Jefferson warily shifted partway around, pistol still leveled on Scott and Tokugawa, and saw the blue-suited Ojima standing in the hallway behind Fumiko, an arm lashed around her neck. He had a Sig Saur pressed to her head. Scott saw an ugly purple bruise on her cheek, which, he thought, made her look totally helpless. Repelled yet hypnotized by the sight of Ito, she croaked something unintelligible, which Ojima choked off.
“How quickly the tables turn,” Tokugawa said triumphantly. “Put down your weapon.”
Jefferson hesitated, the silenced automatic rock-steady in his fist.
“Do as I say!” Tokugawa barked, “or Ojima will kill her.” The old man’s veneer of civility had suddenly cracked.
Scott saw a twitch of resistance building in Jefferson’s stance — strained muscles, clenched jaw, tightened finger on the trigger. Scott chanced a move toward him with both palms up. Jefferson’s eyes flicked from Scott to Tokugawa to Ojima and Fumiko. “Put it down, McCoy,” Scott ordered. “He’ll kill her.”
Jefferson’s eyes flared like hot coals.
“Remember what you said, that it takes a shooter to lead a shooter?” Scott said. “Well, I’m the shooter. You owe me, and I’m calling it in. Now.”
At length Jefferson nodded, slowly stooped, and laid the pistol on the floor.
Tokugawa gave it a nudge with his geta, out of reach. “If you were dispatched to take Commander Scott into custody before he was arrested, you arrived too late. Now you are trapped. I could have all of you killed if I wanted to, and no one in Tokyo would ask any questions.”
Fumiko’s fingers clawed at Ojima’s arm around her throat. “They’ll ask plenty of questions after they trace those nuclear weapons to you and after they find out you murdered Higashi—”
Ojima cut her off with a brutal choke hold that snapped her head back.
“Ms. Kida seems to have made several incorrect assumptions,” Tokugawa said, pivoting toward Scott, his eyes narrowed to mere slits.
“Actually, she has most of it right,” Scott said, his gaze planted on her bruised face. “As you discovered, she’s a brilliant analyst. Also tough.”
“And you, Commander Scott, they tell me are a commander of submarines, that your record, too, is brilliant yet blemished by your nonconformist attitudes, that your exploits at sea are nothing short of mythical. But here you are, out of your element. Why? Why would your superiors send a submarine commander to do what a thug like Mr. McCoy can do?”
“It’s Jefferson, McCoy Jefferson,” said Scott. “I told you, I’m acting on my own.”
“So you said, but that’s not an answer. I was amused by Ms. Kida’s wild theories about nuclear weapons being smuggled into the U.S. by terrorists. Do you accept her theories?”
“She didn’t tell me everything she knows.”
“Ms. Kida thinks the North Koreans are capable of delivering such weapons by ship. What do you think?”
“Probably they can,” Scott said. “But North Korean ships are sometimes interdicted by the U.S. Navy. Seems to me they’d be pretty dumb to try it.”
“Yes, your Navy patrols Asian waters and tracks certain vessels. The North Koreans are not fools.”
“On the other hand, Meji Holdings has a fleet of ships that circle the globe. The weapons could be loaded in a container aboard one of your ships. You’ve got the motive and the means. The U.S. Navy is hardly going to board and inspect every merchant vessel you own.”
“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Jefferson snapped.
“Didn’t Radford tell you?” Scott said.
“Tell me what, for Christ’s sake? He said you and the woman had broken into JDIH security files, that you were wanted by the Japanese, and that we had to get you out before a shit storm hit D.C. He sure as hell didn’t say anything about smuggled nukes.”
“I’ll spell it out. Tokugawa and Jin are going to launch a terrorist nuclear attack on the U.S. That’s right — you’re looking at the mystery man from Matsu Shan. Fumiko and I were out to prove his involvement with Jin. His people killed an innocent man — ran him down with a car — then almost killed us but instead snatched Fumiko. Then he sent one of his people to kill me at the hotel.”
“I was there, saw them take someone away that you’d shot,” Jefferson said. “That was Tokugawa’s man?”
“Now you know.”
“Everything you have said are lies fabricated by the U.S. to justify a preemptive attack on North Korea,” Tokugawa said sharply. “America has a reputation for concocting doomsday tales to justify its imperialist aims.”
As he stared at Tokugawa, Jefferson’s incredulity slowly turned to anger. His right hand, extended like a weapon, slowly rose. “You’re fucking insane, mister!”
“McCoy, don’t do it…” Scott grabbed Jefferson’s wrist.
Tokugawa’s hand was a blur. A ceremonial dagger appeared from inside the folds of his kimono. He thrust the dagger’s needlelike point against Jefferson’s belly, piercing his cammies, pricking flesh. Jefferson froze, his face inches from Tokugawa’s, Scott’s iron grip locked around his wrist.
They stood pinioned, motionless, until they heard the faint whock-whock-whocking of an approaching helicopter.
Tokugawa stepped away from Jefferson, but with the dagger still pointed at his belly. “The security forces have arrived,” he said, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
The clatter of the helo’s rotors and thunder of its turboshaft engine grew louder, until the villa itself began to vibrate. Ojima looked up, as if expecting any second to hear armed men rappelling down lines, landing on the roof.
Scott forced himself to think clearly, to gauge distances, timing, and, above all, the odds. Time had run out and there was only one avenue left. He ached to move, now, like lightning, but he feared that anything he did would only get Fumiko killed.
Suddenly the mini-talker in Jefferson’s cammie shirt pocket chirped. A muffled voice said, “Tango One, I’m on your beacon — stand by.”
Tokugawa, looking stunned, grasped what was happening: A Navy Seahawk helicopter was swinging in over the villa, its pilot homing in on the signal from the mini-transponder that Jefferson had activated before going over the wall.
“Tango One, I need a final — copy?” crackled over the mini-talker.
Jefferson looked helplessly at Scott: If he didn’t reply to the pilot’s query, he’d abort.
“Tango One — copy?” said the pilot.
Ojima, his body pressed against Fumiko’s, jammed the Sig against her right temple, shoving her head against her left shoulder. She fought Ojima’s biting grip and shouted over the helo’s racket, “Jake, he knows about the nukes… a ship… it’s the only way—”
“Kill her!” Tokugawa roared.
Fumiko, a blur of motion, delivered a crippling blow with her right elbow to Ojima’s rib cage. At the same instant Scott launched himself at Tokugawa with a lowered shoulder that lifted the old man off his feet onto his back.
Ojima, shocked, paralyzed with pain, backpedaled into a display case, which toppled over and shattered on the floor, shards of glass and ceramic art pinwheeling everywhere. The Sig in his fist exploded twice: one round went wild, the other pierced a glass curtain wall. Before Ojima could fire again, Fumiko took him down with a kick to his groin and a hand-chop delivered between his neck and shoulder, which shattered the collarbone and left him screaming in agony. The Sig skittered away across the floor; she moved like lightning to scoop it up.
“Tango One — aborting—”
Jefferson tore the mini-talker out of his pocket and bellowed, “Tango Two we copy! We copy! Hang in there, buddy! We’re on our way!”