“Jesus,” whispered Nick.
Omura nodded. “I believe this sort of taking your vassals’ or enemies’ most beloved children was a common thing in Western feudal times as well.”
“But this is the twenty-first century…,” began Nick in self-righteous tones but quickly shut up. Most of the thirty-plus years of this century had been one giant leap backward toward barbarism and clans and czars and theocracies and warlords and a more violent but also more stable feudal system everywhere in the world, the United States not excluded.
“She died in Nakamura’s captivity?” said Nick. There was something important here, if he could only find it and dig it out.
“Let us say that she arranged to take her own life,” said Omura. Even his eyes looked sad. “Out of shame.”
“Shame for being a hostage?” asked Nick. “For being… what? Sato’s child? For doing something wrong? I don’t get it.”
Omura said nothing.
“I would think that the Sato I know would’ve gone nuts,” said Nick at last. “Gone nuts and tried to kill Nakamura and everyone else even remotely involved in his daughter’s death.”
Omura shook his head. “You do not understand us, Nick. In twenty years, we have largely returned to bushido and our earlier form of feudal life and thinking. It will be what helps us survive as a culture… as a people. If a man is ready to give or even take his own life for his liege lord, he must also be willing to sacrifice his entire family if that is his lord and master’s will.”
“Jesus,” Nick said again. “So Sato did nothing about his daughter’s death?”
“I did not say that,” murmured Omura. “I merely said that he sought no revenge. There is one other thing we must discuss before you leave, Nick.”
Nick glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Ambrose would have to push it to get him to the John Wayne Airport in time. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you understand why Nippon is engaged in the war in China, Nick?”
“I think I do, Omura-sama. Japan had all but underbred itself out of existence by the beginning of this century… at least it was on the path toward doing so. By pretending to be UN peacekeepers when China tore itself apart in this civil war and general collapse—and by hiring American troops to play that role—Japan’s sort of reinvigorating itself with almost a billion young Chinese to do their work. New ports. New products. New workforce. But in a two-tier sort of Greater Japan, with you Japanese nationals always in the upper tier.”
“But not in thinking of the Chinese and others as slaves as before,” Omura said quickly. “Not this time. This Daitoa Senso—this Greater East Asia War—will not include a Rape of Nanking. Nor will it end with a second attempt by the Japanese to become shido minzoku—‘the world’s foremost people.’ ”
Nick shrugged. He didn’t really care that much what or how the Japanese people thought of themselves.
“But all that is mere preparation,” said Omura.
“Preparation for what?”
“For the real war, Nick.”
“The real war with… China? India? What’s left of Russia? Nuevo Mexico? Not America, certainly.” Nick was confused.
Omura shook his head and got easily to his feet. The little man seemed to balance on the balls of his sneakered feet like a boxer or athlete. Nick stood up, but in stages, and painfully.
“The coming war—and it will come in the next five years, Nick—will be a total war, an existential war, a nuclear war,” Daichi Omura said as he took Nick by the elbow and began leading him toward the door. “That culture or ours will inherit the earth. Only one culture will survive this war and determine humanity’s future, Nick. And it cannot be theirs. It is why we need to settle the issue of who will be Shogun soon.”
“Holy shit,” said Nick and stopped in his tracks. Omura gently moved him along. Outside, the sun was setting and the L.A. basin and its surviving tall buildings glowed gold. Sunlight glinted back from windshields on the remaining freeways. “Nuclear war, Omura-sama? With who? And why? For God’s sake, why? And what does this have to do with…”
Omura silenced him with a gentle hand on Nick’s back. “Bottom-san, if you do see Colonel Sato, would you please give my greetings to him in the following way? Say to him, as one old chess opponent to another, In this world there is a tree without any roots; / Its yellow leaves send back the wind. Can you remember that, Bottom-san?”
Nick said, “In this world there is a tree without any roots; / Its yellow leaves send back the wind.”
Omura opened the door and saw his guest through it. “You are a smart man, Nick Bottom. This is one reason—although not the important reason—that Hiroshi Nakamura hired you to solve the murder of his son. Certainly you are up to the challenge of solving the larger mysteries as well, especially since they are all one. Good luck, Nick.”
Nick shook the old man’s hand—a firm, dry, affectionate handshake—and then the door was closed in his face.
WE ARE LANDING, GENTLEMEN,” said the child-faced flight attendant. Her kimono made small rustling sounds as she cleared the last of their glasses and glided into the aft cabin.
Sato was awake and had been looking at Nick as he’d slept. Nick rubbed his eyes and face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks and chin.
The A310/360 landed gently at Denver International Airport and taxied to the Nakamura private hangar.
Nick grabbed what few things he’d brought aboard. He left the nylon bag of flashback vials on the floor.
Sato raised one eyebrow as he waved Nick to go down the stairway first. “I have a vehicle waiting. Can I drop you at your condominium, Bottom-san?”
“I’ll phone a cab.”
“Very good. I shall notify the hangar manager that you can wait inside until your cab arrives,” said Sato. A long, black, hydrogen-powered Lexus hummed to a stop on the tarmac and two of Sato’s men stepped out. One held the rear door for Sato while the other watched the perimeter with a professional bodyguard’s quick flicks of glances. Another samurai, whom Nick also recognized from the trip to Santa Fe, was at the wheel of the Lexus.
“Oh,” said Nick, “Omura-sama sends you his greetings, Sato-san. He told me to say to you, as one old chess opponent says to the other, In this world there is a tree without any roots; / Its yellow leaves send back the wind. I think that’s the phrase.”
Nick had expected something from Sato—surprise, irritation—at hearing that he’d met with the California Advisor, but the big man showed no reaction whatsoever. “Good night, Bottom-san,” said the security chief. “We shall see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Nick.
2.04
Denver—Saturday, Sept. 25
STUPID SHITHEAD.
Val was furious at himself.
He should have just walked out the front door of the condominium building. But he hadn’t been sure that the big man with marine tats who’d shown them in would allow him to leave. The last thing on earth that Val wanted right now was to be sitting in detention somewhere in that building, waiting for the Old Man to arrive home.
So he’d stalked back and forth on the mezzanine with the mass of climbing rope thrown over his shoulder until he found a side corridor and a door that had to open to a stairway to the roof, but of course it was locked with a numeric access pad. So much for that.
He went back to the mezzanine and continued pacing, knowing that there had to be some way out of the goddamned building, but also knowing that Gunny and the other security people would be on his ass soon if he didn’t find that exit.
Then he saw the dried-up fountain below and the steel cables dangling from a ceiling seventy feet above the marble floors and patches of dirt with their crude gardens. There were skylights up there and someone had opened two of them a foot or so to allow a little fresh air in. From the mezzanine, it was only thirty or forty feet up to those skylights. One of the cables was secured by the weight of a bronze goose hanging fifteen or twenty feet below, a goose that once
must have appeared to be landing on water back when the fountain had held water.
Making sure that the climbing rope and carabiners were secure over his shoulder, not giving himself time to think about it, Val took a run at the railing, jumped high to catch the railing as a jumping-off step under his right boot, and threw himself far out into empty air forty feet above the fountain and floor. He caught the cable in both hands, swung wide, almost let go, and then got his legs and ankles around the steel rope.
He’d given no thought as to whether the cable would hold his added weight—the Old Man had taught him that engineers always built in a wide safety factor for such things—but this cable and its bolts above were old, so Val was surprised when the whole setup creaked and sagged at least a few inches. The cable swung with his weight and the heavy bronze goose below flew back and forth in a six-or seven-foot arc, seemed to bank left, and then began spinning.
The leap hadn’t created much noise and no one stepped out of their cubie. Val grinned despite the surge of terror that suddenly gripped him and then he began to climb, the coils of Perlon-3 and dangling steel ’biners over his shoulder weighing him down.
At the top he was still six feet below and to one side of the open skylights with no way of getting up to them. I guess I didn’t really think this out, thought Val as he hung there seventy feet above the hard floor, his forearms beginning to shake with the tension of holding himself on the cable. Nothing new there.
Holding on with his upper arm, legs, and ankles, Val freed his hands long enough to pull the end of the climbing rope free and to attach one of the carabiners to the end. When he was done, he had about an eight-or nine-foot free bit of rope with the steel clip on the end.
Val tossed twice before getting the ’biner and a wad of rope up and over the metal frame separating the two glass skylights. But the first time he made it over, the carabiner went too far and landed on the outside of the glass with a dull thump. Val pulled it back—the weight almost pulled him off his perch—and then tossed again. And again. And again.
Finally four or five feet of rope with the carabiner at its end was hanging free. Since he still held the rope, he was able to get it swinging until he caught the carabiner free end with one hand.
He was tiring now, his ankles and legs slipping down a foot or so on the steel cable. Val knew that he’d be out of the strength he needed to dangle here in another minute or less. He clipped the carabiner on the main strand of climbing rope and let the mass of it fall from his shoulders.
Getting rid of the weight helped. The rope reached the dirt in the old fountain with a coil left over. Val pulled the noose tight on the steel frame above and transferred his hands to the dangling rope.
The Perlon-3 was a lot more slippery than the steel cable and his ankles weren’t getting much of a grip. He had to run a loop of the bright blue rope around his right hand and wrist to gain a few seconds where he could rest. Then, with a loud grunt, he began climbing.
It was only six feet or so. Only.
When he got to the point where he could reach up and grab the rusted steel horizontal frame on which the glass skylights closed, Val thought—not for the first time—Now what?
The damned skylights were only open a foot or so. The gaps weren’t wide enough for him to get his body up through there even if he somehow pulled himself up that far.
Now what, you dumb shit?
Now it was just like climbing around on the girders under the overpass on the I-10, was what. Val swung his legs high, managing to get his ankles crossed just above the metal.
Still hanging from the rope, he freed his right leg and began kicking at the skylight on that side, trying to concentrate his blows just on specific sections of the angled steel frame that held six large panes of glass in it.
It was too heavy. Its cranking mechanism up there on the roof was too rusted. It wouldn’t budge.
Val crossed his ankles again and hung there panting. He didn’t have much strength left. His only chance in a few seconds would be to swing back to the climbing rope and slide down it the sixty or seventy feet to the marble below. Did he have enough strength to hang on during that descent? He didn’t think so.
Emitting a noise somewhere between a huge grunt and a low scream, Val freed both legs and swung both boots up at the metal frame. One way or the other, this was his last try.
His boot soles missed the metal frame but fractured the grimy pane of glass. A large segment of that glass fell out of the frame and tumbled end over end to shatter with an impossibly loud noise below.
Val’s right foot was through the empty space of the missing pane and up and over the metal pane-frame.
“Fuck it,” he gasped, sweat pouring off his face into empty space. Using just the leverage of his ankle on that thin strand of metal, he swung his body out, his left leg up and over the right side of the steel strut above, and he grabbed at the far side of that strut with his left hand. Val dangled there for a second, his body contorted and broken glass cutting into his right ankle, and then—with a final violent grunt—he pulled himself onto the six-inch-wide steel strut, lying there on his back, teetering, almost falling, and then releasing the rope below to grab the skylight frame just above him.
It creaked upward.
A few seconds later, Val was off the girder and out onto the graveled roof and pulling up the climbing rope. His arms were shaking wildly and he barely had enough strength to pull up and coil the line.
This is where Gunny G. and his security guys just come up the stairs and arrest me, thought Val.
But they didn’t.
His legs as shaky as his arms, Val walked to the southwest corner of the building where the fence began below, found a pipe that looked like it might bear his weight, maybe, clipped his carabiner-noose around it, and dropped the coiled mass to the definitely unyielding pavement way down there. Val closed his eyes and tried to stop shaking.
He knew he should wait until he got some arm strength back, but he didn’t know if he had the time to wait. So Val sat on the edge of the building—here on this side it was probably less than fifty feet to the concrete below—wrapped a coil of the rope around his wrist, and swung out until he could get his shaky legs and bleeding ankles around the rope again. Pretend you’re in gym class was his last thought before rolling off.
He slid down—too fast, it took skin off his palms—and when he got to the bottom his legs were too wobbly to hold him upright. Val collapsed on the cement there, his back to the building, and panted loudly for a moment. The panting sounded a little like sobs but—he decided—that wasn’t his fault.
HE RETRIEVED HIS BERETTA from the pipe and just stood by the rubble of the broken pedestrian bridge for a while.
What next?
It had been the only question for a long time now and it seemed that Val Fox never had the answer.
I kill the Old Man and get out of here.
The thought seemed obscene to him, despite its familiarity. Always before it was a black-souled fantasy, something rising more out of the secrets that young Val had known—the fact of his mother lying to his father about her whereabouts that last year, the fact of his father’s maddening denseness when Val’s mother said she’d spent the long weekend at Laura McGilvrey’s when ten-year-old Val had known that she’d been with Mr. Cohen, the fact of his father’s total lack of tears in the long month after Val’s mother had died in that crash—all facts woven into the fantasy of his father having discovered the affair and having acted on the knowledge.
But Val had never believed his own black-souled fantasy. Not really. The dark dream that his father had also hurt Val’s mother had been nothing more than a focus for his rage at the reality of his father exiling him, a substitute fury at his father for sending Val away when he wanted and needed to be near the Old Man, a fantasy revenge aimed at his father for not weeping when Val’s ten-year-old heart had been torn to shreds.
But now, this absolutely damning grand jury evidence…
Val arched backwards over the railing of the broken bridge and screamed into the blue Colorado afternoon sky.
So what next?
Kill the Old Man and get out of Colorado.
No, wait, that was the wrong sequence…
First, get the $200 in old dollars from the Old Man, and find the guy here in Denver who’d get him the new NICC with the faked Teamster membership and…
Well, that’s fucked.
Killing his father in cold blood—a cop, ex-cop to be sure, but still part of that fucking fraternity that tended to take the killing of its own real seriously—and then hang around Denver two weeks or more to get his fake ID? Didn’t quite parse, did it, Valerino?
He fumbled in his pockets until he found the slip of paper with the NIC Card counterfeiter’s name scribbled on it. There were two names there, the other being that guy in Austin, Texas, who did the best work that Begay had ever seen…
But getting into the Republic of Texas would be harder than staying in Denver for two weeks without being caught after committing a public murder.
No plan of action made any sense at all.
Val had been watching a few cars pull off the street and drive into the security boxes on their way up into the parking garage. All the vehicles had tinted windows. Val couldn’t have made out the faces of the drivers from here if he’d had a pair of binoculars, which he didn’t. He could stand right next to the approach driveway in hopes of seeing the Old Man’s face as he drove up, but this was a sure way to get the cops called on his ass.
The cops were probably on their way anyway. That stunt with the climbing rope and breaking the skylight glass hadn’t brought an immediate mob—those who stayed home all day hidden in their condo cubies weren’t exactly the types who responded quickly to scary noises, especially since most of them were almost certainly under the flash and hadn’t heard a damned thing—but Val was sure that that scary Gunny G. and his security pals would be responding soon enough. Probably the only thing right now keeping that Gunny from calling the cops was that he seemed to be on the arm to the Old Man. He might phone Val’s father first before siccing the cops on anyone.