PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (31 page)

CHAPTER 59

HIMEJI

“That’s Himeji castle.” Masateru spoke to Karla through her headset, pointing out the ancient structure as the helicopter banked lazily over the city.

Karla’s face was glued to the plexiglass window of the Bell 429; she had never been in a helicopter before. The ancient castle with its white walls and ornate silver roofing looked like something from a fairy tale.

“Is that where we are going?”

“No,” laughed Masateru. “The
oyabun
is a powerful man but even he doesn’t live in a national treasure. They call it Shirasagi-jo
,
the white heron castle. People think it looks like a bird.”

“Your city is very beautiful,” Karla said, her depression momentarily forgotten.

“Tonight it pales in comparison to you.”

Karla was dressed in a simple yet chic black Chanel dress. It ran from midthigh to her neck, hugging her curves and accenting her ample breasts. The other women in the harem had helped her prepare her hair and makeup. Gone was the fresh-faced teenager, replaced by an elegant woman.

The chopper circled their destination, giving Karla a bird’s-eye view of the Mori-Kai
oyabun
’s residence. It was nestled on the side of one of the hills that overlooked the city of Himeji, a sweeping estate of concrete and glass surrounded by traditional Japanese gardens.

They swooped over the roof, flared, and touched down on it with a bump. A house servant opened the helicopter door for Karla and helped her out.

Her high heels clicked on the concrete as she followed the servant across the helipad. Masateru walked beside them, then led the way down a flight of marble stairs into the house.

“The
oyabun
is in his office,” said the servant in Japanese.

Masateru gestured for Karla to follow and led her downstairs through a sitting room to the closed polished wooden doors of the
oyabun
’s study. He knocked gently.

“Come in.”

Masateru opened the door and gestured for Karla to enter.

The
oyabun
was sitting at his desk working on a laptop. His back faced a sweeping view of the city. It was dusk, and the lights of Himeji had only just started to sparkle.

Karla waited tentatively just inside the door. The
oyabun
looked nothing like she had expected. He had shoulder-length graying hair and a moustache, his eyes calculating but not cruel.

“Come forward, girl,” he said as he closed his computer. His English was perfect.

Karla tapped across the hardwood floors and stood on the intricate Persian rug in front of his desk.

“Shoes off,” he snapped.

She removed the six-inch heels.

“And the dress.”

The flush of color that ran to her face was hidden by her makeup but she felt no less embarrassed as she dropped the dress onto the floor, revealing lacy black underwear.

“Now turn slowly.” The
oyabun
’s eyes ran up and down her body. There was nothing sexual about his gaze. It was clinical, like the inspection of a racehorse by an astute buyer.

Karla turned slowly, trying hard not to burst into tears as she felt her body being violated by his eyes. Her hands trembled but she kept them pinned to her side.

“Very good. You may go now.” The
oyabun
returned his attention back to his laptop.

Masateru gave her a slight nod and gestured for her to leave the room.

She gathered the dress and shoes and made her escape. The house servant guided her from the door.

The Mori-Kai lieutenant lowered himself onto the low settee and poured himself a tumbler of Yamazaki whiskey from the bottle on the side table. His pack of cigarettes remained in his jacket; smoking was not permitted in the residence.

“She is very beautiful,” the
oyabun
said in Japanese, not taking his eyes from his computer screen. “You have done well,
waka-gashira
. A welcome addition to my stable. One that will bring us great rewards.”

“Thank you,
oyabun
.”

“You have performed well in the last few days. My sources tell me that the Yamaguchi subclans will not dare to fight us after what you did to Takahiro.”

“Everything is in accordance with your plans,
oyabun
.”

“Yes, but these foreigners still concern me. Especially that one man.”

“Our former-SAS, arms-dealing FBI agent.”

“What information have you uncovered on him? My contacts indicate he is no more FBI than you or I,” the
oyabun
added.

“He and his whore remain elusive. They attacked us during the kidnapping but failed to stop the Kissaki. Then they disappeared, back under the protection of the Yamaguchi, no doubt.”

“They are proving most difficult for you to destroy. I believe they have been hired by the Yamaguchi to target us.”

“Perhaps, but here in Japan they are only two. Inconsequential in our wider strategy. The trouble they caused in Europe will be repaired. The Frenchman will find us new resources. The damage here in Japan has been slight.”

“That is no guarantee for the future. What is to prevent more of them from arriving to join the fight?”

Masateru nodded respectfully. “I understand your concern. But if they think to challenge us, they will be disappointed. They cannot hope to match our firepower.”

“There is another shipment of weapons due soon, yes?”

“In the next few days. The Kissaki have already started training the Koreans and the Chinese. With the next shipment we will be able to double our forces.”

“Very good, and what have you done about the risk to our facilities?”

“I have increased security, extra Kissaki and some of our more trusted friends. Two shipments of women have arrived from the Philippines. We have put them in a new holding area. The Yamaguchi and their
gaijin
attack dogs will not be aware of this.”

“Filipino trash does not make us money, Masateru. How long until the Frenchman finds us more Caucasians?”

“He’s located a suitable network. I am expecting a report any day.”

The
oyabun
shut his laptop and rose from his desk. “Despite minor setbacks our business plans are still on track.” He walked across to the settee and sat opposite Masateru, who poured him a drink.

The head of the Mori-Kai raised his glass. “Loyalty, reward, and power.”

Masateru repeated the toast and the two men drank.

“I have decided to reward you for your work.”

“That is not required.”

“The girl, the blonde. I have seen you look at her. Tonight she will warm your bed.”

“The gift is too much. She’s a virgin—”

“Very well, if you do not wish—”

“No,
oyabun
, I would not dishonor you by refusing such a gift.”

The head of the Mori-Kai laughed. “No, I am sure you wouldn’t. Go, enjoy yourself.”

CHAPTER 60

LYON, FRANCE

Rémi was eating his lunch on a park bench, watching the swans glide elegantly through the blue waters of the lake at the center of Parc de la Tête d’Or. It was a favorite lunch spot in Lyon. He came here at least once a week during the warmer months. The calmness of the setting helped clear his mind.

A vibration from his cell phone interrupted a mouthful of baguette. He fished it from his pocket and checked the screen.

Have you identified a new florist who can get us lilies?

Rémi laughed. The Japanese were sticklers for security. They used code words and veiled speech even when he assured them no one was monitoring his phone. He changed it every month and passed them the new number via a coded system in an Internet chat room.

Yes, have identified new supplier. My contact is meeting with them today to check quality and quantity.

The new source of girls was a Romanian crime syndicate that Rémi had been investigating for arms smuggling. It had been easy for one of his local contacts to organize a meeting. When it came to making money, everyone was an opportunist.

Very good. Once quality confirmed we will send funds for first shipment.

Excellent, Rémi thought. He had started to worry that he would have to dip into his savings to make the repayments on his wife’s Range Rover. When combined with the fees for his daughter’s horse-riding and ballet lessons, his Interpol salary did not go far.

He finished his lunch, threw the paper bag in a trash can, and started the short walk back around the lake to the office.

A hundred meters down the track he spotted a tall blond runner coming toward him. An avid runner himself, he admired the man’s stride; he was clearly an athlete.

The man was only a few meters in front of Rémi when he stumbled on the edge of the track. He lost his footing and collided with the policeman, knocking the two of them to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” said the runner in English accented with German.

“Watch where you’re going, you fool!” Rémi clutched his arm where the man had hit him.

“Are you OK?” The German was up and offered Rémi a hand. “I was so focused on beating my time I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Just leave me alone.” Rémi got back up onto his feet and staggered. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. His world started to spin and he toppled forward.

“You should sit down, you’ve taken a nasty knock,” said the German, grabbing him by the arm before he hit the ground.

“I…I…ah…”

Rémi collapsed against the runner.

“Where am I?” Rémi awoke with a start as Aleks injected an antidote to the sedative Kurtz had punched into his arm.

“You’re somewhere where no one is going to hear you no matter how loud you yell,” the German runner said from the corner of the room.

Rémi turned his head from side to side. He could see rough stone walls all around him. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. He was lying down, strapped to a bench. The air was heavy with the musty smell of hay and cow manure.

“Do you know who I am? You idiots have abducted a policeman.”

“Oh, we know who you are, Capitaine Rémi Marcen,” said Kurtz. “The question is, do you know who
we
are?”

The Frenchman struggled against his restraints.

“No, I didn’t think so.” Kurtz dragged a chair across to the bench. “Tilt him up a bit.”

Aleks lifted the bench up, sliding a brick underneath it.

“Now we can have a nice little chat, yes?”

“Fuck you.” Rémi spat in Kurtz’s face, then screamed in agony as the German drove a kitchen knife into his thigh.

“Manners, Rémi. Manners will stop you from dying a very painful death.” He flicked the knife with his finger.

In response, the policeman screamed.

“Now, let’s start again. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them politely, OK?”

“Yes,” Rémi managed through clenched teeth.

“Very good.” Kurtz plucked the knife from his leg. “Who is your contact in Japan?”

“My what? Japan? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kurtz gave him a long, hard stare. “I didn’t want it to be like this. But if you don’t want to tell me what you know then I’m going to have to treat you very badly. Aleks, if you please.”

Aleks kicked the brick out from under the bench, and suddenly their prisoner was lying horizontal again. He used a pair of medical shears to separate the side of the Frenchman’s pants leg.

Rémi turned his head, his eyes wide with fear. “What, what are you doing?”

Kurtz stood above him, kitchen knife in hand. “Nothing to worry about. Just preparing you for a little ad hoc surgery. I’m very experienced in these things. I probably could have been a surgeon if it wasn’t for the hand tremors.”

Aleks cut the other leg’s seam and then the belt and waistband. He grabbed what remained of the pants and tore them off. Then the shears went to work on the underpants.

Kurtz retrieved something from the wooden bench. “You will appreciate the irony of this.” Kurtz stood next to Rémi’s head so the now terrified policeman could see what he was doing. He held up the cook’s knife and a phallic-looking cut of beefsteak. “The blade is Wüsthof.” He smiled. “Good German steel.” He cut cleanly through the meat, effortlessly slicing the fibers of the muscle. “And I’m going to use it to cut off your cock.”

“MASATERU! Masateru, he’s the only one I’ve ever talked to. He handles all the shipments and payments. I just find the gangs who supply the girls. That’s it. That’s all.” Rémi’s face was white; beads of sweat had appeared on his brow.

“How do you talk to this Masateru?”

“Phone! He makes me change my number every month.”

Kurtz took the Frenchman’s phone from the pile of his things they had placed on a workbench. He checked the calls and then the messages.

“These texts, are they from him?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” Kurtz pulled the sim card from the phone, took his iPRIMAL from his pocket, and inserted it in the purpose-designed slot. He uploaded the data from the card and sent it to the Bunker.

“They’re going to kill me now,” the Frenchman wept.

“No, they’re not,” Kurtz said quietly as he took his pistol from his jacket. “Because I am.”

Twenty minutes later, the old farmstead was burning furiously. The Frenchman’s body and the last of their equipment would be reduced to ash or bare steel by the time anyone responded to the blaze. By then the PRIMAL duo would be out of the country and heading for Japan.