by Jeff Gulvin
Shikomoto placed his hands flat on the table. The chains rattled as they slid back and forth through the links. ‘Agent Logan. I’ve been sentenced to ninety years in jail. You really need to tell me something to my advantage before we can get into a conversation.’
‘Maybe you’ve got nothing to tell us.’
He laughed again. ‘How absurd. You come all the way from Washington to sit there and tell me that. How nonsensical.’
‘Have you got something you could tell us?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Is Harada doing this just because you were lovers?’ Swann asked again.
‘Do you have any idea what you mean when you say that?’ Shikomoto looked sourly at him. ‘You make a statement based on western ideals, of which, I might add, there are few. You make a statement based on western religious philosophy and western prejudices, and yet you have not the remotest idea what you are talking about.’
‘So it’s different in Japan, then,’ Logan said. ‘Sex. Being gay. Sleeping with men when you’re married.’
Shikomoto’s face darkened. ‘Do you really think I’m going to rise to this cheap bait? Do you not think I might have trained myself to ignore the jibe of ignorance?’
‘I think you might have. But you’ve got a lot of time to think in here, and if you were any kind of a samurai, you wouldn’t have allowed yourself to get caught in the first place.’
The silence was so complete that Swann could hear paper rustling on a desk in the room next door. Shikomoto stared at Swann, his fists clenched on the desk in front of him. Pryce, who was standing behind him, tensed.
‘Harada’s way is not the way of the warrior,’ Logan went on. ‘Yours may’ve been, but Harada has just killed two noncombatants and injured thirteen others. You’re not going to sit there and tell me that’s the way of the bushido. Are you, Tetsuya?’
Shikomoto took a long stiff breath and looked beyond them to the window, where the sky was grey and cloud-blown. He sat for a while, lips compressed, nostrils flared slightly.
Swann watched his face and saw the depth of passion beneath the calm exterior. ‘Why would Harada send a message about the Tatenokai to a reporter?’ he said.
Shikomoto looked at him then. ‘What do you know about the Tatenokai?’
Swann lifted his shoulders. ‘I know it was formed by Mishima before he killed himself in 1970. I know they wore uniforms and peaked caps and there were a hundred of them.’ He sat back. ‘There’s something special about Mishima for Harada, isn’t there? What is that? Is it just the homosexuality? When Harada phoned in his last warning, the codewords he used were “snow on the foot of Mount Fuji”. That’s what Mishima means, isn’t it? He’s got a fixation with him. Is it militia-linked, hence the Tatenokai?’
Shikomoto just looked at him.
‘What about the samurai? Harada’s family go back to samurai warriors, don’t they? His grandfather was a kamikaze and the lineage can be traced back to before the US Navy sailed into Tokyo harbour last century.’ Swann sat back again. ‘Mishima was flawed, wasn’t he, Tetsuya. He was not samurai, yet he claimed samurai descent.’
Shikomoto shook his head. ‘Mishima was more samurai than anyone else this century.’ He stood up. ‘I will say nothing further.’ He shuffled to the door, then turned and looked Logan in the eye. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Black woman. The nature of sexuality is irrelevant. You should understand that the love between warriors is love in its purest form.’
Logan looked back at him. ‘Go figure,’ she said. ‘And there’s me thinking you two were just a couple of faggots.’
They flew back up to D.C. and Logan talked to the SIOC via her laptop. ‘Not much is happening, Jack, although we’ve had hundreds of phone calls from people claiming to have spotted Harada.’
‘You surprise me. How many people does he live next door to?’
‘About fifty so far.’
‘And you’re checking them all?’
She sighed. ‘No stone unturned, you know how it is.’
‘I think you dealt with the inscrutable one really well.’
She laughed. ‘I was trying to goad him, yes. I don’t think it worked, though.’
‘Give him time. He knows something, Chey.’
She glanced at him. ‘You think so?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She looked back at the computer screen. ‘I don’t see how we can get at it, though. Kovalski isn’t gonna make any deals.’
‘He might have to, darling. Harada’s not finished by a long chalk.’
Harada had watched Kovalski’s press conference dispassionately and allowed himself a laugh at the three-year-old photograph which they must have acquired from the NPA in Japan. His days with the sokaiya were over now, as was everything else. He had been at home, and this morning he was back in his security truck, touring D.C. and considering the intense police activity. He had been stopped at least three times, along with every other Japanese, Chinese, Korean or Vietnamese person in the city. Pretty soon, the authorities would have to contend with another outcry over that. He thought about Smylie and his interpretation of the Tatenokai message, words spoken by the master himself, not long before the sepukko. He had heard one media comment from the militia, saying that if he was an Asian, then he was a government agent gone wrong. ‘Their own plan was backfiring on them,’ was how the unnamed individual had put it. What was surprising, though, was the editorial leader in one of the newspapers that morning, considering the possible validity of such an observation. American conspiracy theory was running away with itself.
Three separate troopers had stopped him and compared his face with the picture of himself and let him go. His papers were intact and his truck was well known, and he had fitted systems in cars and buildings all over the city. The money had been unimportant, but visibility was necessary and he knew that the average traffic cop, whose job it was to look out for the suspect, would consider that one gook looked much like another.
He sat in traffic now—yet another roadblock, more lights and sirens. He drummed his fingers on the wheel and thought about Shikomoto. There had been no way to get word to him, to tell him that he was here in the United States and that his mission would not be complete until he had his freedom, or honour had been restored. The yakuza families had informed him that Shikomoto was at Eastpoint Prison in Georgia, but they had refused to carry messages. Shikomoto was not yakuza and Harada himself was persona non grata, and he knew that if the old codes did not hold firm, they would inform on him themselves. But they would not do that, because whatever the situation here, he had married into the Yanagawa-gumi, the largest, most successful syndicate in South-East Asia. His wife’s father was of the old order and he saw as much in Harada, but he also saw the US dollars that Harada brought from his days in the North Korean enclave. With hindsight, another error, mistakenly believing that the criminal network in some way adhered to the old codes, which, of course, they did not: another misguided action for which he had to atone.
Now, however, Shikomoto would know he was here and he would recall, as Harada had done, the days in Indonesia before the mortar attack, when they had lain together like warriors of old. And on the day of the attack itself, they had painted one another’s faces and tied back their hair in the traditional manner. The FBI spokesman had been careful not to put forward the reason for his actions, thus far. Of course, it was possible he did not fully understand them, but Shikomoto would know that the day of atonement had finally come. He drove through the roadblock and his ID was checked. He glanced briefly at Union Station as he headed for North Capitol Street. If they thought they had problems yesterday, by the time the next round was complete, the whole city would be thrown into a panic.
‘You’ve got to get all the rubbish bins off the street.’ Swann leant on Kovalski’s desk. ‘If you don’t, he’ll use them again and again.’
Kovalski nodded grimly. ‘I know that. The district is removing them from sensitive build
ings in the Triangle already.’ He looked over at Logan who was talking to McKensie. ‘What happened with Shikomoto?’
‘Tom,’ McKensie interrupted him. ‘Before you talk to Chey, I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Want to know what?’
‘Two militia members from West Virginia have been abducted from their truck.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘It’s worse. Six Asians were allegedly seen in the area, and the victims were both women. One of them was pregnant.’
Kovalski rapped his knuckles against the desktop. ‘What the fuck is going on out there?’
‘The state police are on high alert because the word’s been spread over the websites. Right now, the town of Cassity, West Virginia, is a no-go area for cops.’
Kovalski bit his lip. ‘OK, Carmen. Thank you.’ He looked at Logan again.
‘Shikomoto?’ he said.
‘Nothing doing. I wound him up a bit, told him we knew he and Harada were gay, but got pretty much nowhere.’
‘Does he know anything useful?’
‘I don’t know. He won’t talk unless we deal.’
‘No chance. No way is the Director gonna let me deal. We deal with him, we have to deal with every piece of shit that crawls from under a rock.’ He sat down heavily. ‘Somebody get me some coffee.’
The Cub rode on a London bus round Piccadilly Circus, with Haan sitting seven rows behind him. Between them was one of the footpads, the third change since The Cub had openly walked out the front door of the Marriott. There was still no word on the target and, at this stage in proceedings, The Cub had no desire to ‘clean’ his movements. This was merely an exercise in assessing the level of resource. Haan was along for the ride, to verify the numbers that The Cub himself figured made up the team. It would be an MI5 surveillance team, specialists; people who did nothing other than this for a living. They were good, and right now he was not sure whether he had got the numbers correct or not. Later, when they did finally lose them, he and Haan could compare notes. Haan was better at this than he was. MI6 had used him on numerous occasions and he knew their surveillance methods better than many of their own spotters.
The Cub was moving freely around the city, taking advantage of the tourist cover story The Talent’s stagehands had set up. He had visited the Tower, the waxworks at Madame Tussaud’s and Regent’s Park zoo. Today, he had visited the London Dungeon and he was either giving the watchers the run-around or a good day out, depending on how they looked at it. He had had one contact with the ISA since he had been here and word would have been sent back to Cyrus Birch in D.C.
The British clearly knew he was here, but they did not know why. So he and Haan had devised a plan: after two weeks’ vacation time, The Cub would fly to Paris and from there, purportedly, on to D.C. The British would be finished with him as soon as he left their airspace and, given the nature of the ongoing relationship between MI6 and the DGSE, he doubted the French would be alerted. After that, he would forget the Intelligence Support Activity: the only way the Brits could have known he was here was via a leak from them. The Cub would contact Birch himself when he made a routine visit to the station chief in Paris. Then it would be fresh papers, fresh ID and a return flight to England.
The bus slowed, and he yawned, got up, stepped past the watcher and went down the stairs. The man stayed where he was, but as The Cub waited for the driver to pull over, another passenger got up from a seat at the back—a woman, middle-aged with a half-empty shopping bag. The Cub jumped down, crossed the road and went into McDonald’s, where he bought a hamburger and sat down to eat it by the window. The street outside was heaving with tourists and, even with his experience, it was impossible to spot who the watchers were. Couples walking hand in hand, women with babies, businessmen, tramps and beggars, just about anyone.
He took the tube back to the hotel and glimpsed a van parked at the end of the road with the hood lifted. A man looked as though he was trying to assemble some leads, and The Cub grinned to himself and walked over. ‘You wanna hand there, buddy?’
The man smiled at him. ‘Thanks, but you’re all right. The AA is coming.’
‘You got a drink problem as well?’ The Cub looked in his eye then and his gaze belied the fractured smile on his lips.
The man looked puzzled, then laughed. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘Of course. You’re American.’
The Cub looked at him for a moment longer. ‘Of course.’ He turned then and walked up the street.
Haan was in his room, seated on the bed overlooking the street. He had swept it again for bugs. He indicated the broken-down van. ‘He’s been there as long as I have,’ he said.
At that moment, a yellow AA van pulled up and the driver got out. The Cub pursed his lips. ‘See how long it takes to get it going.’
They watched for a few minutes longer, then lost interest. The Cub sat down on the bed and took a cold bottle of beer from the minibar. Haan tore the wrapper off a stick of chewing gum and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘I’ve heard a whisper,’ he said. ‘It’s only that, right now. But I’ll check it myself and then meet you in front of Notre Dame the day after tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘Let them follow you, Cub. Let them have their fun. Then they can pack you off on a plane and forget about you.’ He paused. ‘You’ve told no one in ISA what your plans are?’
The Cub shook his head. ‘Birch is doing a deal with Secret Branch 40. Somebody’s leaking stuff in our team. We’ll see if we can use theirs when I get back.’
‘The chances are they’ll find him quicker than your boys, anyway,’ Haan said.
‘Well, they sure did the last time.’
‘Only he wasn’t there.’
‘I don’t think that was their fault.’ The Cub moved to the window. The white van was gone.
He flew into Paris the following morning and took a taxi into town. He changed the cab three times and then walked through a department store, left by the rear exit, re-entered and left again by a different one, before taking the metro into the centre of the city. There he took another cab, which dropped him by the Seine, and he walked to Notre Dame, as positive as he had ever been that the route he had taken was clean. He was being extra-vigilant, probably for nothing. Haan was likely to be right. The Brits would want him off their turf and would leave it at that. They knew who he was and whom he worked for, but he had done nothing suspicious.
Haan was there, on his hands and knees, doing a street painting with chalk. The Cub did not recognise him at first, having never seen him in such a pose. He knew he could draw, however. During the more boring covert watches while they had been behind enemy lines with the 2nd REP, Haan had caricatured everyone in the unit. The Cub watched him for a while, then bought a beer at a cafe and sat down by the river. The sun was full and the sky empty of clouds, and sweat gathered at the nape of his neck. Haan worked away for another half an hour, then came and sat next to him. The Cub ordered more beer. Haan lit a Gauloise.
‘Those things smell like cigars made of camel shit.’
The beer came and Haan requested some cheese and saucisson. He looked at the glowing end of the cigarette. ‘You think so?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I never thought about it.’ Haan crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and lifted the glass of beer. The sun reflected off the muddied waters of the Seine and they both sat in silence as a boat crammed with tourists floated beyond Notre Dame. ‘When are you meeting Birch?’ Haan asked him.
The Cub looked again at the water and took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket.
‘Tonight.’
‘Do you want me along?’
The Cub shook his head. ‘No. It’ll only make him nervous. I’ll meet you back in England.’ He looked sideways at him then. ‘So tell me, your little whisper—what did you discover?’
Haan smiled widely. ‘There’s a very tall, very black Somali living in West London.’
18
HARRISON PARTED COMPANY WITH the Southern Blacks outsid
e the town of Coleman, Texas. The newcomers went west, and Hooch and Carlsbad headed east. Sidetrack stood with Harrison by the remnants of the previous night’s fire, on the hill with the caves hollowed out of the rock. ‘We’re going north,’ he said. ‘Me and Limpet.’
‘Right.’
‘You can come with us if you want.’
‘Right.’
‘You wanna?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sidetrack looked at him. ‘Well, north is where we’re headed. We’re meeting up in Arkansas one week from now, just beyond the Saratoga freight yard, by Millwood Lake. The KCS line. Swing by, if you wanna.’ He smiled, showing the protruding canine tooth and signalled to Limpet.
Harrison crouched down by the fire and picked up his tin mug of coffee. ‘I might be going to Michigan, Sidetrack. Don’t figure on me showing up.’
Sidetrack waved a hand and set off towards the railroad tracks with Limpet in tow. Harrison sat and sipped coffee and watched the sun come up over the mountains. A scorpion moved from its burrow not three feet from him and Harrison watched the sectioned arc of its sting. He thought of the night Jean Carey’s son died, and when Sidetrack and Limpet were gone, he walked into Coleman and phoned her.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘I was really beginning to worry about you.’
‘Jeanie,’ he said. ‘Never worry about me. I’m old, obstinate and really hard to kill.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Coleman, Texas. It’s south-east of Abilene on Highway 84. Where you at?’
‘I’m in a town called Tyler.’
‘OK. I’m gonna go down to a place called Brownwood, because I just split from the goon squad. Can you find it on the map? I figure it’ll take you most of the day to drive, but you oughtta make it by this evening. I’ll call you again when I get fixed with a motel. Head for Corsicana, Waco and Gatesville. Gatesville’s on Highway 84.’ He hung up, sipped some water and thumbed a ride to Brownwood.
Jean arrived at six that evening, and Harrison was bathed and rested, having slept most of the day away. He recognised his own truck’s engine coming from some distance away and got up to open the door. Jean had her hair tied up and was wearing a camisole with no bra. She hauled on the wheel of that old Chevy like a veteran. He watched her as she shifted the three-speed stick into neutral and killed the engine. The door still squeaked when she opened it.
