Hiroshi had generally ignored young Wolfgang until the child’s twelfth year, at which point Gregor von Rensel, aware of impending puberty, had had a quiet word.
With patience and quiet persistence, Hiroshi had infiltrated Wolfgang’s nonschool hours, skillfully bringing the prepubescent boy into his orbit and teaching him the essential arts of manhood. To the young Wolfgang’s eyes, Hiroshi was an aloof, taciturn, stoical man of little apparent humor who was inexplicably starting to take up a lot of his time.
But over the next three years, the rapidly growing teenager was exposed to the best concepts of the Japanese upperclass traditions: a strong sense of honor, an -awareness that there was such a thing as duty, and the iinpoilance of personal integrity. Hiroshi had come from a military family and had received extensive military -training in anticipation of -the impending U.S. invasion of the home islands. When the time came to instruct his new master’s son in the duties of manhood, he imparted a high regard for personal selfsufficiency, including extensive and daily instruction in the martial arts.
Content with Hiroshi’s work, Train’s father insisted on boarding school as the next step, then prelaw at the University of Virginia. It had been Train’s . idea to try military service, and he served for thirteen years in the Marine Corps, first as an infantry officer, and then, after time out for law school from 1975 to 1978, as a Marine Corps JAG officer until 1983.
Two factors drove him to resign his commission in the Marines: the increasingly complex demands of managing his financial affairs after his father’s death in 1982, and the fact that he had developed a passion for the art of investigation, following an assignment to prosecute a widespread contracting-fraud ring with foreign government industrialespionage overtones in 1980. He put away his major’s uniform in late W83, and he split the next eleven years between the Office of Naval Intelligence and, later, the Naval Investigative Service. He operated increasingly as an independent investigator, to whom his superiors often turned to handle those politically sensitive cases that needed as much discretion as detective work He sighed as the traffic restarted and then groaned immediately to a stop again. Although Train was one of the very few -people out on the interstate who did not have any particular deadline by which to get home, the house at Aquia was increasin gly his little island of tranquillity along the Potomac-a tranquillity he sincerely hoped was not about to be disturbed by the appearance of a rogue SEAL. Maybe he could ask around the NIS operations directorate tomorrow, talk to some of the people who’d worked with the SEALS, see if anybody had ever heard of this guy.
THURSDAY Karen called Admiral Sherman’s office the next morning at nine to relay the message about the proposed meeting.
Mcnair had agreed to meet with Admiral Sherman at his house, as requested. The yeoman put her on hold and then came back on the line.
“Admiral asked if you can come down here commander.
Says something’s come up.”
She agreed and hung up. Now what? She looked around to see if Train von Rensel was in yet, but then she remembered he had to go back over to NIS to close out some files.
She gathered her purse and headed down the corridor to Sherman’s office.
“Good morning, Admiral,” she said, waiting to see what had precipitated his request for her to come down., “Developments,” he began, after they had exchanged greetings. “OP-03 himself, Vice Admiral Kensington, apparently wants to see me. His deputy just called down ten minutes ago. l suspect it has to do with this Fairfax police visit. I’d like you to go with me.”
“My, my,” she said. “Word gets-around.”
He smiled ruefully. “Indeed it does. That flag-protection network people are always talking about. Sometimes it works too well. I found out earlier that Admiral Kensington had sent down for my bio. Do you know Kensington?”
“No, sir. Other than who he is.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a surface nuke. His full name is Vice Admiral Richard Millard Kensington. No nickname, except the occasional play on Millard.
Spend about five minutes with him and you’ll see why. Archetypical nuclear-trained officer. All business, all the time. Whenever he talks to the division directors, he speaks from a collection of three-by-five index cards.”
Sherman’s yeoman knocked and stuck his head in the doorway. “Admiral Vannoyt’s office called down, Admiral. 03’s available, sir.”
“Available. I love it. I guess it beats yelling down the passageway for me to get my bucket up there,” Sherman said, getting up and reaching for his jacket. “Rear Admiral Vannoyt is Kensington’s deputy,” he told Karen as he opened the door for her. “When the summons from Kensington comes down formally through Vannoyt, it means this is not going to be a social call. Which is why I wanted someone from JAG in the lion’s den with me.
That okay with you?”
She smiled bravely. “Wouldn’t miss it, Admiral.”
“You lie ‘well, Commander. What is it the Army guys say?”We’re behind you, Major. Way behind you, if we can manage it.’ Vice Admiral Kensington’s E-ring office was comfortably appointed, as befitted a senior three-star. A window wall gave a fine view of the Pentagon heliport four floors below, beyond which sprawled the marble-dotted hillsides of Arlington Cemetery, visible in the middle distance across Washington Boulevard. The view reminded Karen of that poignant sixties poster, an aerial view showing the Pentagon in the foreground and Arlington cemetery in perspective, under which were the words THE PENTACON AND ITS, PROD UCT. There were two couches, several leather armchairs, and a large mahogany conference table. At the end away from the windows Was a very large mahogany desk, behind which sat the austere figure of Vice Admiral Kensington. He was wearing his jacket fully buttoned, an affectation that had to be very uncomfortable. He was obviously a tall man, and he had a humorless, stony face that reminded Karen of a cardinal she had seen once in a Shakespearean movie.
Admiral Vannoyt remained standing and announced Sherman’s presence.
Kensington was concentrating on a staffing folder and did not look up for several seconds. Karen, standing to one side of Admiral Sherman, watched the interplay among the three flag officers. Vannoyt focused at a point somewhere behind and over Kensington’s head, his face expressionless, his physical position indicating a clear distance between himself and Sherman. Then Kensington looked up, first at Vannoyt and then at Sherman. He ignored Karen completely. He had piercing gray eyes and he stared directly at Sherman with the unblinking gaze of a fire-control radar.
“Admiral,” Kensington said in a dry, nasal voice. “Are you in some kind of difficulty?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Admiral,” Sherman replied, which surprised Karen. His answer sounded evasive.
“Sure enough to be working with counsel from the JAG’s office, Admiral,”
Kensington replied, flicking a glance at Karen. “I have two questions: What’s it all about? And why am I finding out about it from my executive assistant and not from you?”
Good questions, Karen thought. She saw Vannoyt move over to a chair and sit down, bringing Sherman’s little joke about being behind you, way behind you, to mind.
“I didn’t come tell you about it because I have very few facts, Admiral,” Sherman replied. “You’ve stressed the importance of facts many times. But, basically, a woman with whom I had a relationship for a few years was found dead in her home last Friday. The police investigated, made a preliminary determination that her death was accidental, but then they learned that she had named me as the beneficiary in a life-insurance policy. They came calling via Admiral Carpenter’s office Tuesday morning to talk about it. To my knowledge, that’s it. I’m going to meet with them again tonight to make sure there are no more questions. Commander Lawrence here is from Navy JAG, and she is acting as liaison with the police.”