Gorbachev fell silent. The frozen river was a few yards off to their left, and a light breeze had sprung up, dropping the wind chill lower.
“The Japanese apparently targeted Guerin Airplane Company for an unfriendly takeover. I met with one of the company executives yesterday. Guerin’s offering to build a one billion dollar high-tech airplane-wing factory in Moscow and train our engineers and workers to run it.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Information about this Japanese takeover attempt from our intelligence unit in Tokyo.”
“What are you asking me, Aleksandr Semenovich?”
Karyagin needed no time to frame his question. He’d been thinking about it for a day and a night. “Who should we court as our allies? The United States or Japan?”
“We should stand alone,” Gorbachev said after another long silence. “I think it would be wise if you found the zaibatsu behind all of these recent moves before any decision is made.”
“But Boris Yeltsin is in a dream world. I don’t think he understands what’s really happening.”
Gorbachev smiled wanly. “Would you be President?”
“No,” Karyagin said.
“Then stick to intelligence gathering, Aleksandr Semenovich, so that you may better advise your President.”
The rebuff stung. For the first time in Karyagin’s career he felt truly alone.
In many respects Louis Zerkel was just as crazy as his half-brother Glen, the Earth Stewards terrorist. His insanity took the form of acute paranoia. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be conspiracies. His life’s mission was to counteract these conspiracies with elaborate counterplans. He was forty-six, and he’d been filling endless notebooks and computer disks with counterplots since 1963 when President Kennedy had been assassinated on Zerkel’s twelfth birthday.
Another trait he shared with his half-brother was his brilliance, something they’d inherited from their father, not their mothers. The elder Zerkel had been a U.S. Army criminal investigator stationed in West Germany when he met and married his first wife, with whom he had Louis. A few years after they returned to civilian life in the States, she’d divorced him, and a couple of years later he married his second wife and they had Glen. He worked for the San Francisco Police Department as a special investigator on unsolved capital crimes. But as good an investigator as the man was, he was just as odd. Most people who came in contact with him, including his co-workers, his superiors, and even his family, shied away. There was something about his eyes, the set of his mouth, his stance that looked like a leopard’s, or some feral animal that might be docile at that moment but could spring out and devour you without warning.
Police Sergeant Donald Zerkel finally put the barrel of a .357 Magnum pistol in his mouth and blew his brains out one afternoon in the bedroom of his ranch-style house as his wife and her lover watched in horror from where they lay in each other’s arms.
By then Louis had graduated from the University of California at Berkeley, with a 4.0 average in electronics engineering, and was working for IBM in upstate New York. His younger brother, Glen, was in his senior year at UCLA as a physics, mathematics, and philosophy triple major with a 4.0 average.
The boys came back for the funeral, attended by a lot of people who were relieved that the man was finally dead. Afterward, at the house, the brothers got into a terrific argument about Glen’s mother, who in Louis’s words was nothing but a “filthy adulteress” who’d caused their father’s death. That was in 1980, and they’d not seen or talked to each other since, although there’d been one news story some years ago about Glen being a suspect in an act of environmental terrorism somewhere in Montana or Idaho. Except for one interview, no police had come calling to ask Louis about his brother, and over the years he’d stopped thinking about his sibling.
A final trait he shared with his brother was a love-hate relationship with women that bordered on fear. In 1984 he took a job in the Bay Area. Many of his co-workers and neighbors were gay or lesbian, and not having the slightest clue about his own sexuality, he’d been confused. He’d always heard that you were supposed to be able to tell just by looking if a person was a homosexual. But he’d never been able to do it. Since the scare about AIDS he’d been ten times as confused. In fact one of his recent conspiracy theories involved the HIV syndrome, which he thought might be a plot by Zambia to kill off the white race so that Africans could rule the world. He conveniently turned a blind eye to the black people dying in droves because of it.
Women were a mystery to him, necessary but frightening. Except for a couple of the female engineers on staff with him, the occasional prostitute he had sex with, and Dr. Shepard, his psychiatrist, he steered clear of them.
The morning was cold and gray. Louis Zerkel pulled into the parking lot of InterTech Corporation’s Alameda research center and assembly plant a few minutes before eight. At six-feet-five he was taller than his half-brother, his frame more filled out. But he had the same rawboned look that made them appear to be the rugged, outdoors type. Women, and for that matter men, found them attractive because of that look, and because their intelligence gave them an air of self-confidence.
He tried to put his thoughts in order so he could wipe what he knew had to be a stupid grin off his face. Overnight he’d discovered a new conspiracy. This one very big, bigger in his mind than the AIDS plot, as big as the Communist Party’s “Evil Empire” plot against the United States. In hindsight he should have seen this coming on the day in 1984, two months after he’d started with InterTech at its downtown office in San Francisco, when he overheard the president of the company taking orders from a pair of Japanese from Tokyo. They’d spoken in Japanese, a language that Zerkel did not know, but he’d been able to tell by the tone of their voices that the Japanese were giving an American orders. He just knew it, but he’d not done a damned thing about it, and now he was sick at heart and excited at the same time.
As a conspiracist, which is how Zerkel thought of himself, he kept abreast of world events. On a daily basis he monitored all the major television news networks and news programs, including the specials, with the help of six television sets and six video recorders. He scanned at least three dozen newspapers, news magazines, and newsletters. Once a month he flipped through the latest volumes of Books in Print and the Guide to Periodical Literature to see what was new.
Ten days ago he’d received the Lamplighter newsletter from Washington, D.C., which had started him thinking about the threat from Japan.
Last night he’d watched CNN’s report on the incident in the Tatar Strait.
At 3:00 this morning he’d sat straight up in bed out of a sound sleep and went to his computer to look up something he’d suddenly remembered. The Japanese, who were trying to develop a new generation of commercial jetliners, had been rumored to be poised to take over Guerin Airplane Company. It had been mentioned in a short article in Aviation Week & Space Technology a few months ago. Zerkel had lifted the story because InterTech supplied a subassembly for Guerin. In 1990, after the crash of a Guerin airliner outside of Chicago, an NTSB investigator had shown up at InterTech to ask a few questions. It was routine, and the man had left within a half-hour, but Zerkel clearly remembered the incident.
By 3:30 A.M., he was inside InterTech’s mainframe and had managed to pass through the security lockouts, something that had never occurred to him to do before now, and he’d found his first anomaly.
InterTech supplied a subassembly to Guerin that monitored critical heat measurements at a couple hundred spots in the Rolls-Royce engines. But in 1985, before the Chicago crash, one of the CPU modules had been redesigned. Searching through deeply encoded and hidden invoices revealed that the modules, along with one of the engine-mounted sensor brackets, and its complex wiring harness actually came from Japan, developed and manufactured by Tojii Corporation, a subsidiary of the Mintori Assurance Corporation.
Digging even deeper, Zerkel came up with the schematic diagrams of the sub
assembly, all of the diagrams, that is, except for the replacement module. Backtracking, he came up with the schematic for the old module and by comparing it with the replacement discovered that the new module used twenty-six of the mother board’s thirty possible connections. Two more than the old one. One of the extra pins was wired back into the module’s input section, and the second was routed directly to the wiring harness that appeared to deadend as an extra common ground connection to the engine-mounted sensor bracket that the Japanese supplied.
Something was wrong. Not only were the module connections wrong, but the fact that the Japanese were supplying some of the parts ran contrary to InterTech’s contract with Guerin. It also struck Zerkel as all wrong that, except for the module change, the electronic subassembly had not been updated in nearly ten years and yet it was being used in Guerin’s new project, the one unveiled yesterday.
There was a plot here, all right, and hurrying across the parking lot, Zerkel was determined to get to the bottom of it. He’d not been a part of the design team for that particular assembly, but he sure as hell could find out more about it.
By the time McGarvey deplaned at Portland International Airport and got outside to the cab ranks, it was noon. With all the east-west flying he’d done over the past few days his body clock was screwed up, and he just wanted to get some rest. But he wasn’t surprised that someone had come for him.
“You look like hell,” Kennedy said, as McGarvey got in the Range Rover and tossed his bag in back.
“It’s not going to slack off now.”
“It was Al’s call, Mac,” Kennedy said, pulling away from the curb and getting around a shuttle bus. “And I see his point. If there’s going to be a fight, let’s get it out in the open where everybody can see what’s going on. Maybe Washington will finally sit up and take notice.”
“For someone who’s so smart, you’re dumb. They’re not going to mount some frontal assault. But when they hit you, and they will, it’ll be decisive. Like 1990.”
“I wasn’t the only one who tried to talk him out of it. But he’s a gutsy old bastard, and once he gets something stuck in his craw he’s not about to back down. Besides, that’s the way he’s always fought his battles—head on.”
“He’s fighting this one because of a fifty-year-old grudge, and you all know it. This time there’s a good chance it’ll rise up and bite him in the ass.”
“You can tell him that yourself tomorrow morning.”
“Why not right now?”
“He’s up in Seattle talking to Frank Schrontz at Boeing.”
“They work with the Japanese.”
“Exactly.”
McGarvey shook his head. “You don’t understand what you’re facing. If Washington decides, for some political expediency in Tokyo next month, to sell you down the river, this President will do it without blinking an eyelash.”
“He’d put more than eighty thousand voters out of work.”
“He’d point them toward Boeing, and you know damned well he would,” McGarvey said. “Look at them. They understand the global economy we’re in, and they’re prospering. Wake up to the realities, David, or you might just lose the entire shooting match.”
Kennedy turned off the airport road to Interstate 205 and took the access road directly across to Guerin Headquarters.
“Well, that’s a cheery thought before lunch. Are you telling me that you’re writing off the Russians?”
“Not yet,” McGarvey said heavily. “But we may already be in some trouble.”
Kennedy looked at him. “How so?”
“Dominique Kilbourne’s apartment was broken into the other night, and the place was bugged. My guess is they were Japanese, but she won’t tell me. Fact is, they may have heard everything that went on there.”
Kennedy was suddenly subdued. “What happened?”
“She said that she came home and caught them in the act. Apparently she wasn’t hurt. She didn’t call the police.”
“She shouldn’t stay in Washington.”
“Somebody is going to look out for her, and for the moment she’s staying at a hotel under an assumed name …” he trailed off. Kennedy was shaking his head.
“Mac, I just talked to her at her office. She was on her way out the door. Said I could call her at home tonight. She told me to tell you not to worry.”
“Shit,” McGarvey said.
DCI Roland Murphy was the last to arrive for the 2:00 P.M. meeting at the White House just behind General Anthony Podvin, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They met in the cabinet room, although the only cabinet members in attendance were Secretary of State Jonathan Carter and Secretary of Defense Paul Landry, who along with General Podvin sat on the President’s left. Murphy took his place on the right with National Security Adviser Harold Secor. The afternoon sun streamed in the windows, but the mood in the room was somber.
“I would like to get this issue resolved as quickly as possible, so let’s get started,” the President said. “The Russian ambassador has requested a meeting for tomorrow morning at 9:00 sharp. And we all know what he’s coming here to talk about, so let’s start with you, Jonathan.”
“Other than the first message from Tokyo the Japanese have been silent,” the Secretary of State said. “We expected some announcement after CNN broke the story, and we even made a few private and discreet inquiries through unofficial channels, but there’s been no word.”
“Has there been anything from Moscow?” Secor asked. “Other than from their ambassador?”
“We’ve made a couple of back-burner inquiries at the Kremlin with the same results. Nobody is talking.”
“How about the Agency?” the President asked Murphy.
“Nothing at all from the Japanese, although it’s my understanding that Naval Intelligence at Yokosuka is on the lookout for the submarine.”
“The Samisho,” General Podvin said. “It was picked up by the SOSUS network in the strait, probably heading back to port. But so far the MSDF hasn’t said a thing.”
“What about the Russian Navy?” Murphy asked.
“That’s a problem at this point. They’ve concentrated a lot of power in what’s technically international waters but what’s very close to the Japanese home islands.”
“What?” Secor demanded.
“The sub has a good head start, so it’s not likely the Russians will catch up with it, but their ships are going to come damned close to Hokkaido.”
“What have they got out there so far?” Murphy asked.
“Two attack submarines, three boomers, and at least eight destroyers and guided-missile frigates.”
“There are plenty of Russian Air Force bases and missile squadrons along the mainland coast there as well,” Murphy added. “How much time do we have before it gets critical?”
“Thirty-six hours, give or take,” the general said. “Question is, are the Russians willing to use all that firepower?”
“More to the point, if they do start shooting, will we come to Japan’s defense?” the general’s boss, Paul Landry, asked.
“That’s what we’re here to discuss.” The President turned back to Murphy. “You said you’ve learned nothing about the Japanese. What about the Russians, other than their naval buildup in the strait.”
One of the things Murphy liked about the President was that the man never missed a beat.
“We’ve gotten nothing directly from the Japanese, or the Russians for that matter, Mr. President, but there has been a development, of sorts, concerning both of them. My people briefed me this morning.”
“Get to the point,” the President warned.
“Guerin Airplane Company believes it may be the target of an unfriendly takeover attempt by a consortium of Japanese companies.”
“We’re not getting ourselves involved in business,” the President cautioned. “Not unless it concerns our national security. Does this?”
“I’m not sure,” Murphy admitted. “But a Guerin executive hired one of ou
r ex-field officers to go to Moscow to offer the Russians an airplane assembly plant.”
The President looked sharply at his secretaries of defense and state. “We’ve heard nothing about this?” Both men shook their heads, mystified.
“For what type of airplane?” the National Security Adviser asked.
“From what we can tell it’s to be a next-generation jetliner.”
“But not a military aircraft?”
“There could be a military application, but we don’t have that information yet. The point is what the Russians are apparently being asked to do in exchange for the assembly plant.”
“Which is?” Secor asked.
“They want the Russians to spy on the Japanese for them. Specifically to find out about this possible takeover move.”
The President sat back in his chair and stared across the table at his DCI. “Have they broken the law?”
“Damned if I know, Mr. President,” Murphy said.
“Have the Russians agreed to do it?” Secor asked.
“I don’t know that either,” Murphy admitted. “But someone bugged the apartment here in town of Dominique Kilbourne. She runs the airlines and manufacturers’ lobby, and coincidentally her brother runs Guerin’s prototype and new product development division. In addition, she’s had a long-standing relationship with the Guerin executive who sent our man to Moscow to negotiate the deal.”
“Are you saying that the Russians are spying on her?” Secor asked.
“Not the Russians,” Murphy said. “At least we don’t think so. Three of the devices were taken from her apartment and were handed over to my Technical Services people who say the bugs are Japanese.”
“Would Guerin’s plans have been discussed in her apartment?” Secor asked.
“It’s certainly possible.”
“Who is this former employee of yours, General?” the President asked.
“His name is Kirk McGarvey. He was dismissed from the CIA in the eighties by mutual agreement. Since then, however, we’ve used his services on a contract basis.”
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