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Randkin ignored the barb. “There was a virus in the glass jar. But it wasn’t lethal.”

That was Lake’s first surprise of the evening. “What?”

“It would have made a bunch of people sick. Maybe even killed a few people here and there who had other physical problems, but it was basically a non-lethal virus. That’s why Feliks sent me to meet you.”

Lake rubbed his forehead. “I killed three men over that virus.”

“You didn’t know that it wasn’t lethal,” Randkin said. “No reason to. Your wet work was justified.”

“That’s not the worry,” Lake said. “What concerns me is that maybe this was a test-run and I shot up my only link in the chain. Maybe somebody wanted to see if it was possible to get some dumb-shit Patriots to do this sort of thing.”

“Feliks did express some concern about the same thing,” Randkin dryly noted. “But there might have been another purpose to the entire episode.”

Lake had been considering the situation. “To make the attack public and point the finger at the Japanese without causing a major disaster, but hinting at one.”

“Correct.”

“And the Patriots would love that,” “Lake noted.

“Not just the Patriots,” Randkin said. “The automobile industry. The entire Republican Party. The American Legion. Wall Street. There’re a whole lot of people in this country right now that are just itching for an excuse to go after the Japanese. The sanctions Clinton started and this administration picked up have backfired and we aren’t winning this trade war. The Japanese aren’t winning either, which in a way makes it worse all around. The Tokyo market crash last year shows that, but the man on the street doesn’t care about what’s happening in Japan. He only cares about what’s happening in his home burg.

“So we know it was a setup,” Randkin concluded. “We just don’t know who was behind it.”

“And Feliks wants a name,” Lake said.

“Correct. Feliks also is concerned about the third man. We checked him out. Fingerprints weren’t on record. His image isn’t on record either. We don’t have a clue who he is. Genetics indicates he has Japanese ancestry. That doesn’t jive with a Patriot operation. You never saw this guy before?” Randkin asked, holding out a morgue photo of the man from the boat.

“I told Feliks that,” Lake said, taking the photo.

“Feliks told me to double-check.”

“You’ve double-checked,” Lake said “Hey, don’t jump my case!” Randkin looked around nervously. “Hey, Feliks is upset about something. Some weird stuff is going on, so everyone’s a little uptight.”

“What kind of weird stuff?” Lake asked.

“If I knew, it wouldn’t be weird,” Randkin said. “I just wouldn’t want Feliks after my ass. Some of the stuff I’ve heard about him…” Randkin paused, then shrugged. “Anyway, one more thing about our friend there,” he said.

“Yes?” Lake asked irritably. He didn’t like being drip fed and Randkin’s vague comments bothered him.

“He had a tattoo removed shortly before this operation.” Randkin handed over another photo. It showed a large patch of pink skin on the man’s upper right arm.

“Any idea what the tattoo was of?” Lake asked.

“No, but the fact it was removed could—”

“I know what it could mean,” Lake snapped.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Randkin sniffed. “Feliks is very concerned about this whole situation.”

“Why?”

Randkin blinked. “What do you mean why?”

“I’ve been working for Feliks for a long time,” Lake said, “and on cases that looked bigger than this. He never showed as much interest as he is in this one.”

“A biological agent attack on San Francisco is serious,” Randkin said, as if speaking to a two-year-old.

Lake wasn’t happy. There had been no need for Feliks to be in San Francisco the other night and there was no need for Randkin to be here to give him information that they could just as easily transmit to him over the phone. Then there was Randkin acting strange.

“What about the Internet?” Lake asked. “Anything on the recruitment message that hooked Starry and Preston?”

“We’re running it,” Randkin said. “There’s so much crap that’s been on the Internet in the Patriot part of the Web that it’s taking longer than I thought it would. As soon as we get it, we’ll send it to you.”

Then what are you doing here, Lake thought. “Get this in the works,” Lake said, handing him the weapons list. “I need it in my drop by tomorrow evening.”

“A lead on the van people?”

“Maybe.”

“Feliks won’t accept a maybe.” Randkin looked at the piece of paper. “And he won’t give this hardware away to just—”

“I stand on my record,” Lake cut in.

“You may, but I have to go back to Feliks and I don’t want your record standing on my shoulders when the ship goes down.”

“The people who want those weapons are Asian,” Lake said, noting that he’d given Randkin his surprise of the evening. “Japanese? Going to — the Patriots for guns?”

“I don’t know,” Lake said. “I’ll know when I see them and give them their guns. Maybe they have tattoos on their upper-right arm. How the fuck do I know until I get the guns? I got the order through a Patriot cutout, which is kind of different by itself. So maybe there’s something here.”

Randkin fingered the note, then put it in his pocket. “You didn’t have to be so hard on those feds. They were just doing a job. They didn’t know they were bait in your game to keep your cover floating.”

“Maybe they’ll treat citizens like citizens next time they go on the street.”

“Yes, and maybe next time they’ll bust someone’s head.”

“Lots of maybes in the world,” Lake said. He walked back off to the south, his mind full of troubled thoughts.

SATURDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1997
1:12 P.M. LOCAL

The phone rang, shattering the silence of the room. Nishin stared at it. No one knew he was in here. Perhaps a wrong number. It rang six times, then stopped^ He went back to doing elevated push-ups, feet up on the bed. He was working out the soreness accumulated on his last mission. The pain felt good.

The phone rang again. Nishin stopped and hopped to his feet. He walked over to the cheap table next to the bed and stared at the ancient black instrument. On the fourth ring he picked it up and held it to his ear without making a noise.

A voice spoke in Japanese. “Senso to Kyonsanshugi. By Takeo Mitamura.” The phone went dead and Nishin slowly lowered it back onto its cradle.

He taped the Plexiglas knife to his stomach, then strapped the Brown High Power on, putting a short blue windbreaker on over the gun. The AUG was in its case and he took that with him. The rest of his meager belongings went into a gym bag. He wiped down the room. By the time he was done there was no sign he had ever been there. He jammed a chair up against the door. Someone would really have to want to get in to open that door. It might gain him a couple of days.

He took the fire escape down to the back alley. Six blocks away, he checked into another flophouse, reserving a room, for a week. He went upstairs, deposited the AUG case and the gym bag, then left, this time by the back staircase.

His new hotel was three miles from the Japan Center and he made it almost twice as long by zigzagging and occasionally doubling back on himself.

He knew where the Yotoku Miyagi bookstore was, but he approached it slowly. He sat, for a half-hour a block away, watching customers going in and out. Finally he went into the store. The young woman from the previous evening was not there. An older man stood behind the counter. Nishin gave him the book title and author in Japanese.