by Nancy Holder
For the most part.
“Mac?”
“Yes?” He idly fingered the letter. What the hell did Machiavelli want?
“I was telling you Woodrich has set up a meeting with you and that curator. The one whose name I can never get straight.”
“Meyer-Dinkmann. The German.” MacLeod brightened. Andreas Meyer-Dinkmann knew more about pre-World War II Japanese weapons than any other man alive. MacLeod had corresponded with him for a few years, but they’d never met. He was looking forward to this trip.
“How do you stand it?” Dawson had once asked him. “Decade after decade. How do you stay interested in things? Don’t you get bored?”
MacLeod had replied, with an indulgent smile, “Only stupid people get bored, Dawson. Why do you ask? Do you get bored?”
“Mr. Ron! Oh, man, not on the carpet! Mac, I gotta go. Flight’s at twenty-one hundred hours. I mean, nine.”
“Roger that.” MacLeod grinned. Alan Woodrich was an old buddy of Joe’s from the Vietnam days. Dawson was already regressing into military talk. MacLeod knew how that worked. Old warriors never die.
He himself was an old warrior.
“Mac? Everything okay?”
Why do you ask? So you can put it in your Chronicle tonight?
“Everything’s fine. I just got a letter from an old friend.” Throw him a bone. Why not?
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll tell you about him sometime.” A bone, but not the whole carcass.
“Okay.” Dawson was clearly intrigued. “See you tomorrow night.”
“Right. Give your bass player my regards.”
“Not on your life, buddy.”
MacLeod chuckled as he hung up, put the letter in the envelope, and rose to shower and start his day.
On his way out of the room, he spied his exquisite sixteenth-century chessboard, ebony on ivory, set up for a game. The kings and queens stared expectantly ahead, eager for the massacre to begin.
He moved the white pawn from the second row to the fourth. P-K4. Then he mirrored the move for black: P-K4.
“Dawson, would you get bored if every morning, you knew someone might try to kill you today?” he asked softly. Joe Dawson had lived with that. Every person in the armies of the world lived with that.
The only difference was with the duration of the tour of duty. That was all.
Act, don’t react.
“Your move, Machiavelli,” he said softly. “And God help you if you move toward me.”
Chapter Ten
“From the withered tree, a flower blooms.”
—Zen saying
Tokyo
They met in a re-creation of the Cavern Club, the bar in Germany where the Beatles had played their first gigs. In the strange cross between a British pub and an Osaka beer hall, four Japanese men with the signature rice-bowl haircuts sang an incomprehensible version of “Yesterday” while Samantha and Man waited at a picnic table for the others.
“Is my Watcher here?” Samantha asked. Ever since Mari had explained who she was, Samantha had become both worried and irritated by the fact that someone followed her everywhere and recorded everything she did. What normal person wouldn’t be?
Were Immortals normal people?
Mari replied stiffly, “I can’t say.”
Samantha frowned and crossed her legs. “You mean, you won’t say. From what I can figure out, you’ve violated every goddamned rule of your goddamned organization. But you still won’t tell me that?”
Mari pursed her lips. Samantha knew the Harvard-educated woman didn’t appreciate swearing in any of the five languages she spoke. She was like Machiavelli that way, fluent and articulate, conversing easily with the many high-level people who passed through their world. She was very glamorous in her elegant black couture clothes. Her jet hair in a stylish chignon, she looked every inch the sister of Ken Iwasawa, the CEO of one of Japan’s most powerful multinational corporations.
Mari said, “I have my own code of ethics.”
“How convenient for you.” Samantha pulled out a mirrored compact, popped it open, and brushed her cheeks with blush while she scrutinized the crowd behind them for another foreigner, or gaijin. It was a trick Umeko had taught her. Of course, it made little sense that the Watchers would send someone who stuck out in a crowd, as she did, a five-nine, blue-eyed redhead in the land of dark hair and relatively short female stature.
That was why Mari, who was half-Japanese, had been avidly recruited to become a Watcher in Japan. She had been Umeko’s Watcher for the last two weeks of Umeko’s life, until Umeko had lost her head. They had transferred her to Samantha’s lover the following day.
Now Mari was flirting with death, and she, Samantha, with losing her head. Mari had come to them, to Satoshi first, because she knew things she hadn’t fully shared with them, things about Machiavelli and her half-brother. She wanted Machiavelli out of Ken’s life. More to the point, she wanted Machiavelli dead.
So did Samantha.
So did others in his organization. To the Immortals, “Nicky Macchio,” known to his intimates to be the Immortal, Niccolo Machiavelli, was a bad sensei, a bad teacher and master. He provided his people with inadequate training; he sent them out to be killed for no good reason than that it might advance him a step or two in some plan he never divulged to anyone else. At first Samantha had not believed that of him; couldn’t believe it and stay in his bed.
But then, three years ago, Umeko had come into her life. Angular, whiplike, a ninja among Immortals, the 165-year-old Umeko had told her the truth, made her see.
Umeko Takahashi, her sole female friend, ever, in her existence, her confidante. Umeko, kind and fierce, a woman who loved women, not just in a sexual way but as a mother loves her children. A patron saint of women. Umeko had given her self-confidence and convinced her she could one day leave Machiavelli. She’d told Samantha about the Game, and the rules by which the honorable played.
“But your man is not honorable,” she’d warned Samantha, as they stood sweating inside the dojo where Umeko and Samantha secretly trained. “He is not a shogun, not a leader of samurai, as he claims to be. He is a petty and vindictive monster.”
The long hours of battle practice yielded fruit. Samantha saw that Umeko was right, and that she, Samantha, was better than the men in her life had treated her, better than Nicky had treated her. Umcko trained not only her mind and her body, but her spirit. Through Umeko’s belief in her and love for her, she became a free woman. Umeko told her she would transcend even this level of self-confidence and self-love, until she had so much brimming over that she would be able to give it to another.
“I pray that someone might be me,” Umeko had said, but Samantha couldn’t love another woman in that way.
Nor could she love a man undeserving of that kind of love. And she saw now that Nicky Machiavelli was undeserving of that kind of love.
Umeko had also told Samantha only days before her death that although Samantha had a long way to go, she might one day take the heads of mighty Immortals. And though Samantha had yet to take a head, she knew she would help the others take Machiavelli’s, whether in a one-on-one challenge or by other means.
Now, at the Cavern Club, Samantha tugged at the bodice of her red silk jumpsuit. There were diamonds and rubies in her ears and around her neck. Machiavelli liked color and flash. In the early days, she had liked them, too, thinking they made her look sophisticated and rich. But of late, working first with Umeko and now with Mari, she had come to prefer quiet elegance and polish. She knew every man in the club had mentally undressed her at least once. Machiavelli liked that. He liked possessing what everyone else wanted. That was how he came to own you. He figured out what you wanted, and gave it to you—with a seemingly unbreakable string attached.
“I feel like we’re in a James Bond movie,” she drawled to alleviate the tension. Machiavelli and Umeko had both found her sense of humor amusing.
Mari, however, was not a
mused. Impatiently, she tapped her beveled red nails on the little table between them. “This is serious business.”
Samantha bit back a sharp retort. She wasn’t sure she liked Mari. She certainly didn’t completely trust her. Mari knew things she wasn’t telling. In a situation like this, that was deadly.
“We need to get down to business. Tonight I’ll file my report on Nick and tell them everything is fine.” Once a week, Mari sent a report on Machiavelli to Watcher headquarters. She always played down his activities to keep interest in him from growing. “And I sent the letter to MacLeod,” Mari added. “He should have gotten it by now.”
Mari had concocted the idea of enticing MacLeod to Japan from reading Machiavelli’s Chronicle. MacLeod and he had clashed in the 1600s, and Machiavelli still made overtures to him upon occasion. MacLeod ignored him. Few who had ever gone directly against Machiavelli emerged alive, and he had made alliances with most of the survivors. Some of the alliances had gone sour, and he had taken their heads—or had one of his Immortal followers do it for him. MacLeod stood alone as someone who had fought him and walked away. This unfinished business intrigued Mari, and she insisted that he be lured into helping them. He wouldn’t come if they simply asked, she had emphasized, because he wanted to have nothing to do with Machiavelli. So they would have to resort to subterfuge—à la Machiavelli—to obtain his help.
Samantha took a swallow of her Scotch. She drank it as a token act of defiance; Machiavelli preferred she drink white wine or fruity mixed drinks, which he called “ladies’ cocktails.” He insisted upon calling her Sammi—and everyone followed his lead—because she had been poor, bedraggled Sammi Jo when they had met. Now she called him Machiavelli, though not to his face. He still assumed he was Nicky, the man she loved.
It was to Samantha’s benefit that he held women in contempt. It made him less suspicious of her. Or so she hoped.
Once she had pointed out that the queen was the most powerful piece on the board, moving as she pleased, devouring all the other pieces.
“Everything she does is to protect the king,” he’d retorted. “She has no other function. Without him, there’s no game at all. Never forget that.”
“We can only hope we’ve sufficiently intrigued MacLeod,” Mari said. “If he thinks that bastard is after him, maybe he’ll come and…” She glanced up. “They’re here.” Her demeanor lightened. She smiled brilliantly and waved.
Samantha turned. Machiavelli, her tall, white-haired lover; Mari’s brother Ken; and Machiavelli’s lieutenant and betrayer, Satoshi Miyamoto, walked toward them. Pretending to cough into his fist, Satoshi flashed the two women a wide-eyed look of pure terror.
“Look at Sato. Something’s wrong.” Samantha grabbed her purse and half-rose from her chair.
“Sit down,” Mari hissed, grabbing her hand. “What are you going to do? Run?”
Samantha couldn’t breathe. Because Machiavelli didn’t know she was training, she didn’t carry a sword. She hadn’t felt so vulnerable since Dale had left her. “We were stupid to listen to you. He always knows everything. I’m sure he knows you’re his Watcher. He knows what we’re up to.”
“No. I’ve checked in with headquarters numerous times. No one’s reported any other activity. I’m positive he has no idea.” She kept smiling. “Samantha, sit up straight and look happy. He’s not going to behead you in public.”
“Why would anyone else report any activity? No one else is Watching him. You’re his Watcher, for God’s sake!”
“Activity of the other Immortals around him,” Mari said as if she were speaking to an idiot. “Except, of course, for the meetings you and I have had with the others. Those have been reported. But he hasn’t sent Ruffio or anyone else on any special errands.”
The mention of Ruffio made Samantha’s smile fade. She hated the Italian Immortal. Machiavelli’s oldest “Beauty,” as Machiavelli called his Immortals, Ruffio was a sadistic bully. He hated Samantha for no other reason than that she was in Machiavelli’s bed, and that made her powerful, or so he believed. She knew he wanted nothing more in life than to take her head.
And replace her in Machiavelli’s life.
“If he doesn’t know who you are, why ally himself with your brother?” she asked Mari, forcing herself back to the present. “Why involve himself in your lives?” These were questions she had asked a dozen times, and she had yet to receive completely satisfactory answers.
Mari drew herself up. “Ken is a very powerful and influential man in his own right. He was doing fine before Machiavelli approached him.”
Samantha was tired of the woman’s pomposity and self-importance. “Now that your brother is in bed with my lover, he’s doing even better.”
Mari said nothing, only looked down at the table. “Look, as far as Watching goes, no one else has ever had access to the technology I have. Thanks to Ken. Even though he doesn’t know he’s helping us.” Mari managed a genuine smile at her, but it was obvious she, too, had been unnerved by Satoshi’s fearful expression. “I can call in the cavalry at any minute and get us all the hell out of here.”
“Do it. Make up an excuse and go do it,” Samantha said. “We’re in trouble.”
“My darling.” Machiavelli reached their table first and swept Samantha to her feet and into his arms. He kissed her behind the ear, as he always did, and murmured, “I love you, Sammi. And you, beautiful lady.” Machiavelli kissed Mari on the cheek. He gestured to her outfit. “What designer is that, Armani? Miyaki?”
Mari’s face was white. She said evenly, “A new one. Kimura.”
“Ah. Kimura.” Ken lwasawa, dressed in an impeccable, very stylish gray silk suit, took off his sunglasses and gave Mari a once-over. “I see it now. In the cut.” He smiled at Machiavelli. “You were right.”
Machiavelli winked at Samantha. “Kimura just went public. I told Ken to buy some stock. That man’s going to go places.”
“Men who understand women always do.” Ken said pleasantly. “Well, are you two hungry? Mari-chan? Tabetai-desuka?”
“Hai,” Mari answered. “I’m starving.”
“Good.” Machiavelli pulled out his wallet and dropped a few thousand yen on the table. “Will that cover it, my angel?”
“With a generous tip,” Samantha said, fighting to keep steady.
“The service was good?” he asked her. She nodded. “Va bene. Good works should be rewarded.” He nibbled her earlobe. “Ikimasho. Let’s go, Sammi. We’re going to have a most remarkable dinner.” He led her toward the exit. It took all her resources not to break into a run. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold. I should have brought a wrap.”
“I’ll warm you later. Would you like that?” He pulled her close. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she nodded woodenly.
“Yes, my love,” she croaked. “I’d love that.”
San Francisco, 1968
Her name was Sammi Jo Smith and her boyfriend, Dale, had called her an ignorant piece of trailer-park trash and dumped her out of the microbus at San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. Before she realized what was happening, he peeled out and zoomed off.
She was sure he didn’t mean it. They had had terrible fights all the way from Tampa Bay to San Francisco, but they always made up. Lordy, how they made up. He was twenty-three and she was sixteen, and he had been around and understood all the complicated stuff like how to get a job and rent apartments, while she had simply run away from home to be with him.
Not that it took much prodding: her mama—who was not her real mama, but she was all Sammi Jo had—was for sure a piece of trailer-park trash, wearing too much makeup and no bras and long hippie dresses you could see through, sleeping with guys she picked up in bars. Their trailer reeked of marijuana, vodka, and sweaty men.
Whenever her mama passed out, most of the men would stumble out of the bedroom and ask Sammi Jo if she wanted to be next. The others didn’t ask.
They just took what they wanted.
Dale had promised her he would save her from all that if she would just come away with him. She had really wanted to graduate from high school, but Dale was set on leaving, and that was that. It wasn’t until they had crossed two state lines that she found out he was dodging the draft so he wouldn’t get sent to Vietnam. He laughed until he cried when she started watching the rearview mirror for the military police or the FBI to come for him.
“You are so ignorant,” he’d drawl, and she’d lash out at him because it was true, and she hated that it was true. Then he would start talking psychology to her, telling her about her fixations and her self-esteem, until she knew that if Dale ever left her, she’d be a ripe candidate for suicide.
Now, as the hours dragged by and she stood with the bright blue San Francisco Bay at her back and scanned the crowds of tourists and hippies for sight of him, she had a feeling that made her sway like a reed in a hurricane. She had to hold on to a streetlight to keep from collapsing.
“Help,” she whispered, to no one. Her body tingled. She was hungry and thirsty, but she didn’t dare move. If she did, she would die.
He would come back for her, she willed. He would come, he would come. He would be so sorry for scaring her.
But why should he come back? She was nothing but white trash. She was nothing unless he said so, and he wasn’t saying so, not at the moment.
He would come because he loved her. Love didn’t make no sense; you loved people just because. Leastwise, that’s what Dale said.
But the shadows lengthened and he didn’t come. She was mortified to her soul, wounded to the quick. Angrily she thought, I ain’t no damn dog, but she felt like one, waiting pathetically for her master. She had one dollar in her macramé purse, fifty cents in the pocket of her jeans. She had no idea where she was, other than it was San Francisco. They had had a plan to meet some people who would help them get to Canada.
The fragrance of boiled crabs and sourdough bread was almost more than she could stand. She was so hungry she was afraid she was going to throw up.
