Vorsalov turned back. “What?”
“The state of Maine requires all drivers be insured, so if you’ll just sign here….”
“What is this?”
“A waiver, sir, stating that…”
Latham switched channels. “Talk to me, Paul.”
“It’s back on.”
Latham looked through the binoculars: Vorsalov was walking toward the car.
Latham exhaled and got on the radio. “Mobile units, get rolling.”
Aside from two stops for fuel, one meal break at a McDonald’s in Boston, and several U-turns, which Latham and his team assumed were routine attempts at countersurveillance, Vorsalov had been driving steadily south for nine hours. They were approaching Philadelphia. The transmitter, which had a range of fifteen miles, was working flawlessly. Latham could hear its steady beep through the van’s speakers.
The mobile teams — comprised of twelve cars and a helicopter disguised with changeable hospital and charter service markings — were working in four-hour shifts. The armada ranged from minivans to beat-up VW bugs. The agents were disguised as yuppie couples complete with Baby on Board stickers; gray-haired spinsters in Buicks; and even a bearded agent on a Harley.
It was a painstaking process, but it was paying off. The Russian was giving no indication he was aware of the surveillance. Even if he were, it would do him little good, Latham felt. His team was first rate, the majority of them having cut their teeth chasing dedicated KGB and GRU agents during the Cold War. More importantly, he’d been up against Vorsalov before. He knew the man’s methods… he hoped.
“Almost two A.M.,” Paul Randal said. “You think he’d stop to sleep.”
“Old habits,” Latham replied.
The van’s speaker’s came to life. “Command, this is Mobile Lead.”
“Go ahead.”
“Subject’s pulling into the Days Inn on Island Avenue.”
Randall consulted the map. “Right by the airport, Charlie.”
Latham nodded. “Lead, once he’s settled in, let’s put a tight lid on him. We’ve got an airport close by.”
“Roger.”
“Paul, you got your wish. Get some sleep.”
“Okay.” Randal yawned. “I guess you know we’re running out of cities.”
Latham nodded. “Yep.”
The farther south Vorsalov drove, the stronger Charlie’s hunch grew. They’d passed Boston and New York. Washington was looming. Vorsalov could be headed anywhere, but he couldn’t shake his gut feeling.
Same city, same players. But what were the stakes this time?
29
Tanner’s report of Sumiko’s death got an immediate reaction from Dick Mason, who ordered them out “We’ve done all we can, Briggs,” Dutcher told them. “Come on home.”
He and Cahil had anticipated the order and agreed to withhold their discovery of the submarine. The more they discussed it, the more they doubted its significance; mentioning it would be the proverbial last straw. As it turned out, Sumiko’s murder fulfilled that role itself.
According to Ieyasu, the police were calling her death a robbery gone bad. Her empty purse had been found a few blocks from the Takagi headquarters. The coroner’s report was expected to support what Ieyasu’s contacts reported: Sumiko’s throat had been slit. So severe was the wound that her larynx had been severed, as had the carotid artery and jugular vein. It wasn’t the signature of a strong-arm robber, Tanner thought Cutting a throat is neither easy nor clean. She’d either been ambushed from behind or been subdued while the attacker worked on her.
The police, led by none other than Inspector Tanaka, were not able to explain how the alleged assailants eluded Takagi’s security force or why a mugger would go to such lengths when easier targets were walking the streets of Kobe. Not that it mattered; Tanner knew who was responsible.
This felt more personal than ever. He’d gotten Sumiko killed. He was in dangerous water, he knew, but he refused to quit until Takagi and Noboru answered for what they had done. First, however, he had to deal with Mason’s order.
“Leland, I don’t—”
“I know you don’t, Briggs. But look at this from his perspective,” Dutcher said. “He’s got one dead agent, a dead stringer he was sleeping with, another missing from the shipyard, and a gutted network. This is the CIA’s show. It’s their call.”
“What about Sumiko’s last delivery? From the looks of it, Takagi has his hands in dozens more conglomerates, including several in the Mideast.”
“It’ll be analyzed. Listen: Don’t let this get personal. This is what we get paid for. We go in, we do the job, we get out. Unless you’ve got some angle we haven’t considered, we’re done.”
Tanner recognized his boss’s tone of voice: You don’t have to like it, but accept it and move on…. Unless you’ve got some angle we haven’t considered. But there would be a proviso: They would have to produce results, and quickly. Dutcher could run interference for them for a few days at most.
“The salvage ship,” Tanner replied. “She doesn’t exist on paper; a Takagi engineer who worked on her is gone; and until she skulked out of port, she was hidden away next to a ship that was more destroyer than freighter. If that doesn’t interest Mason, okay, but what’s to stop us from checking it out?”
“Better question is, why bother?” Dutcher asked.
“Why sell her to a company on whose board you hold a secret majority? Why murder a man because he’s nosing around her? It stinks, Leland, from top to bottom, and I want to know why.”
“This sounds a lot like a pitch I got from Walt last week.”
“Oh?”
“You have any idea what you’re asking for? Do you know what it takes to retask a satellite for that kind of search?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. But I doubt there’d be much retasking involved.”
“Explain.”
“The Russians are scrapping some of their boomers at Pavek. I’m sure we’ve got some eyes on them.”
“And the Eastern Siberian Sea is right next door.”
“Worst case, we get some side-lobe images. It’s a place to start.”
Dutcher was silent for a few moments. “Okay, you two sit tight and stay low. I’ll turn Walter loose on Toshogu.”
Oaken settled into one of the theatre-style seats and opened his notepad. Aside from him and the AV technician sitting at the control podium near the back, the theater was deserted. Oaken rolled down his sleeves against the chill.
“What’s your name, by the way?” he called over his shoulder.
“Skip, sir.”
“Why the deep freeze in here, Skip?”
“Computers. We’ve got a couple Crays running for image enhancement. Okay, sir, where to?”
Good question, Oaken thought Finding a ship of Toshogus dimensions in the expanse of the Arctic Ocean was a daunting task.
The real work had started back at Holystone as he first checked with the Coast Guard for sightings that might correspond to Toshogu. He was amazed at the number of distress reports they had on file. As cold and forbidding as the Arctic Ocean was, it saw a brisk traffic, and in any given month a good 10 percent of them radioed Guard stations for help.
Oaken knew the Arctic Ocean held a special place in the nightmares of seamen since the first keel was laid centuries ago. Once submerged in those waters, the average human life expectancy was less than ten minutes, the last six of them spent unconscious as the body’s systems were overwhelmed by the numbing cold.
No thanks, Oaken decided. If he wanted that kind of adventure, he’d watch The Discovery Channel.