The Korean Intercept (19 page)

Another noisy coffee slurp from Barney. "I see that we eschew hyperbole in preference of stating cold, hard fact. Yes, that about sums it up from the comm traffic I've hacked into."

"Our best hackers," said Galt, "told me that you're the best hacker in the world."

Barney's eyes crinkled behind the Ben Franklins. "Excuse me for blushing."

"And you were thoughtful enough to burn all of your bridges and completely drop out of sight after that payday in Arizona. I only knew where to find you because you told me."

"I like living in Tokyo. I've been told that Occidentals can find Japanese politeness excessive and exaggerated. The Japanese regard Western displays of emotion, like the hello or goodbye hug, the kissing on the cheek between mere acquaintances, as vulgar and in poor taste. It's a communication gap that makes it extremely difficult for an outsider to tell what a Jap is really thinking, and vice versa. I find that to be a reassuringly civilized way to co-exist with those around me. And, of course," with a wry grin he indicated the plate glass window and the bar scene beyond, "a man can never see enough bare titty in his life, I always say."

"You know what I'm about to say, don't you?" said Galt.

Barney nodded. "You're about to point out that somewhere in this mix is someone who can bring down an American space shuttle. You intend to follow through by pointing out that they could just as easily take down a gimp buried away in Little Texas, no matter how many bodyguards he has." The man in the wheelchair flicked back his faded flannel shirt to reveal a pistol grip protruding from the waist of his cutoff slacks. He patted the pistol. "Don't worry about me. I'm not about to run from anybody." When he heard his own words, Barney laughed. "Guess I couldn't run if I wanted to."

Galt forced himself to pour another cup from the coffee pot. The jolt of caffeine to his system restored the edge to his senses that had become mildly affected by jet lag and negotiating traffic in a foreign city. His lethargy was peeling away with each sip of Barney's bitter brew. "I need to contact General Turtle. I need him over here with me, and I need access to his resources."

Barney sighed. "Well, nobody ever said you lacked for ambition."

"Every standard channel of linkage between me and the general is out. You know there's no such thing as a secure line. If I make contact with him, they have me."

"So you want me to tap the general for you. You want me to contribute to starting World War III."

"If we get rock-solid proof that the
Liberty
went down on North Korean soil, Pyongyang will cooperate. They won't start a war. They'll remember what happened to the Taliban in Afghanistan."

"It says here. Okay, I can tap the general without leaving a trail. So what do I tell him?"

"That I need some backup cover over here on the double. And there's something else."

Barney sighed theatrically. "Ain't there always."

"I'm trying to find a stripper."

Barney guffawed. "Well Jeez, bro, I've got a whole building full of 'em." He indicated the plate glass window and the smoky bump-and-grind atmosphere beyond. "Take your pick."

"Sorry, Barn, I appreciate the hospitality but I'm not talking personal use here, and I am talking about a particular stripper."

"Then I figure that would be Connie Yota, if that's her real name," said Barney. "The Feds have been trying to backtrack that little sweetie ever since she took down their NASA scientist, but so far, nada. She seems genuinely not to know who she was working for. The club she claimed she worked at was here in Little Texas, but it burned to the ground a year ago and the trail appears to stop there."

"For you, too?" asked Galt.

"Okay, okay," said Barney. "I'll tap a few sources and see what I can come up with. What about you?"

"I'm on the move. Matter of fact, I'd better be back to moving right now."

"Uh huh. In other words, don't call you, you'll call me."

"It's better for you that way," said Galt. "I don't want them backtracking you through me."

"And 'them,' in this case would be, uh, who exactly?"

"That's the problem. When we find that out, we'll be piped into the core, into what's really going on here."

Barney wheeled around to his computer terminal. "And your message to General Tuttle is to get his four-star ass over here to Tokyo ASAP."

"I'll meet him tomorrow at the Meiji Shrine at twelve-hundred hours, Tokyo time."

"Tomorrow, eh? Damn, Trevboy, I will be honored and consider myself amply compensated for my efforts on your behalf, if I can facilitate Pentagon brass dropping everything and hauling tail over here on your say-so." Barney's wise eyes crinkled. "And I'll bet he'll be there."

"I'll need an update from the general at that time. I intend to be pretty much out of that loop until then."

"Prudent," said Barney. "Very prudent."

"And the CIA has an intel source on the ground somewhere in Hamgyong Province in North Korea. I want to know if that source has reported in yet, and the nature of that report."

Barney palmed his mouse and began clicking double-time, following links on his computer screen. "Count on me, Trevboy."

"I am," said Galt. "Thanks," and he let himself out.

 

He drove west out of Tokyo, taking the elevated Tomei Expressway toward the mountains beyond the city. Traffic was heavy, as it was twenty-four hours a day. Also, as usual, motorists in Tokyo maintained a constant bumper-to-bumper speed that seemed more like orchestrated activity than the vehicular madness of similar population-dense places like Rome or Mexico City.

Night cloaked the world. Before long, the ocean of neon passing by beneath the freeway gave way to mile after mile of dismal gray, drab factories and danchi, whole square miles of tightly-packed, bleak apartment buildings. Eventually, this too dwindled to longer, uninterrupted stretches of darkness as the freeway reached beyond the suburbs.

Following the directions written by Mrs. Kurita's chauffeur, he took the final exit just before the Masahino Mountains, and found himself quite suddenly traveling through remote countryside, on a two-lane rural blacktop highway that ran between foothills to the west, steep slopes covered with thick forests of cedar and pine in the moonlight, and, to the east, tiers of water-filled rice fields. The road took him past an occasional thatched-roof farmhouse, and then the agricultural homesteads gave way to a more exclusive environment of upscale, in many cases walled, residential estates. Privacy, a cherished commodity in Japan, is most often the domain of the very rich.

He found the Kurita address easily enough. He assessed what he could of the security here as he up-shifted the Toyota along a gravel driveway lined with chestnut trees. Conifer trees and bamboo grew in abundance across the expansive grounds. To his left was a grove of katsura and birch, with flagstones leading to a six-foot-high bronze statue of Buddha, beyond which was a massive garden.

The main house was a traditional home beneath a gray-green slate roof that curved upward at each corner, high-lighted by the moonlight and by some artfully-placed lighting.

Galt parked in front of the main entrance. His was the only vehicle in sight. He left the car and approached the house, habitually wary of new surroundings, his peripheral senses probing the darkness around him beyond the light, processing no real danger lurking out there at this time. To Galt, a peaceful neighborhood was as dangerous as a jungle trail in Chiapas or a walk to the corner store for a pack of gum in Beirut, Things might seem tranquil enough on the surface, and perhaps they were, but paranoia was the only sane course. Your best bet was to expect trouble from any direction at any time. There were places that were like that, and Galt recognized that his whole life had become "like that" now that he had dropped out of sight as completely as only a man with his background, experience and connections possibly could.

He expected that the gate guard had called ahead, that a servant or maid would greet him and show him into the house, to Mrs. Kurita and Meiko. And so he was mildly surprised when, as he stepped onto the front step and raised an index finger to press the doorbell, the front door was opened inward not by a maid or a servant.

Sachito Kurita stood there, holding the door open for him, with Meiko next to and only slightly behind her. The two women, separated as they were by more than two decades in age, were framed side-by-side in golden illumination, from inside the house, that caressed and highlighted their beauty better than any Hollywood studio lighting director ever could. The widow wore a tastefully elegant black silk Meikoono with a black sash.

Meiko wore a wraparound dark skirt and an embroidered silk blouse with loose sleeves that conveyed more than a suggestion of the traditional Meikoono, while being thoroughly modern.

Mrs. Kurita extended her hand. "Trey, welcome. Your journey from the city was uneventful, I trust?" The handshake was as warm and vibrant as her flesh tone.

He presented her with the bottle of sake he'd brought along. "Please accept this as a gift for your home. Tokyo traffic is always a challenge," he added with a muted smile of his own, "but Meiko will tell you that I embrace challenge. Thank you for having me."

Meiko looked as if she wanted to throw herself into his arms with a hug of appreciation and gladness, as a Western woman would with a male friend or a lover in this situation. But he saw this in her eyes only because they were lovers. Outwardly, she held back with the traditional cultural reserve of the Japanese woman. She too extended a hand.

"Trev. So good to see you." Her handshake was more vibrant than Mrs. Kurita's had been and lasted a moment longer.

"We'll have drinks, then dinner," said Mrs. Kurita.

The sitting room, where a servant eventually did materialize to properly serve them the sake, was appointed in the classic Japanese style: flower-painted wall screens, a glimpse of a formal garden and fragile cloisonne vases of ikebana, the traditional Japanese art of flower arranging. Upon a short rosewood table was a portrait of Meiko's father: a once handsome, delicately sculpted face wrinkled with age. In the picture, long snow-white whiskers flowed from Mr. Kurita's chin. But the eyes were youthful and alert, piercing and direct.

When the sake was served, Meiko faced the photograph and raised her glass in a toast.

"To my father. A great man."

Galt lifted his glass appropriately and sipped the sake.

Sachito Kurita started to raise her glass, then paused. Her lower lip trembled. She set down her cup and lifted the picture, clasping the framed portrait over her heart. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.

"I miss him so. He was a great man, your father. He loved you so much, Meiko. And I loved him."

There was an awkward silence of some duration, which Galt broke by posing some banal question to their hostess concerning the history of the region. An awkward flow of conversation resumed. Galt interpreted Meiko's brief glance in his direction as one of appreciation for smoothing things over. There was not a drop of affection between these two, even given the somber circumstance of having been drawn together by Mr. Kurita's passing. Sachito and Meiko showed Trev to the guestroom where he would be staying. His sleeping quarters were directly across a corridor from Meiko's bedroom, and Galt found himself starting to wonder if this was such a hot idea. He had much to accomplish, a potential Third World War to avert, even if some thought that what was truly at risk here was him starting World War III! And yet here he was, caught up in this female psychodrama. But there was nothing to be done for now until he connected with Tuttle, and the fact of the matter was that he had committed himself to this course…

Eventually, a maid politely appeared to bow deeply and inform Madam Kurita that dinner was ready. The dining room was also traditional, with a lacquered beamed ceiling and a plank floor of immaculately polished cypress. There were low stools and tables, antique Japanese landscape paintings and shelves filled with carved animals out of Japanese mythology, each wooden statue delicately painted and gilded. Sliding portions of the left wall were half-open, revealing a glimpse of the massive garden beyond, directly outside. The sounds of soft, atonal music wafted on air delicately scented with incense. Dinner was at a long table with Galt and Meiko seated opposite each other, and Mrs. Kurita at the far end.

They ate sushi from exquisite rose china plates. Galt silently chopsticked his meal as if blissfully oblivious of the unspoken, hostile undercurrent that continued between the women, just beneath the surface of cool civility.

At one point, Sachito attempted to make eye contact across the table with Meiko, at first to no avail. "Meiko, please do not think harshly of me."

Meiko looked up from her mostly untouched portion of sushi. "I am sorry, stepmother, but it cannot be otherwise. I am a guest in your home. I will not disrespect you. I will leave with Trev, if you wish."

"That is hardly my wish, my dear. This is my home only because I was your father's wife. But it is your home before that, and I will not disrespect that. You were born in this house. You spent the first eighteen years of your life here."

"It was my home when my mother was alive," said Meiko. "At least my father waited a suitable time after becoming a widower to marry you. He waited until I was overseas."

Yearning glistened in Sachito's dark eyes. "Why do I displease you so, Meiko? I am a good woman. I treated your father well. Was he not entitled to happiness after grieving the passing of your mother? Life must go on. Your father loved me. Why can you not at least like me? Perhaps you did not know that for the last year of your father's life, his business decisions were relayed to his attorneys and the board of directors through me. Toward the end, when your father was bedridden, he was so weak that he deferred to my judgment in the resolution of many major decisions. I know the workings of Kurita Industries intimately, both in Japan and worldwide. I allowed your father to feel a sense of pride and productivity during his final days. I should think that you would feel somewhat beholden to me for that alone, if not a sense of kinship, since we both loved and have lost him." .