Once inside the embassy with a minimum of chitchat with Hooper on the way in, Proctor called for an immediate situation report from everyone involved in the effort to ferret out those behind the attacks. Hooper hastily assembled Phibbs, Patrick, Jack “Fitz” Fitzroy, Kirsten Beck, and Minoru Kaga, whom Hayashida had assigned to work with—and spy on—the Americans. Proctor began without waiting for Hooper to introduce anyone.
“As you may have already heard, I’m not a patient man, especially where American lives are concerned,” Proctor began, pacing back and forth with his head down on the carpet in front of the fireplace in Hooper’s office. “Let’s get to work. I’ll entertain all credible ideas on how to identify and eliminate this Chosun Restoration group.”
Hooper raised his hand, and Proctor acknowledged him with a curt nod. “Garrett, I just want to clarify something: this is Japan’s Olympics, and in terms of a chain of command, they have final say over everything. Their Prime Minister did request that we take an active role in the counterterrorism effort, but ultimately they call the shots.”
“And what shots have the Japanese taken?” Proctor said. “Because from what I’ve seen and heard, they’ve been pretty hands-off, and that just doesn’t work when American lives are at stake. We need to first find out who the enemy is, which is an effort I’m frankly not seeing a lot of evidence of, and then we need to bring the fight to that enemy. Now, these attacks are obviously of North Korean origin, correct?”
Everyone in the room nodded. “Then why aren’t stones being turned over in that area? I understand that the JIA has detained a number of Koreans, but they obviously haven’t detained the right ones. Is anyone else being questioned? If not, why not? Another angle is this: I know that Chosun Restoration has claimed responsibility for the Yoyogi attack, but from what I saw of the remains of the building, it looked a lot to me like Islamic terrorism. So what about this scenario: Chosun Restoration has banded together with Islamic terrorists as part of the global terror network. Have these questions even been asked? Right now, President Dillard is being pressured to accept this so-called ‘China Solution,’ and he isn’t happy about being backed into a corner by a country he doesn’t trust.”
Patrick raised his hand. Proctor turned to him. “Go ahead.”
“I’m Patrick Featherstone, chief security consultant hired by the Japanese government to oversee the entire security effort, and…”
“I was just reading about you on the plane,” Proctor interrupted, picking up his phone. He held it up a moment later. “Pyongyang. The coup that brought down Kim Jong-un. So on one hand, we have the Japanese who don’t want to fight, and on the other, their security consultant who engineered a regime change. On his own.”
“Actually, an overthrow had been developing for years by the Rising Tide democracy insurgency. I played only a small part in what happened.”
“You’re too modest, Featherstone. The after-action report here says you, quote, ‘lit the fuse.’”
“Does the file also say anything about the satchel nuke that I prevented from blowing up on the Kumgang Dam? Do you know how many people would have been killed if that succeeded? And as far as ‘lighting the fuse’ is concerned, the people were ready to get rid of the Kims for years. The fuse had been in place for a very long time in North Korea. I just helped them light it.”
“Be that as it may,” Proctor quickly retorted, “no one will be helped if the Japanese continue to sit on their asses and you do anything that smacks of what you did in Pyongyang. And besides, why on earth is an American in charge of security at the Tokyo Olympics?”
“Because for one thing, I was born here, Mister Proctor, and they feel I have the military background along with the language skills. The leadership of the security consortium they were going to use was deemed, shall we say, ‘unready,’ and so they asked me. Plus, they wanted to project an international image on the Games. They’re sensitive to charges that Japan holds the rest of the world at arm’s length and only pays lip service to being part of the ‘outside’ world.”
“That sounds like an accurate self-assessment,” Proctor said. “They’ve always skated around the margins of the war on terrorism and never really committed to fighting it.”
A hand was raised and recognized by Proctor. “I’m Minoru Kaga of the Japan Intelligence Agency. Part of the reason for that, Mister Proctor, is our constitution, which prohibits us from taking more than a role of self-defense.”
“Well, from the looks of your former National Gymnasium, I’d say the war on terror is now firmly on your soil. The giant moat called the Pacific Ocean has been breached, and Tokyo has become one big HVT, would you not agree, Kaga?”
Kaga’s face scrunched in incomprehension.
“High value target,” Proctor said, as if it should have been obvious. Kaga shrugged in resignation and nodded.
“Starting now, I will be in charge of the counterterrorism effort, and…”
Patrick’s hand shot up. “Let me remind you, Mister Proctor, that I’m not part of the American military or any American agency. My contract gives me full autonomy.”
Proctor turned sharply to Hooper. “Is that true?” he demanded.
“Yes. He’s his own man.”
“What about the thing in North Korea?” Proctor scrolled through the file on his phone.
“He was NOC. Nonofficial cover.”
“I don’t need any help with the acronyms,” Proctor said as he confirmed what Hooper had just said from the file on his phone. “Well, that’s one too many chiefs, especially since I have at my command all the technology of the United States. I also have the military intelligence necessary to track down these clowns.”
Fitz raised his hand. “Mister Proctor, Jack Fitzroy, CIA tradecraft specialist for Asia. Not to boast, but we’re in pretty good shape when it comes to technology and military intelligence for this area of the world.”
“Really? Do you have Predator and Sentinel drones on hot standby?”
“No, but we’re…”
“Look, I’m not trying to take anything away from the CIA, the JIA, or you, Featherstone, but my office has the experience and resources to make sure we have enough spank to get the job done, especially if push comes to shove it up their asses. It’s too important to be anything but a coordinated effort, and I’m the one positioned to coordinate it. That’s just the reality of the situation, not the free rein of my ego.”
No one in the room spoke until Patrick raised his hand again. Growing up in Japan, he had been raised to acquiesce to authority, to go along to get along, but the hard-knock experience of being a gaijin had cured him of the habit early on.
“I can only reiterate what I said before, Proctor,” he said, purposely calling the Big Man from Washington by his last name. “My contract gives me complete autonomy in everything connected with Olympic security. I’ve agreed to join forces with all other aspects of the security effort with the embassy here as our de facto forward operating base, but please be clear that I’m not your underling and I’m not accepting orders from you.”
Proctor looked stunned and was silent, but not for long. “Alright, have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when you’re in over your head.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Patrick said in the same tone and got up to leave. Let the power games begin, asshole, he thought. The now-silent room seemed to pulsate with an electric charge as he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 34
Olympic stadium
August 5
The more he thought about it, the less likely Patrick felt it would be for him to develop a workable relationship with Proctor, if only because of the latter’s overweening arrogance. But how to bring about that split without it being too obvious? The entire security command, including Director Kazuo Hayashida of the JIA and Patrick himself, had already agreed to designate the American embass
y as its CSC, its combined security command. But that was before Proctor and his ego had landed. Now, he was in danger of losing his leverage and autonomy. He decided to chance it and called Hooper to tell him that he wanted to move his operation to his office here at the stadium. Hooper seemed amenable at first but asked Patrick to hold on. Patrick could hear him talking to Proctor with the phone muffled against his clothes. When he came back on the line, he relayed Proctor’s response.
“Garrett’s not all that keen on it, Patrick. I reminded him that you’re an independent contractor for the Japanese government, but you yourself did agree that we would all coordinate our efforts with the embassy here being the forward operating base.” Hooper muffled the phone again, but Patrick could hear Proctor talking to Hooper in the background. “Tell Featherstone we can’t lose unity of command. The worst sin you can make in the field. I have a feeling he might be a bit deficient in that area.”
Thinking back to a sergeant with a similar personality in his military days, Patrick hit upon an idea. He told Hooper to tell Proctor, who apparently was too important to speak to Patrick directly, that he, Patrick, was merely establishing a TOC, a tactical operations center, at the stadium. He would meet with Hooper, Proctor, and the others of the combined security command on an unspecified ‘regular basis’ at the embassy. He had told the sergeant way back when much the same thing, only the TOC was the quartermaster’s warehouse where the beer supply was stored.
Hooper seemed completely taken by Patrick’s proposal, partially because it made perfect sense, and partially because Patrick’s tone was one of uncharacteristic cooperativeness. He relayed Patrick’s idea to Proctor, who seemed to reluctantly agree. Hooper came back on the line. “Garrett says, how about we meet over here tomorrow at 0800? Just to compare notes and make sure we’re all on the same page, that kind of thing…”
“Let me get back to you on that, Norm. There’s a possible confidential informant I’ve got a bead on, and I need to have some flexibility in my schedule.” Hooper again relayed Patrick’s response, and Proctor finally came on the line personally.
“Featherstone, Proctor. Tell you what: I’ll send Case Officer Phibbs over, and he can liaise with the CSC and your new TOC. Sound good?” There was a note of triumph in Proctor’s voice. Patrick’s stomach fell. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. “Sure, sounds good,” he said, kicking his desk as he hung up. Proctor couldn’t stand Phibbs either, so he fobbed him off to Patrick. Patrick had been bested.
He phoned Choy and told him where they would now be based, and Choy brought his laptop over half an hour later from JIA headquarters. As he and Patrick were settling into their new digs, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. Whoever it was was muttering something in English. It got clearer as the person neared the corner that led to Patrick’s office. “Fucking morons, everywhere I turn,” the voice said. A moment later, Harmon Phibbs appeared around the corner.
“Oh. Hi. Didn’t know you were in.”
“What’s up, Phibbs?” Patrick said. “I hear Proctor designated you as liaison between here and the embassy.”
“Yeah, lucky me. It was Fitz’s idea, by the way. Proctor kept giving me grief and I told him I couldn’t work with him and he said I had to and I told him no I don’t because he’s not Company and da-da-da. Guy thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s only half right. I’ve known corpses with more personal warmth. It all went downhill from there, acronyms as verbs, the whole bit. So just when you called Hooper a while ago, Fitz suggested that I be a liaison between you and the ‘team’ at the embassy. It’s basically to keep me away from Proctor. So here I am.”
“Fitz’s idea, huh?” Patrick said. “Remind me to put salt in his coffee.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad once you get to know me. I’ve got all sorts of experience and contacts in this town. We’d make a good team.”
“No, we would not. Because I’m not looking for a team, at least not one of equals.” Patrick turned his head to one side and thought. Phibbs was right on one count, at least: he did have a lot of experience and contacts in Japan and he might well be useful.
“I tell you what: You won’t work with me. But you can work for me.”
Phibbs’s head went back with a look of disbelief on his face. “You mean take orders and shit? I’ve been in the Agency my whole career. I’m the ranking case officer here.”
Patrick folded his arms. Phibbs thought a moment and sighed. “Oh alright, if it makes you feel better, I’ll take orders and shit.”
“And please watch your mouth. No nasty comments.”
“Aye aye, snowflake. Just kidding.” Phibbs looked at his watch. “It’s almost five. Buy you a drink, sailor? I know a good place nearby.”
Patrick opened his mouth to refuse, but checked himself. He didn’t know Phibbs at all except for his annoying manner, and he might indeed be a good addition to the “team” if he had as many contacts and inside information as he constantly reminded everyone. And at the very least, Phibbs was buying.
“Sure, a quick one, though. I’ve got a meeting at 6:30 with one of the JIA squads that are running the stadium surveillance.”
“Nice that they let you drink on the job,” Phibbs smirked as they walked to the door.
“I’ll be having Calpis,” Patrick said.
Phibbs’s face contorted in pain. “Friends don’t let friends drink that shit.”
Ten minutes later they arrived at a bar that catered mostly to foreigners. Phibbs was familiar enough with the proprietor that he was welcomed by name. He ordered for both of them, and the waitress carried their drinks back to their booth.
“Thanks,” Patrick said, taking a sip of his Calpis. Phibbs watched him drink, shook his head in disgust, and took a long gulp of his bourbon and soda before setting it down. “Ahhh, I do love that first drink,” he said, smacking his lips. “It’s like breakfast: the most important one of the day.”
Patrick chuckled. The guy wasn’t totally bad.
Over the next fifteen minutes he listened as Phibbs launched into the type of nonstop riff that most people found insufferable, but Patrick found himself actually enjoying it. Noting Phibbs’s usual attire of an old dark green sport jacket, short-sleeved shirt, and clip-on tie, he learned that this was a legacy of Phibbs’s early days in the field as part of the CIA’s political action wing of the Special Activities Division when he needed to “go gray” and not stand out on a crowded train platform in Krakow.
“I can understand Eastern Europe, but how do you get away with never wearing a suit in this posting?” Patrick asked. “Isn’t that standard work attire for ‘cultural attaches’ in this town?”
Phibbs smirked and took a sip of bourbon. “The last suit I owned was so long ago the thing had a codpiece.” Patrick found out that Phibbs was divorced from a much younger wife from his home state of Kentucky, and that he now spent his free time gambling at the race track in the Fuchu area, near Tokyo’s main prison.
“Horses, bikes, powerboats, and motorbikes, you name it, and I’ve bet on it,” Phibbs said. “Correction, I’ve lost on it. Like they say, luck never gives, she only lends, and I never know when to walk away. There’s a saying where I come from: pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered. I bought into Bitcoin early on but held on too long till it turned into Shitcoin. Now I gotta keep working to pay alimony. Hard to even stay afloat in this town, though. They really bend you over for everything, especially booze.”
He shrugged, drained his glass, and called out for another. Patrick signaled that he was good. The waitress brought Phibbs a fresh bourbon soda. As he took a sip, he slapped his belly.
“It might not look it now, but I was a pretty good tight end at Murray State. Football’s something that teaches you about how fast life goes by. You see your childhood hero as the rookie of the year, and then twelve, fifteen years later they go on waivers even after a fabulous career. Life.” He stared wist
fully at the table and then continued.
“I remember when I first came into the Agency. You were in Serbia, right? I was probably over there the same time as you, but I was recruited directly into Special Activities from college. Fitz was my first supervisor. Kind of regret I hadn’t gotten some military experience under my belt first, but what the hell. Saw all sorts of shit over there. What a mess.”
“I didn’t know Fitz was over there.”
Phibbs nodded and squinted into the middle distance. He then turned to a foreign patron who was smoking and drinking with his friends in the adjoining booth.
“Gimme one of those things, will you?” he demanded of the man, a Frenchman judging from his Gauloises. The man looked as though Phibbs had asked him to donate a kidney, but he held out his pack. Phibbs thanked him, lit the cigarette like a pro, and inhaled it like it was pure oxygen. Then he stubbed it out into the ashtray. “Damn, now that’s a fuckin’ head rush. Four years next month off of those things. That’s one thing I like about Japan. I go into those little smoking cubicles they have and just breathe.”
He turned serious again. “You heard about Srebrenica, right? I was one of the first ones in there after the massacre. Young kids, old guys, five thousand of them. Didn’t matter to Milosevic and his crew.” His eyes went inward. “Man, I’ve seen some heavy shit,” he whispered raspily to himself as he took another slug of bourbon and soda.
“You gotta wonder if it’s human nature for people to do that kind of evil. We did it to the Indians, oh excuse me, ‘Native Americans,’ and the Japanese did it all through Asia. Same shit, different toilet.”
Phibbs showed no sign of slowing down from his monologue, and after he let drop that he had also been in Serbia, Patrick was inclined to let him just keep talking to see what came up next.
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