Текст книги "Dragon"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Pitt stared at the car unseeing, his big hands clenched in anger and despair. “We’ll find Loren,” he said, his voice empty and cold as Arctic stone. “And make those pay who took her.”

Part 3 

Ajima Island

31

  October 12, 1993 

Bielefeld, West Germany

THE FALL MORNING was crisp with a biting wind from the north when August Clausen stepped out of his half-timbered house and gazed across his fields toward the slopes of the Teutoburg Forest near Bielefeld in North Rhine-Westphalia. His farm lay in the valley, bordered by a winding stream that he had recently dammed up. He buttoned up his heavy wool coat, took a few deep breaths, and then walked the path to his barn.

A big hardy man just past seventy-four, Clausen still put in a full day’s work from sunup to sundown. The farm had been in his family for five generations. He and his wife raised two daughters, who married and left home, preferring city living in Bielefeld to farming. Except for hired hands during harvesting, Clausen and his wife ran the farm alone.

Clausen pushed open the barn doors and mounted a large tractor. The tough old gas engine turned over and fired on the first revolution. He slipped the transmission into top gear and moved into the yard, turning on a dirt road and heading toward the fields that had been harvested and cultivated for the next spring planting.

Today he planned to fill in a small depression that appeared in the southwest corner of a lettuce field. It was one of the few outdoor chores he wanted to get out of the way before the winter months set in. The evening before, he had set the tractor up with a front-end scoop to move dirt from a mound near an old concrete bunker left from the war.

One section of Clausen’s land was once an airfield for a Luftwaffe fighter squadron. When he returned home after serving in a Panzer brigade that fought Patton’s Third Army through France and half of Germany, he found a junkyard of burned and destroyed aircraft and motor vehicles piled and scattered over most of his fallow fields. He kept what little was salvageable and sold the rest to scrap dealers.

The tractor moved at a good speed over the road. There had been little rain the past two weeks and the tracks were dry. The poplar and birch trees wore bright dabs of yellow against the fading green. Clausen swung through an opening in the fence and stopped beside the depression. He climbed down and studied the sinking ground close-up. Curiously, it seemed wider and deeper than the day before. He wondered at first if it might be caused by underground seepage from the stream he had dammed. And yet the earth in the depression’s center looked quite dry.

He remounted the tractor, drove to the dirt pile beside the old bunker that was now half hidden by bushes and vines, and lowered the scoop. When he’d scraped up a full load, he backed off and approached the depression until his front wheels were on the edge. He raised the scoop slightly with the intention of tilting it to drop the dirt load, but the front of the tractor began to tip. The front wheels were sinking into the ground.

Clausen gaped in astonishment as the depression opened up and the tractor dove into a suddenly expanding pit. He froze in horror as man and machine fell into the darkness below. He was mute with terror, but he instinctively braced his feet against the metal floor and clutched the steering wheel in a tight grip. The tractor hurtled a good twelve meters before it splashed into a deep underground stream. Huge clods of soil struck the water, churning it into a maelstrom that was soon blanketed by clouds of falling dust. The noise echoed far into unseen reaches as the tractor sank into water up to the top treads of its high rear tires before coming to rest.

The impact drove the breath from Clausen’s body. An agonizing pain shot through his back, and he knew it meant an injured vertebra. Two of his ribs, and perhaps more, cracked after his chest impacted against the steering wheel. He went into shock, his heart pounding, his breath coming in painful gasps. Bewildered, he hardly felt the water swirling around his chest.

Clausen blessed the tractor for landing right side up. If it had tumbled on one of its sides or top, in all probability he’d have been crushed to death or pinned and drowned. He sat there trying to comprehend what had happened to him. He looked up at the blue sky to get a grasp of his predicament. Then he peered around through the gloom and the drifting layers of dust.

The tractor had fallen into the pool of a limestone cave. One end was flooded but the other rose above the pool and opened into a vast cavern. He saw no signs of stalactites, stalagmites, or other natural decorations. Both the small entry cave and the larger chamber appeared to have low six-meter-high flat ceilings that were carved by excavation equipment.

Painfully he twisted out of the tractor seat and half crawled, half swam up the ramplike floor leading into the dry cavern. Knees sliding, hands slipping on the slimy coating covering the cave’s floor, he struggled forward on all fours until he felt dry ground. Wearily he hauled himself up into a sitting position, shifted around, and stared into dim recesses of the cavern.

It was filled with aircraft, literally dozens of them. All parked in even rows as if waiting for a squadron of phantom pilots. Clausen recognized them as the Luftwaffe’s first turbojet aircraft, Messerschmitt-262 Schwalbes (Swallows). They sat like ghosts in their mottled gray-green colors, and despite almost fifty years of neglect, they appeared in prime condition. Only mild corrosion on the aluminum surfaces and flattened tires suggested long abandonment. The hidden air base must have been evacuated and all entrances sealed before the Allied armies arrived.

His injuries were temporarily forgotten as Clausen reverently walked between the planes and into the flight quarters and maintenance repair areas. As his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he became amazed at the neat orderliness. There was no sign of a hurried departure. He felt the pilots and their mechanics were standing at inspection in the field above and expected back at any time.

He entered a state of rapture when it struck him that all the wartime artifacts were on his property, or under it, and belonged to him. The worth of the aircraft to collectors and museums must have ranged in the millions of deutsche marks.

Clausen made his way back to the edge of the underground pool. The tractor looked a sorry sight with only the steering wheel and upper tires rising out of the water. Once more he gazed up at the hole to the sky. There was no hope of climbing out on his own. The opening was too high and the walls too steep.

He wasn’t a tiny bit worried. Eventually his wife would come looking for him and summon neighbors when she found him standing happily in their newly discovered subterranean bonanza.

There had to be a generator somewhere for electrical power. He decided to search out its location. Perhaps, he thought, he might be able to fire it up and light the cavern. He squinted at his watch and figured another four hours would pass before his wife became curious over his prolonged absence.

He hesitated, thoughtfully staring into the far end of the cave that sloped into the forbidding pool, wondering if maybe another cavern waited in the darkness beyond the flooded depths.

32

“IF THE PUBLIC only knew what goes on behind their backs, they’d burn Washington,” said Sandecker as the Virginia countryside flashed past the heavily tinted and armored windows of the customized mobile command center disguised as a nationally known bus line.

“We’re in a war right up to our damned teeth,” the MAIT team’s Deputy Director, Donald Kern, grumbled. “And nobody knows but us.”

“You’re right about the war,” said Pitt, contemplating a glass of soda water he held in one hand. “I can’t believe these people had the guts to abduct Loren and Senator Diaz on the same day.”

Kern shrugged. “The senator stepped from his fishing lodge at six o’clock this morning, rowed out into a lake not much bigger than a pond, and vanished.”

“How do you know it wasn’t an accidental drowning or suicide?”

“There was no body.”

“You dragged and searched the entire lake since this morning?” Pitt asked skeptically.

“Nothing so primitive. We diverted our newest spy satellite over the area. There was no body floating on or below the water.”

“You have the technology to see an object as small as a body underwater from space?”

“Forget you heard it,” Kern said with a slight grin. “Just take my word for the fact that another Japanese team of professional operatives snatched Diaz in broad daylight along with his boat and outboard motor, and they managed it within sight of at least five other fishermen who swear they witnessed nothing.”

Pitt looked at Kern. “But Loren’s abduction was witnessed.”

“By Al and Frank, who guessed what was going down, sure. But the spectators in the stands were concentrating on the race. If any of them happened to glance in Loren’s direction during the excitement, all they saw was a woman entering the limo under her own free will.”

“What screwed up the abductors’ well-laid plan,” said Sandecker, “was that you men knew she was being seized and gave chase. Your alert action also confirmed the Japanese connection behind Senator Diaz’s kidnapping.”

“Whoever masterminded the separate plots was good,” Kern admitted. “Too good for the Blood Sun Brotherhood.”

“The terrorist organization,” said Pitt. “They were behind it?”

“That’s what they want us to think. The FBI received a phone call by someone who said he was a member and claiming responsibility. Strictly a red herring. We saw through the facade in less than a minute.”

“What about the helicopter that controlled the limousine?” Pitt asked. “Did you track it?”

“As far as Hampton Roads. There it blew up in midair and fell in the water. A Navy salvage team should be diving on it now.”

“A bottle of scotch they won’t find bodies.”

Kern gave Pitt a canny look. “A bet you’d probably win.”

“Any trace of the limousine that got away?”

Kern shook his head. “Not yet. It was probably hidden and abandoned after they transferred Congresswoman Smith to another vehicle.”

“Who’s in charge of the hunt?”

“The FBI. Their best field agents are already forming investigative teams and assembling all known data.”

“You think this is tied to our search into the bomb cars?” asked Giordino, who along with Pitt and Mancuso had been picked up by Kern and Sandecker a few miles from the accident site.

“It’s possible they could be warning us to lay off,” answered Kern. “But our consensus is they wanted to shut down the Senate investigating committee and eliminate the legislators who were ramrodding a bill to cut off Japanese investment in the U.S.”

Sandecker lit one of his expensive cigars after clipping the end. “The President is in a hell of a bind. As long as there’s a chance Smith and Diaz are alive, he can’t allow the abductions to leak to the news media. God knows what hell would erupt if Congress and the public found out.”

“They have us over the proverbial barrel,” Kern said grimly.

“If it isn’t the Blood Sun Brotherhood, then who?” Giordino asked as he lit a cigar he’d stolen from Admiral Sandecker’s supply in Washington.

“Only the Japanese government has the resources for an intricate abduction operation,” Pitt speculated.

“As far as we can determine,” said Kern, “Prime Minister Junshiro and his cabinet are not directly involved. Very possibly they have no idea of what’s going on behind their backs. Not a rare occurrence in Japanese politics. We suspect a highly secretive organization made up of wealthy ultranationalist industrialists and underworld leaders, who are out to expand and protect Japan’s growing economic empire as well as their own interests. Our best intelligence from Team Honda and other sources points to an extremely influential bastard by the name of Hideki Suma. Showalter is certain Suma is the kingpin behind the bomb cars.”

“A very nasty customer,” Sandecker added. “Shrewd, earthy, a brilliant operator, he’s pulled the strings behind Japanese politics for three decades.”

“And his father pulled them three decades before him,” said Kern. He turned to Mancuso. “Frank here is the expert on the Sumas. He’s compiled an extensive file on the family.”

Mancuso was sitting in a large swivel chair drinking a root beer, since no alcoholic beverages were allowed on the National Security Agency’s command bus. He looked up. “Suma, the father or the son? What do you wish to know?”

“A brief history of their organization,” answered Kern.

Mancuso took a few sips from his glass and stared at the ceiling as if arranging his thoughts. Then he began speaking as if reciting a book report to an English class.

“During the Japanese conquest of World War Two, their armies confiscated an immense hoard of loot from religious orders, banks, business corporations, and the treasuries of fallen governments. What began as a trickle from Manchuria and Korea soon became a flood as China and all of Southeast Asia, Malaya, Singapore, the Dutch East Indies, and the Philippines fell before the onslaught from the empire of the rising sun. The total of the stolen gold, gems, and priceless artifacts can only be speculated, but estimates have put it as high as two hundred billion, repeat, billion, dollars at current values.”

Sandecker shook his head. “Inconceivable.”

“The gold bullion alone was figured at over seven thousand tons.

“It all went to Japan?” asked Giordino.

“Up until nineteen forty-three. After that, American warships, and especially our submarines, interrupted the flow. Records indicate more than half of the total hoard was sent to the Philippines for inventory and forwarding to Tokyo. But toward the end of the war it was buried in secret locations around the islands and became known as ‘Yamashita’s Gold.’ “

“Where do the Sumas fit in?” Pitt inquired.

“I’m coming to them,” said Mancuso. “Japanese underworld societies quickly moved in after the occupation troops and helped themselves to the deposits in banks, national treasuries, and the wealth of private citizens, all in the name of the Emperor. Two minor agents of a criminal organization known as the Black Sky, which dominated Japan’s underworld after the turn of the century, deserted and launched their own society, naming it the ‘Gold Dragons.’ One was Korori Yoshishu. The other was Koda Suma.”

“Koda being the father of Hideki,” Sandecker concluded.

Mancuso nodded. “Yoshishu was the son of a temple carpenter in Kyoto. He was kicked out of the house by his father when he was ten. He fell in with the Black Sky and rose in its ranks. In nineteen twenty-seven, at the age of eighteen, his bosses arranged for him to join the Army, where he craftily advanced to the rank of captain by the time the Imperial Army seized Manchuria. He set up a heroin operation that brought the gang hundreds of millions of dollars that was divided with the Army.”

“Hold on,” said Giordino. “You’re saying the Japanese Army was in the drug business?”

“They ran an operation that would be the envy of the drug kings of Colombia,” Mancuso replied. “In concert with Japanese gang lords, the military ran the opium and heroin trades, forced the occupied citizenry to participate in rigged lotteries and gambling houses, and controlled the sale of black market goods.”

The bus stopped at a red light, and Pitt looked into the face of a truck driver who was trying in vain to see through the darkened windows of the bus. Pitt may have been staring out the window, but his mind followed Mancuso’s every word.

“Koda Suma was the same age as Yoshishu, the first son of an ordinary seaman in the Imperial Navy. His father forced him to enlist, but he deserted and was recruited by Black Sky mobsters. At about the same time they put Yoshishu in the Army, the gang leaders smoothed over Suma’s desertion record and had him reinstated in the Navy, only this time as an officer. Dispensing favors and money into the right hands, he quickly rose to the rank of captain. Being agents for the same criminal outfit, it was only natural that they work together. Yoshishu coordinated the heroin operations, while Suma systemized the looting and arranged shipments on board Imperial naval vessels.”

“A monumental ripoff to end all ripoffs,” Giordino observed moodily.

“The full scope of the network can never be documented.”

“More expensive even than the plunder of Europe by the Nazis?” Pitt asked, opening another bottle of soda water.

“By far,” Mancuso replied, smiling. “Then as now, the Japanese were more interested in the economic side—gold, precious gems, hard currency—while the Nazis concentrated on masterworks of art, sculpture, and rare artifacts.” His expression suddenly turned serious again. “Following the Japanese forces into China and then the rest of Southeast Asia, Yoshishu and Suma proved themselves to be archcriminal plotters. Like characters out of Heller’s book Catch-22, they worked beneficial deals with their enemies. They sold luxury goods and war materials to Chiang Kai-shek, becoming quite chummy with the generalissimo, an arrangement that paid handsome dividends after the Communists swept over China and later when the Chinese government moved to Formosa, which became Taiwan. They bought, sold, pillaged, smuggled, extorted, and murdered on an unheard-of scale, bleeding every country dry that came under their heel. It goes without saying that Suma and Yoshishu played a ‘one for you, two for me’ game when the loot was inventoried and divided with the Imperial forces.”

Pitt rose from his chair and stretched, easily touching the ceiling of the bus. “How much of the total plunder actually reached Japan?”

“A small percentage made it into the Imperial War Treasury. The more easily transportable treasure hoard, the precious gems and platinum, Suma and Yoshishu safely smuggled into Tokyo on board submarines and hid them on a farm in the country. The great mass of the bullion stayed behind on the main island of Luzon. It was stored in hundreds of kilometers of tunnels dug by thousands of allied POWs used as slave labor, who were either worked to death or executed to secure the hidden locations for recovery after the war. I excavated one tunnel on Corregidor that contained the bones of three hundred prisoners who had been buried alive.”

“Why is it this was never brought to the public attention?” asked Pitt.

Mancuso shrugged. “I can’t say. Not until forty years later was there mention of the barbarism in a few books. But by then, the Bataan death march and the armies of American, British and Philippine soldiers who perished in POW camps were only dim memories.”

“The Germans are still haunted by the holocaust,” mused Pitt, “but the Japanese have remained mostly unstained by their atrocities.”

Giordino’s face was grim. “Did the Japs recover any of the treasure after the war?”

“Some was dug up by Japanese construction companies, who claimed to be helping the Philippines rise from the ravages of the conflict by developing various industrial building projects. Naturally, they worked on top of the burial sites. Some was dug up by Ferdinand Marcos, who shipped several hundred tons of gold out of the country and discreetly converted it to currency on the world bullion markets. And a fair share was retrieved by Suma and Yoshishu twenty years later. Maybe as much as seventy percent of it is still hidden and may never be recovered.”

Pitt looked at Mancuso questioningly. “What happened to Suma and Yoshishu after the war ended?”

“No fools, these guys. They read defeat in their tea leaves as early as nineteen forty-three and began laying plans to survive the end in grand style. Not about to die in battle during MacArthur’s return to Luzon, or commit ritual suicide in the humiliation of defeat, Suma ordered up a submarine. Then with a generous helping of the Emperor’s share, they sailed off to Valparaiso, Chile, where they lived for five years in lavish comfort. When MacArthur became occupied with the Korean war, the master thieves returned home and became master organizers. Suma devoted his genius to economic and political intrigue, while Yoshishu consolidated his hold over the underworld and the new generation of Asian wheeler-dealers. Within ten years they were the major power brokers of the Far East.”

“A real pair of sweethearts,” Giordino said caustically.

“Koda Suma died of cancer in nineteen seventy-three,” Mancuso continued. “Like a couple of prohibition Chicago gangsters, Suma’s son, Hideki, and Yoshishu agreed to divide up the massive organization into different areas of activity. Yoshishu directed the criminal end, while Hideki built a power base in government and industry. The old crook has pretty much retired, keeping his fingers in various pies, guiding the present crime leaders of the Gold Dragons, and occasionally cutting a joint venture with Suma.”

“According to Team Honda,” Kern informed them, “Suma and Yoshishu joined forces to underwrite the weapons plant and the Kaiten Project.”

“The Kaiten Project?” Pitt repeated.

“Their code name for the bomb-car operation. Literally translated into English it means ‘a change of sky.’ But to the Japanese it has a broader meaning: ‘a new day is coming, a great shift in events.’ “

“But Japan claims to ban the introduction of nuclear weapons,” Pitt ventured. “Seems damned odd that Suma and Yoshishu could build a nuclear weapons facility without some knowledge or backing from the government.”

“The politicians don’t run Japan. The back-room movers and shakers behind the bureaucracy pull the reins. It was no secret when Japan built a Liquid Metal Fast Breeder reactor. But it wasn’t general knowledge that besides functioning as a power source it also produced plutonium and converted lithium into tritium, essential ingredients for thermonuclear weapons. My guess is Prime Minister Junshiro gave his secret blessing to a nuclear arsenal, however reluctantly because of the risk of public outcry, but he was purposely cut out of the Kaiten Project.”

“They certainly don’t run a ‘government like we do,” said Sandecker.

“Has Team Honda located the weapons plant?” Pitt asked Kern.

“They’ve narrowed it to a sixty-square-kilometer grid around the subterranean city of Edo.”

“And they still can’t find it?”

“Jim Hanamura thinks the city has deep tunnels that connect to the facility. An ingenious cover. No aboveground buildings or roads as a giveaway. Supplies entering for the thousands of people who live and work in Edo, and their trash exiting. Most any nuclear equipment or material could be smuggled in and out.”

“Any leads to the detonation command?” asked Giordino.

“The Dragon Center?”

“Is that what they call it?”

“They have a name for everything.” Kern smiled. “Nothing solid. Hanamura’s last report said he was onto a lead that had something to do with a painting.”

“That makes a hell of a lot of sense,” Giordino carped.

The door opened to a cramped communications compartment in the rear of the bus, and a man stepped out and handed three sheets of paper to Kern.

As his eyes flicked over the wording, his face became stricken. Finally, after coming to the end of the third page, he rapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair in shock. “Oh, my God.”

Sandecker leaned toward him. “What is it?”

“A status report from Mel Penner on Palau. He says Marvin Showalter was abducted on his way to the embassy. An American tourist couple reported seeing two Japanese men enter Showalter’s car when he stopped for a stalled truck a block from the embassy. The husband and wife only happened to report it to embassy officials because of the U.S. license tags and the surprise shown by the driver as the intruders leaped into the car. They saw nothing more, as a tourist bus pulled alongside them and blocked their view. By the time they could see the street again, Showalter’s car had disappeared in traffic.”

“Go on.”

“Jim Hanamura is late reporting in. In his last report to Penner, Jim said he had confirmed the location of the weapons plant three hundred fifty meters underground. The main assembly area is connected to Edo City, four kilometers to the north, by an electric railway that also runs through a series of tunnels to arsenals, waste disposal caverns, and engineering offices.”

“Is there more?” Sandecker gently persisted.

“Hanamura went on to say he was following a strong lead to the Dragon Center. That’s all.”

“What word on Roy Orita?” Pitt asked.

“Only a brief mention.”

“He vanished too?”

“No, Penner doesn’t say that. He only says Orita insists on sitting tight until we can sort things out.”

“I’d say the visitors have outscored the home team by three to one,” said Pitt philosophically. “They’ve snatched two of our legislators, cut Teams Honda and Cadillac off at the knees, and last but easily the worst, they know what we’re after and where we’re coming from.”

“Suma is holding all the high cards,” Kern conceded. “I’d better inform Mr. Jordan at once so he can warn the President.”

Pitt leaned over the back of his chair and fixed Kern with a dry stare. “Why bother?”

“What do you mean?”

“I see no need to panic.”

“The President must be alerted. We’re not only looking at the threat of nuclear blackmail but political ransom for Diaz and Smith. Suma can drop the axe any moment.

“No he won’t. Not yet anyway.”

“How do you know?” Kern demanded.

“Something is holding Suma back. He’s got a fleet of those bomb cars hidden away. All he needs is one driving the streets of Manhattan or Los Angeles to put the fear of God into the White House and the American public. He’s literally got the government by the scrotum. But what does he do? He plays petty kidnapper. No, I’m sorry. Something’s not going down the right chute. Suma isn’t ready for prime time. I say he’s stalling.”

“I think Dirk has a case,” said Mancuso. “It’s possible Suma’s agents smuggled the bomb cars into position before they could bring the detonation command on line.”

“It fits,” Sandecker concurred. “We might still have time to send in a new team to find and neutralize it.”

“At the moment everything hinges on Hanamura.” Kern hesitated apprehensively. “We can only hope he’s unearthed the Dragon Center. But we also have to consider the very real possibility he’s either dead or captured by Suma’s security force.”

They went quiet as the Virginia countryside rolled past the windows of the bus. The leaves on the trees gleamed gold under the fall sun. Few people walking beside the road paid any attention to the passing bus. If any had seen the charter sign above the driver’s windshield, they’d have simply thought it was a group of vacationers touring Civil War battlefields.

At last Sandecker spoke the thought that was on all their minds “If only we knew what thread Jim Hanamura was unraveling.”

33

AT THAT MOMENT, halfway across the world, Jim Hanamura would have given his new Corvette and his Redondo Beach bachelor pad’s state-of-the-art sound system to trade places with any man on that bus in Virginia.

The cold night rain soaked his clothes and skin as he lay covered by mud and rotting leaves in a drainage ditch. The police and the uniformed security force that were hunting him had canvassed the area and moved on ten minutes earlier, but he lay there in the slime trying to rest and formulate a plan of action. He painfully rolled over on his good elbow and peered up and across the road. The only sign of movement was a man in the garage of a small house who was bent under the open hood of a small delivery truck.

He dropped back in the ditch and passed out for the third time since being shot during his escape from Edo City. When Hanamura regained consciousness, he wondered how long he had been out. He held up his right wrist, but the watch had stopped, broken when he wrecked his car. It couldn’t have been very long, however, because the driver of the delivery truck was still tinkering with its engine.

The three slugs from the security guards’ automatic rifles had caught him in the left arm and shoulder. It was one of those flukes, a thousand-to-one unforeseen incident that catches a professional operative from a blind side.

His plans had been precise and exactingly executed. He’d forged the security clearance pass of one of Suma’s chief structural engineers by the name of Jiro Miyaza, who closely resembled Hanamura in face and body.

Entering Edo City and walking through the checkpoints leading to the design and construction department had been a piece of cake. None of the guards saw anything suspicious about a man who returned to his office after hours and worked on past midnight. All Japanese men put in long hours, seldom working a normal eight-hour day.

The inspection was loose, yet tighter than what it takes to walk into the Pentagon Building in Washington. The guards nodded to Hanamura and watched as he slipped his pass card into the electronic identity computer. The correct buzz sounded, a video camera’s light flashed green, and the guards waved him through, satisfied that Hanamura was cleared to enter that section of the building. With so many people passing in and out all hours of the day and night, they failed to recall that the man Hanamura was impersonating had only left for home a few minutes previously.

Hanamura tossed three offices in an hour and a half before he struck pay dirt. In the rear of a drawer of a draftsman’s table he found a rolled cylinder of rough sketches of a secret installation. The sketches should have been destroyed. He could only assume the draftsman had neglected to drop them in a nearby shredder. He took his time, ran the drawings through a copy machine, inserted them in an envelope, and put the originals back in the drawer exactly as he found them. The envelope he curled and taped to the calf of one leg.

Once he passed the guards on the way out, Hanamura thought he was home free. He walked out into the vast atrium and waited his turn to take an elevator that opened on a pedestrian tunnel leading to the parking level where he’d left his Murmoto four-wheel-drive pickup truck. There were twenty people packed in the enclosure, and Hanamura had the misfortune of having to stand in the front row. When the doors opened on his parking level, fate dealt him a bad hand.