Dragon

Tsuboi wasn’t convinced. “What good is an empty threat?”

“Hideki makes a good point,” said Kamatori. “No one outside this room or the engineers in the command center knows our system is three weeks away from completion. Western leaders can easily be bluffed into thinking the system is fully operational.”

Yoshishu gave a satisfied nod of his head. “Then we have nothing to fear.”

“A guaranteed conclusion,” Suma stated without hesitation. “We’re making too much out of a nightmare that will never happen.”

Silence then in the richly decorated office, the four men sitting, each one with his own thoughts. After a minute, Suma’s desk interoffice phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver and listened a moment without speaking. Then he set it down.

“My secretary informs me that my chef has dinner prepared in the private dining room. I would be most happy if my honored guests will dine with me.”

Yoshishu came slowly to his feet. “I happily accept. Knowing the superb culinary qualities of your chef, I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Before we break off,” said Tsuboi, “there is one other problem.”

Suma nodded. “You have the floor, Ichiro.”

“Obviously we can’t go around exploding nuclear bombs every time an unfriendly government rattles a saber over trade restrictions or increased import tariffs. We must have alternatives that are not so catastrophic.”

Suma and Kamatori exchanged looks. “We’ve given that very situation considerable thought,” said Suma, “and we think the best solution is abduction of our enemies.”

“Terrorism is not the way of our culture,” objected Tsuboi.

“What do you call the Blood Sun Brotherhood, my son?” asked Yoshishu calmly.

“Crazy fanatical butchers. They cut down innocent women and children in the name of some vague revolutionary dogma that makes no sense to anyone.”

“Yes, but they’re Japanese.”

“A few, but most are East Germans, trained by the KGB.”

“They can be used,” Suma said flatly.

Tsuboi was not sold. “I do not advise the slightest association with them. Any suspected connection, and outside probes will be launched into areas we dare not have opened.”

“Hideki is not advocating assassination,” elaborated Kamatori. “What he is suggesting is that abduction of unharmed hostages be blamed on the Blood Red Brotherhood.”

“Now that makes more sense.” Yoshishu smiled. “I think I understand. You’re advocating the silken prison.”

Tsuboi shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“From the old days,” explained Yoshishu. “When a shogun did not want an enemy assassinated, he had him abducted and placed secretly in a prison of luxury as a sign of respect. Then he set the blame for the disappearance on his prisoner’s jealous rivals.”

“Exactly.” Suma nodded. “I have built such a facility on a small but modern estate.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?” inquired Tsuboi.

“The obvious is never suspected.”

Kamatori looked at Tsuboi. “If you have candidates for oblivion, you need only give me their names.”

Tsuboi’s eyes turned down, unseeing. Then he looked up. “There are two people in the United States who are causing us much grief. But you must be most careful. They are members of Congress, and their abduction will certainly cause a storm of outrage.”

“A Blood Red Brotherhood kidnapping and ransom situation should make a good cover for their sudden disappearance,” said Suma as if he was describing the weather.

“Who precisely do you have in mind?” asked Kamatori.

“Congresswoman Loren Smith and Senator Michael Diaz.”

Yoshishu nodded. “Ah, yes, the pair who are promoting a total trade barrier against us.”

“Despite our lobbying efforts, they’re gathering enough votes to force their legislation through both houses. Eliminate them and the drive would fall apart.”

“There will be great outrage in their government,” Suma warned. “It may backlash.”

“Our lobby interests have acquired a powerful influence on Congress and will direct the outrage toward a terrorist conspiracy.” Tsuboi’s anger at his treatment by the select subcommittee had not cooled. “We have lost enough face at the hands of American politicians. Let them learn their power no longer protects them from harm.”

Yoshishu stared out the window unseeing for a few moments. Then he shook his head. “A great pity.”

Suma looked at him. “What is a great pity, old friend?”

“The United States of America,” Yoshishu spoke “She’s like a beautiful woman who is dying of cancer.”

28

MARVIN SHOWALTER SAT on a train traveling through Tokyo’s clean and efficient subway. He made no attempt to act as if he was reading a newspaper or a book. He calmly stared at his fellow passengers, “making,” as they say in the trade, the two Japanese secret service agents who were keeping him under surveillance from the next car.

Showalter had walked from the U.S. embassy shortly after a boring meeting with junketing congressmen over Japan’s refusal to allow American construction equipment to be used on a new building ready to go up for an American oil company. It was simply another case of throwing up protectionist barriers, while the Japanese could freely enter the United States and raise buildings with their architects, foremen, materials, and equipment without major problems over government restrictions.

“Fair is fair” did not apply to two-way trade with Japan.

He appeared to be on his way to the small condominium his wife and two young children called home during his assignment in Japan. The building was owned by the American government and housed most of the embassy workers and their families. The construction cost of the entire ten-story building was less than a third the price of the land it stood on.

His shadows had fallen into his travel routine, which never varied except when he put in an hour or two overtime. He smiled to himself as his stop came up and the two agents rose in anticipation of his getting off. He stepped to the door with the rest of the crowd, waiting for it to open onto the platform. It was the oldest trick in the world, one shown in the movie The French Connection.

As the door opened, Showalter flowed with the crowd to the platform and began counting. He hesitated and casually glanced at the two Japanese agents. They had stepped from the middle door in the next car and were walking slowly in his direction, shielded by a group of departing passengers.

When he hit twenty-five, he swiftly turned around and stepped back inside the car. Two seconds later the door closed and the train began moving. Too late, the Japanese secret service agents realized they’d been duped. Frantically they attempted to pry the doors apart and reboard the train. But it was useless. They leaped back on the platform as the train picked up speed and disappeared into the tunnel.

Showalter wasn’t overly pleased with the simple dodge. Next time his tails would be wary and make his evasive moves more intricate. He transferred to a connecting line at the next stop and rode to Asakusa, an atmospheric area northeast of Tokyo in a section known as Shitamachi. Asakusa was part of the old city of Tokyo that had preserved much of its past.

Showalter sat and studied the people around him as he had done so many times. Some of his fellow passengers studied him in return. They called anyone who did not share their thick black straight hair, dark eyes, and skin coloring a gaijin, literally translated as an “outside person.” He theorized that the close similarity in their physical looks was perhaps the basis for their unity and conformity. That and the isolation of their island home.

Their society evolved around the family and expanded to include everyone who worked around them. Lives were lived in a complicated quilt of obligations, contentedness, duty, and accomplishment. They accepted a