There was another possibility. The helicopter could have been stolen and repainted. The only reason the stencil was left on the bottom of the skid was because no one would see it. That made sense to Bolan, except for one thing, the thing that had nagged him from the start — the only people he had mentioned Fujikyu to were Junko and Hashi-san.
He used the shadows and the alleyways to work his way back to the "safe" house. The first thing he was going to do was gather the few belongings he had picked up since staying there, then quickly find another place to stay. After that it would be time to have a talk with his benefactor, preferably in a controlled situation. It was all up for grabs now. He had trusted and been used in return. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
And through it all one small thought kept filtering into his mind. Hashi-san could have killed him or had him killed a dozen times in the course of the past several days. Hell, he could have left him in Ichiro's jail. But he hadn't. He had freed him instead and treated him like a son. Why?
He walked through the muddy streets of his neighborhood, turning the corner that led to his house. He took no more than five paces before the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Everything looked normal, placid, but something wasn't right. He turned to run, but three punks in black leather jumped out of the bushes to block his way with their shotguns. He heard them then, all around him.
He turned in a slow circle. Shotguns were pointed at him from windows and doorways, from behind trees and shrubs. They were everywhere. His house was "safe" because it was located in a neighborhood of Sonnojoi.
He stood with his arms up. The kanji dictionary lay forgotten in the mud at his feet. His front door opened, and Dr. Mett slowly walked out. The man wore a white suit, and galoshes covered his shoes because of the mud.
Mett walked down the short entry path and stood by the street, his face, as usual, showing no emotion. He and Bolan shared a look. The Executioner's mind desperately searched for a way out, but he knew there was none.
Dr. Mett pulled a pistol out of his jacket. It looked like a gas-powered sports pistol. He raised it slowly, aiming high. "Goodbye, Mr. Bolan," he said and pulled the trigger.
Bolan heard the sound, felt the flare of pain in his head. Then he whirled steadily downward into the calmest, blackest night.
13
"I see no reason why we should have to remain sealed off like this," Colonel Murdock said as he and Jamison sat at the bar in the Officers' Club. "It was an isolated incident. I just can't believe it could be tied to anything larger."
"Drink up, Charlie," Jamison said, patting the acting base commander on the back. "Think about it. There was violence at Tachi last night. Troubles are escalating. This man they call the Executioner has been involved in terrorist activities all over the world. Don't tell me the incident is isolated."
"I don't know," Murdock said, finishing his third Scotch and water of the day. "At the Pentagon they told me to use my own discretion until the investigating team arrives. I just don't see..."
"Listen," Jamison said. "Security is my job, right? Why don't you just let me do what I'm an expert at? That's what I get paid for." He motioned toward the bartender. "Another Scotch here."
Murdock put a hand over his glass. "I think I've had enough."
"Ah, come on, Charlie," Jamison said, smiling. "You've got Wentworth's job now. You've got to learn to drink like him."
"All right." The man sighed. "Just one more."
"That's the ticket. You've got enough on your mind just running the base. You let me take care of all the details on this assassination thing, and it'll all be over before we know it."
Murdock nodded, his eyes half closed. "Thanks, Hank. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."
Jamison heard the front door open and saw O'Brian poking his head in, trying to adjust his eyes to the low lighting.
"One of my men," Jamison said, pointing toward the door. "Duty calls."
Murdock nodded. "Thanks for the talk, Hank," he said.
Jamison patted his back again. "You just leave all the worrying to me."
"With pleasure. I never wanted this job to begin with, and I like it less with each passing minute."
Jamison threw a twenty on the bar to cover the tab, then walked to the front door, moving out with O'Brian.
"Any problems with Murdock?" O'Brian asked as they walked out into the rain.
Jamison shook his head. "He's a candy ass. I think he'd rather eat Drano than make a decision. Come on. Drive me over to the flight line."
They climbed into O'Brian's jeep. "They found Jeffries a little while ago," the sergeant said, putting the jeep into gear and taking off.
"And?"
"He and the others were at the bottom of a mountain — dead."
"Damn!" Jamison pounded the door panel with his fist. He sat quietly for a minute. "I'm not happy with this, O'Brian. I'm not happy with .you."
O'Brian turned to stare at him, his face drained of color. "The guy's froze out. There's no way he can..."
"There had better not be," Jamison said quietly.
They pulled up to the flight line and stopped, and Jamison climbed out to stand beside the vehicle. In the distance two huge planes were being loaded with legitimate equipment.
"All I want is eight hours. In eight hours we'll be out of here and gone with the goods. Then I don't care what the son of a bitch does."
"Eight hours, no sweat," O'Brian said, smiling at Jamison. But the man refused to return his look.
* * *
Lieutenant Kendo Ichiro moved into the squad room with a load of books under his arm. His face was drained and puffy from lack of sleep, his hair obviously uncombed. He dropped the books on his desk and stared at Yukio Natsume, who sat slowly eating a bowl of ramen. His chopsticks worked methodically, his eyes were nearly closed.
"Your wife called," Natsume said. "Fifteen times."
"Never mind that," Ichiro said, picking up a large volume and carrying it to the man's desk. "Look at this."
He opened the book to a two-page spread of a blueprint for a huge underground complex of hangars and barracks. "Chikatetsu," he said, pointing to the blueprints.
Natsume set his bowl down and opened his eyes wide. "I'd forgotten," he said. "It's been so many years."
Ichiro turned the page of the history book, a plethora of still photographs filling the facing pages. "During the war we fought successfully in tunnels on South Pacific islands against the U.S. Navy. When it became obvious that we were losing the war and would soon be fighting on our own soil, our generals concocted a bold plan," he recounted.
Natsume nodded, wiping his mouth on a napkin. "I should have remembered this," he said. "I was around then. They began constructing a series of tunnels between Yokota and Tachikowa. The idea was that we could house our Air Force and our troops down there and make them immune to American bombers, which were at that time causing a great deal of havoc."
"Right," Ichiro said. "It would probably have been successful, except that Hiroshima was bombed, then Nagasaki, and the war was over within a week. The tunnels were never completed. When the U.S. government took possession of the bases, they simply ordered the tunnels sealed because of a large number of booby traps blocking the entrances. They intended to go back in and clean out the tunnels, but soon enough they were forgotten and have remained unexplored until this day."
Natsume bent and looked closely at the old black-and-white photos in the book. The tunnels were mammoth. There were large hangars containing many squadrons of Zeroes, stored wing-to-wing. There were armories and mess halls and large barracks. "A whole army could live down there," he said.
"I think they do," Ichiro replied. "I believe that, whatever Operation Snowflake is, it has its roots right here, in chikatetsu, with whomever controls these tunnels."
Natsume sat back, smiling. "Then I, perhaps, have some information that might prove useful to you," he said.
Ichiro stared at him. The telephone rang, and Na
tsume reached for it.
"Tell her I'm not here," Ichiro said.
Natsume picked up the phone. "Hello," he said. "Yes, Mika... No, not yet. I expect him very soon... I will. Yes, goodbye."
He hung up. "Are you in for it," he said.
"What news do you have for me?" Ichiro asked.
"I checked into those properties between the bases," Natsume replied. "All of them have various owners that always turn out to be corporations owned by holding companies owned by someone else. When everything is boiled down, every piece of land, every building, every business is owned the same man — Inazo Hashimoto."
Ichiro ran both hands through his tangled hair. "Tell me you're only joking," he said.
Natsume shook his head. "The grand old man of Japanese industrialism, one of the most beloved figures in our society, the one human being given the most credit for dragging us back to self-sufficiency after the war. Inazo Hashimoto is your quarry. Are you going to bust him, Kendo?"
"If he's guilty, yes," Ichiro replied.
Natsume laughed loudly. "Are you ever going to get it," he repeated.
"There's something else," Ichiro said.
"I know," Natsume replied. "Our boss, your dear friend, Commissioner Kawabata, is Hashi-san's nephew."
Ichiro moved slowly to his desk, sinking hard into his creaking chair. He picked up the phone and dialed his home number. Mika suddenly seemed like the lesser of several evils.
* * *
Mack Bolan walked through thick fog. He felt as if he was hurrying to do something but couldn't quite remember what it was. He walked for what seemed like years. And then he heard sounds like voices and followed the sounds, their tones becoming clearer, more well-defined.
"I think he's coming around now," was the one thing that made sense to him. He became aware of his own body, of the incredible dryness of his mouth.
He woke up choking out a single word. "Water."
He opened his eyes to bright light, like the spotlights at the club he had visited. He turned his head against the glare.
"Welcome back," came Dr. Mett's damnably cordial voice.
"Water," Bolan rasped again, and someone squirted water from a plastic container into his mouth. It was enough to loosen his tongue. It was then that he became aware that he was tied to the chair upon which he was sitting.
"You are not an easy man to talk to," Mett said and nodded when Bolan was able to focus his eyes. "We added Pentothal to the tranquilizer dart I shot you with, but the best I could get from you was a string of obscenities."
"I keep my emotions locked in," Bolan said, a headache pounding hard behind his left eye. "Why didn't you just ask me if you had a question?"
"My dear man," Mett replied. "We're both men of the world. Is it necessary for us to play these games."
"You're the one who's tied me up, remember?"
"So I have," Mett said. "You see, I'm not quite as trusting as Hashi-san. He sees you as the Bushido warrior who has, at last, found a master. I see you as something quite else again. My men and I have decided to do Hashi-san a favor by discovering your true colors."
People were walking in and out of the light that surrounded Bolan. Sonnojoi. He was sure that Mett had brought him to the same place they had launched the attack from the night before last.
"Well, you're wrong," Bolan said.
Mett shrugged. "That is, perhaps, true. It's simply a chance I don't want to take. If I kill you right now, wrong or right, my problems are solved," he said.
"What problems are those?" Bolan asked, blinking his eyes against the pain in his head as he tried to drag himself back to full consciousness.
"My first problem," Mett began, "has to do with where your loyalty lies. My second problem is more of a... personal one."
"I get it," Bolan said. "You're jealous."
Mett put his hands out in front of him. "An apt word, but not exactly true. Let's just say I have invested time and money with Hashi-san, and I'd hate to lose it over a second-rate hired gun like you."
"Great," Bolan said. "He's all yours. Just untie me and I'll be on my way."
"Your choices are not quite as broad as that," Mett said and pulled a chair up in front of Bolan. He sat down and crossed his legs. "I'm going to kill you in a little while, but I'll be reasonable enough to let you die an easy death if you agree to help me."
"Help you how?"
Mett put a finger to his lips, eyes intent. "How can I put this?" he asked, thinking. "All right. You were getting awfully close to Hashi-san and would have squeezed me out first chance you had. So, to preserve my place in the scheme of things, I'll have to kill you, which will undoubtedly anger my employer, who loves you so dearly. But if I can come to him with information that would show you in a bad light, he will forget how angry he is at me and perhaps even offer me the position he had intended for you."
"The Sonnojoi work for Hashi-san?" Bolan asked.
"Yes."
"And the security force from the other night?"
"Yes. They are quite interchangeable."
"Why?"
"Honor, Mr. Bolan. The Bushido code, loyalty to the master."
"I don't understand."
Mett stood up. "It isn't my job to explain things to you. In fact, I want you to answer some questions for me."
"What about the hydrogen bombs?"
Mett sighed audibly. "He's sending them to America with the Air Force. Now it's my turn. How much of Hashi-san's operation has gone beyond you? Who else have you told?"
"You're the man who said let's stop playing games," Bolan said. "Why should I tell you anything? What's to stop me from lying to you?"
"Ah," Mett said, brightening. "I've brought you a little present that should generate some small amount of nostalgia."
He spoke in Japanese to two of the Sonnojoi who brought in a machine. "Do you recognize it?" he asked.
"It's a field telephone," Bolan said.
"I learned about these in Vietnam," Mett said. "The absolute best and quickest way to get information out of someone. I'll show you what I'm going to do."
He pulled out the two lead wires from the machine. They had been stripped, and the copper filament gleamed. He motioned for one of his men to come in and take the wires. The man stuck the exposed wires into Bolan's mouth, then clamped his jaw tightly on them.
"Now for the fun." Mett began vigorously turning an exposed crank. "These honeys can really put out the volts if you take the time to do it right."
Bolan stared at the man. He was doing it right. He'd known that field phones had been used for torturing prisoners, but he'd never seen it himself. The man continued cranking, beads of sweat popping out on his smooth face.
"That will take it out of you. Now we flip the switch..."
White light exploded in Bolan's head, the incredible pain tearing him apart from the inside. He was burning with pulsing fire. Somewhere in the background he could feel that his body had stiffened and was jerking madly in the chair, but it was a pleasant, distant dream in comparison to the hell in his head, the never-ending agony.
All at once the pulsing stopped, the source of the pain was removed, leaving behind numbness and a prickliness. It was as if a thousand pins had been stuck in various places in his head and body. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't remember or understand anything, only the pain.
His mind and body came back gradually, painfully.
"Mr. Bolan," Mett said as Bolan was finally able to understand speech. "The next one will be worse. If I kill you with this, so be it."
Bolan's eyes were blurry. He shook his head as he tried to focus on Mett. His body was still vibrating slightly. He felt totally drained of energy, his body limp and wrung out. He wanted to say something but found himself unable to talk.
"Well," Mett said, "it appears that your jaw has locked. Let me help you."
The man got up out of his chair and viciously slugged Bolan in the jaw. The Executioner crashed to the floor, chair and all.
Two Sonnojoi hurried into the light and set Bolan upright again. The Executioner noticed that his seizure following the last dose of electricity had loosened his bonds somewhat. And the chair itself, after being knocked around, had weakened.
Mett sat down in front of him again, grinning wide. The man was having the time of his life. "Now is that better?" he asked.
Mack Bolan thought about loyalty, the loyalty of the Bushido warrior. He had one chance and he took it. "How much are you paying these ronin to betray their master?" Bolan said loudly. "I'm Hashi-san's favorite. To kill me will kill him!"
"Stop!" Mett said, slapping Bolan's face repeatedly.
"Why does he silence me?" Bolan yelled. "He knows you're doing wrong. He fears the tru..."
Mett punched him, knocking him down again. Bolan's head hit the floor hard, nearly knocking him unconscious. He grimaced through the pain as Mett talked loudly in Japanese.
They set his chair upright. Bolan hoped that at least some of the Sonnojoi had understood Hashi-san's "language of business" and were translating into Japanese for the others.
Mett's face was dark and intent as he reached out and grabbed Bolan's arms. "My men know that what we are doing is the best thing for Hashi-san," he said. "Now, you will answer my questions..."
"You betray your master!" Bolan screamed.
"Damn you!" Mett rasped through clenched teeth. He grabbed the lead wires and tried to shove them back in Bolan's mouth, but the Executioner kept turning his face away.
"Traitors!" Bolan screamed. "Traitors!"
Mett finally laid the wires against Bolan's throat and hit the switch. The words froze in the Executioner's mouth as the charge slammed him back against the chair. His body vibrated in uncontrollable spasms.
He tried to hold his mind together, but white fire seared his brain, and his thoughts became oblivious as pain took over the sum total of his reality. And through it all he could smell his own charring flesh.
Code of Dishonor Page 14