Thomas Hoover - Project Daedalus

The Tokyo oyabun's daring project is going to succeed. In the long run it's inevitable. The problems now are short-term. But if anything else goes wrong with this office's responsibilities…

The kobun, five in all, bowed respectfully. They understood his thoughts as clearly as if they had been projected in neon across the back wall. The office had already lost three men. Face was at stake. This problem could not be solved from Tokyo. It was time to draw together.

The operation was scheduled to begin at 11:00 P.M. sharp. The five kobun had already synchronized their digital watches and stashed their H amp;K automatics in the two gray Fords now waiting in the building's underground garage. No flashy limousines tonight; the operation would be lowest of low profiles.

Three more of their team were already at the hotel, with walkie-talkies, monitoring the entrances. The KGB security in the lobby would be quietly diverted and then neutralized. The guard upstairs would simply be overpowered, or taken out with a silencer if the situation got out of hand. Since they were professionals, however, matters rarely went that far.

The time had come to move. All five lined up in front of Jiro Sato's massive oak desk and bowed to the waist; then one by one they filed out. Tuesday 10:27 P.M.

It was going to be a simple operation, that much he was sure of. No violence, no bloodshed. The bottle should take care of the situation. All the same, he had a 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. Life had taught him that when something could go wrong, chances were good that it would.

After this one last job, he was going to disappear. The situation had deteriorated far past where any reasonable man would want to touch it. The time had come to bail out and let the chips fall. One more day, that was all.

Standing now at the side entrance of the Strand Palace, the small alleyway named Burleigh that curved around the rear of the hotel and met the main avenue, he pulled his overcoat tighter and glanced down at his Piaget.

It read 10:28. Time to get started. Everything was synchronized down to seconds.

He'd already made sure the service entrance was unlocked. He'd taped the latch on the metal door during the comings and goings of the staff during the evening shift change. Now all he had to do was slip through and the rest should go like clockwork.

In he went. The neon-lit hallway was empty, again according to plan. This was a slow time for all the staff except room service and the kitchen.

He slipped off his overcoat and threw it into a large laundry hamper parked halfway down the hall. Underneath he was wearing the uniform of a Strand Palace security man.

He checked his watch. Sixty-five seconds…

At that moment the door of the service elevator opened and a tall Irishman stepped off. He was wearing the same uniform.

It was a Strand Palace security guard, a real one. The worst possible luck.

The moment seemed frozen in time. However, one thing was certain: the security guard wasn't fooled for an instant by the intruder. He automatically grabbed one of his trouser legs and knelt with a practiced move, reaching for the holster strapped to his ankle.

The intruder was quicker. As the guard dropped down, his knee came up, slamming against the man's square jaw. The Irishman toppled back against the side of the elevator with a groan, but not before his fist lashed out, aimed for the groin.

It was a glancing blow, and it was too late. The intruder chopped down against his neck, disabling his left arm, then slammed his head against the steel strut running down the center of the elevator wall. He groaned and twitched backward.

Should I just break his neck? he wondered. Just kill him now? One twist would do it.

No, he lectured himself, be a professional.

Instead he rammed the Irishman's head against the steel strut a second time, and a third, till he felt the body go fully limp.

Not good enough, he told himself, and reached into his pocket for the bottle. The ether was going to get more use than he'd planned.

He doused the heavy cloth he'd brought along and shoved it against the fallen figure's nostrils. He continued to hold it on the ruddy face as he closed the elevator door and pushed the button that would take him up.

As the lift rose, he checked his watch and smiled to see that his timing was perfect. Ten seconds to go.

Tuesday 10:29 P.M.

"You bastard," Eva screamed as she slapped Vance with all her might, knocking him against the door of their room. The thin walls shook.

"Don't ever do that again." He drew up and swung for her, missing and crashing against a chair.

"Get away from me. You're drunk." She shoved him farther into the room, her voice trembling with anger. Then she wrenched open the hotel room door and stumbled into the hallway. "Pomogethya mnye!"

Their KGB guard, Igor Borisovich, was already running down the hall, "Shto…?”

"Help me." She seized his arm and pulled him in.

Mike Vance was standing in the middle of the room, weaving shakily, now grasping a letter opener in his right hand.

"Get the hell out of here." He started moving on the Russian, brandishing the weapon, but stumbled and had to pause to collect his balance.

"He drank half a bottle of tequila and went crazy." She was shouting in Russian. "Do something!"

Igor nodded knowingly. He came from a land where alcoholism easily edged out soccer as the national pastime.

"What is problem?" The hulking Soviet moved forward, gingerly trying to retrieve the letter opener from Vance's hand.

"Get away from me." Vance shoved him off, then stumbled back.

"No, you must give me knife," the Russian demanded. "We want no trouble."

Nobody noticed, but the time was 10:30. Exactly.

The room was brought up sharp by the sound of the door slamming and a click of the lock. They turned to see a figure wearing a black ski mask and the uniform of a Strand Palace security guard. In his right hand was a 9mm automatic.

"Who the hell…?" Vance yelled drunkenly.

Igor whirled to stare. His hand started for his shoulder holster, but then he thought better of it and instead he backed slowly against the wall, silently glaring.

"Where is it?" the hooded figure demanded as he brandished his pistol toward Eva.

"Fuck you, whoever you are." Vance tried to move toward him, still grasping the letter opener.

"Shut up." The intruder shoved him backward, sending him sprawling onto the couch. Then he turned to Eva. "Where's the computer?"

Almost at that moment he saw it, on the writing table by the window. Without waiting for an answer, he moved quickly and seized it by the handle. After he'd stationed it next to the door, he waved the weapon at Eva again and barked. "Get your things. And all copies of the protocol."

"Listen, you son of a bitch," Vance sputtered as he drew himself up and moved again on the intruder. "She's not going anywhere. Now get out of here before I ram that goddam-"

The intruder slammed the pistol across his face, sending him crumpling to the floor. But now his back was turned to Igor Borisovich, who lunged.

The intruder saw the movement, reflected in the tall mirror above the dressing table. He easily sidestepped the lumbering Russian, then brought the pistol hard against his skull. Igor Borisovich groaned and staggered sideways flailing for balance.

The hooded figure seemed prepared. His hand plunged into a pocket and out came a bottle whose stopper had been replaced by a wadded rag. He flung the contents of the bottle across the Russian's face, then shoved the soaking rag against his mouth and nostrils.

Igor Borisovich struggled and clawed limply at his face for a few moments before lapsing unconscious.

"You fucker." Vance pulled himself up off the floor, muttering.