Pacific Burn

by Barry Lancet

  “On the other hand,” the first guy said, “some people everybody knows.”

  So Luke was a known entity inside the CIA. Despite a cast of thousands. Which said a boatload about his status.

  I said, “You run into him, say hello.”

  Something clicked for the first man and a startled look surfaced briefly in his gaze before he smothered it. “You wouldn’t happen to be the Long Island Brodie, would you?” he said, referencing the endgame from the Japantown case.

  I cocked my head. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Should have said so right out of the gate.”

  “Nobody asked.”

  He put out a hand. We shook. “I’m Brown, this is Green. You mention us in that combination it’ll get back to us.” Not real names, but the gesture was significant.

  Naomi returned from the bathroom, and immediately tuned in to the ongoing tension in the room. In her makeshift English she said, “We are done, are we not, yes? No?”

  Several voices from the DHS contingent said no.

  Naomi bowed politely. Switching to Japanese, she said, “I am sorry to have caused such a big inconvenience. Please accept my humble apology for my clumsiness.”

  After the translation, there were several mumbled responses, none of which merited translation.

  Naomi swung troubled eyes in my direction. “Brodie, while we are waiting can we talk about my father?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Just, there was this strange message for me to stop or I would regret it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “They never said. It came in five days ago, but I only saw it yesterday because of the retreat. It said, ‘Stop or there will be more of the same.’ ” She looked at me with fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

  Five days would put it soon after her brother’s murder in Napa.

  “Was this the only threat?” I asked gently.

  “Recently, yes.” Her lower lip quivered. “But in Japan, I receive many threats, Brodie-san. They are routine. They come from right-wing crazies who support the government and TEPCO.” She glanced around at all the agents’ faces while she waited for the interpreter to finish, then her eyes swung back my way. “I traveled with others and took care not to get caught somewhere alone. The threats have always turned out to be empty, so I learned to ignore them. But this time is different and I can’t understand why.”

  “Was there ever any specific threat against your family?”

  “No, never. Will you look into this for me?”

  “Of course. Is there anything else you know that might help?”

  She shook her head, which is exactly the response I most feared. It left the field wide open.

  Suppressing a growing frustration, I said, “Okay, we need to get you to a safe place.”

  She bowed slightly. “Thank you. If possible, I prefer to stay in Washington because my work is not done.”

  Since traveling is always risky, the idea was not a bad one.

  “Staying put’s fine for now, but no more poking the bear until we find out who’s behind all this.”

  “Of course.”

  I cast a sharp eye around, addressing the room in English. “And I presume, gentlemen and ladies, once the DHS hears from its Tokyo branch we’ll be done here.”

  “If they clear her,” Swelley said.

  DAYS 4 & 5

  WEDNESDAY & THURSDAY

  KILL ORDER

  CHAPTER 21

  SAN FRANCISCO

  DESPITE their threats, in the end Homeland Security gave Naomi a clean ticket, the alphabet crowd cleared out, and I boarded another red-eye back to the West Coast and arrived Wednesday morning.

  Since Jenny had already left for school, I retrieved my classic maroon Cutlass from long-term airport parking and headed straight to intensive care. Ken was in the third day of a medical netherworld. He slept on with chemical assistance, a section of his skull surgically removed.

  * * *

  Induced coma.

  I sat with my friend in his hospital room for fifteen minutes. The room was worn but spotless, and smelled of disinfectant. Machines ticked and beeped and hummed and flickered at regular intervals. They were connected to Ken via a clutch of wires and sensors. Through tubes, fluids ran in and out of him. His head had been shaved. A turban of bandages was coiled around his skull.

  I spoke to him as I always had.

  He lay on his back. Eyes closed. Chest rising and falling in an even cadence. There was a whiff of the withered about him. The fumes of decay. The spark of energy that had always infused his speech and action was not in attendance.

  But I was certain he was in there somewhere, so I continued to talk. I told him I’d seen Naomi and she was fine. I told him the rest of his family was being looked after, and that I’d personally see to their safety. I would see them when I left for Japan later tonight, and follow up in Tokyo on the rest of this—and go wherever it led me.

  * * *

  I nodded to the SFPD guard outside Ken’s door, then headed to the nurses’ station. I wanted a firsthand report from Dr. Samuels if the surgeon was around.

  As usual, the hospital was busy. Attending to their rounds, nurses and doctors and other staff moved in and out of rooms with purpose. Since it was visiting hours, families and friends traipsed down the corridors as well, fixing their bedside faces in place.

  The potent smell of disinfectant carried over from Ken’s room into the public areas, occasionally interrupted by more personal scents—perfumes, colognes, hair sprays. As I headed toward the nurses’ post, I automatically pinned names on two perfumes and an aftershave. A classic Versace perfume my mother used to wear. Then some lighter, floral scent favored by several women in my building. And a Nivea aftershave sitting on my shelf at home, a gift from an old girlfriend.

  At the busy nurses’ station, I asked for Samuels and waited while a candy striper checked to see if the doctor was in attendance.

  I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the counter.

  On the stroll to the front desk, my nerves had started to jump. I’d attributed the response to the unsettling visit with Ken, but now that I had a free moment, another thought tugged at my consciousness. The hair at the back of my neck rose.

  Something wasn’t right.

  I jumped up and looked around.

  Nothing.

  But there was something.

  My early-warning system had kicked in but I’d been too distracted to notice.

  I scanned the halls and the nurses’ station. Still nothing. I backtracked to the intersection of two extended hallways, each going off in two directions. Four corridors. I looked down each one. Nothing clicked. I glanced once more at the nurses’ area. More nothing. Where was it? And what was it?

  I headed back toward Ken’s room at a fast clip. My feet urged me on. I picked up the pace to a trot.

  Then I was running.

  * * *

  The hall was long. I was fifty yards from the T-section where the passage ended then branched out to the right and the left. Ken’s room was to the right, thirty yards beyond the turn.

  A fragrance. It was a fragrance.

  One of them had triggered my alarm.

  Was it either of the perfumes? The aftershave?

  No.

  I’d logged two other scents as I strode down the sterilized hallways to the nurses’ station, each noteworthy because it interrupted the pungency of the disinfectant. A cologne and a hair oil, both on men. Neither of which I could identify.

  I was reacting to one of them.

  The hair oil. That was it. I didn’t know the name but I knew the scent because it was familiar. And common. Not here, but in Japan.

  It was the odd smell out and had triggered my subconscious. The chances of running across a Japanese hair product in a San Francisco hospital were rare to nonexistent. But I had. The scent had come off an Asian man in blue scrubs. Thick hair, low on the forehead, a sanitary mask smothering the
bottom two-thirds of his face.

  He’d been pushing a cart. His head had been turned away as I approached.

  Damn.

  I rounded the corner.

  Thirty yards ahead, the guard on Ken’s room stood, reacting to something inside, as if he’d been called. In he went.

  I raced on. I was still twenty yards away.

  Then ten. Then five.

  Straight-arming the door, I charged into the room.

  The guard was sprawled across the floor, unconscious or dead. The male nurse was approaching Ken’s bed, with a switchblade drawn. The mask was on, all but the eyes still concealed.

  He turned as I entered, and for the briefest moment recognition lit his gaze. The look vanished as quickly as it appeared—then the knife swung my way.

  CHAPTER 22

  WITHOUT a second thought, I ripped off my jacket and whipped it around my left arm, gathering up one end in my left fist and tucking the loose end in at the bottom. Counting the thick winter lining and overlapping cloth, my arm was now swathed in four layers of protective material.

  Three seconds had elapsed.

  I circled to the left, away from the fallen guard, opening up an opportunity for a quick exit should the faux nurse be so inclined. He wasn’t.

  I hated knives. More often than not, street scum carried them. Sneaks or thugs or gangbangers flashed metal at the slightest insult. I’d contended with more than my fair share of knife attacks in the dicey neighborhoods of Los Angeles and San Francisco where I’d lived for some seven years.

  But this was no street slug. He was a professional. He wielded the weapon as if it were an extension of his arm. Friction tape circled the handle to eliminate slippage and fingerprints.

  The intruder approached with assurance, gauging my potential as an opponent. He was in no hurry. His knife arm began to move in a languid crisscross motion. Top right to bottom left, then looping up. Top left to bottom right, then up again. Repeat. He started slowly, priming his muscular memory. The rhythm accelerated. I followed the pattern. He built momentum. I clocked the speed. He picked up the pace.

  Then he surged forward, the cutter carving up the space between us like a large whirling blade.

  I tracked his advance and the continuous cross-loop. When the dagger reached the bottom of a downward sweep at my left, I dove in, batting his rising knife arm away with my left forearm and simultaneously attacking with my right hand, sending an open-handed karate jab at his eyes. Which he slapped aside with his free hand.

  We both backed away.

  The would-be nurse was brandishing an eleven-inch Italian stiletto. Easy to conceal when retracted; long enough to do the job when opened. Light and deadly, it was an intimidating span of steel that added seven inches to his immediate effective range.

  On the surface, my six-one height gave me seven inches on him, but the steel effectively lent him a reach as long—or longer—than mine. With it, he could slice through my arm as if it were a stick of butter. But that would only be a means to a deadlier endgame. He sought more lethal targets—arteries or organs. Or the neck, abdomen, or a half dozen other places meant to cripple or maim or cause me to bleed out.

  The killer lunged again, this time going for a straight-line attack to the solar plexus. I backed away then veered left. When his knife arm swung around to follow, I swatted it away, following up with a quick fist to his throat. Again, he blocked my counterpunch without effort. He was as fast as a whip. And maybe faster than me.

  Once more we separated and circled.

  I’d been lucky on two fronts. First, timing. Another thirty seconds and Ken would have been dead. Second, I’d seen the blade beforehand. Professionals use knives for stealth. They want to get in and out quickly and quietly. A gangbanger or a street thug will wave his steel to intimidate. A pro doesn’t bother with theatrics. His tool appears at the last second after he’s penetrated your personal space, then the edge slides in and out swiftly—once, twice, three times and he’s done and gone. His victims rarely see the weapon until it’s too late.

  We continued to circle. Out in the hall, there was a yelp followed by a loud crash. My adversary’s eyes shifted involuntarily. For the briefest instant his body language slackened. I sluiced in, knocked his knife arm aside yet again, and clubbed him on the side of the head with my free hand. He blasted his other hand into my ribs, then the weapon returned before I could retreat and slashed my arm. Four layers of coat material parted to expose a thin red line of blood across my forearm. The wound was shallow but stung. He’d tagged me on the backswing.

  Still inside, I ate the pain, released the jacket to free up my fingers, and pinned his weapon arm at the wrist. I hurled him against the wall and grabbed his other arm. He pushed off the backdrop and punched his knee up toward my groin. I twisted my hips into the blow and muted its thrust, then in a continuation of the defensive move slung my foot backward to hook his leg—hoping to trip him—but he twirled away, dragging me with him.

  With both our arms occupied, our knees and legs came into play. But the space between us was tight and our strikes proved ineffective and easily blocked. We tugged each other one way, then the other. We slammed into the end of Ken’s bed. We caromed off a wall.

  Then I stepped in a growing pool of the guard’s blood. My leg slipped out from under me, collided with my opponent, and we both began to fall. Our natural momentum carried us across the floor. Our hips hit the ground together. Our shoulders followed. Feetfirst, we continued to slide. The switchblade came loose and spun away. Our feet plowed into a set of hospital lockers. They rocked, clearly top heavy, and before either of us could react two hundred pounds of steel came crashing down.

  I was taller and bulkier and took the brunt of the impact—as well as a glancing blow to the head. A black pool opened up behind my eyes. I was dizzy and disoriented. My grip faltered and broke. I tried to rise but the force behind two hundred pounds of falling furniture had left me momentarily stunned and breathless.

  My smaller adversary wormed his way out, staggered upright, then slithered after the steel. He retrieved the knife and had swung back my way when shouts from the hallway reached our ears. Footfalls cascaded in our direction.

  With great reluctance, my assailant flicked the stiletto shut and let it drop into his pocket. Gliding toward the door, he met the onslaught of concerned faces with soft cooing sounds of gratitude while pointing at me.

  As a wave of hospital workers swarmed past him to come to my aid, the assassin slipped away.

  CHAPTER 23

  A FLURRY of last-minute activity occupied my final hours before departure.

  After Renna doubled the security around Ken Nobuki, I replayed the scrimmage in the hospital room for him and his SFPD crew but had nothing concrete to offer other than a comment on the fighter’s skills.

  Superb.

  And maybe unbeatable.

  They flung dozens of questions my way. No, I hadn’t seen his face. No, he didn’t speak. Did I think he was Japanese? Yes. Could I prove it? No. Was the hair oil proof? Not definitive but a good indicator. Did I think the man might have been the suspect in the Napa killing? Possibly. Then I recalled the fleeting look of recognition and said he could have been the sniper. Anything more specific than an impression? No.

  After the debriefing, I plunged into a huddle with Renna in a secluded corner of the hospital, where we informed each other of our next moves. Renna’s squad was following up on a number of leads and I had people moving in Japan.

  The airline had called with a special offer of a storm-delayed flight leaving at midnight, twelve hours earlier, so I grabbed it. The sooner I could get to Tokyo, the better. I dashed off two more research requests to Brodie Security’s chief detective in Tokyo, flung some clothes into a duffel bag, and then spent every last second I could salvage with Jenny. I took my daughter out for an early dinner and gelato, and we talked about plans for her birthday and her soccer camp over winter vacation, which started next Monday. Her birthda
y was the day after the camp ended.

  After a hug and a large smile I’d carry with me across the Pacific, I escorted Jenny upstairs to her friend’s apartment, where she’d spend the next few nights, then I drove out to the airport and boarded a new Airbus jet.

  Six hours later I crossed the international dateline into Thursday, touched down in Tokyo, and smacked into what appeared to be headwinds of the yakuza kind.

  DAY 5, SHIBUYA DISTRICT, TOKYO, JAPAN, 9:30 A.M.

  Once I cleared customs at Haneda—the in-town airport tucked up against a reed-filled waterfowl habitat of Tokyo Bay—I caught a cab straight north to Brodie Security in Shibuya.

  As usual, when I emerged from the narrow box of an elevator into the fourth-floor office, I was met with an active, bustling agency, the staff engaged with the phones or computers. In an impossibly narrow space, twenty desks had been divided into four workstations. A string of glassed-in offices lined the far wall. All desks had been assigned, so an empty perch signified a detective or staffer out in the field.

  The office of Kunio Noda, the head detective handling all of my stateside inquiries, was vacant.

  I circled around the half-counter that functioned as Reception and exchanged greetings with those closest to the front of the office. One of the staff rang Mari, our computer wizard, who doubled as my assistant when I came to town.

  “Welcome back, Brodie-san,” someone called out. “Noda’s out for soba. He said to ring him when you’re ready. Are you?”

  The chief detective was a soba fanatic and sought out the Japanese pasta at its freshest—buckwheat flour just ground, dough just rolled.

  “Give me half an hour to get settled.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing,” someone else called out. “There’s a strange message on your desk.”

  I nodded. Brodie Security received a lot of crank calls. Any high-profile case drew a heated response. Protocol required that the messages be jotted down. They were reviewed, mostly dismissed, then filed away. Just in case.