The Rising Sea Read online

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “But I’m getting the sense this isn’t a normal event.”

  Paul had to agree. The crowded deck was rife with murmuring and hushed conversations, most prominently among the Chinese passengers who were going home. The Japanese businessmen and the foreign tourists seemed less concerned.

  When a patrol boat began moving toward them, every eye on deck focused on it. The lethal-looking vessel was painted battleship gray, armed with multiple guns and missile racks. It flew a military flag.

  “Something tells me it’s not the Port Authority,” Gamay said. “What do you say we go back inside and get something to eat?”

  “Great idea,” Paul said. “I think I left something in the cabin anyway.”

  Shouldering their backpacks, they moved against the general direction of the crowd and made their way inside and down the stairs. Reaching their deck, they continued down the hall.

  As they neared their cabin, an announcement came over the intercom. First in Chinese, then Japanese, then English. “All passengers return to your cabins. Have your passports and belongings ready for inspection.”

  “That proves it to me,” Paul said. “We need to hide. Or get off this ship.”

  Paul unlocked the cabin door and ducked inside.

  Gamay followed, shutting the door behind her. “Not sure our cabin is the best place to lay low.”

  “We’re here only for the moment,” he said, moving to the window and looking down at the sea. “We’re in luck. The patrol boat docked on the other side of the ferry. Get out the transmission cable and tie it securely to something.”

  “Are we swimming for it?” Gamay asked.

  “Only as a last resort,” Paul said. “Let’s move quickly. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ON A LOWER DECK, the captain of the ferry stood nervously by the main hatch. He watched as the gangway swung toward the patrol boat and locked in place. Twenty armed soldiers came across, followed by several officers and a man in civilian clothes.

  The reasons for the stop had not been given and the captain knew better than to ask. He held tight to the knowledge that he’d done everything they had ordered him to do and that, as far as he knew, there was no contraband on his ship.

  Behind the soldiers and their officers was the older man in civilian clothes—a rumpled suit that looked more comfortable than stylish. The man came across the gangway slowly, clutching the rail for balance. As he stepped onto the ferry, the officers and men stood at attention.

  “My name is Wen Li,” the older man said to the captain. “Do you know who I am?”

  The captain grew more nervous now than before. Party officials did not visit old ferries in the harbor—not without good reason. He remained at attention as if he were a cadet on his first patrol. Sweat trickled through his hair. “It’s an honor to have you aboard, Minister. I’m at your service. What can I do for the Party today?”

  Wen offered a kindly smile. “You may relax, Captain. I require only that you keep the ship secure until my men speak with two of your passengers.”

  From inside his jacket pocket, Wen produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to the captain. On it were two names—odd-sounding names to the captain—either European or American.

  The captain called for the purser. In a moment, they had the cabin number. “I’ll take you there myself,” the captain insisted.

  They went up three decks and then walked aft along the main hall. Passengers stood and gawked and then moved out of the captain’s way as he came toward them with the armed soldiers close behind.

  A glance back told the captain only a third of the troop was following. He suspected others had been dispersed around the ship to block possible avenues of escape.

  Moving quickly, the captain checked the numbers on each door, stopping one door from the cabin they were looking for. “It’s that one,” he said, pointing and stepping aside.

  Wen nodded and motioned to one of the officers. The soldiers moved past them. Weapons were drawn, batons readied. One man stood back and then lunged forward. His swift kick hit the door right beside the handle. The door flew open, the flimsy lock coming apart in the effort. Two soldiers rushed in with their batons.

  No combat ensued, no shouts of desperation or demands for submission. Just chatter between the soldiers. The tiny bathroom and small closet took only seconds to check.

  One of the soldiers emerged. “Cabin secure,” he said. “They’re not here.”

  Wen stepped through the door and the ferry’s captain followed him. He found the cabin in great disorder. Furniture had been tossed about, clothing and boots lay near two hastily discarded packs, the contents of which seemed to have been rummaged through and dumped.

  A thin black cable had been tied around the bed frame. It crossed the far side of the cabin, stretching toward the window and vanishing beneath a gauzy curtain that wafted in the gentle breeze.

  Wen put his hand on the cable and followed it. Pulling the curtain aside, he discovered that the inner window frame had been bent back and forced open.

  The captain studied the damage. “The windows only open eight inches.”

  “Obviously, that was not enough,” Wen said.

  The captain looked outside. The cable hung straight down the side of the ship, where it vanished into the dark water of the harbor. It was evident what had occurred.

  “They’re in the water,” Wen told the officers. “Get the boats out to search for them. Immediately!”

  “It’s a mile to shore,” one of the officers replied. “The current is strong and the water is like ice this time of year. Surely, they’ll drown if they try to swim for it.”

  Wen shook his head. “These Americans are part of NUMA. They’re trained divers and strong swimmers. They may have equipment: compact rebreathers or oxygen bottles. Do not underestimate them. I want police patrols along the shore and every boat you can requisition involved in the search.”

  As the captain watched, the officer put a radio to his mouth and made the call. In the meantime, Wen took one more look around the cabin, made a brief search of the backpacks—and then left without another word.

  The soldiers followed him out and the captain was left in the stateroom alone.

  He glanced out the window again. There was no sign of anyone swimming, but the patrol boat could be heard coming around from the far side of the ferry.

  American agents. Trained divers. High-ranking officials from the Party boarding his ship.

  It was more excitement than he’d seen in years. For a moment, he wondered exactly what was going on, but, after thinking twice, he realized it was better if he didn’t know.

  27

  GAMAY LISTENED to the water lapping against the side of the ship. It wasn’t long before the reassuring and repetitive sound was overcome by the roar of the patrol boat. It raced around the bow of the ferry and charged along the starboard side, slowing only as it neared the cable dangling from the window of their cabin.

  From high above it, Gamay grinned. “Pretty smooth idea, dropping the cable out the window and making it look like we’d gone overboard. They think we’re swimming for shore. They’re searching for us now.”

  The anchor chain locker was crowded, oily and mildly claustrophobic, with several hundred feet of heavy chain piled up inside it. It was no place for comfort, but it made for a terrific hiding spot.

  “I’d have preferred something in the cargo hold,” Paul said, “but those soldiers we spotted changed my mind.”

  They’d narrowly avoided one gang of soldiers in the forward section of the cargo hold and, after catching sight of a second squad, made a change of plans.

  Coming forward, they pried open the hatch to the locker and climbed inside. As Paul pulled the hatch shut, he made sure to prevent it f
rom latching.

  “The pièce de résistance was all your idea,” Paul said. “If you hadn’t mentioned it, I’d have kept my boots on.” He wiggled his toes for emphasis.

  It had been Gamay’s suggestion to dump their boots, backpacks and other belongings in the room, with the exception of the laptop computer, which was now wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked under Paul’s shirt. “Nobody swims with all their luggage,” she said. “It would have been a dead giveaway. I’m just glad they took the bait.”

  “Can you see what they’re doing?” Paul asked.

  Large piles of heavy chain surrounded them, filling up the room and exiting through an opening called a hawsehole. Gamay was able to peer through the gap between the chain and the hull to see most of the starboard side. “They’ve moved toward the stern,” she said. “They’re checking under the fantail.”

  A moment later, the boat disappeared around the aft end. As it did, a second boat raced out toward the ferry and then a third. “Calling in reinforcements,” she said.

  Shortly afterward, a distant boom reached them, muffled and distorted by the hull. Over the next few moments, they heard several more. Each farther off than the last. The impact reverberated through metal skin as if the two of them were sitting inside a giant drum.

  “What do you think all that’s about?” Gamay asked.

  “Fishing expedition,” Paul said. “Using dynamite or grenades.”

  “Trying to blow us out of the water?”

  Paul nodded. “Not a bad strategy, considering how vulnerable an unprotected diver is to shock waves.”

  Because of the way seawater transmitted sound and force, a grenade explosion a hundred feet off would rupture eardrums and cause concussions. Any closer and it might kill them outright.

  The explosions continued sporadically for at least the next twenty minutes, and perhaps even longer, but all external sound was drowned out when the ferry’s engines came back to life.

  Soon the big ship began to move. “Looks like they’re finally going to dock this ferry.”

  “I’d be happier if they were sending us back to Japan,” Paul said, “even considering the accommodations. But we couldn’t be that lucky. They’ll dock the ship, all right. Then they’ll off-load the passengers with plenty of extra eyes at customs to watch for us in the crowd.”

  “And when they don’t see us in the line,” Gamay began, “or spot our bodies floating on the surface after all those makeshift depth charges?”

  “They’ll search the ship again,” Paul said. “Which means we either stay here until the ferry goes back to Osaka—which could be days, or longer if they quarantine the vessel—or we find a way to get off this boat without drawing any attention to ourselves.”

  “I vote for fresh air,” Gamay said. “I know they’ll probably just tie up to the pier, but I’d rather not be in here if they drop that anchor.”

  “Deafening and dangerous, at the very least,” Paul said. “We know they’ve searched the cargo hold already. I say we make our way back there and find a nice container to hide in.”

  “Great idea,” she said. “Lead on.”

  It would take twenty minutes to work their way from the anchor chain locker to the cargo deck, where they found an unlocked cargo container filled three-quarters of the way up with sacks of rice.

  They crawled in on top of the bags, moved a few of them around to present a false wall—as if the bags were stacked all the way to the roof—and waited. Breathing was no problem, as rice shipments required plentiful ventilation to prevent condensation from wetting the grains and spoiling them.

  Eventually, the ferry docked and a group of stevedores came on board to begin the unloading. It took hours. At one point, the container doors were opened and then closed. Then the container was loaded onto a flatbed and driven off the ship.

  When all movement had stopped, Gamay figured they had traveled about ten miles. “We seem to have been placed into storage,” she said.

  They listened for any sounds but heard none.

  “Let’s find out where we are,” she said.

  Paul did the honors, crawling across the sacks of rice to the corner of the container where he could gaze through one of the ventilation slits. “Warehouse,” he said. “I can’t see anything but other containers.”

  “If it’s all quiet out there, we should probably make our move.”

  After shoving the heavy bags aside, they opened the door a crack. The warehouse was dark and looked deserted.

  “All clear,” Gamay said. “I say we make our way to the American Consulate. If we can get inside unnoticed, we can get this information back to Washington and escape with our lives.”

  28

  MOUNTAIN DISTRICT, JAPAN

  SUPERINTENDENT NAGANO followed Ushi-Oni using the tracking coin. It was an ingenious piece of electronic design, transmitting a signal on the cell phone band and sending a pulse only once every thirty seconds, which made it virtually undetectable to any person holding it.

  At a long distance, the signal was relayed by the nation’s vast network of cell towers, but, closer in, Nagano used a dedicated receiver to home in on the GPS coordinates being transmitted from the coin.

  The signal led him out of Tokyo and onto a twisting mountain road. When the assassin stopped at a gas station to get fuel and use the restroom, Nagano snuck up to his car and placed a second transmitter under the bumper in case Oni used or lost the coin.

  With two transmitters in place, Nagano dropped well back of his quarry, keeping out of sight and waiting for the opportune moment to arrest him.

  To his surprise, Ushi-Oni continued higher into the mountains, heading to the foothills of Mount Fuji, before turning onto an obscure side road and finally stopping an hour later.

  Nagano studied the satellite image. It displayed nothing but a forested hillside. A yellow icon suggested a small guesthouse was hidden beneath the trees. As was a natural onsen—a traditional hot spring, mineral bath. In addition, a Shinto shrine lay nearby.

  Nagano drove past the guesthouse, continued several miles up the road and then pulled over. When thirty minutes had passed without any movement from either of the two transmitters, he doubled back and approached the inn cautiously.

  Ushi-Oni’s car remained in the lot, along with twenty other vehicles. The busy state of the guesthouse didn’t surprise Nagano—both the hot springs and the Shinto shrines were popular spots to visit. Some drew millions of visitors per year, though this particular shrine was smaller and all but unknown.

  According to the information he was able to pull up on the computer, it was not even open to the public. All in all, he found it a strange place for Ushi-Oni to stop.

  Nagano checked on the location of the original transmitter just in case Ushi-Oni had come here to switch cars. The tracking coin was signaling him from a spot inside the guesthouse.

  Convinced that Ushi-Oni was there, Nagano parked in the lot and called his most trusted subordinate. “I’ve tracked the Demon to a shrine in the mountains,” he explained. “Bring two of your best men. We’ll arrest him tonight.”

  After being assured that reinforcements would be there soon, Nagano loosened his tie and waited.

  * * *

  • • •

  USHI-ONI stood in a small room, pressed against the wall and peering through a tiny gap between the curtain and the window frame. Seeing no movement in the parking lot or out on the street, he eased the curtain back into place and walked away from the glass.

  He opened a small case, pulled out a pair of throwing knives and slipped them into slots in the loose jacket he wore. He then closed the case, checked his watch and left the room. He still had time. Plenty of time.

  He made his way through the inn and out onto a narrow path that led to the onsen. Disrobing completely, he showered first and then lowered himself into the bubbling w
ater of the natural hot spring. He sat with his back against the wet black rock that surrounded the bath as the steam enshrouded him and obscured anything beyond the rim of bubbling waters.

  After several minutes, a shape came down the path, emerging from the fog beyond. The new arrival wore a white robe and an oddly shaped black hat known as a crow hat, or karasu. He was a Shinto priest.

  “Shinsoku,” Oni said, addressing the man by a term that meant employee of the gods. The term was reserved for those who took care of the shrines. “I was beginning to doubt that you would come.”

  The priest was staring at Oni’s colorful tattoos. “You are the one who contacted us?”

  “Yes,” Oni said.

  “You have asked for the purification ritual,” the priest said, confirming.

  “Who would need it more than I?” Oni said.

  The priest nodded. “It is my duty to guide you.”

  “I have already bathed,” Ushi-Oni said. “What must I do next?”

  “Put on your robe and follow me. I will show you.”

  Ushi-Oni climbed out of the waters, pulled on a robe and put his feet into a pair of slippers. Clutching his folded clothes in one arm, he followed the priest on a path that took them back into the woods, away from the inn and up toward the shrine.

  They traveled for half a mile, walking between tall stands of bamboo, until they came to a series of vermilion-colored gates known as torii. Each gate had two vertical posts, painted in the traditional red-orange scheme. They were capped by a black lintel with upturned ends from which oil lanterns hung, illuminating the path in a flickering light.

  Beyond the first torii was another and then another. Some were old and dilapidated, others were newer. Inscriptions carved into them displayed the names of the families that had paid for them in hopes of securing good fortune.

  “Is it true that the Tokagawa family once supported this shrine?” Ushi-Oni asked.