Besides the main house, there were several other buildings in the compound, most of which were built to look like one thing but were meant to be used for a far different purpose. The communications center looked like the building of an amateur astronomer. A stone building that appeared to be a garage in actuality housed a small armory. A large greenhouse housed a planning center.
Carter always got a kick out of the vast amounts of money the CIA was able to throw around, while AXE had to make do on a minuscule budget.
"A lot of this is just fluff, sir," Scott's driver explained. "The Japanese like to think they're getting their money's worth by allowing the Company to operate freely on their soil. Mostly we do a lot of counterinsurgency training here. Weekend warriors and all that stuff."
He dropped them off with their bags at the front door of the main house, then drove back up the hill toward the gate. He would have to get back to Tokyo so as not to make the Russians nervous about a missing van.
The house was a two-story brick affair, with a steeply pitched roof and several chimneys. It looked like something that might be more at home in the English countryside, or perhaps in Connecticut along Long Island Sound, than an hour or so north of Tokyo.
Scott had promised that except for the security and maintenance staff they would have the place to themselves until they were due to rendezvous with the submarine the following evening at around eight.
Inside, they stowed their gear in their rooms and changed into the gray training uniforms the CIA used there while the cook fixed them a late lunch of soup and sandwiches.
They met back in one of the dining rooms at the rear of the house with a dramatic view of the ocean.
Hansen had turned sullen and refused to look Carter in the eye, or say much of anything at all. Forester was suffering from jet lag. He had been awakened in the middle of the night in his San Diego home and had been put on a plane for Japan before he had any idea where he was going or what might be expected of him. But Barber was ready and eager to get started.
"Can we contact the submarine directly to arrange our rendezvous, or are we going to have to go through Pacific Fleet communications?" Carter asked.
"She'll surface at eleven hundred GMT; which is eight tonight our time — and again at twenty-three hundred GMT, which will be eight our time tomorrow morning. We'll be able to talk to her then."
"How will we get out to her from here?"
"A chopper."
Once again Carter was struck by a sense of futility. Barber would do all right, but the other two would have to be babysat. If they made it to the rendezvous with the sub, that is, Carter thought grimly. A lot could happen between now and tomorrow night.
After lunch Hansen went with Forester over to the planning center where they would develop a model plan of the Svetlaya naval base, as well as a computer mock-up of their best guess as to the layout of the Petrograd submarine's ECM room.
Carter went for a walk to look over the grounds. Barber caught up with him before he got a hundred yards.
"Mind the company, Carter?"
"Not at all. But call me Nick. It looks as if we're going to be in close quarters for the next few days at least."
"And you don't like that very much, do you," Barber said as they strolled past the communications center and headed up toward a thick stand of woods.
"I've gotten used to working on my own."
Barber smiled. "You are definitely not a Company man, then. We do everything — and I mean everything — by committee."
"Which is fine for some things."
"But not your thing."
Carter shrugged. What he had already seen of Barber, he liked. Depending upon what happened in this operation, he thought, he would talk to Hawk about offering the man a job with AXE.
"This morning, on the way in from Hongo, you said you had heard of me," Carter said. "Where?"
"Around."
"Could you be a bit more specific, Tom?"
Barber looked at him, a new expression in his eyes. "You don't especially care for people hearing about you, do you."
"Not especially."
Barber nodded. "My boss mentioned your name. He said you were one of the best field men in the trade… our side or theirs. I had heard your name mentioned about three years ago during an operation in Libya. And that's it."
Carter sighed. There was no such thing as an airtight cover. Not for him, not for anyone else. Still, when your life depended upon anonymity, it rankled a little to hear that you had a reputation — good or bad.
"You don't think we have much of a chance, do you," Barber said.
"Forester is all right, but we're going to have to take care of him. And Hansen has a chip on his shoulder."
"He's a good man, though."
"I'll tell you what, Tom. I want to conduct a little search-and-seize training mission tonight. If Hansen should get hurt — say, break an arm or dislocate a shoulder — would you scrap the mission?"
"You're planning on bending him a bit?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
Carter stopped walking. "Listen to me, Tom. If we all go across together, our lives will hinge on the weakest link in the team. And when it gets right down to it, which it probably will, each of us might have to depend not only on the other man's expertise, but on his goodwill as well."
"I see what you mean," Barber said. "But you're not going to build any goodwill with Hansen if you damage him."
"Maybe respect."
Barber laughed. "Excuse me, Nick, if I don't exactly roll over and play dead. I really don't know who you work for — State Department or what — but give us a break. We're on the same side, you know."
They started walking again. For a few minutes Carter stayed with his own thoughts. He couldn't begin to count in his mind the number of men and women who were on the same side, as Barber put it, who were dead nevertheless because they simply didn't know what the hell they were doing. Because they had tried to play games in the real world after having learned the rules out of a book.
Carter stopped walking again and turned to Barber. "Would you trust Hansen and Forester with your life, Tom?"
Barber started to nod.
"No matter the circumstances?"
This time Barber hesitated.
"No matter how tough it got?"
"I see what you mean, Nick," the CIA man said.
"I hope so, because I'm going to lean on Hansen tonight. If he folds, he's out."
"And if he doesn't?"
"We'll see."
Eight
Carter was the quarry. He had already lifted the computer chip, according to the scenario, and was trying to make his escape. Three of Svetlaya's best, however, were on this trail; they were so close, in fact, that he was going to have to double back and eliminate them before he could get away. It was up to them not only to protect themselves, but to eliminate him and recover the chip.
Tom Barber was the Soviet team leader; Hansen and Forester were his lieutenants. They all were armed with riot control rifles, loaded with rubber bullets.
"There will be no ground rules," Carter told them, "except that there will be no chivalry or honor. The objective is everything."
They were in the planning center greenhouse. Carter had strapped one of the heavy computer chip carrying cases on his back to further simulate the mission they would be facing soon.
"What if we hit the carrying case?" Barber asked.
"Good point, Tom. That would be half your mission. You'd still have to come after me. If that were to happen, though, I would have a surprise for you."
"Which is…?" Hansen asked.
Carter just grinned at him. "It wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?"