“That remains to be seen, Kaito.”
20
Outside Washington, DC
USA
Jon Smith eased himself from the car and then reached back in to retrieve his duffel.
“I can get that, Jon,” the driver said, running around the front bumper.
Smith waved him off. “I’m good, Eric. Thanks.”
He hefted the strap onto his good shoulder and turned toward the house, breathing the pine-scented air as deeply as the shattered bones across his back would allow. It smelled like home. Something he was more grateful for than he’d ever thought possible.
The house was the way he remembered it. Casual Western modern with no expense spared to make it look deeply weathered and just a bit haphazard in design. The closest neighbor was a mile down a steep, winding road, providing a silence that at that moment he found extraordinarily appealing.
Smith started up the gravel driveway, concentrating on not hunching when he walked. Not because he didn’t need to, but because he knew Eric was watching. Pride could be a bitch.
The door was ajar and the elaborate security system was flashing green to indicate that it had been disarmed. Before stepping inside, Smith glanced back at the man who’d brought him there. “Hey, I forgot to say congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
He put his duffel on the kitchen counter and went to the refrigerator for a beer. Getting one off the bottom shelf required a difficult knee bend, but it was worth it. Snake River Lager tasted just as good as he remembered.
The house had been unoccupied for a while and he wiped away some dust before putting his beer down on the granite counter. It had originally been a pretty rustic place belonging to Randi’s college roommate. After it got burned down with the help of an Afghan assassin, Klein had made the mistake of giving Randi a blank check for its reconstruction.
Then came the attack by a special ops team and the maddeningly difficult-to-eradicate smell of knockout gas. Apparently that was the last straw for the former roommate, and Randi had bought the house through a maze of offshore corporations. While it still wasn’t impossible for a motivated party with substantial resources to track the place down, it would be difficult enough that he felt safe there. At least safer than he would have at his own house.
“Jon!” Karen Ivers called as she appeared in the hallway. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve seen better days. But you look great. Domestic bliss must agree with you.”
She and Eric had gotten married a month before. He knew it drove Klein nuts that two of his operatives had walked down the aisle, but even the old man wasn’t willing to stand in the way of true love.
“And you look…not dead.”
He laughed painfully and took another swig of his beer. “Hey, the smell of gas is gone.”
“New carpet, new paint, refinished woodwork, and we’ve had the windows open for a month. Seems to have worked. Look, I’ve checked the place out and everything’s fine. The cell tower is still unreliable for some reason, but Randi’s put in a satellite link. We’ve upgraded your phone so it will automatically connect. Just dial normally. The fridge is stocked with beer, as I see you’ve noticed, and the meds you asked for are in the bathroom. Is there anything else Eric and I can do for you?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Why don’t you guys get out of here. I’m good.”
“You’re sure?”
In truth, he wasn’t. He should have stayed in Korea a few more days, but this job needed to get done and Randi wasn’t going to be able to handle it on her own.
“Absolutely. I feel better than I look. Really.”
“Okay. You know that this place is pretty far off the radar but not a hundred percent, right?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t bear the thought of holing up in some fleabag safe house. It’s not my own bed, but it’s second best.”
She slid a thumb drive onto the counter next to his beer. “Fred wanted me to give you this.”
He nodded, scooping up the nondescript storage device. As the Internet became increasingly compromised by hackers and even America’s own National Security Agency, Covert-One’s communication was being done this way more and more. What did Marty call it? An air gap.
“Let us know if you need anything,” she said, heading for the door.
“I will.”
“I’m serious, Jon. None of that male stubbornness.”
He smiled. “Thanks, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
When she’d closed the door behind her, Smith sagged a bit. Too much standing in one stint.
He shuffled to the small office at the back of the house and turned on the desktop computer, holding a series of keys in order to boot to an alternate operating system.
It had been designed specifically for Covert-One—ultrasimple, ultrasecure, and completely incapable of connecting to the Internet or any other peripheral except for Covert-One–supplied USB sticks.
Despite its lack of complexity, the OS took five minutes to start up, scan for anomalies, and declare itself secure. He inserted the drive and entered his password, then went for another beer. It would take another few minutes for the processor to unravel the heavy encryption.
When he returned, he washed down a few ibuprofen and watched the progress bar crawl along. Not as effective as the OxyContin he’d been taking but a hell of a lot easier to think on.
The report finally opened and his stomach tightened when he saw that Randi was in China making contact with Kaito Yoshima. There was no question that she could hold her own against anyone on the planet, but Yoshima was particularly dangerous when he was in the mood to be. He’d been trained from infancy for this kind of work and, frankly, seemed a little mentally unbalanced.
Smith continued to scan the text on screen, discovering that the bag of radioactive debris he’d been sent to retrieve was once part of the Fukushima nuclear power plant. That explained Randi’s line of investigation. Not only was Yoshima an experienced saboteur who could pass for Japanese, but he also had a degree in physics.
The rest related mostly to the suspicious radiation levels at Reactor Four. Beyond that, there wasn’t a lot. Despite him getting shot with a crossbow, nearly drowned, and thrown in the back of a vehicle, they didn’t seem much further along than when Klein had first called.
He pulled the thumb drive and went back into the kitchen, putting it in the microwave and watching it spark on the rotisserie. A good night’s sleep. That’s what he needed. Then it would be time to get off his ass and help figure this thing out.
21
Beijing
China
Kaito Yoshima pulled open the pantry door and began yanking shelves out, strewing canned goods and cleaning products across the floor. Randi had her back against the wall next to the kitchen’s entrance and was watching the front door as it slowly buckled under the force of the battering ram.
“Anytime now would be good, Kaito!”
“Patience, Randi. I’m going as quickly as I can.”
She glanced at the gun in her hand and let out a long, frustrated breath. What exactly was it she thought she was going to do with that weapon? She was one of the CIA’s top operatives, and as such there was no way in hell she could start shooting at Chinese authorities. If she got caught and identified there was no telling what kind of damage it could do to the delicate relationship between the two countries. Reluctantly, she stuffed it back in her purse along with all the other deadly toys she couldn’t use.
The helicopter could still be heard hovering outside the barricaded windows but at least it had stopped shooting. On a less positive note, a chunk of door frame about the size of a basketball had been dislodged and a man’s arm was already through it feeling around for the interior locks. The temptation to wing him and slow down the assault was almost unbearable. Just a nick above the elbow…
“Kaito—” she said, but then fell silent when she turned. The back of the cabinet was on the floor, and in its place
was a dark shaft bisected by a single vertical cable.
“You son of a bitch!” she shouted, running to the cabinet. “If you’ve left me—”
“Be calm, Randi. I’m here.”
The voice echoed a bit but when she looked down into the shaft, she saw him hanging from a climbing harness only a few feet below floor level.
“They used this to transport construction materials when the structure was being built,” Yoshima said. “Unfortunately, it’s small enough that the only way this has a chance of working is for you to stand on my shoulders.”
She reached down and twisted the heel on her shoe, unlocking the mechanism that held it on and then repeating the process on the other foot. She’d have to remember to send the machinist who’d done the modifications a nice bonus. If she lived that long.
Randi grabbed a kitchen towel to protect her hands from the thin metal cable and stepped onto Yoshima’s shoulders. The front door finally gave way, followed immediately by excited shouts and the sound of combat boots running in their direction.
“Close the cabinet door, Randi.”
When she did a dim red light came on, providing just enough illumination to see.
“There’s a latch on the left side. Can you find it?”
She squinted into the gloom, finally spotting it as the voices grew louder and the footfalls grew closer. At least one man was in the kitchen. Probably two.
The mechanism was completely silent and she managed to engage it right before someone jerked on the handle from outside. The impacts of a rifle butt against the cabinet door started a moment later.
Yoshima looked up at her. “I take it you found it.”
“Yes. Can we leave now?”
“Of course, but first I’d like to thank you for wearing a skirt.”
She was about to kick him in the side of the head when the sound of automatic fire erupted. Randi threw her hands up reflexively, but the bullets didn’t penetrate, instead ringing off the cabinet door’s steel reinforcements. She cursed under her breath when she heard a pained scream from one of the men trying to get at them. He’d clearly been caught with a ricochet. There was no way to hold her responsible for that, was there? Technically the moron shot himself.
“Can I safely remove the explosive taped to the back of my neck?” Yoshima asked calmly.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she shouted as another deafening volley hit the cabinet door. “It’s piece of tape with a Tic Tac in it.”
Yoshima sighed as they started sliding down the cable. “Of course it is.”
The ride down took only a few seconds, which still felt like an eternity to Randi. If the men above managed to get through, they would spray bullets down into the shaft. There would be nowhere to run.
Randi crammed her knees onto the wall, taking the weight off Yoshima as he flicked on another red light and opened a panel that led to the underground garage. They climbed out, weaving through the cars parked there and watching for any sign of the Chinese authorities. Beyond the security cameras bolted near the ceiling, though, it looked clear.
Yoshima crept around a battered delivery van and waved her up as he threw a leg over a beefy BMW motorcycle that looked like it had been designed for the Baja 500.
She jumped on the back as he fired up the motor, barely getting her arms around his waist before the front wheel lifted and they started up the garage’s ramp.
They dodged around the exit gate, nearly scraping the wall as a startled attendant looked on. Yoshima put the bike into a well-practiced slide and she tried to keep her weight neutral enough to allow him to turn onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dived in every direction as they accelerated, but to his credit Yoshima managed to miss each of them.
Behind, two unmarked cars started after them, leaving a cloud of tire smoke as they forced their way into traffic. The pursuing vehicles were bigger and less nimble than Yoshima’s bike, though, and were doing little more than racking up serious body-panel damage as they receded into the distance.
“Tell me about Fukushima!” Randi shouted as they shot up the white line between two lanes of crawling traffic. The bike’s speedometer read almost eighty as they crossed an intersection against the light, nearly taking out a group of cyclists.
“The nuclear plant?” he yelled back. “What about it?”
The regular police had joined the chase and she saw one turn into the intersection they’d just blown though. Traffic got denser and Yoshima grabbed the brakes, putting the bike into a nose wheelie that barely kept them from going broadside into an SUV. Behind, the sirens were multiplying and getting louder.
“What happened there?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking me, Randi. A tsunami hit it and knocked out their power. I don’t think now is the time for an explanation of how nuclear reactors overheat.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with it?”
They managed to get around the SUV and were accelerating again. Distracted by her questions, Yoshima didn’t see the car door opening in front of them until it was too late. He tried to cut left, but clipped the right side of his bars and the bike went out from under them. He hit the asphalt and she was catapulted onto the much softer hood of a Ford, sliding across it and managing to land on her feet.
“Kaito!” she shouted, running between cars and lifting the dazed man to his feet. She could hear the screeching of tires behind her but there was no time to look back. People were getting out of their vehicles, calling to the police, pointing at them. From experience, she knew that the situation could devolve quickly. It would only take one bystander to decide he was John Wayne and try to grab them for this disaster to turn into complete chaos.
“Get on!” she said, lifting the still-running bike and jumping on. Yoshima wrapped his arms around her waist and she twisted the throttle, going right for an angry-looking man blocking their path. He briefly held his ground but then thought better of it when she goosed the throttle and lifted the front wheel in preparation for running straight over him.
“Kaito! Which way do we—”
She heard a single shot and a moment later the grip on her waist lost its strength. Yoshima’s mouth brushed her ear. “I’m sorry we won’t spend that night together.”
Randi tried to get hold of him but he was already toppling backward off the bike. She slammed on the rear brake and skidded into a ninety-degree stop, looking back at him lying in the street. Two men were running in their direction from a black Audi parked horizontally across the road. One stopped to take aim at her.
Yoshima managed to prop himself on an elbow and wave her off with a smile full of bloody teeth.
Her purse was hanging across her back and she instinctively reached for it but, again, stopped herself. She couldn’t shoot these sons of bitches, and that made getting to Yoshima impossible.
With no other alternative, she planted a foot and twisted the throttle again, spinning the bike 180 degrees before accelerating toward an alleyway. Hopefully, it would give her cover from the chopper she could hear approaching from the north.
22
Alexandria, Virginia
USA
Jon Smith kept his pace slow and steady as he walked down the hallway. The woman at the front desk had told him the man he was looking for would be in the first lab past the offices, but who knew there would be so many damn offices?
Ironically, the stitched-up hole and titanium screws in his back weren’t bothering him all that much. It was the shattered ribs. Deep breaths were completely impossible, and just getting out of bed was a project that involved him sliding off the mattress and onto the floor.
Still, it was good to be out and moving around—particularly with no one trying to kill him.
He stopped in front of an open door and tapped quietly on the frame. The woman inside glanced up from her computer. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Dr. Greg Maple.”
“You’re on the right track,” she responded with a smile.
“Keep going. First lab you come to.”
“Is it much farther?”
She seemed confused by the question, examining his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and tan face. “About twenty-five yards. Do you consider that far?”
Yes, he thought. His favorite twenty-five-mile trail-running loop suddenly seemed easy by comparison.
“Thanks for the info.”
It was right where she said it would be. The wall on the right turned to glass, displaying a large room tangled with unfathomable machinery, insulated pipes, and electrical cables. Maple was alone at the center wearing an old pair of slacks and an even older sweater. It was impossible to see what was spread out on the table in front of him, but he was tapping himself in the head with a pencil, pondering it intensely.
Smith went through the door and closed it behind him. “Hey, Greg.”
“Jon? Man, I haven’t seen you in forever!” Maple said, throwing his arms wide and approaching with a broad smile.
Smith held out a cautionary hand. “Whoa, Greg. Broken ribs and stitches.”
He stopped. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I was doing some diving off the coast of Japan and got hit by a boat. Spent some time in a coma as a John Doe in a hospital near the coast.”
It wasn’t a perfect cover story, but so far everyone was buying it.
“Jesus, man. I’m sorry. Not as bad as that time I went overboard in the strait, though. At least the Sea of Japan’s warm.”
Smith grinned by way of response. Maple was a naval academy graduate and former sub driver who had gone on to get a PhD in nuclear engineering. Now he consulted for various defense contractors designing the power plants for a variety of seagoing weapons systems. If anyone understood the ways atomic containment could fail, it was Greg Maple.
“Hey, what do you say I take you to lunch, Jon? Celebrate your narrow escape from the Grim Reaper?”
“Sounds great,” Smith said, holding up the briefcase gripped in his good hand. “But before that, I was hoping you could look at something for me.”