by Peter Tasker
On the table in the middle of the room was a cut-glass cigarette box and a [238] heavy lighter in the shape of the Statue of Liberty. Martine grabbed the lighter and made for the door.
Outside on the street the flow of people had increased. Martine dodged through them into the lobby of the pencil-shaped building. The elevator was waiting on the twelfth floor, the top floor. Martine’s finger stabbed the button repeatedly, but nothing happened. They’ve jammed it, she thought. She glanced at her watch again—twenty-five minutes to go—then raced up the staircase.
What she was doing was dangerous, no question of that. But that last message had infuriated her: “The biggest story of your life is about to unfold before your eyes.” So she was supposed to just sit and watch while Nozawa was killed, and then go back to her office and dutifully file a report for tomorrow’s paper. She just couldn’t see herself doing that. They had got the wrong person.
Martine moved swiftly, stealthily. The staircase was dimly lit, strewn with used tissue papers and hand towels. Most floors contained two or three businesses—money lenders, pink salons, costume clubs, video booths, karaoke bars. A few were open, but she didn’t see any activity. On every floor there was a smoke detector in the ceiling, just in front of the elevator door.
On the eleventh floor there was a single door, which had been left a few inches open. Martine peered inside, but there was darkness, no movement. According to the sign, this office belonged to a trading company specializing in herbal medicines, although the management didn’t seem particularly health conscious, having left a plastic bin overflowing with trash just outside the door. Martine took what she needed—a few handfuls of wastepaper, used chopsticks, dried-out hand towels, polythene wrappers, rolled-up magazines—and stuffed them into a cardboard box, then crept up the staircase to the top floor.
The twelfth floor also contained just one business establishment. It was a massage parlor called “Joy Campus.” There was a signboard with a range of tariffs and some Polaroid snaps of naked girls grinning stupidly for the camera. The door was closed, and the lights were off inside. Through a panel of opaque glass she glimpsed a movement inside, a white patch appearing then fading away. Martine stepped back from the door. The skinny guy had been wearing a white shirt. They were in there, she felt sure. She checked her watch again. Fifteen minutes until the speech started. She bent down, laid the box on the ground directly under the smoke detector. Then she took out the lighter and flicked the statue’s head once, twice, three times. On the fourth try a blue-orange flame sprouted from the figurine’s mouth. Martine applied it to the ball of wastepaper.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Martine swiveled around on her haunches, heart thumping like a drum. A woman was standing at the top of the staircase. She bore a striking [239] resemblance to the young Reiko Matsubara, tall with witchy eyes and long frizzy hair falling onto her shoulders. And in her hand was a gun.
The closer to Shibuya, the heavier the traffic. The two motorbikes had weaved between lines of cars, zipped through winding backstreets, edged around junctions and across tiny crossroads. There was no need to hurry. Matsubara’s comrades had rehearsed the whole operation many times over. Everything had been taken into account.
They parked the motorbikes at the back of an empty love hotel, then walked three hundred yards to the shaky-looking, pencil-shaped building. There were a few passersby, none of whom gave them a second glance. That was one advantage of Tokyo—nobody ever looked at anybody else. They took the elevator to the top floor, and Matsubara unlocked the door to the massage parlor. Inside was dust, darkness, a sharp antiseptic smell. By the light of the window a stack of chairs and a leather couch were visible. On the couch was the prone figure of a man, his head wrapped in a towel.
The fox-eyed man glanced at her. “You’d better check him.”
“If there was a problem, I would have heard already.”
All the same, Matsubara went to the sofa and unwrapped the towel. The man’s eyes were open, rolling wildly, and he was making squeaking noises [through] the masking tape that covered his mouth. Matsubara put back the towel.
“Are you sure he’s all right?” asked the fox-eyed man.
“The drug’s wearing off, but he’s still flying. That’s just what we want.”
The attaché case was leaning against the sofa. The fox-eyed man knelt down and clicked it open.
“Have you touched this?”
“We confirmed the contents, that’s all. It’s been treated with care.”
The fox-eyed man made a clicking sound in the side of his mouth. Matsubara wasn’t sure if it signified approval or irritation or just bad teeth. He went to the window, slid open the hasp, and made the clicking sound again. Matsubara followed his gaze down to the area in front of Shibuya Station.
“What’s the matter? Is the distance too far?”
“Not too far. It’s a comfortable distance.”
It was certainly no further than the seagull in Macao. The fox-eyed man was a perfect marksman, as Matsubara had seen for herself.
“How about the position?”
“It’s okay.”
[240] Matsubara nodded. The position was excellent, as it should be after the work put into finding it. They had bought the massage parlor through a dummy company, and had operated it for three months before putting it out of business. Nothing had been left to chance.
The fox-eyed man placed the attaché case on the table next to the window and carefully lifted out the gun. Reiko Matsubara watched him lift it onto the windowsill. He spent several minutes fiddling with the sight, all the while making those clicking noises in the side of his mouth. He was totally concentrated, oblivious to her presence.
“Hurry up,” said Matsubara. “It’s time to get the fingerprints.”
“I will do that.”
“No. You’re here to shoot, that’s all.”
“The gun needs careful handling. Let me do it.”
He turned, frowning as if something had puzzled him. Reiko Matsubara stared back into his sharp, narrow eyes. This man meant nothing to her. He was not a revolutionary, just a technician obeying instructions. His work would soon be over, and then he would melt back to wherever he came from. After today Matsubara would never have to speak to him again, or listen to him clicking his teeth.
“Okay, here’s a good idea. Let’s do it together.”
She didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but he didn’t seem to notice. They went to the sofa and Matsubara unwound the sheet from the body of the prone man. She undid his hands and pressed them onto the rifle—the barrel, the lock, the sight—ignoring his muffled groans.
“Once more.”
The fox-eyed man shook his head. “That’s enough. The gun is delicate.”
“Once more, I said.”
This time he relented. Matsubara pressed the American’s hands around the stock. That would do for fingerprints. Everything else had been wiped clean, and they were both wearing super-thin plastic gloves. Matsubara retied his hands and covered his body with the sheet. They wouldn’t be needing him for another ten minutes. And then it would be for something less complicated—a single shot through the underside of the jaw.
The fox-eyed man was back at the window, using his binoculars to scan the area.
“Is anything happening?”
“The truck is coming. It just turned the corner.”
“Let me see.”
He handed her the binoculars and Matsubara gazed out of the window. The truck was moving slowly toward the station, flanked by police cars. The roar of the crowd was almost as loud as the sirens.
[241] “Nozawa, Nozawa!”
The white figure on top of the truck raised both hands in the air, and the roar of the crowd rose a few decibels higher. There were two others alongside him, Shimizu in his dark suit and a younger staffer talking into a microphone.
The fox-eyed man tapped Matsubara’s arm.
“I can he
ar a noise.”
“What do you mean? The crowd noise?”
“Not the crowd noise. Outside the door!”
Matsubara wheeled round. She too had heard a voice. Then there was a knock on the door.
“Open quickly. There’s a problem.”
It was her daughter’s voice, low and urgent. She was supposed to be on the floor below, watching the staircase. The fox-eyed man was facing the door, the rifle raised to his shoulder.
“Put that down,” Matsubara hissed. “It’s my daughter.”
“What’s she doing here?”
Matsubara didn’t answer. The marksman wasn’t going to like this. Mai wasn’t supposed to be there at all.
She went to the door and opened it. A blond woman walked into the room. Mai was behind her, holding a gun to her head.
Martine watched as the middle-aged woman emptied her bag on the ground and went through her possessions.
“You say you’re a journalist?” she queried in Japanese.
“That’s right.”
“Who do you work for?”
“The Tribune.”
“And who else? Who sent you?”
“I came by myself,” said Martine quietly.
“That’s a lie! Mai, give me the gun.”
The frizzy-haired girl handed her the gun, and she pushed the barrel against Martine’s throat. The metal was icy cold on her skin.
“You can’t do that now!” The skinny guy with the rifle turned from the window. He spoke English with a harsh staccato accent.
“This woman’s a spy,” said Mai, her eyes flashing fire. “She must be executed!”
The skinny guy shook his head. “That would spoil everything. I’ll deal with her afterward, the same way as him.”
He nodded at the human figure lying trussed upon the sofa.
“Come on, there’s no time now. Please get him ready.”
Martine glanced at her watch. Another two minutes to go before the speech [242] began. The skinny guy was back at the window, his head tilted over the rifle, his body tensed like a spring.
The truck carrying Tsuyoshi Nozawa moved slowly along Meiji Road, two police cars leading the way. There were crowds on both sides of the road cheering, yelling his name, and throwing streamers in the air. Dressed in his white suit, Nozawa waved to his fans from his platform on the roof of the truck.
“What do you think?” murmured Shimizu, standing beside him on the platform.
“It’s fantastic.”
“No other politician could get this kind of response. It’s unprecedented.”
“You’ve done an excellent job. It won’t be forgotten.”
“Thank you, sensei.”
Shimizu turned to wave at the people on the other side of the street. Nozawa leaned out of the truck, beaming at the crowd. He could see their eyes, tens of thousands of eyes, filled with hope and yearning. They wanted him. They needed him. Their adoration was like a force field, reaching out to engulf him. Nozawa lifted his face to the sun. Today his spirit was dancing. Today he felt superhuman.
Nozawa basked in the energy of the crowd, the hope, the yearning, the love. There were so many of them, so many spirits for him to reach out and touch. Never before had he felt his own power so keenly. Never before had he felt so real. He was sharing himself amongst all those people, becoming a part of them. And at the same time they were becoming a part of him. Oneness, many identities fusing into a single whole. Gazing into the sea of faces, he wondered if this was what Jesus Christ had seen when he gazed down the mountainside, or what Buddha had seen while he meditated under the banyan tree.
Someone handed him a microphone and he started to speak. He didn’t have to plan his thoughts. He didn’t have to think at all. The words would come tumbling out, held together by pure emotions. His memories, his pride and sorrow and anger, his dreams for the future—he wanted them to have it all. This would be no ordinary speech. It would be a song without music, forged in the depths of his soul.
He lifted his face skyward, felt the warmth of the sun on his brow. Today Shibuya was like a valley, the surrounding buildings like cliffs. And from one of these cliffs—far away, almost too far to see—there was a glint of light and [243] then a sound like a firecracker going off. Suddenly Nozawa was down on the ground, rolling on the floor. He was shocked to see blood splattered across his shirt and trousers. A single scream rose from the crowd and then suddenly the whole world was screaming and he knew that the Oneness was broken, gone forever.
TWENTY-TWO
The crowd’s screams were getting louder and wilder. Nozawa covered his ears with his hands and rolled up into a ball. It was a horrible noise, the noise of dreams being smashed to pieces and hope being trampled underfoot.
Someone grabbed Nozawa by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “What’s going on?” he groaned. “Shimizu, can’t you explain what’s happening?”
But the man who had hold of his arm was one of the security guards. Shimizu was sitting slumped on the ground, blood pouring from a wound in his head.
“Shimizu, please do something!” wailed Tsuyoshi Nozawa. “What’s wrong with you? Make them calm down! I’ll do whatever you want, just tell me ...” He carried on yelling for several minutes, until they lifted him down from the truck.
Reiko Matsubara sat on the table, watching the fox-eyed man standing motionless at the window. Nozawa had been speaking for several minutes already. When was he going to pull the trigger? There was no time for delay. Matsubara felt strangely agitated, almost nauseous. It made her recall her first revolutionary action, fire bombing the house of a Narita Airport official. There had been reason for nervousness then—she had been only seventeen—but why now? One reason was the presence of the blond spy. Matsubara had no idea who she was and what she was doing. Worse, there would be no chance to interrogate her. From now on everything had to be done exactly as scheduled.
[245] The fox-eyed man still hadn’t moved. It was hard to tell whether he was even breathing. Then there was a lull in Nozawa’s speech, as he waited for applause. And slowly, very slowly, the fox-eyed man’s finger squeezed the trigger.
The noise of the gun filled the room. ‘Matsubara ran to the window and raised the binoculars. Then they clattered to the floor between her feet.
“You fool!” she yelled. “You’ve shot the wrong man!”
The marksman turned to face her. Wordlessly he raised the barrel of the rifle. She edged backward, eyes fixed on the gun.
“Wait, I think we should discuss this ...”
Suddenly she made a snatching movement with her hand, but the skinny guy was quicker. There was a deafening crack and her head bounced back against the wall. She made a gurgling sound, then slid to the ground, leaving a broad trail of blood on the wall.
Mai screamed and ran for the door. The skinny guy swung around and there was another dry crack. Mai fell to her knees, and somehow managed to push the door open. The skinny guy shot her again. She fell flat on her face, bucked her legs once, then lay still. Martine stood rooted to the spot, heart beating wildly. The skinny guy turned to face her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a journalist,” Martine stammered. “You can’t shoot journalists.”
The man’s eyes narrowed to coin-slots. “Why not?”
“Big trouble. It’d be an international incident.”
The skinny guy raised the gun again, uncertain this time. This wasn’t in the plan. The sound of sirens was getting closer. He glanced at his watch, then at the human shape on the sofa. Then he dropped the gun in Matsubara’s lap, leaped over her daughter’s body, and raced through the open doors of the elevator. Martine waited until the elevator doors had closed on him before dashing for the stairs. She took them four at a time, stumbling, reeling, slamming against the walls, not stopping to catch her breath until she reached ground level.
Down on the street the air was filled with the sound of sirens, helicopters buzzing low, blaring loudspeakers, hy
sterical voices shouting, sobbing, yelling out Nozawa’s name. Martine slipped into the stream of people moving toward the station. Ten yards away, half-a-dozen men in black helmets and uniforms came pouring out of the back of a parked van. They jogged toward the pencil-shaped building, shoving aside anyone in their way. Martine squeezed past them, chanting “Nozawa! Nozawa!” at the top of her voice.
TWENTY-THREE
The young general rolled the malt whiskey around his mouth, relishing the harsh-but-sweet taste. How much better the real thing was than the bootleg product that his factories used to churn out. Once more he gazed at the news flash that had just zipped across his stock price terminal.
“Tokyo shooting—one reported dead at political rally.”
The warm glow of the whiskey spread through his chest. That was it—the culmination of years of planning. He had finally proven that he was a warrior too, not just a man of business. He had shown that he had inherited his father’s brilliant sense of strategy. And he had performed an act of great filial piety, presenting his father, right at the end of his life, with the revenge that he had always craved. The Japanese devils, as the old general liked to call them, were about to have their complacency ripped to shreds. Never again would they preen themselves as the lords of Asia. Their short period of hegemony, born from the bloody oppression of the Chinese people, was over.
Of course the story was not yet complete. He was still waiting for the operations in the United States to deliver the planned result. But that shouldn’t be long in coming. Just last night he had received a message from his daughter telling him to expect good news in a matter of days. Truly he was proud of what she had achieved over there. It was evidence that the family’s strategic genius had been handed down to another generation.