Giri (42 page)

Three doctors and as many nurses would be on the floor at all times, with an ambulance waiting outside.

Since all contestants were experienced black belts, there would be no classification by weight. The
suibin
tournament was a world friendship tournament, promoted by the people of Japan in celebration of the growing international popularity of karate and, Decker suspected, a subtle promotion for Japanese industry. The tournament had drawn Japanese, Korean, Okinawan and even Chinese stylists, but tournament control was in Japanese hands.

Though strictly controlled, the fighting could still be dangerous. There was no protective gear for hands or feet, but contestants did wear protective cups and mouthpieces.

Decker looked to his left. Spectators, some still drinking morning coffee, began to file in.

A woman’s voice came over a loudspeaker. “May I have your attention, please. Your attention. Please listen carefully for your name. The following names are to report to area one. Area one.” She repeated the instructions in Japanese, French, German, Spanish. Decker closed his eyes. This was the worst part. Waiting.

More than one hundred names were read off and the contestants, in
gis
ranging from white to sky blue trimmed in black, began filing down onto the floor. Some were barefoot, some wore sandals. Few spoke.

At 8:45, when Decker’s name was finally called, matches were already under way in two areas. Several men had been treated by doctors. Three men had been carried from the arena on stretchers. Decker was assigned to area three. He breathed deeply, calming himself. When he heard his name he tied Michi’s
hachimaki
around his head and with his knee brace and bandages in his hands, walked down the stairs onto the wooden floor. Over the loudspeaker he heard a man say, “And now will these names please go to area four, the last area to your right. Ambrose. Robbie Ambrose.”

Decker kept on walking.

Paris

January, Second Friday

Suibin
Tournament, Last Day

Sparrowhawk was drunk. His mouth was parched from too many Turkish cigarettes, and the pills he had taken to help him sleep had been a mistake. Pills, gin, cognac. Small wonder he was sick to his stomach.

Unity’s passing was part of that relentless logic called destiny, a chain of destruction that began when he met Robbie in Saigon six years ago. And now the chain had come full circle. With Valerie at his side, Sparrowhawk sat in the top row of the sold-out Arène des Sports, torn between the desire to see Robbie die and the strange hope that he would survive.

Robbie, my son. My wife’s murderer. The trusted comrade-in-arms who saved my life in Vietnam; who turned
grass,
police informant, to avoid, prison for having murdered God knows how many women; who I trusted with my life; who I almost betrayed; and who learned of that impending betrayal and revenged himself by killing the most important part of me.

When it became apparent that both Robbie and Decker would make it to the final day, Sparrowhawk had telephoned Dieter from New York for tickets.

“Two tickets,” said Valerie, who was in his office when he made the call. “She was my mother.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Manny’s partner says he has his reasons for wanting to meet Robbie in this tournament. I think you know what they are. I want you to tell me.”

On the Concorde flight from New York to Paris he did, leaving out his own involvement in Michi’s murder.

Valerie said, “And the head of the task force knows this?”

“He does. But Robbie will never be brought to justice for any of his murders. He’s too valuable, you see. He’s needed to bring down MSC and Senator Terry Dent. And me, of course.”

Valerie’s expression almost made Sparrowhawk tell her the truth. But he kept silent as she said, “The only person who can deal with Robbie, truly deal with him, is Manny Decker. Otherwise Mum’s death—”

She looked away, a fist pressed against her lips.

Sparrowhawk reached for his drink and looked out of the plane window.

In the Arène des Sports, the crowd cheered and applauded. Valerie clutched her father’s arm and pointed down to the left. Sparrowhawk nodded. From a passageway that led to locker rooms one floor below, four
karatekas
strode toward a raised platform in the center of the arena floor. As spectators cheered, photographers and film cameramen at floor level moved in closer to the fighters. Uniformed guards prevented exuberant fans from running out onto the floor. Someone threw a rose at the fighters.

Decker and Robbie were two of the semifinalists. Decker was matched against a hard-driving, long-legged German, while Robbie was to fight a man whom some saw as the tournament favorite, a Japanese with blinding speed.

Valerie slipped her hand in Sparrowhawk’s and squeezed tightly, her eyes on the fighters now clustered around the officials’ table. Sparrowhawk saw only Unity. He looked up at the thick glass and steel meshed domed ceiling and wondered if the right man would die here.

LeClair, who with three members of his task force sat on the arena floor, leaned forward and watched the tall German stalk Decker. It was a four-minute match, three points. Score: all tied up at two points apiece. The German, speedy, and forceful, was damn good at attacking, at leaping in and scoring with punches to the head. Unfortunately for Decker, the German didn’t always pull his punches. He’d made contact twice, drawing blood, but no penalty.

The German usually faked, a dip of the shoulder, quick motion of the head, a hand thrown in the air, then a forward lunge and that was it LeClair was impressed.

Decker, however, impressed him even more. The detective was obviously hurt. He limped. His right ankle was bandaged and so were both wrists. There was blood on his
gi
and LeClair knew about his bad knee. Still, Decker fought a smart, cold-blooded fight. His weapons were his foot sweeps and fast hands. Twice he had swept the German into the air, dropping him hard on the wooden floor, then quickly following up with strong punches to the head and stomach. Mr. Manfred was good, no doubt about it. Too good, maybe.

The idea that he might make it to the finals and harm Robbie was more than a trifle upsetting to LeClair. And more upsetting was what he knew—that Decker was out to kill Robbie.
Sutemi.
LeClair could not afford to have that happen, not when he was so close to making the case against MSC.

As soon as he’d gotten the word that Decker was in the semifinals, LeClair decided that it might be a good idea to hop a plane and maybe have a few words with Mr. Manfred. The prosecutor had even toyed with the idea of having his men grab the detective and sit on him until the tournament was over. Ah, but Mr. Manfred had his own idea on the subject.

He had simply disappeared from his hotel, leaving another hotel as a forwarding address. When LeClair checked there, guess what? No Mr. Manfred. Seems Decker had known LeClair might make a move. Too late now to do anything about it.

LeClair turned from the action down on the arena floor to look over his left shoulder. Decker’s partner, Ellen Spiceland, was here, along with her husband. And so were the Harpers, the couple who owned the dojo where Decker trained. Some of Decker’s karate pals were with them and all had their eyes glued to the detective and the German. Yesterday, in the short time left to him, LeClair had ordered his men to question Decker’s friends as to his whereabouts. The friends claimed to know nothing. Turned out they had been telling the truth. Spiceland had been the most uncooperative of all, making it clear that even if she knew where her partner was LeClair would be the last man on earth she’d tell.

By the time LeClair had learned where Decker had spent the night, it was too late. Mr. Manfred had slept in the Arène des Sports on the same shiny wooden floor where he now fought for the chance to kill Robbie Ambrose.

A roar from the crowd made LeClair turn back to view the action. Shit, he’d missed it. The German was on the floor, with Decker’s fist an inch from his temple.

Ippon.
Third point. Decker the winner.

Fuck me, thought LeClair, shaking his head. He looked over his shoulder again. Ellen Spiceland was on her feet, clapping. Decker’s karate friends were hugging each other and slapping palms.

Disgusted, LeClair looked down at the arena floor. He saw Decker limp to the edge of the fighting area and use his hand to wipe blood from his mouth. It’s up to you now, Robbie baby.
Sutemi.
If it has to be, then it has to be. Just make sure the right man ends up with a tag on his toe.

Decker and the German he had just defeated sat on the edge of the platform and watched Robbie and the Japanese circle each other. For Decker, the past four days had been a painful blur. The eliminations, hard, often brutal fights, had been followed by nights made sleepless by injuries and bad dreams. He had faced fighters from South Africa, Korea, Brazil, America, Mexico, Russia. He had dared them all to kill him. Some had tried. All had failed.

Decker touched his bandaged right ankle, which had been damaged yesterday by a wild, uncontrolled Cuban fighter, who had eventually been disqualified for clinching, then biting Decker’s ear.

The detective’s right knee ached. He’d taken a few shots there, some accidental, some not. Only the steel brace kept it from collapsing entirely. One wrist had been damaged blocking kicks from a hulking Russian; the other had been hurt when a Brazilian had blocked Decker’s punch to the stomach. Since there was no protective equipment for hands and feet, his face had been scratched and his ankles bled from foot sweeps by fighters who had not clipped their toenails, despite tournament regulations.

How many fights? He had lost count. Ten, perhaps a dozen. All he knew for sure was that each one had been more challenging than the last. But Decker had a secret. He was already dead. He had accepted the way of the samurai and was prepared to die here in the arena. He had given up his body, his mind; the most he could do with his life was to bring justice to Michi’s soul.

In this state, with his mind cleansed of all fear, he watched Robbie tie a thin red sash around his waist for identification by corner judges, each of whom had one red and one white flag. You have to win, thought Decker.

Four-minute match, three points.

The referee, a powerfully built Japanese in shirt sleeves, tie and stocking feet, and himself a former all-Japan karate champion, placed a whistle in his mouth.

“
Rei!
” Bow.

He lifted his right hand, eyed both contestants, then dropped the hand.

“
Hajime!
” Begin.

In less than a minute the speedy Japanese scored two points on kicks that sent white flags high in the air. The crowd loved it. Decker didn’t. “Come on,” he muttered. “Go for it, you son of a bitch. Go for it.” He willed Robbie to hear him, to react, to fight back.

Robbie, in a
gi
of yellow silk, the name
Robbie
stitched across his shoulder blades, backed away. His hand went to the gold stud in his left ear. He appeared unconcerned, too unconcerned, Decker thought.

The detective thought of Michi. One more point, just one and Robbie would be lost to him forever, swept from the arena by LeClair. Here, in a public place and in front of thousands of witnesses, the detective could kill Robbie and get away with it. Accident. That would be the verdict. Killing him outside of the arena was another matter. For the first time since the tournament began, Decker felt anxious. He saw the possibility of failure. He clenched his fists. Robbie must not lose. “Get him,” he whispered. “Get him.”

And then almost magically, Robbie responded. His best weapon was the spinning back kick and he used it well. He scored once for a full point then with only seconds remaining he caught the charging Japanese with a face punch that staggered him. The punch, however, was not ruled deliberate. The Japanese had run into the blow. When the match ended both fighters were tied with two points apiece.

A two-minute overtime was announced. Sudden death. First man to score a single point won. Decker held his breath. He watched both fighters stand on their taped marks and bow. And it was as though Robbie had read the Japanese’s mind. A second after the bow the Japanese, always aggressive, leaped at Robbie, who timed his back kick perfectly, spinning around to catch the Japanese in the stomach, stopping him in place. Four red flags went up. Decker, excited and relieved, led the long and loud applause.

From the officials’ table in front of the fighting platform, a French-accented voice said in English, “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly remain in your seats. After our fourth demonstration of the day, a series of weapons
katas
by a team from Hong Kong, we will then conclude with the grand championship. This will be a four-point six-minute contest between Mr. Manfred Decker of the United States and Mr. Robbie Ambrose, also of the United States. The winner will receive the
suibin
trophy.”

As the announcement was repeated in different languages, the audience applauded. Both the German and the defeated Japanese wished Decker and Robbie good luck before leaving the platform. The two finalists themselves left the platform, but stayed on their respective sides. Decker thought of Michi, of dying, of love and duty.

When the Chinese left the platform, Decker and Robbie climbed on it again and began to stretch. After stretching, Decker loosened the screws on his knee brace and flexed his knee. He sat down, removed the bandage around his ankle, then retied it tighter. He tightened the bandages of his wrists and when he looked across the platform he saw Robbie staring at him.

Sutemi.

Neither man said the word out loud. But it hung in the air between them, a reminder that one of them had only minutes to live. The referee stepped up on the platform and the four corner judges found their seats. A half dozen Japanese officials conferred among themselves, while timekeepers tested stopwatches and buzzers. To the right, doctors and nurses moved chairs to within several yards of the platform. Photographers and film cameramen circled the platform, shooting the silent fighters.