Jake Maroc - Shan Part 19

"Ah, Buddha!" Three Oaths collapsed on a chair beside the high bed. "What evil josshas overtaken us, Jake? What onerous deeds did we perform in a previous life to have generated such violent and powerful enemies?"

"First," Jake said, "we must discover who our enemies are."

Three Oaths looked at his nephew. "You said Bliss saw their tattoos."

"Irezumi," Jake said. "She said they were Yakuza."

"I don't understand," Three Oaths said. "We have no enemies in j.a.pan."

"If she's right, we do now." Jake rose and went to the window. A flood of neon disfigured the ceiling in much the same way the special tattoos marked the Yakuza warriors. "There is a war going on in j.a.pan," he said into the void of the neon-lighted night. "A Yakuza war. My friend Mikio Komoto is under siege."

"And you think that"Three Oaths gestured"this had something to do with that friends.h.i.+p?"

Jake shrugged. "Why not? Perhaps they were looking for me. Perhaps they killed my father out of frustration in not finding me."

Three Oaths was not persuaded. "They were professionals. They were very good. I am using your words now, Younger Nephew. You called them a dantai. You yourself created two such dantai when you were working for the Quarry. I am not mistaken in thinking that a dantai's qualities include extraordinary courage and discipline. I ask you two questions. One: would a dantai not be able to pinpoint your whereabouts? Two: would a dantai resort to wanton and, to them quite useless, destruction out of frustration?"

Jake said nothing but continued to stare out at the vibrating darkness. He was thinking about the operative who had tailed him, who had kept him busy, away from the junk just long enough a If he had been able to use ba-mahk, he would almost a.s.suredly become aware of the larger strategy. It could have turned events on their side. Ba-mahk could have saved his father's life Fool! he thought savagely. That is your Western half thinking. Use your Chinese mind. What has happened has happened. Joss. Get on with what must be done now.

"In any case I will go to j.a.pan," he said after a long silence.

"And leave Bliss and this fornicating mess with Southasia Bancorp?"

"Bliss," Jake said, "will not recover any the quicker with me here. As to Southasia Bancorp, I have the entire yuhn-hyun to think of."

"There is the matter of your father's funeral." Three Oaths's tone had turned hard. He remembered what Neon Chow had said at Gaddi's about how qualified his own number one son was to be Zhuan. "It is a son's duty"

"Do not presume to tell me," Jake said, swinging around to face his uncle, "what is or is not my duty. I am Zhuan. I understand my obligations. The body will be cremated tonight. You and I and T. Y. Chung will attend a service at dawn tomorrow. My father's ashes will be scattered into the South China Sea, as were his wishes.

"But as to business, something must be done here while I am away." He handed a small packet over to his uncle. "Choose one of your sonsI leave that decision to you. See that he finds out all he can about that."

Three Oaths unwrapped the packet. Inside smudged bits of newspaper he discovered an unset opal. Its predominantly red flame winked and shone at him as he turned it this way and that.

"Where did you get this?"

"From the pocket of someone who was foolish enough to follow me," Jake said.

"When was this?"

"Just see that it is done," Jake said curtly. To bring up the tick was to remind himself of his loss. Ba-mahk a the Way of strategy. Jake concentrated, tried to feel the pulse. Nothing. And he could not say a word to Three Oaths. "By the time I return I want to know where it was bought, when and, most importantly, by whom."

Three Oaths rewrapped the parcel, pocketed it. "It will be done," he said. His eyes dropped to his daughter's pale face. "She is a part of me just as much as the children of my loins. And she is more. She is a piece of s.h.i.+ Zilin. My bou-sehk."

His tone was entirely different when he raised his head. "Now I want you to go downstairs and let a doctor take a look at you. If you must persist in your course of action I want to be a.s.sured of your continued physical soundness. For the sake of the yuhn-hyun, you understand."

"Yes, course." The tension between them would not dissipate. This was surely not how my father planned it, Jake thought. Oh, Buddha, I cannot believe that he is gone. Give me the strength to carry out the strategy. "I am counting on you to keep the lid on the Southasia situation."

"You are indeed a hard one, Younger Nephew." Three Oaths sat very still. Though he said nothing for a moment, his tone precluded any further comment from Jake. "Perhaps my Elder Brother was correct after all in believing you Zhuan. One must be cold and uncaring indeed to carry the weight of such a superstructure as the yuhn-hyun on one's back. I know that it would break mine."

His uncle's words stung him, p.r.i.c.ked his heart, decided his next action. He took out an envelope. "Elder Uncle," he said thickly. "I do not know where I will be in the next days. Or what will happen. Joss, eh? But I have made some provisions." He held out the envelope. "Inside you will find the name of Apollo, our mole in Russia. While I am gone you must maintain radio contact with him. He must be made to feel that his lifeline out of Russia is absolutely secure. I cannot risk his abandoning his directive. Do you understand?"

Three Oaths looked at his nephew. His heart swelled with pride. "Perfectly, Zhuan." So Neon Chow was wrong, after all, he thought. Deep down he had known it to be so. Still, it was gratifying to get this tangible proof of the esteem in which he was still held.

"Forty-eight hours after I am gone," Jake said, "you will open the envelope and follow the instructions for contacting Apollo. Thereafter you will maintain a forty-eight-hour schedule until my return."

"Which will be when, Younger Nephew?"

"When Buddha wills it."

Jake handed over the envelope.

McKenna returned to the smoky labyrinth of the White Teacup at the appointed time. The police report on the incident in Aberdeen since it had been remanded to Special Branchhad crossed his desk and he had read the account by the dispatched officers with more than pa.s.sing interest. Three Oaths Tsun was part owner of the Southasia Bancorp and he wondered if this attack on his junk had something to do with the rumor that White-Eye Kao had pa.s.sed on to him.

He threaded his way through the packs of sailors and B-girls, seeing Big Oysters Pok at his usual table. He thought, I will have my answers soon.

Big Oysters Pok was sitting alone and he waved a hand as McKenna came up. "Sit down," he said. "Have a drink," And laughed. "Or are you on duty, Lieutenant?"

McKenna contrived to ignore the joke and poured himself three fingers of Johnnie Walker Black. He downed the whole in one great swig as if he thought that this gesture would give him face with the Chinesea commodity he felt was in short supply at the moment. He did not care for Big Oysters Pok's att.i.tude but he was hardly in a position to remark upon it. No, at least, until he got what he wanted from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. McKenna bared his teeth. Soon, he thought, I will teach him a lesson. I will teach him to respect an officer of the law.

"What d'you have for me?" McKenna asked.

"Lieutenant," Big Oysters Pok said, "you remind me of the hare who could not wait to get across the highway." Languidly he reached out, poured himself some whiskey. He took up the gla.s.s and, swirling the amber liquid around the curved side, stared into its clear depths. "It bolted across. Just in time to be struck by an oncoming truck. The offside tires flattened it into the baking tarmac." He took a careful sip of the whiskey. "One must learn the art of patience."

"Patience, my a.s.s," McKenna said. He felt in a visea double vise really. Between Formidable Sung and White-Eye Kao, he felt as if he was being squeezed dry, as if he had lost all initiative. He was back again in the Outback, the fires burning, sparking in great long sweeps like spectral writing across the ink-black skies. As if from close at hand, he heard again the chanting, echoing through the scrub-dusted wilderness.

"I want answers!" He was shouting, his great ham fist banging down on the table, making the bottles and gla.s.sware rattle, like the bone teeth the abos wore. McKenna was shuddering. "Answers!" He wiped sweat off his face.

Big Oysters Pok sat back, regarding the big gwai loh as one peers at a strange and not altogether pleasant creature in a zoo. This man is not to be trusted, he thought. I must take care.

"I have your answer," he said.

"Good," McKenna said. "b.l.o.o.d.y good." He poured himself another drink and threw that one back as quickly as he had done the first. "Let's have it. I haven't got all night."

Feeling as if he were crouching in an evil-smelling cave with a dangerous bear, Big Oysters Pok said, "There is a problem at Southasia Bancorp."

"What kind of problem?"

"Their comptroller is no longer with them."

"Fired?"

"Fled is how I'm told it went."

McKenna's eyes were alight. "Then there must be money involved."

Big Oysters Pok nodded. "Undoubtedly. The only mystery is how much."

McKenna was rolling his gla.s.s around and around. "It matters a great deal how much the comptroller embezzled, don't you think?"

"Are you asking my opinion?" Big Oysters Pok inquired.

McKenna looked up. "What? Oh, yes, of course."

"The only way it would matter was if this man somehow managed to take out of the company sufficient funds to make it impossible for the bank to cover a serious run."

"That's right," McKenna a.s.sented. "Any hint of fiduciary malfeasance to the depositors of Southasia would create havoc."

"Only under the condition I just outlined."

"The lid is on very tight," McKenna mused. "That could be significant. If they've in fact got a shortage of cash the last thing they could afford would be to risk a run."

"Why does it matter to you what financial state Southasia Bancorp is in?" Big Oysters Pok said, thinking, I know how much was embezzled but why should I tell him?

"None of your bleeding business, mate," McKenna snapped. "But I'll tell you what you can do. Get a line on how much's missing. And fast."

"I am your errand boy now?" Big Oysters Pok's face was bland.

McKenna leaned forward across the table. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with the sparking fires that showered the Outback. "Listen to me, mate. The minute we began our little arrangement, you put yourself in my pocket. I can break you and haul you in any time I want to, on any one of half a dozen complaints including conspiracy to bribe an officer of Her Majesty's peace force."

"You would only be implicating yourself," Big Oysters Pok pointed out.

McKenna barked out a laugh. "And who d'you think would believe you over me, eh? No judge in Hong Kong, that's for sure. Use your head, mate. Play along like a nice little doggie and do what you're told. That way all's well that ends well, okay?"

"I've done what you asked me to do," Big Oysters Pok said evenly. "We have our bargain. That is as far as I care to go. I am at risk already."

"You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you're already at risk with me, don't you know that? I'm the one to fear and no mistake." Fly buzzing against the film opaquing that staring eye. Rising and falling, rising and falling. "I'm white, mate. / have the power."

For a moment, Big Oysters Pok said nothing. Then he gave a curt nod and rose. "Good night, Lieutenant." He threw some money on the table. "And good-bye."

Daniella and Oleg Maluta at the ballet. Watching Sleeping Beauty, the splendor of crescendos of music, of pas de deux, of the princ.i.p.als' swirling, elegiac movements.

Daniella's senses took in the overrich colors of costume, the thickly textured rococo sets, the melodramatic music. She felt like a reveler at the end of a long night of banqueting.

Idly she wondered why Maluta had insisted that she go with him to the ballet. For years he and his wife had been an almost permanent fixture in this gilt-edged box at the Bolshoi. Then his wife's sudden, enigmatic death had put an end to his attending his beloved ballet.

That was many years ago. Nowadays, there were many people Maluta could take to the Bolshoi, and gain political advantage. Sitting so close to him, Daniella thought about the current of his temper.

Sometimes Maluta seemed to be a dog in the early stages of rabies: he shouted, he screamed unreasoningly; he was physically abusive. At other times, he was perfectly calm. However, he was at his most malicious when he was calm.

Daniella, of course, had no desire to accompany Maluta anywhere. She would have much preferred to be with Mikhail Carelin. His late meeting with Genachev should have been over by now.

But she could not deny Maluta anything. She thought of the room where he kept securely locked the pictures of her and Carelin making love, the gun with which she had shot Alexei. The photos, no doubt grainy because of the high-speed film that was used, of her weeping by the side of the car in which Alexei's still warm corpse lay slumped across the steering wheel. More than anything she wanted those photos.

Until she destroyed them, their negatives and the man who had taken them, she would feel utterly defiled. Maluta had in his possession not only the means of her political destruction but also a glimpse into her secret heart. That he had the power to make her cry made her hate him with an intensity that was almost palpable.

And the absolute worst part was that she was utterly helpless against him. Though her desk at work was piled with reports and feasibility studies from several key departments, she had spent the better part of the day digging deeper and deeper into her Directorate's computer's heart in an attempt to find even the smallest c.h.i.n.k in Maluta's armor. In vain. His school record indicated that he was at near-genius level by the age of fifteen. He was a zealous Marxist, as were his parents. Maluta's father had been an engineer working all his life in the service of Mother Russia.

Maluta's own rise within the Soviet hierarchy had been swift and unerring. If he had made any enemies they were no longer in power. The only piece of tragedy in his life was the death of his wife twelve years ago in a raging fire that had consumed their dacha in Zvenigorod, in the thickly wooded hill country favored by many artists.

According to his dossier, Maluta had asked for and received a leave of absence and had almost single-handedly rebuilt the dacha on the ashen foundation of the first one. His form of mourning. He must have loved her a great deal since he had never remarried. In fact, his file was devoid of reference to any liaison.

Had he been celibate all that time? Daniella had wondered, or was he too clever for the watchers who oversaw every person of power within Russia?

Now, as the Tchaikovsky music built to yet another crescendo, Daniella forced herself to relax. That was the most difficult part about being in Maluta's company. She never seemed to be able to relax. She remembered Uncle Vadim saying to her once, "The male is the superior s.e.x because he believes himself to be." Daniella thought that defined Oleg Maluta very well.

Sverdlov Square was alight when they emerged from the glitter of the Bolshoi. There seemed to be a sea of sables swirling like great, dark tutus. It was still snowing and the sound of the chains on car and truck tires was a clear rhythmic pulse, echoed back by the walls of the edifices fronting the square.

In Maluta's thrumming Chaika, they took off into the night made pale by the snow and low clouds off which Moscow's lights reflected.

The privacy screen was up between the back seat and the driver in front. Maluta, leaning forward, rapped his knuckle against the steel-reinforced gla.s.s. The driver was completely unaware of the sound.

"No one but us," Maluta said, sinking back into the seat. He was turned partway toward her. Daniella glanced out the window. It appeared that they were headed for the Moskva. They were not going directly to her apartment. She felt a slight queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Now she would find out why he had issued the command for her to come tonight.

"How is the great love affair coming, my sparrow?"

She did not like his tone of voice. "If you had left me alone tonight I would have found out the substance of Carelin's crash meeting with Genachev."

"Oh, you'll be home in plenty of time to ply him with the fur between your thighs." Maluta gave a quick laugh. "Besides, I enjoy the looks of envy and concern I receive when I am out with you at such an affair. At the Bolshoi, my colleagues come not only to enjoy the arts, but also to see who is in attendance with whom."

Though they were both members of the elite Politburo, Maluta had used the phrase "my colleagues."

"You've got a pessimist's heart, Comrade General." Maluta sucked on his cigarette. "Possibly that is because you are female. Will you faint at the sight of a mouse running across your ankles, I wonder?" He laughed again and curled his hand into a fist. "I think not, I have already seen you wield a gun. You are an excellent shot. But what will happen to you when you are tempered in the ultimate fire? Will you harden into crystal? Or will you break apart into ten thousand shards? That is what I wish to know."

The Chaika turned off the highway and slid to a stop. Ducking his head, Maluta got out. He stood holding the door for her until she stood by his side.

Together they went down a stone path. At its foot, it petered out with a series of broken pieces of slate. The bank was fairly steep here and with the snow it was difficult to feel one's footing.

The lights of modern high-rises glittered off the ice that, before this last snow, had begun to break up. The Moskva looked as dull and inert as lead. Nothing was moving along its length or its banks.

"This is a favorite place of mine," Maluta said. And then, in case she might mistake this for a bit of confidence, he added, "It is where I come for private conversations. Here I can be a.s.sured I will not be overheard or recorded." He lifted his arms wide. "There is nowhere to hide. I would see even a crouching figure."

The snow seemed pink in the haloed illumination coming off the city. It drifted straight down in a night devoid of wind.

Maluta brought them to a halt just a scant pace from the waterline. "It was just here that I almost died." The end of his cigarette glowed, an evil all-knowing third eye. "I was fifteen and still foolhardy, absolutely unmindful of rules." He flicked ash into the darkness. "It was spring. Just about this time of the year, I suppose. The ice was thin, treacherous, my mother warned me. I never listened."

Maluta took a deep draft of the smoke, let it out slowly. He stood with his head slightly c.o.c.ked, as if he were listening for the soft grinding of the splitting ice. His pose was arrogant, his tone of voice angered her further.

But this was Oleg Maluta: somber, opinionated, sharp to the point of cutting, supremely arrogant, and utterly brilliant.

Again, Uncle Vadim's dictum rang in her inner ear: The male is the superior s.e.x because he believes himself to be.

Daniella wanted desperately not to be intimidated by this particular male. But she suspected that part of her inability to break free of her fear of him was the intensity of that desire.

"I went skating that day," Maluta was saying. "I believe there was a wager and I was either too brave or too pig-headed to back down. I went out on the ice. I had enough experience to know that there was a problem right away. It didn't feel right. In patches it was dark, which is a bad sign. Good, thick ice is pale. Very pale.

"I went down." His arm lifted and the glowing end of his cigarette described a brief arc. "Just there. I heard the crack and thought someone had shot off a pistol along the river. Then I plunged into the river. It was very cold and very dark." He finished the cigarette and flipped the b.u.t.t away. "Now I take people here when their usefulness is at an end. Another form of termination."

Typically he had not completed the story and Daniella knew that he never would. It was enough, in his opinion, for the listener to know that the lesson of long ago had been learned. It was self-evident that he had not drowned in the Moskva.