by Barry Eisler
The device had a five-second timer. If I rolled it out too early, they might make it out the door before it went off. If I waited too long, I would probably lose a hand. Not exactly how I was hoping to get the cuffs off.
I pulled the spoon free and counted. One-one thousand…
The man at the left of the door reached inside his jacket, started to slide out his gun.
Two-one thousand.
“Wait a second, wait a second” I said, my throat tight. Three-one thousand.
They looked at each other, expressions disgusted. They were thinking, This is the hard-case we’d been warned would be so dangerous?
Four-one thousand. I squeezed my eyes shut and spun so that my back was to them, simultaneously shoveling the flashbang at them with a flick of my wrists. I heard it hit the floor, followed by a huge bang that concussed my entire body. My breath was knocked out of me and I collapsed to the floor.
I rolled left, then right, trying to take a breath, feeling like I was moving underwater. I couldn’t hear anything but a huge roaring inside my head.
Holtzer’s men were rolling on the floor, too, blinded, their hands gripping the sides of their heads. I drew a hitching, agonized breath and forced myself to my knees, then pitched onto my side, my balance ruined.
One of them pulled himself to all fours and started feeling his way along the floor, trying to recover his gun.
I rolled onto my knees again, concentrating on balancing. One of the men was groping in a pattern of concentric circles I saw would lead him momentarily to his weapon.
I planted a wobbly left foot forward and tried to stand, but fell over again. I needed my arms for balance.
The man’s groping fingers moved closer to the gun.
I rolled onto my back and plunged my hands downward as hard as I could, forcing my cuffed wrists below the curve of my hips and buttocks and onto the backs of my thighs. I wriggled frantically from left to right, sliding my wrists down the backs of my legs, slipping one foot, then the other, through the opening, and got my hands in front of me.
I rolled onto all fours. Saw the man’s fingers clutching the barrel of the gun.
Somehow I managed to stand. I closed the distance just as he was picking up the gun and kicked him soccer style in the face. The force of the kick sent him spinning away and knocked me over backward.
I lurched to my feet again just as the second man regained his own footing. He was still blinking rapidly from the flash, but he could see me coming. He reached inside his jacket.
I stumbled over to his position just as he pulled free a pistol. Before he could raise it, I thrust the fingers of my cuffed hands hard into his throat, disrupting his phrenic and laryngeal nerves. Then I slipped my cuffed hands behind his neck and used the short space of chain between them to jerk his face down into my rising knee, again and again. He went limp and I tossed him to the side.
I turned toward the door and saw the other one had gotten to his feet. One hand was extended and I flash-checked it, saw the knife. Before I could react by picking something up and getting it between us, he charged.
If he had stopped and collected himself he would have had a better chance, but he had decided to trade balance for speed. He thrust with the knife, but without focus. I had already taken a half step to the right, earlier than would have been ideal, but he couldn’t adjust. The blade just missed me. I spun counterclockwise, clamping onto his knife wrist with both hands. I tried to rotate him to the ground, aikido style, but he recovered his balance too quickly. We grappled like that for a second, and I had the sick feeling that I was about to lose the knife hand.
I yanked his wrist in the other direction and popped my right elbow into his nose. Then I spun in fast, crudely with no setup, taking a headlock with my right arm and grabbing the lapel of my jacket under his chin as though it was a judogi. The knife hand came loose and I hip-threw him with the headlock, my left hand coming in to strengthen the grip on his neck as his body sailed over me. When his torso had reached the extreme circumference of the throw, I jerked his neck hard in the other direction. A crack reverberated up my arms as his neck snapped where my forearm was pressed against it. The knife clattered to the ground and I released my grip.
I sank to my knees, lightheaded, and tried to think. Which one of them had the handcuff keys? I frisked the first guy, whose blue skin and swollen, protruding tongue told me the cartilage fracture had proven fatal, and found a set of car keys but not the handcuff keys. With the other guy I hit paydirt, and a second later I was free. A quick search on the floor, and I was armed with one of their Berettas.
I stumbled out the door and into the parking lot. As I had expected, there was one car left. I got in, slid the key into the ignition, fired up the engine, and raced out into the street.
I knew where I was—just off the national highway, five or six kilometers from the entrance to the naval base. Standard operating procedure would be to stop Holtzer’s sedan before it could enter the grounds. Holtzer had left less than five minutes earlier. Given the traffic and the number of lights between here and the base, there might still be time.
I knew the odds were massively against me, but I had one important advantage: I didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. I just wanted to watch Holtzer go first.
I wheeled left onto the highway, flashing the high beams and working the horn to warn cars out of my way. I hit three red lights but forced my way through all of them, cars screeching to a halt on either side of me. Across from the local NTT building, I saw that a red light ahead had created an opening in the oncoming traffic lane and I shot into it. I accelerated madly into oncoming traffic, leaning on the horn, then swung back into the correct lane just as the light changed so I could charge ahead of the cars that had been in front of me. I managed to buckle the seatbelt as I drove, and noted with grim satisfaction that the car was equipped with an air bag. I had originally planned on tossing the flashbang into Holtzer’s car as a means of gaining entry. As I had told Midori, I was going to have to improvise.
I was ten meters from the main gate when I saw the sedan turning right onto the access road to the base. A Marine guard was approaching, holding up a hand, and the driver-side window was rolling down. There were a lot of guards, and they were doing the checks several meters ahead of the guard gate—the result of the anonymous bomb tip.
There were too many cars in front of me. I wasn’t going to make it. The sedan’s driver-side window was down. I leaned on the horn, but no one moved. The guard looked up, searching for the source of the commotion. I hit a button and my window began to lower automatically. The guard was still looking around.
I pulled out onto the sidewalk, knocking down trash cans and mauling parked bicycles. A pedestrian dove out of the way. A few meters from the base access road, I hauled the steering wheel to the right and accelerated diagonally across the meridian, driving over plantings and aiming for Holtzer’s vehicle. The guard turned, saw me bearing down at high speed, and leaped clear just in time to save himself. I rammed the sedan full force in the driver-side rear door, spinning the car away from the impact and forming a two-car wreck shaped like the letter V. I was braced for the impact, and the seatbelt and air bag, which deployed and deflated in a nanosecond as advertised, got me through.
I released the seatbelt and tried the door, but it was jammed shut. I swiveled onto my back and shot my feet through the open window, grabbing the handle at the top of the door and using it to propel myself through.
It was only two steps to the sedan. I grabbed the steering wheel through the open window and hauled myself inside, my knees slamming into the door frame. I launched myself across the driver’s lap, scrambled to get my feet under me, then dove into the back. Holtzer was in the left seat, leaning forward, obviously disoriented from the impact. A young guy I took to be one of Holtzer’s aides sat next to him, a metal Halliburton attaché case between them.
I grabbed Holtzer around the head with my left arm, pressing the barrel of
the Beretta against his temple with my right. I saw one of the Marine guards outside the driver’s window, his gun drawn, looking for an opening. I pulled Holtzer’s head closer.
“Get back, or I’ll blow his fucking head off!” I bellowed.
His expression was uncertain, but he kept the gun up. “Everyone out of the car!” I shouted. “Now!”
I reached all the way around Holtzer’s neck with my hand and took hold of my own lapel. We were cheek to cheek, and the Marine with the gun would need a lot of confidence in his marksmanship to try to get a shot off now.
“Out of the car!” I shouted again. “Now! You!” I yelled at the driver.
“Roll up that fucking window! Roll it up!”
The driver pressed a switch and his window went up. I yelled at him again to get out and then to close the door. He stumbled out, slamming the door as he exited. “You!” I yelled at the aide. “Get out! Close the door behind you!”
Holtzer started to protest, but I squeezed his neck tighter, choking off the words. The aide glanced once at Holtzer, then tried the door.
“It’s jammed,” he said, obviously stunned and unable to take it all in.
“Climb across to the front!” I shouted. “Now!”
He scrambled forward and got out, taking the attaché case with him.
“All right, asshole, us too,” I said to Holtzer, letting go of his neck. “But first give me that disk.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy,” he said. “It’s in my left breast pocket.”
“Take it out. Slowly.”
He reached over with his right hand and carefully took out the disk.
“Set it on my knee,” I said, and he did so. “Now lace your fingers together, turn toward the window, and put your hands behind your head.” I didn’t want him to try to make a play for the gun while I was picking up the disk.
I picked it up and slipped it into one of my jacket pockets. “Now we’re going to get out. But slowly. Or your head is going to be all over the upholstery.”
He turned to me, his eyes hard. “Rain, you don’t understand what you’re doing. Put the gun down before the guards outside blow you away.”
“If you’re not on your way out of this vehicle in the next three seconds,” I snarled, leveling the Beretta, “I will shoot you in the balls. Whether I leave it at that, I can’t say.”
Something was nagging at me, something about the way he had turned over the disk. Too readily.
Then I realized: It was a decoy. A disposable. He would never have given me the real disk so easily.
The attaché, I thought.
“Now!” I yelled, and he reached for the door handle. I pressed the gun barrel against his face.
We eased out of the car and were immediately surrounded by a phalanx of six Marine guards, all with drawn guns and deadly serious faces.
“Stay back or I’ll blow his head off!” I yelled, shoving the gun up under his jaw. I saw the aide standing behind the guards, the attaché case set at his feet. “You, over there! Open up that case!” He looked at me uncomprehendingly. “Yes, you! Open up that attaché case right now!”
He looked bewildered. “I can’t. It’s locked.”
“Give him the key,” I growled to Holtzer.
He laughed. “Like hell.”
Six people had the drop on me. I yanked Holtzer to the left so they would have to re-aim, giving myself a split second to pull the gun away from his head and crack him in the temple with the butt. He sank to his knees, stunned, and I went down with him, staying close to his body for what cover it could provide. I patted his left pants pocket, heard a jingling. Reached inside and pulled out a set of keys.
“Bring the case over here!” I yelled at the aide. “Bring it or he’s dead!”
The aide hesitated, then picked up the case and carried it over. He set it in front of us.
I tossed him the keys. “Now open it.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Holtzer yelled, struggling to his feet. “Don’t open it!”
“Open it!” I shouted again. “Or I’ll blow him away!”
“I order you not to open that case!” Holtzer screamed. “It’s the U.S. diplomatic pouch!” The aide was frozen, his face uncertain. “Goddamn it, listen to me! He’s bluffing!”
“Shut up!” I yelled, digging the barrel of the gun in under his chin. “Listen. You think he’s willing to take a chance on dying over the diplomatic pouch? What could be in there that’s so important? Open it!”
“Shoot him!” Holtzer screamed suddenly at the guards. “Shoot him!”
“Open that case or you’ll be wearing his fucking brains!”
The aide’s eyes went from the case to Holtzer, then back. Everyone was frozen.
It happened suddenly. The aide dropped to his knees, fumbling with the key. Holtzer started to protest and I cracked him in the head with the pistol again. He sagged against me.
The case popped open.
Inside, clearly visible between two protective layers of foam, was Kawamura’s disk.
A long second passed, then I heard a familiar voice from behind me.
“Arrest this man.”
I turned and saw Tatsu walking toward me, three Japanese cops behind him.
The cops converged on me, one of them unclipping a set of handcuffs from his equipment belt.
One of the Marine guards started to protest.
“We are outside the base,” Tatsu explained in fluent English. “You have no jurisdiction. This is a Japanese domestic matter.”
My arms were bent behind my back, and I felt the handcuffs clicking into place. Tatstu held my eyes long enough for me to see the sadness in his, then turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 24
They put me in a squad car and drove me to Keisatsucho headquarters. I was photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a concrete cell. No one mentioned what I was being charged with, or offered to allow me to contact a lawyer. What the hell, I don’t know too many lawyers anyway.
The cell wasn’t bad. There was no window, and I kept time by counting the meals they brought me. Three times a day a taciturn guard dropped off a tray with rice and vinegared fish, some vegetables, and picked up the tray from the previous meal. The food was okay. After every third meal I was allowed a shower.
I was waiting for my sixteenth meal, trying not to worry about Midori, when two guards came for me and told me to follow them. They took me to a small room with a table and two chairs. A naked bulb hung over the table from the ceiling. Looks like it’s time for your interrogation, I thought.
I stood with my back against the wall. After a few minutes the door opened and Tatsu walked in, alone. His face was serious, but after five days of solitary, it felt good to see someone I knew.
“Konnichi wa,” I said.
He nodded. “Hello, Rain-san,” he said in Japanese. “It’s good to see you. I’m tired. Let’s sit.”
We sat with the table between us. He was silent for a long time and I waited for him to speak. I didn’t find his reticence encouraging.
“I hope you will forgive your recent incarceration, which I know must have been unexpected.”
“I did think a pat on the back would have been more in order after I dove through that car window.”
I saw the trademark sad smile and somehow it made me feel good. “Appearances had to be maintained until I could straighten things out,” he said.
“It took you a while.”
“Yes. I worked as quickly as possible. You see, to arrange for your release, I first had to have Kawamura’s disk decrypted. After that, various phone calls had to be made, meetings arranged, levers pulled to secure your release. There was a great deal of evidence of your existence that needed to be purged from Keisatsucho files, including the fingerprints that were taken upon your arrest. All this took time.”
“You managed to decrypt the disk?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And its contents met your expectations?”
; “Exceeded them.”
He was holding something back. I could sense it in his demeanor. I waited for him to continue.
“William Holtzer has been declared persona non grata and has been returned to Washington,” he said. “Your ambassador has informed us he will be resigning from the CIA.”
“Just resigning? He’s not being charged with anything? He’s been a mole for Yamaoto, feeding false intel to the U.S. government. Doesn’t the disk implicate him?”
He bowed his head and sighed. “The information on the disk is not the kind of evidence that will be used in court. And there is a desire on both sides to avoid a scandal.”
“And Yamaoto?” I asked.
“The matter of Yamaoto Toshi is… complicated,” he said.
“‘Complicated’ doesn’t sound good.”
“Yamaoto is a powerful enemy. To be fought obliquely, with stealth, over time.”
“I don’t understand. What about the disk? I thought you said it was the key to his power?”
“It is.”
It hit me then. “You’re not going to publish it.”
“No.”
I was silent for a long moment as the implications set in. “Then Yamaoto still thinks it’s out there,” I said. “And you’ve signed Midori’s death warrant.”
“Yamaoto has been given to understand that the disk was destroyed by corrupt elements of the Keisatsucho. His interest in Kawamura Midori is thus substantially reduced. She will be safe for now in the United States, where Yamaoto’s power does not extend.”
“What? You can’t just exile her to America, Tatsu. She has a life here.”
“She has already left.”
I couldn’t take it all in.
“You may be tempted to contact her,” he continued. “I would advise against this. She believes you are dead.”
“Why would she believe that?”
“Because I told her.”
“Tatsu,” I said, my voice dangerously flat, “explain yourself.”
His voice stayed matter-of-fact. “Although I knew you were concerned for her, I didn’t know, when I told her of your death, what had happened between you,” he said. “From her reaction, I realized.”