The Korean Intercept (17 page)

She rejoined Chai and Han. The air was fast becoming wintry and inhospitable.

Chai led the way to a truck parked nearby. The truck was top-heavy with tarp-covered electronic equipment taken from the shuttle. A second vehicle right behind it was full of men with their rifles poking outward like antennae.

Kate paused to turn and look up at the towering
Liberty
, and she recalled its grandeur and majestic appearance before the crash. She hoped that this was not her final sight of it. She then was jarred roughly, almost knocked from her feet, when Han stepped in to ram her roughly in the lower back with the barrel of his rifle, sneering a coarse command in his native tongue. She pivoted instinctively, emotions rising with her. She felt ready to kick this bastard's rifle aside and take him down no matter what the consequences. She'd been pushed that far.

Han had stepped back with surprising adroitness. He stood a few paces back, gesturing with his rifle in the direction of the truck.

Chai laughed and spoke to Han, who lowered his rifle. Chai turned to Kate.

"My apologies. My man is sometimes overzealous in carrying out his duties. Han has a penchant for violence. I see that he has learned from your martial arts demonstration earlier. He's rather nimble when he wants to be, don't you think? So. Do everything I say and cause no trouble, dear lady, I beg of you." He laughed again, harshly. "Everything will then be all right."

"Everything is far from all right," she said. "But I'll be a good girl for now, if your goon doesn't poke me with that rifle again."

Chai did not feel obliged to respond. He trudged onto the waiting truck. At sight of his approach, the driver gunned his engine and switched on the headlights.

Kate continued apace. Han kept a prudent distance from her, but his eyes said that nothing would please him so much as for her to make a break for it so that he could shoot her down on the spot. She disappointed him, realizing in retrospect that lashing out at him had been a reflex fueled solely by pent-up emotions. What the hell, she decided. Life is full of regrets, like her relationship with Trev and the way it was ending, or had already ended, and the dismal fate of
Liberty's
flight… and revealing perhaps too early the fact that she could defend herself with deadly force.

Trev had taught her Kung Fu, the oldest known technique of fighting. From Kung Fu had evolved all the forms of martial arts, including jujitsu, kendo and aikido. And yet, Trev told her, Westerners knew practically nothing about true Kung Fu. She had been fascinated; had allowed herself to become immersed in its philosophy. And what she learned then, came in handy now. She had learned that, as every person has two sides to his nature, so it was with Kung Fu, that Kung Fu revolved around a philosophy of nonviolence based on the premise that nothing that is violent can be permanent. The dual nature of Kung Fu is leisure and labor, the former consisting of disciplines such as poetry, painting, history and mathematics—subjects of an artistic, educational nature—while the latter consists of instruction in physical combat. The ultimate aim in regard to both is to aspire to the level where one's understanding and practice of the art provide entrance to the spiritual plane. Striding along between Chai and Han, as they approached the truck, she adjusted her breathing, willing herself to relax, and commanding her
chi
, her inner, intrinsic energy, to rise.

Her study of the metaphysics of Kung Fu had ingrained within her the notion of "yielding to evil," a seeming nonresistance that, when properly applied, served to conquer and destroy evil. If one's strength was much less than one's opponent's, one could defeat that opponent by coordinating one selected purpose with maximum effort, concentrated at the vital time and place. She had to wait. She had to bide her time. She had to wait for the vital moment. Then she would strike, and hope for the best.

They boarded the truck. Chai positioned himself behind the steering wheel, and he gunned the engine to life.

Kate climbed into the cab, and Han followed her. The truck pulled away from the
Liberty
as the darkening mantle of night laid claim to the surroundings. Chai steered and shifted gears expertly, despite the top-heavy load of equipment they were transporting. The second truck followed. Their headlights cast erratic beams into the gloom. The trucks retraced their route of approach from that morning. It had been a long day. She found herself looking forward to her reunion with Commander Scott and Bob Paxton at Chai's fortress. She hoped the commander's broken leg was being suitably cared for, as Chai had promised if she agreed to cooperate, and she hoped that Paxton would not be a problem with attitude toward her. They construed her as a betrayer of the mission, cooperating with the enemy. Yes, she understood their viewpoint. She felt the same way herself. This caused her some anxiety. She burned with shame at what she had done, no matter how strategic or well-intentioned.

As the road wended its way through the rugged night, Chai never stopped pressing his thigh against hers there in the narrow confines of the truck cab. He would cast sideways glances at her with hungry eyes that traveled across her body, lingering here and there. He would lick his lips, growling deep in his throat, feral and menacing, and a wave of repulsion would course through her.

She had never felt so trapped in her life.

God only knew what could happen next.

 

Japan

 

From the air, Tokyo is not a beautiful city.

The view from Galt's seat aboard the descending passenger jet was that of an unending span of thousands upon thousands of tightly-packed structures, clusters of skyscrapers in the commercial district like stalagmites and an endless residential maze of tiled rooftops and TV antennas. The sun shone dully through the city's smog, like a low-wattage light bulb seen through a gauze shroud, stretching the full breadth of compressed civilization, from the Tokyo plain through Kawasaki to Yokohama. This was one of the largest concentrations of people in the world. To the west, beyond the urban sprawl, the snowy peak of Mt. Fuji rose from the thick cloud of stagnant gray that wrapped the base of the Masahino Mountains.

It had been a nine-hour flight aboard a Concorde SST from LAX to Tokyo's Haneda Airport. Galt and Meiko debarked with the rest of the passengers, separated temporarily during processing through Japanese customs. That delay was shortened by the fact that Meiko was a Japanese citizen with only a single carry-on suitcase, her papers in order, while Galt's White House-level identification assured him a diplomatic breeze through what could otherwise have been a lengthy and tedious ordeal. Once through customs, they reunited to negotiate their way along the busy main concourse and out through the terminal's main entrance. Outside, she drew up abruptly at the sight of a string of limousines awaiting arrivals in the designated area.

Galt sensed trepidation emanating from the woman at his side. "Meiko, are you all right?"

"That hardly matters. This has to be. It can be no other way." She cast him an uncertain glance. "You asked to be a part of it. Do you regret that yet?"

"No."

"You will. Come."

She strode toward a limo with such an overcompensation of outward confidence that he had to practically double-time to keep up with her. A chauffeur stood, stoically waiting beside their limo. She spoke to him briefly in Japanese. It was a young man of immaculate grooming, who bowed dutifully before hurrying to unlatch and hold wide a door for them. Meiko slid in without hesitation and naturally it was expected that Galt would follow.

Instead, he paused to bend forward and peer inside, past Meiko, to deliver a pleasant smile to the woman awaiting them in the car.

"Trev Galt," said Meiko, "this is my stepmother, Sachito Kurita."

Galt guessed her to be about fifty. Exceedingly well preserved was the description that best suited her. She had large almond eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Straight hair that was black as a raven's wing was stylishly cut. There was nothing flashy or ostentatious about her. A younger woman might well envy her figure: trim and shapely, modestly clad in dark trousers and a tastefully-cut blouse. She leaned toward him somewhat regally, Galt thought, and extended her arm past Meiko for a handshake. She had a beauty that was at once imperious and feminine.

"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Galt."

She spoke flawless English. The windows of the limo were heavily tinted and so the interior was dim, but in the sunlight streaming in from behind him, her skin was smooth and vibrant, and would also be the envy of any younger woman. Her handshake was firm.

Galt said, "I'm sorry we had to meet under these sad circumstances, Mrs. Kurita. Please accept my condolences."

She settled back into her seat.

"Are you accompanying my stepdaughter to our home?"

Meiko's expression said that she did not much care for being referred to in the third person. She spoke in a tone of cool civility. "He is. I hope you do not mind. Trev is a good friend who was kind enough to offer his comfort and company through this… ordeal."

"But how could I possibly mind, my dear? I want whatever is best for you, of course. I'm glad you've come home." Her eyes swept to Galt. "You will of course be a welcome guest at our home, Mr. Galt. Please join us. May I call you Trev?"

"Feel free, Mrs. Kurita, and thank you. But regrettably I'll have to decline your invitation for now, and ask if I could connect with the two of you later this evening at your home."

This was something that Meiko obviously had not expected. The daggers that were previously stabbing out from her eyes became confused butterflies.

"Trev, you're not… coming with us?"

Mrs. Kurita spoke to her chauffeur. "Please write down directions for Mr. Galt."

"I'm sorry," Galt explained to both of them, keeping his tone earnest. "There is something I must attend to."

Mrs. Kurita took the directions from her chauffeur, and appraised him. "Will you join us for dinner, then? Say, six o'clock?"

He glanced at his watch, calculating the time necessary for what he had in mind.

"That would be my pleasure. I'll see you both then."

Mrs. Kurita started to lean across Meiko, intending to hand the directions to Galt. Meiko prevented this by nimbly plucking the paper from the woman's fingers and handing it to Galt herself. Mrs. Kurita sat back, this time in stony silence; not frowning, Galt noted, but there was clearly no love lost between these two.

Handing him the piece of paper, Meiko said, "I should go with you. I know the city."

"So do I," said Galt. "You two have a safe drive home. I'll join you at six o'clock."

Meiko started to respond, but Galt was already out of the limo, and stepped back, closing the door with a smile just for her that he hoped would take the edge off. It did not. He saw the flare-up of emotion in her eyes in the instant before he closed the door, then the heavily tinted glass blocked her from his sight.

He watched the limo pull away, observed the driver merge skillfully into the flow of traffic along the crowded thoroughfare leading away from the terminal. He could detect no vehicle following the limo, but he knew that he couldn't be sure. When the Kurita limo disappeared from his sight amid the traffic, he glanced down at the little square of paper. It contained precisely written directions in English. He pocketed the paper, then re-entered the bustling terminal, making his way to a row of car rental agencies. At one of these, he used a phony name that matched a fake passport and ID before he found himself steering a new-smelling Toyota sedan.

He took the tollbooth entrance to the elevated Shuto Expressway, north into the smoggy heart of the Tokyo basin, an industrial complex overcrowded with 15 million people. Traffic flow on the freeway was dense, but moved fast.

The core of the city, ringed with criss-crossed layers of expressways, was a towering forest of sleek skyscrapers rising above a steady, chaotic cacophony of noisy commuter trains and overcrowded streets.

Galt hooked up with the central expressway and took that to the city's Little Texas red-light district. He felt naked without a weapon, but carrying one would have been difficult to explain if the police caught him with it. Tokyo is a city with an international reputation for being safe. Japan is a country still anchored in ritual and respect, with a sense of order and safety absent in more freewheeling cultures. Firearms are illegal in Japan. Galt was determined to keep as low a profile as possible during this phase of his investigation. He was skating on the thinnest of ice.

They would have confirmed his disappearance by now. Given his personal connection with Kate, and his verbal assertions of displeasure at how the
Liberty
situation was being handled, they—the White House and anyone else interested enough—would know this was a prelude to his own covert op, and any number of interested parties could have their own reasons for wanting to stop him. Any thought of contacting the American Embassy on Tokyo's embassy row, Sibuti Street in the Asakusa district, was out of the question. He had unfettered himself of the constraints of his official job, and in the process had also abandoned what cover such constraints afforded him. He was on his own, in every way imaginable.

He parked his car in a pay lot and strolled down a narrow side street, off the Ginza Strip: a street clogged with cars, trucks, rickshaws, pedicabs and countless bicycles. Little Texas is a raucous, densely cluttered sprawl of topless bars, live sex shows, Turkish baths and a sprinkling of almost-respectable restaurants and coffee shops; a neon-and-rabble-saturated world, primarily crowded by American GI's on leave from Okinawa intermingling with Japanese businessmen, tourists, laborers, gangsters and, of course, the prostitutes who are everywhere, dressed in the exaggerated, garish sexuality of their profession, calling out to every male in sight.

The Butt 'N Boobs was a two-story structure marked by a flashing red and yellow neon sign, in English and Japanese, sandwiched in between a sex toys novelty shop and a more sedate structure that, in this neighborhood, could only have been a whorehouse. A fellow stood on the sidewalk in front of the bar, raising his voice above the blaring music spilling out from the doorway behind him.