Komeito scanned the pages. “Boris Petrevich,” he yelled. “This is Petrevich’s notebook!” When he got to the third page, he shouted, “and Yoshida’s listed here, his phone number, too!”
“Got ’im!” Warfield said, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s get out of here!” He pocketed the notebook and hurried toward the car. Warfield told Aoki to take them back to the gate where TK was waiting. Aoki was confused by it all, but complied.
En route they saw several police cars, lights flashing, near the gate. It was hard to make out in the distance but it looked like they had surrounded a gray car. “Think it’s TK,” Komeito said.
“Find another way out of here but don’t attract any attention!” Warfield ordered.
Seconds later they reached the road that led back to the service gate where they entered but Aoki turned left, away from the gate, and followed the access road around a hangar where the tarmac resumed, and to another gate half a mile from the first one but on the same street. There were no police cars. Warfield hid himself on the floor again. The security guard remained sitting in the kiosk and waved Aoki through.
Aoki turned left onto the street, away from the first gate. Warfield told him to drive to the nearest hotel.
Several blocks later Aoki wheeled into a high-rise Holiday Inn and stopped. Warfield put his hand on Aoki’s shoulder and told him not to worry. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
As Warfield jumped out and ran toward the hotel, Aoki turned to Komeito for reassurance.
“What you have done is for good,” Komeito said. “The police don’t know the good actors from the bad ones in this case yet, but they will. And you will understand very soon also.”
Komeito caught up with Warfield as he entered a side door of the hotel. Warfield told Komeito to call the number in Petrevich’s notebook for Yoshida. “See what you can find out about him.” Warfield looked at his watch. It was exactly six p.m. Saturday evening in Tokyo. In Washington, five o’clock Saturday morning, where it was already August sixth!
Komeito knew chances were slim anyone would answer if the number in Petrevich’s notebook was to Yoshida’s office, even though Saturday was a workday for many Japanese. The number rang for a long time and he was about to hang up when a woman answered in Japanese. “Vice-Minister’s Office!” She was abrupt, and sounded angry.
“This Fumio Yoshida’s number?”
“You know it is Vice-Minister Yoshida’s office! And I know you are another reporter calling about his brother. Please do not call back. Good-bye.”
So they had found the body. “No, wait! This is police.”
“Police! Again?”
“Yes. I am Captain Iwamoto,” Komeito said. “In charge of the investigation into Jotaro Yoshida’s death. Any of my officers still there?”
“Two were here. That is why I am still here. They left a minute ago.”
“We’re having radio problems. Haven’t talked with them since they left you. Mind repeating what you told them?”
“I told them the vice-minister cannot be reached at this time. They were rude, so I did not tell them that he is on a training flight. They asked questions that were none of their business.”
It was an opportunity made for the moment and Komeito seized it. “Please tell me your name, keishu.”
“Mrs. Nakamura.” Being called a lady seemed to calm her down.
“I am very sorry for their unforgivable rudeness, Mrs. Nakamura. I will speak with them, and I will see to it they apologize to you.”
“You are a jentoruman. How can I help you?”
“Did you say the vice-minister is on a training flight?”
“Mr. Yoshida is responsible for pilot training standards and certification. Indirectly, I mean. He is a pilot and flies often, but his responsibilities include much more than that now.”
“What is he flying?”
“Not sure. A Ministry plane.”
“Why can’t he be reached by radio?”
“We’re trying now. For some reason he isn’t responding. Couldn’t have gone at a worse time. We are very upset about his brother. Have you found the two men who did it?”
She knew it was two men, so it had to be Mrs. Tanaka, the old lady next door to the Yoshida’s, who called the police. He knew she would. “No, but we will get to the bottom of it soon.”
“Minister Yoshida’s brother was affected. The bomb, you know. He cared for him all these years. I feel very sorry for both of them,” she said.
Komeito gave it a respectful moment before going on. She was close to the edge. “You didn’t say where he is flying to on this training flight.”
“Oh, to Los Angeles, in America. You can check with air traffic control for details. He always files a flight plan. Vice-Minister Yoshida is very particular about things like that.”
“I was wondering if you would call air traffic control and ask for his flight plan, Mrs. Nakamura. You must know some people over there.”
“Sure, Captain. We work with them all the time.”
“I’ll call you back. Five minutes long enough?”
“I think so.”
“Oh…, Mrs. Nakamura, please do not discuss this matter with anyone but me for the time being. If anyone asks, you should say you have spoken with several police officers about it. It will not be necessary to mention our conversation.”
She was silent for a moment. “You are keeping secrets from your officers?”
“Uh, not at all. It’s just that you would have no way of knowing who you are speaking with on the phone. It could be the reporters falsely identifying themselves in order to get information from you.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Glad you reminded me.”
When Komeito called Mrs. Nakamura back she had all the flight plan details. He wrote them down and thanked her.
Komeito told Warfield everything Mrs. Nakamura had told him about Yoshida. His position at the Ministry of Transport, her job as his assistant. “He’s in the air now and guess where he’s going.”
The hair on Warfield’s arms stood on end when Komeito told him.
Komeito handed him the notes he’d made when talking with Mrs. Nakamura, including the flight plan. “He expects to be there at five a.m. Los Angeles time. Logged it as a training flight.”
Warfield did the time conversion. Yoshida’s Los Angeles ETA was less than three hours away. He barked instructions to Komeito to use his connections in Tokyo to get the Japanese authorities to Hangar 23 to look for nuclear traces. “Now, Komeito!”
Warfield had to call Cross but needed more information if he was going to convince him to act. He remembered the file Komeito checked at Yoshida’s house and asked him about it. The Jotaro file.
Komeito thought for a moment. “Uh-oh. Left in Aoki’s car.”
“Did you read it, Komeito?”
“First page. Looks like a diary.”
The file might give Warfield what he needed to sell Cross, but time was short. “Call Guido’s and speak with Norio. Get him to bring it here ASAP.”
“ASAP?”
“Means now, Komeito. In a pizza box to Rolf Geering at the concierge desk.”