“Our guy says he hasn’t slept in three nights.”
“Me neither.” Malcolm gave the Box another glance. “Who is he?”
“Roy Newcombe. Says he’s a flier with the 15th Bomber Group.”
“Are they a local outfit?”
“Baton Rouge,” Reid replied.
“He’s a long way from home. What’s his story?”
“Short version? He reckons he was on his way to New Orleans via the Shenandoah.”
“Now where have I heard that name?” Malcolm spoke more to herself than to her colleague.
“That was the airship the japs impounded on its way out of New York City. He says that Kennedy was on board.” Reid was smiling like the cat who caught the canary.
“Bingo.”
“It gets better. He says he was offered a pay-off to help fly Kennedy’s crew off the airship.” Reid raised a hand to ward off any interruption. “There were two other confed pilots on board. They flew them off on some supply planes that the Shenandoah had in her hangar. They split into three groups. He took two characters named Hardas and Morgan, but doesn’t remember the way the others paired off.”
“David Hardas and Darren Morgan,” Malcolm said softly. Morgan’s prints had been lifted from the gun in New York. He certainly got around. Could he have been the shooter? Let’s see now, the mild-mannered historian versus the soldier-king. She only clutched at the hope for a moment.
“There’s this dogfight just off New York City,” Reid continued, “japs and huns. The crew split up, and our guy makes for a German carrier group out in the Atlantic somewhere.”
“Now think carefully, Agent Reid: did he tell you all this before or after you gave him the bottle?”
“German 5th is operating somewhere off eastern coastal waters.” Reid shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he said. They spend two days with the group and then this guy—Hardas, right? He’s ex-navy—somehow he steals the captain’s gig off a carrier, for Christ’s sake, and they head south.”
Malcolm whistled through her teeth. “Did he have any of the cash on him?”
“He had nothing. Says he lost everything during the battle.”
“Ah, the battle.”
“They didn’t have enough fuel to get to Savannah so Hardas was all for stealing another boat.”
“And our guy?”
“Hell, our guy’s a regular hero. He tried to call it off. But...” Reid held his hands out, palms up. “There were two of them. What could he do?”
Malcolm nodded and sipped the coffee.
Reid continued, “Thing is, the boat they tried to take was armed.”
“They attacked a navy ship?”
“Uh-uh. Fishing boat. Newcombe reckons they might have been jap smugglers.”
Malcolm put down her cup. “Do we have any corroboration from the coastguard?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some guys checking it out.”
“Any other survivors? Any sign of Hardas or Morgan?”
“We’ve got five bodies in the morgue. Pretty badly burned. ME’s working on them.”
“What a terrible shame.” Malcolm pursed her lips. “The snaps I’ve seen of their boat show some fairly rudimentary changes to the superstructure, an effort to make her silhouette less recognisable. A one-man job, which supports Hardas’s presence on the vessel.”
Reid’s look was appreciative.
Malcolm turned back to peer through the two-way. Newcombe hadn’t moved. “We need a positive ID on this guy.”
“His file is being flashed up from Louisiana. It could arrive any time.”
“It’s good to know that at least one of us is having a productive day.”
Reid cracked his knuckles. “Hell, I’m just getting started.”
“Have you said anything to the director yet?” She made the question sound careless.
“You don’t call the director till you have everything, Agent Malcolm. Words to live by.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Agent Reid.” Malcolm’s brow creased momentarily before she continued. “Do you have any OPR up here, working the story?”
“National Security.” Reid gave her a look. “And you.”
“How does this sound? You said it was a Japanese fishing boat? The smugglers are Union boys, yakuza-linked, and moving weapons north out of Savannah. Hardas and Morgan, seeing the error of their ways, get wind of this somehow and with the help of a brave airman...”
“I like where this is going.”
“I like it better than the story your guy is spinning us.”
“It plays out. I’ll have someone get to work on it.”
“Let me know if you need a hand. I’m going to give it another couple of hours or so, but after that I’m moving on.”
Reid’s eyes flashed. “Got a lead?”
She wondered what to call the idea that was forming in her mind. She said, “I’ve got something.”
“Tell you what, you can join me in the Box while you wait.”
She gave him her smile and said, “Agent Reid, I don’t want to interfere.”
Reid smiled. “Truth of the matter is, I think the other agents might feel safer with you out of the office.”
She laughed, saying, “I do hate causing a fuss.”
“I’m starting to think that it’s one of the things you do best.”
She was thinking about Joseph, thinking about Arkansas. She let a slight blush rise to her cheeks and said, “Now who have you been talking to?”
He led her to the prisoner.
V
April 25, 2012
Nashville, Tennessee
There had been fires to the south of the city. The sun was a low, brown smear on the asphalt sky. Rain was predicted, but the heavens offered no intimation of the future. Ash danced slow in the still air and Kennedy kept walking.
He’d spent an hour in Watanabe’s room, taking advantage of the gangster’s absence to make a thorough inventory of its contents. He’d found a printout of available flights to Memphis on the bedside table by the phone. He’d found the shreds of a hotel stationery envelope on the bed and a loaded Shingen automatic, its safety off, tucked between the mattress and the wall. The creases in the flight list didn’t match the envelope.
Watanabe had said he’d be an hour or so, ninety minutes at the most. If he hadn’t been late at the border station, Kennedy might have let it go. If he hadn’t kept them waiting at the truck stop, Kennedy might not have been so curious about the missing letter. Watanabe had told them, “Wait till I get back,” but sitting there in that empty room, watching the empty minutes slip past, Kennedy’s wandering mind provided him with too many ways that things might have gone sour.
So he kept walking.
They were half a block behind him, the phone booth was just up ahead. They had to be Watanabe’s men. Yakuza. He’d spotted them across the street from the hotel as he was leaving, unable to make any of them for the driver who’d brought him across the border. They followed him with shuffling steps, colliding with each other as they walked, laughing.
They couldn’t touch him on the street. Not this far south. They stumbled to a halt as he pushed open the booth’s door. He threw them a glance. Their awkward poses suggested a moment’s uncertainty, then one of them drew a packet of cigarettes from his leather kimono and they all lit up, crowding around the thin licks of flame.
He picked up the phone and dialled Kobe’s New Jersey number. The call timed out. He slotted more coins and dialled Chicago. No answer.
He started walking back to the hotel. Watanabe had chosen a shabby district of town for their sanctuary. There was a bar across the road. A series of dilapidated shopfronts lined the narrow concourse. Notices in faded script advertised businesses long gone. Anything of any value had shifted uptown. Nashville had grown up and away from these worn streets.
Watanabe’s men were engaged in a heated discussion as he approached. Startled, they parted swiftly, each taking a sudden absorbed interest in a shop
’s display or the pattern of cracks in the sidewalk. He stopped and stood among them, letting their discomfort buoy his spirits. He followed the motion of their abruptly upturned faces and his eyes fell on Watanabe, standing before the hotel’s façade. His face was a glowering mask.
Kennedy approached him, keeping his pace to a saunter now, his hands in his pockets jangling the remainder of coins and stolen bullets.
“I’ve heard many things about you of late, boss,” Watanabe said, “but no one bothered to tell me that you’d become a fool.”
“I don’t need someone to tell me you’ve sold us out.”
Watanabe made a complicated gesture with one of his hands. Kennedy heard three guttural replies from behind, but did not turn around.
“Where’s the captain?” Watanabe asked.
“In his room, where I left him.”
“Good.” Watanabe scanned the street. “Shall we continue this inside, or do you want to stay out here in plain sight?”
Kennedy thought about Watanabe’s goons. At least Lightholler was upstairs. He said, “After you.”
They mounted the staircase in silence. Kennedy had made no attempt to disguise his search and Watanabe acknowledged the room’s rearrangement with a grunt. Kennedy leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed loosely under his jacket. He watched as Watanabe picked up a bottle of rice wine from the dressing table and poured the pale liquid into two glasses. He offered one in Kennedy’s direction.
“No, thanks.”
Watanabe replaced the glass on the dresser. He drank from his own, leaning against the opposite wall in casual mimicry of Kennedy. He said, “So.”
“So.”
“If you’re going to use that gun, you’d best do so now.”
Kennedy let the gun slip back into the holster and brought his hands out from under his jacket, palms open.
“What are you packing these days?” Watanabe asked lightly.
“A Mauser, if anything.”
Watanabe nodded towards Kennedy’s shoulder. “That’s no Mauser.”
Kennedy pulled out the pistol.
“Ah,” Watanabe said, smiling. “A Beretta.”
Kennedy nodded. He held the gun lightly now, his hand away from the grip.
“Never use one myself,” Watanabe said. “Only really good for close work. And even then...” His voice trailed off.
Kennedy placed the pistol on the window ledge.
“Apologies for my rudeness outside,” Watanabe continued, “but that dye job and beard would fool only the most uninterested of observers.”
Kennedy stroked the stubble at his chin. “I’m making the best of a bad situation.”
“By walking down Main Street? I told you to stay here.”
“Where the hell were you?”
There was a brief silence, breached only by Watanabe’s delicate sips of wine. The sips became mouthfuls. He topped up his glass and said, “I wonder where I should start.”
“Your driver,” Kennedy said. “Why did you get rid of him?”
“For your protection. Too late, sadly, to be of any benefit.”
They were talking quietly. It was unlikely that Lightholler heard anything unless he was pressed up against the door.
“I saw the flight list and the envelope,” Kennedy said. “I couldn’t find the letter. I’ve been wondering what changed between Pleasant Valley and here. I’m wondering if you even tried to arrange our flight.”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Watanabe said softly.
“I’d like to hear your reasons. But for the sake of everything we’ve been through, tell me, is this something you’re going to handle yourself, or are you just keeping me busy till the rest of your boys arrive?”
The Beretta lay on the window’s ledge beside him. Good for close work, but even then...
“This is my responsibility and it’s a simple matter,” Watanabe said. “But not as simple as you might have supposed. Only one of us is going to leave this room alive.”
It was hard to believe that this was where it ended. Kennedy recalled the fear he’d experienced at the border crossing, sealed in the Cadillac’s cargo hold. Where was that feeling now?
He said, “I’ll have some of that wine now.”
“My driver had hidden affiliations with Shimamura.”
“Shimamura works the southeast coast. I’ve dealt with his people before.”
“He is now aware that I—that Kobe’s Family—had you under protection. My driver made the call while we were changing cars.” Watanabe took another mouthful of wine and licked his lips. “He told me that before I killed him.”
“Cold comfort.”
“Shimamura knows that we arranged to get you across the border. As a result of your little adventure just now, he probably knows you’re in Nashville.”
Kennedy shrugged. “Does that matter now?”
The Beretta might not stop Watanabe, but it could slow him down. How long would it take Lightholler to get into the room? Were Watanabe’s men just outside the door?
“Not all the Families are as open-minded as ours about your dealings with the Shogun.”
“What dealings?”
“Please,” Watanabe said, “the least you can do is speak plainly with me. Not everything went up in flames when the Germans took New York.”
Kennedy brought the wine to his lips. He nodded, urging Watanabe on.
“You struck a deal with the Shogun, that much is certain.” Watanabe shook his head. “The fact that Hideyoshi entertained Imperial aspirations, that he desired the Chrysanthemum Throne, was one of the worst-kept secrets in the Shogunate, but it was a secret. Do you understand this?” Watanabe was keeping his hands visible and low. He’d made no move for the Shingen. “We have suspected your involvement for some time now.”
The Shogun’s representative had intimated as much at their last meeting: that certain yakuza Families would move with them when Hideyoshi challenged the Emperor. But if Kobe had been involved, why was this such an issue now?
“Has Kobe been called before the Imperial court?” Kennedy asked.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Watanabe replied. “Hideyoshi’s honourable death by seppuku...” He gave Kennedy a curious look. “Ah, you didn’t know that. His death and this war change everything. I expected you to have a better understanding of the people you’d been dealing with.” His voice held a measure of disgust. It was the trace of pity in his demeanour that Kennedy couldn’t place. “Let me just say this. Whatever role you played on the Shogun’s behalf will enter the realm of mythology.”
“Mythology?”
“Hideyoshi and Ryuichi trace their lineage to the first Mikado, to the birth of history ... the Gods themselves.” Watanabe poured himself another glass of wine. He swayed slightly before the dressing table. “The Gods themselves. You, me, Kobe—we’re mortal. They dice with us, use us as they will. It’s always been that way.” He waved his hand dismissively and continued. “But a God has fallen. Hideyoshi is dead by his own hand. This means that he now sits by the throne of Jimmu in the Heavens.
“And you? You’re in the shit. You’ve lost your benefactor. You’ve lost your friends. A single moment has reduced you from Deity’s agent to traitor, and how many men have died for the whim of a god?” Watanabe drained the glass with a single, swift toss. “You’re in the shit, and I ...” He slammed the glass onto the table. “I have come to my decision.”
Watanabe was only a few feet away now. He peered at his own reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. He brought a hand up to his face, touching the skin around his eyes. He broke into a dazzling golden smile.
Kennedy inched towards the window, saying, “You believe all this?”
“I do and I don’t. It doesn’t matter what I believe, so long as I have belief.” Watanabe’s chuckle issued from the edge of madness. “It’s your lack of faith that led you to this place. But here’s where we stand. That letter was from Kobe, of course.” Watanabe turne
d to face him. “The money you gave me will be returned to your estate after the other Families have received their cut. I’m to deliver your head to Shimamura by morning.”
“What about Lightholler?”
“Nothing was said.”
Kennedy had the Beretta angled at the floor between Watanabe’s feet.
Watanabe laughed out loud. He raised a hand, gesturing for Kennedy to stop, to wait a moment. With his other hand he held his chest as the laughter faded away.
“You understand,” Watanabe said. “Even if you were my brother...”
A sudden deft movement and his left hand snapped back and forth. If it wasn’t for the silver blade in his grasp, he might not have appeared to have moved at all.
Kennedy raised the Beretta in a swift arc even as Watanabe dropped to his knees. He’d reversed the blade. Its tip was now pressed between the folds of his kimono.
Kennedy stepped forwards, bringing the gun’s barrel to his temple.
“Please,” Watanabe said through gritted teeth, “you’ll ruin my concentration.”
“Put the blade down.”
“Is there no end to your ignorance?”
“Put the blade down.”
“Your neck or my intestines,” Watanabe said. He inched the blade deeper to expose the flat board of his abdomen.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Lightholler stood in the open doorway, blinking.
“There’s a gun in my bag,” Kennedy said, without looking back. “Bring it.”
His entire world was at the end of his Beretta. Each fine strand of Watanabe’s hair, each individual pore. An artery pulsed its tortuous course under pale golden skin.
“You’re not going to make him—”
“Get the fucking gun.”
They sat cross-legged in the centre of the room; Watanabe’s blade lay on the carpet between them. Kennedy had the Mauser by his side while Lightholler balanced the Beretta in his hand. He gazed at Kennedy’s gun with a look of deliberation before placing his own on the ground.
“It is a peculiar irony when an enemy offers the opportunity for honour.” Watanabe’s voice was thick, the words came slowly. As if he’d already crossed some threshold.
The Company of the Dead Page 33
