Kunimatsu was more of an engineer than a politician. But it wasn’t votes that raised a rocket, it was science, and he’d done an excellent job, though of course even he didn’t know the full story. Only a handful of men knew everything, and for the next seventy-two hours all of them would be incommunicado to the outside. Only afterward when the storm started to develop would they make their assurances to a stunned world.
“Is there any possibility of a leak from here?” Lee asked. Tanegashima security had always been very good, but this time it had to be perfect.
“The Americans are the weak link, of course, as we knew they would be. But we’re monitoring their every move.”
Lee gave the launch center director a pointed look. “Don’t underestimate them. If they get wind that something isn’t as it should be they could make trouble. Something we cannot afford at this late date.”
Kunimatsu chose his words with care. “They know that something out of the ordinary is going on. But so does everybody else because of the incident in the Sea of Japan. Our navy has been deployed and all of our military installations are at a high state of alert. But nobody has made the connection to us.”
“Yet.”
“Seventy-two hours, Joseph. Not so long a time to keep it together. We’ll hold up our end.”
“See that you do,” Lee said, turning again to the awe-inspiring sight out the windows. No one was going to guess until it was too late.
“I assume that you’re going to remain here until after the launch?” Kunimatsu said.
“Of course. But I’ve left Miriam at our Washington house to allay any suspicions that the FBI has. She’ll leave the morning of the launch.”
Kunimatsu’s normally bland expression changed to one of pensiveness. “I’ve learned only now something of the happenings in Washington, and frankly, Joseph, I’m a little confused.”
“Quid pro quo, do you understand?”
“No,” Kunimatsu said shaking his head.
“You will,” Lee said, smiling.
They followed the Potomac southeast from White’s Ferry at an altitude of five hundred feet, Sandy Patterson in the front seat. Bruce Kondo, in the backseat of the Beach Bonanza, took pictures using a Haselblad camera with a wide-angle lens of the rolling hills, park lands and the occasional farm or mansion. Although the Capital City Aviation pilot had done contract work for the Far East Trade Association in the past, Kondo’s cover story was that he was looking for riverside property to buy.
“There are some pretty spots down there,” Sandy Patterson said as the CIA safe house came into view.
“Yes, thank you, I can see that.”
“Would you like me to come in a little lower and circle, Mr. Thomas?” the pilot asked.
“That’s not necessary,” Kondo said, snapping pictures as fast as the motorized drive would work. There were no surprises in the layout from what he’d been told, or from what he’d been able to glean from the topographic maps. But seeing it from the air like this gave him a much clearer perspective of what they would be facing. Just on the one pass he’d picked out at least three spots where he and his men could come in.
As he suspected would be the case, however, he was unable to spot any activity on the ground. The foliage was so thick that an entire army could be hidden down there and still be invisible to the human eye. But the camera, with its special film, might pick something up.
“There’s property closer to the city, if you would like to look at it as well,” Sandy Patterson prompted. A couple of miles ahead was a busy interstate highway. “But that’s four ninety-five down there, I don’t think you want to be that close.”
“I think I’ve seen all I need to see for now. Perhaps next week we can try south of the city. It’ll give me time to do my homework.”
“It’s only six-thirty, there’s still plenty of light to take a pass that way now,” the pilot suggested.
“Next week,” Sandy Patterson said sharply.
Judith Kline was a young woman who until today had thought she knew exactly where she was going, and how she was going to get there. But sitting at the Atrium Bar a few minutes after 6:30 P.M., she understood that Tony Croft’s death, which she’d just heard about, had changed all of that for her, and she had a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.
Tony was going to be her meal ticket, her way out from being an escort, and her way into a cushy job in the White House, or at least some government agency. Tony had been mentioning the Pentagon lately and the State Department, and she’d hung on his every word. She’d done exactly what he’d told her to do. She was not a stupid girl; although she’d finished only two and a half years of college, she was merely impatient. She’d seen how the other half lived, and coming from Des Moines, Iowa, to Washington was a real eye-opener for her. She wanted to be one of them, and she wanted it soon.
At Tony’s suggestion, she’d taken several crash courses on the computer, read a half-dozen newspapers each day including the Washington Post and New York Times, read all the news and business magazines, and she’d even begun reading Aviation Week & Space Technology in case the Pentagon job materialized first. It was all a matter of timing, Tony assured her. And he might have gotten her a position and she might have been able to hold it for a little while on her looks alone, but over the long haul she was going to have to be good at her job.
Tony had also made another suggestion, which she’d taken to heart. If you wanted to get ahead in this town you had to watch your back at all times. His philosophy was to do the best job you could and keep an insurance policy in case the bottom fell out. Keep notes, he told her. Tape recordings. A diary.
“Present company excluded,” he told her and they’d laughed about it.
That was why she’d been watching him lately. Over the past few weeks he had changed, he’d become moody and nervous and sometimes even frightened. Sometimes after they made love he would sleep for a half hour or so, and he talked in his sleep. It was mostly incomprehensible gibberish, but in the last few days he repeated the same thing over and over, “the White House.” No other references, just the three words. The same three words he’d said today.
Since July each time he’d called her and set up a time to meet at the Hay Adams, she showed up an hour early. On three occasions she’d seen him with an older woman, short, mousy, across the street in Lafayette Square. There’d been something vaguely familiar about the woman, but the distance had been too great, and Judith’s vanity would not allow her to wear her glasses in public. Then yesterday she’d seen him meeting with a Chinese guy in front of the hotel. A sharp dresser, and she’d taken several photographs of them from the lobby with a disposable camera. She didn’t know how the shots would turn out, but she figured that if need be someone who knew their stuff would be able to do it.
Now she was faced with the choice of ignoring the situation, maybe head back home until it all blew over. It was a safe bet that someone in the hotel had noticed her hanging around and given the FBI her description. Better to leave while she could, especially after what she’d seen today.
She motioned to the bartender for another glass of chardonnay, then lit a cigarette. She would fit back in Des Moines like a square peg in a round hole. All her life she had worked to get away from the Midwest, and here she was faced with the choice of going back.