“So is Antovov getting Russia involved?”
“Antonov’s dead.”
“What?”
“Somebody killed him in the john at the restaurant where I met him that night.”
Cross took a second to respond. “What’s your take on that?”
“Petrevich. He had reason to be worried about Antonov.”
“And you got input from Antonov before he died?”
Warfield glanced at his watch and wished he had called Cross earlier. “Not enough. Antonov told me of this hunch he had, based on an observation he’d made. It seemed off the wall to me but I followed it up and that brings me to the present. I can’t prove this yet, but I know it’s fact: There’s a madman here, a Japanese, who paid to get Petrevich and the uranium to Japan. Then Petrevich and two technicians he imported from Russia built a nuclear bomb and modified a 747 to deliver it.”
“Oh my God! Do you hear what you’re saying, Cam?”
“This lunatic filed a flight plan to L.A. and he’s in the air right now flying a 747 with this bomb on board. Look, sir, I just left the hangar at Narita where the work was done. The 747 that was there is gone. Yoshida’s office says he’s on a training flight and everything looks routine to them, but I know it’s not. The last bit of evidence I need is confirmation from a hazmat squad that there’s radioactivity in the hangar where the modification of the 747 took place. They should be at the hangar by now. But you can’t afford to wait another minute to at least put something in gear, Mr. President.”
Cross groaned.
Warfield’s tone and volume had risen to a level not acceptable in conversation with the President of the United States and he tried to rein it in. “With all respect, sir, this man Yoshida’s the number two man at the Japanese Ministry of Transport. He’s a pilot. He has access to airplanes and airport facilities. Set up shop in a hangar here at Narita. This 747’s been undergoing modification in the hangar for a long time but it’s gone now. That’s the plane Yoshida is flying. He told his office he’s on a training flight. That’s what I would say if I’m doing what I think Yoshida’s doing.”
“How do you know the plane was undergoing modification?”
“There’s this pizza boy. He’s made regular deliveries to the Russians at the hangar for a while. He went there with me today.”
Cross was silent for a second. “You’re telling me all of this on the basis of some pizza boy’s story, Cam?”
Warfield’s frustration edged through again.
“Hell no. He’s one part of the story, sir. Look, this Yoshida, he’s a triple victim of Hiroshima. Father was a kamikaze pilot, mother died from radiation. Brother’s retarded because of the bomb and Yoshida sacrificed his own life to take care of him all these years. Today I went to Yoshida’s house and found the brother whose brain was fried at Hiroshima. He’s got a fresh bullet hole in his head. I’m sure his older brother, our man Yoshida, killed him, knowing he’s not going to be there to take care of him any more. And that’s because he’s going to kill himself today along with half of Los Angeles. It’s revenge he’s after, for what he sees as the price his family paid because of the United States. And you know today is August sixth.”
Out of frustration, Warfield jerked the phone booth door tighter. He hoped Cross’s silence meant he was yielding. “Mr. President, there’s not time to convey to you everything that has gone into my thinking but I’m saying you don’t have a choice here. You have got to act. I wish I’d called you sooner but I can’t redo that now. I’ll bet my life I’m right.”
Cross was silent for a long moment. “When’s he due in L.A., Cam?”
“Five a.m. L.A. time. Two hours from right now.”
“Give me the details.”
Warfield read off the 747’s identification and the other information on the flight plan.
“Listen, I’m going to wake up some people but I can’t do more until you tell me that hangar is radioactive. Anything else you can confirm will help. I may need some official word from Tokyo, as well. I’ll be standing by.”
After they hung up, Warfield sat in the phone booth for a moment and thought of the steps Cross would take. It was five-fifty-seven a.m. in Washington and he’d wake up his national security team. Plantar Scrubb chaired the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon. He’d have the military on alert in less than half an hour. Air Force F-15s would patrol the waters off the West Coast. Yoshida’s estimated time of arrival in Los Angeles would be confirmed. Otto Stern would notify State, Defense and others. Someone would call Paula in to take care of admin details. There was no time to lose. Yoshida’s ETA in Los Angeles was two hours and three minutes away. Sooner than that: They couldn’t wait until he was over the city to act.
Warfield understood the tight spot he’d put the president in. The national security apparatus and the military get a little out of sorts when they’re thrown a juicy bone and then denied the pleasure of gnawing on it, but that wasn’t the end of the world. Taking action on a false alarm based on a last-minute phone call from a retired army colonel playing unauthorized spy games in Tokyo would provide a lot of fodder to the press and Cross’s political opponents; that was a little more serious. There was zero chance it wouldn’t hit the newspapers and talk shows and trigger endless congressional investigations. Cross and his administration would be painted as inept, paranoid and trigger happy. But the worst scenario would be to fail to act in time on what turned out to be an actual threat that materialized into disaster. Those consequences were too horrible to imagine.
Komeito was on the phone in the booth across from Warfield with the door open. He caught Warfield’s eye and gave him a thumbs down, meaning he hadn’t reached the right authorities to check the hangar for radiation. Warfield couldn’t believe the delay. As he started to emerge from his booth he noticed four or five police officers walking toward the phones from the hotel entrance. Other officers fanned out across the main lobby.
Warfield crumpled to the phone booth floor. He couldn’t tell what was going on but he heard the officers yelling right outside his booth and Komeito trying to explain himself in Japanese. The police sounded demanding. Soon all the voices faded into the background. Warfield remained still. Less than a minute later several police officers returned and Warfield heard other phone booth doors opening and slamming shut. He didn’t breathe. There were ten or so of the cubicles but they checked only a few and left again. Had they missed him? Did they leave this time?
He lay still for a full minute before rising to the small window to look out. No one was in sight, not even Komeito. Warfield weighed his options for a moment, which were of course limited by his inability to speak Japanese. He pulled out the Guido’s receipt he’d stuffed into his pocket when Aoki delivered Yoshida’s diary, dialed Guido’s number and asked for Aoki. He was prepared to try his luck with Norio if Aoki wasn’t there but that wasn’t necessary. Aoki answered.
“It’s Warfield, the American. I need your help. Very important. You willing?”
“Hai! Willing.”
“Can you clear it with Norio, be away for a while?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“Come to the Holiday Inn in the delivery car. I’ll watch for you. Make it quick!”
CHAPTER 15
Plantar Scrubb had seen his share of crises in the three years since he’d become chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and he always jotted a code in his daily journal when they first hit his desk. A letter C with a circle around it when he thought it would prove to be an actual crisis, and a T when he smelled political overreaction. While listening to the president explain this particular incident, Scrubb sketched the outline of a block letter T in the journal and shaded it in, which meant he expected he’d be able to keep his regular tee time at his golf club this afternoon. The last time he tallied the Cs and Ts he was batting.710, but that was just a game he played. He didn’t make Joint Chiefs chairman by pre-judging the smoke signals.