The Expediter (26 page)

The phone was silent for several beats.

“I will take care of this problem,” Turov promised. “But it will cost you another five million euros.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” Daniel warned. “Not so easily . . . eliminated. Others have tried and failed.”

“Leave that up to me. If I fail, you will not have to make a payment.”

“There’ll be serious repercussions. The blowback could be immense, even against the backdrop of what’s about to happen out there.”

“That part is your problem.”

“Maybe there’s a better way.”

“Better than killing him?” Turov asked.

“Yes. But give me a few hours.”

“Very well,” Turov said. “If I don’t hear from you in that time, I’ll expect the first payment in my account. Are we clear?”

“Oh, yes,” the voice at the other end said. “Very clear.”

It was quarter to seven and McGarvey was about to go downstairs for dinner when his sat phone chirped. By now Turov would know that he was here and would probably be making a move this evening and McGarvey wanted to make it easy for the man by being someplace public.

The caller was Rencke, and he sounded out of breath as he usually did when he had the bit in his teeth. “If Turov is our man, he’s got a place on millionaires’ row in Ueno, not too far from your hotel.”

“Has he got any muscle up there?”

“I don’t know. Getting anything on him was really tough. In fact I thought it was impossible, because he’s not on any tax rolls, he’s not registered with any utilities department, he doesn’t hold a Japanese driver’s license, and apparently he doesn’t even have a relationship with any bank in the country.”

“But you found him,” McGarvey prompted.

“Yeah. Transfers of foreign funds into and from Japan. I started with Switzerland, an obvious choice, and ran into a blizzard. Seems like half of all Japanese millionaires do at least a part of their banking with the Swiss, mostly to hide some of their money from the tax man. But not so many of them use that route for ordinary living expenses. Turov is hiding behind an Australian corporation, registered under the name Boyko Investments, Ltd. Which makes him one cheeky bastard.”

“Hiding out in the open.”

“Yeah, but listen, Mac, none of this shit is one hundred percent, ya know. I’m doing a lot of guessing here, tons of extrapolations.”

“Boyko Investments has to be too big a coincidence.”

“Not so big,” Rencke said. “Worldwide there are two dozen companies under that name, and just as many under Turov or some variation of either.”

“How many linked back here to Tokyo?”

“Only the one,” Rencke conceded.

“Okay, I’m going in to take a look tonight, maybe pressure him into making a mistake,” McGarvey said. “How do I find his place?”

“It’s near the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum. I’ll download the directions to your phone. But you could be running into a buzz saw. If he knows you’re in Tokyo, he’ll expect you to come to him.”

“It’s exactly what I’m hoping for,” McGarvey said. “I think he’ll make contact with me tonight here at the hotel, and if he does I’ll throw him a little misdirection.”

“Well you have another problem you’ll have to deal with,” Rencke said. “Adkins knows you were in Seoul and he knows that you’re in Tokyo. He wants to talk to you asap.”

“How’d he find out?”

“I don’t know, but I’m trying to run it down. Probably someone from the NIS.”

It was possible that Ok-Lee’s boss contacted someone at Langley because of the shooting, but McGarvey had another, much darker thought. It was something that had been playing around the edge of his consciousness almost from the moment Colonel Pak had laid out the situation. Who had the most to gain and who had the most to lose if the region went nuclear? The conclusions he was coming up with were taking him down a path he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Just a few months ago he’d been involved with an operation in Mexico City involving a Chinese intelligence service general that ultimately ended up in an attack against the U.S. that was still under investigation by the CIA.

Now this, involving another Chinese intelligence service general at the center of an operation that could ultimately end up being an even stronger blow against the U.S.

Coincidence? He couldn’t make himself believe it.

“I’ll call him in the morning.”

“He’s camped out upstairs until this shit blows over,” Rencke said. “Everyone on this side of the pond is going nuts. But I can hold him off a little longer.”

“I’ll call him now,” McGarvey said.

“The directions to Turov’s place in Uneo are in your phone. Watch yourself, this guy’s good.”

McGarvey broke the connection and speed dialed Adkins’s private number at his seventh-floor office. The DCI answered on the second ring, and he sounded irascible.

“What?”

“How’d you know that I was in Seoul?” McGarvey asked.

Adkins hesitated only a beat. “Christ, make me a happy man and tell me that you’re on the way home.”

“Who told you?” McGarvey pressed.

“Howard told me this morning. Said someone from the NIS called him. Evidently you got one of their officers shot up, and she damned near died.”

“The guy’s name is Alexandar Turov. He hired a pair of South Korean shooters to go up to Pyongyang and take out the general.”

“You’re not listening, Mac. If it gets out that an American, especially a former DCI, is meddling in this business there’ll be no end to the international complications. The general’s assassination might even be laid on our doorstep.”

McGarvey had always liked Adkins. The man was honest, well-meaning, and a damned fine administrator. But he was no spy. He didn’t know when to take a chance, or even how to evaluate a risk to see if the possible outcome was worth it.

“I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

“Not good enough!” Adkins shouted. “For Christ’s sake, Mac, we’re looking down the barrel of a nuclear war out there that could spread not only to Japan, but to Taiwan as well, and we’d be right in the middle of it. You sat in this office, you know what’s at stake. If need be we’ll turn
this over to the Japanese authorities to have you arrested and forcibly sent home. But Howard’s afraid that you just might resist and there’d be another shooting.”

“Turov is nothing more than the middleman, an expediter, and I’m going to ask him for a name.”

Adkins hesitated for a moment. “I’ll give you a few hours, Mac. It’s all I can do, and then I’ll have to turn this over to the COS there in Tokyo and ask him to bring you in, even if it means going to the Japanese authorities for help.”

“I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning, no matter what happens,” McGarvey said. “Twelve hours from now. But it’s too important and I’m too close to back off now.”

“My hands are tied,” Adkins said.

“So are mine,” McGarvey said, and he broke the connection and stared out the window at the lights of the city.

Of the four restaurants in the hotel, McGarvey had enjoyed the French best from his last time here. The chef was from Paris, and had studied at the Cordon Bleu, earning the Asakusa’s kitchen three stars. By seven when McGarvey arrived, the elegant dining room with its Louis XIV furnishings was only half-filled with Western businessmen meeting their Japanese counterparts. No one seemed to be in a hurry, and the noise level in the tall-ceilinged room was muted.

The maître d’ brought McGarvey a tie then took him to a small table at a window. “Will someone be joining you for dinner this evening, sir?” He unfolded the linen napkin and draped it across McGarvey’s lap.

“Somebody might drop by and ask for me.”

“Would you care to leave your name, or would you rather not be disturbed?”

“McGarvey.”

“Very good, sir,” the man said with a half bow and he returned to his station.

Two waiters came, one to pour Evian in a stemmed glass, the other with bread and butter. When they left a third brought the menu.

“Good evening, sir. May I get you something to drink?

“A cognac, something nice,” McGarvey said. “I’m celebrating.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said and he left. Like the other staff he was French, and unlike the Japanese at the desk this afternoon, their attitude was no different toward Americans than toward anyone else.

McGarvey guessed that at least one-third of the Westerners here this evening were probably Americans. It made him wonder if they knew something about the impending war that that no one else was aware of, or did they have faith in Washington brokering a peace between North Korea and China? The Americans who’d been caught in Baghdad during the first and second Gulf wars might have felt the same way. Either that or they were men seeking to make a profit from the war. Only in this case, if Kim Jong Il did launch one of his nukes, Tokyo would probably become an unhealthy place in which to do business.

The waiter returned with the cognac and withdrew to allow McGarvey time to look at the menu, making him also wonder about the French and other foreigners working and doing business here in Japan. The situation was serious, but no one he’d met, other than the Japanese, seemed to be concerned.

He felt an odd sense of unreality, as if he were caught up in some sort of a time warp, someplace outside the current world order.

McGarvey looked up as a short Japanese man in a Western business suit came across the room from the maître d’s station. He moved like an athlete, his step light, poised to move very fast if the need suddenly arose.

“McGarvey-san,” he said with a slight bow. “May I have a seat?

“That depends on who you are.”

“My name is of no importance. But my employer’s name may be of some significance to you. Alexandar Turov.”

McGarvey took a sip of his drink. It was a Napoleon brandy and good. “Do you mean Nikolai Boyko? I think our paths may have crossed recently in Seoul.”

The Japanese man showed no reaction. “May I sit down?”

McGarvey motioned for him to take a seat, and as he did the waiter came over, but McGarvey waved him off.

“The gentleman won’t be joining me for dinner.”

“Very well, sir.”

When he was gone, McGarvey turned his attention back to Turov’s messenger. “Well?” he asked coolly.

“Mr. Turov wishes to invite you to dinner this evening, if you haven’t already dined, or for drinks if you have.”

“Why?”

“He would like to discuss with you a recent offer made on your behalf.”

“Do you mean President Haynes?”

“I wouldn’t know, McGarvey-san. I’m simply a messenger this evening.”

McGarvey studied the man who looked like anything but a simple messenger. Close up it was obvious he was in superb physical condition, and able to keep his emotions in check. Bushido, probably. But something else was in the messenger’s eyes and facial structure, maybe a hint of Chinese. If he were of mixed heritage his life here in Japan could never have been easy.

“Tomorrow evening. I’m tired now, jet lag.”

“Mr. Turov was most anxious to meet with you to night.”

“What’s the hurry?”

The Japanese man didn’t bother to answer. He was being toyed with and he knew it.

“Have him come here, if he wants to see me to night,” McGarvey said. “I’ll meet him downstairs in the lobby bar.”

“That’s not possible, sir,” the Japanese man said. He produced a business card, English on one side, Japanese on the other, and held it out. “Hand this to your cab driver, it gives directions.”

McGarvey ignored it. “I know my way,” he said. “Let’s say eight tomorrow evening?”

“I’ll pass your message along.”

“If there is a problem, he can leave word for me with the desk,” McGarvey said. “Now if you don’t mind, whatever your name is, I’d like to order my dinner in peace.”

If the insult bothered the man, he didn’t show it. He pocketed the business card, got to his feet, bowed slightly, and left.

Two hours later McGarvey was back in his room, where he telephoned Rencke, and told him about the conversation he’d had with Turov’s messenger. He pulled out his dark slacks and dark pullover from his bag, plus the extra magazine of 9 mm ammunition and the silencer.