The Rising Sea

  “Fantastic,” Kurt said. “Now that you know who he is, you can go round him up and we won’t have to leave.”

  Nagano put the drawing aside. “I wish it were that simple. These men are whispers on the wind. Impossible to track, let alone capture. We have been chasing Ushi-Oni for years.”

  “Komodo dragons are poisonous,” Joe said. “Considering the bite this guy took, I’d say a hospital or the morgue would be his next stop.”

  “The Komodo is poisonous,” Nagano agreed, “but we spoke to an expert this morning. We’ve been told the lizard does not inject its venom with every bite. A slashing attack as you saw would not likely be fatal.”

  “What about the Komodo dragon’s reputation for bad oral hygiene?” Kurt said. “As I recall, they have countless strains of bacteria on their teeth.”

  “Yes,” Nagano said, “and most likely Ushi-Oni is battling infection and fever. But given high doses of antibiotics, he would probably survive. Which means you and your friends remain in danger, as I explained to begin with.”

  Kurt sat back. The issue had an obvious solution. One Nagano probably had in mind or he wouldn’t have asked them to come down to the station. “The danger would be eliminated if we helped you put him away.”

  Nagano did not immediately reply.

  “That’s why you had us take such an odd route to the station,” Kurt said. “To make sure we weren’t followed.”

  The superintendent offered a slight bow. “You’re very astute. And, fortunately, you weren’t. At least not by anyone but my most trusted officers.”

  “So let us help you,” Kurt said.

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  It was obvious to Kurt. “As you pointed out, this was a big operation. Several boats. A least a dozen men and plenty of weapons, including incendiary grenades. A job like this would cost a small fortune. And despite the saying there’s no such thing as honor among thieves, criminals don’t trust criminals. Which means no one gets paid till the job is done. At least not the full price.”

  Nagano’s face tightened in thought, the line around his mouth deepened. “You’re suggesting we look for a payoff.”

  Kurt leaned back in his chair. “Something I’m sure you’ve already considered.”

  “Of course we have,” Nagano said, his mind obviously running the scenario. “But how are you able to help?”

  “Move Kenzo and the other survivors to a safe house. Announce to the media that he’s died from his injuries. You could mention that two or three of the Americans have also died and that the others are in critical condition. No need to give out names. The numbers will suffice.”

  “And then?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” Kurt insisted, “but if I was a former Yakuza hit man, nursing a Komodo dragon bite and pumping high-powered antibiotics into my arm every four hours, I’d demand the rest of my payment.”

  Nagano finished the thought. “And with the balance of payments due, the Demon will have to come out of hiding to collect.”

  “Exactly,” Kurt said.

  “What if they pay by check,” Joe suggested, only half joking, “or electronically?”

  “Too large a sum,” Nagano said. “They would never risk a government clearinghouse intercepting their money and tracing it. These types of things are done in person. It will happen somewhere very public to ensure that neither side commits an act of violence. That is the way.”

  Kurt finished the idea. “If you can find out where that transfer will happen, we’d be glad to show up, point out the Demon and leave the rest to you.”

  Nagano looked to Joe. He was the one who’d seen him up close.

  “Absolutely,” Joe said. “It would be a pleasure.”

  Nagano weighed the offer silently. Finally, he nodded. “Reputations for bravery precede you both. Your actions last night live up to them.”

  “Not bravery,” Kurt said. “Just doing what anyone would, given the situation.”

  “You deflect a compliment well,” Nagano replied. “How very Japanese. Nevertheless, despite your bravery, I struggle to find a reason you would deliberately put yourselves at risk this way. I hope it’s more than just bravado.”

  “For starters, we don’t take kindly to being attacked,” Kurt began. “There’s also the possibility that our arrival triggered this. You want the Demon for your reasons. We want to know who paid him and why.”

  “You mean your government wants to know.”

  “That, too.”

  Nagano was an old hand. He took the measure of people quickly. He understood Kurt and Joe. He felt they were cut from the same cloth as he. Tireless government servants who preferred to get things done rather than wait for the bureaucracy to grind to life.

  The superintendent straightened some papers on his desk. “Agreed,” he said. “But I must inform you it won’t be all falsehoods. Unfortunately, Kenzo Fujihara died this morning without ever regaining consciousness. His lungs were burned beyond repair.”

  Kurt set his jaw. He’d been expecting that.

  “Damn,” Joe whispered.

  Kurt looked from Joe to Nagano. “Can you put the rest of his people somewhere safe in case this Demon of yours decides he hasn’t finished the job?”

  “I already have,” Nagano said. “There is one fly in the ointment, as you Americans like to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kenzo’s man-at-arms. Or, more precisely, his woman-at-arms.”

  “Akiko,” Joe said, perking up. “I was hoping we’d see her again. Is she here?”

  “That’s just it,” Nagano explained. “She’s vanished. She was at Kenzo’s bedside when he passed away. She seemed particularly grief-stricken, but she left before we could get a statement. That seemed suspicious, so we took her fingerprints off of the weapon she carried. And, as it turns out, Akiko has a long criminal record, several outstanding warrants and links to the Yakuza in Tokyo.”

  “And she seemed like such a nice girl,” Joe said. “Do you think she was involved?”

  “We can’t rule it out,” Nagano said.

  “I can rule it out,” Kurt said. “Not the way she fought for Kenzo. She took two bullets that would have killed her if she wasn’t wearing a vest.”

  “I can only tell you what the record shows,” Nagano explained. “She’s something of a ghost herself. She grew up orphaned. A street urchin who learned to survive by breaking the rules. Unfortunately, that type of life often leads to the criminal underworld.”

  “Or to a new life for the strong.”

  “Perhaps,” Nagano said, then added sternly, “If she contacts you, I expect to be told.”

  “She won’t contact us,” Kurt said. “She wouldn’t have disappeared if she were going to do that. But if I’m wrong and she does reach out, you’ll hear about it. You have my word.”

  “Very well,” Nagano said. “I’ll put the word out to my informants. If fortune is with us, something will turn up and we’ll both get what we’re after.”

  12

  SOUTHWEST OF TOKYO

  THE WHITE SHAPE flashed across the countryside in a howling blur. It entered a tunnel, moving like a gigantic snake. It came out the other side preceded by an Earth-bound thunderclap, known as a tunnel boom.

  Gamay sat by a window in the eighth car of a twelve-car train. Despite the speed and noise outside, the cabin was quiet and the ride exceedingly smooth.

  “I’m glad to be getting out of Tokyo,” she said. “Especially after what Kurt told us.”

  Sitting next to her, Paul craned his neck around to see if anyone was in earshot. The Tokaido Shinkansen rail line was the original bullet train route in Japan. And though it was the most heavily used high-speed rail line in the world, the premium car, in the off-hours express, had plenty of unfilled seats to offer.

  “Could
n’t agree more,” he replied. “On the other hand, Rudi wasn’t joking when he said getting past the Chinese patrols would be almost impossible. Look at this.”

  Paul had a notebook computer open on the tray table in front of him. He’d spent half the ride studying the information Rudi sent. He turned it her way.

  Gamay adjusted the angle of the screen and found herself looking at a map of the East China Sea. Curving lines looped here and there, representing the timing and routes of Chinese naval vessels; broad swaths were marked in gray, indicating the known flight paths taken by Chinese antisubmarine aircraft, while a row of overlapping circles tinted red told them there were no breaks to exploit in the line of sonar buoys.

  “They’re not messing around,” she said.

  “This level of security confirms that they’re hiding something down there,” Paul replied. “But trying to sneak past all of that is a wasted effort. We might as well send them an email announcing our arrival and make our own reservations at the Shanghai jail.”

  “Much as I’d like to disagree with you . . .” she began.

  Her voice trailed off. She wondered if there was another way. Maybe they didn’t have to cross from Japan. Maybe they could come in from the south. She expanded the map and discovered additional naval patrols in that direction. The Chinese had left nothing to chance. Then she noticed something else. “What about the shipping lane?”

  “What about it?”

  “Shanghai is one of the busiest ports in Asia. If we could book passage aboard a freighter . . .”

  “And then jump overboard for a leisurely swim when we’re halfway there?”

  “Not us personally,” she replied. “But suppose we dropped something overboard. Something with cameras, sonar and a remote hookup that could be controlled from the ship.”

  Paul brightened noticeably. “We’d have to leave it down there.”

  “A small price to pay,” she replied.

  “Good point,” Paul said. “But we still have the matter of getting passage on a freighter to China at the last minute—which might raise a few eyebrows—and then sneaking a rather bulky ROV on board without anyone checking our luggage. Not to mention dropping it over the side without the crew getting suspicious.”

  “Not if we’re booking passage on the Osaka-to-Shanghai ferry.”

  She turned the computer his way, the dashed line of the shipping route highlighted on the screen. “If this is correct, the ferry travels within five miles of the target area.”

  “That solves the first problem,” Paul said. “What about the ROV?”

  Gamay drummed her fingers. “I’m still working on that.”

  A grin crossed Paul’s face. “I think I have the answer,” Paul said. “When does that ferry leave?”

  Gamay linked up to the internet and checked the schedule. “It’s twice weekly. The next run departs at noon tomorrow.”

  “I think that will give us just enough time,” Paul said.

  “For what?”

  “You ever hear of the Remora?”

  “The fish?” she replied. “Yes, I’m well aware of it.”

  “Not the fish,” Paul said. “The Joe Zavala mechanical creation inspired by the fish. One of our newest ROVs.”

  Gamay shook her head. She had a hard time keeping up with Joe’s unending line of aquatic machines, but, based on the name, she could imagine how this one worked. “The Remora. Sounds interesting.”

  “Last I heard, it was being tested in Hawaii,” Paul said. “If they haven’t boxed it up and shipped it back stateside, Rudi can send it to us on the next flight. That should give us just enough time to buy our tickets and attach our little stowaway.”

  13

  HASHIMA ISLAND, OFF THE COAST OF NAGASAKI

  THE ROOM was sterile, cold and well lit. At the center, a headless body lay on a metal table.

  “Male, six feet tall,” a Chinese technician said. The technician wore a white lab coat, glasses and sported a shaved head. His name was Gao-zhin, but he went by Gao. He was Walter Han’s most accomplished engineer. “Skin tone: Caucasian,” Gao added. “Obviously, we have no face or hair yet.”

  Walter Han crouched to inspect the body. An odor of burned plastic came off the skin, which sported an oily appearance. “You need to run the production again,” he said. “There are imperfections. The wrong kind of imperfections.”

  Gao didn’t argue. He wouldn’t, of course, since he worked for Han, but the look on his face suggested he wasn’t happy. “The body panels are very complex,” he insisted. “They have to move and flex like true skin and muscle. Even with the 3-D printing process and the new polymers, it’s very difficult to achieve a realistic, lifelike surface.”

  “Levels of difficulty do not concern me,” Han said. “A blind man could tell that this ‘skin’ is artificial. The smell alone would give it away. But should one get close enough to actually touch it, he would feel that the arms, legs and torso are hairless. That the body has not a single mole, freckle or scar.”

  “We hadn’t thought about that,” Gao said.

  “Think about it now,” Han ordered. “Redesign the skin. Imagine it as an artist would. It should not be perfect; it should have creases where the elbow folds, occasional marks from age or damage. And, unless we’re modeling someone with a rare genetic condition, the body should have follicles.”

  Gao nodded, making notes. “I understand, we will—”

  “And while you’re at it, do something about the scent. It smells like a tire store in here.”

  Gao looked appropriately cowed. “Yes, sir. We’ll get to work immediately.”

  “Good,” Han said. “What about scalability? Can we produce different body sizes and shapes?”

  “The layers of artificial skin and muscle rest on an inner frame,” Gao explained. “Unlike the factory models, these frames can be adjusted for any height and weight combination, ranging from four feet eight inches, up to seven feet tall. Once the frame is built, we use the 3-D printing process to make the body panels. We can even use one chassis repeatedly. Bringing it in for adjustments and new body panels, changing the head and the length of the limbs and torso.”

  “Excellent,” Han said. “Get to work. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the improvements.”

  Satisfied with Gao’s newfound sense of urgency, Han moved to the door, pulled it open and walked through. In one quick step, he went from the bright confines of the laboratory, with its smooth, clean walls, to a rough-cut tunnel carved from dirty stone.

  The passageway was dark, lit only by a few harsh LEDs along one wall. They gave off a pure white glow, but the dingy walls were wet with condensation and they drank the light where it landed.

  Han moved slowly to avoid striking his head on a low point or tripping over a spot of uneven ground. He traveled onward and upward, passing through larger man-made chambers and then stepping out into an open area filled with natural light.

  He emerged from the tunnel not in the outside world but in a vast, empty warehouse. Corrugated metal walls rose up around him. Dusky light streamed in through windows high above—half of them cracked and broken, the rest covered with years of caked-on grime. A stack of old wooden pilings lay unused in one section while a rusted three-wheeled bicycle that obviously hadn’t moved in years sat abandoned in another.

  His arrival startled two pigeons. They launched themselves from the rafters high above, the sound of their flapping wings strangely loud in the open room. Han watched them fly around in a circle and settle onto a new perch.

  According to the technicians, the birds had found their way in several days ago and had yet to find their way out. Han felt the same way about the mission he had undertaken. At each turn, it seemed more like a self-created trap.

  He’d jumped at the chance to act as Wen’s vanguard, but things had grown instantly more complicated.
br />   As he made his way toward the exit, his phone buzzed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled the slim black device out. No number appeared on the screen, just a code word indicating it was an encrypted call from another phone on his personal network.

  He pressed the green button and took the call.

  “Where have you been?” a voice asked him bluntly. “I’ve called you ten times this morning.”

  The Demon doesn’t sound quite himself, Han thought. “My whereabouts are none of your concern. Why are you calling me?”

  “To get what you owe me.”

  “You know the deal,” Han said. “First, I have to confirm that your effort was successful. Until then . . .”

  “I’m sending you a link,” Ushi-Oni said. “It will tell you what you need to know.”

  The phone chirped as the link arrived. Han held the phone out to watch. It was a Japanese news report, indicating that the death toll from the blaze at the castle was now up to eleven, including three of the four Americans and the castle’s owner, Kenzo. Several others were still in critical condition and not expected to survive.

  On the video, the reporter was standing outside the hospital, explaining that the cause of the fire was under investigation but that there was little information to go on.

  “You should pay me extra for such a job.” Ushi-Oni wheezed as he spoke and went into a short coughing fit as soon as he finished.

  “Are you ill?” Han asked.

  “I was injured,” Ushi-Oni said. “But I’ve done my job. Now it’s your turn. I want my money.”

  Han wondered how badly the Demon was hurt. Perhaps the fumes had burned his lungs as well. “You’ll be paid what I promised. But I’ll have to double-check this information.”

  “Do whatever you have to,” Ushi-Oni said. “But I’m not waiting. There were survivors. I need to disappear in case the truth comes out. I want that money tonight.”

  “I have other things to do,” Han said.