“Won’t their arrests force the spy underground?”
Yi smiled confidently. “Underground, Dear Leader? But in the DPRK there is no underground.”
Jin didn’t respond: instead, he got out of the car and greeted the adoring, flag-waving children with open arms.
Fumiko opened her eyes and sat up in bed with a start. “How long?…”
“Four hours,” Scott said.
She saw the remains of greasy chicken and ramen noodles, empty bottles of Coke and Sapporo beer sitting on the hotel room dresser.
“Want something to eat?” he asked.
She was on her feet, dressing, finger-combing her hair. “What? No, not now, we’ve got to get going.”
“Where to?”
“My place, for starters. I want to bathe and change. Plus you need a fresh bandage on your hand.”
He held up his injured hand, turned it over. The dressing was dirty. “Okay, then what?”
She glanced at the mess on the dresser and said, “I get something decent to eat while we come up with a plan.”
“That’s what I’ve been working on while you snoozed.”
She fiddled with her watch. “Jake, look at the time. Tell me about it on the way.”
The fresh air felt good after the tiny, stuffy hotel room. On the Shinjuku JR line, Scott told her he wanted to investigate the unscheduled flight from Tokyo to CKS International in Taipei by the ToriAir 737, with its cargo of switching gear bound for Iran.
Fumiko looked at Scott, puzzled.
“Your instincts are right,” Scott said, “it’s Tokugawa. While you slept I read your report. One of the documents you downloaded from the JDIH secure file says ToriAir is owned by Meji Holdings.”
“Right, I remember.”
It dawned on her, and she stole a look at Scott, clearly embarrassed by her lapse.
“We can check if the plane’s a cargo ship or an executive jet or both. Then we can check with Japanese immigration to see if Tokugawa made a late-night departure to Taiwan aboard that flight. If he did, Radford and the president may be able to force your boss to act.”
“Jake, I don’t know if I can get that information from the Ministry of Aviation and from immigration.”
She leaned into Scott so other passengers couldn’t hear. “Jake, I told you, you’re not in the States. Besides, I’m not convinced that even if we got the information you want it would prove anything.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
She bit a fingernail and looked away.
They hurried from the station to her apartment in a drizzle. When they reached the top of the stairs on her floor, Fumiko froze in her tracks. Scott looked past her and saw the door to her apartment standing partly open and all the lights on inside.
Scott got in front of Fumiko and eased down the hall ahead of her. When he reached the apartment, he peeked around the door but didn’t see anyone. He reared back and kicked the door wide open, checked it as it rebounded. Inside, the apartment was a disaster: Fumiko’s clothes and personal belongings were strewn everywhere; furniture had been upset amidst smashed kitchen crockery.
She stood in the doorway with both hands to her mouth, looking sick. A door to another apartment opened; a woman peeked out at them, withdrew, shut and locked the door.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Scott said and took her hand.
She stopped short. “No. I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are. They may be back.”
“Who? The JDIH?”
“Doesn’t matter. You can’t stay here, it’s not safe, and we can’t go back to my hotel because they’ve probably got it covered too. We’ll have to find another hotel, then I’ll contact Radford—”
Fumiko pulled her hand away. Her look hardened as she flipped open her cell phone to make a call. “No,” she said, “I have a better idea.”
33