us now. Perhaps they will listen to you. They push us too far. The zaibatsu
are truly desperate. It’s happened too fast and gone too far. How would your
country respond to such an attack on your economy?”
Clark leaned back, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes as a Russian
would. The initial contact with Kimura wasn’t supposed to have been a sub-
stantive intelligence-gathering session, but it had suddenly turned into one.
Unprepared for this eventuality, he decided to run with it anyway. The man
before him seemed like a prime source, and made more so by his despera-
tion. Moreover, he seemed like a good and dedicated public servant, and if
that was somewhat sad, it was also the way the intelligence business worked.
“They did do it to us, in the 19805. Their arms buildup, their insane plan
lo put defense systems in space, the reckless brinksmanship game their Pres-
ident Reagan played-did you know that when I was working in New York,
I was part of Project RYAN? We thought he planned to strike us. I spent a
year looking for such plans.” Colonel I. S. Klerk of the Russian Foreign
Intelligence Service was fully in his cover identity now, speaking as a Rus-
sian would, calmly, quietly, almost pedagogically. “But we looked in the
wrong place-no, that wasn’t it. It was right in front of us all the time and we
failed to see it. They forced us to spend more, and they broke our economy in
the process. Marshal Ogarkov gave his speech, demanding more of the econ-
omy in order to keep up with the Americans, but there was no more to give.
To answer your question briefly, Isamu, we had the choice of surrender or
war. War was too terrible to contemplate . . . and so, here I am in Japan,
representing a new country.”
Kimura’s next statement was as startling as it was accurate: ‘ ‘But you had
less to lose. The Americans don’t seem to understand that.” He stood, leav-
ing sufficient money on the table to cover the bill. He knew that a Russian
could scarcely afford to pay for a meal in Tokyo.
Holy shit, Clark thought, watching the man leave. The meeting had been
an open one, and so did not require covert procedures. That meant he could
just get up and leave. But he didn’t. Isamu Kimura was a very senior gent,
the CIA officer told himself, sipping the last of the sake. He had only one
layer of career officials over him, and beyond that was a political appointee,
who was really a mouthpiece for the career bureaucrats. Like an assistant
secretary of state, Kimura had access to everything. He’d proved that once,
by helping them in Mexico, where John and Ding had apprehended Ismael
Qati and Ibrahim Ghosn. For that reason alone, America owed this man a
considerable debt of honor. More to the point, it made him a primo source of
high-grade intelligence. CIA could believe almost anything he said. There
could have been no planned script for this meeting. His thoughts and fears
had to be genuine, and Clark knew at once that they had to get to Langley in
a hurry.
It came as no surprise to anyone who really knew him that Goto was a weak
man. Though that was a curse of his country’s political leadership, it worked
now in Yamata’s favor.
“I will not become Prime Minister of my country,” Hiroshi Goto an-
nounced in a manner worthy of a stage actor, “in order to become executor
of its economic ruin.” His language was that of the Kabuki stage, stylized
and poetic. He was a literate man, the industrialist knew. He had long stud-
ied history and the arts, and like many politicians he placed a great deal of
value in show and rather less in substance. Like many weak men, he made a
great ceremony of personal strength and power. That was why he often had
this girl Kimberly Norton in the room with him. She was learning, after a
fashion, to perform the duties of an important man’s mistress. She sat qui-
etly, refilling cups with sake or tea, and waiting patiently for Yamata-san to
leave, after which, it was clear, Goto would bed the girl. He doubtless
thought this made him more impressive to his guest. He was such a fool,
thinking from his testicles rather than his brain. Well, that was all right.
Yamata would become his brain.
‘ ‘That is precisely what we face,” Yamata replied bluntly. His eyes traced
over the girl, partly in curiosity, partly to let Goto think that he was envious
of the man’s young mistress. Her eyes showed no comprehension at all. Was
she as stupid as he’d been led to believe? She’d certainly been lured over
here easily enough. It was a lucrative activity for the Yakuza, and one in
which some of his colleagues partook. Setting Goto up with her-indirectly;
Yamata didn’t view himself as a pimp, and had merely seen to it that the
right person had made the right suggestion to this senior political figure-
had been a clever move, though Goto’s personal weaknesses had been
known to many and easily identified. What was that American euphemism?
“Led around by the nose”? It had to mean the same thing that Yamata had
done, and a rare case of delicacy of expression for the gaijin.
“What can we do about it?” the Leader of the Opposition tor the mo-
ment-asked.
“We have two choices.” Yamata paused, looking again at the girl, wish-
ing that Goto would dismiss her. This was a highly sensitive matter, after all.
Instead, Goto stroked her fair hair, and she smiled. Well, at least Goto hadn’t
stripped the girl before he’d arrived, Yamata thought, as he had a few weeks
ago. Yamata had seen breasts before, even large Caucasian breasts, and it
wasn’t as though the zaibatsu was in the dark about what Goto did with her.
“She doesn’t understand a word,” the politician said, laughing.
Kimba-chan smiled, and the expression caught Yamata’s eye. There fol-
lowed a disturbing thought: was she merely reacting politely to her master’s
laugh or was it something else? How old was this girl? Twenties, probably,
but he was not skilled in estimating the age of foreigners. Then he remem-
bered something else: his country occasionally provided female companion-
ship to visiting foreign dignitaries, as Yamata did for businessmen. It was a
practice that went far back in history, both to make potential deals more eas-
ily struck-a man sated by a skilled courtesan would not often be unpleasant
to his companions-and because men frequently loosed their tongues along
with their belts. What did Goto talk about with this girl? Whom might she be
telling? Suddenly the fact that Yamata had set up the relationship didn’t
seem so clever at all.
“Please, Hiroshi, indulge me this one time,” Yamata said reasonably.
“Oh, very well.” He continued in English: ‘ ‘Kimba-chan, my friend and I
need to speak in private for a few minutes.”
She had the good manners not to object verbally, Yamata saw, but the
disappointment in her face was not hidden. Did that mean she was trained
not to react, or trained to react as a mindless girl would? And did her dismis-
sal matter? Would Goto relate everything to her? Was he that much under
her spell? Yamata didn’t know, and not knowing, at this moment, struck him
as dangerous.
“I love fucking Americans,” Goto said coarsely after the door slid shut
behind her. It was strange. For all his cultured language, in this one area he
spoke like someone of the streets. It was clearly a great weakness, and for
that reason, a worrisome one.
“I am glad to hear that, my friend, for soon you will have the chance to do
it some more,” Yamata replied, making a few mental notes.
An hour later, Chet Nomuri looked up from his pachinko machine to see
Yamata emerge. As usual, he had both a driver and another man, this one far
more serious-looking, doubtless a bodyguard or security guy of some sort.
Nomuri didn’t know his name, but the type was pretty obvious. The zaibatsu
talked to him, a short remark, and there was no telling what it was. Then all
three men got into the car and drove off. Goto emerged ninety minutes later,
refreshed as always. At that point Nomuri stopped playing the vertical pin-
ball game and changed location to a place down the block. Thirty minutes
more and the Norton girl came out. This time Nomuri was ahead of her,
walking, taking the turn, then waiting for her to catch up. Okay, he thought
five minutes later. He was now certain he knew what building she lived in.
She’d purchased something to eat and carried it in. Good.
“Morning, MP.” Ryan was just back from his daily briefing to the Presi-