by Alex Archer
She tried to point this out to Roux, but he wanted nothing to do with it. Nor did he accept her arguments that a single experienced thief would have had an easier time breaking into the display room to steal the sword than a group the size of the one she’d encountered there. He had convinced himself that there wasn’t any real danger and it seemed that nothing she said would sway him from that conclusion.
When she finally left, hours later, she had gotten exactly nowhere. Her instincts were telling her that Roux was in danger, but he refused to see it.
As she climbed into her rental car, she was already trying to figure out what to do next. One thing was for sure, she wouldn’t leave one of her friends in danger.
ROUX WATCHED THROUGH THE window as Annja descended the front steps, climbed into her rental car and drove off toward the gates. He heard someone enter the room behind him and without turning, he said, “You heard?”
“Yes, sir,” Henshaw said. He never would have dreamed of listening in on his own accord, but Roux had ordered him to do just that.
“And?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I don’t think we have enough information.”
“Even with the rumors we’ve been hearing about the Dragon’s interest in a certain sword?”
“Even so, sir. After all, as you say, they are just rumors. The Dragon, if that indeed was who it was, could have been here for an entirely different reason.”
Roux thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t see how. If the Dragon had been hired to kill me he wouldn’t have gone about it the way he had. The assault was staged and I think we both know why.”
“If you say so, sir.”
After a moment, Roux made up his mind and said, “I want her kept under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Here and in the States, until I say otherwise. And she isn’t to know that you are there unless there is trouble.”
Henshaw nodded. “Understood—24/7, no interference unless her life is threatened.”
As Annja’s car finally disappeared from sight around a bend in the road, Roux turned to face his employee. “I want you to find me everything you can on the Dragon’s movements in the past two months. Use whatever resources are necessary. If he’s after Annja, I want to know how and why. In the meantime your people have authorization to do whatever needs to be done to keep her safe.”
“And you, sir?” Henshaw asked.
“Me?” Roux replied. “I’ll be perfectly fine, Henshaw. I’m not the target.”
Henshaw hoped those words wouldn’t come back to haunt either of them.
9
Kyoto, Japan
1993
Those who knew better disappeared like rats from a burning ship the moment the two men appeared at the mouth of the alley. Seen with the naked eye, there wasn’t anything noticeably strange about them, but those who had been on the street long enough developed senses different than the usual and something about the pair screamed danger like an air-raid siren.
It was a feeling that spread quickly, like a virus passed from one street hustler or teen runaway to another, and those who encountered it made themselves scarce if they knew what was good for them. Those who were too sick or stoned or weak to move on their own were grabbed, swiftly examined and then either tossed aside like garbage or trussed up like turkeys headed for slaughter and left where they lay for collection once the men were finished.
Most of them ran, but the girl near the end of the alley in the large cardboard box did not.
She’d only left home a few days before and already she was bone weary from all the hiding and running and scavenging. Life just shouldn’t be this hard, she’d told herself time and time again, and at last she had begun to believe it. Life that was this hard just wasn’t worth living, it seemed. When the owner of the box, a thick-faced Chinese boy named Wu, suddenly deserted his home, she wasted no time rushing in to get out of the rain. Flopping down among the discarded cushions and bags of trash that did double duty as Wu’s bed, Shizu sat there, waiting for the newcomers to get to her, too tired and worn out to care anymore.
It didn’t take them long.
Much to her surprise, when they reached into the box, seized her about the ankle and began to drag her back out into the rain, she discovered that she wasn’t so tired, after all.
Suddenly she wanted to live.
She kicked and screamed, fought them tooth and nail, threw everything she had into getting away, and none of it did the least amount of good.
When she got to be too much to handle, one of the men simply reared back and smashed her in the face with his huge, meaty fist, sending her plunging into the swirling darkness of unconsciousness.
SHIZU HAD BEEN IN THE cage for just shy of a week when the big man arrived to claim her. She didn’t know that yet, of course, being kept in a room all alone, without light, and inside a six-by-six-foot steel cage, but she would meet him soon enough as it turned out.
The guards came for her sometime after breakfast but before lunch, if you could call the cold gruel they fed them anything even close to the definitions of those words. Still, despite its horrible taste, she ate it when she could; every ounce of energy was important in a place like this. They dragged her out of the cell and stripped her clothes from her, an act which required several of them to hold her arms and legs down while they cut the material off her bucking form. If she had been a little older, if she had learned of such things at home the way most young girls do, she might have been afraid for her virtue, but these men were acting under orders and the thin, featureless body of a twelve-year-old girl did not excite them in any way.
When they were finished removing her clothes they dragged her into another room, still kicking and screaming, and left her on the floor in a heap.
They were gone only long enough to get the fire hose.
The water shot out of the nozzle, slashing across her body, pushing her about the floor like a discarded toy until she smashed into a nearby wall. She’d been through this once before, on the night she’d been brought here, and she understood what was happening enough to force herself to her feet and brace herself against the wall with her back to the water to keep from drowning. Her captors apparently took this as a good sign, for the force of the water eased off a little and she was scrubbed clean by the pounding water without too much difficulty.
When they were finished they gave her a light smock to wear over her naked form and led her down a series of hallways to another room. Inside were ten or twelve others girls who were dressed just like her in pale-colored smocks and bare feet. None of them said anything to her, their eyes cast dutifully downward as weeks of captivity had taught them was correct, and so Shizu didn’t bother speaking to them, either. Instead, she took the time to examine her surroundings and to wonder just why they were all gathered here.
She didn’t have long to wait to find out.
The guards came back a few minutes later and ordered the girls to line up shoulder to shoulder, facing one wall. From the door before them came an overweight man in his mid-fifties, surrounded by bodyguards. Shizu figured, rightly so, that this was the man in charge of kidnapping them in the first place.
With him was a tall gaijin, or foreigner, dressed like a sariman in a gray suit the color of river rock. His hair was long and he wore it loose about his face, his eyes alight with curiosity and fire.
Shizu couldn’t stop looking at him.
She hadn’t seen many gaijin before and so for that reason alone he was a curiosity in her eyes, but it was the sense of power that emitted from him that truly caught her attention. This was a man used to being in control, used to having his every word obeyed without question; even Shizu’s young mind could figure that out quickly enough. This man was a predator, her instincts screamed, and all that was left to determine was the identity of the prey.
He sensed her interest, though he didn’t acknowledge it in any way. Instead, he walked with the fat man to the end of the
line and slowly began to move along it, looking at each of the girls, in turn. Sometimes he would ask them to do simple things—stand on one foot, touch their fingers to their noses—and other times he would examine them the way a doctor might, turning them this way and that, looking into their eyes, asking them to open their mouths and feeling their teeth.
When he got to her, he stopped and looked her over, just as he had the others. But rather than ask her to do any of the things she’d seen so far, he spoke to her in passable Japanese instead.
“What is your name?” he asked.
Afraid, she did not speak.
“Come, come, girl. I’m not here to hurt you. What is your name?”
This time she told him. “Shizu.”
“Would you like to leave this place, Shizu?”
Daring to meet his gaze, she said, “Very much.”
“Would you like to go away with me, Shizu?” he asked, softly this time.
She felt tears welling up at his kindness, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time, and she could only nod.
When she had dried her eyes and dared look again, she found him still standing in front of her, waiting patiently. He smiled and extended his hand.
“Come, Shizu. It’s time to go.”
She let him lead her out of that place and off to a different life.
10
Now
Concerned that Roux wasn’t taking things seriously enough, Annja woke the next day determined to get some answers. She knew there was more going on than met the eye. If Roux didn’t want to talk, there was still one other person who might be able to tell her what she needed to know.
Garin Braden.
She had his cell number—or one of them, at least—and used it to call him that morning.
“I need to see you,” she told him when he answered the phone.
He laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. “Just how much of me would you like to see?”
He sounded like the cat who’d just eaten the canary, positively delighted that she’d chosen to call him and propose such an unusual request. She, however, didn’t have time for his antics.
“Cut the crap, Garin. Roux is in trouble and I need to talk to you about it immediately.”
As she snarled at him she did her best to ignore the mental image his response had called to mind. Seeing more of Garin wouldn’t be such a bad thing, at least in an aesthetic sense….
But Garin apparently didn’t hear her reprimand or he simply chose to ignore it. He was still laughing when he said, “I’m free for lunch, if that will suffice.”
It was good enough. They agreed on a place and time, with Garin suggesting he send a car and Annja firmly stating she’d get there on her own.
She had the concierge arrange a cab and she settled into the back, prepared to enjoy the ride. Paris had always been one of her favorite cities and it was particularly lovely on a spring day like this one. The streets and open-air cafes were full of Parisians enjoying the day, and the ride, short though it was, cheered her in a way that she hadn’t expected.
As it turned out, the restaurant Garin had chosen was only a few blocks from her hotel. It was also one of the most popular luncheon spots in all of Paris, judging by the line that waited at the door to get inside. She began scanning the crowd for a sign of her host even as she exited the cab.
“Ms. Creed?”
She turned to find a good-looking, curly haired man dressed in a sharply pressed gray suit standing nearby.
“I am Michel, the maître de’” he said. “If you would be so kind…” He indicated the entrance with the sweep of his hand.
Ignoring the daggerlike looks she received from those waiting in line, particularly the women, Annja walked to the front doors, stepped inside and then allowed Michel to take the lead.
“This way, please,” he said, and then headed across the dining room floor. He led her to a small, private dining room in the far corner of the building, opened the door and ushered her inside.
Garin was waiting for her at the room’s only table. He stood, a smile on his face, as she entered and took her seat, then he sat across from her.
“It’s good to see you again, Annja,” he said, after Michel left the room.
“The dining room would have been perfectly fine,” she replied, uncomfortable with the situation. This wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake.
“Nonsense,” Garin replied. “You wanted to talk about Roux and this way we are free to do so without fear of being overheard.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, the red liquid a sharp contrast against the perfectly pressed white linen tablecloth.
“Now what’s on your mind?” he asked.
Annja looked at him over the top of her glass and spoke without preamble. “I’m worried about him.”
“Oh?” he said, leaning back and enjoying a sip from his own glass.
She told him everything she had told Roux the night before, from the discovery of the origami figure to her belief that the intruder at Roux’s estate had been none other than the Dragon himself. She brought it back to Roux, saying, “He’s acting like the attack on his estate was an afternoon lark, rather than a possible attempt on his life. He refuses to involve the authorities and ignores me when I try to discuss it with him.”
Garin laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Annja. The man’s home has been invaded, and with it his pride, and you act as if he should be happy to chat about it. With a woman, no less! That is not the Roux we know and love.”
He had a point; she knew that. But given the possibility that the intruder actually was the Dragon, Roux should’ve been able to set aside such things in favor of protecting himself and, by extension, those around him.
She said as much to Garin. “For an old soldier, he’s not acting with much tactical sense. If the intruder was the Dragon, Roux could be putting himself, and those around him, in serious danger,” she concluded.
Garin waved one hand in dismissal. “One does not need tactics to deal with a pack of common thieves,” he said, but Annja saw it for what it was—a poor attempt to distract her from the truth.
She’d seen him stiffen when she’d mentioned the Dragon, just as Roux had. They knew something, something she did not. This time she wouldn’t be distracted so easily.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
He tried to brush it off with a laugh. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, Annja.”
She wasn’t buying it. She had a sudden suspicion that Garin knew far more about what was going on than he wanted to admit. “That’s a load of bull and you know it. Spit it out, Garin, or so help me, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” he teased, still smiling. “Skewer me in a public restaurant?”
Without a second thought she called forth her sword and poked him with it beneath the table. “Damn right, I will. Now talk!”
He glanced down to where the tip of the blade rested against his thigh and shook his head at what she assumed was her audacity. She didn’t care, as long as he told her what she needed to know.
“All right, all right. Calm down and put away the pig-sticker. No need to get unfriendly.”
With a quick thought the sword was back in the otherwhere, where it would be ready when she needed it again. “What do you know about the Dragon?” she asked again.
Garin leaned back, staring at the wineglass in his hand, as if the answers they sought might be found in the depths of that ruby liquid.
“What do I know?” he repeated. “Nothing. I know nothing. But I do have certain suspicions that I am willing to share.”
The waiter came in at that moment and their talk was put on hold as Garin ordered for both of them. Normally this would have annoyed Annja to no end—she could order her own lunch, thank you very much—but she cared more about what Garin had to say than eating at this point and so she let it go.
When the waiter left the room, Garin continued. “A man in my position, a man wi
th business interests as diverse as my own, is always conscious of security to one degree or another. Political leaders are not the only ones who get assassinated, you know.”
Annja rolled her eyes.
“Given that, I employ people to keep me abreast of developments in certain areas. And it was through them that I first learned of the Dragon.
“No one seems to know who he was or where he came from. He just announced his availability for hire by assassinating the French Deputy Minister of Defense one evening in Paris, killing the man so quietly that his sleeping wife never even stirred in her sleep. The Dragon departed as silently as he had arrived, leaving the wife to wake up next to her dead husband several hours too late to save him.
“From that point, he seemed to be everywhere at once. The next decade was like the rest of us had stumbled onto his personal playing field. Diplomats. Ambassadors. Bankers and lawyers. Powerful people create powerful enemies and there is always someone willing to pay an exorbitant sum to keep others down. The Dragon didn’t care about their political affiliations or issues. He killed them all—every race, color, creed and political party—provided those hiring him could pay his price.”
Annja frowned. “You seem to know a lot about him,” she said.
He shrugged, unconcerned with her suspicions. “No more than anyone else in my position. For all I knew I could have been next on his list, as my unflinching approach to business has earned me more than a few enemies along the way.”
Unflinching, Annja thought, try bloodthirsty. And the idea that you’ve generated a “few” enemies has to be the understatement of the century.
“What made the Dragon so unusual was that he always killed his targets by hand, usually with a Japanese katana, and if the sword wasn’t strange enough he would also leave behind a token of his presence at every murder scene.”
“Let me guess,” Annja said. “An origami dragon.”
“Always said you were as intelligent as you are beautiful, Annja.”