His bodyguard-chauffeur bowed and locked the heavy bronze gate after him. Moro Kamatori, Suma’s oldest friend and his chief aide, and his secretary, Toshie Kudo, were sitting patiently in a backward-facing seat of a black custom-built Murmoto limousine powered by a twelve-cylinder 600-horsepower engine.
Toshie was much taller than her native sisters. Willowy, with long legs, jet-black hair falling to her waist, flawless skin enhanced by magical coffee-brown eyes, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a James Bond movie. But unlike the exotic beauties who hung on fiction’s bon vivant master spy, Toshie possessed a high order of intellectual ability. Her IQ bordered on 165, and she operated at full capacity on both sides of the brain.
She did not look up as Suma entered the car. Her mind was focused on a compact computer that sat in her shapely lap.
Kamatori was speaking over a telephone. His intellect may not have been on a level with Toshie’s, but he was meticulous and deviously clever at managing Suma’s secretive projects. He was especially gifted at behind- the-scenes finance, pulling the strings and fronting for Suma, who preferred to isolate himself from public view.
Kamatori had a stolid, resolute face flanked by oversized ears. Beneath heavy black brows, the dark lifeless eyes peered through a pair of thick-lensed rimless glasses. No smile ever crossed his tight lips. He was a man without emotions or convictions. Fanatically loyal to Suma, Kamatori’s master talent was hunting human game. If someone, no matter how wealthy or high in government bureaucracy, presented an obstacle to Suma’s plans, Kamatori would shrewdly dispatch them so it seemed an accident or the blame could be fixed on an opposing party.
Kamatori kept a ledger of his killings with notes detailing each event. Over the course of twenty-five years the tally came to 237.
He rang off and set the receiver in an armrest cradle and looked at Suma. “Admiral Itakura at our embassy in Washington. His sources have confirmed the White House is aware the explosion was nuclear and originated with the
Suma gave a stoic shrug. “Has the President launched a formal protest with Prime Minister Junshiro?”
“The American government has remained strangely silent,” answered Kamatori. “The Norwegians and British, however, are making noises about the loss of their ships.”
“But nothing from the Americans.”
“Only sketchy reports in their news media.”
Suma leaned forward and tapped Toshie’s nyloned knee with his forefinger. “A photo, please, of the explosion site.”
Toshie nodded respectfully and programmed the necessary code into the computer. In less than thirty seconds a colored photo rolled out of a fax machine built into the divider wall separating the driver from the passenger compartment. She passed it to Suma, who turned up the interior car lights and took a magnifying glass from Kamatori.
“The enhanced infrared photo was taken an hour and a half ago during a pass by our Akagi spy satellite,” explained Toshie.
Suma peered through the glass without speaking for a few moments. Then he looked up questioningly. “A nuclear hunter-killer submarine and an Asian junk? The Americans are not acting as I expected. Odd they didn’t send half their Pacific fleet.”
“Several naval ships are steaming toward the explosion point,” said Kamatori, “including a NUMA ocean survey vessel.”
“What about space surveillance?”
“American intelligence has already gathered extensive data from their Pyramider spy satellites and SR-Ninety aircraft.”
Suma tapped a small object in the photo with a finger. “A submersible floating between the two vessels. Where did that come from?”
Kamatori peered over Suma’s finger at the photograph. “Certainly not the junk. It must have come from the submarine.”
“They won’t find any sunken remains of the
Toshie looked up at him over her monitor as if she’d read his mind. “I have the data you requested, Mr. Suma.”
“Yes?”
“The Divine Moon finished off-loading her auto cargo last night in Boston,” she reported, reading the Japanese characters on the display screen. “The Divine Water… she docked eight hours ago in the Port of Los Angeles and is off-loading now.”
“Any others?”
“There are two ships in transport,” Toshie continued. “The Divine Sky is scheduled to dock in New Orleans within eighteen hours, and the Divine Lake is five days out of Los Angeles.”
“Perhaps we should signal the ships at sea to divert to ports outside the United States,” said Kamatori. “American agents may be alerted to search for signs of radiation.”
“Who is our undercover agent in Los Angeles?” asked Suma.
“George Furukawa directs your secret affairs in the western states.”
Suma leaned back, obviously relieved. “Furukawa is a man. He will be alert to any hardening procedure.” He turned to Kamatori, who was speaking into the phone. “Divert the Divine Sky to Jamaica until we have more data, but allow the Divine Lake to proceed to Los Angeles.”
Kamatori bowed in acknowledgment and reached for phone.
“Aren’t you running the danger of detection?” asked Toshie.
Suma tightened his lips and shook his head. “American intelligence agents will search the ships, but they’ll bombs. Our technology will defeat them.”
“The explosion on board the
“I am not interested nor do I care,” Suma said coldly. The accident was unfortunate, but it won’t delay completion of our Kaiten Project.” Suma paused, his face etched in a brutal expression. “Enough pieces are set in place to destroy any nation which threatens our new empire.
19
VICE PRESIDENT GEORGE FURUKAWA took the phone call from his wife in his plush office at the prestigious Samuel J. Vincent Laboratories. She reminded him of his dental appointment. He thanked her, said a few words of endearment, and hung up.
The woman on the other end of the line was not his wife but one of Suma’s agents who could imitate Mrs. Furukawa’s voice. The dental appointment story was a code he’d received on five prior occasions. It meant a ship transporting Murmoto automobiles had arrived in port and was preparing to unload.
After informing his secretary that he would be having his teeth worked on the rest of the afternoon, Furukawa stepped into the elevator and punched the button for underground parking. Walking a few paces to his private stall, he unlocked the door to his mid-engined Murmoto sports car and sat behind the wheel.
Furukawa reached under the seat. The envelope was there, placed in his car after he came to work by one of Suma’s people. He checked the contents for the proper documents to release three automobiles from the unloading dock area. The papers were complete and correct as usual. Satisfied, he turned over the potent 400-horsepower, 5.8-liter, 32-valve V-8. He drove up to the thick steel barrier that rose from the cement drive and slanted menacingly at the front end of the Murmoto.
A smiling guard came out of the gatehouse and leaned down. “You checking out early, Mr. Furukawa?”
“I have a dental appointment.”
“Your dentist must own a yacht that’s been paid for by your teeth.”
“How about a villa in France,” Furukawa joked back.
