The Japanese official came over next, the logger was surprised to see. He touched the tree and murmured something that must have been a prayer. That amazed him, it seemed like something an Indian would do — interesting, the logger thought. He didn't know that Shinto was an animistic religion with many similarities to those of Native Americans. Talking to the spirit of the tree? Hmph. Next he came to the logger.
“You have great skill,” the little Japanese said with an exquisitely polite bow.
“Thank you, sir.” The logger nodded his head. It was the first Japanese he'd ever met. Seemed like a nice enough guy. And saying a prayer to the tree… that had class, the logger thought on reflection.
“A great pity to kill something so magnificent.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. Is it true that you will put this in a church, like?”
“Oh, yes. We no longer have trees like this, and we need four huge beams. Twenty meters each. This one tree will do all of them, I hope,” the man said, looking back at the fallen giant. “They must all come from a single tree. It is the tradition of the temple, you see.”
“Ought to,” the logger judged. “How old's the temple?”
“One thousand two hundred years. The old beams — they were damaged in the earthquake two years ago, and must be replaced very soon. With luck, these should last as long. I hope they will. It is a fine tree.”
Under the supervision of the Japanese official, the fallen tree was cut into manageable segments — they weren't all that manageable. Quite a bit of special equipment had to be assembled to get this monster out, and Georgia-Pacific was charging a huge amount of money for the job. But that was not a problem. The Japanese, having selected the tree, paid without blinking. The representative even apologized for the fact that he didn't want the GP mill to work the tree. It was a religious thing, he explained slowly and clearly, and no insult to the American workers was intended. The senior GP executive nodded. That was okay with him. It was their tree now. They'd let it season for a little while before loading it on an American-flag timber carrier for the trip across the Pacific, where the log would be worked with skill and due religious ceremony — by hand, the GP man was amazed to hear — for its new and special purpose. That it would never reach Japan was something that, none of them knew.
The term trouble-shooter was particularly awkward for a law-enforcement official, Murray thought. Of course, as he leaned back in the leather chair, he could feel the 10mm Smith & Wesson automatic clipped to his waistband. He ought to have left it in his desk drawer, but he liked the feel of the beast. A revolver man for most of his career, he'd quickly come to love the compact power of the Smith. And Bill understood. For the first time in recent memory, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a career cop who'd started his career on the street, busting bad guys. In fact, Murray and Shaw had started off in the same field division. Bill was slightly more skilled at the administrative side, but no one mistook him for a headquarters weenie. Shaw had first gotten high-level attention by staring down two armed bank robbers before the cavalry'd had time to arrive. He'd never fired his weapon in anger, of course — only a tiny percentage of FBI agents ever did — but he'd convinced those two hoods that he could drop both of them. There was steel under the gentlemanly velvet, and one hell of a brain. Which was why Dan Murray, a deputy assistant director, didn't mind working as Shaw's personal problem-solver.
“What the hell do we do with this guy?” Shaw asked, with quiet disgust.
Murray had just finished his report on the Warrior Case. Dan sipped at his coffee and shrugged.
“Bill, the man is a genius with corruption cases — best we've ever had. He just doesn't know dick about the muscle end of the business. He got out of his depth with this one. Luckily enough, no permanent damage was done.” And Murray was right. The newsies had treated the Bureau surprisingly well for saving the life of their reporter. What was truly amazing was the fact that the newsies had never quite understood that the reporter had had no place in that particular arena. As a result, they were grateful to the local S-A-C for letting the news team on the scene, and grateful to the Hostage Rescue Team for saving both of them when things had taken a dangerous turn. It wasn't the first time the Bureau had reaped a PR bonanza from a near-catastrophe. The FBI was more jealous of its public relations than any government agency, and Shaw's problem was simply that to fire S-A-C Walt Hoskins would look bad. Murray pressed on. “He's learned his lesson. Walt isn't stupid, Bill.”
“And bagging the governor last year was some coup, wasn't it?” Shaw grimaced. Hoskins was a genius at political corruption cases. A state governor was now contemplating life in a federal prison because of him. That was how Hoskins had become a Special-Agent-in-Charge in the first place. “You have something in mind, Dan?”
“ASAC Denver,” Murray replied with a mischievous twinkle. “It's elegant. He goes from a little field office to head of corruption cases in a major field division. It's a promotion that takes him out of command and puts him back in what he's best at — and if the rumbles we're getting out of Denver are right, he'll have lots of work to do. Like maybe a senator and a congresswoman — maybe more. The preliminary indications on the water project look big. I mean real big, Bilclass="underline" like twenty million bucks changing hands.”
Shaw whistled respectfully at that. “All that for one senator and one congresscritter?”
“Like I said, maybe more. The latest thing is some environmental types being paid off — in government and out. Who do we have better at unraveling a ball of yarn that big? Walt's got a nose for this sort of thing. The man can't draw his gun without losing a few toes, but he's one hell of a bird-dog.” Murray closed the folder in his hands. “Anyway, you wanted me to look around and make a recommendation. Send him to Denver, or retire him. Mike Delaney is willing to rotate back this way — his kid's going to start at GW this fall, and Mike wants to teach down at the Academy. That gives you the opening. It's all very neat and tidy, but it's your call, Director.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murray,” Director Shaw said gravely. Then his face broke into a grin. “Remember when all we had to worry about was chasing bank bandits? I hate this admin crap!”
“Maybe we shouldn't have caught so many,” Dan agreed. “We'd still be working riverside Philly and having a beer with the troops at night. Why do people toast success? It just screws up your life.”
“We're both talking like old farts.”
“We both are old farts, Bill,” Murray pointed out. “But at least I don't travel around with a protective detail.”
“You son of a bitch!” Shaw gagged, and dribbled coffee down his necktie. “Oh, Christ, Dan!” he gasped, laughing. “Look what you made me do.”
“Bad sign when a guy can't hold his coffee, Director.”
“Out! Get the orders cut before I bust you back to the street.”
“Oh, no, please, not that, anything but that!” Murray stopped laughing and turned semi-serious for a moment. “What's Kenny doing now?”
“Just got his assignment to his submarine, USS Maine. Bonnie's doing fine with the baby — due in December. Dan?”
“Yeah, Bill?”
“Nice call on Hoskins. I needed an easy out on that. Thanks.”
“No problem, Bill. Walt will jump at it. I wish they were all this easy.”
“You following up on the Warrior Society?”
“Freddy Warder's working on it. We just might roll those bastards up in a few months.”
And both knew that would be nice. There were not many domestic terrorist groups left. Reducing their number by one more by the end of the year would be another major coup.