The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  The Man With the Red Tattoo

  By Raymond Benson

  Ian Fleming Publications

  IAN FLEMING PUBLICATIONS

  E-book published by Ian Fleming Publications

  Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, Registered Offices: 10-11 Lower John Street London

  www.ianfleming.com

  First published in the UK by Hodder and Stoughton 2002

  First published in the USA by G.P.Putnam’s Sons 2002

  Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 2002

  All rights reserved

  James Bond and 007 are trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd

  The moral right of the copyright holder has been asserted

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-1-906772-48-2

  JAMES BOND TITLES BY RAYMOND BENSON

  NOVELS

  Zero Minus Ten (1997)

  The Facts of Death (1998)

  High Time to Kill (1999)

  DoubleShot (2000)

  Never Dream of Dying (2001)

  The Man With the Red Tattoo (2002)

  FILM NOVELIZATIONS

  (based on the respective screenplays)

  Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)

  The World is Not Enough (1999)

  Die Another Day (2002)

  SHORT STORIES

  Blast From the Past (1997)

  Live at Five (1999)

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Union Trilogy (2008)

  Choice of Weapons (2010)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Besides writing official James Bond fiction between 1996-2002, RAYMOND BENSON is also known for The James Bond Bedside Companion, which was published in 1984 and was nominated for an Edgar. His first two entries of a new series of thrillers, which Booklist called “prime escapism,” are The Black Stiletto and The Black Stiletto: Black & White. As “David Michaels” Raymond is the author of the NY Times best-sellers Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell and Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell - Operation Barracuda. He recently penned the best selling novelizations of Metal Gear Solid and its sequel Metal Gear Solid 2-Sons of Liberty, as well as Homefront: the Voice of Freedom, co-written with John Milius. Raymond’s original thrillers are Face Blind, Evil Hours, Sweetie’s Diamonds, Torment, Artifact of Evil, A Hard Day’s Death and the Shamus Award-nominated Dark Side of the Morgue. Visit him at his websites, www.raymondbenson.com and www.theblackstiletto.net.

  For Judy

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1 FINAL FLIGHT

  2 ASSIGNMENT: JAPAN

  3 A NIGHT AT THE MORTUARY

  4 YAMI SHOGUN

  5 YES, TOKYO!

  6 BRIEFING BELOW GROUND

  7 SCENE OF A CRIME?

  8 YAKUZA TERRITORY

  9 MORNING MAYHEM

  10 KABUKI MATINEE

  11 SMOKE SCREENS

  12 THE DISTANT PAIN OF DEATH

  13 LOOSE ENDS

  14 NIGHT TRAIN

  15 THE DESIRE FOR DEATH

  16 IN THE TUNNEL

  17 OLD GHOSTS

  18 THE SEARCH FOR MAYUMI

  19 SECRETS

  20 ESCAPE FROM SAPPORO

  21 DEMONS FROM HELL

  22 CAUGHT!

  23 BITTER GLORY

  24 EARTH’S HEARTBEAT

  25 G8 EVE

  26 RED WIDOW DAWN

  27 QUICK RESPONSE

  28 THE FINAL ACTION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  FINAL FLIGHT

  WHAT WAS THAT HIGH-PITCHED BUZZ IN HER EAR? SHE WONDERED AS A WAVE of nausea swept over her once again.

  An hour ago she had been fine. Now Kyoko McMahon felt weak and chilled, and she had an agonising headache that pounded through her skull.

  The Japan Airlines flight had left Narita Airport two hours earlier and wouldn’t reach London for another ten hours. Would she be able to stand it? She felt woozy and disoriented. All she wanted was to stop the world from spinning around her.

  Kyoko dismissed the idea that the food Shizuka had served at their mother’s birthday party was to blame. Her sister, like all her family, was meticulous in everything she did and her careful preparation could be trusted. Come to think of it her father had complained of a stomach ache at breakfast, and her mother had barely made it out of bed to say goodbye to her that morning. Perhaps they had drunk too much of the excellent Ginjo sake the night before.

  Feeling ill on an aeroplane was never fun. The pretty twenty-two-year-old half-Japanese, half-Scottish woman was thankful that she was nearly alone on the upper deck executive class cabin of the aircraft. Not many travellers were aboard today. There was only the businessman sitting two rows in front of her, and the other two men three rows behind her. Not that she needed more room. The business class seats on JAL’s 747 were luxurious: plenty of leg room, reclining and with a personal television monitor that provided a wide choice of movies. As a member of the successful McMahon family, Kyoko took business class travel as her right whenever she made the long flight from London back home to Japan.

  This trip had been for a special occasion; her mother Junko’s fiftieth birthday. Her father had organised a party of the immediate family. Shizuka, the eldest sister, had ensured that the banquet was appropriately elegant and delicious. It was a shame, thought the younger and more beautiful Kyoko, that Shizuka would probably never find a husband who would benefit from her accomplishments.

  Kyoko had flown to Tokyo to surprise her mother. It had been a wonderful dinner party and a loving reunion. But in the middle of the family toasts and celebration, Junko could not forget her youngest child and said quietly, “I wish Mayumi was here.” Nobody could speak and they all sat silent for a moment, remembering the lovely and vivacious girl who had disappeared from their lives.

  “Are you feeling all right?” the young flight attendant asked her.

  Kyoko moaned, “Not really. I don’t know what’s wrong. I feel ill.”

  The flight attendant felt Kyoko’s forehead and said, “You’re burning up. I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll give you some aspirin. All right?”

  Kyoko closed her eyes and tried to smile in acknowledgement. The woman left her side and Kyoko’s mind drifted back to the previous evening’s festivities.

  Her father, Peter McMahon, had made a short affectionate speech declaring his love for his wife, causing Junko to blush. Kyoko had thought it was sweet. Even in manners-conscious Japan, her parents had never felt that they should hide their affection for each other. It was her father’s devotion to her mother that had convinced him to move permanently to Japan, learn the language and raise a family there so many years ago. Even though he had always kept his British citizenship, Peter McMahon had wholeheartedly embraced Japanese culture and integrated himself into it. CureLab Inc., the company he ran, was hugely successful. He had rescued it from bankruptcy after Junko’s father, the company’s founder, had retired. With Peter McMahon at the helm, the struggling pharmaceutical company Fujimoto Lab Inc. became the front-running CureLab in just eight years. The McMahons had become wealthy as a result. The gaijin who had married into a long-established Japanese family had gained respect in a world where business was made up of inner circles and closed networks. Kyoko could appreciate the hardships her father had gone through as a foreigner. She knew what discrimination
foreigners could face in Japan when they attempted to squeeze into society. There was an old adage that a foreigner in Japan was “a friend after five minutes but still an outsider after twenty years.” For someone who was half-Japanese it was even worse. It was one reason why she had chosen to study business at Oxford, her father’s alma mater. There she was treated as an exotic and mysterious Eurasian, not as a “half breed.” She hoped that she would someday be able to take over her family’s interest in CureLab and gain great face in Japan.

  The flight attendant brought Kyoko some aspirin and water. “Drink plenty of water. Try to sleep, all right?”

  Kyoko took the pill, drank as much of the water as she could stand, and pulled the blanket around her body. She reclined the seat and closed her eyes.

  Kyoko’s tired and unhappy thoughts drifted to Mayumi. Why had she gone? Their parents’ hearts were broken. The last they had heard about Mayumi was that she was living in Hokkaido, probably the girlfriend of a gangster. Mayumi had brought shame upon the family, though if she came home, Kyoko was sure that her youngest sister would be forgiven. The furious fight Mayumi had had with their parents four years ago had ended with Mayumi walking out of the house at the age of sixteen, vowing never to return. At first their father had said that Mayumi would come home once she had “found herself.” Junko had been distraught. None of them had liked Mayumi’s boyfriend, who was nothing but a common street thug. Peter McMahon had chalked up Mayumi’s actions to teenage rebellion and put his faith in the notion that one day Mayumi would return the prodigal daughter.

  Kyoko vaguely remembered thinking that “teenage rebellion” was quite an understatement. Mayumi had been a rebellious child from the day she was born. She had been plagued with colic and proved to be a big problem for her mother. Her first word was “No,” and it had continued to be a regular part of her vocabulary as she grew up. Her parents, especially her father, had fought her hard over the years. It had been a losing battle for them, for Mayumi’s will was shockingly strong. What a waste, Kyoko thought. Mayumi was easily the prettiest and possibly also the most intelligent of the three girls.

  Kyoko’s limbs felt heavy and she was struggling to think. The drone of the plane’s engines reminded her of last night too, and the annoying whine of the mosquitoes. They were usually bad in the summer months but they had shown up in greater numbers this particular June. Kyoko remembered slapping at least three on her arm.

  Another wave of nausea overtook her. Kyoko reached for the airsickness bag and vomited. The passenger two rows in front of her turned around to see what had happened.

  Kyoko managed to close the bag and drop it on the floor before she fell back into her seat and drifted from consciousness.

  The flight attendant came by and frowned before picking the bag up from the floor. She tucked the blanket snugly around Kyoko’s shoulders. Thinking that the poor girl needed some sleep, the flight attendant elected to leave her alone for the next few hours. The other passengers on the upper deck were asleep as well, so there was no reason for her to do anything but walk through the cabin every now and then.

  Four hours later, Kyoko was still asleep, but the blanket had been tossed aside. The poor girl was bathed in sweat. The flight attendant thought about waking her to see if she wanted water but decided against it. Best to let her sleep.

  Two hours later, the call bell alerted the flight attendant to come into the cabin. The passenger in front of Kyoko had rung it. He pointed to the girl and said, “Something’s wrong.”

  Kyoko McMahon was convulsing in her seat. The flight attendant ran downstairs and fetched the cabin officer. After he saw the writhing girl, he used the intercom to ask if there were a doctor aboard. A Japanese man in his fifties responded. The doctor came up from the main cabin, examined Kyoko, gently talked to her and held her still. Eventually she choked and coughed, gasping for air. The doctor gave her a sip of water. After a few minutes she had settled down again and drifted back to sleep. The doctor told the cabin officer that the girl probably had the flu. “It might possibly be a form of malaria,” he said, “but I suggest that we just let her sleep. It’s the best thing for her right now. Keep an eye on her, though.”

  The pilot was informed of the situation. The plane had already flown over Siberia, Russia and Finland. They could make an emergency landing in Copenhagen if necessary, but London was only three hours away.

  “As long as she’s sleeping, we’ll continue,” the pilot said. “At this point, it would be better to get her to her destination.” He radioed ahead to make sure there would be no delay at the gate.

  Everyone agreed.

  The flight attendant looked in on Kyoko every half-hour. At one point, the girl was struggling and mumbling as if she were having a bad dream. The flight attendant shook Kyoko gently until she calmed down and began breathing deeply again.

  Two hours later, the flight attendant decided to wake Kyoko, but couldn’t rouse her. This time the girl felt cold and clammy.

  When the doctor examined Kyoko again, he pronounced her dead.

  Since they were so close to London, the flight crew agreed to keep it quiet and continue on.

  Kyoko McMahon died alone, 39,000 feet above the earth. She never knew that her mother, father and sister had also died at approximately the same time with identical symptoms in their opulent house in the Tokyo suburb of Saitama.

  TWO

  ASSIGNMENT: JAPAN

  MAJOR BOOTHROYD CLEARED HIS THROAT AND BEGAN.

  “As you know, I asked you here this morning for a routine equipment briefing for all Double-Os and other field agents.” He added, with sarcasm, “I see that we have the usual splendid turnout.”

  They were in the soundproofed shooting range in the basement of MI6 headquarters. Shooting Instructor Reinhardt stood at the back, genuinely concerned that the good major might accidentally cause a dreadful explosion inside his beloved range. Agents 004 and 0010 were present and they sat near 007, close to the table that displayed the various items Boothroyd had brought to the meeting. Three lower level field agents and several technicians also sat or stood near the major.

  There never seemed to be more than three Double-Os around headquarters at any given time. Most of them, after all, were on assignments or stationed in other parts of the world. Or they were dead.

  “Right,” Boothroyd continued, his voice echoing in the stone room. “We have a few new pieces of hardware for you to review and most of them involve explosives.”

  The major, a tall thin man with wavy white hair, was wearing a pair of workman’s overalls and a hard hat. A pair of safety goggles hung loosely around his neck. Bond had learned long ago to overlook his ridiculous appearance.

  “Double-O Seven?”

  “Yes, Major?”

  He approached Bond and handed him a tubular cigar holder. “You’re one of those who still indulge in the filthy habit of smoking. Might I interest you in a nice Cuban?”

  Bond took it and noticed that it was slightly heavier than it should have been. “Thank you, Major. Now, what is it really? ”

  Boothroyd took it from Bond, popped off the cap and removed the cigar. He displayed it to the group and said, “It appears to be an ordinary cigar. But if you use your thumbnail to take off the end …” He did so and revealed that the cigar was not filled with tobacco. Boothroyd moved further back into the room some thirty feet away, where a small iron safe sat on a laboratory table.

  “Two-thirds of the cigar is filled with plastic explosive. You can dispense it by squeezing the cigar like a tube of toothpaste.” He demonstrated by squirting a small amount of brown paste onto the combination knob of the safe.

  “The cap from the holder is a timer. It is pre-set for ten seconds. You simply set it by pushing this tiny button and placing it in the plastic explosive.” The major fiddled with the cap and displayed a tiny readout to the group, although they were too far away to see the numbers clearly. Boothroyd realised this and said, “It has already begun to count d
own.”

  Boothroyd thrust the timer into the paste-like substance and moved behind a lead shield that had been set up away from the table. The Double-Os looked at each other with concern, but the technicians seemed confident that the major knew what he was doing.

  Seconds later, the explosive ignited and smoke filled the room. The noise had been much louder than anyone had expected, but no one was harmed.

  The front door of the safe hung on one hinge, grossly bent out of shape.

  Boothroyd emerged from behind the screen and walked back to the group. “With practice you should soon be able to estimate near enough how much explosive is needed. Note that the cigar can get through Customs with no problem and we have even given it the odour of tobacco. Now then.”

  He walked over to the near table and picked up a blister pack of a well known brand of indigestion tablets.

  “No business traveller should be without antacids, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked. “These are now standard issue. The white tablets are real antacids. The pink ones, if you throw them, burst and produce a thick cloud of smoke.” He nodded at a technician, who threw one against the far wall. There was a loud pop and a dark billow of smoke appeared.

  “The red ones are a little more powerful,” Boothroyd said. “One of them can blow a small hole in a wall, create a pothole in a pavement, knock a door off its hinges. It can also take your hand right off, so be very careful with them.”

  The major dropped the blister pack. His audience didn’t have time to gasp before it hit the floor. “You need not be worried. You have to throw them with great force to explode them,” he said. “The packaging is designed to withstand being dropped on the floor and even the jostling that occurs within airline baggage.”

  Boothroyd spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating a variety of other incendiary devices. Bond thought that thirty per cent of them were not very practical, fifty per cent were possibly useful, and twenty per cent were brilliantly conceived, if not quite perfected. Q Branch was capable of designing some ingenious stuff, but only some of the products had a life beyond the initial testing period.