Designated Targets

Hidaka asked Bremmer to organize the Indonesians to police the mess. Then he moved over to the communications station. This, at least, he had been trained to operate, if only on the most simplistic level. As he opened a secure channel to send a compressed burst to Yamamoto, he wondered how best to present what had happened.

There was no point in avoiding the truth.

He began to type.

Dessaix has launched successfully. Some missiles sabotaged, but strike unaffected. Proceed to next phase. tora. tora. tora.

He read the brief note. There would be a torrent of questions from the Combined Fleet, but Yamamoto knew what he needed to know.

The Hawaiian Islands were defenseless, and awaited the killing stroke.

25

MIAMI, FLORIDA

It had been his idea to come down to Miami early this year. Washington was hell, what with everyone staring at them like circus freaks, and Roosevelt was playing both ends against the middle. Hoover hardly knew where he stood nowadays. Under those circumstances, and with a gloomy winter in the offing, a week or two at the Gulfstream had proved irresistible.

They would normally have traveled across the country to vacation in Southern California, for the racing at Del Mar, but he simply couldn’t stand the idea of setting foot on the West Coast again, as long as that power-mad German Jew was running wild out there.

It’s a pity, he thought as he snugged the silk kimono around his sturdy frame. They always made him feel so welcome in La Jolla. He and Clyde had first refusal on Bungalow A at the Del Charro, where the management ensured that everything was perfect. He always had direct phone lines to Washington; three ceiling fans, because he hated what the air-conditioning did to his sensitive skin; new bulbs in every lamp and light socket; two rolls of scotch tape; a basket of fresh fruit; and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for himself and Haig & Haig for Clyde—gift-wrapped, of course.

The Gulfstream, down in Miami, was fine, too. Staying there meant being able to use his complimentary box at Hileah whenever there was a race. But it wasn’t his first choice, and J. Edgar Hoover was used to getting his way.

“Oh, Clyde,” he said irritably, “go put on the gown I bought for you. You look a terrible sight in your socks and boxers.”

Tolson was barely speaking to him after the argument they’d had at the track, earlier that day. Hoover was certain that Clyde had been flirting with one of the models who was hanging out with Lewis Rosenstiel, calling her “dearie” and “darling” and patting her on the knee and thigh, which were both scandalously exposed, in the new fashion.

Somebody knocked at the door.

He heard Clyde curse under his breath. The man had a stinking temper when he was cross. And to make it worse, much worse, he was also quite drunk tonight. He stomped over to the door, jerked it open, and stood there in his underwear. “What the hell do you want?” he barked.

Hoover couldn’t hear what was said in reply, but Tolson exploded.

“Well, I don’t see that that’s any of our goddamned business!” he yelled. “Probably some thug from California. I understand that’s how they do things in their day. So why don’t you just get back in your little car, and get the hell out of here. I’m sure you can find your way out to the Valley. Just follow the army of perverts.”

That would normally have been the end of if, but Hoover could still hear the low, insistent murmur coming from the front porch. Clyde started screeching again, unintelligibly this time. He sounded positively unhinged, and Hoover grew concerned that he might lash out. He was a big, powerful man, Clyde.

And it might well be someone important at the door. With all their troubles back home, it wouldn’t be very smart to invite even more trouble.

So Hoover grunted with exasperation and the effort of forcing himself up off the chaise after six whiskies and a double helping of dinner at Joe’s Stone Crabs.

He grumbled all the way over to the door. “This had better be good,” he growled when he caught sight of the pale, trembling figure who was standing there. It was an agent, but not one he recognized. He dealt only with the senior staff when he was here in Florida.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the young man stammered, “but we had to contact you immediately, and you left instructions never to call on the phone. The president wants you back in Washington right now. Something terrible has happened.”

Hoover could feel a fine head of steam building inside his head. “We are on holiday—”

“Sir, please,” the agent interrupted, staggering the FBI director with his impertinence. “It’s Pearl Harbor again, sir. And bombs, too, sir. Bombs going off all over the country.”

“. . . Just follow the army of perverts . . .”

Rogas couldn’t help grinning at that. They had something like 140 hours of audio-video taken from inside Hoover’s love shack now.

“Fucking army of perverts,” he chuckled. “Madre de fucking Dios.”