Time of Attack (26 page)

D
eputy Bowen woke up to the scream of landing gear on the tarmac and a three-year-old Vietnamese boy kicking the back of his seat like he was trying to stomp a snake.

Bowen rubbed the sleep from his eyes and moved his neck from side to side in a vain attempt to work out the inevitable kinks brought on by the fourteen-hour flight between Dulles and Tokyo. He was still astounded that he’d been allowed to even make the trip. Normal protocol was to send a written lead to investigators in the country where a fugitive was suspected to be. But evidently, Director Carroll realized someone like Jericho Quinn required measures beyond normal protocol if they intended to capture him.

Bowen opened the sketch pad in the seat pocket and looked it over while the plane taxied to the gate. There was a pencil study of Quinn, boxing, the way Bowen remembered him. A quick figure study of Ronnie Garcia—he couldn’t help that—and a faceless sniper hiding in some weeds. Drawing helped him work through things—and the good Lord knew he had plenty to work through.

Bowen grabbed his tan BLACKHAWK! daypack—his only luggage—from the overhead compartment and shuffled off the plane with the other passengers.

A willow-thin Delta attendant he’d chatted with during the flight met him at the door. She’d ducked into the bathroom just before landing to straighten her hair and apply a fresh coat of lipstick that matched a bright red uniform dress. Extending her hand, she passed him a cocktail napkin with her cell number, thanking him sweetly as she did all the passengers when they walked by.

She’d invited him over to try his hand at drawing her, but she was far too needy to be his type. He smiled though, knowing the chances of her being on the return flight were good enough that he didn’t want to make her mad.

He had plenty of other things to worry about without getting tangled up with some flight attendant first rattle out of the box—like navigating his way in a country that didn’t use the alphabet.

Thankfully, all the signs leading him through the arrival process were in English as well as the unintelligible chicken scratches that were Japanese. With all the fearmongering in the news lately about plagues and zombie viruses, the medical screening queue was the first obstacle for entry.

What looked like a large tripod-mounted camera faced newcomers as they passed through a small turnstile just outside the jetway. A sign above advised that authorities were checking the temperature of all arrivals and apologized for the intrusion.

Immigration was next, where a fatigued-looking but overly polite woman with a Buster Brown haircut checked Bowen’s passport and inserted an entry visa stamp. She took a photo and he had both index fingers printed before the lady dismissed him to move on toward baggage claim.

Since all he had was a carry-on, Bowen made it to the Customs counter quickly. He gave the most innocent smile he could muster and handed over the declaration form he’d filled out on the plane, promising he wasn’t a drug mule or an international money launderer.

An express train from Narita took him on the one-hour ride to yet another airport in downtown Tokyo, where he stood with his ticket long enough a half dozen people came up to offer him help. He came to the conclusion that navigating in Japan wasn’t that difficult if you didn’t mind standing around a few minutes looking hopelessly lost.

Roughly twenty-four hours after he’d left his home in Alexandria and three hours after touching down in Japan, Bowen walked through the exit gates at Fukuoka-Hakata Airport. He’d never seen a photograph of the man he was supposed to meet but recognized him instantly by the unwavering look of challenge, common to those who carried a badge for a living.
I’m a cop
, the look said.
And you’re not
.

“Agent Bowen?” the Japanese policeman said, cocking his head to one side. He wore dark slacks, a white shirt and tie, and a light tan golf jacket. His hair was cut in a longish flattop, as if Bowen had commandeered him on his normal day to go to the barber.

“
Deputy
Bowen,” he said, remembering to bow like Geoff Barker had taught him. “U.S. Marshals, Eastern District of Virginia.”

“I am Hase,” the man said. He pronounced it Hah-say.

“Pleased to meet you,” Bowen said. Barker had tried to teach him some phrases, but languages had never been his thing so he didn’t hazard a try. He’d been told there were long drawn-out meeting rituals in Japan. If that was the case, Detective Hase must have taken pity on him.

“You have no other bags?”

Bowen held the daypack aloft. “Nope,” he said. “This is it.”

Detective Hase gave another deep bow, then extended a hand toward the door. “Very good. I understand you want to speak with Shimizu Ayako.”

“I do,” Bowen said, stifling a yawn.

Hase looked at the Seiko dive watch on his wrist. “It is five past nine. It will be somewhat difficult to check into your hotel this early, but if you would like to stop by—”

Just then, a woman shoved her way past, marching toward the automatic doors. She looked to be in her late twenties and wore tight, stylish jeans, a flimsy chiffon blouse that hung off one shoulder, and black stiletto heels. A crying boy who looked no older than six tromped along behind her, tears streaming down a pudgy face. He wore little blue short pants and a white polo shirt. A black leather school pack, weighed down with books, hung over his back.

Bowen had no idea what she was saying, but the woman, presumably the kid’s mother, berated him at every step. She flung her arms for effect, oblivious to the embarrassed looks and sidelong glances of everyone else in the terminal at such un-Japanese behavior.

The boy tried to make his case through his tears. Whatever he said infuriated his mother, causing her to turn on him like an angry bear. She marched back to where he stood, jabbing him in the heaving chest with a manicured finger.

Bowen’s chest tightened. “What’s her problem?”

“I do not know.” Hase shook his head. “She is a very rude woman.”

“What is she saying?” Bowen’s eyes locked on to her. So far, she’d not noticed.

“The boy missed his train for school, making her late to meet someone here,” Hase said. “He says it wasn’t his fault but she doesn’t believe him. I’d like to intervene, but she has not struck the child so my superiors would not approve . . .”

Bowen stepped deliberately between the ranting woman and the boy while Hase was still talking, stooping to rub away the tears with his thumb. The kid’s eyes flew wide at the sight of a big American with a goatee. His lips trembled until Bowen handed him a little silver lapel pin shaped like a Marshal badge.

“Tell him I’m a policeman from the United States,” Bowen said.

Hase translated, obviously happy to do something to stop the woman’s tirade.

The little boy spoke through his sniffles.

“He says thank you,” Hase translated.

“You tell him that his mother will probably whip him because we stepped in,” Bowen said. “But he will always know that there were two people here today who knew the way she was treating him was wrong.” He looked up at Hase. “Can you translate that exactly?”

The detective grinned. “If she complains to my bosses, I’m blaming this on the crazy marshal, you know.”

“Fine by me,” Bowen said. “Just tell him.”

By now a crowd of Japanese women had gathered to publicly chastise the woman. Hase spoke to her for some time, even raising his own voice before sending her on her way. The boy turned to wave at Bowen as he walked out the terminal doors. He had already pinned the little badge to the collar of his shirt.

“That is the most fun I have had in some time,” Detective Hase said, following the woman with a hard gaze. “I think I like you, Deputy Marshal August Bowen. Are you this way at all times?”

“Pretty much.” Bowen shrugged. “It’s a problem I have.”

“How do you ever get anything done if you stop to help everyone you see?”

“Like I said,” Bowen said with a sigh, “it’s a problem.”

“It is a good problem, I think,” Hase said. “So, we were speaking of your hotel.”

“I’m fine,” Bowen said. “My brain’s just not sure what time it is. If you know where Shimizu is right now, I’d rather go see her. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even gotten reservations at a hotel yet.”

“I can assist you with that.” Detective Hase smiled. “Please.” He bowed again, looking at Bowen as if he was still trying to figure the deputy out. “My car is outside. Ayako Shimizu’s apartment is nearby.”

Q
uinn was off the bike and running moments after the side stand hit the ground, the H&K pistol in one hand, the guitar case containing the short sword in the other. Ayako followed close behind, bounding up the wide gravel path.

Rising on square terraces of rough-hewn timber filled with gravel that were spaced just far enough apart to keep them from reaching a full sprint, the path ran from the small parking lot through the Shinto torii gates that resembled a red wooden pi symbol with two horizontals, then wound through the thick cypress woods and bamboo forests that protected the temple itself from the hubbub of the nearby city.

Ground fog flowed like bony fingers between moss-covered logs and boulders the size of small cars, reaching out from the tumbledown forest. Rain dripped from every tree and bush. Engraved stone monoliths, some over fifteen feet tall, rose on either side of the path, shining in the wet air as if polished. Pungent smoke from burning incense hung in a hazy layer among the trees.

Quinn had always thought Japan took on an ancient look when wet with rain. It was a surreal and beautiful place, but thankfully, the weather was inclement enough that the grounds were deserted.

Quinn sent Ayako with the pistol to stand at the edge of the bamboo thicket twenty feet away from where he would make his stand. She assured him that she knew how to shoot, so he took her at her word. It calmed him some when she grabbed the slide and press-checked the chamber, assuring herself a round was in the tube. Finger alongside the trigger guard, she trotted away toward the bamboo holding the pistol as if she’d been born with it in her hand.

Quinn leaned the unzipped guitar case against the monolith and positioned the short sword so it would be easy to retrieve, then took a position with his back to the flat surface. The weatherworn inscription on the smooth stone was fitting.

Duty is heavy as a mountain—death, light as a feather
.

Tanaka Isanagi arrived three and a half minutes later.

The yakuza boss didn’t so much walk up the gravel path as he materialized through the swirling fog and incense smoke. Well into his sixties, he was slender with a long face and wild, untrimmed black eyebrows that stood in stark contrast to the gleaming skin of his bald head. He’d removed his suit coat, demonstrating to Quinn that he was unarmed—and unafraid.

Two of the gangsters from the warehouse walked a few steps behind, spread out to make themselves more difficult targets. Both wore dark Ray-Ban sunglasses, despite the overcast sky. Watanabe slouched along behind the trio, limping along in the rear as he nursed a bandaged hand.

“I told your man you could bring
two
bodyguards,” Quinn said as the yakuza boss drew closer.

“Surely you do not count Watanabe-kun?” Tanaka scoffed. “If he is a burden I will order him to kill himself immediately.”

Watanabe stopped in his tracks, eyes terror-stricken.

“That won’t be necessary,” Quinn said.

Tanaka stopped, but the two guards kept walking toward Quinn, closing the distance fast.

Quinn shot a glance at Ayako, shaking his head. It was important to keep the upper hand, but he didn’t want to kill anyone until he had some answers.

“Seriously,” he said. “These are the best two you have?” One of the men was the hulking bruiser he’d already met when Sato’s head rolled across his shoe. The other was a taller man with dark, seventies-style sideburns and a thick, black mustache. Quinn guessed he probably had some Russian in his ancestry.

“They need to search you,” Tanaka said. “For my safety.”

Quinn raised his hands as if to comply, then kicked the big bruiser in the crotch. The two men were close, and Quinn was able to pivot slightly and slam the arch of his foot against Sideburns’s knee, driving him into a screaming heap on the ground. Quinn crouched to avoid a flailing roundhouse from the bruiser, snatching the sheathed short sword from the case.

Quinn brought the tip of the lacquer scabbard straight up, letting it slam against the bruiser’s chin, driving his gaping mouth shut with a satisfying crack of tooth and jaw.

The man’s eyes rolled back in his skull, showing their whites.

Sideburns reached under his suit for a pistol, but Quinn ripped the scabbard from the sword and stepped in, letting the razor-sharp point hover just above the knot of the man’s tie.

Quinn glanced up at Tanaka. “How about if I just tell you what weapons I have?”

Tanaka flicked his hands toward his defeated men, motioning them back behind him. A bemused look crossed his long face.

“Do you know why I came to see you,” the gangster said, looking Quinn up and down.

“Because I have your shipment of
yao tou
?”

Tanaka flicked his hand again, dismissing the notion. “Though I will appreciate the safe return of my property, there is plenty more where that came from. I did not follow you here for that. I came because you are the most interesting thing that has happened to me in twenty years. You Americans say the pen is mightier than the sword. We Japanese say
bunbu ichi
—
pen and sword in accord
. When I began this life it was filled with acts of courage and violence. Now, my world has become that of a common businessman.” Tanaka leaned in as if to confide a secret. “Too much pen and not nearly enough sword for me—until now.”

“I’m glad I could help you out.”

“Oh, make no mistake”—Tanaka wagged his finger back and forth—“we are not friends. Much of what will make my life interesting will be deciding how I am to kill you without losing too many more men. I do not, of course, count Watanabe as any loss.”

The yakuza underling hung his head in shame.

“Too bad for your men,” Quinn said, smiling sweetly.

“Your Japanese is excellent,” Tanaka said.

Quinn glared at the man, losing patience. “How about we get this over with? You tell me what I need to know and I tell you where to find your drugs.”

“Very well.” Tanaka opened both hands in front of him, book-like, ready to talk.

“I am looking for the woman who shot my wife.”

Tanaka scoffed. “A high-minded endeavor for a husband who keeps company with this whore . . .”

Quinn let the comment slide off. He had more important things to do than bandy words with an organized crime boss.

“I believe her name is
Ran
,” Quinn said.

Tanaka’s eyes flashed momentarily, then settled again, a dark pool disturbed by a stone. He knew her.

“Long hair,” Quinn added. “Attractive, but very dangerous. Probably tattooed—”

“I know that girl!” Watanabe nodded vigorously. “She punched me in the throat.”

“Somehow”—Tanaka shook his head in disgust as he glared at his quivering thug—“I find such a thing easy to believe.” He turned to Quinn. “I was informed you are looking for Oda.”

“I believe this woman works for him,” Quinn said. “I find one, I find the other.”

“Perhaps.” Tanaka sniffed, quickly, lips pursed and pointed on his long face, like a bald rat. “But perhaps it is not so easy. Do you know anything about this man?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid,” Quinn said. He was looking for information, so he might as well be honest.

“He leads an organization he calls
Kuroi Kiri
.” Tanaka raised a bushy eyebrow. “Do you know the term?”

“Black Mist,” Quinn said. “Dark deeds . . .”

“Precisely,” Tanaka said. “Extremely dark deeds. He is like something out of an old samurai movie. The men and women who work for him are
ronin
, hired blades who sell their services to the highest bidder. Few people know exactly where Oda lays his head. Otherwise, he would not have kept it on his shoulders for so long.”

“But you know?”

Tanaka shook his head. “I would tell you if I did. A short time ago, he murdered one of my men during some business dealings. At that time he had taken the position on the governing board of Yanagi Chemical here in Fukuoka—”

“What?” Watanabe’s mouth hung open. “That is the man you are looking for? I could have told you this and saved us much trouble.”

Tanaka shot a withering stare toward the interruption. “I have a suspicion that trouble would find you no matter what.” He half turned, looking directly at Quinn and conspicuously ignoring the whimpering stooge. “I must tell you, Oda is like lightning—rarely in the same place twice, and surely not for very long. But perhaps Yanagi Chemical would be a good place to begin.”

Quinn nodded slowly. “And how do I know you have not set up a trap for me at Yanagi?”

“I suppose you do not.” Tanaka clasped his hands in front of him. “But, I have no great love for Oda. As you can imagine, my organization might often find itself at odds with such a man. I would consider it a great favor indeed if you would kill him for me. If not, then he will kill you for me.”