Debt of Honor

bow.

Before the drink arrived, Clark reached under the table, finding a package taped in place there. In a moment it was in his lap, and would soon find its way inside his waistband behind his back. Clark always bought his working clothes in a full cut—the Russian disguise helped even more—and his shoulders provided ample overhang for hiding things. Yet another reason, he thought, to stay in shape.

The drink arrived, and he took his time knocking it back, looking at the bar mirror and searching the reflections for faces that might have appeared in his memory before. It was a never-ending drill, and, tiring as it was, one he'd learned the hard way not to ignore. He checked his watch twice, both times unobtrusively, then a third time immediately before standing, leaving behind just enough cash to pay for the drink. Russians weren't known as big tippers.

The street was busy, even in the late evening. Clark had established the routine nightcap over the past week, and on every other night he would roam the local shops. This evening he selected a bookstore first, one with long, irregular rows. The Japanese were a literate people. The shop always had people in it. He browsed around, selecting a copy of The Economist, then wandered more, aimlessly toward the back, where he saw a few men eyeing the manga racks. Taller than they, he stood right behind a few, close but not too close, keeping his hands in front of him, shielded by his back. After five or so minutes he made his way to the front and paid for the magazine, which the clerk politely bagged for him. The next stop was an electronics store, where he looked at some CD players. This time he bumped into two people, each time politely asking their pardon, a phrase which he'd troubled himself to learn before anything else at Monterey. After that he headed back out onto the street and back to the hotel, wondering how much of the preceding fifteen minutes had been a total waste of time. None of it, Clark told himself. Not a single second.

In the room he tossed Ding the magazine. It drew a look of its own before the younger man spoke. 'Don't they have anything in Russian?'

'It's good coverage of the difficulties between this country and America. Read and learn. Improve your language skills.'

Great, just fucking great, Chavez thought, reading the words for their real meaning. We've been activated, for-real. He'd never finish the master's now, Ding grumped. Maybe they just didn't want to jack his salary up, as CIA regulations specified for a graduate degree.

Clark had other things to do. The package Nomuri had transferred held a computer disk and a device that attached to a laptop. He switched it on, then inserted the disk into the slot. The file he opened contained only three sentences, and seconds after reading it, Clark had erased the disk. Next he started composing what to all intents and purposes was a news dispatch. The computer was a Russian-language version of a popular Japanese model, with all the additional Cyrillic letters, and the hard part for Clark was that although he read and spoke Russian like a native, he was used to typing (badly enough) in English. The Russian-style keyboard drove him crazy, and he sometimes wondered if someone would ever pick up on this small chink in his cover armor. It took over an hour to type up the news article, and another thirty to do the more important part. He saved both items to the hard drive, then turned the machine off. Flipping it over, he removed the modem from its modular port and replaced it with the new one Nomuri had brought.

'What time is it in Moscow?' he asked tiredly.

'Same as always, six hours behind us, remember?'

'I'm going to send it to Washington, too.'

'Fine,' 'Chekov' grunted. 'I'm sure they'll love it, Ivan Sergeyevich.'

Clark attached the phone line to the back of his computer and used the latter to dial up the fiberoptic line to Moscow. Transferring the report took less than a minute. He repeated the operation for the Interfax office in the American capital. It was pretty slick, John thought. The moment before the modem at one end linked up with the modem at the other sounded just like static—which it was. The mating signal was just a rough hiss unless you had a special chip, and he never called anyone but Russian press-agency offices. That the office in Washington might be tapped by the FBI was something else again. Finished, he kept one file and erased the other. Another day done, serving his country. Clark brushed his teeth before collapsing into his single bed.

'That was a fine speech, Goto-san.' Yamata poured a generous amount of sake into an exquisite porcelain cup. 'You made things so clear.'

'Did you see how they responded to me!' The little man was bubbling now, his enthusiasm making his body swell before his host's eyes.

'And tomorrow you will have your cabinet, and the day after you will have a new office, Hiroshi.'

'You're certain?'

A nod and a smile that conveyed true respect. 'Of course I am. My colleagues and I have spoken with our friends, and they have come to agree with us that you are the only man suited to save our country.'

'When will it begin?' Goto asked, suddenly sobered by the words, remembering exactly what his ascension would mean.

'When the people are with us.'

'Are you sure we can—'

'Yes, I am sure.' Yamata paused. 'There is one problem, however.'

'What is that?'

'Your lady friend, Hiroshi. If the knowledge becomes public that you have an American mistress, it compromises you. We cannot afford that,' Yamata explained patiently. 'I hope you will understand.'

'Kimba is a most pleasant diversion for me,' Goto objected politely.

'I have no doubt of it, but the Prime Minister can have his choice of diversions, and in any case we will be busy in the next month.' The amusing part was that he could build up the man on one hand and reduce him on the other, just as easily as he manipulated a child. And yet there was something disturbing about it all. More than one thing. How much had he told the girl?

And what to do with her now?

'Poor thing, to send her home now, she will never know happiness again.'

'Undoubtedly true, but it must be done, my friend. Let me handle it for you? Better it should be done quietly, discreetly. You are on the television every day now. You cannot be seen to frequent that area as a private citizen would. There is too great a danger.'

The man about to be Prime Minister looked down, sipping his drink, so transparently measuring his personal pleasure against his duties to his country, surprising Yamata yet again—but no, not really. Goto was Goto, and he'd been chosen for his elevation as much—more—for his weaknesses than his strengths.

'Hai,' he said after reflection. 'Please see to it.'

'I know what to do,' Yamata assured him.

15—A Damned, Foolish Thing

Behind Ryan's desk was a gadget called a STU-6. The acronym probably meant 'secure telephone unit,' but he had never troubled himself to find out. It was about two feet square, and contained in a nicely made oak cabinet handcrafted by the inmates of a federal prison. Inside were a half dozen green circuit-boards, populated with various chips whose function was to scramble and unscramble telephone signals. Having one of these in the office was one of the better government status symbols.

'Yeah,' Jack said, reaching back for the receiver.

'MP here. Something interesting came in. SANDALWOOD,' Mrs. Foley said, her voice distinct on the digital line. 'Flip on your fax?'

'Go ahead and send it.' The STU-6 did that, too, fulfilling the function with a simple phone line that headed to Ryan's facsimile printer. 'Did you get the word to them—'

'Yes, we did.'

'Okay, wait a minute…' Jack took the first page and started reading it.

'This is Clark?' he asked.