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  "Thank you. I appreciate that. Of course, I'd like you to call off your investigation."

  He gave her a tight smile. "That's a large order. Personally, I like and respect Senator Boyd and his program, but you know I can't do that."

  "You're going to decide the presidential election. You'll be taking the choice of the next president away from the American people."

  He had already considered that point. "If Senator Boyd violated the law, the American people have a right to know that."

  "That's precisely my point. He didn't violate the law."

  "But unfortunately, I can't take your word for that. Neither would you in my place."

  Taylor was feeling waves of frustration. "Listen, C.J.," she said, "I've been in Washington ten years. I know there are plenty of corrupt people in this town. They are in it for the power and the ego trip, but Senator Boyd isn't in either category. You've got to believe me."

  How often had he heard that line? "What makes you certain he's different?"

  "I've known him for a long time, and we've worked closely together. You don't think I'd put my whole career on the line if I didn't think he'd make the country better?"

  Cady didn't dismiss what she said out of hand. Still, how well did anyone know another person?

  Taylor pushed on. "The senator gave up a good business to go into politics. He did it so he could help the people of this country. His record in the House and Senate has been outstanding. Even you'd have to admit that."

  "This isn't about his voting record."

  "What is it about?"

  "Whether he committed a crime."

  "Doing what?"

  "I told you that it concerns the senator's first election to Congress, and that's all I can tell you."

  "That makes it hard for me to respond."

  "Nobody's asking you to respond right now. You'll get a chance in the normal course."

  She was exasperated and her face showed it. "But this isn't a normal case, dammit. A man's running for president. You're about to wreck his life and hand Webster the White House for four more years. All based on some half-assed rumor of something that might have happened ten years ago."

  "It's my job to find out if something did happen."

  She decided to take a different tack. "C'mon, C.J., you left a large firm to do something good. That's what you told me."

  He nodded. "Uh-huh."

  "So we both want the same thing: to do what's right for the country."

  "Agreed, but at this point it's hard to determine what that is."

  "You know there's something sordid in this business. A dirty trick. You're too smart not to know that."

  He thought about what she had said. "As always, you're persuasive, but at this point I can't tell what's right."

  "But you do know that you're being set up. Doing good doesn't mean being a puppet."

  He shot to his feet. "I resent that."

  Taylor held up her hand. "All right, all right. I'm sorry I said that." She fell silent, to let them both simmer down, before continuing. "We're willing to cooperate in any way if you'll agree to keep this whole matter confidential. Just give us a chance to respond to any evidence you think you have before you take any action."

  He softened his tone as well. "That's a reasonable request. I'll do my best to keep it quiet. I won't go public before you have a chance to respond. You've got my word on that."

  Taylor was relieved. She felt as if she had gotten as much as she could. C. J. Cady was fair in his dealings. He wouldn't use the case for his own personal gain.

  On the walk back to her office, Taylor decided that Harrison was right. She had to make the call she had been dreading. She had to let the senator know about Cady's investigation. She checked her watch. They were in Chicago this afternoon. In about thirty minutes he'd be back at the hotel for an hour of downtime.

  Before picking up the phone, she closed her office door tight.

  An aide called the senator to the phone.

  "Are you alone?" Taylor asked nervously.

  "Yeah. What's up?"

  "You'd better be sitting down for this."

  "C'mon, Taylor. Stop stalling. What happened?"

  She had decided that there was no good way to ease into it. She had to simply throw it out, and they could go from there. "Yesterday Saul Cooper from the LA. Times came to see me. He said that rumors have surfaced that you have skeletons in the closet in Napa, and—"

  "What kind of shit is this?" Boyd cried out. "What's Cooper's source?"

  "A Bay Area reporter for his paper who's done some digging after an anonymous tip."

  "Oh, for chrissake. The Republicans are losing. They're planting garbage like this and using those clowns in the press to spread it. It happens all the time."

  She gripped the phone tightly. "It's not that simple. Before you interrupted me, I was about to tell you that Cooper also said there's a U.S. attorney in D.C. who's investigating the charges. I confirmed that myself an hour ago."

  Boyd's voice began to tremble. "What di-did you say?"

  "A U.S. attorney in Washington by the name of C. J. Cady is investigating the charges. I just came back from a meeting with him."

  "What charges?" Boyd said, sounding mystified. "I never did anything wrong."

  "The most he would tell me is that it concerns your first election to Congress, and—"

  "That's ridiculous. Total horseshit. I beat Broder fair and square. I played it all according to the book. Even sold Mill Valley so I could use my own money to campaign and not be indebted to private interests. This stinks to high heaven. It has McDermott and Pug Thompson written all over it."

  Taylor decided to follow Harrison's advice. "Think carefully, Charles. If there are any bad or even questionable facts in Napa, let me know about them. That way I can be ready with our own spin and do some damage control."

  "Why don't you believe me?" Boyd said, expressing outrage. "There are no skeletons in Napa."

  "Please try it my way. What's the single worst thing you ever did in the valley that you would find most embarrassing if it appeared on the front page of the L.A. Times?"

  "Nothing!" he shouted. "Whose side are you on?"

  She persisted, trying to calm him down. "Please think, Charles. Everybody has something."

  "What is this, the third degree?"

  "No. I'm trying to help you."

  "You sure don't sound like it."

  "Well, I am."

  He snarled at her. "All right, I'll tell you. I tried to seduce a young female lawyer working in the governor's office about twelve years ago, but she was super virtuous and she wouldn't go to bed with me. How would you like to see that on the front page of the L.A. Times!"

  Taylor turned bright red. You bastard, she thought. You had no right saying that. Yet she was determined to keep her anger under control. "That's not fair."

  When Taylor put down the phone, she was convinced that Boyd was telling the truth, that he hadn't violated the law in his first race for Congress. She was also convinced that Cady's integrity was beyond question. That meant someone or some group was out to wreck the senator's campaign. McDermott, aided by Pug Thompson, was the logical choice, but she couldn't jump to that conclusion from the little she now knew. There were lots of people who wouldn't want to see Boyd in the White House, including the foes of nuclear power and undoubtedly some foreign interests.

  She racked her brain, trying to imagine which ones might care enough to try to influence the campaign. In recent speeches the senator was accommodating to China, sympathetic to Israel, supportive of free trade with Europe, and opposed to renewed Japanese militarism under Sato. Were those groups sufficiently offended to try to influence the election? She didn't know, but she was certain of one thing: Regardless of who it was, she couldn't underestimate them.

  Chapter 6

  Sato was aware that his decision to visit the Yasukuni Shrine in central Tokyo would set off a maelstrom in Japan, Korea, and China, but that didn't det
er him. As he got out of his limousine with Ozawa and walked the last hundred yards to the Shinto shrine dedicated to the nation's war dead, the size of the crowd lining both sides of the road surprised him, as did the number of baton-wielding members of the Tokyo police, dressed in riot gear.

  The placards were equally divided between those that read, Sato Yes or Self-defense for Japan and the ones that read, Sato No, or No More War Criminals—a reference to the fact that among the millions of fallen victims of Japan's wars, the shrine honored fourteen men like Tojo, the prime minister during World War II, who were executed as war criminals.

  For the first fifty yards, as Sato walked with Ozawa at his side, the crowd was orderly and silent. Suddenly half a dozen young men burst out of the police cordon close to the shrine and threw themselves down on the road, blocking Sato's path. "Warmonger," they chanted. A score of police ran toward the young men, swinging their batons, determined to clear the path before Sato reached them. When they refused to move, the police forcibly dragged them by their legs off the road.

  Sato slowed his pace, letting them clear the path before he reached the point of the protest. Soon after, Ozawa stopped walking, to let Sato continue on alone.

  Inside the shrine Sato stood in front of the giant cedar altar and bowed his head.

  When he exited the shrine, the television reporter, Mori, was waiting for him with a microphone and a cameraman close by. Ten yards away Alex Glass stood with a reporter's steno pad in his hand and a tape recorder on, wanting to hear what Sato had to say.

  "Sato-san, will you answer some questions?" Mori asked.

  Sato didn't hesitate. He had already approved the questions Mori would ask. "Yes, of course."

  "Why did you make this visit today?"

  "Many good and honorable men have died for our nation. We have an obligation to remember and honor them."

  "But aren't you endorsing what the Japanese government did dining the second world war?"

  Sato looked into the camera. "We fought the Greater East-Asian War for a noble purpose... the liberation of Asia from strangulation by Western colonial powers. Yes, we made mistakes. Like all people we suffered tremendously. However, Asia was liberated. We should never forget that."

  "It has been said that you wish to start a new war with China."

  "That is totally false. I want the nations of Asia to live in peace and harmony. However, that is possible only if all nations are in a position to defend themselves from any possible aggression. My view is war, no. Self-defense, yes."

  "And what position do you think the American president will take in response to your program?"

  Alex strained to make sure he caught every word of the answer. "I am confident," Sato said, selecting his words carefully, "that the American president in office at the end of next January will support my program."

  Sato's confidence about what the American president would do reverberated in Alex's brain. They were precisely the same words Sato had used two days ago in the television interview. Alex sensed some hidden meaning in those words, but he had to find it.

  When he had researched his recent series, Alex had spent several hours in one-on-one sessions with Sato, as well as with several of Sato's close confidants, including Ozawa. He had read enormous amounts of material, everything he could find, by and about Sato. One of the things that surprised Alex was the intense interest that Sato was taking in the American presidential election.

  Knowing how Sato operated, Alex was convinced that he was involved in something in the United States that Alex was missing. As he replayed Sato's words in his mind, Alex was certain that he was right—not merely from Sato's words, but from the firm, unequivocal tone of voice. Sato wasn't making an idle boast or wishful prediction.

  But how could that be? Alex had studied in detail all of the public statements of Webster and Boyd on the subjects of Japan and Asia. He was persuaded that Webster would support Sato's program. Not only did the president have a neoisolationist view toward foreign policy, but he was concerned about the budget deficit. He saw America's foreign military commitments as a tremendous drain on the country's finances, which had to be reduced.

  If Webster were reelected, then Sato would be right. But Boyd was a different matter. As a member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, he had spoken often about his view of America's place in the world. He believed the United States could placate China, notwithstanding that country's growing military might. He would view a rearmed Japan as creating the risk of a war between the two historical enemies, with the likelihood that the United States would be drawn into it on one side or the other. No, Alex was convinced that Senator Boyd would never support Sato's program. With the latest polls showing Webster and Boyd in a dead heat, something in this picture didn't make sense.

  As Alex walked back to his motorcycle, he asked himself, So what's it all mean?

  The answer that came back to him was that Sato was somehow meddling in the American election in a way that would eliminate Boyd's chances of being president. To do that he'd need help, and he'd need it from an American. But whom had he recruited? Alex would give anything to know the answer to that question. And he intended to find out.

  * * *

  That evening the crowd lined up outside of the Kokuritsu Gekijo Theatre, the national theater west of the Imperial Palace near Hanzomon Station, an hour before the doors were to open for the rally. The line extended in a southerly direction almost to the National Diet Building. None of the usual performances in this venue—Kabuki, traditional theater, or a concert—had ever drawn such a crowd.

  They were polite and orderly, but their signs and banners told their message: No War. No Sato. These were ordinary Japanese people who prized their country's democracy and its relationship with the United States. Many had never attended a political rally in their lives, but Sato's rise in the polls frightened them. The announcement of the rally had stated, If we don't speak out against Sato, he will prevail. So they came to raise their voices.

  When the doors opened, the crowd filed in until the theater was filled to capacity. People were standing three deep behind the last row and in the side aisles.

  Speaking from a platform on stage, the first two speakers, members of the Diet from Prime Minister Nakamura's party, outlined the "Japanese political and economic miracle" since the end of the war. "To be sure," one said, "our economic path has been rough in recent years, but our foundations are strong. We need only stay the course, and our economy will recover." Their message was greeted with enthusiastic applause. Chants of "Sato no... war no," filled the theater.

  Outside, Alex jumped off his motorcycle and approached the front door. He wasn't late. He had come to hear Masaki, the third speaker, who would be going on shortly.

  As Alex approached the front door, he flashed his New York Times ID at one of two tough-looking men. "No more admission," the man said. "The theater is full."

  "I'm press," Alex said. "New York Times." Figuring that could get him in anywhere, he moved toward the door and grabbed the handle. One of the men roughly pulled him away. He punched Alex in the stomach and sent the reporter tumbling to the ground. He followed that with a swift kick to the balls that left Alex writhing in pain. "The theater is full." The man turned around and left him there.

  Inside the theater, Masaki, a brilliant orator, was just beginning his speech, rapidly arousing the crowd to an emotional pitch.

  "Sato is nothing but a warmonger and a demagogue," he shouted into the microphone. "It took us decades to recover from the previous round of leaders like Sato, who launched us into the Second World War and nearly destroyed the country."

  There was a huge round of applause.

  "We cannot permit—"

  Masaki felt a wave of heat behind him and stopped in midsentence. From the front of the audience rose cries of "Fire!" Flames were shooting up backstage from the area where scenery flats were stacked.

  Once the crowd saw what was happening, they bolted for the doors.
Panic ensued. Loud screams filled the theater. Cries of help and anguish erupted as some fell in the pushing and shoving of the frightened mob.

  Masaki jumped off the stage to get away from the fire. He too was swept up in the panic, and he tried pushing his way to the closest side door. On the stage, the crackling flames grew higher.

  Masaki was in the center of a pushing crowd of people when he suddenly felt a hard blow to his head. "What the...?" he cried out. Then he lost consciousness and fell to the floor.

  The crowd tried to move around him. Terasawa had watched while one of his friends in the Yakuza had struck Masaki. Once the speaker was on the ground, Terasawa pushed against the surging mob toward the speaker. Terasawa was wearing specially made shoes for tonight with steel plates in the heels and toes. Once he reached Masaki's unconscious body, he raised one foot and slammed it down on Masaki's head. Then the other foot. He was certain that the first blow had fractured Masaki's skull. The second killed the man.

  Chapter 7

  "Ah, Miss Ferrari," Carlos, the maitre d' at the Four Seasons, said as Taylor descended the large wooden staircase and approached the entrance to the dining room on Friday morning. "Mr. Fujimura has already arrived."

  The Washington power breakfast was in full bloom in one of the city's most prestigious restaurants. Thick beige wall coverings and a high ceiling that opened to a more casual garden restaurant above muffled the sounds. The tables were spaced to permit confidential conversation. As Carlos led Taylor to the far side of the restaurant, she nodded to the secretary of the interior and a senator from Maine.

  Taylor stopped in front of a Japanese man dressed in an expensive-looking dark business suit, white shirt, and tie. Taylor bowed, and he bowed back.