He opened the door and jogged over to the wreckage. The stench of gasoline and burning metal assaulted his senses. He knelt down next to the remains of the Acura. It was almost impossible to tell where the sports car ended and the forklift began.
Caine peered into what remained of the cabin. The blades of the forklift had punctured the front airbags. The white cloth of the bag draped over the driver, concealing his mangled face. A light dust of talcum powder covered his clothes. Caine patted down his body but found nothing of interest. The man had been wearing a black suit, and his arms were scarred and burned but the wounds weren’t fresh.
He moved on to the passenger. The man wore similar clothing, now ripped and torn. Caine opened his shirt, revealing the same burn marks on his shoulder and chest. He was certain now. These men were Tokyo Black.
Reaching into the man’s jacket, he found two cell phones that had survived the crash. He slid them into his pocket and looked back at Kenji’s car. The beautiful GTR’s black paint had been scraped off on the passenger side. Long red streaks from the Acura’s paint ran the length of the dented and dinged metal body. The vehicle could be easily tied to this crash.
“Sorry, Kenji,” Caine muttered to himself.
He drew his pistol and fired a barrage of shots into the gas tank. A stream of clear fluid began to puddle beneath the car. Caine picked up a piece of burning debris from the Acura and hurled it at the gathering liquid. The gasoline ignited. Within seconds, flames engulfed the GTR. A thick cloud of toxic black smoke filled the tunnel.
Caine passed through a nearby evacuation door into a narrow, dim corridor. As he closed the door, the car exploded in a cloud of orange flame behind him. The fire crawled towards the Acura, consuming both the wreckage and the bodies inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun warms her back as Rebecca jogs along the wooded trail. The autumn leaves rustle in the air above her, whispers of red and orange. When she looks around, the colors are all she can see. Is that a tree? An old windmill ahead? The details fade, lost in a shifting haze of muted brilliance.
Then Caine is there, waiting for her at the end of the trail. She can just make out the green of his eyes. She runs towards him, fighting to catch a glimpse of him through the veil clouding her vision. Her feet pound along the path, but the carpet of dead leaves absorbs all sound. Is she getting any closer? She can’t tell. His voice calls to her.
“Rebecca, it’s time to wake up.”
She blinks, and everything changes. The mattress underneath her naked body is firm and warm. Caine’s hands cradle her gently. Dawn’s first light drifts in through the window. The autumn colors are replaced by the chocolate silk of her duvet, the soft white of her cotton sheets. Caine is next to her, behind her, perched above her. She rolls over and stares into his eyes.
He looks troubled. She caresses his cheek. “What is it?”
He looks away. “I have to go soon.” His voice is quiet. Hesitant. “I won’t be able to see you for a while.”
She tilts his face back towards her. “Is it a mission?”
He smiles, but the lines around his eyes are tense. He always looks awkward when he has to tell her the truth. “You know I can’t talk about it.”
She looks at him, confused. The words and the colors are jumbled in her mind. Nothing makes sense.
Chocolate brown, bright orange, crimson blood, soft white.
She rolls over. Her arm reaches out, but her fingers brush against cold, empty sheets. His body is gone. He was just there, she thinks.
Where has he gone?
“Rebecca, it’s time to wake up.”
“I have to go.”
“A disgrace and a traitor.”
“If Bernatto knows....”
Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open.
Towering before her stood the man who had dragged her from the wreck. She was sitting, her arms pinned behind her.
Before she could process her surroundings, the man swung out his arm and slapped her face. Her head swung to the side from the impact. She struggled, attempting to shrink away, but she was tied to a metal office chair. She blinked and moaned in pain.
“That’s fine, Mr. Douglas. She’s awake.”
“Allan!” she gasped. He was standing to her right, his hands jammed in the pockets of his pants. “What the hell are you doing here? What’s going on?”
He was slouching, and dark circles hung beneath his eyes. “Ms. Freeling, I won’t insult your intelligence so please don’t insult mine. In point of fact, I have to say you’ve impressed me. You really did find the perfect asset for this operation. I couldn’t have done better myself.” He paused, considering her carefully. His lips curled around nicotine-stained teeth. “That’s about as high a compliment as I can give.”
Rebecca took a long, slow breath. As Bernatto spoke, she reviewed her circumstances, taking in the little details that surrounded her. Concrete walls. Water dripping from the ceiling, mold. The air was warm and dank. They were still in Pattaya. She could smell the humidity.
Bernatto watched her with tired, calm eyes. “Take your time, Ms. Freeling. Look around all you want. That’s what you were trained to do, after all. Scan, process, assess. Glad to see you were paying attention.”
Allan’s enforcer, bored by the conversation, turned away. He stepped in front of a rickety table and began cleaning an assortment of pistols with a wire brush.
“Allan, what the hell is going on here? Why are you—”
Allan’s eyes clouded with annoyance. He raised a hand in the air, like a frustrated parent scolding a toddler. “Please, Ms. Freeling. You know exactly why I’m here.”
“Allan, I don’t. I—”
“Thomas Caine.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about? Caine is dead.”
Bernatto smiled, but there was no humor in his face. “I know Caine is your asset. Deniability is not the same thing as ignorance, Ms. Freeling. I’ve followed every step of your operation. I’ve had Mr. Douglas here tailing you since you arrived in Thailand. And I confirmed my intel with Ethan before I removed him from the playing field.”
Rebecca blinked back tears. She used her anger, her hatred of the man standing before her to keep her voice steady. “Removed him? Like you removed Jack Tyler? Like you tried to remove Caine?”
“More successfully, I can assure you. But, in the end, it seems everything worked out for the best. As I said, Caine is the perfect asset for this mission. His background, his experience ... perfect.”
Rebecca struggled at her bonds, shaking the chair. “So everything Caine said was true. You set him up. Betrayed him. You’re a liar, a murderer, and a traitor!”
Allan’s face flashed with rage, and his arm twitched. Rebecca braced for the strike, but his anger faded as quickly as it surfaced. It was soon replaced by his usual emotionless gaze. “I’m no traitor. Everything I have done has been for the good of my country. No matter how myopic, bloated, and unrecognizable it’s become. And Caine ... my dear, whatever you may think, believe me, you know nothing about Thomas Caine.”
“I know you framed him, hung him out to dry, and tried to have him killed.”
Allan nodded. “All true, I suppose, but Caine is not the man you think he is. Do you have any idea how much blood is on his hands? How many lives Caine has ended? How many operations—black, unsanctioned, wet, whatever term you want to use—he has participated in?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve debriefed plenty of operatives. He’s no different than—”
“You’re deluded, Rebecca. Caine is nothing like other operatives. Everything about him, even his official work with the CIA, was part of his cover. He was a member of a very special group, a team of specialists with superlative skills. All handpicked by me. Trained by the best, to be the best. One hundred percent loyal. One hundred percent dependable. And as always, one hundred percent expendable. When I saw an opportunity to remove him from play and create a benefit for myself and the program, I took it. Th
at was my directive.”
Rebecca struggled in her bonds. “You goddamn son of a bitch!”
“Fine, I’m a son of a bitch. A cold-hearted bastard. In my job, I have to be. But let me ask you this: you were in a relationship with Caine, weren’t you? Don’t bother denying it. I know it’s true.”
Rebecca stared at him, eyes molten with fury.
“The morning he left you, the last time you saw him before I sent him to Japan ... you must realize, he knew that he was leaving the country. He knew he would be under deep cover, that he would be away from you for years. Did he say anything to you about it? Did he even say goodbye?”
Rebecca said nothing. There was nothing to say. On this, if nothing else, she knew Bernatto was right.
“Make no mistake,” he said. “Caine is as cold as they come. You may think you know him. Maybe you loved him, maybe you even got under his skin a little. But Caine will always be part of my world. Not yours. So let’s stop wasting time and drop the pretenses.”
Rebecca glared up at him. “Fine, let’s drop the pretenses. What the hell is this mission about anyway?”
“It was supposed to be about preparation. About getting a step ahead. For once, not getting caught with our pants down.”
“Seems to me like it’s about covering your ass.”
“Let’s just say, in this case, my interests and the interests of the country are aligned. Have you ever heard the expression ‘Thucydides’s Trap?’”
“Allan, please, this is insane. It’s not too late to stop this.”
“You don’t know your history, Rebecca. It is too late. Thucydides was an ancient Greek historian. Wrote the history of the Peloponnesian War. The conflict between Athens and Sparta. You know, the Iliad, Trojan horse? Christ, weren’t you a poli-sci major?”
“What on earth does that have to do with anything?”
“The rise of one nation’s power will inevitably cause fear, and eventually war, with the already established power. That’s the Thucydides’s Trap. He was talking about Athens and Sparta, but it’s proven true again and again throughout history.
“Today, China is Athens, and the United States is Sparta. War is inevitable. And we are not remotely ready for it. Every day, China conducts cyber-attacks on United States servers. It strengthens its economies, expands its borders. And what do we do? Engage in trade talks and ogle their cuddly pandas.”
Rebecca tried to hide the gears turning in her brain. “War with China? What does that have to do with this girl? Why is she so important?”
Allan barked a short, wheezing laugh. “The girl? She’s meaningless. Just some black sheep daughter of a very wealthy, very compromised asset. But the information she has ... she probably doesn’t even know she has it. But that’s the key. That’s what this operation is about. Whoever gets it first will have leverage over the other party.”
“What information? Leverage over what?”
Bernatto gave her an uneasy look. “The situation on the ground has changed. My risk of exposure has become untenable. But Kusaka and these deformed fanatics he’s working with ... they refuse to listen to reason. I have to bring them to heel, get them under control, or they’ll destroy everything.”
“Kusaka was working with you all along? And what about this terrorist attack we’re supposed to be preventing? Was that all a lie, too?”
“I never lied to you, Ms. Freeling. I do have intel regarding an imminent terrorist attack on United States soil, one that will entail a significant loss of life. I should know. I helped plan it.”
Rebecca stopped struggling and stared at Bernatto. “And you say you’re not a traitor?”
He shrugged. “That depends on how simple your worldview is. You work for the CIA, not UNICEF. I would expect more from you.”
“This missing girl, the information she has ... it exposes you?”
Bernatto nodded. “Yes, but it can also help me with Kusaka. Force him to back off, until the time is right.”
“What about me? Why am I still alive?”
Bernatto pulled a chair away from the crumbling desk and sat down to face her. He stared at her over the rim of his glasses.
“I would think you’d have guessed already. You’re my insurance policy.”
“Insurance for what?”
“To make sure Thomas Caine does his job and finds that girl before Kusaka does.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A curved panoramic window dominated an entire wall of Arinori Kusaka’s office. The twinkling lights of Tokyo’s Sumida district spread out before him like jewels against the black velvet curtain of night. But his focus rested on an enormous structure thrust into the sky: the Tokyo Skytree tower.
At 634 meters, it was the tallest tower, and second tallest structure, in the world. The observation decks on its top floors contained a glass-enclosed viewing gallery, restaurant, and gift shop. At night, LED lights illuminated the tower, making it glow a dark purple. The color reminded Kusaka of the ripe plums he had devoured in his youth.
Although his firm had no direct hand in building it, Kusaka still swelled with pride when he saw it. It was a marvel of Japanese engineering. Strength, elegance, beauty ... to him, the tower symbolized all that he loved about his country.
Kusaka shifted in his chair. The curved glass warped his reflection like a funhouse mirror. A solid and sturdy man in a pin-striped suit stared back at him, his hair so grey it was almost white. Although he was close to seventy years old, his skin was devoid of wrinkles or age spots, and he kept his full head of hair cut military short. His face was round and full, giving him a playful, mischievous expression when he smiled, which he did often. He knew it caused his enemies to underestimate him, both in business and in other endeavors. He used that to his advantage, of course.
When the intercom on his desk beeped, he swiveled away from the window. It was late, and he had sent his secretary home for the evening. He pressed a button on the intercom.
“Come up.”
He poured a glass of 1960 Karuizawa single malt from a bottle on his desk. The precious liquor cost over half a million yen per bottle and had been difficult to find. To acquire it, he had sent his assistant to a small bar in the town of Karuizawa itself, near the base of the Asama volcano. The bar owner hadn’t wanted to part with his only bottle, but Kusaka made him an offer for five times what the whisky was worth. His assistant said the bar owner wept as he completed the transaction. Kusaka drank it neat, straight from a crystal tumbler. He savored the sweet, oaky taste, its creamy notes of vanilla rice milk and salted butter caramel.
A monitor on his desk showed a massive man entering the private elevator on the ground floor. Kusaka glanced at the man’s hideous, scarred face. Bobu’s blind white eye stared back into the camera. Kusaka took another sip of scotch. Bobu was insane, but he was still useful. Things were moving quickly now. This was the critical moment, the moment that would define success or failure—both for himself and Japan.
The elevator door in his office chimed and slid open. The huge man entered the room.
“Bobu Shimizu,” Kusaka said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There was a hint of impatience in his voice.
Bobu stood in front of Kusaka’s desk and bowed. Kusaka paused for a second, just long enough to ensure Bobu paid him the proper respect. Then he nodded. “Sit, sit. Would you like a drink?”
Bobu waved his hand. An uncomfortable, tense expression clouded his features.
“No. Thank you,” he demurred. “I am here to apologize. We have failed.”
Kusaka took another sip. “Do you at least have the girl?”
Bobu cleared his throat. “No, not yet, but we were able to recover the cell phone from her yonigeya, a man called Naka. Before he died, our man accessed a text your daughter sent him. She is scheduled to meet him tonight at the Tokyo Dome. I have sent some men there to find her.”
Kusaka swallowed his drink, allowing the taste to slowly drip down his throat. As he smacked his lips, he sl
ipped his hand into the open drawer of his desk, his fingers curling around a pistol.
“Shimizu-san, I told you before. Do not refer to this whore as my daughter.” Kusaka set the gun down on his desk, with a casual gesture, as if he was holding a stapler or a pen. “Don’t make me tell you again.” Kusaka looked up at Bobu and smiled.
Bobu bowed his head. “Apologies. But there is more. This man, Mark Waters ... the gaijin is hunting the girl as well. He is working with the Yoshizawa family.”
Kusaka began polishing the barrel of the pistol with a cloth. “What of him?”
“I have seen him before, years ago. Back then, the Shimizu and Yoshizawa clans were engaged in a gang war, a dispute over territory. This gaijin was there the night my brother sent me to kill Isato Yoshizawa.”
Kusaka’s eyes twinkled. He was still smiling. “Oh? What happened?”
“Things went wrong. Isato’s son, Kenji Yoshizawa, got in the way of my shot. This man, Mark Waters, took a bullet for him. He saved the boy’s life.”
“Interesting. It is no coincidence he is here now. There are other forces at play here, forces you are unaware of. Do not underestimate this man. He is more dangerous than any of Yoshizawa’s soldiers.”
Bobu bowed again, deeper this time. “Hai!”
“Now, is the plane on time?”
Bobu checked the watch that bulged against his massive wrist. “Yes, it should have landed twenty minutes ago.”
Kusaka nodded. He finished his whisky, then poured himself another glass. He held up the gun, letting the polished black barrel glint in the light. The pistol was long and sleek, with a slim, tapered barrel. The oval-shaped butt was fitted with grooved mahogany grips. “Have you ever seen a gun like this, Bobu?”
“Not in person. It’s a Nambu, yes?”
“Mmmm,” the older man grunted. “Nambu Type 14. Officer’s pistol in World War II. It fires an 8mm, .320 bullet. Look at it ... beautiful. Reliable. Accurate. Adopted for military use in 1925, which is how it got its name ... 1925 was the fourteenth year of the Taisho Emperor’s reign.”
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 13
