by Mark Terry
Jesus Christ, Sandy! What’s the matter with you?
Stillwater slid in beside me and said, “Well, that’s a start. Something’s going on, even if I don’t know what. Where to next? Want to check out Stonewell’s house?”
“I need to wrap it up. I’ve got to go over to the hospital to visit my fiancé.”
Stilllwater’s gas-flame blue gaze dropped to my hands. No engagement ring. “I didn’t know you were engaged. Who’s the lucky fellow? He a doctor?”
“He’s an accountant and he was almost a victim of the Chemist. His name is Nathan Caldwell. He was in a coma, but he’s awake now and in rehab.”
“Ah, Jeez, Lieutenant. I’m sorry. Open mouth, insert foot. What are you doing working?”
I shrugged.
“Sure. You don’t know what to do with yourself if you’re not working, right?”
A little too close for comfort.
“Okay. Hey, it’s always worked for me,” Stillwater said. “You need to pick up your car and get to your man. I’m having dinner with Lisa Vhong. I’ll see what else I can get out of her.”
“I doubt you’ll have any problems getting anything out of her that you want.”
He didn’t exactly blush, but he knew exactly what I meant. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”
#
Nathan was asleep when I got to the hospital and didn’t wake up even when I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. So much for role reversal Sleeping Beauty. You just don’t have the touch, Sandy.
Nathan had picked up food at a German deli, hired a mariachi band and proposed to me. Then my phone rang and I had headed into work to head the Chemist Task Force. I didn’t eat the food—or accept the ring—but Nathan did and it almost killed him.
I had learned way more about botulism that I ever wanted to. The toxin is produced by a bacteria called Clostridium botulinum. It blocks nerve function, which means basically that your nerves won’t work, including the ones that tell your muscles to work—like your heart and lungs and diaphragm. You basically suffocate because you can’t breathe and you’re paralyzed when it happens. Fun, huh?
Nathan got lucky, but he had a long and tough road back. That was okay. He was tougher than he looked and he had me.
I blinked back tears. Nathan had almost died thinking I was turning down his marriage proposal.
Shortly after he’d woken up I had said yes, but he said he wanted to wait until he was fully recovered.
Sweet, dear, stubborn Nathan.
Leaning back in the chair next to his bed, I thought about this new set of deaths, this new killer. National security. Spies and international assassins.
And I drifted off. I woke up to Nathan’s soft voice. “Hey babe!”
I kissed him again and thought, I’m so lucky.
11
Ronin
The Ronin used a computer at the Chicago Public Library to log onto a blind website and download his messages. There was one. It said:
Homeland and CPD are investigating. Imperative the investigation be terminated.
Dr. Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security.
Lt. Sandy Beach, Chicago Police Department.
Must look accidental.
ASAP.
The Ronin saw there were files attached. He saved them to a secure cloud-based storage site that he would access via his laptop later. Deleting the original message and scrubbing it from the server, he typed:
Expect heat. $50G. Each. No action until down payment received.
He sent the message and left the library.
12
Derek
He didn’t have to meet Lisa for another two hours, so he returned to his room at the Sheraton Chicago Hotel and Towers. His room looked out toward Lake Michigan. After taking a hot shower he pulled up a chair to look out the window and downloaded his email.
Before he started reading, he called the number for Yoshiki Mori. He got voice mail and left a message, telling the consulate staffer that he wanted to talk to him about Itsunori Sato’s death.
Beach had sent on the files from Orville about their victims. Of more immediate interest, he had gotten several files from Secretary Johnston regarding Maeda Photonics and their defense work. And more importantly, he had received the results of his requested search for assassins.
Opening the encrypted files, he saw four reports. A note from his source told him that some of the information had been redacted because of his security clearance level. That gave Derek pause. He didn’t have the highest ranking in government, but his security ranking was pretty damned high.
The first file was labeled Shimazu, Yorotomo.
There were two mugshots of a Japanese man with a shaved bullet head, heavy brows, and wildly developed traps that The Incredible Hulk would have loved. The shot was of the man naked from the waist up. Clearly a bodybuilder, his entire upper body was covered with elaborate and colorful tattoos, red, black, green, yellow, blue.
A frontal shot showed tattoos of a tiger among trees and flowers.
A rear shot showed a tattoo of a samurai in full armor holding a sword.
“Not the guy Lisa saw,” he murmured, knowing that the guy Lisa had described could have been an engineering grad student asking for some math help, a professor from a different department, or some friend, lover, or none-of-the-above.
The report indicated Shimazu was thirty-eight years old and known primarily as a Yakuza enforcer. The Yakuza, Derek knew, were basically Japanese mafia. He had been arrested a couple times in Japan then released without trial. He was believed to have been involved in several high-level assassinations in Japan, Hong Kong, and the United States. The assassinations in Japan were two members of the Japanese Parliament. In Hong Kong it had been a businessman who was actually believed to have been the head of a Triad, a Chinese version of organized crime.
One of the Japanese killings had been with a gun, the other with a car bomb. In Hong Kong the victim had been in a limousine when traffic stopped. A motorcycle drove up, shot out the windows, and drove off.
In the U.S., there were three killings believed to be committed by Shimazu, one in Boston and two in San Francisco. The one in Boston was a drive-by shooting of a Japanese businessman. One in San Francisco was a knifing, the other a close-up shooting. The knifing was a mid-level soldier in a Tong, a Chinese-American version of organized crime. The shooting, a double-tap to the head, was another Japanese man, this one believed to be a competitor of Shimazu’s Yakuza.
Guns and knives. Mostly on Yakuza business, at least the ones he was clearly identified with.
It was a possibility, but his gut said Shimazu wasn’t their guy.
The second file was a lot more interesting. It had a single label: Rain.
There was a shadowy photograph that appeared to be taken from a surveillance camera. Derek studied the photograph, thinking there was something slightly familiar about the image, but he wasn’t quite sure what.
This particular file was almost completely conjecture. He was believed, but not proven, to be Japanese-American. He was believed, but not linked, to a number of killings in Japan, typically mid-level bureaucrats who were often involved in corruption. There were a couple cases in France and Brazil and the U.S. that the report suspected Rain was linked to, but there was no real evidence.
There were three items of special interest in the file.
Specialty: Natural causes and accidental deaths.
That would make it difficult to pin it down, Derek thought, and it would fit nicely with the Botulin toxin.
A request for information to Israel’s MOSSAD had been denied. Which may or may not have meant anything, but it was an interesting note. Did Rain work for the Israeli’s? That seemed unlikely.
A final note gave Derek pause.
Rain may have been a contract agent for the CIA.
Staring at the photograph, he co
uldn’t get over the nagging feeling he had met this guy before. He had never worked in Asia, although he’d spent time in Korea when he was in the Army. He had worked all over the Middle East, Panama and the Balkans.
That rang a bell, for some reason. After a brief fling with the CIA in the early ‘90s, he had gone to work for the U.N. as a weapons inspector. For a five-month period he had spent some time as a U.N. observer during the breakup of Yugoslavia, shuttling between Serbia and Bosnia, mostly.
Derek had a lifelong obsession with the martial arts and had black belts in a number of them. In Serbia, in his precious off-time, he had hunted up dojos and studied whatever martial art was available. One of them had been judo. He vaguely remembered sparring with a Japanese guy who was way out of Derek’s league. Derek was more of a striker than a grappler, and this guy had a nuanced and sophisticated understanding of judo. It had been a quick three throws, with Derek giving the guy a little more trouble on the third round until being caught in an armbar. They had bowed politely and moved on.
Could it have been the same guy? It seemed unlikely, but…
Derek set that aside and looked at the third file.
Anne Sakura. Japanese mother, French father. Age: thirty-three. Formerly with the DGSE, the French intelligence service. Believed to now be a freelance contract agent.
The photograph showed a pretty Japanese woman with a heart-shaped face, black hair dyed an odd color of orangish-yellow, with a kind of punk haircut, long on one side, shaved on the other. Multiple piercings on the left ear, two on the right. A notation indicated she primarily worked in Asia, but may have been behind the killing of a Saudi diplomat near UN headquarters in New York.
The file indicated that she sometimes was called Kobura.
A note indicated that Kobura was the Japanese word for cobra.
The final file was also short. A blurry photograph of a slender Japanese man in his late twenties or early thirties. It looked like it was taken at an airport and to Derek it looked like he was aware of the cameras and was doing his best to not be photographed. He wore khakis and a dress shirt. His hair was short and conservative.
The file said he was believed to have been with Naikaku Joho Chosashitsu, or the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office of Japan, which reported directly to the Prime Minister. He may have had military training.
The file, filled with wild-assed guesses, said it was believed that the man had left the Naikaku under a cloud and now sold his services to the highest bidder. Primarily, they thought, he was involved more in corporate espionage rather than in assassinations for governments.
And that was it.
Putting the files into the hotel safe, he headed out to meet Lisa.
#
Considering driving or taking a cab, Derek decided instead to walk to the nearest L station, which wasn’t very close. He briefly contemplated taking the water taxi. He had time and he lived on a boat and missed being on it, but he had taken the water taxi a couple times already on this trip. Besides, he needed the fresh air to help him think about the case.
Strolling down the River Esplanade, he noted the hundreds of people about. It was early enough to still have commuters rushing to wherever they were rushing, and late enough that the tourists were eyeing their restaurant and entertainment choices, although he suspected most of the tourists would head to Navy Pier or the Loop.
Lisa had asked him where he wanted to meet and he told her to choose a restaurant. She had suggested a place, Jack, south of the Loop.
He reluctantly left the sunshine and fresh air and trotted down the stairs to the Metro station, which was crowded. Shouldering through the crowd, he moved close to the edge of the platform, waiting for the train to come.
Glancing around, he saw mostly commuters—a lot of briefcases, business suits, and of course, white ear buds, their wires trailing into jackets and pockets. Some people were paging through something on a tablet computer. A few Luddites were holding newspapers. Amazingly enough, some people were even talking to each other.
Derek felt it before he heard it, the vibration beneath his feet, the change in air pressure as a speeding underground train pushed air down the tunnel. Glancing to his left, he saw a yellowish light precede the breeze.
Then something struck him hard from behind and he was falling off the platform onto the tracks.
13
Sandy
“Nathan, honey. How are you?”
Nathan’s smile was weak. I really didn’t think he looked good. Of course, he’d been in a coma. How did I expect him to look? And I knew from talking to his docs that his recovery was still hit-and-miss. Botulinum toxin did a lot of damage. He’d been on a ventilator to keep him breathing. He couldn’t walk yet, although physical therapy had started and he was making progress.
“I’m good. How long have you been here?”
“Not long. I’m sorry I didn’t come over for lunch. Something came up.” How lame. Your fiancé—okay, your sorta fiancé—was in the hospital recovering from a coma and you get too busy with work to see him for lunch. What kind of heartless bitch was I?
“Work?”
I told Nathan about Derek Stillwater and the new case.
“So a whodunnit this time, not a mass murderer.”
“We think so. Seems like there’s a motive. It also seems wrapped up in national security crap.”
Nathan murmured, “You’ll have to kill me if you tell me about it.”
“Well, Stillwater might kill me if I do.”
“What’s he like?”
I shrugged. “Quirky. Smart.”
“Like him?”
“Yeah. But I like you more.”
He smiled. His eyes closed and I thought he drifted off. Nathan was still wired up and on an IV. An EKG monitored his heart. A clip on his finger monitored his oxygen saturation.
I watched the EKG feed, the steady rise and fall of the jagged green lines. It was hypnotic. After a while the lines seemed irregular, though. My own heart beating faster, I sat up and watched. I didn’t really understand what I was seeing. But after a moment it went back to its regular rhythm.
“Nathan,” I whispered.
He slept on.
I got up and walked down to the charge nurse, a man in his thirties in blue scrubs and a white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck. He was looking at a computer and a chart in front of him. Close-cropped brown hair, a round face and wire-rimmed glasses, the sense I got from him was calm, controlled, unruffled.
He looked up at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Nathan Caldwell’s … fiancé.”
“Ah yes. Lieutenant Beach. Right. How are you?”
“I was watching Nathan’s EKG and I thought the rhythm got, well, irregular.”
“Hmmm.”
He tapped keys on the computer. “We have alarms that go off if there’s anything unusual. I don’t see … hmmm…”
Hmmmm?
And then an alarm went off. The nurse hit a key on the computer, snatched up a microphone and said, “Code Blue, Room 308. Code Blue, Room 308.”
Without looking at me, the nurse sprinted from behind the desk, grabbed a cart and pushed it in front of him in a mad dash toward Nathan’s room.
Heart in my throat, I chased after him, seeing other nurses and doctors racing in the same direction.
14
Derek
Flailing, Derek slammed down onto the tracks, thinking, third rail, third rail, third rail.
The train roared toward him.
Sprawled in the direct path of the train, he rolled hard over the rail and against the concrete, pressing himself flat.
The train rushed past, vacuum sucking at his shirt and hair, threatening to drag him back under the train.
The steel wheels and body of the train were only inches away.
And then the train stopped with a screech and a huff.<
br />
Fuck.
Shakily he clambered to his feet, reached up, caught the rim of the platform with his fingers and levered himself onto the platform.
Hands grabbed hold of him and helped him up. A transit cop pushed through the crowd. “Are you okay, sir?”
Holding up his Homeland Security badge, he said, “I was pushed.” Looking around, he shouted, “Did anybody see anything? Did anyone see someone near me when I went over the edge?”
A tall middle-aged guy with broad shoulders and sandy hair said, “I thought I saw someone leaving in a hurry, pushing through the crowd. But I didn’t pay much attention, I was so shocked.”
“Man or woman?”
The witness frowned. “Uh, man. I think.”
“Hair color?”
The transit cop shot Derek a confused look.
“Um. Black. Or brown. Yellow. Maybe dyed.”
A young woman wearing a crisp white Oxford shirt, knee-length blue skirt and running shoes, overhearing, said, “I thought it was a woman.”
The man said, “Hmmm. I don’t know. I thought it was a man.”
“Short dark hair, kind of punk,” the woman said. “Blonde highlights, although not blonde or dirty blonde, kind of yellow.”
It sounded like Anne Sakura, the French and Japanese assassin who used to work with the DGSE. The Cobra.
The transit cop, a tall muscular guy with skin the color of charcoal, said, “You need to come with me, sir.”
Derek focused on him. “Why?”
“We need to write this up. Liability issues.”
“I need to talk to these people…”
But they were moving toward the train doors. Apparently the driver, who had nearly had a heart attack seeing Derek fall in front of the train, had found out that he was okay and was proceeding with business as usual.
The cop took his elbow and held him in place until the crowd had oozed onto the train, leaving mostly just the two of them standing there.
“C’mon,” the cop said. “We’ve got security cameras.”