Free Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears by Tom Clancy

similarities to those of Native Americans. Talking to the spirit of the tree? Hmph. Next he came to the logger.
    “You have great skill,” the little Japanese said with an exquisitely polite bow.
    “Thank you, sir.” The logger nodded his head. It was the first Japanese he'd ever met. Seemed like a nice enough guy. And saying a prayer to the tree . . . that had class, the logger thought on reflection.
    “A great pity to kill something so magnificent.”
    “Yeah, I guess it is. Is it true that you will put this in a church, like?”
    “Oh, yes. We no longer have trees like this, and we need four huge beams. Twenty meters each. This one tree will do all of them, I hope,” the man said, looking back at the fallen giant. “They must all come from a single tree. It is the tradition of the temple, you see.”
    “Ought to,” the logger judged. “How old's the temple?”
    “One thousand two hundred years. The old beams—they were damaged in the earthquake two years ago, and must be replaced very soon. With luck, these should last as long. I hope they will. It is a fine tree.”
    Under the supervision of the Japanese official, the fallen tree was cut into manageable segments—they weren't all that manageable. Quite a bit of special equipment had to be assembled to get this monster out, and Georgia-Pacific was charging a huge amount of money for the job. But that was not a problem. The Japanese, having selected the tree, paid without blinking. The representative even apologized for the fact that he didn't want the GP mill to work the tree. It was a religious thing, he explained slowly and clearly, and no insult to the American workers was intended. The senior GP executive nodded. That was okay with him. It was their tree now. They'd let it season for a little while before loading it on an American-flag timber carrier for the trip across the Pacific, where the log would be worked with skill and due religious ceremony—by hand, the GP man was amazed to hear—for its new and special purpose. That it would never reach
    
    
     Japan
    
    
     was something that, none of them knew.
     
    The term trouble-shooter was particularly awkward for a law-enforcement official,
    
    
     Murray
    
    
     thought. Of course, as he leaned back in the leather chair, he could feel the 10mm Smith & Wesson automatic clipped to his waistband. He ought to have left it in his desk drawer, but he liked the feel of the beast. A revolver man for most of his career, he'd quickly come to love the compact power of the Smith. And Bill understood. For the first time in recent memory, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a career cop who'd started his career on the street, busting bad guys. In fact, Murray and Shaw had started off in the same field division. Bill was slightly more skilled at the administrative side, but no one mistook him for a headquarters weenie. Shaw had first gotten high-level attention by staring down two armed bank robbers before the cavalry'd had time to arrive. He'd never fired his weapon in anger, of course—only a tiny percentage of FBI agents ever did—but he'd convinced those two hoods that he could drop both of them. There was steel under the gentlemanly velvet, and one hell of a brain. Which was why Dan Murray, a deputy assistant director, didn't mind working as Shaw's personal problem-solver.
    “What the hell do we do with this guy?” Shaw asked, with quiet disgust.
    Murray
    
    
     had just finished his report on the Warrior Case. Dan sipped at his coffee and shrugged.
    “Bill, the man is a genius with corruption cases—best we've ever had. He just doesn't know dick about the muscle end of the business. He got out of his depth with this one. Luckily enough, no permanent damage was done.” And
    
    
     Murray
    
    
     was right. The newsies had treated the Bureau surprisingly well for saving the life of their reporter. What was truly amazing was the fact that the newsies had never quite understood that the