man's throat into the bulkhead.
Yoshi lay at his feet, his clothing and the floor around them crimson with blood.
The match burned down to his fingers and Shiro dropped it.
He was quaking with fear, unable to make sense of anything he saw when the stiletto punched under his chin, through his tongue, and into his brain.
Reiko Oshima lit the oil lamp and surveyed her handiwork.
She was believed to be dead and she would stay that way for the time being. Certainly these fishermen were in no position to argue.
She donned her still-wet clothing but supplemented it with various loose garments belonging to the crew. She was now unrecognizable. Her bandages obscured her features and the additional clothing made it impossible to determine her sex.
An old man, an old boat, and two drunken sons. All the elements of an accident.
The hibachi grill was fired with propane. She opened the valve and set the oil lamp at the far end of the cabin.
She had vanished into the backstreets of Tokyo when the fishing boat blew.
She had drunk some sake before she left to assuage her pain. All she took with her was the stolen clothing and the laminated photograph of Hugo Fitzduane.
This was the man who had killed her.
This was the man she would kill.
Book One
Terror
1
Washington, D.C.
The coded fax arrived as the three were having their breakfast.
The leader's room contained basic cooking facilities, so the group had prepared the Japanese breakfast they were used to. It was a relief not to have to endure coffee with white powder and foods like croissants saturated in fat. How one could function on such an unhealthy diet was a mystery, Wakami- san considered.
The fax was decoded by Jin Endo, the most junior member of the group. His face turned gray as he read it, checking for spelling errors before presenting it to the group leader.
He had sworn to die in the service of Yaibo and had meant every word, but to face the fact that this was the day his life would almost certainly end was hard indeed. He was young and good-looking and the juices flowed. He remembered the young blond intern whom he had tried to talk to the evening before. Her skirt had been swept back above her knees, and her thigh in the crowded bar, had pressed against his. He was Asian and spoke little English, but she found him attractive, he knew.
She worked in the FarnsworthBuilding for a congressman from Texas. She had given him her number and extension scribbled on a beer coaster. He had said he was a student visiting Washington with his older brother and uncle. He would be here for a few more days. Look me up, her eyes had said, and the warmth of her body had confirmed the promise. But it would be a promise unfulfilled, for he would be dead.
They gave no thought as to why this man, Patricio Nicanor, had to die, but focused totally on how the order was to be implemented. The most important thing, the order stressed, was that Nicanor be liquidated. They must make sure he was killed before he had a chance to speak to anyone in the congressman's office, where the T-Group was based. He must be silenced whatever the cost. The lives of the Yaibo cell members were expendable.
The group leader's stomach churned as he read the decoded fax, but his face displayed no trace of his inner feelings. He had trained for many years for such an occasion and he had developed the ability to separate his normal human reactions from his inner self. His initial feelings might be of shock or fear or extreme stress, but he now knew that these were false reactions. His inner self and his fundamental sense of purpose were what counted.
Death was of no significance, for he was as if already dead. What was important would be the manner of his dying. He had dedicated his life to Yaibo, so what mattered was whether his death was in the service of his organization. He would do what was ordered without hesitation or regret.
The fax contained a digitized photo of the target that had been broken up into a dozen segments and then spread amongst the kanji text. It would scarcely fool the computers of the NSA, but it was certainly sufficient to deceive the hotel clerk who had delivered the message.
Endo cut up the fax with a scissors and reassembled the pieces of the picture. What emerged was a picture of a Latin male in his early thirties. It was a clear photo, but it was more indicative of a type than an individual. From the photograph alone they could not be certain beyond a doubt who their target was.
Wakami looked at his senior colleague. Matsunaga- san had worked with him for many years. They were the same age and had joined Yaibo at the same time, and their thoughts were as one.
Wakami had not spoken, but Matsunaga- san nodded. 'There is only one certain way of getting the right man, Wakami- san. We know where he is going to and we know roughly when he is due. We must kill him inside the congressional building as he approaches his goal. That way his guard will be down and we can be certain.'
'But how, Wakami- san?' said Endo. 'There are guards at the entrances and everyone is searched.'
'That is a problem we have still to resolve,' said Wakami, 'but we are not entirely unprepared. There is certainly a solution.'
The Endo asked the question that had been haunting him. He hesitated, and the words rushed out as if they had a life of their own. Immediately he regretted having spoken. This was not appropriate behavior from a junior colleague, and indeed he already knew the answer. But he was young and he was afraid, and he had to ask. His hands, clasped in front of him in a posture of respect as he stood there, were damp with sweat and shaking.
'Wakami- san,' he said. 'How will we escape after we have killed this man?'
Wakami looked at his young colleague with affection. How little the young know, he thought, and how petty are their concerns.
'Endo- san,' he said, 'your concern that you might be taken alive is worthy indeed. You must trust me. I know you will do your duty.'
Endo bowed in submission. His bowels had turned to liquid. His life, one way or another, would end this very day. It was certain. He could smell the very skin of the young blond intern, carefree and enthusiastic. She had her whole life ahead of her. He wanted to sob out loud. He straightened and was once again in control. There was a task to perform.
Oshima- san trusted him and had initiated him personally. He would not let her down.
They entered the outskirts of Washington, D.C.
Twenty minutes later, Warner gave a uniformed guard a wave. It was acknowledged by a nod of recognition, the barrier was raised, and they shot into the basement car park of the FarnsworthBuilding. It was a mildly handsome but otherwise unremarkable light gray stone building housing four hundred and fifty elected members and their staffs of the Congress of the United States of America.
Fitzduane looked around the drab basement parking area. The place was two-thirds empty. There was nothing to distinguish this parking lot from tens of thousands of conventional commercial-building lots, but still the knowledge that he was now in the very core of the most powerful political center on earth gave him pause for thought.
