At The Edge

by David Dun

  All they needed now was for Dan Young to come home and talk to someone.

  In the van, Groiter pulled out a Clive Cussler novel and poured a pile of pumpkin seeds onto a paper towel. "Now we wait," he told the surveillance man.

  In retirement Groiter imagined that he would sit on a South Seas beach with a mound of pumpkin seeds, a stack of thrillers, and some dark glasses that would make it easier to watch the girls go by. A bachelor, he had never felt the need to become attached to anyone or anything with the possible exception of his retirement account that he nursed with a mother's love and a father's devotion.

  Over the years he had managed to develop a marvelous detachment where people were concerned. He did not laugh when they laughed, cry when they cried, nor did he ever mentally put himself in the place of another. For that reason he could, if required, strangle toddlers. But he maintained a scientific point of view. If there was no remorse, there was also no joy in wet work, and he employed as little violence as he deemed possible in order to ensure a satisfactory retirement.

  He had served Kenji well, managing largely through creativity to avoid killing people even in the most difficult circumstances. His value lay in his availability to do whatever was needed, like a bizarre kind of insurance policy. And since he had absolutely no one to tell, his exploits went utterly unheralded.

  Most of his killing had been done in liberated Iron Curtain countries where the Mafia got in the way of some business arrangements of the Petchenkoffs, an old-money European family. He had at least achieved a stalemate after knocking off four highly placed figures in organized crime. To get to the bosses, he had to kill at least a dozen underlings, two with a ten-inch awl, one with a knife, all up close and personal. The Petchenkoffs were allowed a graceful exit at a reasonable price, neither side wanting anything more to do with the other.

  He met Kenji while working for the Petchenkoffs. Actually, the Asakas were more or less sideline participants, and Kenji had an inkling of Groiter's exploits. When Kenji hired him and imported him to the United States, things became much more refined. He hadn't killed a soul working for Kenji, although he'd helped Kenji clean up the mess with Catherine Swanson and the photographer.

  Perhaps Hans's greatest asset was figuring people, their fear, their greed, their envy, and their lust. If somebody had a mind for mischief, Hans had a mind that could find a way between that miscreant and whatever thing of Kenji's they wanted.

  At the moment he was having a bit of a struggle understanding exactly what Maria Fischer and Dan Young might want. The morons at the lab had handled the lawyers' intrusion in typically ridiculous fashion by bringing them inside the compound and locking them in a room without so much as a guard. Amazing that a brilliant scientist could be so mindless when it came to security and so fragile when it came to enforcing it.

  Yoshinari Asaka III maintained a five-story, traditional Japanese castle on the outskirts of Kanazawa in the province of Hokuriku near the Sea of Japan. It was his preferred residence, though he had several. On this day he sat in his covered garden, by the koi pond, next to a burbling stream running beneath a small footbridge. Growing near the water at his feet was a calla lily bearing a deep purple, trumpet-shaped bloom. It was a gift from his daughter Micha in America, and he treasured it. He also treasured her: the texture of her voice, her scent, her smile, and her determined squint. These things gave him great pleasure.

  But for the moment his thoughts included himself, his company, and all his family. When he was a young man, sixteen hours represented a normal day spent advancing the family wealth. Now he did a better job, and it consumed six hours on a busy day. There were days when he took only a single call. So astute was his handpicked management that the Asaka business conglomerate could be guided down the right path with tiny consistent taps from a small stick. If administered precisely, these taps moved the corporate giant to ever greater success. Yoshinari was a master, his tapping so subtle that it often went undetected to all but the most discerning ear.

  As in all affairs in every culture, error was possible. In the Asaka businesses, departures from the path crept in most easily when the master tapper could not see where to apply the stick. And there was now a blurry fog over the business activities of the Amada subsidiary and Kenji Yamada, its chief executive, his son-in-law. It was a matter of possessing accurate information-a commodity in short supply at Amada. So he had sent a liaison, one Oki Satoru, whom he needed to call now.

  A voice answered with a groggy-sounding greeting.

  "I hope I did not awaken you."

  "I fell asleep watching the TV. Sign of getting older."

  "Ah, yes," Yoshinari said. "Are you making any progress?"

  "I'm afraid Kenji is not happy to see me. I can learn only what Kenji wants me to learn, which is nothing. I am frankly worried that he tries too hard to keep secrets, especially about the forest compound. One wonders what he is worried about. He claims that if word of their Taxol research gets out, the woods will be full of hunters for the yew trees."

  ''What does that have to do with you and your need to know?"

  "It is an excuse without a reason. I believe he has some other project in progress."

  "And why do you think that?"

  "He has hired chemical engineers at the research center."

  "Is there a reason he doesn't share this with us?"

  "I don't know. I'm trying to figure it out. But there is a matter I should speak with you about.''

  "Yes." Yoshinari did not like Satoru's strained tone. He wondered what Kenji had done that even the ambitious Satoru didn't approve of.

  "Your daughter has suspected Kenji of seeing other women. She actually told me this, sir. And I took action, sir. Over here the state senators have a knife at the throats of the timber producers. I thought a political connection could advance the interests of the Asaka family. So I promised a well-placed woman money to get next to Kenji. Like a geisha."

  Asaka forced himself to show restraint. Like a geisha, indeed. "Go on."

  ''It didn't work out well. The woman communicated with Micha on the phone, made small talk. Said how much she appreciated Kenji giving her a ride home. That part, of course, was good. But after the call the woman was found dead in a photographer's van, apparently sexually assaulted by the photographer. I had hired the photographer. And he has disappeared. The police think he's running from the law."

  "Tell me why you hired this woman?"

  "It's a long story. As I said, her husband is a state senator with prospects. In the long run he could give us political favors. It's common in America like everywhere else. Especially California."

  "It is against the law."

  "The woman could pry information out of your son-in-law. That's not against the law. And Micha would have the answer to her question. If she knew he was tempted, she could confine his ways."

  "You thought all this up by yourself?"

  "I did."

  "And why did you hire the photographer?"

  "For evidence."

  "You neglected to mention this scheme to me."

  "I didn't want to burden you with it."

  "Who do you think killed the woman?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps the photographer. Perhaps Kenji."

  ''I want you to cease all this. I sent you to gather information, not to trap my son-in-law. He is capable enough of serious errors without you creating them for him."

  "I understand."

  ''I want a full report of everything to do with this woman and this photographer. Put it in a computer file with a twenty-digit password. E-mail the encrypted file. Courier the password on a single piece of paper directly to me and show it to no one. I will show the report only to our attorneys. If I didn't need someone over there on an immediate basis, I would recall you. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." It was the reply of a beaten man.

  Yoshinari made few errors, but sending Satoru had been one of them. He instantly saw Satoru's foolish game-a transparent a
ttempt to have Kenji removed so that he could be advanced. But Yoshinari also knew that his daughter might not disapprove of a plan designed to test her husband's fidelity.

  As for Kenji's secret project, perhaps Kenji saw honor in surprise and in solitary accomplishment. It was the American way, not the Japanese way. For the Japanese, making many work as one was the highest honor, and the honor went to all.

  As he wondered how hard he should search for Kenji's tapping spot, Yoshinari realized he had already made a decision. He knew people from all walks of life. He knew political leaders, he knew business leaders, and he had access to those who served them. But even with his great wealth, it was favors owed him by the emperor's family that would get him what his money could not buy. The emperor had access to the most trusted men of the shadows. These men could blend into a crowd, slip into a bank vault, disappear in the night, kill with a single blow. They were as wise as serpents and much more dangerous. They fought only to protect those who hired them or to save an innocent life.

  But when they fought, they fought to win and they fought well.

  Yoshinari not only needed such a man, but he required one. One who was schooled in the ways of the Americans and who spoke English.

  Using all the political capital he had accumulated in a lifetime of fortune-making, he had his man within forty-eight hours. A day after that, the man Shohei was off to the United States. Although ' 'shohei'' meant' 'giant,'' his height was normal, his body highly conditioned and wiry. Someone needed to determine what mischief Kenji might yet have in mind.

  9

  Dan Young's house was a large, comfortable rambler surrounded on the back and sides by towering redwoods that made it seem miniature in comparison. Located on a large piece of property at the end of a wooded road, the four-bedroom dwelling appeared secluded from neighboring homes.

  As they made their way up the front walk, Maria studied the illuminated shrubbery. Weeds had sprung up among the rock roses and the rhododendrons. One of the azaleas was dead and another appeared on its last legs. There was a splendid dogwood in the middle of the front yard. It had probably been Tess who took care of the gardening, she surmised.

  The back door opened into the family room and the kitchen. They walked in and Dan tossed his hat like a Frisbee. It sailed about five feet onto a prong of a large coatrack.

  She glanced at him. "Impressive."

  Dan nodded at a large dark-haired woman. "I discovered her," Dan said with his arms flung wide in Pepacita's direction. "The all-purpose live-in mother."

  The big woman turned from whatever she was cooking. ''I get more buenos than most wives.'' Her lively dark brown eyes appraised Maria with obvious curiosity.

  Maria smiled and shook Pepacita's hand.

  ''You and Dan look like you fell on hard times?'' Pepacita asked.

  Maria smoothed her tattered and stained clothing.

  "I must look awful."

  "I told her we would pull some of Tess's clothes out of the closet," Dan said.

  "Ah, comprendo. I will see what I can find."

  "We're dying of hunger. How about something to gnaw on while we wait for dinner?"

  Pepacita nodded and whisked out some smoked salmon; then as fast as any chef, she sliced a couple of hothouse-ripened tomatoes and garnished them with crumbled Feta cheese. Dan disappeared for a couple of minutes and reappeared in jeans.

  Each taking a plate, they moved to the couch, where Dan sat at one end and Maria the other. After a few genuine compliments about the house, Maria turned earnest.

  "So what do we do with these documents?"

  ''For the moment keep it in your purse,'' Dan said. ''We'll figure out where to put it after dinner."

  "I need to use your phone. I've got to call my mom and my boyfriend. Late as it is, they'll think I died."

  "Right there," Dan said, pointing to the phone in the family room.

  Her mother was easy. In that special tone that said "I'm really tied up," Maria told her mother that she would call her in the morning.

  "Hey, you," she said to Ross, glancing at Dan out of the comer of her eye. Thankfully, he rose to leave but not without a little knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She recalled liking his mustache. She knew she looked uncomfortable and tried not to. Can't pull it off.

  Dan disappeared down the hall.

  "I got hung up. It was a real adventure."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't sound so worried. I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm just fine. I was out in the woods and I ended up in an industry laboratory and it's a very long story. I can't tell you now. It would take too long. I'll call you first thing tomorrow."

  "You're at the Palmer Inn?"

  "No, I'm staying with some friends."

  "Do I know them?"

  "It's a lady named Pepacita, and a fellow named Dan Young."

  "Why do I know that name?"

  "Sometimes he handles environmental cases. Ross, I know this is really going to sound strange to you, but you have to trust me here. He's the lawyer for Otran Enterprises."

  "That Dan Young? Why the hell would you-"

  "Calm down. It's one night. There are a lot of people here and there is a good reason."

  "Does this Dan Young know what I don't get to know?"

  "Don't say it like that. It's attorney-client privilege for him too."

  "Oh great, some industry asshole…"

  "Wait, wait, I can see this is going to be a thing. I will get permission from Patty to tell you ninety percent of this. Hey, I don't even know all of it. Dan Young's not telling me what I'd like to know."

  "When can we talk?"

  "Tomorrow. I promise." She hung up.

  Not so mysteriously, Dan reappeared.

  "Do you always eavesdrop?"

  "Only when vital national-security interests are at stake." His eyes were bright, but he betrayed only a hint of a smile.

  "I'm not laughing."

  "Well then, I guess I won't, either. Hey, Pepacita, how are we doing on the clothes?"

  "I will show Maria to the clothing and the shower. Nate's in his room. Supposedly in bed, but probably reading under the covers with a flashlight."

  "Excuse me, I'm going to check on my son," said Dan.

  "Surely."

  The kitchen was redolent with the aroma of home cooking, of spices simmering slowly on long, lazy afternoons-garlic, cloves, onions: a potpourri of smells. Pans of all sizes hung on a wrought-iron frame suspended above the island stove. Racks laden with a wide assortment of spices perched in long rows behind the cooktop. A chopping block of oak alongside the stove in the kitchen's center bore years' worth of stains.

  Maria could also make out a faint musty odor among the kitchen smells-understandable, since the house sat like a mushroom in the shade of the monster trees. Her eyes swept the family room's casual, wood-walled interior, spying a lariat and a green sweater on an antique hardwood rack. The sweater had patches on each elbow. It was old, well-maintained, and comfortable looking. That about summed this place up. For one brief moment she fantasized about what it might be like to live here-with Dan.

  This end of the house, with its tongue-and-groove pine-board walls and angled low ceilings, had the feel of a cottage. The adjoining family room was chock-full to bursting with books, photos, and memorabilia-every square inch of shelf and wall space was utilized. The bookcases were meticulously constructed, with an eye toward matching the walls- obviously built for someone who treasured their contents. She went exploring. Her eye skimmed over the collection, fascinated by its breadth and depth: Thoreau, Melville, Kipling, as well as a host of modern writers. Given the dust patterns, it looked like he kept the classics but didn't read them much. Maybe they were Tess's.

  And there was lots more: the dog-eared pages of a Rutherford novel, The Forest; nearby a spy thriller; the fat copy of a Thomas Jefferson biography facedown on the desk- frankly, a surprise; a book of Ansel Adams photographs; three original oil landscapes on the wal
l by a painter whose signature was indiscernible, along with figure drawings and lithographs by other artists; the CD titles in the neat stack of plastic cases, mostly rock, Bob Dylan, a little opera, more light opera, and a smattering of country-western; the magazines on the coffee table: Time, Newsweek, U.S. News amp; World Report, People, a publication by the Audubon Society; an antique Queen Anne table that might be a skillful reproduction; a spreadsheet of professional football teams and their game scores atop it; and the chair where he sat and drank beer, judging from all the caps in the nearby wastebasket. Front and center on the little table where he parked his beer was a 9"xl2" photo of Tess.

  The man was apparently a 49ers fan. She hadn't been to a game in years but she still watched them on television. When she did, she thought about her father, and if she'd had a couple glasses of Chenin Blanc, she cried. For a split second she smiled at how much she used to like football-how she analyzed plays with her father. There was loneliness in the memory, so she shrugged it off.

  Maria found the personal stuff: the photos, family shots, Nate Young in every imaginable activity, smiling, laughing, a father engaged with his son. But many included a beautiful brown-eyed woman.

  From the coffee table, beside another picture of Tess, she picked up a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. Inside the cover, there was an inscription:

  To Tess: With the love in my heart taxing my mind for expression, please accept these words of another as a tribute to my devotion.

  For some reason the words shocked her. The cowboy expressed his feelings. And judging from the reading material, he was not all belt buckles and boots. In fact, the real Dan Young came in a very odd and misleading package.