of which fell naturally to his staff. The Japanese CIA and Federal Police accepted this ruse so long as there was no trouble. With this incident, everyone over there was keeping a low profile, and would continue to do so for at least the next few days.
The other three men with Carrara were his Assistant Deputy Director of Operations, Ned Tyllia, the Chief of the Far East Desk, Nicholas Wuori, and the Chief of Operations Covert Action Staff, Don Ziegler.
“The delivery truck has been found abandoned in a parking area near the Ikebukuro train station in northeast Tokyo. About five miles, as the crow flies, north of the Roppongi Prince,” Anders was saying.
It was something new. Carrara sat forward. “Who discovered the truck, Sargent, certainly not one of our people?”
“No, sir, it was Tokyo Police. The call came from a local koban after one of their officers stumbled across the truck. Its license tag had been removed.
A mistake on their part, I’d say. Naturally we monitored the call, as we do all police and military calls, and once the truck had been picked up and brought to the impound yard, one of my people got in for a quick look.”
Anders looked more like a bookkeeper than a cop, which is what he’d been with the New York City Police Department for eleven years before coming to the CIA. He was a precise little man, who sometimes affected a British accent because he thought it made him sound like James Bond. (Ian Fleming had been and still was the most widely read author by CIA employees.)
“Did we get anything?”
“Unknown yet, but there’s the possibility. According to eyewitnesses, the two bad guys wore hard hats and paper air filters. We recovered two used filters and one plastic hard hat from the truck. The items are enroute to our lab in Yokosuka where we should be able to come up with a DNA profile from hair out of the hat and from saliva off the filters. Won’t give us a name or names, but we’ll have something to match if they’re eventually bagged.”
“Fingerprints, anything like that?” Carrara asked.
“No time, it was a quick in-out. But we managed to get a sample of the gasoline they used. It was normal unleaded, but it was laced with hydrochloric acid. Ten percent.”
Everyone was shaken.
“Even if the fire hadn’t killed Jim, the fumes would have burned out his lungs,” Anders said.
“Determined bastards,” Tyllia commented.
“And ruthless,” Anders agreed.
The telephone at Carrara’s elbow buzzed softly and he picked it up. “Carrara.”
“This is Tony. Kelley Fuller just called.”
Carrara raised his hand for Anders to hold up. “Where is she?”
“Apparently here in Washington. But she used her workname, and she sounded strung out, though she says she’s safe. She’ll call back at 8:32.”
Carrara glanced up at the wall clock. Four minutes. “Did you get a trace?”
“I brought it up, but she was too fast. I’ll get her when she calls back. I offered to send someone for her, sir, but she refused.”
“We’ll keep her at arm’s length for the moment. I don’t want her contaminated.”
“Yes, sir,” the communications man downstairs said, and Carrara hung up.
The Resource and Evaluation Committee for most deep-cover operations in which a blind asset (an agent unknown to the local station) was used included the men in this room along with the Director of Central Intelligence and his deputy, and sometimes the Deputy Director of Intelligence and his assistant.
“Kelley Fuller has surfaced,” Carrara told the others.
“Where?” Wuori, the Far East Desk chief, asked sharply. He’d known Kelley since she was a little girl growing up in Honolulu, his home town.
“Here in Washington. She’s made initial contact and her next call comes in a few minutes.” Carrara picked up the phone and punched the number for the DCI’s locator service. It was Saturday. Murphy had left his office at noon.
“She’s on the run, then. Must have seen something.”
“Presumably,” Carrara said, waiting for his call to be patched through.
“How’d she sound? What’d Tony say?” For a time Wuori had been like a father to Kelley.
It hurt now that she was in Washington, apparently in trouble, and had not called him.
“Shook up, but safe.” Carrara’s call was going through. It rang, and Murphy’s bodyguard answered gruffly.
“Yes.”
“This is a yellow light for the general.”
A moment later Murphy was on the line. “Murphy.”
“She’s surfaced here in Washington,” Carrara said without preamble. Murphy would recognize his voice, and there was no doubt who he was talking about. “She’ll be calling again in a couple of minutes.”
“Is she all right?”
“Tony said she sounded strung out, but she was safe.”
“Any sign that she’s been compromised in Tokyo?”
“We’ve seen or heard nothing,” Carrara said, knowing what was coming next.
“Then send her back, Phil. The bastards hit Jim, there’s no telling if they’ll be content to stop at that.”
“It’s a warning…?
“You’re damned right it is,” Murphy growled. “Considering the billions in foreign trade that’s at stake, you and I both know they won’t stop.”
“I’ll meet her tonight.”
“Don’t queer it by being spotted with her,” Murphy said. The instruction stung a little because Carrara was enough of a professional to know as much.
“Sure thing.”
“Listen, Phil, there’s more than just money at stake here. Tokyo Station, among its other troubles, leaks like a sieve. Everytime we sneeze, the Japanese have the handkerchief out even before we start.”
“But this is something new.” Carrara said. Murphy disagreed.
“You’re wrong. Murder is one of the oldest of crimes. Read your Bible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carrara hung up, thought for a moment, then looked at the others. “If she’s not blown her cover by running, we’re to send her back.”
“For God’s sake, Phil, we’d be signing her death warrant,” Wuori argued.
“We have no evidence that whoever hit Jim was also after her, have we?” Carrara asked.
Anders shook his head.
The phone at Carrara’s elbow buzzed.
“We’ll do what we can to insure her safety, but she goes back,” Carrara said, and he picked up the phone.
“She’s in an apartment on the north side, leased by Lana Toy,” Tony said. “A friend of hers.”
“Right,” Carrara said. “Put her on.” A moment later the incoming call was transferred to the briefing room. “Is that you?” he asked.
“Phil?” Kelley Fuller asked, her voice small and shaky.
“Yes, it is, but listen to me, don’t use names now. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, listen carefully. I want you to stay right where you are for one hour, let’s say until 9:30 sharp. Then I want you to leave the apartment and take the first right.”
“On foot?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up as soon as I’m sure it’s safe. Do you have that?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll see you in a bit.”
Kelley Fuller had put a light sweater over her shoulders, and Carrara spotted her walking alone north on Second Street toward McMillan Park and the reservoir. He passed her, and swung around the block to come up from
