A Northern Thunder (32 page)

Searching the shoreline for a break in the rocks and surf, Will quietly kicked up-shore for several meters, toward the north, until he saw a small beach no longer than two men laid end to end. Strapped to his wrist was a digital compass, from which he took a bearing. He backtracked to where he had surfaced, then submerged. Finding his team, he signaled them to the north.

A
fter several minutes, they moved up-shore. Each man swam in below the surf, until they could stand, with only their heads above the surf. Will led them through the tumbling waves and driving snowstorm to the break in the rocks. There, they quickly pulled their packs and barrel ashore, and each took a point.

Will signaled Moncrief that he was going forward, then silently slipped around one truck-sized boulder and quickly disappeared. The roar of the surf pounded on the rocks surrounding them. Each slipped their weapons out of protective covers and held them locked outbound from the center. Moncrief scanned the rocks above.

“Gunny.”

Moncrief was surprised by Will’s sudden appearance behind him. “Damn, sir,” he whispered.

“A small river runs into the bay about fifty meters to our right. It goes up into the mountains just over there.” Will pointed up, toward what appeared to be a divide in the rocks. “There’s a bridge on the coastal highway.” Will had remembered this spot from the countless hours spent in the training room with the three-dimensional maps.

“What’s the plan?” said Moncrief.

“Simple. We erect the tent in those rocks at the base of the bridge and you get out of here before first light.”

“Okay.” Moncrief did not embrace the idea of the team breaking up, and his tone said as much.

Will led the team, one by one, in a slow, quiet move around the rocks and boulders and up off the small beach. Only a few meters up, Moncrief saw the outline of an old, gray cement bridge. In the driving snowstorm, a flat roadway that paralleled the coastline was barely visible. He could tell it was a road only because of an occasional post marking its outline. He pointed to Stidham to keep a lookout to the north while he scanned the roadway to the south, expecting a coastal surveillance vehicle at any moment.

Near the base of the bridge, sheltering a small patch of sand, were two giant boulders, both capped with freshly fallen snow. Will pointed to the spot and used hand signals to direct the next move.

Hernandez and Stidham pulled up one of the oversized packs and took from it a small mountain tent. In a flash, the tent was up, snow quickly accumulating on its camouflaged sides.

“Sir, I’m not sure this is the best spot,” said Moncrief.

“It’s fine,” said Will.

“But anyone looking from that bridge can see it.”

“The snowfall should camouflage it well.”

“Okay, boss.” Moncrief sensed when Will’s mind was made up, and he clearly had a definite purpose in mind for putting the tent here.

“Gunny, put the barrel there,” said Will. To all of them, he said, “Give me the two other packs, and then run a quick scouting mission north and south.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied, piling up the extra packs and barrel next to the tent. Then they moved north, then south, for several hundred meters. Each man made every effort to move on the rocks at their base so as to leave little imprint, although the snow was now coming down in droves. They doubled back to Will. One pack had been moved—Moncrief assumed it was in the tent.

Will was suited up now in the Spetsnaz winter uniform, a hooded one-piece KLMK coverall, a patchwork of white, black, and brown. When he pulled down the hood and facemask, the snow created what looked like a cloud of steam around his head. Over his left shoulder, he had one pack, also camouflaged in white, black, and brown streaks, and another pack over his right shoulder. A black shoulder holster held the Type-64 pistol. Its long silencer extended well below the holster. The black barrel lay on its side near the tent.

“Okay, return to the mini-sub and wait for my signal,” said Will. “If no signal by twenty-two-hundred hours tomorrow, return to the
Florida
.”

“Yes, sir.” Moncrief picked up the pack as the other men grabbed the remaining gear and worked their way down to the water’s edge. They slid into the surf, backing out and dragging the remaining packs.

“Gunny,” said Hernandez, grabbing Moncrief just as a wave hit both of them in their backs.

“Yeah.”

“The barrel is floating. We’ll need to take off the lid to sink it.”

“Do it.”

Hernandez pried the lid off the black oil drum. As the water rushed in, it gave off a white cloud of steam. The next wave caught its open face and sent it to the bottom.

“Oh, shit. I hope he didn’t want that,” said Hernandez.

In fact, Will had already retrieved the contents of the barrel before dropping it into the water.

“If need be, we can find it. Best to leave it here for now.” Moncrief took a quick glance at the shoreline and triangulated three markers to provide Will a bearing on the barrel.

Good luck, boss
, he thought as he took one last glance at the North Korean coastline, pulled his mask down, and slid quietly into the surf.

“D
o you need two keys to your room, sir?”

“No.”

The hotel clerk, who had worked for the Tokyo Marriott Kimshicho Tobu for only a few months, bowed to the guest as she gave him the key. “Do you have an interest in our symphony?” she asked.

“Possibly, yes.”

“Our concierge may have tickets remaining for tonight. She’s at the desk on the other side of the lobby.”

The clerk was referring to the Tokyo Orchestra. The Kimshicho Marriott, part of an interconnected row of modern silver and glass buildings, included the symphony hall. It was the tallest part of a commercial complex in the center of one of suburban Tokyo’s many commercial districts. This particular district was to the east of Tokyo, along a growth of buildings and suburbs that connected the city to Narita Airport.

Rei was not a music fan. To him, it was yet another capitalist excess. But attending this concert might serve a good purpose. The day before, Rei had taken the Tokyo subway to the Kimshicho station and walked the two blocks to the hotel complex. There, he noticed something he did not like.

“And I have you down for a five-day stay,” said the hotel clerk.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And this is for business?”

“Of course, yes,” said Rei.

“We’re required to examine your passport.”

“Yes.” He handed her an American passport with another false name. This time, he was pretending to be a Japanese-American returning to Tokyo on an annual visit to the corporate headquarters of a Japanese electronics maker.

The day before, Rei had spotted a well-dressed young man reading a Japanese newspaper in the Marriott lobby. It was not the newspaper that disturbed Rei. It was the very small and barely noticeable earpiece the man was wearing.

Rei had passed him quickly, making a point not to glance back at him. As he rode the taxi back to Keio Plaza, where he had begun his Tokyo stay, Rei realized the only way to penetrate security was to be on the inside.

Having retrieved his passport, Rei approached the concierge. “Madam?”

“Oh yes, sir?” The Marriott’s concierge had enjoyed her job for several years now. The American wife of an American newsman, she took great satisfaction from making American visitors to Japan feel at ease, whether it was helping with tours, directions, or concert tickets. To the Westerners, it was comforting to hear her voice.

At the same time, her gray, perfectly-shaped hair and her immaculate dress also put her Japanese guests at ease. She bowed appropriately. After living in Japan for so many years, she fully appreciated the need to observe Japanese protocol.

“I’m interested in two tickets to tonight’s symphony,” Rei said, playing the odds. Buying two tickets would be less suspicious, even if the seat next to him remained empty. More important, a concert in the building adjoining the hotel would be a likely social activity for the science conference attendees, and might give him his best opportunity.

“They’re rather expensive,” she said. “The concert’s nearly sold out.”

“Yes, and how much?” He did not want to appear too easy or too quick.

“Two in the orchestra for thirty-two thousand yen apiece.”

“Anything less?”

“Two in the second balcony for twenty-eight thousand yen apiece,” she said.

He paused for a moment. “Let me call you.”

This suggested he had to consult with someone else, though not his wife—he wore no wedding ring.

Rei took the elevator to the sixth floor and checked into room 606. His window looked out over the vast expanse of Tokyo. Directly below, a bright red express train between Tokyo station and Narita Airport flew through the Kimshico station. He knew this for certain. Such express trains were always bright red. In the distance, a Ferris wheel that rose as high as any skyscraper dominated the city’s skyline. At the harbor near Odaiba, a suburb of Tokyo, the lights were a circus of red, yellow, and blue.

Sometime later, Rei called down to the concierge and ordered two tickets. He bought the less expensive balcony seats to further lessen any attention. The tickets would be delivered to his room before the concert began. Rei took a hot shower that steamed up the windows to his room, then lay down, illuminated only by the bathroom light. He would later dress in a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie.

• • •

The Saturday morning meeting in the FBI’s SIOC operation center had been scheduled, albeit at the last minute, for 6 a.m.

“Tom, what’s going on?” Dave Creighton knew the agent well enough to know that an impromptu meeting suggested a major development.

“Sir, I was contacted last night by Joan.”

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Tom, looking as sharp at six on a Saturday morning as he would at a Wednesday afternoon meeting. “I understand our man has remained in Japan.”

“Oh?” said Creighton.

The two other men in the room leaned forward in their chairs. The meeting had taken a new direction, and possibly a new urgency.

“Who are the suspected targets in Japan?” said Creighton.

“There are four,” said Samuel Wilhelm. The scientist was not as smartly dressed as Tom Pope. It was hard for him to conform to FBI style. An MIT graduate with a degree in physics, he had been recruited to the Bureau after several years at Bell Labs.

“Go on,” said Creighton, absentmindedly pointing to Wilhelm.

“There are two in Kyoto, one in Wako, and one in Tokyo. But the one based in Tokyo is presently attending a conference at Cal Tech.”

“What do the Japanese say?”

“They have instituted security on each of the scientists.”

“What about DOD, Commander? Any comment from them?” Creighton looked to the black-sweatered naval officer.

“Sir, we have nothing to add,” said the commander.

“Okay.”

“And I need to apologize for Admiral Krowl’s absence. He’s presently involved in a top secret mission and is on twenty-four hour watch at the operations center.” The commander, Sawyer, was not giving a false excuse.

“Thanks. . . So the scope narrows. Any suggestions?”

“Sir,” said Pope, “we can send a team to Japan to coordinate with Japanese Defense and the police.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” said Creighton, “but, Tom, I need you to stay here. If anything starts to move fast, I don’t want you eight thousand miles away.”

“Yes, sir.”

• • •

Rei slipped his coat on, straightened his tie in the mirror, and slid a bright gold ring onto his hand. He would turn the dragon to the inside, showing only a gold band on his left hand, and leave his bag in the room. It contained nothing that would give him away. Rei was quite adept at never leaving anything behind that could be traced to him.

As the elevator door opened to the Marriott’s marble and glass lobby, a throng of symphony-goers—men in black ties and suits, and women in long, sparkling dresses—was milling around. In the fringes of the crowd, Rei noticed several young men, separate and alone, their small ear devices barely visible. Rei made a point of staying in the center of the throng as they moved up the escalators and toward the walkways connecting to the symphony hall.