With his head out the window, Yoshida clearly heard the explosion as the piston blew and saw it rifle into the warehouse wall. Forgetting his mission, he rammed the shift into neutral, let out the clutch, and hauled on the parking brake. He ran to the truck and yanked open the driver’s door. The man inside sat stupefied, but apparently unhurt. Yoshida stepped up and helped the man out and over to the sidewalk.
The truck driver sat on the curb and in a reaction to shock, began to jabber his innocence of any wrongdoing.
Yoshida attempted to calm him and then noticed a stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. His first reaction was to glance at the truck. Then he whirled as he heard a shouting tumult behind him. A hundred yards away drivers were pouring out of their cars, and people were running frantically in both directions from a warehouse on the other side of the street. Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths or covered their eyes.
As Yoshida had been helping the driver from the truck, a window had shattered in the skylight of the warehouse. Below, an array of large cylindrical storage vessels held chlorine gas. Almost instantly, twin punctures appeared in the top and bottom of the cylinder directly beneath the skylight.
Jets of bilious yellow-green gas shot toward the ceiling and mushroomed out onto the floor. Within seconds a heavy layer of gas blanketed the warehouse. In a small office at the rear of the warehouse an employee was roused by the sound of cascading glass. He stepped out and was immediately assailed by the billowing fumes. In a panic he charged for the front door, his way blocked save for aisles among the huge containers. He tripped and fell, the pain of contact with the floor causing him a sharp intake of breath, a poisonous draft. He regained his feet and stumbled to the door, flinging it open and collapsing on the walk outside in a spasm of coughing. The dense gas flowed out the door and seeped around the choking figure.
Down the street, Yoshida could not identify the particular agent that assaulted his eyes and lungs, but he reacted to the shouts of gas! He joined the fleeing crowd racing among the stalled cars and trucks toward fresh air.
Thursday morning Isaacs raced into the office. There was a cable. Something had happened in Nagasaki! The reports were vague, fragmented. A gas leak. One person dead. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not this tantalizing irrelevancy. It was the right time and place; it had to be connected. But what did a gas leak have to do with their strange signal? Was there some puncture, like the Novorossiisk? He stole some moments with Danielson, and they agreed they had to concoct some way to get more information on the specifics. What had leaked? How? He felt a rise of panic. He needed time to think, to assimilate this, to plan, but there was none.
He returned to the mass of data culled from the signal intercepts of the Russian laser and hunter-killer satellites. He was supposed to be thinking like a Russian, anticipating them, but his mind was swimming with thoughts of Nagasaki when Kathleen put through the call from the Director.
It froze him to his chair, an ice storm raging through him.
He had been found out!
They knew everything. QUAKER. Nagasaki. Somehow McMasters had gotten onto him.
He was to report to the Director’s office at nine the following morning. His hand shook as he replaced the phone on the hook.
Isaacs fought to quell the churning in his bowels. He had not been so angry and frightened at one time since he’d been hauled before the principal in the third grade. He and a friend had been throwing rocks during recess, in violation of one of the strictest rules. His friend had broken the window, but he had run, leaving Isaacs to be caught with a stone in his hand. This was no schoolyard prank, however; this was the big time. He turned the knob and entered the room.
The Director of Central Intelligence motioned curtly for him to take a seat across from his desk. Isaacs did so, avoiding the venomous green eyes of McMasters who was already stationed at the opposite corner of the desk.
“Mr. Isaacs,” Drefke began. “I can’t express how shocked I am at the charges that have accumulated against you.” He spread his hand on the folder on his desk. “A man of your status and record. This is not petty malfeasance. I don’t want to overreact, but some of your recent behavior could be regarded as verging on treason.”
This word brought a wisp of smile to McMasters’ lips.
Drefke opened the file and scanned down it. “Unauthorized use of restricted computer data. Unauthorized consultation with Jason. Unauthorized access to field agents. Unauthorized use of photoreconnaissance facilities.” He looked hard at Isaacs, then clenched his fist in frustration. He wanted to work with the President on global issues, not to be involved with awkward disciplinary questions. Why had McMasters let these internal affairs get out of hand? What the hell did Isaacs think he was doing?
“Good Lord, man,” he spoke aloud. “Do you realize that on this basis alone I have virtually no choice but to ask for your resignation? And not just you, but Deputy Director Martinelli and this woman, uh, Danielson? They’ve conspired with you. Have you any idea of the turmoil in the Agency if I’m forced to let you all go?”
Isaacs started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat.
“What’s that?” demanded Drefke.
Isaacs tried again. “I said you can leave Martinelli and Danielson out of this. I coerced them.”
“You may want to leave them out now, but it’s too late,” McMasters’ voice was cool and smooth in his victory. Isaacs refused to look at him. “They allowed themselves to become involved. They must suffer the consequences.”
Damn my eyes, thought Isaacs. Danielson was bad enough; her low status is some protection since I can say I ordered her. But I shouldn’t have involved Martinelli. Photos from the U-2’s altitude relayed from a special scanner by satellite link showed virtually nothing useful anyway.
Drefke had his hand over his eyes, looking inward to struggle with the enormity of the final issue.
“How could you,” he removed his hand to stare at Isaacs in pain and anger, “how could you meet with them, the head of the Washington KGB, for chrissake, to reveal the President’s tactics in the confrontation over the new laser in Cosmos 2231? What could possibly induce you to sell out? To put the whole future of our control and use of space in jeopardy? And in such an obvious way?”
“Have you been one of them all along?” McMasters asked calmly.
Drefke glared at him and Isaacs exploded. “No! Goddamnit! I’m not one of them! I’ve sold out nothing! You don’t understand!”
“Understand?” asked McMasters quietly. “We have the interchange with Zamyatin on tape. It’s quite damning.”