“First of all, humble chauffeurs do not rise to become industrial giants. At least they didn’t in the Japan of the late forties and fifties. But if Fukai had actually done just that he would have crowed about his achievement. But there’s never been a peep out of him.”
“Then how’d you find out?”
“Army records. Fukai surfaced at a verification center in Mat-suyama in December of 1945, claiming he was Kiyoshi Fukai, the chauffeur. He was friendly and cooperative with the occupying forces, and no one thought to question his identification.”
“Whose chauffeur was he?”
Rencke grinned. “Ah, that’s the point, isn’t it? His boss was a man by the name of Isawa Nakamura. A designer and manufacturer of electronic equipment. A black marketeer.
A staunch supporter of the Rising Sun’s military complex. A regular user of Korean and Chinese slave labor.”
“There’s more?” McGarvey asked, knowing there was.
“You bet,” Rencke said. “Guess where Nakamura’s wife and kiddies were killed?”
McGarvey shook his head.
“Nagasaki.”
McGarvey telephoned Phil Carrara from the Marriott Hotel.
“I’m coming out by cab. Meet me at the gate.”
“Where the hell are you?” the DDO demanded. “Your doctors are screaming bloody murder, claiming we’ve kidnapped you, and the FBI wants to know what’s going on.”
“I’m going to need my gun, my passport, and some clothes and shaving gear.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m going back to Tokyo. I know who’s behind all of this.”
Chapter 65
McGarvey flew first class from Washington to Los Angeles, and then the long haul across the Pacific to Tokyo. The cabin attendants wanted to fuss over him, but on his insistence they left him alone for the most part.
He took sleeping tablets to make sure he would get some much-needed rest, yet he dreamed about the monastery on Santorini. It was night again, the wind-swept rain beating against the stained glass windows, and Elizabeth’s screams echoing down the long, dank stone corridors. But he couldn’t do a thing to help her; he’d been crucified.
His hands and feet had been nailed to the cross above the altar, while the congregation of STASI killers watched him bleed to death.
Elizabeth was going to die unless he could help her, but it was impossible and he knew it.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Please… Elizabeth… forgive me.”
McGarvey looked up into the eyes of a flight attendant, an expression of concern on her face. “You must have been having a bad dream,” she spoke softly to him.
“What time is it?” he asked, still half in his nightmare. He felt distant, almost detached.
“Seven-thirty in the morning. Tokyo time. We’re about forty minutes out. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” McGarvey said, and the girl helped him raise his seat.
“The restroom is free,” she suggested.
“I’ll have the coffee first. And put a shot of brandy in it.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling.
When she was gone, McGarvey raised his windowshade, the morning extremely bright and nearly cloudless. They were flying west, nothing yet but the empty Pacific beneath them. But he got the feeling that somebody was waiting and watching for him to show up. Ernst Spranger or Kiyoshi Fukai. He knew that he would have to fight them both, sooner or later, but he wasn’t at all sure of the outcome.
Narita International Airport’s Customs and Arrivals hall was a jam-packed mass of humanity. All the Japanese officials, airline representatives and redcaps were courteous, efficient and even outwardly obsequious, though, handling the jostling crowds as if they couldn’t think of anything that would give them more pleasure.
All a sham, McGarvey wondered, presenting his passport, their smiles no more than a facade over their real emotions? The old newsreels came immediately to mind of the smiling, bowing Japanese diplomats in Washington on the day before the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was an unfair comparison, then and now, yet he couldn’t help but make it.
“The purpose of your visit, Mr. Fine?” the passport officer asked, looking up.
“I have business in Nagasaki,” McGarvey answered. “With Fukai Semiconductor.”
“Yes, very good,” the official said, smiling. He handed back McGarvey’s passport.
“Have a pleasant, profitable stay in Japan.”
“Arigatd,” McGarvey answered, and the official shot him a brief scowl that changed instantly back into a smile.
In three hours flat Technical Services had come up with a passport and legend for McGarvey as Jack Fine, a sales rep for DataBase Corporation, a small but upcoming competitor of TSI industries. If anyone called the Eau Claire, Wisconsin number, or asked for information to be faxed, they would be told that McGarvey was indeed who he presented himself to be. DataBase Corp was a legitimate company that sometimes acted as a front for the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division, and in this case as a special favor to the CIA.
Of course if Spranger was here, and got a look at McGarvey, the fiction would immediately fail. The confrontation would come then and there. He almost hoped it would happen that way.
Kelley Fuller was waiting for him on the other side of the customs barrier after he’d retrieved his single bag and had it checked. Dressed in a conservatively cut gray business suit, her hair up in a bun in the back, and very little makeup on her face, she looked like somebody’s idea of an executive secretary for an American or Canadian firm.
He hadn’t expected her to be here like this, but he had to admit he was pleased to see her, and to see that she seemed none the worse for wear.
“I have a taxi waiting for us,” she said in greeting. “Our train does not leave for another three hours, but we may need that time to reach the train station.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Nagasaki, of course.”
“But you’re not coming with me.”
“Yes I am, I have taken a great risk to speak on the telephone for so long with Phil.
He thinks the Japanese are becoming sensitive just now about such calls between Tokyo and the U.S.”
“There’ll probably be a fight. You could get hurt.”
“Yes,” she said outwardly unperturbed. “Afterwards you will need someone who understands Japanese to speak on your behalf to the authorities. Now, let’s hurry, please.”
He shuffled as fast as he could to keep up with her across the main ticket hall to the taxi ranks outside. She didn’t say anything to him about his condition, but he noticed her watching how he limped and favored his right side.
Something had happened to change her in the week since he had left her at the Sunny Days Western Ranch in Shinjuku’s Kabukicho. She was still frightened. He could see that in her eyes, but fear no longer seemed to dominate her as it had before. She’d gained self-confidence; either that or she had, for some reason, resigned herself to her fate, whatever that might be.
The cab was pleasantly clean and very comfortable. The doors automatically opened and closed for them, and when they were settled the driver took off toward the city at a breakneck speed through the unbelievable morning traffic.
“What happened while I was gone?” McGarvey asked as they careened onto a crowded freeway.
Kelley looked over at him. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“If need be I’ll telephone Phil and force him to keep you here, or better yet, order you back to Washington.”
“No,” she said so sharply that the cabbie looked at them in his rearview mirror.
“Tell me what happened, then,” McGarvey gently prompted.
Kelley’s hands were in her lap. She looked down at them, her upper lip quivering, but her eyes remained dry. It was obvious she was trying to hold herself together.