The Yakuza Gambit

by David DeLee

  Kwon rejoined Bannon, McMurphy, and Tara. “Will you be attempting your luck with us tonight, Ms. Sardana?”

  “No,” she said with an enduring smile. “I’m only interested in sure things.”

  “A can’t lose strategy,” he said. To Bannon and McMurphy, he said, “Good luck, Mr. Bannon. John, give my regards to your father when you see him, would you?”

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  “Then if you will excuse me,” Kwon said. “My presence is needed on the bridge. I will see you all later in the evening.” His gaze lingered on Tara. He bowed, adding, “Ms. Sardana.”

  Once Kwon and his underlings had disappeared through the doorway at the top of the stairs, Tara looked at McMurphy. “Who’s your father?” Her voice a whisper. “Spill.”

  To Tara, Bannon said, “You have what you need?”

  “Yes.” She narrowed her gaze at McMurphy. “What are you two not telling me?”

  She knew nothing of McMurphy’s family. He didn’t talk about them and only Bannon knew why. The big Irishman had his reasons for keeping his family private. They were valid reasons, and Bannon respected his right to do so. He’d vowed to keep them, the same as he’d do for Tara and Kayla, or any member of his team.

  “It’s time for me to hit the head,” Bannon announced.

  “There’s one this way.” McMurphy led him to a washroom in a foyer at the far end of the lounge. They went past the winding set of stairs that led up to the sun and bridge decks and curved downward to the main deck below.

  Inside the bathroom, Bannon locked the door. At the sink, he carefully broke the seal around his wrist where a thin layer of second skin made of polymer clay covered his right hand. Using Hollywood-quality makeup, Tara had colored the malleable, flesh-toned ‘glove’ to perfectly blend undetectably with Bannon’s skin.

  Now, with extreme care, he tugged at each finger of the ‘glove,’ carefully removing it without distorting the thumbprint Kwon had unknowingly imprinted into the thin layer of clay when they shook hands.

  Bannon couldn’t have been more pleased when Kwon squeezed his hand tightly in a childish attempt to impress Bannon with his firm grip, further ensuring the print impression captured was a good one. Bannon laid the ‘glove’ in the wastepaper basket. He covered it with paper towels, concealing it from discovery until McMurphy could retrieval it later.

  Next, Bannon removed a small plastic contact lens case from his jacket pocket. He quickly removed a pair of clear lens from the case and placed one in each eye. Not used to wearing contacts he blinked them into place. His eyes watered but soon his vision returned to normal. He threw the case away and washed his hands.

  When he came out of the washroom, McMurphy asked, “All set?”

  Bannon said, “Right as rain.”

  They proceeded toward the forward stateroom and the Oicho-kabu tables.

  “How are they?” McMurphy asked.

  “Irritating.”

  McMurphy lowered his voice. “But do they work?”

  Bannon blinked and looked around, then looked McMurphy up and down. “Blue anchored boxers, Skyjack? Really.”

  McMurphy blushed. “Hey!”

  They reached the forward stateroom.

  As McMurphy had described it, the room stretched across the full width of the yacht and had a panoramic view of the Bakuto’s forward bow deck. Soft under the stairs lighting illuminated a step-up onto the raised teak platform. Spotlights encircled the chaise lounges set out on the outside deck, though it was too chilly for anyone to be out using them. Away from the ever-present glow of light from the city Boston, out over the water, the night sky was clear and vibrate. A black velvet canvas with a brilliant sprinkle of twinkling stars

  Inside, a single chandelier hung from the ceiling over two Oicho-Kabu tables. Like a blackjack table they were semi-circled, curved on the player’s side, straight across on the dealer’s side. The dealers stood back to back facing their respective table where there were four chairs. The lighting was soft, bathing the room in an amber glow. Absent was the garish pings and bells of the pachinko machines. Instead, classical music was piped in through unseen speakers. Two young Japanese women stood off to one side dressed in black slacks and vests and white blouses. They held round trays in front of them like shields, waiting stoically for the players to enter and place their inevitable drink orders.

  As McMurphy and Bannon walked into the room, several others came in behind them. All of them men. They moved to the left and right, making a direct run for the tables.

  “Anxious to give away their money,” Bannon observed.

  “The promise of winning is a strong one,” McMurphy said. “You better claim your spot. There’s only four to a table.”

  Bannon had hoped to meander around a little, watch a few hands to get the feel of how the games were played before plunging in, but McMurphy dissuaded him of that plan.

  “Kwon will see weakness in your hesitation. If he goes there, he’ll never buy your winning streak.” McMurphy pounded him on the back. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  “Where are you going?” Bannon asked.

  “Where else? The bar.”

  Bannon circled around the tables and sat at the one that gave him the best view of the entrances to the room, including the doorway he and McMurphy had come through and the carpeted stairwell leading to the upper decks and down to the lower decks and cabins, including the vault room.

  As McMurphy predicted, the tables quickly filled up and the evening began.

  McMurphy crossed the room and struck up a conversation with the two young waitresses. As he charmed them, they giggled like schoolgirls, covering their mouths with their hands, their dark eyes sparkling.

  You dog, Bannon thought settling into his spot at the gaming table.

  McMurphy pointed at Bannon. The girls nodded and smiled.

  The dealers opened the games, dealing cards.

  Played with a deck of forty kabufuda cards, they are smaller and stiffer than western playing cards. The deck contains only four sets of the number one through ten cards, no face cards. The object of Oicho-kabu is to get cards to add up to a number whose last digit is nine, like twenty-one in blackjack. The dealer deals to each of the players and then himself, face up. Wagers are made. A second card is dealt to each player, face down. The player decides to hold or hit for one more face down card. Playing against the dealer, the closest to a value of nine—kabu—wins.

  Once the games began, McMurphy got a beer from the bar and took up a position a discrete distance away and watched Bannon play. Bannon won his first two hands and lost his third. After a few more hands, McMurphy came up behind him between deals.

  “You seemed to be in good shape here.”

  “So far so good,” Bannon agreed.

  “The ladies will get you anything you need, food or drink wise.” He waved at the waitresses who were now going back and forth from the bar delivering drinks. McMurphy caught the attention of one of them and pointed at Bannon, indicating he was ready for a drink.

  “I’m going back to the lounge and try my hand at some blackjack,” he said. “Maybe do better than the last time I was on this tub.”

  “Break a leg,” Bannon said.

  “I think that’s what you say to stage performers.”

  Bannon gave him a look. Isn’t that what we’re doing?

  McMurphy headed for the door, taking him back to the lounge where the most distasteful part of their plan was about to unfold.

  They’d agreed McMurphy would keep an eye on Tara to ensure things didn’t go badly for her.

  The two of them thought of the beautiful Egyptian woman as family. More so than if she were their own flesh and blood.

  Bannon worried, though he had every confidence in her, insisting McMurphy watch over her. Not that he had to. McMurphy would move heaven and Earth to keep her safe. They both would.

  With McMurphy gone, Bannon returned his attention to the game.

  He watched the deale
r deal. A young Asian man. The cards slid across the green felt, face up. Bannon drew a seven. The dealer a two. Not concerned with the other three hands of the players around him, he waited for the face down cards to be dealt.

  Without turning his card over he saw he drew a two. The dealer’s face down card was a five.

  Bannon smiled. The contact lenses were working perfectly.

  They were a special experimental prototype developed by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or as McMurphy referred to them, DoD’s answer to James Bond’s Q. They were in beta test for military applications, giving Kayla an opportunity to request a pair to test. The lens operated on the terahertz radiation spectrum. Called t-rays or submillimeter band something or other. They gave him the ability to see on a range between infrared and microwave, the terahertz gap. In practical terms, what they did was allow the wearer to see through thin layers of material similarly to the way x-ray machine worked.

  The technology itself wasn’t new, but earlier devices had a few major drawbacks. First, they were large, google-size large, and secondly, to operate properly, the first T-ray detectors developed needed temperatures to be cold: minus 452 degrees cold. Since then, graphene, an atom-thick sheet of carbon, had been created and now the lens were thinner than paper and could be used at room temperature.

  With them, Bannon had an undetectable ability to read through the cards as they were dealt.

  He could easily win every hand if he so chose, but that wouldn’t have been smart, nor was it the point. Instead, over the next two hours he averaged out his win-loss record to something closer to three out of five hands, or better.

  Not enough to justify calling him out as a cheater, but more than enough to get Kwon’s attention.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tara remained at the bar on the upper level, drinking, while the boys played card. It was up to her to initiate the next stage of their plan, but she couldn’t get started until Kwon returned to the lounge. He left his guests waiting a long time. Luckily, like Bannon and McMurphy, she had a high alcohol tolerance.

  She’d need it.

  Not only as a woman alone at the bar, fending off all manner of eye-rolling propositions from every Tom, Dick, and Harriet on the yacht, but because of the constant pings, beeps, and flashing blinking lights from the nearby pachinko games. They were giving her a headache.

  She’d need to be three sheets to the wind for what came.

  She threw back the last of her drink and ordered another.

  An hour earlier, McMurphy return from the forward stateroom.

  He’d have Bannon’s polymer clay ‘glove’ safely stashed in his jacket pocket by now. She watched as he settled in at a blackjack table. There was something going on with him and Tara was dying to know what it was. Ever since they’d helped Dominick Bonucci rip off the check cashing store in Southie his phone had been blowing up with calls and texts, all of which he promptly ignored.

  Unusual enough for him, but his mood was different, too. He’d been quiet and reserved, not his usual wise-cracking, grandiose McMurphy. That told her something was wrong.

  Not only was her curiosity killing her, but more importantly, she was worried about her friend.

  He gave her the barest of nods as he’d passed the bar on his way to the blackjack tables. Everything was ready for the plan to proceed.

  It was her turn. She was up.

  Kwon and his two lap dogs, Kin and Kyo, finally returned to the lounge, coming down the wide, carpeted stairs once more. She watched them in the mirror behind the bar. In the smoked glass, she saw Kwon speak to a few people, exchanging quick, quiet pleasantries, but for most of his guests even Kwon took second place to the gaming tables.

  He spotted her at the bar, drinking, alone.

  On his way to the bar, Kwon was cornered by a well-known actor, known to be in Boston filming a television series. They chatted while Kwon kept an eye on her. He gave the actor a final handshake, bowed, and stepped away, making his way toward Tara.

  She pretended not to notice.

  He came up beside her. “What a crime to find such a beautiful woman left behind at the bar. All alone. Do Mr. Bannon and Mr. McMurphy have no shame?”

  Tara turned casually. With drink in hand, she said, “They came to play games. Who am I to spoil their fun?”

  “That’s a very understanding attitude,” Kwon said. Most women—”

  “Are insecure and need a man’s attention to define them?” Tara asked, interrupting him. “You’ll find I am not like most women, Mr. Kwon. If you get to know me.”

  “A prospect I look forward to. Please, call me Toi.” He snapped his fingers at the bartender.

  Kwon ordered an awamori over ice, a Japanese drink made from long grain rice called Indica and black Koji mold from Okinawa. As a mixologist, Tara knew the drink was aged for up to twenty-five years. Its alcohol content could be as high a forty-five percent.

  “May I buy you another drink?” he asked.

  Tara raised her glass and smiled encouragingly. “Once I finish this one.”

  “Then in the meantime, perhaps a stroll? It would be my pleasure to give you a full tour of the Bakuto.”

  “I’d like that.” Tara pushed herself from the bar, swaying enough that Kwon reached out a hand and clasped her elbow. She smiled at him.

  They strolled toward the boat’s stern. “Will it be too cold for you outside on the beach deck?”

  “No,” Tara said. “The fresh air might do me good.”

  “We’ll stay out only as long as you say.”

  Kwon pushed through the glass door and held it open for Tara to walk past. Reflected in the glass, she saw McMurphy watching from the blackjack table, keeping an eye on her. His concern for her filled her with a warmth even the bracing outside wind couldn’t sweep away.

  Tara’s life was full of regret. Few things had worked out well for her. But that fateful day in Nawur, Ghazni, Afghanistan, when she met Bannon and McMurphy, and accepted their offer to work with them and their DOG team, that had been the best thing that ever happened to her.

  All these years later, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for them. And them for her.

  She noticed the Sanu twins following her and Kwon outside. “Please tell me they don’t have to come out with us, too.”

  Kwon hesitated. He looked back at the twins.

  “They make me uncomfortable,” Tara said, trying to encourage his decision.

  Kwon shook his head at his bodyguards, stopping them in their tracks. In unison, they frowned. Their displeasure clear in their dark eyes. Kwon swung the door shut, leaving them on the other side of the glass, looking like forlorn puppies abandoned at an animal shelter.

  Tara crossed the deck to the railing. Her hair whipped across her face. A large full moon hung big and bright in the clear night sky.

  When he stepped up beside her, she said, “What is it you do, Toi, that requires not one but two bodyguards?”

  Kwon glanced back at his men. “It’s not that I need them both, but they’re a package deal.”

  “Are you a man in danger, Toi Kwon, or a dangerous man?”

  “You first. What specifically does Mr. Bannon do for John McMurphy’s father?”

  Tara froze inside. She had no idea. She knew nothing about McMurphy’s father. He’d never mentioned him, not once in all the time she’d known him. In hindsight, they should’ve spent more time on cover stories, she thought now. But time had been short, and who’d have guessed they’d need more than being McMurphy’s guests?

  “I’m not interested in his business,” she said finally. “Only his money.”

  Kwon smiled, clearly put off guard by her response. “But surely you are curious.”

  “Toi, please.” She put a hand on his chest. “I refuse to waste time speaking about a man who would rather play cards than be with me.”

  “Yes,” Kwon said. “A foolish choice if I may be so bold.”

  She turned away from him, l
ooked out over the dark sea. The moonlight sparkled brightly off the surface. She heard the splash of a leaping fish off in the distance. “Tell me about yourself, Toi.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “Who are you? Where are you from?”

  “I was born here in the United States, in Boston. My father immigrated from Korea to the area when he was just a boy. A stowaway on a ship. Came ashore penniless. But that did not deter him. He worked hard and became a very successful businessman. My mother, she is Japanese. From Kyoto. They met when she came to university to study.”

  “An exchange student?”

  “Yes. She stayed.”

  “Sound like a Hollywood love story.”

  “Perhaps.” Kwon stared out to sea. “I believe they were very happy for a time. But when I was born, my father made my mother return to Japan. Taking me with her.”

  “Without your father? Why?”

  “My father’s business, here in America, but it was a dangerous one. He made many powerful enemies. It was his belief that my mother and I would be in danger if we stayed. To protect us, he sent us away.”

  “That’s awful.” Tara struggled to conjure up any sympathy for the murdering oyabun. She could not. His deeds as the leader of the Yakuza were too well documented. He was a vicious, brutal man, with no regard for human life at all.

  “We were a liability to him,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “He feared his enemies would use us against him. It is something I understand now. But not then.”

  “Your parents, are they still alive?”

  “No. Cancer took my mother’s life. My father’s death was…even more violent.”

  “Wow.” Tara said, feigning empathy. After a moment, she said, “Growing up in Japan. That must have been exciting.”

  “If one is excited by being exiled.”

  “I understand. A gilded cage is still a prison.”

  Kwon glanced at her. “Yes.”