The Nicholas Linnear Novels (67 page)

“And now?” His voice was clotted with emotion. “He may destroy you yet. I am afraid, Nicholas, that he has gone beyond even the Kuji-kiri teachings. He sought out
sensei
who, because of the nature of their teachings, would never be allowed into a
ryu
, not even the
Kan-aku na nin-jutsu.
These were mystics steeped in the ancient lore of that portion of China—the central steppes of Mongolia—of which there is little known even today. There is magic in him now, Nicholas, and it has taken him over completely.”

“Well, there is a kind of magic inherent in many of our own ninjutsu teachings.”

“There are imagined magic—that is, illusion—and real magic. The two should not be confused,”

Nicholas knew better than to argue this kind of thing with Fukashigi and he was silent all through the simple meal the
sensei
had prepared. Afterward, in the darkness of the night, Fukashigi began the ritual that would last until morning.

“Here”—his fingertips touching the opened box lid—“is the
Kokoro
.” This was a word that, like almost all Japanese words, had many meanings: heart, spirit, courage, resolve, affection, inner meaning, and more. It could, in sum, be said to be the heart of the matter. “It, too, is real magic. Your mother knew this and, although she suspected your father did not, she knew that you would. It was meant for you.” His young eyes were watchful, full of life and—something more. “Nine is the key number, Nicholas. There are nine emeralds here. One to break each arm of the Kuji-kiri—nine-hands cutting.”

Saigō awoke in the hour before dawn and left his
futon.
There was much to do this last day and the hours seemed to run ahead of him despite his precise organization. He had slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time in more than a week.

He was on the streets early. He went deep into the East Village, to an enormous army-navy-camping store where he purchased a dark-colored heavyweight duffel bag with a triple-weight polythene lining. He tested the duffel bag’s sling straps for strength.

Walking crosstown to the IND subway—he was most careful at this stage to take only public transportation—he emerged at Forty-seventh Street and walked the block over to Broadway. There he entered a theatrical supply house.

His third stop was at Brooks Brothers, where he purchased a light-weight tan business suit off the rack. The jacket was perfect but he dropped the pants off at a tailor to finish the length. On his way out, he bought a muted plaid porkpie hat which looked absurd on him in the light of day but which, he knew, would be perfect at night.

His last stop was in Chinatown, where he picked up a bamboo cane. Then, dropping off his parcels—which included the suit pants—he went out again, prowling in search of someone who looked just like him. This was something he had scouted on first arriving in New York. Height, weight, the physical semblance of his physique were all he was concerned with. The face itself would not matter. Not after he got through with it.

Croaker called in twice at half-hour intervals and it was a good thing he did. Either they had misplaced the message the first time or it had not yet come in.

He got it on the second call in.

“Matty called. Didn’t leave his—”

“That’s okay. I got it.”

In the traffic he began to look for one and when he found it, pulled over to the curb. He dug a dime out of his pocket and dialed. No police lines on
this
call.

“Not-a here,” Matty the Mouth said in a very bad Italian accent.

“It’s Croaker.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Cut the small talk. You got it?”

“Yeah but it’s worth a lotta—”

“Matty, we’ve already settled on a price.”

“Yeah, well, you see, Lieutenant, what we have here is a fluctuating market.”

“What are you trying to pull?”

“The price is out of date.”

“Look—”

“The situation’s changed since we last spoke, is all. Nothing to get your bowels in an uproar about. I still got the goods.”

“I got a notion to haul your ass downtown. How’d you feel about that?”

Matty clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Me, Lieutenant? Well, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t mind, ’cause I would. But I really gotta say that you’d mind even more ’cause then you’d get zip outa me and you know there ain’t anywhere else to go on this one.”

Croaker felt a tightening in his stomach. His heart was racing. “What’s happened?” he said carefully.

“This must be real important to you.”

“Spill.”

“The issue,” he said, “was cold when we first talked about it.”

“And now—”

“Now it’s as hot as Lucifer’s hind tit. Lotsa nosing around on the street. Someone else’s looking for this dame, too. As a hot item, she’s on the top of everyone’s list. All of a sudden, like, y’know?”

“But you’ve got it all. Name, number and address?”

“Lieutenant, when I tell you I got something, it’s not on its way in from the Coast. The information’s in house.”

“So give it.”

“After,” Matty said, “we’ve agreed on the new price.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Triple.”

“Triple! Are you out of your—”

“Lieutenant,” Matty said reasonably, “we’re talking about my life here. If anyone got wind—”

“Anyone like who? Who’s been asking around about this broad?”

“Don’t know directly.”

Croaker sighed. “Maybe you could find out, Matty, there’s a good boy.”

“Maybe I could at that. What about the price? Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Okay, here’s the diamond load.” The name Croaker got was Alix Logan. He also got a phone number and an address in Key West, Florida.

“About the other thing,” Croaker said. “You better get it to me real soon ’cause I’m likely to head south at any time, get me?”

“That urgent, huh?”

“I can’t remember the last time I had a vacation.”

“Will do. You know, Lieutenant, you’re really okay. No hard feelings, huh? Business is business, you know?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the vote of confidence. I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.”

“Tell me something.” There was an edge to his voice now as if he had just woken up. “How big is this thing?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Huh! I’m involved, ain’t I? Sure. Right up to my armpits. I just wanta know whether I’m standing in a pile of dogshit or—”

“I really can’t say yet. The jury’s still out. But it just could be.”

“Maybe I oughtta fade, then.”

“Strictly up to you. Might not be such a bad idea.”

“‘Predate it, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t want my wells drying up. Like a Texan that way.”

Matty the Mouth laughed, a dry rasp like a metal file going over an unstripped log. “Uh yeah! What I am today I owe to you.”

“Just keep it up, Matty. Just keep it up.”

Back in the car, he headed toward the office. Finnigan, the fat mick, would not be at all happy to see him this morning.

Well, to hell with him. Croaker braked savagely, jammed the heel of his hand against the horn rim, stood on the gas. When he returned from Key West with Alix Logan in tow, he only hoped the bastard would have a stroke.

If he could get her to talk. Fear was a most effective weapon wielded by a knowing hand. Unless he was severely mistaken, his little outburst in Tomkin’s face had had its desired effect. A dead issue had become abruptly hot. Now there would be a direct link between Alix Logan and Raphael Tomkin. For a moment he debated bringing Vegas in on this. It would, after all, be helpful to have someone here to round up whoever it was who was nosing around while he was down in Key West. But he dismissed it almost at once. It wasn’t fair to drop such a heavy bag of shit in Vegas’ lap. No, he’d just have to look after both ends himself. Timing. He’d need timing.

And a good deal of luck.

“I saw Justine off yesterday,” Nicholas said. “I asked her to go back out to West Bay Bridge until this is all over.”

Croaker slammed the door to his car, came around to the front where Nicholas was standing. “Good idea. I asked Gelda to stay with a friend of hers or something. I just wanted her out of the apartment for a while.”

Above them the tower on Park Avenue rose, half-skeletal, half-fleshed, so that it looked like an artist’s cross section.

“He up there?” Croaker asked, indicating the building.

“He should be. I cleared all of this with him first.” They began to walk across the wooden planks over the unfinished sidewalk. “He’s got guts, you’ve got to give him that.”

“Huh. I don’t have to give him nothing. If he’s agreed to it, five’ll getcha ten he’s got some angle figured.”

“Sure. Like getting Saigō off his back. Do you think he wants to be hounded?”

Croaker gave him a sideways grin at that. “Naw. I don’t think anyone wants that. Not even him.” They got into the elevator.

“Where are the men?”

“Coming in”—he consulted his watch—“just about fifty minutes from now. All TPF—Tactical Patrol Force to you civilians. We’ve got the works this time: tear gas, submachine guns, even a pair of super-snipers with infrared ’scopes. Hit a dime at a thousand yards in the dark. And, of course, all the men will be wearing bullet-proof vests—they’ve all been cleared for hand-to-hand, by the way.” The door opened on the top floor and they stepped out. “Tomkin had just better behave himself.”

“Listen, you leave Tomkin to me, okay? Just stay away. He only baits you because he’s scared of you.”

“Yeah?” Croaker grinned again. “Now that’s the kind of thing I like to hear.”

Just before they got to the doors of Tomkin’s office Nicholas stopped him. “Remember,” he said, “I don’t want any of your men on this floor. Not for any reason, is that clear? If Saigō gets by them, they are to stay put. I don’t want any of them getting in my way. This floor has got to be clear.”

“No sweat. Not that I like it too much but this is his building and you’re calling the shots. Seeing as how I didn’t do too well two nights ago. I think I can swallow this. Only”—he lifted a forefinger in warning—“don’t expect me to stay down there with them. If he gets away, I’ll be up here with you.”

Nicholas nodded. “As long as you come up via the route we mapped out together. Don’t take any unexpected detours.”

“I wish I knew what you had cooked up for this guy.”

“Believe me, it’s much better than no one else knows. It’s going to come down to him and me, anyway.”

“But all you have is
that
.”

Nicholas hefted his scabbarded
katana.
“That,” he said, “is all I am going to need.” He pushed open the door and they went into the great corner office.

Tomkin, seated as usual behind his enormous desk, looked up, frowning. “Can you believe it?” he growled. “A goddamned garbage strike. And in the middle of the summer. Christ, those union bastards know how to get blood out of a stone. This place is gonna stink to high heaven before it’s even finished.”

The old man stood on the west side of Park Avenue. Although there was little traffic this late at night, he nonetheless waited for the traffic light on the corner to change in his favor. When at length it did, he started slowly across the wide avenue. He seemed a frail figure from a distance, stooped under the weight of the duffel bag he carried slung over his rounded back. He had splay feet and his bamboo cane aided his slow passage. Because Park Avenue is divided by a rather wide concrete median, he could not make it across on one light.

Standing still on the strip, he looked quizzically about him as a grandfather might, caught dozing in his favorite chair during the day. His head was slow moving and it was some time before his gaze took in the half-finished building on the east side of the avenue. By that time, anyone who might be watching him, even casually, would not have thought it strange that he contemplated the structure for the remaining time until the light returned to green and he made his limping way across the street.

Instead of turning right, he went straight on, due east, toward Lexington Avenue. Once there, he turned south to the end of the block. He had now made a half-circuit along the perimeter of the tower.

There was an old-style phone booth on the corner. One of those with green metal and glass walls all the way down to the pavement. Beside it were black and tan polythene bags of garbage awaiting pickup. He put this makeshift screen between him and the tower as if he were about to head further east.

Now he was in dense shadow and he stood perfectly still, having first altered his image: the duffel bag was at his feet and he stood straight, his shoulders squared. The bamboo cane lay in the gutter, out of sight of even the sparse traffic along Lexington. He was invisible to anyone within the building’s periphery.

He waited twenty minutes.

Without bending, he unzipped the duffel bag and worked with deft, economical movements. When he emerged from his cover, he appeared to be a spare, dapper businessman in a conservative suit and a porkpie hat. As American as apple pie. He remembered to make his strides long and purposeful, knowing that even the most formidable of disguises could be betrayed by the peculiar manner in which an individual walked, the gait as singular as fingerprints.

There had been no movement along the east face but he had seen two blue-and-whites parked along the verge of the north face. They were dark, obviously meant to look empty. He did not think that they were.

Now as he completed his circuit of the tower, his estimation of the New York Police Force rose a couple of notches. In all, he counted half a dozen men either within or around the building. And once he had caught a tiny flash from somewhere above that could only come from the barrel of a rifle.

Not that he particularly cared one way or another how many men they had assigned to protect Tomkin. But one had, of course, to be prepared. However, he detested estimates: on anything. Estimates, he had been taught—and it was most assuredly so—were dangerous. How many men had gone to their deaths by taking an estimated count for real?

He went south on Park, taking it slow and circuitous, arriving back at the phone booth on Lexington a half hour later. Now was not the time to get careless.