The Spy Across the Table

by Barry Lancet

  He grinned.

  Showtime.

  I paused in front of the women. Habu stopped across from me, within striking distance. Up came his free hand for balance. The weapon followed, rising like the head of a cobra, weaving and bobbing. Habu licked his lips. A buzz rippled through the crowd.

  He lunged again. I backed off. He lingered in front of the women.

  I was beginning to decipher the gang leader’s blade work. He had speed but no formal training. No martial knife techniques. No full-on assault with an unfolding series of moves. Rather, he relied on staccato lunges and slashes, each independent and distinct.

  Habu didn’t dance either. He planted his forward foot, then the knife arm followed in one swift, flowing thrust, the trailing foot coming to the fore as he swept in. Even with his natural agility, the combo gave me an extra second of warning. I’d uncovered an advantage, but with his phenomenal speed it was only a slight one.

  The yakuza leader’s glance glided from my torso to the side of my head. He wanted the ear. He rotated the blade until the cutting edge faced the ceiling. He was going for a single fluid uppercut along the side of my head. Running the steel up my cheek like a barber might field a straight razor. Only he would continue upward to lop off his trophy.

  From some hidden reserve, a new acceleration kicked in. The extra momentum propelled him forward and he came within a half an inch of taking the ear.

  I angled away, stunned and wary.

  Habu’s grin was sly. He’d been holding back. The oldest play in the book. I cursed my gullibility. So much for my slight advantage. I retreated into the gloom, and Sai edged from his perch, ready to block my retreat.

  I circled back and Habu pursued me. He sensed victory. His pace quickened. I loped away at a faster clip. His knife arm began to undulate to a private rhythm. The free hand came up again, ballast for his bulk—and a tell I could rely on, I decided. The light in his eyes grew brighter. We’d drifted away from his preferred arena. The women couldn’t make out the details of our scrimmage.

  He’d changed strategies. Why? His eyes were glued to the left side of my head. I got it. His two female devotees didn’t need to see the strike if he brought home the prize.

  I snatched a high-end designer coat off an empty barstool as I passed, ignoring a protest from the occupant of the neighboring stool. A beat later Habu stormed in. I flung the garment in the air between us, my fingers curled around the collar, weaving the stylish vestment between us in a horizontal figure eight pattern. The yaki’s blade got tangled in the flailing cloth. I swooped in for two quick jabs to the nose with a panther strike—a hard fore-knuckle punch. Hand rigid, fingertips bent under, knuckles tense.

  Many fighters this close would choose a closed-fisted boxer’s punch or an opened-handed jab. The panther strike gave me a vital two inches of additional reach over the closed fist, and yet the fingers were tucked under, a protective move that would save them from being lopped off should the steel sweep up unexpectedly.

  Habu staggered sideways, ripping the garment and freeing the weapon. I doubled back toward his booth. Blood trickled from the left side of the yaki’s nose. He wiped the liquid away with his free hand, then the next instant the bloodied appendage bobbed at his hip. Glittering steel followed, and he charged in again. I flung the jacket at him. The cloth spread open in flight like a cape. Habu was ready with a counter the second time, as I knew he would be. He waited a beat for the fluttering threads to fully expand, then brushed the nuisance aside and roared in.

  But the airborne garment had served its purpose—Habu had missed the beginning of my next play. Having scooped up a champagne glass from his table, I pitched it at him, then dodged away. The fluted vessel bounced off his disfigured cheek, the tart bubbly liquid flooding his vision. He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.

  As he tried to clear his vision, I barreled in with a third jab. Again targeting the nose. This time with a boxer’s punch. Full-fisted, no holds barred, rock solid. The blow staggered his compact hulk. I pressed forward. I peppered him with a flurry of jabs, weaving in and out, still wary of his weapon. He howled and tried to bring up the blade, but each time I stepped out of range. By his third upward thrust, his speed had noticeably diminished. I moved inside, knocked the knife arm aside with ease, then connected with my knockout punch. I needed Habu down for the count. But he hit the ground still conscious. He was stunned, brow furrowed, teeth grinding, engine still revving.

  The man had staying power.

  Which is why Sai hadn’t jumped in earlier.

  But now the soldier came off the bar, a whirlwind of movement. At my feet Habu groaned, tongue flopping out the side of his mouth. He teetered on the edge of consciousness but had yet to pass over. An eye on the downed leader, I pivoted to face Sai, who advanced with a wicked grin and knife poised to attack.

  Wielding a wine bottle like a club, Noda bolted from behind a cluster of groupies. With a decisive thump, thick glass collided with Sai’s thicker skull. I dodged Sai’s body as it fell forward at my feet and lay still.

  New movement stirred in the shadows behind Noda. An indistinct form charged. I yelled a warning to the chief detective as I raced past him. Having swung around the far end of the lengthy counter, the bartender advanced with a baseball bat raised. I snatched up a barstool and slammed it into his ribs as his club connected with a tempered steel leg of the stool, leaving a sizable dent. The dull ring of wood on metal was echoed a beat later by soft flesh against steel. And cracking ribs.

  The momentum of my blow slung the bartender against the bar. The weapon fell from his grip. His fingers grappled for his rib cage, a moan escaping his lips. Before he could regroup, I kicked his legs out from under him. His feet flew up, then his whole body plunged downward, his head smacking against the brass foot rail with a moist thud. The loyal Dragon Skin employee lay in a heap, unmoving, and I expected he would stay that way until medical assistance arrived.

  I returned my attention to his master. Habu’s nose would need extensive reconstructive surgery but the rest of him was fine, if malfunctioning. His eyes bounced around wildly, unable to focus. I pinned the wrist of his knife hand with my foot, then extracted the blade from his grasp, pocketed it, and stepped back.

  Eyes crazed and bulging, the yaki rolled over onto his stomach, dragged himself to his knees, then staggered to his feet. Brute animal strength powered his upward movement. It was an impressive feat. His manner was bestial. His eyes roamed the room, seeking me. I stood five feet away, but in the disconnect he was experiencing, I was one among many. What I saw in his unfocused gaze was the slow-witted wakefulness of an ox.

  Saliva spilled freely from the corners of his mouth. His eyes locked onto my form, lingered in uncertainty, then lit up as recognition registered. His arms rose. His fingers spread and curled, clawlike, grasping at the air. His chest wheezed and huffed like a bellows.

  “Brodie . . .”

  His body was in distress but a sort of loutish stubbornness propelled him onward. He took a tortured step toward me, his movements leaden. I backed away, fists ready at my side. It was like watching a wounded man struggle through a vat of molasses. Behind a great savage determination was pain admirably suppressed. I felt guilty even though, moments before, Habu’s goal had been to separate my ear from its perch. I’d hoped for a swift mercy, but my KO punch had idled his motor without shutting it down. I might have to hit him again, something I was loath to do.

  He shifted his back foot to the fore. The strain sent ripples of effort across his face. I raised my fists, and in a mirroring move he raised his. His chest heaved and fell as it sucked in the massive quantities of air needed to sustain his equilibrium. He took a third step and steadied himself. A slight swaying started, as if an anchoring rope had come loose. Then his whole frame shuddered, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he toppled forward face-first as easily as a hollowed-out tree touched by a breeze.

  CHAPTER 46

  WE kidnapped the kidnapper.
>
  I threw the unconscious gang leader over my shoulder and hauled him downstairs, then dumped him unceremoniously into the back of the supply van. His five-foot-seven, two-hundred-pound bulk was compact and manageable.

  The Brodie Security men bound his hands and feet, then slapped a strip of duct tape over his mouth. I wondered if our actions were illegal or a public service. Personally, I leaned toward the latter, but the authorities would see it differently. Possibly even Rie would disapprove. But the Tokyo police moved at the speed of an intravenous drip. With Anna in hostile hands, we needed what Habu knew immediately if not sooner.

  “Wake him up,” I said.

  The driver slapped Habu sharply, right cheek and then left. Groggy with drink and the beating, the gang leader was slow to regain consciousness. We’d relocated to a deserted back alley a few blocks removed from Ni-chome.

  “You’ve done this before,” I said.

  The driver grinned. “On occasion. When they deserve it. Wait for the good part.”

  Habu’s eyes opened, closed, reopened. They focused, then sparked with anger. The yaki boss released a string of profanity, conveniently muffled behind the gag.

  “There it is,” the driver said.

  While the beast had slept, Brodie Security minders had wiped away the dried blood that had pooled around Habu’s shattered nose, and scabbing had done the rest. Now the driver tore off the glue-backed strip. The granular echo accompanying the action told me stubble had been uprooted in the process. Habu howled.

  “Nice touch,” I said.

  “You’re dead, gaijin,” the gang leader said.

  “Yeah, yeah, fine,” I said. “Until then, we need to know who you gave the girl to and where they’re taking her.”

  “Habu ain’t tellin’.”

  The driver gave me a puzzled look. “Isn’t his name Habu?”

  “Yeah. He talks like that.”

  “Another puffed-up yaki.”

  “And that’s only for starters.” I turned to our captive. “You are going to tell us about the girl or we’re going to beat it out of you.”

  “You already tried that.”

  He had a point.

  “Got an easier way,” Noda said.

  The chief detective stalked off and I trailed after him. Once out of earshot, Noda slipped his phone from his pocket, stabbed at the screen, hit the speaker function, and waited for pickup.

  The phone rang twice.

  When Jo’s voice came on the line, Noda said, “We need to talk.”

  “So talk. I’m working.”

  “Face-to-face.”

  “Why?”

  “We have cargo.”

  “Bad idea, but your funeral.”

  * * *

  Noda’s text message to Jo had been succinct: Arriving 3 minutes.

  The elite Korean bodyguard slid out the back door of the Hotel New Otani thirty seconds after we pulled the van around to the delivery entrance. He was draped in a classic tuxedo and bathed in a distinctive cologne.

  “Had to see this for myself,” Jo said.

  I nodded at the van. “Look all you want.”

  Cold eyes slid my way. “See you managed to hold on to all your body parts.”

  “Yeah. Old habits die hard.”

  “Don’t get used it.” The Great Wall turned to Noda. “What do you want? I’m working here.”

  Noda slanted his head at the delivery van. “Need answers.”

  “From the garbage,” I said.

  Strolling over to the van, Jo flicked the side panel aside with a two-fingered swipe, peered in, then let out a snort of contempt. “Disposable as it comes. Habu, you made the wrong guys mad.”

  At the sound of Jo’s voice, Habu’s eyes bolted open. The bound-and-bundled yaki threw himself against the wall of the van in some sort of self-flagellating protest. He kicked his legs, still secured at the ankles, and cold-cocked one of his own guards tied up at the rear.

  I eyed Jo curiously. “That’s some reaction. What’s between you two?”

  Invigorated, Habu was bobbing his head at Jo. We’d gagged him again for the ride but clearly he wanted to talk. I nodded, and two of our men subdued the thrashing gang leader, then the driver once more ripped off the fresh strip of duct tape.

  Habu howled again. “That’s twice, puke face. Payback’s coming.”

  Jo said, “Focus, Habu. You got something you wanna tell me, make it quick.”

  Habu shot the Korean a pleading look. “Onii-san, get me out of this.”

  Beside me, Noda stiffened.

  The term onii-san translates as “older brother.” Honorific in nature, it was a common form of polite address among unknown parties but could also imply a close relationship, either one of friendship or family ties.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  Jo sighed. “He married one of my sisters. The dumb one.”

  Pieces began slotting into place. “Where does the scar come in?”

  “I cut him after he beat her the second time. The first warning lasted only a week.”

  “Short-term memory problem?”

  “Long-term idiot problem.”

  “Can’t choose your in-laws.”

  “We’re blood,” Habu said. “Stomp these guys.”

  Noda and I exchanged a glance. If the Great Wall turned on us, we were going to have a tough fight on our hands. Maybe an uncontainable one.

  Jo glared at the gang leader. “We’re not blood. Won’t ever be. I got more in common with these two than I’ll ever have with you.”

  “That ain’t right, Older Brother. You and Habu—”

  Jo raised a hand for silence. “Don’t ever call me that again. You got a jumbo target on your back, you wasabi-for-brains nitwit. Nothing’s worth that.”

  Habu squinted at his brother-in-law. “You’re jealous is what it is. ’Cause we’ve struck gold.”

  “You got two governments after you, boy.”

  “That ain’t true. I snatched the girl clean.”

  Jo’s voice dropped to a low bass whisper. “Shut up, Habu. Shut. The. Hell. Up. You say another word, I’m going to put you out of your misery with my own hands. You’re nearly brain-dead already.”

  “But—”

  “Not—another—word,” Jo hissed.

  Habu shut his trap.

  “Good. Now think about it for once in your worthless life. These guys rolled you up the day after you kidnapped the girl. What you think the PSIA is going to do?”

  Or Homeland Security, I added silently.

  The gang leader’s brow grew shifty. “I didn’t do nothing to them.”

  From nowhere, a knife appeared in Jo’s hand. He stepped forward and pressed the sharp edge of the blade against Habu’s unscarred cheek, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “One more word, you dung beetle, and I do the other side of your face. You have no damn idea what you stepped into, do you? Do not make a sound. Just move your head.”

  Deflating before our eyes, Jo’s brother-in-law shook his head.

  The Great Wall’s eyes had become dark tunnels. Pre–fight mode. “Now I’m going to let you talk. But the only things I want to hear are who paid you to kidnap the girl and where they are taking her and why. That’s it. No begging. No bragging. No nothing. One word more and I slice you up. Nod if you got it.”

  Bloodshot eyes straining toward the sharp steel resting against his cheek, Habu moved his head up and down once, with care.

  “Good, then let’s hear it.”

  Habu spilled.

  And what Jo excavated sent the case into the stratosphere.

  CHAPTER 47

  DAY 7, SATURDAY, 1:18 A.M.

  STEPPING away from the van, I slipped my cell phone from my pocket, and made a call I could never have anticipated. Noda moved off in the opposite direction, on an equally pressing mission.

  The pickup on the other end was tentative, the voice sheathed in a drowsy politeness. “Hello?”

  “You told me to contact you if I eve
r need anything,” I said.

  Unexpected calls, if not the norm, should have been a semi-regular occurrence for him.

  “Mr. Brodie?” The drowsiness yielded to an immediate alertness.

  “Yes. Does your offer still stand?”

  “Absolutely,” said Gerald Thornton-Cummings, the young deputy attaché who had pulled me off the airplane out at Narita. “But I envisioned a more common hour. It’s after midnight. So it’s urgent. What’s up?”

  “I need to get to Ambassador Tattersill. Quickly but quietly. Can you make that happen?”

  An outrageous request under normal circumstances, but Gerald had been in the room when I’d spoken to the president, the elephant in the current conversation I hoped to leverage.

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ambassador hates to be woken in the middle of the night. He’s a bit . . . proper.”

  Tattersill was hardly proper. Swinging into full diplomatic mode, Gerald was hoisting a warning flag for the unaware. I was not among them. An appointee from the previous presidential administration whom Slater had kept on for reasons that puzzled observers, Ambassador Stewart Lester “Inflexible Lex” Tattersill was a tall, photogenic man with a mellifluous voice, dimpled chin, and a full head of well-coiffed blond hair. On the public stage he oozed charm and posed for the cameras with great aplomb, which played well in the media. But in diplomatic dealings he’d proved inflexible and unimaginative, and thus highly unpopular in Japan and the United States. Hence the nickname.

  “Point taken. We’ll have to work with what we have.”

  Gerald hesitated. “Has POTUS cleared you with the ambassador?”

  “I don’t know. But he sent you out to Narita, right?”

  “Actually, that came through embassy channels.”

  “Well, wing it, Gerald. Make the connection for me.”

  “And this is about what, business for FLOTUS?”