Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins

by Pendleton, Don

  "Yes . . . and that reminds me, there's a package for you."

  Bolan heard her cross over to the tiny kitchen. It was a couple of minutes before she opened the bathroom door.

  Sandy was carrying a tumbler of Scotch—a peace offering for having bent the rules.

  "I was saving this. Duty free. Real Scotch still makes a very worthwhile bribe in Japan." She handed him the drink and took the officially sealed envelope from under her arm. "Here. It's from Ryan. I'll leave you to read it in peace, while I try to get a crease back into those pants."

  He took a single sip of whiskey, then ripped open the heavy envelope.

  Ryan had returned the original clipping. It was stapled to a long teletype of a decoded message from Brognola. The man in Washington had already come up with the answers. The information was succinct. Bolan went through it point by point.

  The thatched buildings had been identified definitively as a Shinto shrine on the southwestern tip of the Umishi peninsula. The two roped-together boulders—a smaller copy of the better known "Wedded Rocks" at Futamigaura—were on the beach below the holy buildings. It was less than an hour's drive from the area where the Shinoda family originally came from. . .

  Yes, thought Bolan, and only four or five miles from Red Sun's Shoki Castle. If he had reached it, he might have done a little sightseeing there himself.

  Brognola also told him that clearance had been obtained to inspect the details of Shinoda's private business affairs. The balance he maintained in the bank, plus the various investments he already held, indicated that Shinoda was too well off to stoop to blackmail. With some prudent rearrangement of his personal finances he could even have afforded to purchase Karl Brandt's beautiful yacht.

  Bolan turned to the next page.

  His hunch was confirmed.

  The man in the photograph had been identified as Akira Okawa, a fellow scientist and Shinoda's rival in California. The group portrait had been taken recently at an international symposium of leading biochemists. It was held in Japan at the same time Kenji Shinoda had been on vacation there. And a voiceprint analysis, continued Brognola's teletype, suggested that the person who had been taped calling Shinoda might be—stress, might be—Okawa. The sample was not long enough for positive identification.

  There was a separate sheet attached with some biographical details on Akira Okawa.

  He was born in 1944 in Camp Alameda, where his parents, along with many other Americans of Japanese ancestry, had been interned for the duration of the war. His father had died there only weeks before they were released. Like Shinoda, Okawa had been a brilliant student from the beginning. But, spurning several lucrative government contracts, Okawa had carved out a comfortable niche for himself in private industry.

  There was an additional note appended to this sketchy outline.

  The Bear says that Okawa was probably the only scientist who could have provided the chemical knowledge to complement Shinoda's genius. But their antagonism toward each other was so bitter that there was little chance they could ever work together.

  Not unless Shinoda found some leverage, noted Bolan, like evidence of Okawa's contact with Japanese gangsters and business rivals.

  The last line of the typed communication read, "Striker, I think it's time we talked with Okawa. H.B."

  Bolan folded the papers and stuffed them back into the envelope.

  Sandy tapped once and stuck her head round the door. "Supper's ready when you are."

  She had laid out an easy-to-fix meal on a low table in the main room.

  "I did make some other calls today," she admitted as they sat across from each other, Bolan clad in freshly pressed pants.

  "So what else did you find out?"

  "Oh, that the Temple of the Eight Bells isn't all it appears to be." Sandy did a deliberately bad job of sounding offhand.

  "And how does the Temple of the Eight Bells fit into all this?"

  "In the spring of 1942, Colonel Yamazaki was on leave from Manchuria. His son, Hideo, was born in January 1943. The little boy never had the chance to know his father. Hideo was only three and a half years old when the colonel was shot for crimes against humanity."

  Ask Sandy a simple question and you get a history lesson, noted Bolan.

  "In 1964, Hideo Yamazaki surrendered his business inheritance and retired to the contemplative life. It was a significant gesture, but it was overshadowed by the excitement surrounding the Olympic Games. And he went into monastic retreat at the Temple of the Eight Bells."

  Bolan was increasingly absorbed in thought as he served himself some rice.

  Sandy continued, her chopsticks poised in midair. "The temple had been controlled for years by a very corrupt abbot, whose somewhat-less-than-spiritual appetites have long been catered to by the yakuza ." "Specifically by Kuma."

  "Right again. My friend Jimmy, who told me all this, used to work for an art dealer who suspected that the temple had become a pipeline to Kuma's gang for a profitable supply of religious scrolls, paintings and rare sculptures."

  "I think it's time I paid a visit to Hideo Yamazaki."

  "You're going to the temple?"

  "No," Bolan shook his head. "To Shoki Castle. Yamazaki may be living in retreat from the world, but I don't believe he's at that monastery."

  16

  SANDY HAD quite a day to look forward to—she was driving John Phoenix down to Umishi.

  "Would you call this number for me, please?" Bolan handed her a slip of paper from his waterproof wallet. The early-morning daylight streamed into the sparsely furnished apartment. "Ask for Setsuko Seki, or Suki."

  "What if I get hold of her?" Sandy asked.

  "Let me talk to her."

  Sandy spoke to the switchboard operator in Japanese, waited for a moment, then repeated her request to someone else.

  Bolan watched her cut off the connection by jabbing her finger down on the cradle. Whoever that was seemed very keen to know who was calling.

  "Well?"

  "She's not there right now. She's sick. They expect she'll be away for a few days."

  He shook his head sadly, then drained the coffee. He had just suggested they start their drive when the phone rang. Sandy answered it. This time the conversation alternated rapidly between Japanese and English as she talked with mounting enthusiasm.

  "That was Jimmy," she told him. "There's a man named Manutsu—he's an ex-wrestler, who's willing to talk to me. He's known Kuma from the days when they fought in the ring and there's no love lost between them. He'll be able to tell me a lot about the obayum of the Kuma-kumi. Jimmy tried to fix things before but got nowhere. Something must have happened, because suddenly Manutsu is willing to talk."

  Bolan knew what had happened, even if Sandy did not. He had made it happen. The gangster overlord was dead. It might not have been officially announced in the papers yet, but the news was obviously on the street.

  "How are you to contact him?"

  "He'll be at the sumo arena around noon. The apprentice matches will be under way, and there'll be two tickets waiting for us. We could go on to Umishi straight afterward."

  Bolan thought for a moment, then nodded. He, too, wanted to hear what this ex-wrestler character had to tell them about Kuma.

  He used the extra time to go down to Sandy's bank on the corner to cash several traveler's checks. When he got back to the apartment there had been another call—this time for him.

  "Mr. Ryan said it was most urgent," Sandy stressed. She padded into the bathroom to brush her hair and to give John a little privacy to return the call.

  The intelligence liaison officer at the embassy had not yet been informed of Bolan's accident, but he had a brief message to relay from Brognola.

  Akira Okawa was dead.

  They had arrived at his home to find he had hanged himself in the garage. Foul play was not suspected.

  Not suspected! Okawa may have committed suicide, thought Bolan, but it reeked with the corrupt odor of conspiracy.

/>   It was time he made his play. The Beretta was holstered underneath a casual cream-colored Windbreaker.

  "Let's go!" he called out to Sandy.

  Although they left with plenty of time to get to the arena, it took them nearly twenty minutes to find a parking spot.

  They entered through a long covered corridor lined with catering stalls. Sandy spoke to one of the men selling programs. He directed her to a guy wearing a flat cap and dark glasses. He was holding the complimentary tickets for her.

  "He wanted to show us to our seats but I said no," explained Sandy as they walked away.

  The narrow aisle leading down to the rows of little box seats on the main floor was congested with restless patrons and refreshment dealers. The great square hall could seat more than ten thousand. Now it was about one-third full.

  "Nishiwaga." Sandy checked the ticket numbers. "On the western side. Must be over there."

  Bolan looked down at the ring. Above it was suspended a wooden roof built in the traditional Shinto design. Two heavyset youngsters faced each other across the circular sanded arena. They clapped their hands and stamped fearsomely on the clay floor.

  Sandy ran her eye along the row of boxes, each fenced off by a low aluminum railing, trying to spot Manutsu.

  "That must be the one," she said, pointing out a balding man in his late forties, still big and not yet turned to blubber. She touched Bolan's hand. "Follow me, John."

  They squeezed past people to get to the designated row.

  The colorfully robed referee signaled with his fan for the bout to begin. The favored apprentice from the Oshiyama stable charged at his opponent. The Tomi-kaga novice smartly sidestepped, as much in sudden fear as for a tactical maneuver. The expected winner stumbled past in surprise and sprawled out of the ring.

  The match was over.

  The crowd was on its feet, shouting at this unpredicted turn of events that had enlivened, if also shortened, the routine preliminary bouts.

  One man had not stood up.

  Manutsu slumped dejectedly on his purple cushions.

  "Keep moving," Bolan ordered the girl. "Don't stop!"

  He almost had to push her past the back of Manutsu's box. The retired wrestler still had not moved. And Bolan knew he never would.

  "Make for the other aisle," he said. Sandy struggled through the crowd.

  "He must have had something very important to tell us," said Bolan, scanning the audience above them.

  At the top of the steps three men in identical outfits—slacks, polo-neck sweaters, Windbreakers, all black—had almost reached the exit.

  The one in the lead paused to turn, surveying his handiwork, double-checking the hit for the report he would have to make. He caught sight of the tall foreigner below him.

  Their eyes locked in a hard-edged glare that cut across the heads of the crowd.

  It was the man with the twisted lip.

  Bolan nodded almost imperceptibly. His black-clad enemy did not misinterpret that faint sign of recognition. It was a matter-of-fact challenge that simply stated, let's be at it.

  But the three strongmen swaggered anyway. They could not afford to be waylaid by the gaijin. Their master called.

  "Zeko Tanga." Sandy heard Bolan utter the name like a low curse. Bolan began to weave his way up the aisle, taking the steps two at a time where he could. She had to hurry to keep up with him.

  They were still in sight at the end of the covered foyer. All three were walking fast but not rushing headlong in flight—they did not want to attract undue attention to themselves.

  As they approached the street, Bolan turned to Sandy. "You get the car. I'll keep after them on foot."

  Sandy ran for the Datsun. Bolan watched her go, then turned to chase after Tanaga and his henchmen. He ran into a solid wall of flesh and muscle.

  A giant wrestler grunted as Bolan knocked into him. The wrestler was used to respect from everyone when he visited the sumo hall—even from outsiders. This big Westerner would have to be taught a few manners.

  Bolan could see this quarry escaping into the crowd on the opposite sidewalk, but the way was completely barred by the mountainous wrestler, who spread his paws out in a bearlike embrace.

  There was no time for games. Tanga was getting away.

  Bolan swallowed hard and gave the offended wrestler a deep bow.

  All three hundred fifty pounds of the man quivered with suppressed rage: did this foreigner think he could get away with a stiff-necked apology?

  Sandy got the car going on the third try. She could see the black-clad strongmen weaving through the spectators still coming to the stadium. Oh, God, John was in an argument with some gigantic wrestler!

  The traffic lights changed. Sandy steered straight across the street, round a frightened noodle seller and mounted the sidewalk.

  "John!" The brakes protested with a squeal as Sandy swung the Datsun broadside. Bolan jumped into the passenger seat, and she burned rubber across the paving, bumped over the gutter and accelerated into the traffic, giving two taxi drivers near heart attacks with her recklessness.

  "They went this way!" Her voice was mounting with excitement. "Are you all right?"

  Bolan nodded as he scanned the scurrying pedestrians ahead. He spotted the strongmen at the end of the next block. One of them had jumped off the sidewalk to flag down a taxi.

  "I see them," said Sandy. The three men were bundling into a car ahead. She glanced across at Bolan with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Well. . . say it."

  "Okay," said Bolan with a taut grin. "Follow that car!"

  Sandy stepped on the gas, swerved past a panel truck and tore after the taxi.

  A policeman dropped the whistle from his gaping mouth as the little Datsun screeched through a red light.

  "Looks like they're heading for the train station," explained Sandy.

  "I guessed as much. They've got a message to deliver."

  She swung the wheel over hard, and the car slithered around the approach ramp to the station forecourt. Bolan began to open the passenger door. "I'm going after them."

  "But what shall I—"

  "We're going to Umishi, remember? I'll meet you there." Her knowledge of Japanese might prove even more useful than her rustbucket of a car.

  "Where?"

  There was no time for complicated directions. An image sprang to mind. "The hot springs, just off the main road, before you get to the castle."

  Then he was gone.

  Sandy pulled up a hundred yards behind the empty cab, but Bolan had already leaped from the car and was running into the main entrance. He vanished into the throng just disgorged by the Nagoya express.

  Tanaga was smart. Not only would the "bullet" train get him back to home base far faster than any getaway car, but also the railroad station was the perfect place to elude any possible pursuit. That is, unless the pursuer knew where he was heading, as Bolan did. He brushed past the crowd looking for the train to Umishi.

  It was waiting at the platform at the far end of the concourse.

  Bolan dodged around a troop of nuns, squeezing between them and a locked ticket booth.

  The hand came out of nowhere. Tanaga had left one of his buddies to deal with the interfering American. And the man knew his business.

  Bolan spun around as the clawlike fingers dug into his arm. The modern ninja had not expected the sudden fury that exploded on contact. Nothing was going to stop Bolan from reaching that train.

  The loudspeakers announced the final call for the Umishi express.

  Mack Bolan demolished the man from the ground up.

  His heel smashed onto his adversary's foot, then he brought his knee up hard between the other guy's legs.

  Crude but effective.

  The soldier groaned, began to double over. Bolan grabbed his hair and pulled his head down to meet the other knee Bolan now brought pumping up into the man's face.

  The warrior slumped onto the asphalt with a broken foot, his groin on fire, two teeth ha
nging by a shred, his nose mashed against his blood-spattered cheek, a curious high-pitched ringing in his ears. The American he should have stopped was off and running again.

  Tanaga might have stood a better chance, but he could not risk a confrontation. Manutsu was dead, and the American just kept on coming. His presence in Tokyo must be reported.

  Bolan caught a glimpse of their dark Windbreakers through the window of the rear coach. But the door had already been closed.

  He raced along to the next compartment as the conductor gave the signal, and the electric express began to roll forward.

  17

  THE CONDUCTOR felt the door being pulled open as he tried to close it. He started to protest—it was too late to board, the train had started. But Bolan's strength was far beyond his best efforts, and the combat-ready big guy pushed his way up the steps.

  The railway man scuttled away to leave the tall American by the doorway as the express gathered speed. The train accelerated south through the sooty sprawl of Tokyo's suburbs. One thing was certain: Tanaga and his friend could not escape—they were all on this train together.

  Bolan sidestepped two overweight German tourists festooned with cameras. He dusted down his jacket and began to work his way along the carriage. Tanaga was in the rear coach, probably trying to devise an explanation that would not reflect too badly on himself. The assassin had to get through to report the survival of Colonel Phoenix. And Bolan intended to stop him.

  The train was only half full. It was too late for those tourists who wanted to spend a full day at Umishi and too early for any business commuters. But there were some families aboard, children, innocent travelers—he could not risk starting a firefight on the train. He would settle on being close enough to keep an eye on Tanaga.

  The electric "bullet" train sped through the smaller outlying depots. Two youngsters in a sports car tried to race them along the parallel highway but soon abandoned the chase. Bolan wondered how long it would take for Sandy to catch up.

  He came to the last compartment. A matronly woman stopped peeling her orange to inspect the glowering foreigner.

  There was a commotion at the far end, and the noise of the wind rushing outside as a door slid open. Bolan hurried through the coach. He could hear the conductor calling out in pain.