Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

“This is Japanese territory,” said the general.

“The presence of a military installation would violate the treaty and return the land to us,” said Luksha. He had been prepared for the objections — legitimate, surely — and now played his trump card. “Given that we have detected signals from a Tu-160 device, we could say that we were searching for such an aircraft that was reported missing.”

Orda remained silent, staring at him as if he were an unfamiliar man who’d burst into the room with an incredible plan to go to war against America. Luksha began to feel less sure of himself.

“The Americans have occasionally used private companies as fronts for the CIA,” he said, repeating a theory Chapeav had raised. “It is possible they are planning to do something against the North Koreans, if not ourselves.”

Luksha waited, trying not to wince under the force of Orda’s stare. General Orda had the authority to grant permission for the operation, but if he didn’t, should Luksha go over his head?

He would have to speak to the premier himself. Just getting on his calendar would take days if not weeks.

“The Japanese would view this as an attack,” said Orda finally. “If there are troops there, they would resist.”

“There are no defense forces that are using standard communications equipment on the island,” said Luksha. “The Japanese have not been on the island as far as we can tell for at least six months. We would approach peacefully, with no intent to harm anyone, unless we were fired upon.

“A reconaissance is hardly an attack,” he added quickly. “Looking for our aircraft, we find another. If a weapon happens to be aboard it — in violation of an international agreement — then surely it would be our right to examine in detail.”

Orda stared at him. There was no doubt about the laser’s capabilities; the Americans had just proven all of the scientists’ speculation. If it truly was this close to them, it had to be examined — if not destroyed.

“A large-scale operation would be out of the question,” said Orda finally. “But a reconaissance in force, conducted at a time when the island was not monitored by the Japanese or the Americans, proceeding carefully as you’ve outlined…What is the minimal force you would need, if such a group were under your direct, personal command?”

“Define venti.”

The skinny young man with half a goatee blinked.

“Venti?” repeated Fisher.

The thick aroma of ground caffeine in the upscale coffee shop had obviously intoxicated the clerk’s delicate senses. Fisher sympathized, but not to the point of being patient.

“How about I hop over the counter and get the coffee myself?” he asked the clerk, who had a tag on his shirt declaring he wasn’t a clerk at all but something in an obscure Romance language that seemed to mean lawgiver.

“ Venti would be, uh, bigger than grande,” said the clerk. He pronounced the last e with an exaggerated swagger, as if the accent might somehow make him European.

“So there’s grande and extra grande, which is large and extra large, except that large is what used to be regular, but you can charge more by calling it large. So venti is large, and I want extra large, so I guess I want extra venti.” Fisher took out a cigarette. “What would that be? Vento?”

“Um—”

“Because it sounds kind of Latin, you know what I mean? It’s not Latin, but it’s close.” He lit the cigarette. “Venti, vento, ventanimous — I came, I saw, I coffeed. Works for me.”

“You can’t smoke in here,” said the clerk.

“Yeah, I know,” said Fisher. “So you gonna get me the ventanimous or what?”

The clerk stared at the cigarette. “Mocha?”

“Just regular coffee. Straight.”

The young man took cover behind the dessert display, whispering to one of his coworkers. Fisher surveyed the counter, looking for something to put his ashes in. A display near the register was filled with CDs “celebrating the organic music of the Rain Forest.” Next to it was a small glossy photo of the man who had actually picked the coffee being prepared today; it seemed likely the company had spent more on the glossy photo than on the beans. A legend below the photo declared that the coffee had been harvested with integrity, which Fisher agreed was a good thing: You couldn’t have too much integrity in a hot beverage, as far as he was concerned.

On the other hand, Fisher wasn’t sure about organic music. Possibly it was the song they sang when they tore the trees down to panel the interior of the store.

The clerk with the pseudo-Latin job title sent a braver, skinnier coworker forward with the coffee. Fisher paid for it — the price represented a month’s car payment — and then sat along the wall. Several people stared, eyeing his cigarette with obvious envy.

He’d taken only two sips from the coffee — while admittedly on the strong side, it lacked the metallic, burned aftertaste so highly prized by true connoisseurs of java — when a gentleman clad in the dark blue favored by officers of the law approached his table. Fisher reached into his jacket for his Bureau ID, expecting the cop to riff a variation of “license and registration” on him. Instead he touched his holster, unsnapping the gun restraint at the top.

“FBI,” said Fisher. “Relax.”

“Put it down slowly,” said the cop.

Fisher pulled out his ID and laid it on the table.

“I meant the cigarette,” said the policeman.

Fisher’s cell phone began to vibrate.

“How about I take it outside?” he suggested, figuring the heavy lacquer of the walls would interfere with his reception.

“Good idea,” said the policeman, whose hand remained poised near his weapon as the FBI agent walked out. The small concrete patio near the sidewalk was crowded with smoking refugees, but Fisher found an unoccupied table near the Dumpster, where the refreshing aroma of spent coffee beans mixed with more earthly scents.

“Fisher.”

“McDonald.”

“Betty, how are you?” he asked, starting to sip the coffee. “Did the GSA help?”

“About as much as Congressman Taft,” she said.

“Good,” said Fisher. It was best not to acknowledge sarcasm in an amateur.

She sighed. Fisher recognized the sound of a Tootsie Roll being unwrapped.

“We persevered despite your help. There are some interesting intersections,” she said between chews. “Ferrone Radiavonics, which according to your papers worked on the F/A-22V’s radar.”

“Yup?”

“They’re owned by a company which is owned by another company which is part of a trust controlled by the people who control El-Def.”

“This is going somewhere, right?”

“Megan York’s family and friends have an important interest in about half a dozen defense projects besides Cyclops,” she told him.

“Controlling interests?”

“Big interests.”

“Like which ones?”

“God, Fisher, do you do anything besides drink coffee and smoke cigarettes all day?”

“Nope.”

“The augmented-ABM project is the biggest. The connection’s rather convoluted.”

“Bonham’s involved?”

“He has stock in some of the companies. His stake is unclear. There are others.” Betty ran down a list that included an unmanned submarine project and a satellite network. “Awful lot of stock to own, given his supposed net worth. Get this: He claims his condo cost under two-fifty. Can’t possibly be, not near the Beltway. No way.”

As she talked the call-waiting feature beeped Fisher’s line with another call.