they suspect we are where we really are right now, they can accomplish the same thing, or face us with the option of looping around to the northwest to cover the Gulf of Mannar. But that means coming within range of their land-based air, with their fleet to our south, and our only exit due west. Not bad for an operational concept,” the battle-group commander acknowledged. “The group commander still Chandraskatta?”
Fleet-Ops nodded. “That’s right, sir. He’s back after a little time on the beach. The Brits have the book on the guy. They say he’s no dummy.”
“I think I’d go along with that for the moment. What sort of intel you suppose they have on us?”
Harrison shrugged. “They know how long we’ve been here. They have to know how tired we are.” Fleet-Ops meant the ships as much as the men. Every ship in the Task Force had matériel problems now. They all carried spare parts, but ships could remain at sea only so long before refit was needed. Corrosion from salt air, the constant movement and pounding of wind and wave, and heavy equipment use meant that ships’ systems couldn’t last forever. Then there were the human factors. His men and women were tired now, too long at sea. Increased maintenance duties made them tireder still. The current catchphrase in the military for these combined problems was “leadership challenge,” a polite expression meaning that the officers commanding both the ships and the men sometimes didn’t know what the hell they were supposed to do.
“You know, Ed, at least the Russians were predictable.” Dubro stood erect, looking down and wishing he still smoked his pipe. “Okay, let’s call this one in. Tell Washington it looks like they might just be making a move.”
“So we meet for the first time.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir.” Chuck Searls, the computer engineer, knew that his three-piece
suit and neat haircut had surprised the man. He held out his hand and bobbed his head in what he supposed was a proper greeting for his benefactor.
“My people tell me that you are very skilled.”
“You’re very kind. I’ve worked at it for some years, and I suppose I have a few small talents.” Searls had read up on Japan.
And very greedy, Yamata thought, but well-mannered. He would settle for that. It was, all in all, a fortunate accident. He’d purchased the man’s business four years earlier, left current management in place, as was his custom, then discovered that the real brains of the outfit were in this man. Searls was the nearest thing to a wizard that his executive had ever seen, the man had reported to Yamata-san, and though the American’s title hadn’t changed, his salary had. And then, a few years ago, Searls had remarked that he was tiring of his job ...
“Everything is prepared?”
“Yes, sir. The initial software upgrade went in months ago. They love it.”
“And the—”
“Easter egg, Mr. Yamata. That’s what we call it.”
Raizo had never encountered the expression. He asked for an explanation and got it—but it meant nothing to him.
“How difficult to implement it?”
“That’s the clever part,” Searls said. “It keys on two stocks. If General Motors and Merck go through the system at values which I built in, twice and in the same minute, the egg hatches, but only on a Friday, like you said, and only if the five-minute period falls in the proper time-range.”
“You mean this thing could happen by accident?” Yamata asked in some surprise.
“Theoretically, yes, but the trigger values for the stocks are well outside the current trading range, and the odds of having that happen all together by accident are about thirty million to one. That’s why I picked this method for hatching the egg. I ran a computer-search of trading patterns and ...”
Another problem with mercenaries was that they could never stop themselves from telling you how brilliant they were. Even though it was probably true in this case, Yamata found it difficult to sit through the dissertation. He did it anyway. Good manners required it.