to be badly hurt, hopping forward, holding a yellow printout in his hand. He looked desperate, focusing on his goal, each hop deepening his grimace.
Jake tried to yell. Tried to warn him.
He had no idea Orchid was right behind him.
“VLADIMIR,” ORCHID SAID, AND WAITED FOR HIM TO TURN.
She put the first bullet in his neck, just above the Adam’s apple. His mouth formed an
She stood over him. The yellow printout was still in his grasp, jittering with the firing of his dying nerves.
She knelt, put the silencer directly to his temple, and put in a second bullet to finish it.
She waited until he was still, then pried the printout from his fingers.
She stood. Her own hands were shaking. This was it. Success or failure.
She read the message. By the fourth paragraph, she knew the answer.
She glanced up. Jake was staring at her, hate in his eyes.
No matter. He would be dead soon.
Orchid folded the sheet of paper carefully and tucked it in a pocket. Within hours she would have the Uzumaki. Within days it would be done. Kitano would be dead, the Uzumaki would be free, and she would have all the money. She did something she hadn’t done in a long time.
Orchid smiled.
32
DUNNE STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT KITANO, AND KITANO stared back. The only other person in the room was an FBI interrogator named Felix Carter. No lawyers were present, no aides, no security personnel. Any information gained would have no criminal relevance, could not be used in a court of law. Kitano had demanded this in writing. He had something to tell them. He would do so only if he was granted blanket immunity.
Age was destroying Kitano, but he was putting up a hell of a fight. The man was nothing but bone and sinew. His eyes had yellowed, the pupils dark and cold, a contrast to his bright orange prison jumpsuit. Dunne was in a three-thousand-dollar blue pinstriped suit by H. Huntsman, one of four by that Savile Row tailor that hung in his closet. When Dunne had first met Kitano, his most expensive suit had come from Brooks Brothers. Their individual fortunes changed, a role reversal for the billionaire and the up-and-coming wonk, one ascending spectacularly, the other falling dramatically.
Kitano had three further stipulations. The first was that Dunne be physically present. Dunne knew why. Kitano had leverage on him and was prepared to use it.
The second one was unusual. Kitano kept a large pigeon rookery at his house in the Maryland countryside, north of Washington, D.C. Even in jail, he’d made sure the pigeons were attended by a full-time caretaker. Hitoshi Kitano demanded full and regular access to his pigeons.
Requirement number three was perhaps the most visceral, in that it demonstrated the primitive survival instinct. Dunne could tell by the videos of Kitano talking to the FBI. He knew Kitano’s body language like he knew his own father’s. Kitano said the woman was after him. She wanted to kill him, he was certain. Kitano’s whole body had stiffened when he’d said it, his hands held in tight fists. He was scared to death.
Demand number three: under no circumstances, no matter what happened, no matter what pressure she applied, could they turn him over to her.
IN THE ADJOINING ROOM WAS A TEAM OF INTERROGATION experts analyzing the spectrum of Kitano’s voice patterns, the fluctuations in his pupil size, the electrical conductivity of his skin. The FBI interrogator would be getting real-time updates on Kitano’s stress levels.
The interrogator began by reading a summary of events pertaining to the woman. Dunne took no pleasure watching Kitano’s shocked reaction to the details of the victim taken to Bellevue, the “731 Devil” symbols carved into his chest. A similar reaction when Kitano learned of the finger bone in the cylinder with the words KITANO MUST PAY.
Before today, Kitano couldn’t talk about their cozy and highly improper relationship without getting himself in at least as much trouble as Dunne. But now the duplicitous rat had blanket immunity.
THE QUESTIONS STARTED EASY, QUERIES ABOUT KITANO’S personal information, his business interests, all for the instrument boys to get baseline readings. From there it moved into more interesting territory, questions about the man dropped off in Times Square. Dunne watched closely, attentive to Kitano’s every gesture. He appeared calm, answering in simple declarative sentences.
Finally the interrogator nodded to Dunne.
“All right, Hitoshi,” Dunne said. “Talk. Do you know who the woman is? Or are you just jerking us around?”
Kitano’s eyes met Dunne’s. “Did you find a tattoo on the victim? An Orchid flower? Anything like that?”
Dunne said, “Yes.”
Kitano nodded. “She goes by the name Orchid.”
“Orchid,” Dunne said. “How do you know?”
“I saw the photo. I recognized her.”
Kitano was correct. They’d picked up their first real information on the woman less than an hour ago. The name tattooed on the finger bone had set off alarm bells with the CIA station chief in Beijing.
“Who is Orchid?” Dunne asked Kitano.
“She is a kind of specialist. Known in the Chinese right-wing circles. It is rumored she was behind the bombing of Japan’s Yasukuni Shrine. Last year. And the murder of Kabawi.”
“Kabawi?”
“A conservative member of the Japanese legislature. He led the movement to purify the textbooks of anti- Imperial rhetoric. What your newspapers would call a
“Why does Orchid want you?”
“Many know of my past, what happened at Harbin. Her benefactor wants revenge.”
“Who does she work for?”
“There are rumors of a billionaire Chinese backer. Rabidly anti-Japanese.”
“No names?”
“Billionaires in China are a cancer. In 2003 there were none-now there are hundreds. It is very dangerous, such sudden power, sudden wealth. It amplifies one’s secret desires, secret prejudices. Such men are very dangerous.”
Kitano’s demeanor changed at this question. Dunne saw it in his face, his body language. A chink in the man’s confident armor. Now they were getting down to it.
The room was silent. Dunne began to wonder if the old man had suffered a stroke.
Finally he spoke. “Do you know what happened after they destroyed the USS
A knock, and the door to the interrogation room opened. It was Dunne’s attache. He passed Dunne a note. It said one word: IMPORTANT.
DUNNE STEPPED OUT INTO THE HALL. HIS DEPUTY WAS WAITING. “What now?”
“In Ithaca. They found a woman shot dead near Maggie Connor’s workplace. No one can find Ms. Connor. Or her son. The police said there was a fire. And a second fire that was even stranger. Out in the sticks with the rednecks. Firemen found what looks like the remnants of a state-of-the-art biotech lab. The firemen also found two bodies inside, both with gunshot wounds. One of the victims was a Cornell professor, a friend of Jake Sterling’s.”
