But no. It couldn't be the entire game. A part of it, perhaps, a tactic aimed at something else. What? What could be so important that Raizo Yamata was willing to kiss off his personal fortune, and along the way destroy the very global markets upon which his own corporations and his own national economy depended? That was not something to enter the mind of a businessman, certainly not something to warm the soul of a maven on the Street. It was strange to have it all figured out and yet not understand the sense of it. Winston looked out the window as the sun set on New York Harbor. He had to tell somebody, and that somebody had to understand what this was all about. Fiedler? Maybe. Better somebody who knew the Street…and knew other things, too. But who?
"Are they ours?" All four lay alee in Laolao Bay. One of their number was tucked alongside an oiler, doubtless taking on fuel.
Oreza shook his head. "Paint's wrong. The Navy paints its ships darker, bluer, like."
"They look like serious ships, man." Burroughs handed the binoculars back.
"Billboard radars, vertical-launch cells for missiles, antisub helicopters. They're Aegis 'cans, like our Burke class. They're serious, all right. Airplanes are afraid of 'em." As Portagee watched, a helicopter lifted off one and headed for the beach.
"Report in?"
"Yeah, good idea."
Burroughs went into the living room and put the batteries back in his phone. The idea of completely depowering it was probably unnecessary, but it was safe, and neither man was interested in finding out how the Japanese treated spies, for that was what they were. It was also awkward, putting the antenna through the hole in the bottom of the serving bowl and then holding it next to your head, but it did give a certain element of humor to the exercise, and they needed a reason to smile at something.
"NMCC, Admiral Jackson."
"You have the duty again, sir?"
"Well, Master Chief, I guess we both do. What do you have to report?"
"Four Aegis destroyers offshore, east side of the island. One's taking fuel on now from a small fleet oiler. They showed up just after dawn. Two more car carriers at the quay, another on the horizon outbound. We counted twenty fighter aircraft a while ago. About half of them are F-15's with twin tails. The other half are single tails, but I don't know the type. Otherwise nothing new to tell you about."
Jackson was looking at a satellite photo only an hour old showing four ships in line-ahead formation, and fighters dispersed at both the airfields. He made a note and nodded.
"What's it like there?" Robby asked. "I mean, they hassling anybody, arrests, that sort of thing?" He heard the voice at the other end snort.
"Negative, sir. Everybody's just nice as can be. Hell, they're on TV all the time, the public-access cable channel, telling us how much money they plan to spend here and all the things they're gonna do for us." Robby heard the disgust in the man's voice.
"Fair enough. I might not always be here. I do have to get a little sleep, but this line is set aside for your exclusive use now, okay?"
"Roger that, Admiral."
"Play it real cool, Master Chief. No heroic shit, okay?"
"That's kid stuff, sir. I know better," Oreza assured him.
"Then close down, Oreza. Good work." Jackson heard the line go dead before he set his phone down. "Better you than me, man," he added to himself. Then he looked over at the next desk.
"Got it on tape," an Air Force intelligence officer told him. "He confirms the satellite data. I'm inclined to believe that he's still safe."
"Let's keep him that way. I don't want anybody calling out to them without my say-so," Jackson ordered.
"Roge-o, sir." I don't think we can anyway, he didn't add.
"Tough day?" Paul Robberton asked.
"I've had worse," Ryan answered. But this crisis was too new for so confident an evaluation. "Does your wife mind…?"
"She's used to having me away, and we'll get a routine figured out in a day or so." The Secret Service agent paused. "How's the Boss doing?"
"As usual he gets the hard parts. We all dump on him, right?" Jack admitted, looking out the window as they turned off Route 50. "He's a good man, Paul."
"So are you, doc. We were all pretty glad to get you back." He paused. "How tough is it?" The Secret Service had the happy circumstance of needing to know almost everything, which was just as well, since they overheard almost everything anyway.
"Didn't they tell you? The Japanese have built nukes. And they have ballistic launchers to deliver them."
Paul's hands tightened on the wheel. "Lovely. But they can't be that crazy."
"On the evening of December 7, 1941, USS Enterprise pulled into Pearl Harbor to refuel and rearm. Admiral Bill Halsey was riding the bridge, as usual, and looked at the mess from the morning's strike and said, 'When this war is over, the Japanese language will be spoken only in hell.' " Ryan wondered why he'd just said that.
"That's in your book. It must have been a good line for the guys around him."
"I suppose. If they use their nukes, that's what'll happen to them. Yeah, they have to know that," Ryan said, his fatigue catching up with him.
"You need about eight hours, Dr. Ryan, maybe nine," Robberton said judiciously. "It's like with us. Fatigue really messes up your higher-brain functions. The Boss needs you sharp, doc, okay?"
"No argument there. I might even have a drink tonight," Ryan thought aloud.
There was an extra car in the driveway, Jack saw, and a new face that looked out the window as the official car pulled into the parking pad.
"That's Andrea. I already talked with her. Your wife had a good lecture today, by the way. Everything went just fine."
"Good thing we have two guest rooms." Jack chuckled as he walked into the house. The mood was happy enough, and it seemed that Cathy and Agent Price were getting along. The two agents conferred while Ryan ate a light dinner.
"Honey, what's going on?" Cathy asked.
"We're involved in a major crisis with Japan, plus the Wall Street thing."
"But how come—"
"Everything that's happened so far has been at sea. It hasn't broken the news yet, but it will."
"War?"
Jack looked up and nodded. "Maybe."
"But the people at Wilmer today, they were just as nice—you mean they don't know either?"
Ryan nodded. "That's right."
"That doesn't make any sense!"
"No, honey, it sure doesn't." The phone rang just then, the regular house phone. Jack was the closest and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Is this Dr. John Ryan?" a voice asked.
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"George Winston. I don't know if you remember, but we met last year at the Harvard Club. I gave a little speech about derivatives. You were at the next table over. By the way, nice job on the Silicon Alchemy IPO."
"Seems like a while ago," Ryan said. "Look, it's kinda busy down here, and—"
"I want to meet with you. It's important," Winston said.
"What about?"
"I'll need fifteen or twenty minutes to explain it. I have my G at Newark. I can be down whenever you say." The voice paused. "Dr. Ryan, I wouldn't be asking unless I thought it was important."
Jack thought about it for a second. George Winston was a serious player.
His rep on the Street was enviable: tough, shrewd, honest. And, Ryan remembered, he'd sold control of his fleet to somebody from Japan. Somebody named Yamata—a name that had turned up before. "Okay, I'll squeeze you in. Call my office tomorrow about eight for a time."