Debt of Honor

'Fifty years,' the PR man pointed out. 'And your country was also different then.'

'That is true, my friends, that is true,' Clark admitted, his head lolling to one side. Chavez thought he was overdoing the alcohol stuff.

'Your first time here, yes?'

'Correct.'

'Your impressions?' Ishii asked.

'I love your poetry. It is very different from ours. I could write a book on Pushkin, you know. Perhaps someday I will, but a few years ago I started learning about yours. You see, our poetry is intended to convey a whole series of thoughts—often tell a complex story—but yours is far more subtle and delicate, like—how do I say this? Like a flash picture, yes? Perhaps there is one you could explain to me. I can see the picture, but not understand the significance. How does it go?' Clark asked himself drunkenly. 'Ah, yes: 'Plum blossoms bloom, and pleasure-women buy new scarves in a brothel room.' Now,' he asked the PR guy, 'what is the meaning of that?'

Ding handled the eye contact with Ishii. It was amusing in a way. Confusion at first, then you could just about hear the eyeballs click when the code phrase sliced through his mind like the killing stroke of a rapier. Sasaki's eyes zeroed in on Clark, then noticed that it was Ding who was maintaining eye contact.

That's right. You're back on the payroll, buddy.

'Well, you see, it's the contrast,' the PR official explained. 'You have the pleasant image of attractive women doing something—oh, feminine, is that the word? Then the end, you see that they are prostitutes, trapped in a —'

'Prison,' Ishii said, suddenly sober. 'They are trapped into doing something. And suddenly the setting and the picture are not as pleasant as they seem at all.'

'Ah, yes,' Clark said with a smile. 'That is entirely sensible. Thank you.' A friendly nod to acknowledge the important lesson.

Goddamn, but Mr. C was smooth, Chavez thought. This spy stuff had its moments. Ding almost felt sorry for Ishii, but if the dumb son of a bitch had betrayed his country before, well, no sense in shedding any tears for him now. The axiom in CIA was simple, if somewhat cruel: once a traitor, always a traitor. The corresponding aphorism in the FBI was even crueler, which was odd. The FBI boys were usually so upright and clean-cut. Once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker.

'Is it possible?' Murakami asked.

'Possible? It's child's play.'

'But the effects…' Yamata's idea had obvious panache, but…

'The effects are simple. The damage to their economy will prevent them from building up the industries they need to replace our products. Their consumers will recover from the initial shock and, needing products which their own corporations cannot manufacture, they will again buy them from us.' If Binichi thought he was going to get the whole story, that was his problem.

'I think not. You underestimate the Americans' anger at this unfortunate incident. You must also factor in the political dimension—'

'Koga is finished. That is decided,' Yamata interrupted coldly.

'Goto?' Murakami asked. It wasn't much of a question. He followed his country's political scene as much as any man.

'Of course.'

An angry gesture. 'Goto is a fool. Everywhere he walks he's following his penis. I wouldn't trust him to run my father's farm.'

'You could say that of any of them. Who really manages our country's affairs? What more could we want in a prime minister, Binichi?' Raizo asked with a jolly laugh.

'They have one like that in their government, too,' Murakami noted darkly, pouring himself another generous jolt of Chivas and wondering what Yamata was really talking about. 'I've never met the man, but he sounds like a swine.'

'Who is that?'

'Kealty, their Vice President. You know, this upstanding President of theirs is covering it up, too.'

Yamata leaned back in his chair. 'I don't understand.'

Murakami filled him in. The whiskey didn't impede his memory a jot, his host noted. Well, though a cautious man, and often an overly generous one in his dealings with foreigners, he was one of Yamata's true peers, and though they often disagreed on things, there was genuine respect between them.

'That is interesting. What will your people do about it?'

'They are thinking about it,' Binichi replied with an eloquent arch of the eyebrows.

'You trust Americans on something like this? The best of them are ronin, and you know what the worst are…' Then Yamata-san paused and took a few seconds to consider this information more fully. 'My friend, if the Americans can take down Koga…'

Murakami lowered his head for a moment. The smell of the thrown beer was stronger than ever. The insolence of that street creature! For that matter, what of the insolence of the President? He could cripple an entire country with his vanity and his clearly feigned anger. Over what? An accident, that was all. Had the company not honorably assumed responsibility? Had it not promised to look after the survivors?

'It is a large and dangerous thing you propose, my friend.'

'It is an even more dangerous thing not to do anything.'

Murakami thought about it for a moment.

'What would you have me do?'

'The specifics about Kealty and Durling would be welcome.'

That required only a few minutes. Murakami made a call, and the information was sent to the secure fax machine in Yamata's suite. Perhaps Raizo would be able to put it to good use, he thought. An hour later his car took him to Kennedy International, where he boarded a JAL flight to Tokyo.

Yamata's other corporate jet was another G-IV. It would be busy. The first flight was to New Delhi. It was only on the ground for two hours before taking off on an easterly heading.

'Looks like a course change,' Fleet-Ops said. 'At first we thought they were just doing some extended flight operations, but they've got all their birds up already and-'

Admiral Dubro nodded agreement as he looked down at the Link-11 display in the carrier's Combat Information Center. It was relayed in from an E-2C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft. The circular formation was heading due south at a speed of eighteen knots. The carriers were surrounded by their goalkeeper force of missile- armed destroyers and cruisers, and there was also a screen of picket destroyers well in advance. All their radars were on, which was something new. The Indian ships were both advertising their presence and creating a 'bubble' through which no one could pass without their knowledge.

'Looking for us, you suppose?' the Admiral asked.

'If nothing else, they can make us commit to one ops-area or another. We can be southwest of them or southeast, but if they keep coming this way, they split the difference pretty clean, sir.'

Maybe they were just tired of being shadowed, Dubro thought. Understandable. They had a respectable fleet, manned with people who had to be well drilled in their duties after the last few months. They'd just topped off their bunkers again, and would have all the fuel they needed to do…what?

'Intel?'

'Nothing on their intentions,' Commander Harrison replied. 'Their amphibs are still tied up. We don't have anything on that brigade J-2 was worried about. Bad weather for overheads the last few days.'

'Damn those Intel pukes,' Dubro growled. CIA depended so much on satellite coverage that everyone pretended the cameras could see through clouds. All they had to do was put a few assets on the ground… was he the only one who realized that?

The computer-generated display was on a flat glass plate, a new model just installed on the ship the previous year. Far more detailed than the earlier systems, it gave superb map and chart data on which ship and aircraft locations were electronically overlaid. The beauty of the system was that it showed what you knew in exquisite detail. The problem was that it didn't show anything else, and Dubro needed better data to make his decision.