Toi told himself that he was equal to the task, and wondered whether that were true.
The pilot and mechanic were not sleeping in the office leased by Oatari Enterprises. They were playing Gomuku, an abstract game of strategy employing black and white stones on a board with 361 squares, each trying to outwit the other and present an unbroken row of five stones horizontally, vertically or diagonally. Both looked up from the board as Toi entered, trailing his small retinue.
He spoke before they had a chance to question him. “Do either of you recognize me?”
Both were on their feet now, bowing. “Hai, Toi-san,” one of them said. “How may we serve you?”
“There is an emergency,” Toi answered, following the script he had rehearsed. “My father needs the helicopters. Are they ready?”
“Which helicopter, sir?” The man was still deferential, but confused.
“All three,” Toi said. “As I explained, it’s an emergency.”
“Yes, sir. But we need more pilots.”
“My companions will be handling the machines. Begin your preflight preparations.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“It’s nothing, sir,” the mechanic replied, his eyes downcast. “I thought I knew all of your father’s pilots.”
“You were wrong.”
“I apologize, sir.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Toi said, magnanimously. “You were simply being conscientious. I will tell my father how you guard his property. Now, get to work.”
* * *
Ikebukuro, Tokyo
“MOST OF MY fellow officers don’t realize this place belongs to Kazuo Takumi,” Kenichi Kayo said. “They think the Kyokuto-kai own all of Ikebukuro, as in times past.”
“What changed it?” Bolan asked.
“Some years ago, Kyokuto-kai were feuding with the Matsuba-kai from Asakusa, outnumbered with two thousand soldiers against their twelve hundred. The Sumiyoshi-kai offered assistance, in return for certain concessions, and the alliance was victorious.”
“That sounds familiar,” Bolan said.
They were parked in Bolan’s Honda Stream, a half block south of what appeared to be a stylish sushi restaurant. According to Kayo, the establishment was fishy in another way, fronting for Sumiyoshi-kai loan sharks who preyed on working men and women of the district, holding them in thrall while interest on their initial debts piled up beyond hope of repayment.
That cut close to home with Bolan, who had lost his family to Massachusetts loan sharks at the start of his long war against the Mafia. He wasn’t grieving, wasn’t angry anymore about that bitter loss, but he would never pass a chance to kill leeches feasting on the innocent.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s do it—if you’re serious.”
Kayo checked his .38, returned it to his holster, frowning at the Milkor MGL in Bolan’s lap. “I’m serious. And so are you, apparently.”
“I’m loading smoke and buckshot, no HE,” Bolan replied. “We won’t be bringing down the house on anyone who came for dinner.”
“No, what you call it, collateral damage?”
“Not if I can help it.”
With a nod, the lieutenant stepped out of the car. Bolan, on his side, tucked the MGL under a lightweight raincoat, pressing it against his side. The 40 mm weapon weighed twelve pounds and measured less than two feet with its stock folded. A steady hand could empty its 6-round swing-out cylinder in two seconds flat if the need should arise, wreaking havoc on targets with any munitions the shooter elected to load.
“I feel like your John Dillinger,” Kayo said.
“That was before my time,” Bolan reminded him.
“A stickup, yes? Reach for the sky!”
Now he was sounding like the James gang. “Just relax and take it easy,” Bolan said. “The less confusion going in, before we meet the manager, the less chance you’ll be seeing any of your colleagues when we leave.”
“That would be terribly embarrassing,” Kayo said, but he was smiling as he spoke. “I fear my reputation would be tarnished.”
“Or you could be dead. It’s time to focus and remember this isn’t a game.”
Kayo lost his smile as they drew closer to the restaurant. Its name was Sea Breeze. “You may trust me when I say that I am absolutely serious. What have I got to lose?”
Bolan considered mentioning his life, but let it go. Kayo might be frustrated, pissed off or even desperate. He wasn’t stupid.
At the door, a hostess greeted them. The lieutenant spoke to her in Japanese and showed his badge, discreetly, shielding it from nearby diners at their tiny tables. No one seemed to notice, all of them engrossed in sucking down raw fish.
The hostess nodded and escorted them beyond the kitchen to a closed door where she knocked, announced the visitors and waited for an answer from within. When it came, Kayo sent her on her way and led Bolan into the office, where a gray-haired man with sunken cheeks sat watching them across a desk.
Bolan raised the Milkor, held it steady in both hands, its muzzle gaping at the startled manager. Addressing him, Kayo switched to English. “We are here for the collection.”
“And who are you?”
Kayo nodded toward the 40 mm launcher. “Does it matter?”
“Not to me,” Gray Hair replied. “But the owner will not be amused.”
“Tell him his turn is coming,” Bolan interjected. “Now, the money.”
“As you wish.”
The safe was buried in concrete, behind the desk. Bolan covered the manager with buckshot in the Milkor’s chamber, twenty pellets, each tipping the scale at close to half an ounce. Call it three-quarters of a pound of lead, with little chance to spread before it ripped through Gray Hair’s slender body.
But he played it straight, came out with cash and nothing else, removed a satchel from beneath his desk and quickly filled it. “That is all I have,” he said.
“Remember what I said, the message for your boss,” Bolan said.
“I assure you, gaijin, he will get the message.” Gray Hair smiled as he spoke.
Kayo moved like lighting, whipping out a flexible baton and slashing it across the man’s face, dropping him without a sound.
“A little lead time, yes?” he said, and started for the door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tsukiji, Tokyo
Tell him his turn is coming.
Kazuo Takumi played the gaijin’s crude threat over in his mind, imagining the voice as heard by his subordinate from Sea Breeze. It had been difficult to understand the man at first, when he had phoned. A shattered nose could do that, making conversation almost comical at times, laggard and frustrating at others.
But the message had been clear enough. So had the theft of some four million yen, the rough equivalent of forty thousand US dollars. That was an affront to Kazuo Takumi, a mere mosquito bite in terms of cash, but a deliberate assault upon his dignity, demanding retribution.
There had been no mention of the Inagawa-kai this time, a puzzle that Takumi had to solve before he could proceed to find and crush his enemy. The other puzzle was a gaijin working with a man his Sea Breeze manager had described as native Japanese, with the demeanor of a cop.
That was strange—not that a cop would steal, since some were no better than thugs themselves—but the cooperation across racial lines, a homegrown Japanese collaborating with a foreigner to strike against the Sumiyoshi-kai. What could he hope to gain from that? Could he be crazed enough to think four million yen would make him safe against Kazuo Takumi’s vengeance?
No. Something else was happening, and once he grasped the measure of it, Takumi would know precisely where to strike, whom to eliminate. But first, he had to scratch the nagging itch that had been plaguing him since the assault by sniper fire on Kazoku Investments. He must satisfy himself, in fact, that this was not a hostile overture by rivals in the Yakuza.
After he drank a second cup of sake to compose himself, Takumi di
aled a number one of the policemen he employed had given him. He rarely had occasion to communicate with Onoue Horie, godfather of the Inagawa-kai. They saw each other now and then, no more than once or twice a year at formal gatherings, but otherwise maintained no contact.
This was different.
The phone rang twice before a soft voice said, “Kazuo, you honor me.”
“The honor is entirely mine, Onoue,” he answered, finishing the dance.
“I hope you will accept my most sincere condolences for all your recent difficulties,” Horie said.
Of course, he would be keeping track. Whenever one godfather suffered injury, the others celebrated, seeking ways to profit from the misfortune of their rivals. The polite facade meant nothing, and to penetrate it, Takumi knew he had to be direct.
“Thank you,” he replied. “You are aware, I take it, of the shooting at Kazoku Investments?”
“Shocking,” Horie said. “Deplorable. At least one of your men survived.”
“And brought a message to me, from the sniper.”
“Oh?” Horie was feigning ignorance, Takumi thought. The Inagawa-kai had law enforcement agents on its payroll, just as he did, feeding Horie any news they thought might interest him and earn a bonus for their efforts.
“The caller offered greetings from your family,” Kazuo said, and listened as the silent seconds passed.
“Did he, indeed?” Horie inquired at last. Kazuo thought his evident surprise was genuine, but every oyabun held faces in reserve. “That is…peculiar.”
“And distressing, as you may imagine.”
“If you thought my family might be involved somehow.”
“It was the implication.”
“You recall our treaty, do you not, Takumi-san?”
He was referring to the peace agreement that had settled the last feud between Kazuo Takumi’s family and Horie’s. Nineteen men had died, three others vanishing without a trace, before the godfathers had sat down and drew lines on a map of Tokyo, delineating territories for their rival gambling operations. That had been six years ago, the start of an uneasy peace.
“My memory has not deserted me,” Takumi said.
“I am relieved to hear it. Why would I betray our confidence?”
The thief was asking why he might decide to steal. It almost made Takumi smile.
“I felt obliged to mention it. No doubt, you understand.”
“As I would, if the circumstances were reversed. You have my solemn word that none of this unpleasantness began with me.”
His solemn word, whatever that was worth. Takumi frowned, considered it. Before he could respond, Horie added, “I hesitate to ask, but have you given thought to treachery at home, within your family?”
Takumi did not take offense. Most murdered godfathers were slain by their lieutenants. “If that were true,” he said, “they would have come for me directly.”
“Perhaps. But I was thinking of your blood, not the extended family.”
That shocked Takumi into silence. What was Horie saying?
“You are probably aware of Toi’s involvement with the Saikosai Raito. I personally do not trust the new, unorthodox religions. They demand too much, in my opinion, and subvert the order of our lives.”
“If you know something…”
“Only rumors,” Horie said, “which are available from any gossip on the street. This so-called prophet treasures his connections to the high and mighty, once removed. But is he simply living well at their expense? Or does he have something more sinister in mind?”
“I shall consider what you’ve said, Onoue, and take your words to heart. Your promise, above all.”
“Sincerely made,” Horie replied. “Good night, my friend.”
Cutting off the call, Takumi tried Kato Ando again and got his voice mail.
Where was he? Where was Toi?
Exactly what in hell was happening?
* * *
Ebisu, Tokyo
“HOW SHALL WE spend the four million yen?” Kayo asked.
“You keep it,” Bolan answered. “Put it in your retirement fund.”
“Am I retiring?”
Bolan shrugged. “I don’t tell fortunes, but you sounded like you’re giving up on the police department.”
“I have not decided yet. Perhaps they shall make the decision for me.”
“Maybe so.”
Ebisu, one stop from Shibuya on the JR Yamanote Line, had only come into its own over the past two decades, with construction of Yebisu Garden Place, a stylish and expensive planned community, including concert halls and two museums, and a five-star Westin Hotel. Dozens of bars, boutiques and restaurants lined the Yebisu Skywalk’s covered moving walkway, and the neighborhood catered to other clientele, as well.
“Where is this place?” Bolan asked, prowling in the Honda Stream.
“Two blocks, then turn right on Meiji Dori. It’s next door to the Hotel Siesta.”
“Seriously?”
“We are very international in Tokyo,” Kenichi said.
Bolan drove on and made the turn, spotting his target on the right. It was another nightclub, this one said to house a large casino, banned by law, beneath its main showroom. He found a place to park and reached back for the Milkor MGL, slipping it underneath his raincoat as he exited the car.
They spent Takumi’s money on the cover charge and went inside. Kayo whispered something to the young hostess who greeted them, chuckled at her response, then followed her with Bolan on his heels, skirting the showroom where an all-girl group was singing on a blue-lit stage.
The hostess led them to an elevator guarded by two gunmen whose suits were straining at the seams, stretched to the limit by their girth and hidden weapons. More discussion Bolan didn’t understand, before one of the watchdogs made a gesture indicating both of them should raise their arms for frisking.
In a flash, Kayo had the muzzle of his .38 jammed under one gunner’s chin, while Bolan pressed the Milkor into number two’s expansive stomach. If he had to fire at that range, they’d be cleaning Yakuza out of their hair for days.
The guards delayed just long enough to show how tough they were, then called the elevator car and got in first, both of them wedged together under Bolan’s 40 mm eye, letting Kayo punch the buttons.
When the door opened again, the sounds and smell of a casino greeted them. The place had slots, roulette, card tables, craps, a fair variety of games. Small for Vegas or Atlantic City, but for Tokyo, it was a good-sized carpet joint. Business was booming, young and old alike packed in together, all hoping to beat house odds.
“Where are the stairs?” he asked Kayo.
The lieutenant passed his question to the Yakuzas. One of them answered grudgingly. “The southwest corner,” Kayo stated.
Better. Bolan didn’t plan on being trapped below ground if the elevator was denied to them.
“Okay. Get out,” he told the hardmen.
They understood him well enough to leave the elevator car, but one of them misjudged him, going for a gun as soon as they were clear. The Milkor belched its buckshot storm and both of them went down, leaving wet red tendrils on the nearest wall.
That spectacle set players screaming, scrambling for their lives. The next three 40 mm rounds were smoke, and Bolan triggered them in rapid fire, his launcher angled toward the far wall, laying down a fog bank as the canisters exploded. Chaos turned to pandemonium, gamblers colliding with one another, stumbling, reeling, some lunging for chips in a frenetic bid to profit from the moment.
Bolan scanned the room and saw two shooters moving toward them, both already holding pistols. “Here we go,” he warned Kayo.
“Ready,” the lieutenant said, his .38 steady in a two-handed grip.
And he was smiling as he squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Asahi Sutorito, Minato
COLONEL FULIAN SUN listened to the police scanner, mentally translating its broadcasts from Japanese to Cantonese. He spoke nin
e languages and had no difficulty understanding from the urgent messages he heard that hell had broken loose in Tokyo.
Unfortunately, it was not the hell he’d planned.
Not yet.
China and Japan had been at odds—and often at war—since the nineteenth century. Old wounds were not forgotten or forgiven in Beijing, nor were the modern insults suffered when Japan chose to support America in criticizing China’s moves against Taiwan in 2005. Much talk of “ice-breaking” and “ice-melting” had produced a Treaty of Peace and Friendship between the two nations in 2008, threatened two years later by a naval incident near the disputed Senkaku Islands and severe cutbacks in Chinese exports of rare earth metals to Japan.
China’s Ministry of State Security engaged in spying on Japan, of course, through traditional channels and with the aid of hackers such as the “Luckycat” group, inserting Trojan viruses into emails reporting details of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant meltdown, but Colonel Sun’s plan was the most ambitious of all.
He had seen through the heart of corruption in Japan, recognized the government’s collusion with corporate and criminal elements that were often indistinguishable, and had devised a scheme to shame the nation that had victimized his own so often throughout history. His plan was relatively simple: take a homegrown cult—or, in this case, create one—and equip it for a major terrorist attack in Tokyo. Aside from loss of life, the panic and resulting loss of confidence in government, dissection of the plot would lead directly to Japan’s second most powerful Yakuza family, exposing its long-term relationship with politicians, business moguls, judges and police. The scandal might drag on for years, while China sat behind a Great Wall of deniability.
The plan seemed perfect, until unknown players chose the moment of fruition to ignite a war against the Sumiyoshi-kai in the United States and Tokyo. Colonel Sun did not regret the deaths or tabloid headlines screaming for investigation of the Yakuza. All that might ultimately work to his advantage. What he hated was the sense that he had lost control, that all his hard work might be slipping through his fingers now, when supervision of his chessmen on the board was paramount.
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