Third World War (13 page)

Tokyo, Japan*

Toru Sato, the colourful Prime Minister of Japan, saw a signal from the side of the tennis court that the US President was calling from Washington. He returned the ball in a slow arc just over the net and won the point. He walked off and was handed a cold face towel from the attractive personal assistant with whom the newspapers had dared link him romantically.

'Thank you, Kiyoko,' said Sato, taking a mobile telephone from her. 'How is he?'

'Impatient,' said Kiyoko, pushing her hair back off her face.

'I want Ken in on this conversation.' Sato beckoned over his Defence Secretary from the other side of the court. Kenijiro Yamada was a generation younger than Sato, but the score was one set each, with Yamada leading by a game.

'Just Ken?' said Kiyoko.

The Prime Minister nodded. The tragedy at Yokata had thrown up his nation's troubled history as never before. Half of Japan was terrified and seeking sanctuary with Uncle Sam. The other half was volunteering to sign up and invade North Korea. In his long political career, Sato had endured lecturing from the United States. His country was used but despised by China. It was loathed by South Korea and under suspicion from the whole of Asia. At seventy-two, Sato carried the mantle of both serving prime minister and elder statesman. He had skilfully seen off rivals of his own generation and now surrounded himself with ministers like Ken Yamada, and brilliantly sharp assistants like Kiyoko, a modern version of the ancient tradition of the geisha.

Sato dreamed of breaking Japan away from its tortured past. It had tried with its multinationals. It had tried with massive aid donations. It had tried - by its own standards - being contrite. But no nation could move on from a bad war without winning a good war. North Korea had handed him an opportunity to rid Japan of its twentieth-century shadows and make the nation complete once again.

Kiyoko gave Yamada a telephone. She herself was wearing a tiny earpiece and microphone.

'Jim, you caught me on the tennis court,' said Sato, deliberately not explaining why he was playing tennis in the middle of a national crisis.

'I won't keep you, then,' said West. 'I know my people have been talking to your people. We're trying to get this sorted as smoothly as we can. You know we're doing everything in our power to unwind the tension. I appreciate that Japan is in the front line and I must ask you to hold back on political posturing or military activity while we're trying to get this sorted.'

Sato had never liked Jim West. He spoke his mind and was too brusque to ever begin to understand the complexities of Japan. 'You will, I know, be looking at ways of honouring our security agreement which has kept peace in the East Asian region for more than half a century and allowed our economies to prosper.'

'Exactly. I am glad we are on the same wavelength.'

Except that, for Sato, they were far from being on the same wavelength. Their reading of the situation might be the same, but each government needed to use it differently. 'I have a problem, then, as you know,' Sato said. 'The television networks are reporting a massive deployment of naval ships and aircraft from your bases in Japan. Our press is interpreting this as your abandoning us and leaving us open to further attacks from North Korean missiles.'

'No. That is definitely not the case.' West's voice hardened, switching from that of friend to that of superior. 'We are deploying to the Korean peninsula and to the southern Philippines. Far from abandoning you, we are carrying out an operation of forward projection.'

'I see,' said Sato, his voice dropping suddenly and leaving things hanging so that West would have no idea what was troubling him.

'That's it, Toru. That's exactly what we're doing.' But hesitancy had slipped into the President's own voice.

Sato allowed a pause. He allowed his sigh to travel down the telephone line. 'Jim, I am under pressure to invoke article six of our mutual security treaty. It's from my own party.'

'Give me one second,' said West, as the tone on the scrambled satellite line changed. West was consulting his advisers on where Sato might be heading. The Japanese Prime Minister was a strong supporter of Japan's own missile programme. He had backed the forward deployment of the misnamed Japanese Self-Defence Force out east into the Pacific and as far west as the Indian Ocean. He had been instrumental in reshaping the navy to include more powerful warships and submarines and in changing the rules of engagement to open fire on hostile forces without being attacked first.

West came back briefed and with more confidence. 'Toru, you still there? Sorry about that. I've got a dozen people listening in on us, making sure I get my diplomacy right. Our security agreement stands. Of course it stands. Listen. As I said, we are deploying away from Japan, to the Philippines and to the Korean peninsula. I forgot to mention Singapore and the northern coast of Borneo, because it is our genuine belief that the Islamist rebellion is a far more dangerous threat to world peace than North Korea. But the key element is that we're keeping our troops on the peninsula. That's 37,000 Americans in the front line. To supply them we need to keep our bases in Japan fully manned. We're bringing in more service personnel and equipment from the US and that means we are also in a position to defend any attack on Japan. So, please, tell your party not to try to make political capital out of this tragedy, or they'll provoke my wrath as well as yours.'

Sato inclined his head slightly, to catch a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead. 'Article six specifies that we must see evidence of a return to the status quo. What we are seeing, Jim, is the American war machine in flight because of a single North Korean missile.'

'Why don't you go get a job as correspondent for Fox News?' said West sharply. He drew breath, and Sato was certain he had rubbed a nerve. The United States and Japan shared common ground in Asia in that they were both used and despised. The difference was that the United States strove for love. For some twisted reason - as proven by their record of twentieth-century brutality - the Japanese almost strove to be hated. Perhaps they believed that loathing and not love led to respect. Their modern success, away from the battlefield, led to jealousy. They made no attempt to be understood. To outsiders, their society remained unfathomable. This was an element of deep national psychology on which Toru planned to write a book once he had retired.

'Fox News,' Toru repeated, balancing his tone between humour and irritation. 'They are great advocates of war, I know. It increases their advertising revenues.'

'Toru, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of you letting the US take the lead. Yes, Yokata was on Japanese soil. But it was an American base and American families that were killed. It is our tragedy and our conflict.'

Sato glanced over to Yamada. 'Do you mind holding for a moment, Mr President?' he said with emphasized formality. 'I must have a word with my Defence Minister.'

'Make the offer,' said Yamada, swinging his racket in his hand. 'If we don't take the initiative now, we'll lose it.'

'Precisely,' said Sato, taking his time to reconnect the line. 'Mr President, given your stretched deployment in the region, I suggest we send Japanese ships to monitor activities off the North Korean coast. We can then pool our resources, which will free up your forces should the worrying Islamic uprisings spread. I hope this will be helpful to you.'

'You can't,' said West. 'You mustn't.'

'Mr President, please think about it.' He beckoned to Kiyoko, who unfolded a fresh cold towel and laid it at the base of his neck. Sato smiled. 'My suggestion will help both of us.'

'It'll change the goddamn balance of power, and you know it,' said West, making no attempt to hide his anger. 'It'll do exactly what those North Korean bastards want us to do.'

'As democratically elected leaders, we have to take note of the wishes of our electorate,' said Sato, peeling the towel off his neck and handing it back to Kiyoko with a smile. 'My concern is to show that their lives are being protected in every way. The members of my party are reflecting their desire to maintain the status quo.'

'The status quo was that North Korea had a missile in a gantry tower ready for launch. What do you want me to do, ring them up and tell them to put another one in there?'

Sato made no reply to the outburst. Kiyoko threw him a tennis ball, which he caught on the racket and rolled around on the string. 'That is my point, Jim,' he said softly, slipping back into a more personal tone. 'The status quo has gone for ever. Every nation must reassess its priorities.'

It was not a good conversation. But then, Toru Sato had never intended it to be.

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17*

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Moscow, Russia*

President Andrei Kozlov paced his huge office in the Kremlin, head lowered, his thoughts private. Kozlov's appearance was of a man once exposed to all weathers and with a physique trained to optimum fitness. But in his late fifties, his age and cragginess were showing. He was at least six feet three and broad-shouldered, with thick, grey, messy hair, and sideburns shaved neatly to the base of each ear. He had a pale, chubby face, blotched with moles, a face more friendly and happy than you would expect from the leader of a troubled and wounded nation. It was a disarming image, which Kozlov rarely failed to use to his advantage.

Kozlov finished his conversation with Jim West and handed the encrypted portable telephone to his private secretary, Alexander Yushchuk. Yushchuk had been with Kozlov for more than a quarter of a century, and the President trusted him more than his wife, more than his four children and a lot more than any of the duplicitous colleagues who sat in his cabinet.

They had met in 1982 during the Afghan campaign. Kozlov, then a political adviser in Kandahar, had run under mortar and machine-gun fire to drag Alexander Yushchuk, a conscripted driver, out of an overturned and burning jeep. While Yushchuk had survived bruised but unhurt, Kozlov took shrapnel in the ankle, leaving him with a slight limp.

Kozlov was a high achiever. Yushchuk, tall, gangly and bespectacled, was an enquiring observer and a pacifist. He was intrigued that anyone would risk his own life to save the life of a man he didn't know. He attached himself to Kozlov out of curiosity. Having never known status, the lowest ebb of Kozlov's career had been normal for Yushchuk. He believed in Kozlov's policies, although he did not always agree with the detail. For Yushchuk, Kozlov was the only Russian who understood the stakes of what was happening to their nation.

Kozlov had recently swept to power after years in the political wilderness. A military historian with a degree in international relations from Moscow University and a master's in business administration from INSEAD in France, Kozlov had argued forcefully against the break-up of the Soviet Union.

Nothing was absolute, he had said. Nothing was clear enough to necessitate such a risk. There was no panacea, no perfect formula of government, and the sudden dismantling of the status quo was highly dangerous. Kozlov was ignored and Russia went on to witness the conflict and poverty that followed.

He had spoken out against creating a free-market democracy without the rule of law, but was derided while organized crime took over the country. He exiled himself to Vladivostok, as far eastward as he could go. On the long train journey there, over thousands of miles, Kozlov had seen the achivements of the Soviet system and how it had supplied housing, drainage, roads, electricity, healthcare and telephone lines to tens of millions. In India, Africa and Latin America, similar communities lived in dismal conditions, despite following the advice of Western democracies. From Vladivostok, he wrote against the triumphalism of the market economy, and watched helplessly as billions of dollars in foreign loans wrested economic control from Russians and gave it to foreigners.

He opposed Russia's acceptance as a partner in NATO, but was ignored, and he watched as allies such as Yugoslavia and Iraq switched their allegiance from Moscow to Washington.

Kozlov had sunk deeper and deeper into poverty. His wife, Sonia, wavered but remained with him. His two sons ignored him. One of his daughters, Mariya, disowned him and emigrated to Paris. But Ekatarina, his youngest, and a talented cellist, knew nothing of politics, but everything of family love. She remained loyal, albeit ignorant as to the issues which Kozlov was fighting.

'What do you think?' said Kozlov, as he came to the end of the room and face to face with an oil on canvas by Isaac Levitan. Kozlov had pleaded with the Tretyakov Gallery to lend it to him in exchange for an old master from the Kremlin. Levitan called his work Eternal Peace. It showed a solitary church set against an expanse of lake and sky, and was meant to reflect the loneliness of the human soul in the vastness of the universe. There was a tragedy about it, as there was for much of that period of painting, where man was constantly shown as being in disharmony with his own environment. Kozlov turned and paced back along the length of the room.