Clive Cussler - Dragon

“As you can see,” the President replied, gesturing around the kidney-shaped mahogany table, “I have no advisers.”

The Prime Minister was confused, as the President expected. He conversed in rapid-fire Japanese with the men who huddled around him voicing their objections.

The President’s interpreter smiled ever so slightly. “They don’t like it,” he murmured. “It’s not their way of doing business. They think you’re being unreasonable and very undiplomatic.”

“How about barbaric?”

“Only in their tone, Mr. President, only in their tone.”

At last Junshiro turned back to the President. “I must protest this unusual protocol, Mr. President.”

When he heard the translation, the President replied, his voice cold, “I’m through playing games, Prime Minister. Either your people leave or I do.”

After a moment of thought, Junshiro made a deep nod of his head. “As you wish.” Then he motioned his advisers to the door.

After the door closed, the President looked at his interpreter and said, “Translate exactly as I speak, no niceties, no syrup over the harsh words.”

“Understood, sir.”

The President fixed a hard stare on Junshiro. “Now then, Prime Minister, the facts are that you and members of your cabinet were fully aware and informally approved of Suma Industries’ manufacture of a nuclear arsenal. A project funded in part by an underworld organization known as the Gold Dragons. This program in turn led to the Kaiten Project, a hideous international blackmail plan, conceived in secrecy and now veiled by lies and phony denials. You knew of it from the beginning, and yet you condoned it by your silence and nonintervention.”

Once he heard the translation, Junshiro pounded the table with angered indignation. “This is not true, none of it. There is absolutely no foundation for these absurd charges.”

“Information from a variety of intelligence sources leaves little doubt of your involvement. You secretly applauded while known underworld criminals were building what they called the ‘new empire.’ An empire based on economic and nuclear blackmail.”

Junshiro’s face paled, but he said nothing. He saw the handwriting on the wall, and it spelled out political disaster and great loss of face.

The President kept his eyes locked on him. “What we don’t need here is a lot of self-righteous crap. There will always be a basic conflict between American and Japanese interests, but we can’t exist without each other.”

Junshiro recognized that the President had thrown him a rope, and he snatched at it. “What do you propose?”

“To save your nation and your people the shock and shame of scandal, you resign. The trust between your government and mine is shattered. The damage is irreparable. Only a new prime minister and a cabinet of honest, decent people with no connections to your underworld will bring about a renewed state of mutual cooperation between our two countries. Hopefully, we can then work in close partnership to resolve our cultural and economic differences.”

“The event will remain secret?”

“I promise all data on the Dragon Center and the Kaiten Project will remain classified from this end.”

“And if I do not resign?”

The President leaned back and spread his hands. “Then I’d have to predict that Japanese businessmen should prepare for a recession.”

Junshiro came to his feet. “Am I to understand, Mr. President, that you are threatening to close the United States market to all Japanese goods?”

“I don’t have to,” the President answered. His face took on a curious change. The blue eyes lost their glint of anger and assumed a pensive look. “Because if word leaks out that a Japanese nuclear bomb was smuggled into the United States and exploded where the deer and the antelope roam…” He paused for effect. “I doubt seriously the American consumer will look kindly on buying your products ever again.”

76

November 21, 1993

Marcus Island

FAR OFF THE beaten tourist track, 1,125 kilometers southeast of Japan, Marcus Island lies in pristine isolation. A coral atoll tucked away without island neighbors, its shores are formed in an almost perfect triangle, each measuring approximately one and a half kilometers in length.

Except for brief notoriety while being bombed by American naval forces during World War II, few people had ever heard of Marcus Island until a Japanese developer just happened to stumble upon its desolate beaches. He visualized its potential as a select destination for winter-weary Japanese and promptly constructed a luxury resort.

Designed in a contemporary Polynesian style, the villagelike atmosphere included a championship golf course, a casino, three restaurants with cocktail lounges and dance floors, a theater, a vast lotus-shaped swimming pool, and six tennis courts. The sprawling complex, along with the golf course and the airfield, covered the entire island.

When the resort was completed and fully staffed, the developer flew in an army of travel writers, who soaked up the free material comforts and returned home to report. The resort immediately proved popular with adventurous tourists who collect exotic and faraway locations. But instead of an influx of Japanese, the reservations flowed in from other areas of the Pacific rim, and soon the island’s satiny milk-white sands were littered with Australians, New Zealanders, Taiwanese, and Koreans.

The resort island also quickly became a playground for romance and a mecca for honeymooners, who indulged in the many sporting activities or simply lolled around and made love in their village bungalows scattered among the palm trees.

Brian Foster from Brisbane came out of the ice-blue water inside the outer reef and walked across the beach toward his bride, Shelly, who was dozing in a lounge chair. The fine sand felt hot against his naked feet, and the late afternoon sun glistened on the water drops streaming from his body. As he toweled away the dampness, he glanced back over the water.

A Korean couple, Kim and Li Sang, who stayed in the next bungalow, were taking windsurfing lessons from one of the resort’s attentive guest hosts. Beyond them, Edward Cain from Wellington snorkeled on the reef while his new bride, Moira, floated on a mat in his wake.

Foster gave his wife a light kiss and patted her tummy. He lay in the sand beside her, put on a pair of sunglasses, and idly watched the people in the water.

The Sangs were having a difficult time mastering the technique and coordination it took to pilot a sailboard. They seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time regaining the board and pulling up the sail after losing their balance and spilling in the water.

Foster turned his attention to the Cains, admiring Moira, who had rolled over on her back without falling off the mat. She was wearing a one-piece gold bathing suit that did very little to hide her lush contours.

Suddenly something caught Foster’s eye in the entrance of the channel that cut through the coral reef and led to the open ocean. Something was happening under the water. He was sure some thing or some sea creature was making a disturbance beneath the surface. He couldn’t see what it was, only that it appeared to be moving through the reef toward the lagoon.

“There’s something out there!” he snapped to his wife as he jumped to his feet. He ran to the water and began shouting and pointing toward the channel. His shouts and wild gesturing quickly drew others, and soon a crowd from the nearby pool and restaurants gathered on the beach.

The Sangs’ windsurfing instructor heard Foster, and his eyes followed the Australian’s pointing finger. He saw the approaching commotion in the water and swiftly herded the Sangs toward shore. Then he leaped on a sailboard and flew across the lagoon to warn the Cains, who were leisurely drifting into the path of the unknown apparition that was seemingly intent on invading the lagoon.