The Rising Sea Page 11

  “Don’t think you can cheat me,” the Demon snapped. “Better men than you have died trying.”

  The last thing Han wanted on his hands was an angry, jaded assassin. The money itself was meaningless but the principle mattered. “I’ll pay you tonight. I may even have another job for you—if you’re up to it.”

  Silence for a second, then, “Payment first. After that, we can talk.”

  “Of course,” Han said. “I’ll send you a location where the money will be distributed. You’ll have to dress for the occasion.”

  “I’m not coming to you.”

  “Neutral ground,” Han insisted. “The Sento. Trust me, you’ll see plenty of your old friends there.”

  Sento was a form of the verb meaning to fight. But it was also the name of an illegal club and gambling palace. Casinos weren’t allowed in Japan. That didn’t mean they were nonexistent.

  “Fine,” Ushi-Oni said. “I’ll meet you there. No tricks.”

  Han wouldn’t need any. The Sento was an upscale place, hidden on the outskirts of Tokyo. It was frequented by high rollers, the young rich who wanted a thrill, criminals who exuded class and the occasional politician.

  It was run by one of the prominent Yakuza cartels and there would certainly be other gangsters among the crowd, but none of them would have any connection to or love lost for Ushi-Oni. Their only concern was that nothing disrupt their business and, to that end, they employed a large force of armed men and other security measures.

  All who entered were searched for weapons and wires. In Han’s opinion, that made it the safest place on the entire island to finish his business with the Demon.

  14

  OSAKA BAY

  PAUL STARED straight ahead. Clad in a black wetsuit and a full-face helmet, he gripped the frame of the Remora and held tight. It felt like he was riding a toboggan down a snow-covered mountain in a stiff headwind. His hands were clenched around the two metal bars that extended from the body of the machine. His feet were wedged into a space just ahead of the propulsion duct. The propeller, shrouded by a circular fairing, lay just beyond.

  “Keep the speed down,” Paul said, speaking into the microphone in his helmet. “One slip and I’ll be looking for new toes.”

  The signal was relayed to the surface where a repeater sent it on to Gamay, who was controlling the ROV from a boat a hundred yards off. Her reply came over the intercom with a bit of interference. “You insisted on going down there.”

  “Next time, I’ll let you win that argument.”

  Keeping himself close to the body of the ROV, Paul risked a glance to the side. Off in the distance, through the murky waters of Osaka Bay, he could just make out the wake of Gamay’s boat: a white slash against a dark background.

  Though he was only traveling at a depth of sixty feet, the surface was a dim shadow above him. Heavy ship traffic churned up sediment in the harbor, while runoff from the urban areas and industrial pollution caused algae to bloom and chased off the fish that ate it.

  “I can barely see a thing,” he said. “How far out are we?”

  “Quarter mile to go,” she said. “I’ll have to start veering away from the ferry in a moment. But I’ll lead you right toward the center of the hull. Let me know as soon as you catch sight of it. From that point on, I’ll adjust course based on your instructions.”

  “You mean, I get to tell you how to drive?” Paul asked. “This is a first.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” she replied. “Turning now. You should see the hull any minute.”

  Braced against the buffeting force of the water and counting off the seconds, Paul kept his head up and eyes forward. While he saw nothing but a gray-green background, there was plenty to hear: the high-pitched electric whine of the Remora’s battery-powered propeller, the fading buzz of Gamay’s boat as it moved farther away and a low hum that came from directly in front of him.

  “I can hear the ferry’s engines,” he said.

  “Can you see it?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. “But it’s suddenly obvious to me why dolphins developed sonar.”

  “Sound works much better down there,” she replied. “Let me know when you see something. I’m dialing back your speed.”

  Paul felt the ROV slow, and though they were doing only a couple of knots to begin with, it significantly reduced the strain on his arms.

  He caught sight of a shape up ahead. “I see it,” he said. “Looks like they’re dumping bilgewater. Steer me ten degrees to the left, would you? I’d rather not go directly under that.”

  The shrouded propeller deflected to the side and the tadpole-shaped ROV turned. “Perfect,” Paul said. “Straight ahead now for twenty seconds. Then bring me up to a depth of thirty feet and cut the throttle.”

  The hull of the ferry came into focus. The ship was a twenty-year veteran of channel crossings. Its metal plating was painted red beneath the waterline, but the rust and a coating of marine growth gave it a mottled color. It drew sixteen feet of water and Paul passed beneath the outside edge with plenty of headroom above him.

  “Cut the throttle,” he said.

  The motor shut down right on cue and Paul and the Remora coasted to a stop, dead center beneath the keel of the ship.

  Paul switched on a diving light. “And now for the manual portion of our endeavor.”

  With a tether from the Remora attached to his ankle, Paul released his grip on the ROV and swam upward toward the overhanging hull. Diving beneath a large ship was an interesting experience, one Paul hadn’t had before. Reaching out to the hull felt as if he was touching the bottom of a cloud.

  “Contact,” he said.

  “How’s it feel to have thirty thousand tons floating over your head?” Gamay asked.

  “Makes me thankful for the laws of buoyancy. I’d be very upset if they were repealed in the next ten minutes.”

  Moving along the hull, Paul found the spot he was looking for. A section near the bow that the engineers at NUMA insisted would have the lowest amount of dynamic pressure once the ferry began to move. “I’ve found the attachment site.”

  “How’s it look?” Gamay asked.

  “It’s a full-on barnacle convention,” Paul said. “Apparently, the Shanghai Ferry Company doesn’t care to defoul their ships.”

  This layer of marine life was the reason for Paul’s ride on the Remora. The ROV was designed to connect magnetically to the bottom of any steel-hulled vessel, but it couldn’t attach securely through a layer of hard-shelled barnacles. To ensure that it stayed in place until they were ready to use it, Paul would have to scrape a section of the hull clean.

  To do so required a device known as a needle scaler. The electrically powered appliance was shaped like an assault rifle, complete with a shoulder stock, a vertical handgrip and a long barrel that ended in a titanium chisel. Once Paul activated the scaler, the chisel would vibrate back and forth at high speed. Paul would be the manpower behind it, pushing the blade through the barnacles, scraping them away and revealing smooth metal beneath.

  “Here goes,” he said.

  He switched the unit on and it shuddered to life. Making sure he had good contact, Paul pressed the blade against the hull and shoved it forward. He had to kick with his legs to keep from being pushed back, but the scaler worked like magic and the barnacles fell away one strip at a time.

  Gamay began talking. “How thick are the layers?”

  “At least four inches deep,” Paul said.

  “It’s amazing how fast marine growth appears on a ship,” she told him. “Did you know that newly launched vessels have a film of microbes on them within twenty-four hours of going into the water?”

  “Did not know that,” Paul said. “Trust me, these are not microbes.”

  As Paul worked, Gamay launched into a soliloquy on the subject of barnacles. She spoke about the
Romans using lead sheets to protect their boats from woodworms and the British putting copper on the hulls of their sailing fleet. She said something about tin being a great defense against marine growth, but, unfortunately, that was because it releases poison into the water at an alarming rate.

  Paul wasn’t really paying attention. He was concentrating on keeping the chisel at the proper angle and forcing it through the colony of hard-shelled organisms. He cleared a two-foot-by-two-foot patch in one spot, a smaller section ten feet behind the first and, finally, a third spot just ahead of the main one.

  By the time he finished, he was getting quite good at the task.

  “. . . In fact, the process of marine fouling is really quite fascinating,” Gamay finished.

  “I’m sure it is,” Paul said, certain that he couldn’t repeat a third of what she’d said. “And the defouling process is surprisingly gratifying. Like using a snowblower on the sidewalk back in Maine.”

  “Are you finished already?”

  “All set.” He clipped the scaler to his belt. “I’m going to maneuver the Remora into position. Stand by to activate magnets.”

  Manually guiding the Remora in the still waters of the harbor was another athletic endeavor. The ROV was set to zero buoyancy, which meant it weighed nothing, but it still had enough inertia that Paul was breathing hard by the time he’d pushed, pulled and otherwise manhandled the ROV into place.

  “Activate the main magnet.”

  Holding the Remora steady, he felt a buzz, and then a solid clunk, as it pulled itself up a few inches and attached itself to the hull. The main magnet was a large circular patch on the top of the Remora’s head, just like the suction cup on the actual fish.

  “Activate the other two,” Paul called out.

  The fore and aft magnets powered up and connected, locking the ROV in place. Paul tested it by grabbing onto the rigging, placing his feet against the ship’s hull and pulling with all his might. The ROV didn’t budge.

  Letting go, he drifted away from the hull. “One large metal barnacle attached where the others were scraped off,” he said. “Heading your way.”

  “Fantastic,” Gamay said. “I’m two hundred yards off the port beam. Directly across from you. Swim perpendicular to the hull and you’ll find me without any problem. Better not dawdle, though, we still have a ferry to catch.”

  15

  OUTSKIRTS OF TOKYO METRO AREA

  THE SUN had already dropped below the horizon when the gleaming Bentley Mulsanne left the highway and drove onto a narrow road that led out of Tokyo and into the countryside.

  An ultra-luxe sedan, with five hundred horsepower, the Mulsanne was the latest flagship from the famed British automaker. It was large, especially by Japanese standards, with a bulky shape, softened by streamlined edges. The design conveyed a sense of speed, power and the possibility that DNA from an Abrams battle tank was hidden beneath all the luxurious touches.

  Kurt and Joe sat in the back of the three-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

  “My first house was smaller than this,” Kurt said, admiring the spacious cabin.

  “Probably cost a lot less, too,” Joe added.

  The ride was crisp, smooth and silent enough to be a sensory deprivation chamber. The cabin was appointed with cream-colored leather, offset by mahogany trim; the seats were perfectly designed to cradle the occupants. When Kurt tilted his seat back, a footrest extended from below, supporting his legs.

  Joe copied him, putting his hands behind his head for good measure. “Too bad we only travel like this when we’re undercover and headed toward our probable doom.”

  Superintendent Nagano had learned from an informant that a large payoff was about to take place within the confines of an illegal casino on the outskirts of Tokyo. His informant wasn’t sure if the payment would go to Ushi-Oni or not, but the timing and the location were correct.

  Using other contacts, he’d arranged for Kurt and Joe to enter the casino, posing as wealthy Americans. That was the easy part. The hard part would come when they tried to place a tracking device on the Demon if they saw him.

  “If anyone gets suspicious, we won’t make it out of there alive,” Kurt warned.

  “At least we’ll look good in our caskets,” Joe said.

  Kurt laughed at that. Joe was dressed in a sharply cut Armani suit. It had narrow lapels, was made of silk and fit his athletic build perfectly. Beneath the crisp black jacket, he wore a maroon dress shirt. And, for added effect, he’d shaved three days of stubble into a thin Vandyke beard. It gave him a slightly devilish look.

  “If you end up in the netherworld, they’re going to mistake you for management.”

  “All part of my plan,” Joe said, “just in case I haven’t been as good as I think I have. You, on the other hand, are going to be mistaken for the maître d’.”

  Kurt smiled and took the comment without rebuttal. He was dressed in a double-breasted white dinner jacket with a silk shawl collar, a crisp white shirt and a trim bow tie. Shades of Bogart in Casablanca.

  Unlike Joe, he was clean-shaven, though he’d let his sideburns grow down a bit and had dyed his silver hair black to make it less likely he’d be recognized. “How far to the Sento?”

  Superintendent Nagano, dressed as a chauffeur, glanced back at them from the driver’s seat. “No more than five minutes. Enough time for me to ask once again whether you want to risk this?”

  “It’s the only way,” Kurt said.

  Joe nodded his agreement.

  Nagano turned his gaze back to the road ahead. “You understand once you’re inside, I cannot assist you. For obvious reasons, the police cannot raid this establishment without causing a bloodbath.”

  “I’m not expecting any violence,” Kurt said. “If the place is run as tightly as you suggest, Ushi-Oni won’t be armed.”

  “He can kill without firearms or knives,” Nagano said. “He can kill with his bare hands or with a hundred different everyday objects. Death is an art form to him. Be extremely careful that he doesn’t see you place the tracking device.”

  Kurt nodded. In his pocket were two coins; inside each lay a sophisticated beacon. Joe was carrying two similar coins. The plan was to slip one into the pocket of the Demon and another into the pocket of whoever paid him off, track them, once they left the building, and take them down outside the gambling palace. Whoever found themselves in closest proximity to the targets would make the attempt. Knowing that Ushi-Oni had fought Joe face-to-face already and might easily recognize him, Kurt intended to make sure he would get there first.

  “We’ll be careful,” Kurt said. “Anything else we should know?”

  “Only that things should go smoothly up front,” Nagano said. “My informant has placed you on the list. They will know Joe as a boxing promoter from Las Vegas. You are listed as a hedge fund manager with ties to Joe’s company. Websites, addresses and other background details have been arranged just in case anyone checks. I suspect the owners will be interested in getting you both to the tables. Reputations for betting and losing large sums have been established.”

  “At least that part is accurate,” Kurt joked. He felt the billfold in his pocket. They each carried over a million yen, a little more than ten thousand dollars, but that was just for starters. Once they burned through their cash, the Sento’s staff would access accounts set up in their names and give them markers for ten times that amount.

  “Where are we most likely to find Ushi-Oni?” Kurt asked.

  “Impossible to say. But he’s the type that appreciates brutality. Look for him in the viewing stands of the combat arena.”

  “Boxing isn’t necessary brutality,” Joe pointed out.

  “There will be only one boxing match,” Nagano said. “Five rounds. It’s just a prelude. Bloodier combat will follow. I regret that you might see someone die on the floor in there. You will ha
ve to allow it or your cover will be destroyed.”

  “Fights to the death?” Kurt said.

  “Not necessarily,” Nagano told them, “but using weapons that can easily kill. Knives, swords, chains. Deadly combat, most often performed by those in the organization who have disgraced themselves. It is a chance for them to prove themselves worthy. But for those who fail . . . Let me just say, what you’re about to witness isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  They spent the next two minutes in silence, driving the last quarter mile beside a twelve-foot fence of iron bars that sprouted from a formidable brick wall. Finally, they arrived at a massive front gate.

  Armed men dressed in suits checked their credentials, searched beneath the car with mirrors and led two dogs around the outside to sniff for explosives. When the car was cleared, they were allowed to pull through.

  A long driveway led up through ornate gardens. Brightly flowering shrubs, ornamental lanterns and cherry trees filled with blossoms lined the path; as they neared the building, they drove across a decorative wooden bridge that spanned a tranquil koi pond.

  The traditional cues vanished as they reached the main building, which was of modern design with a façade made up of tinted glass. It rose two stories and was capped by a layer of smooth concrete. There was a definite curve to the structure and both sides vanished into hills covered in thick grass.

  “Postmodern bomb shelter,” Kurt said, voicing the first thought that came to mind.

  “More like an ultra-efficient building designed to take advantage of the Earth’s temperature-regulating properties,” Joe said.

  “You are an optimist,” Kurt said.

  “What you’re looking at is only the top level,” Nagano said. “This structure is designed like a stadium, circular and with a hollow interior, but instead of rising above ground, it punches down into it.”

  Kurt had seen aerial photos taken before the building was finished. Behind the hills lay a natural depression. The hills and the man-made structure enclosed it and covered it.