“Where is Toshogu now?” Takagi asked
“She should be nearing the Bering Strait.”
“Who did you send?”
“Yamora.”
“Good. From this point on, you will handle everything personally. You will see that Tsumago safely reaches the facility, you will make sure the transfer goes smoothly, and you will make sure all the loose ends are tied up.”
“And the woman?”
Takagi shrugged. “She is a traitor. See that she gets a traitor’s reward.”
Forty-six miles south of the Arctic circle, Toshogu sliced through the waves. Forty miles off the port beam lay the east coast of Siberia; to starboard, Alaska.
Skulafjord Limited’s representative, Hallvard Sogne, stood on Toshogu’s bridge wing, bundled in foul weather gear, and stared at the water hissing down the hull. God, even in his native Norway he’d never felt cold like this before. If not for the spectacular view of the night sky, he would never leave his cabin.
For the hundredth time Sogne cursed his luck. He was a marine engineer, not a sailor. But evidently Skulafjord thought he was the best man for the job. Three weeks at sea! The plan was to put the ship through its paces as it sailed west through the Arctic Circle, along Russia’s northern coast, into the Barents Sea, and finally to Skulafjord’s docks on Svalbard Island.
So far Toshogu’s captain and crew had been very accommodating, and the ship was performing as designed, which was fine with Sogne. Perhaps if they finished early, his boss would send a helicopter to pick him up.
The bridge hatch opened, and a seaman poked out his head. “Mr. Sogne, the captain asks if you would step inside.”
Sogne ducked inside.
The pilothouse was warm and illuminated only by the green-lighted helm console.
“Ah, Mr. Sogne,” said the captain. “Would you care for some hot chocolate?”
“Not tea?” These Japanese were fanatical about their tea.
Namura laughed. “For you, we have hot chocolate.”
“Thank you. Or should I say domo arigato.”
“Ah! Do itashimashite. Your Japanese is improving.”
“I hope so. You know, Captain, I’m amazed at how little crew Toshogu requires. Eight men aboard, correct?”
“That is correct. She is quite self-sufficient. Most of her functions are computer-controlled. Your company is receiving a fine vessel.”
“Indeed. Tell me, are the maneuvering trials still on for the morning?”
“Yes.” Namura checked his watch. “In fact, you would be wise to get some sleep. It promises to be a long day.”
“Good idea. In the morning, then.”
Four hours later, Toshogu was thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle in the Chuckchi Sea. Hallvard Sogne lay wide awake in his private cabin, listening to the ocean lap against the ship’s hull. Too late he remembered hot chocolate had caffeine, something he’d given up at his wife Ilga’s insistence. Perhaps a walk would do the trick.
Five minutes later, he was out the door. The passageway was deserted and lit only by those eerie red lamps all ships seemed equipped with. Why was that? Why not some nice, bright lighting? He looked down the passageway, hoping to see a crewman. He didn’t know the ship very well. He saw no one. Which way, then? The after hold area, he decided. That was one place they hadn’t yet shown him.
He headed to the nearest ladder and took it down. As he reached the next deck, he felt the ship’s motion change, rocking from side to side. The hum of the engines faded. They were slowing. Why? The fan blowers cut out. Sogne stood in the darkness, feeling dizzy. He had gotten so used to the ship’s motion and sounds, the sudden change was unnerving.
From below, there came a shout.
“Iye… Iye! Onegai shimas—”
The voice was cut off. Silence. Outside, the sea lapped at the hull. The ship’s rocking was more pronounced now. What was happening?
He leaned over the ladder rail. “Hello down there?”
Silence.
“Hello, is anybody down there?”
Sogne started down the ladder until he reached Sub-3, the lowermost level of the after hold area, a large, cavern-like space lined with catwalks and storage bays. He stepped through the hatch.
“Hello?”
Down the catwalk Sogne spotted a pile of twisted metal, half of which had spilled over onto the deck below. Walking closer, he saw it was debris of some sort, most of it covered in rust and algae. Sogne knelt down and picked up a few pieces, causing a small avalanche.
“What is this?” he whispered.
Behind him came a click-click sound. He spun around.
A shadowed figure stood on the catwalk.
“Oh, thank God!” Sogne said. “I’m glad you—” He stopped and peered closer at the man’s face. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”
20
For the third time in as many weeks, George Coates found himself before the Intelligence Oversight Committee. Aside from Coates, the CIA’s chief legal counsel, and the IOC panel, the hearing room was empty. Their amplified voices echoed off the walls.
This hearing was unavoidable, Coates knew. The decision to shut down SYMMETRY had ensured that. Just as the CIA was obligated to inform the IOC of all ongoing operations, it was bound to disclose failures as well.
Thinking of SYMMETRY and Marcus — a man he’d never met — Coates found himself almost hoping the man was dead. It would be far better than spending months — perhaps years — chained in a Beirut basement while his captors decided how to best dispose of him.
With that image in his mind, Coates had a hard time finishing the rather clinical statement his staff had drafted. “… and so, given the agent’s capture, and fearing he would be forced to disclose operational details of the network, we’ve suspended operations pending future review.”
“Pending future review,” Smith repeated. “ ‘Future review’ certainly can’t help your captured agent, can it.”
“I disagree. If his captors manage to extract information from him, it’ll lead them nowhere. SYMMETRY is a dead conduit. Finding nothing of interest, they may choose to release him.”
Smith barked out a laugh. “How very naive of you, Mr. Coates.”
Coates was opening his mouth to reply when the chief counsel laid a hand on his forearm. Coates took a breath. Don’t give him the satisfaction. “You might think it naive, Senator. I like to call it solution-oriented thinking. We already know SYMMETRY has failed. Dwelling on that fact won’t get us anywhere.”
“No sale, Mr. Coates. Who do you think you’re talking to? You think you can hide the fact that the CIA has not only wasted over four million dollars of taxpayers’ money, but it has also got an agent murdered?”
“We don’t know that, Senator. Marcus may still—”
Smith banged his fist on the table. “Stop trying to paint a happy face on this thing! You screwed up, and we’ve got nothing to show for it! Nothing!”
“You’re wrong, sir. Before his capture, Marcus had been forwarding valuable product, which we are currently—”
“What kind of product?”
“Pardon me?”