“If you have a message for him, write it down. I do not think it will be very healthy for you, so please do that.”
“Note could get lost. I’ll wait here for awhile and see if he comes in.”
Tex erupted. “You don’t understand, gaijin. Bar is closed!” Tex palmed a knife he used behind the bar. When he reached with his free hand to pick up Warfield’s money, Warfield grabbed his arm with both hands and jerked him over the bar in a single motion. His hat and the knife flew free when Tex hit the floor. Warfield grabbed the knife and plunged it through the bartender’s hand, pinning it to the wood floor. It was over in three seconds.
Tex’s scream could have been heard back in the Moscow East where he may have had allies. Komeito stood guard at the connecting door while Warfield sat astraddle of Tex, his hand on his throat, as Tex answered his questions before passing out.
TK was waiting with the engine running. Warfield ordered him to drive to his hotel, and told Komeito Tex’s pained revelations as they rode: Snake-eyes — Ivan was his name — comes there on some Saturday nights. Tex heard him say he followed his boss to the Tomodachi Sento one evening and that he threatened to nuke the bath house, as Romi had said. He also said Snake-eyes shoots off his mouth all the time and Tex never knew when he was serious. Then there was something about pizza.
He turned to Komeito. “Know about Guido’s Pizza?”
“Hai. Guido’s. All over city.”
“Snake-eyes orders pizza brought to the Texas Saloon when he’s there.”
When they got back to the hotel vicinity, by then four hours after Antonov’s murder, police cars and other emergency vehicles jammed the streets.
Komeito decided he should go to the police. He was known at the Izumi and it would look suspicious if he dropped out of sight. He could tell the truth and the police would not hold him since they knew and trusted him. He would say Warfield was a guest of Antonov’s who remained at the dinner table the entire evening, and left the Izumi at Komeito’s insistence in the interest of safety. If the police needed Warfield or him they would be available. Warfield agreed, and told Komeito to leave him a voicemail message when he left the police station.
Police officers and hotel staff stood together at each entrance to the East Island Winds. Warfield was asked to present identification and pulled out his Virginia driver’s license and magnetic room key. “What’s going on,” he asked, showing mild interest.
They told him there had been some sort of disturbance a few blocks away. It would not be a problem at the hotel. Warfield was cleared to enter and another hotel employee waiting nearby escorted him to his room while telling him of a murder at the Izumi Restaurant. He didn’t mention that the victim was a guest of the hotel.
Warfield packed his things in three minutes and took the elevator down. Security didn’t seem to be concerned with anyone leaving the hotel and he walked out a side door onto the street. He glanced through the glass front and saw a police officer eyeing him. He was talking with the desk clerk and pointed in the direction of the door Warfield had used. Warfield picked up his pace and blended into the crowd.
He caught a cab to the Orient Pacifica Hotel miles away in an old section of the city and checked in under the alias Rolf Geering with a Zurich address. His credentials for the alias would pass if anyone became suspicious and investigated. He let himself into his room, which was a couple of stars below the one he checked out of, and once again reviewed everything leading up to Tokyo, all details of the evening, and what he’d gleaned from Antonov and Komeito. Petrevich had crossed the border into Iraq with bomb-grade uranium, which he already knew. Antonov saw Petrevich at the Russian club and believed two of his technicians from Arzamas-16 had joined him in Tokyo. There was Romi’s report of the drunk Russian, Ivan, who goes to the Texas Saloon on Saturday nights and likes Guido’s Pizza. Antonov’s travel bag contained a photo of Petrevich, a note pad bearing the perplexing notation 8.6 and a telephone number (which he tried, but there was no answer.) There was reason to believe the retarded man at the Tomodachi was a victim of radiation. Probably Petrevich or someone connected with him had slashed Antonov’s throat.
Warfield flipped on the TV and found an English-language local newscast. There was a short piece on a murder at the Izumi Restaurant, and interviews with the restaurant manager and their waiter. The victim’s name had not been released but there were reports he was a high-ranking Russian official. Police knew little, they said. Reporters mentioned that a Takao Komeito may have been with the victim before he was murdered. Another man, a Westerner, was with him also. Police were looking for both.
Warfield had to avoid being picked up by the police if he was to have any hope of finding Petrevich.
It was four-thirty a.m. when he turned in. There was time for a couple hours of sleep and then he would call the telephone number found in Antonov’s bag.
“Good morning. R-E-R-F.”
“Mind telling me who I’ve reached?”
“R-E-R-F, sir,” said a cheerful Japanese voice speaking English.
“Which means…?”
“This is the Hiroshima lab of Radiation Effects Research Foundation.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Dr. Anderson.”
“Connect me to Anderson.”
A pause. “Dr. Anderson is not available. I can connect you with—”
“Tell Dr. Anderson Rolf Geering is on the phone?”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Say I’m from Washington. Official business.”
“Please hold.”
Half a minute later John Anderson got on the line and introduced himself. “Namiko tells me you’re calling from Washington?”
“Rolf Geering, John. I work out of the White House but I’m in Tokyo this morning. I can use your help.”
“About?”
“National security.”
Anderson laughed. “Well, that’s broad enough, but there are not many secrets here. About anything I can tell you is available to anyone for the asking. That is, when we have the time to pull it up. For you, I’ll find the time. But for the record, I suppose the White House will vouch for you.”
“Yep. Call there and ask for the president.”
“Uh huh. I’ll just wait and ask him tonight. He and the First Lady are coming over for dinner.”
Warfield laughed.
“What can I do for you?”
“For starters, what is RERF?”
Anderson gave him the Cliff Notes version. The Radiation Effects Research Foundation was funded by Japan and the U.S. to study the effects of radiation released by the atomic bombs the Americans dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It was staffed by scientists from both countries. There was the Hiroshima center, where Anderson was located, and another in Nagasaki. Anderson managed more than forty scientists and their support staff. “What we do is research — primarily a continuing study of the effects of radiation on people who survived the bombs. Now what is it you need?”
“Not sure. Found your phone number in a dead man’s hotel room here in Tokyo.”
“Really!”
“There’s no name with the number.”
“So you want to find out if there’s any connection between the victim and RERF.”
“Right. Name’s Antonov. Aleksei Antonov. Russian General, retired. Sound familiar?”
“No, but hold on. I’ll get someone to check it out.” Anderson put Warfield on hold and returned seconds later.
“Okay, what else?” Anderson asked.
“I spent the evening with Antonov before he was killed. He said something about retardation in fetuses. Radiation related. Tell me about that.”