staff was joking. Loose cannon or the right stuff? He had some thoughts on the matter, but it was much too early to be sure.
It was fortunate tat the Yaibo team were already in place.
Wakami's unit had not come to Washington specifically for a killing, but they had been reconnoitering the city for future incidents. They had already checked out many of the government facilities.
These had included the FarnsworthBuilding. They had been in and out on several occasions and had even visited offices near those of Congressman Wayne Sanders, where the Task Force on Terrorism was located.
They had been able to survey nearly the length and breadth of the capital without hindrance, because they presented themselves not as tourists but as a lobbying group. Since the Japanese were particularly energetic at using the U.S. lobbying system to advance and protect Japanese interests – even when they were quite contrary to American interests – three more Japanese lobbyists attracted no attention at all.
Wakami had even had business cards printed identifying them as ‘The Osaka Industries United States Friendship Group,’ and these brought general access.
Senators, congressmen, and their staffers were permanently on the lookout for money, influence, and votes in roughly that order. Everyone knew that Japanese businessmen had money, rice sacks full of it, and that bought influence.
It all added up to a warm welcome for Wakami- san and his people. Wakami, who spoke adequate English, had become quite good at making long speeches about mutual friendship in Japanese and having Endo translate in halting English while politicians, their eyes glazed over, stood smiling. Photographs of such events were expected, even encouraged. Lining up a target assassination list, complete with full-color illustrations, had never been easier.
Armed with his copy of The World Almanac of U.S. Politics, bought in Sidney Kramer's Bookstore, and The United States House of Representatives Telephone Directory, given to him by a friendly staffer who fancied switching to a better-paid job as a lobbyist for Japan, Wakami had Endo line up an appointment with Lee Cochrane's office.
Cochrane- san might be running the counterterrorism Task Force with minimal staff, but he also had a demanding political role as chief of staff for his congressman. Wearing his political hat, he would see Wakami and his team or at least have him received – if only by an intern not yet old enough to drink legally.
The important thing was that Wakami now had access into the subcommittee's offices, and if a guard at the entrance called up – through that was most unlikely – their credibility would be already established.
He and his people could wait in the subcommittee's reception until his target came into sight. He would delay any meeting until a mythical missing member of their group would turn up. With a bit of luck they would even be given tea. He was not worried about being recognized later.
All three members of Osaka Industries United States Friendship Group quite deliberately had identical haircuts, horn-rimmed glasses, and clothing. To Americans, they would be like peas in a 120-million-population pod.
In Wakami's opinion, it all said a great deal about how the United States regarded terrorism, not that he was complaining. Well, they would learn the hard way. He decided they would go in the main entrance. There was more traffic that way, so the guards would be busier.
That left him with the decision as to how the actual killing of the target should be carried out. Their instructions emphasized that he must be killed and they must be sure he was dead. A dying man could still talk.
To get through the metal detector and scanner, the killing would have to be carried out without either firearms or event the traditional blade. Yet death must be certain and immediate.
There was really only one absolutely foolproof way Wakami could think of.
Finally, Wakami thought about how the members of the team might escape. ‘Escape,’ of course, was a relative term.
The liquid explosives came in as double-walled ampoules of insulin.
The guard at the main entrance had spotted the two containers and the hypodermic on the scanner through the sides of the briefcase, but his voice was sympathetic as he routinely checked the items.
The word ‘insulin’ was printed on both labels, together with the name of the prescribing doctor and the pharmacy. In that context, the hypodermic required no explanation.
If he had been able to check the ampoules, it would have made no difference unless he had spotted and opened the sealed double wall. There was genuine insulin at the core. It was a useful poison for some situations. Injecting a large dose into a normal healthy person was lethal and hard to detect. The body naturally dispenses insulin into the bloodstream when unduly stressed, and imminent death comes into that category.
The outer wall of the ampoule contained enough explosive to equal the force of a hand grenade.
The guard did not query the other items.
The killing weapon came in as an extension cable for the camera. The cable normally consisted of an outer flexible core and a thin inner wire. Pushing a release at one end pushed a plunger out the other and activated the shutter release. In this case, the ends constituted no more than decorations. The substance was the razor-sharp serrated inner wire.
The other weapons were short ‘punch daggers’ – ultrathin needle blades with a crosspiece making a T, which were clenched in the fist and punched in when stabbing. They were built into each man's briefcase looking like part of the reinforcing frame, with the crosspiece being the designer handle. Each man had one. The blades had no cutting edge but were strong enough when stabbing to pierce even most body armor.
Fitzduane's eyes caught Maury's briefly as he entered the room. Maury smiled very slightly and gently, as if it were entirely normal to greet someone while half-concealed behind a drape.
'Hugo, a pleasure,' said Cochrane.
Unlike Warner and the other staffers, the marine-trim chief of staff was formally dressed, his shirt white and crisp and his tie regimental. The style was that of a military man in civilian clothes, but the eyes were not just those of a direct man of action. There was a look of introspection here. They were the guarded eyes of a very intelligent man who had seen much to disappoint him but still believed. Fitzduane was mildly irritated at himself for being surprised. He had expected surface polish and competence. He was faced with someone who was more substantial and decidedly more complex.
Fitzduane had read the reports put out by the Task Force on Terrorism. Those who originated them knew – really understood – how their special world worked. And Maury, from what he had heard and read, would not work with a fool. Fitzduane smiled to himself. He trusted he would prove up to the mark.
Maury stayed behind his curtain and said nothing. The situation would have been unusual enough, but the chief of staff's office was comparatively small. Maury was not some discreet watcher from a distance but stood only a few feet away, as if sheer willpower and his very still composure would make him invisible. There was room just for a desk and two scuffed leather sofas with a small table in the middle.
This was a functional place for meeting and talking, not designed to impress. The one exception was a small case containing medals and a photograph of two men in fatigues.
Vietnam, Fitzduane looked at the mementos with mixed emotions. He had been young then, too, and in some ways it had been the best of times. But too many friends had died there.
Cochrane saw Fitzduane's glance. 'Not mine,' he said. 'They belong to the man who inspired all this. His widow wanted me to have them.'
'I'm sure you have your own, Lee,' said Fitzduane.
Cochrane nodded somewhat stiffly. 'The military give them out by the shitload. They're not what counts. It's
