The Dragon’s Mark
Page 20
Henshaw had obviously used one before. He popped it, tugged on his earlobe for a moment and announced that it was fine.
Annja, on the other hand, had to twist and turn hers for a moment before she got a good fit.
Marco picked up one of the other boxes, opened it and showed them both the wafer-thin piece of flesh-colored plastic it contained. “This is a microphone disk. Peel away the protective covering to expose the adhesive and then just press it firmly against your skin. Somewhere near your neck or upper chest is usually the best place. It’s extremely sensitive, but I wouldn’t count on it picking up your words if you stick it on your calf, for instance.”
Marco picked up the mini-walkie-talkie from the pile of gear on the table in front of him. “Go ahead and put on a mike, then we’ll give them a test.”
He waited to be certain they both followed the instructions he’d given and then walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
A moment later Annja could hear Marco’s voice in her ear. “Testing, one, two, three. Can you hear me, Annja?”
“Yes, I can hear you.”
“All right, hang on a minute while I check Henshaw’s gear.”
He repeated the sequence with her partner and then returned to the living room. He collected their equipment, put the each set of earpieces and corresponding mikes into a single case and handed a case to each of them.
“They have a battery life of twenty-four hours, so don’t put them on until you’re ready to go—” he hesitated for a moment “—wherever it is you’re going.”
Annja eyed the box in her hand thoughtfully. “What about interception or interference?”
Marco shrugged. “The radios use a pretty rare frequency and the signals are encrypted automatically, so you won’t pick up anyone else’s traffic, nor will they pick up yours. The transmitter might be small but it’s powerful. You should be able to remain in contact with each other up to two miles away. It will even penetrate solid rock up to five hundred feet thick, so the walls of a building or even an entire house shouldn’t be any kind of problem for you. That’s the best I can do on short notice.”
Annja nearly laughed. If that was what he could do on short notice, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he’d be capable of when given more time. Probably reroute the NSA’s supersecret satellites just to get his voice mail, she thought.
With the communications issues resolved, Henshaw saw Marco out the door. He was gone for a few minutes, and when he came back Annja was waiting for him with an annoyed look on her face.
“Let me guess. He’s an old friend who just happened to be hanging around down the street when you called. Out with it, Henshaw.”
He mumbled something about not knowing what she was talking about.
But after all that had happened, there was no way she was going to settle for a feeble excuse.
“I said, spill it!”
Henshaw hesitated for another moment or two, then sighed. “No sense in keeping things a secret now, is there?” he asked.
Annja chose to take that as a rhetorical question and simply waited for him to continue.
“We’ve had you under surveillance ever since the day you left the estate,” he said.
“Why?”
“Roux was worried. He knew about the Dragon—knew what he was capable of, how far he would go to get something he wanted. At the same time he’d heard rumors about an artifact the Dragon was supposed to possess.”
“You mean Muramasa’s sword?”
“Yes, right, the sword.” Henshaw tried but failed to hide his surprise that she knew about the weapon.
Of course she knew about the weapon. Did they think she was an idiot?
“And then what?” she prompted, feeling her anger rise. “Did he think he was going to just dangle me out there as bait? Wait and see what happened?”
Henshaw’s face went still. “I wasn’t privy to all his plans, Ms. Creed.”
So they were back to Ms. Creed now, were they? “I have half a mind to just leave him there, Henshaw. He was playing games with my life!”
Wisely her companion remained silent.
After several minutes, Annja said, “Okay, we both know that I can’t leave him in her hands any more than you can, no matter how angry I am. So let’s figure out the rest of this plan and call it a night.”
They talked for another hour, getting everything straight so that when the time came they both knew what they were supposed to be doing and when. It was a reasonable plan, straightforward, without too many things that could trip them up. Of course, she thought, there was always the unexpected, but that couldn’t be helped.
Afterward they made arrangements with the manager to have a cab waiting for them in the hotel’s underground garage so they could slip away from the hotel without being seen.
Assuming that Annja’s loft was being watched, they staged an argument just outside, with Annja yelling at Henshaw through the cab’s window, telling him she didn’t want anything to do with him and that she would handle things on her own, all in an attempt to convince the watchers they knew were out there that Annja was following the Dragon’s instructions to the letter.
Sleep was a long time in coming for Annja that night.
26
Several months earlier
Shizu eyed the lodge in front of her through the curtain of falling snow. Inside that building was the man she had come to kill. All she had to do in order to complete her contract was to enter the house, kill its occupant and get out again without being caught.
Not a problem, she thought with a grin.
She circled the property, noting the position of the security cameras and how often they moved in their preset arcs, and laughed silently. Whoever was in charge of security was an idiot; the cameras moved in defined, repeatable patterns. All she had to do was wait for the right moment.
When it came, she raced across the lawn directly toward the house in front of her. She was dressed in white, from her head to her feet, blending perfectly with the snow all around her. Even if someone had chosen that moment to look out through the windows, they wouldn’t have been able to pick out her form in the midst of the swirling snow.
She reached the side of the building without incident and flattened herself against it. The cameras only faced outward, so she was beyond their reach, but she wasn’t certain yet if there were armed guards wandering the property and she didn’t want to make herself a visible target.
There was a door several yards farther along. From the plans she had stolen from the contractor who’d built the place she knew that it led into a utility room.
It was as good a choice as any to provide her entrance.
She removed an electric lock pick from the pocket of her coat. It resembled a pistol but instead of a barrel it had a long thick tongue sticking out of the front end. She shoved the tongue into the lock and then pulled the trigger. There was a brief rattle as the pick vibrated inside the lock, causing the pins to fall into place, and then the door was opening before her. She shoved the pick back inside her jacket and stepped forward.
Slipping inside, she shut the door quietly behind her and listened, making certain that the rattle of the pick, quiet as it was, had not attracted undue attention.
She left her coat and shoes behind, not wanting the heavy fabric or wet soles to give her away. On stocking feet she moved deeper into the house.
The utility room door opened to a short corridor, which, in turn, led into the kitchen. That was where she found the first guard. He was standing at the island making a sandwich, a loaf of bread and a jar of mayonnaise open on the counter in front of him. He never heard her as she crept up behind him, covered his mouth with one hand and, with the other, drove a knife deep into his brain through the base of his skull.
She held him as he died and then lowered him quietly to the floor.
Wiping the blade of her knife on his shirt, she moved on.
The next guard was standing in a pool
of light at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, his arms crossed in front of him.
Her sword barely made a sound as she drew it from the scabbard she wore on her back.
Breathing deeply to fill her lungs with oxygen, the Dragon burst out of the hallway, a shadow moving through the dimly lit room. By the time the guard’s mind managed to receive the message from his eyes that he was under attack, it was too late. He died with his hands still reaching for the weapon on his hip, the Dragon’s sword thrust through his heart.
Pulling her sword free from his chest, she was already moving past the body and up the stairs as it crumpled to the carpet behind her with a thump.
She could see the floor plan in her mind, knew that the bedroom she wanted was the third door on the left, and she was already passing through it into the room itself when she heard the first shouts of alarm from downstairs.
Someone had found the body in the kitchen.
But that didn’t matter; she was where she needed to be. She could see the man’s sleeping form on the bed in front of her and she moved forward confidently.
One more thrust would be all it took.
Three steps from the bed the lights suddenly flared to life around her and Shizu found herself looking down the barrel of the pistol held in the hand of the man on the bed.
The one she had been sent here to kill.
Staring at him, Shizu nearly died of shock.
The man on the bed was Sensei.
“Hello, Shizu,” he said gently.
She could say nothing; it was as if she had lost the capability of speech.
Sensei did not lower the pistol. “You did exceptionally well. While I know your skills are extraordinary, I did not think you could penetrate my security so easily. My hat is off to you and your teachers.”
Shizu still said nothing.
The pistol did not waver. “I am sorry I had to test you this way, but it was necessary. I needed to be certain that you had developed the skills for what comes next and this was the only way to do that.”
He paused, watching her closely for a moment. “Do you understand that this was just a test? You are not to complete the mission as instructed, now that you know it is a test.”
Shizu slowly nodded.
“Let me hear you say it,” Sensei told her.
“This mission is aborted. You are not the target,” she said softly, the tension of the previous moments still in her voice.
He nodded in reply. “Very good, Shizu.”
Then and only then did he lower the pistol and place it on the bed beside him. Rising, he said, “Well done, Shizu. Well done indeed.”
Finding her voice at last, Shizu spoke up. The fact that she did so was a testament to how unnerved she was by what had just happened. “But I could have killed you!” she gasped, appalled at the very idea.
Sensei smiled, but there was little humor in his eyes. “You could have tried. I’ll give you that.”
He reached out and pressed a button on the intercom beside the bed. A moment later the door behind Shizu opened, revealing a muscular man in a dark suit.
Addressing the newcomer, Sensei said, “Show her to her room and see to it that she has anything she needs.”
The man nodded.
Turning back to Shizu, he said, “Get some rest. I’m sure your exertions tired you out. We will talk in more detail in the morning.”
Mystified, but obedient as always, Shizu did what she was told.
BY THE TIME SHE AWOKE the next morning, the damage to the estate had been repaired. She walked through the central room and saw no sign that she had killed a man there the night before. Even the bloodstains were gone from the thick carpet.
Hungry, she wandered into the kitchen. There she found breakfast prepared—a buffet-style table laid out with fruit, eggs, meat—on the same island the guard had been using to make a sandwich the night before. A place setting had been laid out and next to her plate was a small card.
“Join me in the dojo when you are finished,” it read, and included a few additional instructions. It was unsigned, but Shizu had no problem recognizing the handwriting. She hadn’t seen it in some time, but that didn’t matter. One does not forget the signature of the man you consider to be your personal savior.
The dojo was in a separate wing of the house and it didn’t take her long to find it. She moved directly to the changing room as she’d been instructed. There she found a large tub filled with water and a pure-white kimono made from the finest silk hanging on a rack nearby. A full-length mirror stood next to the tub beside a small table holding a silver pitcher, a folded towel, a natural sponge and another card. “Cleanse yourself and meet me on the floor when you are ready,” it read.
If Sensei wills, so be it, she thought.
She stripped out of her clothing and carefully placed it off to the side so it wouldn’t get wet. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so, her tattoo rippling across her muscles as she moved. She was not a vain woman, however, and the idea of standing in front of a mirror admiring herself was so out of her frame of reference that the thought didn’t even occur. Picking up the pitcher, she poured the contents—water hot enough to still be steaming—all over her head and body. She endured it stoically, not flinching once at the pain. She put the pitcher down, picked up the sponge and scrubbed herself clean.
She turned to the tub. A stool stood nearby and she used it to get up over the edge of the waist-high tub, then dropped down into the water.
As she had expected, it was icy cold. She dunked beneath the surface three times, then climbed back out again, drying off with the towel before putting on the kimono.
It fit as if it had been tailored for her and Shizu had no doubt that was, indeed, the case. She spent a few minutes clearing her head and preparing for what was to come before stepping through the door into the dojo proper.
In the middle of the room, Sensei waited, kneeling on a mat in front of a traditional Japanese tea set. He wore a black silk kimono the same color as his hair, which was loose around his face. It made him look younger, less harsh.
Behind him, on a wooden rack, was a sword in a wooden scabbard.
Shizu’s curiosity burned at the sight of the weapon, but she knew better than to ask about the sword. It wasn’t the way these things were done. She would remain quiet until Sensei mentioned it or until she was given permission to speak freely.
She crossed the floor on bare feet and settled down lotus style next to the tea set. As she reached out to begin the tea service, Sensei shook his head, indicating that she should leave the service alone.
When she sat back, he shocked her by preparing the tea himself, something he had never done in front of her before. First, he added hot water to the delicate porcelain cups and then added some green tea leaves. Next, he whisked the mixture together to produce a foamy green tea. Turning the cup to face her, Sensei bowed low and offered her the first taste. She took it, then offered it back to him, as was traditional, but he declined, indicating she should drink. Once she had, he repeated the process, taking a sip for himself before putting the cup down on the table.
They passed another moment in silence, and then Sensei spoke.
“You have done well, Shizu. I am proud of your accomplishments.”
It was high praise for her and she sat a little taller before him, honored to have him think so highly of her.
“Now at last, we come to the reason for all you have done over the past several years. I have a specific mission for you, a mission I am now convinced you can carry out successfully.”
Shizu bowed her head. “Whatever you wish, Sensei.”
He was smiling when she looked up again. “You have always been faithful, Shizu, and I admire you for that. Such dedication is a rare and powerful thing. Because you have been so devoted, so unflinching in all that you have done for me, today I want to return that dedication. I have a gift for you, a gift fitting for one known as the Dragon.”
“Like you, this sword was crafted for a purpose. The artisan who fashioned it poured everything he had into its creation. He gave it a destiny and then turned it loose in the world to carry out its ends. So it is fitting that on this day, when you, too, are turned loose to carry out your mission, you should receive a gift of equal value.”
To Shizu’s shock and surprise, Sensei bowed once, short and sharp, and then handed her the sword.
She cradled it lovingly in her hands, not trusting herself to speak. Holding the scabbard in one hand and grasping the hilt in the other, she drew the sword out slightly, revealing about four or five inches of the blade.
The katana was old; she could tell just by looking at it. The blade was too sharp, the etching too exquisite, for it to have been made in the modern era. Toshiro had taught her to recognize the old blades, those actually fashioned during the samurai period itself, and she had no doubt that this one originated from that time frame.
Just beneath the hilt, a dragon had been etched lovingly into the blade’s surface. It was lunging forward, its front claws reaching toward the pointed end of the blade, smoke pouring from its mouth and between its whiskers.
“It hungers, Shizu. Hungers for death and destruction and misery, hungers for everything its creator wished upon his enemies.”
That last was said quietly, almost reverently, and she wondered for a moment if there were hidden meanings behind the words.
“It is the sword carried by your predecessor, the original Dragon. Now it is yours.”
Shizu stared at the blade in her hands and vowed to do the gift justice. She would be better than the original Dragon; she would make the legend live as it never had before.
Sensei gently took the weapon from her, sliding the blade back into the scabbard and returning the sword to the rack behind him.