sure they were actually aboard one-four-five?”
“He’s gun-shy,” Carrara said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan asked.
“It means that everytime he spots our people hanging around we come to him with one of our dirty little insoluble problems. And each time he agrees to help, it nearly costs him his life. He wanted to find out what was going on. In his mind our people being there was the coincidence.”
“What do the Swiss authorities say?” Danielle asked.
“They haven’t replied to our query about Miss Fredricks, except to confirm that she is a Federal Police officer.”
“On assignment to Paris?”
“Unknown at this point,” Carrara said.
“Which brings us back to our original problem,” Murphy said. “DuVerlie’s fantastic story.”
“It would seem that he was telling the truth after all,” Danielle put in.
“Have the French identified the terrorist?”
“Not yet,” Carrara said. “But they’re working on it. He was carrying no identification.”
“What about the rocket he used to bring down the airliner?”
“One of ours, a Stinger. I just received the serial number of the launching device.
My people are checking it out, but I don’t think it’ll get us much. The Stinger is a fairly common item on the open market. But we might have another lead. Orly security found some kind of a walkie-talkie in the back of the van the terrorist used to get out to the end of the runway. Which means he may have been communicating with someone.”
“So?” Ryan asked. “We didn’t think this would turn out to be a one-man operation.”
“It may not be so simple,” Carrara said. “The French have invited us to take a look.
The walkie-talkie is evidently special, its signal not monitorable by normal means.
They weren’t clear on that point, probably because they didn’t have it figured out themselves. But there are no manufacturer’s labels or markings on the device. No way of determining its origin.”
“So they used a high-tech toy,” Danielle said. “The French are cooperating with us, that’s the main thing.”
“Another piece out of our French operations,” Ryan said. “We might as well take out a newspaper ad announcing our presence.”
“How about DuVerlie’s story?” Murphy asked, bringing them back on track. It was clear that he was not happy.
“Tom Lynch thinks he might be able to put an asset into ModTec within thirty days.
It’s possible that Leitner talked to someone else. Or DuVerlie might have said something.
He was nervous enough.”
“What about the Swiss authorities?” Ryan asked. It was his job to keep the Agency out of legal trouble, so far as that was possible. He was an expert on international law, and certified to practice before the International Court at The Hague.
“I suggest we keep them out of this for the moment,” Carrara said. “They would only slow us down.”
“We’re treading on dangerous ground here, General,” Ryan warned, turning again to Murphy.
“Until today I might have agreed with you,” Murphy replied. “But shooting down that airliner was no random act of terrorism, and I don’t think we need to discuss that possibility. Which means DuVerlie was telling us the truth … at least that part about their ruthlessness and apparent organization.”
“There weren’t many people who knew that DuVerlie was going to be aboard one-four-five,” Carrara said.
“No. Which means we’re dealing with professionals. Well disciplined, and well financed.
And when someone like that goes after a key component for a nuclear weapon, it makes me nervous. Extremely nervous.”
“Takes more than an electronic switch to make a bomb,” Danielle pointed out. “Even if they’ve already got the device, which we’re not sure about, they’ll need a sufficient quantity of fissionable material.”
“Eighty pounds of plutonium would be enough,” Doyle said, speaking for the first time. “Along with a component called an initiator, to get the chain reaction going once the critical mass was achieved.”
“Yes,” Murphy said. “But we’ll assume for the moment that if they’re after the switch, they’re after the rest.”
“I’ll give Lynch the go-ahead,” Carrara said.
“I want you directly involved with this, Phil. Tom Lynch is to have every resource available to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about McGarvey?” Ryan asked, his hate obvious.
“As soon as the French are through with him, bring him here to Washington,” Murphy said.
“He may not want to return,” Carrara said.
“That wasn’t under discussion. As soon as he’s free, bring him here.”
Chapter 12
The evening was warm and exceedingly humid, and as usual traffic throughout the gigantic city of Tokyo was horrendous. People seemed to be everywhere; omnipresent in crushing numbers; endless streams of bodies scurrying back and forth almost as if they were ants intent on some mysterious, unknowable purpose.
Within a twenty-mile radius of downtown lived thirty million people crammed into twenty-three wards, twenty-six small cities, seven towns, and eight villages. Stretching fifty-five miles east to west, but only fifteen miles north to south, everything about the megalopolis was outrageous and contradictory. Prices were astronomical while average salaries were low; space which was at a premium was squandered-land was sold by the square yard, yet the Japanese preferred to build outward, rather than upward; the culture of the people was stylish and elegant, yet the city on the whole was ugly, a monstrosity by Western standards.
A tall, well-built American got out of a taxi in front of the Roppongi Prince Hotel about a mile and a half from the Imperial Palace and paid off his driver. He wore a well-cut dark business suit, and as usual for meetings such as the one he’d arranged for this evening he wore a wire.
His name was James Shirley, and he worked as chief of station for CIA activities in Japan, a post he’d held for nearly five years. Both he and his wife (they had no children) loved the country, and had no intention of ever returning to Washington, no matter what the Company desired. If and when his reassignment came, he’d decided to resign rather than accept it. He was nearly fluent in Japanese, so he didn’t think he would have much trouble finding a well-paying job with a large Japanese corporation that did business in the West.
He waited just within the main doors into the lobby for several minutes after his cab left, making certain that he’d not been followed. He’d taken great pains with his tradecraft to get here tonight.
Satisfied at length, he crossed the lobby and went out to the courtyard where on a lower level tables were placed around the acrylic swimming pool, the sides of which were transparent so that the swimmers looked like fish in an aquarium. The man he’d come to meet was seated alone at a small table, his alligator-hide attache case open in front of him, his dark horn-rimmed glasses pushed up on top of his head.
Shirley went directly across to him. “Monsieur Dunee? Armand Dunee?”
The short, swarthy Belgian looked up with a scowl. “Who is it wishes to disturb me?
Are you English, or American?”
“American,” Shirley said. “I believe we met last year in Brussels.”
Dunee nodded toward the empty chair opposite. “Anything is possible.”
Shirley sat down, and a waiter came over immediately. He ordered saki, cool.
“You were not followed?” Dunee asked when they were alone.
“No. Did you bring it?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to hand it over here. I think I may have been followed.”
Shirley stiffened slightly, but then smiled. “By whom?”
