‘I’m not sure,’ Howe said. ‘What do you know about Francis O’Hara?’
‘Frank O’Hara? The reporter?’
‘The same.’
‘Uh ... well, I know he was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and passed over. He was in intelligence for several years before he became a reporter. Uh ... he wrote that great series on the CIA for the Washington Post a couple of years ago—’
‘Not bad,’ Howe interrupted.
‘I didn’t know it was a quiz,’ she said.
Howe chuckled. ‘Ray Pauley told me you were a feisty one,’ he said.
‘What about O’Hara’?’ she asked.
‘Let’s settle the question of the bonus. What do you want?’
‘I don’t know the job.’
‘Let’s say. . . You’ll be off the air for two months. What do you feel is an equitable agreement for two months of air time?’
‘1 want a shot at New York . .. or Washington.’
‘You think you’re ready for New York — or Washington?’
‘I know it.’
‘Pauley doesn’t want to lose you.’
‘You asked me, Mr Howe. Don’t you think I’m ready?’
‘Okay, we can talk about it.’
Eliza swallowed hard. Just like that, a shot at New York. But what did she have to do for it? ‘So ... what about Frank O’Hara?’
‘I want you to find him and deliver a message for me.’
‘Find him?’ She laughed. ‘Is he lost?’
‘Precisely, Eliza. He’s been on the run. The CIA’s been trying to kill him for almost a year now.’
4
Kinugasa-yama is a gently sloping mountain on the northern edge of the vast Park of the Shoguns in Kyoto. Along its peak are rows of delicate pine trees, and when the wind is from the west and the pines sway before it, the mountain has the appearance of a lion with a great shaggy mane crouched beside the park as if to protect this, the most venerable place in Japan.
A half mile to the south of the mountain is Tofuku-ji, the tallest and most sacred Shinto shrine in the country. It towers five stories, each story with a roof curved delicately toward heaven, each rooftop representing an element — earth, wind, fire, water and air — and a spire, whose nine rings carved into its shaft represent the nine rings of heaven.
It has been said that the rock garden which lies between Tofuku-ji and the Ryoan-ji temple nearby is the most perfect stone garden in existence and is exactly the same today as it was in the fifteenth century, when it was designed by Shinto priests.
The place was deserted except for an old man who was stooped over a long-handled rake, carefully cleaning and resetting each pebble in the stone garden. He did not look up as Eliza hurried past.
A light spring rain had fallen earlier in the morning, but it had stopped and now a chilly west wind ruffled the mane of Kinugasa-yama. She hurried through the park, afraid to take even a minute to enjoy its beauty. Kimura had promised to meet her at eleven-thirty, and it was now twenty-five after. She was keyed-up, for the first time since her plane had landed at Honeda Airport a week before.
She had been on the scent for seven weeks now. Her time was running out. She had called, written or travelled halfway around the world in these past seven weeks, had tracked O’Hara to the Caribbean, to Mexico, as far south as Buenaventura, Colombia, and east to Recife, Brazil. He had doubled back to Maracaibo, then returned to the States. She had followed a cold trail west to Seattle, from there to Vancouver and then back south again to San Francisco.
His trail was thin, devious and maddening. He had changed names half a dozen times; in South America it had been Solenza; in Canada, Carnet; on the West Coast, Barret. She had used the Howe empire’s contacts with the customs bureau, the passport office and half a dozen major airlines. Twice she had lost the scent, only to pick it up elsewhere. She tracked down old friends, newspaper buddies, retired intelligence agents, even an old girl friend or two.
It was like talking about a ghost. His friends were mutely loyal. His enemies seemed to have given up the trail. But Gunn could be ferocious in her persistence. It had paid off with bits and pieces of information. As the trail lengthened, crisscrossed, disappeared and reappeared, her dossier on him grew fatter. And yet, after seven weeks, she felt she knew little more than what was on paper.
Basics. Period.
She had memorized every line, waiting for some incidental bit of information that might intersect what she already knew and provide a valuable clue.
Francis Xavier O’Hara: Born San Diego, 21 December 1944. Father: vice admiral in US Navy who had two destroyers blown out from under him by kamikaze at Okinawa. Stationed briefly at San Diego in early 1944. Mother: Ph.D. in languages and history, Cambridge. Died when O’Hara was fourteen. Father commanding officer, US Naval Station, Osaka, Japan, for five years until retirement; remained in Japan after retiring until his death in 1968. O’Hara graduate of American high school, Osaka, 1963; University of Tokyo (majors: languages and history), 1967; graduate degree, Oriental philosophy, 1968. Trained in kendo, tai chi, karate and Shinto discipline. Hobbies: scuba diving, karate, kendo, chess, cross-sticks, and dogs, particularly akitas, probably because they are native to Japan. Nickname: called Kazuo, by Japanese friends. Enlisted US Navy as ensign, 1968; assigned naval intelligence and reassigned to the CIA, 1970; specialty:
counterespionage, also involved in covert actions. Resigned 1975. Free-lance writer specializing in investigative reporting, 1976 until 1978. Went underground soon after publishing series for the Washington Post on CIA illegal covert operations in Africa, Asia and the Caribbean.
There were some personal references—from teachers, former shipmates, fellow agents, friends, two women he had lived with briefly at different times. There was also hat size, 7; shoe size, 10; weight, 162; height, 5’l0”; hair, sandy; eyes, green. No scars. The usual things that pop up in a computer analysis.
Basics.
Yet the more she learned, the more determined she was to find him.
Then the break came. It was the dog that did it.
She had interviewed some old friends of O’Hara’s in San Francisco, Don Smith, a managing editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, and his wife, Rose, who ‘was with the ballet company. They were cordial, but had not seen or heard from O’Hara in a couple of years. They were much more excited about their new puppy. A gift from a friend. It was an akita.
Her instincts hummed. She checked the American Kennel Club. She was interested in acquiring an akita. Could they tell her the breeder of the Smiths’ dog?
Yes, but it would take a few days.
Then she got word from the kennel club. The dog had been bred in Kyoto. The sire’s name was Kazuo. The name plucked a nerve. She went back to her notes. Kazuo was O’Hara’s Japanese nickname. The owner of the dog was listed as Akira Kimura. Kyoto was almost a suburb of Osaka, where O’Hara had spent most of his youth.
She had catnapped her way across the Pacific, trying desperately to scan a Fodor’s guide to Japan and an English - Japanese dictionary. She had been tired when she left San Francisco and by the time she landed in ‘Tokyo, ten hours later, she was exhausted; wracked with jet tag, sick of bad food, weary from lack of sleep and piqued with frustration.
What the hell was she doing there? In a strange land she knew nothing about, staying in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese hotel, rather than a big American spread. Thousands of miles from home. Alone. And chasing a ghost.
Terrific, Gunn, way to go. Little wonder O’Hara had eluded a dozen or more money-hungry assassins. He was as elusive as a dream. A bad dream at that.
If O’Hara was alive, and at this point she really wasn’t too sure about that, he had to be here. She felt it. It was the only place left in the world where he might find sanctuary.