Dawkins shifted his glass, took the hand and bowed slightly. "Please call me Bob. Philip and I have been very informal this morning and I'd like to keep it that way."
She released his hand and stepped into Picard's embrace, pressing sun-warmed flesh against him as she tilted her head up for a kiss. Picard kissed her forehead. She gave him a small pout and pulled the gray hairs on his chest to let him know she was aware he held himself in check because of his present company. Though he felt entirely at ease with the woman's open sexuality when they were alone, and enjoyed her company more than anyone's he could remember, he was still uncomfortable about showing those feelings in front of someone he didn't know. Then he remembered that that was going to change in the next few minutes, so he brushed his lips across hers. The pout went away.
"Can I get you refills?" she asked.
Picard took Dawkins's glass and handed them to her. "Please. Only this time make it the Napoleon brandy."
She arched an eyebrow with amused interest. "The good stuff?"
"We're starting an early celebration."
"I still think good brandy is wasted on an old sod like you," she said with sweet innocence. "Hopefully Bob will appreciate it enough to keep from gulping it down the way you do."
Dawkins grinned.
"Will we have breakfast aboard the yacht?" she asked.
"No. I've already radioed Henri to have something prepared by the time we reach the island."
Cherie nodded and walked away.
"Very pretty girl," Dawkins said when he turned back around.
"And bright," Picard told him. "Surprisingly she's become a very large part of my life these past three years." He was even more surprised by the honesty in his voice.
"You're a lucky man."
Picard didn't say anything as he turned around to gaze at the bow. He caught hold of the rigging as he moved forward. "Come on. You're about to get your first glimpse of the island."
They came to a halt and hung on to the rigging together, rocking with the swells of the ocean. Verdant growth was the first thing visible above the waterline, immediately followed by beaches filled with white sand and encircled by brightly colored flowers.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Picard asked.
"Yes." Dawkins said.
"Four miles at its widest point," Picard recited, "and two and a half at its narrowest. It's taken a lot of time and money to get it to what I wanted. But that's what I was talking about when I mentioned patience."
"Are you gloating again?" Cherie asked. She stood behind them with brandy snifters.
Picard took them and gave one to Dawkins. He kissed the woman, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Now if you'll excuse us," he told her, "we've got some business to finish transacting."
She wrinkled her nose at him and walked to a point a dozen feet away. Without regard to either of them or to the yacht crew, she sat on the deck and removed her top as she lay on her stomach.
"Why did you come here?" Picard asked, ignoring the naked desire in Dawkins's hazel eyes. Jealousy didn't exist in the world he had built for himself because it was an emotion that denoted a lack of confidence. He owned what he owned because he could own it.
Dawkins blinked and focused on him. "Because you asked me to."
"What do you know about me?"
An easy grin formed on the senator's lips. "I know you own an island in the Caribbean, you have this fine yacht, you enjoy a good reputation among some of the cabinet members and you have enough political clout in the right circles to give a junior senator a leg up."
"Honest avarice," Picard said with a smile. "I like that in a man. However, our world views appear to be at loggerheads at present."
"What do you mean?"
Picard sipped his brandy. "I mean the present Japanese problem."
The humor oozed from Dawkins's face. "If you've brought me out here to try to convince me my position on the Japanese embargo issue is wrong, I'm afraid you've wasted your time and mine."
"Maybe not."
Dawkins seemed startled by the apparent sincerity in Picard's tone.
"You see, I know about the deals Joji Hosaka has offered you to represent the interests of his business consortium in Washington. And I know the kind of money he's been talking about with you."
"His people have every bit as much right to lobby as anyone else," Dawkins said defensively.
Picard lifted his glass. "To free enterprise under the American flag. As long as it's in the interests of the American people."
"I think you're being unfair by suggesting the policies I'm fighting for are against the American people," Dawkins said in an even voice. "We can't simply discontinue trade with them because they have a higher profit margin than we do."
"Nor do I want to see the country continue to be sold out to foreign interests in a piecemeal fashion that's being allowed through a lot of flag waving."
"As a businessman, you know foreign dollars are something every branch of government is after now. Even city planners are soliciting money to put projects together. This country has been borrowing against tomorrow to pay for today for decades now. That's not going to stop overnight."
"No, but there's no time like the present to start things heading in that direction. I've been working on the Japanese problem for a number of years."
"There's nothing you can prove," Dawkins said. "And there's nothing wrong with Hosaka's people talking to me. But there's plenty wrong with spying on a person, especially a Senator. When I get back to Washington, you can bet I'll start an investigation into this."
Picard set his brandy glass between his feet and applauded. "Very good, Senator. You're learning all the pomp and chest beating you'll need to take you far in your career. You're turning out to be even more than I expected."
The look on Dawkins's face told Picard that his reaction to the threat wasn't expected.
"Come with me, and let's talk man-to-man for a while."
Dawkins stood his ground. "I want the use of a marine telephone and I'll be on my way."
"Don't be a childish ass," Picard said. "Take a look at what I have to show you, then if you don't want to listed anymore, I'll have my pilot fly you back to the mainland in the Lear."
Dawkins followed hesitantly as Picard led the way down into the spacious living room filled with modern furniture and small oil paintings. "Have a seat," Picard said, waving at the plush couch as he walked to the entertainment area built into the wall. He selected the videotape he wanted and slipped it into the VCR. Then he crossed the living room floor and seated himself beside Dawkins. "There's more brandy if you'd like."
"No. I'm fine."
Picard picked up the remote control and switched on the television, then the VCR. "Hosaka wanted you for a lot of the same reasons I did. You're young, photogenic and will appeal to the women voters, especially when you keep throwing in lines about how Japanese investments secure jobs for their husbands."
"A lot of those women work, too."
"True, and it doesn't hurt to point out in interviews that Japanese businesses often hire American women as vice presidents to help with PR and staffing. No, you've got your spiel down perfectly, and I have to say I admire the ways you manage to get it into every interview you do."
The television screen cleared, showing a recent segment of 60 Minutes. Dawkins looked immaculate.
"See, this is the image Joji Hosaka invested in, this clean-cut, wholesome representative of middle-aged, middle-class America. And it's the image I want working for me as we start turning your views around on that committee."
"I'm not for sale," Dawkins asserted.
"Aren't you?" Picard fast-forwarded the tape. "Take a look at this."
The scene was a motel bedroom. A naked young girl was on the bed on her hands and knees, her shrieks and cries of passion overly loud in the stillness of the yacht's living room. Behind her, thrusting vigorously, was Senator Robert Dawkins.
Picard laughed out loud as the tele
vision image of Dawkins gave a sudden moan of completion and collapsed across the girl's back. He slapped the senator on the knee. "Overall, the performance lacked in creativity," he said, "but it carried a lot of energy, and you were very photogenic." He looked at the man. Dawkins had gone ash-gray.
"The girl was fourteen years old, though I realize that's hard to believe with the way she developed early," Picard said. "Even without the statutory rape charge, what do you think your chances of political survival would be if this hit 60 Minutes! Or even graced the pages of the National Enquirer? To say nothing of your marriage and three children."
"I haven't done anything like that in years," Dawkins said in a strained voice.
"That was taken a little over eighteen months ago," Picard said. "As I told you, I've been working on this problem for years. It's only now gotten to the point that something needs to be done, and can be done. That's only one of the tapes I have on you, but I thought it was representative of the collection."
"You're a bastard, Picard." Dawkins stood and paced the floor.
Picard could see the man's mind working. "Oh, come now, you can call me Philip."
"I can beat this," Dawkins said. "I've got enough media behind me that I can beat this."
Picard leaned back against the couch. "I think you're letting your ego run away with your reason. And, anyway, you haven't seen it all." He fast-forwarded again.
The scene this time was another bedroom. Picard was on camera himself, standing beside the bed with a flashlight in his hand. The screen-version Picard pulled the sheet back on a sleeping figure.
"Recognize the man in bed?" Picard asked.
"Senator Deichart," Dawkins said, hypnotized by the tape.
"Your predecessor as chairman of the committee," Picard acknowledged. "Now watch. This is where he has the convenient heart attack that puts you in control and into the limelight."
The screen-version Picard placed a pillow over the sleeping man's face and held it there tightly until the frantic struggling stopped.
"See?" Picard said as he switched the television and VCR off. "Heart attack. Of course, the diagnosis cost a little, but it was worth it. He didn't have any little habits that would be publicly embarrassing like you did." He stood and held out his hand. "Now, Bob. do we have a deal?"
Chapter Nine
Naked and handcuffed, Mack Bolan lay on the hospital table as the emergency room doctor cleaned his wounds. He rested his hands across his chest in an effort to find a comfortable position. Two uniformed policemen stood at both ends of the table, 38 revolvers holstered at their hips.
"This is going to hurt a little," the young doctor told him.
Bolan nodded.
"The cut on your thigh isn't going to require stitches," the doctor said as he swabbed on the medicine. "The one that concerns me is the wound in your side. Even though it's been treated and sutured, I think you have some infection there. How long ago was this done?"
"This morning," Bolan answered.
The doctor removed his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue from his pocket. He consulted his watch briefly. "It's almost midnight now so that would be fourteen hours ago, correct?"
"About that."
"So you were part of the Sumida River massacre as well," the doctor said. He put the glasses back on. His eyes were bloodshot and fatigued. "I was here this morning for the results of that myself. It appears both of us have had a busy day."
Bolan didn't say anything.
"I watched some very good people die this morning," the doctor went on, "and there was nothing I could do. Adults, children, apparently the men engaged in that activity didn't care who their bullets struck." He stepped back to the small portable table behind him and selected a scalpel from the tray. The thin edged glittered in his hand as he moved forward.
Tensing, Bolan readied himself for anything, staring at the doctor while keeping one of the guards in his peripheral vision. He twisted slightly without moving, shifting his weight toward the doctor.
One of the policemen spoke in an imperative tone. The doctor responded but kept approaching Bolan. The policeman didn't hesitate in drawing his side arm and pointing it at the doctor's chest. A whisper of leather at the opposite end of the bed told Bolan the other policeman had drawn his weapon as well. The guard repeated his order.
Looking at the men in disbelief, the doctor came to a stop and held his arms away from his body. One of the policemen came forward, holding his .38 in both hands. The scalpel clanged tinnily to the floor. Holding the .38 to the doctor's head, the cop produced another set of handcuffs and proceeded to lock them onto his prisoner's wrists. The doctor talked rapidly and angrily. The barrel of the revolver kept his face pressed against the wall. The cop said something that evidently went unobeyed because he grabbed a handful of the doctor's hair and slammed the man's face into the wall.
Bolan glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the other policeman's attention had strayed. So far no one had approached him concerning the papers he'd had in the Belasko name, even though some of the upper heads of the Metropolitan Police should have been aware of who he was. The detective in charge of the investigation at the Club Morena had asked him a few questions, which he had pointedly ignored and asked for Brognola instead, but nothing else had been done. For the past two hours he'd been locked up in a police van before being brought to the hospital for treatment. It was evident that someone was keeping him on ice, but he had no idea why. The other cop pointed the barrel of his revolver at Bolan's face and held it without blinking.
Bolan relaxed. If they were going to protect him, fine. If not, he couldn't make a move against them yet.
The privacy curtain surrounding the bed was whipped back suddenly as a bald man in a dark suit stepped through. The hard eyes glittered as they took in the scene. His carriage was erect, military. He turned his head slowly, glancing briefly at Bolan before moving on to the cop holding the doctor. He spoke softly. The policeman backed away immediately, holstered his weapon and stood at attention.
The bald man spoke again, and the policeman replied rapidly. When the doctor interrupted, the bald man silenced him with a wave. The cop finished, still at attention.
"Put the gun away," the bald man instructed the other policeman in English. The cop complied immediately. The new arrival stepped forward, hands behind his back. He surveyed Bolan's injuries dispassionately, finally looking into his eyes. "I am Captain Goro Fujitsu of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs," he stated in a clipped fashion.
Resting his hands on his chest, Bolan said, "Then you know who I am."
"Perhaps," Fujitsu said with a thin smile. "I know who your papers proclaim you to be." The doctor spoke again. Fujitsu stared the man into silence, then glanced back at Bolan. "Did you feel threatened by this man?"
Bolan thrust his cuffed hands into the air. "At the moment I feel threatened just being here."
"Of course," Fujitsu said with a small nod. "Doctor, would you explain the scalpel you approached this man with? In English, please, so he may get the benefit of your words."
"I was going to release some of the infection that has built up in his wound." The doctor pointed to Bolan's side. "You can see for yourself that it needs to be done."
Fujitsu walked around the table, carefully staying out of reach when he interfered with the policemen's line of fire, and inspected the wound for himself. He looked back at Bolan. "I believe him. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps everyone overreacted," Fujitsu said. "Kendo, you will apologize to Dr. Sasakawa before we leave." The policeman nodded at once. "And you and I," Fujitsu said to Bolan, "will talk when you are finished here."
"Not before I talk to Brognola."
All traces of softness left the Foreign Affairs man's face. "That may not be for some time," he said. "Apparently your papers have been lost. Mr. Brognola will not know you have been taken into our custody for hours. It will allow us to discuss how you have happened to be in the vicinity of at least
two gun battles involving multiple homicides while in Tokyo less than eighteen hours. And perhaps during our discussion we will discover why you are really here."
Bolan felt the scalpel slice along the wound, then the pressure that had built up quietly oozed away.
"I do not think you need to go to any length telling him how to take care of his wounds," Fujitsu told the doctor as he scanned the numerous old scars on the Executioner's body. "He seems to have had a lot of experience with such things."
* * *
The Piper Cub cut through the cloudless blue sky above the island under the watchful gaze of a helicopter gunship. Picard shielded his eyes from the burning noon sun as he watched the aircraft touch down with a gentle bump that sent sand devils spiraling in the wake of the tires. He remained with his Cadillac as a security team of his handpicked mercenaries pulled to a stop beside the Cub. The men debarked with military precision, M-16s at the ready while the man in the rear of the Jeep manned a mounted M-60.
Air-conditioning continued to swirl from the luxury vehicle and caused Picard's skin to prickle. He took a pair of field glasses from the console and fitted them to his eyes. Adjusting the magnification, he brought the pilot into view just as the security team met him at the door.
The lead mercenary pulled the pilot to the ground at once, slammed him into the tarmac and pressed a 9 mm pistol to his neck. The pilot didn't resist. The other mercenary entered the Piper at a dead run.
Picard found himself holding his breath. He blew it out forcibly, then cursed his fears silently. It happened every time he was on hand for an arrival. None were ever a surprise, not with the radar systems and other security measures he'd gladly paid small fortunes for, and all expected arrivals were treated the same way. He didn't entertain on the island, except in specific instances as with Dawkins, and those who came to his island home knew to expect such treatment.
The merc inside the Piper came back out within five minutes after checking the plane for stowaways. Picard had no fears that the man might have missed something in his search. He had trained the security teams himself and oversaw the supervision of all replacements. All of them knew the penalty of failure.
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