the sexual electricity had become strong enough, he felt, to make both of them glow in the dark like Russian sailors on the nuclear subs of the Northern fleet. It seemed a pity, he reflected, that for the balance of the night they would have to glow apart.
Women were damn confusing. There was Etan, whom he loved but who did not want to settle down just when he did. There was Kathleen, of whom he was becoming increasingly fond, who evidently did want to settle down, just when he was beginning to think perhaps he didn't. And there was Chifune, where the chemistry was just plain sexual and who had Adachi- san hidden in the wings, if he read the signs right. He liked Adachi, and anyway it really would not be a good idea to confuse business and pleasure. He needed, and was getting, Adachi's cooperation, so sleeping with the superintendent's woman would not be tactful. Still, life was rarely about being sensible.
Since the cold water did not seem to be having the desired effect, and he saw no point in giving the Namakas the satisfaction of dying of hypothermia, Fitzduane turned up the hot. He was endeavoring to have a pleasantly mindless soak when the phone rang. Evidently, his mind was not fooled. When he wrapped a towel around his waist, there remained a noticeable protrusion.
'I'm asleep,' said Fitzduane, 'more or less. The earth is round and Japan is a long way from where you are and it's after midnight around here. Nobody civilized calls that late.'
'Well, ain't that nice,' said Kilmara. 'That leaves me in the clear. Listen, my good friend, this is a global village these days, and the ether has been hyperactive since you visited with Bergin. Somebody wants to talk to you to make sure you don't step into something you shouldn't. ‘There are things afoot we don't want to fuck up,’ he says. ‘We need our friends,’ he says.'
'Who is the somebody?' said Fitzduane, who already knew.
'Our friend, the unlovable Paul Schwanberg,' said Kilmara. 'Head off to the New Otani tomorrow after breakfast if you have nothing doing, and ask for him at reception. He's got offices there. Something called the Japan-World Research Federation. Well, it's better than Acme Import-Export, but not much. Anyway, everyone knows who they are. It's just that it's more fun operating from a cover than out of the embassy, though they do that too. They have a proprietorial feeling about Japan. There is nothing like dropping a couple of nuclear bombs on a country to start a special relationship.'
As if on cue, the room started to shake, not violently but steadily. After about ten seconds, the movement stopped. Kilmara was still talking, but Fitzduane had not been listening. It had been frightening.
'Hell,' he said, 'they really do have earthquakes here. It's scary.'
'They are due a big one soon,' said Kilmara, 'or so I hear. Something to take your mind off all this blood and guts you seem to attract. Just remember to stay away from reinforced concrete buildings and stuff like that. They do you no good at all if they fall on you – especially at your age.'
'I feel pretty young tonight,' said Fitzduane, eyeing the obstinate bulge which had come unscathed through the earth tremor, 'but unfortunately there is no one around to share this insight with.'
'Yeah, hotel rooms are like that sometimes,' said Kilmara. 'But not always. I remember when you and I were in…'
Fitzduane laughed. He was asleep minutes later.
The New Otani, Tokyo, Japan
June 20
The New Otani complex was a fitting monument to the new superrich, self-confident Japan, and Fitzduane, having learned something about Japanese property prices, shuddered at what it might be worth.
It was part luxury hotel and part office complex, and doubtless there were expensive apartments hidden away there also. The atrium was spectacular and looked high enough to have its own microclimate. Certainly you could jump off one of the internal balconies and hang-glide inside it if you were so inclined – provided you were well-tailored and wore polished Gucci loafers. There was an implied dress code.
The soaring atrium was a truly magnificent waste of Tokyo real estate. Such impracticality cheered up Fitzduane immensely, and he was already in a good mood. His favorite waiter had brought cold milk for his tea that morning, and no one had taken a shot at him or tried to cut him into pieces when he had gone for a prebreakfast run with his convoy. Also, it had not been raining, which was a decided improvement.
It was soon clear that the loss the developers of the New Otani had taken with the atrium was being compensated for elsewhere. The offices of the Japan-World Research Federation were exquisitely finished, but tiny. It was the smallest suite of offices Fitzduane had ever seen, and everything – desks, cupboards, tables, chairs – seemed to be shrunk in proportion. Schwanberg was small, too, a not-quite-a-yuppie-anymore in his early fifties with thinning hair and a smooth, manufactured face. He wore a tie with a stickpin, and as he moved there was a flash of red suspenders. His jacket buttons were covered with the same material as his suit.
For a brief moment Fitzduane remembered that horrendous scene from decades earlier as, without explanation or warning, Schwanberg suddenly inserted the blade of his knife into that young Vietnamese girl's mouth. He could never forget the gush of red blood and the terrible animal noise she had made. It had been reported, but then the Tet Offensive had intervened, and when the fighting died down again the file had been lost and the affair glossed over.
Fitzduane despised the man. In his opinion, Schwanberg was vicious and cunning but absolutely without core values. He was also an extraordinarily colorless individual. Fitzduane had the feeling Schwanberg knew clamps were needed to climb the slippery bureaucratic pole, but otherwise he had been chose to match the furniture. Still, Kilmara had made the current introduction, and the game was not played by being overly concerned about personalities.
'Colonel Fitzduane,' said Schwanberg, smiling broadly and taking Fitzduane's hand in both of his. 'This is a genuine pleasure and a privilege. It's good to see an old war buddy. We've both come a long way since then.'
Fitzduane extracted his hand, kept his face in neutral, and barely restrained himself from doing something painful and destructive to the little toad. The man's eyes were curiously dead, as if feelings and emotions were alien.
Schwanberg snapped his fingers. Fitzduane's umbrella was removed by a bowing office lady and he was shown into a miniature conference room.
Tea was brought in by another OL. Frankly, he could not see where they put all these people. The place was seriously small. They must rack up the staff in the filing cabinets. There did not seem enough space for a couple of real humans.
Schwanberg pressed some buttons on a console recessed into the conference table and the door slid shut and there was the sound of humming.
'We're now totally secure,' said Schwanberg. 'A bubble. A lot of dollars went into this place. Totally soundproof, totally bugproof. Nada gets out, Hugo, so we can speak quite freely.'
Fitzduane smiled disarmingly. 'Speak away, Schwanberg,' he said, and sat back in his miniature chair expectantly. Schwanberg looked at him, as if expecting him to say something. Fitzduane just nodded reassuringly, but said nothing.
'You know, Colonel,' said Schwanberg, 'you've got one hell of an impressive track record. Most in the counterterrorism business just shuffle paper, send each other classified E-mail, and maneuver to get the most out of the public trough, but you and I and General Kilmara get right in there and get our hands bloody.'
He grinned. 'Forgive me. I've been a desk jockey too long. The fact is that, compared to most in this business, you two are right at the top in terms of hands-on experience. You guys are not the product of endless expensive training and computer war games. You people have actually done it. You've tracked down the bad guys and wasted them. You know what to do and how to do it and how to get others to do it. In fact, apart from maybe the Israelis, there are few people more experienced at the game.'
Fitzduane drank his tea. He had absolutely no idea where Schwanberg was heading, except that he was being flattered for some, doubtless unpleasant, purpose.
'Schwanberg,' he said, 'what you say is probably true about General Kilmara, but if your records are accurate, they will show that apart from a stint in the Irish Army, I have spent most of my life, including my stint in Vietnam, as a war photographer. I became involved in counterterrorism by accident, by being on the receiving end,
