Giri (40 page)

LeClair clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever you say. Helluva muscle you got there. You leave first We’ll give you a few minutes, then take off ourselves.”

When the door had closed behind Robbie the two FBI agents looked at each other in disbelief.

LeClair looked at the tape recorder. “Pick that thing up and let’s get out of here.”

“Really letting him go to Paris?”

“Have to. He ain’t the type you can scare. Probably send a couple of men with him. After Paris he should be somewhat easier to get along with. For a time anyway.”

In the elevator going down to the lobby LeClair thought about the possibility of Robbie killing another woman prior to the Paris tournament. That was the pattern, according to Decker. The prosecutor looked at the newspapers he held under his arm, the newspapers which told the world about Charles Fletcher Maceo LeClair bringing down Senator Terence J. Dent.

By the time the elevator reached the lobby, LeClair had forgotten about the possibility of Robbie Ambrose killing again.

I
N THE STUDY OF HIS
Connecticut home Sparrowhawk swallowed the last of a gin and tonic, and, in a labored attempt to push himself from a deep leather chair, let the glass slip from his hand before collapsing back into the chair, his head rolling about on his shoulders. A worried Valerie Sparrowhawk knelt beside her father’s chair. “Daddy, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“ ‘I looked, and behold a pale horse: / and his name that sat on him was Death.’
Revelation.
Bloody world’s full of revelations these days.”

“It’s getting late. Why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep?”

He pointed a finger at her. “See here, young lady. I’m the parent around here.” He looked at his watch, blinked and tried to focus. “Can’t make out a damned thing. Did someone steal my watch? Bloody thieves in me own household. Probably that wretched, foul-smelling monkey of yours, Bixby or something.”

“Boadicea. Daddy, why are you drinking like this?” She picked up his empty glass.

He looked at the beamed ceiling. “Pale horse. Death. Started back in bloody Saigon. Dorian, Robbie, Molise, myself. Decker, too. Mr. Decker and his ladylove, to be precise.”

“Decker’s that policeman you said is after you and your company.”

“Ah, but he has yet to catch us.” He looked sad. “Someone else has caught us. Robbie, Robbie, Robbie. What am I going to do about you, lad? What ever in this world am I going to do?”

Valerie looked away. “Robbie.”

Sparrowhawk turned toward her. “You never told me why you don’t fancy him.”

Valerie got up off her knees. “Maybe I’d better go to the kitchen and give Mother a hand with dinner.”

“I thought you said it was late.”

She smiled. “I lied. To get you to stop drinking.”

The telephone rang, both in his study and in another room. “Your mother will get it. I can’t move. Worried about your old father, are you?”

She leaned over and kissed his silver hair. “You’re the best father a girl could have.”

“High praise from someone as demanding as you.”

Unity Sparrowhawk appeared in the study doorway. “It’s from Washington. Mr. Ruttencutter.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, love.” She looked at her husband and smiled affectionately. No criticism, no questions. Thank God. He smiled back. And blew her a kiss.

Valerie said, “I’ll see you at dinner. No more drinking, please?”

As she left, Sparrowhawk managed to stand and on shaky legs crossed the room to his desk, collapsed in a chair and reached for the receiver with both hands.

“I have it, Unity. You can hang up now, love.” Then, “Hello, hello, hello. Mr. Ruttencutter, I presume. And to what do I owe this rather dubious honor?”

“You sound sloshed. I’m calling about three dead people. Paul Molise, Dorian Raymond and Michelle Asama.”

“Listen, if you must call me at home don’t waste my time with half-truths. Her name’s not Michelle Asama and you damn well know it.”

Ruttencutter cleared his throat. Never could run anything by Sparrowhawk. Ruttencutter, now head of an investigating team employed by a leading Washington law firm, had stayed in touch with the Englishman over the years, primarily by phone. He didn’t mind. Sparrowhawk could be scary.

“I called because I’ve been asking myself questions about recent events, let us say.”

“Dear me. Talking to ourselves, are we? Next you’ll be hearing little voices in your ear.”

“Whatever you do, don’t breathe on anybody. Dorian Raymond, Paul Molise and now George Chihara’s daughter. Tell you anything?”

“If you’re referring to the events of six years ago, events which occurred one rather humid night in that godforsaken land, I’ve already made the connection. Who’s been whispering in your ear?”

“My law firm represents some of the biggest Japanese companies doing business in this country. Far as connections go, I’ve got a bunch in Tokyo. I want to know how much further you think this thing is going to go.”

Sparrowhawk threw back his head and laughed. “If you’re worried about your arse, then I’d say forget it. Can’t go much further. Chihara’s daughter is the last and she’s dead. Seems she is the only member of that family we overlooked that rather fateful night. With her no longer among the living, I think you can breathe a sigh of relief.”

Ruttencutter did sigh. He sounded anything but relieved, however. “I sure as hell hope so. Tough enough doing business in this power-crazy town without having to worry about somebody creeping around behind me. Christ, I ought to get away more.”

“If you say so.”

“I have this country home in Maryland. Should get there more often than I do.”

Sparrowhawk reached for a letter opener. Bloody bugger was boring him into paralysis. Ruttencutter didn’t know what worry was. Try working for the wogs. Sparrowhawk said, “I believe my wife’s summoning me to dinner. Thank you for calling.”

“Look, you have my number. If you hear anything, anything I should know about, get on the horn, okay?”

“I’ll be sure to keep in touch.
Ciao
.” Sparrowhawk smiled. And heard glass break in his kitchen, a window; outside the guard dogs barked, snarled, signaling the presence of an intruder.

He was on his feet instantly, a Magnum from the desk drawer in his hand. Cold sober.

“Daddy, what was that?”

Sparrowhawk was on the run toward the kitchen. “Haven’t the foggiest. Where are you?”

“Dining room. I’m setting the table. Mum?”

Sparrowhawk reached the kitchen before his daughter did. And he saw something that made him collapse against the doorjamb, his gun hand useless at his side. “Jesus in heaven, no.”

Unity Sparrowhawk lay bleeding on the gray linoleum floor, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. An arrow, tipped with a blue and white feather, had entered one side of her neck and reappeared on the other.

Valerie pushed past her father, stared, then threw herself, sobbing, on the floor beside her mother. “Mum? Mum? Oh, God, please answer me.” She looked up at Sparrowhawk, disbelief in her eyes. “We have to get her to the hospital. Help me. We have to do
something
.”

Dazed, Sparrowhawk shook his head. “Too late.” He had seen enough of death to instantly recognize when there was no hope.

Gently, he pulled his daughter to her feet “She’s dead. Mum’s dead.”

Valerie, seconds from losing control, shrieked, “You’re wrong. We have to take her—”

She broke down and threw herself in his arms, hating him for telling her, hating all of life for being so obscenely cruel. Sparrowhawk pressed her head against his shoulder. His own tears were hot on his face and he felt a cold emptiness steal its way into his heart. He knew, but he did not, could not, believe.

He lifted his head and screamed, “Unity!” and clung tightly to his daughter. She barely heard him whisper, “Why, Robbie, why?”

“I
’M SORRY TO HEAR
about your mother, Miss Sparrowhawk,” Decker said.

“Valerie.” She looked around the almost empty squad room. “Doesn’t seem glamorous at all, not the way it does on television.”

He looked around, too. “Paint’s peeling, the windows haven’t been washed in years, the radiator leaks and I think something crawled behind the wall and died. At least it smells that way. No different from any other squad room in Manhattan. Just your everyday, overcrowded, dirty little room.”

It was Christmas Eve and Decker, one of only three detectives still in the squad room, was about to leave for the night. That is until Valerie Sparrowhawk, whom he had spoken to twice on the phone, telephoned again to ask if she could see him. Her mother had been killed ten days ago with a steel-tipped arrow. Authorities suspected a deer hunter whose aim had gone astray. So far, no suspects, and no arrests.

She said, “It was good of you to see me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.” She was beautiful. And under one hell of a strain. Circles under her eyes, fingers shredding a tissue, eyes looking everywhere at once.

“My father won’t talk about it,” she said. “He suspects Robbie Ambrose; he mentioned his name almost immediately the night my mother died. Then he never mentioned his name again. I thought after we returned from burying my mother in England, he might open up more. But—”

She shrugged and gave Decker a smile that was more like a plea. “It’s my mother, you see. I have to know why a man would do this to her.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Someone has to tell me something. I was hoping you, you …”

She pressed her lips together and fought to keep from crying aloud.

Decker said, “You mean because we were all in Saigon at the same time?”

“My father’s mentioned you once or twice. He says you’re investigating his company.”

“Was. I’ve been taken off that case. About Robbie, all I can tell you is what you probably already know. He doesn’t like women.”

“I don’t need to be told that. I’ve known it for a long time. He tried to hide it, but I can tell. And something just occurred to me. If Robbie killed my mother, then he did it deliberately. My father was nowhere near her at the time. Robbie just deliberately, deliberately—”

She pressed the tissue against her mouth.

Decker nodded. “Yeah. It was his way of getting back at your father. I think it may have something to do with Robbie now being a federal informant. I’d have to think about it more and work it out. Anyway, Robbie’s in protective custody at the moment. Nobody can get to him. He’ll appear in a karate tournament next month in Paris and after that—” Decker turned his hands palms up.

Valerie cleared her throat. “Tell me something: now that Robbie is a federal informant, does this mean he’s going to get away with killing my mother?”

“I won’t lie to you. If federal authorities need him badly enough, he’ll be allowed to get away with anything. It’s happened before.”

“Doesn’t that bother you, someone like Robbie Ambrose walking around free? You’re supposed to deal with people like him.”

“Yes, I know that. And believe me, I’ve tried.”

“And you’ve given up. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you have every right to say whatever you want, especially now. But I haven’t given up.”

She sighed. “At the moment, I don’t care who deals with him, just as long as somebody does.”

Decker stood up and took his jacket from his chair. “Anything can happen. Look, it’s Christmas Eve and I don’t have anybody special to celebrate it with. Would you let me buy you a drink?”

She looked at her watch. “I have to meet my father. He’s working extra hard to put my mother’s … this thing out of his mind.” Her eyes went to Decker; she saw his sadness and almost reached out to touch him. “Not a good time of the year for anybody to be alone, is it?” She rose. “One quick drink. Maybe two quick drinks. I could use them.”

Decker grinned. “Two quick drinks coming up.” He held out his hand and she took it.

Inside the dojo, a sweating Decker stopped and looked at the wall clock. Just after ten-thirty, Christmas Eve. Who the hell could be knocking on the door at this hour? On this night. Officially, the dojo was closed until after New Year’s. Except for a night watchman, the entire building was empty.

Breathing deeply, Decker, in his
gi,
crossed the floor and stopped at the door.

“Yes?”

“LeClair.”

Decker looked down at the floor, hesitated, then turned the key and opened the door.

LeClair was alone. “Would you believe trick or treat? Promise I won’t be long. Got a driver waiting downstairs and he wants to get home and trim the tree or something. May I come in? Never been inside a dojo before.”

“Keep on the rubber matting. No shoes allowed on the floor.”

“You de boss.”

He entered and Decker locked the door behind him. The prosecutor looked past Decker at the two unsmiling Japanese standing in the middle of the dojo floor. Both wore sweat-stained
gis,
black belts and short haircuts.

“Santa’s elves?” said LeClair.

“They don’t speak much English.”

“I see. They look like bad news. They any good?”

Decker looked at the Japanese. “You might say so.” They were two of Shina’s top men, flown in from Japan and under orders to work Decker hard twice a day, every day for three weeks. Early morning, late night and no days off.

Decker said, “They’re returning to Japan soon. Have to get back to work.”

“Oh? What kind of work?”

“They train people.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, like the bodyguards to the imperial family, bodyguards to top Japanese businessmen. They also work with Japanese military intelligence.”

LeClair reached inside his overcoat and removed a sheaf of papers. “Well, anyway … Robbie Ambrose is going to Paris next month to compete in the
suibin
tournament. Big deal among you big boppers, they tell me. Anyway, we have to take a few security precautions. Well, what do you think happened when we looked over the name of contestants and came to the list of competitors from the U.S. of A? Why, folks, we came across the name of one Manfred Decker.”

He folded the pages and returned them to his inside pocket. “You are running a game on me, Mr. Manfred, and I’d like to know what it is.”