clearly offended that a gaijin had taken the seat without asking permission
first and left without even a polite bow.
Before the drink arrived, Clark reached under the table, finding a package
taped in place there. In a moment it was in his lap, and would soon find its
way inside his waistband behind his back. Clark always bought his working
clothes in a full cut-the Russian disguise helped even more-and his shoul-
ders provided ample overhang for hiding things, yet another reason, he
thought, to stay in shape.
The drink arrived, and he took his time knocking it back, looking at the
bar mirror and searching the reflections for faces that might have appeared in
his memory before. It was a never-ending drill, and, tiring as it was, one he’d
learned the hard way not to ignore. He checked his watch twice, both times
unobtrusively, then a third time immediately before standing, leaving behind
just enough cash to pay for the drink. Russians weren’t known as big tippers.
The street was busy, even in the late evening. Clark had established the
routine nightcap over the past week, and on every other night he would roam
the local shops. This evening he selected a bookstore first, one with long,
irregular rows. The Japanese were a literate people. The shop always had
people in it. He browsed around, selecting a copy of The Economist, then
wandered more, aimlessly toward the back, where he saw a few men eyeing
the manga racks. Taller than they, he stood right behind a few, close but not
too close, keeping his hands in front of him, shielded by his back. After five
or so minutes he made his way to the front and paid for the magazine, which
the clerk politely bagged for him. The next stop was an electronics store,
where he looked at some CD players. This time he bumped into two people,
each time politely asking their pardon, a phrase which he’d troubled himself
to learn before anything else at Monterey. After that he headed back out onto
the street and back to the hotel, wondering how much of the preceding fif-
teen minutes had been a total waste of time. None of it, Clark told himself.
Not a single second.
In the room he tossed Ding the magazine. It drew a look of its own before
the younger man spoke. “Don’t they have anything in Russian?”
“It’s good coverage of the difficulties between this country and America.
Read and learn. Improve your language skills.”
Great, just fucking great, Chavez thought, reading the words for their real
meaning. We’ve been activated, far-real. He’d never finish the master’s
now, Ding grumped. Maybe they just didn’t want to jack his salary up, as
CIA regulations specified for a graduate degree.
Clark had other things to do. The package Nomuri had transferred held a
computer disk and a device that attached to a laptop. He switched it on, then
inserted the disk into the slot. The file he opened contained only three sen-
tences, and seconds after reading it, Clark had erased the disk. Next he
started composing what to all intents and purposes was a news dispatch.
The computer was a Russian-language version of a popular Japanese
model, with all the additional Cyrillic letters, and the hard part for Clark was
that although he read and spoke Russian like a native, he was used to typing
(badly enough) in English. The Russian-style keyboard drove him crazy, and
he sometimes wondered if someone would ever pick up on this small chink
in his cover armor. It took over an hour to type up the news article, and
another thirty to do the more important part. He saved both items to the hard
drive, then turned the machine off. Flipping it over, he removed the modem
from its modular port and replaced it with the new one Nomuri had brought.
“What time is it in Moscow?” he asked tiredly.
“Same as always, six hours behind us, remember?”
“I’m going to send it to Washington, too.”
“Fine,” “Chekov” grunted. “I’m sure they’ll love it, Ivan Ser-
geyevich.”
Clark attached the phone line to the back of his computer and used the
latter to dial up the fiberoptic line to Moscow. Transferring the report took
less than a minute. He repeated the operation for the Interfax office in the
American capital. It was pretty slick, John thought. The moment before the
modem at one end linked up with the modem at the other sounded just like
static-which it was. The mating signal was just a rough hiss unless you had
a special chip, and he never called anyone but Russian press-agency offices.
That the office in Washington might be tapped by the FBI was something
else again. Finished, he kept one file and erased the other. Another day done,
serving his country. Clark brushed his teeth before collapsing into his single
bed.
“That was a fine speech, Goto-san.” Yamata poured a generous amount of
sake into an exquisite porcelain cup. “You made things so clear.”
“Did you see how they responded to me!” The little man was bubbling
now, his enthusiasm making his body swell before his host’s eyes.
“And tomorrow you will have your cabinet, and the day after you will
have a new office, Hiroshi.”
“You’re certain?”
A nod and a smile that conveyed true respect. “Of course I am. My col-
leagues and I have spoken with our friends, and they have come to agree
with us that you are the only man suited to save our country.”
“When will it begin?” Goto asked, suddenly sobered by the words, re-
membering exactly what his ascension would mean.
“When Ihc people arc with us.”
“Arc you sure we can-”
“Yes, I am sure.” Yamata paused. “There is one problem, however.”
“What is that?”
“Your lady friend, Hiroshi. If the knowledge becomes public (hat you
have an American mistress, it compromises you. We cannot afford that,”
Yamata explained patiently. “I hope you will understand.”
“Kimba is a most pleasant diversion for me,” Goto objected politely.
“I have no doubt of it, but the Prime Minister can have his choice of di-
versions, and in any case we will be busy in the next month.” The amusing
part was that he could build up the man on one hand and reduce him on the
other, just as easily as he manipulated a child. And yet there was something
disturbing about it all. More than one thing. How much had he told the girl?
And what to do with her now?
“Poor thing, to send her home now, she will never know happiness
again.”
“Undoubtedly true, but it must be done, my friend. Let me handle it for
you? Better it should be done quietly, discreetly. You are on the television
every day now. You cannot be seen to frequent that area as a private citizen
would. There is too great a danger.”
The man about to be Prime Minister looked down, sipping his drink, so
transparently measuring his personal pleasure against his duties to his coun-
try, surprising Yamata yet again-but no, not really. Goto was Goto, and
he’d been chosen for his elevation as much-more-for his weaknesses than
his strengths.
“Hai,” he said after reflection. “Please see to it.”
“I know what to do,” Yamata assured him.
15
A Damned, Foolish Thing
Behind Ryan’s desk was a gadget called a STU-6. The acronym probably
meant “secure telephone unit,” but he had never troubled himself to find
out. It was about two feet square, and contained in a nicely made oak cabinet
handcrafted by the inmates of a federal prison. Inside were a half dozen
green circuit-boards, populated with various chips whose function was to
scramble and unscramble telephone signals. Having one of these in the of-
fice was one of the better government status symbols.
“Yeah,” Jack said, reaching back for the receiver.
“MP here. Something interesting came in. SANDALWOOD,” Mrs. Foley
said, her voice distinct on the digital line. “Flip on your fax?”
“Go ahead and send it.” The STU-6 did that, too, fulfilling the function
with a simple phone line that headed to Ryan’s facsimile printer. “Did you
get the word to them-”
“Yes, we did.”
“Okay, wait a minute …” Jack took the first page and started reading it.
“This is Clark?” he asked.
“Correct. That’s why I’m fast-tracking it over to you. You know the guy
as well as I do.”
“I saw the TV coverage. CNN says their crew got a little roughed
up….” Ryan worked his way down the first page.
“Somebody bounced a soda can off the producer’s head. Nothing more
serious than a headache, but it’s the first time anything like that has hap-
pened over there-that Ed and I remember, anyway.”
“Goddamn it!” Ryan said next.
“I thought you’d like that part.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Mary Pat.”
“Glad to help.” The line went dead.
Ryan took his time. His temper, he knew, was always his givak-sl enemy.