“I’m sorry, Emily. I don’t know. You need to be extra cautious now. If the Koreans are involved, they may already be there.”
“Well, they shouldn’t be hard to spot out here,” she said darkly, knowing they’d stick out as much as she did herself.
“We’re almost out of time. Events are moving faster than either of us expected. That means we’ll have to move our timetable up as well.”
After the call, Michael would remove the phone’s sim card and smash it into little pieces. On her end, Emily waited for the software on her thumbdrive to cycle through its closing routine, erasing the digital records of the call from the terminal, the server and the local network. She looked at the photo of Tang Li Li. If there was any truth in Jiang’s story she must be pretty miserable, alone and disoriented, surrounded by people who didn’t care about her. But was there any truth in that story?
Two thoughts kept recurring in her mind. First, she would have to talk to Jiang again before this was over. She took out the card he had given her and looked up the business name on it, Shanghai Treasures on North Henry Street. It would be about a four hour drive if she decided to pay them a visit.
The second thought: Michael told her the family would be returning the following week, which meant there was an even more pressing errand. She would have to retrieve her father before Yuki got back.
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Chapter 7
A Meeting at the Academy
Lieutenant Commander Richard Carver was running a little behind schedule. He was hurrying to a meeting of the Deputy Commandant’s staff to work out some details of the next Plebe class. Although the regulations concerning nominations were set by an act of Congress, there were always complications to be ironed out every spring. The admissions staff liked to think of each new class as a project rather than a random sampling. The main admissions decisions had already been made. Now it was just a matter of filling the last few discretionary spots.
Carver took this position at the Academy a couple of years ago, to the surprise of those who thought they knew him. It seemed like a sideways move for an otherwise ambitious officer. He peeked his head around the door to see if the meeting had already started. It had.
“Have you had a chance to talk this one over with the coach of the Karate Club? Parker, is it?” asked Captain Raymond Jefferies, the Deputy Commandant.
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Scott Scheffler, one of several junior officers around the table. “He says she’s absolutely for real. I gather she completely dominated Durant at Norfolk.”
“Durant? You mean that guy we bounced outta here a couple of years back for harassment?”
“He’s been doing hand-to-hand instruction at Quantico ever since,” replied Scheffler. “But he was at Norfolk, apparently with quite a chip on his shoulder.”
“She really dominated him? I wish I’d seen that.”
“You probably can see it, sir. Parker says there are some videos of the tournament circulating on the web. Though he says he doesn’t come off so well in them either.”
Scattered laughter bounced around the room.
“Do we know where she trained?” asked Jefferies.
“Parker thinks there’s only one dojo near Warm Springs. It’s run by someone named… Seiji Oda. Parker says he’s never heard of him before.”
Carver perked up at the mention of that name. He couldn’t keep from fidgeting with his papers, and unwittingly caught the Deputy Commandant’s attention.
“Carver, how would this one fit with the regs,” Jefferies asked.
“It fits within the letter, more or less, sir. We’re skirting the deadline, but Harmon is under his limit. It’s a little odd that she’s not from his state. The act doesn’t prohibit an out of state nomination, but it’s certainly unusual.”
“Do we know what Harmon’s interest in this one is?” asked Captain James Creighton, the Director of Admissions.
“She looks pretty good on paper, sir, straight A’s, letters and scores,” Carver offered.
“I’ll say she does,” said Creighton. “She’s got the whole package even without Parker’s testimonial. But that doesn’t explain why Harmon’s nominating her”
“If I may, sir,” said Scheffler. “I spoke to his staffer, Harrington, this morning. He says it’s about a connection to her father.”
“Who’s her father?”
“A marine named George Kane.”
“You’re kidding. I thought her name’s Tenno. But she’s really Kane’s daughter?” Creighton asked.
“That’s our information, sir. Do you know him?”
“I served with Kane at Subic Bay years ago. He bounced around awhile until he was assigned to the embassy in Manila. I lost track of him after that. But Harmon never served, so I can’t figure how he’d know him.”
After the meeting, Carver rushed out of the room, looking agitated. He hurried down the corridors about as fast as one can with a slight limp and not wanting to draw attention to oneself. He dialed the phone as soon as he sat down at his desk.
“It popped up out of the blue this morning, a blip on Kane,” he said with some agitation.
“You found him?”
“No, his daughter.”
“We already knew about her. That’s not news,” the voice on the other end said dismissively.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. It’s not just her. Apparently she’s been training with Seiji Oda. Could Meacham be putting the Manila cell back together?”
“I don’t think that can be right. Kane was Cardano’s man, not Meacham’s, and they had a falling out a few months back. Still, I haven’t heard Oda’s name since those days. I wonder… but if Cardano’s already dead….”
“Harmon’s pushing her nomination for the fall, even though she’s not a constituent.”
“He’s no friend of Meacham’s. That points to Cardano being alive.”
There was clearly much to think through in this development. That afternoon Carver had his assistant bring in a stack of admissions files. They were all the candidates Harmon had nominated over the last fifteen years. He pored over them and started taking notes.
~~~~~~~
Captain Creighton stayed behind after everyone else left the meeting in Jefferies’ office. The Deputy Commandant was fiddling with the computer on his desk.
“I hate these things. How do I find these videos? Under her name?”
“Unless she uploaded them, that probably won’t work. Why don’t you try Norfolk Karate Tournament.” Clicking of keys and angry grunting ensued.
“Ah. Here we go. Here’s a whole bunch. Let’s try this one marked Finals.”
The Deputy Commandant’s computer was set up to project a large image on the wall. A highlights video unfolded over the next few minutes. It mainly featured Emily’s matches.
“Holy crap,” Creighton blurted out. “That’s her? No wonder Parker wants her here.”
“She didn’t get that good over night. She must have spent years in training.”
“Ray, I know where you’re going with this. That kind of solitary training doesn’t make someone officer material.”
“Yup.”
“But you gotta admit, she knows what it is to excel at something. And the part where she crouches next to Durant, what do you think she said to him?”
“I don’t know, but he bowed to her afterwards. I suppose that suggests some sort of leadership quality,” conceded Jefferies.
He was scrolling down the page of links and noticed a different sort of video toward the bottom. It had the title “Ass Kicking at a Gas Station.” As the video unfolded on the wall, both men sat staring with mouths agape.
“Is that her, too?”
“It’s hard to tell, the image is so grainy. But that guy definitely had a knife, and the girl looked like she tried to point a gun at her.”
“If that was her,” Creighton mused, “then she knows how to keep her cool under fire.”
“Fair enough.
If that’s her, then she’s got some metal in her.”
“And then some. But that’s what I’d expect from George Kane’s daughter.”
“Were you in combat with him?” Jefferies asked.
“No. It was just base readiness. But there were some casual scrapes, the usual stuff, you know. But George pulled me out of one particularly nasty scene in a bar in Manila.”
“So he was good in hand to hand?”
“That’s putting it mildly. He’s this little guy, five nine at the most and not even a hundred seventy pounds. And we stumble into a ruckus with some local toughs. We’re outnumbered at least three to one, and these are some pretty big guys. I thought we were in for a helluva beating. But George takes the lead, out in front, keeping me behind him, and faces them down. When it’s all over, George and I are the only ones left standing.”
“Sounds like a fighter.”
“Absolutely. But it’s more than that. He never lost his cool. And his eyes were always so blank. It was impossible to read him. There’s something really… I don’t know… spiritual about him. If this is his daughter, that’s the thing I’d expect to see in her, you know, those blank, unnerving, spiritual eyes.”
“Well, after that account I’m half inclined to make room for her just to meet her.”
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Chapter 8
The Road to Kane
George Kane succumbed to his wounds the previous fall in a small town in Western Pennsylvania coincidentally named Kane. Emily had left him with the local funeral home to be cremated. It was time to bring him home.
Her plan was to drive up north on Saturday. At eight hours of solid driving each way, she wouldn’t be back until Sunday afternoon at the earliest. Company would be welcome. But could she risk it? She was under the impression her father’s death was still more or less secret. At least, no one in the intelligence community seemed to know. Burzyinski was clearly unaware of it last winter. If anyone had gotten wind of it since then, it would be an obvious place to try to mark her. Could she fight her way out of a tough situation with friends in tow?
In the end, she decided to ask Wendy to come along. At least she wouldn’t try to protect her in some boyish fantasy of chivalry. She could trust Wendy to lay low and let her handle any ugly scenes that might emerge. Obviously they would have to talk over the dangers beforehand.
“Of course I want to come. Are you kidding?”
“Even if things might get ugly? You know, like in Covington that time.”
“Why would things get ugly? I thought you put all that stuff behind you?”
“I thought so, too. But I’m still nervous.”
“C’mon Em, let’s just go get your dad. Should we bring Billy or Danny?”
“There’s no room in my truck,” she said with relief, glad to have an excuse to offer other than the one that was really on her mind. One friend she thought she could protect in a pinch. But three, or four? No way.
On Friday, after school, she checked her email. A note from the funeral home confirmed that her father’s ashes would be ready the next day. An email from Dr. Tarleton asked her to stop by Monday afternoon to discuss her tests. How odd that she didn’t just give her the results in the message. Maybe that’s how doctors are, always trying to keep stuff confidential. Or perhaps something really was wrong and she didn’t want to alarm her without being able to offer some sort of counsel. Unsettling as the message was, it would just have to wait.
After dinner, Emily stuffed a few things in a pack. The handle of her father’s katana peeked out from the back of the closet. The blade gleamed as she slipped it out of the scabbard. A careful examination along the edge of the blade, she still hadn’t gotten around to sharpening it. But it wasn’t so dull that it couldn’t do some damage. It was, after all, a heavy steel blade almost a yard long. It weighed as much as a baseball bat. You would need strong hands to wield it.
A familiar, wavy shadow in the blade caught her eye. It looked like a surface pattern, rough and smooth. But when she ran her fingers along the side, it felt only smooth. The wave ran deep in the metal. There was something mesmerizing about it. The ancient samurai thought their swords were sacred. They held the spirit of the warrior deep inside, the soul of the blade. She didn’t think her father’s spirit was in the blade. It was just a way of remembering him. Rough and smooth, inscrutable.
She swung the sword around her body: down stroke, withdraw, upward thrust, pivot and diagonal stroke, withdraw, back thrust, spin and slash. The footwork was as important as the arm movements. Some care was needed not to destroy the furniture. She knew a few sword katas, and worked through them one after another. Each one imagined a scene of attack and defense against multiple opponents. With each movement of the blade she saw the opponent in front and felt the ones behind her. Her hands moved from one position to the next, locking her body firmly into each stance as she readied herself for the next move. It was crisp and sharp.
And yet it felt wrong. The blade stopped at each position, and then had to be restarted. A kata isn’t really about the opponents. Only the movement of the blade matters. Keep it moving, no stops. The katas are a way to release the energy of the blade, to be true to the spirit within, without losing control. She always knew where the edge would end up. But she couldn’t keep from stopping it. Swinging a sword is heavy work, and she was beginning to perspire.
She ran through the katas again, this time with her eyes closed. Maybe that would help her focus on the blade. She knew where the furniture was. She felt the room as a pattern in space. The sword moved around her in its fixed path. Better, but still not quite right. From the window by the door it looked like an arabesque: pivot, thrust, spin, strike. She moved slowly, then quickly, up, down and around. It looked exotic, graceful and strong.
As she moved through her last kata, tears ran down her face. She wept quietly without knowing why. Looking at the sword afterwards, she couldn’t help wondering exactly whose spirit resided in her blade. What a strange question. She held it horizontally in front of her, knelt down and placed her forehead on the floor. A tap at the door brought her out of a reverie. It was Danny.
She straightened up and looked once again at the blade before putting it away. Her father received it as a gift from her mother. It had been handed down in her family for generations. Emily didn’t know its history. Her mother could tell her about it when she got home.
“Are you still going tomorrow?”
“Yeah. We’ll be leaving early, around six,” she said, hoping the time would discourage what she knew was coming.
“I could help with the driving,” he said, his eyes full of meaning.
“There isn’t room for three in the truck.”
“I bet Wendy wouldn’t mind riding in the bed,” he said with a laugh. She snorted. “Or I could just take her place,” he added after a moment, looking like a wounded puppy as he said it.
“Danny, can we do this another time?”
“It’s just that we hardly have any time together, Em, and there’s stuff I wanna tell you.”
“Wendy and I could use some time, too, you know.” That wasn’t the right tone for the expression on his face. “Do you want to talk now,” she offered.
He looked at the tears still drying on her face and shook his head.
“That’s okay. It can wait, I suppose.”
He stumbled back down the stairs, disappointed.
Emily went back to her packing. Once everything was arranged by the door, she sat down to read before turning in. There was homework to do and some plans to make in anticipation of her mother’s arrival. The sword in her closet occupied her thoughts, as well as the strange tears swinging it had elicited from her. She was tempted to get it out and examine it one more time. But it was late, and she was tired. Her arms and legs felt creaky. She breathed in and out. It seemed to take more effort than usual. Her breath didn’t feel the same. It was wheezy. Maybe she was coming down with something.
The r
oom grew dark. All the lights were out in her apartment. She heard a rustle in the corner. A mouse? No, it was too big. Birds called to each other in the night. Her breathing began to feel labored. Her saliva tasted odd, almost metallic. It occurred to her how precarious her living arrangements really were. A simple cold would make her life infinitely more difficult than it already was. What would she do if she got really sick? Would Danny’s mom take care of her?
The rustling grew louder, and it wasn’t just in the corner. It was all around her. She was surrounded. Dark figures. Men! What did they want? She couldn’t see their faces. She heard their breathing. It was strong, focused. Her own breathing was sketchy, sporadic, metallic. One of them moved to strike her. She raised her arm too block, but it was too slow. Her joints felt rusty, like a crust was grinding itself inside them. The blow struck heavily on her shoulder. She turned to run. Everything was agonizingly slow, her assailants, their blows, but herself most of all.
Fortunately, heavy as their hands and feet felt when they struck her, none of the blows seemed to hurt. She moved too slowly to evade, or even to block, though she could anticipate each one well in advance. She was turning in to something hard, perhaps stone or iron. Nothing seemed to have any effect on her. She was impervious. Still, she wanted to escape. Turn suddenly around, let them collide into me. Stick out a jab, swing a hook. My legs are too slow to kick them. But my hands are heavy, dense, mighty. There, finally, contact. He’ll feel that. Her fist went solidly into one head, right through his face. Fleshy hands struck the side of her face. They were too soft to make a dent.
One last enormous effort. Swing a left-right combination into whoever was within reach. A dead, hollow thud and then nothing. Silence. They were gone. Who were they? Why did they give up? Should she look for the body of the one she killed? Maybe find a clue on his remains. Remorseless tears welled up behind her eyes. She tried to let them out, but couldn’t. Her face was hard, and the tears finally rolled down her cheeks without soaking into her skin.
She woke up in a cold sweat, lying on the sofa with her head stuck at an odd angle in the corner of the sidearm and the back cushion. It was almost dawn. Her clothes were drenched. It was a relief to move her arms, to feel how light and soft they were again. She lay there just breathing for a few minutes, in and out, no metallic taste in her mouth.
Girl Punches Out Page 6
