by Marc Olden
Decker breathed deeply, sucking air in through his mouth, then slowly began walking down the stairs. In his overcoat pocket the tiny reindeer seemed to burn through to the skin like a red-hot coal. He continued walking down into darkness, neither knowing nor caring where he was going. At the next staircase he stopped to throw up.
Five
Chanbara
Traditional Japanese drama involving sword play with its choice between giri, duty, and ninjo, feeling or inclination
27
SPARROWHAWK LISTENED TO THE call coming through his speakerphone with the intensity of a man whose life hung on every word.
He needed sleep. Fatigue had knotted his back muscles and brought back his migraine headaches. In the two days since Dorian’s death he had slept a total of six hours. What kept him awake at night was the lie that Dorian Raymond had killed himself.
Sparrowhawk was confused, too. Michelle Asama had dug a pit, and he knew that if he didn’t push her in he would be pushed in himself. Somewhere along the line she had overdone her deception. He had to find out where.
Now he sat at his desk at MSC, palms pressed together in front of his long nose, his unblinking gaze squarely on the speakerphone directly in front of him. Behind him, cooing pigeons on a window sill flapped their wings. Robbie sat to his left, legs outstretched and squeezing a rubber ball, first in one fist, then in the other. His eyes were on his pulsating fists, but his attention, like Sparrowhawk’s, was riveted to the voice of the caller in Paris, who spoke with a German-Swiss accent.
“We followed her from the hotel in Amsterdam to Schipol Airport, where she boarded a private plane to Paris. The plane belongs to a Mr. Tetsuo Ishino. I believe that is how you pronounce it. He is a leading diamond dealer in the Netherlands, Mr. Ishino. Quite wealthy and a member of the Amsterdam Chamber of Commerce. Has a daughter married to an Anton Koestraat, a Dutchman who owns real estate—”
“Will you bloody well get on with it, man,” snapped Sparrowhawk. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about Mr. Ishino’s daughter or the bugger she’s married to. Stick to Michelle Asama.”
“Yah, I understand. Well, we could not board her plane—”
Sparrowhawk rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“—so we have our people in Paris waiting for her when the plane lands at Charles de Gaulle Airport. She clears private customs, then she takes a private limousine to Paris.”
Sparrowhawk massaged his tired eyes. “Thorough, Dieter, quite thorough.”
“Yah. Anyway, she goes to the Hotel Richelieu, just off the Champs, checks into a top-floor suite.”
“I take it since you’ve not mentioned it that you’ve not been able to get into the suite.”
“You are right. We have not. She did not leave until yesterday and we thought maybe she come back quick. She was sick, so we think maybe she not stay out too long.”
Sparrowhawk’s fingers slid away from his eyes. “Sick?”
“Yah. She stay inside her room the whole time. Two nights, one day inside. She does not come out and we cannot go in. A hotel doctor comes up to see her and we learn from somebody that she is being treated for a cold. Yesterday is the first day she comes out. She goes shopping on rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, first to Yves St. Laurent, then to other shops.”
“And during her entire Paris stay she’s been under surveillance?”
“Yah. We have men in the lobby around the clock. We know what she is doing in the hotel.”
“Really? And what is Miss Asama doing?”
“Business. No telephone calls, but she writes letters.”
Sparrowhawk leaned toward the speaker. “And to whom were these letters addressed?”
“I cannot say. They were dictated in the room, typed there and kept by Miss Asama. She mailed them yesterday when she went shopping. She kept the secretary’s note pad as well.”
Sparrowhawk slammed the palm of his hand down on his desk. “Bloody cheek. She’s either a very careful businesswoman or she knows we’re on to her. And you’re quite certain she hasn’t left Paris since her arrival?”
“Rest assured, sir, she has not. She is still here, conducting business outside the hotel now. Meeting diamond dealers, diamond cutters and people from whom she will probably make private purchases. She is reportedly interested in a necklace called ‘Lagrimas Negras,’ black tears. It is made of black diamonds from Brazil and belongs to an Italian countess, who claims it was Hitler’s last gift to Eva Braun.”
Robbie shifted the ball to his other hand. “Lady seems to have made one hell of a quick recovery from her cold.”
Sparrowhawk gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. He whispered, “So it would seem. Along with that we’re asked to believe that Dorian Raymond, hardly the suicidal type, suddenly took it into his head to dive out of a window. The mind boggles at this mystifying series of events.”
He said to the speaker, “And you actually saw her leave the hotel for the first time since arriving, and go directly to the St. Laurent shop.”
“Yah. There were two of us in the car following. We both saw her. Same white fur coat, a rather grotesque hat that hung down over most of her face, dark glasses and a scarf across her mouth, I suppose, to prevent her from succumbing to more germs.”
Robbie tossed the ball into the air and began to play catch with himself. “Who was that masked man?” he joked.
Sparrowhawk, annoyed and in no mood for levity, threw him a withering look. His headache was getting worse. Sparrowhawk was about to speak into the phone when he suddenly snapped his head toward Robbie. “What did you say?”
“Me?” said the German-Swiss voice three thousand five hundred miles away. “I said nothing.”
“Not you. Robbie. Robbie, what did you just say?”
“I was only goofing on it, major. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, lad. Repeat your words.”
Robbie shrugged. “I said, ‘Who was that masked man?’ Like the way that lady was all covered up reminded me of the Lone Ranger.”
Sparrowhawk flopped back in his chair and laughed. Bitterly. “Oh, she is a right clever little thing. A rather nasty piece of work. Definitely a crafty and cunning member of her species. In a strange way I admire the woman.”
He looked at Robbie. “She did it, you know. She managed to be in two places at once.”
Suddenly, Sparrowhawk remembered that Dieter wasn’t supposed to know why he was following Michelle Asama.
He leaned forward toward the speaker. “Dieter, I owe you an apology. You were telling me before about Mr. Ishino’s family. Please continue and this time I shall listen most carefully.”
“Well, he has three children. Two sons and a daughter.”
Sparrowhawk looked at .Robbie. “Tell me about the daughter.”
“We have no pictures of her, but I can get one. I hear she is quite beautiful. Twenty-nine years of age. Two children, a boy and a girl.”
Sparrowhawk swung his gold pen back and forth between his thumb and forefinger like a pendulum. “Twenty-nine, you say. Young. Approximately Miss Asama’s age.”
Robbie bounced the heel of his hand off his forehead, and mouthed the words, oh wow. He stopped playing with the ball.
Sparrowhawk kept his eyes on Robbie. “Dieter, you never actually followed her into the St. Laurent boutique, did you?”
“No, sir. It’s all women in there. A man would attract too much attention. We wait outside. We see her go in, we see her come out.”
Sparrowhawk dropped the gold pen on his desk, a dramatic punctuation to his conclusion. “You saw somebody go in, you saw somebody go out.”
“I do not understand.”
Sparrowhawk kneaded the back of his neck. “Amazing. Utterly amazing. That will be all, Dieter. Kindly bill me directly on this, if you please. Send the invoice with my name on it to my home. I don’t want this to go through the accounting department.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. Adieu, and my regards
to your family.”
“Au revoir, monsieur.”
Sparrowhawk pressed a button on top of the speaker and disconnected the line. “Robbie, remind me to see that this call is erased from the log of incoming calls. The private tape I have will be sufficient if I need to refer to it again.”
He placed his folded hands on his desk. “She made the switch in Amsterdam. Ishino’s daughter wore Michelle Asama’s clothing, then got aboard her father’s private plane and lured Dieter’s men on a wild goose chase. Meanwhile Michelle Asama somehow returned unseen to New York, dispatched Dorian, then took herself off to Paris. There she simply switched clothes again, sent Miss Ishino or Mrs. Anton Koestraat on her way and it was back to the glittering world of diamonds.”
Robbie said, “Dieter’s men blew it. She knows she’s being followed.”
“To say the least. One thing’s for sure: she’s after the four of us. You, me, Dorian and Paul Molise. Dorian and Paul are dead. And then there were two. She’s in full pursuit, lad, complete with horses, hounds and hunting horns.”
“Decker. Think he’s in on it with her?”
Sparrowhawk shook his head. “Negative.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Simple. When Paul met his maker Decker was teaching a karate class on the West Side. More than forty witnesses place him there. When Dorian went out the window Sergeant Decker was at precinct headquarters attempting to catch up on paperwork. And finally, had Decker wanted to eliminate any of us he would probably have gotten around to it a lot sooner. Michelle Asama, for reasons known only to her, could not act before now. I would say that she and Decker have renewed an old friendship, one that undoubtedly began in Saigon.”
“So you think she’s related to George Chihara.”
“Her recent actions indicate she is. If she hates us enough to kill us because of Mr. Chihara, then she is certainly a close blood relative of the man. Which brings me to a rather harsh truth. And that is, if we don’t remove Miss Asama she will, in time, remove us.”
Sparrowhawk and Robbie held each other’s gaze. “I say this reluctantly, lad. You know I promised that I’d not ask you to soil your hands with this sort of business unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, it’s become necessary. She is obviously the mystery individual who drove up to Chihara’s villa six years ago and who was warned away in time. She may have taken six years to catch up to us, but I can assure you the lady has certainly thrown herself into her work ever since.”
“We’re not going to turn her over to Gran Sasso?”
“Dear boy, the mind of Paul Molise senior has become so addled by grieving over his dead son that he can no longer think rationally. He alternates between periods of deep mourning and a cry for blood. You saw how quickly Pangalos and Quarrels were disposed of. That, old chum, is the emotional climate surrounding the wogs these days.”
The Englishman lit a Turkish cigarette. “If Michelle Asama talks to the Italians, my feeling is she’ll hurt us, you and me. We’re responsible for what happened to young Paul. Paul senior, in his present state of mind, might just draw that conclusion. So might Gran Sasso. So might Alphonse Giulia. And when it’s learned that Miss Asama had help from certain Japanese gentlemen, I wouldn’t be surprised if the wogs didn’t decide that getting rid of us isn’t the best way to avoid trouble with these men in the future.”
He exhaled blue smoke. “No, lad, it’s better if we dispose of Miss Asama.”
Robbie held the black ball in an iron grip. “When do I leave for Paris?”
“Immediately.”
Sparrowhawk stood up. “You’ll need some sort of cover. I’ll prepare documents for you to carry to Dieter’s agency in Paris. You’ll simply be on a normal courier run for MSC, just as you’ve done in the past. Pay attention. It’s important that you deliver the documents to Dieter after you finish with Miss Asama. Let it appear that Dieter’s agency is your one and only stop in Paris. Incidentally, would you like to spend a few days in Paris, a short holiday of sorts?”
Robbie shook his head. “Thanks anyway, major, but I have to get back here. Got a couple of fights coming up, then I’ll be concentrating on the suibin tournament for January. That’s when I’ll spend time in Paris.”
“As you wish. Decker’s not interested in that, is he?”
Robbie snorted. “Are you kidding? Hasn’t got the balls.”
“Pity. Like to see that man get taken down a peg or two. Well, off with you now. And do be careful. Remember, she’s killed three men that we know of. With her hands. Don’t be careless or overconfident.” Ridiculous on the surface of it, he thought. To be afraid of one woman. Michelle Asama, however, was no ordinary woman.
Robbie tossed the ball from hand to hand. “I’m not overconfident, major. Just sure. About as sure as you can get. The lady is definitely gone.”
28
AT 7:00 P.M. IN Paris, a weary and reflective Michi stepped out onto the balcony of her hotel suite and looked across courtyard rooftops at the Eiffel Tower. Just before entering the hotel, Michi had stopped a few blocks away to watch a different light, a rekindling of the Eternal Flame on the tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier, a ceremony performed at 6:30 P.M. daily under the Arch of Triumph. The honoring of the dead reminded her of her own family. There were times, she thought, when to remember was to suffer twice.
On the balcony Michi felt falling snowflakes brush her face. Tears of regret sprang to her eyes. More than anything Michi regretted the time she and Manny did not have together, time lost forever.
She stepped back into the warmth of her suite, closed the delicate glass doors behind her and pulled the drapes. She shook her head to clear it of snow, shivering as flakes landed on her neck and bare throat. Michi found the hotel menu, then telephoned room service and ordered filet mignon, a carafe of red wine, pommes frites, asparagus and a small salad, with a chestnut pate for dessert.
Michi went into her bedroom, stripped nude, then showered. When she had changed into a gray silk kimono and clogs, she tied her hair back and went into the living room to sit at a desk and make out her agenda for tomorrow. Appointments with two diamond cutters and a dealer from Antwerp; a scheduled visit to a chic jewelry shop on Place Vendôme; lunch on Ile St.-Louis with Countess Gautier, owner of the “Lagrimas Negras” necklace, which Michi, if she bought it, planned to have broken down into smaller, more lucrative pieces. Tomorrow was a full day. It would be wise to go to bed early.
There was a knock on her door. Room service, she thought, then decided no. She had phoned down her order only moments ago. Hotel room service in Paris was as slow as it was expensive.
She stood up. “Who is there, please?”
“Manny.”
Michi dropped one hand to her heart. She rose and in her excitement knocked over her chair. She could not have wished for a more joyous surprise. Happily she rushed to the door, opened it and threw herself into his arms. She clung to him, buried her face in his shoulder, felt the snow on his coat collar against her ear and the pleasant roughness of his unshaven cheek against her skin. Manny was here, with her. She tightened her grip on him and attempted to lose herself in him.
It was a shock to her to realize that he was withdrawn, that he was pulling away from her. Michi glanced at his face. Manny refused to look her in the eye. He appeared tired, haggard, emotionally drained. Something was bothering him.
“Inside,” he said, sounding very much like a policeman.
Michi backed up and Manny entered the room, closing the door behind him.
She said, “What is wrong? Please tell me.”
He looked at her a long time before removing a hand from his overcoat pocket Michi’s eyes went to the lavender paper reindeer he held out to her.
“I found it in Dorian Raymond’s apartment,” he said. “He’s dead, by the way.”
Decker gently placed the paper reindeer on a coffee table and removed his hat. He looked at the tiny wet spots on the brim that were melted snow. “Happened night befo
re last. Out the window and down ten floors.”
His eyes went to her and she saw the sadness there. She saw fatigue and she saw his fear of impending betrayal. But he would not leave until he had learned the truth.
He said, “Did you sleep with him?”
Michi hugged herself and looked down at the floor.
When Decker spoke his voice was hoarse with hurt “Think I’ll sit down on the couch. Knee’s bothering me. Does that in damp weather.”
Michi kept her eyes averted. “Have you come to arrest me?”
He looked at the reindeer. “Don’t know. Shit, I don’t know. I came here for answers, I know that much. I’ve already gotten one. I was hoping it wouldn’t be true.” He closed his eyes. “Jesus. Why did you come back into my life if you didn’t love me?”
Her tears blurred Michi’s vision. “I do love you. I have never stopped loving you. I never will. If you walk from this room and never see me again I shall love only you. Only you.”
“Maybe I’m not as sophisticated as I should be, but if you love me what the fuck were you doing spreading your legs for Dorian?”
His words were meant to hurt and they did. “Please, Manny. He meant nothing to me. Don’t—”
“Don’t what? Don’t bleed when somebody stabs me in the back?”
“I used Dorian. That is all he was to me.”
He waved her away. “Makes two of us you were using.”
Michi said, “You did not come here just to ask me about my relationship with Dorian.”
“Word is,” said Decker, “that the only thing Sparrowhawk’s been told to concern himself with these days is finding Paul Molise’s killer. While you were gone some men from MSC broke into your apartment. I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some connection. Autopsy report on Molise says he was killed by needlelike weapons or possibly something thin and metallic like a surgeon’s scalpel.”
