Red Shark

Scott saw thin smiles appear on the aides’ faces, and looming on the video screen over their heads at the end of the conference room, the freeze-framed image of Marshal Jin and the mystery man. “If what you say is so, Director Kubota, do you have any solid leads on who this man might be?”

“Ah, Commander Scott, you ascribe to the JDIH the powers of a, what you call, miracle worker. Yes, we are working on it, as I say. What we have done so far is to comb our import-export license requests for anything out of the ordinary. We look for new shipments of industrial and agricultural goods to North Korea. We have also begun an examination of any recent trade talks that may have been brokered by third parties. For instance, we had a Pakistani group arrive in Japan, which then met with the North Korean trade minister about a food exchange program. We have looked at some rudimentary currency transactions to see if there is anything unusual. A Belgian group recently applied for Japanese trade credits which would be transferable to North Korea. Also the Syrians. So you see, Commander Scott, it is not only the Japanese who have dealings with the North.”

One of the aides spoke rapid Japanese to the director.

“Ah, yes, he reminds me, Commander Scott, and I am sure Ms. Kida has told you this, we have checked various airline passenger manifests to determine if any name, an important name, might be found on them.”

“But Japan has no air service to North Korea.”

“True. But as you know there are other ports of entry to North Korea — China, Taiwan, Cambodia, Vietnam, Singapore… you see my point.”

“What the Director says is correct,” Fumiko said, in an attempt to save face. “And we cannot monitor all possible methods of travel by individuals to countries that have diplomatic relations with the DPRK.”

“So what do I tell my people?” Scott asked.

Kubota clicked off the DVD. The aides closed their laptops. Kubota steepled his fingers on the table and, like the prow of a ship, pointed them at Scott. “You can tell General Radford, for whom I have only the greatest respect and esteem, that we are pursuing this, as you Americans would say, twenty-four-seven. What I will do, Commander Scott, is order a full report on the information we have up to the present time. I will, if you wish, transmit this to the general, or you may discuss it with him here, at JDIH Headquarters via secure video link. Understand that our offices are yours. The report will include our conclusions regarding the DVD and also our best guess based on the material we have assembled who we think the man with Marshal Jin may be.”

“And when will this report be ready?”

Kubota stood. “I will have the report completed in twenty-four hours, Commander Scott. In the meantime I hope you enjoy your stay in Tokyo.”

28

The Ginza

“He’s lying.”

Fumiko lifted her eyes, from her drink to Scott. “Why would Kubota lie?”

The owner of the ryotei — a traditional Japanese restaurant — whom Fumiko knew, arrived with steaming dishes of food.

Fumiko, eyes still on Scott, pretended not to notice as he fumbled chopsticks with his bandaged hand.

“You tell me why he’d lie,” Scott said.

After a long moment Fumiko said, “They’re protecting someone.”

Scott said nothing.

“The JDIH is protecting the man who met with Jin,” she added.

“Okay, but why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. He’s someone important; very important.”

“Someone close to the government, to the prime minister,” Fumiko said thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s involved in something illegal, something the government would rather not have the outside world know about.”

“Terrorism,” she said. “You think this man’s a terrorist?”

“No, but maybe he’s financing terrorism. After all, that’s what Jin is, a terrorist. A nuclear terrorist. Maybe this man is an advocate of Bushido.”

Fumiko drank saki while she mulled that over.

“If he is, it might make your job easier,” Scott said.

“What job is that?”

More food arrived. More saki, too. After the owner departed, Fumiko said, “Would you please explain what you just said?”

Scott sat back on his cushions and said, “Did I tell you, Fumiko-san, that taihen utsukushii desu — you are very beautiful.”

She looked down and blushed. “You have suddenly regained your command of Japanese,” she said with mock sternness.

“It took me a while to memorize and was meant as a compliment, not a pass.”

“In that case, arigato. Taihen shinsetsu desu.”

“What?…”

“I said, ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ But you didn’t answer me. Make what job easier to do?”