High Flight

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High Flight Page 18

by David Hagberg


  Rising from the tatami where he’d taken the call from his field officers, he left his quarters and headed to the embassy’s secured communications center two floors below. At six feet two he was strikingly tall for a Japanese, and although he had had no plastic surgery, his appearance was Western. He understood that he was handsome in either world, and at forty-three experienced enough to use that knowledge to his advantage.

  The Russian ambassador had called on the American president. The timing, he thought, was most interesting.

  “Excuse me, but are you suggesting that we simply forget about that ship and her crew?” Zagorsky decided it was time to strike back.

  “We do not want an escalation of the situation out there,” the President said. So far left unspoken was the upcoming economic summit talks between the U.S. and Japan, but the President was obviously speaking with care. “I’m told that your navy continues to place warships into the strait, and some if not all of those vessels are armed with nuclear weapons. Nobody wants to see further bloodshed.”

  “Is it correct that two of your attack submarines are currently trying to catch up with that Japanese submarine?” Secor asked directly.

  That was news to Zagorsky, but it wasn’t surprising. He could understand what they were thinking in Moscow. If they allowed the Japanese to go unpunished, their entire far eastern border would be weakened. From that narrow viewpoint pursuing the Samisho made sense. But stepping back and looking at it from an international platform, nothing but an immense danger could be seen.

  “Certain of our naval units are engaged in an exercise in the strait. But as to their exact deployment at this moment I have no direct word.”

  “Oh, come off it, Yanis,” the President replied sharply. “You came over here this morning to tell us that you’re going to retaliate for the sinking of your ship, and that we’re not supposed to take such an act as a declaration of war on Japan or anyone else.”

  “There has not been so much as an apology.”

  “Has your ambassador to Japan called on the Prime Minister?”

  “I don’t know,” Zagorsky answered. Damn those fools in the Kremlin!

  “Hell, we know what this will do to the posture of your eastern defense forces. You might even lose absolute control over the strait. I’d sell them Sakhalin Island, if they want it that bad. You can use the hard cash, and they can rename the place.”

  Zagorsky could hardly believe what he was hearing. The President had never talked to him this way. It was almost as if they were two men sitting around a table, playing cards and drinking vodka together, but in a dangerous alliance.

  “What would you tell the mothers of those boys, Mr. President?”

  “I would say that they gave their lives to help secure a lasting peace.”

  Zagorsky looked at the President for a long moment, then lowered his eyes. “Chamberlain,” he muttered. “Am I to leave this office with a piece of paper in hand—‘Peace in our time’—that I can wave toward Moscow?”

  “Japan is not Nazi Germany, and this is not 1938,” the President shot back. “Russia would be better off if it took care of its internal problems without seeking trouble outside its borders.”

  “I had hoped to open a dialogue with you, Mr. President …”

  “Tell Mr. Yeltsin to pull your naval vessels out of the Tatar Strait for now, and I expect that the Japanese government will issue an apology. Our sources tell us that the act was not ordered by Tokyo, nor has it been condoned by the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force.”

  “A renegade submarine captain?”

  “A mistake. Once that boat returns to its home port the incident will be fully investigated.”

  “What if my government decides to proceed?” Zagorsky asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “We would regret that,” the President said. “And we would be forced to respond.” He eyed the Russian ambassador coldly. “Your country currently enjoys a Most Favored Nation trading status with us that would be affected. Certainly the export of technologies would be interrupted, as would the flow of business developmental capital.”

  “I see,” Zagorsky said, heavily. There was no mistaking what the President was referring to. Yemlin had discussed it at length with him. “I will convey your position to my government at once.” He got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. President, for your frankness this morning.”

  “We’ve been friends for only a short while now. Let’s not return to the old days.”

  “No, Mr. President. Let’s not.”

  Yamagata graduated from Harvard Law School in 1978, so he understood Americans and the Western mind as well as any Japanese. From the beginning of his career, which had been guided by a mentor his father had arranged for, he’d worked ostensibly as a liaison between Japanese and American, Australian, Canadian, and British corporations. In actuality, his position with MITI was cover for his real work as a spy. He’d gone after industrial secrets—design and product as well as corporate strategies and intents. But there’d been times when he’d entered the much more dangerous political arena. Such as now.

  In the early days, the trade war, as it was considered, had been primarily one of keeping up with technologies. The only real hurt anyone suffered was fiscal. Now that had changed. With the sinking of a Russian naval vessel in the Tatar Strait they could never go back.

  He spoke from a soundproof booth on a secure line to Tokyo so that no one—not the Americans or the Japanese—could monitor his call. The number was direct.

  “Ohay go-zai-ma-su, Kamiya-dono,”he said. “Traffic to the Russian embassy slowed down about seven hours ago, and the ambassador called on the White House, just as you suspected would happen.”

  The call was not being recorded, nor did Yamagata make any notes, he simply listened as his mentor spoke, committing the old man’s very precise instructions to his excellent memory. When the call was ended, Yamagata sat back and closed his eyes, trying to bring up an image of his home and its peaceful garden, but it was a full minute before he could clear his thoughts.

  State Department spokesperson Warner MacAndrew entered the media briefing room at 3:00 P.M., and went directly to the podium in front of the floor-to-ceiling map of the world. A hush fell over the crowded room as he opened a buff-colored folder.

  “First I’m going to read a short statement, and then I’ll open it for questions,” MacAndrew said. His red hair and freckled complexion seemed even more intense than usual this afternoon, which happened when something big was in the wind. Most of the press corps could read the seriousness of what was coming from the color of his face.

  “Five days ago an apparent incident between what is believed to have been a Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force submarine and a Russian Krivak-class frigate in the Tatar Strait, fifty miles off the coast of Siberia, resulted in the sinking of the Russian naval vessel with a loss of all hands. In response to that incident the Japanese issued the following: ‘The government of Japan deeply regrets the recent incident in the Tatar Strait off the island of Karafuto allegedly involving a vessel of the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force and one of the Russian Federal Navy in which there may have been a loss of life and property. Every effort is being made to quickly and fully investigate the matter to determine culpability.’”

  MacAndrew looked up, then continued. “This morning at 9:00 Russian Ambassador Yanis Zagorsky met here in Washington with the President to discuss the issue. One hour ago, the Russian government issued the following statement: ‘The government of Russia deeply regrets the recent Tatar Strait incident involving units of the Russian and Japanese navies. During the period of our investigation all Russian military units will be unilaterally withdrawn from the strait to positions north of the fiftieth parallel. Every effort will be made to quickly and fully determine culpability.’”

  Again MacAndrew looked up. “Questions?”

  Everybody raised their hands, and the clamor began.

  The meeting took place in V
asilanti’s office, and from the moment he walked into the room, McGarvey felt as if he’d stepped into the middle of a life-or-death council of war. No one was smiling. But, as Kennedy had explained it to him on the way up, Guerin Airplane Company had never been in such a sporty position. It was literally betting the farm on the outcome of the P/C2622. The situation had become so critical that the old man had even relented on his entrenched stand that except for engines Guerin airplanes were to be entirely American designed and manufactured.

  “These are extraordinary times and they call for extraordinary measures,” Kennedy told the board this morning. “Pitting an enemy of seventy years against a friend of fifty may be one of them.”

  In the end the board had gone along with them, as Vasilanti had predicted it would. But being given such a free rein made no one very happy. This meeting now, which included Vasilanti, Kennedy, and McGarvey, plus Kilbourne, Socrates, Topper, and Soderstrom, was to be their final strategy session. Up to this moment they could have backed away from the Russian deal. But after today that would no longer be possible, and they all knew it.

  “Do we go, or don’t we go?” Vasilanti put it bluntly on the table after McGarvey was introduced.

  Carrara had confirmed by phone this morning that the Russians were backing off from the trouble spot in the strait, and that the White House would offer no roadblocks in granting the necessary export license. “Make it clear that a permanent solution in the strait has to be found, and soon,” his old friend warned. Unsaid, but implied, was the warning that the licenses could be rescinded at any moment, no matter what it might do to the company. A national debt totalling in the trillions of dollars was of much greater import than Guerin’s current difficulty.

  “I don’t see that we have much choice in the matter,” Kennedy said from the sideboard where he poured a cup of coffee. “Even if Mr. McGarvey is dead wrong about the Japanese, we stand to save a considerable sum of money in tax credits.”

  “Congress handed us a plum with that one,” Soderstrom, the chief financial officer, agreed. The U.S. aid package to Russia included a generous tax credit for companies setting up shop there. “But we’re still faced with the risk of a general collapse of government which could wipe us out.”

  “If the 2622 fails, for whatever reason, we’re dead,” Topper said. “I hate to be the one to keep bringing this up, but we are in the business of manufacturing airplanes and selling them for a profit. Unit costs on the wing panels out of a Moscow facility versus our Wichita plant are one-third less. And that includes transportation. The Russians wrote the book on titanium. Makes sense to me, especially if they agree to help us with the Japanese problem, because even if there is no problem with the Japanese, we still come out ahead.”

  “We risk losing it all,” Soderstrom responded.

  Topper shrugged. “This is a risky business. And the board went along with it, didn’t they, Jeff?”

  “They agreed to let us shoot ourselves in the head if we want to. But they didn’t recommend that we do so,” Soderstrom argued.

  “What about Japan?” Vasilanti asked, directing his question to McGarvey, who’d poured a brandy and stood near the window.

  “They’re after you, there’s no question about that,” McGarvey said. He glanced over at Kennedy. Apparently the old man hadn’t been told about the break-in at Dominique’s apartment, and if it was brought up now, her brother Newton would probably overreact and do something stupid, causing them further problems. “They’ve bugged some of our telephones, which means they probably know something about our deal with Russia.”

  “Shit,” Topper said.

  “They’ll make a move soon. Going public with the prototype didn’t help.”

  “Does the CIA know this?”

  “Yes.”

  Vasilanti looked at the others. “We have no other choice now but to get the Russians to help us while we put the prototype in the air as soon as humanly possible.”

  “You get her flying and I’ll generate some money for this company,” Topper said with enthusiasm.

  “If we last that long,” Soderstrom mumbled.

  Edward R. Reid was drunk. But like many long-term heavy drinkers Benjamin Tallerico had known, Reid was still lucid and still very much in control of himself. At any given moment half of official Washington was in its cups, but whatever Reid’s problem was it had not affected his power. When the man spoke people listened. Just now Washington was divided into two camps, and not necessarily down party lines. On one side were the White House supporters—those who agreed with the President that an appeasement with Japan was not only desirable but necessary. On the other were those who believed that a conflict between Japan and the United States was coming. It was a measure of Reid’s power just how large that second faction was. What was not so widely known, however, was Reid’s apparent growing fanaticism on the subject. After Jeanne Shepard’s telephone call, Tallerico had dug up everything he could find on the former State Department undersecretary and had reread all the recent issues of the Lamplighter. He had come to the conclusion that the man was unbalanced. Nothing he’d seen or heard this evening had altered that opinion. He reached across the table and poured Reid another glass of wine. They were having dinner at the Rive Gauche, Reid’s favorite restaurant.

  “I’m a long-term admirer of yours, Mr. Reid. I just wanted to tell you that, before I say that I think you’ve never been closer to the mark than you are now.”

  “It’s nice to hear,” Reid said, eyeing the younger man over the rim of his glass. “You have some long-standing business relationships in the Far East, from what I understand. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Taiwan, Bangkok, Malay, but not Japan. You might say I’m in direct competition with the bastards.”

  “Have you had problems with them?”

  “Not yet,” Tallerico said. “But the time is coming. I think that’s plain to see.”

  Reid shrugged. “You didn’t invite me to dinner to tell me that you believe in what I’m writing.”

  “No. And you didn’t accept the invitation to listen to that. What I have for you is a proposition.”

  “Go on.”

  “It has to do with Guerin Airplane Company. A Japanese group apparently wants to buy it out.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it. But the company is strong. I don’t think there’s any real danger from the Japanese.”

  “If the company remains strong. But if its stock were to plunge it might be a different story.”

  “It might.”

  “Let’s say that Guerin airplanes started falling out of the sky for no apparent reason other than poor design, faulty workmanship. The company would head into bankruptcy.”

  “Won’t happen. Next to Boeing it builds the best airplanes in the world.”

  “Unless its airplanes were sabotaged in such a way that no one would ever know about it.”

  Reid thought it out and came to a conclusion in under a second. Tallerico read that much from the man’s eyes until a veil dropped over them.

  “What is your source?”

  Tallerico smiled. “My source is concerned about safety. In this day and age safety is expensive. One million dollars.”

  “No,” Reid said without blinking.

  Tallerico was not surprised by Reid’s rejection of the first offer, but he was surprised by the man’s abruptness. “You’re not interested?”

  “Not at that figure,” the older man said tiredly. “Maybe not at any figure without more information up front.” He sat forward. “I publish a newsletter, and you cannot believe the nut cases who write to me with offers like yours.”

  “This comes from California … Silicon Valley. A Guerin subcontractor. What we’re talking about is an electronic device that can bring down airplanes.” Tallerico was guessing most of that, but considering Jeanne Shepard’s usual sources he didn’t think he was too far off the mark.

  Reid nodded. “If I could have the device, or at least the plans for it, a
nd clear evidence linking its design back to Japan, I might pay something.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know yet. First find out from your source if you can meet my requirements, and then we’ll discuss money.”

  “Fair enough,” Tallerico said after a beat. The old bastard might be a drunk, but he was sharp.

  EIGHT

  “Five minutes, Mr. McGarvey,” one of the Guerin flight attendants said, passing him in the departure lounge and going outside to the P522 waiting on the company ramp.

  It was after 6:00 P.M. as he waited for his call to Washington to go through. The others were already on board for the flight to Moscow’s Sheremeteyvo Airport, but he’d been delayed trying to get through to Dominique. Her office said she’d been gone since this morning and they didn’t know where she was. Her home phone didn’t answer, and McGarvey was worried. It wasn’t like her, Kennedy told him, to drop out like that.

  JoAnn Carrara answered on the second ring, and she called her husband to the phone.

  “Dominique is missing. No answer at home and no word from her office.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Portland. I’m getting set to board a Guerin jet for Moscow.”

  “Anything from Yemlin and friends?”

  “Not yet, Phil. But I want you to find Dominique for me. Get the Bureau to help out if need be. If she won’t cooperate take her into protective custody.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” Carrara replied, his voice guarded. “Word from the seventh floor is that you’re to be warned about the delicateness of the situation between us and Japan, but beyond that you’re to be given all the rope you need.”

 

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