Angel Eyes (16 page)

Now, just a year later, desperation had driven her to return here, the last place on earth she wanted to be. It sickened her to have to come here, but Big Ezoe had a power she needed. He was a monstrous creature and, like a mythical dragon, an unpredictable one.

As Honno entered the warehouse, she had a sense of displacement, as if she were returning to the past and, in so doing, everything else was about to be lost to her.

A garden had grown up in her absence. A skylight had been installed in the center of the high ceiling, and below it a perfect square was displayed: a pebble stream with a steep rock bank on one side, a grouping of ferns, hostas, a dwarf maple on the other side. A mini-stand of emerald-green moso bamboo filled one corner, creating asymmetry, the tension a counterpoint to the repose that was essential for contemplation.

Honno was taken past the garden, down the warren of corridors, into Big Ezoe's office. He regarded her silently as she was ushered in, left alone with him. The room was filled with rarities: antiques both delicate (a translucent Chinese celadon vase) and earthy (a magnificent suit of seventeenth century samurai armor); a woodblock print of the Great Wave by Hokusai, tran-scendant with power, hanging above a monumental black stone Noguchi fountain that gleamed magically with an endless rippling of water that appeared as black as the stone.

Honno took this all in, thinking. How could a man as base as he is have the good taste to surround himself with elements of such ethereal beauty?

It was a long time before Big Ezoe moved. When he did, it was to open a drawer, reach inside, and place on the desk the pistol Honno had aimed at him one year ago.

"I suppose," he said, "that you've returned for this."

Honno stared at the gleaming face of the pistol. Big Ezoe had carefully turned the barrel away from her. She saw in the bits of chrome and steel the mirror of her past, and the wound of her father's death seemed fresh and raw again.

"If the hate is still inside you," Big Ezoe said placidly, "you have another chance to act on it.''

But Honno saw only another chance at damnation. "You keep it," she said thickly. She regained control of herself slowly and painfully. "Perhaps you'll find some use for it."

Big Ezoe nodded. "As you wish." his huge hand covered the pistol, and he opened the chambers for her to see. "It wasn't loaded, but you thought it was. And that let me see what was in your heart.'' He laughed. ' 'Is that all? "

Honno lifted her gaze, stared into his eyes. She took a deep breath, said, "May I have some tea?"

Big Ezoe arched an eyebrow, but all he said was, "Yes, of course." Depressing a toggle on his intercom, he spoke quietly into the speaker. Then, sitting back, he said to Honno, "If you continue to frown like that, you will be old before your time. I used to hear my mother instructing my ex-wife on how to smile.'' A laugh escaped him. ''Perhaps I should take you home to meet my mother."

The tea arrived. Big Ezoe served it himself. When it was poured, the first cup consumed, the refills steaming, Honno said, ''I need your help.''

Big Ezoe seemed sad. "My hands are dirty. I am a gangster. You are convinced that I had your father murdered. What could I possibly assist you with?'' He shook his head. "You have come to the wrong place. I think it is the police you want. Or perhaps theTokuso."

So he knows about my marriage to Eikichi, Honno thought. She knew she shouldn't be surprised. Information was Big Ezoe's business, among other things.

She steeled herself. ''Neither the police nor the Tokuso would be appropriate in this instance,'' she said. ''You are my one and only avenue. I want to do the right thing, but I am afraid. I am bound by giri, but I am a woman in a man's world. Will you help me?"

Big Ezoe gazed at her for a long time. He was a large man in his early fifties who was so muscular that he seemed to be bursting out of his silk suit. He had a wide, open face that, oddly enough, inspired confidence. But there was also an aggressiveness about his mouth and chin. He had bristly, short-cropped hair, a neat mustache with just a hint of silver in it. He looked more like a law enforcement officer than a Yakuza oyabun.

He opened his huge hands. ''Forgive me,'' he said,' 'but why should I help you?"

Honno was prepared for this. "What's in it for you," she said, opening her pocketbook. "I understand." She withdrew an envelope thick with yen. "I have money here. As much as I can afford."

Big Ezoe scowled.

"It isn't enough?" Honno said with a sinking heart.

"Put that away. I do not take money from nice young girls who should know better."

"Must you make a joke of everything?" Honno felt desperation grip her. If Big Ezoe would not help her, what would she do? "Your help-"

Big Ezoe came around from behind his desk. "My help, my dear Mrs. Kansei, is not bought. It is earned." He looked into her eyes. "You said it yourself. You are a woman in a man's world. It is like my mother used to say to my ex-wife: I think you must convince me that you belong here. If I agree to help you, I take on an obligation. This is a serious matter for both of us, and I suggest you consider this thoroughly before you continue."

"I have already considered it," Honno said. "If you agree to help me, I am in your debt. You have no concept of how violated that makes me feel."

"Now you insult me. You have a peculiar methodology for asking for help."

"I am obligated to carry out a samurai's dying wish,'' Honno said fiercely. "He was a friend. He was honorable, and I helped him the with honor. Now he has asked a service of me, and I am bound by honor-his honor as well as my own-to carry it out for him. I know I haven't the means to accomplish this on my own. That is why I am here.''

"A samurai, you say." Big Ezoe pulled at his lower lip. He appeared intrigued. "Are you saying that you were Kakuei Sa-kata's second at Sengakuji? You pulled the blade across his belly when he could not?"

"Yes."

"I see." He was wreathed in thought. "A Yakuza taking up the fallen banner of a samurai. Now that is a fascinating situation."

"You will help me, then?"

Big Ezoe's eyes focused on her again. "You know, Mrs. Kansei, I had a feeling you'd be back. A year ago you walked in here and pointed a gun at my head. That was something I thought I'd never see a woman do. Maybe you were too dumb to know better. On the other hand, you were smart enough not to try to pull the trigger. Had you tried, my men would have killed you. And now . . ."

"I will do whatever I have to," she said.

"Will you? I wonder. I question whether you have any notion of what your boast might entail." Big Ezoe looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then he laid her pistol in the flat of his hand. "Who knows where this path will lead you, or what may be required of you along the way?" He came around from behind his desk. "It is not for a small matter that a samurai takes his own life. You are about to take your first step into the darkness. Unknown forces undoubtedly lie in wait. Powerful, malignant forces, I suspect. You must be prepared to defend yourself against them." He hefted the pistol, curled his finger around the trigger. "What do you think now? It is not too late to change your mind.''

Honno took out the key Kakuei Sakata had mailed her. She showed it to Big Ezoe and said, "This is where we begin."

THREE

VIRGINIA COUNTRYSIDE/MACHINE-GUN CITY

Russell Slade picked Tori up in his custom armor-plated limousine. It was still dark outside, even the birds barely awake.

In his arrogance, he had been at the Los Angeles airport, waiting for her to call. Russell had one of these cars-bulletproof, capable of running at 150 mph, filled with the most advanced communications center imaginable-in Washington, New York, and Los Angeles. They were a necessary-one could say vital-part of his work, a mobile office where, more often than not, he ate and slept while missions were running. Russell had an almost pathological dislike for being in one place for too long. He had, no doubt, picked up this peculiarity from Bernard Godwin, who had survived a KGB assassination attempt in his hotel room in Bonn. Russell detested hotels, principally because it was virtually impossible to arrange decent security inside them. There were far too many personnel to vet, too many passageways, deliveries, passkeys, people going in and out at all hours of the day and night to make even a token stab at keeping a room safe.

The only thing in Russell's favor was that he had not gloated, but had accepted her presence as a natural occurrence, which,

once Tori took the time to think about it, said as much about him as she wished to know.

She had plenty of time to think on the flight back to Washington. Russell had his own private jet, of course. There were so many antihijacking devices, the Mall was obliged to order a 727 instead of a far smaller Lear jet. She wanted to sleep, but every time she drifted off, she was back in the same dream cycle, in Ariel's house on Russian Hill, on the couch when the explosion hit, the pain recalled from the other explosion, the one that had ripped apart her hip, when she had stared into the hideous eyes of death . . .

She snapped awake each time, her heart hammering in her ears. She sat up straight, watched Russell sitting across from her as he sent and received faxes from the Mall's situations room, buried far beneath the emerald Virginia hills. When she had known him, he had smoked, but now he confined himself to gnawing at the cap of a plastic pen.

Somewhere over Ohio or Missouri they were served sandwiches and coffee, for which Tori was grateful. She had no wish to return to her nightmare landscape, locked in an endless circle of fear and pain.

When they were finished eating, Russell said, "You still hooked into Japan's version of la Famiglia?'

Tori did not care for his sarcastic tone; she thought of him sitting in his limousine, so arrogant, so certain that she would call him and capitulate that he hadn't bothered to board his plane. She had the urge to hit him in the face; instead, she concentrated on her plan. Somewhere near dawn she had come to the conclusion that there was a way in which she could get everything she wanted for herself: reinstatement in the Mall on her own terms, and revenge on Russell Slade for severing her. What she would do to Slade would be a far better-and more fitting-fate for him than a mere broken face; although the picture of Slade with his jaws wired together did have a certain charm.

She smiled. "If you're talking about the Yakuza, yes, I still have my contacts."

Russell nodded, almost as if she had passed some kind of test. "Good," he said. "Because the Yakuza are involved up to their bushy little eyebrows."

"Are you talking about Ariel Solares's murder?"

Russell pushed the swivel light away from him, pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyelids. His face had retreated into

the shadows. Outside, the clouds streamed by below them, rent asunder by their screaming passage.

"Remember the Yakuza assassins you and Solares overheard in the Argentine tunnels?" he said. "Well, they're just a tiny part of what is coming our way, and I'm afraid they've got something particularly nasty in store for us."

Tori said, "If the Japanese are involved in a big way, I can see why you came to see me yourself. You need my expertise.'' She peered into his face with mock concern. "That isn't flop sweat I see on your lip, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

He seemed genuinely annoyed, and Tori was pleased she had found a nerve.

"Just how deeply are the Japanese involved?" Tori asked.

Russell stared at her. "You know, your Japanese friends are infuriating; they don't know how to play by the rules."

"Oh, they play by the rules all right," Tori said. "The only problem is you're like every other member of American government: you haven't the slightest idea what the rules are."

He stared at her in the way someone will contemplate an enigmatic work of modern art, with a combination of shock, confusion, and, certainly, a degree of anger.

Before he could say anything more, Tori got up, went into the lavatory to clean up and change. She emerged twenty minutes later dressed in a natural mohair cardigan over a pale lace camisole. She wore a short fawn-colored suede skirt, brown lizardskin shoes, heavy dull-gold earrings.

"Bit of a show, isn't it?" Russell said, taking her in.

"That's what L.A. reminds you," Tori said perversely, "that all of life's a show." She smiled. "Bernard will appreciate the effort, even if you don't."

A thick mist was rising off the Potomac when they landed in Washington. One of Russell's specialized limos was waiting for them on the tarmac beside the runway, its powerful engine purring, its blackened windows up as protection against the capital's humidity as well as an assassin's bullet.

Once into the Virginia countryside, Tori slid her window down over Russell's protests. ''I want to hear the birds,'' she said, just before they turned onto a four-lane highway. Five miles farther the limo made a left into a vast mall. Tori saw the stores typical of a mall nearly anywhere in the country: Sears, JCPenney, Radio Shack, a huge chain drugstore outlet, Filene's. The limo cruised through the mall, entered an underground car park, kept descending. It stopped at the lowest level, pulled up against the far wall: painted concrete, blank. They waited while the limo was scanned. When a green light appeared on a small console by Russell's right arm, he punched in a ten-digit access code. A portion of the concrete wall rose, and the limo slid through.

They were in a tunnel built around a two-lane blacktop. Strip lights glowed orange-yellow on the far side of both lanes. Otherwise the road and tunnel were absolutely featureless. Ten minutes later the roadway sloped up and they once again appeared in the Virginia countryside. This time they were within the borders of a 150-acre horse farm. This was the true home of the Mall.

Bernard Godwin was waiting for them at the entrance to Central. His face lit up when Tori emerged from me dark confines of the limo. He looked to her to be not one moment older than when they had last met: a Roman general with all the cunning and deceit of a master statesman. She had never met anyone-including Russell, especially Russell-for whom the mantle of power was so well suited. She believed that Bernard Godwin actually thrived on what he had become; he needed the power just as her mother needed to slip in and out of her guises. Strip him of his power, and he would be dead within a day.