The Omicron Legion (29 page)

The man was eight feet away, a safe distance, especially considering that Johnny’s back remained turned to him. No way, logic dictated, that a man could both turn and close that gap before you could fire if you had him properly covered. The agent saw the big Indian swing, but never actually recorded the lunge that cut the distance by more than half. He had been lowering his walkie-talkie and, before he could record another thought, he felt himself parted from his gun, which clacked once on the edge of the roof and then dropped over. He was never aware of the blow launched at him until a numbness raced through his head. There was only a flash and then darkness as consciousness fled with his footing.

More relaxed now, Triesman slid away from the vice president in order to more easily issue instructions. The Indian was in custody on the Public Ledger rooftop, so apparently the sighting hadn’t been so innocent, after all. “This is Pit Crew Leader. We have a Code Red on rooftop of Public Ledger. First and second teams converge. Fly boy, you copy that?”

“That’s a roger, Pit Crew Leader.”

“Let’s move!”

Weetz’s mouth was parched. He ran his tongue over his lips and adjusted the tip of the rifle one last time. In that final instant, when thoughts of the kill are more real than the kill itself, he pulled out of the real world. He heard nothing—not the crowd, or the helicopter, not even his victim’s words. There was only silence, and he gave himself up to it. He knew that when the rifle went off, he would not hear the gunshot. There would be a slight kick against his shoulder, the feeling quickly muted by the sight of his victim’s head exploding through his sight.

Weetz relished that. No kill was complete unless he could register the end result himself. Same reason fathers wanted to be in the delivery room, he supposed, in a twisted sense.

Weetz started to ease the trigger backward.

Wareagle knew there was nothing he could do now. He had chosen the wrong roof, and the error had cost him. This wasn’t a
Wakinyan
on the adjacent roof, just an ordinary paid assassin readying his shot. That’s what had thrown him off. But the
Wakinyan
was about. Somewhere.

The
wop-wop-wop
of the helicopter soaring directly for him distracted Johnny as the second shape appeared on the Curtis Publishing Building roof. A blast of cold thumped into him, his eyes swung to lock on a blur whirling toward the gunman fast enough to deny its own motion. Wareagle knew he was watching the enemy who had drawn him here, knew it even before the
Wakinyan
reached the gunman from behind.

The sudden extra influx of security around the area had almost denied Abraham access to the building. He had finally made it in after incapacitating two Secret Service men, but something remained very wrong. He had never known such a feeling—or the slight tremor of fear that came with it.

He recalled the escape he and the other disciples had made into the Amazon jungle. The seven soldiers had proven no contest at all, but in their wake two others had come. Different. Much more…challenging. Could one of those two be here today?

He had barely been able to get to the roof in time. The gunman pulled the trigger at the precise instant Abraham reached him, and the errant bullet flew harmlessly by. From there it was over very fast. Abraham twisted the man’s head in a sudden, violent motion. The head turned all the way around and flopped down between his shoulder blades. It was then that Abraham felt eyes boring into him like hot coals melting through his flesh and swung to find their source.

Arnold Triesman never heard the gunshot. What he did hear was a granite-splitting smack against the statue of John Barry. Instinct took over from there.

Before he could form any thought, Triesman had barreled into the vice president and taken him down. Instantly the other agents enclosing the podium plunged with him to complete a blanket of cover. Long seconds passed before Triesman could separate himself from the pile and free his walkie-talkie. He brought it to his lips, wondering what the hell had gone wrong on the rooftop above.

“We have shots fired from Sector Eight! Repeat: Shots fired! Converge! This is a Code Blue!
Everyone
converge!”

Johnny Wareagle watched the
Wakinyan’s
eyes find his from the adjacent rooftop. The chill within him deepened. The
Wakinyan
radiated cold in all directions.

In that instant he knew he was face-to-face with something more machine than man, knew this was the opponent that had been chosen for his
Hanbelachia.
Everything in his life had been a prelude to this.

Their eyes held as the
Wakinyan
leaned over and pulled the rifle from the corpse’s grasp. There was plenty of time for Johnny to dive to safety, but he didn’t. He watched as the
Wakinyan
brought the rifle level with his chest, holding it out with one hand on the barrel and another on the stock.

Johnny saw the weapon bend, then heard a sharp snap as it broke in two pieces.

The
Wakinyan
might have smiled slightly. It was too far a distance to tell. Someone from the hovering helicopter shouted something through a bullhorn and Johnny gazed up briefly. When he looked back in the direction of the Curtis Publishing Building, the
Wakinyan
was gone. And before the chopper’s sharpshooters could find him in their sights, so was Johnny.

Chapter 28

BLAINE KNEW THE
Japanese weren’t going to kill them when they didn’t shoot right away. Instead, the gun-wielding group herded him and Patty toward a trio of waiting cars. Their moves were well processed, almost mechanical, the mark of orders being carried out to the letter.

They drove on to Galeão Airport, through an open security gate, then on to a private hangar, where a Learjet sat waiting. Six of the Japanese led the two of them on board.

“Where are you taking us? What’s going on?” Patty demanded.

Blaine had the same questions, but he didn’t bother to pose them, he knew no answers would be forthcoming. These men were simply soldiers, dispatched by a party with a vested interest in whatever was going on. On which side, it was impossible to say. The fact that they were still alive was a good sign.

Once inside the plane, Patty was placed down in the front on the right, Blaine in the rear on the left—as far from her as the confines of the cabin would allow. The unspoken intent of the Japanese was clear: If he tried to move against them, success would come at the expense of her life. “We will not bind you,” the man who seemed to be the leader said in English. “It would insult your honor.”

“Does that make us allies?”

“It makes us nothing. We have a long flight ahead of us. I would ask you to make yourself comfortable.”

“Where are we going?”

“Japan.”

“What a shock.”

Much to his own surprise, Blaine
did
sleep. It came in fitful bursts that were hardly refreshing, but it did come. Occasionally he tried to make eye contact with Patty, but the distance precluded even that. They endured the flight together, yet alone.

Blaine did not recognize the airport they landed at after eighteen hours, which included a refueling stop. He calculated it to be 4:00
A.M.
Japanese time on Wednesday, but he was blindfolded before he could pick up any clues as to exactly where in the country they were. He was shepherded into one car, Patty into another, and then they were driven off into the night. Another hour passed, and Blaine concentrated on charting the exact route they were taking by the motion of the car, just in case he needed it for future reference.

At last the car bounced to a halt and the engine was shut off. The hands of his Japanese escorts yanked at him, dragging him off toward the sounds of running water. He thought he heard a gate first opening, then closing, then was next aware of most of the Japanese leaving. One who remained behind removed his blindfold, and he looked over to see that another had done the same for Patty. He moved toward her, touching her shoulder tenderly.

“Long time, no see,” he said as the last two Japanese disappeared from view.

A quick scan of their surroundings revealed them to be in a Japanese garden of such loveliness even the night could not cloak its beauty. The sound of rushing water had been a small waterfall cascading into a brook that wound its way through the perfectly manicured shrubs, trees, and flowers. Everything was perfect, peaceful in its symmetry.

“I love the night,” said a voice, and Blaine watched a Japanese man in a white suit emerge from the trees. He stopped just at the point where he couldn’t be seen.

“Who are you?” McCracken asked.

“To you—no one. Yet, everyone.”

“I’ve had it with riddles.”

“The best ones are yet to come, Mr. McCracken…. And we have what remains of the night for me to tell them to you.”

The man stepped directly into the spill of the moonlight, and Blaine realized he was an albino. He had never seen an Oriental albino before and the sight was a bit unsettling, worsened perhaps by the fact that the man’s white suit blended too well with the tone of his flesh.

“I am Takedo Takahashi. But I don’t suppose that holds any meaning to you.”

“Not a one.”

“By the same token, yours held little meaning to me until just over a week ago.”

“I tend to make a quick first impression.”

“Your previous stay here was well noted.”

“Thanks to the patience of one of the best friends I ever made.”

“Hiroshi Sensei,” said Takahashi. “I know the story.”

“Not all of it.”

“More than you think, I’d wager. I make it my business to know precisely who it is I am dealing with.”

“And are you dealing with me, Snowman?”

“I prefer the term
Kami-san.
”

“Suit yourself.”

Takahashi moved closer to McCracken and seemed to squint. On the grass between them a trio of small rattan chairs had been set.

“Sit, please,” Takahashi said.

“Just the three of us?”

“I hope the gesture will help you trust me, as I now must trust you.”

Blaine took Patty’s arm and led her to the chairs. Takahashi waited until they were seated before settling in his own chair directly in front of them. The garden was lit by nothing other than the moon. Occasionally the breeze would lift up some of the whispering water and spray their faces. “We have an hour until dawn,” Takahashi said. His English was perfect. “You will hear my story in that time.”

“Gotta crawl back into your coffin with the sunrise,
Kami-san
?”

“It’s you who will need to be elsewhere after you’ve heard what I have to say.”

Blaine exchanged glances with Patty. “So talk,” he told Takahashi. “What the hell is going on here, and where do you fit in?”

“At the beginning and all the way through, Mr. McCracken. Everything’s related, you see.”

“I figured that much. What I don’t know is how.”

“After you do know, you will come to regret it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Passing judgement is what all this began as. Nearly forty-seven years ago, Mr. McCracken.”

“The end of World War Two…”

“Exactly. Our country was ravaged. The two bombs your President Truman ordered dropped on our cities destroyed our spirits, bankrupted our souls. But we are an infinitely patient people, Mr. McCracken. Our history speaks of this.”

“I know your history, Mr. Takahashi.”

“Then you also know one of the prime ways of dealing with an enemy is infiltrating his ranks and striking from the inside. It has been that way since the days of the clans and the shogun, when the word of the samurai was spoken with his sword.”

“We were speaking of World War Two.”

“We still are. Nothing had changed up until that point….” Takahashi’s voice trailed off briefly. “Even now, not much has. Your bombs forced us to accept defeat, at least outwardly. In point of fact, it was more than just appearances for many of our leaders. They saw the futility of where our philosophy had taken us. A new order was required, and if working with your occupation forces was the best way to ensure it, they would do so.”

“There would have been opposition, though.”

“Most of it squelched, the rebels being made outcasts,
ronin.
But there were still others who resorted to the old ways of placating the enemy on the surface while within thirsting for revenge. Patience was the key. You are familiar with the work
The Art of War,
Mr. McCracken?”

“Somewhat.”

“One of the postulates deals with maximizing available weapons instead of seeking new ones.”

“The best defense is a good offense.”

“In a sense, yes, but we are talking of vengeance here. And the key was available weapons. Unbeknownst to your government, our scientists had made great strides in the field of biochemical research. It was along different lines than the Nazis, but we, too, were seeking the creation of supermen.”

“Soldiers?”

“No, that was where we differed. We were seeking the scientific means to imbue characteristics that would virtually guarantee our subjects rising to great heights in their chosen spheres. We are an insular people, Mr. McCracken, and the original intent of the work was to assure the propagation of the ruling class, certain to be severely depleted by the war. But when we lost the war, the focus was altered. A legion of superbeings, yes, but used as agents in important positions in the country of our enemy, so that in the future, they could be destroyed from the inside out.”

“The United States,” Blaine said.

“Toward this end, five hundred American newborns were kidnapped from the United States between the years 1945 and 1948. The planning was elaborate. Deals were struck with doctors to arrange the babies’ apparent deaths shortly after birth. Since both the doctors and hospitals were carefully selected and well spread out, no pattern was ever detected.”

“That’s monstrous,” Patty snapped.

“So was what the United States did to my country, Miss Hunsecker.”

“I see you’re acquainted with me, too.”

“Quite well. Quite well, indeed.”