Warfield stood out of view and watched as Aoki dropped off the box less than ten minutes later. He’d told the concierge to expect it and gave her cash for the driver. She was all smiles when Warfield retrieved the box. He stuffed the Guido’s delivery form into his pocket and hurried back to the telephone lobby, where Komeito was trying to reach the hazmat authorities, and took out the Jotaro file. “Translate this, Komeito, quickly!”
Warfield listened impatiently as Komeito read excerpts aloud, yet he needed every nuance of Yoshida’s thoughts if he was going to move Cross. Fumio Yoshida had started the file diary-style when he was nine, recording his musings about his family’s devastation. It included his earliest awareness something was wrong with Jotaro and identified the beginnings of Fumio’s hatred for the Americans who caused it.
His desire to get revenge showed up when he was twelve, and he had thought out the framework for a plan before he was twenty. He drove the first stake in the ground by taking a job with the Ministry of Transport. Entry after entry in the diary of RERF’s periodic evaluations of Jotaro’s progress, or lack thereof, revealed Fumio’s growing despair. His frustration and hatred grew unchecked.
Komeito read Yoshida’s last entry, dated two years ago: “The Emperor in surrender (to the Americans at the end of World War II) did not speak for Fumio and Jotaro Yoshida, to whom the only acceptable alternative to victory is a fight to death. The instruments are now in place to achieve a modicum of justice for Jotaro and for other Japanese lives destroyed by the Americans.”
Warfield was certain what was coming down and knew it was time to contact the president. But Cross hadn’t seen what he had seen, been where he’d been these last few days and wouldn’t buy it without a fight. The average wild-eyed conspiracy theorist would have more convincing evidence about his latest wacko extrapolation than Warfield had about Yoshida, and how many of those kooks even got beyond the three a.m. radio shows? To act on Warfield’s combination of circumstances and facts, the president would have to immediately commit to a course of action that had serious or even irreversible consequences no matter whether Warfield was right or wrong.
If Warfield had a best, it was during a crisis. All his systems responded well. His pulse was steady, his thoughts clear. He had an ability to convince others with logic and reason. All these would be on the line now as he attempted to convince the President of the United States to take action on this. Time was again the enemy. Warfield went into a phone cubicle in the lobby wing and closed the door, which had a small rectangular slit for a window. At least there was privacy. He sat down and dialed the access number Cross gave him. It seemed so long ago.
“State your name and I.D. code,” a live voice said seconds later.
“Cameron Warfield,” he said, and gave him the code Cross had written for him.
The voice told Warfield to hold and as he waited he thought for the first time how he would put it to Cross. That there was a madman in the air who was going to drop a nuclear bomb on the United States in two hours and so many minutes? How many disaster movies had done that? But he had to somehow convince the president this was real, that a Japanese madman had arranged for nukes and for someone to make them into a deliverable atomic bomb — remember Habur, Mr. President? — and that this man who was crazed by the bitter fruits of World War II was at this moment flying that bomb over the Pacific toward Los Angeles. He was aiming for revenge, and would get it on this, the day that would be the most symbolic for him: The anniversary of the first wartime nuke; the day Japan had realized raw defeat and humiliation at the hand of the United States. The day Jotaro’s, their mother’s and his fates were sealed. Oh, don’t discount the role of the Russian, Petrevich; he’s the crucial tool of the mastermind behind the plan and maybe it couldn’t have been done without him, but the day would go to the creator of it all who had suffered in mind and body and soul every day, every minute, for more than half a century. Who had neither forgiven nor forgotten nor moved beyond. Who self-generated the fuel necessary for hate to survive for so long. Who allowed himself to become a perpetual victim until he was no less evil than the evil he imagined had destroyed his life.
The voice was back on the line. “Connecting you with the president, Mr. Warfield.”
A click, then, “Cam! Is that you?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pr—”
“Forget that! Where th’ hell are you, anyway?” The president’s voice was clear and alert and gave no hint he had just been awakened.
“Tokyo. And as you can imagine, it’s an emergency.”
“I should hope so. Haven’t had a good crisis in hours.”
“Wish I could say you’ll like this one.” Warfield took a breath, searching his brain for the best place to begin. “Look, sir, this call is either too early or it’s too late. I take responsibility for that. But I’m holding a short fuse. Some of what I’m going tell you is speculation at this point, but it will prove out. I may have that proof at any moment.”
“You have my attention. Talk to me!”
“It relates to the Turkey-Iraq border incident that got me in trouble with Fullwood.”
“That Habur border gate, yeah.”
“Few days ago in Washington I received a message from an army general I know in Russia from Soviet days. He retired after the Soviet breakup and started working to keep nuke materials out of the wrong hands.”
“What’s his name?”
Cross, as the former CIA director, could have known of him. “Aleksei Antonov.”
“Nope.”
“Well, Antonov notified me he’d located the Russian I tracked from Russia and then lost at Habur, and invited me to meet him in Tokyo.”
“You didn’t notify anyone here?”
“I’ve second-guessed myself about that a few times in the last few days. But I’m a Washington outsider now, certainly with Fullwood and the FBI. And on short notice, this wouldn’t have been strong enough to arouse the NSC’s attention. Not until now, at least.”
“So where does it stand now that you’ve met this General Antonov?”
Warfield checked his watch. Precious seconds Cross would need later were slipping away but he was bringing the commander-in-chief up to date as fast as possible.
“The transfer of the uranium into Iraq was a red herring. The Russian smuggler, Petrevich, wanted us to think his destination was Iraq or somewhere in the Middle East. I fell for it, but he’s here in Tokyo, or was. I will know soon whether the uranium was with him. I’m betting it was.”
“Was, you say?”
“Yes, was. Let me give you the fast version. Time is critical and—”
“Go as fast as you want but I’m going to ask questions and I expect answers.” Cross was snappish.
“Okay, ask them.” Warfield’s impatience bled through as well.
“How did Antonov know the Russian was in Japan?”
“Former KGB agent tipped him, said they suspected him before it happened but didn’t pursue it, I think because of the turmoil they were in after the Cold War.”
“Go on.”
“So I met Antonov here in Tokyo two nights ago. He said Russia acknowledged a little late that uranium was missing from Arzamas-16, where Petrevich worked.”
“Arzamas-16!” Cross was knowledgeable about the old Soviet nuclear center. “How much was missing?”
“More than we used on Hiroshima.”
“You’re certain Petrevich is in Tokyo?”
“General Antonov saw him at a Russian hangout here in Tokyo. And Petrevich saw Antonov. That’s when Antonov contacted me. He knew from our history together that I was interested in this case.”