The Nicholas Linnear Novels (77 page)

And it was clear that he was not the ogre that his daughters, Justine and Gelda, were convinced he was. In the beginning he had sought to communicate this new aspect of Tomkin to Justine, but these discussions inevitably ended in bitter fights and at length he gave up trying to convince her of her father’s love for her. Too much bad blood had gone on between them for her ever to change her mind about him. She thought he was monstrous.

And in one way at least she was correct, Nicholas thought as they walked off the plane. Though increasingly it had become more difficult for him to believe that Tomkin was capable of murder. Certainly no man in his position got there by turning the other cheek to his enemies or those whom he had to climb over. Broken careers, bankruptcies, the dissolutions of marriages, this was the detritus that such a man as Raphael Tomkin must leave behind him in his wake.

He was smart and most assuredly ruthless. He had done things that Nicholas could never even have contemplated. And yet these seemed a long way from ordering a death in cold blood, a life snuffed out with Olympian disdain. His genuine love for his daughters should have precluded such a psychotic decision.

Yet all the evidence Croaker had unearthed had led directly back to Raphael Tomkin summoning his bodyguard and authorizing him to end Angela Didion’s life. Why? What spark had ignited him to do such a desperate thing?

Nicholas still did not know, but he meant to find out before he meted out his revenge on this powerful and complex man. Perhaps this quest for knowledge would delay the time of his vengeance, but that had no real meaning for him. He had taken in with his mother’s milk the concept of infinite patience. Time was as the wind to him, passing unseen in a continuous stream, secrets held within its web, enactment inevitable but coming only at the propitious moment, as Musashi wrote, Crossing at a Ford.

Thus he had set for himself the task of first coming to understand his enemy, Raphael Tomkin, to peer into every nook and cranny of his life, stripping away flesh and bone until at length the soul of the man lay revealed to him. Because only in understanding the why of the murder could Nicholas find salvation for himself for what he himself must eventually do.

If he should fail to understand Tomkin, if he should rashly hurl himself down the narrow bloodied path of vengeance, he would be no better than his enemy. He could not do such a thing. His cousin, Saigō, had known just that about Nicholas and, using it, had caused the death of Nicholas’ friends. For mad Saigō had no such compunctions concerning murder. He had learned how to destroy life through
Kan-aku na ninjutsu
and, later, through the feared
Kōbudera.
But somewhere along the line the forces he was attempting to tame had taken him over, using him for their own evil designs. Saigō had possessed the power only to become possessed by it. In the end he had been too weak of spirit and it had driven him mad.

Nicholas took a deep breath and shook his head to clear his mind of the past. Saigō was a year dead.

But he was back in Japan and so the past had begun to crowd in on him like a host of
kami
chittering in his ear, all clamoring for attention at once. So many memories, so many sensations. Cheong; the Colonel; Itami, his aunt, whom he knew he must eventually see. And always Yukio, sad doomed Yukio. Beautiful Yukio stunning his adolescent mind when they had first met at the
keiretsu
party. The first contact between them had been electric with sexual promise. Her warm, firm thigh between his legs as they danced through the chandeliered room, staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious of the glare the young Saigō leveled at them from his place at his father’s side.

Though she be dead at Saigō’s hands, still her
kami
continued to haunt him. Though he loved Justine with all his heart, still his spirit danced that first dance with Yukio in a kind of private glowing world where death held no dominion. The mind was an awesomely powerful instrument and if the dead could ever be said to have been resurrected, Nicholas had brought Yukio back from her watery grave with the power of his memories.

And now his feet were back on his native soil for the first time in over ten years. It seemed like centuries. Closer to Yukio now, to all that had happened to him. Dance, Yukio, I’m holding you tight and as long as I do nothing can come between us, nothing can harm you anymore.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A young Japanese woman stood, bowing, before them. “Sato Petrochemicals welcomes you to Japan.” Just behind her and to the left was a young Japanese male in a dark business suit and wraparound sunglasses. He reached out and took their bag claim checks. They had just cleared Customs and Immigration. “Junior will take care of your luggage.” Her smile was sweet. “Won’t you follow me, please?”

Nicholas hid his surprise at being met by a woman. Of course he would not tell Tomkin this but it did not bode well for their coming negotiations. He might find this creature charming and Tomkin might not care either way, but to any Japanese this would constitute a serious insult. The more important the emissary of the company who met you, the higher your status in the eyes of that company. In Japan, women were very far down the executive ladder indeed.

She took them through the congested heart of Narita, past scurrying tour groups, their leaders brandishing stiff calligraphied banners to rally them just as generals on the ancient battlefields of Japan had once done with their troops. Past regimented schoolchildren, uniformed and gaping at all the incredibly tall
gaijin
stumbling bewilderedly by them. Around old couples with brown paper shopping bags, sidestepping one brilliantly colored bridal party being seen off on their honeymoon.

Tomkin was huffing by the time the young woman brought them out into the vapid sunshine and across to the waiting limousine.

She paused as she held the back door open for them. “I am Miss Yoshida, Mr. Sato’s administrative assistant,” she said. “Please forgive the discourtesy of my not introducing myself earlier but I felt it prudent to remove all of us from that tumult most expeditiously.”

Nicholas smiled inwardly at the endearing awkwardness of her English. He watched her as she bowed again, returning her gesture automatically, murmuring, “There was no discourtesy, Miss Yoshida. Both Mr. Tomkin and I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” in idiomatic Japanese.

If she was at all startled by his use of her language she gave no outward sign of it. Her eyes were like glass, set in her oval, seamless face. In any other country she might have made millions putting that countenance on display before the camera. But not here. Sato Petrochemicals was her second family, and she owed it all the loyalty she devoted to her blood family, Nicholas knew. What it asked of her she performed flawlessly and without question. This, too, was tradition handed down from the time of the Tokugawa Shōgunate.

“Won’t you please take advantage of the car’s comforts?”

“Jesus, I could use some real comfort,” Tomkin growled as he ducked his head and entered the black gleaming limo. “That trip’s a ball breaker.”

Nicholas laughed, pretending it was a mysterious
gaijin
jest, relieving Miss Yoshida of her embarrassment. She laughed lightly in concert with him, her voice musical. She wore a rather severely cut business suit of raw silk, its forest green contrasting nicely with the toffee-colored blouse with its deep maroon string tie at the tiny rounded collar. On one lapel she wore a discreet gold and lacquer pin emblazoned with the feudal design of Sato Petrochemicals. On the lobes of her ears were gleaming emerald studs.

“It must feel good to be home again, Linnear-san,” she said, pronouncing it “Rinnearu.”

It would not have been good manners for Nicholas to have acknowledged her oblique reference: she had cleverly told him that she had been briefed on his background without ever having said it outright.

He smiled. “The years have melted away,” he said. “Now that I am back it seems only moments since I left.”

Miss Yoshida turned her beautiful face away from him. Junior was emerging from the terminal, loaded down with their luggage. Her eyes returned to his and her voice lowered, became less formal for an instant. “There will be a car for your use,” she said, “should you desire to light joss sticks.”

Nicholas struggled to hide his surprise. He now knew the extent of the briefing Miss Yoshida had been given on him. Not only had she said that Sato would provide transportation for him if he chose to visit his parents’ graves but also that he would want to light joss sticks on his mother’s stone. It was not widely known that Cheong had been at least half Chinese; “joss stick” was a peculiarly Chinese term, though the Japanese, being also Buddhist, lit incense at the graves of family and friends.

Miss Yoshida’s eyes lowered. “I know I have no right to offer, but if it will be easier for you to be accompanied on such a journey I would make myself available.”

“That is terribly kind,” Nicholas said, watching Junior approach out of the corner of his eye, “but I could not ask such an enormous inconvenience of you.”

“It is no bother,” she said. “I have a husband and a child buried not far away. I would go in any case.”

Her eyes met his but he could not say whether she was telling the truth or simply employing a Japanese lie in order to make him feel more comfortable with her offer. In either case he determined he would take her up on it when a lull in the negotiations permitted it.

“I would be honored, Miss Yoshida.”

Inside the car, as Junior hurled them into the stifling traffic on the outskirts of the city, Tomkin leaned forward, staring out the gray-tinted windows at the growing expanse of the steel and glass forest rising from the borders of the farmers’ green fields. “Jesus,” he said, “it’s just like New York. When the hell’re they gonna stop building? I come twelve thousand miles and I feel like I never left home.” He sat back with a sudden lurch, a smirk on his face. “Except, of course, that you and I’re the tallest creatures for a thousand miles, eh, Nick?”

Nicholas gave his employer the semblance of a nod and in the same motion said to Miss Yoshida in the front of the car, “
Gaijin
are often rude without meaning to be, eh?” He shrugged his shoulders. “What else can you expect from ill-bred children.”

Miss Yoshida covered her bowlike lips with the palm of her hand, but her mirth was obvious in her sparkling eyes.

“What the hell’re you two chattering about?” Tomkin growled, feeling left out.

“Just informing the natives that it isn’t only height that’s out-sized on foreign devils,” Nicholas lied.

But he’d struck the right chord. “Hah!” Tomkin guffawed. “You’re damn straight! Very good, Nicky.”

Just over an hour later, the three of them stepped off the high speed elevator at the summit on the triangular Shinjuku Suiryu Building. All of Tokyo lay shimmering like a dusky multifaceted jewel beneath them. Suspended six hundred and sixty feet—fifty-two stories—in the air, Nicholas was amazed at the profusion of ultra-modern skyscrapers that had sprung up in his absence. They shot from the bedrock pavement like a Mandarin’s glittering fingernails, lifting the Shinjuku District of downtown Tokyo into the dome of the heavens.

Tomkin grimaced as he stopped them and, pulling Nicholas close beside him, whispered, “Coming here always reminds me of cod liver oil. When I was a kid my father insisted I take two spoonfuls every morning. He kept telling me it was for my own good, just like he did when he beat me if he found me dumping the stuff down the toilet. Then I’d have to gag on that vile stuff anyway.” He grunted heavily. “Huh, you can eat your raw fish with these barbarians, Nick. I’ve still got the taste of cod liver oil in my mouth.”

Miss Yoshida led them through a set of wood-paneled doors, the oversized knobs carved into the Sato crest. Down a corridor softly lit by indirect lighting. Edo period
ukiyo-e
prints by Hiroshige, the master of rain, Hokusai, the master of the countryside, and Kuniyoshi, the master of Japanese myth, hung on the walls. A dove gray carpet was beneath their feet, acting as a damper for the bustle of work going on all around them, drifting out from a multitude of office doorways. Teletypes chattered softly, and in another section a battery of electronic typewriters were going full speed.

Miss Yoshida stopped them before another set of doors. These were of thick slabs of ash burl fitted together with wide wooden pegs in the traditional Japanese manner. The handles were of roughly worked black wrought iron, reminding Nicholas of the
riakon
—the inns of the countryside—he had stayed in.

“Mr. Sato knew you would have a strenuous trip,” Miss Yoshida said. “Such a journey is fatiguing even to the strongest of constitutions. That is why Junior has gone on to the Okura with your luggage. He will see to your rooms.” Her arm raised, her hand held palm upward. It was a simple gesture, yet elegant for all that. “Here you may relax without concern or worry.” Now her cherry blossom lips pursed in a smile. “If you will be so kind as to follow me.”

Tomkin’s angry voice checked her. “What the hell’s going on here?” His eyes were belligerent. “I didn’t come halfway round the world to scorch my flesh in some sitz bath while the big man goes about his business.” He tapped his black crocodile attach case. “I’ve got a merger to consummate.” He snorted. “This other stuff can wait as far as I’m concerned.”

Miss Yoshida’s face showed nothing of what she must be feeling. The smile was still on her face and to her credit it had not frozen there. “Mr. Tomkin.” she began, “let me assure you that—”

“Sato!” Tomkin’s strident voice overrode her quiet controlled tones. “I want to see Sato now. He can’t keep me cooling my heels like some goddamned functionary. Raphael Tomkin waits for no one!”

“I assure you, Mr. Tomkin, no disrespect is intended,” Miss Yoshida pressed on, struggling to contend with this irrational outburst. “My task is to serve you, to help you relax, to put your mind into the proper frame of—”

“I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me what my frame of mind is!” Tomkin thundered, taking a step toward her. “Now you get Sato in here or—”