Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  He used the phone card to call Dawson at a pay phone. It was possible Machiavelli’s routers would be programmed to capture any calls sent to Dawson”s phone number, but it was a chance MacLeod would have to take.

  “It’s me,” he said, when Dawson picked up.

  “Jesus, Mac, thank God. What happened? Your flight’s been on every channel.”

  “Did it go down?” MacLeod asked, deeply concerned.

  “No, the pilot pulled it up in time. Everyone’s fine except one passenger, who wasn’t accounted for. It’s you, of course.”

  “Good,” MacLeod said, relieved. “Machiavelli sent someone after me. Taro Honda.”

  “I figured there’d been a Quickening,” Dawson said. “I just didn’t know whose. Thank God it wasn’t you. But why did he put Honda on you, Mac? I thought Machiavelli wanted you to go to Japan.”

  “It’s like I told you before,” MacLeod said angrily. “It’s his way of playing with me. In chess, sometimes you sacrifice pieces to put your opponent in check. I think he’s trying to wear me down. Toy with me.” He clenched his jaw. “Before Honda died, he told me he had betrayed ‘the others.’ Samantha included. He’s trying everything he can to throw me off-balance.”

  “No Watchers in Japan have reported in, Mac. None. I’m worried that there’s a bloodbath going on.”

  “Then I’d better get moving,” MacLeod said. “I’ll catch you again later.”

  “GRAND MASTER sent another chess move via e-mail. K-B1.”

  MacLeod closed his eyes, imagining the board. “Tell him P-QN4. Although why he’s persisting, I have no idea. Maybe to see if Honda killed me.” Surely Machiavelli couldn’t have thought that young Immortal would have prevailed. Then again, it would be unlike him not to cover all his bases.

  There was an hourly milk run to the outskirts of Machiavelli’s compound. MacLeod let a number of them go by, then took a commuter into central Tokyo simply as a diversionary tactic. He hated wasting the time, but he was one against who knew how many. He had to stay alive.

  Tokyo was another large city linked by subways and trains, and it, too, had fared better than Washington, D.C. The Americans had been generous to the Japanese after World War II, rebuilding their nation and asserting the rights of the individual, particularly of women, in Japan’s first constitution. The Japanese had done everything they could to make use of these gifts, including battling ruthlessly to reenergize their economy. But the Americans, lagging far behind, regarded the Japanese’s “enthusiastic” business tactics during the Reagan era as out-and-out treachery: dumping artificially cheap products onto the open American market, forbidding competitive foreign products, including American, from being sold in their country.

  The Japanese were dumbfounded by the fury of their benefactors: were they to hold back in some way, pretend they weren’t as successful and strong as they were? Commerce was war, was it not? The Americans should be proud of them, and instead they were so livid there had been private conversations behind the closed doors of the Japanese Diet regarding the likelihood of the Americans starting a new war.

  Ottomans and Venetians. Americans and Japanese. The Japanese economy was shakier now than it had been in the seventies and eighties, mirroring the Venetian situation in 1655. No wonder Machiavelli had moved here. It was the kind of situation in which he could flourish. Soon, however, it wouldn’t matter where he lived. He would be able to control all the economies of the world from a computer so small he could fit it in his pocket, if he chose.

  He could shut down Tokyo.

  As if on cue, the train brakes screamed and the train began to skid. MacLeod held on as passengers shrieked. Mothers grabbed their children. The people standing in the aisle fell against each other and crashed to the floor, sliding forward. A black leather briefcase flew across the compartment, smashing into a man’s forehead. His head whipped backward and his body went slack.

  MacLeod pulled a woman holding a child onto his lap as she began to go down. He held them tightly as the train gradually slowed. Then it ground to a halt.

  Ambulances screamed in the rain as MacLeod held the mother and child. Surrounded by weeping and shouting, the woman murmured her thanks. MacLeod asked, “Kodomo wa ii desuka?” Is the child all right? The little girl was sobbing hysterically.

  “I don’t know!” the woman cried, examining her daughter. MacLeod assisted her, looking past the bruises and cuts for more serious injuries.

  Emergency crews boarded the train like assault forces. MacLeod stayed and helped until a man with a bleeding forehead looked at him, and said, “I saw your picture on television. This man has been missing,” he said to a paramedic who bent over him. “He’s missing.”

  “Yes, uncle,” the paramedic replied politely.

  “He is! He’s missing.”

  MacLeod saw that there was no more he could do here. Now, having been recognized, it was time to leave.

  He exited the train, looking over his shoulder. He had a feeling Machiavelli had successfully uploaded Woodrich’s demonic software.

  Machiavelli’s seizure of the global network was starting, and he was the only one who could stop it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “He who causes another to become powerful ruins himself, for he brings such power into being either by design or by force, and both of these elements are suspect to the one whom he has made powerful.”

  —Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

  The rain shot frozen needles into Samantha’s body as Ruffio half dragged and half flung her toward the abandoned Shinto shrine on the grounds of Machiavelli’s country villa. He had brought a kimono for her and forced her to wear it, and a traditional obi, or sash, which she’d learned to tie at a class at the New Otani Hotel years before. Machiavelli used to say she looked like a fabulous Kabuki lion in the Japanese traditional dress with her red hair flowing.

  In the distance, she heard the guttural cries of men practicing their kata in the dojo. She was certain that today, this uneventful, dull day for so many, she would die forever.

  He took her to the side stairs that led to the shrine. The statues of the gods were gone; the gilt lotuses and snails had weathered to nubs. Time was fleeting for all things in the universe, except Immortals. And at this moment, it appeared she had no time left at all.

  “Sammi-san,” a voice jittered out of the shadows. A handcuffed man in a suit was pushed forward. Her eyes widened. It was Ken Iwasawa. “They’re going to kill me.”

  “You?” she said in surprise.

  Two men appeared on either side of him. She didn’t know them, but they appeared to be yakuza.

  “My usefulness is over,” he said bitterly. “The American senator is dead, and my yakuza connections wish to replace me with someone who has ties to the new candidate, Jeffrey Thurman. Nick-san has what he wants from me. Thus I am more of a liability than an asset.”

  “Surely you can save yourself,” she said, for a moment more frightened for him than she was for herself. He was a brilliant businessman; he had much to offer Machiavelli.

  “I know too much,” he replied. “The senator had promised us many things, including the items we needed for various weapons illegal to possess in Japan.”

  “Nuclear weapons?” she asked, astonished.

  “Perhaps. But now he is dead.”

  One of the yakuza drew a gun and pointed it at Iwasawa’s chest. Iwasawa was aware of his action. He focused directly on Samantha, staring into her eyes, and was thrust backward as the bullet slammed into his body. Blood splattered across the temple walls.

  Stifling her scream, Samantha turned and retched.

  “You’re next, you American bitch,” Ruffio said.

  Mac was at another pay phone. After telling Dawson about the train crash, he said, “You told me Machiavelli was a chess champion in the nineteenth century. What name was he using?”

  “Staunton.”

  MacLeod sighed. “It’s familiar, but I can’t bring it in. Okay, transmit
my move. I’ll call again when I can.”

  Dawson cleared his throat. “Mac, I didn’t want to tell you this, but…”

  “What?” MacLeod tensed. It had to be bad news, the worst kind of news: that someone he loved had lost his or her head. Samantha …

  “A plane went down in the Atlantic. Navigational error’s being blamed on an onboard computer.”

  “Yes?” he snapped. “What, Joe?”

  “Mac, Richie was on the plane. He called from the airport to tell you he was racing in Amsterdam. You two were going to meet somewhere?”

  MacLeod was chilled. “For his birthday.”

  “Mac, he’ll survive.”

  Unless the gods were very vicious. Not Richie. He had lost so many friends.

  Not Richie.

  “Capturing messages,” MacLeod said. “Altering telemetry. He can do those things, Dawson. I’m leaving for the compound. I’ve run out of time.”

  “Mac, no. Play out the game.”

  “How many people is he going to kill to get to me?”

  “It might be kind of a clue to something. Knight to Queen Five.”

  MacLeod forced himself to think. “My chess is rusty, but it does sound familiar. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.” MacLeod hung up.

  He checked the rail schedule. There was a train due in ten minutes.

  Not Richie.

  Not Samantha.

  He decided to rent a car.

  Samantha’s kimono was askew, her hair disheveled. Her wrists were tied to the headboard of her bed, her ankles to the posts. Ruffio stood beside Machiavelli, leering.

  “Tell me now, Sammi Jo,” Machiavelli said. “What did Woodrich tell Duncan?”

  “I don’t know.” She was perspiring heavily. He had haunted her with agony today. “Ask Woodrich.”

  “Unfortunately, he died.” He slapped her. “What does Duncan know?”

  “I thought maybe he was working with you.”

  “Duncan MacLeod? Oh, that is rich! And a very bad lie.” He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. She grunted but otherwise showed no weakness.

  “I’m impressed, darling. I thought by now you’d be whimpering and sniveling. Umeko taught you well.” He whispered into her ear with deadly quiet, “Did you ever doubt I killed her?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you ever doubt I would have spies among your conspirators? Didn’t you find it interesting that my own Watcher wanted me dead?”

  Samantha opened her bloody mouth, but at that moment, Mari Iwasawa appeared on the threshold. She sauntered in and put her hands possessively on Machiavelli’s shoulders. Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek.

  “It took years to put everything in place.” she said. “Niccolo never dreamed you would turn against him. I was the one who doubted you. We set the trap for Umeko together, but I engineered the creation of the conspiracy.”

  “But… but he poisoned you with fugu,” Samantha said hoarsely. “You trusted him that much?”

  Mari laughed. “The pieces for Satoshi and me were fine. We needed room to work without your interference. It was fun to hear how rattled you were about my disappearance. But it sent you straight to MacLeod, as we had hoped.”

  “What did he promise you?” Samantha asked her.

  Machiavelli put his arm around Mari. “Some of them still believe I give them eternal life. Can you believe it? Just like when you overdosed on drugs, Sammi. Remember that?” He sighed theatrically. “But this is another time. Mari is more like another woman I used to know. Maria Angelina. She wanted riches, and power.” He beamed at Mari. “And me, as a lover.”

  Mari kissed Machiavelli’s temple. “Hit her again. Hard.”

  “All right, my darling.”

  He reached around, yanked Mari forward, and thrust a stiletto into her chest. Blood gushed from the wound.

  “What… what…?” Mari said, gasping.

  “You stupid cow.” Machiavelli pushed her to the floor. She grabbed his ankle.

  “Nick…”

  “This time you’ll die, cara. So sorry.”

  “But you love me,” she gasped.

  “Do you really think you thought of anything? That you came to me first? Who do you think got you assigned to Umeko? How could you be so naive as to believe I would work with your brother unless I had control of you both? And as for dreaming up the conspiracy, cast your mind back, Mari. I gave you that idea. You’re just too stupid to remember it.” He gave her a savage kick.

  “If you had loved me, perhaps I wouldn’t have done this. But you didn’t. You only wanted something from me. As everyone has, all through time.”

  It took a few minutes for her to die. Samantha heard the death rattle, the last exhalation. She closed her eyes.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for her, Sammi Jo. The intensity of her hatred of you astonished me.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to tell if someone did love you,” she said. “I loved you, once.”

  He sneered at her. “You? The sad little orphan? You had no love to offer me. You’re incapable of it.” He must have seen that he had hit a nerve, for he pressed on. “You only needed me. And when that lesbian convinced you otherwise, you tried to kill me. Is that love?”

  “Nicky,” she said, looking at him. “I found much to admire in you. Your brilliance, your charm.”

  “Stop!” he shouted, raising his hand. He froze. His hand was shaking. “Stop! I will not have your lies.”

  “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?” she flung at him. “That someone will love you? That it will soften you?”

  “Afraid?” Though he laughed, his voice quavered. “Ask Taro if I was ever afraid. Ask Satoshi. Ask Aaron. Remember how he asked you if you actually saw Satoshi die? He told me later he had to fight not to laugh in your face.”

  Her eyes widened with shock as she realized he was telling her how many had betrayed her. How stupid could she have been?

  “Don’t worry about Taro, belissima. MacLeod killed him. And once they’ve served their purpose, the rest of them will die as well.”

  Ruffio leaned his head into the room. “Another chess move came in on your computer, maestro.”

  “Good. MacLeod’s still alive. Keep an eye on her.” He stood and passed Ruffio on the way out. “Don’t go anywhere, cara.” To Ruffio, who was pulling out his sword, he added, “Don’t do anything permanent. I want that pleasure.”

  A stream flowed across a dip in the private drive to Machiavelli’s compound. It was too deep to cross in the sedan MacLeod had rented; the water would flood the tailpipe and kill the engine.

  MacLeod inspected the stream for a shallows, even a hydraulic bridge, reminding himself that this was not the time of his birth, when warlords had fortified their keeps with moats. As he walked along the bank, he recalled his entry into Venice. Carnival and stinking canal water. This water stank, as well.

  Well, there was nothing for it.

  He took off his duster and his boots, rolled up his jeans, and forded the stream. The water reached to his kneecaps. He thought of bear traps and land mines and other things that could be hidden underwater. He thought of train crashes and ruined economies, and Richie downed in a plane crash.

  He would not let himself think of Samantha.

  He thought of all the other things Machiavelli could do. They would have to be subtle and untraceable. That meant that everyone who might know would have to die. Woodrich, Joe, Iwasawa, Samantha, all his Immortals. MacLeod himself.

  Was that the purpose of this whole mad scheme? An elaborate challenge? It was so pointless.

  He finished crossing the stream, put his boots back on, and rolled down his jeans. He hadn’t sufficiently rested; he was in no shape for battle. His warrior’s heart, forever young and vital, insisted that he was ready; his mind, now very old and seasoned, knew he could be in trouble.

  Samantha’s face loomed in his mind.

  He moved into a grove of bamboo and rested a moment, concer
ned at how tired he was. He hadn’t realized it.

  He began to step forward, but something made him pause. Dropping to a crouch, he saw two thin posts set approximately two feet from each other, two more spaced the same distance. It was a motion detection system. The entire perimeter must be monitored.

  He examined the posts. Unless Machiavelli had angled the beams, they appeared to cover an area about six feet in height.

  Again he removed his boots, held them in his mouth, and shinnied up the nearest stem of bamboo. He flung the boots down first, thinking again of traps and mines, the evils of the forest Cambodia had taught him.

  When nothing happened, he followed after.

  He proceeded to the next set of posts.

  He climbed another piece of bamboo.

  He dropped to his knees.

  He was tiring.

  It was almost a relief when Machiavelli’s voice echoed on a public address system over the grounds:

  “Duncan! Caro mio! Welcome.”

  Two men dressed in black ninja garb approached with submachine guns in their grips. Two more followed them. MacLeod turned and ran into the path of the beam. A shock wave shot through him; he shook violently, and fell to the ground.

  The ninjas surrounded him. He pushed the barrel of one of the weapons aside and got to his feet.

  Without speaking, they all began to march deeper into the grove.

  Was this her second death?

  In her bedroom, Samantha felt her old self wither as Ruffio pawed and tormented her. Fury had almost completely obliterated her terror. Goddamn him, God damn him and every single person she had allowed to hurt and victimize her. Starting with her mother and all her men, and Dale, and the worst offender of them all, Machiavelli. It was her fault that she had let him cajole and bully her, but she would not waste her anger on herself.

  Changing, seething, transforming, building, it would be frightening if she let it be so, but she took all the emotion, all the energy, and used it for the strength that this rebirth required.