More policemen and Kripos arrived, securing the whole scene.
The two assassins were quickly identified as communist sympathisers, known to the police, men who had served in the German Army but who resurfaced after the end of the war.
The identity of the third man was not known, he being devoid of any formal identification, which in itself was extremely unusual.
It was not until his photograph appeared in the newspapers that his name became known.
Reinhard Gehlen.
January 1947.
1947 started with either a fizzle or a burst of energy, depending on the people concerned.
Those in the Allied intelligence community were exercised by the murder of Gehlen, possibly by men who could likely be working under Soviet instructions.
That made the community both nervous and vigilant, and made the Germans bay for blood of any kind, but mainly that which lay in abundance to the East.
At home in the USA, the political situation had died to a murmur, occasionally rising to a shout as Truman refused to return industry to a peacetime footing, reasonably citing recent events from 1945.
The casualty count dropped to a trickle, mainly accidents on the road and in the air, or those caused by the intensive training that was the hallmark of the Allied peace… this time.
Elsewhere, the arrival of 1947 caused little fuss as the lines were now set and tensions, at least politically between the Western Allies and the USSR, and militarily across the board, were at an extremely and tolerably low point.
Above all it was the cold that calmed the situation throughout Europe. Although not as bad as the previous year, winter made itself felt and, even though late in arriving, bared its fangs to all comers.
0912 hrs, Thursday, 2nd January 1947, Dai Ichi Life Insurance Building, Tokyo, Japan.
“Morning, Lieutenant. Where’s the goddamned fire?”
“Good morning, Sir. Admiral Towers’ apologies, but he’s asked us to bring this to you immediately. He’s busy with other matters at the moment.”
MacArthur raised an eyebrow, drawing a response.
“He also felt that we were the best people to present this information to you at this time. This has been our baby from the start, Sir. You’ll understand, Sir.”
Waynes sorted out his folder, placing a copy of a most secret briefing in front of the General, whilst Takeo laid out a series of grainy and indistinct photographs next to some copies of Japanese documents, complete with translations.
MacArthur’s morning agenda had been shattered on the insistence of Towers, and he sure as hell hoped it wasn’t a fool’s errand.
“OK. What am I looking at here?”
“Sir, Admiral Towers has filled me in on what you already know, so I’ll cover what we have now learnt.”
He pointed at the documents.
“These are manifests which have just come to light. One of our investigative parties on the island of Okunoshima, where the Japanese had a poison gas facility.”
He pushed one under MacArthur’s nose.
“Dated June 6th last year, this is a receipt for three tons of compound seven and four tons of compound ten, signed illegibly, but reported as correctly stowed and secured, responsibility handed over to Special Weapons Detachment officer, Combined Fleet special type submarine 402.”
“Special Weapons officer?”
“Sir, we believe that, given the nature of the facility giving up the items to be stowed, that compounds seven and ten are destructive gases.”
“Logical. Submarine 402?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Waynes promoted two grainy pictures to the front of the pile.
“These only came to us yesterday, Sir. They were taken by an agent in the Soviet Union on June 20th last year. I believe Admiral Towers mentioned Sovetskaya Gavan?”
MacArthur gave the naval lieutenant a look that sort of said ‘do you know how much shit I hear in a day, son’ but held his piece and simply nodded, especially as, for some reason, he suddenly remembered the conversation.
“Soviet boats undercover or something?”
“Yes, Sir… except they’re not. See here.”
The two images showed something, but MacArthur wasn’t totally sure what it was.
“Here is a picture we’ve doctored some. Drawn in the lines to emphasise the submarines.”
The third picture did just that.
“Big sons-a-bitches.”
“Yes, Sir. For scale, that is an AM class submarine. They come in at about three seventy-five feet in length. This one is probably a little over four hundred feet.”
“How does that compare to ours?”
“For perspective, one of our Gatos would be a little over three hundred feet long, Sir.”
“Big sons of bitches.”
“Beam wise, they’re big. Both types. One of ours sits about twenty-seven foot. Best guess by some experienced interpreters is that the biggest sub is slightly larger than the AM. They come in at about thirty-nine… which means the big sub is probably forty.”
“And the photos show three su…”
“No Sir!… apologies… no, sir… here… one… two… three… four… four submarines… two AMs and two Special type.”
MacArthur continued, airing his thoughts.
“There were five, and we pretty much know that one of our carriers put one down hard… and here we have the remaining four holed up in commie land… under cover… is this where you start talking about 731 and 516 again?”
“Yes, Sir. That remains a serious possibility, although we cannot confirm or deny it for now.”
“So do we know anything more about these things… what they’re capable of?”
Yes, Sir. We know that the Special types can accommodate three aircraft each. That’s confirmed. What isn’t confirmed is their range. We have interrogation evidence from a civilian designer which we are having corroborated by our own technical engineering people right now. One moment please, Sir.”
Waynes consulted his notes and MacArthur took the opportunity to fire up his pipe, a signal that transferred to his orderly, who magically appeared with coffee.
“Yes, Sir. Our own data on the AMs is sound, and supported with evidence gained from Japanese naval records. They can theoretically sail for twenty-four thousand miles without refuelling. Our Gatos will do something over fourteen thousand.”
MacArthur puffed away without a care in the world, although his insides were churning.
“From what we can glean, the Special Types will go forty thousand miles.”
“Forty thousand?”
“So it seems sir. We have discovered a paper from Admiral Yamamoto on the subject of large raiding submarines, in which he gives the specification that the new submarines must be able to sail to any point on the planet and return without refuelling.”
“Good god.”
“There is a part of Yamamoto’s specification that Admiral Towers wanted me to make sure you understood, Sir. That is that the Special Submarines should be capable of making three journeys from Japan to the western seaboard of the United States without needing more fuel.”
“Good Lord! So Admiral Towers thinks that they are going to do something to us on the west coast?”
“Actually no, Sir. But he’s presently looking at the possibilities, and stepping up our defensive measures at all points east of Midway. That’s why he can’t be here, Sir.”
“Why doesn’t he think the West Coast is threatened?”
“If they’ve split up, then it is, Sir. Admiral Towers can’t take the chance that they haven’t, but an interesting piece in the puzzle fell into place at six this morning.”
The lighter clicked again and rich smoke flowed around the room.