Dragon - Cussler Clive (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
Tsuboi’s eyes turned down, unseeing. Then he looked up. “There are two people in the United States who are causing us much grief. But you must be most careful. They are members of Congress, and their abduction will certainly cause a storm of outrage.”
“A Blood Red Brotherhood kidnapping and ransom situation should make a good cover for their sudden disappearance,” said Suma as if he was describing the weather.
“Who precisely do you have in mind?” asked Kamatori.
“Congresswoman Loren Smith and Senator Michael Diaz.”
Yoshishu nodded. “Ah, yes, the pair who are promoting a total trade barrier against us.”
“Despite our lobbying efforts, they’re gathering enough votes to force their legislation through both houses. Eliminate them and the drive would fall apart.”
“There will be great outrage in their government,” Suma warned. “It may backlash.”
“Our lobby interests have acquired a powerful influence on Congress and will direct the outrage toward a terrorist conspiracy.” Tsuboi’s anger at his treatment by the select subcommittee had not cooled. “We have lost enough face at the hands of American politicians. Let them learn their power no longer protects them from harm.”
Yoshishu stared out the window unseeing for a few moments. Then he shook his head. “A great pity.”
Suma looked at him. “What is a great pity, old friend?”
“The United States of America,” Yoshishu spoke “She’s like a beautiful woman who is dying of cancer.”
28
MARVIN SHOWALTER SAT on a train traveling through Tokyo’s clean and efficient subway. He made no attempt to act as if he was reading a newspaper or a book. He calmly stared at his fellow passengers, “making,” as they say in the trade, the two Japanese secret service agents who were keeping him under surveillance from the next car.
Showalter had walked from the U.S. embassy shortly after a boring meeting with junketing congressmen over Japan’s refusal to allow American construction equipment to be used on a new building ready to go up for an American oil company. It was simply another case of throwing up protectionist barriers, while the Japanese could freely enter the United States and raise buildings with their architects, foremen, materials, and equipment without major problems over government restrictions.
“Fair is fair” did not apply to two-way trade with Japan.
He appeared to be on his way to the small condominium his wife and two young children called home during his assignment in Japan. The building was owned by the American government and housed most of the embassy workers and their families. The construction cost of the entire ten-story building was less than a third the price of the land it stood on.
His shadows had fallen into his travel routine, which never varied except when he put in an hour or two overtime. He smiled to himself as his stop came up and the two agents rose in anticipation of his getting off. He stepped to the door with the rest of the crowd, waiting for it to open onto the platform. It was the oldest trick in the world, one shown in the movie The French Connection.
As the door opened, Showalter flowed with the crowd to the platform and began counting. He hesitated and casually glanced at the two Japanese agents. They had stepped from the middle door in the next car and were walking slowly in his direction, shielded by a group of departing passengers.
When he hit twenty-five, he swiftly turned around and stepped back inside the car. Two seconds later the door closed and the train began moving. Too late, the Japanese secret service agents realized they’d been duped. Frantically they attempted to pry the doors apart and reboard the train. But it was useless. They leaped back on the platform as the train picked up speed and disappeared into the tunnel.
Showalter wasn’t overly pleased with the simple dodge. Next time his tails would be wary and make his evasive moves more intricate. He transferred to a connecting line at the next stop and rode to Asakusa, an atmospheric area northeast of Tokyo in a section known as Shitamachi. Asakusa was part of the old city of Tokyo that had preserved much of its past.
Showalter sat and studied the people around him as he had done so many times. Some of his fellow passengers studied him in return. They called anyone who did not share their thick black straight hair, dark eyes, and skin coloring a gaijin, literally translated as an “outside person.” He theorized that the close similarity in their physical looks was perhaps the basis for their unity and conformity. That and the isolation of their island home.
Their society evolved around the family and expanded to include everyone who worked around them. Lives were lived in a complicated quilt of obligations, contentedness, duty, and accomplishment. They accepted a regimented lifestyle as if all others were a waste to be pitied.
The uncohesive melting pot of the United States could not be conceived, nor would it be tolerated in Japan, a country with the toughest immigration laws to be found in the world.
The train stopped at the Tawaramachi subway station, and he stepped off and joined the crowd that rose to the busy street of Kappabashi. He hailed a cab and rode past the restaurant wholesale supply stores that sold the plastic food replicas seen in eatery windows. He directed the driver to a several-square-block section crowded with craftsmen’s shops, ancient temples, and old houses.
He got out and paid the driver at an intersection, and then walked down a narrow flower-lined lane until he came to a Japanese inn known as a ryokan.
Although rustic and worn on the outside, the ryokan was quite neat and attractive inside. Showalter was met at the door by one of the staff, who bowed and said, “Welcome to the Ritz.”
“I thought this was the Asakusa Dude Ranch,” Showalter replied.
Without another word, the muscular doorman with arms and legs like railroad ties showed him over the smooth flattened river stones of the entry. They stepped onto the polished oak floor of the reception area, where Showalter was politely asked to remove his shoes and put on a pair of plastic slippers.
Unlike most slippers that are too small for large Anglo feet, Showalter’s fit like they were custom-ordered, which indeed they were, since the ryokan was secretly owned and operated by an American intelligence agency that specialized in covert and safe retreats.
Showalter’s room had a sliding shoji paper door that opened onto a small veranda overlooking a formal garden with water trickling restfully onto rocks through bamboo tubes. The floor was covered by the traditional tatami straw matting. He had to take off the slippers and walk in his socks while on the fragile mats.
There were no chairs or furniture, only cushions on the floor, and a bed made up of many pillows and heavy cushions the Japanese called “futons.” A small fire pit sat in the center of the guest room with warm glowing coals.
Showalter undressed and donned a light cotton yukata, a short robe. Then a maid in a kimono led him to the inn’s communal bathing facilities. He left the yukata and his wristwatch in a wicker basket, and shielded by only a washcloth-size towel, he entered the steamy bath area. He stepped around the low stools and wooden pails and stood under a simple faucet. He lathered up and rinsed off. Only then was he ready to sink slowly into the hot water of a huge wooden pool-like tub.
A shadowy figure was already sitting chest deep in the water. Showalter greeted him.
“The Honda Team, I presume.”
“Only half of it,” answered Roy Orita. “Jim Hanamura should be along any time. Like a saki?”
“Against orders to drink during an operation,” said Showalter, easing into the steaming water. “But what the hell. I’m colder than ice cream. Pour me a double.”
