The Miko - 02 (60 page)

But there was nothing at all wrong with his hearing and his gun hand leveled on Croaker’s stomach as he heard his adversary coming on. He squeezed off one shot, two, then swung the barrel of the gun into the oncoming head.

It was a lucky blow, coming in blind as it did, landing just behind Croaker’s left ear. Croaker staggered, off balance from having swerved away from the gunshots, in the midst of transferring the smaller shard of glass from his right hand to his left, missing the first stab. Now at close range with the Blue Monster’s sight back he could imagine the hole the .357 slug would tear into him. There wouldn’t be much left of his insides.

And as the Blue Monster’s finger began to squeeze the trigger Croaker put aside the pain flashing through his head and through sheer force of will made his motor functions return to life, swinging his left arm in a shallow arc inside the muzzle of the pistol, stabbing inward and up with all his might.

He gave a mighty groan at the pain that shot through him and dimly he felt flesh and sinew giving way beneath the pressure he was exerting as he jammed the glass shard into the Blue Monster’s chest. Blood flowed from his own palm, mingling with that of the Blue Monster.

He pushed at the body as the gun went off in reflexive response, scattering plaster off the ceiling high above. Croaker became aware of something pulling at his arm, soft breath on his cheek, and a voice, as insistent as a bee, in his ear.

“Come on!” Alix begged him, pulling at him desperately. “Oh, God, Lew, they’ll be here any second!”

He rolled heavily, only dimly aware of who she was and why she was bothering him now when he was so tired and only wanted to close his eyes and…Get up! his mind screamed at him. Get her out of here before it’s too late! Too late for what…Just want to turn over and close my eyes and…For God’s sake stay awake!

On his hands and knees now, bleeding all over the clean, shiny surface of the arcade floor, Alix tugging at his arm, pulling him dizzily upward, the corridor beginning to be bathed in pulsing crimson light, the sounds of sirens blossoming in his ears. He turned with her now, allowing her to head him out of the labyrinth, loping, willing his stiff legs to work, trying to ignore the pounding in his head, the roar of his own pulse, the acrid coppery taste in his mouth making him want to gag.

Red, black, red, the illumination revolving, until gradually the red began to grow dimmer and then he felt the cool incredibly soft night breeze on his hot cheeks and he had the presence of mind to tell her, “Keys. Alix, get the goddamned car keys!”

Nangi turned his torso over in the bed, ignoring his useless legs. He reached out in the darkness and touched the slim shoulder of the second Chinese girl on the beach. Nangi shook her with some power. He leaned his head in toward the curtain of night-black hair and said, “Wake up, sleepy one,” directly into the hollow of her ear. He was greeted with nothing more articulate than a snore.

He rolled away from her and sat up. Good. The bit of white powder, tasteless and odorless, he had put in her champagne had done its work nicely. Now it was time to go to work.

The villa was silent as he quickly dressed in shirt and trousers. He left off his shoes and socks, transferring several small objects from a deep pouch hidden within the silk folds of the lining of his suit jacket into his trousers’ pocket.

Across the room, ribboned in bluish shadow, he took up his walking stick and carefully opened the door. The hallway was dark and silent and slowly he crept awkwardly along it, turning his mind from thoughts of powerful athlete’s legs, which in this situation would have served him in good stead.

When he reached the closed door behind which Liu and the tall girl had disappeared not more than fifteen minutes ago, he paused. Unscrewing the white jade dragon at the head of his walking stick, he inserted one of the small objects in his pocket. He pressed a stud, peered at the inside mechanism, satisfying himself as to its working order, and slowly, using infinite care, turned the knob on the door before him. He froze as a sliver of pink lamplight slithered out the tiny crack between door and frame.

When nothing further occurred, he continued pushing the door inward. It was time to see if the sensation he had picked up from Liu at the moment he watched the tall girl earlier on the veranda had any validity. Now he could discern the faint, floating lilt of the Chinese. Surprisingly, it was not Cantonese. Nangi had enough ongoing business in Hong Kong so that he had made himself learn the language because he never quite felt secure leaving his business fate to interpreters. But this was a dialect he was not familiar with.

It was not so much that Liu would be speaking it. He was a Communist Chinese from the mainland, where Cantonese was certainly not the lingua franca. But these two beach girls—surely they were local. Of course they could be Chiu Chow or originally from any number of other provinces. But still…

Nangi set his walking stick, point first, along the carpeted floor and slowly slid it through the gap in the door, extending it to its full length. Then he settled himself to listen. After a long while he picked up a word he knew and his heart began to race. But cautious man that he was, he waited for another word or phrase that would give him confirmation.

When it finally came, he gave a tiny inward sigh. They were speaking Mandarin, there was no doubt of it. It was extremely unlikely that Liu would find a street girl in the Crown Colony whose native tongue was the same as his own.

Nangi, crouched uncomfortably in the hallway, waited patiently through the grunting coupling and the languid aftermath when the conversation picked up again. When at last he heard the soft slide of bedsheets, he withdrew his walking stick. The barely discernable pad of bare feet came to him as he was closing the door, forcing himself to do it slowly, a millimeter at a time, lest either of the occupants discover the movement.

At last he rose and went down the corridor to the back of the villa. There he opened the door and went out. Earlier in the evening the stars had been visible but now the clouds had come, occluding all light. The air was heavy with incipient rain as he took out a cigarette and lit it. He took the smoke deep into his lungs, let it out with a long, satisfied sigh. Then he threw the thing into the sand and went down the stone steps and across the winding road.

Within the deep shadows along the far verge he found the small red Alfa run up beneath a pair of enormous leafy trees.

“You’re going to catch your death of cold,” he said in idiomatic Cantonese.

“Eh?” The driver of the car turned his head as if he was only now aware of Nangi’s presence.

“It’s going to rain in a moment,” Nangi went on. He gestured toward the car. “You’d better get the top up.”

They watched each other for a moment, a pair of wary animals about to enter into a contest of territory.

“I fear you’ve picked the wrong car to follow anybody in.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, using the most abusive inflection.

Nangi bent down so fast the other man had no time to react. They were face to face. “I know who you are,” Nangi said in a rush, “or, rather,
what
you are. Either the Communists hired you—”

“I spit on the Communists,” the man broke in.

“Then you’re working for Sato.”

“Never heard of him.”

“I’m the one who’ll pay you, eventually.”

The whites of the man’s eyes took on a slight sheen as they shifted toward Nangi. “Are you telling me he won’t come through with the rest?”

“What I’m saying is this. You do what I tell you from now on and I won’t inform Mr. Sato of your clumsiness.”

“What are you talking about?” the man protested. “D’you think those sea snakes know I’m here? They damn well don’t.”

“But I do,” Nangi said. “And you were hired to follow me.”

“What if I was?”

“Let’s see if you’re really any good,” Nangi said, unscrewing the head of his walking stick. He extracted a small plastic cassette and held it in his palm like a priceless jewel. “Can you speak Mandarin?”

The man looked up at him. “No sweat.”

“‘No sweat’? What books have you been into?”

“I read Raymond Chandler.”

Oh, Madonna! Nangi thought. He probably thinks of himself as a private eye. He gave the man a judicious look, wondering whether or not he could trust him.

“Listen,” the man said, shifting uncomfortably in his leather bucket seat. “Give me the tape, I’ll get it done. You want it first thing in the morning, that’s exactly when you’ll get it.” He glanced upward. “The gods assure it. Look. It hasn’t rained here in three weeks. Now the heavens are about to open. Guaranteed.”

“All right,” Nangi said, making his decision. He didn’t see that he had much choice. He did not want to involve Allan Su at this stage and there seemed to be no other alternative. He dropped the microcassette into the other man’s palm. “Bring it to my room at the Mandarin at seven
A.M.
That give you enough time?”

The man nodded. Then as an afterthought he said, “Hey, Mr. Nangi, my name’s Fortuitous Chiu.” The whites of his eyes showed again. “I’m Shanghainese. My family owns one-third of the go-downs in Sam Ka Tsuen and Kwun Tong. We’re into restaurants and tourist cabarets—you know, the high-class topless places outside of Wan Chai. We trade in carpets, diamonds, jade. If I don’t show on time you go to my father, Pak Tai Chiu. He lives in the villa with the jade green tiled roof up on Belleview Road overlooking Repulse Bay.”

Nangi knew enough about the ways of these people to understand how much of himself Fortuitous Chiu was revealing. “You come to room 911 this morning, Fortuitous Chiu,” he said as the first warm drops of rain began to fall, “and I’ll have more for you to do.” He pointed. “Right now you’d better get your top up or you’ll drown in the next five minutes.”

The ringing of the phone, although muted from inside the house, disturbed the contemplation that the tea ceremony brought them.

For a time there had been perfect harmony in the room. The two men kneeling on the greenish-yellow reed
tatami
, both in flowing kimono. Between them were the carefully placed implements of the
chano-yu
: porcelain kettle with a pair of matching cups, whisk. At right angles to this display was the hardwood case within which reposed Nicholas’
dai-katana
,
Iss-hōgai.

Also between the men, and above them to the right, was Sato’s
tokonoma.
The slender, translucent vase contained two pure white peonies—flowers that Sato knew Nicholas loved. Above the froth of the blossoms was the scroll on which had been hand-lettered this phrase,
“Be intent on loyalty / While others aspire to perform meritorious services / Concentrate on purity of intent / While those around you are beset by egoism.”

Nothing else was of import within the study. The confluence of forces from these entities and objects created the aura of harmoniousness that is so rare in life and toward which each individual strives. The momentousness of the moment was lost on neither man.

After the ringing came Koten. He bowed deeply, waiting for his master to become aware of his powerful spirit, an intrusion and, thus, an end to harmony.

Sato’s head came up, his eyes refocusing slowly. He and Nicholas had been at the Void, together, as very few men in this imperfect world had been during the long, burning pages of history. His heartbeat, as well as his breathing, were still abnormally slow. He might have been in a trance of a mystical state well known in the Far East, and highly prized.

“A thousand pardons, Sato-san.” Koten’s voice, high-pitched and slightly comical emanating from that vast, rumbling body, never ceased to amuse Sato. “The man who will not leave his name has called. He must speak with you.”

“Yes.” Sato’s voice was slightly thick. Nicholas had made no move, and Sato envied him. He rose and followed Koten out of his study.

During the time when he was alone, Nicholas slowly pulled himself back from the Void. It took him longer than it otherwise might because part of him did not wish to leave. The vast harmony that he had just been a part of still hovered like an afterglow in the study. After a time, he lifted his head and studied the words on the
tokonoma
scroll.

They were oddly unpoetic, yet very much in keeping with the kind of man Nicholas had come to know Sato was. He was a
kanryōdō sensei,
one of the last true
samurai
-bureaucrats. Soon, sadly, there would be no place for him in the world. As Japan moved fully into the modern world, the last of the
kanryōdō sensei
would die out. And in their place would come the new breed: the Westernized entrepreneurs who understood world economics, no longer true Japanese at all but world citizens. Japan would need them in the coming decades, these far-thinking, trend-analyzing dealers, if it was to survive past its difficult adolescence. These were the men who would remember the policies of Reagan and Mitterand long after they had forgotten those of Ieyasu Tokugawa.

Without having seen him, Nicholas knew that Koten, the giant
sumō
, had entered the study.

“Are you any closer to finding the murderer?”

He had an odd, direct style of speech that, outside the
dohyo
at least, was stripped of politeness and the traditional niceties.

“Unless Sato-san can summon up the past wholesale,” Nicholas said, “all I can do is protect him and Nangi-san.”

Koten said nothing. Nicholas turned, saw that the giant was glaring at him. He laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll get in your licks.” It was somewhat of a relief to be able to speak freely again.

“If you’re good,” Koten said, “we’ll work together. No one will get past us.”

Nicholas said nothing; an American here would have boasted about his prowess.

“No one will get past us,” Koten repeated. Then, as he heard Sato returning, he retired to the hallway.

The older man’s demeanor had altered considerably when he reentered the study. All languorousness had melted away. In its stead was a high degree of excitement held tightly in check.