Adam shaking more noticeably now. Benny picking it up right away. Touching his friend’s shoulder lightly. Reassuring.

  “The reason you are all assembled here and are being given access to highly classified information is that frankly we don’t have much time and you all were linked to Rose Carney in some way and thus can help us in the investigation. That is only part of the reason however. Since the death of Ms. Carney, NSA and various Japanese Intelligence and law enforcement agencies have noticed an increase in communications between Aum Cult operatives here and known terrorist groups in the Middle East as well as Europe. The death of Jack Bender gave us the excuse, if you will, to pick up Shoko Asahara for questioning.”

  “Why didn’t we pick this scumbag up earlier?”

  Benny Carter, visibly upset. The death of Rose Carney coming back to him now. The fact that Asahara had orchestrated it and almost killed his “daughter” Keiko. Killed one of his best friends in the world as well. Art Chamber’s ghost no doubt present in the room now.

  “If we had picked him up earlier, there was the possibility that Aum would have hit a soft target with the sarin they had. We did not know where the sarin was so…”

  “Excuse me, Commander, you used the past tense there?”

  The Navy Intelligence background in Adam Welsh still alive and well.

  “Let me get right to the point. As it turns out, the Aum Cult does not have any sarin gas, at least not of the weaponized variety. The cave at Ikego where we believed Jack Bender had helped hide a large cache of it was searched. Nothing. Unknown to the media is the fact that Jack Bender transported a 55 gallon drum of what he believed to be weapons grade sarin to a safe house of Aum in Roppongi within the Gas Panic bar. We believed he intended to kill himself, Shoko Asahara and anyone within a ten mile radius of it with the cargo he thought he had. It turned out to be nothing but raw sewage.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  Adam Welsh over the top now. Withdrawal from the booze and now the news that his best friend in the world, his surrogate father, had died for nothing. A barrel of shit.

  “Petty Officer Welsh, please come with me…”

  Before Dickwell could finish, the Commander’s aide burst into the room. A few words spoken under his breath. Blasingame with the look of someone who had been told some very bad news indeed. Fighting for composure.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, this meeting is adjourned.”

  76

  Carnage.

  NIS here to assist with the police due to the fact that the bombing victims could involve naval personnel. A possible connection to Aum, the first thought that came to Dusty Rhodes’ mind as he arrived at what had only recently been a place of joy and happiness. A place where lovers met, old acquaintances reunited, business deals struck. Now these dreams and hopes lay scattered in the form of fingers, arms, bowels. Dusty trying to look away but couldn’t. The attempt at professionalism a struggle. Finally winning. Nothing he saw in Nam could prepare him for the sight of the eyes of a once beautiful Japanese woman staring up at him from inside a face that was no longer attached to a scull. A mask now. Macabre in the extreme.

  Dickwell threw up. Dusty ignored him. Time to get on with the task at hand. He had to. For his own sanity. For the sake of them all. Trying to speak over the din of the sirens and the sobs of the survivors.

  Does one really “survive”? How does one go from the light banter of the young in love to the sight of ones future wife detached from her body. A bloody faceless mass? No. There are no real survivors of an atrocity such as this. How did the Israelis stay sane? Keep any semblance of civilization?

  The task at hand.

  “Sir, you say that you were half a block away or so, heading towards the Café when the explosion occurred?”

  “My girlfriend! She is in there. Please, I need to see her.”

  “Yes, sir. Please just a few questions.”

  A quick glance at Dickwell. He had regained his composure. The puke helped. Dusty would join him soon. Needed to finish up here. At least a score dead. Many more maimed. Traces of C-4 or Semtex as it was commonly called had been found. The terrorist’s calling card.

  “Your name, sir, is Enimoto? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, yes. I was coming here to meet my girlfriend. I am a university student. A loud explosion. So loud! Her name is Midori. Have you seen her? Midori Masai. Have you seen her?”

  Dusty trying to keep the vision of the disembodied eyes from his consciousness. It could very well have been Midori.

  “Enimoto San, please just a few questions and then you will be escorted to the information offices. Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary before the explosion? Any person or persons that may have seemed suspicious?“

  “No, nothing….wait, there was someone. This punk bumped into me as I was leaving the place for a moment to look for a rest room. I remember because I was looking back to see where Midori was. She was waiting for her drink. She always had to order the fancy drinks. You know, the ones that take forever to make?” Enimoto started to lose it. Regained control and, “He was in hurry. Had a knapsack with Dead Kennedy’s stamped on it. Who the hell listens to them anymore? The eighties are over. Loud music coming from the knapsack though.”

  “What kind of music? Punk?”

  “No, that was the weird thing. It was Arab music. Something that you might here at a Mosque.”

  . . . . .

  FRENCH CONSULATE, TOKYO

  “Minister Lemieux, call for you, sir.”

  “Thank you. I will take it on the secure line.”

  Blasingame was on the other end.

  “Are we secure?”

  “As secure as the times allow.”

  The code phrase decided upon at the meeting inside the Sony building dispensed with to his satisfaction, Blasingame spoke.

  “What in the name of Jesus H. Christ are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry. What are you saying, Commander?”

  “You know damn well what I’m saying. The Almond Café. It’s dust as of this morning.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, regrettable. Suffice it to say that some interests out of our control were responsible. I’m sure you know of whom I speak. They are, shall we say, concerned about the arrest of our former associate.”

  Blasingame’s roar was cut off with, “Please meet me at the usual place. Twenty minutes.”

  Click.

  The Frenchman held the phone to his ear even after it had disconnected. Finally returning it to its cradle as his hand began to shake violently.

  The bombing at the Almond Café had been instigated by Peter O’Mara and the provisional wing of the I.R.A. The ambassador would say it was a necessary diversion of course. French intel had discovered the plan but too late to stop what Lemieux knew was the work of a feeble little man who simply resented being “left out of the loop.”

  77

  “The death toll in the bombing of the Almond Café, a popular meeting place and landmark in the heart of the Roppongi district of Tokyo, Japan, has now reached 52 with the death of an unidentified young Japanese woman. In a surprising development, a fringe group connected to the Irish Republican Army not Al Qaeda as previously suspected, has taken responsibility for the morning bombing claiming retribution for the arrest of Aum Cult leader, Shoko Asahara who is himself a supporter of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. It must be noted that Ireland was an ally of Japan during the Second World War. Sinn Fein the political arm of the I.R.A. has denied involvement and has denounced the attack. This is Mary Otterbein, CNN reporting from Tokyo.”

  CNN reporting the latest on the Almond Café bombing. Old news to the Frenchman and the American seated at a corner booth in Paddy Foley’s Irish pub here in Roppongi.

  “You have spoken to your wife and daughter in New York?”

  “Yes, yes. Thank God. I guess…possibly…”

  The Frenchman ending the American’s effort at a “Thank you” with a glance, a lowering of the eyes.

  “Under Japanese law, Asahara can be held for thirty days without being charged.”

  “Seems okay to me. Keep the scum locked away, Course he’ll probably enjoy it. Stroking away in blissful arrogance. What about the piece of leprechaun dung?”

  The reference to O’Mara. Lemieux ignored the crude reference. He knew that the American was a clever man who used a redneck façade to hide a certain intelligence. In any case, the fact that the Almond Café bombing was just a red herring to distract the powers that be from the real Armageddon would be revealed in time. For now, the minister would use it to control Blasingame.

  Paddy Foley’s was an Irish pub in the true sense of the term. Guinness flowing from every corner of the room along with the occasional Jameson. The old-timers the only ones these days imbibing in the whiskey though. The younger crowd more health conscious, if that was possible within the confines of an Irish pub. Blasingame had read somewhere that the Irish and the Japanese had developed a bond during World War II that continued to this day. CNN had just mentioned it in fact. Various Irish-Japanese friendship days were celebrated all over Tokyo, usually at universities and right around St. Patrick’s Day. He sipped his Diet Coke as Lemieux, Guinness in hand, continued his update on what had transpired since the meeting at the Sony Building.

  “The incident this morning was directly related to Asahara’s arrest. We now have a connection with certain elements in the Middle East who were not originally ‘onboard’ as you might say. This will make things complicated,” Lemieux interjected.

  “Please don’t play with me. The Irish connection is real. No fake news from CNN this time. We have some pretty good intel as well. How long before Asahara realizes that my wife and daughter are no longer being held? I’m sure he can get that information even in jail.”

  A nervous pause by Lemieux.

  “He knows already.”

  Blasingame barely able to contain himself.

  “What, how…”

  “Commander, they are safe. You have my word. Time is of the essence however…”

  “Top of the morning. Sorry I’m late. Damn embassy business never stops. Not even on a Sunday when any self-respecting Irishman should be in the pub. I’m Peter O’Mara, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Peter O’Mara, Irish Ambassador to Japan. Pedophile and sometime tormentor of Adam Welsh took a seat and ordered a Jameson.

  The fact that Blasingame did not kill the ambassador right then and there was a true testament to years of military training. How long he could tolerate this man who was responsible for the horrific scene just a few miles away was quite another story. Blasingame had seen O’Mara many times before at various embassy and DOD functions. The guy was always drunk but in a controlled sort of way. Got away with it due to his ancestry more than likely. An Irishman’s reputation would be suspect if he didn’t drink. Wary now. Why was he here? What was the connection to Lemieux. Questions. So many and so little time.

  “Commander, I will get right to the point. The ambassador is an ally. He has been for a while.”

  “An ally!?”

  The Ambassador gave the minister a a knowing look. Almost pixyish. He then turned to Blasingame. A leprechaun withholding the Pot of Gold possibly. He raised the Jameson to his lips and drained it. Grimaced. A glow appearing on his cherub-like cheeks. So much for sipping whiskey, thought Blasingame. Lemieux never took his gaze off Blasingame.

  The ambassador spoke.

  “Aye, to be sure, the nectar of the Gods. One of these days it will get me, but until that time I will float with the angels. Aye, where is Dylan Thomas when you need him. Why are all the great writers drunks and Irishman? Creativity my friend. Creativity and the sensitivity wrought from centuries of trials and tribulations. Christ the whole race would have died of pure boredom without the booze. You know Adam Welsh, do you not, Commander?”

  The question meant to come into his unguarded flank. Test his reaction. O’Mara knew that Blasingame was familiar with Welsh. He also knew that he despised him. A test. O’Mara looked from Blasingame to Lemieux. The Frenchman seemingly reading his Irish associate’s mind. Nodding in assent. Looking back at Blasingame. The man was non-plussed. Well-trained. Poker face all the way.

  “Of course I know Petty Officer Welsh. Washed out crypto type. A drunk.”

  He looked away a bit from O’Mara as he said this last. The ambassador smiling.

  “Oh, no need to be embarrassed on my account, Commander. ‘Drunk’ is a highlight on one’s resume as far as I’m concerned.”

  Lemieux laughing aloud. A nervous laugh. Blasingame finding this odd. A different side of the Frenchman. He continued to surprise.

  “Yes, well, Commander, he is a good man nonetheless. A drunk is not a bad person necessarily. I believe your father was known to tipple a bit.”

  “Why you mick bastard…”

  Blasingame coming across the table. Lemieux grabbed him midway. The ambassador never moved. He took another sip from his drink. Ordered another one. All the while looking directly at Blasingame.

  “Never meant to offend, Commander. I knew your father. Good man. He was a young attaché, and I was just starting out in the mail room at our consulate in DC. Good man. You should be proud. Your Admiral Halsey had a few on occasion. Nothing to be ashamed off. Christ, Halsey even ran a ship aground. Different time though. Now, they relieve you for anything.”

  “Forget it. It’s been a rough few days. Minister, why are we here”…and then looking directly at O’Mara, “and why in the name of all that is sane in this world were innocent lives obliterated at the…”

  The Frenchman had shown no emotion up to this point. Letting the drama play out between the Irishman and the American. Analyzing before utilizing. He cut off the American before he could go any further. The bar was crowded but there could always be someone listening.

  “Shoko Asahara is in the custody of the American and Japanese authorities. As we speak, he is being interrogated. We have a special detachment of Mossad entering the country in approximately one hour to add their, shall we say, ‘unique’ persuasion skills to the process.”

  Blasingame very familiar with Israel’s intelligence agency. The very best. Of course if you are a tiny country surrounded by countries whose only goal in life is to remove you from the face of the earth, you make sure you have the very best Intel around. Blasingame mulling this as he peered over at the ambassador. The man seemed sober. If the booze was having any effect he hid it well. Very well. The new found information that the Frenchman was not only one of the “good guys” but obviously very highly placed just now beginning to sink into the Commander’s consciousness.

  The minister continued.

  “The bottom line, Commander, is that Al Qaeda is now involved as well. This thing is world-wide. Aum had a very small amount of sarin. Asahara had his lieutenants thinking that they had much more. We believe now that Al Qaeda was the source of the sarin. A way for them to monitor the reaction of American and Japanese intelligence. They were able to find some holes. Holes we cannot talk about just yet. Suffice it to say that Jack Bender, a friend of Adam Welsh and Keiko Watanabe, was a part of the plan, knowingly or unknowingly.

  “Petty Officer Welsh?”

  The Frenchman noting Blasingame’s surprise. It was clear that he did not know the connection between Asahara, Keiko Watanabe, Adam Welsh and Jack Bender.The music was loud here in the Pub. Starting to fill up now. Belly to belly at the bar. About two rows deep. A Gaelic quintet warming up over strains of U2 on the jukebox. Exactly why Lemieux had chosen this meeting place. No chance of eavesdropping either electronically or aurally.

  “Ricin. You have heard of this, Commander?”

  The ambassador staring at Blasingame with the look of a college professor addressing a freshman. Sober as the proverbial judge now.

  “Yes. Of course. Made from castor I believe. We have a task force on it now. Some of our best biochemists looking into it.”

  “They need to look faster. Al Qaeda has it, and we know they will use it. Only not in the way we originally believed. We are talking an end of the world event, Commander. The bombing earlier carried out by forces within the IRA…” a quick look at O’Mara… “to make Al Qaeda think we are off their scent. The lives of scores a regrettable but fair tradeoff for the saving of perhaps millions.”

  The American lowered his head and gasped, “Dear God in heaven.”

  78

  “You can make this a lot easier for yourself and your family. I believe you have a daughter, do you not, Mr. Asahara?”

  Back in the interrogation room here in Hiroo jail. Joe Dickwell had gotten the little tidbit about Asahara’s daughter from one of the Japanese guards. Strange how the Tokyo police commander had failed to bring it up.

  “Her name is Mikasa. Pretty name.”

  Asahara began to shake. His back was to his audience. Hard to tell whether he was shaking with laughter or something else. The madness perhaps? Something gleaming. The guard lunged a split second before Asahara brought the shiv around and up towards the midsection of Joe Dickwell. A scream. The shiv had found its mark. The guard lay quivering on the floor. Asahara brought down by two other guards. The guard saving Dickwell’s life. Bleeding on the floor. Asahara crying out like a wounded animal himself.

  “Mikasa my cherry blossom. Why have you forsaken me. I will cleanse them. All of them, my daughter.”

  “Shut him the fuck up. How the hell did he get this in here. Get a medic in here now.”

  Dusty Rhodes beside himself with rage. Staring directly at the Japanese Police Commander.

  “So this is your security?! Christ almighty, I’ve seen better security at a Philippine whorehouse!”

  Nothing but a blank stare from the Japanese. The Madman muttering incoherently in the corner.

  Dickwell turning.