Jonathan Caldwell was in the car with Ellen Delaney.
Ellen Delaney put the stick in reverse and headed back into the garage, but Eliza ran alongside the car and into the garage before the door swooshed shut.
There they were. A Mexican stand-off. Caldwell, who had once been a middleweight boxer at Harvard, glared at her through the windshield, his ice-blue eyes afire with anger. Eliza glared back.
"You're trespassing," he said finally, his voice trembling with rage.
"Mr. Caldwell, do you know who I am?"
"I know who you are," he said flatly.
"Mr. Caldwell, nobody's heard your side of this mess. I'll make a deal. I'll give you five minutes. You can say anything you want."
"And if I refuse?"
Eliza stared at him and said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled. "You wouldn't do that. You're too smart to pass up five minutes of free air time."
He nodded toward his girl friend. "She's out of it. It's just you and me."
"You got it."
When the garage doors opened up again, a minute or two later, the boys were facing it. George had the video camera on his shoulder and James was plugged in and they were ready to shoot. They knew their Eliza very well.
2
AT THE SAME TIME that Eliza was interviewing Caldwell, it was night in Japan.
Kei guided the old Toyota up a gravel road, winding through a row of wind-bent pine trees, and when he peaked the mountain, the city of Tokyo twinkled below them, fifteen miles away, like a constellation reflected in the sea. They were in a parking lot filled with Mercedes and Rolls-Royce sedans, American limousines and, here and there, a Z series Datsun. The building was round and triple-tiered and very contemporary, constructed of teak and redwood that had been steam-curved, with balconies that spanned half its circumference and jutted out over the cliffs, facing the city. The main entrance was on the opposite side of the building, and as Kei pulled up, the largest Oriental that Gruber had ever seen emerged from the entrance, itself a massive twelve-foot-high teak door, several inches thick and trimmed in royal blue. The doorman, who helped Gruber out of the back seat, was built like a prize fighter and dressed in a classic gi of black silk.
"I park, come right back," Kei said, and drove around to the side of the building, squeezing the four-door in between two large black European limos. He was slender and agile and handsome in a stoic way, and he wore American jeans, Nike sneakers, a dark-blue raw-silk blouse, and a black headband to keep his thick black hair in place. He was maybe twenty-seven or -eight and crowding five-six.
When Kei returned, Gruber was standing in the shadows near the entrance. He was obviously angry. Gruber was a large man who kept himself in perfect physical condition, his waist tight and trim, his back as straight as a post, his graying brown hair neat and militantly close-cropped. Kei felt tension emanating from Gruber like an electric charge; his skin was as gray as lead and one could almost see, reflected in his lifeless eyes, a lifetime of killing without remorse or feeling.
"Look, I don't like the vay dis iss sizing up," Gruber said in a low, flat monotone, barely concealing his German accent. "You understand my meaning? Don't leave me alone like dat. I am on alien ground."
"Hunh?" Kei said.
Goddamn, Gruber thought, fighting his thin temper, it's always difficult dealing with Orientals. "You, me, stay togedder, now on. Okay? You understand dat?"
"Sure," Kei said. "Now, you understand this, this is private club, some Japanese, mostly Americans and Europeans who live in Japan. I have guest letter, very hard to get, pay twenty-five thousand yen, you gimme fifty bucks American, that's twelve thousand yen, so you owe me another thirteen thousand, right?"
"I told you, if dis girl knows Chameleon and I get vat I need, I'll triple what you get, eh. Three times, okay? Dat's anodder thirty-nine thousand. But only if I find Chameleon. If it is a vashout, nutting."
Kei nodded. "Agreeable. You listen good now. There is show on inside, but we have no time for that."
"What kind of show?"
"I tell you there is no time for show. You wanna see show, we come back some other time, you must go to the baths, take steam bath to prepare you for the massage. The maiko who massages you, she will be the one."
"Maiko? Vat the hell's dat?"
"She is training for geisha."
"An amateur, eh. Does she have a name?"
"Her name is Suji. She knows what you want. She will start the talk, hai? So you will know it is her. You just listen. But must hurry, before show is over. There may be crowd after show. Suji will not talk with others there."
"So, vy de steam bath? I do not even like de steam bath."
"This is very traditional club, even though pretty crazy, too. It would be an insult, to skip the steam."
Gruber muttered something in German and followed Kei into a small, low-ceilinged anteroom that was simple and elegant. The muted lighting came from a globe lantern that hung over either end of a priceless antique desk, its façade covered with hand-carved scroll work. An Oriental rug lay before the desk, and in the tokonama, the small alcove behind it, was a magnificent floral arrangement. The geisha who sat behind the desk was just as elegant, a diminutive woman, no more than twenty, a single jade ring on the small finger of her left hand, her mouth a splash of red in her chalk-white painted face, her night-black hair braided to one side and held in place by a splinter-thin pin with a delicate jade handle. She wore a kimono of pure white silk with a startling, blood-red obi that matched, perfectly, the color of her lips. And when she spoke, her voice was as delicate as wind chimes.
"Konbanwa."
Kei nodded and returned her "Good evening."
She smiled and nodded back. "Tegami o onegai itashimasu."
"Hai." Kei produced a letter and handed it to her.
"Domo arigato gozaimasu."
"Do itashimashite."
She read it slowly.
Somewhere in the vastness of the club, behind walls and doors, Gruber could hear the slow, solitary beat of a taiko drum, and there was a delicate scent of incense in the air. And while Gruber tried to keep his mind on business, he found himself uncontrollably stirred by the place, by a sensual promise he could not ignore.
This is business, he said to himself. The pleasure can wait. And yet the odor, the slow rhythmic thump of the drum, the beauty of the young geisha, kept chipping away at his concentration.
When she finished the letter, she looked at Gruber for a moment and then asked Kei, "Kochira wa Gruber-san desuka?"
"Hai."
She folded the letter and slipped it into one of the desk drawers, looked briefly at Gruber, and with the vaguest of smiles, nodded toward another door, pressing a button under her foot as she did. The door clicked very quietly. Kei opened it and ushered Gruber into Takan Shu.
The only light in the enormous space seemed to come from near the ceiling, but it was so subtle, so subdued that it took Gruber a few moments to adjust before he could study the interior of the club. It was an arena, a plush arena in a large circular room towering sixty feet to its flat ceiling. The core of the main floor was a small stage and, stretching out from it, like ripples in the water, were tiers, circular rows, like giant steps rising one above the other, to a point perhaps halfway to the dome. There were no windows. Each step accommodated several bays separated only by small tables. There were no lamps and no lights on the walls, and in each of the bays were deeply piled futon, thick down quilts normally used for sleeping. Most of the alcoves were occupied, some by a single couple, some by as many as six people. Their faces were hazy apparitions in the dim light.
The music, a Japanese love song, was being played by three geishas who sat on the stage in the center of the room. When Kei and Gruber entered, the only sound had been the slow rhythm of the taiko, and a murmur of anticipation from the crowded room. But then the drum had been joined by the samisen, the three-stringed Japanese guitar that always sounds slightly out of tune, and then, a beat or two later, by a flute.
Gruber, despite his profession, had managed through the years to acquire an element of taste and had once played the role of interior decorator as a cover. He thought, The place is a marvel of naked elegance; everything in the room is essential. And: Those goddamn Japs, you must give it to them, they have impeccable taste.
It was a few moments before Gruber was aware that everyone in the room was staring up at the ceiling, sixty feet above, at a large plexiglass disk, at least twelve feet across, that was being lowered slowly. It was perfectly balanced by four velvet ropes attached, ten feet above the disk, to a single strand that rose to a winch hidden somewhere in the false ceiling.
Colored lights faded up slowly as the clear disk was lowered. He was looking up through the disk. It was occupied by two men and a woman. The men were both Japanese but quite disparate in age. One of them was no more than twenty or twenty-one; the other in his forties. Both looked like athletes, their muscular bodies enhanced by oil. They wore loincloths. The woman was Caucasian with perhaps a strain of Polynesian, young, not yet twenty, and small, although her body was almost perfect, her breasts not too big, her legs not too short. She wore a loose, sheer tunic that draped to mid-thigh. Both men were blindfolded with black silk. She was not.
And he thought, Ah, even the show will be a study in elegance of style.
Pornographic? Of course. But never obscene.
As the disk came down, very slowly, it began to revolve just as slowly. And the two men began to caress the woman, each in his own way. The younger man was more impetuous, his touch was more urgent, his moves more direct. The older man began to stroke her with his fingertips, starting at the tip of her fingers and moving slowly up her arm, fondling the hollow where her arm and body joined, moving down her side to her knee, then as he started back up, he slipped one hand along the inside of her thigh. Her head fell back and her long black hair draped across the back of her legs. She began to move her head back and forth with the beat of the music.
"Must go now," Kei said.
The German had begun to sweat, very lightly, just under his nose. "In a moment," he snapped under his breath without taking his eyes off the revolving disk.
The tempo of the music began to pick up, and with it, the emotions of the trio. The younger man began to slow his pace as the older one increased his. The woman was being touched by four hands that seemed to explore every inch of her body, caressing her ear lobes, her eyelids, her lips, her throat.
She was swaying back and forth and the men moved closer and began weaving with her, their hands overlapped, the tempo of the music increased and she moved with it. The faster the music, the more frenzied she became.
Gruber appeared to be transfixed. He stared up at the disk. His lips were dry and now drops of sweat appeared along the edge of his hairline.
Everything is possible here, he thought. It is hard to tell where reality stops and fantasy begins.
The older man's hand slid up under her tunic and began rubbing her stomach while the younger man's hands encircled her breasts, never quite touching them, but tracing the outline of each through the thin gauze. She leaned back on her arms and looked down at her body and she rose slightly so the older man's hand could slide low on her belly and he turned the hand so the fingers pointed downward and slid his hand lightly between her legs.
She moaned and the audience reacted immediately. A murmur of whispers flooded the room.
Gruber was hooked. Kei, standing nearby in the darkness, studied his reaction, his dry lips, the sweat on his face, his eyes, gleaming as he watched the performance.
She moved in unison with the hand of the older man, sliding forward on it, rising slightly, letting him taunt her with his palm just barely touching her hair. The younger man finally brushed a hand across one of her nipples, then the other, and finally she reached up and pulled the straps of her tunic loose and it fell away. And then she straightened up and began stroking both her lovers and they grew under her touch.
Kei touched Gruber's elbow and whispered, "We must go now. Show over soon."
"Rate dey are going, dey vill be up dere for weeks," Gruber said. His blood was pounding in unison with the music.
"We can come back later, see another show. Maybe tomorrow night."
"A minute more," Gruber whispered with irritation.
"Okay, pal, it's your grave."
"The expression," said Gruber without moving his eyes from the disk, "iss funeral. It iss your funeral, dat iss the expression."
All three of the performers had become extremely vocal. The woman put her hand on the older man's hand, guiding it deeper and deeper.
Kei was not watching the show. He stared off across the room somewhere into a dark corner, waiting.
The disk was now below the line of sight of the people in the top row. The young woman's moves were becoming spastic. Her tight jawline was etched in the spotlights. Every muscle in her body was taut. Suddenly she tore the older man's loin cloth away and he sprang free and she began stroking him and both men eased her down and they lay down beside her and began kissing her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, and a tight scream burst from her clenched teeth.
"Pretty soon too late," Kei whispered.
"All right, all right," the German growled, and Kei led him to a doorway at the side of the arena. They entered what appeared to be a large closet with a single blue light in the ceiling. A second door faced them.
"Vait a minute," Gruber whispered. "Vere are you taking me?"
"It's okay," Kei said. "Health club right there, other side of door. Don't want light in the club, okay."
He pulled the door shut. The music continued achingly in Gruber's mind, although the door was thick and he could really only feel the beat of the drum now. But his concentration was shattered and he was having difficulty making the transition from fantasy back to reality. Kei opened the other door and light flooded the small room. A half-dozen steps led down to a narrow hallway which was painted a dazzling white. Its indirect lighting was so bright it was hard to tell where walls and floors joined. Now even the beat of the music was a memory. But the scene was etched in Gruber's brain and he could not dismiss the fantasy that continued to play out in his mind.
Kei led the big German to one of the doors and ushered him into an immaculate dressing room with six teakwood lockers and a long teak bench. Kei pointed to a door directly across the hall. "Steam bath. Door on other side of steam room leads to massage room, okay?"
Gruber was getting nervous again.
"Vere are you going?" he demanded.
"When you finish, Suji will show you exit door. I will wait for you there," Kei said and was gone.
The little son of a bitch, Gruber thought, he is probably going back up to see the end of the show.
Gruber took off his clothes, hanging them neatly in the locker, and draped his shoulder holster over a hook in its side and wrapped a towel around his middle and tucked it in place. His body was hard and his skin tight and there were two round scars in his side, .38-caliber scars, constant reminders that once, in another time and place, he had become dangerously reckless.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a few moments and then looked down at the scars. His mind was like the blip in an electronic game, bouncing back and forth, from the arena above, to the woman on the other side of the steam bath who supposedly would lead him to Chameleon.
Almost as an afterthought, he took the .25-caliber Beretta from the shoulder holster, held the small gun in the palm of his hand, and checked the clip, then tucked it into the towel at his waist. He draped a second towel over his shoulders, letting it fall at his side to conceal the pistol. He entered the steam room.
It was like being lost in a cloud. He had never seen steam so thick. Gruber groped his way along the wall to the benches on one side and sat down. Driblets of sweat trickled down and began to gather at his waist in the tuck of the towel. He took the Beretta and laid it on the bench beside him.
The room was large
r than Gruber had expected. He could vaguely make out its perimeters from the haloed glow of the lights recessed in the walls.
God, he thought, it must be a hundred and twenty degrees in here. I'll give it two or three minutes and then get the hell out.
He took the towel from his shoulders and dipped it in a bucket of ice that sat melting on the floor near the wall and wiped his face with it.
The sound of a sudden shower of water, followed immediately by a harsh burst of steam, jolted him. It came from across the room. Someone had just pulled the cord and released a water shower on the hot coals that were obviously over there somewhere on the other side of the room.
The mist swirled and grew thicker.
To his right, he heard the other door open and thunk shut.
His hand edged closer to the Beretta. He was jumpy, his pulse still hammering from the opening minutes of the show in the arena above.
Then the mist on the far side of the room seemed to clear for a moment and he saw briefly, as though through gauze, the shaggy figure of a man, staring at him.
It jolted him. He sat upright, instantly alert. But the steam immediately obscured the figure. He took the Beretta in hand and stood up and took a few cautious steps across the slippery tile floor toward the figure. Was he large or small? Fat or thin? Gruber wasn't sure.
He sensed, but never actually saw, the figure. It materialized for an instant, tore off his towel and vanished back into the mist. The Beretta clattered on the floor. Gruber stood in the room, naked. Panic began to gnaw at his stomach. He bent his knees and lowered himself slowly down toward the gun, peering into the thickening mist.
Another hiss of steam from across the room. It distracted him for a moment. The kick came from nowhere, a sudden jarring pain from out of the mist, bang! Just like that.
He didn't see who kicked him, didn't even hear it coming. But he felt the heel rip into his side, felt the ribs crack and the tendons tear loose. His feet thrashed from under him and he went down on his side, sliding across the tiled floor, and hit the wall.
All of his finely tuned systems went haywire for a moment. Then he twisted his body, ignoring the fire in his side, got quickly to his knees, and waving the pistol in front of him, pointing at everything and nothing, he stood up, keeping his back against the wall.
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