Assignment Tokyo

by Edward S. Aarons

  After a moment he took off his coat, wrapped his fist in the cloth, and with a sharp rap broke the glass in the window and removed the splinters carefully before climbing inside.

  He smelled more wood shavings, oil from the lathes, a touch of plastic—and blood.

  Crossing the plank floor, he moved to the pinkish globe and saw that he had recognized it properly.

  It was the back of a man’s head, bald and shining, with a thin halo of gray hair around it. The old man sat on his bench stool with a kokeshi doll still in his hands, unfinished. A fine little chisel like a surgeon’s scalpel lay on the bench before him. Durell had no doubt that this was old Kamuru, Yoko’s grandfather. He had been stabbed in the back with another of his own long, stilettolike chisels. His face was serene, almost smiling, all planes and angles like the faces of his wooden dolls. He had never known that death stood behind him.

  Durell touched the back of his hand to the angled planes of the weathered face. There was a day’s growth of bristles on the lower jaw, and the victim’s steel-rimmed spectacles had been knocked askew when he sagged forward. The eyes had the vacuity of death, but in life they must have been merry and bright, the eyes of a man contented with his work and at ease with the paths that fate had opened for him.

  The flesh was still warm.

  Durell exhaled slowly and carefully. He did not touch anything more. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom inside the shed, slowly scanned the bench and the wall of shelves where more dolls were stored. Then he turned and saw what he did not want to see, what he had fervently hoped never to see.

  Liz Pruett had found her way to this place.

  There was a bin of old rags and cloth, built of wooden boards, in one comer of the workshop, and she had been tossed into it like one of Kamuru’s broken dolls. Her legs hung over the side, her chin was crushed down on her chest, and her long black hair covered part of her face.

  She had not died easily like the old Japanese.

  She had died in terror, in a spasm of mortal fear that made her previous reaction to her first encounter with the Chinese look like an afternoon at an amusement park. It was difficult to recognize the calm, self-contained woman he had known at Tokyo Central. She had died painfully, knowing it was coming, with every nerve screaming in protest against it.

  Her intimation of a violent death had come true.

  Her leather handbag was under one hip in the bottom of the scrap bin. Reluctantly, Durell reached in and pulled the leather free, opened it, and took out a small, green, plastic syringe kit. It was a multiple-test syringe, containing three extra clip-in vials for drawing blood samples. He checked it, put the green leather kit in his pocket, then reached into the bin again and closed Liz Pruett’s wide, staring eyes.

  21

  HE STOOD outside the shed window and took deep breaths of the misty, evening air; he smelled the pines and heard the frogs and the rush of the brook below the house. The day was ending. Only a faint glow in the sky showed where the village of Ningyo nestled in the mountainside. He tasted the fog on his lips and anguish in his heart for Liz Pruett.

  All right, he told himself. It’s all right.

  He breathed deeply again.

  Colonel Po Ping Tao, he thought. The name rang in his mind like a sound from the underworld, as he walked back toward the house on a silent bed of pine needles.

  It wasn’t necessary. The old doll maker and Liz—none of it. But the Peacock Branch of the Black House would preen itself for this night's senseless work.

  He paused and looked at the cars parked below the Japanese-type chalet, and he remembered the other car, the battered Ford, parked in the brush below the bridge.

  It wasn’t senseless, he thought.

  Yoko Kamuru was here. Somewhere. Nearby. Hiding, perhaps. But—here.

  The house was silent and dark. A well-trodden path led from the shop to a wide terrace decorated with stone lanterns under the wide sweep of the overhanging roof. To his right the pine trees swept down and around the parking area below. To his left Durell saw the steep drop of the mountainside and the cut made by the narrow road from the bridge. He turned left, his eyes on the house. Although it was dark now, no lights shone inside.

  She’s here, then, Durell thought. In the house. But not alone.

  A rocky ledge led him out on a level almost to the roofs eaves at the comer of the house. The fog made the evening a dirty gray in the valley below the mountains. Water dripped from the dragon spout along the eaves.

  The silence was menacing and watchful.

  “Yoko!” he called suddenly. “Yoko Kamuru!”

  His shout was as deliberately loud and startling as he could make it. A few birds started up from the trees with calls of distress. The girl’s name echoed and bounced back and forth among the trees.

  Then he saw her. She would be, as he expected, bright and alert, ready to seize any chance of surprise to escape, if she was a captive. And his sudden yell had given her that instant in time when whoever was with her in the silent house turned a head, said something, or looked the other way for a moment.

  She came running out of the front door like a small, frightened animal, her figure dim in the dusk. There was a muffled shout from within the sprawling house. Durell gathered himself as he stood on the point of the ledge and then jumped, his arms wide, gun uplifted, and threw himself into space for the roof. He landed on all fours, one foot up from the edge. A tile broke under the impact of his heel and his ankle twisted, and his weight slid downward. He fell flat against the steep pitch of the roof, slid backward another few inches, then scrambled up and over the ridge to the other side without respite.

  Yoko was in the parking lot.

  “Yoko!”

  She turned her head and he saw her small, startled face, her long, disheveled black hair swinging.

  “This way! Forget the cars!”

  He called in English, and he hoped she might identify him with Bill Churchill and trust him. But she wasn’t sure. She had been hunted and harried and attacked for many hours now, after her illness and the fever that had confused her. She had gone here and there like a fugitive, and at each turn in her flight she had been beset again by strangers who wanted something from her that she herself could not identify or suspect.

  Now she hesitated, her feet spread as she stood beside her car, not knowing which way to turn. She looked up at him as he stood on the roof, and then suddenly cried out something and darted into the pine woods to her right. At the same moment there was a shot, the whine of a bullet past Durell’s head, and he threw himself forward, tumbling down the steep slope of the tiles. At the last moment he launched himself off the eaves in a long jump that took him toward the trees. There was another shot, and the bullet plucked at his sleeve, and then he landed, his knees springy, and rolled over and over into the pine needles that cushioned his fall. He came up facing the house, gun in hand, and he saw, as if in a nightmare, Colonel Po’s furious, frustrated face looming over him. He kicked, felt the impact of his heel on something, and rolled away again as something slammed viciously at his head. He heard Yoko’s stumbling feet move away from him, and he heard a groan from Po, and then he was up and running after the girl through the dark woods.

  He had been tempted to finish the Chinese then and

  there, the rage still in him from the image of Liz Pruett’s shattered body in the trash bin. But Yoko was more important.

  He called her name again, and ran up the mountainside, smashing through the dark clumps of brush. There were footsteps stumbling behind him, but he paid them no attention. The girl had escaped from Po, and now she was only intent on escaping from him, too.

  He saw her briefly, a flicker of pale color through the darkening trees, and then another shot cracked out behind him. He heard her cry out and fall, and her body make further crashing sounds through the brush. The next moment he felt only space under his feet as the darkness deluded him, even as it had surprised the girl. There was a deep ravine almost sixty feet d
own, where the brook - -gushed and tumbled through a miniature gorge. The girl had fallen down the slope there, and Durell fell after her, his shoulders smashing through the brush, his hands grabbing and reaching for anything to check his fall.

  Then there was a stunning pain in the side of his head, and the whole night went totally dark.

  “Sir?”

  The word was a whimper, a whisper, a touching of fingertips on his face. He rolled over, felt the icy coldness of water on his body, and ducked his head into the stream.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s all right, Yoko.”

  “Who—who are you?”

  “You are Yoko, aren’t you?”

  “I.am.”

  “And I’m a friend of Bill’s.”

  “I—I don’t believe—”

  “It’s true. I’m Durell. Sam Durell.” He spoke in a whisper, although the noise of the stream covered his words. “Did Bill ever mention me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “All right, then. Be still. Are you hurt?”

  “No. But you hit a rock when you came down—” She paused and touched the side of his face. “Why are you chasing me?” she asked plaintively. “Why is everyone chasing me? What have I done?”

  “Hush,” he said.

  “But those men—the Chinese—they killed my grandfather and—and—”

  She was shaking, and he put his hand over her mouth, gently but firmly. It was imperative that she be silent and not give way to hysterics now. He felt her slim body quaking as he put his arm around her and pulled her away from the side of the brook. His head ached and pounded, and he felt blood on the side of his face. When he looked upward, pain shot through the back of his neck. He wondered about his gun, and then discovered he was still holding it; he had not lost his grip on it all through his fail and the brief moments of his unconsciousness.

  “Listen,” he whispered.

  There was a murmuring, a sound of Mandarin Chinese from the looming cliffside above them. Down here it was as black as the bottom of his pocket. Stars twinkled through the tops of the pine trees high above. The fog had lifted, swept away by a chill wind that made the trees respond with soft, susurrant noises.

  Durell stood up slowly and carefully. The earth seemed to lift and fall underfoot for a moment, and the stars reeled. Then everything grew steady again. He kept his grip on Yoko’s slim arm and thought, I’ve got her. I’m not letting her go again, ever.

  “Please,” she whispered. “You hurt me. Your hand is too strong—”

  “Promise you won’t run away.”

  "I—"

  “I won’t do you any harm. I’ll take you to Bill.”

  “How can I believe that?”

  “You must,” he said flatly.

  Evidently the two Chinese on the lip of the ravine above hadn’t spotted them yet. There was more murmuring up there, an order, an objection, the sound of an angry blow. Good. Let them quarrel, Durell thought. His eyes, aided by the starlight now, examined the gorge, and he saw it was a cul-de-sac with only one exit. Behind them at the opposite end of the ravine, the brook came tumbling down a precipitous wall of rock that was impossible to climb. The only way out was a hundred yards ahead through a narrow slot.

  “Come along,” he whispered.

  “Yes. Help me, please. I’m so confused—”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  He pulled her with him toward the lower end of the gorge. Rocks and large boulders blocked their way. The girl stumbled, gave an involuntary cry, and everything went silent up above. Durell moved ahead urgently. If Po figured the way out, he could block their escape easily, hold them here as if in a cell, until he figured out what to do next. He did not underestimate the Peacock man. But he’d had enough. He knew, remembering Liz, that he was going to kill Po, now or later.

  He stood at the entrance of the little gorge and looked down the mountainside at the lights of Ningyo, the resort village far below, with its inns and restaurants and hot springs. It was just six o’clock. Yoko shivered beside him. Her face was shadowed, and he could not see her distinctly.

  “How well do you know this area?” he asked.

  “I came here many summers with my poor—my grandfather.” Her voice hardened in anger and bitterness. “Why did they kill him? He was harmless, kind, an old man who loved to make dolls for children—”

  “They want you, Yoko.”

  “But—why? I cannot understand. I’m afraid. I’ve been ill, you know.”

  “They want to take you to China,” Durell said.

  Her mouth opened in blank astonishment. “Why?”

  “I’ll explain later. Do you know a way back to the road beyond the bridge?”

  “Yes, I know these woods well.”

  “Let’s hurry then.”

  “I’m afraid—I’m so tired. My legs tremble—”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Is Bill really waiting for me? Near here?”

  “Yes,” he said to reassure her. “Let’s get to the bridge before they catch up.”

  She led the way, her small hand cold in his, and they proceeded along a narrow ledge that left the brook behind. The house was above them now, a dark mass glimpsed through the woods. There was no sign of Po Ping Tao or his hatchet man. Now and then Durell made the girl pause while he listened, but all he heard was the dripping of water from the trees and the distant hooting of an owl.

  Beyond the bridge he found the car still hidden there. It was a Datsun sedan. But there were no ignition keys. He urged the girl inside, where she collapsed in a small heap. He thought she was weeping, but he couldn’t be sure and could not take the time to check on her.

  “Watch the road,” he ordered.

  It took a minute or two to short the ignition wires, during which time he was half under the small dashboard. He had to leave his gun on the car seat under the wheel. His first warning was a hissing sound of surprise from Yoko. Her scream came at the moment he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. Durell came out of the car backward, his hand sliding the gun off the seat, and as his knees hit the pine-needle floor of the woods, he twisted and saw the loom of the Chinese above him. He fired once, and again, into the man’s belly. He saw in the starlight that it was not Po but his helper. He was aware of disappointment, through the dark urge to avenge Liz Pruett’s death; but, no matter. Either or both Peacock men was responsible for the senseless killings. In this business you normally did nothing without reason. No wasted effort. No emotional reactions. Colonel Po had broken the rules through an ingrained cruelty that had made his name a thing of terror in Durell’s world. He would pay for it.

  The stout Chinese sighed and clutched at the holes in his stomach, and looked down in astonishment at the blood leaking around his pudgy fingers. Durell turned and put his heel against the man’s knee and shoved him hard away from the car.

  There was no sign of Po Ping Tao.

  He reached into the car, shorted the ignition, and started the Datsun. Yoko sat far away from him, crowded against the opposite door as he squeezed inside. She said nothing. She did not look at him. She was shivering, and he could hear her breath whisper between her teeth; but he had no time for her now.

  Backing the car out of the brush was no problem.There was not much room to maneuver on the narrow road below the bridge, and it took three or four backings and fillings before he was headed down the mountain toward the resort village. A new moon sailed up over the black crest of the mountain where Kamuru’s Japanese chalet stood.

  He was not followed as he drove down the twisting road. He had been tempted for a brief moment to go back to the wood-carver’s house and hunt Po down in a lethal game of hide-and-seek. But Yoko was more important. Anger and revenge had no place in his business tonight.

  But he was disappointed.

  22

  HE TRIED Dr. Freeling's code number.

  The line was busy.

  He tried Bill Churchill’s apartment.

 
No answer.

  From where he stood in the phone booth in the back of the sushi restaurant, he could watch Yoko Kamuru, seated primly at the table with the food steaming and untouched in front of her folded hands. She was far more attractive than her photograph at Churchill’s apartment had indicated. Even through her fear and beyond the lines of strain around her large, almond eyes, she was a lovely creature, a woman of beauty within and without. There was a delicacy about her that reflected a heritage of Japanese romantic poetry.

  He tried Melvin Cummings’ number. No answer.

  The car he had taken from Po was parked around the comer from the restaurant in a dark area behind the building. The resort was busy, and he was surprised to see it was only seven in the evening. But there were no trains now, and only a small bus terminal, and the next bus did not leave for almost an hour. He felt trapped, knowing that Po could surely enlist more help to hunt them down. It was imperative that he move Yoko to a safer place. He could try one of the inns, but he had the feeling that the spa was crammed to capacity, and in any case, this would only add to his feeling of entrapment.

  Yoko did not look at him when he sat down across from her.

  “Why did you do it?” she whispered.

  “Do what?”

  “Kill that man. The Chinese.”

  “I had to. It was him or us. He would have killed me. And taken you.”

  “I know. But the way you did it—”

  “What way?”

  “So quickly. Coldly. Like—like a machine.”