Suddenly his concentration was jarred by a speedboat which charged from a nearby inlet, skipping like a stone across the choppy surface of the lake. He watched through cold eyes as the boat arced wide around them and sped south, its engine buzzing like an angry bee, the driver perched on his haunches at the stern.
By the time the surly north wind had whipped the speedboat’s wake into frothy whitecaps, DeLaroza was deep in thought again, repeating over and over a single word:
“Gowmanah … gowmanah … gowmanah …”
It was a form of Shinto meditation he had learned in Japan. In a few seconds the intrusion was forgotten. He was entranced, his mind cleansed.
Once his concentration was purged, he dealt with the problem at hand as he dealt with all problems. His method had been developed thirty years before in Brazil, where he had spent five years and a fortune becoming Victor DeLaroza and developing a personality that fit the man he created. These had been the difficult years, the dangerous years just after the war, when his constant companions had been paranoia and fear. It was the Jews he feared most, for they could have become the unwitting instrument of a cruel and ironic joke. The Nazis had come to Brazil, seeking anonymity, trying to rebuild their failed dream. And behind them came the Jewish commandos, cold, efficient, zealously checking every record, perusing all newcomers, methodically rooting out war criminals. And always there was the gnawing fear that they might tumble onto him by accident. He was a man wary of every footfall, suspicious of all strangers. The fear of surprise was a worm in his gut. To avoid surprises, he learned to predict them before they happened. His reflexes became as swift and deadly. He lied when necessary, bribed when expedient, arranged murder when he had to, a ruthless survivalist, as he moved on to Hong Kong, where he was Victor DeLaroza, the international businessman who destroyed competitors, sucked up companies, and built his empire.
His method was always the same. First, cleanse the mind of all emotional or personal considerations—they weakened logic; second, feed the facts into the mental computer; third, consider all alternatives, options, dangers. Once this was done, logic released the solution from his brain.
Sitting in the rear of the launch, he considered the facts. He was safe, safer than he had been for thirty years. They had lured Corrigon to Atlanta and eliminated him, and with him the last danger of recognition. His partner was about to leave the country but DeLaroza no longer felt he needed him. In Yokohama friends in the Yakuza were waiting to take care of that problem. Hotchins was no longer the dark-horse candidate. With Lowenthal and his people on the team Hotchins would become a serious contender and eventually the favorite.
Now only Domino posed a threat. No, more than a threat, she was dangerous. She could connect DeLaroza to Hotchins and possibly Corrigon to DeLaroza. Unwittingly she could tie the noose that would hang them all.
Those were the facts. The logic? Hotchins did not love the girl; he was obsessed by her sensuality. But he had made his decision clear that morning and although he had promised to consider giving her up, DeLaroza knew all the hungers that go with power. Like all self-made men, Hotchins was fiercely protective of his independence. In the end he would deal with the Domino situation emotionally and DeLaroza knew he could press the issue no further.
For he also knew Hotchins’s passion to become president.
The conclusion was obvious.
His mind made up, DeLaroza leaned forward, cupping his hands against the chill breeze, and lit the cigar.
“Chiang,” he called to his bodyguard and the Chinese turned to him. In addition to his powerful build Chiang had a scar running from his hairline down the right side of his face, across his eye to his jaw. The eye dropped from the old wound, half-closed, and the pupil had turned almost white. It added another dimension to his imposing size. “We must put the cover over the seats back here,” DeLaroza said in Chinese. “It is too cold for open riding.”
Chiang nodded and DeLaroza knew it would be done before the day ended. DeLaroza had saved Chiang from a prison in Macao almost ten years before. Now no task was too menial or too demanding: Chiang had devoted his life to DeLaroza.
Twenty miles north of the marina the lake narrowed and the current became stronger. A mile or so ahead there was a steady rumble as the river emptied into the lake. It was a desolate area and rarely traveled. The launch slowed, swung easily around a tree-scarred peninsula. A cove emerged in front of them and at its far end, partially obscured by tall pines, the curious geometry of a Chinese junk appeared. Its polished stern rose high above the water, sloping gently toward the bow. Its tall masts were partially obscured by spidery burnt-orange sails which were furled tightly against them. The cabin was slightly astern, its roof bordered by a frieze of temple dogs and dragons that curled around the cornice.
Chiang guided the launch expertly alongside a small pontoon dock that was lashed to the side of the junk and quickly tied it down. Then he helped DeLaroza out of the launch. The big man slowly mounted the jacob’s ladder to the deck and stood for a few moments admiring his treasure. The deck and cabin glistened with teak oil that had been hand-rubbed into every crevice and pore. The paint, although old, was perfectly preserved. He called her Psalm-Lo, The Three Devils, after the legend of the dragons.
DeLaroza looked at Chiang and pointed below decks.
“Hai,” Chiang answered.
DeLaroza knew that the three Orientals who manned the junk despised the Gwai-lo, the foreign devil, who was living on board, although they would never say anything to DeLaroza. They had been his servants, his bodyguards, his soldiers, for many years. Each was a master of karate; each was an expert at Tai Chi, the Way of the Peaceful Warrior; each had a deadly proficiency with the dagger and the yinza, a small steel disc the size of a silver dollar with twelve barbs around its perimeter which when scaled with the flick of a powerful wrist could pierce the skull and drive deep into the brain. And each of them religiously followed the ancient rituals of his ancestors. To them the gwai-lo was a coward who killed without honor.
DeLaroza went below. The cabin was divided into three sections. Below the foredecks each member of the crew had his own quarters and behind them, toward the stern, was the galley. To the rear, under the lofty stern, were two bedrooms, one decorated in modern decor, the other with antiques smuggled out of Kowloon to avoid the new laws that prohibited the removal of historic artifacts from the crown colony. The living room was a museum: teak and rosewood chests with sculptured gold handles and hinges; sofas and chairs covered with thin-striped silk from the finest shops on Pearl Street; hand-painted mandarin screens dating from the dynasty of the boy emperor Ping, eight hundred years ago; delicate Royal Doulton porcelain figures, jade statues, and Lalique crystal.
Against one wall was a mahogany cabinet with glass doors and inside, displayed against purple velvet, were several ancient weapons: a jewel-encrusted samurai sword; an awkward blunderbuss with an ornate butt-plate and a curious swirling hammer; several daggers, their worn blood gutters hinting of dark deeds from the clouded past.
DeLaroza stood quietly in the darkened room looking for—who was he now? His partner had had so many names through the years that DeLaroza sometimes had difficulty remembering who he was from day to day Howard? Yes, Howard Burns, that’s what he again called himself.
At least I have been consistent in my own alias, DeLaroza thought.
The junk moved gently in the water. The screens muffled the sounds of the lake, the water slapping against the hull, the dock nudging the side, timbers groaning underfoot. But the cabin was still.
And yet DeLaroza knew he was there, could sense that deadly presence and smell the odor of death that seemed to exude from his partner’s every pore.
“Howard?” he said, peering into the dark corners of the cabin.
There was no answer. But there was a stirring, a shifting of shadows, and then he saw the eyes, gleaming, alert, cold, the eyes of a snake. Burns moved into the light filtering through the portholes and De
Laroza sensed that he was in the presence of a man verging on madness. His gaunt face reflected a lifetime of killing. His thin, veined fingers were taut. A muscle in his jaw jerked with the beat of his pulse. He had a stubble of gray beard and the nostrils in his hawklike nose twitched, like a predator sniffing out his prey.
In one hand he held a .22 caliber Woodsman, its long, slender barrel encased in the ugly silencer.
Burns said nothing. He moved slowly into the center of the cabin, his eyes darting feverishly.
He stepped closer to DeLaroza and held the gun an inch from his heart, his eyes afire with rage.
“Bang,” he shouted and an icy hand squeezed DeLaroza’s heart. “You’re an inch from being dead,” he said. “Next time don’t keep me hangin’ like that. I ain’t heard shit from you in almost a week.”
DeLaroza stared down at the gun. “Don’t make jokes,” he whispered.
“You think I’m joking?” He waved the pistol around, backed into the shadows. “You think I’m joking? Stuck out here with these goddamn slant-eyed creeps of yours. They don’t ever talk. Move around like mice. Half the time I can’t hear them, don’t know where the hell they are. I got the willies. They’re all the time doin’ this weird slow-motion shit, moving around on one leg, like a bunch of faggot ballet dancers. The TV ain’t worth a shit. All I get on this fuckin’ radio is static …”
He lashed out suddenly, smashing the pistol into the loudspeaker of the radio, which flew off into the corner and crashed in the shadows. An instant later the hatch opened and Chiang stood above them, glaring down, his fingers stiff at his side. Burns aimed the pistol at the Chinese.
“Get outa here. Tell that gook to get lost or—”
DeLaroza held a hand toward Burns and turned quickly to Chiang. “Jaaw hoy! Jaaw hoy,” he said quickly and the Chinese disappeared. He turned to Burns. “Easy.”
“Don’t tell me easy,” Burns roared. His face flushed, his eyes danced from corner to corner, back to DeLaroza, over to the hatch door. “They’re pushin’ me around the bend, them gook monkeys of yours.”
“When they move like that, what you call slow motion, they are practicing Tai Chi, the Way of the Peaceful Warrior it is called.”
Burns wiggled the gun under his nose. “They come around me, fuck with me, I’ll make peaceful warriors outa them.”
“To attack them is like attacking water. When you strike them, it is like striking air. They cannot be hurt and they cannot be stopped when they are committed. They can kill with one finger. And they have been ordered to protect you at all costs.”
“I protect myself. Me and Betsy here is all the protection I need. The bullets are soaked in garlic, know what that means? It’s poison inside you. You die screaming for your mother.”
A shiver rippled through DeLaroza.
“Please. Everything is good. Believe me, I’ve been very busy, very busy. I do not want to use the mobile radio; it could be dangerous. From now on I’ll come every other day …”
“From now on! How the hell long? …” Burns’s shoulders slumped. He dropped the gun with a clatter on a polished rosewood chest and rubbed the knuckles of one hand furiously into the top of his close-cropped hair. “It was only gonna be a month, gettin’ this show on the road. Christ, I been here what, eight weeks? Nine? Don’t fuck me over, you got it? Don’t fuck me over.”
“Nobody is fucking you over, Howard. It takes time to get passports, visas, make the proper arrangements. Your wife is safe, we moved her to Canada, then across to the coast, and then on over to Yokohama. Nobody knows. Even the FBI lost her. It was done perfectly, as promised.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t perfect with me. Twice you ask me to do a job for you, twice in what?—the thirty years I’ve known you? Both times I come through.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Quick, right? Clean, right? Everything down to a tee. Now you got this thing to do for me, it’s a month of Sundays already.”
He paced the room on the balls of his feet, tense and alert, like a prizefighter stalking his opponent. His nerves were stretched out like violin strings. DeLaroza could almost hear them keening.
“This ain’t my turf, okay. I don’t even know where the hell I am, out here, some fuckin’ lake, eighty miles from nowhere. Nothin’ to do all day but listen to those fuckin’ monkeys doin’ that slow-motion shit. It’s a … I’ll tell you what, it’s a goddamn bad dream come true is what it is. Get me outa here. Get me outa here, Victor.”
Madness burned in Burns’s eyes. There was hate there, and fear. DeLaroza could see it. He was a different man from the cool killer in Hong Kong.
“You and this nut idea, wantin’ to put your fuckin’ mug in every paper in the world. Lemme tell ya, pal, I didn’t mind doin’ that job for you in Hong Kong, I could understan’, see, how you could go a little off the wall when you seen that Colonel from Italy. But suckin’ Corrigon in, plantin’ that seed in his brain, and bringin’ him down here, right in your own fuckin’ backyard, that was crazy. Suppose he told somebody else, hunh? Suppose he wrote it down somewheres to cover himself? You ever think of that?”
“There was no reason for him to do that. You think he knew we were setting him up?” DeLaroza said.
“After thirty years, a guy gets prison wise, learns a lot. I’m just sayin’ we coulda left it alone. We didn’t have to wiggle the finger, get him down here and kayo him just so’s you could come outa the closet after all these years. Shit, you got the fuckin’ tenderloin, you gotta have it all?”
“You do not understand what it was like, all those years, all I have done, and no recognition for any of it.”
“I unnerstan’ this, pal, all that what you done you’re so proud of? It started with the rip-off. I don’t care if you made fifty billion, see, you couldna done it without the four mil we took off Uncle Sam. Any way you slice it, you and me we’re both thieves. And a gonif’s a gonif. A genius gonif, maybe, but a gonif all the same. You ain’t changin’ that by puttin’ your fuckin’ picture in the papers.”
“There is no way for you to comprehend what it has been like for me. All these years, hiding my face, letting others take the credit, give the interviews …”
“Hey, I been in a closet myself there, seven years now. Don’t tell me what it’s like, livin’ with your face to the wall. All I’m sayin’ is that pushin’ over Corrigon, that wasn’t necessary. I done it, okay?, but that wasn’t part of our deal, see, that was a personal gift, me to you, got that?”
“Howard, for thirty years I have lived in fear of the day Corrigon got out of prison. Wondering whether I might turn around in an airport one day and find myself face to face with him.”
“He wouldna recognized ya, not after all that time.”
“I never would have been sure. And if he had recognized me, you would have suffered too.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, ya made the point. Okay. Look, whaddya want from me, anyways? Ya think it was easy, phonyin’ up my own death a second time? My old lady still ain’t made sense outa the whole thing. Point is, it’s done, okay? Corrigon is caput. Now I want outa here!”
“Very soon, now, I promise you.”
A thin line of sweat formed at the edge of Burns’s brow. It began to inch down his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
DeLaroza walked cautiously to the chest and picked up the gun by the barrel. Burns turned as fast as a hummingbird, took two steps, reached out, and grabbed the pistol, twisting it sharply in toward DeLaroza’s body and snapping it out of his hand.
“Don’t touch my piece. You got that? That clear? Nobody touches my piece.”
“Of course, of course.”
Burns slid the gun back under his arm.
“I was just, uh, you see this chest is six hundred years old—”
Burns cut him off. “Fuck the chest. I don’t give a shit, Moses stored the tablets in it. When am I movin’, gettin’ outa this fuckin’ scow? Away from them Chinks?”
“A few more days.”
br /> “Shit!”
“Just a few more days, Howard.”
“Too long!”
“It’s the passport, Howard. It’s going to be clean, no strings. You will never again have problems. This is all being done right for you.”
Burns leaned against the wall and breathed hard through his nose. He wiped his mouth with his hand, pinched his nose several times.
“Too old for this kinda shit, anyhow,” he said.
“I know, I know.”
Burns looked up at him and said quickly. “It don’t mean I lost my touch. I mean, don’t go blowin’ smoke rings up your ass, you think I ain’t what I used to be.”
“I didn’t say anything about that, Howard.”
“I like things to happen quick. No bullshit, see? I’m on the run. You don’t get that, do you there, Victor?”
“Of course.”
No, he didn’t understand. Victor had it made, all the aces. But him, he had spent years developing one cover, losing it, and now he was starting again dodging from rock to rock like a fox with the hounds snapping at his heels. DeLaroza had offered a chance, a chance to get out for good. But the closer it got, the more terrified he became. His insides were burning, his guts grinding with turmoil.
Burns sighed and leaned against the bulkhead, breathing deeply through his mouth. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“Easy, my friend. I promise you, you’re almost out.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hope so. Hope so.”
“Have you, uh … you aren’t taking … pills?”
Burns’s eyes jumped back and glared at DeLaroza.
“So what. What if I did? Yeah, I had a little shot there, took a red, one stinkin’ red to get started this morning. Any of your business?”
“Of course not, I—”
“You’re big time there, ain’t you, Victor? Get all that nookie, that’s your reds, Vic, hunh? Right? I pop a red, get a little shot, you get your ashes hauled. Same dif, same dif.”