by Peter Albano
Yoshitomi waved his men forward. “No!” Brent commanded, gripping Yoshitomi’s arm and still smarting from the sexual epithet hurled at Dale. “There is something to settle first.” Brent was the senior officer present, had made the decision. The Japanese stepped back and leaned on their arms.
Habash’s eyes flitted around like a reptile preparing to strike. He knew he was one-on-one with his hated enemy. Brent crouched and balled his fists, but left them at his sides. He was still weak from the effects of his wounds, but the flow of adrenaline had charged his muscles with new strength. Anyway, the old feeling to attack, to obliterate, was there — overwhelmed every restraint. He hated the beast before him and sized him up like a professional fighter. The Arab’s arms were thick and ridged with the taut muscles of a man accustomed to hard labor or physical training. Lumpy with scar tissue, his balled fists were the size of pork loins. Brent guessed the man was an experienced brawler, perhaps even a professional assassin. Watching his enemy’s feet, he saw the minute shift in weight.
The first blow came from the level of the knees and it came up so fast Brent barely had time to duck as it whistled past his cheek and scraped the skin from his temple. Instinctively, the American stepped to his left, dropped low, and brought his right up like a sledgehammer and caught the Arab on the right side of the chest, feeling the blow impact so hard his teeth clashed together and spittle flew from his mouth with a grunt. He felt ribs give, maybe break, and the man gasped and spray thick with mucus whooshed from his lips. Cheers. Excited shouts.
But the man was a block of granite, muscled like a professional wrestler; he shifted his weight with the grace of a dancer, his left-handed swing bouncing off the point of Brent’s shoulder and pounding off his temple.
Even though the blow glanced off Brent’s head, in his weakened condition he felt as if someone had slammed an opaque door shut in his head and fired rockets across his retinas. He leaped back, shaking his head, clearing the darkness and the flashing lights. Grinning, Habash moved forward, lashing out like the brawler he was.
The swings were round and wide, almost as if the man was inviting Brent to move inside to take his easy shots. Dropping low, the American took the opening, coming up inside, accepting two powerful hits to the shoulders and the side of his head, clashing his teeth together and lacerating his tongue, the taste of his own blood thick and metallic. But he felt his counterpunch crash into the Arab’s cheek in return. There was a sound like teeth biting into a green apple and Brent knew he had broken his enemy’s cheekbone. But the huge arms were around him and Brent felt he was fighting a bear. Then he noticed the ridged scars on the man’s forehead, partially hidden by the hairline. A warning flashed.
The Arab reared back like a poisonous reptile poised for the strike, and then the whipping motion of his head as the snake struck. The blow was aimed at Brent’s nose and mouth and would have crushed the flimsy cartilage and sheared off his front teeth if it had landed. But the lieutenant had anticipated it and dropped, pushing with his hands with all of his power born of panic and rage, breaking the grip and avoiding the murderous lunge. Off balance, Nazik abdul Habash was caught by Brent’s two fists, fingers entwined to form a single lethal block like a tree stump that smashed into his stomach. Here Brent found the man’s only soft spot and Habash doubled over gasping for air like a drowning man.
Leaping to the side, the American brought the locked fists down on the back of the man’s skull, dropping him to the ground like a steer felled by the executioner’s hammer. A deep-throated animalistic shout of triumph burst from Brent’s lips and he was on his stricken enemy like a great white smelling blood. But the man was not through, rolling and spitting, screaming into Brent’s face, trying to bite his face, his throat. Brent lunged back, teeth bared. Rolling across the pavement, they scattered the blood-crazed spectators, clawing, punching, howling into each other’s faces. They crashed into a pile of boxes and pallets, sending an avalanche of crates and trash into the excited crowd and over themselves. Brent saw a sixteen-penny nail protruding from a board, smashed his enemy’s shoulders down onto the rusty point. Habash screamed, tried to roll, but Brent smashed him down again and again, puncturing the man’s back, spitting bloody saliva into the Arab’s face.
Brent heard Dale’s voice from far away. “Stop them! Stop them! For God’s sake, stop them!”
Holding Habash down with a forearm across the throat, Brent brought his knee up into his enemy’s crotch, twisted to free an arm, and smashed the man’s nose. Teeth slashed at his temple and fingernails dug into his back. Two short, brutal punches broke off the Arab’s teeth at the gumline and more blood sprayed onto his face. Now the Arab was on his back without the strength to roll and Brent pinned him with his own weight, elbowing up into a sitting position and then punching down with all the strength and power of his two hundred twenty pounds. The nose was flattened to the side over the left cheek which had caved in, both eyes bloodshot and deeply underscored with purple bruises that swelled them to slits. More punches broke the jaw and sent chips of enamel flying, ripped an ear so that it dangled.
“Stop! Stop!” Dale shouted, pulling on his shoulder.
Brent swung at the woman wildly, growling, hissing hate, possessed by a rampaging blood lust he had only felt twice before in his life. But it was back, the beast was loose, and there was no way to control it.
Strong hands were on his shoulders now, and he could hear Chief Yoshitomi. “Enough, Mr. Ross. It’s finished, Mr. Ross.”
“It’s never finished.”
It took four men to pull him off.
While two women tended to the writhing, moaning Nazik abdul Habash, Chief Yoshitomi and Dale McIntyre took Brent’s arms and led the American through the sullen crowd which had been enlarged by a dozen more supporters who had raced around the corner of a nearby warehouse. Quickly, the outnumbered seaman guards fanned out and rifle-whipped the angry crowd back. Nevertheless, the demonstrators were not finished, a large Oriental slipping through the cordon and charging the American, knife glinting in his hand. “I’m going to cut off your dick, you murdering son-of-a-bitch,” he yelled at Brent. “Then your whore won’t like you anymore!”
Before anyone could react, Dale, her face contorted in a rictus of rage, leaped forward gracefully, spun like a world-class skater on the tip of one skate and brought a single foot up in a circular blur like a monkey’s fist whirled around a seaman’s head. Her skirts flew high, there was a glimpse of perfect hips, thighs, and tight, muscular buttocks and her toe caught the man in the throat. Hurled to the side by the rapierlike blow, he dropped instantly as if his legs had melted, knife flying, clutching his mouth and throat, gasping as though a noose had been tightened around his trachea. Immediately, he turned purple, veins in his forehead bulging black, eyes protruding from their sockets like cue balls, gagging, vomiting, strangling on his own gorge.
More blows from the guards, Azuma Kurosu and Kenzo Nakayama swinging their rifles with relish, and the crowd fell back. “American whore!” they screamed, shaking fists at Dale. “We will remember this, imperialist dogs!”
But Brent was numb, still in the grip of the killing frenzy and spitting blood. He was trembling as Yoshitomi and Dale led him to the woman’s Honda Accord.
*
With Watertender Kurosu driving and Seaman Nakayama in the passenger’s seat next to the driver, the foursome took the wide Tamagawa Dori to central Tokyo and the magnificent Imperial Hotel where Dale McIntyre had an apartment. “The office can wait until tomorrow,” she had said simply as she gave the driver his directions.
She sat close to Brent, holding his hand gently because of his bruised knuckles and using a small linen handkerchief to dab at the blood that trickled out of the corner of his mouth. She had never seen such an explosion of temper. True, she was sure the disgusting sexual insult hurled at her had triggered the violence. Notwithstanding, the big Arab and Brent Ross had reverted back to the savagery of primeval creatures fighting over a ca
rcass, attacking with fists, teeth, fingernails. And the intent had been obliteration. She was sure Brent would have killed the man with sadistic pleasure if the guards had not intervened.
The young American was one of the most attractive men she had ever met. Obviously brilliant, he was a blond giant who gave women pleasure to look at. Even under his dress blues, one could sense his body was cared for and honed rock-hard by exercise, and she could imagine the rack of his ribs under the fine skin, the knotted, rippling stomach muscles, the trim waist and tiny hips, the smooth power of the muscles of his arms and legs. Youth gave way to maturity in the thickening of his neck, the hair which crept up under his loosened collar. There was strength in his face, the broad, noble forehead, the straight Grecian nose, jaw like a fortress, the blue eyes that had sparked at the Arab like arcing electricity.
What a strange boy. What an enigma. At first sophisticated and urbane, but then the raging beast out of control. She wished she were younger. Much younger. She moved closer until her arm was against his, her thigh pressing.
He seemed not to notice. She felt piqued. The carrier had been exciting, knowing every man who looked at her, except that specter Fujita, would have traded his soul for a few minutes between her legs. Men had always responded to her. Had always made the first move. She ran her fingers over the back of his hand, felt the hair covering his wrist. A long-dormant heat stirred deep down and tingled with both delight and discomfort. She squirmed uneasily. This really isn’t the time or place, she said to herself. The man had just fought for her life and his own — was bruised and hurt, still wrapped in the fury of the fight. She moved away, but his hand came to life. Gripped hers. She sagged back against him.
“You’re feeling better?” she said as Kurosu whipped the Honda off the thoroughfare and entered the madhouse of downtown Tokyo traffic. Fortunately, the oil shortage had thinned traffic, but still, the streets were crowded and every car seemed to have a lunatic at the wheel, especially the cabs.
He worked his jaw. “Yes. I bit my tongue and my cheek and my jaw’s sore.” He moved his body against his seat belt. “Got me a couple good ones in the ribs, too. He was one tough mother…ah, I mean, ah — guy.”
She laughed, pleased that he was back.
“I hope I didn’t shock you,” he said, looking straight ahead. “There’s something in my family. An ungovernable, out-of-control something that comes on. My father was worse. They called him ‘Trigger’ because of it.” He looked at her with wide, pleading eyes like the young boy he was, begging for understanding and approval.
“They really left you no options, did they, Brent?”
Obviously pleased by the answer and brightening, he shook his head. “You did all right yourself. You clobbered the slob. I never saw anything like it.” He looked at her admiringly. “You’re fast — quick. A hell of an athlete. Does the CIA teach all of you karate?”
She laughed. “No. I’ve lived in lower Manhattan for years.” She smiled, her widest and warmest. “Call it on-the-job jungle-survival training.”
He laughed and then became very serious. “They won’t forget.”
She waved. “Those hoodlums — that tête-à-tête back there?”
“Yes. Don’t kid yourself about those bums. That was backed, organized, and choreographed by the Japanese Red Army.”
“You’re sure.”
He nodded grimly. “Fujita did you a service. You’re better off staying clear of the ship. And be careful every place you go. They have long memories.”
“I’m leaving in three more days.”
“Where, Dale?”
“New York. I have a new assignment.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
But Dale McIntyre was not glad. She wanted this young man to want her to remain — be desperate to see her again, age difference be damned. But the immobile face was implacable, unreadable like a temple icon.
“This is it,” Azuma Kurosu said, whipping the Honda to the curb in front of the hotel’s brilliantly lighted entrance on the Hibiya Dori.
“You can’t park here,” Dale protested.
“We shall see,” the watertender said, stepping from the car, Arisaka slung over his shoulder. Nakayama followed and took a station at the front fender while Azuma beckoned at the door.
“He’s going to escort us up?”
“Right to your apartment door.”
“Orders?”
“Of course, Dale, orders.”
“You can’t change them?”
Brent chuckled. “Not Admiral Fujita’s.” He glanced up at the soaring new thirty-one story Imperial Tower. Although the Imperial had opened its doors in 1890, it was one of the most modern in Tokyo with a nineteenth-floor pool, numerous restaurants, and a shopping arcade. Brent whistled. “Not shabby at all,” he said.
“The CIA keeps several apartments here,” Dale said. Quickly, she led Brent and the watertender through the busy lobby to a bank of elevators while dozens of curious eyes followed.
Already engaged in a heated argument with a hotel employee, Kenzo Nakayama remained with the car.
*
Brent was impressed with Dale McIntyre’s apartment. On the thirtieth floor, it was richly furnished with deep carpets, a plump sofa, silk and velvet drapes, and floor-to-ceiling bay windows giving on a magnificent evening vista of greater Tokyo. Watertender Kurosu entered first with his rifle unslung and inspected the kitchen, living room, bedroom, including the huge walk-in closet, and bath. While Dale and Brent giggled, he even flushed the toilet with a broom handle to assure himself a bomb had not been rigged to the flushing handle. Then he stepped out into the hall and stood with ported arm and glowered back at astonished passersby.
Brent sat on the sofa while Dale dropped her jacket on a chair and sat close to him, her tight satin blouse accenting her large, rounded breasts. Carefully, she dabbed at his bruised face with a cloth dipped in a basin of soapy hot water. “A drink, Brent?” she asked, wiping the last of coagulated blood that had run down to the tip of his chin, and, leaning close, breast pressing against his bicep.
“Scotch?”
“Haig and Haig Pinch? Fifteen years old.”
He smiled. “You just made a sale. A double, straight up, one ice cube, please.”
She paused. “A twist of lemon?”
“In Scotch?”
“Why not? Adds a nice touch — a little finesse.”
“Lemons are scarce in Japan.”
She laughed. “I know. That’s why it’s a nice touch.”
“Go for it. I feel reckless tonight, Dale.”
Dale stood and walked to the kitchen. Although Brent was sore and fatigued to the marrow of his bones, he was entranced by the long stride, the sway of the undulating buttocks. He caught his breath. There was perfect balance there in the graceful sway of the hips from side to side; for each move a countermove like the harmony of counterpointed melodies in a Mozart symphony. A work of art, he said to himself. A mallet began to pound against his ribs and a tingling warmth spread low in his groin. He groaned as the door closed on the spectacle.
While Dale prepared the drinks, the young American stood and stared out of the huge bay window at the brightly lighted city. To the southwest, the Ginza — Tokyo’s Fifth Avenue — with its huge department stores and elegant shops; to the west, the Imperial Palace with its vast gardens and its spectacular lighted fountain; to the south, the Azubu section with its block after block of jam-packed houses, to the east and north, Shinjuku with its forest of skyscrapers and blaring neon glaring obscenely, and, backdropping it all, the harbor with the myriad of lights of ships, gantries, cargo lights, and rows of amber sodium vapor lamps to penetrate fogs and mists. He heard a movement behind him and returned to the sofa.
Dale handed him his drink and he sighed gratefully as he sank back into the embrace of the cushions. She sat close, sipping her own Scotch and soda while he drank deeply. “That lemon gives it a nice accent,” he said, holding the glass up and swirling the a
mber liquid around the solitary ice cube.
“We still have business,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Not that. I mean the software — can you pick it up here tomorrow night? We could have dinner here in the hotel — make it business and pleasure.”
“How much pleasure?”
She laughed, a delightful, high musical sound. “You are feeling better, aren’t you.” She sipped her drink.
“Yes. Meeting you was like an IV of whole blood.” He drank and began to enjoy the warm currents of well-being spreading through his tired body.
“You were just wounded, weren’t you, Brent?”
Disgusted with himself, he waved his glass. “I didn’t mean that — not that hero stuff.”
“I know. It was a sweet thing for you to say, though.”
He glanced at his watch and drained his glass. “I’d better leave. By now, Nakayama may be rioting with the Tokyo police.”
“Take the Honda, Brent. It’s better than a cab.”
“You need it.”
“Not really. I have one stop tomorrow at the office and it’s actually easier to use the subway. You can return it tomorrow. Phone me — room three-oh-four-seven.”
He rose slowly and hand in hand they walked to the door. He put his arms around her. “Brent,” she said softly. “I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He chuckled in her ear. “Were you careless in junior high school?”
She held his eyes with hers. “Really, Brent, I’m crowding middle age — only a couple years on the green side of the big four-oh…”
He stepped back, ran his eyes over her lean, curvaceous body with a look that saw everything. She blushed, but reveled in the sudden, hungry look that clouded the young man’s face and widened his eyes. “You aren’t exactly a matron,” he said. “You wear those years the way Haig and Haig mellows with its fifteen.”
She returned to his arms and held him close, thrilling at the press of his muscular chest, flat stomach, the hard muscles of his legs against her thighs. “Then the difference in age doesn’t bother you?”
