[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black (35 page)

Caine was surprised, but he wrapped his arms around her in return. The shocking warmth of her body radiated through his own, melting the icy pain of his wounds, old and new. His limbs went soft, then numb, and for once, he simply gave way.

Arinori Kusaka peered out the tinted window of the limousine, as the vehicle snaked its way down the mountain road. He watched as they cruised past the tall, foliage-lined fences of the other country estates in the Gunma Prefecture. Then, beyond that, there was only the dark, twisting trees of the forest. On the other side of the road, a deep chasm fell off into a pitch black valley.

The dry winds had warded off the rain dousing Tokyo, but a thick, damp mist crept down from the mountains. Only a few hours from the city, the area was beautiful and remote. He’d purchased his house here using a long chain of dummy corporations and aliases. The hidden, secret property was a perfect place to lay low. Now, under cover of darkness, it was time to make his way to the private airfield in Saitima.

He sipped from a glass tumbler of scotch. As they drove, he silently contemplated the forest outside the windows. The bottle of his beloved Karuizawa single malt was one of the few possessions he’d brought with him. But tonight, the exquisite drink brought him no joy. He tasted nothing. He felt only the sting of alcohol as it numbed his lips.

The top story in the morning news had praised the delegates of Japan, China, and the United States. They had braved the harsh weather and made the flight to the Senkaku Islands as planned. There, they shook hands and made empty promises of joint cooperation. Their speeches ensured a speedy, peaceful resolution to the territorial dispute, an outcome that would benefit both countries, and their mutual allies.

Kusaka wiped his lips and sighed. As soon as he saw the report, he knew it was only a matter of time before the authorities tracked him down. So now he had to leave, scurry from his home like a common traitor. Not a hero. Not a savior of Japan, or a herald of new era of strength and prosperity. Instead, he was a fugitive.

Fortunately, he was a wealthy man with near-limitless resources. Working with Bernatto had provided him with a mountain of untraceable cash. His company owned divisions and subsidiaries all over the world. Tonight, he would fly by private jet to his offices in Indonesia, a place where he could live like a king. A place where a private security force would ensure his safety. And a place that had no extradition treaties with the rest of the world.

He knew he could still influence the political landscape of Japan from afar. His money and connections had international reach, and he had acquired plenty of blackmail material over the years. It would take longer, but he could still achieve his aims. He could still save Japan from its relentless slide into mediocrity.

He took another sip of scotch, licking the droplets from his lips. It would not be easy. When the details of his failed plan came to light, there would be accusations. Political maneuvering. Many of his allies would move to distance themselves. His work with the CIA would brand him an American puppet. And other recriminations would follow. Criminal. Murderer. Traitor.

Pervert.

He shook his head and downed the remaining scotch in one long gulp. So be it … he had survived worse. He would survive this. He would drag Japan kicking and screaming into a better future by sheer force of will. And one day, the people of his homeland would welcome him back with open arms.

He threw the empty tumbler on the floor of the limo and leaned back. The limousine slowed down as it rounded another curve in the mountain road. The huge vehicle jerked to an unexpected stop. A sharp tremor of fear ran through his body when he saw blinking lights through the front windshield. His heart rate slowed only when he realized the lights signaled construction, not the police.

“Why exactly are we stopping?” he asked his driver over the intercom.

“Looks like some construction ahead, sir. Just give me a minute. I’ll have them clear the road.”

The front door opened and slammed shut. His chauffeur walked through the fog, over to a pair of parked construction vehicles blocking the lanes. Some traffic cones and a few construction signs lined the road, but Kusaka didn’t see any workers manning the vehicles. Probably on break. At this hour. No wonder the economy was sliding into depression.

Kusaka grabbed a clean tumbler from the limo bar and poured himself another glass of scotch. He was half-finished with it when he realized that he’d lost sight of his chauffeur. The man had been gone for several minutes and had not returned.

Cool mountain air rushed into the cabin as Kusaka powered down his window. He leaned out and surveyed the scene. The blinking construction lights lit up the fog, making large patches of mist glow orange.

“Mitsuo, where the hell are you? The jet isn’t going to wait all night. Let’s go!” Then Kusaka whirled around as he heard the passenger door open behind him.

“Stay where you are. Put your hands on your knees. Where I can see them.” The cool voice betrayed no trace of emotion or anger. Kusaka did as he was told and found himself face to face with Thomas Caine. Caine held a small pistol with a long, narrow black silencer screwed onto the barrel.

Kusaka chuckled and smiled. “Well, well, so much for the CIA. I should have known Bernatto’s dogs would screw things up. The man never gets his own hands dirty.”

“You should have taken care of me yourself,” Caine said.

Kusaka shrugged. “I take it my chauffeur isn’t coming back?”

“Occupational hazard. He picked the wrong employer.”

Kusaka eyed a leather-bound briefcase near his feet. “Is this about money? I can pay, you know. As much as you’d like.”

Caine’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “I’m glad to hear that. Here.” He removed a smartphone from his pocket and handed it to Kusaka.

The older man looked at the screen. A banking app filled the tiny screen. It was set up to authorize a large transfer of money from one of his corporate funds to an unnamed Swiss account. The sum was sizable, but to a man of Kusaka’s wealth, it was nothing.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Why didn’t you just say so? Son, you should be working for me, I could pay you this every week.”

“It’s not for me, Kusaka-san. It’s for Hitomi. And it’s enough. Enough for her to live a normal, happy life. Small enough that no one will come looking for her. Now, please enter your account information and authorize the transaction.”

“How do you even know she’s alive?”

“I’ve had you under surveillance since this afternoon. I saw you load her into the trunk. I know you’ve drugged her. I know she’s alive. Kusaka-san, please, don’t waste my time. I told you before, I’ve dealt with men like you. Trust me when I say, eventually I will get what I want. The only question is how much pain you suffer first.”

Kusaka looked Caine in the eye, and his joking demeanor dissolved. “Yes, you did say that. You also said that you’ve stared death in the face, Caine-san. I can see now that’s true. When you look into the abyss, into the darkness like that … it changes you. It changed my father. He was never whole after his war. So, what did you see, Caine-san?”

Caine cocked the pistol. “Why don’t you tell me, Kusaka-san? What do you see right now?”

Kusaka stared at him another moment, then took a long, slow sip of his scotch. This time, he savored the flavor. It was exquisite. It tasted of wood, and earth, and soil. Of rain, and sun, and light. A woman’s perfumed skin. Sweat and blood. It tasted of life, and everything he held dear. He swirled the liquid in his mouth, then swallowed. He thought of the darkness that awaited him.

“Tell her … tell her I’m sorry,” he said. His hands trembled as he entered some numbers into the phone and tossed it to Caine. He watched as the man checked the screen, then slid it back in his pocket.

“Do you want to know?” Kusaka asked. “Do you want to know why I—”

Caine’s emerald eyes didn’t blink as he pulled the trigger. A loud pop, like a champagne bottle being uncorked, filled the limo. A bright red hole decorated Kusaka’s forehead. The old man gasped his last breath. He slumped forward, and his precious scotch sloshed across the seat. A tiny droplet of the amber liquid dripped down his finger and fell into nothingness.

Caine opened the trunk of the limo. The harsh glare of the trunk light illuminated a black body bag, stuffed between a few small suitcases. He unzipped the bag, revealing the face of Hitomi, angelic in her stillness.

Her eyes were closed, and her skin was deathly pale. For a moment, Caine worried that Kusaka had given her an overdose of whatever tranquilizer she was on. He pressed a finger to her neck and felt a faint pulse. He unzipped the bag further, only to discover she was naked.

He yanked out a suitcase and rummaged around until he found a large jacket. He wrapped it around her, lifted her from the bag, and set her down on the cold pavement. He gently slapped her cheek.

“Hitomi, wake up. Come on. It’s me, Tom. You’re safe now. Wake up.”

Hitomi uttered a soft moan. She turned her head, and her breath became stronger. He lifted her to a sitting position. She trembled as the cold air washed over her. She pulled the coat tighter.

Caine brushed her hair back from her face. “Are you okay?
Dai joba desu ka
?”

She nodded and coughed. “
Hai. Dai jobo desu
.”

Her body shook as she struggled to stand, and Caine helped her to her feet. She looked over at the limo. The rear window was splattered with blood. “You … you came back for me? Why?”

Caine contemplated her and her question, struggling to find words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I came to Japan to find you,” he said. “I couldn’t leave until I did.”

Her eyes cleared slightly as the haze of drugs wore off. She nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

She watched in silence as Caine removed a gasoline can from the limo. Putting the vehicle in neutral, he rolled it to the edge of the road. He used a road flare to ignite the gasoline, tossed it in the car, then pushed it over the edge of the chasm.

The burning limo briefly illuminated the road as it teetered over the abyss. The fire drove away the shadows and bathed Caine and Hitomi in a warm, flickering light.

Then it plunged down into the darkness of the valley. Its burning glow disappeared from sight.

Caine watched for a few more minutes, then he turned and looked for Hitomi. She was wandering away from him, disappearing into the fog. “Hitomi!” he called after her. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

She didn’t answer. All he could hear were his own words, echoing back to him through the empty night.

Isato Yoshizawa was buried in Yanaka Cemetery in the Taito ward of Tokyo, just north of Ueno. Caine had been to the cemetery before, in April, when the famous cherry trees exploded into bloom. They covered the grounds with electric pink blossoms, giving the cemetery road the nickname “Cherry Tree Alley.” But now, in the fall, the gnarled trees were black and austere.

The funeral service was for family members only. In Isato’s case, that meant a motley assortment of blood relatives, yakuza bosses, and other gang members affiliated with the Yoshizawa family. Caine was not invited, but Koichi met up with him afterwards at a small
shabu shabu
restaurant, in nearby Asakusa.

They sat cross-legged on floor cushions while a pot of broth boiled on the low table in front of them. They cooked mountains of local vegetables in the savory liquid and dipped paper-thin cuts of beef in a slice at a time. The thin, perfectly cooked meat absorbed the tangy sauce, and each bite burst with flavor.

Caine washed his food down with a cold Asahi beer, while Koichi made small talk about the funeral.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” the old man said, after shoveling another helping of rice and vegetables into his mouth. “The row of cars must have been a hundred long. All American. Cadillacs, Lincolns, one guy even had an old El Camino. You know how much it costs to import those things? You’re practically doubling the price!”

Caine nodded, slurping down some udon noodles. “Yoshizawa-san had a lot of friends.”

Koichi shook his head. “Bah. Friends? Half the people there had threatened to kill him at one time or another. In the yakuza, your value isn’t measured by the quality of your friends. It’s the quality of your enemies that makes you a man.”

After the meal, Koichi ordered another round of drinks. Caine took a sip of his beer, then stared at Koichi. The older man sucked in air through his teeth. “Go ahead. Ask. I know you’ve been avoiding the question.”

“I thought it would be rude to be so direct.”

Koichi smiled. “For a
gaijin
, your manners are definitely improving.”

“All right. What’s going to happen to Kenji?”

Koichi sighed. “It’s a complicated matter. Kenji is neither yakuza nor civilian. He tried to walk a line between the two lives. Maybe in the end, that saved him; I don’t know. At any rate, the Yamaguchi-gumi council decided to let him live. They ordered him to leave Japan. He should be out of the country already. They gave him twenty-four hours. Then they reported the murder to the police and turned over the videotape evidence. In essence, they’ve banished him. They made it clear, if he ever comes back or interferes with yakuza business in any way, he’d better pray the police find him first.”

Caine nodded. “Sounds like he got off pretty easy, all things considered.”

Koichi cocked his head and gave Caine a strange look. “Do you think so? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a terrible thing to live like that. To lose your dreams and your reality in one stroke. Myself, I think I’d rather just die and get it over with.”

“And the Yoshizawa clan? You guys still in business?”

Koichi shifted on his cushion. “Well, with Bobu gone, Tokyo Black is finished. I’m sure a few of his more fanatic followers will scurry off and try to regroup. But the yakuza wants nothing to do with them. The Yoshizawa clan will absorb the remains of the Shimizu organization. And, for the time being at least, I’ve been appointed Chairman.”