“An outright attack on Japan would be a serious enterprise. It would drag in the US and the rest of the world from the first salvo.”

Randi tapped her fingers absently on the arm of her chair. “Leads?”

“Like I told you, the man I was in contact with in Japan is dead, the samples are gone, and there’s nothing but silence coming out of China. But I know you’re well connected there.”

Before turning her focus to the Middle East, she’d operated a great deal in China and spoke fluent Mandarin. “Okay. Let me nose around a little bit.”

“You have an idea?”

She stood and started for the door. “I just might.”

8

8

Near Imizu
Japan

Jon Smith took as deep a breath as he could, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He closed his eyes for a moment to let the pain subside, then opened them again in order to examine the shackle anchoring his ankle to the bed.

He’d have actually laughed if he didn’t know how excruciating it would be. Of all the desperate situations he’d extricated himself from over his career, this was almost insulting. The strap was fashioned from a simple strip of leather, and the flimsy padlock securing it looked like it came off a piece of tourist luggage.

He eased himself back into the pillows to assess his situation one more time. According to the machine he was attached to, his vitals had stabilized. Generally good news. The chest tube was gone and the hole between his ribs had been closed with a few neat sutures. Even better. On the downside, though, the pain in his back was as bad as ever and now he had confirmation as to why.

The doctor caring for him didn’t speak much English—probably by design—but with some universal medical jargon and a couple of X-ray films, Smith had been able to put together a mental list of what had happened to him: five broken ribs, two of which were smashed beyond recognition, a precariously reinflated lung, massive initial blood loss, a near-fatal case of hypothermia, a scapula held together with a couple of screws, and a sutured hole where the crossbow bolt had been extracted. Actually, extracted sounded better than the pantomime the doctor had used to describe the procedure. Two hands on the shaft and a foot in the small of his back. In the man’s defense, though, combat medicine sometimes rewarded those willing to just dive right in.