She pulled a map out of her pocket and unfolded it onto the table. The legend read NORTHWESTERN HAWAIIAN ISLANDS. It appeared to be a long chain of tiny islands that spread in a thousand-mile arc across the Pacific, stretching all the way to Midway Island and beyond.
Aiko explained. “The atoll is too small to be shown on this map, but it’s located near the island of Laysan.”
She tapped the spot on the map.
Palu shifted closer. “I know those islands. My bruddah and I sail out there sometimes. Very pretty. Very private. No one goes out there much.”
Aiko concurred with his assessment. “Most of the islands are uninhabited.”
Gray joined the Hawaiian in studying the map. “But why does this raise a red flag?”
“First, the company in question is a competitor with Tanaka Pharmaceuticals, the company who funded Professor Matsui’s work.”
Aiko glanced at him, but Ken needed no reminder that his ill-fated research trip to Queimada Grande might have had a darker purpose, turning him into an unwitting pawn in a game of corporate espionage.
Aiko moved on. “Second, the atoll in question once housed an old U.S. Coast Guard LORAN station. All that’s left of it is an unmaintained airstrip and some abandoned buildings.”
“Which if modernized,” Gray admitted, “would make for a convenient staging ground.”
“But which Japanese company are you referring to?” Ken asked.
“One that’s been on our radar for a few years. But for reasons that don’t seem connected to any of this. Black market deals. Financial malfeasance.” Aiko shook her head, clearly exasperated. “We could never build a strong case. Mostly because Japanese law tends to favor corporations.”
Ken knew that was certainly true. “So what’s the company’s name?”
Aiko lifted an eyebrow. “Fenikkusu Laboratories.”
Ken sat back in his chair. He recognized the name. Only now it had more meaning and significance.
“What?” Gray asked.
“The name Fenikkusu,” he explained. “In Japanese, it means phoenix.”
Aiko nodded. “An immortal creature reborn from its own ashes.”
Kowalski snorted. “Wonder where they got the idea for that name, huh?”
Aiko shrugged. “But like I said, all of this is circumstantial and possibly coincidental. We can hardly raid facilities owned by Fenikkusu Laboratories based on this.”
“Not until you have more evidence,” Gray said.
Aiko stared down at the map. “Which perhaps we could find on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.”
“Then we head over there,” Gray decided. Ken could see the wheels already turning in his head.
“I should go with you,” Palu interjected. “I know those islands. Even have cousins out in Midway, who might lend us a boat. Make good cover.”
Gray slowly nodded, clearly willing to accept this offer.
Seichan stood up. “I’m going, too.”
Gray’s gaze sharpened. “Maybe it’s better if—”
“I’m going.”
Ken tried to intervene, knowing firsthand what was coming. “For now, you should remain under quarantine. If not at the medical center, then at least here.”
Seichan swung her scorching gaze upon him. “Am I contagious right now, Doc?”
He tilted away. “Well, no.”
“Then I’ve got three days.”
She stormed off, slapping open the door to the porch.
As the screen slammed shut behind her, Kowalski held up both palms. “Just so you all know, I’m fine with her going.”
4:44 P.M.
Gray slipped gingerly out onto the porch. He had waited for Seichan to stop pacing before coming out. It had taken her a full half hour to finally settle to a seat on the top step.
Still, he took measure of the storm clouds hovering over her shoulders.
“Hey,” he said.
She ignored him, keeping her back to him.
Not good.
He moved slowly, afraid to spook her. He extended an offering as he reached her side, his version of an olive branch.
“I minced up some fresh ahi.” He stared off into the gardens. “Since we’re leaving in an hour or so, I thought you might want to feed your stray cat one more time.”
She sighed heavily and took the plate.
He dropped to a seat next to her, but he kept a few inches between them as a buffer zone for now.
She mumbled, “What about your warning not to feed strays?”
“I think we’re way past worrying about one cat’s threat to the island’s biosphere.”
“That’s certainly true.”
Still, she refused to look at him.
“Seichan . . .”
“You’re not leaving me behind.”
“I know, but—”
“If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.”
“I understand. We’ll find a cure.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Together.”
She sagged, releasing some of the tension in her shoulders, and reached over. She entwined her fingers with his. As he squeezed back, he felt a tremor in the fine muscles of her hand.
“You’ll be okay,” he promised her.
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” She finally turned to him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I should have warned you before now.”
Gray’s brow knit with concern. He knew something had been bothering her for nearly a month. “What is it?”
She stared at him with fear shining in her eyes.
“I’m pregnant.”
THIRD
THE AMBER ROAD
Σ
17
May 8, 5:03 P.M. JST
Fujikawaguchiko, Japan
Takashi Ito ignored his quiet visitor and knelt before a low table. It was a traditional kotatsu, which consisted of a wooden frame above a recessed alcove, all covered over by an antique quilt. Beneath the blanket, sand covered the sunken section of floor and supported a small coal brazier.
His thin, arthritic knees rested under the edge of the kotatsu, warmed by the heat of the coals. While it was already spring, the elevation of the resort town along the banks of Lake Kawaguchi kept the air cool. The lake rested eight hundred meters up the northern flank of Mount Fuji.
Kawaguchi was one of five lakes surrounding the sacred mountain, but it was the most famous due to its magnificent view. For centuries, artists had come to try to capture the beauty of the towering snow-capped summit reflected in the mirror-flat waters.
And always failed.
To truly appreciate it, one had to make the pilgrimage here.
Takashi stared out the wall of glass at the peak. It was why he chose this site several kilometers away from the bustle of the town’s many hotels and restaurants to build the latest research complex of Fenikkusu Laboratories.
The view was spectacular.
The shining summit of Fuji—a perfectly symmetrical cone—hung serenely in the sky. It transformed throughout the day as the sun coursed its path, from a crystalline diamond to a purple bruised shadow. According to Shinto mythology, it was home to the undying god Kuninotokotachi. Even its name, Fuji, was synonymous with immortal.
Takashi also appreciated the dichotomy of this mountain, serene yet turbulent. Fuji was an active stratovolcano that had laid waste to the surrounding area multiple times throughout history. The last eruption, back in 1701, rained burning cinders over a wide swath, destroying homes and temples, and blanketed Tokyo in ash, which led to a decade-long famine.
Yet the same peak was also the source of water for most of this land, irrigating rice fields and farms.
It was this clash of temperament that made Fuji the soul of Japan, representing its people’s capacity for great wisdom and serenity, while also demonstrating its willingness to destroy everything around it when agitated or threatened.
In the past, ancient samurai had even used this mountain to house their great training fac
ilities. The land upon which this research laboratory sat was once home to the Tokugawa shoguns. It was those same warriors who had died in the temple of Kan’ei-ji back in Tokyo. Takashi pictured the stone memorial behind the temple, where he burned incense every year in memory of his beloved Miu.
So how could I not choose this site for my facility?
Also, there was a more practical reason. The town of Fujikawaguchiko lay only a hundred kilometers from Tokyo, where the corporation’s main headquarters was located. The facility’s proximity to the capital was convenient while maintaining its own isolation.
As it needed to be.
The staff here were all handpicked for their loyalty, discretion, and scientific knowledge. Average salaries were over sixty million yen, which also ensured lips remained sealed, as did exacting security measures that monitored everyone and every square centimeter of the buildings and its grounds.
Of course, such methods did not keep rumors about this structure from being whispered about by both competitors and anyone who happened to look past the security gates of the walled-off facility.
Perhaps I should have been more conservative in its design.
While there were many outbuildings, the main facility was a wonder of glass and steel, sculpted into the shape of a gojū-no-tō, a five-storied pagoda.
He had heard the nickname for this structure, sometimes out of derision, sometimes out of respect.
Kōri no Shiro.
The Ice Castle.
He appreciated the name and took it to heart himself. Especially in the depths of winter, when snow descended from the peak of Mount Fuji to cover the surrounding lands. The glass facility reflected this frozen landscape, becoming part of it, an icy apparition out of Japan’s ancient past.
Beyond such beauty, the facility’s engineering and design also served a practical purpose. Glass and steel would not burn if Mount Fuji should ever grow angry and rain flaming cinders over the town. Plus, unknown to most, the facility was more than its façade. There were five underground levels, the same number as were shining above. The laboratory bunker below hid the corporation’s greatest secret, with the bottommost floor capable of withstanding a nuclear blast.
Soon such secrecy would be rewarded.
His goal was nearing fruition. The horrors to come would serve as revenge for the slaughter of his beloved wife, Miu, to make the world suffer as he had. While at the same time, from this very temple, a transcendent Imperial Japan would be reborn.
As he sat and waited with his silent guest in his private suite—located in the highest tier of the glass pagoda—he occupied his time with a hobby practiced from his youth. Upon the quilted surface of the kotatsu rested a flat piece of glass that served as his worktable. A laptop stood open near his elbow, awaiting the scheduled video call from his grandson, but his focus was upon a folded piece of paper.
With great care, he made two more creases, pressing crisp lines. He had taken up origami as a boy, before being cast out by his family, and had never forsaken the art. It was a connection to his past, both personal and cultural—going back to when origami was first practiced in the courts of Imperial Japan. His passion for the art grew greater during his time with Miu. He had folded a menagerie for her, grew a garden of paper flowers, just so he could earn a rare smile from her. He believed this skill was part of the reason he had won her over.
Now he continued the practice for its calming effect, for its ability to exercise his arthritic fingers, even for its mathematical challenge to keep his mind as sharp as the creases in the paper. Over the decades, he had knelt at the feet of origami masters, honing his skills. Akira Yoshizawa had been one of his teachers, before the man died a few years back at the age of ninety-four.
The age I will reach at the end of this year.
He moistened his fingertips on a dampened sponge, employing the wet-folding technique developed by Yoshizawa, to make the final crease in his handiwork. Once done, he propped it on his glass desktop, balancing his work on its paper legs.
It was a praying mantis.
As was usual, he had no intent of his design when he started. He let his fingers dictate the flow and shape, reflecting his own meditative mind. But now finished, he could understand why he chose this particular figure.
He stared across the table to the woman kneeling silently in the formal seiza style. She wore a white kimono tucked into a knotted red hakama, along with straw sandals and split-toed tabi stockings. Her dark hair was braided and nested atop her head by the artful placement of decorative pins. Her clothing was typical for a miko, a Shinto temple maiden.
But Takashi knew the religion she practiced was one of blood and death.
He studied the praying mantis and knew what had inspired this design. It knelt across from him. Like him, the woman was trained by the Kage to be an assassin. For the past several years, Takashi and his grandson had been secretly collecting those who had survived the Kage’s purge, building and training a small army, a modern version of the shinobi, the shadowy warriors of feudal Japan.
This woman, though, had found him instead and had already proven her worth. She had provided information, which was confirmed by his contacts in Japanese intelligence, of an American group headed to Estonia. They were seeking the source of the amber artifact that had cost Miu her life. Wary of such an unusual pursuit, he had already dispatched a team to intercept them. He intended to discover the reason behind this strange trip and eliminate any threat it might pose.
His laptop chimed, announcing an incoming call, and its screen bloomed to life.
He reached over and tapped the phone icon to accept the call from Masahiro. His grandson’s face filled the new window. From under a brow shiny with sweat, Masahiro’s dark eyes glowered, but his gaze was cast down in shame. His grandson had already reported the events on Maui. While the general operation had proceeded according to plan, one failure blemished the operations.
The two agents of Sigma—the pair who had brought about the downfall of the Kage—still lived.
“Kon’nichiwa, Sofu,” Masahiro said gruffly, his eyes flicking upward. His grandson must have noted the anger shadowing Takashi’s face and dropped the informality. Masahiro needed to earn back Takashi’s respect before calling him grandfather, sofu, again.
“Jōnin Ito,” Masahiro started again, his head more deliberately bowed as he used the proper title.
“Report on the situation at the base?”
After fleeing Maui, his grandson had flown to the island of Ikikauō. Their base of operations was located on a small atoll, not far from Midway, where the Imperial Japanese Navy had suffered a humiliating defeat during World War II. It was only fitting that this new assault should rise from those same waters.
“Hai.” Masahiro bobbed his head once. “The data has been collected. The breeding pens are being dismantled. We should be clear for incineration by nightfall.”
Takashi noted the slightest shake of the woman’s head across the table. She had already shared her counsel. He eyed the woman.
“Are you sure they’ll go there?” he asked her.
She lowered her head once. She seemed certain the Americans—specifically the two operatives who survived the attempts to kill them—would track Masahiro back to Ikikauō. It seemed improbable, but Takashi had come to trust her.
Masahiro must have noted this brief exchange, his voice worried. “Jōnin Ito, all is on schedule. We can—”
Takashi lifted a palm to silence him. “You lost a good soldier. Genin Jiro. Your second-in-command. I am sending you a replacement.”
Takashi’s eyes flicked toward the kneeling woman.
Masahiro frowned. “But there is no time.”
Takashi took in a deep breath.
What does one so young know of time?
“You will continue operations as planned,” he ordered. “But you have a new mission on Ikikauō. A chance to redeem your honor.”
Takashi shared the details, while the woman waited. H
er fingers had come to rest on a dagger hidden in the knot of her hakama. She called it an athamé, a blade intended for dark purposes. She had her own reasons for wanting the Americans lured into this trap.
As he instructed his grandson, he noted a small picture in the corner of his computer screen. It showed the face of the woman here, but it was nothing like the dark-haired beauty with black eyes and a perfect complexion seated across from him.
The photo showed a ghost. A deathly pale woman with icy blue eyes and hair the color of fresh snow. As if to defy her lack of pigmentation, she had a black wheel tattooed across the right side of her cheek and face. The symbol was presently powdered over and erased, such was her skill. Over her decades with the Kage, she had learned to transform that blank canvas into any number of faces, becoming a master of disguise and subterfuge.
No wonder she had survived the purge.
Still, Takashi had learned everything about her.
He read the Russian name at the bottom of her photo: Valya Mikhailov.
But even that name failed to describe who she truly was.
He nudged the praying mantis perched on the glass, knowing his fingers had instinctively captured her hidden nature.
This is who you truly are.
18
May 8, 12:09 P.M. EEST
Tallinn, Republic of Estonia
“I think we’ve fallen into a storybook,” Monk said.
Kat understood her husband’s sentiment. The city of Tallinn was one of the oldest European capitals, dating back to the thirteenth century. Despite its turbulent history—which saw the country fought over by its many neighbors—much of its medieval heritage had been miraculously preserved.
Especially here in Old Town.
As Monk drove, she stared out at the spread of cobbled streets and twisted alleyways, all framed by quaint red-tiled buildings painted in pastel shades, most dating back to the Middle Ages. The spire of St. Olaf’s Church towered above it all, the world’s tallest building throughout much of the sixteenth century.