"We got it!" the Magician yelled.
"We'll get another minute or two, then we'll have to get rolling. They should be on their way out. We need to get back down the hill."
"Hey," the Magician cried, "something fucked up!"
Garvey was yelling, pointing off-screen, clawing at his belt. A machine pistol appeared in his hand. Then suddenly O'Hara leaped into the screen. He slapped Garvey's gun hand away, grabbed it, wrenched it backwards.
The pistol coughed a half-dozen times.
Bap, bap, bap, bap, bap, bap.
The bullets ripped into the sprawling glass map. A string of holes splattered across South America. The glass weakened and shattered. Behind it, the maze of wires that controlled the electronic marvel was sliced by falling glass. Sparks showered the room. Streaks of fire raced up the wall.
Inside the van, Eliza and the Magician were staring hypnotically at the tape recorders. They did not see the shadows at the edge of the road begin to vane, were not aware anyone was there until the side door slammed back and they turned to face the biggest human being they had ever seen. Four hundred pounds if an ounce, his neck bulging over the shirt collar, his eyes scowling out from a balloon face.
"Holy shit!" the Magician cried. He started looking for a weapon, a club, anything.
The guard reached in with a tire-sized arm and grabbed Eliza, lifting her out the door as if she were a doll. She did not utter a sound. She made a fist, stuck out her forefinger and little finger and thrust them into the guard's eyes. He roared with pain. She kept gouging, grinding the two fingers into his eyes. He dropped her, and she leaped back in the van and got behind the wheel.
The Magician jumped out, a lug wrench in hand, and hit the guard with a powerhouse swing. It made a flat smack as it smashed into the side of his head. The guard, temporarily blinded, shook off the blow as if it were a flea bite.
The Magician wound up and this time brought the steel wrench straight down on his head. The blow stung the Magician's hands.
The guard staggered and started toward him.
"Get in!" Eliza yelled as she pulled the gear shift into first.
The Magician took his third strike.
The tire iron flipped out of his hands. This time the wrestler went down like a stricken buffalo.
He dove into the van and Eliza whipped it in a tight circle and fishtailed down the road.
When Chameleon jumped into Hooker's office, he first stood flat against the wall, watching the general walk to his desk, lean over the champagne bucket and twist the bottle in the ice with the palms of his hands.
Then Chameleon moved slowly toward him. The old man looked up and glared at the maintenance man. "What is it, something wrong?" he asked.
The man did not answer. He walked slowly across the dark room toward Hooker and stood in front of the desk.
He was unbuttoning his shirt.
The room was deadly still except for the ticking in Hooker's chest. The clock began to run faster.
Tick... tick... tick... tick...
"What are you doing? What's the meaning of this?"
Still no answer. The man's eyes were filled with hatred. He opened the shirt.
Tick, tick, tick, tick...
Hooker's eyes bulged as he saw the tattoos. He was hypnotized by the specter standing before him. His brain was fumbling with a half-dozen disparate thoughts.
"Permit me, General. I am Chameleon," the man said.
Ticktickticktick ...
The clock in Hooker's chest was frantic.
The ticking increased. It sounded like a Geiger counter.
"Y-y-y-you're too young," he croaked.
"Capice Military Hospital, September 23, 1933," he said.
It took a moment for the information to register.
"What do you mean?"
"The day I was born... Father."
The old man began to shake. The pacemaker went berserk.
"You're lying," he said. His voice was an echo squeezed from his chest.
From the map room he heard the muffled, staccato bap, bap, bap, bap, bap, bap of Garvey's machine pistol, but he barely paid any attention.
"Mother called me Molino, you called me Bobby. Would you like the date you murdered her in Australia? April—"
A tiny streak of fire crept across the ceiling. Hooker's eyes fled to it and then flicked back.
Hooker's "No-o-o-o!" was as anguished as the death cry of a wolf.
The old man snatched open a desk drawer and pulled out a Colt .45. He held it in both hands and pointed it straight between Chameleon's eyes.
The pacemaker was hammering.
And then it fell silent.
No more ticking.
What little blood was left in the general's face drained away. His lips began to shake. His trigger finger trembled.
The door flew open and O'Hara burst in. He stopped cold.
The general was pointing his pistol straight ahead. It was inches from Chameleon's nose, and yet he made no move toward Hooker.
The gun hand wavered. The general's eyes began to glaze over. He made one last effort to squeeze off the shot but there was no strength left.
"You're dead, General," Chameleon said.
Hooker's eyes crossed and he plunged face down across the desk.
"For God's sake, let's get outa here," O'Hara yelled. "All hell's breaking loose."
Behind him, half a dozen wires crossed and exploded in fireworks. Colored shards glittered in the air and turned the map room into a giant kaleidoscope.
Garvey stood in the middle of the room, staring in disbelief as the glass showered around him.
O'Hara and Chameleon ran for it.
Pandemonium.
Garvey was screaming orders.
Fire stitched the ceiling, snapped at the timbers. The short-circuited wires were like streaks of fire. Sparks showered around them as they ran through the map room and out the door. Security guards dashed past them with fire extinguishers.
They ran toward the stairs leading to the dungeons.
Behind them they could hear Garvey screaming, "Stop them! Stop them!"
They did not look back. They raced toward the stone staircase. As they turned the corner into the stairwell, a gun boomed behind them. Bullets chewed pieces out of the stones and they stung O'Hara's face. "Keep going," he yelled as he slammed the fire door leading to the dungeons and bolted it behind them.
They heard the dog before they turned around. It was a foot away. And behind it, Le Croix, a gun in his hand, had just reached the top of the stone stairway. He was not prepared for what happened next, for Chameleon moved instantly, dove over the dog and rolled past Le Croix.
"Keep going!" O'Hara yelled and Chameleon raced down the steps. Le Croix, distracted for a moment, shouted an order to the dog: "Le cou!" The neck. And as the dog went after Chameleon, Le Croix turned and fired at O'Hara. But Chameleon's diversion had given the reporter the instant he needed. Feinting first to the right, then the left, he leaped and kicked at the same moment, his eyes on Le Croix's gun hand. The pistol roared, bullets smacked the door behind O'Hara as his toe shattered Le Croix's wrist. The gun flipped out of his hand.
Chameleon jumped the last few steps to the floor of the dungeon and turned toward the grate. The dog was right behind him, its hackles trembling, its teeth bared. But it made no sound. As Chameleon turned to face it, the dog leaped toward his throat. Chameleon dropped in a crouch and rolled on his back. The dog landed behind him, paws scrambling as it twisted around.
At the top of the stairs O'Hara landed flat-footed, stepped in and snapped Le Croix's head back with the flat of his hand. The scarred man fell, but as O'Hara jumped over him, Le Croix tripped the reporter. O'Hara staggered but did not fall.
Behind him, Le Croix hesitated for a moment. A Leash dropped like a snake from his sleeve. It was attached by a small padded bracelet to his wrist. He whirled it like a lasso and it sang through the air as it flicked toward O'Hara's head, and O'Hara, hear
ing the whoof of the wire, turned for an instant, saw the deadly noose and ducked, raising his arm to ward it off. The noose snapped over his arm and tightened on his wrist, cutting into the skin. He jerked it and Le Croix fell forward into him. The two of them tumbled over each other down the stairway.
The second time the dog jumped, Chameleon was prepared. He dropped low again, and as the dog soared over him, he reached up and grabbed it by the throat with both hands, slamming it against the stone floor. The dog's claws slashed desperately at his arms, tearing away the sweater, drawing blood. Chameleon squeezed and twisted the dog in his powerful hands, got his feet under him, and standing, smashed its head against the wall. The dog shrieked once before it died.
"Kazuo!" he called.
"Drop the rope!" O'Hara yelled.
The fire door began to give as half a dozen sumo guards battered it.
Chameleon recovered the grappling hook from its hiding place and began to slide the grate back while halfway down the stairwell Le Croix and O'Hara grappled, connected together by the thin wire attached to their wrists. Le Croix was a brute, but fighting O'Hara was like fighting air. He slipped away, jumped to his feet, hauled Le Croix up by the wire and chopped him across the throat with his free hand. Le Croix fell backwards, dragging O'Hara with him. The patch fell away from his face, revealing a gruesome gray socket, split by the deep scar that ran the length of his face. The one-eyed assassin tried to twist the wire around O'Hara's throat, but once again the reporter moved too fast. He hopped over Le Croix, pulling his arm sideways. The wire wrapped around Le Croix's throat instead. O'Hara pulled the loop and Le Croix's hand was jerked against his neck. The wire bit into his flesh. His good eye swelled with fear. He grabbed for O'Hara with his free hand, but the reporter pulled his arm back and the noose tightened around Le Croix's throat. Le Croix thrashed, got his legs under him and lunged for his adversary's throat. O'Hara rolled nimbly, and Le Croix dove over him and skittered off the edge of the stairwell. He seemed to poise for a second, and then he dropped. O'Hara's hand was tugged violently by the weight of the falling body. And then he felt the wire snap taut and slice into his wrist.
And he heard Le Croix's neck break, like a dead branch.
The man's weight pulled him to the edge of the stairwell. Le Croix was dangling grotesquely on the wire, his feet dancing on air inches above the ground, his hand pulled tight against the side of his face, his tongue protruding obscenely, his good eye rolling wildly beside the barren socket. He jerked there for several seconds. The wire bit deeper into O'Hara's wrist, blood gushing from the torn skin. Then Le Croix's eye rolled up and he just hung there.
A moment later Chameleon appeared on the floor below and lifted up the dead man, easing the pressure. O'Hara released the ratchet and the wire noose fell off.
Splinters flew from the fire door. A crack appeared. O'Hara crawled to his feet and ran shakily down the rest of the stairs.
"Can you make it with just one hand?" Chameleon asked.
"I can try."
"Go," said Chameleon.
O'Hara didn't argue. He grabbed the rope and dropped into the black abyss.
The door burst from its frame and crashed to the floor. Three guards tumbled through the opening.
Chameleon started down the rope.
O'Hara was sliding down so fast that the rope scorched his hand. He could feel Chameleon on the rope above him. Then suddenly he wasn't going down anymore. He looked up. The grinning face of one of the sumo guards leered down at him. The man was pulling them back up as though they were puppets.
"Drop!" O'Hara yelled and let go.
He had no idea how high up he was. He plunged into the darkness, down into the main water tunnel, hit and rolled. Chameleon landed seconds later and rolled on top of him.
They shot down along the wet moss, end over end, like children in a funhouse, uncontrollably swept along by their momentum, and burst out of the tunnel, carrying vines with them as they continued tumbling down the mountainside until they were stopped by the undergrowth.
The van was ten feet away.
O'Hara's hands were rope-burned, his shoulder was skinned raw and blood streamed from his torn wrist. He tried to get to his feet, saw the Magician running toward him. "Chameleon...?" he asked.
"Right here, tomodachi," the tattooed man said, helping him up. It was the first time he had called O'Hara "friend."
They jumped in the van and fell on the floor.
"Get rolling!" the Magician ordered, and Eliza jammed the van into gear and headed down the rest of the hill.
"What the hell happened?" the Magician said.
"Shit hit the fan," O'Hara gasped.
"I am to blame," Chameleon said. "I lost it there for a few minutes. It was an emotional—"
O'Hara sat up. He laid his hand on Chameleon's arm. "Hey," he said, "who's complaining?" He turned to the Magician. "Did we get anything on tape?"
"The whole megillah."
O'Hara laughed and fell back on the floor of the van. "Is there a first-aid kit in the house?" he said. "I think I may be bleeding to death."
Eliza sped down the mountain and out into the flat at the edge of Tanabe. Behind them, yellow flames boiled up from Dragon's Nest. Chameleon watched through the rear window of the van and rubbed his aching arms.
"It is a cleansing fire," he said. "When it is over, the fortress will still be standing and we can restore it to what it once was, a nest for dragons, not weasels."
He leaned back and closed his eyes and the pain in his face was not from his cuts and bruises. Without opening his eyes, he said, "I am sorry, Kazuo, for violating my promise. I could have got you killed back there."
"But you didn't. The Tokenrui-san will say it was just an instant in time. The poets will pass it by."
"It was the sight of him, being that close to Hooker. It made me crazy. I needed to reveal the truth to him, just as you must reveal the truth about him to the world."
"Let it pass, Okari, let it pass," O'Hara sighed, and he slumped down to nurse his own aches and pains.
The Magician pulled the three tapes out of the recorders and wrapped a band around them as Eliza pulled into the clearing where they had left the Toyota.
"Maybe the Magician ought to go with—" O'Hara started to suggest, but she had slammed on the brakes and was already out of the van. As planned, she jumped in the car, started up and zoomed off.
"I'm gonna tell yuh sumpin, okay? I wouldn't drive back to Kyoto with her. She drove this van so fuckin' fast, half the time I wasn't sure if she was drivin' it or it was drivin' her."
They drove the three hours back to Kyoto without incident. The fire was apparently keeping Garvey and company too busy to bother with them.
As they reached the center of Kyoto, Chameleon asked to be dropped off. "It is better that I leave now." He reached out and took O'Hara's hand. "Whoever Kimura-san selects as Tokenrui will please me. If it is to be you, tomodachi, it will be my honor to serve you. If you ever need anything, this kendo master is at your service."
"I feel the same," O'Hara said. "Arigato, my friend." He watched Okira limp down a side street until the darkness swallowed him up. The reporter lay back on the floor of the van. It had been a long night filled with surprises, and despite his torn wrist and battered ribs, he felt suddenly refreshed. The truth was on the tapes. Howe would have his big story. Lizzie would get her shot at New York. A heavy burden had been lifted from Chameleon's shoulders. Yet to O'Hara, the victory seemed strangely empty. He thought instead about Falmouth, who had lied to him and betrayed him. It was a lesson that would stay with him forever. What was it Kimura-san said... "The wise man has many cuts." But he also said, "The happy man forgets his scars."
The Magician broke the spell. "Weird," he said.
"What's weird?"
"All those fuckin' tattoos."
They drove back to the hotel.
"We catch the first train out in the morning, the way I see it," the Magician said after they had p
arked the van. "We can be back in the States, shit, tomorra night this time."
O'Hara nodded slowly. "Let's hope Lizzie didn't kill herself driving back here."
He grabbed the first house phone he saw in the hotel lobby and dialed her number. It rang and the operator came on.
"Who please?"
"Eliza Gunn, U.S.A."
"Missa Gunn, she check out."
"Checked out!"
"Hai. Maybe twenty minutes."
"'Thanks."
The note was in his box. It read: "I lucked out. Found a young pilot willing to fly me to Tokyo tonight. You get the big story, I get the tapes. Seems fair, doesn't it? By the way, would you mind returning the van to Howe/Tokyo. Thanks. See you in Boston. xxx E."
He handed it to the Magician.
"Well, I'll be goddamned," the Magician said, and he started laughing. "She scooped yuh, pal!"
12
CHARLES GORDON HOWE WHEELED HIMSELF into his spacious office overlooking the Haymarket. It had been a busy day, thanks to his two top reporters, and a fruitful one. The fire at Dragon's Nest had attracted news coverage, but Hooker's death got most of the space. All that did was whet everyone's appetite for the whole story, and they had it all. Eliza was coming on with a fifteen-minute news special. She had been editing it all night. He'd get a huge share on the news tonight. And O'Hara was on his way back with a front-page banner for the Star. All the fine details. The old man leaned back in his wheelchair and stroked his chin.
Excellent.
Eliza's bright face popped on the set, but it was wearing a serious expression. Nothing light.
"Good evening," she began, "This is Eliza Gunn, Six
O'Clock News—"
"Don't worry, she'll do a helluva job."
Howe recognized the voice immediately. It came from a dark corner of the office, back among the plants.
O'Hara stepped out into the light.
"You scared the bedevil outa me there, Lieutenant. What the hell're you doing hiding back there among the goddamn shrubs?"
"I was hanging boxes in the air."
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