Bolan brooded on what he knew about the ninja, as art and as menace. The five fine Stony men of Phoenix Force had experienced a bloody confrontation with ninja terrorists when a misguided attempt to "avenge" Hiroshima and Nagasaki had imperiled countless millions of Americans innocent of any antagonism whatsoever toward their Japanese allies.
Phoenix Force had reported to him of the war tools and techniques they had so bravely and unflinchingly come up against, and it was one hell of a story. Bolan had been absorbed by their accounts of the ninja's use of the short sword, and horsehair garrotes, and the many ruses they had devised to conceal themselves for the final strike. From his own studies, Bolan knew that if ever a ninja was cornered, he would bite off his own tongue rather than talk. Bolan was both repelled and fascinated by the ninja.
One thing struck the Executioner as bizarre: the contrast between the dedication and discipline needed to master the ninja's arts, however misguided, and Zeko Tanaga's supposedly ungovernable temper. As far as Bolan could see, the strength of the ninja lay in their absolutely iron-willed control, not in outbursts of unpredictable violence. In the full bloom of his bloody career, something—or someone—had changed Tanaga.
The memory of those soulless eyes still haunted Bolan. And he was certain the answer to the puzzle lay in the ninja's homeland, just as surely as the other keys to the Shinoda mystery awaited him there.
The stewardess approached with refreshments. She served the balding owner of a Tokyo franchise, found an extra pillow for his wife, then she reached Bolan's seat.
"Would you care for something from the bar, sir?" Suzy stared straight down into those steely blue eyes.
"Coffee will be fine. Black, please."
The stewardess smiled to herself as she poured a full measure of the strong brew into a plastic cup. Suzy knew who she was going to bed with tonight—at least in her dreams.
Her hand brushed against his, sending a tingle up her spine as she handed him a couple of the latest magazines and a pamphlet. There was an aura of excitement that surrounded this Colonel Phoenix—she had checked his name on the passenger manifest—and Suzy found it extremely enticing.
Bolan watched as the honey blonde in the trimly fitting uniform walked back down the aisle, then began flipping through the publicity brochure she had given him.
The tourist booklet was called Japan: Land of Happy Contrasts. The picture of an ageless sampan sailing up the Inland Sea was contrasted with a photo of the sleek "bullet" locomotive, one of the world's fastest passenger trains. A photograph of the neon-lit streets of Tokyo, brighter even than those of Las Vegas, was set alongside a delicate composition emphasizing the mossy quiet of a Zen garden. And blue-robed kendo students were pictured opposite some hot-dog skiers in the Japanese alps. The old and the new, the timeless and the latest fad—Japan had a foot in both worlds.
Bolan glanced at the picture of a little girl watching an aged craftsman creating an exquisite doll—the toddler looked like a little doll herself. How curious it was, he reflected, that a land of such beauty should also nurture the seeds of senseless terrorist violence.
The deep blue waters of the Pacific sparkled far below between the misty gaps in the clouds. Bolan wished he was going to Japan on a peaceful mission. Each time he crossed this ocean, he was going to war. . .
He picked up Seven Days, one of the weekly news-magazines. The stewardess was coming back with ginger-ale mixer for the guy who owned the car dealership. Bolan looked up at her and was rewarded with a we-should-get-together-sometime smile. He gave her a smile as he turned back to the photo-news section and was confronted with a face like ones he had seen a thousand times before in news magazines and on the front pages of the daily papers. It was from Belfast.
The photo showed a young girl standing outside the ruined front of a neighborhood baker's shop her mother had just gone inside for a loaf when the bomb had exploded. The camera caught that look of utter fear mixed with blank incomprehension that Bolan had seen reflected in the faces of so many innocent victims of rabid terrorism.
Anger flared into a steady white-hot flame as Bolan twisted his head away. That poor Irish youngster did not know the difference between political theories and cared even less, but she had lost her mother in the name of some vicious ideological abstraction.
No, not abstraction.
These bastards wanted power. Pure and simple. And it was very real; it was not an abstraction. They did not care whom they murdered in their attempt to seize control.
Assassins trained by the KGB's Department V outside Moscow; explosives experts supplied through Libya; Bulgarian hit men; Red Armies and Red Columns and Red Brigades; the ordinary "soldiers" sucked in by the unending propaganda spewed out from the Kremlin's sewers . . . all these killed innocent bystanders, killed anyone who stood in their way—and all in the name of their perverted ideas.
But what they really wanted to establish was a new order in which they were to be forever above others less fortunate, an order that would give them the freedom to pillage at will. It was not simply a question of Bolan's private convictions, it was a matter of public record—the evidence of modern history.
Yeah, Bolan knew these killers. He knew them well. Their ruthless business depended on the fact that no one in authority would stand up to them. Spineless politicians gave terrorists the freedom to wage their bloody campaigns against innocent targets.
Well, Mack Bolan was a death-dealer too, when he had to be.
There are times in the history of all civilized societies when the gap between the law and simple justice becomes stretched to the breaking point; when the machinery for protecting decent hardworking folk spins its wheels on the fine points of intricate legal niceties, while the common man's sense of justice is outraged. These are the times that call for a special man to redress the balance.
In British legend, when Prince John misruled during the absence of his brother, Richard Coeur de Lion, the people's cause was championed by an outlaw who lived in the deepest forest: Robin Hood.
In the American West, even if the storytellers do garnish reality, men like Bat Masterson and the Earp brothers used their guns to force murderous desperadoes to toe the line.
In other eras, in other places, citizens' rights have been defended by an outlaw hero.
Today, times call for an executioner.
The Executioner.
Bolan had served two tours in Nam, then spent the intervening years waging his private war against the Mafia. Now he and the small but mighty team of handpicked warriors that backed him were facing a new enemy.
Bolan was striking back.
He was fighting for that bewildered kid on a Belfast street. He was putting his life on the line to protect a teacher or a farmer's family in some far-off land, to insure that yet another area of the map was not to be colored in a Russian shade of red. And, as always, he was willing to risk everything for the country he loved and believed in.
Bolan knew with utter certainty why this new war was so important, why it had to be fought—alone, if necessary.
FIVE FACES.
That's all he had to go on, really. The hulking guy with half his little finger missing; the older fellow with the white streak in his hair; the studious one with the spectacles, possibly just a visitor; the woman, pretty in an unmemorable sort of way, and finally the terrorist, long since presumed dead.
It was going to be like looking for a goddamned needle in a haystack.
The airport facilities were jammed with passengers from three incoming flights. Other people thronged the arrivals area, jostling to catch a glimpse of a longed-for visitor or returning relative. Outside, there were more than a hundred million inhabitants crowded onto an island chain that was not as big as California.
It seemed an impossible task.
Bolan, standing taller than most, scanned the crush for any sign of someone sent to meet him.
A young American woman was being questioned about her visa dates.
; "Oh, for Pete's sake, this is the third time I've visited your country in the last year—of course my passport is in order."
The Japanese officer looked at her but remained expressionless. He waited for a colleague to come over and gang up with him.
Poor kid, thought Bolan, what a way to start a trip. She had longish hair pulled back in a rather severe bun, horn-rimmed glasses that only magnified the puzzled expression in her eyes and a wide mouth now set in a defiantly compressed line.
The second official walked over, and she repeated herself in passably fluent Japanese. The two men were clearly surprised at this but gave no indication of having understood her.
The woman tried a third time, reverting to English, and now they caught her meaning. Apparently the Japanese can handle English, but they are not at ease with a foreigner who can talk back to them in their own language.
A guy in a blue raincoat recognized Bolan from prior intel and gave a brief wave to attract his attention. The big American followed him through a door at the side of the reception area. He left wondering how the woman would make out.
In the quiet of the corridor on the far side of the door they introduced themselves.
"Kingoro Nakada. Call me King," said the guy in the raincoat. "It is my nickname, I'm afraid. Sorry I was late—a traffic accident snarled things up."
The only person they passed using this detour around the bureaucratic barrier was an old janitor pushing a metal bin of cleaning supplies. Might be a useful way to sneak through this airport's security, Bolan noted, not out of any malicious intent but simply because he always filed such information.
Nakada's car was waiting outside in a No Stopping zone. It was a dark Toyota limousine. The woman behind the wheel got out and opened the rear door for them.
"This is Setsuko Seki, my driver—I call her Suki. She worked with me for a while on homicide. I brought her along when I was transferred a month ago."
"Hello, Suki."
She returned Bolan's casual smile. Although in plain clothes—a green skirt and lighter, pastel blouse—she wore them neatly, very like a uniform.
Suki was undoubtedly an expert driver. Anyone who could maneuver through the Tokyo rush hour would have no problem in the qualifying heats for Formula One racing.
Staring out the window, Bolan realized just how green so many American cities were, even in their busy downtown sections; here, few parks or trees relieved the relentlessly dynamic sprawl of the Japanese capital. The noisy core of the city was ringed with crisscrossed layers of expressways, each feeding more cars into the swirling flood of traffic.
"Hang on," Suki said calmly, as she roared ahead of a taxi to be first through a narrowed roadway caused by the jackhammer confusion of a new construction project. The taxi driver blared out a protest at being so unexpectedly cut off.
"Not all our young kamikaze pilots sacrificed themselves in the war, you know," remarked Nakada, nodding toward the rear window. "Some of them went on to become taxi drivers. But they don't like Clause Nine, of course."
Bolan looked across at his host, who seemed to be enjoying the joke he must have told to a dozen different visitors.
"In our 1948 Constitution, in Clause Nine, the Japanese people renounced war forever. But those guys out there want their old jobs back—they say it was a lot safer!"
Bolan managed a polite grin. In his mind he was constantly reviewing the few slim leads he had to work on. But he would have to keep playing the wide-eyed tourist if he was to discover the scenery he had memorized from Shinoda's pictures.
Kingoro Nakada was explaining the local setup. "Having decided to have no more to do with war, Japan has no need for an offensive military machine and therefore no military secrets. And so, officially, we have no intelligence service as such. My unit is recruited from various police departments and the Self-Defense Forces—I've served in both. Security for visiting VIPs and for some of our own leaders is our mandate, but this involves a certain amount of intelligence work to keep tabs on known trouble-makers."
"I'd be very interested to see your procedures in that area. We might be able to exchange some useful suggestions," Bolan said, mindful of the newcomer's role he was playing.
"Good. I've arranged for you to be given a guided tour tomorrow morning. But first I'd like to show you my city. If you're not the victim of jet lag I'd be honored to take you to dinner this evening."
Bolan nodded his acceptance.
Kingoro Nakada leaned forward. "Would you pick Colonel Phoenix up at eight, please, Suki?"
8
THE HOTEL might have been situated anywhere; it was a massive maze of corridors, punctuated only by identical doors spaced at identical intervals.
In the bathroom Bolan found a toothbrush and a disposable razor wrapped in cellophane. Everything was safely sanitized. If it were not for the small pamphlet on Buddhist scriptures lying next to the Bible, and the tiredness he felt from the long flight, Bolan could have been in Minneapolis.
He flipped on the television as he unpacked his suitcase. The big event seemed to be a grotesquely phony midget wrestling match. He punched the Off switch and flaked out on the bed.
Suki was precisely on schedule. She called up to his room, and Bolan was ready.
"Commander Nakada presents his apologies," Suki explained as Bolan got into the car. This time he rode up front with her. "He's still tied up at the office but he'll meet us at the restaurant."
Suki had obviously had time to go home and change. She was now wearing a wraparound skirt and embroidered silk top with loose sleeves. While the outfit was thoroughly modern, it held more than a graceful suggestion of the traditional kimono. Her hair, sleek and black as a raven's wing, was piled back and pinned in an artfully casual manner.
Tokyo by night was even noisier than Tokyo by day. Vendors' cries, bicycle bells, the unending bustle of street business were interwoven with the roar of traffic. Overhead a dazzling display of neon signs screamed out their incomprehensible messages.
"Although he's officially resigned from Homicide, the commander still makes himself available to help clear up some of the outstanding cases," Suki said, amplifying her original apology. Her eyes, framed with soft, sooty lashes, swept the scene. "He's known as King of the City. It was a hard-won title and not one he'll give up easily."
"How about you?" asked Bolan. "Are you happy to have been transferred?"
"It is difficult," she replied, "so much more difficult for a woman to get ahead in Japan than it must be in America. I would have been foolish to refuse the opportunity of this new position."
They stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk. The car window was open. Bolan inhaled the curious blend of incense and rotting fish, of Hilite cigarettes, of fresh-cut flowers and boiling rice, and the sheer press of humanity—that indefinable but distinctive aroma of the Orient.
Bolan's attention focused on the side mirror. He adjusted it to inspect the car now third back from them. It was not possible to make out any details, but it appeared to have a number of men in it. Bolan felt sure he had seen it back at the hotel, just a detail picked up at the periphery of watchfulness. Probably innocent businessmen on their way to a sumo match. . .
"Some of the things I saw—well, perhaps this job is better, because one never gets used to the sight of death, Colonel Phoenix." Suki glanced across at him sympathetically, as if thankful that their visitor would not have to inure himself to the gruesome consequences of random violence.
"I suppose not," said Bolan, who knew full well what she meant. He had lived with it longer than she had. He had learned to accept its necessity, its occasional justifiability, its inevitability—but get used to it, never.
"There he is," she said.
Bolan noticed for the first time just how big the policeman was; not as tall as himself maybe, but far bulkier and more broad-shouldered than the people around him. Nakada was standing on the edge of the sidewalk outside Miyasaki's restaurant, his presence defying anyone to fill the empty parki
ng space in front of him.
He held a cigarette pinched between his teeth as he surveyed the scene with a proprietary interest. Nakada tossed the butt in the gutter as Suki slid the car over to the curb.
It was raining as Bolan got out. The large, warm drops had sparked a flurry of opening umbrellas. Bolan turned to check the traffic but the car that had aroused his curiosity had vanished.
Nakada steered his guest into the dimly lit restaurant, said hello to the owner and arranged that they should first inspect the kitchens at the rear. One of the cooks gave the commander a friendly nod. Nakada seemed quite at home here.
The cook picked up a razor-edged knife and demonstrated the slicing technique used to produce paper-thin shavings of raw fish.
Bolan noticed two senior chefs nearby closely observing one of their apprentices fillet a rather nondescript fish.
"Ah, he's learning how to prepare fugu," Nakada was delighted to explain. "One must earn a license to serve fugu. Certain organs in the blowfish contain a deadly poison and so they must be expertly removed before the fish can be cut up for sashimi or a seafood stew."
"One slip of the knife, one toxic part missed," added Suki, "and dinner would become as fatal as, what do you call it, 'Russian roulette.' "
"In that case, I think I'll stick to the beef," remarked Bolan.
"An excellent choice, sir," said Mr. Miyasaki. He had arrived in the kitchens to tell them that everything was ready.
Paper-latticed partitions were drawn back to reveal an intimate dining room. Only three places were laid around the low table. Nakada turned to Bolan. "I selected this place for its privacy. We may wish to talk over matters that we would not want any others to overhear. First we must remove our shoes."
Mr. Miyasaki fussed around, making sure they were comfortable.
"An advantage of police work, King, is the number of useful friends you can make," said Bolan as he seated himself on the floor by the ankle-high table.
"That's true," conceded Nakada, as the owner left with a deeply courteous bow, "but one also makes a lot of enemies."
Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins Page 5
