38
Ahira Kurisaka sat alone in his hotel suite. He gazed lovingly at the baseball card on the desk in front of him. It was his. He alone possessed it, this one-of-a-kind thing. One-of-a-kind. Kurisaka paused to consider what that meant. No amount of money, no level of power, nothing could re-create this thing. There was a certain magic in that.
And Hito Hyatta would be positively green with envy.
Kurisaka was sorely tempted to take the card out of the protective plastic casing. He wanted to feel the naked cardboard in his hands, sniff it to see if he could detect traces of the bubble gum. He could not wait to take the card back to Tokyo, so he could casually place it on the table during one of his lunches with Hyatta. He looked at his wristwatch, did the math. Perhaps a phone call...
He couldn't wait. He was nearly giddy, reached for the phone, and dialed Hito Hyatta's number. Kurisaka's eager smile was so wide, it hurt his face.
He had to get past a secretary and another assistant before Hyatta answered the phone. "Hello? Is that you, Ahira?"
"Good to speak with you, Hito. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
"I always make time for you, Ahira."
"I just had to call and share news of my latest acquisition." Kurisaka relished the anticipation, this moment, the second before telling Hyatta about the DiMaggio card. Hyatta's brain would be spinning, wondering what amazing thing Kurisaka now had in his possession. Kurisaka let the moment stretch another second, then said, "You might recall we were both looking to add baseball cards to our collection."
"Oh, yes. You have been successful?"
"Completely," Kurisaka said. "I'm actually calling from Pensacola, Florida, in the United States. I have this wonderful Joe DiMaggio card. It's autographed by the player, naturally, but it's also been signed by-"
"Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder," Hyatta said. "Yes, I'm aware of that one. A cute card. My agents made me aware that one was available sometime ago, but it just wasn't my style. All that Hollywood and sports stuff mixed together. More of a fun novelty than a serious collectible, I thought."
"Oh. I see." A lead weight landed in the pit of Kurisaka's belly. "When you said you were interested in a Florida card... I thought maybe..."
"You thought perhaps we'd be competing for the same card." Hyatta chuckled. "Then we would have to fight it out, eh? Maybe have a good old-fashioned bidding war. Not to worry, the card I was interested in was in Orlando. Someone turned up a nearly mint-condition 1911 Honus Wagner."
"Ah." Kurisaka felt sick.
"The owner asked an even million in American dollars," Hyatta said. "But I took great pleasure in grinding him down to seven hundred thousand. A bargain, really."
"I see." So painful. Why wouldn't Hyatta stop talking?
"To me," Hyatta continued, "the Wagner card is more purely a baseball collectible. And I've always considered myself a purist."
"Uh-huh." Insufferable ass.
"But for you, well, I think the DiMaggio card is more in keeping with the tone of your collection. Your collection has always been-what's the word I'm looking for-whimsical. Yes, that's it. A sort of fun, whimsical collection."
There wasn't a trace of irony in Hyatta's voice. He honestly didn't realize that his every word was a dagger in Kurisaka's heart.
Hyatta said, "There's actually a very interesting story about Honus Wagner. Apparently he-"
"I'm sorry, Hito, but I have a call on the other line. Congratulations on the Honus Wagner. Good-bye." He hung up.
Kurisaka looked at the DiMaggio card, but every drop of his enthusiasm had evaporated. He picked it up, examined it one last time, sighed, placed it in the custom-made attach¨¦ case. He wasn't sure, but he thought it possible he might cry.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Toshi entered, offered his cousin a nod of respect. "I'm afraid we won't be able to move up our departure. The airport is behind schedule and unable to service the craft until midmorning."
"It doesn't matter." Kurisaka stood, his shoulders slumped. "I'm going to bed."
"Is something the matter, Cousin?"
"It's nothing. I'm tired. Just very tired." He went into his bedroom, closed the door behind him.
Toshi wondered at his cousin's sudden mood shift but finally shrugged and left the suite.
39
It took Joellen Becker three phone calls and forty-two minutes on her laptop to find the information she wanted. Becker still had good contacts, local law enforcement, federal. It had been easy to find out how many Japanese passports had recently come through US Customs in Pensacola. She found out Kurisaka was on the top floor of the Intercontinental, that he had more than a dozen men with him, and that his private jet was scheduled to leave for Tokyo.
Kurisaka. The man himself. Becker's intuition had served her well. She thought the billionaire might be in America, all of those Japanese hired guns Samson had mentioned. It wasn't just Kurisaka's errand boy Moto anymore. She had hoped to obtain the DiMaggio card so she could use it to lure the billionaire to America. Becker didn't have the card, but here was Kurisaka right in her own backyard. Kurisaka had a small army with him, but he wasn't home in his big Tokyo fortress. This might be as vulnerable as he'd ever get.
A few taps at the computer, and she'd accessed the airport's maintenance roster. She'd moved Kurisaka's jet to the bottom of the list. That should hold him up until morning.
If she'd still been with the NSA, she could have had Kurisaka's phone bugged within ten minutes. Now it might take a full day, and there just wasn't time.
"Well?" Otis. The big man had stood behind her the whole time. Too eager. His brooding anger made Becker slightly nervous. There was rage in him ready to be tapped, bubbling just under the surface.
She spun her chair around, faced Otis. Samson had spread himself on the sofa. "I think I know a way," she said. "I think we can get the card back, but we'll need to act fast." She explained what she'd done to delay Kurisaka's departure.
"I told you I don't care about no baseball card." Otis shook his doctor's bag. "I said I'd pay you."
"I know." She held up a hand. "You want payback. I think it's a waste of time, but that's none of my business. But hear me out. You don't have enough cash in that bag, not compared to the reward for the card. I think my plan will satisfy your needs. Both our needs." She explained briefly what she had in mind.
Otis nodded. "That'll work." His jaw was set. He looked determined.
She stubbed out her cigarette, lifted her chin at Samson. "Got an opinion on this, sport?"
Samson laughed. It sounded forced. "My opinion is that I don't want anything to do with this."
"Hey, you called me, remember?"
Samson stabbed a finger at Otis. "He insisted. And I thought I could salvage a finder's fee out of all this."
"I'm surprised at you," Becker said. "To endure everything you've been through, then to be so willing to come up empty-handed. I thought even you had more backbone than that."
"Look, what do you want from me? I had the damn card in my hands, and I lost it. I blew my chance, okay?"
"You make your own chances in this business, Samson," Becker said. "Or is a little bad luck all it takes to bust your balls?"
"A little bad-what did you say?"
"Nothing worth a damn comes easy," she said.
Samson opened his mouth. He was ready to spit something sarcastic. But he closed his mouth again, shook his head. He flopped back down on the sofa, crossed his arms, and wouldn't look at her or Otis.
Becker knew what he must be thinking. She could read him like a book. All Samson wanted to do was keep living his little life. But there was part of him that wanted to achieve something, and it was at war with the other part that kept saying not to stick his neck out. She studied him sitting there on the couch but couldn't tell if he was pouting or brooding or deep in thought.
She opened her desk drawer, looking for another pack of cigarettes.
Instead, she saw her father's six-shooters. She stared at them for long seconds. Goals are nothing. That you pursue them is everything. She'd risked her life before, many times in her special ops days. Could she honestly say that the reasons she'd risked her life those times were any better or worse than now?
Becker decided to let Conner stew a minute. She got up from her desk, went into her bedroom, motioned Otis should follow. She opened a closet. "Help me with these." They pulled out three metal trunks, heavy, locked tight with thick combination locks. They dragged the trunks into the living room. Becker spun the locks, threw back the lids.
Two contained various weaponry, ammunition. The third held Kevlar vests and electronic equipment. Becker had never had the opportunity to use any of this equipment, all items she thought of as severance pay when the Feds forced her resignation. Our tax dollars at work.
"Shit," Otis said. "Your Sharper Image catalog has better stuff than mine."
Conner Samson stood, sighed dramatically, his jaw set, eyes alert and determined. He looked down at the assorted equipment and weaponry. "Okay, tell me the plan again. And be very clear about how easy and safe my part is."
Ninety minutes later, Conner sat in the Lincoln next to Otis. He still wasn't sure how he'd been talked into it. Becker had told them what to do. They'd parked at the rear entrance of the hotel, this Kurisaka and his band of chop-saki killers on the top floor. He felt like a second-rate SWAT team guy, half-assed secret agent wanna-be. He felt stupid and clumsy and afraid.
Joellen Becker had draped him in Kevlar. Nylon straps. Buckles. An electronic headset with a single earpiece and a microphone strapped to his throat. Three guns. Three opportunities to shoot off his own foot. Some kind of automatic on the ankle, a small caliber. The little gun felt awkward down there when he walked, so he decided to leave it off and not tell Becker. The other two were nine-millimeter Glocks, one under each arm in lightweight canvas shoulder holsters. A Batman-style utility belt. Conner was scared to death he'd bump into something and blow himself in half.
If my part of the fucking plan is so safe, then why the hell am I wearing a ton of guns?
Better safe than sorry, Becker had told him.
Otis wore the same outfit with two notable differences. One: He also carried a giant, fully automatic twelve-gauge shotgun with an enormous barrel magazine. Conner had not even realized there was such a gun.
The other difference was almost comical. A single Kevlar vest didn't even come close to covering Otis's massive chest. In an awkward but serviceable arrangement, Becker had strapped two vests together. The new rig left only a few gaps, dangerous spaces where a lucky shot might find its way through. Better than nothing, thought Conner.
"Five minutes." Becker's voice echoed electronic in Conner's earpiece.
Conner felt a sudden urge to call it off. Why was he doing this? Conner wasn't sure he even understood himself, didn't know how to take his jumble of feelings and turn them into words anyone could understand. It had something to do with Tyranny. But it had a lot more to do with himself, like seeing this thing to the finish would somehow snap into focus who he was as a human being. A failed ballplayer, a flunked-out student, a rejected lover. There was nowhere to go but forward, wide-eyed into the open jaws of doom.
But now, he wasn't sure. Fear.
"Otis, maybe this is a bad idea."
"Go then," the big man said. "I'm staying. I know what I'm about."
"You got that leather bag of money. You could take off." Take me with you.
"It's Rocky's money," Otis said. "I'd say he'd want to buy revenge with it."
Becker's voice again. "It's go time. Samson, get into position."
Conner touched the microphone at his throat. "Right."
He looked at Otis one more time. Otis said nothing, only nodded.
Conner slipped a windbreaker over his gun rig. It was over ninety degrees even in the middle of the night, but he couldn't chance someone seeing him and calling in the cops.
He left the Lincoln behind, walked fast around the back of the hotel, and found the service entrance Becker told him would be there. His heart pounded in his ears, mouth dry. He didn't touch the knob. Too soon. It would be locked, maybe even have an alarm.
Becker had told him state-of-the-art, modern hotels had state-of-the-art, modern blind spots and weaknesses. She was parked somewhere with her laptop and her cellular modem, tapping into the hotel's computer network. Voodoo magic. Again Conner realized how little he understood about so much.
A long buzzzzz followed by a click. Becker's voice in his ear. "Go, Samson."
Conner turned the knob and rushed inside. No alarm. He scanned the area. Kitchens to the right. A service elevator to the left. He climbed in, thumbed the throat microphone. "I'm in the service elevator."
"Okay," Becker said in his ear. "Is there a keypad or a lock? You'll either need a key or a code to ride to the top floor."
"A keypad," Conner said.
"Good. If you'd have needed a key, you'd be screwed. We can bypass the code. I'll tell the computer system there's an emergency evacuation. That'll unlock all the restricted elevators. But I'll disable the alarm. Give me a second."
"How'd you learn to do all this?" Conner asked.
"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Now clam up. I'm working."
Conner clammed up. Waited.
Then the elevator moved. Up.
Becker's voice. "I'm going to cue Otis. When he starts his commotion it should pull any guards away from the service elevator and give you a clear path."
"What if I don't have a clear path?"
"Then we'll see what you're made of, Samson. You've just got to have faith Otis will do his job."
Yeah, Conner knew this play. The suicide squeeze.
Otis sat stone still in the Lincoln, eyes closed. He'd been working on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He was going to walk face-first into danger, and he'd need his mind straight if he wanted to come out alive. But he had to do this thing. He'd feel Rocky's ghost haunt him forever if he didn't.
Otis had graduated high school with average grades, hadn't paid much attention to most of the stuff he'd read in English class, Hemingway stories and The Red Badge of Courage. He'd forgotten most of it. One thing stuck with him crystal clear. Hamlet. The ghost of Hamlet's father had made a big impression on a seventeen-year-old Otis. The ghost defined certain responsibilities. You don't forget your family. You don't turn a blind eye when somebody does them wrong. He'd been surprised how applicable these lessons had been later in life.
His high school English teacher had asked the question: Was the ghost real or a manifestation of Hamlet's guilt? What did it matter? Otis thought. Hamlet was fucked up either way.
Rocky Big had been family, and Otis didn't want to risk any ghosts.
A hiss of static in his ear. Otis opened his eyes.
"You're up, Otis," Becker said in his earpiece. "Good hunting."
Joellen Becker typed rapidly on the laptop in her dark car. She'd parked near the garage entrance, where she planned to enter the hotel as soon as she'd set a few things in motion. Otis was on his way, so she only had a few minutes.
The hotel's system codes had been ridiculously easy to obtain even on short notice, an appropriate bribe with an underpaid hotel employee. She tapped a few keys and shut down all the hotel's outside telephone lines and the rest of the alarm systems. It wouldn't take long for somebody to realize they could still call the police on a cell phone. If she'd still been with her old special ops unit, she would have been able to jam those calls with high-tech equipment.
She'd already taken a handful of special pills twenty minutes before. A vitamin blend, alcohol neutralizer, hangover remedy. Now she rolled up her sleeve, found a fat vein, and inserted the hypodermic needle, pushed the plunger, felt the narcotic boost, the special mix she'd used only once before on a covert mission when she'd had to go without sleep for thirty-six hours. She felt the surge. Like she could fly or take on the world.
She set one more program in motion before shutting down her laptop. For months Becker had been tapping into computerized security systems, hotels, apartment complexes, homes, and businesses. Anything that had a silent alarm connected to the Pensacola Police. There had been no reason for her to do so except to keep her hacking skills sharp. But secretly she'd been hoping the computer file would come in handy. She started the timer. In exactly five minutes, every alarm would ring at once. It would delay the authorities just long enough for Becker to make her getaway after she'd accomplished her mission.
Joellen Becker strapped on her pistols, zipped her leather jacket over her Kevlar vest, left the car behind, took five steps toward the hotel, and stopped. She felt overwhelmed by a sentimental urge and tried to fight it. She didn't fight too hard or for too long and finally lost, went back to the car, shrugged out of the shoulder rig and popped the trunk. She dropped her automatics inside and took out the leather holsters with her father's six-shooters, strapped them around her waist.
They hung low, felt so stupidly good that she giggled.
Otis walked into the hotel lobby, a blanket thrown over the automatic shotgun. He stepped up to the front desk. The guy behind it was prim and efficient. "Can I help you, sir?"
"I'm going up to visit some friends."
"It's after hours," the clerk said. "I'll need to call up first. What's the guest's name?"
"Jack Shit."
"Sir?"
"Sorry about this." Otis's big fist came out of nowhere, smacked the clerk between the eyes. The clerk folded, collapsed behind the desk.
Otis found the elevator. He went up, his gut sinking, jaw set. He dropped the blanket, gripped the full-auto shotgun with white knuckles. Becker had called the shotgun an impractical prototype, a silly weapon not good for much.
Except for what Otis was about to do.
The floors slipped by. Soon he'd be at the top. Otis felt nervous. It was a feeling he'd almost forgotten, didn't quite know what to do with. He usually made other people nervous. He swallowed, throat rough. Sweat in his armpits, on his neck and upper lip. He heard his own breathing, felt his own heartbeat, saw the elevator doors open.
He stepped out of the elevator, shotgun out front like the hood ornament of death, and pulled the trigger.
Toshi paced the halls one last time before going to bed. He wanted to make sure everything was secure. It was unlikely any of Cousin Ahira's enemies would make an attempt on his life here in Pensacola, but Toshi was a professional and left nothing to chance.
He found Itchi at his post near the service elevator. "A quiet night?"
"All is well," Itchi said.
Toshi nodded. "We leave for Tokyo in the morning."
Itchi said, "It will be good to go home."
"Yes. The hard part is over. Mr. Kurisaka has his prize. Nothing to do now but pass one more quiet evening."
Gunfire erupted down the hall. Screams.
Toshi cursed, ran for the commotion as he drew his automatic from its holster. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Itchi following close behind. He slammed on the brakes, and Itchi ran into him, almost knocking him over.
"What are you doing?" barked Toshi.
"The shots-"
"Back to your post! We'll call if we need you."
Itchi bowed. "Hai!"
Toshi ran again at full speed, thumbing the safety off the automatic. He was eager and ready to do harm.
