The Gate (6 page)

“The government,” Nakanga continued, “is also on alert. Ever since those fools gassed the Tokyo subway every organization, even one as old and venerable as ours, has been under constant surveillance by Central Political Intelligence. You must be careful not to be tracked by CPI to the United States.”

Nishin was glad he had had a good night’s sleep and had recovered as far as he had from his injuries. The information he had just been given and the task assigned seemed overwhelming. CPI was a secret arm of the Japanese government that battled the secret societies and the Yakuza by any means possible. Nishin had run into CPI agents while on mission and he respected their dedication and most especially their technical expertise. Given that they had access to the best electronic equipment in the world, CPI agents were masters of surveillance. Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for Nishin, CPI agents usually lacked the ruthlessness needed to complete missions. They were limited by the laws and regulations placed on them by the government.

“Arrangements have been made for your travel.” Nakanga held out a large brown envelope. “I have your cover documents ready: passport, driver’s license. All that you will need. Also a sufficient sum of money to allow you to do your job. Memorize the contact plans and procedures. You will leave this evening.”

Nishin stood and took the envelope. He froze when a voice spoke from the shadows.

“You must not allow the secret of Genzai Bakudan to be revealed,” the man in the wheelchair rasped. “Use whatever means necessary.”

Nishin inclined his head, indicating he understood, afraid to say anything. When nothing more was said he quickly left the deck.

Behind, standing alone, Nakanga looked at the entrance to the room, waiting.

“Leave me,” the Genoysha ordered.

“Yes, Genoysha Kuzumi.”

As soon as Nakanga left, Kuzumi slowly pushed aside the curtain and rolled onto the balcony. It was his favorite place to think. It was also the only place where he was ever out of doors. Nakanga’s words rang in his ears, as did Nishin’s questions. They raised disturbing thoughts like a dust cloud on an old road.

Lies, deception, and double and triple dealing were the way of power, Kuzumi knew, but Nakanga’s answer to Nishin’s question about his location at the end of the war brought forth a double-edged sword of deception that cut deep. I did not die in Hiroshima, Kuzumi bitterly knew. Late at night when he was alone lying on his mat he often wished he had. Sometimes he wondered if memories and nightmares were all he had other than his duty to the Society.

At least everything else Nakanga had told Nishin was true. What bothered Kuzumi as much as anything else was the fact that the part about not knowing the full story was also true. Kuzumi had been high in the Society by the end of the war, but only the Genoysha at the time, Taiyo, had known all that was going on. As only Kuzumi knew all that was presently going on within the many tentacles of the present-day Black Ocean society so Taiyo had ruled and plotted. What concerned Kuzumi was whatever had grown from those unknown past seeds that had been scattered at the end of the war.

Naturally, he was concerned about Genzai Bakudan being found out. More specifically about the Black Ocean’s role in developing Genzai Bakudan. But when he had learned that the North Koreans were heading to San Francisco his blood had run cold and more ghosts had arisen to swirl about his consciousness. There were a few things that Kuzumi knew from that time that Nakanga himself did not know because Kuzumi had not informed him.

But it was years before that desperate time when the war closed in on the homeland that Kuzumi’s mind wandered to now on the balcony. Seven years earlier to be exact, before the entire world had turned black with war.

Unlike his present situation, in the late thirties Kuzumi had traveled the world. He had been in Germany right after fission had been discovered in 1938. He had earned his degree in the fledgling science of atomic physics at the University of Tokyo the previous year, so he had understood the importance of what had just occurred. As a member of the Black Ocean, which had funded his education, Kuzumi had informed his superiors and they had sent him to the Third Reich.

So strange that the Germans, who had first discovered fission, would lag so far behind in their development of an atomic bomb. But Kuzumi knew the main reason for that. Hitler. The crazy man had not trusted discoveries uncovered mainly by Jewish scientists. He had also run away most of his prominent physicists for the same reason. Run them right to his enemy in America. The German program had lagged and then the British had sent a suicide commando mission to destroy the heavy-water plant in Norway in 1942 to dash any possibility of the German scientists achieving success. The raid was something a Japanese would have done.

Leaving Germany in 1939 after learning all he could, Kuzumi had gone to the west coast of the United States. It was at the University of California at Berkeley that he had studied under Professor Ernest O. Lawrence, who won the Nobel Prize in physics that same year for inventing the cyclotron a few years previously.

A circular accelerator capable of generating particle energies, a cyclotron was essential for developing the theoretical groundwork in the growing field of atomic studies. Lawrence had built the first one, four and a half inches in diameter, at UC-Berkeley in the early thirties. By the time Kuzumi was in California, the Japanese had one thirty-nine inches in diameter. The Americans had built even larger ones and were beginning to classify much of their work in atomic physics.

But as a young exchange student Kuzumi had learned much about atomics in the relaxed atmosphere of the university. He had also learned something that no amount of schooling could have prepared him for.

Kuzumi looked over the valley and beyond, his eyes soaring through his memory in both time and place. Berkeley, 1939. The campus was in the bloom of spring and Kuzumi’s mind had been on atoms and international intrigue. There was war in Europe and his own country was at war in China. The United States was a tranquil island in the middle of the death raging elsewhere.

Perhaps that was what had lulled him. His old hands strayed up to his neck, feeling the absence of the locket that had hung around his neck for six years. He had passed it on in 1945 and it had been destroyed at Hiroshima along with much else that was precious to him.

San Francisco. Damn those North Koreans. Damn that old cave. What had they uncovered there? Kuzumi shook his head. How had the North Koreans found out about the cave? From the Russians? From someone simply stumbling over it?

There was more at stake than even Nakanga knew. Kuzumi could take no chances. He pressed a button on the side of his wheelchair and waited for the person he had summoned to appear.

SAN FRANCISCO

FRIDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1997 12:27 A.M. LOCAL

“I need a Hush Puppy,” Lake said.

The man across the table from him whistled. “That’ll cost you big. What do you need the Puppy for? You got the High Standard I sold you, right? Or did you resell it?’’

“I still have the High Standard,” Lake confirmed. “But I don’t like it, Jonas. Too light. That .22 bullet couldn’t hurt a rabbit.”

“It can kill you if you put the bullet in the right place,” Jonas said. “I remember...”

Lake pretended to listen as Jonas told his war story. The bar they were in was named Chain Drive, but that was a relic from its days when bikers had haunted the imitation leather booths and rickety wooden tables. The bikers were gone now and the Patriots had taken over.

As he leaned back against the back of the booth, it occurred to Lake that he would have preferred dealing with the bikers. He’d been working the Patriots since they’d changed their name two years ago. Previously they’d been known as Militias, but the Oklahoma bombing had made that name a disadvantage. Some smart guy had come up with the new name, and because the group used the Internet for much of its communications, the name had caught on within two months.

The best estimate the Ranch had was that there were over a quarter million members of various Patriot groups around the country. Contrary to the claims of the media, though, Lake knew that most of those were law-abiding citizens who simply felt that the federal government had overstepped its bounds and they were exercising their freedom of speech. It was the handful of extremists among that quarter million that worried everyone.

The Ranch had put its focus on the Patriots six months after the Oklahoma bombing when the FBI, the ATF, the DEA, and the rest of the alphabet soup failed to agree on how to combat domestic terrorism. The President had grown tired of the infighting and pulled the entire problem away from all of them without them even knowing it had been pulled away. As the agencies still were working on a joint task force, the Ranch had been given a highly classified presidential directive. It was covered by Section 180102 of the Omnibus Crime Bill which allowed “Multi- jurisdictional Task Forces” to be funded by “assets seized as a result of investigations.”

As far as Lake knew, the Ranch had been in existence for a long time before the problem of the Patriots or Militias, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, had arisen. Over half a century at least as Lake had heard references to competition with the OSS, Office of Strategic Services, during World War II for personnel. The OSS, and its follow-on, the CIA, had been the public front. The Ranch was the hidden part. Perhaps the Ranch had once been part of the OSS, if Feliks’s cigarette case was to be believed as being his, and then had split off sometime during World War II.

Lake found it amazing that it never really occurred to Congress, or the general public for that matter, that there simply had to be a covert government agency that no one had ever heard of, that conducted missions that could not be done by an organization open to public or congressional scrutiny. No matter how covert the CIA’s covert wing tried to operate was known to the public; and that meant that conflicting priorities and a lack of secrecy were built into the organization. It was only natural when the President ran out of other options that he picked the Ranch to delve into the problems of the right-wingers. The Ranch was where the buck always stopped.

Feliks was the leader of the Ranch. Had been ever since Lake had been handpicked to join it five years ago. From what Lake could gather whenever he went to the Ranch, Feliks had been in charge for decades. Lake actually had no idea of the extent of the organization or how many people worked for it, such was the extent of the compartmentalization that Feliks imposed. In fact, Lake wondered if Feliks truly was the head of the organization. For all he knew, Feliks was just a section chief, although the man never seemed to have to defer his decision making to anyone else.

Lake had never met any of the other field operatives. Whenever he went back to the Ranch, located outside Las Vegas at a secret Air Force base that had been used for such things as testing the Stealth Fighter and other classified aircraft, he dealt only with Feliks or support personnel. His training had always been one-on-one with the instructors, all of who were the best in their specialties.

Lake had been well qualified in the field of special operations before being recruited and, with the Ranch training he knew he was among the best in the world. But as events just a few nights ago had proven, even the best could get killed when things didn’t quite work like they should. James Bond looked very good on the screen, but one thing Lake knew was that real life was full of screw-ups and human foibles. Training didn’t make him perfect but it did give him a leg up on other, less well-trained personnel.

Beyond the organizational security, there was a level of personal security that was extremely strict, for two reasons, one obvious, the other not so obvious. The first reason was to allow operatives to go deep undercover, something that was essential for the work to be done. On this operation, Lake had now been under for sixteen months, which was unheard of in law enforcement or even intelligence circles inside the United States. The reason it was unheard of was not only the psychological strain on the undercover person, but the fact that anyone under that long on the wrong side of the law in the States had to end up breaking the law in order for the cover to remain valid.

And Lake did break the law. That was the second reason for the tight security because, even with the presidential directive reference the Patriots, the Ranch operatives were committing crimes up to, and including, murder. Taking out the three men the other night wasn’t the only law Lake had broken. He broke the law every time he sold illegal automatic weapons and ordnance. But it was because he sold that gear and broke the law that criminals like Jonas trusted him as much as they were able to trust anyone they hadn’t grown up with.

Lake knew he had added three counts of murder to his list of felonies the previous evening, although he supposed a lawyer could make a good case for self-defense and a high degree of justification for action. Still, he hadn’t read anyone their rights or given them the option of surrender.

That thought made Lake smile, the gesture lost in the darkness of the booth. Lake wasn’t a cop. Never had been. That wasn’t what Feliks looked for at the Ranch. People in power were scared, and when people were scared they went for the best. And the Ranch always got the pick of the crop, even when people weren’t scared.

Lake knew another fertilizer bomb wasn’t what scared the piss out of everyone from the President on down. Something like the biological agent Lake had just stopped on the Golden Gate was the real fear. The amount of fissionable material floating out of the former Soviet Union was another source of fear. The potential for a nuclear, chemical, or biological weapon of mass destruction being unleashed was no longer a question of if, but more one of when.

And that “when” occurred about every five or six months. So far the Ranch operatives had a perfect record against the Patriots and other terrorist organizations, covering four different attempts at domestic terrorism. Five, Lake reminded himself, after the events of the previous evening. Of course only Feliks and the President knew that.

“Can you get me a Hush Puppy?” Lake finally asked as Jonas’s story wound to a close somewhere in the jungles north of the DMZ in Vietnam, over thirty years ago.

“You don’t get a Hush Puppy to use,” Jonas said. “It’s a fucking piece of history. A goddamn classic.”

Lake’s expertise was weapons, but he didn’t look at them as stamps to be collected like many people did. They were tools. A great violinist didn’t buy a Stradivarius to hang it on the wall in a glass case and be looked at. He bought it to play it. Lake needed a new instrument. The .22 High Standard bullets had bounced off the man in the boat’s vest. The Ranch ordnance department had provided the High Standard and Lake had used it. Lake allowed himself only one mistake and he wouldn’t use it again. The only advantage the gun had was it could be fired repeatedly without recocking, unusual in a silenced semiautomatic weapon. In the future, Lake simply wanted one bullet that would do the job instead of two that wouldn’t.

A Hush Puppy was a Smith & Wesson Model 99, 9mm automatic pistol specially modified with a silencer. Because of the modifications, it had been officially designated the Mark 22 Mod O pistol with a Mark 3 Mod O silencer attached to the barrel. The gun had been developed during the Vietnam War for use by the Navy SEALs. The stated purpose was to kill enemy sentry dogs, thus the nickname. The next time Lake shot someone with a silenced weapon, he wanted a bigger bullet, one that could cut through a vest if the round was specially modified, and Lake knew how to modify bullets.

There were drawbacks to the Hush Puppy. It had a lock on the slide, to keep the slide locked closed when it was fired. This prevented metal on metal noise. But it also prevented the gun from ejecting the spent round and chambering a new one, unlike the operation of the High Standard. The Hush Puppy had to be manually unlocked and a new round chambered each time it was fired. That could take a trained man almost a second, a very long time when bullets were flying.

The Mark 3 silencer consisted of a hollow tube screwed on the end of the barrel. Inside the tube was a disposable insert that suppressed sound. The insert was a cylinder holding four quarter-inch-thick plastic disks with a small hole in the center. The disks slowed down the escaping gasses, which in guns makes most of the noise of firing. Each insert was good for two-dozen rounds. Combining the Mark 3 with specially developed subsonic ammunition and the slide lock, the gun was practically noiseless.

“I’ll give you three thousand, cash,” Lake said.

The museum curator vanished and Jonas the wheelerdealer was back. “You got it. Tomorrow soon enough?”

“Yeah.” Lake tapped the fat man on the arm. “And make sure I have a good Mark 3 with two new inserts.”

Jonas smiled. “You do know your guns.” He signaled and the bartender came over with two more beers. “I heard you were with that Starry fellow.”

Lake took a deep slug. “Yeah. Him and Preston.”

“Nobody’s seen them for a few days. I heard someone was looking for them,” Jonas said.

“Who’s looking?” In the dim light of the bar Lake was studying the poster behind Jonas’s head. It showed Hitler, his arm raised in the Nazi salute. Below it was written in large letters:

everyone in favor of gun control raise your right hand.

Jonas didn’t answer his question. “You know where they’re at?”

“I know where they were at,” Lake said. “We split in Novato a few days ago. They said they had a job to do. I got them the guns they needed and I guess they didn’t want me in on the action. They paid so I don’t care where they went.”

“Can you get in contact with them?”

“I don’t have any plans to get in contact with them, so, no, I couldn’t get in contact with them,” Lake said. “But if they get in contact with me, I’ll let them know you’re concerned.”

“Heard the ATF grabbed some of their buddies up in Portland,” Jonas said, changing the drift of the conversation.

Lake shrugged. “Hell, the goons raided Starry twice. The first one was why they came to me; they lost all their automatic rifles. On the second raid they grabbed some of Starry’s people on charges drummed up from what they seized on the first raid.”

The second ATF raid had been set up by Feliks to give Lake a way into Starry’s group after supplying them with weapons. The first raid had been a setup months ago to get Lake into position to sell the weapons. It was all complicated and took a long time to work and the ATF didn’t have a clue that they were being used by the Ranch. They thought the raids had been legitimate, which meant the Patriots also thought that. Which meant Lake was legitimate as far as the criminal element was concerned. In a strange way, Lake normally stayed on the wrong side of the law, only going on the right side when the stakes were raised high. That’s what made him so good.

Lake knew Jonas was fishing. Starry, Preston, and the third man simply disappearing off the face of the earth had to have jerked someone’s chain. Now he was hearing the rattle. Of course, Jonas hadn’t mentioned the third man.

“You haven’t heard from Starry?”

That was too blunt. Lake put down the beer. “Maybe Starry don’t want to be heard from. I just told you I don’t know how to get a hold of them. Last I saw of them, it looked to me like they were on a mission and they might not like me saying anything about their movements. I’ve learned to mind my own business.”

“Hey, chill, man. I know that. But information’s my business. I wouldn’t betray the cause. Just some people asking.”

“What people?” Lake asked.

“People,” Jonas repeated vaguely.

“Those people need any guns?” Lake asked. “That I can help you with. Starry, I can’t. And I don’t answer questions for people when I don’t know who they are. These people talking to you might be feds.”

“No, these people aren’t feds and they don’t need guns,” Jonas said. “At least not right now. They’re cool, man. Just some of Starry’s and Preston’s buds in the movement.” He finished his draft with one long gulp, then patted down his long flowing gray beard. “Hey, but there are some people asking around for some firepower.”

“People?” Lake repeated. “Not with the cause?”

Jonas laughed. “No, these people aren’t with the cause.”

“What kind of people?” Lake asked.

“Foreigners. Slopes. Asking around.”

“What kind of slopes?” Lake thought of the Japanese information planted in the van. Maybe it wasn’t a plant. Maybe Starry had gotten the glass jar from someone foreign that morning. Maybe even from the man in the boat.

“I don’t know. They all look alike to me. Japs, I guess. Maybe Chinese. Who the fuck can tell?”

I can, thought Lake. As can anyone who gave a shit. “What are they asking about?”