“Yes, mamma,” said Weatherhill jovially. “I’m leaving this sweat box now and going to work.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Will do. I wouldn’t think of running out on you.”
Removing the false panel from behind and below the rear seat and unraveling his body from its contorted position, Weatherhill crawled into the enclosed luggage area of the third Murmoto loaded in the trailer. He sprung the lock from the inside and swung the rear hatch up and open. Then he climbed out, stood up, and stretched his aching joints.
Weatherhill had suffered in his cramped position for nearly four hours after a special team of customs agents helped conceal him in the car before Furukawa and the truck arrived. The sun beating on the roof and the lack of ventilation—the windows could not even be cracked for fear of arousing suspicion by the truck drivers—soon had him drenched in sweat. He never thought he would find himself sick of a new car smell.
The interior of the trailer was dark. He took a flashlight from a pouch he carried on the belt of a nondescript auto mechanic’s uniform and beamed it around the cars tied down inside the trailer. Two were on ramps above the two on the floor below.
Since the truck was traveling over a level California freeway and the ride in the trailer was smooth, Weatherhill decided to examine the Murmotos on the upper ramp first. He climbed up and quietly opened the hood of the one nearest the driver’s cab. Then he removed a small radiation analyzer from the pouch and studied the readout as he circled it around the auto’s airconditioning compressor unit.
He wrote the readings on the back of his hand. Next he laid out a set of compact tools on the fender. He paused and spoke into the radio.
“Hello, Team Buick.”
“Come in,” Stacy answered.
“Beginning exploratory operation.”
“Don’t slip and cut an artery.”
“Never fear.”
“Standing by.”
Within fifteen minutes, Weatherhill had disassembled the compressor case and examined the bomb. He was mildly disappointed. The design was not as advanced as he predicted. Clever, yes, but he could have devised and built a more efficient and destructive unit by himself.
He froze as he heard the sound of the air brakes and felt the truck slow. But it was only taking an off-ramp to another freeway and soon speeded up again. He reassembled the compressor and signaled Stacy.
“Still with me’?” he asked briefly.
“Still here,” answered Stacy.
“Where am I?”
“Passing through West Covina. Heading east toward San Bernardino.”
“I’ve withdrawn the account and have no more business at the bank,” he radioed. “What stop should I depart the bus?”
“One moment while I check the schedule,” Stacy acknowledged. After a few moments she came back. “There’s a weight station this side of Indio. It’s mandatory. The drivers will have to stop for inspection. If for some reason they turn off, we’ll plan on having them pulled over by a sheriff’s car. Otherwise you should arrive at the weight station in another forty-five or fifty minutes.”
“See you there,” said Weatherhill.
“Enjoy your trip.”
Like most undercover agents, whose adrenaline pumps during the critical stages of an operation, now that the difficult part was behind him, Weatherhill quickly relaxed and became bored with nothing to do. All that remained now was for him to climb through the fume ventilators on the roof and drop down behind the trailer out of view of the drivers’ side mirrors.
He opened the glove box and pulled out the packet containing the car’s warranty papers and owner’s manual. Switching on the interior lights, Weatherhill idly began thumbing through the manual. Though his prime expertise was nuclear physics, he was always fascinated by electronics. He turned to the page displaying the Murmoto’s electrical diagram with the intention of tracing out the wiring.
But the page in the manual was no electrical wiring diagram. It was a map with instructions for placing the cars in their designated positions for detonation.
Suma’s strategy became so boldly obvious to Weatherhill that he had to force himself to believe it. The car bombs were not simply part of a threat to protect Japan’s economic expansionist plans. The fear and the horror were real.
They were meant to be used.
35
AT LEAST TEN years had passed since Raymond Jordan forced an entry, certainly not since he worked up through the ranks as a field agent. On a whim he decided to see if he still had the touch.
He inserted a tiny computer probe into the wires on the security alarm system of Pitt’s hangar. He pressed a button and backwashed the combination into the probe. The alarm box recognized the code and gave it to him on an LED display. Then with a deceptive ease and nonchalance, he punched the appropriate combination that turned off the alarm, picked the lock to the door, and stepped soundlessly inside.
He spied Pitt kneeling in front of the turquoise Stutz, back toward him, at the far end of the hangar. Pitt seemed intent on repairing a headlight.
Jordan stood unobserved and gazed over the collection. He was astonished it was so extensive. He’d heard Sandecker speak of it, but verbal description failed to do it justice. Softly he walked behind the first row of cars, circled around, and approached Pitt from under the apartment side of the hangar. It was a test. He was curious as to Pitt’s reaction to an intruder who suddenly appeared within arm’s reach.
Jordan paused before he closed the final three meters and studied Pitt and the car for a moment. The Stutz was badly scratched in many areas and would require a new paint job. The windshield was cracked and the left front headlight seemed to be dangling by a wire.
Pitt was dressed casually, wearing a pair of corduroy pants and a knit sweater. His black hair was wavy and carelessly brushed. There was a decisive look about him, the green eyes were set under heavy black eyebrows and had a piercing quality that seemed to transfix whatever they were aimed at. He looked to be screwing the headlight lens into a chrome rim.
Jordan was in midstep when Pitt suddenly spoke without turning. “Good evening, Mr. Jordan. Good of you to drop in.”
Jordan froze, but Pitt went on with his work with the indifferent air of a bus driver expecting the correct change from a fare.
“I should have knocked.”
“No need. I knew you were on the premises.”
“Are you hyperperceptive or do you have eyes in the back of your head?” asked Jordan, moving slowly into Pitt’s peripheral vision.
Pitt looked up and grinned. He lifted and tilted the old headlight’s reflector that revealed Jordan’s image on its silver surface. “I observed your tour of the hangar. Your entry was most professional. I’d judge it didn’t take you more than twenty seconds.”
“Missed spotting a back-up video camera. I must be getting senile.”
“Across the road on top of the telephone pole. Most visitors spot the one hanging on the building. Infrared. It activates an alert chime when a body moves near the door.”
“You have an incredible collection,” Jordan complimented Pitt. “How long did it take you to build it?”
“I began with the maroon forty-seven Ford club coupe over there in the corner about twenty years ago, and collecting became a disease. Some I acquired during projects with NUMA, some I bought from private parties or at auctions. Antique and classic cars are investments you can flaunt. Far more fun than a painting.” Pitt finished screwing the headlight rim around its lens and rose to his feet. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“A glass of milk for an overstressed stomach sounds good.”
“Please come up.” Pitt gestured toward the stairs leading to his apartment. “I’m honored the head man came to see me instead of sending his deputy director.”