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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: High Flight
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“We've sent those instructions, Mr. Director, but it may take a little while to learn anything significant. It is precisely why I think you should warn the Kremlin to slow down.”
“General, that puts me in a very difficult position.”
“Yes, sir, I know it.”
 
It was the first time the four of them had sat down together to have a meal at the farmhouse. Glen Zerkel stir-fried some thinly sliced beef marinated in soy sauce, along with some julienned vegetables, and served it with cooked rice. He'd also baked bread and made a salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions dressed with lemon juice, yogurt, and garlic. It was quite good, and Reid, who for once wasn't drunk, complimented him on the meal.
“You learn to make do when you live alone,” Glen explained.
“I never did,” his brother complained. “I think I'll miss this. When we're finished, I mean.” He glanced at Mueller.
“It'll be easier than we thought,” the German told them. Over the Zerkels' protests he'd waited until Reid came out to tell them what he'd learned. “I'll need seven repeaters—and as it turns out the size isn't as critical as we thought it might be. But I'm going to need a way of shunting a closed-circuit television system so that the monitors won't detect what's been done and will leave no traces when I remove it.”
“Seven is a very specific number,” Reid said.
“Oakland, Los Angeles, Chicago, Minneapolis, both New York City airports, and Dulles here.”
“Potentially that's a lot of airplanes.” Reid looked at his plate. “A lot of people will die.” He got up and poured himself a stiff shot of Irish whiskey, drank it down, poured another, and came back to the table.
“It's up to you. But Japan will take the blame.”
“It might backfire, make Guerin stronger.”
“Again, it is up to you, Reid. But if this is done correctly, and we bring down seven or more Guerin airplanes, it will take investigators a long time to figure out how it happened. In the meantime the company's stock will certainly become nearly worthless, and you as a very loyal American who still believes in America for Americans will step in and help save the company. When the signals are finally traced back to the Japanese, you will become twice the hero.”
No one said a thing.
Mueller turned to Louis. “Can you do that?”
Louis's head bobbed nervously. “Not this instant. I need more time. A week, maybe two. But I can do anything, including that trick you want with the closed-circuit TVs.”
“I'll tell you something else,” Mueller said, turning again to a subdued Reid. “When this happens it will have to be nothing less than stunning. Unprecedented. So horrifying that it will be the single worst event in America's history.”
“Christ …” Reid said softly.
“Isn't it what you want?” Mueller asked. “Isn't that why you gathered us here? Isn't this your invention?”
“I'm still an American.”
“Yes?” Mueller smiled. “Then pay us and we shall walk away now.”
Reid looked up out of his sudden anguish. “The Japanese would win.”
“So what? You're an old man, even if you begin squandering your money immediately you couldn't
spend it all before you died. We can walk away from this insanity. Can you?”
Mueller wondered if he could take his fee and turn his back on this project as he'd told Reid he could. He expected it wouldn't be terribly difficult. It wasn't his fight or his cause. He felt no compelling emotions for the plan, although he admitted to himself that he would miss the excitement of causing all those deaths. But it wasn't important to him one way or the other.
The Zerkels were talented sociopaths. Geniuses. But Reid was becoming troublesome because of his drinking, and because he had a conscience. He would self-destruct whether or not they went ahead. He would not live much longer, and he probably knew it.
Mueller smiled. “If you want me to continue, I will give you an account number in a Channel Islands bank. Within twenty-four hours you will deposit one million dollars in that account. It's up to you.”
Reid drained the rest of his drink. “I'll take care of it first thing in the morning.”
“What do you think about that?” Louis Zerkel said.
A
sagiri Eto refused to discuss exactly who he represented, agreeing that McGarvey needed at least the day and overnight to recover from the effects of jet lag.
“Japan can be a strenuous country for someone new. Please forgive my impatience. Business can wait until morning.”
It was midnight when they emerged from the Club Shin-Oki in the Asakusa District a half-dozen blocks from McGarvey's hotel. The evening was cool, but not
unpleasantly so, and because of the hour the streets were nearly deserted. This area was Tokyo's oldest section, and unlike the glitzy uptown Ginza area, Asakusa closed down at night. The narrow streets were dark, the arcades, shops, stalls, artist studios, and restaurants shuttered until morning.
“I'll expect you at my hotel at 8:00 sharp,” McGarvey said. “I will have had my breakfast, and I'll be ready to conduct my business. Do you understand my English, Mr. Eto?”
“Perfectly, Mr. McGarvey.”
“It was my understanding that I would not be meeting with Japan Air Lines, but with another interested party.”
“That is the case.”
McGarvey stared coldly at the man. “Who will I be meeting?”
“I'm not at liberty to tell you that.”
McGarvey stepped in closer so that he clearly made the Japanese uncomfortable. “I'm not here to play fucking games, pal, if you're still catching my English. I came to discuss a business deal that could be worth billions of dollars to your principals.”
“Worth the existence of the corporation you work for,” Eto said, suddenly matching McGarvey's coldness. His eyes looked reptilian, their lids hooded, their expression unreadable.
“There are other willing trading partners.”
“You came to us.”
“Yes,” McGarvey said. “And Mr. Yamagata was receptive, even though he knows who and what I am. And why I was hired by Guerin Airplane Company. Don't make me an enemy of Japan,
Eto-san.
”
“You already are the enemy.”
“All right.” McGarvey nodded and stepped back. “So fuck you. I'm withdrawing my offer. No negotiations. I'll book the first flight out.”
For a moment Eto was caught flat-footed, but then his face began to fall apart. “No,” he said.
“No, what?”
“Mr. McGarvey, I was not sent to antagonize you. Just the opposite. My role is simply to arrange a meeting between you and my principal.”
“Who is this man or men?”
“In the morning … you will have to trust me.”
McGarvey allowed a faint smile to curl the corners of his mouth. “Is that right?”
Again Eto was flustered. “We are interested in a cooperative venture with Guerin Airplane Company. You, acting as its representative, came as a surprise. We were not prepared. We thought it would be someone else. The company's business counsel, or perhaps their chief financial officer.”
“Were you expecting Guerin to come to you?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Quit jacking me around here. You haven't told me a thing all night, but Yamagata practically dropped his teeth when I showed up in his Washington office. He suggested that I come to Tokyo, and when I stalled him he came out to Portland. My idea was to speak to someone in Washington from JAL, to see if the airline was interested in principle in doing business with us. If it was, we would send a negotiating team over to explore the possibilities. Something like this is not put together overnight.”
“You are also dealing with Moscow.”
“Your intelligence is not bad,” McGarvey said. “The Russians can put together wing panels cheaper than we can, and I'm sure cheaper than you. Besides that, my government is willing to make loan guarantees to the Russians to make the deal work. We can't miss. With you it's a different story.”
“Your company is practically bankrupt.”
Bingo, McGarvey thought. “I thought you weren't supposed to aggravate me,” he said. “In this case your intelligence isn't so good. Guerin may be at its limit, but the company is sound.”
“Why did you approach us?”
McGarvey looked at him and smiled. “Is it you I'm supposed to be meeting? Are you Yamagata's principal? Because if that's the case, I damned well will be out of here on the first flight.”
Eto's jaws tightened. “
Iie
,” he said. He flagged down a passing cab. “I will drop you at your hotel.”
“No, thanks. I'll walk.”
“That's not possible, Mr. McGarvey,” Eto said as the cab pulled up. “It's too far, and the streets here are very … confusing.”
“I think I can manage. I'll see you at the hotel in the morning.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Are you telling me that the streets of Tokyo are unsafe?”
“There is very little crime in Tokyo compared to New York.”
“As a Gai Jin I'm in danger, is that it,
Eto-san?
Or am I specifically in danger because of why I'm here? Which is it?”
Eto looked helplessly at McGarvey. The rear door of the cab was open, and the cabby waited patiently behind the wheel. The cab was spotless. All taxis in Japan were always clean and in very good repair. It was the law.
“I'll walk with you,” Eto said.
“I need to be alone. I'll see you in the morning.” McGarvey turned and walked down the street, aware that the Japanese was watching him.
McGarvey turned right at the corner and sprinted down a narrow alley twenty yards away, where he pulled up in the shadows of a shuttered stall. Moments later the cab passed on the street, Eto sitting ramrod straight in the back seat.
The confrontation had answered a number of questions, among them just how importantly the Japanese were treating his offer, and just how bad Japanese sentiment toward Americans had become. He'd been treated shabbily at the airport and at his hotel, and Eto seemed to be genuinely frightened for his safety tonight.
McGarvey lit a cigarette as he continued to watch the street. Eto's concern for his safety involved more than a fear of simple street crime. No matter what Japanese group had targeted Guerin, there'd be opposition. Eto and whoever he worked for—which sure as hell wasn't JAL—had enemies. By association they would also be McGarvey's enemies. But they would be a group who, for whatever reasons, opposed the takeover of Guerin. They were one of the reasons he'd come to Japan.
The cab, with Eto still in the back seat, passed on the street again. Even at a distance it was clear that the Japanese was agitated.
“Thanks,” McGarvey said. The man had just proved the supposition.
He'd been seen with Eto at the hotel's
hinoki
baths and at the club. From this point two forces would be in motion: that of the principals Eto worked for and that of the opposition. Actually three forces, he corrected himself. If the Russian
Abunai
network got wind that he was in Tokyo—which was likely—the mix would be further changed, perhaps muddied if it believed Guerin was trying to cut a deal with the Japanese.
Working both sides of the fence almost always produced a reaction of one sort or another. And the side that reacted first and with the most force was usually the group with the most to lose.
McGarvey flipped his cigarette away, hunched up his coat collar, and headed toward his hotel.
The Sumidagawa River, which emptied into industrial Tokyo Bay, was somewhere off to his right, beyond Sumida Park. He could smell the odors of oil and creosote wafting up from its banks. A few blocks in the opposite direction was the ancient Sensoji Temple, which had been one of the first things to be rebuilt after the war.
Kelley Fuller had called this place
shitamachi
, the heart and soul of downtown. She'd worked deep cover for the CIA's Tokyo Station, and when McGarvey had come over on an assignment she'd helped out. He
remembered her very clearly, and remembered everything she'd told him. By that time she'd been burned out on Japan and on the Company and wanted nothing more than to return home to Hawaii. But it would be nice to have her with him now. Despite her love-hate relationship with the country, she knew the Japanese psyche very well and was able to be objective.
It was difficult for an American to negotiate directly with a Japanese because of the vast cultural and language differences between them. The only saving grace was that if Americans had trouble understanding the Japanese, the Japanese had the same difficulty trying to figure out Americans.
Kelley's perspective had been unique in that she'd been able to clearly see and understand both sides.
McGarvey climbed a broad set of stairs to a long open-air mall, with shops along either side of a brick thoroughfare. Fountains, trees, and park benches were scattered here and there. The only illumination came from a few large globes on short aluminum stanchions. In the early evening with shops open, people strolling or sitting and chatting, the effect would be soothing. Now the mall was in shadows.
McGarvey held up at the head of the stairs and listened to the city sounds, which were far away and faint. The air still smelled of the river, but there were other odors here: spices and flowers and perhaps cooking food. But something was wrong. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.
The mall ran roughly east and west for about two blocks, opening at one end on what was probably Nakamise-dori Avenue, which during the day was busy with traffic. The other end of the mall was lost in darkness.
McGarvey had left his pistol in Portland. If he'd been caught trying to bring it through customs he would have been arrested and kicked out. He hadn't come here with any intention of getting into a situation where he might need it, but just now he was sorry he hadn't tried.
A motorcycle engine roared into life, and the bike came slowly up from the dark end of the mall. McGarvey backed up, his left hand trailing on the burnished aluminum stair rail.
The helmeted driver was dressed in black leather, and as he passed, he looked at McGarvey and smiled like a Cheshire cat.
Before he got to the far end of the mall, a second motorcycle started with an angry whine and headed up from the darkness, the driver weaving a path through the benches, trees, and fountains. As he passed McGarvey he looked over and smiled like the first biker.
A third and fourth bike started up and came from the end of the mall, and as McGarvey started to turn back a pair of motorcycles appeared at the bottom of the stairs. The drivers revved the engines, the snarling noises echoing off the storefronts. Two more bikes started up and came from the dark end of the mall as the first four returned.
McGarvey sprinted away from the stairs toward a small tree protected by a low circle of bricks, one of the bikes just missing him as it spun around the fountain a few feet away.
The second bike passed in a roar, something hard smashing into McGarvey's back, driving him to his knees. He looked up in time to see a third and fourth bike heading for him, the drivers swinging what looked like pieces of steel or lead on the ends of three-foot chains.
He'd found the opposition, but they didn't seem inclined to stop and talk.
McGarvey rolled left, away from the first pair of oncoming motorcycles, and they flashed by, the lead weights missing him. He was up on his feet as the two bikes from below burst over the head of the stairs and came directly at him.
He swung around the tree, avoiding the first bike, and then stepped directly toward the second. At the last possible instant he moved aside, like a bullfighter allowing
the charging bull to pass. He ducked under the swinging weight, then popped up behind it and grabbed a handful of the biker's leather jacket, dragging the man off his motorcycle and swinging him directly into the path of another charging bike.
The force of the impact spun the downed biker violently around, his left arm catching in the rear wheel's mag struts, taking it off just above the elbow and sending the motorcycle and driver crashing into one of the park benches.
Blood pouring from the open wound sprayed everywhere as the Japanese screamed and tried to get away.
McGarvey snatched the heavily weighted chain that the downed biker had dropped and stepped back.
“This man needs help!” he shouted.
The other bikers circled slowly, well out of range. “Rising Sun is going to get you,” one of them taunted.
The Japanese whose arm was torn off lay crumpled in a heap, the flow of blood from his wound slowing. The biker who'd crashed into the bench lay beneath his motorcycle, his head lying at a severe angle.
“I came here to talk to you, not fight, goddammit,” McGarvey tried to explain.
“Too bad you're going to die now,” one of them shouted.

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