Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

She got to his office exactly at nine and, of course, he let her wait ten minutes, a kind of humiliation ordeal-more of which would be coming her way, assuming she survived the next few minutes in any case-then he ushered her in.

“So nice of you to join us, Susan.”

“Doug, I’m very sorry, I-”

Doug had graduated from Annapolis, and though he had never had a command at sea, his office was filled with nautical gewgaws, like brass sextants, charts, gaffs. In office lore it was called “the Bridge,” though never when he was around. He was the sort of man who demanded results yesterday but then forgot to ask for them tomorrow.

“Sit down, sit down.”

She sat opposite: he was a large-headed, red-faced beefy man, ten years older, from an old family that was by reputation third-generation Agency. His hair was a brusque graying crew cut and he wore his suit jacket at his desk. He was a well-studied imitation of the man Swagger represented naturally, without self-consciousness or reflection.

“Look, I shouldn’t have to give a pro like you pointers, but goddammit, I have to be able to reach you twenty-four hours a day. That’s why we have cell phones, pagers, the like. It doesn’t work if you turn the goddamn things off.”

“I didn’t turn anything off. I just didn’t answer because I was in an awkward situation.”

“Anything you care to discuss with your chief of station?”

“It’s all right, Doug. It was a Swagger issue.”

“I told you the Swagger thing wouldn’t work. He’s too old, he’s too slow, he’s too stubborn, he’s nothing but trouble.”

Like to hear you say that to Swagger, asshole.

But she played his game: “I know it was my idea to bring the guy back. He proved harder to manage than I thought. However, now it’s fine, it’s great, I’ll have him out of country as soon as I can make arrangements. He made some progress. He-”

“I want a report. First thing tomorrow.”

“Sure. Is that all? I-”

“Oh, no. Oh, no, it’s not over, Susan. This isn’t just more Swagger bullshit. That was just the start. The issue is much more serious. As in, Why the fuck did you send an unauthorized request to SAT-D to orbital on seven houses and thirteen business locations in the greater Tokyo area?”

“Oh, that?”

“Yes, that.”

“It was mission-related.”

“There is a big flap at Langley.”

“I made a judgment, possibly it was wrong. I had to confirm something fast.”

With an egomaniac like Doug it was important to show contrition. Defiance simply enraged him, and enraged, he was even more erratic than when calm.

“Tell me why it was so goddamned important for the birds to eyeball Japanese mansions and warehouses when they could have been looking at North Korean launch sites, Chinese naval bases, Taliban outposts, or god knows what?”

“I have a guy who has a network, mostly low-grade stuff, but you never can tell. Somehow he picked up a whiff that a certain ultra-wealthy Japanese national had sympathies in a certain direction and was unstable. It wasn’t enough for any hard action. I didn’t put surveillance on him, I didn’t discuss him with Japanese intelligence, because we knew he’d hear. I didn’t try to penetrate or eavesdrop, I didn’t recruit within his organization. But I decided on a look-see.”

“Come on, Susan. You’re stalling. Why, please?”

“Doug, there are a lot of tall buildings in Tokyo. If someone flew an airliner into one of them, we’d look foolish. Plus, it would kill a lot of people. I was trying to split the hair between being overreactive and being responsible. I was trying to do my job. I flash-prioritized it over your signature because if you don’t, it takes weeks. You weren’t around to sign off, as I recall.”

“You can use that one to justify anything, Susan.”

“Yes, Doug. I know. However-”

“What did you find out about Mr. Miwa?”

“Oh, at Langley they made the connect?”

“And how. They are not pleased. What did you learn?”

“Well, frankly, nothing. At one mansion there was what might be termed unusual activity. That is, a great many people, vehicles, a lot of movement outside in the courtyard. Possibly it was a business conference, possibly a company retreat of some sort, even some kind of reunion. Then it occurred to me, since I’d looked into him, that it might have been yakuza-related. I believe he has yakuza ties. But the infrared picked up no concentration of explosives, the spectroscope didn’t indicate nuclear, and we don’t have bio-chem sensors yet.”

“Susan, assure me you didn’t muss, even slightly, Yuichi Miwa’s hair.”

Hmmm, Susan wondered, does cutting his fucking head off count as mussing his hair?

“Doug, no entity under any possibility of my influence or under my direction has had anything to do with Yuichi Miwa. We looked at him from three miles up, that’s all. It couldn’t have been softer or more discreet. If anybody finds out, it’s because of a leak somewhere, nothing that I have done or caused to have done.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was going to eyeball him from upstairs another few times, just to make certain. Maybe I’d put some discreet feelers out. That’s it. I was just checking.”

Doug sat back. He looked immensely relieved.

“Okay, fine. Good. The man is not to be touched, even watched. He is to be utterly ignored.”

“Of course.”

“Strictly hands off. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Until you figure out how to destroy him.”

“Ahhh-”

“That’s why they’re in such a frenzy at Langley. That’s what this is all about.”

He reached into his desk, pulled out a large folder wearing the usual TOP SECRET stamps across its top.

“The file on Miwa-san. It’s come to our attention that some years back, Miwa-san almost went under. He owed yakuza, he owed banks, the whole thing was going away. He convinced himself it was an American plot against him, that the mafia wanted to crack Japanese porn and to do so they had to destroy him. He was Japanese porn; he was Japan, for god’s sake. So he turned for help to the enemy of his enemies, the North Koreans; he told them if they helped him, his newspapers would always sing their song. They funded him. They can’t feed their own people, but they’re giving millions to a Japanese pornographer to produce DVDs the likes of which I can’t even begin to describe.”

“Teacher-blows-Johnny.”

“Thank you, Susan. I knew I could count on you. Anyhow, he turned it around, got in on the Internet early, found some disgusting niches, pushed the technological edge, made sharp investments, and became a major, major billionaire. So your boy’s sense of him may be right. We just have to coordinate all this and stay organized.”

“I have it.”

“Now he’s involved in some election for the king of pornography or something. It’s all in here. He’s got to win that election, he’s got to find some way to make himself an institution. He’s got to do something big, to get all the mucky-mucks and all the little people behind him.”

She just smiled a bit. Nick had it a week ago. He beat Langley’s bright boys by seven full days.

“If he wins, the next step will be the bestowal of something called the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum on him, Japan’s highest civilian honor. He’s had lobbyists pushing that in the Diet for months now.”

Now there was something new.

“That will have the impact of instantly legitimizing him, and it’ll gain him access, influence, and so forth. He’s a North Korean agent. He’ll be set to get them stuff on the Japanese and on us they’ve never gotten before.”

“Do the Japanese know this?”