by Barry Lancet
CHAPTER 23
THIRTY minutes into our session, we’d made admirable progress with the Jack Daniel’s but little headway elsewhere.
After Zhou and I had come to an uneasy agreement, the spy across the table asked about Mikey and Sharon. I gave him everything I had, except FLOTUS, and he divulged some scraps of his own.
According to the master spy, Sharon Tanaka had been hired to design theater sets for a Chinese-Japanese coproduction scheduled to debut in Beijing in three months. A niece of the Chinese president played one of the leads. After Sharon’s death, Zhou’s boss dispatched him to determine if the Kabuki killings could be a threat to the niece or the president. Zhou had been selected because of the Japanese aspect of the inquiry—Sayuri “Sharon” Tanaka and me.
“Is there another connection between the Chinese play and the Kabuki in DC?” I’d asked.
“No. Only Sharon Tanaka.”
“So how is this a threat to the president?”
“It’s too close to home.”
It turned out that once the Beijing run wrapped up, the show would tour Asia and Europe. The president’s daughter and his niece were more like sisters than cousins, and if the niece were kidnapped, she could be used as leverage to get to the president. Low-level leverage, admittedly, but leverage nonetheless. With high-profile kidnappings on the rise worldwide, the precaution made sense, especially considering the level of paranoia that percolated around the edges of the People’s Party.
Though we skirted any discussion of what Zhou would do if he uncovered a connection, it was clear he’d been assigned the task of eliminating any potential threat beforehand. He would be judge, jury, and executioner.
“You believe him?” Renna asked once I finished my detailed recital.
“Could be true or a lie.”
“So check it out. You’re the Asian pro.”
“Oh, I will, but I already know what I’ll find. The basics will be true. The niece will be in the play. Sharon Tanaka will have done the set design. But there’s a lot of wiggle room between the facts, so who knows? It’s China.”
“Well, stay sharp. I’m not the one with a one-way ticket to Spooksville.”
“One way?”
He webbed his fingers over a taut stomach. “Yeah. If we take the worst case and figure Zhou is lying, we’re left with a big old hairy why. As in, why does a slick high-level spook show up here after two people at the Kennedy Center end up dead? Which leads to a second question: Did the China connection bring out Homeland, or did Homeland’s involvement draw the Chinese?”
“Or did whatever’s behind the curtain attract them both?”
Renna reached for his drink. “All questions of the hour.”
We each sipped some more Jack and silently sorted through the new bundle of threads for a while.
Finally, Renna threw up his hands. “This thing’s too messy. Too many parties. Plus with Homeland and Zhou involved, it’s got a pair of wild cards right out of the gate. Give me a good old double murder without complications anytime.”
He downed the rest of his drink, poured another inch into both glasses, and said, “Well, at least this Swelley character didn’t show up today.”
I shook my head. “He was at Saint Mary’s.”
“You’re yanking me, right?”
“Well, not him personally. A proxy. One of the men who braced me in DC was in a back pew. Watched us chase after Zhou.”
“He try to hide?”
“No. Gave me a smirk and a two-finger salute.”
Renna’s eyebrows rose. “He wasn’t surprised about Zhou?”
“Didn’t look it.”
“And he’s from Homeland?”
“Far as I know.”
“So we have the Kennedy Center play and another one in Beijing. We have Mikey and Sharon Tanaka dead. We have a Chinese spy on a job for the Chinese president. And as an added bonus we have Homeland prowling around the edges, watching and waiting and maybe readying to pounce.”
“I’d say that sums it up about right.”
“And the spy is so paranoid, he’s rolled out a no-trust, no-holds-barred thing called China Rules. Any of that tell you anything?”
“Nothing.” I rubbed my eyes. “How about you? You did say you had something.”
Renna’s nod was grave. “What I have is full-body armor. That’s what you’ll be needing on this one if you’re looking to get a round-trip ticket back to these shores and your daughter.”
CHAPTER 24
DAY 4, WEDNESDAY, EARLY AFTERNOON
NARITA AIRPORT, NEAR TOKYO
AN unexpected welcoming committee greeted me at Narita Airport seconds after the plane hit the tarmac and began the long slog to the gate. A petite ANA flight attendant approached and asked me to accompany her to the front of the plane.
“We need to deboard you immediately, Mr. Brodie.”
A chill crawled up the back of my neck.
“What’s this is about?” I asked, snatching my duffel bag from the overhead bin and following in her wake.
“The pilot received a request via the control tower.”
“So it’s an official summons?”
“It appears so.”
“Immigration services? Security police?”
She glanced back. “No information was supplied, but on the rare occasion when this happens, it is usually one of those.”
Both of which I took seriously. Together they monitored arrivals into Japan. Immigration ran passport inspection. They fingerprinted and photographed visitors and certified entry. They could also revoke visas or shove passengers right back onto an outward-bound plane. The security police stood right behind them.
Had Homeland or Swelley poisoned the well, or was this another’s doing?
My friends were legion in Japan, but after taking up the position left me by my father at Brodie Security I’d made enemies—some in the underworld, others in positions of power in the ministries and political sphere. Occasionally, rumors of ill will reached Brodie Security. If the Immigration authorities rescinded my right to entry, my shop in San Francisco would suffer. Perhaps fatally.
But the stakes were much higher than losing access to Japanese art and antiques. Barred from Japan, I would lose a part of myself. The country was a touchstone. It was vital in ways I couldn’t always explain but felt to my core. As an American born of Caucasian American parents who’d been serving in Japan at the time, I’d spent the first seventeen years of my life in Tokyo. I attended neighborhood schools, which was how I absorbed the language and the culture and made so many friends. I was American by nationality and inclination, but the country and its people had seeped into my life’s blood. The place was something of a second home, the people like an extended family. To be denied access would be devastating.
As the aircraft eased to a stop, I braced myself. I stood in front of the cabin door with the flight attendant at my side. She gave me a faint smile.
We heard the weighty rumblings of the jetway being slotted into place. We heard scuffling. I queried my guide with a glance and she mumbled something about additional security measures. Inwardly, I cringed. After a long wait, she received the go-ahead signal and unsealed the hatch. Teeth gritted, I followed her out the door.
“Mr. Brodie?” asked a young American in an expensive-looking gray suit and a red power tie. “My name is Gerald Thornton-Cummings.”
He possessed clear, untroubled blue eyes under blond hair and a confident handshake. His bearing suggested privilege. Diplomatic corps, fast-track, I thought. From a well-connected family.
“American embassy?” I asked.
He blinked, his lips growing momentarily slack. “Yes, a junior attaché. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Has something happened?”
He treated me to an indulgent smile. “I am here merely to expedite the matter at hand.”
“Which is?”
“I am not at liberty to say. Would you be so kind as to come this way?”<
br />
Behind him stood a pair of security police.
“Do I have a choice?”
His indulgence redoubled. “I want to say yes because, technically, you have rights, but in reality your choices are limited.”
I trailed after him, the security police swinging in behind me. We moved briskly off the end of the jetway, into the terminal, then down a long glass-walled passage.
Thornton-Cummings stopped at a door marked private. “This is the back way out.”
“Because?”
His expression turned enigmatic. We entered a brightly lit room with thin office carpet the color of limpid seawater. A pair of booths identical to those at Passport Control stood against the far wall, with a stone-faced official ensconced in each.
I understood in an instant. This was a VIP immigration portal. For movie stars, royalty, and others who shared the spotlight. Which meant this was not a Tom Swelley move. Was this the first lady reaching out?
“May I have your passport?” my escort said, sticking out a pink, fleshy palm.
I passed over the blue booklet and he tendered it to one of the officials, who dutifully flipped through the pages, compared my portrait to the actual item, and stamped an unmarked page before returning the document to me.
I stood still for a digital snapshot and a fingerprint scan, then Thornton-Cummings showed me into an adjoining room. Inside, a sharp-nosed American woman in a white blouse and a knee-length navy skirt whispered into a satellite cell phone with a row of blinking green lights running down its side. She relinquished the device to my escort.
State-of-the-art mobile . . . green security lights . . . yep, FLOTUS.
I heard a click. Thornton-Cummings said, “Six-two-G-X-seven out of Narita, Japan.” More clicks. Then: “He’s beside me now. Yes, of course.”
The fresh-faced diplomat handed me the phone.
In my ear a distant click signaled a new party arriving on the line. I jumped right in.
“Hello, Madam First Lady?”
“Guess again, Jim.”
My heart did a stutter step. “Mr. President.”
“Joe,” he said.
CHAPTER 25
YOU have to start calling me Joe,” the president said. “Sorry to drag you off the plane, but it is getting late here.”
Three p.m. in Tokyo meant two in the morning in the American capital.
“ ‘Getting’?” I said.
“What they don’t tell you about this job is that you put in a lot of overtime.”
I laughed. “I’ll bet. Is everything okay on your end?”
“No, and that’s why I’m calling. I’m afraid Joan won’t be attending Sharon’s funeral after all.”
A minor illness would not stop the first lady. Nor a minor obstacle. The woman I had met in the East Wing was the kind of person who would muscle through lesser impediments.
So what had derailed her plans?
The White House played on a loftier field than Brodie Security, but trouble followed patterns. It was repetitious and predictable. Like waves breaking on a shoreline, only the height and intensity varied.
I could come up with three reasons the first lady might miss her friend’s funeral: a major illness, a schedule conflict, or a security issue, the last of which could range from an unsafe travel warning to terrorist activity in the region to a death threat.
“Sorry to hear that. Security issue?”
The president paused. “Was that a lucky guess, or have you uncovered something?”
“I chose the most likely scenario, that’s all. Is there any more you can tell me? New information might be helpful.”
“I received an advisory saying travel for Joan was ill-advised at this time.”
“Because?”
“ ‘There is movement among foreign entities in Japan.’ ”
Aside from Thornton-Cummings, everything from here on in was likely to be a foreign entity.
“Sounds awful vague.”
“Welcome to the big leagues, Jim.”
“Could it be a move to keep your wife away from the situation here, sir?”
“Joe.”
“Joe.”
“Yes, the possibility occurred to me, but I can’t take the chance. Not much help, is it?”
“No.”
“Speaking of less than helpful,” Joe Slater said, “how have you and Swelley been getting along?”
“Haven’t.”
My answer elicited a sigh. From the president of the United States.
I covered the receiver and asked my two minders to give me a moment. With undisguised disappointment, they trudged from the room. Once alone, I filled in the president on my encounter with Swelley and his men on the National Mall.
“Regrettable but not unexpected,” he said. “Tom’s always been aggressive. I’ll have my chief of staff call Homeland. With some tigers, I want to rip off their stripes. But let’s not poke the cat just yet. If Swelley gives you any trouble you can’t handle, let me know.”
“I can push back as well as the next guy. May even see what I can do about those stripes.”
“You have my blessing.”
“Do you happen to know where Swelley is at the moment?”
“He’s managing our Japanese resources.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“No. Homeland put him in the driver’s seat over there. That’s why I’m calling instead of Joan.”
Damn. Swelley was no longer a cog in the machine. He was the machine.
The tiger had grown sharper claws.
CHAPTER 26
SHIBUYA, CENTRAL TOKYO
WHEN I pushed through the doors of Brodie Security an hour and twenty minutes later, an unexpected hail of hellos greeted me. All of the women crowded around, jostling for position. A couple of the younger men stood among them. The rest of the staff looked on, some in amusement, some with aversion.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s totally awesome,” said Mari Kawasaki, the office tech whiz and my right hand when I came to Tokyo.
“What’s awesome?”
Mari grinned at me. She wore a black pants-skirt and a peach-colored blouse with images of Raggedy Ann and Andy as vampires. Ruby-red hair extensions threading through her jet-black locks played off the peach color. Mari’s genius with computers and her links to Japan’s youth counterculture earned her license to dress as she pleased.
“You’re like pretending, right? We all want her autograph. She’s wonderful.”
The reason for the unforeseen flurry became apparent. “ ‘She’ being Joan Slater?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What happened to client confidentiality?”
Information on a case normally didn’t extend beyond those running it, and maybe one or two support staff. At least initially.
“We haven’t told anyone,” Mari said, unfazed. “The first lady’s so cool. Glamorous and dignified and her own person. She’s not hanging around the White House to, like, just boost her husband’s image. You have to get us her autograph.”
A dozen eager faces gazed at me in expectation.
“How about a trade? If everyone promises to keep the secret, I’ll ask her when the case is over. If it leaks, no deal.”
Everyone agreed without hesitation, then returned to their seats, satisfied.
I turned to Mari. “Is Noda around?”
Kunio Noda was Brodie Security’s head detective. He was a compact bundle of power: barrel chest, thick waist, and a broad, flat face with shrewd eyes on an unstoppable five-foot-seven-inch frame. He was also brusque, ill-mannered, and the best investigator in the outfit. A fact that had brought him his share of run-ins, the most famous of which left him with a scar buried in a severed eyebrow that flared when his anger surged.
“He’s out on an embezzlement case in Otemachi.” The financial district.
I nodded. “Could you leave him a note about not missing t
he Tanaka funeral tomorrow, just in case?”
“Sure,” Mari said.
I shut myself in my office, dropped my duffel bag in a corner, slipped behind the desk that once belonged to my father, and pondered the appeal of Joan Slater’s star power. What the gathering out front demonstrated was that celebrity attracted notice from unexpected directions.
What other unwanted attention would White House involvement bring?
* * *
It was nearly four in the afternoon in Tokyo, which made it close to midnight in San Francisco, but I still rang my daughter. Kerry Lou picked up on the first ring.
“Hi,” I said. “What are the girls up to?”
“Celebrating that I let them stay up for your call. They’re watching a Disney double feature.”
“So Jenny’s judo went well?”
“She’s right here, yanking on my arm, as usual. Always an ear peeled for the phone, this one. Here she is.”
Panting into the receiver, Jenny told me she’d won her matches and her age group. “I beat Donna too. What you said worked, Daddy.”
“That’s great, Jen. Did you get a new belt?”
“Yep-yep. A big shiny trophy too.”
“Wonderful.”
As promised, I’d practiced with her again the next morning, reviewing the throwing and takedown techniques of the previous evening. Then I showed her how to up the wattage on her pre-fight stare for a psychological edge.
Jenny said, “Tell Rie, okay? You are going to see her, aren’t you?”
“Definitely.”
“Say it first thing, before you do the other stuff.”
“ ‘Other stuff’?”
“You know.”
I did. But what did Jenny know?
I tried to probe a little deeper, but my daughter begged off, eager to return to the Disney flick. Once we signed off, I leaned back in my chair and wondered what my seven-year-old could possibly know, and how. The guilt burrowed deeper. As a father, I should know. If I were absent less often, I would know. I’d promised myself to limit the time the detective work kept me from Jenny, but to date I’d been only partially successful in keeping the promise.
