your recent provocations.'
But what does your country know about the Novorossiisk that you're not telling me? Isaacs asked silently. He chose his words carefully.
'If that is true, then I won't deny some satisfaction. But this rendezvous was not arranged for my pleasure.'
'No,' Zamyatin agreed flatly. 'There is concern at the highest levels in our government to understand the fate of the Novorossiisk. We have gathered some fragmentary evidence of our own for this curious signal you described to Korolev. I am authorized to ask you some questions, that we can better understand the situation.
'Many of my colleagues reject your story. They are convinced of the culpability of your government beginning with the events on the Novorossiisk. They demand to know what you did to the Novorossiisk, and why you, personally, were selected to propagate such a rooster — pardon me, cock and bull story, eh? — about mysterious effects in the earth.'
'Lord deliver me from fools of all persuasions,' Isaacs blurted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 'Look,' he said heatedly, 'I have no proof to give you, but I do give you my word of honour. No one in my government has a clue to what happened aboard the Novorossiisk — or the Stinson, I remind you. But it's the thick-headed idiots in your government and name who can't see the true threat here who are leading us close to catastrophe.'
'Sir! Sir!' Zamyatin held up a hand in protest. 'Let me stipulate that I personally accept both your word and that there is a more subtle problem here to be understood. We must know the position of your government. What is being done to clarify this matter? What have you learned?'
'Precious little,' Isaacs replied in disgust. 'If it were otherwise, do you think I would write that letter to Korolev?'
'But if the situation is as mysterious and potentially serious as you say, surely it becomes the centre of a major investigation?'
Isaacs looked closely at the Russian. Careful, he cautioned himself. If the Russians aren't responsible, then, properly cultivated, Zamyatin could prove useful, as Korolev apparently had been. What irony to find allies in the Soviet camp even as the confrontation overhead escalated. He must have some hint of the problems with McMasters, but now was not the time to take this man fully into his confidence, not when he could not extend that confidence to even his close friends in the Agency. He shifted to face Zamyatin more squarely and spoke with sincerity.
'There is a basic problem here. I see a dangerous pattern I don't understand. My government is not behind it and neither, I'm convinced, is yours. But to launch a full-scale investigation requires hard evidence, and that is lacking. I have certain plans to gain more evidence, but I don't fed at liberty to reveal them.'
Isaacs paused to collect his thoughts. Zamyatin watched him carefully.
'Look,' said Isaacs, 'I know the real reason for this meeting. You would have received any hard facts as a bonus, but you're really here to take my measure face to face. You're asking yourself, is this really a man who is carrying on a legitimate crusade outside official channels?'
This time it was Isaacs who caught the narrowing of eyes that said he hit home.
'There is nothing else I can say to convince you at this point; you'll make up your own mind. But if you decide to believe me, hear this. We face a common, unknown danger. Whether I succeed or fail in my efforts, it's to your advantage to push your own investigation in any way you can. Listen to Korolev. He'll know what to do.'
Zamyatin studied Isaacs's face carefully for a long moment. Then, still holding his gaze, he gave a small motion with his right hand. The limousine immediately braked to a gentle halt.
The Russian extended his hand again. His voice was polite, but cool.
'Good-bye for now, Mr Isaacs. And good luck.' Isaacs pumped the hand once and let himself out. As he closed the door to the limousine, Vassilev pulled up behind in his Mercedes. Isaacs paused for a moment with his hand on the handle of the limousine door. Then he responded with uncharacteristic spontaneity to an inner voice. He yanked the door open again and leaned down to peer in.
'Yes?' Zamyatin was startled.
' Nagasaki. Tonight. 9:13.'
Isaacs slammed the door and strode rapidly back to his own car. Vassilev saw him in and shut the door behind him. Isaacs threw the car into gear, then pulled quickly out and around the limousine, causing Vassilev to step back out of the way. Isaacs looked about him, recognized where he was, and headed for his house a few blocks away.
The appliance store van cruised slowly across the intersection behind the limousine. It turned at the next corner, accelerated to normal speed, and headed away from the site of the rendezvous.
Chapter 10
Masaki Yoshida leaned on his taxi horn in frustration. He had free-lanced for the CIA for several years. He expected to know only a minimal amount about operations to which he was assigned, but the description he had received from his contact yesterday was the most ill-defined he had seen yet. He was supposed to cruise a several square block area of warehouses near the harbour and keep an eye out for some unspecified form of trouble.
His contact had said nothing about the jam of cars and trucks which crowded the streets and loading docks, making it nearly impossible to move. He had spent five minutes edging the last half block. Earlier he had manoeuvred his cab up onto the sidewalk only to find a truck unloading and blocking his way. It had taken him ten minutes to force a gap in the creeping traffic and return to the street. He sounded the horn again. There could be a riot a block away, and he would not know a dung about it!
Immediately ahead of the erstwhile CIA agent were two cars and then an open bed truck which blocked his view on down the street. As Yoshida leaned out the window in an attempt to see past the truck, the asphalt of the road between the truck's front wheels budded downward slightly and a small hole appeared in the centre of the depression. A hole was pierced in the bottom of the oil pan just as the third piston advanced on its exhaust stroke. Then, as if by the action of a ragged drill, a gash ripped the base of the piston rod where it joined the crank shaft. The rod cracked and the piston flew unimpeded up the cylinder.
Another series of holes appeared in the block, the head, the air filter, and finally in the thin sheet of metal of the hood, all aligned with those in the asphalt and the broken rod. The piston ruptured the engine head atop the cylinder, then punched a second, larger hole in the hood. The piston and fragments of engine arced thirty feet over the road before crashing loudly into the galvanized steel wall of a warehouse. The mortally wounded engine shuddered to a stop with the shrieking sound of twisted, grinding metal. Hot water shot through the upper hole in the block, filling the engine compartment with steam. This in turn billowed out of the seams, the hole ruptured by the piston, and in one dainty vertical stream. Beneath the motor a pea soup green mixture of oil, water, and antifreeze poured out of the hole in the oil pan, collected in the underlying dent in the pavement and then slowly drained down the hole in the middle.
With his head out the window, Yoshida clearly heard the explosion as the piston blew and saw it rifle into the warehouse wall. Forgetting his mission, he rammed the shift into neutral, let out the clutch, and hauled on the parking brake. He ran to the truck and yanked open the driver's door. The man inside sat stupefied, but apparently unhurt. Yoshida stepped up and helped the man out and over to the sidewalk. The truck driver sat on the curb and in a reaction to shock, began to jabber his innocence of any wrongdoing.
Yoshida attempted to calm him and then noticed a stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. His first reaction was to glance at the truck. Then he whirled as he heard a shouting tumult behind him. A hundred yards away drivers were pouring out of their cars, and people were running frantically in both directions from a warehouse on the other side of the street. Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths or covered their eyes.
As Yoshida had been helping the driver from the truck, a window had shattered in a skylight of the warehouse. Below, an array of large cylindrical storage vessels held chlorine gas. Almost instantly, twin punctures appeared in the top and bottom of the cylinder directly beneath the skylight.
Jets of bilious yellow-green gas shot towards the ceiling and mushroomed out onto the floor. Within seconds a heavy layer of gas blanketed the warehouse. In a small office at the rear of the warehouse an employee
