Red Shark

Shortly he would exchange his kimono for a Savile Row suit, then play host to the Iranian officials and their lawyers at a sex club in Kabukicho, Tokyo’s so-called pink entertainment zone. But a vague feeling of discontent flooded over him, and his jubilant mood gave way to unease: Once embarked upon the path to which he was committed, there would be no turning back. The consequences of what he was soon to set in motion would be like nothing the world had ever experienced. Yet he had lived too long and traveled too far to doubt that his actions were justified. After all, his family’s loss of face had been too great. And he believed with all his being that in the pursuit of vengeance ends always justified means.

Tokugawa’s unease suddenly lifted, and he felt a surge of delightful anticipation. The girls being provided for the pleasure of his Iranian clients were young and exceptionally beautiful. Perhaps he’d partake of one himself.

Tokugawa nodded “Domo arigato,” to the god-shelf.

Scott stood at the foot of King Street in Alexandria, Virginia, by the Waterfront Marina shopping mall, his back to a raw wind whipping off the Potomac River. Old Town was busy. Expensive cars clogged the streets while a dating crowd of well-heeled professionals waited for tables at chic restaurants. Dressed in jeans, turtleneck, and a worn leather bomber jacket, Scott felt conspicuous and out of place.

He had felt the heat as soon as he’d gotten off his plane from Norfolk. A political firestorm had broken over the capital. Congress, reacting to the bombings in New York City, had threatened to declare war on North Korea. Members of both houses had demanded that the president fire the heads of Homeland Security, the CIA, and the FBI. Karl Radford had escaped their fury only because he’d kept a low profile and had powerful friends on The Hill and in the White House. Even the declaration by North Korea’s Marshal Jin, that Kim Jong-il was insane and under arrest, facing trial and possible execution for his crime committed in New York, had not placated Congress or the American press. The president was still fighting to get control of the situation before it spun completely out of his grasp. How hot it would get, Scott had no idea. All he knew was that the heat was rising fast and the clock was ticking.

He noticed a gray Buick Regal circle the block twice. Each time, its occupants, a man and woman, glanced at him. After a third circuit the Buick jockeyed into a tight parking space up the block. Scott watched the couple get out and stroll toward a restaurant. Was he being watched? By them? Or someone else? He was a sub skipper, not a spy. Yet the two occupations were so often synonymous that there was little difference between them. He’d worked for Radford before and could only guess what was in store this time. For sure, something to do with the North Koreans. His experience with them had been limited solely to torpedoing an NK frigate, playing hide-and-seek with one of their subs, and snatching a SEAL team out from under their noses. There were plenty of other ways to put pressure on the NKs that didn’t require a sub recon — which could turn into a suicide mission — if that’s what Radford was contemplating.

“Commander Scott?”

The man was tilting against the wind, tan trench coat plastered to his legs. Though Scott had a commanding view of the area around him, he hadn’t seen the man approach. Now he was standing there and Scott felt like an idiot.

“I’m Scott.”

“The general’s waiting. Would you please come with me?”

Scott looked the man over. “Who are you?”

“Tom Kennedy. I work for the general.” He didn’t offer to shake hands or show ID.

Scott fell in behind Kennedy, loping north on Union Street, until they approached an idling black Mercury Marquis. Kennedy opened the rear passenger door for Scott, then slid into the front passenger’s seat.

Scott smelled aftershave. The general, his grizzled mien raked by light from sodium vapor lamps, sat deep in the far corner of the rear seat, a black cashmere top-coat open over a dark double-breasted suit. Scott felt not only underdressed but also out of place.

“Good to see you, Scott,” said Radford.

They shook hands across a bolstered armrest, then Radford rapped the glass partition between the driver’s and passenger’s compartment. The Marquis pulled away from the curb, turned left, and hurtled toward Washington Street.