Nogami nodded and sipped from his sake saucer. Of course he knew the story. Every Japanese did."You doubtless recall that Ieyasu Tokugawa replied, 'I will merely wait until it does sing.' He was a patient man. Toyotomi Hideyoshi, by contrast, said he would prefer to try and reason with the bird, hoping to convince it to sing." He paused and smiled. "Sometimes gentle persuasion does work. But the great warlord Oda Nobunaga declared he would just ring the wretched creature's neck. He had no patience with disobedience.""Perhaps Ieyasu Tokugawa's answer was the wisest, Sato-sama." The banker's eyes were defiant."He also enjoyed the luxury of time, Nogami-san. I suppose the pace of affairs was more leisurely back then." Sato set down his blackrakusake saucer and lit a Peace cigarette, the unfiltered Japanese brand. "These days events do not always allow us such luxuries, no matter how much we might wish it. Sometimes it is necessary to proceed forcefully.""There is always a problem when the bird finds the song is . . . unsuitable." Nogami again sipped from his own saucer, meeting Sato's gaze. "When the notes are discordant."Jiro Sato listened thoughtfully, appreciating Nogami's indirect and poetic answer. Then the banker went on."Ninjo, Sato-sama. For over three centuriesninjohasbeen what made our brotherhood unique. Are we to forget that now?"They both knew what he meant.Ninjowas uniquely Japanese, because no other people in the world had Japan's sense of tribal unity. The Western terms chivalry or compassion carried only a superficial sense ofninjo. It was the inborn golden rule of Japanese culture that surfaced daily in expressions of racial togetherness, support and cooperation. It also was a deep-seated part of the Yakuza tradition. Greatoyabunof the past liked to point out that the Yakuza's honoring ofninjowas what set their brotherhood apart from the American Mafia."The Yakuza have historically served the people," Nogami went on. "Yakuza do not run dishonest gambling tables, even if the victims are to be gaijin. It is not the Yakuza way to perpetrate fraud, which is what the CEO's Eurobond issue amounts to."Jiro Sato did not offer to refute the assertion. Instead he replied from a different direction, his voice soft."There isninjo, Nogami-san. And there isgiri. Which do you respect more?"He knew he had just presented Nogami with a hopeless dilemma.Giri. It was a word nogaijincould ever entirely comprehend. The closest a foreign language, or a foreign mind, could manage was "duty." But that pale concept missed entirely the reverberations of moral obligation ingiri. One could never fully repay such indebtedness, even with one's life. A Japanese called it "the burden hardest to bear."A Yakuza's foremost expression ofgiriwas to honor and obey hisoyabun. The greatoyabunof Japan's leading Yakuza syndicates were more than merely godfathers. They were Confucian elders, patriarchs, wisdom figures who embodied all the traditions of the clan. Their authority was absolute and unquestioned.Kenji Nogami owed as muchgirito Tanzan Mino as any man could. The Tokyooyabunhad made him everything he was; it was an obligation he could never fully discharge. One look at his face told how his heart was torn.But as Jiro Sato studied Nogami's pained eyes, he wastorn as well. Tokyo was near to losing confidence in him. The CEO had just announced by telex that a team ofkobunhad been posted to London to "assist." But if theoyabun’sTokyo people had to step in and solve the problem, a lot more would be lost than finger digits.Finally Nogami spoke, his voice firm. "Perhaps you will be pleased to learn, Sato-sama, that I am prepared to make certain preliminary accommodations. An initial offering of Eurobonds will be formally issued tomorrow.""That is a wise decision." Jiro Sato tried to disguise his surge of relief beneath a mask of unconcern. Nogami was going to go along after all!"It will be for one hundred million Eurodollars," the banker continued. "And it is already fully subscribed, in advance.""Only one hundred million?" Sato felt his iron facade crack. "What purpose—?""It will provide the immediate funds I understand are now needed. After that, we can discuss further steps."Further steps? Sato thought. Yes, the Tokyooyabunwould definitely see to it that there were further steps. His bird would sing. Or else. Kenji Nogami was acting as though obligation, giri, had ceased to exist. But such things were not possible. Giri lasted forever. Did Nogami think the old ways no longer counted for anything?"The debentures will be purchased by an American investor," Nogami went on, his voice cutting through the silence. "His name is Vance.""I have heard of him already." Sato felt his anger boil. Vance, he knew, had theoyabun’shundred million and was trying to hold the entire scenario ransom. What he hadn't known until this instant was that Kenji Nogami was helping him.Well, he thought, perhaps the two problems can be solved simultaneously. An example is going to be made of Vance, an example that will also serve to provide a certain recalcitrant bird a needed refresher course ingiri.Yes, Jiro Sato thought, the CEO'skobunfrom Tokyo are going to arrive to find their work has been done. Enough face has been lost, not to mention three men. The situation is intolerable. The only way to regain the London office's tattered honor, to avenge its disgrace, is to resolve the Vance situation immediately.Chapter FourteenTuesday 5:31p.m."It's the best I can manage, Michael." Nogami's voice was apologetic. "Nobody knows I keep this place, not even my wife.""Afternoon business conferences.""You catch my meaning." He smiled and walked on up the sandstone steps.The townhouse was in the quiet residential South Kensington section of London. From the outside, it looked to be the perfect safe house."So that's how the situation stands now," the banker continued. "Tanzan Mino has agreed to your terms. He even seemed to like the idea of laundering the hundred million one last time through a purchase of Mino Industries debentures.""Now we'll see if he sticks to his word.""You've got leverage at the moment." He was fishing for his keys. "Incidentally, I should tell you I broke the news to his London oyabun here this afternoon. About postponing the rest of the issue. He was not pleased. It's been a bad week for him.""Are you planning to make this break with the organization permanent?" Vance knew it was not something a Yakuza would do lightly."I'm still not sure." His voice was pained. "I don't even know if I can.""The long arm of the Tokyooyabun. Plenty of reach.""It's not just that." Nogami was inserting a large key into the front door, white with Georgian decorations and a leaded glass transom above. "You understand the kind of obligation we Japanese must bear for past favors. It's onerous, but all the same it's very real. We can't just say thanks for the memories.""Giri." Vance nodded. "The 'burden.' ""Ah, you know. Yes, it's calledgiriand there's nothing we can do about it." He was switching on the hall light. "Girirules our lives."Vance noticed the floor had a pristine carpet in conservative gray. A polished mahogany staircase led to the upper floors."Nice, Ken, very nice. The quintessential banker's pad.""I have the entire building, my little indulgence. I keep a few antiques here, some of my art. You know, special things. Unfortunately I don't have a chance to use it much these days. The . . . friend I used to meet here . . . well, her husband was transferred back to Osaka. And I haven't had time to come up with a replacement.""First things first, Ken. You should always make time for living. One of my few rules in life. You never get another shot."He laughed and opened the door leading from the hallway into the parlor suite. It smelled slightly musty from disuse. "I'm better at giving advice than taking it too, old man.""Touche." Vance shrugged, then looked around the spacious drawing room. It was furnished in standard English style, with overstuffed chairs, a Victorian fireplace, an oak tea caddy and bar. But the nineteenth-century appointments weren't what concerned him. Was it safe?"Michael, we both may need this place if your plan doesn't work. I don't know where else I can go." He walked to the bar, a collection of bottles on the bottom tray of the caddy, and selected a flask of cognac. "Now could you repeat that story again? About the protocol. I must confess I'm dazzled."In the limousine driving up from Westminster Union, Vance had finally told him the real purpose of the bond issue, what the money was going to be used for. The banker had listened in silence, stunned."Well, to make a long story short, you're being used, in what's probably going to be the biggest shell game in history. Tanzan Mino steals unsecured billions from European tax evaders and uses it to finance the opening of Russia's markets for Mino Industries. You're right to bail out now. If he pulls it off, he'll look like a genius. But if it backfires and the truth comes out, you'll get full credit. Not exactly a terrific downside.""I didn't get this far exposing myself unnecessarily, and I don't intend to start now. Not for him or anybody.""Then we'll proceed with Plan A.""This reminds me a lot of the old days." He laughed and poured a snifter for each of them. "Here's to the end ofgiri.""And the beginning of a new life." Vance clicked their glasses, then took a sip. "Now, we need to get our coordination synchronized.""Everything is ready at my end. Tomorrow morning I'll issue the zero-coupon debentures you're going to purchase, and you'll make the trade. After that I'll wire your hundred million to Tokyo, and Tanzan Mino is taken care of. I've simultaneously arranged with Sumitomo Bank to accept that paper as collateral for a loan. You'll get the money from them on the spot. By the way, how do you want it?""Just park it in gilts, through the trading desk at Moscow Narodny Bank, the new branch on Saint Swithins Lane.""Done," Nogami nodded."Now how about the debentures that are Sumitomo's security? And mine. Who's holding them?""We Japanese still act like gentlemen, Michael. At least up to a point. They've agreed to let me hold them until we close our books at the end of the month. I did them a similar favor last year." He sipped at his brandy with satisfaction. "So you can still call them anytime if, God help us, it comes to that. You'll have your leverage, and Tanzan Mino will know it. If you should have to call them and he defaults, he'll then have to answer to Sumitomo. And he wouldn't dare. I happen to know they hold a forty-million- dollar mortgage on his new office building down in the Docklands. They'd eat him and not even blink. There's some bad blood between them, though I don't know exactly what it is.""Okay, so far, so good." Vance looked around the room. "You're absolutely positive nobody knows about this place?""It's been my little secret for four years now. I paid cash and I don't even report the expenses on my tax forms, which gives you some idea how I value my privacy. So there's absolutely no way anybody could know about it.""You never came here in your limo?""Only if I came without a driver, the way we did today.""Then it sounds clean.""This place is the least of your worries, Michael." He settled into a chair. "After my meeting this afternoon, I have an idea that the Londonoyabun, Jiro Sato, has every intention of taking things into his own hands . . . to try and break me. He's going to push the pace—in swordsmanship it's calledmukatsu kasuru to iu koto. He's lost too much face. He can't let you get away with this and still control the organization. After the debacle in Greece, he's near to becoming a laughing stock among his ownkobun.""Can't Tokyo manage him?""Theoretically. But the organization is getting a little far-flung these days. I don't know. My instincts tell me he's going to undertake some face-saving on his own. Just temporarily overlook any agreement you may have with the front office." He rose and splashed some more brandy into his glass. "It's going to get rough, that's all I know for sure. So the sooner you proceed with the rest of your plan, the better.""Everything's ready.""Then I suppose it's time we wished each other well and got going." Nogami finished off his brandy and dug the keys from his pocket. He jangled them a moment in his hand, then tossed them over. "Take them now. You might as well secure the place as we leave and start getting used to that tricky front door lock. There won't be any time to practice.""Here's to you, Ken." Vance saluted him with the snifter,then drained it. "And many thanks. If you ever owed me anygiri, consider it paid.""That works both ways. I'm doing myself a favor too. I had to make a break, if this financing double cross of his backfires, it could turn into a worldwide scandal. I'd be ruined. Not to mention Westminster Union, which the regulators here would probably padlock. With scarcely concealed glee. It would merely confirm what everybody here wants to think about those 'win-at-any-cost' Japanese these days.""Well, I appreciate it. I mean that. I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better over the years." Vance tried locking the front door. It was difficult, as Nogami had warned, but finally it clicked securely. Outside the evening air was brisk, with a few of Nogami's neighbors stoically walking large dogs and pretending to enjoy the ambience of London's chilly dusk."If we both live long enough, maybe we can try. You're one of the few Westerners I've known who ever really understood Japan.""I had a crash course several years back.""So I understand." He smiled as he opened the limo door. Vance would drive. "Which is one of the reasons I wonder if this arrangement is going to be as simple as we'd hoped. Tanzan Mino has a long memory, Michael. He doesn't forgive or forget. I'm sure he still remembers you were responsible for shutting down his cozy CIA arrangement.""I thought it was time the Company cleaned up its act. But hell, that was almost eight years ago.""That's a mere snap of the fingers in Japanese time, as you well know.""Well, fuck him if he can't take a joke.""A joke is the one thing he can't take, my friend. He never smiles unless there's a camera around.""Look, you say he's agreed to deal. Let's assume for now he means it, but in the meantime we proceed as planned. You trust your mother, but you cut the cards."Nogami settled into the seat and shut the door. Then he looked down quizzically. "What's this? I didn't notice it before." He reached down and picked up a black leather sachel off the floor, testing its weight. "Somehow I've got a feeling it's not a new tie from Harrods.""As it happens, that's a little housewarming gift from the Soviet embassy. Part of my deal, along with the car. It's registered and legal, or so they tell me.""My God." He settled it back on the floor. "I must be getting old. Hardware terrifies me these days. I'm not used to working this close to the street anymore.""It's only till we take care of business. You handle your end tomorrow and we're both clear. At least for now.""If it was really that simple, you wouldn't need this.""The point is not to need this.""My friend, if Jiro Sato breaks rank and moves on us, we're going to need twenty of these. And more."Tuesday 9:28p.m."A KGB security squad was posted at the hotel, around ten o'clock this morning, Sato-sama. They are armed.""Saaa," he hissed an exhale of displeasure and leaned forward, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. One of the black-suitedkobunimmediately stepped up and flicked a lighter. He inhaled, then leaned back. "I'd hoped this could be handled without any fuss. But we still must proceed.""Your decisions are always correct, Sato-sama." The secondkobunbowed. "But perhaps it might be wise to discuss the possibility of waiting for the backup team from Tokyo, if only to convince ourselves they are not needed.""This office lost much face because of our problems in Greece. There's only one way to regain it. We have to act now."Worst of all, I've lost face too, Jiro Sato reminded himself, among my ownkobun. Anoyabunhas to lead. The minute he shows weakness, he's through. Buddha only knows what would happen if I lost control here. There's no turning back. An example has to be made of the American meddlers, if only to make Nogami-san understand the organization still means business.The Tokyooyabun'sdaring project is going to succeed. In the long run it's inevitable. The problems now are short-term. But if anything else goes wrong with this office's responsibilities . . .Thekobun, five in all, bowed respectfully. They understood his thoughts as clearly as if they had been projected in neon across the back wall. The office had already lost three men. Face was at stake. This problem could not be solved from Tokyo. It was time to draw together.The operation was scheduled to begin at 11:00 P.M. sharp. The fivekobunhad already synchronized their digital watches and stashed their H&K automatics in the two gray Fords now waiting in the building's underground garage. No flashy limousines tonight; the operation would be lowest of low profiles.Three more of their team were already at the hotel, with walkie-talkies, monitoring the entrances. The KGB security in the lobby would be quietly diverted and then neutralized. The guard upstairs would simply be overpowered, or taken out with a silencer if the situation got out of hand. Since they were professionals, however, matters rarely went that far.The time had come to move. All five lined up in front of Jiro Sato's massive oak desk and bowed to the waist; then one by one they filed out.Tuesday 10:27p.m.It was going to be a simple operation, that much he was sure of. No violence, no bloodshed. The bottle should take care of the situation. All the same, he had a 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. Life had taught him that when something could go wrong, chances were good that it would.After this one last job, he was going to disappear. The situation had deteriorated far past where any reasonable man would want to touch it. The time had come to bail out and let the chips fall. One more day, that was all.Standing now at the side entrance of the Strand Palace, the small alleyway named Burleigh that curved around the rear of the hotel and met the main avenue, he pulled his overcoat tighter and glanced down at his Piaget.It read 10:28. Time to get started. Everything was synchronized down to seconds.He'd already made sure the service entrance was unlocked. He'd taped the latch on the metal door during the comings and goings of the staff during the evening shift change. Now all he had to do was slip through and the rest should go like clockwork.In he went. The neon-lit hallway was empty, again according to plan. This was a slow time for all the staff except room service and the kitchen.He slipped off his overcoat and threw it into a large laundry hamper parked halfway down the hall. Underneath he was wearing the uniform of a Strand Palace security man.He checked his watch. Sixty-five seconds . . .At that moment the door of the service elevator opened and a tall Irishman stepped off. He was wearing the same uniform.It was a Strand Palace security guard, a real one. The worst possible luck.The moment seemed frozen in time. However, one thing was certain: the security guard wasn't fooled for an instant by the intruder. He automatically grabbed one of his trouser legs and knelt with a practiced move, reaching for the holster strapped to his ankle.The intruder was quicker. As the guard dropped down, his knee came up, slamming against the man's square jaw. The Irishman toppled back against the side of the elevator with a groan, but not before his fist lashed out, aimed for the groin.It was a glancing blow, and it was too late. The intruder chopped down against his neck, disabling his left arm, then slammed his head against the steel strut running down the center of the elevator wall. He groaned and twitched backward.Should I just break his neck? he wondered. Just kill him now? One twist would do it.No, he lectured himself, be a professional.Instead he rammed the Irishman's head against the steel strut a second time, and a third, till he felt the body go fully limp.Not good enough, he told himself, and reached into his pocket for the bottle. The ether was going to get more use than he'd planned.He doused the heavy cloth he'd brought along and shoved it against the fallen figure's nostrils. He continued to hold it on the ruddy face as he closed the elevator door and pushed the button that would take him up.As the lift rose, he checked his watch and smiled to see that his timing was perfect. Ten seconds to go.Tuesday 10:29p.m."You bastard," Eva screamed as she slapped Vance with all her might, knocking him against the door of their room. The thin walls shook."Don't ever do that again." He drew up and swung for her, missing and crashing against a chair."Get away from me. You're drunk." She shoved him farther into the room, her voice trembling with anger. Then she wrenched open the hotel room door and stumbled into the hallway. "Pomogethya mnye!"Their KGB guard, Igor Borisovich, was already running down the hall, "Shto. . .?”"Help me." She seized his arm and pulled him in.Mike Vance was standing in the middle of the room, weaving shakily, now grasping a letter opener in his right hand."Get the hell out of here." He started moving on the Russian, brandishing the weapon, but stumbled and had to pause to collect his balance."He drank half a bottle of tequila and went crazy." She was shouting in Russian. "Do something!"Igor nodded knowingly. He came from a land where alcoholism easily edged out soccer as the national pastime."What is problem?" The hulking Soviet moved forward, gingerly trying to retrieve the letter opener from Vance's hand."Get away from me." Vance shoved him off, then stumbled back."No, you must give me knife," the Russian demanded. "We want no trouble."Nobody noticed, but the time was 10:30. Exactly.The room was brought up sharp by the sound of the door slamming and a click of the lock. They turned to see a figure wearing a black ski mask and the uniform of a Strand Palace security guard. In his right hand was a 9mm automatic."Who the hell . . . ?" Vance yelled drunkenly.Igor whirled to stare. His hand started for his shoulder holster, but then he thought better of it and instead he backed slowly against the wall, silently glaring."Where is it?" the hooded figure demanded as he brandished his pistol toward Eva."Fuck you, whoever you are." Vance tried to move toward him, still grasping the letter opener."Shut up." The intruder shoved him backward, sending him sprawling onto the couch. Then he turned to Eva. "Where's the computer?"Almost at that moment he saw it, on the writing table by the window. Without waiting for an answer, he moved quickly and seized it by the handle. After he'd stationed it next to the door, he waved the weapon at Eva again and barked. "Get your things. And all copies of the protocol.""Listen, you son of a bitch," Vance sputtered as he drew himself up and moved again on the intruder. "She's not going anywhere. Now get out of here before I ram that goddam—"The intruder slammed the pistol across his face, sending him crumpling to the floor. But now his back was turned to Igor Borisovich, who lunged.The intruder saw the movement, reflected in the tall mirror above the dressing table. He easily sidestepped the lumbering Russian, then brought the pistol hard against his skull. Igor Borisovich groaned and staggered sideways flailing for balance.The hooded figure seemed prepared. His hand plunged into a pocket and out came a bottle whose stopper had been replaced by a wadded rag. He flung the contents of the bottle across the Russian's face, then shoved the soaking rag against his mouth and nostrils.Igor Borisovich struggled and clawed limply at his face for a few moments before lapsing unconscious."You fucker." Vance pulled himself up off the floor, muttering."Problem?" The intruder glanced at him."One small one, yeah. You damned near broke my jaw.""This is the theater of the real, my friend," Alex Novosty laughed as he pulled off the ski mask. "If you're going to be kidnapped, it has to look authentic. I'm a professional. I never do these things by halves.""Any problem downstairs?" Eva was already collecting her scant belongings."Yes, one very big problem. I had a small misunderstanding with one of the hotel's security people. The natives here are not friendly. He's on the service elevator now, sound asleep like this one.""Where did you park it?" She opened the room door and looked up and down the hall."It should still be on this floor. I put it on Emergency Stop. But he's going to wake up any time now and sound the alarm.""Then we've got to finish here and get out fast." She slammed the door and turned back.They went to work, quickly turning over chairs, ripping curtains, leaving evidence of a violent struggle. Belongings were strewn across the bed and floor, as though there'd been a hasty search. It was done quietly and efficiently and took about a minute. Novosty thoughtfully positioned his black ski mask in the middle of the floor, just one more clue in what they hoped would be signs of an abrupt, forced departure.Then they grabbed what they needed, including theZenith Turbo, locked the door, and made their way down the hallway. The Strand Palace security guard was still on the service elevator, unconscious but beginning to stir."What do you propose we do with him?" Novosty gave the Irishman a shake."How about a little more ether," Eva suggested. She was clasping the Zenith next to her. "And then let's get out of here."He obligingly gave the man a final dose from the almost- empty bottle, leaving the rag across his face. By the time he finished, the elevator had reached the service area in the basement. Their Soviet limousine was parked in the alley, ready. In seconds they were in it and gone.Tuesday 10:43p.m.Michael Vance, Eva Borodin, and Aleksei Novosty were luckier than they knew. When they emerged, the Japanese guard Jiro Sato had stationed at the Burleigh entrance had momentarily been called away by radio to confer at the Strand corner. Since the alleyway was curved slightly, as London alleys invariably are, the huddled Yakuza team saw nothing but the tinted windows of a limousine with diplomatic license plates speeding past. They paid it no heed.Watches were checked one more time, and then the dark-suited men fanned out. The guard stationed down Burleigh returned to his post, while the five who had been in the Docklands office made their way into the teeming lobby on the Strand. While two started up the fire stairs, the other three converged on the KGB guard, disarmed him discreetly, and then informed him that he had pressing business outside. He was shoved into one of the waiting Fords, gagged, and handcuffed to the steering column. It took less than a minute to neutralize him.Then the three returned to the lobby and got on the elevator. On the eighth floor they met the other two, who had come in from the stairway at the opposite end of the hall. Together they swept the corridors.The KGB guard was nowhere to be seen."Perhaps they pulled the security on this floor," one of them said."Or he has gone into the room, to piss out some vodka," another suggested."This will be easier than we thought," a third was heard to observe.Together they converged on the room registered in the name of Michael Vance, and then they stood aside as one knocked.When there was no answer, they elected to shoulder it in.As they rushed the room, they were met by a fusillade of automatic pistol fire from a boiling mad KGB security agent, nursing a headache and crouched just inside the bathroom door.Chapter FifteenWednesday1:09a.m."Darling, do you think they'll figure out it was a ruse?""Who knows." He looked up from stoking the fireplace, where nothing but embers remained. "Tanzan Mino may be a genius, but the rest of his Yakuza hoods are not exactly rocket scientists. Ditto T-Directorate's flunkies. With any luck both sides will think the other one's kidnapped us and they'll go after each other. That's the idea at least.""Well, we're pretty vulnerable." She kicked off her shoes and leaned back on the couch."Look, after tomorrow Tanzan Mino won't dare send his goons after us . . . unless he's got something up his sleeve we don't know about.""That's just it,"she sighed. "If he manages to find us . . . why mince words, if he decides to try and kill us again, what then? Will this Japanese banker friend of yours stick with us? Whose side is he on, I mean really?""Well, we're here, aren't we? Nobody knows about this place, not even Alex."They had ditched Novosty three blocks down the Strand. Trust had its limits."Except, of course, your Japanese banker friend. He knows.""The only player we can rely on now is Ken. And he's the only one—particularly after Novosty gets his money—who's got the slightest incentive to hang tough.""I'm wondering what's the best way to break the story. We've got to make sure it doesn't get away from us, get lost."He looked up from the fireplace. "I've already told you what I think. I say we just go see an editor friend of mine at the Financial Times, give him a big scoop concerning a forthcoming Mino Industries Eurobond offering. We point out there's no collateral at all behind the debentures, and we'll also hint there's more to it, but that angle we save for The Times of London, which will get a nicely translated copy of the protocol. We hit the godfather with a one-two press expose, then make ourselves scarce and let investigative journalism do its thing. Believe me, nobody's going to ignore what could be the biggest story of the decade. After that starts snowballing, Tanzan Mino'll have too much on his plate to bother eating us. We'll be out of it.""Michael," she sighed, "you're a dreamer. You don't really think it's going to be that easy."He rose and joined her on the couch, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Maybe not, but we won't be a sitting target. We'll keep on the move. Why don't you come and join me on the boat. I may have to postpone visiting with the Stuttgart team down at Phaistos, but we'll find something. It'll be simple.""Sounds really simple.""All great ideas are basically that way.""Well, if life's as simple as you make out, then why did you insist on Alex's friends at the Soviet embassy lending you that thing?" She pointed to the black leather satchel stationed next to the fireplace."Guess I'm nervous." He grinned weakly."You mean you're scared. Cut the bull. I'm scared too." She got up, walked over and picked up the leather bag. "Now, I want you to show me how to work this.""What?" He didn't like the idea. "You sure?""Absolutely. We're in this together." She settled the bag down on the carpet, unzipped the top, and drew out an object whose black matte-satin finish glistened in the soft glow of the coals. "This is an Uzi, right?""The tried and true. Major Uziel Gal's contribution to the mayhem of the world." He reached over and took it. "You know, this is an instrument of sudden death. Do you really want your finger on the trigger?""Sweetheart, just tell me what I need to know." She met his gaze."Okay, here goes." He still hated the thought, for a lot of reasons. The mere sight of an Uzi reminded him of things in the past he preferred to forget. But there clearly was no stopping her. "A quick run-through of the care and feeding of your classic assault machine.""Good." She reached and took it, tugging at the collapsed metal stock a second before turning back to him. "By the way, is it loaded?""No, but it probably should be. You can take care of that yourself in just a second. But first things first." He pointed down. "See this thumb button right here, on the left top of the grip? Notice there're three positions—all the way back is the safety, next is semiautomatic fire, and all the way forward is full-auto. There's also a backup safety here, at the top rear of the pistol grip. The action stays locked unless it's depressed, which happens when you squeeze down to deliver a round.""Two safeties?""Don't knock it. This baby fires ten rounds a second on full-auto. We've only got five magazines.""How many rounds in a magazine?""I insisted on the enlarged thirty-two-round version instead of the usual twenty-five. But still, with that little button forward on full-auto you can empty a magazine in about three seconds. It's a good way to get the attention of everybody in the room.""Can you actually hold your aim in full-auto?""Well enough. The recoil's surprisingly minimal. Remember to fire in short bursts and you'll do okay." He pointed down. "Now, the cocking handle is this knurled knob here on the top. Notice it's got a slot cut in it so it doesn't block the sights. You yank it back to ready it. And don't forget, always use your left hand to cock the action and change magazines, and your right to operate the safety-selector switch.""Got it.""Okay, now you're ready to load." He picked one of the black rectangular metal cases out of the leather satchel on the floor. "This is a charged magazine. Always cock the action and set the thumb switch to safety before you insert one."She pulled the knob back firmly, then pushed her thumb against the switch."Now feed the magazine into the bottom of the pistol grip"She shoved it in with a click and it was secured."You're ready to party. Thumb off the safety and it's a go project.""How do you take the magazine out when it's empty?" She aimed into the fireplace. For a second he thought she was going to take out a few half-burnt logs."There's a release catch on the bottom left side of the pistol grip. Just depress it.""And what about the stock? Should I bother?"He reached and took it back. "You push the butt downward to release it, and then you pull it back like this till it's fully extended and locks." He clicked it into place, a hard sound in the silence of the London night. "To retract it you just depress this locking button here on the left front and fold it back under again.""Okay, let me try," she said, taking it back. She folded and unfolded it twice. "Think I've got the hang of it. But do I need it?""Use it if you want to. I've always thought that when they switched over from the original wooden stock to this metal contraption they positioned the damned thing too high. You have to bend your head down low to align the sights. My guess is, God forbid you should ever have to use this, you won't have time to bother with it.""Speaking of aiming, is this what I think it is?" She retrieved a small boxlike object from the bag."LS-45 compact laser sight. Probably useless for our purposes, but I figured, what the hell." He reached out for her hand. "For now let's just think of all this hardware as life insurance. Something you'd as soon never use." He took the gun and laid it on the tea trolley. "In the meantime why don't we have one last nightcap and go on up to bed?""Thought you'd never ask." She kissed him, deeply.The four-poster upstairs was canopied, the mattress downy as a cloud. They were both hungry for each other, exhausted but deliriously free. Perhaps it was the same relish with which a condemned prisoner consumes his last meal, the delight in every taste, every nuance. If tomorrow brings the prospect of death, then how much sweeter is life in the short hours before dawn.Wednesday 2:00a.m.Kenji Nogami wandered alone through the bond-trading floor of Westminster Union Bank, staring at the blank computer screens. His bank was a member of Globex, a twenty-four-hour world-wide trading network for currency futures, but tonight he'd ordered all his traders to square their positions—neither short nor long—and take the night off. Then he had dismissed the cleaning crew. He wanted to have the space entirely to himself, to think and to reflect. Time was growing short.He settled in one of the traders' empty chairs, withdrew a stubby Cuban Montecristo, a thick No. 2, from the breast pocket of his coat, clipped the pointed end with a monogrammed implement, and swept a wooden match against the floor and up to the tip with a single gesture. If we're going to have a showdown, he thought, I might as well die with a good cigar in hand.Then from another pocket he took out the telex from Tokyo that had come through just after midnight. The Tokyooyabunwas in a rare frenzy. Tanzan Mino had never been thwarted like this—well, only once before, when a certain Michael Vance, Jr., had blown the whistle on his CIA connections.Tanzan Mino was demanding compliance. Somebody had to give in. The obvious question: Who'd be the first to blink?The worst he can do is kill me, Nogami thought. And he can't do that yet. If something happens to me tonight, he won't get his hundred million tomorrow.But then what?You've gone this far knowing full well the consequences, he told himself, so don't back down now. You're spitting on giri, and yet . . . and yet it's the first thing you've ever done in your life that's made you feel free. It's exhilarating.Did Michael arrive safely at the South Kensington flat? He'd toyed with the idea of calling but had decided against it. They wouldn't answer the phone. In fact, he never answered it himself when he was there. Thinking about it now, he wondered why he'd ever bothered to have one installed in the first place.He drew on the Montecristo, then studied its perfect ash. Waiting. Waiting."Nogami-san,sumimasen," the voice sounded down the empty room, almost an echo.
Nogami nodded and sipped from his sake saucer. Of course he knew the story. Every Japanese did.
"You doubtless recall that Ieyasu Tokugawa replied, 'I will merely wait until it does sing.' He was a patient man. Toyotomi Hideyoshi, by contrast, said he would prefer to try and reason with the bird, hoping to convince it to sing." He paused and smiled. "Sometimes gentle persuasion does work. But the great warlord Oda Nobunaga declared he would just ring the wretched creature's neck. He had no patience with disobedience."
"Perhaps Ieyasu Tokugawa's answer was the wisest, Sato-sama." The banker's eyes were defiant.
"He also enjoyed the luxury of time, Nogami-san. I suppose the pace of affairs was more leisurely back then." Sato set down his blackrakusake saucer and lit a Peace cigarette, the unfiltered Japanese brand. "These days events do not always allow us such luxuries, no matter how much we might wish it. Sometimes it is necessary to proceed forcefully."
"There is always a problem when the bird finds the song is . . . unsuitable." Nogami again sipped from his own saucer, meeting Sato's gaze. "When the notes are discordant."
Jiro Sato listened thoughtfully, appreciating Nogami's indirect and poetic answer. Then the banker went on.
"Ninjo, Sato-sama. For over three centuriesninjohasbeen what made our brotherhood unique. Are we to forget that now?"
They both knew what he meant.Ninjowas uniquely Japanese, because no other people in the world had Japan's sense of tribal unity. The Western terms chivalry or compassion carried only a superficial sense ofninjo. It was the inborn golden rule of Japanese culture that surfaced daily in expressions of racial togetherness, support and cooperation. It also was a deep-seated part of the Yakuza tradition. Greatoyabunof the past liked to point out that the Yakuza's honoring ofninjowas what set their brotherhood apart from the American Mafia.
"The Yakuza have historically served the people," Nogami went on. "Yakuza do not run dishonest gambling tables, even if the victims are to be gaijin. It is not the Yakuza way to perpetrate fraud, which is what the CEO's Eurobond issue amounts to."
Jiro Sato did not offer to refute the assertion. Instead he replied from a different direction, his voice soft.
"There isninjo, Nogami-san. And there isgiri. Which do you respect more?"
He knew he had just presented Nogami with a hopeless dilemma.Giri. It was a word nogaijincould ever entirely comprehend. The closest a foreign language, or a foreign mind, could manage was "duty." But that pale concept missed entirely the reverberations of moral obligation ingiri. One could never fully repay such indebtedness, even with one's life. A Japanese called it "the burden hardest to bear."
A Yakuza's foremost expression ofgiriwas to honor and obey hisoyabun. The greatoyabunof Japan's leading Yakuza syndicates were more than merely godfathers. They were Confucian elders, patriarchs, wisdom figures who embodied all the traditions of the clan. Their authority was absolute and unquestioned.
Kenji Nogami owed as muchgirito Tanzan Mino as any man could. The Tokyooyabunhad made him everything he was; it was an obligation he could never fully discharge. One look at his face told how his heart was torn.
But as Jiro Sato studied Nogami's pained eyes, he was
torn as well. Tokyo was near to losing confidence in him. The CEO had just announced by telex that a team ofkobunhad been posted to London to "assist." But if theoyabun’sTokyo people had to step in and solve the problem, a lot more would be lost than finger digits.
Finally Nogami spoke, his voice firm. "Perhaps you will be pleased to learn, Sato-sama, that I am prepared to make certain preliminary accommodations. An initial offering of Eurobonds will be formally issued tomorrow."
"That is a wise decision." Jiro Sato tried to disguise his surge of relief beneath a mask of unconcern. Nogami was going to go along after all!
"It will be for one hundred million Eurodollars," the banker continued. "And it is already fully subscribed, in advance."
"Only one hundred million?" Sato felt his iron facade crack. "What purpose—?"
"It will provide the immediate funds I understand are now needed. After that, we can discuss further steps."
Further steps? Sato thought. Yes, the Tokyooyabunwould definitely see to it that there were further steps. His bird would sing. Or else. Kenji Nogami was acting as though obligation, giri, had ceased to exist. But such things were not possible. Giri lasted forever. Did Nogami think the old ways no longer counted for anything?
"The debentures will be purchased by an American investor," Nogami went on, his voice cutting through the silence. "His name is Vance."
"I have heard of him already." Sato felt his anger boil. Vance, he knew, had theoyabun’shundred million and was trying to hold the entire scenario ransom. What he hadn't known until this instant was that Kenji Nogami was helping him.
Well, he thought, perhaps the two problems can be solved simultaneously. An example is going to be made of Vance, an example that will also serve to provide a certain recalcitrant bird a needed refresher course ingiri.
Yes, Jiro Sato thought, the CEO'skobunfrom Tokyo are going to arrive to find their work has been done. Enough face has been lost, not to mention three men. The situation is intolerable. The only way to regain the London office's tattered honor, to avenge its disgrace, is to resolve the Vance situation immediately.
Tuesday 5:31p.m.
"It's the best I can manage, Michael." Nogami's voice was apologetic. "Nobody knows I keep this place, not even my wife."
"Afternoon business conferences."
"You catch my meaning." He smiled and walked on up the sandstone steps.
The townhouse was in the quiet residential South Kensington section of London. From the outside, it looked to be the perfect safe house.
"So that's how the situation stands now," the banker continued. "Tanzan Mino has agreed to your terms. He even seemed to like the idea of laundering the hundred million one last time through a purchase of Mino Industries debentures."
"Now we'll see if he sticks to his word."
"You've got leverage at the moment." He was fishing for his keys. "Incidentally, I should tell you I broke the news to his London oyabun here this afternoon. About postponing the rest of the issue. He was not pleased. It's been a bad week for him."
"Are you planning to make this break with the organization permanent?" Vance knew it was not something a Yakuza would do lightly.
"I'm still not sure." His voice was pained. "I don't even know if I can."
"The long arm of the Tokyooyabun. Plenty of reach."
"It's not just that." Nogami was inserting a large key into the front door, white with Georgian decorations and a leaded glass transom above. "You understand the kind of obligation we Japanese must bear for past favors. It's onerous, but all the same it's very real. We can't just say thanks for the memories."
"Giri." Vance nodded. "The 'burden.' "
"Ah, you know. Yes, it's calledgiriand there's nothing we can do about it." He was switching on the hall light. "Girirules our lives."
Vance noticed the floor had a pristine carpet in conservative gray. A polished mahogany staircase led to the upper floors.
"Nice, Ken, very nice. The quintessential banker's pad."
"I have the entire building, my little indulgence. I keep a few antiques here, some of my art. You know, special things. Unfortunately I don't have a chance to use it much these days. The . . . friend I used to meet here . . . well, her husband was transferred back to Osaka. And I haven't had time to come up with a replacement."
"First things first, Ken. You should always make time for living. One of my few rules in life. You never get another shot."
He laughed and opened the door leading from the hallway into the parlor suite. It smelled slightly musty from disuse. "I'm better at giving advice than taking it too, old man."
"Touche." Vance shrugged, then looked around the spacious drawing room. It was furnished in standard English style, with overstuffed chairs, a Victorian fireplace, an oak tea caddy and bar. But the nineteenth-century appointments weren't what concerned him. Was it safe?
"Michael, we both may need this place if your plan doesn't work. I don't know where else I can go." He walked to the bar, a collection of bottles on the bottom tray of the caddy, and selected a flask of cognac. "Now could you repeat that story again? About the protocol. I must confess I'm dazzled."
In the limousine driving up from Westminster Union, Vance had finally told him the real purpose of the bond issue, what the money was going to be used for. The banker had listened in silence, stunned.
"Well, to make a long story short, you're being used, in what's probably going to be the biggest shell game in history. Tanzan Mino steals unsecured billions from European tax evaders and uses it to finance the opening of Russia's markets for Mino Industries. You're right to bail out now. If he pulls it off, he'll look like a genius. But if it backfires and the truth comes out, you'll get full credit. Not exactly a terrific downside."
"I didn't get this far exposing myself unnecessarily, and I don't intend to start now. Not for him or anybody."
"Then we'll proceed with Plan A."
"This reminds me a lot of the old days." He laughed and poured a snifter for each of them. "Here's to the end ofgiri."
"And the beginning of a new life." Vance clicked their glasses, then took a sip. "Now, we need to get our coordination synchronized."
"Everything is ready at my end. Tomorrow morning I'll issue the zero-coupon debentures you're going to purchase, and you'll make the trade. After that I'll wire your hundred million to Tokyo, and Tanzan Mino is taken care of. I've simultaneously arranged with Sumitomo Bank to accept that paper as collateral for a loan. You'll get the money from them on the spot. By the way, how do you want it?"
"Just park it in gilts, through the trading desk at Moscow Narodny Bank, the new branch on Saint Swithins Lane."
"Done," Nogami nodded.
"Now how about the debentures that are Sumitomo's security? And mine. Who's holding them?"
"We Japanese still act like gentlemen, Michael. At least up to a point. They've agreed to let me hold them until we close our books at the end of the month. I did them a similar favor last year." He sipped at his brandy with satisfaction. "So you can still call them anytime if, God help us, it comes to that. You'll have your leverage, and Tanzan Mino will know it. If you should have to call them and he defaults, he'll then have to answer to Sumitomo. And he wouldn't dare. I happen to know they hold a forty-million- dollar mortgage on his new office building down in the Docklands. They'd eat him and not even blink. There's some bad blood between them, though I don't know exactly what it is."
"Okay, so far, so good." Vance looked around the room. "You're absolutely positive nobody knows about this place?"
"It's been my little secret for four years now. I paid cash and I don't even report the expenses on my tax forms, which gives you some idea how I value my privacy. So there's absolutely no way anybody could know about it."
"You never came here in your limo?"
"Only if I came without a driver, the way we did today."
"Then it sounds clean."
"This place is the least of your worries, Michael." He settled into a chair. "After my meeting this afternoon, I have an idea that the Londonoyabun, Jiro Sato, has every intention of taking things into his own hands . . . to try and break me. He's going to push the pace—in swordsmanship it's calledmukatsu kasuru to iu koto. He's lost too much face. He can't let you get away with this and still control the organization. After the debacle in Greece, he's near to becoming a laughing stock among his ownkobun."
"Can't Tokyo manage him?"
"Theoretically. But the organization is getting a little far-flung these days. I don't know. My instincts tell me he's going to undertake some face-saving on his own. Just temporarily overlook any agreement you may have with the front office." He rose and splashed some more brandy into his glass. "It's going to get rough, that's all I know for sure. So the sooner you proceed with the rest of your plan, the better."
"Everything's ready."
"Then I suppose it's time we wished each other well and got going." Nogami finished off his brandy and dug the keys from his pocket. He jangled them a moment in his hand, then tossed them over. "Take them now. You might as well secure the place as we leave and start getting used to that tricky front door lock. There won't be any time to practice."
"Here's to you, Ken." Vance saluted him with the snifter,
then drained it. "And many thanks. If you ever owed me anygiri, consider it paid."
"That works both ways. I'm doing myself a favor too. I had to make a break, if this financing double cross of his backfires, it could turn into a worldwide scandal. I'd be ruined. Not to mention Westminster Union, which the regulators here would probably padlock. With scarcely concealed glee. It would merely confirm what everybody here wants to think about those 'win-at-any-cost' Japanese these days."
"Well, I appreciate it. I mean that. I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better over the years." Vance tried locking the front door. It was difficult, as Nogami had warned, but finally it clicked securely. Outside the evening air was brisk, with a few of Nogami's neighbors stoically walking large dogs and pretending to enjoy the ambience of London's chilly dusk.
"If we both live long enough, maybe we can try. You're one of the few Westerners I've known who ever really understood Japan."
"I had a crash course several years back."
"So I understand." He smiled as he opened the limo door. Vance would drive. "Which is one of the reasons I wonder if this arrangement is going to be as simple as we'd hoped. Tanzan Mino has a long memory, Michael. He doesn't forgive or forget. I'm sure he still remembers you were responsible for shutting down his cozy CIA arrangement."
"I thought it was time the Company cleaned up its act. But hell, that was almost eight years ago."
"That's a mere snap of the fingers in Japanese time, as you well know."
"Well, fuck him if he can't take a joke."
"A joke is the one thing he can't take, my friend. He never smiles unless there's a camera around."
"Look, you say he's agreed to deal. Let's assume for now he means it, but in the meantime we proceed as planned. You trust your mother, but you cut the cards."
Nogami settled into the seat and shut the door. Then he looked down quizzically. "What's this? I didn't notice it before." He reached down and picked up a black leather sachel off the floor, testing its weight. "Somehow I've got a feeling it's not a new tie from Harrods."
"As it happens, that's a little housewarming gift from the Soviet embassy. Part of my deal, along with the car. It's registered and legal, or so they tell me."
"My God." He settled it back on the floor. "I must be getting old. Hardware terrifies me these days. I'm not used to working this close to the street anymore."
"It's only till we take care of business. You handle your end tomorrow and we're both clear. At least for now."
"If it was really that simple, you wouldn't need this."
"The point is not to need this."
"My friend, if Jiro Sato breaks rank and moves on us, we're going to need twenty of these. And more."
Tuesday 9:28p.m.
"A KGB security squad was posted at the hotel, around ten o'clock this morning, Sato-sama. They are armed."
"Saaa," he hissed an exhale of displeasure and leaned forward, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. One of the black-suitedkobunimmediately stepped up and flicked a lighter. He inhaled, then leaned back. "I'd hoped this could be handled without any fuss. But we still must proceed."
"Your decisions are always correct, Sato-sama." The secondkobunbowed. "But perhaps it might be wise to discuss the possibility of waiting for the backup team from Tokyo, if only to convince ourselves they are not needed."
"This office lost much face because of our problems in Greece. There's only one way to regain it. We have to act now."
Worst of all, I've lost face too, Jiro Sato reminded himself, among my ownkobun. Anoyabunhas to lead. The minute he shows weakness, he's through. Buddha only knows what would happen if I lost control here. There's no turning back. An example has to be made of the American meddlers, if only to make Nogami-san understand the organization still means business.
The Tokyooyabun'sdaring project is going to succeed. In the long run it's inevitable. The problems now are short-term. But if anything else goes wrong with this office's responsibilities . . .
Thekobun, five in all, bowed respectfully. They understood his thoughts as clearly as if they had been projected in neon across the back wall. The office had already lost three men. Face was at stake. This problem could not be solved from Tokyo. It was time to draw together.
The operation was scheduled to begin at 11:00 P.M. sharp. The fivekobunhad already synchronized their digital watches and stashed their H&K automatics in the two gray Fords now waiting in the building's underground garage. No flashy limousines tonight; the operation would be lowest of low profiles.
Three more of their team were already at the hotel, with walkie-talkies, monitoring the entrances. The KGB security in the lobby would be quietly diverted and then neutralized. The guard upstairs would simply be overpowered, or taken out with a silencer if the situation got out of hand. Since they were professionals, however, matters rarely went that far.
The time had come to move. All five lined up in front of Jiro Sato's massive oak desk and bowed to the waist; then one by one they filed out.
Tuesday 10:27p.m.
It was going to be a simple operation, that much he was sure of. No violence, no bloodshed. The bottle should take care of the situation. All the same, he had a 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. Life had taught him that when something could go wrong, chances were good that it would.
After this one last job, he was going to disappear. The situation had deteriorated far past where any reasonable man would want to touch it. The time had come to bail out and let the chips fall. One more day, that was all.
Standing now at the side entrance of the Strand Palace, the small alleyway named Burleigh that curved around the rear of the hotel and met the main avenue, he pulled his overcoat tighter and glanced down at his Piaget.
It read 10:28. Time to get started. Everything was synchronized down to seconds.
He'd already made sure the service entrance was unlocked. He'd taped the latch on the metal door during the comings and goings of the staff during the evening shift change. Now all he had to do was slip through and the rest should go like clockwork.
In he went. The neon-lit hallway was empty, again according to plan. This was a slow time for all the staff except room service and the kitchen.
He slipped off his overcoat and threw it into a large laundry hamper parked halfway down the hall. Underneath he was wearing the uniform of a Strand Palace security man.
He checked his watch. Sixty-five seconds . . .
At that moment the door of the service elevator opened and a tall Irishman stepped off. He was wearing the same uniform.
It was a Strand Palace security guard, a real one. The worst possible luck.
The moment seemed frozen in time. However, one thing was certain: the security guard wasn't fooled for an instant by the intruder. He automatically grabbed one of his trouser legs and knelt with a practiced move, reaching for the holster strapped to his ankle.
The intruder was quicker. As the guard dropped down, his knee came up, slamming against the man's square jaw. The Irishman toppled back against the side of the elevator with a groan, but not before his fist lashed out, aimed for the groin.
It was a glancing blow, and it was too late. The intruder chopped down against his neck, disabling his left arm, then slammed his head against the steel strut running down the center of the elevator wall. He groaned and twitched backward.
Should I just break his neck? he wondered. Just kill him now? One twist would do it.
No, he lectured himself, be a professional.
Instead he rammed the Irishman's head against the steel strut a second time, and a third, till he felt the body go fully limp.
Not good enough, he told himself, and reached into his pocket for the bottle. The ether was going to get more use than he'd planned.
He doused the heavy cloth he'd brought along and shoved it against the fallen figure's nostrils. He continued to hold it on the ruddy face as he closed the elevator door and pushed the button that would take him up.
As the lift rose, he checked his watch and smiled to see that his timing was perfect. Ten seconds to go.
Tuesday 10:29p.m.
"You bastard," Eva screamed as she slapped Vance with all her might, knocking him against the door of their room. The thin walls shook.
"Don't ever do that again." He drew up and swung for her, missing and crashing against a chair.
"Get away from me. You're drunk." She shoved him farther into the room, her voice trembling with anger. Then she wrenched open the hotel room door and stumbled into the hallway. "Pomogethya mnye!"
Their KGB guard, Igor Borisovich, was already running down the hall, "Shto. . .?”
"Help me." She seized his arm and pulled him in.
Mike Vance was standing in the middle of the room, weaving shakily, now grasping a letter opener in his right hand.
"Get the hell out of here." He started moving on the Russian, brandishing the weapon, but stumbled and had to pause to collect his balance.
"He drank half a bottle of tequila and went crazy." She was shouting in Russian. "Do something!"
Igor nodded knowingly. He came from a land where alcoholism easily edged out soccer as the national pastime.
"What is problem?" The hulking Soviet moved forward, gingerly trying to retrieve the letter opener from Vance's hand.
"Get away from me." Vance shoved him off, then stumbled back.
"No, you must give me knife," the Russian demanded. "We want no trouble."
Nobody noticed, but the time was 10:30. Exactly.
The room was brought up sharp by the sound of the door slamming and a click of the lock. They turned to see a figure wearing a black ski mask and the uniform of a Strand Palace security guard. In his right hand was a 9mm automatic.
"Who the hell . . . ?" Vance yelled drunkenly.
Igor whirled to stare. His hand started for his shoulder holster, but then he thought better of it and instead he backed slowly against the wall, silently glaring.
"Where is it?" the hooded figure demanded as he brandished his pistol toward Eva.
"Fuck you, whoever you are." Vance tried to move toward him, still grasping the letter opener.
"Shut up." The intruder shoved him backward, sending him sprawling onto the couch. Then he turned to Eva. "Where's the computer?"
Almost at that moment he saw it, on the writing table by the window. Without waiting for an answer, he moved quickly and seized it by the handle. After he'd stationed it next to the door, he waved the weapon at Eva again and barked. "Get your things. And all copies of the protocol."
"Listen, you son of a bitch," Vance sputtered as he drew himself up and moved again on the intruder. "She's not going anywhere. Now get out of here before I ram that goddam—"
The intruder slammed the pistol across his face, sending him crumpling to the floor. But now his back was turned to Igor Borisovich, who lunged.
The intruder saw the movement, reflected in the tall mirror above the dressing table. He easily sidestepped the lumbering Russian, then brought the pistol hard against his skull. Igor Borisovich groaned and staggered sideways flailing for balance.
The hooded figure seemed prepared. His hand plunged into a pocket and out came a bottle whose stopper had been replaced by a wadded rag. He flung the contents of the bottle across the Russian's face, then shoved the soaking rag against his mouth and nostrils.
Igor Borisovich struggled and clawed limply at his face for a few moments before lapsing unconscious.
"You fucker." Vance pulled himself up off the floor, muttering.
"Problem?" The intruder glanced at him.
"One small one, yeah. You damned near broke my jaw."
"This is the theater of the real, my friend," Alex Novosty laughed as he pulled off the ski mask. "If you're going to be kidnapped, it has to look authentic. I'm a professional. I never do these things by halves."
"Any problem downstairs?" Eva was already collecting her scant belongings.
"Yes, one very big problem. I had a small misunderstanding with one of the hotel's security people. The natives here are not friendly. He's on the service elevator now, sound asleep like this one."
"Where did you park it?" She opened the room door and looked up and down the hall.
"It should still be on this floor. I put it on Emergency Stop. But he's going to wake up any time now and sound the alarm."
"Then we've got to finish here and get out fast." She slammed the door and turned back.
They went to work, quickly turning over chairs, ripping curtains, leaving evidence of a violent struggle. Belongings were strewn across the bed and floor, as though there'd been a hasty search. It was done quietly and efficiently and took about a minute. Novosty thoughtfully positioned his black ski mask in the middle of the floor, just one more clue in what they hoped would be signs of an abrupt, forced departure.
Then they grabbed what they needed, including the
Zenith Turbo, locked the door, and made their way down the hallway. The Strand Palace security guard was still on the service elevator, unconscious but beginning to stir.
"What do you propose we do with him?" Novosty gave the Irishman a shake.
"How about a little more ether," Eva suggested. She was clasping the Zenith next to her. "And then let's get out of here."
He obligingly gave the man a final dose from the almost- empty bottle, leaving the rag across his face. By the time he finished, the elevator had reached the service area in the basement. Their Soviet limousine was parked in the alley, ready. In seconds they were in it and gone.
Tuesday 10:43p.m.
Michael Vance, Eva Borodin, and Aleksei Novosty were luckier than they knew. When they emerged, the Japanese guard Jiro Sato had stationed at the Burleigh entrance had momentarily been called away by radio to confer at the Strand corner. Since the alleyway was curved slightly, as London alleys invariably are, the huddled Yakuza team saw nothing but the tinted windows of a limousine with diplomatic license plates speeding past. They paid it no heed.
Watches were checked one more time, and then the dark-suited men fanned out. The guard stationed down Burleigh returned to his post, while the five who had been in the Docklands office made their way into the teeming lobby on the Strand. While two started up the fire stairs, the other three converged on the KGB guard, disarmed him discreetly, and then informed him that he had pressing business outside. He was shoved into one of the waiting Fords, gagged, and handcuffed to the steering column. It took less than a minute to neutralize him.
Then the three returned to the lobby and got on the elevator. On the eighth floor they met the other two, who had come in from the stairway at the opposite end of the hall. Together they swept the corridors.
The KGB guard was nowhere to be seen.
"Perhaps they pulled the security on this floor," one of them said.
"Or he has gone into the room, to piss out some vodka," another suggested.
"This will be easier than we thought," a third was heard to observe.
Together they converged on the room registered in the name of Michael Vance, and then they stood aside as one knocked.
When there was no answer, they elected to shoulder it in.
As they rushed the room, they were met by a fusillade of automatic pistol fire from a boiling mad KGB security agent, nursing a headache and crouched just inside the bathroom door.
Wednesday1:09a.m.
"Darling, do you think they'll figure out it was a ruse?"
"Who knows." He looked up from stoking the fireplace, where nothing but embers remained. "Tanzan Mino may be a genius, but the rest of his Yakuza hoods are not exactly rocket scientists. Ditto T-Directorate's flunkies. With any luck both sides will think the other one's kidnapped us and they'll go after each other. That's the idea at least."
"Well, we're pretty vulnerable." She kicked off her shoes and leaned back on the couch.
"Look, after tomorrow Tanzan Mino won't dare send his goons after us . . . unless he's got something up his sleeve we don't know about."
"That's just it,"she sighed. "If he manages to find us . . . why mince words, if he decides to try and kill us again, what then? Will this Japanese banker friend of yours stick with us? Whose side is he on, I mean really?"
"Well, we're here, aren't we? Nobody knows about this place, not even Alex."
They had ditched Novosty three blocks down the Strand. Trust had its limits.
"Except, of course, your Japanese banker friend. He knows."
"The only player we can rely on now is Ken. And he's the only one—particularly after Novosty gets his money—who's got the slightest incentive to hang tough."
"I'm wondering what's the best way to break the story. We've got to make sure it doesn't get away from us, get lost."
He looked up from the fireplace. "I've already told you what I think. I say we just go see an editor friend of mine at the Financial Times, give him a big scoop concerning a forthcoming Mino Industries Eurobond offering. We point out there's no collateral at all behind the debentures, and we'll also hint there's more to it, but that angle we save for The Times of London, which will get a nicely translated copy of the protocol. We hit the godfather with a one-two press expose, then make ourselves scarce and let investigative journalism do its thing. Believe me, nobody's going to ignore what could be the biggest story of the decade. After that starts snowballing, Tanzan Mino'll have too much on his plate to bother eating us. We'll be out of it."
"Michael," she sighed, "you're a dreamer. You don't really think it's going to be that easy."
He rose and joined her on the couch, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Maybe not, but we won't be a sitting target. We'll keep on the move. Why don't you come and join me on the boat. I may have to postpone visiting with the Stuttgart team down at Phaistos, but we'll find something. It'll be simple."
"Sounds really simple."
"All great ideas are basically that way."
"Well, if life's as simple as you make out, then why did you insist on Alex's friends at the Soviet embassy lending you that thing?" She pointed to the black leather satchel stationed next to the fireplace.
"Guess I'm nervous." He grinned weakly.
"You mean you're scared. Cut the bull. I'm scared too." She got up, walked over and picked up the leather bag. "Now, I want you to show me how to work this."
"What?" He didn't like the idea. "You sure?"
"Absolutely. We're in this together." She settled the bag down on the carpet, unzipped the top, and drew out an object whose black matte-satin finish glistened in the soft glow of the coals. "This is an Uzi, right?"
"The tried and true. Major Uziel Gal's contribution to the mayhem of the world." He reached over and took it. "You know, this is an instrument of sudden death. Do you really want your finger on the trigger?"
"Sweetheart, just tell me what I need to know." She met his gaze.
"Okay, here goes." He still hated the thought, for a lot of reasons. The mere sight of an Uzi reminded him of things in the past he preferred to forget. But there clearly was no stopping her. "A quick run-through of the care and feeding of your classic assault machine."
"Good." She reached and took it, tugging at the collapsed metal stock a second before turning back to him. "By the way, is it loaded?"
"No, but it probably should be. You can take care of that yourself in just a second. But first things first." He pointed down. "See this thumb button right here, on the left top of the grip? Notice there're three positions—all the way back is the safety, next is semiautomatic fire, and all the way forward is full-auto. There's also a backup safety here, at the top rear of the pistol grip. The action stays locked unless it's depressed, which happens when you squeeze down to deliver a round."
"Two safeties?"
"Don't knock it. This baby fires ten rounds a second on full-auto. We've only got five magazines."
"How many rounds in a magazine?"
"I insisted on the enlarged thirty-two-round version instead of the usual twenty-five. But still, with that little button forward on full-auto you can empty a magazine in about three seconds. It's a good way to get the attention of everybody in the room."
"Can you actually hold your aim in full-auto?"
"Well enough. The recoil's surprisingly minimal. Remember to fire in short bursts and you'll do okay." He pointed down. "Now, the cocking handle is this knurled knob here on the top. Notice it's got a slot cut in it so it doesn't block the sights. You yank it back to ready it. And don't forget, always use your left hand to cock the action and change magazines, and your right to operate the safety-selector switch."
"Got it."
"Okay, now you're ready to load." He picked one of the black rectangular metal cases out of the leather satchel on the floor. "This is a charged magazine. Always cock the action and set the thumb switch to safety before you insert one."
She pulled the knob back firmly, then pushed her thumb against the switch.
"Now feed the magazine into the bottom of the pistol grip"
She shoved it in with a click and it was secured.
"You're ready to party. Thumb off the safety and it's a go project."
"How do you take the magazine out when it's empty?" She aimed into the fireplace. For a second he thought she was going to take out a few half-burnt logs.
"There's a release catch on the bottom left side of the pistol grip. Just depress it."
"And what about the stock? Should I bother?"
He reached and took it back. "You push the butt downward to release it, and then you pull it back like this till it's fully extended and locks." He clicked it into place, a hard sound in the silence of the London night. "To retract it you just depress this locking button here on the left front and fold it back under again."
"Okay, let me try," she said, taking it back. She folded and unfolded it twice. "Think I've got the hang of it. But do I need it?"
"Use it if you want to. I've always thought that when they switched over from the original wooden stock to this metal contraption they positioned the damned thing too high. You have to bend your head down low to align the sights. My guess is, God forbid you should ever have to use this, you won't have time to bother with it."
"Speaking of aiming, is this what I think it is?" She retrieved a small boxlike object from the bag.
"LS-45 compact laser sight. Probably useless for our purposes, but I figured, what the hell." He reached out for her hand. "For now let's just think of all this hardware as life insurance. Something you'd as soon never use." He took the gun and laid it on the tea trolley. "In the meantime why don't we have one last nightcap and go on up to bed?"
"Thought you'd never ask." She kissed him, deeply.
The four-poster upstairs was canopied, the mattress downy as a cloud. They were both hungry for each other, exhausted but deliriously free. Perhaps it was the same relish with which a condemned prisoner consumes his last meal, the delight in every taste, every nuance. If tomorrow brings the prospect of death, then how much sweeter is life in the short hours before dawn.
Wednesday 2:00a.m.
Kenji Nogami wandered alone through the bond-trading floor of Westminster Union Bank, staring at the blank computer screens. His bank was a member of Globex, a twenty-four-hour world-wide trading network for currency futures, but tonight he'd ordered all his traders to square their positions—neither short nor long—and take the night off. Then he had dismissed the cleaning crew. He wanted to have the space entirely to himself, to think and to reflect. Time was growing short.
He settled in one of the traders' empty chairs, withdrew a stubby Cuban Montecristo, a thick No. 2, from the breast pocket of his coat, clipped the pointed end with a monogrammed implement, and swept a wooden match against the floor and up to the tip with a single gesture. If we're going to have a showdown, he thought, I might as well die with a good cigar in hand.
Then from another pocket he took out the telex from Tokyo that had come through just after midnight. The Tokyooyabunwas in a rare frenzy. Tanzan Mino had never been thwarted like this—well, only once before, when a certain Michael Vance, Jr., had blown the whistle on his CIA connections.
Tanzan Mino was demanding compliance. Somebody had to give in. The obvious question: Who'd be the first to blink?
The worst he can do is kill me, Nogami thought. And he can't do that yet. If something happens to me tonight, he won't get his hundred million tomorrow.
But then what?
You've gone this far knowing full well the consequences, he told himself, so don't back down now. You're spitting on giri, and yet . . . and yet it's the first thing you've ever done in your life that's made you feel free. It's exhilarating.
Did Michael arrive safely at the South Kensington flat? He'd toyed with the idea of calling but had decided against it. They wouldn't answer the phone. In fact, he never answered it himself when he was there. Thinking about it now, he wondered why he'd ever bothered to have one installed in the first place.
He drew on the Montecristo, then studied its perfect ash. Waiting. Waiting.
"Nogami-san,sumimasen," the voice sounded down the empty room, almost an echo.