The best pickings of all had come in Japan. The scale of corruption in the second-most-powerful economy in the world was, for the three men, beautiful to behold. And what better cover for their operations than the CIA, with its obsession with secrecy.
As station chief, Schwanberg had brought ‘need to know’ and compartmentalization to such a high art that not only did few people know what the others in the station were doing, but Langley counterintelligence had even praised him for his operational security. They were right. Schwanberg attached great importance to operational security, even if it had little to do with the well-being of the United States. And operational security meant leaving no loose ends.
"We've lost the North Korean thing," said Palmer, a thickset, hard-faced man in his mid-forties who was the muscle of the private team. "Your pal Fitzduane and that Koancho chick have fucked us. Namaka Special Steels is now crawling with cops."
Schwanberg shrugged. Hodama's refusal to pay more was what had precipitated the move against him and his supporters, and their involvement in supplying North Korea had always been difficult to handle. The private team could not be seen to be overtly involved in the enterprise. That would have given Hodama and the Namakas too much leverage. Skimming was one thing. Direct involvement in supplying a hostile foreign power was something else.
Instead, Schwanberg had tried to squeeze some of the nuclear profits from Hodama and the Namakas without letting on that they knew about the North Korean deal, and the effort had backfired. They had not realized that the Namakas were in such a financial mess and could not pay more even if they had wanted to. But once they discovered that, there was only one logical move. Destroy Hodama and the Namakas and bring in a new, financially stronger kuromaku. Enter Katsuda, who had his own reasons to do the actual work. It was perfect.
"The Namakas were a lost cause anyway," said Schwanberg, "and now Kei is dead and that's one less person who knows about us. Also, look on the bright side. The North Koreans are now going to be screaming for product, which is going to raise the price. And there are other plants around. Relax, we'll work something out. We'll channel it through Katsuda."
"I've got two concerns," said Spencer Green, the third member of the private team, "the cop, Adachi, and Bergin." Green was tall, thin, balding, and looked like the bookkeeper that he was. He handled the paperwork for the group's operations. He was something of an administrative genius, but he was a worrier. "Adachi is now back on duty and he is pursuing the Hodama investigation with a vengeance. And Hodama was our main connection. Just suppose Adachi turns up something. A link with us. Hell, we know he kept audio- and videotapes. Suppose we missed something."
"Why do you think I went along on the Hodama hit?" said Schwanberg, irritated, "except to sanitize the place? I missed fucking nothing. Unless, of course, one of the hit team displayed some private initiative." He thought for a moment. "Like that bent cop, Fujiwara. Anyway, if Adachi turns up something, we should be the first to know. The guy is bugged to his eyeballs, and we've still got friends on the inside."
"So what's this about Bergin, Spence?" said Palmer. "The guy's retired. He's practically senile."
Green shook his head. "I dunno," he said, "he's been talking to people. I think he's up to something. In my opinion, if he doesn't know, he at least suspects. The guy may be old, but he's no fool, and my gut tells me he's still a player."
Schwanberg was silent, thinking about what had been said. There was some merit in being concerned about Adachi, he thought, but he really could not see Bergin posing any threat. Of course the guy had lunch with his old friends every now and then. He must go nuts rotting out in that little Jap village.
He looked across at Green. "So, Spence, what does your gut tell you about Fitzduane?"
Green smiled. "Namaka Special Steels apart," he said, "Fitzduane's no problem. On the contrary, we're on the same side. There is still one Namaka brother to go, and it looks like he's going to do the job for us. Now, what could be neater?"
"It's nice to see you smile, Spence," said Schwanberg thinly. "You should smile more and worry less." He nodded at Palmer. "Chuck, let's talk some more about Adachi-san. We were unlucky last time. Let's have no mistakes the second time around. And after Adachi, let's put something terminal in the pipeline for Fitzduane. He is going to be useful in the short term, but I don't trust the fucker."
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
July 1
General Kilmara donned earmuffs and peered through the thirty-power spotting telescope. It was matched to the telescopic sight the sniper was using.
A target eighteen hundred meters away looked as if it was within sixty meters, easy hailing distance. Alternatively, every body tremor or movement was magnified thirty times. The latter was the downside of long-range shooting. The very business of staying alive, of your heart pumping, your nervous system reacting to its surrounds, of doing something as utterly normal as breathing, worked against you. The issue was leverage. The more accurate your rifle, the more the slightest movement — if your point of aim was initially correct — would send the round off target. And that was just the beginning.
Other factors entered the equation. Wind and weather were the major ones, but there were many others.
Was the propellant blended properly? Were the grooves in the barrel perfectly machined? Was there wear? Had a shade too much oil been applied with the pull-through?
Kilmara had watched the finest of shooters at their art and afterward had spoken to many of them. He was not a religious man, but eventually he had come to the conclusion that with those at the pinnacle of perfection, it was more than a matter of science. It was almost something mystical.
The figure lying prone twenty meters away was oblivious to him. He lay there as if in a trance until the three random targets popped up.
There was a pause of about half a second as the shooter absorbed the visual information and mentally programmed ahead the three-shot firing sequence, and then the huge .50-caliber semiautomatic Barrett gave its distinctive, deep, repetitive crack. The muzzle brake absorbed most of the shock, and dust rose in the air from the deflected blast.
Three hits. All were within the kill zone, though one was near the edge. Given the lethality of the multipurpose armor-piercing explosive ammunition all hits would have been instantly fatal, but the sniper shook his head disgustedly. Since the shooting of Fitzduane, he had become obsessive and practiced at every conceivable opportunity.
That day, he should have been faster. The image of the consequences of being slower than his aspirational optimum stayed with him. A little boy, whose back of the head had been laid open in a crimson line. Fitzduane lying there, soaked in blood as if he had been bathed in it, the light fading from his eyes.
It was not good enough. Deep inside, he knew it. He could — he really could — do better.
Kilmara left the spotting telescope and walked over to the shooter. The man had risen to his feet and was engaged in the routine rituals of range safety management. There was the final check that his weapon was safe and his magazine clear, and only then did Kilmara speak.
"Remember Colonel Fitzduane, Al?"