Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday 5:31 p.m.
"It's the best I can manage, Michael." Nogami's voice was apologetic. "Nobody knows I keep this place, not even my wife."
"Afternoon business conferences."
"You catch my meaning." He smiled and walked on up the sandstone steps.
The townhouse was in the quiet residential South Kensington section of London. From the outside, it looked to be the perfect safe house.
"So that's how the situation stands now," the banker continued. "Tanzan Mino has agreed to your terms. He even seemed to like the idea of laundering the hundred million one last time through a purchase of Mino Industries debentures."
"Now we'll see if he sticks to his word."
"You've got leverage at the moment." He was fishing for his keys. "Incidentally, I should tell you I broke the news to his London oyabun here this afternoon. About postponing the rest of the issue. He was not pleased. It's been a bad week for him."
"Are you planning to make this break with the organization permanent?" Vance knew it was not something a Yakuza would do lightly.
"I'm still not sure." His voice was pained. "I don't even know if I can."
"The long arm of the Tokyo oyabun. Plenty of reach."
"It's not just that." Nogami was inserting a large key into the front door, white with Georgian decorations and a leaded glass transom above. "You understand the kind of obligation we Japanese must bear for past favors. It's onerous, but all the same it's very real. We can't just say thanks for the memories."
"Giri." Vance nodded. "The 'burden.' "
"Ah, you know. Yes, it's called giri and there's nothing we can do about it." He was switching on the hall light. "Giri rules our lives."
Vance noticed the floor had a pristine carpet in conservative gray. A polished mahogany staircase led to the upper floors.
"Nice, Ken, very nice. The quintessential banker's pad."
"I have the entire building, my little indulgence. I keep a few antiques here, some of my art. You know, special things. Unfortunately I don't have a chance to use it much these days. The . . . friend I used to meet here . . . well, her husband was transferred back to Osaka. And I haven't had time to come up with a replacement."
"First things first, Ken. You should always make time for living. One of my few rules in life. You never get another shot."
He laughed and opened the door leading from the hallway into the parlor suite. It smelled slightly musty from disuse. "I'm better at giving advice than taking it too, old man."
"Touche." Vance shrugged, then looked around the spacious drawing room. It was furnished in standard English style, with overstuffed chairs, a Victorian fireplace, an oak tea caddy and bar. But the nineteenth-century appointments weren't what concerned him. Was it safe?
"Michael, we both may need this place if your plan doesn't work. I don't know where else I can go." He walked to the bar, a collection of bottles on the bottom tray of the caddy, and selected a flask of cognac. "Now could you repeat that story again? About the protocol. I must confess I'm dazzled."
In the limousine driving up from Westminster Union, Vance had finally told him the real purpose of the bond issue, what the money was going to be used for. The banker had listened in silence, stunned.
"Well, to make a long story short, you're being used, in what's probably going to be the biggest shell game in history. Tanzan Mino steals unsecured billions from European tax evaders and uses it to finance the opening of Russia's markets for Mino Industries. You're right to bail out now. If he pulls it off, he'll look like a genius. But if it backfires and the truth comes out, you'll get full credit. Not exactly a terrific downside."
"I didn't get this far exposing myself unnecessarily, and I don't intend to start now. Not for him or anybody."
"Then we'll proceed with Plan A."
"This reminds me a lot of the old days." He laughed and poured a snifter for each of them. "Here's to the end of giri."
"And the beginning of a new life." Vance clicked their glasses, then took a sip. "Now, we need to get our coordination synchronized."
"Everything is ready at my end. Tomorrow morning I'll issue the zero-coupon debentures you're going to purchase, and you'll make the trade. After that I'll wire your hundred million to Tokyo, and Tanzan Mino is taken care of. I've simultaneously arranged with Sumitomo Bank to accept that paper as collateral for a loan. You'll get the money from them on the spot. By the way, how do you want it?"
"Just park it in gilts, through the trading desk at Moscow Narodny Bank, the new branch on Saint Swithins Lane."
"Done," Nogami nodded.
"Now how about the debentures that are Sumitomo's security? And mine. Who's holding them?"
"We Japanese still act like gentlemen, Michael. At least up to a point. They've agreed to let me hold them until we close our books at the end of the month. I did them a similar favor last year." He sipped at his brandy with satisfaction. "So you can still call them anytime if, God help us, it comes to that. You'll have your leverage, and Tanzan Mino will know it. If you should have to call them and he defaults, he'll then have to answer to Sumitomo. And he wouldn't dare. I happen to know they hold a forty-million- dollar mortgage on his new office building down in the Docklands. They'd eat him and not even blink. There's some bad blood between them, though I don't know exactly what it is."
"Okay, so far, so good." Vance looked around the room. "You're absolutely positive nobody knows about this place?"
"It's been my little secret for four years now. I paid cash and I don't even report the expenses on my tax forms, which gives you some idea how I value my privacy. So there's absolutely no way anybody could know about it."
"You never came here in your limo?"
"Only if I came without a driver, the way we did today."
"Then it sounds clean."
"This place is the least of your worries, Michael." He settled into a chair. "After my meeting this afternoon, I have an idea that the London oyabun, Jiro Sato, has every intention of taking things into his own hands . . . to try and break me. He's going to push the pace-in swordsmanship it's called mukatsu kasuru to iu koto. He's lost too much face. He can't let you get away with this and still control the organization. After the debacle in Greece, he's near to becoming a laughing stock among his own kobun."
"Can't Tokyo manage him?"
"Theoretically. But the organization is getting a little far-flung these days. I don't know. My instincts tell me he's going to undertake some face-saving on his own. Just temporarily overlook any agreement you may have with the front office." He rose and splashed some more brandy into his glass. "It's going to get rough, that's all I know for sure. So the sooner you proceed with the rest of your plan, the better."
"Everything's ready."
"Then I suppose it's time we wished each other well and got going." Nogami finished off his brandy and dug the keys from his pocket. He jangled them a moment in his hand, then tossed them over. "Take them now. You might as well secure the place as we leave and start getting used to that tricky front door lock. There won't be any time to practice."
"Here's to you, Ken." Vance saluted him with the snifter, then drained it. "And many thanks. If you ever owed me any giri, consider it paid."
"That works both ways. I'm doing myself a favor too. I had to make a break, if this financing double cross of his backfires, it could turn into a worldwide scandal. I'd be ruined. Not to mention Westminster Union, which the regulators here would probably padlock. With scarcely concealed glee. It would merely confirm what everybody here wants to think about those 'win-at-any-cost' Japanese these days."
"Well, I appreciate it. I mean that. I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better over the years." Vance tried locking the front door. It was difficult, as Nogami had warned, but finally it clicked securely. Outside the evening air was brisk, with a few of Nogami's neighbors stoically walking large dogs and pretending to enjoy the ambience of London's chilly dusk.<
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"If we both live long enough, maybe we can try. You're one of the few Westerners I've known who ever really understood Japan."
"I had a crash course several years back."
"So I understand." He smiled as he opened the limo door. Vance would drive. "Which is one of the reasons I wonder if this arrangement is going to be as simple as we'd hoped. Tanzan Mino has a long memory, Michael. He doesn't forgive or forget. I'm sure he still remembers you were responsible for shutting down his cozy CIA arrangement."
"I thought it was time the Company cleaned up its act. But hell, that was almost eight years ago."
"That's a mere snap of the fingers in Japanese time, as you well know."
"Well, fuck him if he can't take a joke."
"A joke is the one thing he can't take, my friend. He never smiles unless there's a camera around."
"Look, you say he's agreed to deal. Let's assume for now he means it, but in the meantime we proceed as planned. You trust your mother, but you cut the cards."
Nogami settled into the seat and shut the door. Then he looked down quizzically. "What's this? I didn't notice it before." He reached down and picked up a black leather sachel off the floor, testing its weight. "Somehow I've got a feeling it's not a new tie from Harrods."
"As it happens, that's a little housewarming gift from the Soviet embassy. Part of my deal, along with the car. It's registered and legal, or so they tell me."
"My God." He settled it back on the floor. "I must be getting old. Hardware terrifies me these days. I'm not used to working this close to the street anymore."
"It's only till we take care of business. You handle your end tomorrow and we're both clear. At least for now."
"If it was really that simple, you wouldn't need this."
"The point is not to need this."
"My friend, if Jiro Sato breaks rank and moves on us, we're going to need twenty of these. And more."
Tuesday 9:28 p.m.
"A KGB security squad was posted at the hotel, around ten o'clock this morning, Sato-sama. They are armed."
"Saaa," he hissed an exhale of displeasure and leaned forward, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. One of the black-suited kobun immediately stepped up and flicked a lighter. He inhaled, then leaned back. "I'd hoped this could be handled without any fuss. But we still must proceed."
"Your decisions are always correct, Sato-sama." The second kobun bowed. "But perhaps it might be wise to discuss the possibility of waiting for the backup team from Tokyo, if only to convince ourselves they are not needed."
"This office lost much face because of our problems in Greece. There's only one way to regain it. We have to act now."
Worst of all, I've lost face too, Jiro Sato reminded himself, among my own kobun. An oyabun has to lead. The minute he shows weakness, he's through. Buddha only knows what would happen if I lost control here. There's no turning back. An example has to be made of the American meddlers, if only to make Nogami-san understand the organization still means business.
The Tokyo oyabun's daring project is going to succeed. In the long run it's inevitable. The problems now are short-term. But if anything else goes wrong with this office's responsibilities . . .
The kobun, five in all, bowed respectfully. They understood his thoughts as clearly as if they had been projected in neon across the back wall. The office had already lost three men. Face was at stake. This problem could not be solved from Tokyo. It was time to draw together.
The operation was scheduled to begin at 11:00 P.M. sharp. The five kobun had already synchronized their digital watches and stashed their H&K automatics in the two gray Fords now waiting in the building's underground garage. No flashy limousines tonight; the operation would be lowest of low profiles.
Three more of their team were already at the hotel, with walkie-talkies, monitoring the entrances. The KGB security in the lobby would be quietly diverted and then neutralized. The guard upstairs would simply be overpowered, or taken out with a silencer if the situation got out of hand. Since they were professionals, however, matters rarely went that far.
The time had come to move. All five lined up in front of Jiro Sato's massive oak desk and bowed to the waist; then one by one they filed out.
Tuesday 10:27 p.m.
It was going to be a simple operation, that much he was sure of. No violence, no bloodshed. The bottle should take care of the situation. All the same, he had a 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. Life had taught him that when something could go wrong, chances were good that it would.
After this one last job, he was going to disappear. The situation had deteriorated far past where any reasonable man would want to touch it. The time had come to bail out and let the chips fall. One more day, that was all.
Standing now at the side entrance of the Strand Palace, the small alleyway named Burleigh that curved around the rear of the hotel and met the main avenue, he pulled his overcoat tighter and glanced down at his Piaget.
It read 10:28. Time to get started. Everything was synchronized down to seconds.
He'd already made sure the service entrance was unlocked. He'd taped the latch on the metal door during the comings and goings of the staff during the evening shift change. Now all he had to do was slip through and the rest should go like clockwork.
In he went. The neon-lit hallway was empty, again according to plan. This was a slow time for all the staff except room service and the kitchen.
He slipped off his overcoat and threw it into a large laundry hamper parked halfway down the hall. Underneath he was wearing the uniform of a Strand Palace security man.
He checked his watch. Sixty-five seconds . . .
At that moment the door of the service elevator opened and a tall Irishman stepped off. He was wearing the same uniform.
It was a Strand Palace security guard, a real one. The worst possible luck.
The moment seemed frozen in time. However, one thing was certain: the security guard wasn't fooled for an instant by the intruder. He automatically grabbed one of his trouser legs and knelt with a practiced move, reaching for the holster strapped to his ankle.
The intruder was quicker. As the guard dropped down, his knee came up, slamming against the man's square jaw. The Irishman toppled back against the side of the elevator with a groan, but not before his fist lashed out, aimed for the groin.
It was a glancing blow, and it was too late. The intruder chopped down against his neck, disabling his left arm, then slammed his head against the steel strut running down the center of the elevator wall. He groaned and twitched backward.
Should I just break his neck? he wondered. Just kill him now? One twist would do it.
No, he lectured himself, be a professional.
Instead he rammed the Irishman's head against the steel strut a second time, and a third, till he felt the body go fully limp.
Not good enough, he told himself, and reached into his pocket for the bottle. The ether was going to get more use than he'd planned.
He doused the heavy cloth he'd brought along and shoved it against the fallen figure's nostrils. He continued to hold it on the ruddy face as he closed the elevator door and pushed the button that would take him up.
As the lift rose, he checked his watch and smiled to see that his timing was perfect. Ten seconds to go.
Tuesday 10:29 p.m.
"You bastard," Eva screamed as she slapped Vance with all her might, knocking him against the door of their room. The thin walls shook.
"Don't ever do that again." He drew up and swung for her, missing and crashing against a chair.
"Get away from me. You're drunk." She shoved him farther into the room, her voice trembling with anger. Then she wrenched open the hotel room door and stumbled into the hallway. "Pomogethya mnye!"
Their KGB guard, Igor Borisovich, was already running down the hall, "Shto . . .?"
"Help me." She seized his arm and pulled him in.
Mike Vance was standing in the middle of the room, weaving sh
akily, now grasping a letter opener in his right hand.
"Get the hell out of here." He started moving on the Russian, brandishing the weapon, but stumbled and had to pause to collect his balance.
"He drank half a bottle of tequila and went crazy." She was shouting in Russian. "Do something!"
Igor nodded knowingly. He came from a land where alcoholism easily edged out soccer as the national pastime.
"What is problem?" The hulking Soviet moved forward, gingerly trying to retrieve the letter opener from Vance's hand.
"Get away from me." Vance shoved him off, then stumbled back.
"No, you must give me knife," the Russian demanded. "We want no trouble."
Nobody noticed, but the time was 10:30. Exactly.
The room was brought up sharp by the sound of the door slamming and a click of the lock. They turned to see a figure wearing a black ski mask and the uniform of a Strand Palace security guard. In his right hand was a 9mm automatic.
"Who the hell . . . ?" Vance yelled drunkenly.
Igor whirled to stare. His hand started for his shoulder holster, but then he thought better of it and instead he backed slowly against the wall, silently glaring.
"Where is it?" the hooded figure demanded as he brandished his pistol toward Eva.
"Fuck you, whoever you are." Vance tried to move toward him, still grasping the letter opener.
"Shut up." The intruder shoved him backward, sending him sprawling onto the couch. Then he turned to Eva. "Where's the computer?"
Almost at that moment he saw it, on the writing table by the window. Without waiting for an answer, he moved quickly and seized it by the handle. After he'd stationed it next to the door, he waved the weapon at Eva again and barked. "Get your things. And all copies of the protocol."
"Listen, you son of a bitch," Vance sputtered as he drew himself up and moved again on the intruder. "She's not going anywhere. Now get out of here before I ram that goddam-"
The intruder slammed the pistol across his face, sending him crumpling to the floor. But now his back was turned to Igor Borisovich, who lunged.
The intruder saw the movement, reflected in the tall mirror above the dressing table. He easily sidestepped the lumbering Russian, then brought the pistol hard against his skull. Igor Borisovich groaned and staggered sideways flailing for balance.
The hooded figure seemed prepared. His hand plunged into a pocket and out came a bottle whose stopper had been replaced by a wadded rag. He flung the contents of the bottle across the Russian's face, then shoved the soaking rag against his mouth and nostrils.
Igor Borisovich struggled and clawed limply at his face for a few moments before lapsing unconscious.
"You fucker." Vance pulled himself up off the floor, muttering.
"Problem?" The intruder glanced at him.
"One small one, yeah. You damned near broke my jaw."
"This is the theater of the real, my friend," Alex Novosty laughed as he pulled off the ski mask. "If you're going to be kidnapped, it has to look authentic. I'm a professional. I never do these things by halves."
"Any problem downstairs?" Eva was already collecting her scant belongings.
"Yes, one very big problem. I had a small misunderstanding with one of the hotel's security people. The natives here are not friendly. He's on the service elevator now, sound asleep like this one."
"Where did you park it?" She opened the room door and looked up and down the hall.
"It should still be on this floor. I put it on Emergency Stop. But he's going to wake up any time now and sound the alarm."
"Then we've got to finish here and get out fast." She slammed the door and turned back.
They went to work, quickly turning over chairs, ripping curtains, leaving evidence of a violent struggle. Belongings were strewn across the bed and floor, as though there'd been a hasty search. It was done quietly and efficiently and took about a minute. Novosty thoughtfully positioned his black ski mask in the middle of the floor, just one more clue in what they hoped would be signs of an abrupt, forced departure.
Then they grabbed what they needed, including the
Zenith Turbo, locked the door, and made their way down the hallway. The Strand Palace security guard was still on the service elevator, unconscious but beginning to stir.
"What do you propose we do with him?" Novosty gave the Irishman a shake.
"How about a little more ether," Eva suggested. She was clasping the Zenith next to her. "And then let's get out of here."
He obligingly gave the man a final dose from the almost- empty bottle, leaving the rag across his face. By the time he finished, the elevator had reached the service area in the basement. Their Soviet limousine was parked in the alley, ready. In seconds they were in it and gone.
Tuesday 10:43 p.m.
Michael Vance, Eva Borodin, and Aleksei Novosty were luckier than they knew. When they emerged, the Japanese guard Jiro Sato had stationed at the Burleigh entrance had momentarily been called away by radio to confer at the Strand corner. Since the alleyway was curved slightly, as London alleys invariably are, the huddled Yakuza team saw nothing but the tinted windows of a limousine with diplomatic license plates speeding past. They paid it no heed.
Watches were checked one more time, and then the dark-suited men fanned out. The guard stationed down Burleigh returned to his post, while the five who had been in the Docklands office made their way into the teeming lobby on the Strand. While two started up the fire stairs, the other three converged on the KGB guard, disarmed him discreetly, and then informed him that he had pressing business outside. He was shoved into one of the waiting Fords, gagged, and handcuffed to the steering column. It took less than a minute to neutralize him.
Then the three returned to the lobby and got on the elevator. On the eighth floor they met the other two, who had come in from the stairway at the opposite end of the hall. Together they swept the corridors.
The KGB guard was nowhere to be seen.
"Perhaps they pulled the security on this floor," one of them said.
"Or he has gone into the room, to piss out some vodka," another suggested.
"This will be easier than we thought," a third was heard to observe.
Together they converged on the room registered in the name of Michael Vance, and then they stood aside as one knocked.
When there was no answer, they elected to shoulder it in.
As they rushed the room, they were met by a fusillade of automatic pistol fire from a boiling mad KGB security agent, nursing a headache and crouched just inside the bathroom door.
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