Showalter nodded. “That’s pretty slick.”
“Even our Japanese brothers have to take a back seat to our home-grown eavesdropping technology.” Hanamura smiled widely. “The relay transmitter, which is about the size of a golf ball, sends all conversations, including telephone or intercom calls from the office bugs, to one of our satellites, and then beams them down to Mel Penner and his Team Chrysler on Palau.”
Orita stared into the water. “Do we know for certain if they’re picking up Suma’s conversations?”
“The system is fully operational,” Showalter assured him. “I contacted Penner before I left for our meeting. He’s receiving the signals loud and clear. And so are we. A member of my team at the embassy is also tuned in on Jim’s listening gear.”
“You’ll alert us, I hope, if any information comes through that we can use in the investigation.”
“Absolutely.” Showalter poured himself another saki. “As a matter of interest, there was an intriguing conversation going on between Suma and Korori Yoshishu when I left the embassy. Too bad I only caught the first couple of minutes of it.”
“Yoshishu,” muttered Hanamura. “Good lord, is that old crook still alive?”
“Ninety-one and rotten as ever,” answered Showalter.
Hanamura shook his head. “The master criminal of the age, personally responsible for more than a million deaths. If Yoshishu is behind Suma and a worldwide organization of hidden nuclear warheads, we’re all in deep, deep trouble.”
An hour before dawn a Murmoto limousine pulled to a stop and a figure stepped from the shadows and quickly ducked through the opened door. Then the car crawled slowly through the narrow back streets of Asakusa.
“Mr. Suma’s office is bugged,” said Orita. “One of our agents posing as an art dealer hid sophisticated listening devices in the frame of a painting, an easel, and the draw pull of the window blinds.”
“Are you certain?” demanded a stunned Kamatori. “The dealer produced an original Shimzu.”
“A fake painted from a satellite photo.”
Kamatori hissed. “You should have informed me sooner.”
“I only learned of it a few hours ago.”
Kamatori said nothing but stared at Orita’s face in the semi darkness of the limousine as if reinforcing his trust.
Like George Furukawa, Roy Orita was an intelligence sleeper, born in the United States of Japanese parents and groomed for employment in the CIA.
Finally Kamatori said, “Much was said this afternoon that could prove damaging to Mr. Suma. There can be no mistake about this?”
“Did the dealer say his name was Ashikaga Enshu?”
Kamatori felt shock mingled with shame. His job was to protect Suma’s organization from penetration. He had failed miserably and lost much face.
“Yes, Enshu.”
“His real name is James Hanamura. The other half of my team whose job is to investigate the source of the nuclear car bombs.”
“Who fathomed the tie between the cars and the warheads?”
“An amateur by the name of Dirk Pitt. He was borrowed from the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
“Is he dangerous to us?”
“He might cause trouble. I can’t say for sure. He’s not assigned to the investigative operations. But he does have an awesome reputation for successfully carrying through impossible projects.”
Kamatori sat back and idly stared out the window at the darkened buildings. At last he turned to Orita.
“Can you give me a list of names of the agents you’re working with and provide updates on their activities?”
Orita nodded. “The list of names, yes. The activities, no way. We all work separately. Like a magical act, no one knows what the other hand is doing.”
“Keep me informed as best you can.”
“What do you intend to do about Pitt?”
Kamatori looked at Orita with venom in his cold eyes. “If a safe opportunity arises, kill him.”
29
GUIDED BY LOREN SMITH on one side and Al Giordino on the other, Pitt backed the Stutz town car down the ramps of a trailer and parked it between a red 1926 Hispano-Suiza, a big cabriolet manufactured in France, and a beautiful 1931 Marmon V-16 town car. He cocked an ear and listened to the engine a minute, revving the rpm’s, satisfying himself it was turning over smoothly without a miss. Then he switched off the ignition.
It was an Indian summer day. The sky was clear and warm for early fall. Pitt wore corduroy slacks and a suede sport coat, while Loren looked radiant in a dusty rose jumpsuit.
While Giordino moved the pickup truck and trailer to a parking lot, Loren stood on the running board of the Stutz and gazed at the field of over a hundred classic cars arranged around the infield of the Virginia Memorial racetrack. The concours d’elegance, a show where the cars were judged on appearance, was combined with one-lap races around the track between classic vehicles designed and built as road and tour cars.
“They’re all so gorgeous,” Loren said wonderingly. “I’ve never seen so many exotic cars in one place.”
“Stiff competition,
Pitt said as he raised the hood and wiped down the engine. “I’ll be lucky to take a third in my class.”
“When is the judging?”
“Any time.”
“And the races?”
“After the concours, winners are announced and the awards passed out.”
“What car will you race against?”
“According to the program, the red Hispano next to us.”
Loren eyed the attractive Paris-built drop-head cabriolet. “Think you can beat it?”
“I don’t know. The Stutz is six years newer, but the Hispano has a larger engine and a lighter body.”
Giordino approached and announced, “I’m hungry. When do we eat?”
Loren laughed, gave Giordino a light kiss on the cheek, and produced a picnic basket from the back seat of the Stutz. They sat on the grass and ate mortadella and brie with sourdough bread, accompanied with a pate and fruit and washed down by a bottle of Valley of the Moon zinfandel.
The judges came and began examining Pitt’s car for the contours. He was entered in Class D, American classic 1930 to 1941 closed top. After fifteen minutes of intense study, they shook his hand and moved off to the next car in his class, a 1933 Lincoln V12 Berline.
By the time Pitt and his friends had polished off the zinfandel, the winners were announced over the public announcement system. The Stutz came in third behind a 1938 Packard sport coupe and a 1934 Lincoln limousine.
Pitt had lost one and a half points out of a perfect hundred because the Stutz cigarette lighter didn’t work and the exhaust system did not strictly adhere to the original design.
“Better than I expected,” said Pitt proudly. “I didn’t think we’d place.”
“Congratulations,” said Frank Mancuso.
Pitt stared blankly at the mining engineer who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Where did you pop from?”
“I heard through the grapevine you’d be here,” said Mancuso warmly, “so I thought I’d drop by, see the cars, and talk a little shop with you and Al.”
“Time for us to go to work?”
“Not yet.”
Pitt turned and introduced Mancuso to Loren. Giordino simply nodded and passed the newcomer a glass of wine from a newly opened bottle. Mancuso’s eyes widened when he was introduced to Loren.
He looked at Pitt with an approving expression, then nodded at Loren and the Stutz. “Two classic beauties. You have excellent taste.”
Pitt smiled slyly. “I do what I can.”
“That’s quite a car,” Mancuso said, eyeing the lines of the Stutz. “LeBaron coachwork, isn’t it?”
“Very good. You into old automobiles?”
“My brother is a car nut. I soaked up what little I know about them from him.” He motioned up the aisle separating the line of cars. “Would you care to give me a guided lecture on all this fine machinery?”