Tengu (17 page)
He bridled at that. “Do you think we’re incapable of dealing with this, Mr. Burke?”
“Inspector,” my brother chimed in, and I could hear the acid creeping into his tone, “let me get this straight. Some Japanese woman got kidnapped on one of your islands here . . . ”
“Mindanao,” the Inspector supplied.
Micky waved a hand. “Yeah, whatever.” He glanced at Art, who just nodded at his partner in encouragement. “Then you get a photo and a ransom demand, and somehow, Yamashita gets roped into the delivery of the ransom . . . ”
“We were informed that he was a trusted friend of the family,” the Filipino cop said. The tone of his voice clearly indicated that he hadn’t been happy about it. “We were also informed that they would be content only with his involvement in the delivery of the ransom.”
My brother snorted as if the whole idea was ridiculous. “Sure. The drop goes down and . . . ?” Micky left the question hanging in the air.
“The family had assurances that once the ransom was paid, the girl would be returned unharmed.” The Inspector took a drink, sucking a few ice cubes into his mouth. He crunched at them as he spoke, grinding down unpleasant facts. “Pressure was exerted at the highest levels to keep the police at arms length.”
“And you went along?” Micky demanded, his voice incredulous. He looked at Art and rolled his eyes.
The Inspector set his glass down with a crack. He leaned in toward us. You got a sense of the powerful frame that lay hidden under the extra weight. He was not someone to underestimate. “I did not. The Japanese had their own men—armed men in
my city
— who they claimed would take care of things. I advised against it. And we shadowed them to the drop point for the ransom delivery.”
“The drop went bad,” Art said quietly.
“It was the Japanese,” the Inspector hissed. “They are so arrogant . . . they underestimated the kidnappers. Your Mr. Yamashita delivered the money as arranged . . . ”
“Drop location specified ahead of time?” Micky asked, and his technical question served to reign in some of Reyes’ emotion.
“No. They kept him moving around, giving directions on a cell phone.”
“Trace?” Art asked.
“They used different phones for each communication.”
“Pros,” Art concluded.
“What happened?” Micky prodded.
Reyes sucked a few more ice cubes into his mouth and the crunching began anew. “Someone must have been spotted. At the moment your Mr. Yamashita was approaching with the money . . . ”
“The girl wasn’t present at the meet?” Art interrupted.
Reyes shook his head, his top chin swiveling, but the rest staying in place. “She was to be released in a public place within ten minutes of the delivery of the ransom.”
“And your negotiators bought that?” my brother demanded.
The Inspector looked at him and spoke through a clenched jaw. “By this time, private elements associated with the Japanese had taken control of the process. My force was to serve only as a liaison and support group.”
Micky and Art shook their heads, in equal parts commiseration and exasperation.
Reyes opened the folder and pushed out some photographs, sliding them out like a dealer at a casino. “Our surveillance cameras recorded the drop. Here is your Mr. Yamashita lugging the ransom.”
Micky looked at the shot. “Public park?” he asked. Reyes nodded.
“Lots of access routes,” Art commented. “Various people coming and going. Green space so vehicles are kept at a distance. Good choice.” His voice said you didn’t have to like who did this, but you could admire their professionalism.
The pictures had the flat, two-dimensional look of shots taken with a telephoto lens and then blown up. It was jarring to see Yamashita there, a stocky Japanese man in a short-sleeved shirt with a black duffel bag slung from his shoulder. At first glance, he was unremarkable. But the photos were good enough that you could see some of the intensity in his eyes if you looked closely.
The pictures were shot in series, and with a little imagination you could string together the sequence of events. My teacher approaches the rendezvous. He is met by two Filipino men in sunglasses. They inspect the bag. Two more men approach, flanking Yamashita. One looks up in alarm and spots something in the distance. One of the flankers points a pistol at Yamashita and the other yanks away the ransom bag. Two of the men cover the guy carrying the duffel and you can see the set in Yamashita’s hips as he prepares to follow the ransom. In the next shot, both blockers are down on the ground and Yamashita is moving toward the man with the duffel. The pistol is aimed at Yamashita, and in the next photo he is being dragged away.
I felt a surge of adrenalin as I looked at the last picture, an electric jolt right through to my core. “They shot him?” I protested in alarm. No one had told us this.
Reyes nodded and passed us another picture. “With this.” I looked at what he showed me, but my expression must have betrayed my confusion. “It is a tranquilizer dart, Mr. Burke. Of the type used in zoos to quell dangerous animals.”
“So he’s not . . . dead?”
Reyes looked at me and shrugged. “I assume if they wanted him dead that there are simpler ways of doing it.” It was one of those cop observations—technically accurate but not very comforting.
I looked at Micky and Art for help. They didn’t seem to respond to my alarm at all. If anything, my brother appeared calmer than at any time since we started the trip.
“Ransom was for how much?” Micky asked Reyes.
“Two million U.S. The usual details: small bills, non-sequential.”
“Is that big money for a snatch in this part of the world?” Art asked the inspector.
“It is a considerable sum, but not unheard of. My understanding is that the family is wealthy.”
“So it would take a little time to put this together? Get the funds and everything?”
“A few days,” Reyes shrugged.
“Smart,” Micky pointed out. “A hefty ransom, but not too hefty.” He looked at Art. “These guys knew what they were doing; the cell phones, the drop location. And they got the cops sidetracked by the family.”
“Pros,” Art commented again.
I looked from one to the other. “Is this good or bad?”
“Dealing with pros is always better,” Micky said. “Fewer surprises.”
“And it can help in the investigation. Pros have records.” Art looked at Reyes and pointed to the pictures. “Any luck ID’ing any of these people?”
“We are currently looking for some suspects,” Reyes admitted.
“And?” Art prompted.
“They are, as you say, professionals, men for hire. They hide well.”
“But I don’t get it,” I said. “Why take Yamashita if they already had the ransom money? Why not just take the money and release the girl?”
Reyes looked at Micky and Art expectantly, as if they could explain something. After a pause, Art merely asked Reyes whether they could keep the pictures.
The inspector nodded and gestured toward the file. “Background material is here as well. I will keep you informed of the progress of our investigation as a . . . professional courtesy.” He took out a business card and slid it across the smooth surface of the table. “Let me know where you are staying.” Reyes got up, nodded, and headed toward the door. I started to say something, but Micky laid a hand on my arm.
“What is going on?” I hissed when Reyes was gone.
Micky looked at Art, who said. “Oh boy.”
“What!” I demanded.
“Connor,” Art said, “this is going to get dicey.”
Micky snorted. “Like it isn’t already.”
I took some deep breaths and waited. Finally, my brother explained. “This is way more complicated than I thought, buddy boy. And I don’t think our pals from the Embassy gave us the entire picture, either.”
“There’s a shocker,” Art added. I just looked at him, so he went on. “The New York Embassy tells you Yamashita got caught up in something trying to deliver a ransom for some friend. Bad. But this is worse. The kidnapping was genuine enough, I guess . . . ” He looked at his partner, who was paging through the contents of the file Reyes had left for us.
Micky nodded in agreement. “Yeah. The snatch looks real enough. And so was the ransom demand.”
“But they went through with it. The family came up with the money . . . ” I started.
“Sure. And the local cops think the drop went bad and the kidnappers grabbed Yamashita ’cause they were pissed. But I don’t buy it. How about you, Art?”
“Not me.” He looked at me, held up his hand, and ticked some points off on his fingers. “One: They ask for a ransom and who gets to deliver it?”
“Yamashita,” I said, “but that’s because he was a friend of the family . . . ”
“Connor,” Micky said, “her family’s loaded and influential. They want their kid back. You think the only person they can get to do this thing is some guy from halfway around the world?”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Art continued. “So they arrange the drop. But, of course, the girl will not be present. You like that arrangement, Mick?”
My brother snorted. “I’m handing over two million bucks in small bills to a complete stranger, I’d want to make sure he had what I was buying.”
Art nodded. “And when the hand-off occurs, what happens?”
“Something spooked them,” I said. “There was a scuffle and they grabbed Yamashita and the money and took off.”
“Yes, they did,” Art agreed. “And these guys are professionals. They do this for money. Did they have possession of the money?”
“Sure,” I said.
“And were they suddenly alerted to the fact that someone was watching them?”
“Yes. It’s what spooked them.”
“Connor,” Micky told me, “anyone who does this knows that the chances are good they’re going to be watched. Being watched is not going to freak them out.”
“Getting caught freaks them out,” Art told me. “Losing the money freaks them out.”
“These guys like to get away,” my brother said. “It’s what makes them pros.”
“So what’s your point?” I responded.
Art continued. “These guys need to get away, and what do they do?”
“They grab Yamashita,’” I said.
“Yeah. They grab Yamashita. And if you want to run away, do you drop everything except the money and run, or do you grab more luggage?”
I could see were he was going.
“And think of this,” Micky added. “They don’t just grab Yamashita. They shoot him with a tranquilizer gun.” He looked at Art. “Is this standard issue for most kidnappers?”
Art pressed his lips together in thought, then said to himself, “Hmm, rope, tape, paper for a ransom note, maybe a gun . . . ” He looked up. “No. Tranquilizers are typically not part of the standard kidnapper’s kit.”
And I thought of what Reyes had said about the dart: like something used in zoos to subdue dangerous animals. Micky saw the light go on in my eyes.
“Are you getting it, Connor?” His voice was quiet. “The kidnapping wasn’t arranged just to get the ransom. It was arranged to capture your teacher. They knew from the beginning that they were going to take him. And they knew he would be a handful, which is why they had the tranquilizer with them.”
“But why?” I asked.
Art shrugged. “Hard to say. But chances are they’ll communicate their demands soon. Kidnappers usually want something.” He looked ominously at Micky. “It’s just simpler when all they want is money.”
Micky snorted. “And since when is life simple?”
His partner looked at us both. “Since I’ve met you two? Hardly ever.”
The fit-looking Asian guy was waiting for us when we came out of the Club lounge. He spoke briefly into a small silver cell phone, but his eyes never left us. They were dark eyes, set back above high cheekbones. They had that flitter you see in a hunter when the underbrush comes alive.
“Dr. Burke?” he asked, presenting a
meishi
. The Japanese business card is an essential tool for commerce in Asia. It’s designed to tell you about the person you’re meeting: his identity and status, his position in the world. The quality of the card, its texture and esthetics, send subtler but more important messages.
“I am Ueda Koji, from the Embassy,” he continued. I looked at the
meishi
. It gave his name, and the address and contact numbers of the embassy, but nothing more. That was unusual. The Japanese are highly status conscious and their language is full of various ways of speaking that are contingent on knowing the status of who you’re talking to. Part of the whole rationale for exchanging business cards is to establish issues of relative rank between strangers. Yet, here was Ueda with no status established at all.
“And what is it you do at the embassy, Ueda-san?” I asked him. It was a shockingly direct question in terms of Japanese etiquette, but it had been a long flight and with the information Reyes had passed on to us still filling my head, I didn’t much care.
Ueda smiled at me. “I am a . . . cultural attaché for our government, Dr. Burke.” His eyebrows lifted slightly as if I were to join in on a private joke.
“He’s a spook, Connor,” Micky broke in. “Thank God. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.
“I’m here to offer what help I can,” Ueda said in reply. I registered a slight hesitation in his voice.
I introduced Micky and Art to give me a moment to size him up. Ueda shook hands firmly, with none of the awkwardness and half bowing you sometimes get with Japanese. It told me that he’d been around. He eyed the duffels my brother and Art were carrying and the scuffed backpack I had. “Luggage, gentlemen?” he inquired. We shook our heads.
“Only thing I wanted to bring I couldn’t,” Micky had grumbled. He meant his gun.
“All those bullets just upset the stewardesses, Mick,” Art answered.
Ueda ushered us through the terminal. He didn’t say much and the message was clear that this wasn’t the place to talk. So we followed him. He moved well, his muscles working smoothly, his hips driving him forward in a type of glide. It’s a characteristic of people well schooled in the martial arts. I glanced at his hands and saw a faint enlargement and discoloration of his knuckles. You get it from whacking things repeatedly.
