Clive Cussler - Dragon

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said honestly. “We can’t give out that information. But I can assure you our search poses no problems for the German government.”

“I’m thinking of the Japanese. They’ll demand their property be returned.”

“Possession is not our intent,” Mancuso assured Haider. “We only wish to photograph a few pieces.”

“All right, gentlemen.” Haider sighed. He gave Pitt a hard stare. “I trust you, Herr Pitt. We have an agreement. Do what you say, and I’ll guarantee to look the other way.”

As they left Haider’s office, Mancuso whispered, “What was he talking about? What agreement?”

“Recruitment.”

“Recruitment?” Mancuso repeated.

Pitt nodded. “He talked me into joining the Luftwaffe.”

They found the rack containing the inventory from the Japanese embassy about fifty meters back of the sculptured figures that once graced the museums of Europe. The Germans had already installed a string of lamps that ran off a portable generator, throwing light on the great hoard that seemed to stretch into infinity.

The Japanese section was easy to identify, the packing boxes having been marked by kana characters and handcrafted with far more finesse than the crude crates knocked together by the Nazi looters.

“Let’s start with that one,” said Mancuso, pointing to a narrow container. “That looks to be about the right size.”

“You spent time prospecting in Japan. What does it read?”

” ‘Container number four,’ ” Mancuso translated. ” ‘Property of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Japan.’ “

“That’s a big help.” Pitt went to work and carefully lifted the lid with a hammer and pry bar. Inside was a small, delicate folding screen depicting birds flying around several mountain peaks. “Definitely not an island.” He shrugged.

He opened two more, but the paintings he pulled into the dim light were of a later period than the sixteenth-century master Masaki Shimzu. Most of the smaller crates were carefully packed with porcelain. There was only one more crate in the rear of the rack that might conceivably hold a painting.

Mancuso showed signs of stress. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and he nervously fidgeted with his pipe. “This better be it,” he muttered. “Or we’ve wasted a lot of time.”

Pitt said nothing but went about his work. This box seemed more heavily constructed than the others. He pried the lid and peered inside. “I see water. I think we’ve got a seascape. Better yet, it’s an island.”

“Thank God. Pull it out, man, let’s see it.”

“Hold on.” There was no ornate outer frame, so Pitt gripped the painting under its rear support and painstakingly eased it out of the crate. Once free, he held it up under the light for inspection.

Mancuso hurriedly pulled a small catalog showing color plates of Masaki Shimzu art from his pocket and flipped through the pages, comparing the photos with the painting. “I’m no expert, but that looks like Shimzu’s style.”

Pitt turned the painting around and studied the other side. “There’s some writing. Can you make it out?”

Mancuso squinted. ” ‘Ajima Island by Masaki Shimzu,’ ” he burst out triumphantly. “We’ve got it, the site of Suma’s command center. Now all we have to do is match its shoreline with satellite photos.”

Mechanically, Pitt’s eyes traveled over the picture Shimzu had painted four hundred and fifty years ago of an island then called Ajima. It would never make a tourist paradise. Steep volcanic rock cliffs towering above pounding surf, no sign of a beach, and almost total absence of vegetation. It looked barren and forbidding, grim and impregnable. There was no way to approach and make a landing from sea or air without detection. A natural fortress, Suma would have it heavily defended against assault.

“Getting inside that rock,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “is going to be damn near impossible. Whoever tries it will surely die.”

The triumphant expression on Mancuso’s face quickly vanished. “Don’t say that,” he murmured. “Don’t even think it.”

Pitt looked into the mining engineer’s eyes. “Why? Gaining entrance is not our problem.”

“But you’re wrong.” He made a weary swipe at the sweat from his forehead. “With teams Cadillac and Honda down the dumper, Jordan has no choice but to send in you and me and Giordino. Think about it.”

Pitt did, and Mancuso was right. It was all too clear now. Wily Jordan had been saving the three of them in reserve for a covert strike on Suma’s nuclear bomb detonation center.

38

THE PRESIDENT STARED down at the open file on his desk. His face had a bleak expression as he looked up. “They really intend to set these things off? It’s not a bluff?”

Jordan’s face was impassive as he nodded. “They’re not bluffing.”

“It’s unthinkable.”

Jordan did not answer, but let the President gather his own thoughts. The man never seemed to change. He looked exactly as he did the first day Jordan was introduced to the newly elected senator from Montana. The same lean build, bright blue eyes, the same warm, outgoing personality. The incredible power never fazed him. He was polite and cordial to the White House staff, and seldom missed remembering a birthday.

“It’s not like we’ve ringed their islands with an invasion fleet, for God’s sake.”

“They’ve become paranoid because global opinion has suddenly come down on them,” said Donald Kern. “With China and Russia embracing democracy, the Eastern Bloc countries going independent, South Africa holding free elections, and the Middle East simmering on the back burner, world focus has fallen on the Japanese for going too far too fast.”

Kern nodded. “Their economic aggressiveness hasn’t exactly been tempered with subtlety. The more markets they conquer, the more hard-nosed they become.”

“But you can’t blame them for creating an economic world the way they want it to be,” said Jordan. “Their business ethics are not the same as ours. They see nothing immoral in exploiting commercial opportunities and taking advantage of trade weaknesses, regardless of the flak. The only crime in their eyes is any attempt to prevent their systematic progress. Frankly, we were no different in our overseas trade practices after World War Two.”

“I can’t argue with you,” conceded the President. “Few of our past and present business leaders will ever qualify for sainthood.”

“Congress and the European Market countries are on an anti-Japanese business kick. If they vote for trade embargoes and nationalization of Japanese corporations, Tokyo will attempt to negotiate, but Suma and his cronies are dead set on retaliation.”

“But to threaten nuclear death and destruction…”

“They’re playing for time,” explained Jordan. “Their worldwide commercial thrust is only part of a broader plan. The Japanese live under terrible conditions of high density. A hundred and twenty-five million people on a land mass the size of California, with most of it too mountainous to live on. Their unadvertised long-range goal is to export millions of their best-educated people into other countries and form colonies while maintaining loyalty and strong ties to Japan. Brazil is a case in point, and so is the United States when you consider their mass immigration into Hawaii and California. The Japanese are obsessed with survival, and unlike us, they plan decades into the future. Through economic trade they’re building a vast economic global society with Japanese traditions and culture as the hub. What even they don’t realize is that Suma intends to set himself up as executive director.”

The President glanced at the open file again. “And he protects his criminal empire by strategically placing nuclear bombs in other nations.”