“I’ll tell you why, because he
is
Mori’s right-hand man. And last time we ran into Mori, he was . . . ” He let the question trail off to encourage a response from me.
“He was cleaning up a mess in New York,” I said, the answer slowly becoming clear in my mind. Mori had tracked down a killer, a Japanese national stalking martial arts masters across America. It was a sensational enough crime spree without the added revelation that the Japanese government had trained the murderer. So Mori had operated outside normal police channels, hoping to prevent a public embarrassment for the Japanese government. And that’s the way it ultimately turned out.
“Follow along,” my brother told us. “Mori’s niece is kidnapped as a way to get Yamashita here. That’s the whole point. Whoever’s doing this knows that Mori can manipulate Yamashita into serving as the go-between for the ransom delivery. And Mori knows that they know, but figures he can use Yamashita, rescue the girl, and ultimately outmaneuver them . . . ”
“The man was way too smart for his own good,” Art said.
“Sure,” Micky agreed. “But you know there’s more . . . ”
Art nodded. “I’m with you, Mick. Mori knew who was behind this and he did not want the Filipinos getting anywhere near it.” Art looked at me. “Why do you think that is, Connor?” Art’s eyes are a washed out blue-gray, and he seems easygoing most of the time. But now the eyes bore into me.
“Whoever’s behind this is connected somehow to the Japanese,” I concluded. “And they don’t want anyone to know. They’ve got this thing about ‘face’ and all that. Plus, there’s still bad blood between them and most of the countries they occupied in World War Two . . . . The Japanese know who’s ultimately behind this,” I concluded, “not the people who did the snatch or the shooting. They were just hired guns.”
“It’s why Marangan offed the triggerman last night,” Art said. “And why Ueda let him. Once they got whatever information the shooter had, he wasn’t really important—just a loose end.”
“Revealing the identity of whoever’s behind this is way too problematical for the Japanese,” I continued. “They tried to solve this problem on their own, through Mori, and it went bad.”
“So now the Filipinos are even more mad at them,” Micky said.
“And it’s not like there was lots of love lost between them before,” Art added.
“Mori was getting kicked out of the country when we arrived,” I said. “The Japanese were probably running out of assets except for Ueda and that lunatic Marangan. So I guess Mori figured he’d use us to help him out. We’re American, for one thing.”
“And we’ve done it before,” Micky added with a dry laugh.
“There’s probably more to it than that,” Art said quietly. “I was watching Mori when you grilled him in the car, Connor. The guy was really concerned for Yamashita. And deep down, he knew he screwed up. Was he trying to manipulate us? Sure. But I think he was also genuinely scrambling for a way to bail out your teacher. Think about it. We’re not seeing much evidence of Japanese governmental involvement, are we? Okay, we got some plane tickets and hotel rooms, but mostly all we see is Ueda. My bet is that Mori knew he had his ass in a crack and was running around like crazy trying to figure out a way to salvage the whole mess. And most of it was probably not done with the knowledge of the home office.”
“So it was a rogue operation?” I asked.
Art lifted one shoulder and cocked his head toward it. “Probably started out legit in some ways. But guys in Mori’s end of things always operate on the edge.”
“Makes it easier to deny you knew what was happening in case things get screwed up,” Micky said.
“Like now,” I told them.
The phone came alive on the table by the bed. I noted just before I picked up the receiver that the phone had a red light that flashed when it rang. It was like a small, subtle warning signal. But by now, that was old news.
“Dr. Burke?” Ueda asked on the other end of the line.
There was a simultaneous knock on the door. Micky looked through the peephole and then opened up. Inspector Reyes moved his bulk into the room, his face grim and severe.
“I’ll need to call back,” I told Ueda, and hung up.
“Is that your friend from the Japanese Embassy?” Reyes asked. “I’m hoping to have a conversation with him sometime soon.” Poor Ueda; it would not be a pleasant chat. The Inspector moved near the room service cart, silently inspecting the remains of breakfast. He walked to the window and peered out in much the same way Micky had.
“We have heard from the kidnappers,” he said. “They claim to have your Mr. Yamashita and have announced their terms for his release.”
I felt a surge of excitement. Reyes came back to the breakfast dishes. He carefully selected an unused cup and poured himself some coffee. He added cream and sugar, and then stirred the cup for a moment. He looked up.
“Your teacher is being held by a splinter group related to Abu Sayeff, Dr. Burke. They call themselves . . . well it hardly matters, does it? The Moslem insurgents in my country have a penchant for melodramatic names.” Reyes sat down in the easy chair in the corner of the room and sipped carefully at his coffee.
“What do they want?” I asked. My throat felt raspy. “How much?”
Reyes grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”
“Come on, Reyes,” Micky said. “Enough with the dramatics.”
The Inspector sat forward and put the cup down. “They have demanded the release of a number of terrorism suspects who were recently captured in a raid in Mindanao. And that it must be accomplished within seventy-two hours.”
“Shit,” Art said under his breath.
“That’s not likely to happen, is it?” I asked the policeman. He didn’t have to answer. I knew as well as anyone in that room that governments rarely agree to the release of terrorists, and the prospect of the Filipino government caving in to ransom two Japanese nationals was not a good one.
“So what’s the plan, Reyes?” my brother asked. “Play for time? I assume your people are negotiating.”
The Inspector pursed his lips as if tasting something unpleasant. “We are trying to make contact. At this point, we are following up on leads to see whether there is any way we can determine the location of the hostages.”
“Do you have an idea?” I said.
“The girl was taken in the mountains of Mindanao. The group claiming to have Yamashita is known to operate there as well. It has been a few days since he was taken. It’s possible that he is now there with her. These groups like to operate from safe havens. My government has assets down there that are trying to locate them.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “You don’t have any more than that?”
Reyes’ eyes flashed briefly with anger, but he got it under control. “I wonder whether
you
have any information that you would like to share with me, Dr. Burke?”
I looked from Micky to Art. They were deadpan. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know very well what I mean. You,” he gestured at the three of us, “come to this country uninvited and begin activities that can only be described as questionable, if not illegal.”
“Come on, Reyes,” my brother began.
“Interference with the conduct of a criminal investigation,” the Inspector said.
“Reyes . . . ” Art tried to break in, but the Inspector was working up a head of steam.
“Withholding of information,” the Filipino continued. He seemed to swell with indignation. “Assault.”
“Reyes . . . ” Art tried again, without success.
“And I am still pursuing additional, more serious charges.” He glared around the room at us, his thick face swelling with anger. He seemed like he was waiting for someone to respond. Micky did.
“Gimme a break, Reyes,” he said. “If you wanted to burn us, we’d be in lockup by now. Or even if you didn’t have enough on us for a real prosecution, you could pull a few strings and get us deported.” The Inspector sat there, stone-faced.
“Know what I think, Mick?” Art said.
“What?”
“I think the Inspector here has a pretty good idea what we’ve been up to.” Art eyed Reyes for a reaction as he spoke. “And, since he knows that someone like Ueda can probably cut some corners that he can’t, I’ll bet he let us run just to see what we could come up with.”
“Sure,” Micky nodded. “That’s what I’d do. And when I figured we had something, I’d come in and get all angry and threaten us with all sorts of horrible things.”
“The neck swelling thing was very impressive,” Art commented.
Reyes leaned forward and tipped the coffee pot forward to fill his cup, but it was empty. He gave a little sigh and sat back, regarding us stonily.
“I see we understand each other,” the Inspector said. “But please make no mistake. Your ability to come and go here is directly related to your usefulness in this investigation.”
“So what do you want to know?” I asked him.
“Your friend Ueda and his associate, Marangan,” Reyes spoke the name with distain, “must by this time have found some information as a result of their . . . activities. I need to know what it is.”
“The only thing we got that’s concrete is the feeling that the Japs are not telling us very much about what they know,” Micky answered. “We’re thinking that the real goal of the Abe kidnapping wasn’t the ransom money, but to get Yamashita. Why Yamashita, we don’t know.”
“We don’t quite get the link between the Japanese and this terrorist group,” Art said. “Although it’s got to be there. It all seems too well planned to just be coincidence. And we think the fact that Yamashita was taken and Mori killed means that there’s way more to this than we understand.”
Reyes grunted and reached into his jacket pocket. He unfolded a paper. “The link between the Moros and the Japanese is, I agree, unclear. But we, too, are increasingly convinced it is real.” He set the paper down on the bed so we could see it. “This was delivered along with the ransom demand for Yamashita. It’s a copy of what we believe to be an old woodblock print. And the small characters in the corner are Japanese, are they not?” He looked at me while I examined the sheet.
He was right. It looked like an old woodblock illustration. The black and white figure in it had a birdlike head and long nose. Dressed in a kimono, the creature held a sword in both hands. Wings jutted from his back.
“It’s a
tengu
,” I told Reyes. “A mountain goblin. From Japanese mythology.”
“A myth?” Reyes asked. “What was the significance?”
I shrugged. “Mothers use them to scare children. You know, ‘If you don’t behave, the
tengu
will get you.’ That kind of stuff.”
“Is that all?”
“They figure sometimes in stories about the martial arts.
Tengu
were master swordsmen who sometimes could be coaxed into teaching aspiring warriors the secrets of their art.”
Reyes picked up the picture and folded it away. “Just so. My intelligence people told me the same thing. Can you think of any reason why a group of Philippine terrorists would use such a symbol?”
I shook my head.
“Nor can we,” the Inspector answered. “But it is significant that a similar picture was left at the site of a double homicide not too long ago. Two of your own embassy guards were beaten to death. Our informants tell us that this action has been attributed to an Islamic group as well.”
I looked up sharply, remembering the images on the video that Baker had shown me. Reyes was watching me keenly, a large, seemingly sluggish man with bright eyes. “Does that mean anything to you, Dr. Burke?”
I swallowed. “I . . . know something about that incident but had no idea that they could be connected.” I was still almost breathless trying to digest the implications.
Reyes levered himself up and out of the chair. He moved to the door, but before he left he looked at each of us. “I suggest that this is an extremely complex case, gentlemen. Our chances of solving it would be much greater if we could work together.” He patted his pocket. “I’m taking this to the Japanese Embassy to see what I can learn. Who knows? Perhaps your Mr. Ueda can shed some light on things. If you think of anything, call immediately. The clock is ticking on your Mr. Yamashita.”
As he turned to go, I stopped him. “Reyes.” He turned his bulk in the doorway and looked back. “If the government doesn’t release the prisoners, what will happen? To Yamashita?”
The Inspector looked at the carpet for a moment. Then he looked up at me. “They will behead your friend. I am sorry.”
The door clicked closed.
When they had dragged him in that first day, Yamashita was groggy, and old looking. Hatsue thought that he looked like one of her older relatives: befuddled by the drag of time and gravity.
“Were you really sent to rescue me?” She had asked, barely holding back her hysteria.
Yamashita looked at her for a moment before answering. His head swiveled about slowly, taking in the surroundings and struggling to record them through the fog of the drugs. But his eyes slowly grew brighter as focus crept in.
“
Honto
,” he told her. Truly. He was on the floor of the cell where the guards had dumped him. He gradually drew himself up and sat in the old traditional way, legs tucked under him. With an effort, he straightened his torso and faced her. His words came out thickly, slowed by whatever drug they had given him. “Your Uncle Mori and I . . . he was
oyabun
to me. You understand the word?”
She nodded. In Japan, close personal relations were typically structured as those between two parties of unequal status. The
oyabun
was the senior member and was expected to act with the care and authority of a parent. The
kobun
was the junior, who stood in the same relation as a child to that parent, with the same complex mix of emotions and obligations.
Yamashita took in a long, jagged breath. He rolled his head around, his thick neck stretching with the motions and the muscles under the skin straining with the action. He fixed his gaze upon Hatsue. “When he told me that you were kidnapped and asked for my help, I . . . came,” he continued. A Westerner would have shrugged to indicate the complete and simple logic of the action. Yamashita merely sat there in the approaching darkness, his stillness an expression of certainty.