Tokugawa remembered the sorrowful eyes of his grandfather and grandmother, who had survived the war and with whom, at age twelve, Tokugawa had been sent to live. He remembered how day after day they’d drummed into him like a mantra: “You are Japanese. Be brave. Be proud!” He remembered that his father had joined them upon his return from wartime duty at Unit 731 in Manchuria. He’d been thin, haggard, and still in shock over the deaths of his wife and two older children in Nagasaki, and over Japan’s defeat and his personal failure to prevent it.
And Tokugawa remembered the tall American MPs in their white helmets and leggings, and two army officers who had pulled up in front of the grandparents’ house to arrest his father.
There had been talk that the Allies intended to prosecute Japanese army officers accused of committing war crimes. General MacArthur had published a list of those slated for arrest and trial, and Shigeru Tokugawa’s name had appeared on the list of Class A criminals. One day the boy had heard his father say, “I won’t be judged before a conquerors’ court.” His grandfather had used a word Iseda had not been familiar with: koshukei. He’d looked it up in a dictionary and learned that it meant “to be hanged to death.”
The Americans had waited while Shigeru Tokugawa had gathered a few personal things from his bedroom for the trip to Sugamo Prison, renamed, as they all knew, U.S. Army XI Corps Stockade No. 1. Iseda, huddled with his grandmother, had watched the humiliating event unfold, not fully understanding what he was witnessing or why. After all, wasn’t his father a patriot, a warrior who’d tried to save his country from destruction by America? And now the American soldiers had arrived to take him away.
He remembered the commotion that had broken out, the officers and MPs shouting and crashing into his father’s bedroom. His grandfather had tried to intervene but had been clubbed by the MPs. The boy had bolted from his grandmother’s side to help his grandfather and had pushed into the bedroom, where the MPs had been working over his father. He remembered seeing his father’s crimson-soaked shirt and, on the floor at his side, in a spreading crimson pool, the gleaming ceremonial dagger he’d used to slice open his belly. He’d seen his father’s face horribly distorted by pain and the American officer standing over him, a look of open contempt on his white face.
Tokugawa remembered what happened next. The officer had looked down at the dying man and, knowing that the son had been watching, reared back and kicked the father in the head with the toe of his combat boot.
Tokugawa needed a moment to recompose before he could speak to Marshal Jin. “You said that you have arranged transportation of the fissionable material from North Korea to Russia, through the port of Najin. Can American reconnaissance satellites detect this activity?”
“As you know, we deliberately allowed them to see us break the seals on the weapons storage site in the Kangnam Mountains. We want the Americans to know we are serious about defending our homeland. We trucked the material to our missile launching site at Humhung, but under cover so the Americans wouldn’t see it. In due time we will reveal to them where it is. Meanwhile we’ve prepared a separate shipment for delivery by rail to Najin. It will pass inspection from satellites as nothing more than construction materials bound for Vladivostok. It will be trucked from Najin over the new highway the Russians have built, for pickup on the Russian side of the border by the two scientists posing as construction engineers from Vladivostok. The Americans, distracted by the discovery of warheads at Humhung, will not be looking for warheads in Najin. To complete our task requires that you give approval, through protected channels, for the scientists at your facility in Vladivostok to meet the shipment.”
“And your contacts in the Philippines, Marshal? They understand the logistics, the process of conversion, the techniques involved?”
“Yes. The brigade in Mindanao is well trained and well financed. As soon as the shipment arrives, they will commence operations. Every link in the chain has been forged.”
“Including the submarine?”
Jin offered to pour more brandy for Tokugawa, but he declined with a hand placed over the snifter. Jin took his own, lit another coarse Russian cigarette off the butt of the one he had just finished, then, eyes squinting and tearing from smoke, said, “The Red Shark.”
“Which may be the weakest link.”
“Dear friend, you have so little faith in North Korean technology?” Jin said good-naturedly.
“It’s an unproved technology, you said so yourself. One that may potentially hazard the entire enterprise. To put weapons on board this… this new craft of yours and transport them safely from Nam’po to Mindanao is very risky. Transporting them via freighter, one of the new ones you purchased from China, would guarantee their delivery.”
Jin frowned. “The Americans have stopped and boarded our ships on the high seas. It’s illegal, but they do it because they are a law unto themselves. Who can stop them? We can’t and neither can the United Nations, which is an American puppet.”
“The Americans don’t stop and search all of your ships.”
“True, but I’m not willing to gamble on which one they might stop. Even Chinese ships are harassed by the American navy. No, the only way we can ship the weapons to the Philippine attack brigades is by submarine.”
Jin’s smoke hung in the air for a moment before being whisked away by the breeze. He saw that Tokugawa was still skeptical and said, “The Red Shark was constructed using the latest German submarine technologies. She is more than a match for anything that the United States Navy has at sea, including their new Virginia-class submarines. She has an air-independent propulsion — AIP — system and, I am told, is so quiet she cannot be found by even the most sophisticated sonar systems. In addition, she—”
Tokugawa waved this away. “Yes, yes, I’m familiar with these hijacked German technologies. But you fail to understand my point, which is that we risk everything by relying on this Red Shark to make delivery.”
“Are we not also risking everything on your scientists in Vladivostok; on the brigades in the Philippines; on the goodwill of the Japanese people toward the Koreans; and even on our personal relationship. Everything we have planned so far involves risk. If we are afraid to take risks, our plan will fail.”
“Of course we must take risks!” Tokugawa snapped. “I’ve taken risks all my life. But I never take risks backed by promises or dreams. That road leads to failure.”
General Jin bowed low. “My apologies, Tokugawa-san. I would not presume to suggest that your judgment in this matter could be influenced by the weakness that derives from sentiment or illusion. I had hoped that the trust I had demonstrated in the Red Shark would be sufficient to convince you that there is nothing to fear, that she will perform as promised. I am willing to stake my future and the future of the DPRK on this vessel.”
Mollified, Tokugawa sniffed. “If you believe that we must utilize this submarine of yours, then I accept it. You have been a man of your word, so I have no reason to doubt you now. I leave it in your hands.”
Downstairs in a locked pantry in the villa’s busy kitchen, Wu Chow Fat’s secret audio and video recording equipment kept running as Tokugawa and Jin raised a toast to the Red Shark.
13
Scott eased back the slide on a Sig Saur P220 pistol and confirmed a 9mm round was chambered. He dropped the magazine in his palm and saw sixteen gleaming brass cartridge cases through the magazine’s witness holes. Satisfied, he slapped the magazine home; the sharp clack got Jefferson’s attention.