Conspiracy (19 page)

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

General Ozawa woke up with a start. He was still in the restaurant, wearing the clothes from his dinner with Glass. He was stretched out on a futon, but he had no idea how he had gotten there. His entire body was trembling. When he glanced at his watch, he saw it was three-twelve in the morning.

His head felt as if it weighed a ton, but he didn't care about that. Emerging out of his haziness was the gradual realization that he had said some things last night that he shouldn't have. He had done exactly what Sato had warned him against: drinking too much and talking too much. But what exactly had he told Glass?

When he stumbled out onto the street, he found his car and driver still waiting. Without a word, his driver roared off down the empty streets. Once he got home, Ozawa stripped off his clothes. Since his wife had died last year, he lived alone. He fixed an ice-cold bath. He got in it, ducking his head underwater four times to clear his brain, part of his usual regimen when he drank too much, which was more often than he liked to admit. Once he emerged from the bathroom, his teeth were chattering. At least he now had a pretty good idea of what he had said.

Ozawa was mortified. He had really done it this time. He'd never drink too much again.

He considered calling Sato to tell him what had happened, but he couldn't bear the humiliation and Sato's anger. Sato might sever all relations with Ozawa, or even worse. He thought about the vicious murders Terasawa had committed, and he began shaking. Suppose Sato turned Terasawa loose on him?

There had to be another way to solve the problem.

Ozawa racked his alcohol-fogged brain. Slowly an idea took shape. He checked the civil defense force phone directory, then picked up the phone and called a captain who was very dependable, someone he could trust with his life. That was what was involved now.

"Here's what I want you to do," he said to the sleepy man who answered the phone.

* * *

They arrived an hour later, in a truck from the local electrical company. The three men in work clothes had toolboxes and all of the paraphernalia that anyone who happened to see them would associate with the repair of an electrical problem.

Two of them took up positions next to the switch box that controlled the flow of electricity into Alex Glass's apartment building. The third one, with an orange hard hat, slipped into the wooden shed adjacent to the building, which Alex had built specially to house his black Kawasaki. The landlord had demanded a month's wages from Alex for permitting the structure, but Alex had the same feelings about that bike that people did about their children. No expense was too great.

The man was a skilled mechanic who had once worked for Kawasaki. In a few seconds, he had the engine exposed and planted a small black square object inside. With the deft fingers of an expert, he hooked up wires between the ignition, the engine, and the black box.

When he was finished and he had closed up the engine, he took a couple of steps back from the motorcycle. It was well tended, and the engine was in perfect shape, better than ones that rolled off the assembly line. It was a shame to destroy something so beautiful.

* * *

Alex woke up in a cold sweat. His T-shirt was soaked as well as the sheets, and he knew it wasn't from the sake he had drunk last evening. The alcohol accounted for his humongous headache, but the reason he was sweating from head to toe was because of the magnitude of what he had learned from Ozawa at dinner. Sato's scheme involving a powerful American was frightening enough. The thought of what Ozawa would do when he woke out his drunken stupor was terrifying.

Everything was coming back to Alex. Aware of how explosive the information was, as well as the risks to himself, Alex had swung by his office on the way home, typed out a letter to Taylor, and left it in the center drawer of his desk in a sealed envelope addressed to her. That was smart, he decided. In case anything happened to him, she'd run with his information and find out whom Sato had met in Buenos Aires. If he just left it for that bozo Don Berry, the head of the
Times
office here, Don might think it was too speculative. From the office, Alex had managed to weave his way on his motorcycle to his apartment. His blood-alcohol level must have been off the charts.

In the cold light of morning, two Advil and three cups of coffee eased the headache, but not the terror. Ozawa might have told Sato what he had said. Or Ozawa, a dangerous man himself, might be petrified that Sato would find out. Either way Alex was in deep trouble.

By the time he finished another cup of coffee, he knew there was only one thing he could do: get the hell out of Tokyo ASAP. That wasn't why he had booked the reservation for Buenos Aires in his drunken stupor last night, but he was glad that he had. He stumbled over to his desk, tripping over a pair of shoes, to find the piece of paper on his desk. He was on an ANA plane that left at noon and connected in L.A. for Buenos Aires. He still had plenty of time to leave for the flight, but he decided to hit the road now and wait at the airport. Definitely a lot safer.

Without calling anyone, not even Don, he'd jump on his motorcycle, and head to Narita Airport. Once he was safely in Los Angeles for the connection, he'd call Don with some B.S. story about an illness in the family. That was definitely the way to go.

Moving fast, Alex stuffed some clothes, along with his laptop, into a duffel that fit into the holder on the back of his motorcycle. Out in the hall he waited for the elevator to come. When it didn't, he yelled, "Fuck," and raced down twelve flights of stairs with the duffel in one hand and his helmet in the other.

From the doorway of his apartment building, he looked up and down the street.

Nothing suspicious.

He breathed a sigh of relief.
You guys gotta get up early to catch Alex Glass,
he thought, feeling a surge of renewed self-confidence.

Taking personal risks for a good story was what journalism was all about. He would make it to Buenos Aires. He would find out whom Sato met with on August 28 at the Alvear. His story would earn him a Pulitzer.

Alex hurried toward the shed that held his Kawasaki. His adrenaline was flowing. He'd fly to the airport.

He looked around again as he stuffed the duffel into the holder on the back of the bike and strapped on his helmet.
Buenos Aires, here I come.

He jumped on the seat and turned the key to start the powerful engine. It began to rev up, but didn't kick over.
Shit,
he thought,
that never happened before.

He pressed down hard, igniting the engine. This time it didn't die on him, but he heard an unusual click. "What the hell's that?"

Then a huge explosion.

It was the last thing Alex ever heard, because suddenly fragments of his body and the disintegrating motorcycle were being hurled through the flimsy wooden roof of the shed high into the cool morning air.

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

"We creamed 'em," an ecstatic Kendrick shouted to Taylor on the phone.

She had arrived at her office at the law firm with a stack of newspapers from different cities that she had picked up at a newsstand in the National Press Building, but she hadn't opened them before the phone rang. "Which polls have you seen?" Taylor asked.

"New York. Washington. Chicago. L.A. And Denver. A clean sweep. Webster is finished."

Taylor was dumbfounded. After watching the debate last night, the most she had expected was a narrow victory. "People really reacted that way?"

"Damn right, and you know what?"

"Tell me."

"Now it's ours to lose. All we have to do is keep the senator out of trouble and we're home free."

Taylor was glad they weren't having this conversation in person, so Kendrick couldn't see the pained expression on her face. She knew that she should tell him about Cady and the investigation, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was as if not talking about it would make it go away.

"I'll go out and get a stepladder," Taylor said.

"Why a stepladder?"

"So we can tear down the goalposts." She was trying to fake the enthusiasm Kendrick expected, though C. J. Cady and his investigation had taken over her mind. If something happened on that front today, she'd have to reach Boyd. "Where are you guys now?"

"On the campaign plane, touching down in Miami in about twenty minutes. Morning meetings with big donors and some other stops in the area. Luncheon at the Omni downtown. Then we're off for Tampa and St. Pete. See you."

Putting the phone down, Taylor winced, thinking about Kendrick's words, "It's ours to lose." Unless she found a way to block Cady's investigation, they
would
lose.

Taylor was buried in the newspapers, in which the pundits confirmed Kendrick's analysis, when the intercom rang. "Shawn Emerson from the
New York Times's
Washington bureau on line one," Kathy said. "Are you in or out?"

Shawn might be calling to talk about the debate. Hopefully he hadn't found out about Cady's investigation. If he had, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to spin the news for damage control. "Morning, Shawn. I hope you enjoyed the debate last night."

"Actually, I did. Your guy did okay, but that's not why I'm calling."

Oh, Christ
, she thought.
He's heard about Cady's investigation.
"What's up, then?" She held her breath, while grabbing the bottom of her desk chair.

"There was an accident," he said in a somber tone. "In Tokyo. Your friend Alex Glass was killed in a freak accident with his motorcycle."

"Oh, God, no!" Taylor's voice quavered. "I remember that thing. Alex got me on it once—only once. That was it. I wouldn't do it again. He rode so fast, I've never been as scared in my life. When it was over I pleaded with him to give it up."

"And he laughed at you."

"How'd you know?"

"He laughed at all of us when we told him that. He loved that damn bike. Said it was the only way to get around Tokyo. But here's the strange part. He wasn't in an accident. Somehow it exploded outside his apartment building when he started the engine."

"But that doesn't make sense. He—" She stopped in mid-sentence. Her blood ran cold. Alex had been digging into Sato's life in his coverage of the Japanese candidate for prime minister. Sato had a reputation for surrounding himself with Yakuza thugs. Had Alex pushed too far and offended Sato or one of his people?

"Thanks, Shawn. This is really awful."

As soon as Taylor hung up, she called the
New York Times'
s Tokyo office. The receptionist put her through to Don Berry. "I just heard about Alex," Taylor said.

"We're all in a state of shock." Don's voice was heavy with grief. "Alex wasn't just our star reporter. Everybody in the office loved him. He was a real character."

"What happened?"

"Nobody knows. The Tokyo police are investigating. Apparently Alex started up the bike, and it just exploded."

Taylor wasn't buying it. "That doesn't make sense. Alex spent so much time taking care of that bike. He called it his baby. It was always in perfect shape. It couldn't just explode."

"I know what you mean. That's what I told the police."

She tried to conceal the edge in her voice. "Well, what do they think?"

"At this point they don't have any idea. Or if they do, they're not telling me."

"Listen, Don, if you hear anything, will you let me know?"

"Absolutely. The Kyoto conference was before I got here, but I've heard about you two. I'll keep you posted."

Suddenly Kathy opened Taylor's door. "There's a United States marshal here to see you."

"Oh, shit." Taylor groaned, knowing why he was here. She quickly wrapped up the call with Don.

The marshal was a polite young man, short and squat, built like a tank, with a blond crew cut. There was no point getting angry at him when he handed her the grand jury subpoena. It called for Boyd to testify tomorrow morning at ten.

"I have to ask you," he said, "if you'll accept service for Charles R. Boyd."