Petrevich gave himself a pat on the back for not exploding all over Yoshida. His comrade outburst was the straw that almost pushed him over the edge. Once he had the rest of the money Yoshida owed him maybe he’d let his impulses loose, but until then he would manage to control both himself and Ivan.
A far more worrisome problem to Petrevich was Aleksei Antonov, the Russian general he’d spotted at the Moscow East Social Club. He figured Antonov saw him too but he’d lied to Yoshida about it. Petrevich always knew that sooner or later someone would come. He could take no chances now. Antonov had to be dealt with.
Petrevich summoned the two Russians to his office. “No more trips to the Moscow East. Understand? We are almost finished here, anyway. And you, Ivan, if there is any more trouble, I will wrap you up in more chains than you can swim with and throw you in the ocean! Clear?” He was standing toe-to-toe with Ivan, venting his built-up rage when he noticed the Guido’s Pizza boxes that scattered when Yoshida kicked the trash can. “And keep your trash out of my office.”
That evening Petrevich left his makeshift living quarters at Hangar 23 without telling his men where he was going. Wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, he sat at a corner table in deep discussion with another Russian at the Moscow East for an hour. He returned to Hangar 23 after midnight.
CHAPTER 13
The sun reflecting off the shimmering blue waters of the north Pacific woke Warfield. The captain announced the plane would be on the ground at Tokyo’s Narita Airport in thirty minutes. After sixteen hours on the plane, Warfield was anxious to get out and stretch. Better yet, he’d go for a run if there were time.
He asked a flight attendant for something with caffeine and pulled both of General Antonov’s e-mail messages up on his iPhone. In the first one, Antonov notified him he had new intelligence about their “common interest” and said he would contact him again when he had more information. That message was dated two days before Warfield left Washington to visit Macc in Arizona and he had missed it.
Now it was impossible to think of that trip without a flash of the reason he went. He had fixed everything that could be fixed. His condo mortgage was now in good standing again and he’d paid the other bills for which he’d been irresponsible. He drove to Ticcio’s, owned up to the damage in the men’s room and wrote Ticcio a check for double the repair cost even though Ticcio told him to forget it. And Fleming. Why had she even tolerated him? He’d ignored the lifelines she threw out to him, like everything else. On the evening of his return from Arizona they talked about the darkest episode of his life. He groped around for explanations — as much for himself as for Fleming — and Fleming told him the guy he was trying to explain was passing through and wouldn’t be returning. “So don’t look back any more,” she said. He had felt tears on her cheek that night as they made love for the first time in months.
The next day after that he couldn’t wait to start putting his condo back in shape. Fleming had cleaned the place and he spent his time finally unpacking the Lone Elm boxes and setting up his office. When he got around to checking his e-mail that day he found the two messages from General Antonov. The general said in the second one that he was in Tokyo and Warfield should join him there if he was interested.
If he was interested? Antonov knew something about this Russian who was a threat to humanity and who on a professional level had impacted Warfield’s life. Catching up with this man was almost as important to Warfield as life itself.
As the plane began its final approach to Narita, Warfield reflected on the smaller and simpler American plane that flew over Japan some seventy years ago and introduced weapons of mass destruction to the world. He saluted the Japanese for overcoming the disastrous effects of World War II by way of intelligent economic policies and assistance from the United States. Now, Japan, an island smaller than California but with as much as half the population of the U.S., was a top-tier economic engine and America’s solid ally in that part of the world.
Warfield had e-mailed Antonov his flight schedule and once inside the terminal he heard someone speak his name. The man in his late thirties introduced himself as Takao Komeito and said Antonov sent him. They weaved their way through the crowded concourse to a waiting limousine outside the terminal and after Komeito gave the driver instructions in Japanese, he turned to Warfield. “General Antonov speaks very well of you, Colonel Warfield.”
“He’ll get to know me better,” Warfield said, wondering if an attempt at humor was appropriate.
Komeito stared at him. “Better hope not, Colonel.”
“How so?”
“General doesn’t like? He kill.” Komeito kept a straight face for a second before breaking up. Warfield knew he could like the guy.
“You work with General Antonov?” Warfield asked.
“I worked for him when he traveled here on military business before he retired. I am employed at the Russian Embassy here. Unimportant job. Easy for me to take leave while general is in Tokyo.”
Warfield nodded and asked the dapper Komeito, “So Antonov still receives official treatment?”
“Embassy is most hospitable to General Antonov even now. Highly respected.”
“Where is he?”
“He is busy. If you please, you will check into hotel now and meet with General Antonov for dinner. I will be assisting you both, if okay with you.”
Warfield nodded and asked Komeito how he would like to be addressed.
“Komeito. Call me Komeito.”
Warfield liked the way Komeito handled himself. Confident but unpretentious. He doubted if Komeito was as unimportant as he painted himself.
The hotel’s name, East Island Winds, meant nothing to Warfield but its lobby was as grand as any Ritz-Carlton he’d seen. Komeito registered for Warfield and stayed by his side until he was in his room and Komeito was satisfied it met his satisfaction. Some of the staff seemed to know Komeito, and Warfield wondered if he was receiving V.I.P. treatment because of him, or maybe Antonov, or if it was hospitality typical of a fine Japanese hotel. “General Antonov wishes for you to meet him in Izumi Restaurant for dinner at seven this evening. May I say you will join him?”
Komeito said the restaurant was four blocks from the hotel and offered to pick him up but Warfield opted to walk.
After Komeito left, Warfield dressed in shorts and tee-shirt and went for a run, committing landmarks to memory at every turn. He saw no one else running in the streets and soon understood why. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic was dense, presenting an obstacle course. He ran twenty minutes out and turned back.
Warfield recognized Antonov standing in the bar. He hadn’t changed much since they met years ago in Russia, although his leathery face reflected the hard Russian winters. Antonov was better than six-foot-three and looked even taller among the Japanese. Retirement agreed with him. Tan, fit looking, full head of graying hair. The Hawaiian shirt he wore under his blazer was anything but that of the stereotypical Russian military leader. Warfield was surprised when the general gathered him into a bear hug, then held him by his shoulders at arms’ length and sized him up as he might have looked at a son he hadn’t seen for a long time. The Russian would have gone unnoticed in any fancy restaurant in the U.S., his graying hair neatly trimmed and hanging softly at the top of his collar, shuttered eyes barely masking the harder days of the Cold War, neither a smile nor a frown on his face. A man, Warfield thought, who undoubtedly inspired trust and confidence in his leaders and followers from the past.