Rings of Fire

by Gregory Shepherd

  “I understand, but what bearing does that have on the Olympics?” Patrick said. “This is four years later, and we have the situation at hand to deal with. You’re conflating two totally different things.”

  Harmon Phibbs took it upon himself to speak for Hooper. “What Norm’s saying is that what happened this morning doesn’t give you permission to grab your sniper rifle and go off the rez like you did in North Korea,” said Phibbs. “That was some spooky kabuki, World War III kind of shit. And now the whole potential refugee crisis in North Korea…”

  Hooper held up his hand to his senior case officer. “I can speak for myself, Harmon.”

  “Sorry, Norm.”

  While they were having this exchange, two Japanese men were escorted into the room by a Marine guard. Kazuo Hayashida, director of the Japan Intelligence Agency, silently took a seat at the table with a bemused look on his face. The younger man who had accompanied him sat deferentially on a chair away from the table. The way Americans argued without concern for group harmony both fascinated and disgusted Hayashida, especially since two of his main assistants had just been murdered in cold blood. Americans with their little power games, he thought sourly. If everyone spoke their mind like that in Japan, we’d be back to the Warring States period.

  “In any case, gentlemen,” Hayashida said, joining the conversation, “we obviously have a grave situation on our hands, and I’d like to thank you, Mister Hooper, as well as President Dillard, for generously allowing the use of the American embassy as the combined security command base for the Olympics. And, of course, thank you as well, Mister Featherstone.” He thanked Patrick separately because Patrick had been brought in as a private contractor, not as a representative of the United States.

  “By the way,” Hayashida continued, indicating the young man with his hand, “this is Minoru Kaga, one of our most promising recruits. He transferred over from the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office where he found things a bit…well, let’s just say he was looking for a bit more of a challenge. I chose him for his fluency in English as well as other abilities.”

  The young man stood and bowed. “I hope to be of service in any way I can.”

  Just then, there was a knock on the door, and in walked the young Caucasian woman in the navy pantsuit from the stadium. Her short, dark blonde hair was stylishly gelled, and she had the fresh look of someone who religiously kept in shape, although the creases at the sides of her mouth seemed to indicate someone who had already settled in for the long, hard winter of life.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said testily. “Apparently, my security creds didn’t make it to the front gate.”

  “That’s our fault, Kirsten,” Hooper said, looking sharply at Phibbs whose job it had been. Phibbs picked up his coffee cup and blew upon the cold liquid, saying nothing.

  “Patrick, have you met Kirsten Beck?” Hooper said. “She’s a liaison from the FBI’s Honolulu office and has been working for several weeks with the JIA. Kirsten, Patrick Featherstone is a freelancer who sometimes takes that designation completely literally.”

  Patrick gave a lopsided smile at Hooper’s description of him and rose to shake hands with Kirsten Beck as she took a seat at the table. They regarded each other with professional interest, but not without quick glances at respective ring fingers.

  “Oh, you’re the man who was doing the briefing at the stadium,” she said with sudden recognition. She smiled and said, “I’ve heard about your fine work in North Korea.”

  “Fine work?” Hooper laughed in sardonic disbelief. To his mind, Patrick’s actions leading to the fall of Kim Jong-un had been recklessly dangerous, and he began to let loose with classified information despite Hayashida and Kaga’s presence. “Do either of you have any idea how many refugees there could be if the civil war they’re projecting in North Korea actually comes to pass? The report I got this morning said twenty million! And do you know how much it would cost the surrounding countries to absorb them when they start streaming across the borders? Trillions, Featherstone, trillions! Thanks so much for your fine work.”

  A pall of silence fell over the room. Hooper finally broke it with an apology.

  “I’m sorry for that, everyone. Kirsten, I didn’t mean to jump all over you. It’s just that the situation in North Korea is even more unstable now than it was under Kim Jong-un. We all better pray it doesn’t turn into another Iraq after Saddam was toppled. Let’s get back to this Olympic thing. Again, my apologies.”

  Kirsten Beck began. “Totally understandable, Norm. Well, as far as this morning’s incident goes, I guess my main question is the obvious one: Does anybody have any idea who the shooter was?”

  Patrick said, “I have a few ideas along those lines, but I don’t think Naya and Watari were the main targets.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Phibbs, putting a hand on the rifle on the table. “They practically got eviscerated with this AK-47.”

  “What I mean is, whoever the shooter was, he was trying to send a message, rather than take out those two. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt if I myself was supposed to be the main recipient of the message.”

  “What makes you say that?” Phibbs said skeptically. “It was plain as day that Naya and Watari were…”

  “Naya and Watari were on either side of me, Phibbs,” Patrick said sharply. “The shots came one after the other. Why not take me out, too, since I was right in the middle? Plus, the rifle is a North Korean Type 58, not an AK-47, although I’m sure they look alike to the inexperienced eye.” Phibbs’s nostrils flared at Patrick’s intentional dig.

  “I’m also sure it was left on purpose,” Patrick continued. “I didn’t make many friends in North Korea when I was there, but the people I was up against could have taken me out any time over the past four years…or a few hours ago. I think the shooting was a calling card. Letting me…us…know how easy it is for them to get to us anyplace, anytime, in any way. And also that North Korea is still an active player at some level.”

  “And just in time for the Olympics when the whole world is watching,” said Kirsten Beck, more to herself than to the others. Patrick nodded.

  “Jesus, it just occurred to me. North Korea blew up a jetliner to try and sabotage the ’88 Olympics in Seoul,” said Fitzroy in his authoritative basso. “If there’s a Nork connection to all this, we’re in for some deep kimchee.”

  “Agreed,” said Patrick. “Also, I found this at the stadium. It was jammed into the ventilation slots of my locker.” He took out a small piece of paper from his pocket.

  “What’s it say?” asked Hooper.

  “You must look down upon the enemy, and go to higher ground.”

  “Sounds like a fortune cookie to me,” muttered Phibbs dismissively. “Maybe they couldn’t find a waste basket after they sent out for Hu Flung Dung.”

  Hooper lowered his head into a facepalm of bowel-shriveling embarrassment. Patrick glared at Phibbs and held up the piece of paper he had found in his locker. “I got a text with the same message right before the shootings. You’ll notice in the note here that the five Olympic rings are on fire in the background. I think this is a taunt,” Patrick said.

  “A taunt? Of you personally?” asked Hooper.

  Patrick nodded. “The words are a quote from a seventeenth-century samurai named Miyamoto Musashi. He was a master swordsman and artist. And he wrote a treatise called The Book of Five Rings. I wrote my art college senior thesis on it and posted it online years ago. My guess is that someone found it and sent me a message.”

  “So what do you suggest we do, break out the swords?” Phibbs asked.

  Patrick replied to everyone while looking directly at Phibbs. “I’ll need to bring in some people I trust.”

  Hooper spat air in disgust.

  Patrick continued, “That’s not a dig against the whole Agency, Hooper. But there are people I know who have a high
level of expertise that comes from personally dealing with North Korea. And to my mind, what happened this morning has North Korea written all over it. I also have a strong feeling that this morning was just the beginning.”

  CHAPTER 4

  After the meeting, Hooper asked Patrick and Japan Intelligence Agency Director Hayashida to stay behind to discuss a matter he didn’t want to go beyond the three of them. Hayashida sent Minoru Kaga, his new recruit, back to JIA headquarters. Once the three of them were settled around the table, Hooper began. “Gentlemen, I think an important question that has to be settled soon is, how much information on this morning’s incident gets released to the public. I’m talking, of course, about the North Korea connection.”

  Patrick exhaled and looked up at the ceiling with his mouth set in concern. Hayashida had his eyes closed while Hooper spoke, not in disrespect, but to show that he was taking in every important word. Neither he nor Patrick seemed inclined to be the first to offer an opinion, but seeing Hayashida’s closed eyes, Patrick decided to start.

  “Well, I’m really just the hired help in terms of security, so I don’t know if it’s my place to be offering my two yen on a policy issue, but the big question to me is, who were the actors in this morning’s assassinations, and do they have anything else planned? If they do, then I think it’s our duty to alert the public. And if it really is North Korea behind it, then I think we can be sure it’s not a one-off. Also, this morning was a clear indication that whoever it was, North Korean or otherwise, was able to circumvent all sorts of traditional and AI security.”

  Hayashida began to nod, still with his eyes closed, while Patrick was speaking. When Patrick finished, he opened his eyes and continued to nod.

  “I agree with what you say, Mister Featherstone: we just don’t know who it was and what else may or may not happen.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed and his head went back. Hayashida had just cherry-picked a minor detail of Patrick’s argument and ignored his larger point that the public should indeed be alerted. Hayashida turned to Hooper.

  “Mister Hooper, I actually asked Prime Minister Adegawa the same question as you did before I arrived,” said Hayashida. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, which Patrick took as an indication that he was about to impart information that might not fall on welcoming ears.

  Hayashida continued. “The Prime Minister and I both agree that these Olympics are hugely important not only for the prestige of Japan, but for lifting the spirits of the Japanese people who, as you know, have suffered greatly in recent years beginning with the 2011 Great Eastern Earthquake. Over twenty thousand of our people perished. And since that time, we’ve also had earthquakes in Kumamoto and Hokkaido, and the typhoon and massive floods of 2018.”

  He cleared his throat again. “The Prime Minister feels, and I agree, that whether this morning was an isolated instance or the beginning of a larger plan of attack, we can’t allow terrorism to bring the Olympics to a halt. The Prime Minister cited the example of the Munich Olympics where terrorists ran wild, and yet the Games went on.”

  “Excuse me, Director Hayashida,” Hooper interjected before the JIA director could continue, “but the target in those Games was the Israeli team. We can’t be certain that whoever committed these murders this morning doesn’t have a much larger target. What if they want to bring the Olympics to its knees? Or Japan to its knees?”

  Hayashida began nodding again. “Exactly, Mister Hooper. As you say, we can’t be certain. Therefore, it is the Prime Minister’s decision that the public not be alerted.”

  Patrick was barely able to stifle a sardonic laugh mixed with grudging respect at Hayashida’s adroit closing down of the topic with basically a nonanswer and making it seem as though a consensus had been reached. Death by agreement. He recalled the Japanese proverb, “If the pot stinks, put a lid on it.” Since he had grown up in Japan, he knew all too well the futility of trying to counter Hayashida and the Prime Minister’s brand of logic with anything actually rooted in the weighing of facts. They were going ahead with the Olympics, case closed. Butt out, gaijin.

  Instead of wasting his time on a counter-argument, Patrick rose from his seat and said, “If that’s the Prime Minister’s decision, Mister Hayashida, which I very much disagree with, then I suppose I have work to do.” He turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kamakura

  That afternoon

  After leaving Tokyo for home, Patrick had one more work-related task to attend to before he could unwind. Less than an hour later he arrived in his hometown of Kamakura forty miles south of Tokyo and maneuvered his motorcycle up the steep mountain where he lived. He parked the bike and proceeded on foot to a trail that led deep into the forest. Once on the trailhead he stopped and listened for a full minute. Nothing except the wind and birdsong. Satisfied that he was alone, he lowered himself down a steep declivity off the trail and walked two hundred yards deeper into the forest until he came to a spreading Japanese emperor oak tree with a large branch growing out at an angle. The shovel he had hidden under leaves was still directly under the tree, and he dug down into a foot of soft earth until the shovelhead clanged. Reaching into the hole, he extracted a heavy metal box which he opened almost reverently and took into his hand a well-cared-for Colt .45 1911A semi-automatic pistol that had belonged to his father. The oversized walnut grip was his father’s own design. It held a hidden extra round accessible by breaking off the inside grip panel.

  Owning a gun, owning a bullet, and pulling a trigger are three separate and very serious criminal offenses in Japan. For years, Patrick had managed to keep his illegal activities out of the eyes of the authorities by virtue of the remoteness of his shooting range and the meticulous care he took in masking any sign of his armaments. Not even his role as chief security consultant for the Olympics gave him leave to own a personal arsenal such as the one he had here. He began the day’s target practice by attaching a sound suppressor onto the barrel of the gun and loading a full mag of .45 caliber rimless cartridges. After setting up a paper target on his “range,” backstopped by the mountain thirty yards away, he walked back to the oak tree, took aim, and shot from a variety of positions: sitting, prone, legs folded tailor-style, even left-handed. When he retrieved the target, he swore under his breath. In the old days, every shot of the four mags would have hit at least the second ring from the bull’s eye. Today only seven rounds had even hit the target. His pistol skills had always lagged behind his rifle skills, but this was inexcusable, especially considering his appointment as chief security consultant for the Olympics. He swore again at his lack of foresight and discipline in setting time aside for the target practice that he obviously sorely needed. But he forgave himself somewhat when he considered the domestic demands on his time, demands he’d never had back when he was a young gunslinger in the Joint Special Operations Command of the U.S. Army.

  He checked the time and proceeded to clean the barrel with a bore brush, restoring a glint of silver to the ancient rifling. As he worked the brush into the deepest recesses of the barrel, he smiled as his thoughts turned to an early evening at home, a rarity in the months since his appointment. He carefully placed three pistols into a backpack and set off for home.

  Later that afternoon he awoke with a gasp. He had lain down on the tatami floor of his house for a nap but had quickly fallen into a dream in which his longtime lover, Yumi Takara, had her right hand outstretched to him pleadingly with a look of panic on her face. In her left arm she held a child with a gaping hole in his body. In the background of the dream a huge crowd was chanting the words “Rising Tide! Rising Tide!” over and over.

  He took several breaths to dismiss the horrific image of the child, then turned to Yumi who was at the other end of the room.

  “Same dream?” she asked as she rose to fill his teacup from a pump thermos on the kitchen counter. Patrick nodded and reached up to turn
on the air conditioner. The humidity had become unbearable due to an impending storm. He sipped the tea and looked across the room.

  “How’s he doing?” he said, indicating a little boy who lay on a futon.

  “Up and down,” Yumi replied. She went over to the boy and began stroking his forehead. He lay sleeping on his back with his head angled up to one side and his mouth open. The happy-faced puppies on his soft cotton pajamas brought a smile to her face, especially since Patrick had picked them out.

  “Are the supplements helping?” Patrick asked.

  “The doctors seem to think so. But he still has that vacant look from the malnutrition. It’s only when he sees you that he seems to focus on anything.”

  Patrick noticed that Yumi had placed a traditional Korean protective amulet of a three-headed hawk on the boy’s pillow despite her avowed disbelief in anything smacking of superstition. He had given it to her after rescuing her from Senghori Prison near the DMZ just before the overthrow of the Kim Jong-un regime. The reason for Yumi’s incarceration was the actions of her father. He had run afoul of Comrade Moon, founder of North Korea’s Bureau 39, and gone into hiding. In order to force his hand, Moon ordered that Yumi be kidnapped until such time as her father surfaced. He didn’t, and she was abducted to Senghori, where Patrick tracked her down and rescued her.

  After the overthrow, rather than returning immediately to Japan, she insisted on volunteering at a children’s shelter not far from Senghori Prison. Patrick had stayed with her. The North Korean boy who lay on the futon of their home was named Dae-ho. He had been found in the forest near the children’s shelter near Kaesong. He was one of seventy or so orphans (the number changed daily due to the mortality rate) in the children’s shelter, and Patrick and Yumi had begun adoption proceedings after nursing him back to a semblance of health.