To Free a Spy Page 19

  Following the stiff manner in which he and his boss always spoke, Yoshida said, “I have commitments today, Minister. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

  “Rearrange commitments!” Saito said in his usual staccato speaking style.

  Yoshida spoke humbly. “To do so would reflect poorly on the Ministry. However, I am at your command.”

  The Minister of Transport took a deep breath. “No, then. Eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Hai!” Then, as if an afterthought Fumio Yoshida said, “If you wish to tell me the matter we are going to discuss I will be well-prepared when we meet.”

  “Hangar 23 refurbishment costs!” Yoshida heard Saito flipping through the pages of the cost report that was ever-present on his desk. “Also, the security. Much money has been spent on refurbishment and security, Yoshida. I did not authorize budget overruns!”

  Yoshida, his heart speeding up, looked toward the airport again. He could make out Hangar 23 at the far left end. “You will be satisfied with my explanation, Minister.”

  * * *

  When Fumio Yoshida arrived at his home that evening his younger brother padded across the small house to greet him, like he had done for as long as Fumio could remember. Jotaro’s wide smile and childish giggles that belied his age meant he was ready to play. He loved the water and reveled in his brother’s attention so much that Fumio Yoshida rarely allowed anything to stand in the way of their time together. But today he wished he could. His mind was far too occupied by tomorrow’s meeting with Minister Saito to downshift into the ritual at the bath house.

  On the walk back home with Jotaro after an hour at the Tomodachi Sento, Fumio Yoshida found himself a little less tense than at any time since his conversation with Saito. The water was refreshing and he’d even splashed around in the bath with Jotaro. The air was less humid than usual for mid-summer in Tokyo and the neighborhood residents, most of them Fumio’s generation, sat on porches or in their small yards and took advantage of the pleasant evening air. Hydrangeas, morning glories, and the ever-present camellias filled garden plots that covered much of the lots they occupied. There were few children in Yoshida’s neighborhood these days, as most younger people settled in newer developments where the homes had baths and other modern comforts. Bath houses were hard to find there but in areas like Yoshida’s the sentos still facilitated a tradition indispensable to the older Japanese.

  It was after ten when Fumio got Jotaro to bed but he had one other job before he could prepare for Saito. He booted up an aging desktop PC, logged onto the Internet and went to the website he’d visited hundreds of times before, if not thousands. The Internet was a gift from the gods for Fumio, making it easier for him to get the latest research from the Radiation Effects Research Foundation, where he had long hoped to find some breakthrough research that would mean a better life for Jotaro. He’d read multitudes of RERF reports and by now accepted what he had known deep down long ago—that all the research in the world could never help Jotaro. So when Yoshida visited the website these days it was for a different reason: To read the morbid statistics that nourished the hungry, organic hatred that grew inside him.

  After twenty minutes at the RERF website he leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and visited the familiar place in his mind where the essence of all the RERF reports was preserved, where the damnable reality of Jotaro had festered for so long, beginning with mere resentment in the earlier years when Fumio first began to comprehend what had happened—that by some fateful roll of the dice on the day Hiroshima was bombed, his mother was at the exact distance from ground zero and at the precise stage in her pregnancy that meant her fetus would survive to become Jotaro but that his mind would never be normal.

  How could all those stars have lined up against his mother and his brother? In all of Hiroshima and Nagasaki close to half a million people died from the Americans’ atomic bombs, but little Jotaro in the sanctuary of his mother’s womb was much less fortunate than they were, Fumio felt, left with a mind too undeveloped to wonder or to imagine or to serve its own body.

  And the guilt. How was it that he, Fumio, happened to be in Sapporo, far to the north with his aging grandmother when the bomb came, safe from any harm? He should have been there with his mother so that perhaps he could have died from radiation like she did soon after delivering Jotaro. But, no, that would have left Jotaro alone. Their father had placed his loyalty to Japan above everything else—including his family and his very life—and died a kamikaze in the second world war, and Fumio had come to understand his father. Over the years, Fumio Yoshida’s resentment for Americans turned to blackest hate and consumed his soul. Like hate always does.

  Fumio shut down the computer and took a folder labeled Jotaro out of his desk, removed the rubber band and looked at the last notation he’d made. His eyes narrowed as he read once again his own distillation of Japan’s surrender to end World War II. It was not the first time he’d returned to his short manifesto in the two years since he’d written it: “The Emperor in surrender did not speak for Fumio and Jotaro Yoshida, to whom the only acceptable alternative to victory is a fight to death. The instruments are being put into place to achieve a modicum of justice for Jotaro and for other Japanese lives destroyed by the Americans.”

  After that entry, there had been no more analyzing or researching or rationalizing to write about. He had started a new file that night, a file he labeled Harvest. It was time to focus on the execution of his plan. Yoshida nodded as he closed the file, reaffirmed by his own writing. This is what it is all about, Minister Saito. You will understand soon, but not tomorrow.

  Fumio replaced the thick Jotaro file, retrieved the one labeled Harvest and spent the next hour going over his notes and numbers inside. He compared them with printouts he brought home from the CAB, checked a few totals with a small calculator, and scribbled several notations on a legal pad. He wondered if it were the politicians who were behind Saito’s inquiry. They were always snooping around in areas they didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. He’d been careful. And he could give Saito all the explanation he needed for the politicians. His plan for Jotaro had cost more than he expected but he had succeeded in hiding the costs up to this point and could explain them away. And this would be the last time he’d have to do it. Of that he was certain.

  It was almost midnight when he put the Harvest file back in the desk and slipped the notes he’d made into his notebook. He turned out the lights and went to bed but as happened too often he couldn’t sleep. As his plan neared reality, excitement replaced the constant tiredness he’d felt for so many years.

  * * *

  Fumio walked into his office at seven-twenty-eight the next morning, zoomed through the paperwork his assistant left for him, cleared everything off his desk and walked up the single flight of stairs to the top floor where the Minister of Transport’s office was located. He stood at Saito’s outer door and counted down the seconds until exactly eight o’clock and entered carrying a thin vinyl notebook. “Ahh, good morning Minister Saito,” Fumio said, with a traditional bow.

  Saito’s eyes bulleted in on the folds of green printer paper on his desk as the downward corners of his mouth reflected what Yoshida had figured were the result of a lifetime of negativism. Yoshida did not judge this harshly, however, as that was the condition his own life had brought him to. “Yoshida,” Saito said with his usual bombast, “I have been called to a meeting with the Diet budget oversight committee this morning! I will be expected to explain this five million dollars for security systems at Hangar 23,” he said, rigidly stabbing the printout with a stubby finger, “and this six-point-six million for Hangar 23 renovations. The committee demands an accounting for these expenditures, as do I! Why was I was not informed of these costs?” he said, his voice continuing to rise.

  Fumio watched for any hint Saito suspected wrongdoing. He had hoped this accounting was only for Saito’s preparation to meet with the politicians in the national legislature and not because of any s
uspicions he might have.

  Saito had not invited Yoshida to sit and he stood straight with his arms at his sides. “Hai! I am preparing Hangar 23 to accommodate the Oberon.”

  Saito’s face became a pretzel. “Oberon!” he said as he stiffened in his chair. “Impossible, Yoshida. You think I am a fool? The supersonic Oberon has three bases, just like the Concorde had before it was discontinued: Paris, London and New York. We do not even have the accommodations required to establish a base here, Yoshida! It will be years before it lands here, you imbecile, if ever.” Saito was incredulous.

  “The Oberon is much closer than you may be aware, Minister.” Fumio nodded an apologetic gesture for daring to disagree. “I am in touch with my counterparts in London and Paris, who speak very encouragingly. It is currently most secretive, but Tokyo will have it, right here at Narita. In-progress design modifications to the Oberon will increase its range. I have been in negotiations for a Tokyo route for several months.”

  “Why have I not been told of this? And what imposters are you negotiating with, Yoshida?”

  Yoshida looked down. “I am at fault for not better informing you, Minister Saito. The talks are rather general at this point, with officials beneath your level of authority. I elected not to burden you until decisions worthy of your time and position are required. As to the expenditures, I believed we would have much better opportunity to get the Oberon if we are able to demonstrate preparedness. I am aware that twelve million dollars is a very large sum, but to the total Ministry of Transport budget, it is like comparing the toy airplane of a child to a Boeing 747. Perhaps after consideration you will agree that it is a prudent expenditure. However, if not, I will accept full responsibility for my extreme foolishness and immediately resign my post as head of the Civil Aviation Bureau.” Yoshida knew he was taking a great chance with that statement.

  The gray-haired minister leveled an uncertain stare at Yoshida. Fumio knew the tyrannical egomaniac Saito had never liked him much and would be grateful for a reason to boot him to another area within the MOT so he wouldn’t have to deal with him on a one-on-one basis, or even force him to retire, but for the Oberon he might tolerate him a while longer. Saito’s face softened ever so slightly as he said, “You will not resign, Yoshida. I have rarely had cause to question your judgment so I must assume you have acted appropriately. In fact,” he said after hesitating for a moment, “when it is time to tell this news to the legislative group I will acknowledge that we planned it together. The politicians will find value in any reasonable expenditures that may be expected to secure an Oberon base.”

  Walking back to his office, Fumio Yoshida had no regret for the lies he was forced to tell. Until he needed the money to carry out his plan, he’d never taken so much as one illegal yen from the Ministry of Transport, but now through obscure billing and payment procedures he’d managed to pay the down payment to the Russian and full payment to the broker named Seth who demanded all of his millions in advance.

  Seth had made the arrangement with Petrevich for the procurement and transport of the uranium from Russia by way of Iraq. This was an intentionally deceptive route; the U.S. authorities were unlikely to even imagine Tokyo to be the final destination, while Iraq was easily believable. Yoshida was committed to make this final payment to Petrevich upon his completion of the project. Now his reconfiguration of the Boeing 747 aircraft to accommodate the deadly payload would be the final step. When the deception was discovered perhaps all of Japan—at least those who had suffered as he and Jotaro had—would approve after they have learned the whole truth. Yoshida’s only concern now was that Minister Saito or someone higher up would decide to visit Hangar 23 to see all the non-existent improvements, but he could stall them for a few days and then it wouldn’t matter—at least not to Yoshida. He almost smiled as he thought of the trap Saito was going to set for himself by claiming part credit for the Oberon idea at the highest levels of the Japanese government.

  That night at the bath house Fumio caught himself staring at his brother as he splashed around in the water. He wished he could explain to him what he was doing. And why. But Fumio had no doubt Jotaro would approve. He was a Japanese first, and then a Yoshida. They would stick together no matter what, like after the bomb when they were placed in the government orphanage, and later when Fumio returned from the university and the military where he’d been a pilot like his father. After that, Fumio had applied to the Ministry of Transport for a job that would allow him to remain close to aviation. Jotaro was nineteen then and Fumio moved them into a private apartment over the strong protests of the orphanage officials. Impossible, they said. Unfair to both of them. But Fumio persisted. Jotaro was his brother and he would take care of him for as long as he lived. For as long as we live, Fumio thought to himself now as he stood in the edge of the water.

  Early on at the CAB, Fumio Yoshida was recognized as one of the most capable and dedicated, and by the time he was forty he’d been singled out from the pack by his superiors. Making good money then, he bought a traditional Japanese home in an older section of Tokyo and went about Jotaro-proofing it as he had done in their tiny apartment, removing anything his brother might harm himself with. After that he left Jotaro at home with the television and his toys while he was away at the CAB. And he bought a dog to keep Jotaro company.

  Mrs. Tanaka, the old widow next door, had tried to get acquainted with the Yoshidas but Fumio didn’t reciprocate. Even so, once she knew about Jotaro’s condition her motherly instinct took over and she kept an eye on the Yoshida house during the day. Fumio Yoshida knew that. She intercepted Jotaro twice when he ventured out of the house but she’d never been so bold as to go inside.

  As Fumio Yoshida climbed through the ranks to the top of the CAB he kept everyone at arm’s length, more than fulfilling his duties but doing little to ingratiate himself to anyone. It had not been particularly difficult for him to get special approval to work beyond the standard retirement age, partly, he thought, because of his exemplary accomplishments in the Civil Aviation Bureau. If he took care of his family and did whatever was required to progress in his work at CAB, which was critical to his plan, nothing else should be necessary. He had never socialized with the others after work. There was no time for it. He had his brother to take care of, and the anger inside sapped his drives and desires.

  When they returned home from the bath house that night, Jotaro and his dog Yuki-Yuki got into a wrestling bout on the floor and Fumio went to his own room and opened the Harvest file. He could recite every detail of the plan from memory, but holding the file in his hands made it more real. Things were falling into place now. It was true that he’d come to despise the Russian Boris Petrevich, but if he completed his project on time Yoshida would pay him the second half of the fee they’d agreed on.

  Fumio had paid Seth his ten million upon his delivery of Petrevich and the uranium, but, still, he had no stomach for whores like Seth who sold their services to the highest bidder. Seth was a man with no values, no morals. Pay a man like him enough money and he would sneak up behind his own mother in the kitchen, surprise her with a hug, slit her throat from ear to ear, and then sit down and eat the meal she had cooked for him. But if the deal he made with Seth produced the result Fumio demanded, then using even scum like him was justified.

  * * *

  Hangar 23 was one of several hangars at Narita reserved for the exclusive use of Ministry of Transport and came under administrative control of Fumio’s Civil Aviation Bureau. MOT records indicated it was vacant and unused so there was no reason for anyone to go there, but since the time Yoshida set it up as the place where Boris Petrevich and his two Russian assistants would work, he had driven himself there perhaps a hundred times. And even though Hangar 23 was located in an untraveled and secluded corner of Narita Airport, Yoshida worried the traffic would make someone curious.

  Fumio felt at peace around planes and loved most the behemoth airliners like the 747, but his executive duties at the CAB were
to be endured. They involved aviation, but nothing was like being out there on the tarmac looking up at the jetliners that were to him so beautiful, and climbing into the cockpit where he could experience the power that came with being at the controls of a machine that could lift four-hundred tons and transport them to some place thousands of miles away before it touched Earth again.

  Fumio’s most cherished memories of his father were of him in the military. He had a photo of him standing by the wing of a small airplane Fumio imagined was the one that carried his father and, Fumio hoped, many American soldiers to a fiery death. Back then Fumio had known only that his father was a pilot. It was many years later that he found a letter his father wrote to Fumio’s mother on the last day of his life. Today his plane would be given enough fuel for a one-way trip. He was proud to have been selected by his leaders to fly it into the enemy. When all his bullets were spent and bombs released, he would still have one weapon left: Himself, as part of his plane. He would do it again and again for the defeat of the hated America if he could.

  Fumio Yoshida had many times closed his eyes and imagined those last glorious seconds of his father’s life. He had not dropped like a rock onto his target. He came in low, almost like he was landing, and took out a long swath of planes on the deck of a U.S. aircraft carrier. The burning planes. Every one of them filled with fuel. American sailors on deck, unable to escape below in time to avoid slow and painful death, many of them jumping into the Pacific Ocean to escape the flames and perishing there. The screams for help. The joy, the pride his father must have felt in those moments before things went blank for him.