Vulcan's Forge (16 page)

“Tell the chef that the asparagus was a bit wilted and the next time it happens, he’ll be fired.” There was no malice in his withered voice, but a man of his position needed none to ensure that his orders were carried out. “I can’t believe you didn’t eat more, David. That beef was flown in this morning from my farm in Japan.”

“My appetite isn’t what it used to be.” Takamora shrugged.

“I hope my condition doesn’t upset you.”

“Not at all,” the mayor denied too quickly. “It’s just the pressure I’m under right now. Planning a silent coup isn’t all that simple, you know.”

At home, Ohnishi usually used an electric wheelchair to get around easier. Now he wheeled away from the mahogany table. Takamora tossed his napkin onto the table and followed, silently cursing the revolting spectacle of Ohnishi’s eating practices.

Though still in his fifties, Takamora’s face was developing the languid cast common to many elderly Japanese men. His eyes had begun to retreat behind permanent bags. His body, once slender and toned from years of exercise, had paunched and bowed, so his trunk now appeared too large for his thin legs to support.

Warm light glinted off the frames of the paintings and brought out the beautiful burnish of the cherry wood paneling of Ohnishi’s private study. Takamora took the leather winged-back chair as Ohnishi wheeled behind his broad ormolu-topped desk.

“Smoke if you wish,” Ohnishi invited.

Takamora wasted no time lighting a Marlboro with a gaily colored disposable lighter.

“What have you to report?”

From behind a blue-gray cloud of smoke, Takamora spoke slowly to mask the tension he felt whenever he was in Ohnishi’s presence. “We are nearly ready to send the ultimatum to the President. I have two full divisions of loyal National Guards ready to blockade Pearl Harbor and the airport. The governor will return from the mainland next week; we will detain him as soon as he lands. Our senators and representatives can be called back from Washington with only a moment’s notice. If they resist our plans, they too will be detained—however, Senator Namura has already expressed an interest in joining us.

“I have full assurances from all the civic organizations involved that they are prepared to do their part with the strikes and marches. The press, too, is ready. There will be a full blackout for forty-eight hours after the start date. The news will be broadcast as usual, but will make no references to the coup.

“I have here,” Takamora reached into his jacket pocket and removed a sheet of paper, “the names of the satellite technicians on the islands who could broadcast unauthorized stories. I will have them detained or their equipment destroyed, whichever is necessary.”

“And the phone service?”

“The main microwave transmission towers and the mainland cable junction will be taken and controlled by our troops. It’s inevitable that some news of the coup will escape before we’re ready for our own broadcasts, but it will be largely unconfirmable.”

“You have done well, David. All seems to be in order, but there is a slight problem.”

“What is that?” Takamora asked, leaning forward in his chair.

The study door opened and the menacing form of Kenji, Ohnishi’s assistant/bodyguard, moved to stand behind the mayor’s chair, his steel-hard hands held at his sides.

“And what is that problem?” Takamora repeated, a bit more nervously, after a glance at the newcomer.

“The letter I had written as an ultimatum to the President has been removed from my office. I can only assume it has been sent to Washington.”

Takamora couldn’t hide his surprise. “We still need more time, why did you send it?”

“I did not say, David, that I sent the letter. I said that it had been removed from my office. The only person to know of this letter and to have spent time in my office alone is you. Therefore, I must ask if you sent the letter to the President without my authorization?”

“I have only seen that letter once, I swear.” Takamora quickly realized the danger he was in. “I would never take it from you.”

“I want to believe you, David. I really do, but I find that I can’t. I don’t know what you wished to gain from your action, but I assure you that I know its results.”

“I swear I didn’t take the letter.” Sweat beaded against Takamora’s waxen skin.

“You are the only person to have any access to this room and to know the location of my safe. I must congratulate you on your safecracking abilities. Most impressive.” There was no admiration in Ohnishi’s voice. “If you think your act will cripple my efforts in any way, you are very wrong.

“As we speak, arms are being readied for transit here. I have made arrangements for a highly motivated mercenary army. Of course, it would be easier to use your National Guard troops, but I will manage without them.

“David, you could have been the President of the newest and possibly most wealthy nation on the planet if you hadn’t become greedy and crossed me.”

“I didn’t.” Desperation edged Takamora’s voice up an octave.

“I find it admirable that you retain your innocence even to the end,” Ohnishi said sadly.

With those words, Kenji struck.

He whipped a thin nylon cord around David Takamora’s neck in a lightning-quick maneuver. With amazing strength, he torqued the cord into the mayor’s throat. Takamora clawed at the garrote as it bit deeper and deeper, his tongue thickening as it thrust between his tobacco-stained teeth. His chokes came as thin reedy gasps as the life was pulled from him.

Ohnishi sat neutrally as the grisly murder took place, his wrinkled fingers laced perfectly on the cool desktop.

Kenji pulled tighter as Takamora’s struggles diminished. After a few moments all movement ceased. Mayor David Takamora was dead.

Kenji slipped the cord from around the corpse’s neck, revealing a razor-thin line of blood where the skin had parted under relentless pressure. He cleaned his garrote on Takamora’s suit coat, coiled the weapon, and slipped it into the pocket of his baggy black pants.

“I’m relieved that his bowels didn’t void,” Ohnishi remarked, sniffing delicately. “Feed the body to the dogs and return to me.”

Kenji returned from his gruesome task after nearly thirty minutes. Despite a change of clothing, Ohnishi noted that the stench of death still clung to his assistant, as always.

“It is done,” Kenji said.

“What is it?” Ohnishi asked, knowing something was bothering this man whom he considered a son. “Don’t let Takamora’s ambition upset you.”

“It is not his ambition that upset me. It is yours.”

“Don’t start that again, Kenji,” Ohnishi warned, but his assistant continued.

“I have followed your orders concerning this operation, but I do not agree with them. What you planned with Takamora was only a sideshow for our true aims, yet you treat it with your full attention. Our priority lies elsewhere. Takamora’s betrayal should be a sign to stop this foolish coup, which was meant as a contingency plan in the first place. It cannot succeed; you must realize that. And it puts into jeopardy what we are really working for.”

“Has our Russian friend so intimidated you, Kenji, that you no longer trust in me?”

“No, Ohnishi-San,” Kenji replied. “But we must first concentrate on our obligations to him.”

“Let me tell you something about our Russian ally. He will cross us just as quickly as we do him. We are merely tools to him. Our first loyalty must be with the people of Hawaii, not some white taskmaster bent on our control.”

“But we made promises . . .”

“They mean nothing now. Takamora’s ambition has changed everything. When I first wrote that letter declaring our independence, I knew that it would be sent whether Kerikov ordered it or not. What we are doing must proceed. Takamora’s betrayal has merely pushed up our deadline. I’m certain that the President is planning some sort of reprisal. That is why we must strike now. The coup can be successful without Takamora. We can control his people.”

Kenji was silent for a moment, his dark eyes downcast. “And the arms you spoke of?”

“I dealt directly with an old friend for those, an Egyptian named Suleiman el-aziz Suleiman.”

“And the mercenary army?”

“Suleiman is also arranging for them. Hard currency is a powerful tool in such matters. The mercenaries will augment Takamora’s National Guard troops—or replace them if they refuse to follow me.”

“I did not realize,” Kenji said dejectedly.

“You are like my son, but even a father must do things without his son’s awareness. It changes nothing between us, Kenji. Do not be hurt.”

“I am not.”

“Good,” Ohnishi said with a thin smile. “I wish to celebrate tonight. Are you in the mood?”

“Yes, of course,” Kenji answered the rhetorical question.

Ohnishi wheeled out from behind the desk and toward his bedroom on the top floor of the glass mansion. Once there, Kenji helped him undress and reclothe himself for bed. Kenji easily lifted his frail form into the wide four-poster, propping several pillows behind his back. Ohnishi laid a withered hand on Kenji’s cheek and thanked him with a smile, his eyes shining as if in fever.

“You are like a son to me, you must know that.”

“I do,” Kenji replied, stroking the old hand gently. “Please allow me a few minutes to prepare.”

As Kenji strode from the room, Ohnishi turned to a control panel near his bed and pressed several buttons in quick succession. The electrochromic panels in the glass ceiling of his bedroom darkened, blocking out the rich tropical moonlight. Throughout the house, the walls and roof also darkened, enclosing the mansion in a blackened cocoon.

On the far wall, past the foot of the bed, heavy velvet drapes parted, revealing a two-way glass wall and a small bedroom beyond. A nude woman lay supine on the bedspread, her small breasts peaked with long erect nipples.

Because of his age, Takahiro Ohnishi could no longer enjoy intercourse, but his sexual drive had diminished little over the years. Rather than give in to his body’s inability to respond, he had devised a method of voyeurism that partly slaked his still healthy urges. He was incapable of erections let alone emission, but he could still enjoy the act in his own way.

He patiently waited for Kenji to make his entrance, enjoying the lithe body of the sleeping girl. When Kenji finally entered the room, his muscled body was bare and his arousal was plainly evident. He crossed to the sleeping woman—girl, really, since she was not yet fifteen—and woke her by rubbing his erection against her parted lips. She had been well schooled in her responses according to the script that Ohnishi had provided.

Pretending to be still asleep, she took Kenji into her mouth and began a gentle fellatio. Ohnishi pressed a button on the console and the sensitive microphones in the other room broadcast the subtle noises of the girl’s lips and mouth. She moved a hand up from her side and began massaging one of her nipples softly, quickly picking up the rhythm as if coming awake.

Ohnishi leaned forward in his bed as the Japanese girl’s eyes fluttered open and she began sucking in earnest. He could feel a slight tightening near his prostate muscles and smiled. Kenji reached down and toyed roughly with her other breast, and the speakers in Ohnishi’s bedroom sounded with her moans of building passion. Ohnishi resisted the temptation to touch himself, knowing he would be disappointed at his body’s lack of response.

Kenji spread the girl’s legs, revealing her still hairless mons. Slipping one thick finger into her body, he thrust through her virginity so that blood slicked his hand and her inner thighs. The girl winced but did not cry out. He crawled onto the bed and positioned her so Ohnishi would have the best possible view before he entered her.

He mounted her roughly, thrusting sharply into her still undeveloped pelvis. Despite the pain she must have felt, the girl writhed and moaned, clenching Kenji’s torso with her coltish legs and lifting her firm buttocks from the bed, arching her back higher and higher. Ohnishi could not resist the temptation; his hand snaked under his blankets to find himself semierect. He grasped it and began pumping in time with Kenji.

His erection lasted only a few moments and there was no emission, but it was more than he’d had in years. As soon as he lost it, he lost all interest in the performance still being played out behind the glass. He pressed the button to close the curtains and lay back on his bed. The sounds of Kenji’s lovemaking still filled the room. He made a mental note, as he settled into sleep, to use this girl again.

 

SHE had been in the room for only twenty-four hours, but already Jill felt as if she’d been imprisoned for a year. She had gone through the classic steps taken by nearly every person who is locked up against their will. First she had raged at her captors, screaming and pounding against the solid steel door that kept her from freedom. When she had exhausted herself, she spent the next several hours going over her cell in minute detail, exploring the cement block walls, the ceiling that was too far over her head to reach, the empty pegboard rack with the outlines of tools still painted on its brown glossy surface. The twenty-square-foot room smelled of fertilizer, old gasoline, and oil—Jill assumed it had once been a gardener’s supply shed.

After she’d paced her cell for another hour, Jill had finally settled on the concrete floor next to the dripping spigot. She’d watched dully as the tiny drops pooled, then snaked to the rusted drain in the middle of the room. Eventually she slept, her body overriding her mind’s racing questions.

When she woke a tray of food rested next to the door. There were a couple of oranges, half a loaf of crusty french bread, and a quarter stick of butter, along with a waxed paper cup of cool coffee. Jill noticed immediately that nothing on the tray could provide her with a weapon, no glass or tin cans, no utensils that could be sharpened by scraping them against the floor.