“Tell me.”
“It's foolish to think about. A beach near Cancun. I'd like to take off your swimsuit. I'd like to make love in the surf in the moonlight.”
“Don't stop. Describe the feel of the waves.”
“I can't. What I mean is, I don't dare.”
“Make love to me?”
“Don't dare distract myself,” Savage said. “My love for you could make me so careless it kills you.”
“At the moment … How long did you say we had to wait?”
“Till dark.”
“Then there's plenty of time. When I close my eyes, I can hear the surf.”
She reached for him.
And she was right. When he closed his eyes, as they tenderly, languidly embraced, Savage could hear the surf.
4
Rachel slept while Savage watched over her. The shadows thickened. Near sunset, she wakened, beautiful despite puffy aftersleep.
“Now it's your turn,” she said.
“No, I have to …”
“Sleep,” she said. “You're no good to me if you're exhausted.” Her blue eyes twinkled.
“But suppose Hailey's men …”
Rachel gently removed the Beretta from his hand, and Savage—recalling last night—was well aware that she could use it. At the same time, he was also aware of the trauma she repressed. Her hand shook on the pistol's grip. With determination, she held the gun firmly.
“You're sure?” he asked.
“How else will we get to Cancun?”
“If something makes you afraid …”
“I'll wake you. Provided there's time and the target isn't obvious.”
Savage squinted.
“You're thinking I'll lose control again … shoot … keep shooting … and maybe for no reason.”
“No,” Savage said. “I'm thinking you don't deserve to belong in my world.”
“To hell with your world. I want to belong with you. Put your head down,” she said.
He resisted.
“Do it,” she said. “On my lap. If you're tired, you'll make mistakes. Don't fight me. There. Yes, there. That's right. Oh, yes. That feels so good.” She shivered. “Right there.”
“It's after six. We've missed Akira's next call. He'll …”
“Be nervous, yes, but he'll call again at nine tomorrow.”
“Unless he has problems in the meantime. We should never have separated.”
“There wasn't an option,” Rachel said. “The way you talk about him … the bond between you … it almost makes me jealous.”
Savage chuckled. “Remember where my head is.”
“Just close your eyes and keep it there.”
“I doubt I'll sleep.”
“You might if you think about that beach near Cancun. Imagine the rhythm of the waves on the shore. Even if you don't sleep, relaxing will do you good. R and R. Is that what you call it? So you're ready for what we'll be facing.”
“As soon as it's dark …”
“I'll wake you,” Rachel said. “That's a promise. Believe me, I want to get out of here.”
5
Rachel's teeth chattered—less from fear than cold, Savage sensed. In the dark, as the temperature kept dropping, he draped his jacket around her shoulders and guided her farther along the wall. He'd decided that trying to leave through a path from the park was possibly more dangerous during the night than in daylight. Hailey's hidden men would have a safer chance of killing them and escaping under cover of the neon confusion of Tokyo's nightlife.
Reversing their earlier direction, Savage led Rachel southward, reached a western jog in the wall, and followed its angle. Unseen branches tugged at his shirt and threatened his eyes. If not for the halo of dense traffic opposite the wall, he couldn't have found his way. Horns blared. Engines roared.
“Enough,” Savage said. “Hailey's pissing me off. This spot's as good as any. If we go much farther, we'll circle the park. Screw it. Let's go.”
Savage raised his arms to grip the top of the wall, pulled himself up so his eyes showed just above the wall, and warily studied the street below him. Headlights surged past. A Japanese man and woman strolled beneath him along a sidewalk. Otherwise there were few pedestrians.
Savage dropped back onto the ground. “I didn't see anything to make me change my mind. Are you ready?”
“As I'll ever be.” She mustered resolve. “… Better give me a boost.”
Savage put his arms around her legs and lifted, feeling her skirt and thighs against his cheek. A moment later, she squirmed upward out of his grasp. As soon as she reached the crest, inching over, he hurriedly climbed after her. Together, they dangled from the opposite side. Heart pounding, Savage landed first and helped her down so her stockinged feet wouldn't be injured if her full weight struck the concrete.
Checking both ways along the sidewalk, Savage barked, “Quickly. Cross the street.”
A man had appeared from shadows a hundred yards to his left. Headlights revealed the man's face. A Caucasian. He blurted something to a radio in his hand and raced toward Savage and Rachel, fumbling for an object beneath his suitcoat.
“Do it!” Savage said. “Cross the street!”
“But … !”
The blazing cars formed a constantly moving barrier.
“We can't stay here!” To Savage's right, opposite the Caucasian running toward them, another Caucasian appeared, racing to flank them.
“We'll be … !”
“Now!” Savage said. He grabbed Rachel's hand, saw a slight break in traffic, and darted off the sidewalk.
Headlights streaked toward them. Brakes squealed. Savage kept running. He still gripped Rachel's hand, although she no longer needed urging.
In the next lane, another speeding car made Rachel curse. She surged in front of him.
Horns shrilled. The stench of exhaust flared Savage's nostrils. His stride lengthened.
They reached the street's divider. Wind from rushing cars flapped Rachel's skirt. Breathing hard, Savage glanced behind him and saw the two Caucasians rushing along the sidewalk. Assessing traffic, they searched for a break between cars so they could sprint across the street.
Savage waved at drivers in the opposite lanes, warning them that he and Rachel were about to race across. A Toyota slowed. Savage took the chance and bolted, Rachel charging next to him. They dodged another car and reached the far sidewalk.
Storefronts gleamed. Pedestrians gaped. An alley beckoned. As Savage ducked into it, he glanced again behind him, seeing the two Caucasians bolt from the sidewalk. At the same time, he sensed an object looming toward him. Pivoting, startled, he saw a van veer out of traffic. It aimed toward the alley.
He turned to run, but not before the van's windshield starred. Holes stitched it, glass imploding. Bullet holes.
The van hit the curb. With a jolt, it heaved above the sidewalk, walloped down, veered, kept surging, and smashed through a storefront to the left of the alley.
Metal scraped. Glass shattered. Despite the explosive impact, Savage thought he heard screams from within the van. For certain, he heard pedestrians scream. And shouts from the men across the street.
Several cars skidded to a stop.
Rachel trembled, frozen with shock.
“Run!” Savage said.
He tugged her.
The compulsion of fear canceled her stunned paralysis. She raced past garbage cans along the dark alley.
But what if the alley's a trap? Savage suddenly thought.
Suppose Hailey's men are in here.
No! They can't be everywhere!
Who shot at the van? Who was driving the van?
Dismay racked Savage's mind. Confusion threatened his sanity.
Someone wants to stop us. Someone else wants us to search.
Who? Why?
What the hell are we going to do?
They reached the next street. An approaching taxi made Savage's chest contract. He flagged it down, shoved Rachel inside, and
scrambled after her, saying, “Ginza,” hoping the driver would understand that they wanted to go to that district.
The driver, wearing a cap and white gloves, frowned at the disheveled appearance of his harried Caucasian passengers. He seemed uncertain whether he wanted Savage and Rachel to be his customers. But Savage held up several thousand-yen bills.
The driver nodded, pulled away, expertly merging with speeding traffic.
Savage heard the increasing wail of sirens—with no doubt where they were headed. Straining not to show his tension, he could only hope that the driver wouldn't decide that his passengers had something to do with the sirens.
The taxi turned a corner. Police cars swiftly approached in an opposite lane, their sirens louder, flashers blazing.
Then the cruisers were gone, and though the taxi's driver glanced after them, he didn't stop. Savage touched Rachel's hand. Her fingers trembled.
6
Amid dense traffic that somehow kept flowing, they finally reached the Ginza district. Akira had explained that Ginza meant “silver place” and referred to the fact that several hundred years ago the national mint had been located here. Since then, the area had developed into Tokyo's major shopping center, with seemingly endless stores, bars, and restaurants.
The closest equivalent Savage could imagine was New York's Times Square before the junkies, hookers, and porno shops had contaminated its glamour. Neon. Savage had never seen so much of it. Everywhere he looked, brilliant lights turned the night into day. An awesome combination of electrified colors. Some constantly blazed. Others pulsed or flashed messages in a row along buildings like a massive radiant ticker tape. The glare of congested headlights added to the spectacle. Well-dressed pedestrians crowded the exciting streets.
Savage had no intention of showing the driver Akira's note, which in Japanese provided directions to the restaurant where Akira was supposed to call. The authorities might question all taxi drivers who'd picked up Caucasians, and Savage wanted to keep the rendezvous site beyond suspicion. Besides, he and Rachel weren't due there again until Akira's next scheduled call at nine tomorrow morning.
But Savage had other motives that compelled him to reach this district. For one thing, the comparatively few Caucasians in the city tended toward the Ginza's glittering nightlife, and he and Rachel needed desperately to blend in. For another, they needed fresh clothes, but having been followed so expertly, they didn't dare return to the railway station, where they'd left their travel bags in a locker. A surveillance team might be waiting, on the chance that Savage and Rachel would retrace their steps and attempt to retrieve their belongings.
“Arigato,” Savage told the taxi driver, pointing toward the curb. The white-gloved man pulled over, counted the money Savage gave him, and nodded with satisfaction. With a flick of a front-seat lever, he opened the door in back. Savage and Rachel got out.
As the taxi drove away, Savage became more aware of the blazing lights around him. The din of traffic and music from bars overwhelmed him. Exhaust fumes assaulted his lungs. Pungent cooking odors drifted from restaurants.
Wanting to rush, he and Rachel were forced to match the pace of the crowd so they wouldn't attract attention. But despite their efforts to look calm, they did attract attention. Japanese pedestrians kept staring at them. Because Caucasians are unusual, even in the Ginza district? Savage wondered. Or because our faces are dirty, our clothes torn? Rachel's limp and the socks on her feet didn't help.
Savage led her toward gleaming storefronts. “We've got to find—”
He halted abruptly before an electronics shop, stunned by the image on television sets in the window. No sound came through the glass. Not that it mattered. The words that matched the startling scenes would have been incomprehensible to him, the text in Japanese.
But he didn't need an interpreter to make him understand the dismaying significance of what he watched. Heart sinking, again he saw a ghost. Muto Kamichi … Kunio Shirai … the man he'd seen sliced in half at the nonexistent Medford Gap Mountain Retreat … harangued thousands of Japanese protestors holding up anti-American signs outside the gates of a U.S. Air Force base. American soldiers stood nervously on guard beyond the fence.
The news report was similar to the TV footage Savage had watched three days ago in America and the photographs he'd seen this morning on the front page of newspapers in vending machines at Central Station.
With two important differences. The earlier protests had been outside U.S. civilian buildings, and the demonstrators —numerous to begin with—had increased dramatically not only in size but intensity.
The grim-eyed faces of American officials appeared on the array of television screens. Savage recognized the U.S. secretary of state, haggard, his brow furrowed, being interviewed by Dan Rather. The image shifted to the President's press secretary tensely answering questions from reporters.
At once, Kamichi—Shirai—was back on the screens, inciting the protestors. Whatever his name, the gray-haired, slack-jowled, slightly overweight, midfiftyish man who resembled a weary executive projected an unexpected charisma when he stepped in front of a crowd. His commanding eyes and powerful gestures transformed him into a spellbinding zealot. With every jab of his karate-callused hands, the crowd reacted with greater fervor, their expressions distorted with outrage.
“This new demonstration must have happened today while Hailey's men trapped us in the park,” Savage said. He turned toward Rachel. Her pallor made him frown. “Are you all right?”
She shrugged, impatient, as if the blood that soaked her socks hardly mattered. “What's going on? What caused this?”
“Some incident we don't know about?” Savage shook his head. “I think Kamichi”—he quickly added—“Shirai doesn't need an incident. I think the point is America … America in Japan.”
“But America and Japan are friends!”
“Not if you believe those demonstrators.” Savage sensed movement behind him and nervously pivoted. Japanese pedestrians crowded toward the television screens.
“Let's get out of here,” he said. “I'm awfully self-conscious.”
They squirmed through the thickening crowd. Savage's veins chilled. His contracting muscles stopped aching only when he reached the comparative openness of the normally congested sidewalk.
“But all of a sudden,” Rachel said. “Why? The demonstrations are larger, more dangerous.”
“Catalyzed by Kamichi.”
“Shirai.”
“I can't get used to calling him that,” Savage said. “The man I drove to Pennsylvania.”
“To a hotel that doesn't exist.”
“In my reality, I drove him there. To me, the hotel does exist. But all right”—Savage's mind whirled, seized by jamais vu—“let's call him Shirai. He's the cause of the demonstrations. I don't know why. I can't imagine the source of his power. But he, Akira, and I are somehow connected.”
A sudden thought made Savage face her. “The former emperor, Hirohito, died in January of ‘eighty-nine.”
Rachel kept walking. “Yes? And?”
“After Japan's defeat in World War Two, MacArthur insisted on a new Japanese constitution. Even before that, when Japan surrendered in ‘forty-five, America insisted that Hirohito go on the radio and not only announce the unconditional surrender but renounce his divinity and publicly tell his people that he was human, not a god.”
“I remember reading about it,” Rachel said. “The announcement shocked Japan.”
“And helped MacArthur reconstruct the country. But one of the strictest articles in the new constitution was that church and state had to be separated. By law, religion and politics were totally severed.”
“What's that got to do with Hirohito's death?”
“His funeral. In violation of the constitution, but with no objection from America, political and religious rites were combined. Because of Japan's economic power, every important nation sent its highest representatives. A Who's Who of international governmen
t. And all of them stood passively under wooden shelters in a pouring rain while a Japanese honor guard escorted Hirohito's coffin into a shrine, where behind a screen Shinto rites, traditional Japanese religious funereal rites, were performed. And no outsider said, ‘Wait a minute. This is illegal. This is how the Pacific War got started.’ “
“They respected a great man's death,” Rachel said.
“Or they almost shit their pants in fear that if they objected to the Shinto rites, Japan would get so angry it would cut off their credit. Hell, Japan finances most of America's budget deficit. No country would dare object if Japan reverted to its former constitution. As long as Japan has the money—and the power—its government can do what it wants.”
“That's where your argument falls apart,” Rachel said. “Japan's government is responsible.”
“While moderates rule it. But what if Kamichi—Shirai— takes command? Suppose the old ways come back and a radical party assumes control! Did you know that Japan— supposed to be nonmilitary—spends more on defense than any NATO country except America? And they're suspicious of South Korea! And China's always worried them! And … !”
Savage realized he was talking too loud. Japanese pedestrians frowned at him.
Rachel kept limping.
“Come on. We've got to do something about your feet.”
A brightly lit sportswear shop attracted Savage's gaze. He and Rachel stepped inside. There were almost no customers. When two clerks—a young man and woman—bowed in greeting, they looked puzzled by Rachel's stockinged feet.
Savage and Rachel bowed quickly in return and proceeded through the store. In addition to athletic clothes, there were jeans, T-shirts, and nylon jackets. Rachel made a stack in her arms and looked questioningly at the female clerk, who seemed to understand that Rachel wanted to know if there was a changing room.
The clerk pointed toward a cubicle in the back, where a drape functioned as a door. Adding thick white running socks and a pair of Reeboks to her pile, Rachel disappeared behind the drape.
In the meantime, Savage chose a pair of brown socks to replace the pair he'd given Rachel. His pants were filthy, his shirt soiled with sweat. He picked up replacements. As soon as Rachel came out of the cubicle, wearing stone-washed jeans, a burgundy top, and a blue nylon jacket that matched the cobalt of her eyes, Savage went in to change, glancing periodically through a corner of the drape to make sure no one who looked threatening entered the store while Rachel was unprotected. Eight minutes later, they paid and left the store, carrying their dirty clothes in a bag, which they dumped in a trash container a few blocks away.