The Spy Across the Table

by Barry Lancet

  “Something is missing from your story,” I said. “Why not just kidnap the Tanaka daughter without killing the mother?”

  “Because the girl was receiving treatment for depression at an undisclosed location.”

  “So?”

  “Killing the mother flushed out the daughter.”

  “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  Zhou spread his hands. “Extreme is a willingness to go as far as it takes. These guys have it.”

  I considered the boldness of the kidnapping and found the statement hard to refute. “So the niece you mentioned when we were in San Francisco was a lie?”

  He shrugged. “She was the official reason for my presence, and my little tale turned out to be close to the truth. Just substitute Anna Tanaka for the niece and you have the real story. Your turn.”

  “Does the niece even exist?”

  “A distant relative who’s in the play. Your turn.”

  I fell back in my chair and stared at my dinner companion. I’d caught him in a lie and yet he expected an answer.

  With casual disregard, he popped the last oyster in his mouth.

  I gazed at the master spy for a long moment. What if the new explanation was also a lie? Only my wife and child will be sad. And perhaps you and Tommy. In the paranoid world in which he operated, Zhou had extended an olive branch when he opened up about his fear. On the other hand, his revised story was a tainted offering. Giving him what he wanted was risky. But sometimes you had to jump the chasm. Time was short. I gave him Noda’s find.

  His reaction was immediate—and as startling as Noda’s original information.

  The master spy sat up straighter. Something at the back of his eyes rippled in understanding. I asked him if the tattoo meant anything to him. He said no.

  “What is it, then?” I said.

  “I am not sure.”

  “What are you unsure of?”

  Rising, Zhou shook his head. “I need to check my sources.”

  He dropped a handful of bills on the table and shot past me, past his minders, and out the door.

  So much for sharing. I’d risked and lost.

  Or, as Noda put it soon after, “Suzume no nami da.”

  Zhou had left me only a sparrow’s tear.

  CHAPTER 35

  11:30 P.M.

  I FOUND myself gnashing my teeth in frustration as I stepped out into the warm May evening. Spooksville was not a place I cared to frequent, but events seemed determined to drag me there.

  When I filled Noda in on my last moments with Zhou, the crusty chief detective ran the “sparrow’s tear” slight up the flagpole and I couldn’t argue. I’d given the spy gold and received a pittance in return.

  But Zhou’s reaction allowed me to connect some dots.

  When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 and their last morsels of monetary sustenance for North Korea dried up, the satellite rogue nation began to flounder. Over time, China slipped into the role of senior ally, then found itself playing the exasperated foster parent to an ungrateful enfant terrible.

  The North walked hand in hand with no nation. Its contrarian leadership continued its tantrum-throwing, saber-rattling ways. The theatrics are, in fact, well-honed performance pieces designed to jack up regional tensions and bring allies or enemies—Seoul, Washington, Beijing, even Moscow—to the bargaining table for an eventual payoff.

  In distilled form it goes like this: stage outburst, make unreasonable demands, extract money for promises of better behavior. Renege, repeat, and fleece again.

  In short order, China grew disgusted with North Korea’s antics and devised a plan of its own. It assumed the role of an aloof uncle rather than attentive parent—and settled for the status quo.

  The People’s Republic preferred an erratic neighbor to a collapsing one, which would see a flood of refugees and half-baked nuclear material crossing the border and entering the black market. It preferred a divided Korea to one unified under Seoul’s leadership, with the inevitable leaning toward the United States, even if the stance led to the North’s eventual nuclear armament.

  For its part, the Kim dynasty favored keeping a cushioned distance as well, aware of its more powerful neighbor’s desire to dominate. The two countries remain close, even if the love-hate relationship is one of wary cooperation seasoned with a hefty measure of distrust.

  China was the North’s closest ally, and yet my revelation had rattled the master spy.

  Which meant the tattoo told him something he didn’t know.

  Which is the same as saying China didn’t know—but wanted to.

  I’d given him the end of a thread he could pull.

  * * *

  Out on Sotobori Avenue, I slid into the backseat of a cab. I reeled off my home address, closed my eyes, and began pulling on threads of my own.

  China and North Korea . . . the tattoo . . . Zhou’s swift exit . . .

  What did the master spy know? He had attended both funerals—but why? Best guess: the enfant terrible was acting up again and Zhou and his masters were waiting or watching for something.

  And?

  I had nothing.

  Next thread. Anna’s kidnapping shifted some of the focus away from Mikey and onto the Tanaka family. But only some. What if the Kennedy Center murders and Anna’s abduction were unrelated? What if they were two separate events? It was possible. Was Sharon collateral damage for something of Mikey’s making?

  Seemed like a long shot but it needed checking. I dashed off a text message to Renna, asking him to find out if the beer-stealing, clerk-shooting Trooger spoke Spanish. The shooter had.

  Back to my food-loving tablemate. He’d been sniffing around as far back as Mikey’s funeral. Which argued for a connection, unless I was missing something. Not that I had gathered up enough to miss.

  Was Zhou looking for a North Korean component even then? Could have been. If that was the case, the replacement story he’d just spun about Anna being used as leverage was also a ruse. So I was looking at a double feint.

  But why?

  The kidnapping had forced him to change his story. What was it about Anna’s abduction?

  On this point I had two threads to tease out. First, why had the gang risked a public grab for Sharon’s daughter? I was in a holding pattern on this one until the first lady came through with access to the Tanaka family. Second, how sure was I the kidnapping actually constituted a North Korean–backed enterprise? Chongryon’s affiliation with the yakuza gang suggested it, but a solid connection was still lacking.

  But if the North was involved, what did that mean?

  Was North Korea back in the kidnapping business? Possibly. Old habits die hard. Or maybe it wasn’t an old habit. Rumor of the occasional abduction still surfaced. Back in the day the targets had been young people, snatched to help teach North Korean spies the language and culture of the victim’s homeland, whether it was China, Japan, Thailand, Singapore, France, Italy, Romania, or Holland. Then the program shifted to breeding. Marry off the abductees, raise an “organic” batch of children loyal to North Korea, and educate them in the fine art of spying.

  But Anna’s case was different. Her kidnapping had been an in-your-face affair. Why? And what on earth was the disguise all about? We needed to get to the Tanaka family to untangle that one.

  Too early to tell for both of those. Next thread—and the most urgent.

  Once kidnap victims were smuggled into North Korea, they rarely resurfaced. Which meant that until I knew otherwise, I had to assume the worst. Which meant I needed to act fast. Which is why I’d pushed Margaret to push the first lady to act tonight. It also meant I needed a good source to guide me through the intricacies of the Korean underground in Japan.

  Which was where my momentum was in danger of dying.

  Ask me about Korean ceramics, folk paintings, or traditional furniture and I could talk about how soulful and underappreciated the artwork was. I could even hold my own on the finer points of North Korean policy and it
s tentacles in Japan. But my knowledge of the North’s down-and-dirty moves had more holes than some of the moth-eaten Kabuki costumes I’d viewed in the early rounds of my search. The main problem was that Brodie Security’s tentacles did not extend to the Korean community here in Japan. The topic was too specialized.

  Then it hit me.

  I knew a guy who was plugged in. I’d run across him ten months ago: Jiro Jo, a famous ethnic Korean bodyguard based in Tokyo. He worked for one of Brodie Security’s rivals and served the rich and threatened. He was the best private bodyguard in the land and his combined knowledge of the Japanese and Korean underworlds rivaled none. If you felt threatened by the above combination, you dished out money for Jiro Jo. He could help me connect more dots.

  Problem solved, except for a few minor details.

  One, he worked for our main competitor. Two, when we’d first met, I’d knocked him unconscious in the back room of my antiques shop, and the Tokyo grapevine was abuzz with his desire for revenge.

  * * *

  With bright brown eyes and a brighter smile, Rie cracked open the front door of my father’s house and stepped out onto the stoop. She was a welcome sight. My policewoman girlfriend was in her civilian clothes tonight but held something behind her back.

  “Treat,” I called out the window of the cab as I paid the fare.

  “Perhaps,” she said, the smile fading as she scanned my face. “Unless you’ve brought tricks.”

  “By the bagful. But not willingly.”

  Her gaze softened. She reached for my hand, led me inside, then stood on tiptoe, kissed me, and revealed what she had been hiding: takeout from my favorite neighborhood sushi shop.

  “A midnight snack,” Rie said. “After Tanaka’s funeral and another sit-down with Zhou, I figured you would need a pick-me-up. Was I wrong?”

  Alcohol and oysters had fueled Zhou’s meal, which was heavy on the first and light on the second. I was still hungry.

  “No, right on the money.”

  She smiled. “You should bathe, then we can eat and you can catch me up on the case.” Her glistening skin told me she had gone before me.

  The Japanese bath is genius in liquid form. It offers clean water, continual heat, and a deep tub in which you can relax. The Japanese had perfected the experience. While you luxuriate in a miniature hot spring–like pool in the privacy of your own home, the warmth of the water penetrates to the core, “massaging” muscles, drawing off the workday stress, and miraculously whisking away any and all weariness. The simple nightly ritual rejuvenates on a daily basis. How rare is that? I’m convinced its restorative powers contribute to Japan’s position at the top of the life-expectancy charts.

  “One cure-all coming up,” Rie said when I emerged.

  From the couch, she waved at the spread on the coffee table. The sushi was elegantly displayed on a square ceramic platter with an emerald-green glaze and faint apricot-white clay. An Iga-style piece. The fish ran the color spectrum from flesh tones to pink, orange, and red, with the pristine white rice underneath the unifying factor. Garnished with sprigs of Japanese greens and a mound of mint-colored wasabi horseradish, the whole offered a startling fresh composition pleasing to eye and palate.

  “It’s already working,” I said.

  “Good. One thing first. Your dealer friend in Kyoto called while you were cleaning up.”

  “This late?”

  “He’d planned to leave a message but I picked up. Says you are one lucky guy. Through a connection of his wife’s, he’s found a one-in-a-million Kabuki robe.”

  “That is lucky,” I said.

  “ ‘But I’m luckier in love’ is what you mean to say.”

  “That too. By far.”

  “Much better.”

  I took a minute to review the email material. He’d found a stunning robe with an equally stunning history. A couple of bidders were already panting after the piece. I passed the photos on to Lisa Kregg at the Freer to see if there was any interest, then turned back to the feast Rie had so thoughtfully laid out.

  We sampled a line of delicacies: uni, anago, ikura, and toro—sea urchin, saltwater eel, salmon roe, and rich fatty tuna. Rie glanced my way and smiled. I smiled back. We ate and drank in a comfortable silence, then she asked about the latest developments on the case.

  “Fair warning,” I said. “You’re not going to like any of it.”

  Concern flickered across her features. “Tell me anyway.”

  “I may have to go see Jiro Jo.”

  Rie turned pale. “Is that really necessary?”

  I said yes and told her why. By the time I wound up my recital, Rie was frowning big-time. “But he’s so violent.”

  “You mean he strikes out when he has to. So do I.”

  “He’s on our watch list.”

  “I’m probably on your watch list.”

  Frustration rippled across her forehead.

  I said, “Getting on the list can be a backhanded compliment. Jo takes calculated risks. We all do. It’s what makes us good.”

  Rie did not respond favorably. “Be that as it may, meeting him is still dangerous.”

  “I have no choice. Brodie Security doesn’t have the right connections. Jiro Jo might. Unless you have a strong in with the local Korean community, that’s the direction I’m going.”

  “I don’t. But aren’t you two feuding?”

  “It’s all on his side.”

  “Then he will refuse to see you.”

  “I’ll persuade him. He’s my best bet.”

  “He’s your best bet to get your throat slit.”

  CHAPTER 36

  DAY 6, FRIDAY

  A GIANT hornet swooped down on me for the third time.

  The insect’s persistence forced me to seek shelter in a cluster of shrubs. With each pass, its buzzing grew louder and more threatening. I marveled at the hornet’s size and the mesmerizing pattern of red and yellow stripes ringing its abdomen. My attacker circled overhead, then dove again.

  When I finally dragged myself back to consciousness, the drone’s fevered hum morphed into the angry vibration of my smartphone turning circles on my bedside table.

  I looked at the clock. Two twenty-seven in the morning. Next to me, Rie rubbed her eyes. “You were tossing around. A bad dream?”

  “A strange one.”

  Red and yellow stripes? The colors of the Chinese flag. Zhou had gotten inside my head.

  Rie put a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you should answer the phone.”

  Since the caller ID was blocked, I countered with a flat hello.

  “Mr. Brodie? Margaret Cutler. Did I wake you?”

  Finally. “Don’t worry, I’ll live.”

  “I should hope so. Otherwise, you won’t be of much use to the first lady or the president. I have Mrs. Slater on the line, if you’re ready. This was the only time I could—”

  “It’s fine, Margaret, really. Is she right there?”

  “Actually, she’s in her private quarters, changing for her next appointment. She’s anxious to speak with you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  “Transferring you now.”

  A soft click and a new background sound hummed in my ear. “Jim, is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s Joan, remember? I’ve called the Tanakas as you requested. They seemed aware I was a friend of Sharon’s. They aren’t seeing anyone outside the police. I offered to help, they accepted, then I told them you were that help. They will receive anytime you are ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. This is all just terrible, Jim. Do you have any idea what is going on yet?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it nonstop.”

  The first lady sighed. “I know these things take time, but I wish you had some answers. I’m told you were at the funeral when Anna was taken. Was it as bad as it sounds?”

  “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Tell me about it. I wanted
to ask the Tanakas but I didn’t have the heart, the poor things.”

  I revisited the abduction for her sake but stopped short of mentioning the tattoo, an exclusive bit of intel I did not want circulating.

  “One more thing, Jim: why is it Anna arrived at her mother’s funeral in disguise?”

  “That, ma’am . . . Joan . . . is the first question in a long list I have for the family.”

  “For which we’ll find an unpleasant answer, I imagine. The poor, poor things. Be very, very careful over there, Jim. I mean in Japan. Not at the Tanakas’. Do not put yourself in harm’s way for me. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  But not possible.

  With everything in play, I saw no way around doing just that.

  * * *

  Setting down the phone, I turned to Rie. Her eyes had widened beyond a point I would have considered physically possible.

  “Were you just talking to the first lady of the United States of America?”

  “You make it sound so grand.”

  “It is grand if it’s true. Is it?”

  Propped up against the headboard, Rie had listened to both ends of the conversation. She spoke no English, but, like most Japanese, she had a passive knowledge of the language because she had studied the grammar for six years from junior high school on. Phrases stuck. Were reinforced when they appeared in movies and TV and ad campaigns. Or in the phone conversations of your boyfriend.

  “Yes,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “And you called her Joan.”

  Maybe the observational thing was more elementary than I thought.

  I shrugged. “At her insistence.”

  “I don’t recall you mentioning Joan previously.”

  “Her involvement is confidential.”

  Storm clouds gathered. “Oh, really?”