Wednesday 1:09 A.M.
"Darling, do you think they'll figure out it was a ruse?"
"Who knows." He looked up from stoking the fireplace, where nothing but
embers remained. "Tanzan Mino may be a genius, but the rest of his
Yakuza hoods are not exactly rocket scientists. Ditto T-Directorate's
flunkies. With any luck both sides will think the other one's kidnapped
us and they'll go after each other. That's the idea at least."
"Well, we're pretty vulnerable." She kicked off her shoes and leaned
back on the couch.
"Look, after tomorrow Tanzan Mino won't dare send his goons after us .
. . unless he's got something up his sleeve we don't know about."
"That's just it,"she sighed. "If he manages to find us . . . why mince
words, if he decides to try and kill us again, what then? Will this
Japanese banker friend of yours stick with us? Whose side is he on, I
mean really?"
"Well, we're here, aren't we? Nobody knows about this place, not even
Alex."
They had ditched Novosty three blocks down the Strand. Trust had its
limits.
"Except, of course, your Japanese banker friend. He knows."
"The only player we can rely on now is Ken. And he's the only one--
particularly after Novosty gets his money--who's got the slightest
incentive to hang tough."
"I'm wondering what's the best way to break the story. We've got to
make sure it doesn't get away from us, get lost."
He looked up from the fireplace. "I've already told you what I think. I
say we just go see an editor friend of mine at the Financial Times,
give him a big scoop concerning a forthcoming Mino Industries Eurobond
offering. We point out there's no collateral at all behind the
debentures, and we'll also hint there's more to it, but that angle we
save for The Times of London, which will get a nicely translated copy
of the protocol. We hit the godfather with a one-two press expose, then
make ourselves scarce and let investigative journalism do its thing.
Believe me, nobody's going to ignore what could be the biggest story of
the decade. After that starts snowballing, Tanzan Mino'll have too much
on his plate to bother eating us. We'll be out of it."
"Michael," she sighed, "you're a dreamer. You don't really think it's
going to be that easy."
He rose and joined her on the couch, slipping his arm around her
shoulders. "Maybe not, but we won't be a sitting target. We'll keep on
the move. Why don't you come and join me on the boat. I may have to
postpone visiting with the Stuttgart team down at Phaistos, but we'll
find something. It'll be simple."
"Sounds really simple."
"All great ideas are basically that way."
"Well, if life's as simple as you make out, then why did you insist on
Alex's friends at the Soviet embassy lending you that thing?" She
pointed to the black leather satchel stationed next to the fireplace.
"Guess I'm nervous." He grinned weakly.
"You mean you're scared. Cut the bull. I'm scared too." She got up,
walked over and picked up the leather bag. "Now, I want you to show me
how to work this."
"What?" He didn't like the idea. "You sure?"
"Absolutely. We're in this together." She settled the bag down on the
carpet, unzipped the top, and drew out an object whose black matte-
satin finish glistened in the soft glow of the coals. "This is an Uzi,
right?"
"The tried and true. Major Uziel Gal's contribution to the mayhem of
the world." He reached over and took it. "You know, this is an
instrument of sudden death. Do you really want your finger on the
trigger?"
"Sweetheart, just tell me what I need to know." She met his gaze.
"Okay, here goes." He still hated the thought, for a lot of reasons.
The mere sight of an Uzi reminded him of things in the past he
preferred to forget. But there clearly was no stopping her. "A quick
run-through of the care and feeding of your classic assault machine."
"Good." She reached and took it, tugging at the collapsed metal stock a
second before turning back to him. "By the way, is it loaded?"
"No, but it probably should be. You can take care of that yourself in
just a second. But first things first." He pointed down. "See this
thumb button right here, on the left top of the grip? Notice there're
three positions--all the way back is the safety, next is semiautomatic
fire, and all the way forward is full-auto. There's also a backup
safety here, at the top rear of the pistol grip. The action stays
locked unless it's depressed, which happens when you squeeze down to
deliver a round."
"Two safeties?"
"Don't knock it. This baby fires ten rounds a second on full-auto.
We've only got five magazines."
"How many rounds in a magazine?"
"I insisted on the enlarged thirty-two-round version instead of the
usual twenty-five. But still, with that little button forward on full-
auto you can empty a magazine in about three seconds. It's a good way
to get the attention of everybody in the room."
"Can you actually hold your aim in full-auto?"
"Well enough. The recoil's surprisingly minimal. Remember to fire in
short bursts and you'll do okay." He pointed down. "Now, the cocking
handle is this knurled knob here on the top. Notice it's got a slot cut
in it so it doesn't block the sights. You yank it back to ready it. And
don't forget, always use your left hand to cock the action and change
magazines, and your right to operate the safety-selector switch."
"Got it."
"Okay, now you're ready to load." He picked one of the black
rectangular metal cases out of the leather satchel on the floor. "This
is a charged magazine. Always cock the action and set the thumb switch
to safety before you insert one."
She pulled the knob back firmly, then pushed her thumb against the
switch.
"Now feed the magazine into the bottom of the pistol grip"
She shoved it in with a click and it was secured.
"You're ready to party. Thumb off the safety and it's a go project."
"How do you take the magazine out when it's empty?" She aimed into the
fireplace. For a second he thought she was going to take out a few
half-burnt logs.
"There's a release catch on the bottom left side of the pistol grip.
Just depress it."
"And what about the stock? Should I bother?"
He reached and took it back. "You push the butt downward to release it,
and then you pull it back like this till it's fully extended and
locks." He clicked it into place, a hard sound in the silence of the
London night. "To retract it you just depress this locking button here
on the left front and fold it back under again."
"Okay, let me try," she said, taking it back. She folded and unfolded
it twice. "Think I've got the hang of it. But do I need it?"
"Use it if you want to. I've always thought that when they switched
over from the original wooden stock to this metal contraption they
positioned the damned thing too high. You have to bend your head down
low to align the sights. My guess is, God forbid you should ever have
to use this, you won't have time to bother with it."
"Speaking of aiming, is this what I think it is?" She retrieved a small
boxlike object from the bag.
"LS-45 compact laser sight. Probably useless for our purposes, but I
figured, what the hell." He reached out for her hand. "For now let's
just think of all this hardware as life insurance. Something you'd as
soon never use." He took the gun and laid it on the tea trolley. "In
the meantime why don't we have one last nightcap and go on up to bed?"
"Thought you'd never ask." She kissed him, deeply.
The four-poster upstairs was canopied, the mattress downy as a cloud.
They were both hungry for each other, exhausted but deliriously free.
Perhaps it was the same relish with which a condemned prisoner consumes
his last meal, the delight in every taste, every nuance. If tomorrow
brings the prospect of death, then how much sweeter is life in the
short hours before dawn.
Wednesday 2:00 A.M.
Kenji Nogami wandered alone through the bond-trading floor of
Westminster Union Bank, staring at the blank computer screens. His bank
was a member of Globex, a twenty-four-hour world-wide trading network
for currency futures, but tonight he'd ordered all his traders to
square their positions--neither short nor long--and take the night off.
Then he had dismissed the cleaning crew. He wanted to have the space
entirely to himself, to think and to reflect. Time was growing short.
He settled in one of the traders' empty chairs, withdrew a
stubby Cuban Montecristo, a thick No. 2, from the breast pocket of his
coat, clipped the pointed end with a monogrammed implement, and swept a
wooden match against the floor and up to the tip with a single gesture.
If we're going to have a showdown, he thought, I might as well die with
a good cigar in hand.
Then from another pocket he took out the telex from Tokyo that had come
through just after midnight. The Tokyo _oyabun _was in a rare frenzy.
Tanzan Mino had never been thwarted like this--well, only once before,
when a certain Michael Vance, Jr., had blown the whistle on his CIA
connections.
Tanzan Mino was demanding compliance. Somebody had to give in. The
obvious question: Who'd be the first to blink?
The worst he can do is kill me, Nogami thought. And he can't do that
yet. If something happens to me tonight, he won't get his hundred
million tomorrow.
But then what?
You've gone this far knowing full well the consequences, he told
himself, so don't back down now. You're spitting on giri, and yet . . .
and yet it's the first thing you've ever done in your life that's made
you feel free. It's exhilarating.
Did Michael arrive safely at the South Kensington flat? He'd toyed with
the idea of calling but had decided against it. They wouldn't answer
the phone. In fact, he never answered it himself when he was there.
Thinking about it now, he wondered why he'd ever bothered to have one
installed in the first place.
He drew on the Montecristo, then studied its perfect ash. Waiting.
Waiting.
"Nogami-san, _sumimasen_," the voice sounded down the empty room,
almost an echo.
They'd arrived. Finally. Why had it taken so long?
"_Kombanwa_," he replied without moving. The cigar remained poised
above his head as he continued to examine it. "It is an honor to see
you."
There was no reply, only the sound of footsteps approaching.
He revolved in his chair to see Jiro Sato, flanked by two of his
_kobun_.
"I see you are working late," Jiro Sato said, examining the cigar as he
nodded a stiff, formal greeting. "I deeply apologize for this
inconvenience."
"I was expecting you," Nogami replied, nodding back. "Please allow me
to make tea."
"Thank you but it is not required." Jiro Sato stood before him, gray
sunglasses glistening in the fluorescents. "One of my _kobun _was shot
and killed tonight, Nogami-san, and two more wounded. I want to know
where to find Vance and the woman. Now."
"Were they responsible?"
"With deepest apologies, that need not trouble you." He stood ramrod
straight.
"With deepest apologies, Sato-sama, it troubles me very much." Nogami
examined his cigar. "This entire affair is very troublesome. In times
past I remember a certain prejudice in favor of civility on the part of
Tokyo. Have things really changed that much?"
"The moment for soft words is past. Tonight ended that."
Nogami drew on his cigar. "Assuming you locate Vance, what action do
you propose taking?"
"We have one last chance here to deal with this problem. Tomorrow the
_oyabun's_ people arrive, and then they will be in control. The
decisions will no longer be ours. Tonight I attempted to salvage the
situation and failed. Surely you know what that means, for us both. But
if you will give me Vance, perhaps we can both still be saved. If you
refuse to cooperate, the _oyabun _will destroy you as well as Vance. We
both know that. I am offering you a way out."
"With deepest gratitude, I must tell you it is too late, Sato-sama,
which I am sure you realize," Nogami said, drawing on his cigar and
taking care not to disturb the ash. "So with due respect I must inquire
concerning the purpose of this meeting."
"I need to locate this man Vance. Before the _kobun _from Tokyo arrive.
If you care about his well-being, then you should remember that his
treatment at my hands will be more understanding than--"
"When do they arrive?"
"As I said, we received word that they will be here tomorrow, Nogami-
san. With respect, you have befriended a man who is attempting to
blackmail the Tokyo _oyabun_. That is a career decision which, I assure
you, is most unwise."
"It is made. And I am aware of the consequences. So it would appear we
both know all there is to know about the future."
"Perhaps not entirely. Someone has attempted to make us think Vance and
the woman were kidnapped, that they are being held somewhere beyond our
reach. Perhaps it is true, perhaps it is not. But if the transaction
for the hundred million is to take place tomorrow, then he must appear
here. The _oyabun's _people may be here by then. If they are not, we
will be."
"But if he has been kidnapped," Nogami's brow furrowed as he studied
his cigar, its ash still growing, "then there could be a problem with
the transaction. Who do you suppose would want him, besides the Tokyo
_oyabun_?"
"That I could not speculate upon. The KGB seems to have a great
interest in his activities. Perhaps they are guarding him in some more
secure place. Or perhaps something else has happened." He bowed. "Again
you must forgive me for this rude intrusion. It is important for you to
be aware that the situation is not resolved. That you still have a
chance to save yourself."
"The CEO will receive his hundred million, if there is no interference.
That much I have already arranged for. When that is completed, I will
consider my responsibilities discharged."
"Your responsibilities will never be discharged, Nogami-san. _Giri
_lasts forever." His voice was cutting. "The sooner you realize that,
the better."
"After tomorrow, it will be over, Sato-sama." He stretched out his arm
and tapped the inch-long ash into a trash basket beside the desk.
"Tomorrow," Jiro Sato bowed, "it only begins."
Wednesday 2:25 A.M.
_
_Yuri Andreevich Androv stood facing the bulkhead that sealed the
forward avionics bays, feeling almost as though he were looking at a
bank vault. As in all high-security facilities, the access doors were
controlled electronically.
Since the final retrofits were now completed, the Japanese maintenance
crews were only working two shifts; nobody was around at this hour
except the security guards. He'd told them he'd thought of something
and wanted to go up and take a look at the heavy-duty EN-15 turbo
pumps, which transferred hydrogen to the scramjets after it was
converted from liquid to gaseous phase for combustion. He'd been
worrying about their pulse rating and couldn't sleep.
He'd gone on to explain that although static testing had shown they
would achieve operating pressure in twenty milliseconds if they were
fully primed in advance, that was static testing, not flight testing,
and he'd been unable to sleep wondering about the adhesive around the
seals.
It was just technical mumbo-jumbo, although maybe he should be checking
them, he thought grimly. But he trusted the engineering team. He had
to. Besides, the pumps had been developed specially for the massive
Energia booster, and they'd functioned flawlessly in routine launchings
of those vehicles at the Baikonur Cosmodrome.
Of course, at Baikonur they always were initiated while the Energia was
on the launch pad, at full atmospheric pressure. On the _Daedalus_
they'd have to be powered in during flight, at sixty thousand feet and
2,700 miles per hour. But still . . .
The late-night security team had listened sympathetically. They had no
objection if Androv wanted to roll a stair-truck under the fuselage of
_Daedalus /, _then climb into the underbay and inspect turbo pumps in
the dead of night. Everybody knew he was eccentric. No, make that
insane. You'd have to be to want to ride a rocket. They'd just waved
him in. After all, the classified avionics in the forward bays were
secured.
He smiled grimly to think that he'd been absolutely right. Hangar
Control was getting lax about security in these waning days before the
big test. It always happened after a few months of mechanics trooping
in and out.
That also explained why he now had a full set of magnetic access cards
for all the sealed forward bays. Just as he'd figured, the mechanics
were now leaving them stuffed in the pockets of the coveralls they kept
in their lockers in the changing room.
Time to get started.
There was, naturally, double security, with a massive airlock port
opening onto a pressure bay, where three more secure ports sealed the
avionics bays themselves. The airlock port was like an airplane door,
double reinforced to withstand the near vacuum of space, and in the
center was a green metallic slot for a magnetic card.
He began trying cards, slipping them into the slot. The first, the
second, the third, the fourth, and then, payoff. The three green diodes
above the lock handle flashed.
He quickly shoved down the grip and pushed. The door eased inward, then
rotated to the side, opening onto the pressure bay.
The temperature inside was a constant 5 degrees Celsius, kept just
above freezing to extend the life of the sensitive electronic gear in
the next three bays. The high-voltage sodium lamps along the sides of
the fuselage now switched on automatically as the door swung inward. He
fleetingly thought about turning them off, then realized they weren't
manually operated.
Through the clouds of his condensing breath he could see that the
interior of the entry bay was a pale, military green. The color
definitely seemed appropriate, given what he now knew about this
vehicle.
He quickly turned and, after making sure the outer door could be
reopened from the inside, closed it behind him. When it clicked secure,
the sodium lights automatically shut off with a faint hum.
Just like a damned refrigerator, he thought.
But the dark was what he wanted. He withdrew a small penlight from his
pocket and scanned the three bulkhead hatches leading to the forward
bays. The portside bay, on the left, contained electronics for the
multimode phased array radar scanner in the nose, radar processors,
radar power supply, radar transmitters and receivers, Doppler
processor, shrouded scanner tracking mechanism, and an RF oscillator.
He knew; he'd checked the engineering diagrams.
He also knew the starboard equipment bay, the one on the right,
contained signal processors for the inertial navigation system (INS),
the instrument landing system (ILS), the foreplane hydraulic actuator,
the structural mode control system (SMCS), station controller, and the
pilot's liquid-oxygen tanks and evaporator.
The third forward bay, located beneath the other two and down a set of
steel stairs, was the one he needed to penetrate. It contained all the
computer gear: flight control, navigation, and most importantly, the
artificial intelligence (AI) system for pilot interface and backup.
He suddenly found himself thinking a strange thought. Since no air-
breathing vehicle had ever flown hypersonic, every component in this
plane was, in a sense, untested. To his mind, though, that was merely
one more argument for shutting down the damned AI system's override
functions before he went hypersonic. If something did go wrong, he
wanted this baby on manual. He only needed the computer to alert him to
potential problems. The solutions he'd have to work out with his own
brain. And balls. After all, that's why he was there.
As he walked down the steel steps, he thumbed through the magnetic
cards, praying he had the one needed to open the lower bay and access
the computers. Then he began inserting them one by one into the green
metallic slot, trying to keep his hand steady in the freezing cold.
Finally one worked. The three encoded diodes blinked, and a hydraulic
arm automatically slid the port open. Next the interior lights came on,
an orange high-voltage sodium glow illuminating the gray walls.
This third bay, like the two above it, was big enough to stand in. As
he stepped in, he glanced back up the stairs, then quickly resealed the
door. Off went the lights again, so he withdrew his penlight and turned
to start searching for what he wanted.
Directly in front of him was a steel monolith with banks of toggle
switches: electrical power controls, communications controls,
propulsion system controls, reaction-control systems. Okay, that's the
command console, which was preset for each flight and then monitored
from the cockpit.
Now where's the damned on-board AI module?
He scanned the bay. The AI system was the key to his plan. He had to
make certain the computer's artificial intelligence functions could be
completely shut down, disengaged, when the crucial moment came. He
couldn't afford for the on-board system-override to abort his planned
revision in the hypersonic flight plan. His job tonight was to make
sure all the surprises were his, not somebody else's. There wouldn't be
any margin for screw-ups. Everything had to go like clockwork.
He edged his way on through the freezing bay, searching the banks of
equipment for a clue, and then he saw what he was looking for. There,
along the portside bulkhead. It was a white, rectangular console, and
everything about it told him immediately it was what he wanted.
He studied it a second, trying to decide where to begin.
At that moment he also caught himself wondering fleetingly how he'd
ever gotten into this crazy situation. Maybe he should have quit the
Air Force years ago and gone to engineering school like his father had
wanted. Right now, he had to admit, a little electrical engineering
would definitely come in handy.
He took out a pocket screwdriver and began carefully removing the AI
console's faceplate, a bronzed rectangle. Eight screws later, he lifted
it off and settled it on the floor.
The penlight revealed a line of chips connected by neat sections of
plastic-coated wires. Somewhere in this electronic ganglia there had to
be a crucial node where he could attach the device he'd brought.
It had taken some doing, but he'd managed to assemble an item that
should take care of his problem beautifully when the moment came. It
was a radio-controlled, electrically operated blade that, when clamped
onto a strand of wires, could sever them in an instant. The radio range
was fifty meters, which would be adequate; the transmitter, no larger
than a small tape recorder, was going to be with him in his flight
suit. The instant he switched the turboramjets over to the scramjet
mode, he was going to activate it and blow their fucking AI module out
of the system. Permanently.
He figured he had ten minutes before one of the security team came
looking to see what he was doing; he'd timed this moment to coincide
with their regular tea break. Even the Japanese didn't work around the
clock.
Now, holding the penlight and shivering from the cold, he began
carefully checking the wires. Carefully, so very carefully. He didn't
have a diagram of their computer linkages, and he had to make sure he
didn't accidentally interrupt the main power source, since the one
thing he didn't want to do was disconnect any of the other flight
control systems. He wanted to cut in somewhere between the AI module's
power supply and its central processor. The power source led in here .
. . and then up the side over to there, a high-voltage transformer . .
. and then out from . . .
There. Just after the step-up transformer and before the motherboard
with the dedicated CPU and I/O. That should avoid any shorting in the
main power system and keep the interruption nice and localized.
The line was almost half an inch thick, double-stranded, copper
grounded with a coaxial sheath. But there was a clear section that led
directly down to the CPU. That's where he'd place the blade, and hope
it'd at least short- circuit the power feed even if it didn't sever the
wires completely.
He tested the radio transmitter one last time, making sure it would
activate the blade, then reached down and clamped the mechanism onto
the wire, tightening it with thumb screws. When it was as secure as he
could make it, he stood back and examined his handiwork. If somebody
decided to remove the faceplate, they'd spot it in a second, but
otherwise . . .
Quickly, hands trembling from the cold, he fitted the cover back on the
module and began replacing the screws with the tiny screwdriver. It
wasn't magnetized, a deliberate choice, so the small screws kept
slipping between his bulky fingers, a problem made more acute by the
numbing cold.
Three screws to go . . . then he heard the noise. Footsteps on the
aluminum catwalk in the pressure bay above. . . . _Shit_.
He kept working as fast as he could, grimly holding the screws secure
and fighting back the numbness and pain in his freezing fingers.
Only one more. Above, he could hear the sounds of someone checking each
of the equipment bays, methodically opening and then resecuring them.
First the starboard side bay was opened and closed, then the portside
bay. Now he heard footsteps advancing down the metal stairs leading to
the computer bay. They were five seconds away from discovering him.
The last screw was in.
He tried to stand, and realized his knees were numb. He staggered
backward, grabbing for something to steady himself . . . and the light
came on.
"Yuri Andreevich, so this is where you are. What are you doing here?"
It was the gravel voice of his father. He felt like a child again,
caught with his hand in his pants. What should he do? tell the truth?
"I'm--I'm checking over the consoles, passing the time. I couldn't
sleep."
"Don't lie to me." Andrei Androv's ancient eyebrows gathered into the
skeptical furrow Yuri knew so well. "You're up to something, another of
your tricks."
Yuri stared at him a moment. How had he known? A sixth sense?
"_Moi otyets_, why are you here? You should be getting your sleep."
"I'm an old man. An old man worries. I had a feeling you might be in
here tonight, tinkering with the vehicle. You told me you were planning
something. I think the time has come to tell me what it is."
Yuri took a deep breath and looked him over.
No, it was too risky. For them both. His secret had to be ironclad.
"It's better if you don't know."
"As you wish," the old man sighed. "But if you do something foolish . .
."
"I damned sure intend to try." He met his father's steely gaze.
"So did you do it?" Andrei Androv examined him, his ancient face ashen
beneath his mane of white hair. "Did you manage to sabotage the AI
module?"
He caught himself laughing out loud. Whatever else, his father was no
fool. He'd been a Russian too long to believe anything he heard or half
of what he saw. Intrigue was a way of life for him.
"Let's go. They'll come looking for us soon. This is the wrong place to
be found."
"You're right."
"Go back to the West Quadrant. Listen to a string quartet." He opened
the port and waited for his father to step out. Then he followed,
closing it behind them. "There's no reason for you to be involved.
Heads are going to roll, but why should yours be one of them?"
Andrei Petrovich Androv moved lightly up the metal stair, the spring in
his step belying his age. At the top he paused and turned back.
"You're acting out of principle, aren't you, Yuri? For once in your
life."
"I guess you could say that." He smiled, then moved on up the steps.
"Someday, the Russian people will thank you."
"Someday. Though I may not live to see it."
Andrei Androv stopped, his ancient eyes tearing as his voice dropped to
a whisper. "Of all the things you've ever done, my son, nothing could
make me more proud of you than what you just said. I've thought it
over, about the military uses for this vehicle, and I think the future
of the world is about to be rewritten here. You must stop them. You're
the only chance we have left."