CHAPTER 14
Lake shook like a dog, spraying water all over the concrete sidewalk. He jogged down the street, as much from a need to rush as to keep warm. He came to the corner across from the Yacht Club and came to an abrupt halt. Peggy Harmon’s Blazer was gone. Slowly he walked across the street to the spot where it had been parked. There was no broken glass, no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate why she had left.
Lake looked about. Had the police come by? Feliks’s men? But there was no reason they should know anything about her or that she would be parked here. Unless I was followed, Lake realized. He didn’t think he had been and he had checked continuously, but he had no doubt that the Ranch could probably put surveillance on him that he couldn’t spot.
Lake shook again and less water came off this time. He reached into his coat and pulled out the Ziploc ‘bag holding his portable phone. He punched in the number for Jonas’s portable. After it rang eight times without answer he reluctantly pushed the send again and dialed Peggy’s home number. He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one. Then he tried her office. Slowly he pushed the power-off button.
Lake spoke to the empty parking lot, feeling as abandoned as the empty tar. “Damn, Peggy, I hope you’re all right.” He’d gotten her into this and now he didn’t even know where she was to get her out of it.
Turning the phone back on, Lake dialed the cellular number that Araki had given him. Again the phone rang with no answer. “Damn,” Lake muttered. He wished now that he’d told Araki where the bomb was. At least then the Japanese would take care of it. He dialed in a different number and got the Ranch automated switchboard. He punched in a three code extension. This time the phone was answered. “Randkin here.”
“Randkin, it’s Lake. I have a question for you.”
“Reference?” Randkin was all business. Lake knew he was used to being asked all sorts of strange technical questions at strange hours.
‘ The atom bombs we used in World War II at Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” Lake began, then stopped to think how he could phrase the question.
“Little Boy and Fat Boy,” Randkin filled in. “Excuse me?” Lake was shaken out of his thoughts.
“That’s what they were called. Little Boy was dropped on Hiroshima, then Fat Boy on Nagasaki.”
“Okay,” Lake said. He knew he didn’t have much time. He was surprised his phone hadn’t been cut off by Feliks yet, but he figured that the man had a lot on his mind at the present moment. “If one of those type atomic weapons had not been used, say it was stored somewhere for all these years, would it still be capable of functioning?” “What do you mean stored?” Randkin asked.
“You know, just put somewhere and left.”
“Have you found something we should know about?” Randkin asked.
“Just answer the damn question,” Lake snapped.
“Well, those were actually two very different types of bombs,” Randkin said. “Little Boy was a uranium fission bomb while Fat Boy was more advanced, using plutonium.” “I don’t want to build one,” Lake said, looking about the deserted streets. “Just tell me, would one still be functioning after all these years? Would it go off if you pushed the right button?”
“Maybe,” Randkin said.
“Maybe?” Lake repeated. “What are the odds?”
“That’s hard to say. There’s so many variables. The biggest question I would have is what is the firing mechanism? Electrical or explosive? If it’s electrical, then—”
“I don’t know what the triggering mechanism is,” Lake cut in. “So you’re telling me it’s possible such a bomb could go off if fired?”
“Those early bombs were made very simply,” Randkin said. “There’s not much—”
“Yes or no,” Lake cut in.
“Yes.” There was a pause. “You’ve found one, haven’t you?”
“Not yet,” Lake said, snapping shut the portable and putting it back in the Ziploc bag.
Standing perfectly still, Lake closed his eyes and thought. Priorities. Options.
“Fuck you, Feliks, I don’t think you know shit,” Lake muttered as he slowly opened his eyes and looked to his right at the boats berthed in their slips at the Yacht Club. He spotted what he was looking for three lines over. A thirty-four-foot boat, capable of taking the heavy swell of the ocean with its powerful engines. More importantly, it had an entryway and ladder off the rear that scuba enthusiasts had built into boats for ease in entering the water.
Lake hopped on board and checked the cabin. As he had hoped, he found a set of scuba tanks and a regulator stowed in one of the lockers below decks. He checked the bleed and the tanks were about two-thirds full. He carried them up on deck and set them down.
The ignition was easily hot-wired. Lake untied the lines and stowed them as the engine warmed up. He peeled off his clothes until all he was wearing was the wet suit he’d had on underneath. The stainless-steel Hush Puppy was strapped to his shoulder. A double-edged commando knife was on his hip, while a dive knife was on his right ankle.
Pushing the dual throttles ahead, Lake eased out of the berth and made his way into San Francisco Bay. He could see the lighted arc of the Bay Bridge above and ahead. As soon as he was clear of the docks, he edged north five hundred meters from the shore until he could see the pier he had jumped off of. There were several vehicles parked there with the lights on. Lake killed the engine and rolled on the swell, all lights off, waiting. Finally, he could hear car engines start and a convoy left the pier and headed north along the Embarcadero.
Lake restarted the boat and pushed the throttle wide open. The bow slowly settled down and the boat hissed across the water at forty knots as he kept pace.
Nishin was tied to the right side of the tugboat’s bridge by a length of chain looped through the cord tying his hands together. He had about a foot of slack from the steel piping that made up the handrail for the stairs on that side of the bridge.
A dozen Yakuza armed with automatic weapons were scattered about the prow of the tug. Ohashi was on the bridge, his hands on the controls, Okomo by his side. The engine was running but the boat wasn’t moving. They were still tied to the pier by one rope, waiting.
A red Chevy Blazer pulled up and a woman got out. Nishin watched as she stood on the edge of the pier next to the gangplank, not looking down at the tug, but back along the dark length of concrete. He couldn’t make out much about her except she was tall and slim.
A pair of headlights cut the darkness, silhouetting the woman. A limousine pulled up to her position. She opened the back door and Nishin twisted, trying to see who was getting out. He could make out a figure shrouded in black. He stood on his toes, and then the side of his head exploded. AH he could see was red as he dropped to his knees, kept from falling off the boat by the chain.
“If I want you to look, I will tell you,” Okomo hissed in his ear. “If I want you to breathe, I will tell you.” The old man’s gnarled hand grabbed Nishin’s chin and twisted his head. “Do you want to know why I even have your worthless carcass on board?”
Nishin tried to blink blood out of his eyes. “You fear the wrath of the Black Ocean, you pig.”
Okomo laughed. “You are so stupid. I have you here because you have a transmitter in you. We picked it up when you came calling the first time at my headquarters. We do not only check for weapons, we check for electronic transmissions when you walk through the corridor just before the stairs. At first we thought you were trying to record our conversation, but when my electronic experts analyzed the data, they said it was a beacon.” He shook Nishin’s head. “Did you know you were bugged?”