[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black

by Andrew Warren

  Allan nodded. “All true, I suppose, but Caine is not the man you think he is. Do you have any idea how much blood is on his hands? How many lives Caine has ended? How many operations—black, unsanctioned, wet, whatever term you want to use—he has participated in?”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve debriefed plenty of operatives. He’s no different than—”

  “You’re deluded, Rebecca. Caine is nothing like other operatives. Everything about him, even his official work with the CIA, was part of his cover. He was a member of a very special group, a team of specialists with superlative skills. All handpicked by me. Trained by the best, to be the best. One-hundred-percent loyal. One-hundred-percent dependable. And as always, one-hundred-percent expendable. When I saw an opportunity to remove him from play, and create a benefit for myself and the program, I took it. That was my directive.”

  Rebecca struggled in her bonds. “You goddamn son of a bitch!”

  “Fine, I’m a son of a bitch. A cold-hearted bastard. In my job, I have to be. But let me ask you this: you were in a relationship with Caine, weren’t you? Don’t bother denying it. I know it’s true.”

  Rebecca stared at him, eyes molten with fury.

  “The morning he left you, the last time you saw him before I sent him to Japan … you must realize, he knew that he was leaving the country. He knew he would be under deep cover, that he would be away from you for years. Did he say anything to you about it? Did he even say goodbye?”

  Rebecca said nothing. There was nothing to say. On this, if nothing else, she knew Bernatto was right.

  “Make no mistake,” he said. “Caine is as cold as they come. You may think you know him. Maybe you loved him, maybe you even got under his skin a little. But Caine will always be part of my world. Not yours. So let’s stop wasting time, and drop the pretenses.”

  Rebecca glared up at him. “Fine, let’s drop the pretenses. What the hell is this mission about anyway?”

  “It was supposed to be about preparation. About getting a step ahead. For once, not getting caught with our pants down.”

  “Seems to me like it’s about covering your ass.”

  “Let’s just say, in this case, my interests and the interests of the country are aligned. Have you ever heard the expression ‘Thucydides’s Trap’?”

  “Allan, please, this is insane. It’s not too late to stop this.”

  “You don’t know your history, Rebecca. It is too late. Thucydides was an ancient Greek historian. Wrote the history of the Peloponnesian War. The conflict between Athens and Sparta. You know, the Iliad, Trojan horse? Christ, weren’t you a poli-sci major?”

  “What on earth does that have to do with anything?”

  “The rise of one nation’s power will inevitably cause fear, and eventually war with the already established power. That’s the Thucydides’s Trap. He was talking about Athens and Sparta, but it’s proven true again and again throughout history.

  “Today, China is Athens, and the United States is Sparta. War is inevitable. And we are not remotely ready for it. Every day, China conducts cyber-attacks on United States servers. It strengthens its economies, expands its borders. And what do we do? Engage in trade talks and ogle their cuddly pandas.”

  Rebecca tried to hide the gears turning in her brain. “War with China? What does that have to do with this girl? Why is she so important?”

  Allan barked a short, wheezing laugh. “The girl? She’s meaningless. Just some black sheep daughter of a very wealthy, very compromised asset. But the information she has … she probably doesn’t even know she has it. But that’s the key. That’s what this operation is about. Whoever gets it first will have leverage over the other party.”

  “What information? Leverage over what?”

  Bernatto gave her an uneasy look. “The situation on the ground has changed. My risk of exposure has become untenable. But Kusaka and these deformed fanatics he’s working with … they refuse to listen to reason. I have to bring them to heel, get them under control, or they’ll destroy everything.”

  “Kusaka was working with you all along? And what about this terrorist attack we’re supposed to be preventing? Was that all a lie, too?”

  “I never lied to you, Ms. Freeling. I do have intel regarding an imminent terrorist attack on United States soil, one that will entail a significant loss of life. I should know. I helped plan it.”

  Rebecca stopped struggling and stared at Bernatto. “And you say you’re not a traitor?”

  He shrugged. “That depends on how simple your world view is. You work for the CIA, not UNICEF. I would expect more from you.”

  “This missing girl, the information she has … it exposes you?”

  Bernatto nodded. “Yes, but it can also help me with Kusaka. Force him to back off, until the time is right.”

  “What about me? Why am I still alive?”

  Bernatto pulled a chair away from the crumbling desk and sat down to face her. He stared at her over the rim of his glasses.

  “I would think you’d have guessed already. You’re my insurance policy.”

  “Insurance for what?”

  “To make sure Thomas Caine does his job and finds that girl before Kusaka does.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A curved panoramic window dominated an entire wall of Arinori Kusaka’s office. The twinkling lights of Tokyo’s Sumida district spread out before him like jewels against the black velvet curtain of night. But his focus rested on an enormous structure thrust into the sky: the Tokyo Skytree tower.

  At 634 meters, it was the tallest tower, and second tallest structure, in the world. The observation decks on its top floors contained a glass-enclosed viewing gallery, restaurant, and gift shop. At night, LED lights illuminated the tower, making it glow a dark purple. The color reminded Kusaka of the ripe plums he had devoured in his youth.

  Although his firm had no direct hand in building it, Kusaka still swelled with pride when he saw it. It was a marvel of Japanese engineering. Strength, elegance, beauty … to him, the tower symbolized all that he loved about his country.

  Kusaka shifted in his chair. The curved glass warped his reflection like a funhouse mirror. A solid and sturdy man in a pin-striped suit stared back at him, his hair so grey it was almost white. Although he was close to seventy years old, his skin was devoid of wrinkles or age spots, and he kept his full head of hair cut military short. His face was round and full, giving him a playful, mischievous expression when he smiled, which he did often. He knew it caused his enemies to underestimate him, both in business and in other endeavors. He used that to his advantage, of course.

  When the intercom on his desk beeped, he swiveled away from the window. It was late, and he had sent his secretary home for the evening. He pressed a button on the intercom.

  “Come up.”

  He poured a glass of 1960 Karuizawa single malt from a bottle on his desk. The precious liquor cost over half a million Yen per bottle, and had been difficult to find. To acquire it, he had sent his assistant to a small bar in the town of Karuizawa itself, near the base of the Asama volcano. The bar owner hadn’t wanted to part with his only bottle, but Kusaka made him an offer for five times what the whisky was worth. His assistant said the bar owner wept as he completed the transaction. Kusaka drank it neat, straight from a crystal tumbler. He savored the sweet, oaky taste, its creamy notes of vanilla rice milk and salted butter caramel.

  A monitor on his desk showed a massive man entering the private elevator on the ground floor. Kusaka glanced at the man’s hideous, scarred face. Bobu’s blind white eye stared back into the camera. Kusaka took another sip of scotch. Bobu was insane, but he was still useful. Things were moving quickly now. This was the critical moment, the moment that would define success or failure—both for himself, and Japan.

  The elevator door in his office chimed and slid open. The huge man entered the room.

  “Bobu Shimizu,” Kusaka said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There was a hin
t of impatience in his voice.

  Bobu stood in front of Kusaka’s desk and bowed. Kusaka paused for a second, just long enough to ensure Bobu paid him the proper respect. Then he nodded. “Sit, sit. Would you like a drink?” Bobu waved his hand. An uncomfortable, tense expression clouded his features.

  “No. Thank you,” he demurred. “I am here to apologize. We have failed.”

  Kusaka took another sip. “Do you at least have the girl?”

  Bobu cleared his throat. “No, not yet, but we were able to recover the cellphone from her yonigeya, a man called Naka. Before he died, our man accessed a text your daughter sent him. She is scheduled to meet him tonight at the Millennium Dome. I have sent some men there to find her.”

  Kusaka swallowed his drink, allowing the taste to slowly drip down his throat. As he smacked his lips, he slipped his hand into the open drawer of his desk, his fingers curling around a pistol.

  “Shimizu-san, I told you before. Do not refer to this whore as my daughter.” Kusaka set the gun down on his desk, with a casual gesture, as if he was holding a stapler or a pen. “Don’t make me tell you again.” Kusaka looked up at Bobu and smiled.

  Bobu bowed his head. “Apologies. But, there is more. This man, Mark Waters … the gaijin is hunting the girl as well. He is working with the Yoshizawa family.”

  Kusaka began polishing the barrel of the pistol with a cloth. “What of him?”

  “I have seen him before, years ago. Back then, the Shimizu and Yoshizawa clans were engaged in a gang war, a dispute over territory. This gaijin was there the night my brother sent me to kill Isato Yoshizawa.”

  Kusaka’s eyes twinkled. He was still smiling. “Oh? What happened?”

  “Things went wrong. Isato’s son, Kenji Yoshizawa, got in the way of my shot. This man, Mark Waters, took a bullet for him. He saved the boy’s life.”

  “Interesting. It is no coincidence he is here now. There are other forces at play here, forces you are unaware of. Do not underestimate this man. He is more dangerous than any of Yoshizawa’s soldiers.”

  Bobu bowed again, deeper this time. “Hai!”

  “Now, is the plane on time?”

  Bobu checked the watch that bulged against his massive wrist. “Yes, it should have landed twenty minutes ago.”

  Kusaka nodded. He finished his whisky, then poured himself another glass. He held up the gun, letting the polished black barrel glint in the light. The pistol was long and sleek, with a slim, tapered barrel. The oval-shaped butt was fitted with grooved mahogany grips. “Have you ever seen a gun like this, Bobu?”

  “Not in person. It’s a Nambu, yes?”

  “Mmmm,” the older man grunted. “Nambu Type 14. Officer’s pistol in World War II. It fires an 8mm, .320 bullet. Look at it … beautiful. Reliable. Accurate. Adopted for military use in 1925, which is how it got its name … 1925 was the fourteenth year of the Taisho Emperor’s reign.”

  Bobu gave a thin smile. “Before my time.”

  “Yes, but a patriot like yourself should be familiar with our glorious history. At any rate, this pistol was my father’s. He bought it himself, when he was promoted to officer.”

  “Then you must be honored to carry it.”

  Kusaka sipped his whisky and stared at the gun. He did not look at Bobu.

  “I was born after my father returned home from the war. He was young, entered the army at sixteen years old. When the war ended, he returned to Osaka, opened a shipping company, and took a wife. She was a local girl, pretty, but not beautiful. We lived in a small house outside the city.

  “Our life was comfortable. But even as a young child, I knew something was wrong with my father. There was an invisible barrier between him and myself, a wall I could not even understand, let alone break down. He always seemed to be looking in the distance at something I could not see. Something I was afraid to see, based on the look in his eyes.

  “One day, my father and I were alone in the yard. My mother had gone into town to do the shopping. Believe it or not, I even remember what she was planning to cook that night. Nikujaga stew.” Kusaka shook his head. “I can’t remember half the women I’ve slept with in this life, but I remember what my mother was planning to make for dinner that night, decades ago.”

  Bobu sat in silence. Kusaka continued.

  “At any rate, I was playing with a ball. Kicking it around, pretending I was playing football. My father was sitting in a chair under our cherry tree, sipping cold barley tea. I kicked the ball under his chair and pretended I had scored a goal. Cheering my own victory, I ran over to him. I was desperate for his attention, desperate to break through that awful, cold wall of what I took to be indifference. ‘Father, did you see my goal?’ I asked.

  “He turned and looked at me—or, rather, looked through me. I saw no love in his face. No affection or anger. No joy or hatred. His face was that of a dead man. A sleepwalker. ‘I watched men play soccer once before,’ he said. ‘During the second Shanghai incident in 1937. That’s what the politicians called the battle. An incident.’

  “He looked down at my little red ball, next to his feet. He was just sitting there, but he was shaking, ever so slightly. I was afraid then. I knew something was wrong, but he continued speaking, in this flat, empty voice.

  “‘I was captured with my squad,’ he said. ‘One by one, they led each soldier to a bamboo cage. When they locked the cage, the man inside could not move. He was trapped, stuck sitting on a wooden stool, with his head sticking out. Just from the neck up.’ My father paused, then looked up at me. ‘Then, they took a sword. A huge, curved sword. And then….’

  “My father drew his finger across his throat. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t making a joke. He was telling me, his eight-year-old son, about watching men being beheaded by Chinese soldiers. The story went on….

  “‘And do you know what they did then?’ he asked me. ‘They watched the heads topple down from the men’s necks. They watched them roll across the ground. Then the children ran up, laughing, singing. They kicked them. They kicked the heads. They used the heads for footballs. They played football. They kicked them in the dirt streets until the faces wore away….’ I remember his voice trailed off then. He said something else, but I could not hear his words.

  “And with that, he stood up and kicked my red ball across the yard. Then he walked into the house. I didn’t chase the ball. I didn’t follow him. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. I thought ,if I said a word, if I made a sound, something terrible would happen. Then, I heard a noise. Like an explosion, but softer. Something between a car backfiring and a champagne cork popping. You see, at that age, I didn’t know what a gunshot sounds like. It doesn’t sound like it does in the movies.”

  Bobu shifted in his chair. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

  “I ran into the house. As I walked through the kitchen, I heard two more explosions. I was crying, shivering with fear as I stumbled into the bedroom. And there he was. My father, laying face up on a tatami mat. A pistol in his hand. He had fired two shots into his gut, but they hadn’t killed him. So the third shot, he fired into his mouth. The blood … that’s the only image I remember after I found him. The blood was everywhere. I could smell it. It smelled like burning copper.”

  Kusaka hefted the pistol in his hand, contemplating it. “Such a strange way to kill oneself, don’t you think? Almost like a modern version of seppuku. An honorable suicide. This pistol. My father’s pistol. This is the gun he used to take his life. I’ve kept it all these years. As a reminder.”

  “Of the brutalities of war?” Bobu asked.

  “No,” Kusaka answered. “The price of inaction. I could have stopped my father. I could have run into the house. I could have embraced him. I could have done anything. Instead, I just stood there, trembling, while my father, a soldier, a patriot, suffered … and finally took his own life. The only honorable way out that he could see.”

  Kusaka picked up his drink. His face was taut, grim, but as he sipped
the warm amber liquid, his features softened.

  “Japan has lost much over the years. We both know it. We are each patriots, in our own way. Our country grows weaker every day, while China, and others, prosper. We cannot wait for help from the West. My allies there have become weak-willed, fearful. If Japan is to become strong, to once again be the dominant power in the East, then we must not give in to fear. We must act.”

  Bobu stood and bowed again. “Hai. It will be done.”

  Kusaka nodded. “A war is won a single victory at a time. Find Hitomi. Return my property. Then the plan will move forward.”

  Bobu turned to leave. Kusaka swiveled his chair. He stared out at the beautiful purple light of the Skytree. “And Bobu?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I am quite certain you will once again cross paths with the gaijin, Mr. Waters. I am also quite sure that is not his real name. Whoever he is, I believe this is destiny. You have an opportunity to take action and correct your previous failure.”

  He did not turn around, but he could sense Bobu’s bow. “When we meet again … he will die.”

  Bobu turned and left. As the elevator closed, Kusaka picked up the Nambu pistol and aimed it at the tower on the other side of the glass. He lined up the top of the tower’s observation platform, positioning it between the notched sites at the rear of the pistol. He pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked. It was empty.

  He pulled the trigger two more times. Once for each bullet his father had fired into his body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The small green taxi waited to turn into the massive Tokyo Dome complex. The sprawling entertainment center was only a short distance from Ikebukuro, but traffic clogged the expressway. Caine stared out the taxi’s window. He watched a Ferris wheel across the way spin in a lazy circle, lifting its passengers high into the night sky. The lights of a roller coaster streaked past, circling around the Ferris wheel as it rumbled along its track.

  “Is there another route we can take?” Caine asked in Japanese.