The Miko - 02 (63 page)

But had there ever been a time when she had thought of herself as Akiko Shimada? She did not even know her mother’s last name. In
Fuyajo
only given names were used, and oftentimes those were not real ones. Ikan. Had her mother been born with that name? Had she taken it inside
Fuyajo
? Or, what was just as likely, had those who ran the Castle That Knows No Night assigned it to her?

She put her hands down between her thighs, cupping herself. She could still feel the aftertremors, the expansion of her inner flesh that Nicholas’ stroking had caused. She would never be the same now. And, terrifyingly, was not sure that she wanted to be.

Then what of her vow? Revenge had shaped so much of her life, had given her purpose when she thought that she had none. Without the solace of revenge to warm her soul, she might have withered and died. Those who had driven her out of
Fuyajo
were long dead, put to endless sleep as she hovered over them in the night. But they were old men, and that was not true justice as she saw it. She could do nothing about their longevity; to her way of thinking they had seen the procession of too many days. Still she had avenged herself.

Life must have a shape. Revenge was her destiny. She must have been someone evil in a previous life, she had thought, for her
karma
in this one to be so unremitting.

Now Nicholas Linnear threatened that dark harmony. She supposed that she had known it from the moment she had first seen him in person at Jan Jan. He had melted a heart she had thought made of granite and ice. She thought in her arrogance that she was beyond love.

She was wrong.

As she wept on her
futon
in the otherwise deserted house of her husband and her prey, she beseeched the Amida Buddha only for absolution and death. For the thought—oh, Buddha! the knowledge—that she could love just like any other mortal sent waves of panic through her. She had set her life on a certain course, believing specific things about herself.

But now the ache she felt through to the core of her spirit whenever she thought of Nicholas Linnear—which was to say all the time—blasted her in the furnace of revelation. For she was sworn to destroy him.

She thought about turning away from her vow, of letting peace flow down around her. She dreamed of surcease.

But then she parted her naked thighs and stared down at the delicate flesh of their insides. On each writhed a flaming horned dragon, multicolored tattoos of fantastic workmanship.

And she knew that peace was not for her; or love either. For Kyōki had marked her soul just as surely as he had her flesh. There was no hope of surcease.

She had had her respite, the one lull in the storm, and for that time had reveled in the joy of another life.
Giri
bound her, heart and spirit. What had begun must be seen to its final conclusion.

She thought of Saigō again, standing strong and handsome in the forest glade in Kyushu, the sunlight striking his shoulders, silvering his hair. How his presence had altered her life!

She rose and went through the silent house. It already seemed dead and buried, the thick bars of sunlight beating against the closed panes of glass, seeking entry. But this was a house of the dead; the sun no longer held any dominion here.

Akiko glided from room to room as if fixing each space, each object in her mind for the last time. She touched everything; she moved everything. In this manner she came upon the mini tape recorder by which Koten had been eavesdropping on her husband.

When she rewound the tape and pressed “Play,” she heard all that Phoenix had said to Sato.

Rain puckered the skin of the
rotenburo
, splashing against their shoulders, beating against the tops of their heads. Neither of them felt a drop.

In the distance the beckoning amber lights of the squid boats winked on and off through the downpour as Nicholas and Sato hauled on Phoenix’s corpse, pulling it slowly out of the heated water.

“Amida!” Sato whispered through the sibilance of the rain, and scrambled hastily out of the pool, holding the small patch of cloth over his groin while he searched in the wetness and the dark for another one.

He returned as quickly as he could to where the ninja was stretched out by the side of the
rotenburo
, his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms spread wide. Sato placed the small square over Phoenix’s private parts.

“The indignity of it,” he murmured as he hunkered down beside Nicholas. There was no one else about; the rain had seen to that. “This is no way to die.”

“It was not how he would choose to go,” Nicholas said, and pointed. “Look here.” A hole, black and gaping, disfigured the back of Phoenix’s head. “This was done by no
samurai.
”

Sato looked sadly down at the corpse, white and bloated, spat upon by the storm. “It could be a KGB execution.” His voice was a trifle unsteady. “I had a cousin once in the
Kempeitai.
He knew all about such things and he told me. A bullet through the brain, that’s the Russian style.”

“Whoever did it,” Nicholas observed, “had to be very good indeed. This man was ninja
sensei.
”

Sato put his head in his hands. “He had information for us. Perhaps he got careless. He was certain that the Soviets had no knowledge of his pursuit.”

“He had to have been surprised here. He would never have died otherwise. This could not have happened in a pitched battle. They were here, waiting for him.”

Sato lifted his head. His eyes were red rimmed and perplexed. “But how?”

Nicholas did not like the answer he was about to give. “If there’s a traitor in the
keiretsu
, perhaps he is closer than that. Inside your
kobun.
”

“Nonsense,” Sato said. “No one from my
kobun
—
absolutely no one
—knew where I was going. Phoenix’s call came to the house. Only you were there. Akiko—”

“And Koten.”

“Koten?” Sato’s eyes were wide all around. “Oh, Buddha, no!” Then he considered. “He has been with me the last three or four times Phoenix phoned.” He shook his head. “But even so, I took great pains to make certain I was alone when we spoke.”

“You mean it was impossible for him to eavesdrop.”

“Well, no. I mean—” Sato slammed fist into palm. “Koten is
sensei
of
sumai
, the most ancient form of his art: combat
sumō. Phoenix
knew him, trusted him.” He looked to the sky.
“Muhon-nin!”
he cried.

Between them steam rose slowly from Phoenix’s cooling body and it seemed as if the twisted, multicolored tattoo that covered his shoulder and back was rising with the mist, the only part of him still alive.

“He must pay!” Sato said. “He knows where Phoenix would have led us. And I’ll make him tell us!”

He was up and running before Nicholas could stop him. Beyond the
rotenburo
’s terraced tract, the lights of the squid fleet had disappeared and now only swirling darkness sought to engulf them. The lights of the swinging lanterns in the trees surrounding the pool were smeared by the slanting rain; some of them had already gone out, felled by the strengthening wind.

“Sato-san!” Nicholas called as he ran. But it was useless. The wind tore his words from his lips and, in any case, Sato was not about to listen to reason.
Tenchi
was far too important to him and there was no time for caution.

Nicholas raced across the open expanse between the camphor trees that lined the walkways to the pool. There was no sound but the moaning of the wind and the heavy beating rain.

Nicholas’ concentration narrowed as he slewed into the dimly lit locker room. Koten, master of
sumō
and the more deadly
sumai
, would need less than three seconds with Sato to put him away, and thus Nicholas’ anxiety level was high.

That was the only explanation as to why he did not sense the surreptitious sound until quite late, and then it was actually the movement of shadow on the periphery of his vision that alerted him.

He whirled just in time to duck away, swivel to his right. Heard the whirr as of a bright insect, the brief puff of wind at its passage. The soft
thunk
just behind and to the left of him indicated the position of the thrown
shuriken.
Ninja! That meant that Phoenix’s quarry, the
muhon-nin
who had fled the Tenshin Shoden Katori, was still here. Then there was still a chance to keep
Tenchi
alive and out of reach of the Russians!

Nicholas followed his instincts. His working muscles gleaming with beaded water and sweat, he set off after his adversary. He wanted to come to close quarters with him as quickly as possible in order to negate the advantage of the long-range
shuriken.

He twisted and turned through the tunnellike labyrinth of the
rotenburo
’s corridors, sliding and sometimes crawling on his belly, always mindful of breaking up any rhythm to his movements. Twice he heard the buzzing passage of
shuriken
quite near him and he redoubled his efforts, knowing from the sounds that he was closing in.

But it was a bad situation and growing worse all the time. Where was Sato? His absence was a constant distraction and any kind of distraction was dangerous in battle.

He skidded around the end of a row of metal lockers thinking about getting to his locker and his
dai-katana
, and felt a blow strike his shoulder, numbing it momentarily. He cursed himself mightily as he slid forward, seeming to skid out of control on the damp floor. The bulk of the oncoming shadow careened past him, just above.

Nicholas torqued his torso, lifting his right arm in a blur, the elbow locked, the heel of his hand leading, crashing into flesh and bone. He heard a heavy grunt and, simultaneously, felt the crash of a weight to his left. He twisted, using his knees and ankles, using the chrysanthemum to bring power back into his frame. He rained blows onto the form which crouched in the darkness in the lee of the lockers.

He felt the satisfying smack of flesh against flesh and began a series of interlocking strikes. Abruptly there was a blow to the side of his head and when he reached out again, the form was gone.

He rose to his feet, swaying, his senses questing. Went instinctively into
getsumei no michi
and found the spirit of the ninja. He was moving
away
from Nicholas. Why?

Then he had the answer and his heart constricted in anxiety. Loosing the
kiai
shout that rocked the walls of the
rotenburo
, Nicholas raced through the darkened interior, tearing after terror.

Sato had found the interior of the
rotenburo
deserted. Where was Koten? Where was the
muhon-nin
? Anger burned through him like a sun. He gritted his teeth, the deep feeling of betrayal powering him, feeding adrenaline into him.

He burst out into the night filled with swirling rain. No one was about, not even the proprietors. Koten! he wanted to cry out. I’m going to kill you; slowly so that I can watch your face as life ebbs out of you.

Into the parking lot he ran. Two or three cars remained beneath the lights. He wiped at his eyes to clear them. All the cars were empty. Then his gaze came to rest on the rented vehicle they had used to drive here from the airport.

Koten!

Sitting in kingly silence, dry beneath the opening heavens. Unthinking, Sato ran toward the car, skidding once on the slick tarmac, almost wrenching his back. All breath went out of him for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he lifted himself off one knee and loped the rest of the way to the dripping car.

Now he shouted. “Koten!” Reaching for the chrome handle, wrenching the door open. There was a sharp click, as distinct as a dry twig cracking on a forest floor, and the night erupted into a fireball of orange and crimson flames. The car ballooned outward, coming apart in hot, twisting shards of metal and pinpoint fragments of sprayed safety glass. The ignition instantly disintegrated the rubberized mannikin in the front seat.

A sharp report like a cannon shot and men a trailer of dense black smoke, oily and twisting, ascending into the full force of the storm.

The body looked enormous, a lumped animal, throwing a deep shadow across the surrounding stone. All about it shards of glass glittered like stars, arcing tiny rainbows into the cold overhead illumination.

Three uniformed men from the Raleigh City Police stood around taking notes while the fourth, half in, half out of one of the squad cars, was on the two-way radio.

A pair of backup units squealed to a halt beside him and the cops inside emerged and began to set up sawhorse barriers against the growing knots of curious onlookers.

Harry Saunders, the sergeant on the two-way, wrapped up his conversation with his captain and threw the mike on the car seat as he backed out of the unit. His face was set in hard lines as he ambled slowly back to his three buddies.

“Might as well burn those pads,” he told them as he approached. “Ain’t gonna be any use, those notes.”

“How d’you mean?” Bob Santini said, still scribbling in his flip-up pad.

“Someone coming any minute now to take over. Captain says this isn’t any’ve our business now.”

Santini’s head came up and he glowered at Saunders. “You mean a man is killed and we just walk away from it?”

Saunders shrugged. “Funny you should say that, ’cause I asked the Captain the self-same question.” He screwed up his face. “Know what he told me? Wouldn’t do no good no matter
what
we did.” His finger stabbed out in the general direction of the corpse. “This poor sumbitch’s got no prints, got no history at all. He’s a nothing, a big, fat zero.”

“A spook,” Ed Baine said. “Now that’s interesting.”

“Well, you just take your interest somewhere else,” Saunders said, “’cause after we break up here not even our wives or, in your case, Baine, your g.f., are supposed to know anything that went on here.”

“Oh, shit,” Spinelli said with mock disgust, “no pillow talk. Now what’m I supposed to do afterwards?”

“Do what you always do, shithead,” Baine said. “Roll over and go to sleep.”