Red Shark

“I am so sorry to report, Commander Scott,” said Kubota, “that at this time we cannot identify the other man in the video recording. However, I have prepared a full report on the matter for you and the esteemed General Radford. We will continue to work on this until we identify him, but for now we have, ah, certain technical difficulties with the identity software. The director general has authorized that as we develop information, we pass it on to the SRO as soon as possible.”

Kubota lifted a thin bound report off the conference table and handed it to Scott. “These are our conclusions. Photos and appendices are included for your convenience.”

“That’s it?” Scott said. “This is all you can come up with? There has to be some way to identify this man.”

“Not at this time,” Kubota said, an edge to his voice.

“I remind you, Director, that the United States is facing a hostile North Korean regime armed with nuclear weapons. What strategy we develop to confront the DPRK may depend on our ability to identify this man, who, we were given to understand, is a Japanese national.”

“And I told you yesterday, Commander Scott, Ms. Kida’s conclusions that he is a Japanese national have not been confirmed.” Kubota said this softly but with an undertone of controlled anger. “You are welcome to use our facilities to discuss this matter with General Radford. Sato, here, will arrange the video conference setup if you wish.”

“Director…”

Kubota turned his gaze on Fumiko, who gave him a slight head bow.

“Director, I worked through the night to compile this list of names of the men who might possibly have reason to meet with Marshal Jin. The list includes, as you have suggested it might, several influential individuals from Pacific Rim countries. Most prominent, however, are three Japanese who—”

“Give me the list,” Kubota commanded.

Fumiko complied, handed Kubota a folder, and flashed Scott a look. Kubota skimmed her data, then quickly closed the folder and tucked it under an arm. There was an air of silent tension in the conference room.

Kubota, in a seemingly pleasant but condescending tone, said, “As you know, Commander Scott, Miss Kida is one of our most valued analysts. She is exceptionally bright and eager to help.”

Scott caught Fumiko’s embarrassment.

“She is due full recognition for her work on this matter,” Kubota continued, “for the way she has conducted the briefings in Washington and for her devotion to maintaining the high professional relationship established between General Radford’s office and our own.”

“Those names she compiled,” Scott said pointedly. “May I see them?”

“Ah, I am so sorry, Commander Scott, but the answer is no. I will take them under study and let you know our conclusions. Until then”—he turned his gaze on Fumiko—“the information in this report is classified Himitsu — Secret, Director General Only. Miss Kida is not, therefore, permitted to discuss it further.”

Fumiko started to say something but cut herself off.

Scott said, “But you will share those names with your esteemed friend General Radford, won’t you?”

The room went icy silent. Kubota and the aides seemed frozen in place.

“Thank you for your time, Director, Ms. Kida.” Scott gave them each a slight head bob. “I will make separate arrangements to brief General Radford. He’ll be very interested in your findings.”

Fumiko opened the front door to the apartment block but stopped cold when she saw a shadowy figure approach. “What are you doing here?” she said, not at all pleased to see him.

“We have to talk,” Scott said.

“No, we don’t. I’ve been taken off the investigation. My security clearance has been lowered and I’ve been ordered to have no further contact with you. Now please leave.”

“I’m sorry, Fumiko, I can’t do that. It’s too important.”

She made a face. “Jake—”

“Make us some tea.”

Fumiko’s apartment in the Shibuya section of Tokyo was minuscule: a small room doubling as dining area and bedroom. It was furnished with a sofa, table, and rolled-up futon bedding, and it had a cramped galley kitchen, miniature bathroom, and a postage-stamp-sized window that looked out on an alley crisscrossed with CATV and phone lines strung on poles.

“How did you find me?” she asked, brewing tea. She looked worn from lack of sleep; her lovely, almond-shaped eyes lacked their normal glitter.

“I came to Tokyo fully equipped. The SRO had your personal information on file. I just jumped on the Shibuya JR line and walked on over.”

“How did you know I’d come home directly after work?”

“I didn’t, just hoped you would. Look, I’m sorry about what happened this morning, but maybe now you’ll believe that the JDIH is protecting someone.”

Fumiko poured tea and put out sweet rice treats but said nothing.

“The list of names you compiled,” Scott said. “You must have made a copy. I have to have it.”

“I can’t give it to you. You heard what Kubota said, it’s Himitsu — Secret, Director General Only.”