Jake Maroc - Shan Part 24

An enemy in j.a.pan among the Yakuza? What was the connection with the yuhn-hyun?

He put his elbows on his knees, rested his weary head in his hands. His body felt as if he had just gone fifteen rounds with the heavyweight boxing champ. His mind was whirling with possibilities.

With a slight groan he rose and padded across the j.a.panese-style room. His shoes had been left at the doorstep. Took a long, scalding shower. He lifted his head up to the water flow, trying to wash the fatigue, pain and fear from his body and his mind. He knew that he was in a lethal area. The yuhn-hyun was under attack and unless he found the source at once, the delicate ring of people his father had spent more than fifty years drawing together would blow apart. The Triad dragons, especially, will be wary, Shi Zilin had told him, constantly seeking to gain advantage over their rivals. Divided, we are vulnerable and may be cut down.

Fear flooded through Jake once again. The fear of failure. He was on the mountainside in the dark and the cold. His father had designated him Zhuan, the special one. Perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps his love for his one remaining son had blinded his visionary instincts. Perhaps he only wanted Jake to be Zhuan. Had Shi Zilin chosen the wrong person?

Jake toweled himself off and dressed in a cobalt-blue linen suit, dove-gray shirt, blue-on-blue polka-dot tie. As he brushed his hair, he stared at himself in the mirror. He saw the intense, hooded copper eyes, deeply set beneath a wide straight brow. His curly black hair a genetic gift from his maternal grandfatherseemed unruly no matter how much he worked at it. He threw the brush down and, gathering up a couple of small items, went out of the room.

It was early afternoon, local time, just after lunch, so that the streets were merely crowded, not jammed. He had eaten on the plane but had tasted nothing. His stomach was full, nothing more.

Traffic, as usual, was at a standstill. In any case, he felt like walking. The day was sunny and exceptionally clear. There was still a bit of a chill in the air but the first cherry blossoms were in bud and the air smelled fresher and cleaner than it had any right to.

Jake strolled up to Sotobori-dori, turning left down the wide avenue, heading into the Akasaka area. Near the Mikado Theater, he went down off the street, taking the Choyoda subway line three stops to Meiji-Jingumae. He emerged in Harajuku. In the old, post-World War II days, this had been the site of Washington Heights, where the majority of the United States occupation forces were housed within the precincts of Tokyo.

Nowadays, Harajuku was more the province of the wealthy younger cla.s.ses. Trendy boutiques vied for the visitor's attention with restaurants serving Western food. If one was in the mood for a hamburger and French fries rather than sushi or soba, this was the place to go.

Along the wide, beautifully tree-lined boulevard known as Omo-tesando-dori, young people danced on bright Sunday afternoons. Dressed in fifties-style leather jackets and winklepicker boots, they wended their way into Yoyogi Park, site of the towering Meiji Shrine. To the insistent beat of blaring portable boom boxes, they swirled and gyrated in an almost lunatic frenzy.

Harajuku was also where Mikio Komoto had his corporate offices.

The skysc.r.a.pers of Shinjuku were where one might have first thought to look for them since that was the real hub of Tokyo's corporate life. But for many reasons, Mikio had decided to headquarter farther south.

It had proved a canny decision. With Harajuku's blossoming popularity, more and more small businesses were descending on the area in an effort to free themselves from Shinjuku's stifling atmosphere.

Mikio's offices were within Seicho No le just across from the Togo Shrine, within sight of the park's South Pond and noted iris garden. It was next to a high-tech kissaten, a stylish coffee shop where for two dollars one received a tiny cup of the liquid. The sum was also a form of rent for the table where one sat and watched the world go by. A relatively new j.a.panese custom borrowed without shame or excuses from a much older European one.

This place, with the odd name of the Barking Fish, was done in glossy green walls, highlighted by deep blue neon strips hidden behind polished-wood valences hanging from the glittery ceiling. Tiny marble tables were surrounded by midnight-blue lacquer chairs.

Jake pushed through the smoked-gla.s.s doors beside the kissaten and ascended in an elevator to the top floor of the building. At the end of a polished-granite and brushed-bronze hallway he went through the seeing-eye gla.s.s doors on which was printed KOMOTO SHOMU KOGYO in English and kanji. This translated roughly as "Komoto Commercial Industry," a rather nondescript name which could encompa.s.s virtually anything and everything.

Jake had no clear idea how the company actually made its money. Mikio was into just about everything: electronics, fiber optics, robotics, you name it. If it was an up-and-coming industry on the MIt.i.the Ministry of International Trade and Industrypriority list, Mikio was certain to be in it. MITI was the vastly powerful bureaucratic agency which, since the end of the war, set industrial trade policy for all of the private sector. One effective method was to offer businesses certain incentives to start up kobunfirmsin the areas that MITI had targeted as important for the country's economic expansion.

Just after the war heavy industry such as petrochemicals and steel had been at the highest priority. Now the emphasis had shifted to light industryelectronics and robotics, computer generation and the like.

Mikio's outer offices were paneled in kyokij.a.panese cypress. The built-in desks, consoles and cabinets were all in gleaming black lacquer. The floor was covered with an industrial Berber carpet, rich in tones of gray and brown. Seating in this areaat least for those waitingadmittancewas composed of a line of attached wood squares, covered on top with tatami.

Jake went over to the Plexiglas screen. There was a male receptionist, young and nattily attired. Jake gave his name and when the young man asked the nature of his business, Jake told him that it was personal.

As he leaned in, a womanthe Office Lady, Jake a.s.sumedturned and looked at him. She was wearing a severely cut suit of dark cotton. Her gleaming black hair was square-cut in a style Jake had not seen here since the mid-sixties. Her wide eyes regarded him for a time. Then, as if a trapdoor were slamming shut, she blinked and, swiveling around, returned to her work.

"Please be seated," the young man said, after taking Jake's business card. "I will contact Mr. Komoto's secretary." He spoke English clearly and overdistinctly as if he were being careful about going too fast.

*Thank you," Jake said and went back across the room. He sat. He was by no means alone. Dark-suited businessmen congregated like birds on a wire. From time to time one or sometimes several were summoned by a bowing functionary who emerged from behind the internal barrier to greet them in polite fashion and usher them inside.

As appointments departed others arrived and the process was repeated. Jake had been waiting for just under an hour when he got up and stuck his head through the opening of the Plexiglas screen.

"I beg your pardon," he said to the young man, "but I have heard nothing as yet."

"I handed your card personally to Mr. Komoto's secretary," the young man said, as if that were in itself an explanation.

"That was fifty minutes ago."

"It's a busy day," the young man said. His hair glistened. It was brush cut and, with the a.s.sistance of some modern-day pomade, stood straight up. The intercom gave a muted buzz and he said, "Excuse me." He stabbed at a b.u.t.ton, spoke softly into the wire headset he had on. In a moment he had rung off.

"I'm a good friend of Mr. Komoto's," Jake said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Office Lady turn her head. Was she watching him again? "When can I get in to see him?"

"When I know," the young man said, "so will you."

"May I speak with Mr. Komoto's secretary then?"

The young man glanced down at his glossy PBX. "I'm sorry but she's on the phone right now. Please have a seat."

Another twenty minutes of that and Jake was back at the Plexiglaswindow. The young man looked up. He seemed disappointed when he saw who it was.

"Yes?"

"The bathroom?"

"Out the door, down the corridor to your left. Last door."

Jake nodded and went out. The men's room was as shiny and modern as the rest of the building. But not large. There were two urinals and when the door opened and a man came in, he and Jake were wedged tightly together.

The only sounds in the small room were of the men pa.s.sing water. Jake saw that the other man was a j.a.panese in his mid-forties. He was wide-shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair. Like every other businessman in Tokyo he was dressed in a dark suit. The only difference was that he looked ill at ease in his. Muscles bulged beneath the sleek fabric. Old scars shone in his cheeks. He looked neither to the right nor the left but seemed fascinated by the blank wall in front of him.

Jake was finished, zipping up when the man said, "A cup of coffee might be in order."

He said it softly but quite distinctly. He had not turned his head and when Jake looked at him he made no sign that he was aware that anyone else was in the room with him. He zipped, washed up and was gone.

For a moment, Jake stood in the washroom wondering if he had actually heard the man speak. He thought for a time. He was getting nowhere at the offices of Komoto Shomu Kogyo.

Out in the corridor he looked both ways. No one was about. Jake took the elevator down to the lobby. Out in the street he went left. He pa.s.sed a chic Kenzo boutique, decorated in the latest j.a.panese minimalist style: flat gray walls, black rubberized wire racks, gray carpet flowing up from the floor to cover low counters on which piles of clothes were set.

He gave it a glance and went by. Then he stopped and went back. In the window was a highly stylized mannequin. She had orange and green hair and nails the color of topaz. She was wearing the suit the Office Lady at Mikio's had on.

An Office Lady wearing a Kenzo outfit? That would have cost her a year's salary. Unless she wasn't an Office Lady at all. Then who was she?

A cup of coffee might be in order.

Jake back-tracked farther to the entrance of the coffee shop in Mikio's building, the Barking Fish. The kissaten. He went in slowly, takingsome time for his eyes to adjust to the change in light. The neons were softened cast against the deep lacquer paint of the walls. He took a look around.

And saw the Kenzo suit sitting at a marble table. The Office Lady sat in Western style with her legs crossed. She was smoking a cigarette. A minuscule cup of coffee had been set before her. She smiled at him.

He went over and, as naturally as if they had made this date to meet, sat down across from her. He ordered a coffee and when they were alone said, "Who are you?"

Her full lips moved into a mock pout. "You are very rude, Mr. Maroc."

"Pardon my barbarian manners," he said in j.a.panese.

"That's better," she said, switching from English. "I'm glad you got the message." Her eyes twinkled. "It was amusing to guess at how long your bladder was going to hold out."

Jake was not amused. "Where is Mikio?" he said. "Is he all right? I need to speak with him."

The woman watched him with her glittering eyes. Her flat face was all cheekbone and brow. She was not Jake's idea of beautiful but she would certainly be someone's.

"Do you know Tsukiji?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Be there tomorrow morning just after four-thirty."

"Will Mikio be there?" The Kenzo suit was already standing. She looked down at him for a moment before walking briskly from the restaurant. She did not look back.

Bluestone in his study, watching the play of indirect light redefine itself as it pa.s.sed through the exquisite translucent skin of the priceless Qing vase. It stood on a black lacquered pedestal, alone along one wall. Its pale, opalescent green was the only slash of a color other than black and Chinese red in the entire room.

The ceiling was painted a rich glossy black, the walls were papered in a pattern made expressly for Bluestone: black-on-black, a gloss-and-matte pattern, with a scattering of tiny red chrysanthemums.

The couch along the wall opposite the Qing masterpiece was of black leather; the matching chairs black. The wall-to-wall carpeting was black overlaid with red pindots. The antique Roman-style desk was carved ebony. Ma.s.sive and intimidating, it was the only other objet d'art in the room besides the vase.

Bluestone sat behind the desk now and watched the Qing's inner power redefine light as he listened to White-Eye Kao's report.

"I have tracked Great Pool of Piddle to the dens of his usual newspaper sources. My sources have confirmed that he has already shot off his mouthfor a suitable amount of h'yeung yau." He was speaking of the fragrant greasethe bribes one needed to pay.

"Naturally," Bluestone concurred. "G.o.d forbid that our unwitting foil should surprise us."

The Chinese sitting on one oversized chair seemed dwarfed by its proportions. Bluestone liked that. The Chinese turned his head and the light turned his one milky eye opaque.

White-Eye Kao laughed. "No chance of that."

"Good," Bluestone said. "You have made certain that the Honorable Pok has no inkling that the information about Southasia Bancorp's regrettable fiscal plight was deliberately leaked to him?"

"Absolutely," White-Eye Kao said with great certainty. "His sources had to struggle to get every bit of it."

"Better and better," Bluestone said, staring intently at the Qing vase. "I was particularly impressed with the manner in which you disposed of Teck Yau, Sawyer and Sons' comptroller."

"That was a pleasure," White-Eye Kao said. "That pox-infested sea slug was more foreign devil than Chinese." He laughed. "My third cousinyou know, the one who works in the butcher shop on Po Yan Streetwas all too happy to play along. He has no love for the loh faan, either." White-Eye Kao laughed. "The shop, as you know, sells to all the big hotels catering to the foreign devils. Ha, ha! What a tender meal the stupid gwai-loh must have eaten that night, nek?"

"Watch your tongue," Bluestone said sharply. "I am also a foreign devil."

"No," White-Eye Kao said with some fervor, "you are a Communist. You have a plan for all of Asia, for all of the world. I know how you aid those unfortunate peoples oppressed by the loh faan in every country. It is different with you."

"Yes," Bluestone said. The light pa.s.sing through the Qing had changed subtly, he couldn't say how. "It is."

The buzzer sounded on his desk and he picked up the receiver, listened for a moment. "Send him in," he said and replaced the phone on its cradle.

Bluestone, who employed a full-time secretary at home as well as at his officesince he was fond of working out the most complex business problems away from the hubbub of the Five Star Pacificofficesturned at last from his contemplation of man's mastery over nature.

White-Eye Kao, alerted, turned his head as the door opened and Sir Byron Nolin-Kelly came in. He was a portly Scotsman with wide white muttonchop sideburns and an immaculately groomed mustache, waxed and curling upward at its ends. His shock of thick white hair was combed straight back off his wide forehead. His ruddy complexion and his bulbous clown's nose conspired to make him appear to be everyone's kindly uncle.

In fact he was tai pan of Pacific Overland Trading, an influential firm almost as venerable as Mattias, King & Company, the Colony's oldest Western trading company.

Sir Byron was something of a tyrant, controlling Pacific Overland for the past fifty-five years despite attempts by other members of his family to wrest power from him. He was nasty and powerful and Bluestone had spent much time romancing him.

The thing that Sir Byron liked most was a winner. Conversely, he hated to lose a at anything. But especially in matters concerning his company's business. It had been Bluestone's contention that the consortium of tai pan who founded InterAsia Trading were doomed to failure. The problems of capital shortfall at Southasia Bancorp which had been revealed to Sir Byron as well as the other tai pan aboard the Trireme that weekendhad persuaded him.

"Good afternoon, tai pan," Sir Byron said.

Bluestone returned the greeting, turned to White-Eye Kao. "This is Ping Po," he said casually. "One of my compradors."

As Bluestone had intended, Sir Byron gave the Chinese a perfunctory nod and forgot about his presence.

"I have just now come from Macao," he said, waving away Bluestone's invitation to a drink. "Dark Leong Lau and Six-Toe Ping have arranged their financing."

"And the buying?" Bluestone said, leaning forward in excitement.

Sir Byron nodded. "It has begun. Bobby Chan has seen to it. It is being distributed through enough unrelated brokers so that only a specific check would unearth the chain of buying."

"Then you and I will commence our purchases tomorrow."

Sir Byron nodded. "As we agreed."

Bluestone watched the other tai pan carefully, waiting for a hint as to why he had actually come. This information could have been just as easily communicated via phone.

"Are you sure you won't have a seat?" Bluestone asked, gesturingto the empty chair vacated by White-Eye Kao, who was now discreetly across the room, staring into the lovely depths of the Qing.

"All right," Sir Byron said, relenting. He sat as stiffly as he stood. A retired colonel whose training would never leave him.

"Before you and I embarked upon our end of this venture, I wished to ask a number of questions."

Bluestone shrugged. "You had ample time over the weekend on the yacht."

Sir Byron's ice-blue eyes studied Bluestone. "Not in front of the natives, old man. This is just between you and me."

And White-Eye Kao, Bluestone thought, who you think of as part of the furnishings.

"I want a true a.s.sessment of the danger factor."

"The risk," Bluestone said without hesitation, "is great. I cannot deny that." He also knew that if he did, Sir Byron would get up, walk out the door and that would be the end of his involvement. "We are up against clever tai pan. But I believe that their power is on the wane. Shi Zilin is dead. And his son, well, his son has disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Wherever he is," Bluestone said, "he's not in Hong Kong. Who is going to run InterAsia now? Sawyer? The old man's headed for senility. Three Oaths Tsun? His business is the sea, that's where he excels. On land, he relies on others.

"Now they have run out of money. And we have a chance at the Kam Sang project. If we control that, with its revolutionary desalinization plant, we will control all of Hong Kong. I don't have to reiterate that water is Hong Kong's constant, overwhelming need. Kam Sang will allow us to control its flow. We will be able to, in effect, set our own price for water."

There was silence while Sir Byron digested this. At length, he nodded. "I'm satisfied," he said. "I'll relay my recommendation to the others."

"Excellent," Bluestone said, standing. Clearly the interview was at an end. The two tai pan shook hands. When Nolin-Kelly had left, Bluestone turned to White-Eye Kao, said, "Do you think he believed me?"