Zero Point by Tim Fairchild Read Free Book Online Page B

middle-aged Japanese man. He had short black hair and wore a black patch over his left eye, a commemorative injury from his violent early years.
    Yagato Osama was the Tokyo leader of the Yakuza, the Japanese version of the Sicilian Mafia. It was a structured organization with strong clan ties, having a presence in Japan dating from the 1600s. If persons with a grievance could not gain satisfaction from the local authorities, they could most likely find it by going to the Oyabun in their region to have it solved for them. The Yakuza had their own form of justice, which was often swift, brutal, and final.
    Pencor knew Osama was the Tokyo regional leader with the honored title Oyabun. His next in command was his adviser called Saiko-komon , and then down to its many members called Wakashu , or children. He knew the Oyabun was to be obeyed by all, even if it meant risking life or limb to do so. He was absolute lord and ruler over his kingdom.
    “Good morning, Yagato. I hope you are well,” Pencor said, offering the empty platitude as he walked over to the plush high-backed chairs in front of the desk.
    “Please sit down, Robert. May I offer you a cup of tea?” Yagato Osama asked, gesturing to the priceless Sucki tea set dating back to the Sui and Tang dynasty of 5th   century China.
    “No, thank you, Yagato,” Pencor replied sitting down and putting his briefcase down beside him. Watching Osama pour a cup for himself, he noticed the tip of the pinky finger on his left hand was also missing.
    Pencor knew that this was the result of the practice of Yubitsume; the ritual of cutting off your own fingertip with a knife or sharp item, then wrapping it in paper and sending it to the Oyabun as an apology for disobedience, accompanied by a note begging for forgiveness. The more transgressions, the more fingertips you would lose. If the transgression was too great, no penitence could be accepted and your execution was assured.
    “I’ve come to check on the progress of our plans,” Pencor said, getting right to the point. “What is the current status of our operation in the Canary Islands?”
    “Operation Bishamon is going as planned, Robert, so you need not concern yourself. Our facility on Tenerife is safe and above suspicion. As far as anyone is concerned, it’s just another one of the many research observatories located on Mount Blanca’s plateau. To the casual observer, it is nothing more than a satellite relay station, and my security keeps a watchful eye out for intruders.”
    “What about the progress of your Scalar weapon? Is it proceeding as planned?” Pencor asked.
    “The weapon has been in operation for months now, and has been exponentially increasing at the rate provided by our lead scientist on site. You must have patience, my dear friend. Your retribution will come soon enough,” Osama stated with a malevolent grin.
    “Are the seismic sensors on the island of La Palma still functioning properly? It is essential that no one notice any seismic activity prior to the final phase.”
    “They are working fine, Robert. I must admit, it was a sound idea to have the hundreds of geological seismic sensors located on La Palma replaced by our technicians after your fictitious company won the maintenance contract with La Palma,” Osama said, reaching for his teacup.
    “A little matter made simple with a generous contribution to a few well-placed island administrators and officials,” Pencor said with a smirk as Osama sipped his tea. “It’s amazing what people will do when the price is right. Greed can be most rewarding sometimes.”
    “It took our people almost two years to complete the switching of the sensors,” Osama said, setting his cup back on its tray. “Now all the geological stations on La Palma will never see any reports of unusual seismic activity until it is far too late. Our men programmed the sensors to give a false tremor indication from time to time, which is a normal occurrence on the island.