Tokyo Kill

by Barry Lancet

  Black Wind . . . special wartime ops . . . executions.

  I saw it all now. Inoki was behind the home invasions. As a member of a wartime assassination squad, he was more than capable of carrying out such deeds. Of carrying out a string of such deeds.

  He’d killed Yoji. And Hamada. And Doi. He or his men.

  Wu looked alarmed. “You know Young One? He still alive? He is close?”

  I nodded unhappily. “He was staying with my client.” I looked at Noda when I spoke next. “He’s gone.”

  Lester Wu said, “His name?”

  I queried Noda with a quick glance. He shrugged.

  “Tetsuo Inoki,” I said.

  Noda excused himself without a word. Lester mumbled some quick orders in Chinese and two of his men stood up and followed in Noda’s wake.

  “Young One is joy killer,” Wu said. “He get much pleasure watching men die.”

  I nodded. He gets much pleasure and he was in China during the war and as a member of a special fighting force he would have been involved in all levels of activity. Elite fighters went everywhere. He might have had some exposure to the activities around the Last Emperor. He could have heard about the treasure.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “One last question. Could the Young One have known that Chinese spies sometimes copy Triads to escape blame?”

  “Yes. It is old Chinese trick. Government spies in China use this technique from last century, maybe longer. Black Wind traveled with Chinese collaborators. They talk many things.”

  It looked like we had found our killer.

  But could we catch him? Inoki was already on the move.

  DAYS 11 & 12

  BANDITS AND WATER ELEPHANTS

  CHAPTER 63

  NODA didn’t pick up Inoki’s trail until late the next morning.

  The ex-military assassin had skipped off to Miami in the company of two men with Chinese passports. Probably the same men who had picked him up in front of Miura’s place. Probably the same men who had been spotted in Kabukicho the night of Yoji’s murder. Probably among the three men who had attacked me on the ferry.

  The trio had flown out of Narita on Japan Airlines the night before, but had booked the previous morning, with a time stamp earlier than my arrival at Miura’s to talk about the treasure.

  Inoki wasn’t running from us but to something, and I had a pretty good idea what that was.

  * * *

  Ironically, only Noda and I made the evening flight.

  When the time came to move decisively on the home invasion case, the MPD couldn’t get their people out. Inspector Kato and his chosen backup, Rie Hoshino, tripped over red tape. So did the MPD’s designated golden boy. No one seemed capable of expediting the required paperwork and the string of stamped approvals needed all the way up the chain of command.

  So much for the long arm of the Tokyo MPD.

  Fortunately, since my passport was lodged at Shibuya HQ, Kato managed to spring it with a phone call and a promise to follow up with the proper forms. But the document was released with strings attached: the charges filed for the kendo club break-in stayed on the books and I would need to return to Tokyo.

  “With luck we’ll be a day behind you” were the inspector’s parting words.

  Jenny’s parting words involved a desire for ugly reptiles. When I’d called my daughter, she’d surprised me with some esoteric knowledge of Florida fauna. “My friend said Miami has lots of iguanas.”

  “That’s true.”

  A healthy population of the five-foot lizard lives in Florida, the offspring of escapees or overgrown pets released into the suburban bush by harried owners. Their number had grown so large that when an unseasonably chilly weather front swept the region, the cold-blooded reptiles went into a false hibernation, lost their grip on their lofty perches, and fell to the ground in surprising quantities. Which delighted rabid Sunshine State watchers by producing yet another string of bizarre headlines, among them “Kamikaze Iguanas Fall from Florida’s Frozen Trees” and “It’s Raining Lizards.”

  “Can you bring me back a baby one?” Jenny asked.

  “Do you actually know what they look like?”

  “No, but Alan Peters has one in a glass box at his house and everyone says it’s cool.”

  “So you like lizards?”

  “It’s a lizard? I thought it was like a turtle or something.”

  “It starts out cute and small and bright green, then gets big and ugly and wrinkly, with a sagging neck pouch.”

  “Yuck.”

  “You want two?”

  She giggled. “No! Bring me something good though, okay?”

  “Consider it done,” I said.

  * * *

  Noda and I landed without mishap, traveling from the cooling fall breezes of Tokyo to the balmy September weather in Miami, via a transfer at the Windy City.

  On the drive into town, billboards old and new informed us that we’d arrived too late for something called the Barnacle Under Moonlight and too early for the Dragon Boat Festival. The first involved live music at a nineteenth-century estate on Biscayne Bay, while the second, sponsored by a Chinese-American collective, featured an eggroll-eating contest and a platoon of boats decorated in dragon motifs. I could easily imagine Uncle Wu at the second event, lounging on the grass and enjoying the festivities of what he no doubt considered his extended family. I had no clue as to what Zhou would make of such an affair.

  “You have the address?” Noda asked.

  “Right here,” I said, tapping my shirt pocket.

  Our Miami affiliate had booked us into the Mayfair in Coconut Grove. The taxi driver knew the place, and thirty minutes later we pulled up to a monstrosity that looked like an art deco building with leprosy. Noda gave me a doubtful look but was reassured once he saw the lobby.

  “Two days, señores?” a Cuban man with stark white hair and a beige fedora said from behind the check-in counter, a string of miniature potted palms lined up behind him.

  “To start, yes. Any problem to extend if we need to?”

  “No, señor. You want someone to see to your bags?”

  “Not necessary. We’re traveling light.”

  He smiled knowingly, and it took me a moment to realize the phrase had a very different meaning in a town that saw more than its fair share of contraband and sudden departures.

  The second of which, as it turned out, we would unwittingly honor.

  * * *

  I awoke refreshed and ready for our morning meeting. At the front desk, a new Cuban in a black shirt and a red vest pointed us in the right direction.

  During our taxi ride yesterday, we had taken in a good swath of the local color. Coconut Grove was an old Miami enclave of coffeehouses, restaurants, boutiques, and a gallery or two. Large shade trees lined its nicer streets. The district sported some of Miami’s tropical pastels—aqua, mango, peach, and cherry—though whites and beiges predominated and there were only vague hints of the famous beachside art deco color palette.

  Our affiliate was a two-man operation. One who had adopted the name “Fitch” was meeting us at GreenStreet, a local coffeehouse. He assured us we’d have no trouble finding the place or him. Fitch knew a couple of other Brodie Security employees, but not Noda or me.

  GreenStreet was a comfortable European-style café with wooden tables, upholstered benches along the walls, and a few high-back love seats in tuck-leather red for the romantically inclined.

  When I told the blond waitress who greeted us that we were meeting someone, she invited us to look around and floated away. At the back of the café was a table with a Japanese newspaper draped over the edge. The occupant was a handsome pale-skinned man in a white linen shirt and jeans. He watched the entrance while pretending to be engrossed in the Miami Herald. A Cuban coffee and the remains of an omelet rested in front of him.

  We strolled over. “Fitch?” I said.

  “Abercrombie.”

  He had black hair parted on the r
ight and gray eyes with a mischievous sparkle.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He broke into a grin. “Of course not. Got to have some fun on this job. Don’t like to use the real name over open emails. Ken Durgan.”

  He rose, we introduced ourselves, shook hands all around, and sat. Noda’s English was serviceable when it needed to be.

  “You eaten?” Durgan asked. When I said yes, he ordered us Cuban coffee then settled in to study me. “I was really sorry to hear about your father. I’ve done several jobs with him and his team over the years.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “A good man and a real waste of talent. Been hearing good things about you, too.”

  I said, “Name like Durgan, can you get around Miami?”

  He laughed. “You think you’re the only one who can cross a cultural divide? My partner’s name is Cruz. We both speak Spanish. With freelancers, we can reach into the Cuban, Latino, Jamaican, and Haitian communities for starters. Whatever you need.”

  “Any sign of Inoki?”

  His grin grew. “Nothing says ‘find me’ like checking into the Biltmore. Your friend does not believe in keeping a low profile.”

  Noda said, “He isn’t expecting visitors.”

  “Always the best way,” Durgan said. “You told me he was some big-time military guy way back when. Can you give me more?”

  “In some kind of special task force during World War Two.”

  Durgan raised an eyebrow. “And he’s vertical and still killing people?”

  “He’s recruited help,” I said.

  “He did rent a two-bedroom suite,” Durgan said.

  “Do you know how many checked in?”

  “No, there’s been a glitch. My source saw the advance booking, but the norovirus knocked Maryanne on her pretty little can before your guys checked in so I don’t have any more info. For obvious reasons, she’s not going to call up and ask how many and what room. From her sickbed she’s narrowed Inoki’s suite to a couple of floors. Because of visiting VIPs for some conference, there’s extra security so discretion is the byword.”

  “How many rooms?” Noda asked.

  “About fifty,” Durgan said, regret in his voice. “Which is why you’ll want these.” He distributed Biltmore name tags and passkeys. “We head back to my office, I can fit you with blazers and pants, too.”

  I said, “That’s some connection, willing to give you ID and passkeys.”

  His grin turned wry. “Those are from my personal toolbox. If Maryanne knew about them, she’d never speak to me again. You need me along?”

  “Better you come,” Noda said. “This guy’s full of surprises.”

  “Not to mention he has the habit of leaving bodies in his wake,” I said.

  CHAPTER 64

  THE three of us strolled into the lobby of the Biltmore in slacks and blue blazers with small guns tucked unseen into the waistbands at our backs. The decidedly Mediterranean luxury hotel was a peach-colored monolith from a former age. It had a tall central tower and two outstretched wings that anchored the posh Miami enclave of Coral Gables with dignity and panache.

  “We’re underdressed,” I said.

  Durgan’s eyebrows danced. “That’s because we know our place.”

  Dress-up may have been routine for Noda and Durgan, but I felt stupid with a Biltmore name tag pinned to my lapel. My new name was Tony.

  Built in the 1920s, the refurbished Biltmore was aging gracefully. Its lobby overflowed with subdued grays and browns. Oversize hardwood birdcages were set at studied intervals, a nod to the hotel’s legacy years when colorful tropical finches were considered exotic and the height of elegance. The finches, sporting their rainbow hues, were still in residence.

  “Okay, we all know the drill,” I said. “Stay in touch.”

  Splitting the rooms between us, Durgan and I headed out. Noda took up a post in the lobby as a lookout, in case our prey left before we could track them down. We exchanged cell phone numbers, agreeing to call for a joint takedown the minute one of us found something, or meet back in the lobby in forty minutes’ time if our search proved fruitless.

  I decamped to my assigned floors. Adrenaline trickled into my system. We were closing in on Inoki. The Japanese authorities sought him for the home invasions, but I wanted him for retribution. Payback for Yoji and Hamada.

  Now in his eighties, the aged assassin should have been a shadow of his former self, but he’d scattered bodies throughout the Japanese capital, with nary a single detective of the forty-thousand-strong Tokyo police force the least bit suspicious until Wu had singled out the trained killer in Miura’s ancient army photo.

  We proceeded with caution, but I was optimistic for the first time. With Noda and Durgan backing me, and Inspector Kato and his team on the way, I hoped to have the gray-haired butcher under wraps and on his way back to Japan before dinnertime. Or if delayed, by tomorrow at the latest.

  I traipsed through the halls of the Biltmore, knocking politely on doors. Soft rose-colored carpet muffled my footfalls. I announced myself as a floor manager and inquired in rapid English about a missing piece of luggage. The blazer and the name tag were enough to quell any suspicion.

  Most people weren’t in. If they were, they usually opened the door long enough to respond. When my knock went unanswered, I moved on, planning to return later. We’d decided to put the passkeys into play only if we came up empty-handed.

  Since Inoki was traveling with two Chinese, we were relying on an Asian accent to signal Inoki’s presence, and the rapidity of the query spoken through two inches of wood to confuse them. We deemed it unlikely they would expose themselves to view by opening the door. A polite refusal with a telltale accent would trigger an apology and retreat, followed by a regrouping in the lobby and a three-man assault.

  I crossed the sixteenth room off my list of twenty-five and proceeded to the seventeenth. I knocked and asked my question.

  “Come in,” a muffled voice said.

  The door was ajar, as if they expected a maid or room service momentarily. I pushed it open and entered without thinking. Call it what you will—a slip, foolishness, or jet lag. In hindsight, it didn’t matter.

  It was too late.

  CHAPTER 65

  THREE men were in the room. All were standing. Two of them held guns. One of them was Inoki.

  “Welcome, Mr. Brodie,” he said. “Do come in.”

  With my hand still on the doorknob, I took a half-step back.

  Inoki straightened his gun arm. “No, no. All the way in. I will shoot.”

  Considering his record, the warning was hard to ignore, even in the hallowed halls of the Biltmore.

  “How did you know?” I said.

  Inoki smirked. “One of my boys saw your group in the lobby. We decided to wait for you. Come in and close the door, please.”

  Please. The polite hand of death.

  The unarmed man stepped up, yanked me forward into the suite, and slammed the door, throwing the dead bolt. He patted me down and confiscated my firearm. He was Chinese, as was the third man in the room. Both were tall and thin and had choppy hair and bad complexions. They looked to be brothers, one in his mid-forties, the other a good ten years younger. Neither was among the three who had attacked me on the ferry.

  “You should have dropped it, Brodie. I left your client alone.”

  There was an arrogance to Inoki’s manner I’d not glimpsed during our encounters in Miura’s home. His undercover work had trained him well.

  “He hired us to protect him and find out who committed the home invasions.”

  “Did he? Well, now you know. Until . . . you don’t.”

  Something sparked behind his eye.

  “Is it worth all the killing, Inoki?” I asked.

  A thick purple-gray tongue poked from his mouth as he considered how to reply. It slid over his lips like an overfed garden slug. “I’d forgotten how thrilling the action can be.”

&nbs
p; “Action?”

  “The war in Manchuria was the ultimate playground. I took anything I wanted. Life, women, gold. But I tossed the money around without thinking about the future. I was far too young to consider funding my golden years. Youth can be that way.”

  “So the home invasions were what? A reliving of your glory years?”

  The tongue pushed out his lower lip. “You mock, but you are closer than you think. Let’s just say I rediscovered an old passion. Once we started in on the first family I found it hard to stop. My compulsion had returned. Particularly for women. Mind you, I can’t take full credit. The Kuang brothers here helped.”

  Something in me shrank away from this man. He was damaged slime from a bygone era.

  “Families with children, Inoki.”

  He scowled. “Who are you to judge me? At one time the government paid me well to do exactly the same thing. Miura’s army buddies were old men. One was blind, the other wheelchair bound. Their lives were over.”

  “They were your friends, too. Maybe your new friends should remember that.”

  The older brother sneered; the younger one didn’t react.

  Inoki raised an appreciative eyebrow. “You’re smart, Brodie, but that won’t work. These two boys are like family. In Manchuria I belonged to an elite squad. We reported directly to the top field marshals. We performed various, uh, tasks. Often we were sent undercover to check up on the troops. I was assigned to Miura’s unit for a time, but my loyalty was to my commanders and my own squad.”

  Which explained why he’d tried to hide his face in the old photograph.

  I said, “So Miura didn’t know of your dual role?”

  “Never.”

  “Did he know about the Black Wind?”

  Inoki grew quiet. “I haven’t heard that name in decades. How could you know about it? The operation was highly classified and our code name was different. Only the Chinese peasants called it ‘Black Wind.’ ”

  I stayed silent.

  Inoki searched my face. He raised his gun higher. “You want to tell me who told you?”