To Free a Spy

by Nick Ganaway

  “You’re certain Petrevich is in Tokyo?”

  “General Antonov saw him at a Russian hangout here in Tokyo. And Petrevich saw Antonov. That’s when Antonov contacted me. He knew from our history together that I was interested in this case.”

  “So is Antovov getting Russia involved?”

  “Antonov’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody killed him in the john at the restaurant where I met him that night.”

  Cross took a second to respond. “What’s your take on that?”

  “Petrevich. He had reason to be worried about Antonov.”

  “And you got input from Antonov before he died?”

  Warfield glanced at his watch and wished he had called Cross earlier. “Not enough. Antonov told me of this hunch he had, based on an observation he’d made. It seemed off the wall to me but I followed it up and that brings me to the present. I can’t prove this yet, but I know it’s fact: There’s a madman here, a Japanese, who paid to get Petrevich and the uranium to Japan. Then Petrevich and two technicians he imported from Russia built a nuclear bomb and modified a 747 to deliver it.”

  “Oh my God! Do you hear what you’re saying, Cam?”

  “This lunatic filed a flight plan to L.A. and he’s in the air right now flying a 747 with this bomb on board. Look, sir, I just left the hangar at Narita where the work was done. The 747 that was there is gone. Yoshida’s office says he’s on a training flight and everything looks routine to them, but I know it’s not. The last bit of evidence I need is confirmation from a hazmat squad that there’s radioactivity in the hangar where the modification of the 747 took place. They should be at the hangar by now. But you can’t afford to wait another minute to at least put something in gear, Mr. President.”

  Cross groaned.

  Warfield’s tone and volume had risen to a level not acceptable in conversation with the President of the United States and he tried to rein it in. “With all respect, sir, this man Yoshida’s the number two man at the Japanese Ministry of Transport. He’s a pilot. He has access to airplanes and airport facilities. Set up shop in a hangar here at Narita. This 747’s been undergoing modification in the hangar for a long time but it’s gone now. That’s the plane Yoshida is flying. He told his office he’s on a training flight. That’s what I would say if I’m doing what I think Yoshida’s doing.”

  “How do you know the plane was undergoing modification?”

  “There’s this pizza boy. He’s made regular deliveries to the Russians at the hangar for a while. He went there with me today.”

  Cross was silent for a second. “You’re telling me all of this on the basis of some pizza boy’s story, Cam?”

  Warfield’s frustration edged through again.

  “Hell no. He’s one part of the story, sir. Look, this Yoshida, he’s a triple victim of Hiroshima. Father was a kamikaze pilot, mother died from radiation. Brother’s retarded because of the bomb and Yoshida sacrificed his own life to take care of him all these years. Today I went to Yoshida’s house and found the brother whose brain was fried at Hiroshima. He’s got a fresh bullet hole in his head. I’m sure his older brother, our man Yoshida, killed him, knowing he’s not going to be there to take care of him any more. And that’s because he’s going to kill himself today along with half of Los Angeles. It’s revenge he’s after, for what he sees as the price his family paid because of the United States. And you know today is August sixth.”

  Out of frustration, Warfield jerked the phone booth door tighter. He hoped Cross’s silence meant he was yielding. “Mr. President, there’s not time to convey to you everything that has gone into my thinking but I’m saying you don’t have a choice here. You have got to act. I wish I’d called you sooner but I can’t redo that now. I’ll bet my life I’m right.”

  Cross was silent for a long moment. “When’s he due in L.A., Cam?”

  “Five a.m. L.A. time. Two hours from right now.”

  “Give me the details.”

  Warfield read off the 747’s identification and the other information on the flight plan.

  “Listen, I’m going to wake up some people but I can’t do more until you tell me that hangar is radioactive. Anything else you can confirm will help. I may need some official word from Tokyo, as well. I’ll be standing by.”

  After they hung up, Warfield sat in the phone booth for a moment and thought of the steps Cross would take. It was five-fifty-seven a.m. in Washington and he’d wake up his national security team. Plantar Scrubb chaired the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon. He’d have the military on alert in less than half an hour. Air Force F-15s would patrol the waters off the West Coast. Yoshida’s estimated time of arrival in Los Angeles would be confirmed. Otto Stern would notify State, Defense and others. Someone would call Paula in to take care of admin details. There was no time to lose. Yoshida’s ETA in Los Angeles was two hours and three minutes away. Sooner than that: They couldn’t wait until he was over the city to act.

  Warfield understood the tight spot he’d put the president in. The national security apparatus and the military get a little out of sorts when they’re thrown a juicy bone and then denied the pleasure of gnawing on it, but that wasn’t the end of the world. Taking action on a false alarm based on a last-minute phone call from a retired army colonel playing unauthorized spy games in Tokyo would provide a lot of fodder to the press and Cross’s political opponents; that was a little more serious. There was zero chance it wouldn’t hit the newspapers and talk shows and trigger endless congressional investigations. Cross and his administration would be painted as inept, paranoid and trigger happy. But the worst scenario would be to fail to act in time on what turned out to be an actual threat that materialized into disaster. Those consequences were too horrible to imagine.

  Komeito was on the phone in the booth across from Warfield with the door open. He caught Warfield’s eye and gave him a thumbs down, meaning he hadn’t reached the right authorities to check the hangar for radiation. Warfield couldn’t believe the delay. As he started to emerge from his booth he noticed four or five police officers walking toward the phones from the hotel entrance. Other officers fanned out across the main lobby.

  Warfield crumpled to the phone booth floor. He couldn’t tell what was going on but he heard the officers yelling right outside his booth and Komeito trying to explain himself in Japanese. The police sounded demanding. Soon all the voices faded into the background. Warfield remained still. Less than a minute later several police officers returned and Warfield heard other phone booth doors opening and slamming shut. He didn’t breathe. There were ten or so of the cubicles but they checked only a few and left again. Had they missed him? Did they leave this time?

  He lay still for a full minute before rising to the small window to look out. No one was in sight, not even Komeito. Warfield weighed his options for a moment, which were of course limited by his inability to speak Japanese. He pulled out the Guido’s receipt he’d stuffed into his pocket when Aoki delivered Yoshida’s diary, dialed Guido’s number and asked for Aoki. He was prepared to try his luck with Norio if Aoki wasn’t there but that wasn’t necessary. Aoki answered.

  “It’s Warfield, the American. I need your help. Very important. You willing?”

  “Hai! Willing.”

  “Can you clear it with Norio, be away for a while?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Come to the Holiday Inn in the delivery car. I’ll watch for you. Make it quick!”

  CHAPTER 15

  Plantar Scrubb had seen his share of crises in the three years since he’d become chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and he always jotted a code in his daily journal when they first hit his desk. A letter C with a circle around it when he thought it would prove to be an actual crisis, and a T when he smelled political overreaction. While listening to the president explain this particular incident, Scrubb sketched the outline of a block letter T in the journal and shaded it in, which meant he expected he’d be
able to keep his regular tee time at his golf club this afternoon. The last time he tallied the Cs and Ts he was batting .710, but that was just a game he played. He didn’t make Joint Chiefs chairman by pre-judging the smoke signals.

  It took him twenty minutes after Cross called to get from his home at Fort McNair to the Pentagon, and he used the time in the car to get things rolling as his driver zipped through Washington streets. By the time he got to his office he had spoken with Cross again and also received confirmation of this supposed madman’s flight plan. Cross had that correct but it meant nothing. Every airliner in the sky filed a flight plan. And he couldn’t just send fighters out and shoot this 747 out of the sky. At this point it was nothing more sinister than an official of Japan’s civilian air transportation system making a training flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. Talk about an international incident! Shoot down a plane like that even if there were no passengers on board and it’s open season on every U.S. passenger plane flying over foreign lands. And it would test the U.S. relationship with Japan. Scrubb was going to use his head for awhile before he used his trigger finger.

  * * *

  A Cross aide called everyone and briefed them before they got to the White House. He also sent for Paula Newnan to keep track of things, and the others summoned their own aides. When everyone arrived in the clothes they found handy it looked more like a gathering for a camping trip than a group called together by the president of the United States to handle an international crisis.

  Secretary of State Hollis Hill said he had someone trying to reach the Japanese and U.S. ambassadors, but as it was Saturday night in Tokyo response could be slow. “Don’t know who we’ll get. Maybe somebody at Ministry of Transport. If this Yoshida’s a vice-minister, and it’s him flying that 747, they can tell us something. I’m not convinced yet there’s a crisis here. What’s interesting about this, Mr. President, is that you got this call yourself. How did that happen?”

  Cross was hesitant to answer. “Cam Warfield called me. He’s been on it in Tokyo.”

  Earl Fullwood bolted out of his chair. “Warfield? Mr. Pres’dent, you have got to be kiddin’! Haven’t you had enough of him? He’s already screwed up FBI operations at least once. I don’t put a dime’s worth of credibility in anything he says. Warfield’s nothin’ but a glory-seeker, wants to make a name for himself. He’s a has-been, and he knows it. And Senator Abercrombie’s committee? You remember that! They shut down Warfield’s Lone Elm operation after he interfered with us at the border crossin’ from Turkey into Iraq. And since then, I think he’s been hitting the bottle a little too much.”

  Cross looked away for a second, questioning his judgment in requesting Fullwood’s presence. “Earl, I’m not interested in your views on Warfield. If you’ve got anything constructive to add, let’s hear it.”

  * * *

  YOSHIDA’S ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL MINUS NINETY-ONE MINUTES

  Komeito was still missing. When Aoki got to the hotel Warfield hopped in and told him to drive to the Ministry of Transport building. Aoki had delivered pizza there and knew where it was, five minutes from the hotel. Warfield pulled out the notes Komeito had scribbled when he talked with Yoshida’s office and read Mrs. Nakamura’s name to Aoki. Luckily, Aoki vaguely remembered delivering pizza to her up in the Bureau of Civil Aviation offices. The main entrance to the building was locked but a security guard stood inside the atrium-like lobby. He smiled recognition of Aoki, carrying a large pizza box, and opened the door. They chatted for a moment before the guard asked Aoki who had ordered pizza so late on a Saturday.

  “Mrs. Nakamura.”

  The guard didn’t call her for confirmation and told Aoki to proceed. Warfield had slipped a Guido’s shirt over his own and the guard looked him over as he followed Aoki but said nothing. Now Warfield hoped Nakamura was still in her office. She would at least know how to reach top MOT officials.

  Mrs. Nakamura was sitting at her desk when Aoki and Warfield rushed in, startling her. As Warfield had instructed, Aoki now told her there was an extreme emergency and Yoshida’s life was in danger, and that Warfield, an American working with Japanese officials, must speak with someone at the top of M.O.T. this moment. There was not time to go through proper channels. Warfield was impressed with Aoki’s performance.

  Nakamura was small and wiry. Her strong voice signaled self-confidence but she was hesitant now. She didn’t know Aoki that well and this was too much to comprehend on top of the day she’d already been through. But Aoki convinced her that failure to comply could result in disaster. She said Minister of Transport Saito was working late in his office and took them there.

  Saito spoke English well enough. He was volatile about the invasion of his office, by a pizza boy and a gaijin no less, and was further incensed by the accusation that one of his senior executives hatched such an impossible plot as Warfield painted. He told Warfield the activity in Hangar 23 was in preparation for a new airline coming to Narita and threatened to call security to have the men removed from his office, but Warfield convinced him that could delay things to the critical point and that he had nothing to lose by checking Warfield’s story with a quick visit to Hangar 23.

  Warfield had never talked more convincingly, or had such a degree of disaster pivoting on quick success. Saito reluctantly agreed to drive to the hangar and see the conditions firsthand but refused Warfield’s demand to send someone there to check for radioactivity until he knew more. Saito, Warfield and Aoki climbed into the minister’s official car and headed to Hangar 23. The flashing lights and crying siren seemed to announce Saito’s mood, Warfield thought, rather than his belief that a problem existed.

  * * *

  ETA MINUS FIFTY-FOUR MINUTES

  When Saito flew out of the car and paraded to the hangar’s personnel door, Warfield knew the angry official was primarily interested in embarrassing him with the truth. Saito walked ten steps inside, stopped and looked around the hangar and up to the roof. His swagger melted. “Yoshida spent millions renovating this hangar,” he said. “Where is it?”

  Aoki pointed to where the big plane sat for so long and told Saito about the three Russians who worked there. He then led him to the office area and showed him the destroyed computers and other damage. While Saito tried to comprehend it all, Warfield checked behind the chain link fence, and there he stopped dead in his tracks. The tarp he’d seen rolled-up outside the office area when he was there earlier was now spread open. Two bodies lay entangled in the bloody fabric.

  “Saito!” Warfield yelled, bending to check for a pulse. He and Aoki told Saito the tarp was rolled up earlier. The bodies might have been inside it then, but they weren’t visible. Who had been there since?

  Saito was in a fog, ignoring Warfield’s demands that he call police and hazmat. He stood there for a moment and walked toward the partitioned corner where the Russians maintained their living quarters. He went in first with Warfield and Aoki behind him.

  Warfield heard the shot before realizing anyone was hit. Blood sprayed from Saito’s head, and a second shot came as the minister crumpled to the floor. Warfield dropped and wheeled around to pull Aoki down, but a bullet caught Warfield. He put his hand to the hot area at the side of his head.

  “Get down, kid,” were the last words he mumbled before everything faded into darkness.

  * * *

  Cross was fielding questions and suggestions in the Situation Room. Otto Stern said, “We could be faced with shooting the plane down before we have all the data. This is a no-win, Mr. President.”

  Cross knew that was true but a president who preceded him had faced that frightening possibility in the dark hours of 9/11. While they waited for news from Warfield or the ambassador, others in the White House kept an eye on Fox News and CNN. If word of this got out they might need to release a statement to assure the public.

  Cross counted on Scrubb and Stern to weigh the incoming information he would use in making a final decision. Earl Fullwood realized he’d been si
delined. He picked up his attaché case and marched off, stopping at the door to glare for a moment at the president, who didn’t seem to notice.

  * * *

  At the Pentagon, Plantar Scrubb huddled with the Joint Chiefs in the Pentagon room known as the Tank, reserved for use by the chiefs.

  * * *

  ETA MINUS FORTY-EIGHT MINUTES

  Flying the 747-400 was as appropriate a way to spend the final hours of his life as Fumio Yoshida could imagine. Unlike the -400 series, earlier versions of the 747 couldn’t be flown by one pilot alone. The 747-400 was by far the most magnificent airplane Yoshida had ever encountered. Several planes like the one Yoshida’s father had flown to his death could be parked on each of its wings. There was more space inside the cabin than in a dozen houses like Yoshida’s and it could carry more than five-hundred passengers if so configured. The tail was six stories tall and the plane could fly eight-thousand miles non-stop. Four Rolls Royce RB211-524G engines powered the plane Yoshida was flying and it could carry many times the weight of the bomb that now occupied it. Fumio Yoshida knew the specs by heart. His only regret in this whole plan of his was that it was necessary to sacrifice such a beautiful aircraft.

  The fate of the Russians didn’t bother Yoshida much. Ivan had worried him all along. Petrevich said he was critical to the project but in the end Ivan was Petrevich’s undoing. Maybe Ivan never gave much thought to what he and Petrevich and Mikhail were building, or perhaps the reality of the ultimate purpose of their effort never hit him. Until now. Ivan couldn’t have been blind to it all, but maybe he rationalized it would never happen. After all, he and Petrevich and their counterparts back in Russia built all those nuclear weapons, tens of thousands of them, and as far as Yoshida knew not one of them was ever used against other human beings.

  But then hours ago something came over Ivan when it was time for he and Petrevich to show Yoshida the two simple procedures he would have to perform to release the bomb. Sure, there were more efficient ways to deliver nukes but Yoshida wanted to replicate the Hiroshima and Nagasaki attacks as closely as possible