“I told you it was a stupid plan, Dieter.”
“Halt deine Fresse, Anneke.”
“No. Those people could have been killed. I could have been killed.” Anneke stopped suddenly, perhaps surprised by her own outburst, and turned to Emily. “It was fortunate you were there.”
“You have to understand, we have no police authority,” Dieter said. “We cannot make arrests or use force. All we can do is gather intelligence and turn it over to the Landespolizei, or the Stadtspolizei, I mean, the local police.”
“Except when you’re inciting violence at protest marches?”
“The locals don’t always give our intelligence enough weight, and the danger is more real than they know.”
“You followed us tonight… Why?” Emily glowered at Dieter. “To check us out? But why trust us with your intel now?”
“Because you… saved my ass,” Anneke said.
“We needed to know exactly who you were,” Dieter added.
“And do you…” Emily paused to size him up in that way Perry always found unnerving when she did it to him. “… know who we are?”
“Yes. You are plain spoken, American soldiers… not intelligence agents operating without formal permission on German soil.” Dieter returned the favor, turning from Emily to Perry, sifting their expressions for any hint of a hidden agenda.
“Like I said…”
“Ja, ja, vacationing with family. Enjoy your stay, and keep it brief.”
“Reckless idiots.” Perry grouched the whole ride back to Ramstein, his mind veering between resentment of Dieter’s initial sexual insinuations, and of their ploy at the morning protest rally. “His slimy grin… I really should have…”
“…had me kick his ass?”
Emily’s smirk had the effect of a reproach, and he simmered over it as they passed through the main gate. Had he become too passive, letting her handle all the dangerous stuff? He’d been outmaneuvered by Dieter’s surreptitious interrogation. He ought to have recognized it sooner, and jammed his fist in Dieter’s face. Why hadn’t he?
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. That was unfair.”
“No… it wasn’t.”
Eventually she cajoled him out of his dark mood, and the ordinary tasks of any family helped, like making sure the kids were asleep, packing for the next morning, etc. He watched as she tended to Li Li’s clothes, legs bent underneath so she could sit on the back of her feet. Her fingers smoothed out the wrinkles in blouses and shorts, her backed arched in a perfect curve to shake out a sweater, and when she leaned forward to slip rolled up socks in a side pouch, he felt again the little bit of magic she’d always been able to work on his heart. She could be difficult… and demanding, but he had no stomach for imagining the void her absence would create.
Later that night, having been awakened by the light of the moon, Perry lay next to her and listened as she murmured a lullaby in her sleep. He’d heard her sing it for the children over the years, and Stone still liked to hear it – huge as he was, moments like that revealed the little child he was inside.
On’nanoko papa wa doko e itta?
Kawa o koete no sato e itta.
He’d asked her about it once, and she said her mother used to sing it, and it came from an ancient folk melody. Back in Bagram, he’d been spending his free time trying to teach himself Japanese, without telling her. Perhaps he’d hoped to surprise her, or maybe he was embarrassed, though he hardly knew why. Warrant Officer Yamashiro helped him out now and again with pronunciation, but his knowledge of the language was not impressive either, since he’d grown up in Torrance, and his parents mainly spoke English at home.
Still, Perry thought he had pieced together at least these two verses – a question and an answer: “Where has your father gone, my daughter? Across the river to his village.” He might ask her if he’d got it right in the morning, if he felt brave enough to reveal what he’d been up to. Of course, his qualms were ridiculous, he realized. How could she be anything but pleased to hear he’d made this effort to understand her ways just a little better?
Chapter 3
Sake Town In Sasebo
“Are you sure about this address, Sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Hector Colón turned the paper over, as if the directions might make more sense that way. “It’s in Sake Town.”
“Is there a problem, Gunny?”
General Lukasziewicz, the Marine Commandant, had plucked his sergeant out of a hospital ward a few months back, pinned a Purple Heart on him, and processed his promotion to Gunnery Sergeant. The injuries Colón had received in the action on Itbayat provided a convenient excuse to interrupt his progress through the infantry ranks, at least for a little while, and seemed like a good way to keep him from being debriefed about certain events by CIA operatives. Colón hadn’t been assigned to any unit that included Capt Tenno, but he’d flown in her bird a few times, and took part in the final firefight precipitated by her rescue of Princess Akane of Japan. When Admiral James Crichton, Commander of the Pacific Fleet, put a bug in his ear about deflecting any intrusive inquiries into the jarheads who’d been there, Lukasziewicz obliged without asking too many questions of his own. So, for now, Hector Colón drove him wherever he needed to go in and around Sasebo, Japan.
“No sir… it’s just, most of the places on that end of the ginza don’t… how shall I say?... I don’t know…”
“Spit it out, Marine.”
“We may not be welcome there, sir.”
Lukasziewicz grumbled at this information, and watched as the Albuquerque Bridge, which connected Nimitz Square, at the west end of the base, to the ginza, slipped past the side window. “What exactly is an izakaya?”
“It’s like a bar, except usually with better food.”
“Do you like raw fish?”
“Not really, sir. But most izakayas seem to be more about fried foods… and noodles. Is that where we’re headed?” The gunny’s voice sounded hungry.
“I can’t bring you in this time, Gunny. Private meeting. Can you find some grub nearby?” Lukasziewicz reached a handful of yen across the seat back. “Here. Take this.”
“Thank you, sir. I can get something at Tonchinkan, or maybe Raras.” Colón glanced at the bills in his hand, as he pulled up to the curb outside the address on the note. “This is way too much, sir. Like ten times too much.”
“Fine. Bring me the change, then… or don’t. Meet me out front in an hour.”
“Shall I wait, sir, just in case they don’t let you in?”
Lukasziewicz shook his head and watched Colón ease the car through a rather narrow alley, and head back to Sailor Town at the other end of the ginza, and finally turned to consider the rather unprepossessing entrance of the establishment Crichton had selected. A simple wooden sign with a few Japanese characters etched in it hung over an open doorway, with a half-curtain obscuring whatever went on inside. He pushed past the curtain, and stood inside on an industrial rubber mat, perforated with penny-sized holes, over a large drain hole – a rather direct solution, he thought, to the problem of inclement weather and the lack of a covered entrance – and surveyed the interior.
The tables toward the front sported dim candles, and seemed to be positioned around a tiny stage, but no performers, or their gear, were in evidence. Every seat was occupied, and some young people even stood around a few tables, as a waiter squeezed in between bodies, finding passage where he could. Further back, booths lined two walls, and these were also full of people. In a corner beyond the end of the bar, a folding screen featuring an elaborate pen and ink drawing obscured an area that might be large enough for one or two more booths. If Crichton was here at all, that’s probably where he’d be, since Lukasziewicz couldn’t see another western face anywhere.
“No GIs, please,” the man behind the bar called out, when he took a few steps inside. “Sailor Town is that way.” A few faces turned to look, and a man seated in a corner – perhaps a bouncer – stepped forward, and then paused to consider the signi
ficance of all the gold braid on this American’s uniform.
Just then, another man, smaller and stooped from age, scurried out from behind the bar – “Irasshaimase,” he cried out, and gestured to him to follow. “Kono yo ni kuru… this way, come… here is Crichton-san.” Everyone else went back to whatever had occupied his attention a moment earlier, though Lukasziewicz could hardly imagine a less discreet way to make an entrance.
He paused before stepping behind the folding screen, caught by the drawing. He realized it was a battle narrative, not an easy thing for a Marine to pass by without giving it at least a second glance. In the upper left corner, men in armor clashed with swords and spears, one side crashing through a defensive line. Nearby, on the right, servants rushed a palanquin across a dock toward a waiting barge. Snipers with long muskets took aim at their opponents on both sides of the main battle, while horsemen charged across an open field, brandishing swords or holding bows ready to shoot. A final scene in the lower right corner – perhaps the image was meant to be ‘read’ from upper left to lower right – showed the same barge taking on water as men in smaller boats mounted an attack, and the important personage had fallen from the overturned palanquin, an arrow in his side. In an outstretched, defiant arm, he held a golden sword out over the rushing waters of a mighty river.
The minimalism of the drawing impressed him – only a few strokes served to suggest the strength and energy of each figure, no ink wasted showing the eye details the imagination could supply. The scene, taken as a whole, had the form of a cresting wave, moving from one side to the other, and crashing down in the image of the dying dignitary and the ceremonial sword.
Crichton’s voice pulled him back to the moment and Lukasziewicz slid into the booth. “Sorry, Jim. I couldn’t help looking at the other side.”
“It’s just a cheap reproduction, Paul. You can probably buy one at the PX.”
“Hmph? Maybe, but you know what’s interesting… not that it’s expensive, or original, but that an image like that is considered ordinary. It tells the whole story of a battle, with lots of gory violence, and fierce passions, and you find it in a bar.”
“You’re saying the Japanese are warlike?”
“… or at least that they’re proud of that history. Look at the Shogun, or the General, or whoever that figure is, he’s dying at the end. But he doesn’t clutch at his wounds. He holds up his sword.”
“Well, now I know what to get you for Christmas.” Crichton laughed, and then glanced at the booths visible from behind the screen to make sure they were empty. “But that’s not why I asked you to meet me here.”
“Has there been a new development on your end?”
“Not exactly a development.” Crichton gestured to the old man who’d led Lukasziewicz to the back, and waited as he drew the folding screen further out, effectively blocking the now empty booths next to them from view as well. No new customers would be sitting there – though it was getting late, and the crowd in the front had already begun to thin out. He reappeared a moment later with two glasses of beer and several small plates of food. “I took the liberty of ordering for you.”
“How do you even know about this place?” Lukasziewicz temporized, since it was clear his host was waiting for the right moment to break the news, whatever it was. “My driver was worried they wouldn’t even let me in.”
“Ordinarily, they wouldn’t let either of us in. But Tenno introduced me to the owner. That’s how it is over here… no admission without an introduction.”
“Naturally… it would be Tenno. I suppose she fits right in wherever she goes around here.”
“She told me even she needed an intro at first. But after the Imperial Palace publicly acknowledged her part in the rescue… well, I don’t think there’s a bar in Japan where she’d be allowed to pay for a drink.”
Crichton gestured to the tempura plate in the middle of the table. “These are my favorite.” He held up a large, crescent shaped vegetable, covered in a crispy shell, and dipped it in a smaller sauce bowl. “I think it’s some sort of pumpkin. Dig in. I ordered the shrimp for you.”
“Last week, SECNAV sent my office a list of O-3s he wants transferred to a temporary billet at Quantico, and she’s on it.” There, he’d broken the ice. Now Crichton would be free to reveal even bad news. He tried the shrimp. It was good.
“Does the Secretary normally take an interest in personnel decisions on this level?”
“No, and I think the rest of the list is probably a cover. Plus, I have no idea what a dozen O-3s will find to do there. It’s not like there’s that much paperwork for them to shift from one desk to another.”
“I was contacted directly by CIA… some functionary from the Beijing station flew over… Nyquist, I think.” Crichton rubbed his chin and growled out the next few words. “I imagine this is coming from higher up in operations, or maybe one of the tech companies they control… it’s hard to keep track of the pies they have fingers in… anyway, someone wants her in Virginia.”
“What for? At my level, they have to disguise what they’re doing, but lower down, at fleet level, they aren’t afraid to move openly.”
“What about Cardano? He should be able to protect her from something like this. He has in the past.”
“He may not even be aware.” Lukasziewicz paused to give the question a second thought. “The Director of Intelligence doesn’t report to the Director of Clandestine Services, and the tech guys seem to be all on the side of the DI. What’s more, with the summit meeting in Rome, he probably has his hands full.”
“What options does that leave her?”
“The usual, re-up, or resign her commission. But these are the typical things that face any career officer. If you stay, you accept the possibility of an unpleasant billet…
“… and if you go, you may be ‘stop-lossed’ back in.”
“You know as well as I do that stop-loss has never been applied to the Corps or the Fleet, except in wartime. There’s something you’re not telling me about this. What is it?” Lukasziewicz examined Crichton’s face, and he in turn paid more attention to the beer he was nursing. “Look, Tenno can finish out her twenty, or not, without any interference from us. I already as much as offered her a job if she musters out next spring, like you asked… and it’s not like I can’t see a use for her colorful skill set in our firm. She could prove to be an invaluable asset. But from what I can see, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. What am I missing?”
Crichton stared across the table for a moment. “So, let me get this straight. You’re okay with hanging a Marine out to dry in front of Agency types? I mean, these assholes are capable of anything.”
“No, of course not. But isn’t this really Cardano’s turf? We don’t even know what they want with her… and SECNAV seems to have signed off on whatever it is.”
Crichton snorted. “SECNAV… like he cares about her, or any other sailor… or marine, in his charge. That guy pushed paper on an Arleigh Burke to get his twenty, and then left for the private sector. Now he’s back because of some political favor.”
“Take it easy, Jim. I didn’t realize your feelings ran so deep. What makes you so sure he’s brokering some dirty deal on her back?”
“I don’t know as much about her situation as I’d like, but I’m worried it’s… you know, part of the general pattern. She’s always been a magnet for bizarre and dangerous types.”
“Are you referring to the incident with General Diao’s son?”
“Sure, that, but there’s more. I mean, she’s just one marine. But somehow she’s got the attention of the Japanese Imperial Household, and becomes a target of the coup plotters. Why her, out of all the damn jarheads in the Corps?”
“You have a longer connection with her…”
“Yeah. I knew her father, and he was another one of those types… you know, when you’re around them it’s like you’re at the center of some vortex of violent forces, and the only safe course is to follo
w in his wake. He pulled the two of us out of more than one hairy scene in Manila.”
“That’s funny, because I wouldn’t normally take you for a brawler, Jim.”
“Me, neither, but it’s not like we were picking fights… and her jacket was full of stuff like that at the Academy.”
Lukasziewicz laughed for a moment at the reminder of his own time as a midshipman. “So she was a hellion in Annapolis?”
“That’s just it. She wasn’t like that at all. Nose in a book, top marks in engineering, and every tech subject we threw at her… and she even aced those damn poetry classes. Just try to picture her third year. She helps the Fightin’ 28th win Iron Company for the second year in a row by dominating in the pugil sticks; meanwhile NCIS is investigating her for a string of assaults and a couple of suspicious deaths in town. Then she agrees to go to the annual martial arts tournament at Quantico…”
“I heard about this one. Didn’t some fool put her in the men’s bracket… nearly got her killed?”
“Well, that part’s on me. But in my defense, there’d be no point having her compete in the women’s bracket, plus the morale issues… Anyway, she held her own against the men, took out a few marines, including the Pendleton boxing champ, and even a few SEALs who’d been sent over. In the semi-finals, she’s up against a Chinese entrant, a former hand-to-hand combat trainer in the People’s Liberation Army, and he’s good, maybe better than her. But it’s a close match, until he pulls a blade he’s snuck into the ring…”
“A blade? What the hell? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I know. This is what I mean. It’s like nothing’s ever ordinary around her, just like with her father.”
“I take it they stopped the fight.”
“There wasn’t time. One moment he has her in a chokehold from behind, the next she manages to escape, and before anyone knows what’s happened, he’s about to jam a K-Bar through her eye.”
Girl Stalks the Ruins Page 3