To Free a Spy Read online

  To Fumio, the Americans were the root cause of the war. His own hate stemmed from that. The Americans had claimed not only his father and mother, it had left his brother forever dependent on others, never to be free of health problems, never able to make decisions for his own life. Fumio sometimes had wondered if Jotaro, by some miracle given a few minutes of lucidity in which to consider his circumstances, would choose to continue the life determined for him even before he was born, or would he prefer death? Jotaro would never have that moment of contemplation, and Fumio had made the decision for him.

  Fumio’s responsibility to Jotaro had robbed him of a career of flying the world, perhaps as an airline pilot or in the military. Jotaro could never be left alone for more than a few hours during the day. But the positions Fumio held at CAB at least put him on the periphery. For a period of time he had direct responsibility for pilot certification standards and spent every possible moment analyzing and redesigning training manuals, configuring cockpits for better safety and revolutionizing flight simulators, the stationary virtual cockpits used to train and test pilots. Fumio Yoshida became recognized around the world as a leading authority in civil aviation training and safety.

  He looked for every opportunity to fly, climbing out over Japan’s snow-capped mountains to the north or above the silver ripples of the ocean, forgetting for those precious minutes about Jotaro and the responsibilities that would still be there for him when he returned that evening. He became certified on every type of aircraft used by the Japanese airlines and spent hundreds of hours in the simulators, often choosing to conduct the test sessions for pilots himself.

  * * *

  Fumio parked the motor pool car behind Hangar 23. He bounced out of the car and strode past the summer weeds that grew along the side of the hangar to the personnel door. Boris Petrevich sat in his makeshift office across the hangar. Yoshida stopped for a second before he crossed under the belly of the splendid Boeing 747-400 sitting in the hangar and looked up at it.

  Dr. Boris Petrevich saw Yoshida coming and gathered up the Guido’s Pizza boxes from the office floor and stuffed them into a trash can. Fumio had never been satisfied with the Russian’s housekeeping habits and had directed him to shape up. How could the clear, precise knowledge of nuclear physics coexist with such slovenliness within the same mind?

  “You are still on schedule?” Fumio demanded, scowling at the messy office.

  Petrevich had imported two men he’d trained in Russia—Mikhail, a nuclear technician, and Ivan, an aeronautical engineer—to help him with the project. He’d asked Yoshida for local labor to do grunt work but Yoshida refused. Too risky, he’d said, thinking of his project’s necessary secrecy. Petrevich managed to keep on schedule by working long hours. He and his crew did a lot of things he would have assigned to flunkies in his exalted position back at Kremlyov.

  “I think so,” he answered. “Even if something goes wrong we should meet the required schedule at the end.”

  Fumio Yoshida’s eyes blazed as his body became rigid. “Give me your attention!” he barked, and waited for Petrevich to face him. “You will allow nothing to go wrong! Everything will be exactly as agreed, precisely on schedule. There will be no delay.” Fumio did not wait for an answer and did a right face to leave, clicking his heels together as he’d done as an officer in the military, then abruptly stopped three steps away. “Anyone asking you questions?”

  “Questions…?”

  “Where you live. Why you are in Japan.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Met anyone from Russia who knows you?”

  The Russian stiffened and looked at the floor. “Nyet.”

  Fumio Yoshida’s face was the look of death as he moved closer and put his finger in the Russian’s face. “Do not lie to me, Petrevich,” he screamed.

  Petrevich had never forgiven himself for the way he allowed this little Jap bastard intimidate him. He backed away as much as he could in the small cubicle and said, “There is one slight possibility, Comrade. I saw a man I knew from Russia. Some sort of military officer then, but I am sure he is retired by now so I do not believe he is in Tokyo in any official capacity.”

  Fumio roared from some place deep inside his chest, “Where were you?”

  Petrevich hesitated, then, “A bar.”

  “Your Moscow club again!” Yoshida snapped.

  Petrevich said nothing. Yoshida kicked the trash can across the floor and paced around for a few seconds.

  “You are not to be seen. You risk this project,” he spewed.

  “It will not happen again,” Petrevich said.

  Fumio turned to leave but then whirled around and fired a final rocket. “One other thing Petrevich. Never call me comrade again.”

  * * *

  Petrevich reeled. It took all of his inner strength to overcome the impulse to go for Fumio then and there. Moments later, after Yoshida was gone, the Russian realized his men had witnessed his humiliation. To make it worse his hands trembled from unspent adrenaline. They saw what happened and now he would look weak to the aggressive Ivan. Boris Petrevich hated Yoshida now more than ever. The little sawed-off Jap rooster. That was his favorite description of Yoshida. He wouldn’t care if he’d killed him except that so much money was at stake. Good thing he kept his T-33 under his pillow instead of in his pocket, he thought. The temptation might have been too great.

  Now he had to calm Ivan, who could screw up the whole deal. Petrevich never liked Ivan much back in Russia but brought him in because of the skills he possessed. He was a brilliant young engineer seven years out of the university, but brash and resentful of authority.

  Ivan had boarded Fumio Yoshida’s train near the Ministry of Transport building after work one day and tailed him through the labyrinth of Tokyo subway tunnels and all the way to Yoshida’s home. Once he saw where he lived he didn’t know what he’d ever do about it, he told Petrevich later. It was part of knowing your enemy, and Ivan considered Yoshida just that.

  As Ivan was about to leave the area and head back to the hangar that day, he’d seen Fumio Yoshida and another man emerge from his home. He decided to follow them and this time ended up at a bath house a few blocks away. “Looked like some sort of little retard that went with him to that swimming pool place,” he told Petrevich then.

  Petrevich had reacted in anger that day. “You’re a fool, Ivan. He sees you, I have a lot of questions to answer.” Petrevich had considered eliminating Ivan then, or maybe getting one of the Russians at the Moscow East who would do anything for money to do it for him, but Ivan was creative and Petrevich needed him. Like no other engineer Petrevich had ever seen, Ivan could design a nuke delivery system to satisfy the most demanding situation. This one wasn’t so bad but it was unique. The job could be done best by Ivan, and Petrevich decided that day to keep him on the team but ordered him to stay away from Yoshida.

  Petrevich gave himself a pat on the back for not exploding all over Yoshida. His comrade outburst was the straw that almost pushed him over the edge. Once he had the rest of the money Yoshida owed him maybe he’d let his impulses loose, but until then he would manage to control both himself and Ivan.

  A far more worrisome problem to Petrevich was Aleksei Antonov, the Russian general he’d spotted at the Moscow East Social Club. He figured Antonov saw him too but he’d lied to Yoshida about it. Petrevich always knew that sooner or later someone would come. He could take no chances now. Antonov had to be dealt with.

  Petrevich summoned the two Russians to his office. “No more trips to the Moscow East. Understand? We are almost finished here, anyway. And you, Ivan, if there is any more trouble, I will wrap you up in more chains than you can swim with and throw you in the ocean! Clear?” He was standing toe-to-toe with Ivan, venting his built-up rage when he noticed the Guido’s Pizza boxes that scattered when Yoshida kicked the trash can. “And keep your trash out of my office.”

  * * *

  That evening Petrevich left his makeshift living quarters at
Hangar 23 without telling his men where he was going. Wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, he sat at a corner table in deep discussion with another Russian at the Moscow East for an hour. He returned to Hangar 23 after midnight.

  CHAPTER 13

  The sun reflecting off the shimmering blue waters of the north Pacific woke Warfield. The captain announced the plane would be on the ground at Tokyo’s Narita Airport in thirty minutes. After sixteen hours on the plane, Warfield was anxious to get out and stretch. Better yet, he’d go for a run if there were time.

  He asked a flight attendant for something with caffeine and pulled both of General Antonov’s e-mail messages up on his iPhone. In the first one, Antonov notified him he had new intelligence about their “common interest” and said he would contact him again when he had more information. That message was dated two days before Warfield left Washington to visit Macc in Arizona and he had missed it.

  Now it was impossible to think of that trip without a flash of the reason he went. He had fixed everything that could be fixed. His condo mortgage was now in good standing again and he’d paid the other bills for which he’d been irresponsible. He drove to Ticcio’s, owned up to the damage in the men’s room and wrote Ticcio a check for double the repair cost even though Ticcio told him to forget it. And Fleming. Why had she even tolerated him? He’d ignored the lifelines she threw out to him, like everything else. On the evening of his return from Arizona they talked about the darkest episode of his life. He groped around for explanations—as much for himself as for Fleming—and Fleming told him the guy he was trying to explain was passing through and wouldn’t be returning. “So don’t look back any more,” she said. He had felt tears on her cheek that night as they made love for the first time in months.

  The next day after that he couldn’t wait to start putting his condo back in shape. Fleming had cleaned the place and he spent his time finally unpacking the Lone Elm boxes and setting up his office. When he got around to checking his e-mail that day he found the two messages from General Antonov. The general said in the second one that he was in Tokyo and Warfield should join him there if he was interested.

  If he was interested? Antonov knew something about this Russian who was a threat to humanity and who on a professional level had impacted Warfield’s life. Catching up with this man was almost as important to Warfield as life itself.

  As the plane began its final approach to Narita, Warfield reflected on the smaller and simpler American plane that flew over Japan some seventy years ago and introduced weapons of mass destruction to the world. He saluted the Japanese for overcoming the disastrous effects of World War II by way of intelligent economic policies and assistance from the United States. Now, Japan, an island smaller than California but with as much as half the population of the U.S., was a top-tier economic engine and America’s solid ally in that part of the world.

  Warfield had e-mailed Antonov his flight schedule and once inside the terminal he heard someone speak his name. The man in his late thirties introduced himself as Takao Komeito and said Antonov sent him. They weaved their way through the crowded concourse to a waiting limousine outside the terminal and after Komeito gave the driver instructions in Japanese, he turned to Warfield. “General Antonov speaks very well of you, Colonel Warfield.”

  “He’ll get to know me better,” Warfield said, wondering if an attempt at humor was appropriate.

  Komeito stared at him. “Better hope not, Colonel.”

  “How so?”

  “General doesn’t like? He kill.” Komeito kept a straight face for a second before breaking up. Warfield knew he could like the guy.

  “You work with General Antonov?” Warfield asked.

  “I worked for him when he traveled here on military business before he retired. I am employed at the Russian Embassy here. Unimportant job. Easy for me to take leave while general is in Tokyo.”

  Warfield nodded and asked the dapper Komeito, “So Antonov still receives official treatment?”

  “Embassy is most hospitable to General Antonov even now. Highly respected.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He is busy. If you please, you will check into hotel now and meet with General Antonov for dinner. I will be assisting you both, if okay with you.”

  Warfield nodded and asked Komeito how he would like to be addressed.

  “Komeito. Call me Komeito.”

  Warfield liked the way Komeito handled himself. Confident but unpretentious. He doubted if Komeito was as unimportant as he painted himself.

  The hotel’s name, East Island Winds, meant nothing to Warfield but its lobby was as grand as any Ritz-Carlton he’d seen. Komeito registered for Warfield and stayed by his side until he was in his room and Komeito was satisfied it met his satisfaction. Some of the staff seemed to know Komeito, and Warfield wondered if he was receiving V.I.P. treatment because of him, or maybe Antonov, or if it was hospitality typical of a fine Japanese hotel. “General Antonov wishes for you to meet him in Izumi Restaurant for dinner at seven this evening. May I say you will join him?”

  Komeito said the restaurant was four blocks from the hotel and offered to pick him up but Warfield opted to walk.

  After Komeito left, Warfield dressed in shorts and tee-shirt and went for a run, committing landmarks to memory at every turn. He saw no one else running in the streets and soon understood why. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic was dense, presenting an obstacle course. He ran twenty minutes out and turned back.

  * * *

  Warfield recognized Antonov standing in the bar. He hadn’t changed much since they met years ago in Russia, although his leathery face reflected the hard Russian winters. Antonov was better than six-foot-three and looked even taller among the Japanese. Retirement agreed with him. Tan, fit looking, full head of graying hair. The Hawaiian shirt he wore under his blazer was anything but that of the stereotypical Russian military leader. Warfield was surprised when the general gathered him into a bear hug, then held him by his shoulders at arms’ length and sized him up as he might have looked at a son he hadn’t seen for a long time. The Russian would have gone unnoticed in any fancy restaurant in the U.S., his graying hair neatly trimmed and hanging softly at the top of his collar, shuttered eyes barely masking the harder days of the Cold War, neither a smile nor a frown on his face. A man, Warfield thought, who undoubtedly inspired trust and confidence in his leaders and followers from the past.

  The crowded restaurant was full of chatter and the clanking of dishes. The warm smells of garlic and other tantalizing kitchen juices filled the air. The general signaled the maitre d’, who seated them at a corner table that afforded privacy. Warfield hadn’t noticed Komeito at the bar, but he showed up when they were being seated. “You’ve met Komeito, correct?” Antonov asked.

  Antonov leaned back in his chair and asked about Warfield’s flight, said he was glad he came and told a couple of Russian jokes. Warfield had not thought of Antonov as lighthearted and felt the jokes were meant to mislead anyone who might be observing. So he jumped in with a couple of stories of his own but allowed Antonov to set the pace. There was no room for two chiefs here and not only did Antonov outrank him, this was his show. In a technical way, rank made no difference. Both men were retired from the military and from different countries, but there was an understood protocol in such circumstances. Warfield liked Antonov and hoped he could trust him. The man made easy eye contact and had a comfortable air about him, and by contacting him as he did about Petrevich, Antonov had followed through on an informal agreement the two men made years earlier.

  The first hour was light. Antonov in his gravelly voice told Warfield about his history with Komeito. Komeito had been his interpreter and aide on Antonov’s trips to Japan over the years, and he knew how to get around obstacles. Warfield took that to mean Komeito had helpful official contacts and perhaps served as a bodyguard. Warfield explained his unofficial connection with the White House and Antonov wanted to know how it was to work there, and with President
Cross, and contrasted it with his own experience in Moscow.

  They talked about the changes in their countries’ relationship, and the fact they could sit at dinner together. Antonov caught the waiter’s eye and they ordered. Warfield and Komeito ordered sushi. Antonov was shy about ordering the raw delicacy but when Warfield cajoled him he threw up his hands, relenting.

  Antonov then leaned in toward Warfield. “You are wondering why we are in Tokyo”.

  Warfield nodded.

  “Our friend is here.”

  “Petrevich?”

  “Boris Petrevich. Exactly.”

  Warfield took a second to digest it. So Petrevich’s entry into Iraq was a red herring. That was believable. Petrevich—or his handler—knew Iraq was a destination no one would question and Warfield admonished himself now for not thinking outside the box. But Japan?

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I cannot answer that question yet,” said Antonov. “Perhaps you and I will find out together tonight. But if you want to get involved in this, I must ask for a commitment from you.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you will not involve your government agencies in this matter.”

  Warfield studied his drink. Without official U.S. involvement he and Antonov would be playing a dangerous game. The ramifications were unfathomable. And the responsibility would be theirs. Warfield had already tried to get the feds involved and failed and then the FBI blew the operation at the border. He hadn’t forgotten where that left him. If he went to Cross now, the president would bring in national security advisor Otto Stern and Fullwood and Quinn, and that would make any swift action impossible. He’d be on his own.