by Adrian Smith
Ryan peeked out from their hiding spot in the luggage store. The authorities had set up cordons and were ushering civilians away as fire trucks rumbled to a stop.
“Who was your lead?” Ryan said.
“No one. This was off the books.”
“Lisa?”
“Yeah. She was worried about you. We all were.”
Ryan glanced out into the street before returning his gaze into the store. One of the retail assistants was on the phone, pointing at him. “Time to leave,” Ryan said.
The two men crouched low and crab-walked through the shop. You could tell a lot by scents. If you took notice, you could define the different smells and identify which were out of place and which belonged. It’s a difficult skill to learn because your brain naturally filters them out. Too much information. But if you took a moment and picked out the scents, remembered what they were, it was easy.
Ryan detected cheap cologne. German cologne. Not a scent that normally lingered in a Tokyo alley of restaurants, shops, and bars.
Putting aside his misgivings, he raised his hand and clenched his fist. “I can smell them.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Two, maybe three. Hard to tell exactly, with the rain.” This was just like old times. He and Booth on assignment.
“I’ll go left and high. You, right and low. They're waiting for us, but they don’t know where we’re coming from.”
Booth nodded and crouched on the other side of the doorway. Ryan silently pushed the door open and raised his Glock. He peered into the half light of the alley. The yakuza slouched against the masonry of a restaurant. Two of the men were looking in the wrong direction, while the third was busy checking his phone, the screen giving his face an eerie glow.
Amateurs.
Ryan shot phone man, the bullet entering just above the heart. His blood stained his starched white shirt. Ryan quickly swiveled to his right and dropped another with a shot to the neck before phone man had stumbled forward. The third man snapped his head around at the sound of the pistol but was too slow. Booth shot him with a rapid three-shot burst to the chest.
Jogging over to phone man, Ryan checked the pockets. He found two spare magazines and slipped them into his jacket. He swept his eyes down the alley and gestured to the canal. It ran toward the two main train stations that serviced this prefecture. It was the best option for keeping out of sight, even with the recent rain. Its raised footpath had just enough room to walk on.
“Down there. This canal runs all the way to the station.”
“Let’s go, then,” Booth said.
Ryan shut out his fears of the yakuza. Heart pounding from the recent action, he helped Booth down the ladder and lifted his old friend’s arm over his shoulder. With one last look around, they trudged away from the sake bar, the canal on their right. Away from Holder and the dead yakuza. Away from the car that had taken Sofia into the neon-filled Tokyo night.
Booth grumbled beside him. He faltered and gasped for breath.
“Keep up, old man,” Ryan said. He stopped and lifted Booth’s shirt and bandage to check his wound. The congealed blood had turned dark red and crusted. He replaced the dressing and looked down the canal.
“I’m not that old,” Booth gasped. “Compared to you, Grandpa, I’m a wee baby.”
“Shinjuku Station is a few minutes away. Think you’ll make it?”
“I feel like a million fire ants are biting my insides, but I’ll make it.” He wrapped his arm around Ryan’s side to affirm his point. “Let’s go before more of the brute squad show up.”
Tires squealed on the road above their heads, adding to the cacophony of noise. Two yakuza appeared and shouted before firing. Their rounds hit the concrete sides of the canal. More wild shots followed.
“These guys again,” Booth said.
More tires squealed, joined by raised voices. Ryan strained his ears trying to hear what they were shouting. To his surprise, the voice was speaking German. He could only pick out a couple of words.
“…secure … silence...”
The canal split in a T-intersection. Supporting Booth, Ryan went left, his worn shoes slipping on the rain-soaked concrete. Shards of stone stabbed into his face as gunfire erupted from above. He hugged the wall and kept moving. He didn’t bother shooting back. Now was the time to run and hide. To stay alive and fight another day. To find out what kind of mess he’d been dragged into.
Running was out of the question due to Booth’s injury. So they walked, using Ryan’s knowledge of the area. They ducked through busy shopping malls, surprised faces turning as they hurried past; through arcades with beeping machines and people staring blankly at colorful screens; down narrow alleys that smelt of grog and urine, even with the torrential rain; through smoke-filled stand-up bars, with dozens of flags. Still the yakuza chased. They went through crowds of tourists looking at a giant Pac-Man game, into a bar filled with dancing robots and wailing guitars. Still the yakuza followed.
It hit Ryan then. Whoever these yakuza were, they were powerful. He and Booth had traveled through at least ten territories.
Booth staggered and regained his footing. “How much farther?”
“Not far. I have an idea.” Ryan pointed to a bridge up ahead. “There’s a walkway up there that goes back to the station. Workers use it to maintain the tracks.”
The railway overpass appeared invitingly as stinging pain erupted in Ryan’s right shoulder. The chasing yakuza had finally hit something. Ryan fought through the agony and dashed the last few meters, ducking underneath the curtain of water that cascaded from the bridge.
“Up in there. Hurry.” He cupped his hands together and lifted Booth onto the pipes that cluttered the underneath of the bridge, then hauled himself up, grimacing against the pain in his right shoulder.
Like he had hoped, the strange-looking yakuza sprinted past and back out into the rain, oblivious.
Ryan and Booth spent the next ten minutes shuffling along, squeezing between slabs of concrete and decades of rusted metal. It wouldn’t be long before the mystery men figured out where they had gone. The problem was, the rain hitting the concrete above made it impossible to hear if they had. Not an ideal situation. Ryan liked to plan; that was what he was good at. Of course, he had trained for situations like this. Fly by the seat of your pants. But it was not his specialty. Planning. Being precise. Silent. That was him.
They followed the pipes until they reached a metal gangway and dropped down.
“Did we lose them?” Booth said.
“For now. I hope.” He gestured toward the shrieking trains.
A worker carrying a clipboard startled as he rounded the corner. He stared at Ryan and Booth, mouth gaping open and closed like a goldfish.
“Apologies. Shinjuku? Which way?” Ryan said, speaking in Japanese.
Clipboard’s mouth gaped open again, his eyes blinking rapidly. Was it the fact that he was seeing two Westerners, both bleeding from injuries, on the walkway? Or the fact that one spoke fluent Japanese.
“Please, sir. Shinjuku?”
“You should not … not be down here,” Clipboard stammered.
“It’s okay. I work here.” Ryan fumbled for his employee identity card. “Which way?”
“I’ll have to take you. This is very irregular. You are being an inconvenience. Now my rounds will be late.”
“We apologize. If you could just point the way.”
“No. I must accompany you.”
Clipboard turned and strode off without another word, ending the discussion. He led Ryan and the struggling Booth through the maze of gangways. They passed bundles of cables and hissing pipes. Went through door after door. All the while, the screeching of trains filled the maintenance tunnel. Screaming as they stopped, disgorging hundreds of passengers.
Clipboard stopped at yet another door and unlocked it from a jumble of keys. He swept his arm out into the busy concourse.
Ryan bowed and pulled Booth, joining the crowds. Even
though it was 9.45 p.m., there were still hundreds of people using the trains. The tiled floor was slick with rain, the concourse a mess of umbrellas, and the smell of wet clothing mixed with sweat hung in the air. The yakuza could be anywhere. They would have eyes watching too. They always did. Ryan grimaced and walked briskly toward the storage lockers in the middle of the bustling station.
Five
The Shinkansen pulled slowly out of the station before gathering pace. Insulated walls and rubber suspension gave the train a smooth and silent ride as the Tokyo skyline drifted by.
The bullet train was the fastest way out of the city and at this late hour, first class, where they were sitting, had the only seats left on a busy Saturday night.
With his grip firmly on the Glock hidden under his jacket, the fear of the yakuza appearing and firing at the train kept his finger on the trigger guard. It wasn’t their style, but after the events in the sake bar and the subsequent chase, he wouldn’t be surprised if they went against tradition and attacked. At least his pulse had returned to a normal beat. Satisfied that they had escaped the gang for now, he leant back in the soft seats, keeping pressure off his injured shoulder.
He and Booth had spent the last two hours ducking and weaving from one train to the next, changing at random stations, and switching direction. Sometimes using the JR lines, other times the metro routes.
They had bought cheap black rain ponchos to hide their faces from the CCTV cameras. What bothered Ryan the most was who these yakuza were. And why did they want Booth and him so badly? Did they just want to silence them? Did they want the USB stick? And what was on it that was so important?
“You okay?” Ryan said. He looked at Booth, his brow furrowing.
“I’ll live. Have we finished touring the stations of Tokyo?”
“For now. Yes.”
“Good. Wake me when we get to wherever you’re taking me.”
After collecting his bug-out bag, Ryan had checked Booth’s wound and realized he couldn’t do anything more. Thankfully his own wound was only minor. The bullet had grazed his right shoulder. It was uncomfortable, but he had been through worse. He smiled to himself. An image of Cal, hands on hips, watching him limp into the emergency room, his femur poking through the skin and his ankle shattered after showing off to their son Liam by trying to jump over a creek while mountain biking.
“Booth?”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Why do you think the yakuza are after us. It's bothering me. They don’t normally involve themselves in this kind of thing.”
Booth sighed, shifted his weight and said, “I was thinking about that too. Was that German I heard earlier?”
“Yes. That’s the strangest part.”
“We’ve had YamTech under observation for a couple of years now. We have evidence of them using the yakuza as muscle, like the unions used to do with the Mafia back in the day. Maybe ReinCorp are doing it too. Like a show of solidarity.”
“Still doesn’t explain why Germans. The yakuza aren’t friendly, and they definitely wouldn’t let a foreign gang into their territory.”
“I agree with you, Connors.”
Ryan shrugged. “Sorry. Get some rest. We’ll figure it out later.”
He patted Booth on the shoulder and focused his attention on the passing city out the window.
Tokyo was beautiful. Chaotic and full of life despite the violence that shattered the beauty. He filtered through the memories, recalling days his family had spent exploring the city with Sofia and Keiko, back when the children were teenagers. Visiting Otter and Owl cafes, interacting with the animals. Nights spent driving the streets in a real-life version of Mario Kart. Those had been happy times. The yakuza could never take them away.
Raised voices jolted Ryan from his thoughts. He pulled the gun from his pocket and glanced in the direction of the sound. A train guard was blocking the doorway into the first-class cabin. Two black-suited men were arguing, shouting.
He crouched down and nudged Booth. “Hey. Wake up. We got company.”
Booth stirred and opened one eye. “Five more minutes.”
Ryan pulled him onto the floor. “Our friendly gangsters are back.”
Booth coughed and rubbed his temples. “Sitrep?”
“Two that I can see.”
“Next station?”
Ryan looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”
“More or less?”
“This is Japan. Trains run on time.”
“Right. How many again?”
“Two.”
“One each?”
“Not with civvies.” Ryan risked a peek around the seats. Passengers were beginning to turn their heads at the commotion.
“Ideas?” Booth said.
“There’s a disabled toilet by the driver’s compartment. It has a small window. At the next station, we climb out.”
“More climbing. Great.”
They crouched low and shuffled along the aisle. Within a few seconds, they had locked themselves inside the toilet.
Ryan clicked open the window. He reached into his satchel and started removing the hinge screws with a bike-repair tool kit. It looked like a Swiss Army knife, but instead of knives, it had screwdrivers and hex keys.
As he worked, he glanced at Booth and lowered his voice. “What’s on that drive that’s so important? And don’t tell me about shell companies or numbers.”
Booth grimaced and shifted against the door. “It has the Voynich manuscript on it.” He paused. “But this one is different. It contains extra lines of code, hidden in the text.”
“No one has ever deciphered that.” Ryan let the third screw drop to the floor and recalled what he knew about the manuscript. It was written in the 15th century, yet the codex remained a mystery despite the best efforts of linguists and cryptologists.
“The weird thing is that we found that thumb drive woven into the clothes of a girl. Picked up by the FBI. The girl—Harriet—was destined for a child sex ring.”
Booth cast his eyes to the floor. Ryan knew that look. They had seen the depraved depths humanity was capable of.
“Harriet described being held captive in a place just like that satellite installation in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. When we asked her about the drive, she claimed to have no idea, but that a nice lady with a shaved head and a picture on her wrist had helped her escape,” Booth said.
“The install—”
The door thumped. “Hurry up in there. I need to go.”
Ryan removed the last screw and flicked it into the night as the train slowed under his feet.
“One moment. Nearly finished,” he shouted in Japanese.
The train jolted as it came to a stop. Ryan gave Booth a shove and they clambered out the window before melting into the crowds. They used the throngs and the cover of umbrellas to hide their escape. No cries or shots followed. Just to be sure, Ryan slipped into a convenience store and checked the reflection in the glass for a tail. Nothing. There were a few inebriated suited men, a couple of well-dressed ladies, but no one wearing black suits or boys wearing sports tracksuits—the usual uniform of the yakuza.
He’d been aiming for Osaka, as he had an apartment there under an assumed name. A place they could hole up until they figured out their next move. A place even LK3 knew nothing about. They had made it as far as Nagoya, one of the many cities near enough to Tokyo to allow workers to commute. Fortunately, Ryan had contacts here too. He’d spent years building relationships all over the world. Helping people. Becoming friends. Some kept a box for him, something he could use in emergencies. Others, like where he was heading now, provided shelter.
“Where’re we going?” Booth groaned.
“Love Hotel. I know the owner,” Ryan said, turning right into an alley. Older, more traditional houses lined the street. Clad in wood with intricate designs, they reminded him of the old kung fu movies he’d watched as a kid.
They pushed into a small bar lit with a single blinking neon sig
n. From the outside, the building looked like the other houses, bars, and restaurants that dotted the area. The owners had kept the facade, but behind it lay a modern three-story hotel. Each room had a different theme. It was somewhere you could bring your partner for a few hours, or even the night. You could role play, dress up, make love in a room made to look like a spaceship, or an Arabian tent. One room was even designed to look like something out of a 1960s psychedelic trip. Whatever you wanted and were willing to pay for, this hotel could provide.
A lady with turquoise hair pulled into pigtails glanced up. Her eyes widened at the sight of Ryan and Booth limping in.
She bowed. “Ryan-san. What happened?”
“Chihiro, always nice to see you.” He smiled. “We had a run-in with the yakuza. We need somewhere to rest and medical treatment.”
“Sure. Sure. Okay. Follow me.”
Chihiro took them through a door behind the reception counter, up a flight of stairs, and waved them into a brightly lit room. It was painted white and dressed up to look like a doctor's consultation room.
Ryan helped Booth onto the faux examination bed. “Any chance we can dim the lights?”
Chihiro picked up a remote and the room darkened. “How’s that?”
“Perfect. Thanks. I’ll be needing our mutual friend to pay us a visit too,” Ryan said.
“Okay. I’ll be back. Help yourself to water. Snacks,” she said. “Always naughty, Ryan-san. Always naughty, getting yourself in trouble.” She giggled, holding her hand to her mouth as she left the room.
They had known each other for a few years, back when he worked for the agency. Most of the reasons for his visits were for help. To be patched up. Or if he needed a place to hide out for a few days. The Love Hotel made perfect sense to him. It was the last place anyone searching for him would look.
Ryan winced as he removed his shirt. He stared at his wound in the mirror. Using some paper towels, he wiped away the crusted blood. It would need a stitch or two, but nothing more.
He handed Booth a bottle of water and sank into the armchair next to the bed. His curiosity getting the better of him, he grabbed his Samsung tablet and plugged in the thumb drive. He ignored all the files listed with numbers and clicked on the one marked “Voynich.”