by Barry Lancet
“This is about Mikey and Sharon, so that’s not going to happen.”
She blinked and her tone softened. “I’m sorry for your loss. I never met him.”
“If you had, you would understand.”
“I understand now. He was a dear friend. But this is very dangerous. I worry about you.”
“Maybe you can help. Do you know anyone over at the PSIA? I could use an in.”
She looked down, hesitating. “I do, yes. The son of my father’s best friend. But he . . . those kind . . . are best avoided unless really needed.”
Again the darkness intruded.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to me. “I can do without more spies for now. Besides, PSIA’s reputation for secrecy precedes it. If you told me more, you’d probably have to kill me.”
Her expression brightened at the thought. “Actually, I believe we’ve already crossed that line. Say good-bye.”
She pounced with a giggle, pinning me to the sheets with a move suspiciously reminiscent of a modified judo hold. The crystal in my hand went flying and shattered against the wall.
Neither of us paid the broken glassware the least attention, but when I stole a glimpse, above her closed eyes her forehead was knotted with the wrong kind of tension.
CHAPTER 29
DAY 5, THURSDAY
BACK-TO-BACK funerals were no one’s idea of a good time, but I trundled over to the Buddhist temple where Sharon Tanaka’s send-off was scheduled.
I had trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of a world without her. We’d met at a Tokyo exhibition for Shiro Tsujimura, a Japanese ceramic artist whose pieces I showed in San Francisco. Sharon claimed to be a fan and owned half a dozen of Tsujimura’s pieces. When we compared notes about the talented artist’s work, we found we had similar tastes in Japanese art. Our common interests led to lunches when I was in town, and I came to appreciate her advice about raising Jenny, especially in regard to the Japanese side of things. Sharon Tanaka’s absence in my life left an irreparable hole.
But our closeness did nothing to gain Brodie Security access to her family.
Approaches by the tenacious Noda and our more diplomatic staff were rebuffed. No one gained access to the grieving family. At the funeral they were, of course, untouchable.
Not unexpectedly, Zhou turned up with a man who was clearly a senior Chinese official. Eyes straight ahead, the two of them marched down the left aisle and took seats four rows in front of us. Ensconced near the back from the start, Noda and I monitored all arrivals and did not miss their entrance.
From the outset we also kept a lookout for Swelley’s agents. Though he would send eyes, we could not predict what form they would take. Homeland Security operated more than seventy overseas offices since, as they are fond of saying, national security does not start and stop at American borders. But as all of the agents I’d bumped up against in DC had been large Caucasians, their presence in this crowd was a nonstarter. Swelley would most likely dispatch a local from the Japan office who would attempt to melt into the crowd, which could complicate things for us.
But we needn’t have worried.
Noda said, “Left side, three rows in front of the spy.”
The funeral hall filled swiftly. There were thirty rows of folding chairs, ten on either side of a central aisle, with additional aisles running along the sides for easy access. Six hundred in total.
“You pegged him too?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. “Japanese-American trying to pass. Trying even harder not to look around too much.”
Noda grunted. “Another behind the family.”
“Entered first,” I said. The agent in question was infected with the roving eye and met everyone’s gaze, another un-Japanese trait. “What about the guy who nodded at us on the way in? He your PSIA friend?”
“Yeah.”
I’d clocked a man with a hard face and sharp eyes. His requisite black suit might have been new once upon a time but now looked decidedly secondhand.
“Frown could have cracked a mirror.”
Noda grunted again. “Trouble ahead, we get any more involved.”
Which we would.
His so-called friend had stood in a discreet corner of the temple grounds, just inside the gate, cataloging all entrants. Openly displeased with our arrival, he’d shot Noda a reluctant nod.
“He a warning beacon?”
“Yep.”
Noda hooked a finger inside his shirt collar and tugged. Stuffed into a black suit snug at the neck and waist, the chief detective’s stout frame looked like a poorly wrapped oak barrel with legs. I wore a black suit and tie procured for my father’s funeral nearly two years earlier.
“It’s not just for us, then.”
“Nope. We already got walking papers.”
“Then who else?”
Noda shrugged.
The parade began ten minutes before the scheduled start of services. Sharon moved in celebrity circles, and now the famous began to arrive. Or more accurately, emerged from the greenroom. Movie stars, singers, and other luminaries from Japan’s film, television, and theater industries entered and took reserved places at the front. Each new appearance whipped up a flurry of whispers.
Noda studied every entrant. “Turning into a talent show.”
“On any other day autograph hounds would have a field day.”
A moment later a Buddhist monk in a black robe stepped up to a stagelike altar at the front of the hall. The crowd grew quiet. All eyes lingered on a large framed photograph of the deceased embedded in an ocean of flowers. Somewhere underneath the tsunami of blooms rested the casket.
A trio of chest-high incense stands stood just in front of the altar. Incense was lit. The monk bowed and began a lengthy recitation of sutras.
Listening to the low, comforting hum of the monk’s chant, I felt a tingling sensation in my limbs. It spread like a contagion through me. My body grew lighter. I seemed to be floating. My vision brightened as I thought of Mikey and Sharon in better times. Then my thoughts returned to the present, and darkened. My friends were gone forever. For what possible reason? For what possible gain? Their deaths seemed senseless to me. As I returned my attention to the monk’s chants, the appalling senselessness of the act struck me with renewed force.
But the double homicide made sense to someone somewhere.
* * *
At the appropriate time, the first row of mourners stood and filed down the center aisle.
Lines formed behind each of the three incense stands.
Mourners bowed to the deceased, then the grieving family, then the immediate relatives. They added a pinch of new incense to the smoldering pile, offered their prayers, and bowed to each party once more before edging up the side aisles and returning to their seats.
I watched as people paid their final respects. Some offered short prayers. Others bent their heads for longer moments, clearly grieving. Many had handkerchiefs ready in their hands.
Japanese funerals are open affairs. The mourners come from all walks of the deceased’s life. As long as attendees bring the required condolence money in the proper envelope, no one questions a person’s presence. Which explained why Zhou, Noda’s PSIA friend, and Swelley’s people could slip in unnoticed. Who would question them? Who was to say they hadn’t known Sharon Tanaka at one time or another during her long and varied career?
Now Zhou and his colleague offered their prayers. The Chinese official returned to his seat but Zhou walked somberly, up the aisle, heading to the restroom. He paused in front of my row, lowered his head chastely, and whispered in my ear, “I want to talk.”
“Thought you might.”
He retrieved an envelope from his suit pocket. “Seven p.m. Alone. No photographers this time.” He glanced sideways at Noda. “No police either, but you can bring your man if you wish. Keep him at another table.”
The master spy straightened and slipped out the door.
A grim
ace flickered across Noda’s features. “Welcome to the club.”
“Which one is that?”
“The How-many-peckerheads-do-I-know Club.”
“And a fine club it is.”
Zhou returned, retook his seat, and whispered a few words in his seatmate’s ear.
A beat later, they struck.
Like a well-planned invasion.
CHAPTER 30
THEY were an army of thirteen.
They arrived unannounced and advanced with purpose and precision, marching into the hall in a loose but practiced configuration. When one of the ushers stepped into their path to shoo them away, a two-foot billy club connected with his right cheek and he folded up with a low moan. The sharp crack of cheekbone shattering forestalled any further protests.
Two men broke off from the rear of the thirteen, slammed the back doors of the temple hall shut, then stationed themselves in front of the barricade, feet spread and menacing clubs in gloved hands.
The remaining men tramped onward, the pounding of their heavy boots echoing through the hall. They detoured around the fallen usher. A splinter group of three peeled off and headed down the closest aisle. Three more streamed down the broad center walkway. A final trio filed down the far-right side.
The last two men surveyed the scene impassively from the back of the room as the troops deployed. The rear man of each trio took up a post at the end of his respective aisle. They each faced the altar. They planted their feet, then raised their truncheons and rested the working ends of the weapons on the palms of their free hands. The second man—and they were all men—peeled off at the halfway point. The three front-runners stormed all the way to the tops of their respective lanes, stopping just short of the altar. They turned and faced the crowd. Not with the synchronized timing of a crack military unit but with the casual arrogance of a gang following a plan.
None of them spoke, but each one gripped the handle of his bludgeon in a manner that could not be ignored. Some tapped the business end against the heel of the other hand.
It wasn’t an invasion so much as a staking out of territory.
And not a small army so much as a gang on a mission.
They wore tight black pants and clinging black shirts with long sleeves. Their hands were sheathed in thin black gloves. A black ski mask cloaked the face of each intruder, exposing only the eyes. There was no opening for the mouth. The total effect of the black clothing made them look sleek and larval-like.
Skin of various hues along a spectrum from buttery yellow to a roasted almond peeked through at the neck and around the eyes. All within the Japanese color scheme. And much of the Asian palette, for that matter.
But that was the extent of their footprint.
They would expose no faces. Leave no telltale impressions. A clean, controlled in-and-out was planned. But why? From our seats, Noda and I searched for even a hint of what we were facing but gleaned nothing.
A tide of murmurs welled up. The front man in the center aisle said, “Everyone calm down unless you want to end up like the usher.” To punctuate his point, he tipped over the incense stands and sent the funerary paraphernalia bouncing across the hardwood floor. “Now all of you sit down.”
Those who had been waiting to pay their last respects scurried back to their places. When the aisles were cleared of mourners, the last two men filed down the far right side of the seating area. The guards flattened themselves against the wall to let them pass. The pair strode to the front. The shorter of the two scanned the four rows of relatives, then whispered in the ear of his partner with unmistakable deference.
He had unintentionally pinpointed the leader, who was short and solid and meaty.
“You,” the boss said, jabbing an angry finger at an elderly man in the middle of the second row with thick glasses, gray hair, and a rumpled suit. “Get over here.”
From where I sat, I saw an old man’s head jerk up, startled. But he remained seated.
Sharon Tanaka’s brother—the gatekeeper who guarded the family during its grieving period—rose from the first row, hands clasped in supplication. “Please, sir, this is my sister’s funeral. I would request—”
The leader backhanded Sharon’s brother with a club. A second bone-splitting crack echoed through the hall. The blow flung the brother against the wall before he folded up like a puppet with severed strings.
“Anyone else?” the gang leader asked, flat eyes sweeping the crowd.
I started to come out of my seat.
“Don’t,” Noda growled under his breath. “Watch now, strike later.”
I glanced over at my partner. He sat as still as a stone. Waiting. Our time might come, or not. But, in either case, it was not now. We were outnumbered and outmuscled. With effort I brought my impulse under control. My blood boiled.
My movement drew the attention of the nearest guard. Raising his rod, he took a step in my direction. The sleeve of his black shirt slid lower and revealed a barbed-wire tattoo at his wrist. No, that wasn’t right. A row of three Xs with a line through them.
The leader repeated his command, but the old man simply shook his head. The tattooed guard lost interest in me and turned to watch the confrontation across the hall.
The boss mumbled something, and the shorter man edged down the row of seats and yanked the recalcitrant man from his chair. The old man’s glasses flew off—as did his hair.
The long black mane of a Japanese woman cascaded down from under the hairpiece. I inspected the unmasked face, envisioning it without the aging effects of the makeup, and the image of a woman in her late twenties came into focus.
One, I realized with a chill, I recognized—Akemi “Anna” Tanaka, Sharon’s daughter.
What was going on?
The men grabbed her arms and hustled her up the aisle and out the door.
“Hikiageru zo!” the man at the front of the center column shouted. We’re leaving.
That set the remaining troops in motion. In each aisle the guards began a ragged retreat. Walking backward and tapping truncheons lightly against their palms, they called on the mourners to stay seated until they were gone.
Then they were.
CHAPTER 31
THE police arrived in waves.
The first incursion rolled in all blue—blue caps and blue uniforms. Within ninety seconds, they had sealed the exits.
No one was leaving.
Mourners stood in small clusters, murmuring in hushed tones. A spokesman asked them to retake their seats.
A second inflow of uniforms arrived on the heels of the first and commenced counting heads and recording names. The third and final surge brought plainclothes detectives, and the real threat—the interrogations—began.
The Japanese phrase used to announce the proceedings was neutral in tone and could be translated as “information-gathering interviews.” It reassured many of the anxious attendees, but Noda and I weren’t fooled. The police would be gathering eyewitness accounts as well as attempting to ferret out coconspirators among the detained.
The detectives secured a pair of rooms at the back of the temple complex and the questioning commenced. The immediate family entered first, one at a time.
The rest of the bereaved were ushered into the adjoining room, where sushi, appetizers, and a range of free-flowing alcoholic beverages awaited. Sharon’s designated public wake served an unintended secondary purpose of loosening tongues before face-to-face confrontations with the Tokyo PD. More than a few mourners angled into the interview room in finely inebriated form.
Noda and I waited our turn, partaking in moderation. Zhou’s companion played the diplomacy card. The pair met with the detectives soon after the family, then waltzed out unscathed. Of like mind, Mr. PSIA sauntered into the back room uninvited, emerging a minute later followed by a scowling detective who gave a head nod to the badges at the door to grant passage to the clearly uncooperative agent.
Noda’s friend ignored everyone in the room, including Noda. Zhou,
however, had caught my eye on his way out and tapped his watch.
Despite the delay, our meet was still on.
10 P.M.
CENTRAL TOKYO
It was time to put the first lady to the test.
Stretched out in a taxi taking me across town to meet Zhou, I dialed Joan Slater’s private number. Noda and I had escaped detainment. Following his friend’s example, the chief detective had slung some of his own weight around. He had friends on the force. After the police noted Brodie Security’s involvement and reserved the right to interview us at a later date, they sent us on our way with the same disgruntled scowl.
“Good morning, Mr. Brodie,” said Margaret Cutler, Slater’s chief of staff.
“Morning, Margaret. Could you put me through?”
“I’m so sorry. She’s speaking to three hundred leaders of Red Cross chapters from around the country for another half hour, then there’s a Q and A and post-event chitchat.”
So much for instant twenty-four-hour access.
“I’m up against a wall here. I need to talk to her.”
“How soon do you need her?”
“Sharon Tanaka’s daughter has been kidnapped.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Wish I weren’t.”
The police were grilling each of the mourners without giving away the identity of the woman under the wig, but the truth circulated like the winning number of the year-end lottery.
“Oh, dear lord, that’s horrible. How can we help?”
“Get FLOTUS on the phone.”
“I can’t pull her out of the meeting but I can take her a message.”
I considered. “I need to talk to Sharon Tanaka’s family ASAP. There are layers of people running interference for them, and none of us can get through.”
“But you’re a friend.”
“There’s a blanket ‘no access’ sign out.”
“I can have an attaché from the embassy contact them.”
