To Free a Spy (33 page)

Even if they reached Saito, the proud and powerful Ministry chief would be so supportive of Yoshida that even the most paranoid American officials would falter. “Vice-Minister Yoshida is on a training flight to the United States,” Saito would say. “He is a humble servant who has served with honor in the Ministry of Transport. He cares for his family and is a model Japanese citizen.” Saito would continue, “It will be determined that Yoshida had no connection with the irregular circumstances discovered at Hangar 23.” And finally, “Yoshida is at the top of his career. Just last week he and I worked together in preparation for the Oberon.”

Yoshida felt an adrenaline rush as he began the first of the two procedures Petrevich had shown him. This was the best day of his life.

* * *

In the Situation Room, Stern and Hill spoke with other officials on the phones to bring them up to date. The assistant secretary of state called Hill to say he had spoken with the U.S. ambassador to Japan, who said the Japanese officials he’d reached so far had termed Warfield’s report as not credible unless there was more evidence to go on.

Plantar Scrubb called from the Pentagon. “Traffic controllers say the 747’s requesting priority permission to land at LAX. Low on fuel. Could be a ploy to get into the area. We’ve sent F-15s to intercept. They’ll ride along with him for a few minutes but I can’t wait much longer before we begin to divert him away from the mainland. If he’s low on fuel that’s a problem.”

“What’s the most likely scenario?” Otto Stern asked.

“Hell, I don’t know that, Stern,” Scrubb said, “but just in case that plane is carrying a nuke we will keep her away from the mainland. Need to do something in the next few minutes. What are we waiting on, Mr. President?”

“Warfield. I’m waiting for Warfield to confirm that there’s radioactivity in the hangar. And I need something from Tokyo.”

* * *

ETA MINUS THIRTY-TWO MINUTES

The first person Warfield saw when he opened his eyes was Komeito. Warfield had a crushing headache and a bandage of some kind covered most of his head. He looked at the blood on the hangar floor and wondered if it was his. Sirens wailed not too far away. He sat up and took a moment to reconstruct what had happened before he’d passed out, and remembered that police had taken Komeito away from the Holiday Inn.

Komeito hurriedly explained that the police who picked him up at the hotel were responding to a call from the old woman next door to Yoshida, Mrs. Tanaka. These cops didn’t know Komeito and blew off his story about the hangar, but when they got to the police station Komeito contacted Russian Embassy officials, who vouched for him. He then told the officers what had happened and they called for a radioactivity check at the hangar and rushed there with Komeito.

Komeito told Warfield that he and the police officers heard four gunshots as they arrived at the hangar. They rushed inside and found Saito dead. Warfield’s head was grazed and bleeding, but the bullet didn’t penetrate his skull. Police called for an ambulance and Komeito had finished attending to Warfield’s wound the best he could when he regained consciousness. The bleeding had stopped but the side of his head was swelling.

“Aoki was lucky. Said you pulled him out of the way. He is grateful,” Komeito said.

“Grateful!” I shouldn’t have had him here in the first place. Where is he?”

“Police took him away. Back to Guido’s I think.”

“Who did the shooting?” Warfield asked.

“Petrevich,” Komeito said. “I recognized him from the photo in Antonov’s bag. Looks like he shot himself after doing all the damage he could.”

“What about radioactivity?”

“Hangar’s hot, all right. I got it from the hazmat techs over there. We need to get out of here.” Komeito called one of them over and he rattled off the details to Warfield.

Warfield looked at his watch. Yoshida was half an hour from Los Angeles. There in the hangar, someone had thrown a tarp over all four bodies—Mikhail, Ivan, Saito and Petrevich. Thirty or forty police officers, government officials, crime scene types and hazmat technicians buzzed around taking photos, collecting evidence, and some stood around talking. None of them were near Komeito and Warfield.

“Let’s go,” Warfield said. He was a little wobbly when he stood but managed to walk on his own.

No one seemed to notice the two men leave the hangar. Saito had left the keys in the MOT car and Komeito got behind the wheel. Warfield felt a strangeness about riding in Saito’s car, whose life ended without notice after driving there only minutes ago. Life was without any guarantees.

Warfield tried to reach the White House on the cell phone but the connection was poor. He told Komeito to get him to the Holiday Inn as fast as possible.

* * *

ETA MINUS FIFTEEN MINUTES

Warfield’s head throbbed with each step as he ran from the car to the hotel side entrance where the phone cubicles were located, just inside. When he reached the White House, Cross was on the phone with Scrubb at the Pentagon. He put Warfield and Scrubb on the speakerphone so everyone could hear.

“It’s confirmed,” Warfield said. “Geiger counters are jumping.”

“You’re there?”

“Was. Police and hazmat are there now. What’s the status in Washington?”

Cross gave him a twenty-second rundown and said he still needed to speak with a high-level Japanese official. Warfield heard nothing that gave him any comfort.

“Got radio contact with the plane?” Warfield asked.

Scrubb told him they did.

“Look,” Warfield said, “even if Tokyo acknowledges the radiation two minutes from now, they’ll still be a long way from the bigger picture I’m telling you about, and you don’t have time for that. If you get me a hookup with Yoshida on the plane, I can break him with what I know and you’ll have the confirmation you need.”

“Break him?” Otto Stern was alarmed. “That’s what we need! A 747 pilot over Los Angeles having a nervous breakdown.
God, If I had only known—”

Warfield was hot. “Listen, Stern, what choice do you have if you’re not going to act until you have some kind of approval from Tokyo? Yoshida’s a rigid man. Holds himself to unrealistic standards. If he learns he’s made a couple of serious mistakes he’ll fall apart. I can convince him that he did.”

“We don’t have time for psychotherapy, Warfield,” Scrubb said.

Cross thought it over for a few seconds and went against the grain, as he often did. “Take thirty seconds to make a showing, Cam. If it looks good, we’ll go a little longer. Make it count.”

Otto Stern shook his head. “For the record, I strongly advise against it, Mr. President. You know Warfield was on a liquid diet for a while. How do you know his judgment is sound.”

“I’ll take that responsibility,” Cross snapped.

Electronics technicians had been working on a radio hookup and within seconds Warfield was direct to Yoshida. Cross, Scrubb and the others in both the Sit Room and the Tank could hear both ends of the conversation. Yoshida could hear only Warfield.

* * *

ETA MINUS TWELVE MINUTES

Warfield identified himself and said, “Mr. Yoshida, I’m at Narita. Hangar 23,” he lied, as he would continue to do in this conversation. “You’re familiar with Hangar 23?”

English language was used by flight controllers and pilots on all international flights and although Yoshida had long ago studied and used the language enough to get by, he was not fluent. But this was no flight controller and he wasn’t sure whether or not to respond.

Aside from giving the Americans any information that would cause him to fail, Yoshida no longer cared what anyone knew—American
or
Japanese. As the time for this mission closed in, he had begun to dream of receiving posthumous honors from a grateful nation, certainly his own generation, that had longed for an avenger against America. Jotaro’s death would be seen as the granting of the long-awaited mercy that it was. Deceiving the Ministry of Transport would be recognized as a necessary means to a justifiable end.

But for a few more minutes it would be necessary to play the game, deny the glorious things he had done, continue the lie. Soon enough after his work was finished, the authorities would find the Jotaro file in the desk drawer in his bedroom, and then all of Tokyo, all of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and all of Japan would know the truth: That Fumio Yoshida was not a demon who bombed innocent Americans, but a resourceful patriot who had evened the score somewhat, and that he had done it not only for himself and his family but for every Japanese citizen. So be confident. To admit anything at this point, so close to the goal, could result in failure. Nothing was going to stop him—not until he was over Los Angeles!

“I know twenty-three,” Yoshida finally answered.

“Police found three men here, all shot. Traces of nuclear material all over. I know that you know all about that!” Warfield said.

“I do not.”

“Mr. Yoshida, you should be aware something in your plan has gone wrong. It’s about Petrevich.”

Yoshida resisted the temptation. “So sorry. Do not know any Petrevich. We discuss when I get to Los Angeles. Cannot continue conversation now.”

Warfield increased the intensity. “Petrevich deceived you, Yoshida. He was working with the Americans. We knew what you were planning from the time you hired Seth to get the materials and the know-how to duplicate the Hiroshima bomb. We’re ready for you. You won’t be able to carry out your plan. You’ll die in vain and dishonor your name, your country. Even Jotaro.”

Yoshida didn’t want to believe what he was hearing, but this man knew too much to be dismissed. There was a note of shrillness in Yoshida’s voice when he answered. “You are talking to Mr. Fumio Yoshida, Vice-Minister of Transport, Japan. You are mistaken. I do not know any Petrevich.”

Warfield knew he had penetrated. “We paid Petrevich five million dollars, Yoshida. He was working for us! Instead of a nuclear bomb, you’re carrying a piece of junk in the cargo bay of your plane that won’t detonate. Minister Saito knows where the hangar renovation dollars went. And another thing you should know. Two of the men you shot in the hangar are dead, but Petrevich survived. He’s laughing about pulling one on you. He’ll be living in the U.S. now and Congress will likely award him a medal. You’ve made him a hero, Yoshida. He’s made you a fool. Turn back to sea now. You can at least salvage your honor.”

It was more than Yoshida could bear. Now his name would be reviled in Japan instead of glorified. He would die in shame, an object of ridicule. He began screaming, sobbing, cursing Petrevich, the Americans and the Japanese emperor who surrendered to end the war. “I will not turn back and further dishonor my father’s name. I will kill many Americans when I fly into the ground. The bomb will not matter.” Then there was only the sound of Yoshida sobbing.

That was the last transmission, but Cross had heard enough. He authorized Scrub to take all appropriate action.

Warfield was still on the phone. “Mr. President, you know it’s only Yoshida who thinks he’s not carrying a bomb.”

“I got it, Warfield,” Scrubb said.

“Let’s get it done, Plantar,” Cross said.

* * *

Yoshida shut off the radio. He saw the distant lights of Los Angeles through his tears. Maybe the city had escaped the fate of Hiroshima but Fumio Yoshida would not die in complete failure. If he went in low and slow he could take out a long swath of homes full of sleeping Americans before the 747 skidded to a stop and burst into flames. He would find an area where many houses were built close together. It would be very much like his father had done.

He thought of the second procedure required to arm the bomb, but remembered that was no longer important.
But wait! Why not do it?
Maybe the American on the radio was lying. There was no reason not to. Yoshida grabbed the notes he made when Petrevich instructed him on the procedures. He’d completed the first one earlier.

* * *

ETA MINUS NINE MINUTES

F-15 pilot Major John Raines had tailed the Japanese airliner as ordered for the last half hour but he hadn’t been told why. Now the colonel on the radio told him to bring the 747 down.

“Sorry, sir. Repeat that transmission.”

“Fire on the 747, Major Raines.” The colonel repeated Yoshida’s tail number and other identification.

“Sir, if I am hearing you correctly, only certain generals are authorized to give that order.”

“Major, you have your orders. Carry them out.”

There was a pause, then, “Sorry, sir. I respectfully take exception to that order.”

The colonel repeated the order to the captain flying the other F-15 trailing Yoshida.

“I agree with Major Raines, sir.”

* * *

Yoshida wondered why the F-15 at his wingtips were allowing him to go on. If they gave him a few more minutes….

* * *

ETA MINUS SEVEN MINUTES

In the Situation Room no one had moved. “Plantar, can you confirm that it’s over?” Cross asked.

“That’s a negative, sir. There’s a delay. They’re contacting the…the…the…
oh holy God, the F-15 pilots are refusing to shoot it down…there’s some jockeying going on, just another few seconds—”

“We don’t have seconds, General,”
Cross fired. “Where is the 747 now?”

“Too close for comfort, Garrison. We’re doing what we can here.
They’ve got to get me voice contact with those F-15s!”

* * *

ETA MINUS FIVE MINUTES

The F-15’s had peeled away and Yoshida was more hopeful now that they were letting him go. Maybe Tokyo intervened and somehow caused a delay. He had almost completed the final arming procedure when the F-15s began firing. In the brief moment he had left, images of Jotaro filled his mind. His father skimming the carrier deck. Charred planes and American soldiers. The emperor’s detestable surrender. His mother crying in pain. Those were the only things that ever mattered to Fumio Yoshida. And the last.

The doctor who dressed
Warfield’s head wound reminded him how close Tokyo came to being his last stop. He and Komeito met with the Japanese and U.S. authorities beginning Sunday night to fill them in on Antonov, Yoshida and the Russians, and by noon on Tuesday Warfield was released to leave the country.