Zero. Part 40

"Come along with me," the man said in Kenji's ear.

"You would be wise to do as he asks," a female voice said.

Kenji turned his head. The woman who was putting away the tiles now brandished a katana. "Who are you?" he said, looking from one to the other.

"The new owners," the woman said.

Philip and Michiko took Kenji through the back of the building, into a tiny, claustrophobic office. Behind the tiny desk, wedged into a corner, sat Wataro Taki. He was dressed in a Western business suit.

"Good evening, Harigami-san," Wataro Taki said. "I am pleased that you so graciously accepted my humble invitation." His hands moved across the desktop.

"Tea?"

"What is this all about?" Kenji said angrily.

Wataro Taki spread out a wad of chits. "It is concerning these, Harigami-san,"

he said. "Your debts. I am afraid that the sum is such that I must ask you topay the full amount, plus twenty-five percent interest, immediately. That comes to, let's see-" He presented a figure.

Kenji laughed. "Ridiculous!" he said. "I don't have that kind of money on me.

I lost everything tonight."

"Nevertheless," Wataro Taki said, "I must insist on immediate compensation."

Kenji leaned forward so that his fists were on the desk. He grinned fiercely.

"You are either naive or a fool. I am chief counselor to the Taki-gumi.

Yakuza." It was clear from his tone that he was used to invoking the name to inspire fear in those he wished to do his bidding. "Right now my clan takes no notice of your flyspeck of a place. But one word from me and the full might of their fury will come down on you. They will level this stinking place, and you with it." He stood up, his threat complete. "I would be careful, if I were you, about whom you push around."

"Sit down, Harigami-san," Wataro Taki said evenly.

"I've said what will happen to you if you-"

"I said sit down, sir."

Philip kicked Kenji's legs out from under him, and he went down hard. The s.p.a.ce was so small, he hit his forehead on the corner of the desk. Philip pulled him off the floor, shoved him onto the one chair the office could accommodate.

"Now," Wataro Taki said, "let me tell you where you stand. I am not afraid of Yakuza. I am not afraid of the Taki-gumi. Most of all, Harigami, I am not afraid of you.

"As I see it, you are in a bind. You owe me a great deal of money. I want that money now-or I want some form of compensation," Wataro Taki said. "That raises several possibilities. I could take your life, for example. A great number of my regular customers know how much you owe me. If I let you get away with that, they will all want the same treatment. I cannot allow that. So your death would be of some good use to me."

"You're insane!" Kenji said. But the sweat breaking out along his hair line attested to his fear.

Wataro Taki ignored him. "I want my money, Harigami, and I want it now."

"But I've told you I don't have it. You can't get water out of a dry sponge."

"Then suggest an adequate compensation."

"Like what?"

"Tell me what your oyabun's weaknesses are."

Kenji's eyes fairly bugged out of his head. "Now I know you're crazy. I'd be a dead man in a matter of hours."

"I will protect you," Wataro Taki said softly.

Kenji laughed. "Against Gen Taki? It's an impossibility. Those who have tried are all with their ancestors."

Wataro Taki shrugged. "Then you leave me no choice. If you do not have the money to repay me and you are unwilling to provide the compensation I seek, I will kill you." He nodded toward Michiko, who brought her longsword up over Kenji's head.

Kenji's neck twisted so quickly they all heard it crack. "You're all crazy!"

he said, his eyes open wide.

"I a.s.sure you," Wataro Taki said, "I mean what I say."

Kenji wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I see that," he said. His hand was trembling. "Just give me a moment. I need to think."

Wataro Taki nodded, and Michiko lowered her katana.

"All right," Kenji said. "I can get you your money. All of it, including the usurious interest. But I need two days."

"Twelve hours is all you will get," Wataro Taki said.

"One day, then."

"Twelve hours, Harigami, and that is all."

Kenji nodded, admitting defeat. "You'll get your money." He rose to leave.

Wataro Taki waited the requisite time. He wanted the man to believe that he had fooled them. Wataro Taki suspected that Kenji had no intention of getting the money. The moment he left this building, he would go to Gen Taki and carryout his threat to destroy the gambling-syndicate building and its new owners.

"One moment," Wataro Taki said. "It occurs to me that I might be naive to allow you to leave here on the strength of your word. Not that I believe for an instant that you are not an honorable man, Harigami-san. But after all, I do not know you at all."

"I a.s.sure you," Kenji said, "that you will have your money inside of twelve hours."

Wataro Taki was smiling. "Oh, I have no doubts on that score," he said.

Moments before, Philip had slipped out. Now he returned with someone. "That is because I have taken the proper precautions."

Kenji whirled. "Hana!"

"Yes," Wataro Taki confirmed. "It is your daughter, Hana. She will stay with us until you return."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Kenji was shaking with rage.

"Just prudent," Wataro Taki said. "I knew that you would try to destroy us the moment you left here." He smiled. "You see, Harigami-san, I am neither naive nor a fool."

In the car, while they followed Kenji, Philip told Michiko about the a.s.signment he had given Ed Porter and what Porter had subsequently discovered about David Turner's movements. Philip did it mainly to kill time, and to use Michiko as a sounding board for his own theories.

"I think Turner's been our man all along," he said as he watched Kenji's car through the click-clack of the winds.h.i.+eld wipers. A soft spring rain was falling, but the sky did not seem threatening. "I think Turner set Silvers up as the rotten apple."

"You may be right," Michiko said. "If so, we must find out as soon as possible. Because it will mean that Turner is pa.s.sing all your information on to the Jiban. It means they already know that the ministers they have targeted for CIG termination have not really been killed."

"The problem is the furo, the bathhouse," Philip said. "I can't get in there, and neither can any CIG agent. Turner would spot them for sure. But the uro's the key, I'm certain. He must be using it as an rdv. We've got to get inside to see who he's meeting on a regular basis."

"I can do it," Michiko said.

"But you won't. It's too dangerous."

Up ahead, Kenji's car had pulled over. They watched him get out, hurry into a pac.h.i.n.ko parlor. It was one of those on the Taki-gumi's protection list, meaning that the Yakuza clan extorted money from the business on a monthly basis.

Philip and Michiko looked at one another. They followed Kenji to another parlor, then a third and a fourth.

"So that's how he gets his gambling money," Philip said. "He's skimming off the top. He's embezzling from his own employer."

Michiko grinned. "Isn't Gen Taki going to be interested in that!"

Philip grunted. "Knowing your father, Gen Taki will never find out. He's going to use this information to bind Kenji Harigami to him body and soul."

He started the car, and they headed back to the gambling- syndicate parlor where Wataro Taki was waiting with Kenji's daughter.

But Philip's thoughts were far away. He was thinking of how to get inside the furo. How to find out what David Turner was up to in there.

My darling, Philip read, I have done what you suggested. There was merit in it, and I saw that if it was to be acted upon, it was up to me to do it. I have gone inside the furo, and have found who it is David Turner is meeting there. That is startling enough. But there is more, I believe. Much more. I have taken Ed Porter with me. I believe that by the time you read this, we will have been successful. Please meet me at eleven at the sumo stadium.

Philip glanced at his watch. It was already past ten. The note had been delivered by hand by one of Wataro Taki's men. Philip shot questions at him as soon as he had read the note, but the man knew nothing more than that Michiko had handed him the sealed note at just past five in the afternoon and told himto deliver it to Philip at ten that evening.

Philip drove northeast, into Ryogoku. To the sumo stadium.

He sat in the car, tapping his fingers against the wheel. There was nothing about this situation he liked. He felt like a puppet on a string. He got out of the car. A fine mist was falling. Great gingko trees rose up all around him. They looked as if they were weeping.

What, he thought, had Michiko found out about David Turner? And what was she doing at the sumo stadium?

There was no one about, no traffic. He felt alone and terribly vulnerable walking across the deserted street. Touched the inside of his left wrist. Into the shadows of the stadium. He made a complete circuit, found one door ajar.

Poked his head in and quickly pulled it back. A light burned in the concrete hallway. Nothing else.

He was aware of the acceleration of his pulse, the terror knotting his insides. And years later this would be the moment he would remember, when, in retrospect, he could appreciate the enormous folly he had committed when he had unthinkingly verbalized his thoughts to Michiko. She had taken him literally. He knew now that she had believed he had given her an order to infiltrate the bathhouse.

Though he would later say I never asked her to do this, he would be ashamed of his words. Of course he had asked her.

In the j.a.panese fas.h.i.+on, he bad indicated to her the dire circ.u.mstances, the probable rewards and how, in this instance, he himself was incapable of acting.

He had quite deliberately revealed to her this slender, gleaming thread. He had needed her to act, because she could get into the furo where he could not, and so had contrived a way to pull her along its fragile length, unmindful of the terrible danger that lurked there.

But this would come later. At the moment, all Philip knew was that he was going into the sumo stadium. Michiko and Porter were there.

Inside, the place smelled of straw and sweat. Both were stale odors, as if whatever had occurred here had done so many years ago. There were other manifestations of disuse. There is a sense one gets when a place is deserted.

It is akin to the odd-and infinitely subtle-change in sound of a phone ringing at the other end of the line when no one is home.

Whatever that was, Philip sensed it now as he went out into the high-ceilinged arena. Rows of benches, tier upon tier, dimly seen in the partial illumination from the bare bulbs screwed into the sockets along the hallway. In the center, the dohyo, the traditional sumo ring, raised two feet off the floor. He walked toward it. Once, the fifteen-foot-diameter ring had been constructed by placing sixteen rice bales side by side. Now, of course, more modem methods were used.

There was a sound, and Philip looked up. The center of the dohyo was struck by a lance of light. Philip started. An enormous sumo wrestler crouched there.

The light flooding over him revealed the elaborate nature of his hair style.

This ichomage was the sign of a grand champion, the highest level of achievement in the world of sumo.

As Philip watched, the sumo took up a large cup of water and drank from it.

This was the misu-sakazuki, the water ceremony, one of the rites of purification that preceded a match. In ancient days, the water cup was ritually exchanged between warriors who, before entering into battle, would toast one another's courage, knowing that it might be for the last time.

Putting down the cup, the sumo squatted. His weight was on his heels; his hands, curled into fists, rested on the mat. This was s.h.i.+kiri, the position of readiness.

It was then that the sumo stared directly into Philip's eyes. The challenge was unmistakable.

Philip turned toward the door be had used to enter the arena area. A second shaft of light revealed another figure. He brandished a sword. The sword-bearer, who traditionally accompanied the grand champion. What was sofamiliar about this figure's stance? About his silhouette? There was no time to think.

Philip took off in the opposite direction. He was aware of movement. The swordsman was racing after him; the sumo had begun his climb down into the aisle nearest Philip.

Philip put on speed, jumping tiers, downward toward another exit door. He crashed into it. Locked. He went on, trying door after door. While the two j.a.panese closed in on him.

At last he came to a door that gave. Threw it open and dashed through.

When he went down, it was with a sense of despair. Hit the concrete and rolled. The back of his neck, where he had been struck, throbbed, and he felt a tingling down one arm.

Shook it, and kicked out at the same time. Heard a grunt, and kicked again.

This time, felt his foot caught, twisted painfully. Used his other leg in a sweep, and his a.s.sailant came cras.h.i.+ng down atop him.

Philip used the combat judo he had been taught, two short, vicious strikes that cracked the other's rib cage. Then Philip extracted the thin blade secreted along the inside of his left wrist. Slid it home.

Heard noises, becoming abruptly louder, and he scrambled to his feet.

Continued to shake his seminumb hand as he ran. Some of the bulbs had burned out along this stretch, and it was difficult to see. He stumbled once over a box or an overturned chair, righted himself and pounded on.

At last he turned a corner and spotted the door through which he had entered the stadium. It was like coming home.

So it wasn't until he was quite close that he saw the odd shadow. The movement caught his eye fast, brought him up short. It was swaying. Like a pendulum, it rocked back and forth in a short, twisting arc.

Panting, Philip approached it. A horror growing inside him.

"Oh my G.o.d," he whispered. The breath sawed in and out of him. His tongue felt like cotton batting. "Oh my G.o.d."