Текст книги "Dragon"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“I’m sorry, thank you.”

Less than a minute later a tall, attractive secretary of Asian parentage but with a surgical job to remove the eye folds came out to the lobby and escorted Giordino to Suhaka’s office. As he walked down a long, richly carpeted hallway, Giordino was amused at the titles on the doors. No manager, no superintendents, no vice presidents, everyone was a director of something or other.

Suhaka was round and jolly. He wore a grand smile as he came from behind his desk and shook Giordino’s hand. “Dennis Suhaka, Mr. Giordino. What can I do for the Commerce Department?”

To Giordino’s relief, Suhaka didn’t question his unshaven appearance or ask him for identification. “No big deal. Typical bureaucratic paper shuffling for statistical records. My supervisor asked me to stop by on my way home and check the number of cars imported and shipped to your dealers against the figures given by your headquarters in Tokyo.”

“For what period of time? We bring in an enormous number of cars.”

“The past ninety days.”

“No problem,” said Suhaka, going out of his way to be accommodating. “Our shipment lists are all computerized, and I can have them for you in ten minutes. They should tally. Tokyo almost never makes mistakes. Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?”

“Yes,” said a weary Giordino. “I could use one.”

Suhaka ushered him into a small empty office, the pretty secretary brought the coffee, and while he was sipping it, she returned with a neat stack of inventory sheets.

Giordino found what Pitt had sent him to find in less than half an hour. He sat back then and dozed, killing time to make it appear he was simply a drone in the great bureaucracy doing his job.

Precisely at five o’clock Suhaka entered the room. “The staff is going home, but I’ll be working late. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” Giordino replied, closing the files. “I’d like to get home too. I’ve put in my seven hours. Now I’m on my time. Thank you for being so helpful. Your import unit figures will be programmed into that great government computer in the sky. For what purpose? Only some little clerk in a basement office knows for sure.” He picked up the file from the Commerce Department and was halfway through the door when he turned as if something had occurred to him, in perfect Peter Falk-Columbo fashion. “There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“A small inconsistency hardly worth mentioning.”

“Yes?”

“I happened to run across six cars that are shown on your incoming inventory list as having been off-loaded in Baltimore from two different ships, but they’re not accounted for on the export list from your Tokyo headquarters.”

Suhaka genuinely looked to be at a loss. “It was never called to my attention. May I compare it against your figures?”

Giordino spread out the accounting sheets he’d borrowed from his friend at the Department of Commerce and placed them next to the ones given him by Suhaka’s secretary. He underlined the cars itemized on his list but missing on the one from Tokyo. All six were SP-500 sport sedans.

“Speaking officially, we’re not concerned with the discrepancy,” said Giordino indifferently. “As long as you accounted for them upon entry into the country, your company is clean with the government. I’m sure it’s only an error in your Tokyo accounting department that’s since been cleared up.”

“An unforgivable oversight on my part,” Suhaka said, as though he’d dropped the crown jewels down a sewer. “I put too much faith in the home office. Someone on my staff should have caught it.”

“Just out of curiosity, what dealers received those particular cars?”

“One moment.” Suhaka led Giordino to his office, where he sat down at his desk and poked at the keys on his desk computer. Then he sat back and waited. As the data flashed across the screen, his smile abruptly vanished and a paleness showed in his face.

“All six cars were hauled to different dealers. It would take several hours to track each down. If you’d care to check with me tomorrow, I’ll be glad to give you their names.”

Giordino turned up his palms in a lukewarm gesture. “Forget it. We both have more pressing business to worry about. Me, I’ve got to fight the rush hour traffic, get cleaned up, and take my wife out to dinner. It’s our anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” said Suhaka, relief obvious in his eyes.

“Thank you. And thanks also for your cooperation.”

Suhaka’s grand smile was back. “Always glad to help. Goodbye.”

Giordino walked four blocks to a gas station and dialed a pay phone. A male voice answered with a simple hello.

“This is your friendly Mercedes salesman. I have a model I think you’d be interested in.”

“You’re out of your district, sir. You should be selling closer to the waterfront or, better yet, out in the Pacific Ocean.”

“Big deal,” grunted Giordino. “If you can’t afford a good German car, try a Murmoto. I have a lead on six SP-Five Hundred sport sedans that are specially discounted.”

“One moment.”

A voice came over the line that Giordino immediately recognized as Donald Kern’s. “Despite the fact you’ve stepped out of your territory, I’m always in the market to save money. Tell me where I can see your special discounts.”

“You have to get that information out of the Murmoto distributorship in Alexandria. Their computer records show six cars that came into the country but didn’t leave the factory. I suggest you hurry before word gets out and someone else beats you to them. Half the cars were off-loaded at the customs dock in Baltimore on August fourth. The other three came in on September tenth.”

Kern quickly translated Giordino’s meaning. “Hold on,” he ordered. He turned to his deputy, who was listening on the speaker. “Get on it. Gain access to Murmoto’s computer system and dig out their shipping records for the whereabouts of those six cars before they get wise and erase the data.” He returned to Giordino. “Nice work. All is forgiven. By the way, how did you happen to stumble onto the bargains?”

“The idea came from Stutz. Have you heard from him?”

“Yes, he called half an hour ago,” replied Kern. “He discovered the source of the problem.”

“I sort of thought if anyone could troubleshoot a riddle, he could,” said Giordino, referring to Pitt’s canny talent for discovering an unknown. “It takes a devious mind to know one.

26

IT WAS DARK when Yaeger dropped Pitt off at the old hangar on the far corner of Washington’s International Airport. The structure was built in 1936 and once covered the planes of an old air carrier long since purchased by American Airlines. Except for the headlights of Yaeger’s Taurus, the only other illumination came from the glow of the city across the Potomac River and a solitary road lamp fifty meters to the north.

“For someone who hasn’t been home for four months, you sure travel light.” Yaeger laughed.

“My luggage lies with the fishes,” Pitt mumbled through halfclosed eyes.

“I’d love to see your car collection again, but I have to get home.”

“It’s bed for me. Thanks for the lift. And thank you for this afternoon. A fine job as always.”

“Love doing it. Finding the key to your brain twisters beats solving the mysteries of the universe any day.” Yaeger waved, rolled up his window against the cold night air, and drove off into the darkness.

Pitt took a spare transmitter from his pants pocket that he kept in his NUMA office and punched in a series of codes that shut down the hangar’s security system and turned on the interior lights.

He unlocked the old, badly weathered side door and entered. The polished concrete floor of the hangar looked like a transportation museum. An old Ford trimotor airplane was parked in one corner next to a turn-of-the-century railroad Pullman car. Over fifty automobiles covered the remaining 10,000 square meters. European exotica such as a Hispano-Suiza, a Mercedes-Benz 540K, and a beautiful blue Talbot-Lago were sitting across from magnificent American classics like a Cord L-29, a Pierce-Arrow, and a stunning turquoise-green Stutz town car. The only piece that seemed oddly out of place was an old cast-iron bathtub with an outboard motor attached to the backrest.

He tiredly walked up a circular iron stairway to his apartment overlooking the collection. What had once been an office, he had redecorated into a comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a large combination living room-study whose shelves were filled with books and glass-encased models of ships Pitt had discovered and surveyed.

An appetizing aroma drifted from the kitchen. He found a note hanging on a bird of paradise rising from a vase on the dining table. A smile crossed his face as he read it.

Heard you had sneaked back into town. Cleaned out the alien slime that invaded your refrigerator a month after you were gone. Thought you might be hungry. A salad is on ice and the bouillabaisse is warming in a pot on the stove. Sorry I couldn’t be there to greet you, but must attend a dinner at the White House.

Love.

L

He stood for a moment trying to urge his sleep-fogged mind to’ come to a decision. Should he eat and then take a shower? Or jump in the shower first? He decided a hot shower would knock him out and he’d never make it back to the table. He undressed and slipped on a short robe. He ate the salad, a Waldorf, and almost the entire pot of bouillabaisse along with two glasses of Smothers Brothers 1983 Cabernet Sauvignon from a bottle that came from a closet wine rack.

He finished and was rinsing the dishes in the sink when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes, Mr. Jordan,” Pitt answered, recognizing the voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your sleep.”

“My head is still ten minutes away from the pillow.”

“I wanted to call and learn if you heard from AI.”

“Yes, he called right after he talked to you.”

“Despite your unauthorized project, the information was quite useful.”

“I know I shouldn’t have stepped out of bounds, but I wanted to play out a hunch.”

“You’re not much of a team player, are you, Dirk?” said Jordan, using Pitt’s given name for the first time. “You’d rather play your own game.

” ‘Wisdom denotes the pursuing of the best ends by the best means.’ “

“Your words?”

“No, they belong to Francis Hutcheson, a Scot philosopher.”

“I give you credit for quoting in the exact form,” said Jordan. “Most of official Washington would have plagiarized the original and quoted ‘The ends justifies the means.’ “

“What do you want?” asked Pitt, desperately eyeing his bed.

“I thought you’d also like to know that we found the bomb carriers.”

“All six cars?” Pitt asked, astonished.

“Yes, they’re hidden in a Japanese bank building in downtown Washington. Sealed in an underground basement until the day they’re dusted off and driven to their scheduled targets and detonated.”

“That was fast work.”

“You have your methods, we have ours.”

“Have you placed them under surveillance?”

“Yes, but we have to tread softly. We don’t dare tip our hand yet, not before we terminate those responsible for this horror and destroy their command center,” said Jordan. “As it was, Giordino came within a hair of blowing the operation this afternoon. Somebody at Murmoto Distributors was scared. We got in and out of their accounting system only minutes before they erased their imported shipping data.”

“The data led you to the cars?”

“We were able to track and penetrate a known Japanese owned freight company whose trucks picked them up. They programmed no mention of destination in their records, of course, but we did manage to ‘borrow’ a copy of the driver’s delivery log. It revealed the number of kilometers the truck traveled after leaving the dockyard. The rest involved solid investigation and fancy footwork.”

“Like breaking and entering.”

“We never break when we enter,” said Jordan.

“Should it leak out that our good citizens are sitting on nuclear bombs belonging to a foreign power, the country will be torn apart by panic.”

“Not a healthy situation, I agree. The public uproar and the demand for revenge might scare the Japs into moving the cars to strategic positions and pressing the ‘fire’ button before we can find and neutralize them.”

“An across-the-board search could take twenty years to find them all.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jordan calmly. “We know how they do it, and thanks to you and Giordino, we know what to look for. The Japanese are not half the pros we are in the intelligence business. I’ll bet we’ll find every Murmoto and its bomb within thirty days.”

“I applaud optimism,” said Pitt. “But what about our allies and the Russians? The Japanese may have hidden bombs under them too. Is the President going to warn their leaders of the possibility?”

“Not yet. The NATO nations can’t be trusted not to leak a secret this critical. On the other hand, the President may feel that letting the Kremlin in on it might tighten relations. Think about it. We’re both in the same boat now, both threatened suddenly by another superpower.”

“There is one other frightening threat.

“There’s so many, what have I missed?”

“Suppose Japan set off a few of the bombs in either the U.S. or Russia? We’d each think one attacked the other, go to war, and leave the crumbs for the wily Japs to pick over.”

“I don’t want to go to bed with that in my head,” said Jordan uneasily. “Let’s just take things as they come. If our operation is successful, then it’s in the hands of the politicians again.”

“Your last thought,” said Pitt, feigning apprehension, “would keep anyone awake nights.”

He was just dozing off when the security chime alerted him to the presence of someone trying to enter the hangar. Forcing himself from his comfortable bed, he walked into the study and turned on a small TV monitoring system.

Stacy Fox was standing at the side entrance door staring up and smiling into what Pitt thought was his well-camouflaged hidden security camera.

He pressed a switch, and the door opened. Then he walked out and stood on the stairway balcony.

She stepped into the hangar looking sexy yet demure in a blue collarless jacket, a matching slim skirt, and a jewel-neck white blouse. She moved slowly amid the array of grand machinery in reverent amazement. She stopped at a beautiful 1948 metallic blue Talbot-Lago Grand Sport coupe with special coachwork by a French body maker known as Saoutchik and lightly ran her fingers over one fender.

She was not the first. Almost every woman who ever visited Pitt’s unusual living quarters was drawn to the Talbot. He saw it as a masterpiece of mechanical art, but women felt a sensual attraction when they gazed upon it. Once they saw the sleek, almost feline, flow of the body, sensed the fierce power of the engine, and smelled the elegant leather of the interior, the car became an erotic symbol.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice echoing around the vast interior.

She looked up. “I studied your packet for two days before I flew out to the Pacific and boarded the Invincible.”

“Find anything interesting?” he asked, annoyed that his life was laid bare for anyone with the authority to break his privacy.

“You’re quite a guy,

“Flattery indeed.”

“Your car collection is breathtaking.

“There are many larger collections with more expensive models and makes.”

She turned back to the Talbot-Lago. “I love this one.”

“I prefer the green town car next to it.”

Stacy turned and peered at the Stutz as if she was studying a manikin modeling a dress at a fashion show. Then she shook her head. “Handsome but massive, too masculine for a woman’s taste.”

Then she stared up at him again. “Can we talk?”

“If I can stay awake. Come on up.”

She climbed the circular stairs, and he gave her a brief tour of the apartment. “Can I get you a drink?” Pitt asked.

“No thanks.” She stared at him, and compassion came to her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“I’ll bounce back after a good night’s sleep,” he said ruefully. “What you need is a good back rub,” she said unexpectedly.

“I thought you came to talk.”

“I can talk while I rub. Swedish or shiatsu? What method of massage do you prefer?”

“What the hell, do both.

She laughed. “All right.” She took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom and pushed him facedown on the bed. “Take off your robe.”

“Can’t I keep my modesty with a sheet?”

“You have something I haven’t seen before’?” she said, pulling the sleeves of the robe from his arms.

He laughed. “Don’t ask me to turn over.

“I wanted to apologize before Tim and I leave for the West Coast,” she said seriously.

“Tim?”

“Dr. Weatherhill.”

“You’ve worked together before, I assume.

“Yes.”

“Will I see you again sometime?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Our missions may take us in different directions.” She hesitated a moment. “I want you to know I feel badly about the trouble I’ve caused. You saved my life, and because I took up extra space in the last submersible, you almost lost yours.”

“A good massage and we’ll call it even,” Pitt said, flashing a tired smile.

She looked down on his outstretched body. “For living underwater for four months, you have a good tan.”

“My gypsy blood,” he slurred in a sleepy voice.

Using finger pressure of the basic shiatsu technique, Stacy pressed her fingers and thumbs into the sensitive areas of Pitt’s bare feet.

“That feels great,” he murmured. “Did Jordan brief you on what we learned about the warheads?”

“Yes, you threw him a curve. He thought you had walked out on him. Now that Tim and I know exactly where to target our investigation, we should make good progress at pinpointing the bomb cars.”

“And you’re going to probe the West Coast ports.”

“Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles are the ports where the Murmoto auto carriers dock.”

Pitt went silent as Stacy worked up his legs, combining shiatsu with Swedish kneading methods. She massaged his arms, back, and neck. Then she lightly slapped him on the buttocks and ordered him to turn over, but there was no response.

Pitt was dead asleep.

Sometime during the early morning hours he came awake, feeling her body wildly entangled with his. The movements, the sensations, the soft cries of Stacy’s voice, came through the mist of exhaustion like a dream. He felt as though he was soaring through a thunder and lightning storm before it all faded and he plunged into the black void of deep sleep again.

“Surprise, sleepyhead,” said Congresswoman Loren Smith, trailing a finger down Pitt’s back.

Pin’s mind brushed away the cobwebs as he rolled onto his side and looked up at her. She was sitting cross-legged in bare feet on the empty side of the bed wearing a flowered cotton knit top with a crew neckline and sage-green sailcloth pants with pleats. Her hair was tied back with a large scarf.

Then suddenly he remembered and shot an apprehensive look at the opposite side of the bed. To his lasting relief, it was empty.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing wondrous deeds in Congress?” he asked, secretly pleased Stacy had left before Loren arrived.

“We’re in recess.” She held a cup of coffee out of his reach, tempting him.

“What do I have to do for the coffee?”

“Cost you a kiss.”

“That’s pretty expensive, but I’m desperate.”

“And an explanation.”

Here it comes, he thought, quickly focusing his thoughts. “Concerning what?”

“Not what but who. You know, the woman you spent the night with.”

“What woman was that?” he asked with practiced innocence.

“The one who slept in this bed last night.”

“You see another woman around here?”

“I don’t have to see her,” said Loren, taking great delight in teasing him. “I can smell her.”

“Would you believe it was my masseuse’

She leaned down and gave him a long kiss. When she finally pulled back, she handed him the coffee and said, “Not bad. I’ll give you an A for creativity.”

“I was conned,” he said, hoping to change the flow of the conversation. “This cup is only half full.”

“You didn’t want me to spill it all over your blankets, did you?” She laughed as if actually enjoying Pitt’s indiscretion. “Drag your great hairy bod out of bed and wash off that perfume. Not a bad odor, I admit. Rather expensive. I’ll start breakfast.”

Loren was standing at the counter slicing the grapefruit as Pitt came out of the shower for the second time in eight hours. He wrapped a towel around his hips, stepped up behind her, and circled his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck.

“Long time, no see. How did you ever get along without me for so long?”

“I buried myself in legislation and forgot all about you.”

“You didn’t find time to play?”

“I was a good girl. Not that I’d have been bad if given half the chance, especially if I knew you weren’t wasting any time since coming home.”

Loren bore up quite well, Pitt thought. There was only a slight flush of jealous anger. But she knew better than to crowd the issue. Pitt was not the only man in her life. Neither dictated to the other or displayed undue jealousy, situations that made their affair all the more desirable.

As he nibbled her earlobe, she turned and put her arms around his neck. “Jim Sandecker told me about the destruction of your project, and how you barely escaped.”

“That’s supposed to be secret,” he said as they brushed noses.

“Congresswomen do have privileges.”

“You can have privileges with me any time.”

Her eyes turned dark. “Seriously, I’m sorry the facility was lost.”

“We’ll build another.” He smiled down at her. “The results of all our tests were saved. That’s what counts.”

“Jim said you came within seconds of dying.”

Pitt grinned. “Water under the bridge, as they say.” He released her and sat down at the table. It seemed just another Sunday morning domestic scene between a comfortably married man and his wife, yet neither Loren nor Dirk had ever been married.

He picked up a newspaper she’d bought along with the groceries and scanned the stories. His eyes stopped at one article, and after scanning its contents he looked up.

“I see you made the Post again,” he said, grinning. “Getting nasty with our friends in the Orient, are we?”

Loren expertly flipped an omelet onto a dish. “Ownership of a third of our businesses has been transferred to Tokyo. And with it went our prosperity and independence as a nation. America no longer belongs to Americans. We’ve become a financial colony of Japan.”

“That bad?”

“The public has no idea how bad,” said Loren, setting the omelet and a plate of toast in front of Pitt. “Our huge deficits have created an open door for our economy to flow out and Japanese money to rush in.”

“We have only ourselves to blame,” he said, waving a fork. “They underconsume, we overconsume, burying ourselves deeper in debt. We gave away or sold out our lead in whatever technology that wasn’t stolen. And we stand in line with open pocketbooks and tongues hanging in greedy anticipation to sell them our corporations and real estate to make a fast buck. Face the facts, Loren, none of this could have happened if the public, the business community, you people in Congress, and the economic cretins in the White House had realized this country was engaged in a no-quarter financial war against an enemy who looks upon us as inferior. As it stands, we’ve thrown away any chance of winning.”

Loren sat down with a cup of coffee and passed Pitt a glass of orange juice. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you give. You thought of running for the Senate?”

“I’d rather have my toenails torn out. Besides, one Pitt on Capitol Hill is enough,” he said, referring to his father, Senator George Pitt of California.

“Have you seen the senator?”

“Not yet,” Pitt said, taking a bite of egg. “I haven’t had a chance.”

“What are your plans?” Loren asked, staring wistfully into Pitt’s opaline green eyes.

“I’m going to putter on the cars and take it easy for the next couple of days. Maybe if I can tune up the Stutz in time, I’ll enter it in the classic car races.”

“I can think of something more fun than getting greasy,” she said, her voice throaty.

She came around the table, reached down and took a surprisingly strong grip of his arm. He could feel desire flowing from her like nectar, and suddenly he wanted her more than he ever had before. He only hoped he was up to a second round. Then as if drawn by a magnet, he allowed himself to be pulled to the couch.

“Not in the bed,” she said huskily. “Not until you change the sheets.”

27

HIDEKI SUMA STEPPED out of his private Murmoto tilt-rotor executive jet followed by Moro Kamatori. The aircraft had landed at a heliport beside a huge solar plastic dome that rose fifty meters into the sky. Centered in a densely landscaped park, the dome covered a vast atrium that comprised the inner core of a subterranean project called “Edo” after the city renamed Tokyo during the Meiji Restoration in 1868.

The first unit of Japan’s new underground frontier, Edo, City was designed and built by Suma as a scientific research and think-tank community that supported 60,000 people. Shaped like a great cylinder around the atrium, the twenty-story circular complex contained living quarters for the scientific community, offices, public baths, convention halls, restaurants, a shopping mall, library, and its own thousand-man security force.

Smaller underground cylinders connected by tunnels to the main core held the communications equipment, heating and cooling systems, temperature and humidity controls, electrical power plants, and waste processing machinery. The elaborate structures were constructed of ceramic concrete and reached 1500 meters deep in the volcanic rock.

Soma funded the project himself without any government involvement. Any laws or restrictions that hindered construction were quickly resolved by the enormous power wielded by Soma’s corporate and underworld tentacles.

He and Kamatori boarded a concealed elevator that took them to a suite of his corporate offices covering the entire fourth floor of the outer cylinder. His secretary, Toshie Kudo, stood waiting as the doors opened to his heavily guarded private office and apartment. The spacious three-tiered rooms were decorated with delicately painted screens and murals and showcases of beautiful ceramics and sixteenth-century robes of ornately woven brocades, satins, and crepe. Paintings of land and seascapes covered most of the walls, some depicting dragons, leopards, tigers, and hawks that represented the martial prowess of the warrior class.

“Mr. Ashikaga Enshu is waiting,” announced Toshie.

“I don’t recall the name.”

“Mr. Enshu is an investigator who specializes in hunting down rare art and negotiating its sale for his clients,” explained Toshie. “He called and said he’d discovered a painting that fits your collection. I took the liberty of setting an appointment for him to display it for your approval.”

“I have little time,” said Suma, glancing at his watch.

Kamatori shrugged. “Won’t hurt to see what he’s brought you, Hideki. Maybe he’s found the painting you’ve been looking for.”

He nodded at Toshie. “All right, please send him in.”

Soma bowed as the art dealer stepped into the room. “You have a new acquisition for my collection, Mr. Enshu?”

“Yes, I hope so, one that I believe you will be most happy I was able to find for you.” Ashikaga smiled warmly beneath a perfect mane of silver hair, heavy eyebrows, and full mustache.

“Please set it on the stand in the light,” said Suma, pointing at an easel in front of a large window.

“May I draw the blinds open a little more’?”

“Please do so.”

Enshu pulled the draw lines to the slatted blinds. Then he set the painting on the easel but kept it covered by a silk cloth. “From the sixteenth-century Kano school, a Masaki Shimzu.”

“The revered seascape artist,” said Kamatori, displaying a rare hint of excitement. “One of your favorites, Hideki.”

“You know I am a devotee of Shimzu?” Suma asked Enshu.

“A well-known fact in art circles that you collect his work, especially the paintings he made of our surrounding islands.”

Suma turned to Toshie. “How many of his pieces do I have in my collection?”

“You presently own eleven out of the thirteen island seascapes and four of his landscape paintings of the Hida Mountains.”

“And this new one would make twelve in the island set.”

“Yes.”

“What Shimzu island painting have you brought me?” Suma asked Enshu expectantly. “Ajima?”

“No, Kechi.”

Suma looked visibly disappointed. “I had hoped it might be Ajima.”

“I’m sorry.” Enshu held out his hands in a defeatist gesture. “The Ajima was sadly lost during the fall of Germany. It was last seen hanging in the office of the ambassador in our Berlin embassy in May of nineteen forty-five.”

“I will gladly pay you to keep up the search.”

“Thank you,” said Enshu, bowing. “I already have investigators in Europe and the United States trying to locate it.”

“Good, now let’s have the unveiling of Kechi Island.”

With a practiced flourish, Enshu undraped a lavish painting of a bird’s-eye view of an island in monochrome ink with an abundant use of brilliant colors and gold leaf.

“Breathtaking,” murmured Toshie in awe.

Enshu nodded in agreement. “The finest example of Shimzu’s work I’ve ever seen.”

“What do you think, Hideki?” asked Kamatori.

“A masterwork,” answered Suma, moved by the genius of the artist. “Incredible that he could paint an overhead view with such vivid detail in the early sixteen-hundreds. It’s almost as if he did it from a tethered balloon.”

“Legend says he painted from a kite,” said Toshie.

“Sketched from a kite is more probable,” corrected Enshu. “And painted the scene on the ground.”

“And why not?” Suma’s eyes never left the painting. “Our people were building and flying kites over a thousand years ago.” He turned finally and faced Enshu. “You have done well, Mr. Enshu. Where did you find it?”

“In a banker’s home in Hong Kong,” Enshu replied. “He was selling his assets and moving his operations to Malaysia before the Chinese take over. It took me nearly a year, but I finally persuaded him to sell over the telephone. I wasted no time and flew to Hong Kong to settle the transaction and return here with the painting. I came directly to your office from the airport.”