Assassin's Code

by Don Pendleton

  “I am not sure I believe you would do that.”

  “You’re right. I’m not that kind of guy. If you won’t talk, you’re useless to me.”

  “And so?”

  “And I don’t think you’ll walk out of Qincheng Prison alive.”

  Bolan watched that one hit home. He leaned in close to One. “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll trade you to Chinese Intelligence. The PRC would give a whole hell of a lot to get their hands on the two of you. You won’t escape from them. They’ll rebreak your limbs every six weeks and you will talk to them. Now, you want to talk to me? Or is ‘I am not sure I believe you would do that’ your final answer?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CIA Station, Islamabad

  “Pretty impressive interrogation,” Keller conceded. “I’m gonna have to call you the ninja whisperer from now on.”

  The ninjas had talked, but much of what they had said wasn’t useful. They’d given their first names, which were probably false. Sota and Mu had been extensively briefed on their targets and objectives, but their employers and their masters had deliberately kept them on a need-to-know basis. They knew almost nothing about the big picture, and knew nothing about whose service they were in.

  Keller flipped through the file. “Still can’t believe you let them go. I can’t believe I actually put them on a plane to Japan.”

  “I made a deal.”

  “You don’t think old Sota and Mu’ll come back and try to kill you? And me for that matter?”

  “Oh, no doubt. I gave them and their organization an affront that can’t be ignored, and you by association.”

  “So now we have to worry about them on a personal vendetta as well as what the bad guys are up to?” Keller shook her head, “You know, Coop? You are one tough read sometimes.”

  “I get that a lot, but don’t worry about ninjas.”

  “I never worried about ninjas until I met you.”

  Bolan shrugged.

  “And now that I worry about them, why should I stop?”

  “Because Sota and Mu have their own asses to worry about,” Bolan said.

  “I thought you said ninjas killing their own as the price of failure was only in the movies.”

  “Yeah, but technically they’re not real ninjas. They talked about their organization rather than their clan. Those boys are like foreign troops who get sent to Fort Benning for Ranger training. They get their bad-ass badge, but they’re still not the real deal.”

  “Real enough to walk through our security like ghosts, and you still haven’t told me why I don’t need to worry about them.”

  “Because I sent their files to someone I know at PSIA.”

  For a moment wheels turned behind Agent Keller’s eyes as she checked her mental random access files. “Public Security Investigations Agency.” A slow smile broke across Keller’s face. “Japanese Intelligence.”

  Bolan nodded. “And?”

  “And, well, PSIA can’t arrest them, and even if they did they would probably escape, so…”

  “You’re almost there,” Bolan urged.

  “They’ll see that the file gets to…” Once again the expression on Keller’s face said she couldn’t believe what she was saying. “To the, real, ninjas?”

  “The modern shinobi I’ve dealt with have been real bad-asses, but even at their most twisted and psycho they’re still all about serving the Land of the Rising Sun. There have always been rumors that the clans occasionally do wet work for the Japanese government.”

  Keller’s bemusement continued unabated. “Shinobi?”

  “It’s the term they use for themselves. The jackasses we’ve dealt with have gone rogue. God only knows who they’re serving, but it’s not Japan and they’re doing it for money, or worse reasons. The old clans up in the mountains won’t like that.”

  “Iga or Koga?”

  “Or clans I’ve never heard of. Regardless, there are rules. I think they’ve been broken, and if I’m right, there’ll be a reckoning.”

  “Like decapitated heads and stuff?” Keller asked.

  “At least two I can think of,” Bolan confirmed. “Probably trunkfuls.”

  “You know, it’s like you came out of a comic book or something.”

  “More like a graphic novel.”

  Keller smirked. “So what do you make of what they told us?”

  “It fits the MO. We have off-the-rack and ready-made assassins spreading terror.”

  Keller frowned. “You still believe the hit on Attaché Millard in Helmand Province was a feint?”

  Bolan gave the NCIS agent a frank look. “If I hadn’t taken this job you’d still be investigating it, using traditional methods, and believing the Taliban was behind it.”

  Keller rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, and we wouldn’t have found out about the fun going on in the FATA, much less Persian assassins and nonsanctioned ninjas or anything else. Don’t rub it in.”

  “Millard’s killing wasn’t random. It helps their cause, but killing U.S. diplomats or U.S. personnel isn’t their goal. Their attacks on us have been more subtle. Think about it. What’s easier, attacking a U.S. Marine base or blackmailing the servicemen on it?”

  “You’re right, but it still begs the question of who they are and what they are really up to,” Keller stated.

  “The obvious answer is to destabilize the region.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call the region stable now.”

  “No,” Bolan admitted, “but right now the West has cooperation, or at least some degree of it, with the Pakistan and Afghan governments. We also have a base in Kyrgyzstan they’ve threatened to close on occasion that’s pretty central to our mission here.”

  “So the kettle is already whistling and someone wants to kick it over,” Keller concluded.

  “Someone wants to burn down the kitchen if not the whole house.”

  “So what do we do about it?”

  “Sota and Mu were debriefed in India,” Bolan said.

  “India? Whoever briefed them is long gone.”

  “Maybe, but our only other lead is to go back to the FATA and start to operate illegally in Pakistan, go to war with the Taliban on the ground and hope some of the real bad guys show their faces.”

  “Right. Sucky plan. So what do we do in India?” Keller queried.

  “Stick our heads out.”

  Keller groaned. “And hope someone takes a swipe at cutting them off.”

  “Yeah, and we have one wild card up our sleeve.”

  “You know, it’s like I don’t want to know, but I can’t help myself. Do tell.”

  Bolan leaned back in his chair. “Those files I sent to the PSIA that with luck will reach the real ninjas?”

  “Yes…”

  “I left a message saying where you and I were going in India,” Bolan said.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Pack your bags. I’ll tell Ous and Babar. We’re hopping a courier jet to Kolkata in an hour.”

  CIA Station, Kolkata, India

  “KOLKATA WAS sweltering. The CIA station wasn’t large. It took up a modest Victorian building, but had all the modern appurtenances, including a secure communications room and a surprisingly large armory. Bolan and Ous shared a room. Keller shared one with a female intelligence analyst. It was day three in India, and they had been cooling their jets. Keller and Ous were both chafing for some action. Bolan had taken the opportunity to fly in the CIA groomer and have the rest of his disguise removed. There was bruising from where the threads of fake scar tissue had been removed from under his skin and the dyes removed, but now he looked like a man who had been in a fistfight and possibly won rather than the horribly scarred victim of a war crime.

  Bolan sat in dining room of the old mansion drinking beer and eating tandoori chicken wings with Ous, Babar and Keller. The NCIS agent gnawed a bone and gave the soldier a pointed look. “Not that I don’t like beer and chicken wings, and I’ve always wanted to see India, but how much longer are we g
oing to wait here?”

  The big American cracked a fresh beer. “As long as I think it’s productive.”

  Keller sighed. “Pass me a beer.”

  A CIA agent ran into the room breathlessly. “Mr. Cooper!”

  “Yes, Mr. Todd?”

  Mr. Todd seemed flustered. “You have a guest!”

  “Oh?” Bolan asked. “Who?”

  “Sir!” The analyst gathered himself and stood straight as he delivered news he didn’t feel comfortable delivering. “I don’t know. He just…appeared.”

  “Appeared?”

  “Inside the foyer.”

  Bolan began to gather where this was going. “I gather no one checked him in at the gate?”

  Todd stood even straighter. “Sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Todd?”

  “He pretty much, just, manifested himself in the foyer.”

  “Manifested himself?” Bolan probed.

  “Yes, Mr. Cooper.” Todd was a little shamefaced. “Then security noticed him.”

  “Our guest wouldn’t happen be of Japanese descent, would he?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes, sir. I believe he is.”

  “Show him in, if you would be so kind,” Bolan directed.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Todd faded back. Bolan rose as his guest appeared in the doorway. The ninja looked like any other Japanese businessman, except that his shoulders were broader than most and his posture was both utterly relaxed and perfect. Despite the heat and the suit, he wasn’t sweating. He was immaculate. He wore glasses, but Bolan doubted he needed them. The force of the man rang through the room like a sonar array actively pinging.

  Bolan and the ninja stared at each other for several moments. The ninja bowed. “Cooper-san.”

  The Executioner exactly matched the ninja’s bow. “Bushi-sama.”

  Bushi was the Japanese word for warrior. Sama was the second highest honorific in the Japanese language. Among Japanese, it was used to acknowledge someone of higher status than one’s self. Coming from a Westerner, it was simply the height of good manners. The ninja bowed again. “Kengo.”

  Bolan bowed once more in return and used the name given him. “Kengo-san, may I introduce NCIS Agent Keller.”

  Kengo bowed. Keller took Bolan’s cue and bowed exactly as deeply.

  “And my good friend Mr. Ous and our ally Subedar Babar.”

  Ous and Babar inclined their heads. Kengo nodded and turned his slightly disturbing attention on Bolan. Except for using the san honorific, his English was devoid of any accent. “Cooper-san, the current situation is unacceptable.”

  “I agree completely,” Bolan agreed.

  “All aspects of Japanese involvement in this situation must be erased.”

  Bolan nodded. “I do not believe my mission can be achieved without your assistance.”

  Kengo gave Bolan a distinctly noninscrutable look. “A man who matches your—” Kengo spent a moment choosing his words “—operational behavior, is, rumored to have operated in Japan on more than one occasion.”

  Bolan simply bowed. He figured it was fifty-fifty whether Kengo had been sent to kill him or to die if necessary in assisting him.

  “Whatever is happening in Central Asia must be stopped.”

  “We are in complete agreement,” Kengo said.

  “How may I be of assistance to you?”

  “My things are outside. I paid a boy to watch them. I must speak with my superiors, and in the meantime I will accept any living space available,” Kengo stated.

  “Todd,” Bolan said, “show Kengo-san to his quarters and bring in his belongings.”

  Kengo bowed. “This evening we must talk.”

  “I look forward to working with you.”

  Kengo bowed once more. He followed Todd and then stopped for a moment and looked back at Bolan. “You will be interested to know that Sota and Mu are no longer a factor in your investigation.”

  Bolan nodded. Kengo returned the nod and left the room.

  “So…that’s a real ninja?” Keller asked.

  “The real deal.”

  Ous lit his pipe. “He looks nothing like the ninjas Chuck Norris has defeated.”

  Babar nodded.

  Every once in a while Bolan forgot that even in the second decade of the twenty-first century, Chuck Norris was considered nearly a god in many countries.

  “He won’t like that, until it’s time to look like that. And when he does look like that—” Bolan shook his head “—you’ll never see him.”

  Ous took a tug on his pipe. “That man is extremely dangerous.”

  “We need him.”

  Analyst Todd came back in with two suitcases. “I told Mr. Kengo we couldn’t bring in his belongings without examining them.”

  “And?” Bolan probed.

  “He bowed.”

  “Put them on the table.”

  Keller and Ous both stood curiously. Bolan flipped open the cases. The first simply contained a number of changes of clothes and personal effects. One corner of Bolan’s mouth quirked upward. Ous smiled. One of those changes was the ninja black pajamas and hood of movies and yore. The second case caught the attention of everyone in the room.

  Kengo-san was loaded for bear.

  The second case was loaded with weapons. The ninja had a pair of Glocks. One was chambered in .357 SIG with a ported barrel and custom combat sights. The closest thing to a death-ray that a human could hold in one hand was a .357 Magnum revolver loaded with 125-grain hollowpoint rounds. The Swiss engineers at SIG had done everything in their power to replicate that round’s performance and make it feed reliably through a semiautomatic. Kengo’s Glock was the weapon of a gunfighter.

  The other Glock was a Jonathon Arthur Cienar .22-caliber conversion, and the barrel was threaded for the sound suppressor packed in foam next to it. He’d also packed a tactical stock and scope mount with optics. This Glock was the weapon of an assassin. The case also contained several electronic devices that Bolan had to admit he couldn’t immediately identify. He took out the one “ninja” weapon the case contained. The curved Tanto dagger was sixteen inches long, but it was a modern weapon rather than an ancient samurai heirloom. The handle was kraton plastic rather than wood, ray-skin and silk. The Velcro tabs on the Kydex scabbard clearly allowed the weapon to be worn in a shoulder holster or several other configurations. Bolan drew the dagger and his eyes narrowed at what he saw.

  Nearly all samurai weapons—katanas, short swords, daggers and pole arms—were curved to allow a deep, slicing saberlike cut. Kengo’s weapon was disturbingly sharpened on the inside of the curve like a sickle. The outer curve of the blade was abnormally thick for strength and leverage. Keller pointed an accusing finger at the rather menacing curve of steel. “That’s messed up.”

  “It’s a kubikiri,” Bolan confirmed.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Roughly translated from the Japanese—” Bolan sheathed the weapon “—it means head cutter.”

  “And Sota and Mu are no longer a factor in our investigation,” Ous said.

  “Like I said, probably trunkfuls.”

  Ous raised an eyebrow. “Trunkfuls of heads?”

  “Kengo’s clan wants all traces of Japanese involvement in whatever is going on erased,” Bolan placed the blade back in its packing. “And he wants to send a very clear message to whoever is orchestrating this—don’t play with ninjas and don’t ever involve the Land of the Rising Sun.”

  Ous nodded, took a tug on his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “I like him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “He just doesn’t look like a ninja,” Keller muttered.

  Kengo came down the stairs wearing sports sandals, khaki cargo shorts, a vintage Hawaiian aloha shirt and a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. A battered, Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters ball cap completed his look. Except for the fact that he had forearms and calves like bowling pins he looked like a Japanese tourist who had come to see one of the big festivals. I
t was an excellent tailoring job. Only an eye as practiced as Bolan’s would detect the man was well armed. He gave Bolan and his team a big grin. “Good morning!”

  “Morning, Kengo-san.”

  “Oh, call me Ken. All my western friends do.”

  It wasn’t lost on Bolan that “Ken” in Japanese was another word for sword. Bolan eyed Kengo’s cap. “Fighter fan, huh?”

  Kengo’s grin turned rueful. Since 1947, the Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters had been just about the most losing team in Japanese professional baseball, and the least popular. They called themselves “The Fighters,” but their full name with their parent Nippon-Ham organization made them sound like some strange brand of ritual Japanese meat gladiators. They were a source of never-ending fun for sports commentators and fans of other teams. “I was born into a Nippon-Ham Fighter fan family.” He shook his head sadly. “It is a burden that must be borne.”

  “I know people who are Oakland Raiders fans,” Bolan said consolingly. “It doesn’t necessarily make them bad people.”

  Kengo grunted in amusement.

  Bolan found himself liking the ninja. That was good because Kengo and whatever clan he represented were just about the only card he was holding anymore, and it was a wild card. He was depending on the hope that Kengo and his clan had spent the intervening seventy-two hours before Kengo’s arrival doing some very brutal cleanup back in Japan, and in the process had generated some new leads. Bolan’s biggest concern was that they had, but wouldn’t be big on sharing information.

  That didn’t seem to be a problem for Kengo. “We have taken control of Sota and Mu’s organization.”

  “Who were they?”

  “They were not a true clan. As the Second World War expanded, and particularly as Japan started to know defeat, martial artists, Yakuza, soldiers and others were recruited, given as much training as possible and put into operation by clans, including my own, as an emergency measure. They were not true Shinobi. Their clansmen did not train them from birth. Nor were they used as Shinobi. All too often they were used as little more than clandestine shock troops. Most of these ad-hoc Shinobi units were ground up and died as the American fleet rolled up the Pacific and the Chinese rose in their hordes to repel the Imperial Japanese Army. Nevertheless, some groups survived. After the war they continued to operate, using their unit designations. They often sold their services in battles between rival Yakuza syndicates. Japan has many enemies, and sometimes they were used against them. So for the most part the clans tolerated their activities.”