in his car.
Because the Japanese drove on the opposite side of the road from Americans, Cain sat on the left side of the luxury sedan.
“The radio says traffic is very bad today,” Mr. Morita announced as the motorcade pulled away from the lobby doors. “Too much Tokyo construction and bad weather,” he told Cain.
“I must rely on your expertise, Morita-san. I’ve never driven in Tokyo.” Cain hated that he hadn’t had time to survey the routes and do a walk-through of the Tokyo International Forum himself, but he’d been busy overseeing all the physical security improvements at Sato’s house and at the company’s headquarters. He had, however, tasked Mr. Morita with doing the survey route the day prior.
Mr. Morita flashed his headlights and the guard pushed a button, opening the massive vehicle gate. Cain waved, and the uniformed guard bowed as the motorcade passed. The man did not rise from the bow until the motorcade had passed.
After a few moments of driving, the Nissan President turned onto the main street that would eventually connect them with the toll road. The motorcade slowed to a stop at a red light. Cain’s eyes were drawn like a magnet to a black motorcycle that crept up beside them. The motorcyclist was wearing black boots, black pants, a black jacket, and a full-face helmet with a dark tinted visor. The operator turned left to look into the unarmored vehicle. An uneasy feeling moved over Cain. When he had protected POTUS and other VIPs, no motorcycles like this would have ever been allowed to get so close to the motorcade. He double-checked to make sure the vehicle’s doors were locked. They were. He looked back at Mr. Sato, who was holding his speech with two hands, resting it in his lap. He was quietly reading his speech and was unaware of what was happening outside the car. The traffic signal turned green and Mr. Morita eased on the gas. The motorcycle turned right and fell out of sight.
Cain took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He texted Tanaka: DID NOT LIKE THAT MOTORCYCLE NEXT TO US. FOLLOW VEHICLE. MAKE SURE THAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
Mr. Sato began talking to Umiko. They were speaking Japanese, so Cain couldn’t understand them, but he assumed it was about Sato’s speech. He saw Sato scribbling some last-minute notes in the margins of his sheets of paper.
Cain’s attention zeroed in on the roadblock that was up ahead in the distance. Two Japanese construction workers wearing white helmets and dressed in the typical blue overalls with light-reflective jackets were in the road directing traffic. Close to them were several yellow road barrels with black stripes.
“What’s going on?” Cain asked Mr. Morita. “What does that sign say?”
“Road repair,” he replied.
“Were they doing construction yesterday when you ran the route?”
“No.”
I don’t like this, Cain thought. Not at all. Has all the textbook signs of an ambush. “The road looks perfect to me, Morita-san. Don’t stop. Just keep driving.”
“Cain-san,” the driver replied, “we must obey all Japanese traffic rules. Or I lose my license.”
Cain reached for his handheld radio and twisted the volume knob up. He pushed the mic and was about to talk to Tanaka when he heard a troubling sound in the distance.
The dull whine of two sport motorcycles had broken the silence. The high-pitched sounds of their exhausts were growing louder by the second as they drew closer. Cain whipped his head over his left shoulder. In the side-view mirror he saw two sport motorcycles quickly approaching from the rear. They were definitely a pair. Each had a passenger on the back, and the models matched the motorcycle from before.
One of the construction workers was waving a handheld flashlight with a blinking red light on the end. He was holding it in such a way as to ensure that the motorcade remained stopped while the other worker was repositioning one of the road barrels.
Cain pressed the mic on the handheld radio and shouted, “Two motorcycles coming in hot! Ambush! Evacuate!” Then Cain yelled to Morita-san, “Drive!”
Cain quickly turned to Sato. “Get down, sir!” Cain unbuckled his seat belt and was preparing to jump into the back to cover Mr. Sato with his own body when Mr. Morita stomped his dress shoe onto the gas pedal. The 278-horsepower V-8 engine roared to life. The fresh tires squealed before they gripped the concrete and thrusted everyone into their seat. The powerful 4.5-liter engine chewed the concrete and spat rocks as Mr. Morita weaved