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  “I was underground,” Lake said.

  “Underground?”

  “Why were you trying to get a hold of me?” Lake asked.

  “It is not over. I have received some information from my headquarters,” Araki said. “They intercepted a message from Pyongyang to another North Korean trawler already at sea. It is a spy ship just like the Am Nok Sung.”

  “And?”

  “The message ordered the ship to immediately proceed to San Francisco.”

  “Maybe they’re trying to find out what happened to the Am Nok Sung,” Lake said.

  “Maybe. But the message also told them to conduct a search for radioactive material. Now, why would they do that?” Araki asked.

  Because they know where Forest is, Lake realized. He didn’t know how they had found out, but he knew they had. And they were going to follow the path the 1-24 had taken.

  “Can your people keep tabs on that trawler?”

  “Yes. It is well east of Hawaii, so it will not take them long to get here. Perhaps two days, maybe even less, since we don’t have an exact fix on it yet. I suppose you are not going to tell me why they are heading this way right now, are you?” Araki asked.

  “Not right now. Meet me here on the campus at three. I’ll explain then.” That would give Lake time to figure out what he was going to do and how much to say.

  “I will see you at three, then?” Araki repeated.

  “Yes.” Lake closed the phone.

  “Nothing, right?” Harmon asked with a slight grin.

  “No, actually it was something,” Lake said. He explained that another North Korean trawler was headed this way, with orders to search for radioactive material.

  “So the Koreans must know about where 1-24 was supposed to go,” Harmon said when he was done. “Maybe they’re taking a shot in the dark that the 1-24 made it close to San Francisco.”

  She poured them both another cup of coffee. “Again, I don’t think the 1-24 surrendered,” she said. “It would have been against the nature of the crew and officers. No matter what you say, I think we would have heard something if a Japanese submarine carrying an atomic weapon had been captured at the end of the war.”

  “The other factor to consider,” Lake said, “is that if it did surrender, then the Koreans can look for it all they want and they’ll never find it. So let’s assume it didn’t. You said the most likely course of action for the sub was for the captain to take it down for a mass suicide.”

  “That was my initial thought,” Harmon said, “but the more I think about it, the more I believe that the 1-24 might have kept on going no matter what. I don’t think the captain of the submarine was in charge. Remember that the commander was supposed to follow all orders of”—she flipped through message flimsies—”this fellow Agent Hatari, of the Kempei Tai.”

  “The Kempei Tai was the Japanese military’s secret police during the war. But it’s just as likely that this Hatari fellow was an agent of the Black Ocean. They often used the Kempei Tai as cover, especially when they had to deal with the military because a Kempei Tai agent on special assignment, no matter what his rank, could order any senior regular military officer to do as he said. I believe that the 1-24 may have pursued its mission to the end.”

  Lake wondered why she was following this train of thought that they’d already derailed once. “But there was no explosion,” he pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean that the 1-24 didn’t make it to San Francisco or somewhere close by,” she said. “It just means that the bomb didn’t go off. The North Koreans are the ones who triggered this whole thing in the present day,” she added. “They’re coming to San Francisco again. I have to believe that they have access to more information than we do.”

  Lake thought about it. If the 1-24 was down in deep water, it was probably lost forever. The Koreans had the same messages he did and they were sending a ship in this direction. Maybe they knew something more, like Harmon said. Or maybe they were just gambling that the 1-24 had gone down in shallow water and could be found. Either way, Lake couldn’t afford to ignore the situation.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” he asked.

  Harmon smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. During World War II San Francisco Harbor was protected by a submarine net. It stretched for three miles across the main channel entrance from the St. Francis Yacht Club at the Marina to Point Sausalito.”

  She sketched on a pad. “It was inside of the Golden Gate because the currents were too strong there. Two ships serviced the net, anchored on either side of the thousand-foot movable part. They each had winches on their prows which could move the net. One pulled it open, the other pulled it shut. If the 1-24 was going to launch a midget kamikaze sub attack, they would have to have considered how to breach that obstacle. Perhaps they planned on sneaking the midget sub through along with a ship passing in. Of course,” she added, “by September 1945, the net might have been left open all the time.”

  “This is all fine and well,” Lake said, getting a little tired of all the history lessons, “but what—”

  Harmon held up a hand. “The important thing is that the maritime defense forces had the whole harbor and its approaches wired for sound. They had a hydroacoustic listening station at Fort Miley. The duty personnel kept a log of all contacts. I suggest we go take a look and see if anything was heard around the first or second of September.”

  “Where would those logs be?” Lake asked.

  “Follow me,” Harmon said, grabbing her jacket. She paused, then put her arm through his. “Change that to ‘please come with me.’ “

  *****

  The Chain Drive was empty this early in the afternoon. Nishin had watched it for the past hour from across the street, making sure he had the area memorized. Okomo had called his room two hours ago and told him he could find out more about the American arms dealer from a man named Jonas, who owned this establishment. It would simply be a matter of extracting the information.

  Nishin slipped across the street and opened the scarred wooden door. The interior was dark and he stepped aside from the door and stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of sunlight.

  “What do you want?”

  The voice came from the only other occupant of the room, a large bearded man who stood behind the bar. There were numerous bottles laid out in front of him and he had a clipboard in his hand.

  “Are you Jonas?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Nishin checked out the rest of the bar. “I will assume you are Jonas, since I was told Jonas owned this place and there is no one else in here.”

  “Yeah, I’m Jonas. Who the hell are you?”

  “I am looking for someone,” Nishin said. Now that he could see better, he was looking around the room. He could see the various posters on the walls.

  “I don’t run a phone book. This is a bar.”

  Nishin could see that the man’s right hand was hidden behind the bar. Nishin walked forward and took a stool directly in front of Jonas. “Then I would like a drink.”

  Nishin had been briefed about the American Patriots. Extremists who fought against government control. Nishin thought the entire concept quite ludicrous in the country with the laxest society he had ever seen. If you couldn’t do it in America, you couldn’t do it anywhere. The Patriots didn’t have any higher agenda. In his opinion, they were only fighting against something, not for anything. The Black Ocean had the Sun Goddess and the Emperor. To fight negatively like these men did was doomed to failure.

  “What kind?” Jonas asked.

  “Saki.”

  “We don’t have that piss-water here,” Jonas replied. “Why don’t you take your act down the street?”

  “You are not very hospitable for a man whose occupation is hospitality,” Nishin said. He noted that Jonas’s right hand was still below the bar. “I will take whatever beer you have on draft.”

  Jonas stared at him, then reluctantly grabbed a mug with his left hand. H
e paused, then turned toward the taps. That was what Nishin was waiting for. He swiftly leaned over the bar and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun that Jonas had hidden there.

  “Hey!” Jonas yelled. He froze as Nishin pointed the twin large bores at his midsection.

  “I have heard that such weapons are illegal, even here in America,” Nishin said. “But it is fortunate that you have this.” He ignored Jonas’s confused look. “Because I am interested in meeting a man who would deal in such weapons as this. Indeed, I am searching for even more sophisticated weaponry.”

  “I don’t know nothing about any kind of man like that,” Jonas growled.

  “Ah, but this says differently,” Nishin said, wagging the end of the gun slightly.

  “I did that myself. The gun’s legal at full length. I cut it. Any fool can do it with a hacksaw.”

  Nishin ran the fingers of his left hand over the end of the bore. “This was not done with a hacksaw. This was professionally done.” He shrugged. “Be that as it may, I do not wish to further waste my time. I am looking for a man who sold eight silenced Ingram MAC-10s to some Koreans a few nights ago.”

  Jonas folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Nishin gave a deep sigh, then tossed the shotgun to Jonas, who, startled, reached out to catch it. As he did so, Nishin was vaulting the bar, both feet smashing into Jonas’s now exposed chest, staggering the bigger man against the back of the bar. Bottles fell and crashed, the shotgun clattered to the floor, and Jonas doubled over dying to catch his breath.

  Nishin drew out the modified ice scraper. He grabbed the hair on the back of Jonas’s head and pulled his face up. He jammed the point of the ice scraper into the bartender’s neck. “Who was the gun dealer? What was his name?”

  “Fuck you,” Jonas hissed.

  Nishin realized he had miscalculated. He had usually found that large men broke easily once you gained the upper hand. He stepped away and scooped up the shotgun, putting the ice scraper into his pocket. Jonas was leaning against the back of the bar, trying to control his breathing, wincing from the pain of broken ribs. Nishin grabbed a large towel from under the bar and wrapped it around the end of the shotgun.

  “What are you doing?” Jonas asked, his eyes following Nishin’s every move.

  Nishin didn’t reply with words. He aimed at Jonas’s left leg and fired one of the barrels. The towel muted the noise of the blast so that it wasn’t heard outside of the bar, but it didn’t slow down the pellets that ripped into Jonas’s left knee. The joint buckled and Jonas was down, cursing in pain.

  “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

  Nishin stepped over Jonas’s prostrate form and aimed at his groin. “Who was he? You know I will fire again since I already have once.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jonas groaned. “You’re fucking crazy.”

  “I just want some information,” Nishin said. “I think I have been most reasonable up to a point.”

  “I got protection, man. I’m fucking protected!” Jonas screamed.

  “I am not interested in your American gangsters or their protection,” Nishin said.

  “Not the mob, you dumb fuck. I got friends in the feds. The government. They’ll be on you like shit on stink.”

  Nishin found that interesting. “Really? And who exactly are your friends?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Nishin glanced at the door. At any moment someone might wander in. He got back to his original purpose. He jammed the end of the muzzle into Jonas’s groin. “The name of the gun dealer?”

  “Lake,” Jonas spit out.

  “Lake?”

  “Yeah, as in a fucking large body of water. Lake. That’s all I know. That’s the only name he uses.”

  “Who does Lake work for?”

  “He’s a freelancer,” Jonas said, his eyes still mesmerized by the ripped end of the towel on the end of the shot gun and the smoke curling around the barrel. “He sells guns to whoever has the money. He’s been hanging around the Patriots, working with some of them, but he doesn’t work for anyone as far as I know.”

  “Is he a Patriot?”

  “Not a member of any group I know, but he seems to support the cause.”

  “Where can I find him?” Nishin asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have had a way to get in contact with him,” Nishin insisted.

  “I’ve got a phone number. It’s a hall phone. Sounds like some cheap flophouse. Sometimes he’s there, sometimes he isn’t.”

  “The number?”

  Jonas recited the seven digits.

  “Does this Lake work for your government?”

  Jonas shook his head. “Hell, no. He sells guns. I’d know if he were undercover.”

  “I think you are very stupid,” Nishin said.

  “Fuck you,” Jonas spit out.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about this man Lake?”

  “He’ll kick your ass,” Jonas said. “I hope you do run into him.”

  “I already have,” Nishin said. “And I’m here. He’s not. Do you work for the government?” Nishin asked. “For your friends who protect you?”

  “I got friends,” Jonas repeated. “They help me out, I help them out, but I don’t work for them. But you mess with me, they’ll mess with you.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said, but unfortunately they are not here now to help you. And now is the important time for you, isn’t it?”

  “Fuck you,” Jonas said, his hands covered in blood as he pressed down on his injured leg. “You’d better just get your ass out of here while you can.”

  Nishin didn’t reply with words. He raised the muzzle of the shotgun slightly and fired.

  *****

  “The hydroacoustic system was linked together and terminated at Fort Miley,” Harmon explained as she drove. “But they all answered to a central command that controlled the harbor defenses.”

  “They were really worried about San Francisco being attacked?” Lake asked as they crossed the Bay Bridge. He noted the site of the gun battle from the other night showed little sign of it as they went past, other than some chips in the wall of the tunnel where bullets had struck.

  The question put Harmon in her element as historian. “San Francisco was the most tempting target on the West Coast for the Japanese. After Pearl Harbor people here were very worried about getting attacked. No one knew what the Japanese had planned. You have to remember that in 1941 and early 1942 it seemed like the Japanese were invincible and everywhere. It was a very dark time. The list of Japanese successes was quite long: first Pearl Harbor; then Wake Island fell two days before Christmas; Hong Kong fell on Christmas Day; Singapore and seventy thousand men surrendered in February; the Philippines and Bataan; China; Burma; it went on and on.”

  “As far as the West Coast goes, I do know for certain from my studies that on the night of December 17, a Japanese submarine surfaced outside the harbor and then remained on station up until Christmas before being ordered back to Japan. In fact, an entire Japanese submarine group operated off the West Coast in those early days, sinking quite a few ships. There was one sub for every major port from Seattle down through San Diego and they were supposed to surface and expend all their deck gun ammunition on Christmas Day before heading back to Japan. For some reason the order was rescinded just before Christmas and the subs went back to Japan without incident.”

  “The U.S. Navy fortified the harbor quite extensively.”

  “I’ve already told you about the submarine net. They also built defenses against surface ships. Heavy guns were put in at several places. The Navy had shore-mounted 16-inch guns powerful enough to shoot thirty miles out to sea. That’s far enough to fire beyond the Farallons, a group of islands off shore.”

  Harmon and Lake were now driving north on Van Ness, following Route 101 through the city. “The Navy also put in an extensive minefield. All of these defense systems were headquartered at Fort Scott, which was in t
he Presidio. That’s where we’re headed right now. I’ve got a friend who can give me access to all the war records from HDSF at Fort Scott.”

  “HDSF?” Lake asked.

  “Harbor Defense, San Francisco.”

  Route 101 turned left onto Lombard Street. Lake felt a buzz in his pocket and pulled out his portable. He had no doubt who it was. He turned toward the window and activated the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought we lost you.” Feliks’ voice came through clearly, as if he were sitting in the back seat.

  “I’m still kicking,” Lake said.

  “But some Koreans aren’t, from what I understand,” Feliks said. “Seems there was a bit of gunfight in the tunnel on the Bay Bridge a couple of days ago. Two KIA and several vehicles shot up. Two silenced MAC-10 submachine guns were recovered by the police. The guns were sterile, but you and I know where they came from.” Feliks didn’t pause. “And there’s the matter of no confirmation of a weapons drop that was supposed to be made last night. I would assume said drop was made early because some of said weapons were in the hands of the two KIA who are also as sterile as the guns. All that the SFPD has from the autopsies is a racial makeup by the coroner saying they are of Korean ancestry. No ID, no record, no nothing. So who are they?” Feliks asked abruptly.

  “North Korean commandos,” Lake said.

  “North Korean commandos,” Feliks repeated. “How curious; what’s even more curious is that I haven’t heard a damn thing from you for quite a while. Start talking.”

  Lake had wrestled with answering that question for the past twenty-four hours. He did as good a job as he could of encapsulating the events of the past twenty-four hours, leaving out the presence of Araki and Harmon’s help. It took him four minutes, during which Feliks didn’t interrupt once. When he drew to a finish, Lake waited.

  “This is all about a Japanese atomic bomb from World War II?” Feliks asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I didn’t have these reports of bodies being found, I’d think you had gone nuts. In fact I think you probably have gone nuts.”