by Alex Archer
“It is there for you when you need it,” he told her.
He moved to stand before her again, his gaze capturing her own.
“I have one more gift for you,” he said.
Stepping in close, he bent his head and kissed her passionately on the lips.
For a moment she froze in shock and then the hunger and passion she had been hiding inside for years exploded. She clung to him, losing herself in his touch and his taste and his very closeness. Her love for him knew no bounds and she had prayed for years that this day would come, but had never actually believed that it would.
His hands found the ties of her kimono and deftly released them, sliding the garment off her shoulders to let it pool on the floor at her feet. His lips traced their way down her neck and Shizu nearly screamed in delight.
Sensei took her on the floor of the dojo and every move of his body upon hers cemented her allegiance to him. When he was finished he left her alone. He had won her over, heart, mind and soul. She would do whatever he asked, whenever he asked, without hesitation or doubt.
WHEN HE SUMMONED HER to his study a few hours later, he gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened between them.
Recognizing what she thought was his need for discretion, Shizu did not refer to it, either.
It would be their secret.
Sensei handed her a file folder. Inside was a color photo of a stunningly beautiful woman with chestnut hair and amber-green eyes. A name had been printed across the bottom of the photograph.
“That woman carries a certain sword that I wish to possess. I want you to get that sword for me,” Sensei said.
Shizu nodded. “She’ll be dead before the week is out,” she replied, displaying a sense of newfound confidence that was as surprising to her as it was to her master.
“No!” he said sharply, and then calmed himself. To Shizu it seemed as if he was embarrassed at having shown even that little emotion.
“No,” he repeated, this time in a calmer tone. “She is not to come to any harm, nor can the sword be taken from her by force. It must be given of her own free will. Anything less and my plans will be ruined. Do you understand?”
Shizu hid the confusion she was feeling and simply nodded. She had been trained to kill, to eliminate her enemies as ruthlessly and as quickly as possible. The woman had something Sensei wanted and she was not allowed to use the one skill she could most easily bring to bear on the problem? Was this another test?
Sensei saw her confusion. “The sword is an item of considerable power, but that power is only available if its current bearer still lives and if the sword has been given freely, rather than taken under duress. She must remain alive,” he explained.
“Hai!” Shizu said, bowing to show her complete agreement.
Sensei pointed at some materials in a file folder. “Everything you need is in here—habits, locations, even her travel schedule for the next several weeks. An account has been opened for your use—the access codes are in the folder, as well. Once you have the sword, reach me through the usual channels.”
He moved out from behind the desk and Shizu understood that her audience was over. It was time for her to leave.
“I will await word that you have succeeded,” he said, “as I have no doubt that you will do so. Good hunting.”
Later, in her own room, Shizu stared at the photograph, studying the woman. Her gaze drifted to the name at the bottom of the image.
“What secrets are you hiding, Annja Creed?” the Dragon asked. “And why is preserving your life so important to Sensei?”
She did not know the answers, but she was certain she would find out.
Maybe then she could quench the fire of jealousy that was suddenly burning in her heart.
27
Now
Annja slept badly that night, her dreams plagued by faceless samurai soldiers and a massive feathered dragon that breathed fire in great scorching arcs. Roux appeared more than once, as well—a gagged and bound captive who endured torture after torture at the hands of a beautiful porcelain doll with long dark hair.
By the time she awoke for the fifth time, heart pounding, Annja decided that it wasn’t worth trying to sleep any more. She got up to greet the sun.
She ran through a series of katas to get her blood flowing and her head clear, then settled down in front of the windows for some meditation and deep breathing. The sun kissed the rooftops nearby, then rose high enough to shine its light directly into her loft, illuminating her as she sat lotus style on the floor.
Satisfied she was ready for what was to come later that day, Annja got up, showered and ate a hearty breakfast, knowing she was going to need the energy reserves later.
All the while, her thoughts were on her sword. The plan called for her to give it up to the Dragon and do what she could to hold it here in this world as she and Henshaw tried to free Roux. Then she would call the sword back to her, ultimately returning it to the otherwhere.
It wasn’t half-bad as plans go.
There was only one thing wrong with it.
They had no idea what would happen when she voluntarily gave up the sword. Would it still be bonded to her at that point? Would the link between them be shattered? Would she ever be able to command the sword again?
She didn’t know.
And not knowing scared her.
HENSHAW ARRIVED AT THE park just after it opened. He carried a backpack over one shoulder and had several cameras slung around his neck, emulating the look of just another picture-obsessed photographer come to document the beauty of the garden in bloom. A tour bus with New Jersey license plates was unloading passengers as he approached the entrance to the park so he merged with the crowd and struck up a conversation with one of the tour’s patrons as they waited to buy their entrance tickets.
If the park was under surveillance as Annja suspected, then they would be looking for a solitary individual and might not pay too much attention to the group as it entered the park.
He stayed with his newfound friend until they had moved through the entrance pavilion and into the park itself, then wandered away on his own.
When he was certain that no one was taking an undue interest in him, Henshaw took out the little map he’d been given when he’d bought his ticket and quickly located the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden.
He’d entered off Flatbush Avenue, which was on the opposite end of the park from where he needed to be. It seemed a prudent move; the two entrances off Washington were certainly closer, but were also more likely to be watched for just that reason. In order to get to the Japanese garden, he was going to have to stick to the outer walkway, past the Steinhardt Conservatory, the Lily Pool Terrace and the Magnolia Plaza Visitor Center before he was even close. From there he could cut through the Celebrity Path or the Fragrance Garden to reach his destination.
Henshaw took his time, using his cameras on a regular basis, doing what he could to remain in character and not appear out of place. Several passersby smiled and said hello. He nodded or waved hello in return, but kept his mouth shut at all times. He didn’t want people to remember the man with all the cameras and the British accent, just in case something went wrong later.
At last he reached the southern edge of the lake. The viewing pavilion was directly in front of him; this was the location of the meet.
He had to find a suitable watching place.
He consulted his map and tried to match it up with his surroundings. He could see that on the other side of the narrow lake the land began to rise toward a wooded ridgeline. A second path wound along about halfway up the hillside and he decided to follow that to see what he might find.
Another ten minutes of walking found him looking directly back across the lake at the viewing pavilion from that second, higher walkway. This is the place, he thought.
He left the path and climbed through the trees, emerging on a narrow ridge above the edge of the Japanese garden. From there he could look across the
lake to the viewing pavilion, as well as both walkways, the one on this side of the lake and the other that led up to and away from the pavilion itself.
He found a small copse of trees that provided him with a clear line of sight to the pavilion, as well as some shade. Setting his pack on the ground, he walked fifty paces in every direction, looking back at his selected spot from a variety of locations. He was pleased to find that he couldn’t see the backpack no matter how hard he tried; the position was a good one and would provide the cover he needed to carry out his part of the plan. Later, when the sun was setting, the whole area would be layered with shadows and he’d be almost invisible.
Returning to his chosen location, he removed a pair of binoculars from his pack, found a comfortable sitting position with his back to a tree and settled in to start his watch.
BY MIDMORNING ANNJA WAS going stir-crazy. When something needed to be done she was the type who just went out and did it, so waiting around was driving her nuts. She paced the floor of her loft like a caged lioness, back and forth, until she just couldn’t take it anymore.
She had to get out of there.
She threw on her sweats and went for a jog, sticking to the main streets and avoiding any of the alleys or shortcuts she might have used. She wanted to be certain she was around people in case the Dragon’s goons tried to make another move ahead of the meet.
When she returned to her apartment she showered for the second time that morning and then dropped in front of the television in her bathrobe for some mindless entertainment. Halfway through whatever show it was that she was watching—it was that interesting—she decided to call Garin.
If there was one thing Garin was good at, it was self-preservation. Since both he and Roux were tied to Joan’s sword in some indefinable way, she knew he would want to be kept abreast of what was happening. He’d also want to know what had happened to Roux; just because their last encounter had ended badly didn’t mean that they wanted nothing further to do with each other. If that was the case, they would have stopped talking to each other hundreds of years ago.
Annja dialed the cell number she had for Garin and listened to it ring several times before the call was finally routed to a general voice-mail system. There wasn’t even a message; it just beeped to indicate that it was recording.
She left a message, explaining that Roux was in trouble and that she needed Garin’s help. After that, there wasn’t anything more she could do.
THE HOURS PASSED SLOWLY.
The park had a fair number of visitors and Henshaw watched them all in turn, looking for that one telltale sign that something was out of place, the one little detail that would give them away for who they really were, but he didn’t see anything that made him suspicious.
He found himself admiring the tranquility of the place—the calmness of the lake waters, the gentle cascade of the landscape. Even the soft breeze that wafted over the garden seemed to have been designed to enhance its very features.
Several times he saw solitary figures showing interest in the lake and the viewing pavilion. One even took the time to pace off the inside of the structure, but when the bride and groom showed up fifteen minutes later for the picture-taking ceremony, Henshaw knew the photographer was just that, a photographer, and not a threat.
Around noon two men in a small boat paddled out across the surface of the lake to where an odd-looking wooden gatelike structure floated. Henshaw had noted it when he’d first caught sight of the lake and the brochure he’d been given with his entrance ticket had told him that it was known as a torii. It had been painted such a brilliant shade of red that the eye couldn’t help but be drawn to it amid the deep emerald green of the surrounding trees.
The men in the boat seemed to be checking something at the base of the torii. Probably a pair of maintenance men, he thought, and after growing tired of watching them eventually dismissed them as unimportant. He barely noticed when they left a few minutes later.
He made sure to shift positions occasionally so that his limbs didn’t go to sleep, and when he needed to relieve himself he did so with a bottle he had brought along for just that purpose.
Not once during the long afternoon did anyone glance in his direction, never mind leave the path and climb up toward the ridge where he might have been in danger of being seen. Nor did he see anything suspicious. If the Dragon or her people were out there, they were doing one hell of a job of staying hidden.
Eventually the sun began to set and the time for Annja’s arrival drew near. Confident that the shadows now hid him sufficiently well that he wouldn’t be seen even if he stood, Henshaw reached for his backpack. He removed what he needed and then assembled it carefully. When he was finished he took the spotting scope out of the pocket of his shirt where he had been carrying it all day and clamped it on to the barrel of the now-reassembled rifle.
He was ready.
“Hang in there, sir,” he whispered to the wind. “We’re coming.”
28
When the time had come, Annja dressed in a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved jersey and her usual low-cut hiking boots. She put the receiver in her ear and attached the microphone to the space between her breasts, just below her collarbone. Then she caught a cab over to the garden.
Founded in 1910 on the site for a former ash dump, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden occupied fifty-two acres between Washington and Flatbush avenues near the Prospect Heights section of Brooklyn. It held more than ten thousand varieties of plants and welcomed more than seven hundred thousand visitors per year.
At least, that’s what the sign near the ticket booth read. In all the years Annja had lived in Brooklyn, she’d never been to the gardens.
I have to get out more, she told herself sternly.
She paid for her ticket and passed through the gates, examining the little map they handed out in the process. She found the section of the park containing the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden and headed in that direction. Wandering down the path a short way from the entrance she found an isolated spot and, pretending she needed to retie her shoe, she squatted and tried to reach Henshaw.
She knew the microphones were sensitive, that they could pretty much pick up anything, even a whisper, so Annja kept her voice low and her head turned away so no one could see her seemingly talking to herself.
“Henshaw, you out there?”
There was a long moment of silence and then, “Right here, Ms. Creed.”
Annja breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t realized until just that moment how much she was depending on the radio system to keep her in touch with Henshaw. Or how much his presence helped calm her nerves. She’d already faced off against the Dragon and lost; the idea of doing so a second time was in the forefront of her mind. But this time, her life and Roux’s depended on her success.
It was a heavy burden to bear.
“All right, I’m inside the park. I’ll make my way around to the pavilion and we’ll see what’s what,” Annja said.
It took her fifteen minutes to reach the Japanese garden. This particular one was the first Japanese garden built within an American public garden, and its creator, Takeo Shiota, had done the city proud. It blended the ancient hill-and-pond style with the more modern stroll-garden style and managed to carry it off wonderfully. Annja thought the beauty of the place was amazing. Evergreen trees and bushes dominated the landscape, and here and there bright splashes of color from flowering plants were used with restraint. Annja could see a wooden bridge extending out to a small hump of an island that reminded her of a turtle’s back, but it was the building standing right at the water’s edge that drew her like iron to a magnet.
The viewing pavilion was a large, wooden pagoda-like structure made in typical Japanese fashion. The wood had been stained a deep brown and stood out against the trees without being conspicuous or seeming to be out of place. A vermilion-colored torii, or floating gateway, could be seen in the middle of the lake. Annja knew that the torii indicated the presence of a sh
rine somewhere nearby, but when she looked around for it she couldn’t see it.
She walked over to the pavilion and entered. It appeared to be empty, just one large room without furniture but which offered several places from which one could look out upon the lake.
“Still with me?” she whispered.
“I’m here. Looks like you’re about to get company. Someone is approaching from the opposite entrance.”
Annja waited a moment, then turned to face that direction just in time to see Shizu enter the Pavilion
HENSHAW BROUGHT THE RIFLE to his shoulder and centered the sights on the Dragon as she approached Annja.
A twig snapped behind him.
Henshaw whirled around, thinking he’d find a stray hiker or a runaway dog. Instead, he saw a figure standing in the shadows not half a dozen yards away. The gun in his hand was a dead giveaway that he didn’t have Henshaw’s best interests at heart. Henshaw couldn’t believe what he was seeing; he’d been so careful all day long, so intent on making certain he wasn’t seen, that his mind just couldn’t accept that someone else had gotten the drop on him. He made an effort to get his gun up and around in the right direction, but the other man fired before he made it.
Henshaw was close enough to see both muzzle flashes as the pistol in the man’s hand went off. What a sledgehammer slammed into his chest, followed immediately by another one, and as he went over backward, the darkness already closing in, Henshaw had a moment to wonder about the lack of the sound of the gunshots.
Then the darkness closed in and he knew no more.
ANNJA WATCHED AS THE Dragon seemed to step right out of the shadows as she entered the building. Shizu glanced around, saw Annja and began walking toward her.
“Here she comes, be ready,” Annja whispered into her microphone.
But she didn’t get the reply she expected. Instead, from her receiver, came a harsh grunt, then nothing else.