Pacific Burn

by Barry Lancet

  I shrugged. “Why am I talking to a flunky?”

  “Insults do not help your cause.”

  “Fine. So talk.”

  “There are many young couples out tonight. They remind me of a pair of lovers who are no longer among us.”

  My anger flared. “You don’t want to make me mad.”

  We were coming up on the first turn in the path. There was a graveyard up ahead. A watcher hovered in the layered shadows of the tombstones.

  The whisper grew heated. “Threats are unwise for a man in your position. I am simply displaying our bona fides. Tonight is a courtesy call, the last one you will be paid. You are an amateur who has had some luck. But you are sentimental, Jim Brodie. You are easily played. You are also easy to find. Focus on what is important.”

  “Which is?”

  “You should be afraid.”

  In actual fact, I was. I wouldn’t let it show, but fear tripped along my spine. It was primordial and life giving. I’d known too many men who had lost their sense of danger to overconfidence, then lost their lives. Fear is instinctual. It is natural. Paying attention to it was the smart move. It was about survival. When it surfaced, I lived with the knife-edged emotion as I would with a snarling, unlovable watchdog in my yard: I might not find the companionship endearing but I knew it guarded my flank.

  “You’ve made your point,” I said. “Why am I here?”

  The path swung to the right where it abutted the graveyard. The farther in we went, the darker our surroundings grew.

  “You have interfered twice, Jim Brodie.”

  Meaning at City Hall and in Ken’s room.

  “Was that you at the hospital?”

  “Your question strays from the point we wish you to understand. We are in control. Everything you think you know, we will know beforehand.”

  “So?”

  “You are to stop interfering. You are to stop looking for him. You and your people.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Listen only to the message, Jim Brodie. Nothing else counts. You want to think about the Nobuki family.”

  “Already doing that.”

  “Think about them more. They are nearly extinct and you are not helping. You will be next.”

  “But not now?”

  “Your kill order has been conditionally suspended.”

  “Depending on?”

  “Tonight’s outcome.”

  “I see.”

  “We hope you do. It is only a matter of finances. Our client was not expecting the additional charge for Akihiro’s fiancée. Now he is hoping to dissuade you with a warning, which costs much less.”

  A high-paid killer. That could be useful. High fees require a rep, and reputations were something we could track. The path forked up ahead. The right branch squired visitors to some sort of shrine or monument, maybe both. The left fork led farther into the forest.

  “To the left, Jim Brodie.”

  I made the turn. “And if I choose to ignore your advice?”

  “Then I am certain the client will pay to finish the job.”

  “Maybe I’m not so easily killed.”

  “True, you have friends, but so do we.”

  “Who is this we?”

  I heard a low rumble of disapproval. “Wrong question. Last warning. I found you in one day. Slipped in and out of your hotel room. If he has to look you up, he will not be leaving you a love letter.”

  I made no reply.

  A low outbuilding belonging to a local temple reared up on the left. There was a small clearing and narrow driveway. Any person trailing us on that side would have to detour around the structure.

  We approached the drive. On the opposite side, a gap in the thatch opened up and a trail ran into the gloom of the bamboo. We passed the temple building and the trailhead.

  My walking companion’s presence behind me weakened.

  Then it was gone.

  I turned. I saw the outline of a shortish figure twenty feet back, edging into the bamboo.

  He turned back and stared at me. My eyes adjusted immediately to the extra layers of shadow. The features that sprang out at me sent shock waves down my spine. His face matched the image in the Napa police sketch. The same high cheekbones, sharp chin, and broad nose.

  Down to the generic baseball cap.

  This was no flunky. This was the killer himself.

  Son of a bitch.

  I took a step in his direction—and from the darkness behind me a silenced gun spat out a bullet. It pinged off the pavement at my feet and disappeared forever into the foliage.

  I pulled up and raised my hands to my waist. Not enough to attract attention from strolling couples but more than adequate to make my intentions understood: I wasn’t advancing any farther.

  White teeth appeared in a dark face as lips spread, then the Napa killer disappeared into the blackness beyond.

  DAYS 8 AND 9

  SUNDAY AND MONDAY

  FUGU

  CHAPTER 39

  EN ROUTE FROM KYOTO, EARLY MORNING

  MY sleep was fitful, and I woke up frustrated and groping for direction. Today I had a meeting with an expert on TEPCO and the nuclear mafia. I needed to learn more about Naomi’s situation and the danger she faced.

  I caught the 6:00 a.m. bullet train to Tokyo, immersed in the nuances of the case, not to mention the threat hanging over me. Outside my window, rolling hills and fallow rice paddies flashed past in a blur of inattention.

  Don’t rile whoever shows up.

  Last night, I’d met the Napa assassin. The man who’d executed Ken’s two sons, put my friend in the hospital, and nearly succeeded in completing the job while Ken lay in a comatose state. I’d held the killer off in San Francisco and would have taken him down in Kyoto if I hadn’t been convinced I was dealing with a messenger boy. Which, in retrospect, was what Noda was afraid I’d do. He knew me well. Or knew the Brodie gene pool. I’d pushed the Steam Walker and witnessed an immediate reprisal.

  Clearly, he’d come prepared. He’d controlled every aspect of the meet. His answers were swift and assured. He was a quiet yet formidable force.

  Try not to get yourself killed.

  How close had I come?

  CENTRAL TOKYO, 9 A.M.

  “They don’t usually kill people,” Dr. Morikazu Ohashi said.

  “Usually?” I said.

  “They don’t kill people,” he said, dropping the qualifier, his tone unamused.

  I sat in a conference room of the ISEAJ, and flung a worst-case scenario at the doctor. The Institute for the Socio-Economic Advancement of Japan was a think tank with a long name that did everything but roll easily off the tongue. I’d come straight from Tokyo Station via taxi, with duffel bag and Oribe tea bowl in tow.

  And a new team of bodyguards fresh from Brodie Security. Even though the Steam Walker had declared a reprieve, none of us would be banking on a killer’s word.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “So if they don’t kill people, how does the nuclear mafia peddle their influence?”

  Dr. Ohashi resembled a praying mantis in nerd form, all stick-thin limbs and a bony diamond-shaped head. With black glasses and a pocket protector. His movements were awkward, and he kept his hands together more than apart. The proud possessor of three PhDs, Ohashi was also blessed with impeccable manners, which made him proper, intelligent, and creepy all at once.

  “They attack the foundations of those whose lives they wish to influence. Status, livelihood, reputation.”

  The three-legged pedestal on which people built their lives. In Japan, losing those three condemns a person to a living death. There is no bouncing back. Even the loss of one of them could cripple a career and a lifestyle. My apparent repugnance raised a flicker of a frown from Dr. Ohashi.

  “We don’t judge here, Mr. Brodie. We are objective. We offer observations based on measured, unbiased perception.”

  “Don’t you find it distasteful?”

  He cleared his throat. “Any
decent citizen would. But our charter is clear. We proceed without judgment.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “On the job, I am not in the position to believe or disbelieve. I am a researcher and an observer. If you wish candor from me, you will need to rein in your condemnation.”

  Despite the buggy look, Dr. Ohashi came highly recommended. He was a man of science, I was told. A believer of facts. Not a spin doctor. He’d verify or refute or qualify a truth without offering an opinion. The perfect person to fill me in on the long arm of TEPCO, and the rest of the nuclear mafia.

  “Sure. Fine. I apologize.”

  “No need for apology, I assure you. Most of our Japanese guests arrive with the same attitude. Ideally, think tanks are meant to be neutral, although many function as propaganda machines. We suspend judgment. We illuminate. It behooves others to . . . to . . . act accordingly, if they so choose. I was given to understand you and your firm might be among ‘the others.’ Have I been misinformed?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Then consider our research a tool to be utilized should you find items of value. And personally, outside of office hours, let me assure you I welcome any corrective measures.”

  There it was. We understood each other. Boundaries had been staked out. It was a matter of shading and subtlety and phrasing.

  I said, “When you say ‘they attack foundations,’ can I interpret that as meaning they, in essence, crush their targets?”

  I thought of Naomi. Her family’s money had broken her fall. But such safety nets were rare. More often, sometimes tragically, the tumble from the narrow path of career building—no matter the level—was swift, merciless, and irreversible, regardless of the rung reached.

  Ohashi raised tented hands to his chin. “Obviously, you understand our ways. I trust, then, that the statement has made itself sufficiently clear for your purposes.”

  I took his answer to mean yes. He had a line to toe. I wondered if there was a microphone and perhaps an unseen camera to be catered to as well.

  “Can you give me specifics?” I asked.

  Ohashi flipped through a file on the table, contemplating one page, then the next. “Their pattern is generally predictable. They go after the job first. They’re plugged into the top levels of most, if not all, institutions, meaning the ministries and the political mechanisms, all connected directly or indirectly to the nuclear mafia. Any of these can bring huge pressure from above.”

  “Meaning someone’s boss?”

  “At the very least, but more often their boss’s boss or higher, adding more layers of separation and deniability. The average employee is usually overwhelmed. Submission follows quickly.”

  “Relentless,” I said.

  A half-nod. “I would not dispute that conclusion.”

  “What about someone who won’t stop even then? Or on whom such techniques won’t work?” I said, thinking of Naomi, who managed to skirt the nuclear mafia’s usual ploy.

  He flinched. “I don’t know.”

  “Will they go . . . further?”

  “There is no proof of such actions.”

  “How about an educated guess?”

  For the first time since the interview began, Ohashi fidgeted. A nerve in his cheek twitched. “You know, Mr. Brodie, I am unsure of how to proceed from this juncture. I work from facts and data and research. You’re asking me to step into the realm of pure conjecture. It is beyond our mandate.”

  “Not pure. Educated speculation, which has its value.”

  As in, would the nuclear mafia send a sniper to San Francisco?

  Ohashi fiddled with the pens in his pocket protector. He stared down at the open file on the tabletop before him. “I still have nothing concrete to offer you but a piece of advice.”

  Maybe a camera, without audio, monitored our session.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I would tell you to be extremely careful. We examine both honeybees and cockroaches because both have roles to play. But we tend to study cockroaches more than honeybees. After all, the very name honeybee defines its nature.”

  So much for they don’t kill people. The nuclear mafia had just risen a notch on the suspect list.

  CHAPTER 40

  I RETURNED to Brodie Security and nearly crashed into Noda making a mad dash for the exit.

  “What the—?”

  “Later,” he said, and was out the door.

  Something else was heating up.

  I took the respite to catch up on incoming news.

  Out of Washington, Tom Stockton had reported the arrival of Naomi’s lawyer-husband, Tad. It had occurred to me that her continued presence there could be interpreted by whoever was sending the threatening messages as an extension of her activities, so I’d suggested she leave, with an escort of course. She’d refused, insisting anyone could see she’d ceased working. So Tad, who hated air travel, flew in to make an impassioned plea for his wife to return home.

  Out of Asia, our affiliate had confirmed that Malaysian opposition to Mayor Hurwitz’s Pacific Rim Friendship Program was strong. The Muslim fundamentalist group leading the protest had set off a car bomb two blocks from the prime minister’s home. In Taiwan, the local mob had gunned down the president’s brother-in-law as an expression of their displeasure with the country’s participation. There were also vague reports of stirrings by Indonesian rebels.

  Stateside, there was a memo on my desk from Renna back in California. He’d checked in yesterday evening with a message dictated to the staff.

  This is only a preliminary report. No need to call back. My squad has zeroed in on eight potential suspects. Three of the most likely are a political rival in the mayor’s own party, a Tea Party candidate desperate for attention, and an old business partner who is backing a new challenger. We’re collecting big noise and small. No other serious prospects on the horizon but we expect the list to grow. Gail Wong from the mayor’s office dumped a stack of hate mail on us. We’ve got twenty-three names on that list, including one former soldier whose letter mentions a gunman. Be in touch soon.

  Alone in my office, I exhaled loudly. Not unexpectedly, Renna’s list was lengthy. Candidates were many, solutions elusive.

  Elusive? Make that nonexistent.

  ELSEWHERE IN TOKYO

  Jun Tasaki waited for the Steam Walker’s call with growing irritation.

  He got that the legendary assassin worked with only the best. He got that the guy demanded precision. But Jun’s brain was buzzing from all the hoops the Walker wanted him to leap through.

  He’d rung the yakuza middleman to complain.

  “Just do what the man says,” the go-between said. “You can’t knock the paycheck.”

  “Guy’s a control freak. Maybe he won’t pay if he don’t like how I handle the setup.”

  On the other end of the line, the fixer paused for a long moment before he next spoke. “Jun, listen to me. You wanna show him big respect. The Walker always pays, only sometimes it’s to the next of kin.”

  Jun bristled. “You know me. You know my skills.”

  “You’re thinking on it too much. It’s a hustle like any other. No delays, no screw-ups, you’ll be hearing a loud ka-ching. Just check the attitude. And don’t ever mess with the Walker.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “You shitting me? Never done, and never want to. You in or out?”

  The money was too good. “I’m in.”

  That was a few days ago.

  Now Jun looked at his watch. Five more minutes.

  * * *

  I checked the time, and saw a window open to ring Jenny. My daughter’s camp allowed phone calls between certain hours, and it was hard for me to match their time frame from this side of the Pacific.

  “Daddy!” she said, picking up on the first ring.

  “Hi, Jen. How’s camp?”

  “Great! They made me team captain!”

  “That is great. Are you playing games or still practicing?”r />
  “Playing games. Actually both. And a tournament,” she said, the breathlessness in her voice growing more acute with each additional phrase. “That’s why they made me captain. Can you come watch?”

  There was so much need, and so much genuine desire, in the question it tore a piece out of me. Since her mother’s death, my daughter wanted me close. She tracked my every move. I wanted to be close, but I also needed to earn a living. Which took me away from her when it involved Brodie Security.

  “If I finish up early in Tokyo, you’ll see me there.”

  “Can’t you come?”

  I pursed my lips. Ever attentive, my daughter picked up on the faintest nuance. “I want to come. I’m just not sure I can make it.”

  But for a reason I’d never reveal to her. The Steam Walker had threatened me, and the last thing I was going to do was lead him back across the Pacific toward my daughter.

  “Okay, Daddy. Just don’t forget my birthday. And all my gelato.”

  “I won’t. Still not promising you a whole mountain of gelato, though.”

  I heard her stamp her foot. “Daddy, it’s my birthday.”

  “I know, kid. I love you. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Late in the afternoon, Noda barreled into my office. He paced the narrow open space fronting my desk. The scar was a dark crimson.

  Trouble was brewing.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Noda glared. “Nobuki’s will has disappeared.”

  “What? You sure?”

  “Called the lawyer.”

  “He tell you what was in it?”

  “Couldn’t recall. Needs the document.”

  “Wife know?”

  “No.”

  “Got an opinion on what happened?”

  “Not yet,” he said, and stormed out. A moment later I heard him in his office, tackling the phone.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. From Taiwanese gangsters and the Japanese nuclear mafia in Asia to political rivals and ex–military personnel in San Francisco, the case was spinning out of control. We weren’t saddled with a widening list of suspects. We were dealing with a population explosion.