Dragon (27 page)

“Why the disguise?”

“Team Lincoln’s idea. Suma collects paintings by a sixteenth century Japanese artist named Masaki Shimzu. Jordan hired an expert forger to paint what is called in art circles an undiscovered Shimzu, one it was known Suma didn’t have in his collection. Then, as the reputable finder of lost art, Ashikaga Enshu, I sold it to him.”

Showalter nodded. “Clever, clever. You must have studied your Japanese art.”

“A crash course.” Hanamura laughed. “Suma elaborated on how Shimzu painted islands from a balloon. He’d have ordered me drawn and quartered if he knew he was laying out a hundred and forty-five million yen for a fake painted from a satellite photo.”

“For what purpose?” asked Orita, his face oddly taut.

“To plant bugs in his office, naturally.”

“How come I wasn’t in on this?”

“I thought it best you two didn’t know what the other was doing,” Showalter answered Orita, “so you couldn’t reveal anything of importance if either of you were compromised.”

“Where did you set the bugs?” Orita asked Hanamura.

“Two in the frame of the painting. One in an easel he’s standing in front of a window, and another inside the draw handle for the blinds. The latter two are in perfect alignment with a relay transmitter I placed in a tree outside the atrium dome of the city.”

“What if Suma has hidden sweep equipment?”

“I ‘borrowed’ the electrical blueprints to his floor of the building. His detection equipment is first rate, but it won’t pick up our bugs. And when I say bugs, I’m talking in the literal sense.”

Orita missed Hanamura’s implication. “You lost me.”

“Our miniature receiving and sending units are not designed with the look of tiny electronic objects. They’re molded to look like ants. If discovered, they’ll either be ignored or simply mashed without suspicion.”

Showalter nodded. “That’s pretty slick.”

“Even our Japanese brothers have to take a back seat to our home-grown eavesdropping technology.” Hanamura smiled widely. “The relay transmitter, which is about the size of a golf ball, sends all conversations, including telephone or intercom calls from the office bugs, to one of our satellites, and then beams them down to Mel Penner and his Team Chrysler on Palau.”

Orita stared into the water. “Do we know for certain if they’re picking up Suma’s conversations?”

“The system is fully operational,” Showalter assured him. “I contacted Penner before I left for our meeting. He’s receiving the signals loud and clear. And so are we. A member of my team at the embassy is also tuned in on Jim’s listening gear.”

“You’ll alert us, I hope, if any information comes through that we can use in the investigation.”

“Absolutely.” Showalter poured himself another saki. “As a matter of interest, there was an intriguing conversation going on between Suma and Korori Yoshishu when I left the embassy. Too bad I only caught the first couple of minutes of it.”

“Yoshishu,” muttered Hanamura. “Good lord, is that old crook still alive?”

“Ninety-one and rotten as ever,” answered Showalter.

Hanamura shook his head. “The master criminal of the age, personally responsible for more than a million deaths. If Yoshishu is behind Suma and a worldwide organization of hidden nuclear warheads, we’re all in deep, deep trouble.”

An hour before dawn a Murmoto limousine pulled to a stop and a figure stepped from the shadows and quickly ducked through the opened door. Then the car crawled slowly through the narrow back streets of Asakusa.

“Mr. Suma’s office is bugged,” said Orita. “One of our agents posing as an art dealer hid sophisticated listening devices in the frame of a painting, an easel, and the draw pull of the window blinds.”

“Are you certain?” demanded a stunned Kamatori. “The dealer produced an original Shimzu.”

“A fake painted from a satellite photo.”

Kamatori hissed. “You should have informed me sooner.”

“I only learned of it a few hours ago.”

Kamatori said nothing but stared at Orita’s face in the semi darkness of the limousine as if reinforcing his trust.

Like George Furukawa, Roy Orita was an intelligence sleeper, born in the United States of Japanese parents and groomed for employment in the CIA.

Finally Kamatori said, “Much was said this afternoon that could prove damaging to Mr. Suma. There can be no mistake about this?”

“Did the dealer say his name was Ashikaga Enshu?”

Kamatori felt shock mingled with shame. His job was to protect Suma’s organization from penetration. He had failed miserably and lost much face.

“Yes, Enshu.”

“His real name is James Hanamura. The other half of my team whose job is to investigate the source of the nuclear car bombs.”

“Who fathomed the tie between the cars and the warheads?”

“An amateur by the name of Dirk Pitt. He was borrowed from the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“Is he dangerous to us?”

“He might cause trouble. I can’t say for sure. He’s not assigned to the investigative operations. But he does have an awesome reputation for successfully carrying through impossible projects.”

Kamatori sat back and idly stared out the window at the darkened buildings. At last he turned to Orita.

“Can you give me a list of names of the agents you’re working with and provide updates on their activities?”

Orita nodded. “The list of names, yes. The activities, no way. We all work separately. Like a magical act, no one knows what the other hand is doing.”

“Keep me informed as best you can.”

“What do you intend to do about Pitt?”

Kamatori looked at Orita with venom in his cold eyes. “If a safe opportunity arises, kill him.”

29

G
UIDED BY
L
OREN
S
MITH
on one side and Al Giordino on the other, Pitt backed the Stutz town car down the ramps of a trailer and parked it between a red 1926 Hispano-Suiza, a big cabriolet manufactured in France, and a beautiful 1931 Marmon V-16 town car. He cocked an ear and listened to the engine a minute, revving the rpm’s, satisfying himself it was turning over smoothly without a miss. Then he switched off the ignition.

It was an Indian summer day. The sky was clear and warm for early fall. Pitt wore corduroy slacks and a suede sport coat, while Loren looked radiant in a dusty rose jumpsuit.

While Giordino moved the pickup truck and trailer to a parking lot, Loren stood on the running board of the Stutz and gazed at the field of over a hundred classic cars arranged around the infield of the Virginia Memorial racetrack. The concours d’elegance, a show where the cars were judged on appearance, was combined with one-lap races around the track between classic vehicles designed and built as road and tour cars.

“They’re all so gorgeous,” Loren said wonderingly. “I’ve never seen so many exotic cars in one place.”

“Stiff competition,

Pitt said as he raised the hood and wiped down the engine. “I’ll be lucky to take a third in my class.”

“When is the judging?”

“Any time.”

“And the races?”

“After the concours, winners are announced and the awards passed out.”

“What car will you race against?”

“According to the program, the red Hispano next to us.”

Loren eyed the attractive Paris-built drop-head cabriolet. “Think you can beat it?”

“I don’t know. The Stutz is six years newer, but the Hispano has a larger engine and a lighter body.”

Giordino approached and announced, “I’m hungry. When do we eat?”

Loren laughed, gave Giordino a light kiss on the cheek, and produced a picnic basket from the back seat of the Stutz. They sat on the grass and ate mortadella and brie with sourdough bread, accompanied with a pate and fruit and washed down by a bottle of Valley of the Moon zinfandel.

The judges came and began examining Pitt’s car for the contours. He was entered in Class D, American classic 1930 to 1941 closed top. After fifteen minutes of intense study, they shook his hand and moved off to the next car in his class, a 1933 Lincoln V12 Berline.

By the time Pitt and his friends had polished off the zinfandel, the winners were announced over the public announcement system. The Stutz came in third behind a 1938 Packard sport coupe and a 1934 Lincoln limousine.

Pitt had lost one and a half points out of a perfect hundred because the Stutz cigarette lighter didn’t work and the exhaust system did not strictly adhere to the original design.

“Better than I expected,” said Pitt proudly. “I didn’t think we’d place.”

“Congratulations,” said Frank Mancuso.

Pitt stared blankly at the mining engineer who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Where did you pop from?”

“I heard through the grapevine you’d be here,” said Mancuso warmly, “so I thought I’d drop by, see the cars, and talk a little shop with you and Al.”

“Time for us to go to work?”

“Not yet.”

Pitt turned and introduced Mancuso to Loren. Giordino simply nodded and passed the newcomer a glass of wine from a newly opened bottle. Mancuso’s eyes widened when he was introduced to Loren.

He looked at Pitt with an approving expression, then nodded at Loren and the Stutz. “Two classic beauties. You have excellent taste.”

Pitt smiled slyly. “I do what I can.”

“That’s quite a car,” Mancuso said, eyeing the lines of the Stutz. “LeBaron coachwork, isn’t it?”

“Very good. You into old automobiles?”

“My brother is a car nut. I soaked up what little I know about them from him.” He motioned up the aisle separating the line of cars. “Would you care to give me a guided lecture on all this fine machinery?”

They excused themselves to Loren, who struck up a conversation with the wife of the owner of the Hispano-Suiza. After they strolled past a few cars, Giordino grew impatient.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Mancuso stared at him. “You’ll probably hear about it from Admiral Sandecker. But Team Mercedes has been put on hold. Your project to salvage any remains of the ship that carried the bomb cars has been scrubbed.”

“Any particular reason?”

“The President decided it would be best if we kept hands off for now. Too many problems. Soviet propaganda is already trying to lay the blast on our doorstep. Congress is talking about launching investigations, and the President is in no mind to explain an undercover salvage operation. He can’t afford discovery of your Soggy Acres venture. That went against international laws governing mining of the seafloor.”

“We only took samples,” said Pitt defensively. “It was purely an experimental program.”

“Maybe so, but you got the jump on the rest of the world. Third-world nations especially would howl their heads off at the UN if they thought they were being cut out of an undersea bonanza.”

Pitt stopped and studied a huge open car. “I’d love to own this one.”

“A Cadillac touring?”

“A Cadillac V-Sixteen phaeton,” Pitt corrected. “They’re bringing close to a million dollars at the auctions.”

Giordino nodded. “Right up there with the Duesenbergs.”

Pitt turned and looked at Mancuso steadily. “How many cars with warheads have they found?”

“Only your six so far. Stacy and Weatherhill haven’t sent word of their progress on the West Coast yet.”

“The Japanese must have a fleet of those things scattered around the country,” said Pitt. “Jordan will need an army to nail them down.”

“There’s no lack of manpower, but the trick is to do it without pushing the Japs into a corner. If they think their nuclear bomb project is threatened, they might overreact and set one off man.”

“Nice if Team Honda can penetrate the source and snatch a map of the locations,” Giordino said quietly.

“They’re working on it,” Mancuso stated firmly.

Pitt leaned over and peered at a Lalique crystal head of a rooster that adorned the radiator of a Pierce-Arrow roadster. “In the meantime we all sit around with our fingers in our ears.”

“Don’t feel left out. You accomplished more in the first four hours than the entire team in forty-eight. We’ll be called when we’re needed.”

“I don’t like waiting in the dark for something to happen.”

Giordino switched his attention from the cars to a girl walking past in a tight leather skirt and said vaguely, “What could possibly happen at a concours?”

They seemed an unlikely group, but there they were, seriously observant in their dark suits and attaché cases amid the casually dressed classic car owners and spectators. The four Japanese men gazed studiously at the cars, scribbling in notebooks and acting as though they were advance men for a Tokyo consortium of collector car buyers.

It was a good front. People noticed them, were bemused by their antics, and turned away, never suspecting they were a highly trained team of undercover operatives and their attaché cases were arsenals of gas grenades and assault weapons.

The Japanese team had not come to admire the automobiles, they came to abduct Loren Smith.

They combed the area around the concours, noting the exits and placement of armed security guards. Their leader, his dark face glistening in the midday sun, noted that Pitt’s Stutz was parked in the center of the field of classic automobiles, making it next to impossible to spirit Loren away without causing an outcry.

He ordered his three men to return to their stretch limousine that was parked by the track while he hung around keeping an eye on Loren’s movements. He also followed Pitt, Giordino, and Mancuso for a short distance, examining their clothing for any telltale bulge of a handgun. He saw nothing suspicious and assumed all three were unarmed.

Then he wandered about patiently, knowing the right moment would eventually arrive.

A race steward informed Pitt that he and the Stutz were due on the starting line. With his friends going along for the ride, he drove along the grass aisle between the rows of cars and through a gate onto the asphalt one-mile oval track.

Giordino raised the hood and gave a final check of the engine while Mancuso observed. Loren gave Pitt a long good-luck kiss and then jogged to the side of the track, where she sat on a low wall.