McGarvey looked up at him.
“You bastard,” the cop said, and he raised his fist.
“If you hit me, I’ll take you apart,” McGarvey said softly.
The cop’s eyes widened.
“Work it out. There were only three bodies down there, but four motorcycles. If your forensic people are on the ball, they should have discovered the tire marks of more than just those four bikes. From what I’m told Asakusa is a traditional family neighborhood. There’ll be witnesses, but you’ll probably have to go banging on doors to find them. And unless I’m mistaken it was the Rising Sun group that staged the riots in Tokyo last week. I was fair game out there.” McGarvey watched the cop. He suspected that there was more to it than that, because of Eto’s concern. Problem was he’d blown his chances to ask for the opposition’s help.
McGarvey willed the tension out of his muscles and sat back. “I didn’t pick the fight, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there and take it. They would have killed me. You saw the weapons they carried.”
The cop shook his head in amazement. “You would have actually attacked me if I had slapped you?”
“Yes. If the situation were reversed, and this was New York City, wouldn’t you have defended yourself?”
“Against a proper authority?” the cop asked, still trying to fathom McGarvey. “No.”
“Never come to New York.”
“You should not have come to Tokyo, Mr. McGarvey.” The cop opened the door, gave somebody some instructions, then came back to the table. He showed McGarvey his gold shield. “My name is Nobu-hiku Myamoto, and I am a lieutenant of detectives. Tea is being brought for you. Your cigarettes will be brought as well. It will just take a minute.”
“Very well,” McGarvey said. “Asagiri Eto works for someone who wants to do business with the company I represent.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Myamoto said. “How was it arranged that you should come to Tokyo and meet with this man?”
“Through a contact at JAL in Washington, D.C.”
Myamoto switched on the cassette recorder. “Did Asagiri Eto pick you up at Narita?”
“He came to my hotel, and afterward took me to the Club Shin-Oki.”
Myamoto was obviously impressed. “That is a very exclusive club. I’m surprised that an American was allowed entry.”
Someone knocked at the door, and Myamoto jumped up and got it. An older man in civilian clothes said something in rapid-fire Japanese, and Myamoto glanced back at McGarvey, this time a look of wonderment on his face.
“The man is a murderer. How am I supposed to report this?” Police Captain Tsutomu Watanabe demanded.
Hiroshi Ozawa had made his way downtown by helicopter the moment he’d heard that McGarvey had been arrested. “I am very sorry, Watanabe-san, to interfere in police business, but if Mr. McGarvey is guilty of murder it was certainly in self-defense. His presence in Tokyo is of extreme importance to us.”
“I will not be told why?”
“No,” Ozawa said, lowering his eyes politely.
“Mr. Pelham, this is Sam Miller, officer of the day. Sir, I have an amber light for you.”
“All right, I’m switching over … now,” Pelham said after a brief hesitation. He’d been caught by surprise. “I’m secure. What have you got for me?”
The green, circuit-secure light came up on the duty officer’s encrypted console. “Mr. McGarvey was arrested a little over an hour ago by Tokyo Metro Police. Apparently he was involved in an altercation of some sort in Asakusa.”
“Oh, Christ, that’s just great. Have you reached Gates, yet?” Stephen Pelham was the assistant chief of the CIA’s Tokyo Station. Cortland Gates was the COS.
“No, sir. He’s hunting at the lodge on Hokkaido. But word has been left for him.”
“Have the Japanese contacted anyone downstairs on his behalf?”
“There’s been no call like that.”
“Shit,” Pelham said. “All right, it’s a little after two now, which puts it noonish in D.C. We’ll have to message Langley on this. I can make it in about twenty minutes. Traffic will be light. Thank God for small miracles anyway.”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said, but the green light on his console winked out. Pelham had already hung up.
The ACOS showed up thirty-five minutes later at the Company’s small operations and communications center on the top floor of the U.S. embassy on Akasaka in Minato-ku. Unlike Miller, who was short, dark, and wiry, Pelham was a corpulent man with wispy, almost nonexistent pale blond hair and nearly invisible eyebrows. He looked like an albino.
“What’s he been charged with, Sam?”
“Murder, but it’s getting more complicated than that.”
“Not possible,” Pelham said, his acid indigestion rising.
When the bulletin had come from Langley requesting that Tokyo Station be on the lookout for McGarvey, no one had been overly concerned. Such requests were common, and very often bounced downstairs to an embassy officer. Usually it involved visiting businessmen or VIPs whose movements were to be loosely monitored for their own protection. They were to be bailed out of any difficult situation they might put themselves in. But when the follow-up book cable had arrived a couple hours after the first bulletin, filling them in on McGarvey’s background, Gates and the entire staff had sat up and taken notice.
“I didn’t make the connection until now,” the COS told Pelham. “What the hell is that McGarvey doing back here? It’s a surprise the Japanese even let him in after what he did to them three years ago.”
He was a tough man to keep track of, and from the moment he’d slipped out of his hotel with a Japanese national, Pelham had known damned well that something would happen.
“Sir, Mr. McGarvey was released about the same time I was talking to you. The charges have been dropped.”
“Jesus. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back at his hotel.”
“Has he got company?”
“The same man he left with last night. We don’t have an ID on him yet, but apparently he carries some weight. The hotel has provided him with the penthouse suite.”
“At this hour?” Pelham asked, rhetorically. “Who’re we getting this from, Justine?”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said. Justine was the code name of a small network of informants working for the Metro Police. Each person signed on for three years, after which they were brought to the United States, had their eyes Westernized, and were given a new identity and money. They had no trouble recruiting applicants.
“Whoever this Jap is, if he swings enough weight to get McGarvey sprung, we’d better find out who he is.”
“It wasn’t him, Mr. Pelham,” Miller said.
“Goddammit, who was it then?”
“MITI.”
Pelham stared at the OD, blankly. “The Ministry for International Trade and Industry? Why? What the hell has that sonofabitch gotten himself into this time?”
“Sir?”
“You were here when the book cable came through. You know what he is, or was. Christ, he’s killed people.”
“But he’s one of us.”
“Don’t count on it, Sam.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whenever McGarvey shows up there’s trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like the timing. The President is going to be here is less than a month, and I’d like to know what McGarvey is up to. Exactly what he’s up to.”
Miller was taken back. “I see what you mean, sir.”
“Keep trying to contact Gates. I’ll be in my office putting together something for Langley. Who’ve we got at the hotel?”
“Shapiro and Littell.”
“Get Isaacs and Ireland down here too.”
“Will do, Mr. Pelham.”
In the dawn the air over Tokyo appeared dusty.
“It was an unfortunate incident for
which I apologize,” Asagiri Eto said.
“One which you tried to warn me about,” McGarvey replied. “How did you find out I’d been arrested?” The police offered no explanation why they were releasing him, nor would Lieutenant Myamoto answer his questions. But the cop was clearly shook up. He’d been called out of the interrogation room, and when he came back he was subdued. McGarvey’s personal belongings were returned, and after he’d signed an inventory release form printed in English and Japanese he was allowed to leave.
“I waited for you at the hotel, but when you didn’t show up I became worried. The police said that you’d been attacked. Frankly, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Did you arrange to get me out of there?”
Eto looked owlishly at McGarvey. “You are a difficult man. We had hoped to avoid any unpleasantness while you were here, but that’s no longer possible. Now we have damage to repair.”
“Was it an isolated incident?”
Eto shrugged, a gesture uncharacteristic for a Japanese. “I don’t know.”
“They were Rising Sun. Enemies of yours?”
Eto took a moment to answer, obviously in some difficulty. “It’s not so easy as that. My country is in turmoil, you know. We are coming out of very difficult times. Some people in government think they have the answers but there are … factions who believe Nippon will be made to suffer if we continue on our present course.”
“Are you talking about a coup?”
“We’re a democracy,” Eto retorted sharply.
“Who is Rising Sun?”
“A group …”
“One of the anti-government factions?”
Eto shook his head. “This is not the West.”
“I had to defend myself. Three Rising Sun are in the morgue. Who’s got the pull to have the charges against me dropped? Are you one of these anti-government factions?”
Eto looked past McGarvey out the glass wall at the morning over the big city. The distant mountains were completely lost in the air pollution. “If you still wish to pursue your business with us, we’ll leave now.”
“Will I be returning to this hotel?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll get my things.”
Eto smiled faintly. “Your suitcase is downstairs in the car.”
“I told you there’d be trouble with that sonofabitch,” CIA General Counsel Howard Ryan said.
“Still just circumstantial, Mr. Ryan,” Carrara said, although even he was beginning to have doubts. After listening to what the FBI was working on he knew McGarvey was in the middle of something all right, but after talking with Phillipe Marquand in Paris he didn’t know anymore. Maybe McGarvey had turned. “He was up front with me about Arimoto Yamagata’s connection with JAL, and about Mintori, so he’s not masking all movements from us.”
“But he didn’t tell us that he was going to Tokyo,” Ryan said: The former Wall Street attorney had come down to Carrara’s office just before quitting time for an update.
“He’s not working for us.”
“But he asks for our help.”
“That’s right, and I was told by the general to do just that.” Carrara maintained his composure. Ryan’s gripe with McGarvey went back several years, and in the DDO’S opinion the general counsel’s behavior and attitude were anything but professional. But the man had his point: McGarvey was showing up in too many places at too many times. The Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry stepping in to get him out of trouble was problematic, as was the interest in him shown by the FBI and the French Action Service. “What are you telling me, Mr. Ryan? That I should refuse any further contact with him?”
“I’m not saying that,” Ryan was quick to correct.
“Well, maybe we should bring him in. Tokyo Station would make contact and pass the message on to him.”
“Nobody is calling for that either.”
“What then?” Even if Gates could get to him, there wasn’t much chance that Kirk would come running. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re his friend. I understand and appreciate that, so I’m not asking you to stab him in the back.” Ryan dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “In fact, the man has done a lot for us. Accomplished some remarkable feats, actually. But you have to admit that this has become something entirely different. Now he’s involving himself directly in international politics.”
“He’s working for Guerin Airplane Company.”
“Spare me,” Ryan cut him off. “Practically on the eve of one of the most important summit meetings ever facing this country, the Japanese decide to get into it with the Russians. And who shows up out of the blue in Moscow and then in Tokyo? None other than McGarvey. Of course, whenever McGarvey shows up someplace dead bodies fall like cordwood.”
“Mr. Ryan, I repeat, what can I do for you?”
The general counsel looked at him coolly. “Kirk McGarvey is your friend. Find out what he’s doing and stop him. For his sake, if not the nation’s.”
Carrara got slowly to his feet, every muscle in his body bunched into knots. It took everything within his control not to lunge across the desk at the smug bastard. He even managed to nod. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Ryan.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Phil. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Heading north out of Tokyo the air cleared and traffic thinned dramatically, so that by the time they were in the foothills, the narrow road was all but deserted. McGarvey and Eto rode in the back seat of the stretched custom Lexus. Their driver was a precise-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses whom Eto said had been a Formula One driver until an accident three years ago.
“Ura Nihon,” McGarvey commented, looking out at the terraced fields that led up into the snow-capped mountains.
Eto was startled. “Where did you learn that?”
“A long time ago from an old friend,” McGarvey replied absently. He and Kelley Fuller had traveled south together to Nagasaki. The countryside had seemed peaceful and delicate, dollhouse-like, completely different from the bigger-than-life, frenetic pace of Tokyo and Japan’s other large cities. Ura Nihon, she’d called it. The other Japan. The ancient Japan. Tradition. Honor. Beauty. Bushido.
McGarvey glanced at the Japanese. “The old ways are the best. No kata tataki out here, no tapping on the shoulder to tell you that you have been voluntarily laid off. That’s just for the cities. Shoganni, Eto-san? Nothing can be done about it?”
Eto returned his gaze. “You are indeed a troubling man, Mr. McGarvey. If I had my way I would send you back on the very first flight.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“Then let’s hope for the best, because I sincerely do not want to be your enemy,” McGarvey said.
The road climbed higher into the mountains of Nikko National Park, the terraced farm fields giving way grudgingly to forests of tiny trees that seemed to be trimmed, the growth around them carefully cultivated. From a narrow defile the car was passed through a massive wooden gate that swung on a huge arch ornately carved with the figures of fierce dragons. From there a perfectly maintained road of crushed white gravel led up the valley to a broad forested ledge through which a narrow stream bubbled and plunged over the sheer edge. The view from the top was breathtaking. Perched on the far edge was a traditionally styled Japanese house, low to the ground and rambling in every direction. Tiled roofs, rice-paper screens and walls, carved beams, courtyards, broad verandas, gardens, ponds, and ancient statues and figures gave the spot an unreal air, as if it were a setting in a fairy tale.
“Whoever owns this must be a very lucky man,” McGarvey said, and again Eto gave him an odd, measuring glance.
At the house their driver let McGarvey out of the car and a young woman in a flowered, pale-pink kimono came across the broad porch to greet him. Eto remained in the car.
“Ohaya go-zai-ma-su, McGarvey-san,” Good morning, the young woman said, smiling.
“Ohay go-zai-ma-su,” McGarvey said, bowing slightly. “Eigo o hanashimasu ka?”
The young woman tittered and returned his bow. “Yes, of course, I speak English. Please, if you will follow me, tea has been laid out for you. The morning is beautiful, is it not?”
“The morning is brilliant,” McGarvey agreed. He removed his shoes and without looking back at Eto followed the young woman into the house, down a wide corridor of highly polished teak, and finally out onto a very broad veranda that overlooked a beautiful garden. Part of the stream had been diverted through the garden, and it splashed gently on the rocks. A windchime hanging in a gnarled old tree tinkled on the pleasant breeze.
At first McGarvey did not notice the old man seated cross-legged like a Buddha in front of a low table at the edge of the veranda. He was dressed in a snow-white kimono and sat absolutely still until the girl led McGarvey across to him. Then he looked up and smiled.
“Please sit down, Mr. McGarvey. You have come a very long way, and you must be weary.”
The old man’s English was good, his accent British upper class. He looked to McGarvey to be in his seventies, possibly older. His eyes were wise, and from the expression on his face, and the way he held himself erect, sure of himself, McGarvey could guess that he was rich, even wealthy. All of a sudden the light bulb went off in his head.
“Sokichi Kamiya. Mintori Assurance.”
Kamiya inclined his round, nearly hairless head, slightly in acknowledgment. “Actually quite clever of you to guess so soon. And to take your quest into the lion’s den. Sit down. I’ll pour us some tea.”
McGarvey stared at the old Japanese for a beat. He’d been finessed, and he suspected that Kamiya was a master at it. But it had been so easy. Like scratching an itch, or swatting a fly. Effortless.
“This is a nice spot,” McGarvey said, looking out across the garden.
“It belongs to a young friend of mine.”
Another light went off. “Arimoto Yamagata.”
“Yes. This place is his solace, although as of late he has not been able to enjoy any peace. But it is war.”
High Flight Page 45