“What about my men?” demanded Sandecker testily.

“They signaled a safe landing,” answered Kern. “We have no reason to believe they were injured or harmed by Suma’s security guards.”

“So where do we go from here?” inquired the President.

“After placing their explosives and putting the Dragon Center temporarily out of commission, our people will attempt to effect a rescue of Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have breathing space to nail Hideki Suma to the nearest cross and send in our military for a wholesale destruction operation.”

The President’s face took on a concerned look. “Is it possible for two men and a woman to accomplish all that in the next thirty-six hours?”

Jordan smiled tiredly. “Trust me, Mr. President, my people can walk through walls.”

“And Pitt and Giordino?” Sandecker pressured Kern.

“Once our people signal they’re ready, a submarine will surface and launch a Delta One team to evacuate them from the island. Pitt and Giordino will be brought out too.”

“Seems to me you’re taking an awful lot for granted,” said Sandecker.

Kern gave the admiral a confident smile. “We’ve analyzed and fine-tuned every phase of the operation until we’re certain it has a ninety-six-point-seven-percent chance of success.”

Sandecker shot Kern a withering stare. “Better make that a ninety-nine-point-nine percentage factor.”

Everyone looked at Sandecker questioningly. Then Kern said uncertainly, “I don’t follow you, Admiral.”

“You overlooked the capabilities of Pitt and Giordino,” Sandecker replied with a sharp edge to his voice. “It wouldn’t be the first time they bailed out a fancy intelligence agency carnival.”

Kern looked at him strangely, then turned to Jordan for help, but it was the President who answered.

“I think what Admiral Sandecker is referring to are the several occasions Mr. Pitt has saved the government’s ass. One in particular hits close to home.” The President paused for effect. “You see, it was Pitt who saved my life along with that of Congresswoman Smith four years ago in the Gulf.”

“I remember.” Jordan turned from the fire. “He used an old Mississippi River paddle steamer to do it.”

Kern refused to back down. He felt his reputation as the nation’s best intelligence planner was on the line. “Trust me, Mr. President. The escape and evacuation will go as planned without help from NUMA. We’ve taken into account every possible flaw, every contingency. Nothing but an unpredictable act of God can prevent us from pulling it off.”

46

IT WASN’T AN act of God that prevented Mancuso, Weatherhill, and Stacy from carrying through with Kern’s exacting plan. Nor were they lacking in skill and experience. They could and occasionally did open any bank vault in the world, escape from the tightest security prisons, and penetrate the KGB headquarters in Moscow or Fidel Castro’s private residence in Cuba. There wasn’t a lock built or a security system created that would take them more than ten minutes to circumvent. The unpredictability of attack dogs could present a troublesome obstacle, but they were expert in a variety of methods to leave snarling hounds either dead or docile.

Unfortunately their bag of well-practiced tricks did not include escaping from prison cells with no windows or with doors that could only be opened from the floor when the stainless steel ceiling and walls were lifted by a mechanical arm. And after being stripped of all weapons, their martial arts training was useless against sentry robots who felt no pain and whose computerized reaction time was faster than humans’.

Suma and Kamatori considered them extremely dangerous and confined them in separate cells that held only a Japanese tatami mat, a narrow hole in the floor for a toilet, and a speaker in the ceiling. No lights were installed, and they were forced to sit alone and totally enclosed in pitch darkness, void of all emotion, their minds seeking a direction, no matter how small or remote, toward escape.

Then came a bitter realization that the cells were escape-proof. Then numbed disbelief and chagrin that despite their almost superhuman skills there was no way out. They were absolutely and hopelessly trapped.

Positive identification of Pitt and Giordino was made by Roy Orita after studying videotapes of their capture. He immediately reported his revelation to Kamatori.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, there is no doubt in my mind. I sat across a table from them in Washington. Your security intelligence staff will bear me out after a genetic code check.”

“What is their purpose? They are not professional agents.”

“They were simply diversionary decoys for the team given the assignment for destroying the control center.”

Kamatori couldn’t believe his luck in finding the man he’d been ordered to assassinate appear out of the blue into his own backyard.

He dismissed Orita and went into solitary meditation, his mind meticulously planning a cat-and-mouse game, a sport that would test his hunting skills against a man like Pitt, whose courage and resourcefulness were well known, and who would make a worthy competitor.

It was a contest Kamatori had played many times with men who had opposed Suma, and he had never lost.

Pitt and Giordino were heavily guarded around the clock by a small crew of sentry robots. Giordino even struck up a friendship of sorts with one of the robots who had captured them, calling it McGoon.

“My name is not McGoon,” it spoke in reasonable English. “My name is Murasaki. It means purple.”

“Purple,” Giordino snorted. “You’re painted yellow. McGoon fits you better.”

“After I became fully operational, I was consecrated by a Shinto priest with food offerings and flower garlands and given the name Murasaki. I am not operated by telepresence. I have my own intelligence and decision-making capability and can control appropriate operations.”

“So you’re an independent free agent,” said Giordino, astounded at speaking to a mechanism that could carry on a conversation.

“Not entirely. There are limits to my artificial thought processes, of course.”

Giordino turned to Pitt. “Is he putting me on?”

“I have no idea.” Pitt shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him what he’d do if we made a run for it.”

“I would alert my security operator and shoot to kill as I have been programmed,” the robot answered.

“Are you a good shot?” Pitt asked, intrigued with conversing with artificial intelligence.

“I am not programmed to miss.”

Giordino said succinctly, “Now we know where we stand.”

“You cannot flee the island and there is no place to hide. “You would only die by drowning, eaten by sharks, or be executed by beheading. Any escape attempt would be illogical.”

“He sounds like Mr. Spock.”

There was a knock from the outside, and a man with a permanently scowling face pushed the fusuma sliding door with its shoji paper panes to one side and came in. He stood silent as his eyes traveled from Giordino standing beside the robot to Pitt, who was comfortably reclining on a triple pile of tatami mats.

“I am Moro Kamatori, chief aide to Mr. Hideki Suma.”

“Al Giordino,” greeted the stocky Italian, smiling grandly and sticking out his hand like a used car salesman. “My friend in the horizontal position is Dirk Pitt. We’re sorry to drop in uninvited but—”

“We are quite knowledgeable of your names and how you came to be on Soseki Island,” Kamatori interrupted Giordino. “You can dispense with any attempt at denials, self-defeating tales of misdirection, or counterfeit excuses of innocence. I regret to inform you that your diversionary intrusion was a failure. Your three team members were apprehended shortly after they exited the tunnel from Edo City.”