“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you chased that gyu-don with a beer. Or three.”
“No, but I had some shrimp after you left.”
Shrimp? No. She had certainly not had shrimp. Eri was in fact deathly allergic to shellfish. To this day, she still carried an EpiPen in her purse.
It was a signal. She was in danger.
Carver pictured the Glock 18 he had left on the counter. His gut told him that she had never had a chance to use it. If she had fought them, she would be dead by now. And that meant just one thing. Sho had let them in.
Her next question sounded decidedly forced: “Where are you, Blake?”
A better question was, where was Eri? Was she being held at the Green Ghost, or had they taken her elsewhere? Either way, they had no doubt stationed a crew at the Green Ghost to welcome him back.
Carver had to think fast. “Did you see the news?”
“No. I’ve just been sitting here, playing Age of the Undead Ninjas.”
Carver considered his choices. He was alone. And he was close to proving that the United States and China were being goaded into war. And only other person in the world that believed this story was Eri Sato.
He wanted to rescue her, but the odds of success were nil. His only chance was to lure them out.
“The Chinese sunk an American destroyer,” Carver said. “I’m watching the news at a sports bar called…” He turned and looked up at the sign “…Free Ball.” He decided to pronounce it in Katakana for any Kuromaku who might be listening: “Fu-ree Ba-ru.”
There was a pause. Carver imagined they were feeding Eri lines. When she spoke again, she said, “You should just come watch here. With me.”
“Thanks,” he managed, “But they’ve got a huge screen TV at the bar, so I’m going to order something, maybe order a few beers, and watch the coverage for a while. Don’t wait up.”
The line was silent for a moment. Then she said what Carver hoped weren’t her last words: “Take your time.”
It was on. The Kuromaku were coming for him. Again. Only this time, he would be ready.
Prime Minister’s Official Residence
Tokyo
The emperor, clad in a blue yukata with a thick squash-colored sash, paused at the entrance to the prime minister’s private steam room. He looked in wonder at the newly finished stainless steel and glass construction. It seemed that no expense had been spared. The floor beneath the old monarch’s feet was made of fine Italian marble, and the locker room smelled of oak imported from France’s Loire Valley.
The steam room made up just a tiny portion of the PM’s private spa. It also featured a Western-style Jacuzzi, a barrel sauna, an ice bath and of course, a traditional Japanese onsen. The old monarch sucked his front teeth until they hissed. Rather extravagant for a public official, he thought. Why not simply make it out of gold? At least then it could be melted down into something useful when Ito was forced to resign from office like all the others.
Nevertheless, the emperor loosened the sash around his yukata, slid the garment from his narrow shoulders, and handed it to the PM’s valet. The servant handed him a fluffy white towel, careful not to make eye contact. He gestured to the steam room. “The Prime Minister is waiting for you inside.”
The emperor stepped inside the humid chamber. “I can’t see,” he complained as thick clouds of fog unlike any he had ever seen enveloped his body. And as the transparent door closed behind him, the intensity of the heat hit him all at once. He gasped. The sudden intake of hot air made him sputter and cough.
The Prime Minister’s voice called out, God-like, from somewhere above. “Good evening, your Majesty. I apologize for the extreme heat. You may wish to sit on one of the lower rows, where it is cooler.”
Had he heard that correctly? Had Ito actually suggested that he sit above the head of the imperial family? The suggestion was an outrage! In fact, the invitation to meet here, in the PM’s private steam room, was itself an outrage! He had agreed to come only because of social obligation. For the first time in decades, the PM had done the unthinkable – return power, however modestly, to the throne.
So yes, he was obligated to show Ito his appreciation. But he would not be humiliated. Still unable to see through the soupy fog before him, he stretched out with his right foot, using his toes to feel his way along the floor until he located the first of a series of tiered rows. Despite his advanced age, martial arts kept him reasonably limber, and he climbed to the top row, where he sat.
As he opened his mouth to speak, the intense heat seemed to burn his very insides. “I still cannot see you, Prime Minister.”
Ito’s voice boomed from somewhere on the far side of the chamber. “I apologize for any inconvenience,” Ito said. At least now it sounded as if they were sitting at an equal height. “I’m afraid the engineers I hired to build this steam room were too ambitious. They promised that they could reproduce the thickness of an actual thundercloud. I told them that was fine, but that I wanted the clouds to be heated.”
A cloud? It was more like air pollution. “How hot is it in here?”
“Fifty-four degrees Celsius, or 130 degrees Fahrenheit. A bit more heat than is customary, but a temperature that I find ideal for meetings. I find that the intense heat unleashes creative solutions to difficult problems.”
The old monarch could only grunt. How long was he expected to sit in this torture chamber? He wondered how big it really was. He had imagined a steam room with seating for 10 or 12 people. Perhaps it was even larger than he had imagined.
Ito continued on, oblivious to his suffering. “This is actually the second spa I have had custom built. Years ago, I purchased an old resort that had fallen into disrepair in the mountains north of Kyoto. Very secluded. Some areas are a bit decrepit, but I purchased it for the natural saunas, which are carved into the rocks in the mountain. Very good for transmitting heat.”
“Fascinating, Prime Minister, but I am not used to these conditions. I apologize in advance if our meeting is shorter than you are accustomed to.”
“Then let me get right to the point. I wished to express my gratitude in person. Your speech did what my ambassador failed to do — provoke the Americans to deploy their fleet and protect Japanese territory.”
“And to what end? It seems that my words have in fact brought the Americans and the Chinese closer to war than ever.”
“Just so. At last the extent of Chinese aggression has finally been exposed. And just in time for the G8, where we will reestablish Japan in the eyes of the world.”
The old monarch fanned the fog with his hands, but could scarcely see his own fingers. “Still, the Americans and the Chinese are like flint and stone. Wherever they meet, sparks will fly. And what is near them will catch fire.”
“Did the war your father started not create great national pride?”
“National pride, yes. But nationalism is like a kite. Its ascent into the air is thrilling, but a sudden shift of wind may send it spinning out of control.”
The prime minister laughed. “We cannot be guided by fear, your Majesty. The latest poll shows that public opinion has suddenly shifted on the issue of a strong Japanese military. We have almost enough votes to pass the constitutional amendment.”
It seemed that the heat had fried what few brain cells the prime minister had been born with. The arrogance was galling. And to think, just days ago, the emperor had spoken from his heart about the destruction of the palace during the war.
“Prime Minister,” the emperor said, “when two giants battle, it is the grass underneath that is trampled. With that in mind, perhaps postponing the G8 is prudent. Peace talks could be held somewhere neutral, such as Geneva. And they must be scheduled weeks from now, to give both sides a chance to de-escalate.”
“On the contrary. We must fan the flames of war, not douse them. True, a few Chinese pilots may find their grave in the Sea of Japan. True, a few communications satellites may explode in space. There may even be an
attack on the American naval base in Okinawa. But according to my analysts, the majority of the damage may not be seen in the skies or the oceans. The real damage will be done to the American and Chinese economies. Wall Street and the People’s Bank of China will be crippled. For the first time in nearly a hundred years, Americans may know hunger, and the Chinese may know humility.”
The emperor’s cough returned. The heat was truly unbearable, but perhaps not as unbearable as Ito’s insanity. And he still could not even see the PM. “Prime Minister, the steam is making me ill. I must retreat to the ice bath.”
“Your Majesty, if you could indulge me for just a minute longer. Our conversation is highly sensitive, and this is the most private area of the residence.”
The emperor sighed and slowed his breathing. He imagined ice cubes. Entire glaciers of ice. He held the white towel to his face and took several deep breaths, using it as a filter against the intense heat. “Very well,” he managed.
“For the reasons I have discussed, I feel strongly that both Presidents Hudson and Kang must attend the G8. Tonight the Americans said that in the interest of peace, Hudson has committed to attend. Now you must persuade Kang to come as well.”
Had Ito just issued an order? The emperor understood that with power, came duty. But the throne was not simply a whore to be used whenever and wherever the PM pleased. “I am flattered by your faith in my powers of persuasion, but I must counsel you to be patient.”
Ito was silent for several seconds before speaking. “This is disappointing. I had certainly expected your cooperation.”
“Prime Minister, I do not mean to be uncooperative. It’s just that – ”
“Then we must also discuss something else, your Majesty. The heir to the imperial throne.”
“What does my son have to do with this?”
“It is not the crown prince that I am speaking of. Do you remember when I visited the palace and presented you with a gift?”
“Of course. The sword. The one that your grandmother recovered.”
“Just so. The night I told you the story of the sword, you hosted a dinner party. Do you recall?”
The emperor removed his towel, folded it, and draped it over his head. Then he pressed the fabric against his face as a cool filter to breathe through. “Yes, Prime Minister. I am not senile.”
“A journalist from the Japan Times was at your dinner party. Upon hearing the story from your lips, he contacted my office afterwards. He wanted to know if it was true that my grandmother had indeed worked in service at the palace during the Great War. I confirmed the story, of course. I had my assistant send over photos of my grandmother with your father. I also sent a photo of my grandmother with you, your highness.”
The monarch felt dizzy. His mouth was dry. How was it possible to be so thirsty while completely enveloped by humidity?
“How is that possible, Prime Minister? Members of the royal family did not pose for photos with the staff.”
“I may have failed to mention one detail about my grandmother’s service to the family. She was, in her later years, your sweet nanny.”
The old monarch grew silent. When he spoke again, it was nearly a whisper. “No. It cannot be.”
“It was a natural job for my grandmother, considering the circumstances. As the imperial ruler of Japan, your father had 39 court concubines, and in her younger years my grandmother was his favorite.”
“Your grandmother? A concubine?”
“They had known each other as children. She was your father’s second cousin, an offshoot of the feudal aristocracy that had served the palace for centuries in the Kuromaku. And so she watched as your mother tried in vain for nearly 10 years to bear an heir to the throne. Barren womb, I’m afraid. I understand it was extremely embarrassing. You know how people talk.”
“I ask with respect that you stop this blasphemy!”
“Eventually, my grandmother was chosen to become a surrogate. She was kept hidden during the pregnancy. And at last, your father was blessed with an heir.”
“Nonsense!” The emperor half stood, crouching as he made his way down the rows of tiled seating to the floor. He tried to find his way to the door, but found a wall instead. He slumped to the floor. It was not, as Ito had indicated, any cooler.
Ito’s disembodied voice continued to surround him. “The secret of your mother’s infertility was never known. And on her behalf, my grandmother bore six more children in the coming years. So you see, your highness, you’re not the only one here with royal blood in his veins.”
Blood. Royal blood. The emperor felt his own pumping through his neck, past his ears. Impossibly loud. “Lies!”
“After the American General released my grandmother from his employ, she returned to the palace not once, but three times. And three times she was turned away in disgrace.”
The emperor reached out, feeling along the wall, pulling himself along the floor. At last, his fingertips touched the glass door through which he had entered. And with some difficulty, he got to his feet. The sound of his own blood – true royal blood – rushing through his veins was painfully loud.
From somewhere high above, the prime minister continued his lecture. “Your father, on the other hand, took pity on her. He continued to deposit money into my grandmother’s bank account each month until her death. The newspapers will print the records of deposit as evidence.”
“No. This story cannot be public!”
The emperor lunged at the glass door. It did not move. He found the handle and pulled it. It did not so much as rattle. The seal was unnaturally tight. Unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees, using the palm of his hand to wipe the steam away from the glass.
Looking up, he saw Ito’s face. How was this possible? The PM was looking down at him from the other side of the glass. He spoke through a wireless headset, and his suit appeared to be dry as a desert.
“There will be doubters, of course, your Majesty. But DNA tests will confirm the story of my lineage. And that means the question of royal ascension is no longer clear-cut. Given that my party controls the National Diet, I feel there is an excellent chance that I will be chosen to rule Japan as not only Prime Minister, but also, as your rightful heir.”
The old monarch could no longer speak. He could no longer move. He could only watch helplessly as Ito’s face disappeared into the white void as the glass steamed over.
Kyoto
The air was thick with the smell of rain. On a night like this, the televisions inside Free Ball typically showed nonstop coverage of soccer, tennis and baseball. But tonight the crowds huddled around the screens as a news analyst dissected key moments of President Kang’s warning to the United States.
Carver watched Free Ball from the second floor of a bicycle parking lot across the street. It had been about 20 minutes since he had spoken to Eri. Her last words to him echoed in his mind. Take your time. Words that the Kuromaku had certainly fed her. What, he wondered, would she have said if they hadn’t had a knife at her throat? Would she have told him to run? Would she have said she loved him?
At last, a red muscle car – unnaturally loud, its muffler having either been removed or modified – pulled up in front of Free Ball. Two tough-looking brutes got out of the back seat. One had the build of a retired sumo wrestler, with the telltale tree-trunk thighs, a huge belly and a non-existent neck. The other guy was older, a real rhino of a man, and all bulky muscle. What remained of his thinning hair was spiked with gel.
Something told Carver these guys weren’t there just to watch sports and drink beer. As the car sped off, the Rhino reached under his shirt and adjusted a knife holster that he had tucked into the small of his back. At least it’s just a knife, Carver thought. If this was Islamabad – or even Detroit – he would have been packing an AK-47.
Carver watched as the brutes went into the bar and started making their way through the crowd. The hordes of shell-shocked sports enthusiasts had little choice but to make way for them. Me
anwhile, the red car continued down the street, looking for an open parking spot. He eventually found one in front of an all-night laundromat three blocks away.
Carver realized this was his best opportunity to find out where they had taken Eri. Even if he could isolate one of the Kuromaku thugs and inflict enough pain to get him to talk, that sort of human intelligence was unreliable. But the car’s onboard navigation system was another matter. It would contain route history, which might reveal her location.
He walked the length of the bike garage and exited via the stairs at the dark end of the block. He could see the driver now. Young guy, no older than 25. On the phone, grinning, probably elated at getting to drive such an expensive car. And by the look on his face, he was talking to a girl. Better to take him now, while he was distracted.
Carver took the stairs down to the street, crossed a shadowy section of pavement, and ducked behind a vending machine that sold several varieties of tea and coffee. He would need a weapon. And at a cost of less than 200 yen, this would be one of the cheapest he had ever acquired.
The inspiration had come years earlier. On a snowy Tuesday morning, Carver had read an FBI report of the top 40 most common improvised weapons made by inmates incarcerated in the state of Texas. Item number 32 on the list: a shank made from an aluminum can.
He put two coins into the machine and watched as the robot arm gripped the can of cold coffee and placed it gently into the receptacle. Carver opened the can and poured its vile contents into a storm drain. Then, recalling the photograph of the weapon as clearly as if he was reading the article all over again, he twisted the can in his hands until the aluminum tore. He then used his fingers to fashion the jagged bits into a crude four-inch knife. Finally, he shaped the smooth part of the bottom into a handle. Now complete, he tested the shank against the palm of his hand. It was no Bowie knife, but it was good enough for government work.
Now armed, he slithered behind the car, waiting for the right moment. That came seconds later, as the driver broke into hearty laughter. Carver rushed the driver’s side door, reached through the window and plunged the sharp edge of aluminum into his larynx. Carver ground and twisted the makeshift blade until blood spurted past him out onto the asphalt. Unable to speak, much less scream, the driver grabbed at his throat with both hands. Carver opened the door and shoved him into the passenger floorboard, where he bled out as the voice of a bubbly young woman continued to erupt from the phone. The poor girl, Carver thought. She probably had no idea her boyfriend was such a lowlife.
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