Dragon (39 page)

Weatherhill took several minutes and studied the robot driver, fixing the design in his memory.

“Please report,” Stacy ordered, becoming anxious at his late return.

“I found something interesting,” he replied. “A new accessory.”

“You better get a move on.”

He was happy to leave. The robots that sat in dark silence waiting for a command to drive the car to their preprogrammed targets began to look to him like skeletons. He clipped the ropes to his harness and lay on the cold floor, raising his feet above his head, up the wall, back to the wall.

“Pull away.”

Stacy braced a leg against a pipe and began tugging on the rope that circled the pulley on the hedgehog. On the other end, Weatherhill’s feet reached the ventilator and he went in as he’d come out, on his back, except this time he was holding the compressor containing a nuclear bomb in outstretched hands beyond his head.

As soon as he was completely in the shaft he spoke over his headset. “Okay, stop while I replace the hedgehog and ventilator screen. Won’t do to leave a clue to our visit.”

Hand over hand, working around the bomb compressor, he raised the hedgehog and sprung its rods against the ventilator walls. Then he pulled the screen up by the string and quickly screwed it back in place. Now he allowed himself to relax and go limp. He could only lie there and be dragged up the shaft, leaving all physical effort to Stacy, staring at the bomb and wondering about his life expectancy.

“I can see your feet,” Stacy said at last. Her arm muscles were losing all feeling, and her heart was pounding from the exertion.

As he came out of the narrow horizontal shaft, he helped her as much as he could, pushing out and up. There was room now to pass the bomb over his shoulder to where she could reach down and pull it safely into the utility room. As soon as she wrapped a soft cloth around the cylinder and laid it in the tote bag, she finished hauling Weatherhill through the opening in the ventilator shaft.

He quickly released the nylon lines and shrugged out of his harness as Stacy actuated a second trigger releasing the jamming prongs on the hedgehog. Then she reeled it up through the shaft, curled the nylon lines around it, and set it in a tote bag. Next, while Weatherhill changed back into his tennis sweater and shorts, she used duct tape to reseal the panel over the forced opening.

“No interruptions?” Weatherhill asked her.

She shook her head. “A few persons walked by after parking their cars, but the hotel employees stayed clear.” She paused and pointed at the tote bag containing the compressor. “Almost impossible to believe we have a nuclear bomb in there.”

He nodded. “One with enough power to vaporize the entire hotel.”

“Any problems?” Stacy asked.

“None, but I did find that our friend Suma has come up with a new twist,” he said, stuffing his suit and harness in a bag. “The cars have robotic drivers. They don’t require humans to drive the bombs to their detonation points.”

“The bastard.” The tiredness and stress were gone, replaced with vehemence. “No human emotions to contend with, no second thoughts by a defector who refuses to deploy the bomb, no one to question or betray the source if police should stop the car.”

“Suma didn’t get where he is by being stupid. Using robots to do his dirty work is damned smart. Japan leads the world in robotics, and an investigation will undoubtedly prove his scientists and engineering facilities at Edo City are heavily into the design and manufacture.”

A shocked understanding came into Stacy’s eyes. Her voice came in whispered foreboding. “The detonation center, what if it’s manned and guarded by robots?”

Weatherhill gave a final zip of his tote bag. “That’s Jordan’s problem. But my guess is we’re going to find it next to impossible to penetrate.”

“Then we can’t stop Suma from coming on-line and priming the bombs.”

“There may be no stopping him,” he said with grim apprehension in his tone. “Our best resources fall far short of his.”

42

T
OSHIE, WEARING A
very brief ungeisha-cut kimono loosely tied at the waist with an obi sash, discreetly bowed her head and held up a large soft towel for Suma as he stepped from a tiled steam room. He wrapped the towel about his body toga style and sat on a low pillowed stool. Toshie dropped to her knees and began massaging his feet.

Toshie was the daughter of a poor fisherman, the fourth of eight children, when Suma first saw her. She had been a skinny, unattractive child whom the boys ignored until, that is, she began to develop a body that was beautifully proportioned, with breasts far more ample than most Japanese girls. Bit by bit her facial features became defined with prominent cheekbones that were enhanced by eyes that were large and dark.

Suma, walking alone at sunset, had spied her standing in the surf casting a net into the rolling breakers. She stood serene and golden under the rays of the dying sun. A thin shift was all she wore, dampened into transparency by the waves, revealing all and hiding nothing.

He was captivated. Without speaking to her, he sought out her name, and by the time the stars began to appear had struck a deal with her father and bought Toshie for a sum that suddenly turned the struggling fisherman into the wealthiest man on the island and the owner of a new fishing boat loaded with the latest in state-of-the-art electronics.

At first Toshie was hysterical with shock and sorrow at having to leave her family, but gradually she became awed by Suma’s wealth and power and soon became attracted to him. In her own way she enjoyed her subservient role as secretary and mistress. He had her tutored by the best teachers he could hire, trained in languages, business, and finance, taught the ins and outs of high fashion, and coached in the finer subtleties of lovemaking.

She knew he would never marry her. There were too many other women, and Hideki was incapable of loving only one. But he was kind to her, and when the time came for her to be replaced, she knew he would be generous.

Kamatori, wearing a yellow yukata lounging robe with indigo bird patterns, sat nearby at a low black lacquered table directly opposite Roy Orita and sipped tea. Out of respect to their superior, both men patiently waited for Suma to speak first.

Suma ignored them for several minutes as he enjoyed the pleasure of Toshie’s foot manipulations. Kamatori avoided Suma’s angry stare and kept his eyes lowered. He had lost face for the second time that week and was extremely humiliated.

“So your team of idiots failed,” Suma said at last.

“There was a mishap,” Kamatori replied, still looking down at the surface of the table.

“Mishap!” Suma snapped. “Disaster would be closer to the truth.”

“Pitt, Admiral Sandecker, and the man called Giordino were very lucky.”

“There was no luck. Your assassins merely underestimated the Americans’ canny ability to survive.”

“Professional operatives are predictable,” said Kamatori, making a lame excuse. “Civilians do not adhere to the rules.”

Suma signaled Toshie to stop. “How many men did you lose?”

“Seven, including the leader.”

“None were captured, I trust.”

“All bodies were recovered and the survivors escaped before the local authorities arrived. Nothing was left behind to leave a trail.”

“Raymond Jordan will know who was responsible,” said Roy Orita.

“A matter of no concern.” Kamatori’s face took on an expression of scorn. “He and his pathetic MAIT team are no longer an effective force. The Japanese end of his operation has been terminated.”

Suma ignored the tea and took a small cup of saki offered by Toshie. “Jordan can still be dangerous if his operatives root out the location of our command center.”

“Jordan and Kern were at a dead end when I broke off contact twenty-four hours ago,” Orita said with assurance. “They had no clue to the site.”

“They’re attempting to trace the bomb cars,” Suma argued. “That much we know.”

Kamatori shrugged indifferently. “Jordan is chasing shadows in a smoked mirror. The cars are securely hidden and guarded. Until an hour ago, none had been found and confiscated. And even if his operatives stumble on a few and neutralize their bombs, it will be a case of too little too late. We’ll still have more than required to produce an electromagnetic shield over half the earth.”

“Any news from the KGB or the European community intelligence agencies?” asked Suma.

“They’re completely in the dark,” answered Orita. “For reasons unknown to us, Jordan hasn’t revealed his investigation to them.”

Kamatori sipped at his tea and stared over the cup at Suma. “You have beaten him, Hideki. Our robotic technicians have nearly completed the weapon system electronics. Soon, very soon, you will be in a position to dictate terms to the decadent Western world.”

Suma’s face was a stone mask carved in self-satisfying evil. Like so many men who were stained by money, Suma had advanced far beyond wealth to the highest form of addictive corruption—the overwhelming thirst for absolute power.

“I think it’s time,” he said in a tone edged with sadistic pleasure, “to begin enlightening our guests of the purpose behind their presence here.”

“If I may suggest,” said Orita with a slight bow of the head.

Suma nodded without speaking.

“The
gaijins
are impressed with status and power. Their psychology is easily measured by their reverence of entertainers and wealthy celebrities. You are the most important financial expert in the world. Allow the congresswoman and the senator to simmer in suspense and confusion while you remain aloof and out of reach. Send others to torment their curiosity by feeding them small pieces of bait until their minds are ripe for your honored appearance and divine orders.”

Suma considered Orita’s advice. It was a childish game that played on his ego, but one that was also practical. He looked at Kamatori. “Moro, I leave it to you to begin our guests’ initiation.”

Loren was lost. She had never been so lost in her life. She had been drugged almost immediately after being seized at the classic car race and had clawed her way back to full consciousness only two hours ago.

When she finally cleared the drug-induced haze from her mind, she found herself in a beautifully furnished bedroom with a lavish bathroom complete with sunken marble tub and bidet. It was furnished in a sort of South Pacific island decor with bamboo furniture and a small forest of potted tropical plants. The floor was light polished cedar, and the walls seemed to be covered with woven palm fronds.

It reminded her of a village resort where she’d once vacationed in Tahiti—except for two unusual features. There was no inside handle to the door and no windows.

She opened an armoire that stood against one wall and peered inside. Several expensive silk kimonos hung there. She tried one on and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was almost a tailored fit. She pulled open the lower drawers. They contained feminine underwear that was also in her exact size, as were the matching sandals on the floor of the armoire.

It beats hell out of being chained in a dungeon, Loren thought. Whoever captured her did not seem intent on torture or execution. The question of why she was abducted was pushed to the back of her mind. Making the most of an unwinnable situation, she relaxed in the tub and took a bubble bath. Then she dried and set her hair with the necessary dryer and styling odds and ends that were thoughtfully laid out on the bathroom counter along with a select array of expensive cosmetics and perfumes.

She was just slipping into a white and rose flowered kimono when there was a soft knock on the door and Kamatori stepped quietly into the room.

He stood there in silence a moment, his arms and hands buried in the sleeves of his yukata, a haughty look of scorn on his face. His eyes rose slowly from Loren’s bare feet, lingered on her breasts, and then lifted to her face.

Loren pulled the kimono tightly around her body and knotted the belt and turned her back to him. “Do Japanese men always enter a lady’s room without being invited?”

“My profound apologies,” said Kamatori with a noticeable hint of sarcasm. “I did not mean to show disrespect to a renowned American legislator.”

“What do you want?”

“I was sent by Mr. Hideki Suma to see that you are comfortable. My name is Moro Kamatori. I am Mr. Suma’s friend, bodyguard, and confidant.”

She replied decisively, “I guessed he was responsible for my kidnapping.”

“The inconvenience is only temporary, I promise you.”

“Why am I held hostage? What does he expect to gain besides hatred and vengeance from the American government?”

“He wishes your cooperation in delivering a message to your President and Congress.”

“Tell Mr. Suma to insert a sharp stick up his rectum and deliver the message himself.”

Brassiness born from vulnerability, Kamatori mused. He was pleased. He decided to pierce Loren’s first line of defense. “How coincidental. Almost the exact words of Senator Diaz, except his terms were much saltier.”

“Mike Diaz?” Loren’s brave front suffered a widening crack. “You kidnapped him too’?”

“Yes, you were brought here together.

“Where is here?”

“An island resort off the coast of Japan.”

“Suma is insane.”

“Hardly,” Kamatori said patiently. “He is a very wise and perceptive man. And in a few days he will announce his rules for the Western economies to follow in the future.”

A tinge of red anger flushed Loren’s face. “He’s even a bigger lunatic than I gave him credit for.”

“I think not. No man in history has accumulated as much wealth. He did not accomplish this out of ignorance. Soon you will come to believe that he can also wield absolute control over your government and its economy.” Kamatori paused, and his eyes turned down, gazing at the rounded flesh of Loren’s breasts that were pressing against the upper folds of the kimono. “In view of the coming transition, you might do well to consider a new turn of loyalty.”

Loren could not believe she was hearing such gibberish. “If anything happens to Senator Diaz or me, you and Mr. Suma will suffer. The President and Congress will not stand by and do nothing while we’re held hostage.”