Читать книгу Rogue Patriot - Mike Trial Trial - Страница 6

Outside the Administration building, the Japanese sky was blue, the immaculately trimmed lawn a deep green, the humid air blowing in from Tokyo Bay seemed almost alive. Hallam found himself smiling as he got in his staff car and told the driver to take him to Motomachi Street.

“Nothing settles the mind so much as the knowledge that one is to be executed in the morning,” Hallam quoted silently. He almost laughed out loud. Now that he had received his death sentence, the uncertainty was past. A weight of anxiety lifted from his shoulders.

Hallam had his driver let him off halfway down the eight blocks that comprised Motomachi Street. A street filled with small art galleries, boutique clothing stores, shops filled with gleaming European-made kitchenware. “Wait for me here.”

The crowd flowed past him, ordinary Japanese people going about their business. What if the North Koreans successfully launched a high ballistic shot at Japan, detonated a dirty nuclear fireball over Tokyo, letting a poisonous cloud of radioactive fallout drift south over Yokohama, bringing slow death to all these people?

Hallam glanced at his watch. The North Koreans were preparing a launch right now. Their nuclear warhead was unaccounted for, most likely being installed on the Tae Po Dong, the target of the attack unknown. And my own government says to do nothing but sit and wait.

A sign at a narrow alley advertised Atelier K, Contemporary Art, one flight up. Hallam went in the door and up the narrow flight of stairs.

The woman seated behind a tiny desk near the door stood and bowed. “Irasshaimase,” she greeted him in Japanese, then in English, “Welcome.”

Hallam nodded, and slowly made his way around the four walls, looking at each painting for a moment before moving on. The woman went down the stairs, then returned a moment later.

The gallery was a single room, twelve by ten meters, hardwood floor, track lights for the art on four walls, a single bench in the middle made of pale Japanese cryptomeria wood.

He was American military so she was undecided as to whether to bring tea, which she always did for Japanese visitors. He moved around the room, thoughtfully examining each painting, then sat on the bench, facing Tomoko’s two darkest paintings. She saw that he sat without fidgeting, with his back straight, so she decided to serve tea as she would a Japanese customer.

She brought it to him with strainer and handleless Japanese cup. “Sumimasen, dozo,” she said, setting it on the tray on the bench beside him.

“Domo,” he replied.

Hallam let his mind unfocus as he stared at the two paintings, one a foggy coastline seen from across a small bay. What appeared to be the exposed rock of a quarry in a small valley. The other painting was a cold bare classroom, eight children in blue uniforms, a teacher, his expression concerned, looking at them from his place at the blackboard. Both paintings were nicely executed but very dark, fearful in tone.

His mind drifted to Dr. Adams’ note. Last week’s tests had confirmed that his cancer was advanced. At that examination, Dr. Adams had recommended his immediate transfer back to Washington. Hallam had told him he would consider it. In the meantime, no one was to be told of his illness.

Hallam emptied his mind, focusing on only this moment, on breathing in and breathing out.

Hallam drank his tea. “I believe the painter of these paintings is employed at the U.S. Navy base. A Miss Tomoko Hayakawa?”

“Yes,” the woman said. She handed Admiral Hallam a short biography printed in Japanese and English. He read it. The artist was Tomoko Hayakawa from his office. Despite her Japanese features, there was something about her that reminded him of his daughter Monica, also an artist.

Hallam approached the woman, “I’d like to buy these two paintings of Miss Tomoko’s,” he told her. The woman bowed her thanks.

“Will it be possible to take them now?”

“Yes.” She took the two paintings down and began wrapping them carefully on the worktable at the back of the gallery.

The photo on the biography captured the same sadness Hallam had noticed in Miss Tomoko’s eyes at the office. Unlike most formal Japanese photos she was looking slightly away from the camera, eyes cast down. He had seen that expression often in his own daughter, Monica.

He could admit it now, his wife Mary had been right after all. He should have chosen a less ambitious career path and spent time with Mary and Monica. He could have changed his career plan, settled for lower rank, and become a satisfied man. The time to make that change had been more than twenty years ago. But he had wanted something more.

Hallam had been at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, getting his master’s degree in Asian geopolitics. He had declined campus housing and rented half of a small duplex in Pacific Grove for himself, Mary, and ten-year-old Monica. Every Saturday morning he and Monica would take a long walk together, down the clean silent streets wreathed in morning fog to Lover’s Point Park, sometimes stopping for a croissant and hot chocolate at the bakery on Forest Ave. Then they would walk the trail along the coast as the sun began to burn the fog away, past the research station, past the Aquarium, and down Cannery Row stopping in this shop and that as their fancy dictated. Then down Alvarado Street in Monterey to meet Mary for lunch under the cypress trees on the patio at Cafe des Ami.

After lunch they’d walk home, and he would study until dinnertime when they would drive to Carmel to try a new restaurant, a new wine. It had been a magical year.

His mind travelled that familiar path of memory, guided by nostalgia and regret. The smell of Monterey Bay, the crowds on Fisherman’s wharf, the quiet of eucalyptus tree shaded streets and the brightly painted Victorian cottages of Pacific Grove. That year in Monterey had been a good one. They hadn’t realized it at the time, but it had been the best year of their lives.

Twenty years later cancer claimed Mary. His career had been stellar. He was already being groomed for politics after the Navy. But when Mary died, he turned his back on that, turned down an assignment at the Pentagon and took his current position in Japan. His career suddenly didn’t seem to matter any more. He’d spent four years in Japan, career suicide at his rank, being away from Washington DC that long. Monica was now living in Santa Cruz, working in an art gallery, working at her painting.

When he put Tomoko’s artist biography in his pocket his fingers touched the note from Adams. Too late for almost everything now. But not too late to make a small gesture of thanks to a young woman on his staff who reminded him of Monica and the life he could have had. The proprietor handed Hallam the carefully wrapped package and he paid her sixty thousand yen, $600, and made his way down the narrow stair and out onto Motomachi street where he gave the two paintings to his driver.

“I’m going to walk to Yamashita Park. Pick me up there in twenty minutes.” He made his way down Motomachi Street, then crossed under the freeway bridge into the end of Yamashita Park. At the rose garden he stopped to admire the pale yellow blooms, then continued to the waterfront and stood looking out over Yokohama Bay.

David Kyle quietly joined him. “Counterintelligence is certain you’ve got a leak in your HQ. CID is working the issue now. The North Koreans operating in Japan use some pretty sophisticated pattern analysis software on U.S. military activities and on Japanese military. It’s surprising what can be deduced by just monitoring things like, say, fuel usage—the different kinds of aircraft fuel, jet, helicopter, fixed wing—that are supplied to the base. Compare it month to month. They know our equipment inventory, and the performance characteristics of each piece of equipment. They know our pattern of readiness and training exercises...”

“You’re saying that, based on the data you describe, the North Koreans can predict what kind of Operation we will be conducting before we start?”

“In many cases, yes. You can’t disguise a destroyer leaving the base, or a Chinook helicopter taking off. They have spotters living all around all the bases.”

“So how do you know there’s a leak? What you’ve told me is that they have done only passive analysis, not active spying.”

“Until now. But just today one of the secretary-translators in your office, a Miss Shizue Ito, left the office, met with Commander Hare for a quote drink unquote, then left the base.

“Hare is taking the equipment readiness and utilization spreadsheet to his quarters on a laptop, along with fuel requisitions and resupply requirements. A similar report which he has access to, shows ships and aircraft in use, so he knew a mini-submersible was refueled off the coast of North Korea, he knew two SEALS boarded a tiltwing with a Ghost drone and HALO jump gear. Analysts can figure out approximately where our SEALS will go based on that info. They’ll notify North Korea’s coastal watch system and be looking for parachutes.” Kyle studied Hallam’s features as he continued. “And perhaps worst of all, Miss Ito will know there have been no orders from CINCPACFLT and that no coordination with South Korean and Japanese forces has taken place. That will indicate to them this is a clandestine operation, and clearly not a training exercise of some sort. CID is monitoring Hare, but they have lost Miss Ito. She will likely deliver her information and leave Yokohama forever. This is that hot.”

Hallam watched three seagulls sunning themselves on the seawall. “I wish I had been told Miss Ito and Miss Hayakawa were returned abductees. I would not have assigned them to my office.”

“The Japanese Self Defense forces screen them, but they let us assign them where we want. I believe they were on staff before you were assigned here. North Koreans have turned Miss Ito, she’s working for them. But there’s no evidence Miss Hayakawa is. In any case, the most damaging part of the leak is Commander Hare. He is providing, probably unintentionally, information on our operations to Miss Ito.”

Hallam nodded. “I’ll have CID move in on Hare.” He paused. “I’ve never understood why North Korea abducts Japanese occasionally, holds them for a few years, then returns them. Been going on for years. Japanese government seems unable to stop it.”

“Most obvious explanation is to train the Japanese as moles to work with North Korean intelligence people once they are returned to Japan.” Kyle frowned at Landmark Tower, Yokohama’s tallest building, white in the midday sun.

“Want to abort the Op?” Kyle asked quietly.

Hallam studied Kyle’s unlined face. “No. We need to sabotage that missile launch. But I will see that word gets to the two SEALS, that there may be North Korean militia looking for them. Let’s get back to base and start working this.” Hallam straightened. “Thanks, David,” Hallam said. “I hate to hear this kind of news, that one of our own people is leaking information.”

“He’s just dumb, not devious,” Kyle said.

“That may be worse. Frankly, Mr. Hare is not one of the brightest bulbs in the box. I should have reassigned him a year ago.”

Kyle nodded.

The two men walked away in different directions. At the street, Admiral Hallam got in his waiting staff car and return to his office.