The Last Assassin (20 page)

K
ANEZAKI CAME THROUGH
with the hardware as promised, handing it off to us in a golf bag the next morning on a moving Yamanote line train. This time I gave him my local mobile number. He already had a decent idea of what we were up to, and, if he learned anything useful, I wanted him to be able to reach us.

Dox and I took the golf bag back to the van. I drove while he sat in back, examining the equipment.

“Hoo-ah, Christmas came early this year,” he said.

“What have you got?”

“The M40A3 I asked for, plus an AN/PVS 10 Day/Night scope, Ops Inc. suppressor, and a hundred rounds of M118LR 7.62 ammunition. Fun for me and doom for the bad guys.”

“Good. Tatsu is putting together a target list for us. Should be ready soon.”

TATSU CALLED ME
that afternoon and I went to see him at the hospital. The bodyguard let me in. Tatsu was alone.

“You've got the list?” I asked him.

“I have it. But I think you'll want to hold off until Saturday.”

Christ, he sounded weak. I almost asked him how he was, but that would have irritated him. Besides, I already knew the answer.

“What's going on?” I said.

“The sumos came in. Yamaoto killed them.”

“Shit.”

“No,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “it's a good thing. A man called Big Liu, the head of United Bamboo, is coming to Tokyo on Saturday to meet Yamaoto, to try to straighten out the rest of it. Liu is staying at the Grand Hyatt in Roppongi Hills. The meeting is at a club called Whispers in Minami Aoyama, run by a man called Kuromachi, Kuro, who's as close to a right-hand man as Yamaoto permits.”

“You got this from the informer?” I asked.

He nodded.

“If you've got such a solid insider, why haven't you used him to set up Yamaoto before?”

“I haven't had you to turn to, for one thing. For another, the informant is more afraid of Yamaoto than he is of me. There's always a delicate balance in these matters. If I push too hard, I could lose him entirely. And I'm pushing very hard right now.”

“All right. You're saying if we hit the yakuza before the meeting…”

“It could cause the meeting to be canceled. We would lose an unexpected opportunity to remove Yamaoto directly.”

I thought for a minute. “What do you know about this club? Can I get to Yamaoto there?”

“I don't know. I don't know the layout, and my informant is being difficult. He suspects that I used his information about the delivery in Wajima to set up the hit on the Chinese and the sumos. Yamaoto believes that was an inside job, and wants to find the man responsible. The informer is afraid. I don't know how much more I can get from him about the meeting.”

I considered. We might be able to get Dox positioned on a rooftop, or maybe in the van. Maybe we could drop Yamaoto with the M40A3 as he moved from his car into the club, or on his way out.

But that was nothing to count on. If Yamaoto was as paranoid now as Tatsu claimed, I expected the car would pull right up to the entrance and Yamaoto would be exposed too briefly, if at all, for Dox to take a reliable shot. We could set it up, of course, but if it failed we would need a way in.

“Can you get me a floor plan for the club?” I asked. “I assume they're filed with the department of public safety, the fire department, something like that.”

“Of course.”

“What about electricity? Do you have people who could shut the power down on the club's block at the right moment?”

“Yes.”

It was a good start. But I realized we would need more than just the plans. A floor plan couldn't tell us where the principals were seated, whether there were bodyguards nearby, or a dozen other things we'd have to know in advance. For all that, we'd need a man inside.

“Tell me everything you know about the club,” I said. “I assume it's a high-class place?”

“Very. As you know, most of the really high-end clubs are in Ginza and Akasaka, where the hostesses are Japanese girls not available on a cash basis.”

“Right.”

“Then there are the lower-end establishments, more likely to be found in Ikebukuro and Shinjuku, which are staffed by women from China, the Philippines, and other such foreign locales, who can be rented for a nightly or even hourly fee.”

“Yes, I've heard.”

Tatsu smiled. “Kuro's place is, to a certain way of thinking, the best of both worlds. Its hostesses are from all over the world: Japan, elsewhere in Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Europe, the Americas. They're all beautiful, and all available.”

“How is Kuro able to…”

“By making the system profitable enough so that everyone wants to play. The rules are simple. When a customer comes in, the girls discreetly signal the mama-san their price for a night with that customer. If the man is young and attractive, the price might be low—say, five hundred thousand yen. But if the customer is decrepit and repulsive, the price might be two million yen, or more.”

If the yen equivalent of upwards of four thousand dollars was “low,” and some customers were spending four or five times that for a single night's pleasure, Kuro must have found a way to appeal to an awfully well-heeled clientele.

“If a customer sees a girl he likes,” Tatsu went on, “he can ask what it would cost to leave the club with her. If he is willing to pay her price, she's his for the evening. If not, he can ask about someone else.”

“How much do the girls get to keep?”

“Whatever they charge.”

“If they keep what they charge, where's Kuro's profit?”

“There's a fifty-million-yen joining fee and five million yen a year for membership fees after that.”

“Fifty
million
?” I asked. That was well over four hundred thousand dollars.

“Yes.”

“Well, that ought to keep out the hoi polloi.”

He shrugged. “Luxury has gone mass market. The superrich have to find ways to distinguish themselves. I read about a new sports car that just came out, the Bugatti Veyron. It costs over a million dollars.”

“Yeah, I just put in my order for two.”

He laughed, but the laugh became a cough. He fitted the oxygen tube under his nose and breathed for a moment, then said, “There are already several owners in Tokyo, you know, and many more on the waiting list. Men who can afford a car like that aren't put off by outrageous club fees. They welcome them, as a sign of status.”

He took a sip of water. “But there's an important collateral benefit beyond the direct profit: the deals brokered with the politicians, businessmen, and crime bosses who are entertained there as guests. United Bamboo, for example. Yamaoto and Big Liu closed their methamphetamine arrangement at the club.”

“That's why they're meeting there again? Auspicious location?”

“Apparently Big Liu enjoyed himself greatly. He seems to have a predilection for blondes.”

Blondes. My notion of whom we might turn to as a “man” inside sharpened. But there was no way Delilah was going to agree to this. And I didn't see how I could ask her.

“If the girl's price doesn't match the customer's,” I said, “she doesn't have to leave with him. But what about when they're entertaining a guy like Big Liu? They're going to just turn him down?”

“For a big shot like Liu, the girls are expected to provide complimentary services. It doesn't matter how old he is or what he looks like. You're his for the night and he had better wake up with a smile the next morning. Otherwise, the girl is fired.”

“And suddenly cut off from the incredible cash flow she's gotten used to.”

“Precisely.”

Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. Maybe I could gloss over the “If you help me, you might have to sleep with a repulsive, degenerate gangster” part of the sales pitch.

“Well?” he said, after a moment. “Is any of this useful?”

“Maybe,” I told him. “There might be someone I can get inside. I'll let you know. You have any pictures of Big Liu? I want to know what he looks like.”

Tatsu pressed the call button by the bed. The bodyguard came in.

“I'll take that file now, please,” Tatsu told him.

The man wordlessly handed Tatsu a large envelope and returned to his post.

“So this is how you're getting all this work done while you're laid up,” I observed.

He smiled and handed me the envelope. I unsealed it and took out a folder. Inside were several police and surveillance photos of a fat but still dangerous-looking Chinese man with graying hair and pockmarked skin.

“Big for a Chinese,” I commented.

“Hence the name,” Tatsu said, with his trademark “infinite patience” tone.

“I see you've got Yamaoto in here, too. And who's this guy?”

“That's Kuro. I thought a dossier on the principals might be helpful.”

“Thanks. It is.”

He nodded. “You don't have much time.”

I looked at him, frail and diminished on the hospital bed, tubes in his arms and up his nose, and realized he wasn't talking about Yamaoto's meeting.

“Are you…can I get you anything?” I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes fierce and alive inside his pallid skin.

“Yamaoto,” he said.

D
ELILAH WAS ON
her way back from a morning workout in her neighborhood in the Marais when her cell phone rang. She stopped walking and looked for it in her bag.

Pedestrians carrying fresh bread and cut flowers and bags of fruit from the open-air market on Rue de Bretagne maneuvered around her on the narrow sidewalk. She ignored them and looked at the phone. The caller ID said
private.

She'd been feeling delightfully relaxed from two hours of yoga and Pilates, but now her heart was suddenly beating harder. She pressed the
RECEIVE
button and said,
“Allo.”

“Hi. It's me. John.”

This time it's hi,
she thought.
Usually it's hey.
She wasn't sure what that meant.

“Hey,” she said.

“How've you been?”

“Fine. I didn't think I was going to hear from you.” She liked the way that sounded. Calm, not accusatory. Just a statement of fact.

“Why did you think that?”

“Last time we talked, it sounded as though you'd gotten pretty tied up in what took you to New York. And then you were going to Tokyo, and I just thought…that was it for us.”

Good, this was really good. Be cool, but get it out in the open. Give him the chance and the inclination to explain, without seeming to ask for that.

“I'm in Tokyo now,” he said. “And I am tied up. But not the way you think.”

“What is it, then?”

There was a long pause. He said, “I need your help.”'

That wasn't what she'd been expecting. Before she could think it through, she said, “You know, you call for my help more than you call for my company.”

“You're probably right. And I'm sorry for that. But right now I need both. Can you come to Tokyo?”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you when you get here. Please, Delilah. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important.”

She knew she should say no. But…there was something in his voice, something she'd never heard before. Whatever the problem was, he must have been nearly desperate to ask for her help after their last conversation.

Desperate about what, though? The only thing she could think of was that something had gone wrong when he visited Midori. But the woman had been relaxed when Delilah had seen her…yes, but she was clueless, she wouldn't have known what was going on in the shadows around her.

What could it have been? Was Rain seen? And if so, was his child in danger? If that were the case…

She felt her resolve slipping. But still, it was so damn galling. She wasn't sure what he wanted, but for all she knew its ultimate objective might be a life with Midori and the child.

Still, if something happened to Midori or the child that Delilah could have helped prevent, her own hopes for Rain would be doomed no matter what.

Also, she realized, going to him now might give her a chance to try to correct the mistake she'd made in doing that number on Midori, to provide a cushion against its possible consequences should Rain ever find out.

What if he had found out, though? Could this be a setup?

No, she couldn't believe that.

But you ran your kind of op on him. Why wouldn't he run his kind on you?

That made the choice clear, didn't it? She could give herself over entirely to suspicion and manipulation, which was to say she could give herself over to fear. She'd already sampled that particular dish, when she went to see Midori in New York, and the aftertaste was still vaguely nauseating.

Or she could go with hope.

“When?” she asked.

“Can you be here tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“Let me give you a number. Call me and let me know.”

When they were done, she headed back to her apartment to check on flights. There was a 1:20 on Air France leaving that afternoon from De Gaulle, arriving in Tokyo at 9:20 the following morning. If she hurried, she could make it.