Footsteps pounded down the concourse. “Ya me te!”
The third man turned and ran. Tanner looked for the Noboru clone, but he was gone.
The two officers spoke little English, so Tanner was escorted to prefecture headquarters, where he was questioned through an interpreter.
A few minutes later, Inspector Tanaka arrived. He nodded at Tanner, scanned the report, then took a chair. As he had at the hotel, Tanner took an immediate dislike to Tanaka; it was partly gut reaction and partly trust in Ieyasu’s insinuation that Tanaka was dirty.
“You are having an eventful stay in Japan, Mr. Tanner.”
“Not by choice, Inspector. How is it you got this case?”
“Homicide and Violent Crimes are part of the same division. I was on duty, and I recognized your name. I thought I might help.”
“Thanks, but no harm done.”
“Except to the two men you put in the hospital.”
“Are you more concerned for them, Inspector, or for tourists who get mugged in your subways?”
“For our tourists, of course. These men were severely injured, however. I am wondering where you learned to—”
“Call it dumb luck.”
“But these were experienced street hoodlums. I just find it curious that—”
“Inspector, am I being charged with something?”
“No. The circumstances are quite clear here.”
“Then let’s finish. It’s been a long night.”
“Very well. We just need a statement, and then we’ll return you to your hotel.”
Tanner stated he left his hotel and took the train into Kobe, where he boarded the Portliner monorail for Port Island, a thirty-minute round trip.
“And the reason for this trip?” asked Tanaka
“Sightseeing.”
“At this hour?”
“I don’t sleep well.”
“May I see the ticket?”
“I threw it away.”
“Please continue.”
From the Portliner he returned to Sannomiya and boarded the Tokaido to Shinkassen, where he was attacked. He described both the confrontation and his attackers but mentioned nothing of the Noboru clone.
“What did they ask for?”
“My wallet.”
“Not the valise?” Tanaka asked, pointing to the case in Tanner’s lap.
“No. In fact, I offered it to them, but they didn’t want it.”
“May I?”
Tanner didn’t bat an eye. “Go ahead.”
Tanaka dug through the case for a few moments, then handed it back. “Well, Mr. Tanner, we will file a report and continue the search for the third attacker. I’ll have an officer return you to your hotel.”
Tanner stood. “Thank you.”
“One piece of advice, however,” Tanaka said. “This is your second incident in our country. You might be wise to be more cautious in the future.”
“You’re afraid my string of bad luck might continue?”
Tanaka smiled greasily. “I certainly hope not, but who can say?”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Inspector.”
An hour later, back in Cahil’s hotel room, Bear held up the valise and wiggled his finger through the knife hole. “Made some friends, I see.”
Tanner poured them a pair of scotch rocks, handed one to Cahil, then dropped into a chair. “Three of them.”
“You okay?”
Tanner nodded. Good ol’ Mama Bear. It was good to have him along. “One got away,” he said. “A Noboru look-alike was there, too, but he disappeared.”
“Slowing in your old age, Briggs.”
“Tell me about it. Let’s see what they wanted so badly.”
Cahil opened the valise. There were only two items: a nautical chart and a day-planner organizer. Cahil unfolded the former on the bed. It was a coastal chart of southern Honshu Island, the Inland Sea, and Shikoku Island. Written in along the border were the words “Toshogu” and “Tsumago” and “Anan, Secure Dock 12—???”
“Takagi’s shipyard?” Cahil asked.
Tanner nodded. “It’s just south of Anan, over on Shikoku. One of Ohira’s contacts worked there. Here, what do you make of these?”
A series of asterisks and fractional numbers—all with three-digit numerators and four-digit denominators—had been scribbled on the chart. Four of the asterisks lay within miles of the Royal Palms. A pair of red dots—one just inside the mouth of the Inland Sea and the other a few miles off Shiono Misaki—were linked by a dotted line.
“Interesting,” said Cahil. “Wonder what it means.”
“Let’s see the day planner.”
The contents appeared unremarkable, except for several pages on which they found handwritten geometric symbols: squares, triangles and diamonds, each in different sequences and each followed by four numbers.
“Military time,” said Tanner. “It’s symbol code—probably listings of Ohira’s contact locations and wave-off meets.” He retrieved the laptop computer, powered it up, typed in his password, and opened a file. “Here we go. … Check the night he was killed.”
Cahil flipped pages. “Busy boy. Three meets: eight, ten, then eleven.”
“He was killed at about nine-thirty, so he was probably on his way to the second meet. Anything written down?”
“No, just the time.”
“Could be his false flag. So, let’s assume he made the first meet. …” Tanner said, checking the laptop’s screen. “Here: A bar outside Tokoshima. It was his shipyard contact, the engineer. Why all the interest in the shipyard, I wonder? The fire-control chips were supposedly made by Takagi’s electronics division.”
“Most of Takagi’s contract work for the JDF is handled by the Maritime Division.”
“True, but still …”
Cahil squinted at him. “Let me guess: You see a late-night visit to the shipyard in our future.”
“It might be a good idea. Okay, how about Ohira’s last meet?”
Bear checked the day planner and found Ohira’s eleven o’clock appointment had been set at the Nintoku Mausoleum in Osaka. “Wow,” he said. “The contact’s a lawyer in Takagi’s Office of Counsel. Big fish.”
“No kidding. Okay, that was the primary meet. How about the secondary?”
“Ten o’clock at Sorakuen Garden in Kobe. Day after tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Tanner. “Now let’s just hope his contact hasn’t gone to ground.”
South of Nagoya, in his hilltop mansion overlooking Atsumi Bay, Hiromasa Takagi steepled his fingers and stared at the black-and-white photograph lying in the center of his desk blotter. “This is the man who helped Ohira?” he asked.
Tange Noboru nodded. “Hai.”
“The same man you followed to the village?”
“Hai.”
“Is he working alone?”
“We think so. After leaving the hotel he boarded the train at Umeda, but he was lost when he switched to the Shin-kansen. He returned by the same route, this time carrying a briefcase. An attempt was made to intercept him.” Noboru cast a reproachful glance at the gray-suited man standing behind him. “It failed.”
“Explain.”
Noboru barked at the gray-suited man, who stepped forward and recounted the confrontation with Tanner. “Gomen nasai,” he murmured. Please forgive me.
For a full minute, Takagi stared at the man, who stood bowed at the waist. In feudal Japan this was a posture of submission, the symbolic offering of one’s head as atonement for wrongdoing. Today, according to the code of conduct of the Black Ocean Society and its subculture, the yakuzza, atonement was not as final, but it was harsh nonetheless. A sign of renewed fealty was required.
Takagi spoke. The phrase was idiomatic and roughly translated as, “By the blade, you are cleansed.”
The man nodded. “Hai.”
He walked to the low coffee table against the wall and knelt beside
it. On the table lay a small oak cutting board. In deliberate, almost ritualistic fashion, the man wound a silk handkerchief around the base of his pinky finger and then drew the handkerchief into a knot. Immediately the finger began to swell purple. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a kento knife and laid it beside his splayed finger.
He looked at Takagi. Takagi nodded.
The man jammed the tip of the knife into the wood beside his little finger, and rocked it sideways.
There was a sharp crunch-pop and blood gushed from the severed stump. The man let out a stifled cry. On shaking legs, he rose to his feet, swayed slightly, then picked up the cutting board and placed it on Takagi’s desk blotter.
Takagi nodded. “Go.” The man turned and left the room.
Takagi considered the situation. He knew little about Tanner aside from his military background and current employer, an exporter/importer in the United States. There was nothing to suggest he was anything more than an ordinary vacationer. Nothing, that is, except his actions at the hotel.
Was it all coincidence? Perhaps, perhaps not. Takagi was tempted to settle the matter, but another murder—especially of an American—would raise too much suspicion. Ohira’s murder had been necessary. It had left many unanswered questions. Who had he been working for, if anyone? Could there be a compromise?
Takagi dismissed this. Like so many men of wealth and power, he considered himself untouchable, and in Japan this was the virtual truth. No, he decided, there was no compromise. The ship would depart soon, and once the facility was destroyed there would be no trail left to follow. He was safe.
“Watch him,” Takagi said to Noboru. “As long as he remains a simple vacationer, he is to be left alone. If his interests change, however, I expect you to handle it personally. Do you understand?”
Tange Noboru nodded. “Hai.”
For a long time after Noburo left, Takagi stared out the window and considered his decision. Was there a connection beyond Ohira’s chance encounter with Tanner? Had he overlooked—
Stop this! he commanded himself. Doubt? Hiromasa Takagi, doubting himself? He jabbed the intercom button on his desk. “Susiko! Come in here!”
The door opened and a young girl entered. She was sixteen years old, beautiful and delicate, with short black hair framing her face. Her eyes were liquid brown, doelike. Susiko had been fourteen when Takagi purchased her from a courtesan in Kyoto. Then, as now, she was perfect. A child-woman.
I am in control, Takagi thought, staring at her. “Disrobe,” he commanded.
Eyes downcast, Susiko shed her robe. Her breasts were pert and just budding. In accordance with Takagi’s instructions, she was smooth-shaven.
“Come here.”
Susiko walked around the desk and stood before him. He reached up and fondled her right breast. The girl trembled but made no sound. She was frightened. He relished it. He felt himself hardening. He caressed her nipple between his thumb and index finger, paused, then pinched down. She cried out and collapsed to his feet.
“Tell me what you want,” Takagi murmured.
Shoulders trembling, she stared at the floor. “Please, I—”
“Tell me what you want!”
“You,” she choked. “I want you.”
He gently cupped her chin and lifted her face. He slapped her; a red welt appeared on her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you.”
Takagi smiled and nodded. “Very good.”
13
Washington, D.C.
“For Christ’s sake, Judith, how many times do I have to tell you: Your ass is too big for that dress!” Herb Smith yelled from the bathroom. “You’re not a goddamned supermodel, you know.”
Judith Smith bit her lip. “Well, I just … I just thought—”
“Put on something else, and hurry up. The car will be here in five minutes.”
Judith nodded, blinking away the tears. “Okay, Herb.”
She went into the bathroom, careful not to slam the door lest it draw another bark. She snatched tissues from the counter dispenser and dabbed her eyes. My eyeliner … I can’t ruin my … “Your ass is too big. You’re not a goddamned supermodel.” How would Marsha tell her to handle that? Maybe she wasn’t a model, but she was certainly attractive, wasn’t she? But Herb said—
“Stop it,” she said, staring at her reflection. “Stop it. You deserve better—”
“Judith, quit talking to yourself and get ready. I will not be late because you can’t fit your ass into a five-hundred-dollar dress!”
“Okay, Herb, I’m coming.”
She stared into the mirror. The woman she saw was so different from the one of twenty-five years ago. Young Judith had been bright and confident and madly in love with a promising Georgia state senator who had won her heart on their first date. Less than a year later they were married, and that’s when everything changed. She soon realized Herb had campaigned for her just as he campaigned for office: with ruthless pragmatism. She was simply window dressing, and he’d chosen her as he would choose a pair of shoes.
As the years went by and she worked at the marriage, certain that her dedication would change him, Judith made a fatal mistake: She began to believe it was her fault She wasn’t trying hard enough. She wasn’t attentive enough. She wasn’t this, she wasn’t that. She tried harder. And thus the cycle began. Smith grew more abusive; she took the blame. He controlled, she submitted.
What had it felt like to be that younger woman? Was she gone? Judith wondered. Was this who she was? Marsha Burns didn’t think so, and neither did her friends—her real friends, that was, not the Washington gossips. She’d over-heard the conversations: “She’s damaged goods. Even if she managed to find the courage to leave that drunken, philandering husband of hers, who would have her?” Judith knew about the drinking, the affairs, all the hushed-up gropings of young staffers. She even knew about the bimbo he had tucked away in that studio apartment in Georgetown. Despite all that, it terrified Judith to think of herself as anything but Mrs. Senator Herbert Smith.
“Judith, if you’re not down here in one minute, I’m leaving without you!”
“Okay, Herb, almost ready.”
Judith peeled off her dress and selected another from the closet. It was her least favorite, but he approved of it. It presented the right image, he said. She smoothed it over her hips, took one last look at her makeup, and hurried downstairs.
Down the block from the Smith home, Ibrahim Fayyad watched the couple climb into the limousine. He checked the photo folder on his lap. There was no mistaking Herb Smith: the paunch, the ruddy skin, the thinning hair idiotically combed over his balding pate. The man was a pig. His wife, however, was another story. She was a handsome woman.
He watched the limo pull out of the driveway and disappear down the street. He pressed the Talk button on his portable radio. “Ibn, you have them?”
“We have them. We are following.”
Fayyad nodded to Hasim in the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”
The Smiths’ backyard was invitingly dark with the nearest neighbor a hundred yards away behind a tall fence. It took Fayyad less than a minute to pick the lock to the back door and another thirty seconds to bypass the alarm system. Once inside, he stood still, letting his eyes adjust. The house was dark except for a small bulb over the stove.
Fayyad told Hasim to wait in the kitchen.
He walked through the dining room and into the living room. The decor was predominantly feminine. All her choices, Fayyad suspected. The senator could not be bothered. As long as the correct image was portrayed, he would not care. Fayyad touched nothing but closely studied the photographs and paintings. Each one told him something about her. All the paintings were impressionist, most of them Monets. No pictures of children. According to al-Baz’s brief, the marriage was childless. Why? he wondered. And what effect did that have on her?
Ibrahim Fayyad knew the opposite sex. He knew th
eir bodies, but that was simply a matter of mechanics. A woman’s heart was captured with more than good looks, charm, and bedroom skills. What a woman wants more than anything is to have her soul laid bare before her lover and have him cherish her without reservation. You must know a woman’s heart, her dreams, her fears. Once you understand these, you play them in concert; need and hope and fear all swirling together until they blossomed into love.
Those with low self-esteem were the most vulnerable, as were abuse sufferers, whose need for validation was immense. This would be the case with Judith Smith. The challenge would be to overcome her resistance. She had probably gotten good at quashing her feelings, and Fayyad would have to break through that wall. Behind it, he knew, would be a torrent of emotion.
He walked upstairs. At the top of the landing, he stopped and closed his eyes. He could smell her perfume. He turned right, used his foot to push open the door, and stepped into to the master bedroom. It was decorated in country-style powder blue. The bedspread was adorned with tiny yellow daisies. He grazed his fingertips over it
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went to work.
He examined everything of hers, from her dressed and her jewelry to her undergarments. Judith was full-figured, he saw, only slightly plump, her hips still trim from not having given birth. Her bras and panties were white cotton. No lace, no color. Nor did she own any lingerie. Her robe was a simple white terry cloth; it smelled of soap and sandlewood lotion. Fayyad wondered if the Smiths still had sex. Probably, he decided, but only when the senator needed release or when he felt the need to reassert his ownership of her.
In her nightstand drawer he found a small cedar box. He picked the lock. Inside was a cloth-bound diary filled with Judith’s neat, flowing script. The last entry was two days ago. He pocketed the diary, closed the box, and broke the lock. The senator would be blamed.
End of Enemies Page 13