Vulcan's Forge

by Du Brul, Jack

  SHE had been in the room for only twenty-four hours, but already Jill felt as if she’d been imprisoned for a year. She had gone through the classic steps taken by nearly every person who is locked up against their will. First she had raged at her captors, screaming and pounding against the solid steel door that kept her from freedom. When she had exhausted herself, she spent the next several hours going over her cell in minute detail, exploring the cement block walls, the ceiling that was too far over her head to reach, the empty pegboard rack with the outlines of tools still painted on its brown glossy surface. The twenty-square-foot room smelled of fertilizer, old gasoline, and oil—Jill assumed it had once been a gardener’s supply shed.

  After she’d paced her cell for another hour, Jill had finally settled on the concrete floor next to the dripping spigot. She’d watched dully as the tiny drops pooled, then snaked to the rusted drain in the middle of the room. Eventually she slept, her body overriding her mind’s racing questions.

  When she woke a tray of food rested next to the door. There were a couple of oranges, half a loaf of crusty french bread, and a quarter stick of butter, along with a waxed paper cup of cool coffee. Jill noticed immediately that nothing on the tray could provide her with a weapon, no glass or tin cans, no utensils that could be sharpened by scraping them against the floor.

  The waste bucket in the far corner of the room had been removed during the night and replaced with a fresh one, much to her relief.

  Now Jill sat quietly, stoically, like a twenty-year veteran of prison, taking the time as it came, with neither expectations nor hope. For a while she’d tried to understand why someone had kidnapped her, but she realized that knowing the truth wouldn’t do her any good. She suspected that Takahiro Ohnishi was behind her abduction, but the knowledge was worthless to her in her present circumstances. Her only interests were in survival.

  Since Ohnishi had gone through the trouble of snatching her from her home, he must not want to kill her. He wanted something from her, something that only she could give.

  It had to be her credibility as a reporter. If she was correct about Ohnishi and Mayor Takamora’s attempt to break Hawaii away from the rest of the Union, then they would need the legitimacy that only the media could give, the soothing voice and face on the television assuring the people that everything was all right and under control. It would be simple to coerce her into giving false reports and no one who’d placed their trust in her as a reporter would ever know that they were being deceived.

  It was the same question of ethics and integrity that she’d faced before storming out of the studio, but this time the stakes were much higher. Yesterday it had been a question about her job, her career. Today it was her life at risk. Jill had thought about all of this throughout the long morning, but by late afternoon and into the evening her mind dulled and lost focus. She had settled into a torpor. She was just thinking about falling back asleep, her back was already pressed against the wall, her head held only limply by her slender neck.

  The door opened without warning. Jill jerked out of her lethargy, edging along the wall to gain distance between herself and the dark figure that entered her cell. She noted idly that night had fallen once again, though she didn’t know the time since she’d been stripped of her watch and shoes when she’d been left in the cell.

  “I did not mean to startle you, Miss Tzu, my apologies.” The man’s voice was flat and lifeless, echoing inside him like a distant whisper.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Jill had gotten to her feet.

  “We have not formally met, but we have spoken on the phone several times. I am Kenji.”

  “I knew Ohnishi was behind this.” There was little triumph in her voice.

  Kenji slid further into the room, his feet gliding on the floor with the ease of quicksilver. There was a dangerous elegance about him. It was the charm of the serpent, slow, seductive, evil. He eased himself to the floor, hunching down in the very place where Jill had been a moment earlier.

  “You are a very perceptive woman and an excellent reporter. I watched your latest piece, and I must say you made a bold and accurate assessment of my employer and his involvement with Mayor Takamora. You are correct in assuming that they both want Hawaii to be an independent nation, albeit one with strong ties to Japan. However, you are wrong in guessing that Ohnishi is behind your abduction.”

  “You?” Kenji nodded. “Why?”

  “You are intelligent enough to know why you were kidnapped.”

  “You want me to report some sort of propaganda,” Jill said accusingly.

  “Correct. In fact, the propaganda, as you call it, will not be that far from the truth. You can even air that piece you just finished.”

  Jill was startled and confused. “Why would you want that? It fully exposes your little plot.”

  “Not my plot, Miss Tzu, Ohnishi’s plot.”

  “I don’t understand.” Despite herself, Jill couldn’t help slipping back into her comfortable role as a reporter, digging for facts.

  Kenji gazed off into the middle distance for a moment as if he could see the words he was thinking, watch them ricochet around like billiard balls after a strong break. “I have worked for Takahiro Ohnishi almost my entire life. I owe him everything. He is my master and I am his slave. I have killed for him and I have raped little girls for him. In fact, I did both again tonight. There is nothing I would not do if he asked.

  “But there is something about me that he does not know, something that I myself didn’t acknowledge for many years.” He paused for a moment, then chuckled quietly. “Given his concept of honor, I actually believe he would understand my betrayal.

  “My parents met only twice in their lives. The first time was when my father raped my mother, when he was stationed in Korea during the Second World War. She was a comfort girl, an unwilling prostitute like so many other young women who had the misfortune of being poor and attractive during the Japanese occupation. Her own father had sold her into prostitution so the family could survive.

  “The second time my parents met was six years later, when my father returned to Korea to buy me from her. An injury during the war had left him impotent so I was to be his legacy, his only chance at immortality. Until his death, he worked for Ohnishi-San. I inherited his position.

  “For most of my life, I saw myself as pure Japanese. I hid my Korean side in shame. But something has happened in the last few months—something that has given me reason to feel proud of my Korean heritage. Surely you understand this. You are half Japanese and half Chinese.”

  “I am an American,” Jill stated firmly.

  Kenji turned to her, his face both handsome and cruel. “Let us hope that you can see beyond that, or our relationship and your life will end very quickly. Very soon it will become necessary for Ohnishi’s coup attempt to fail. Mayor Takamora is dead and soon Ohnishi will follow him. When this happens, we will need you to use your influence to calm the people and put an end to the violence.”

  “I’m a reporter. I report the news, I don’t make it.” Even as Jill spoke she remembered the words of her former colleague.

  Kenji said, “A journalist can sway more opinion and change more policies than every politician alive today. You have a power that most people don’t even recognize they have given to you. When the time comes, a few days from now, a week at most, you will divulge everything you know about Ohnishi and Takamora. Since they will be dead, whatever you say will not be refuted. I will provide you with many more details. People must be focused on the coup attempt; it must remain the top story for several weeks.” At Jill’s questioning look, Kenji shook his head. “The reasons for this do not concern you. Once this is done, I promise that you will never be bothered again, and your complicity never revealed.”

  “And if I refuse?” Jill asked with more bravery than she felt.

  “Refuse now and I will kill you immediately,” Kenji said matter of factly. “But I don’t need an answer yet. I want you to think abou
t it.”

  As he left, he added, “I chose you because I believe you will actually have a hard time making your decision. Do not disappoint me.”

  Arlington, Virginia

  Tiny’s Bar was, of course, named after its owner. On his first visit to the pub four blocks from his house, Mercer had expected to see a huge man behind the bar. Yet Tiny, Paul Gordon, was tiny, no more than four foot eight, about ninety pounds with his pockets full of bricks.

  The bar was small, only eight stools and six four-person booths. The linoleum floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in years. The walls were decorated with horse racing pictures and trophies from Saratoga, Belmont Park, and Yonkers Raceway, just a few of the tracks where Paul had raced as a professional jockey. He had never reached the status of Willy Shoemaker, but he was a consistent rider with proven ability. But he gambled, and went on a particularly long losing streak. To pay back the debt, his loan shark ordered him to throw a certain race.

  Explaining it once to Mercer, Tiny had said that the horse was too much of a true winner to allow any other to beat her. He didn’t have the heart to rein her back and come in second. That night he was treated to a sumptuous victory banquet by the horse’s owner. The next morning the loan shark’s enforcers broke both of Tiny’s kneecaps with a steel wrecking bar. During the following months of painful rehabilitation, Tiny cursed the stupid nag for being so swift. He finally forgave Dandy Maid only after he opened a bar in his native Washington.

  When Mercer entered the bar, Tiny waved one small arm and immediately poured a vodka gimlet, easy on the Rose’s lime.

  “Thanks, I need this.” Mercer took his drink to the red leatherette booth occupied by Tish and Harry White. Apart from two workers from the industrial laundry around the block, the bar was empty.

  “Sorry I had to take Tish out of your house, Mercer, but you ran out of Jack Daniel’s.”

  “I have a fresh bottle under the back bar.”

  “Had, Mercer. You had a fresh bottle under the back bar. Besides, who the hell would look for her in this hole in the wall?”

  “I agree, no harm done.” Mercer turned to Tish. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” She giggled, slightly drunk. “But I must say I’m not used to drinking in the afternoon.”

  “Stick with Harry and me, we’ll show you the ropes.” Mercer smiled warmly. Perhaps a little buzz would be good for her. Brace her for what he was going to ask her to do.

  “What did you find in your office?”

  “More clues, I think. There’s one more thing I want to check tonight and then I’ll turn us both over to the authorities.”

  “What do you mean ‘turn us over’?”

  “Tish, you were under the protection of the FBI when I nabbed you, and I’m sure they want you back. Also, I have to answer for the corpses I left in the gutters downtown.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Harry, I see two suits coming in,” Tiny said, peering out the filthy front window.

  Mercer turned to Harry, one eyebrow cocked in question.

  “Tish told me the story about yesterday, so I took the precaution of having Tiny keep an eye out.”

  “Good thinking.” Mercer held out his hand to Tish. “Come on.”

  He led her out of the barroom and into the small kitchen in the back. They paused in front of a pane of glass set into the tiled wall, and Tish realized that the mirror behind the bar was a two-way mirror. She looked over Tiny’s shoulder as two beefy men strode through the front door and flashed badges. FBI, not local cops, was Mercer’s guess.

  “Philip Mercer?” Tiny responded to their question. “Yeah, I know him. I haven’t seen him in a week or more. He travels a lot.” Tiny’s thin voice raised a notch. “If I had seen him, he wouldn’t owe me eighty bucks in old bar tabs.”

  Tiny thrust a wad of chits under one agent’s face. Mercer winced, hoping the agent didn’t look too closely. Those tabs all belonged to Harry.

  Harry stood up and staggered one step, steadying himself on the back of the booth. Mercer wondered if his friend was acting.

  “I seen Mercer,” Harry nearly shouted, spit spraying from his lips. Acting, for sure.

  “Where?” one of the agents asked eagerly.

  “It was 1943; he was a cook for my battalion. Couldn’t cook worth a damn; gave us all food poisoning on Tarawa, or maybe it was Iwo Jima.” Harry downed a heavy slug of bourbon. “If it was on Iwo, that must have been ’45. Poor Frank Merker bought it on Okinawa.”

  “No, it’s Philip Mercer we’re looking for.”

  “Don’t recall any Philbert Mercy,” Harry said slowly. His eyes glazed over and he slumped into his seat. “I once knew a stripper named Phyllis mmmm . . .” His head hit the table with the sound of a fallen coconut, snores following a moment later.

  The two agents left after warning Tiny to call if Philip Mercer showed up. Tiny and Harry played their roles for a few minutes more, until they were satisfied that the FBI men had moved on. As Mercer led Tish out of the kitchen, he noted that he had not let go of her hand during the whole episode. The simple touch was comforting.

  “Harry, you should get an Oscar for that.”

  Harry sat up and smiled brightly. “I did once know a stripper named Phyllis. Phyllis Withluv she called herself; hot little redhead I met in Baltimore.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Tish interrupted before Harry could begin some lurid story.

  “We can’t go back to my place, that’s for damned sure,” Mercer said, sipping a fresh gimlet.

  “If you need to, you can stay with me,” Harry volunteered.

  “No, I’m allergic to roaches. Seriously, I have other plans. We’re going to New York.”

  Tish looked at him sharply. “What?”

  “Tiny, call us a cab, have him meet us at the Safeway.” The giant grocery store was a couple of blocks away. “Harry, thanks for your acting job.” Mercer pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it on the bar. “This should clear your tabs.”

  He led Tish through the deserted kitchen and out the back door.

  “Why are we going to New York?” Tish asked as they walked up the street.

  “When we read those faxes, you must have seen that David Saulman suspects that Ocean Freight and Cargo may be a Soviet front. If that’s true—and I believe it is because you heard Russian—then checking out their offices is our next logical step.”

  “You mean we just waltz in there and make accusations?”

  “Not at all.” Mercer laughed. “We’re going to break in tonight.”

  Tish stopped to look at him; his gray eyes were hard as flint and just as sharp. “You’re serious?”

  His voice was soft when he responded, but his conviction stung the air. “Deadly.”

  “YOUSE guys sure youse want to do dis?” the Hat asked.

  “Yeah, Hat, we’re sure,” Mercer said evenly.

  They were sitting in a late-model Plymouth, on lower Fifth Avenue, about ten blocks from the brownstone that was the OF&C headquarters.

  “My scags could hit it in no time, lift any swag you want and be out before nobody knew nottin’. Youse don’t need ta go in a’tall.”

  “That’s the whole point, Hat. We do need to go in, and I want them to know that they were hit.”

  For the first time Mercer had a vent for the anger that had begun the moment Tish entered his life. Until now, he had been simply reacting to the actions of his unknown enemy. Now he was about to act, to take the fight to them, as he had promised.

  “Babes in da woods,” Hat said with a wave of his hand. The ember of his cigarette was like a comet in the dark car.

  Danny “The Hat” Spezhattori was a professional thief. His gang of burglars were responsible for making New York City’s wealthiest denizens several million dollars poorer over the years. The Hat’s fourteen-year-old son had once made the mistake of trying to pick Mercer’s pocket in front of the United Nations Building. Rather than t
urn the boy over to the police, Mercer had forced him to tell him who his father was. Mercer and the Hat met an hour later.

  In a world where more business is done through people owing each other favors, Mercer had decided that a favor owed to him by a man in the Hat’s position might someday be worthwhile. He was right. Tonight, that three-year-old debt would be paid off.

  “Hat, give us an hour to get in position and then send your boys in, all right?”

  “Mercer, once we hit da doors and d’alarms trip, dey will station a guard in da building.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  “Youse ain’t gonna murder no one, are you? Cause if ya do, I’ll have nottin’ ta do wit it.”

  “Hat, we had a deal.” Mercer’s voice was like ice. “No questions asked. Your boys do what they’re told and they will be in their pajamas in no time. No risk to any of them.”

  “I just gots ta say dis, Mercer. What kinda swag can be worth it, man? Youse got money; we bote knows it. It’s a fuckin’ shippin’ office; even their payroll will be shit.”

  “It’s none of your business, Hat. Just do your job and we’re square.” Adrenaline sang in Mercer’s veins like the heroin injection of a career junkie. “I know what I’m after.”

  Mercer looked at Tish in the backseat. Her face was very white, framed by shimmering black hair. Her blue eyes were wide but trusting. Mercer looked into them, searching for a sign of weakness, but saw none. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes were hard.

  They left the car. The dome light had been broken so there was only the soft click of the door latches to give away their exit. In seconds, they had both blended into the shadows of the steamy New York night.

  One hour later, a little before one in the morning, a Camaro, its body work covered with more Bondo than paint, streaked down Eleventh Street, just off Fifth Avenue. A dog barked at the noise of the racing engine on the quiet street.

  The driver was intent on the road. A slight drizzle had made it slick, but his passenger was enjoying and savoring the moment. The shotgun in his hand was cool and heavy. The wind blowing through the open window was hot and humid but fresh in his nostrils. The adrenaline in his body had heightened all of his senses.