Flashback

indicated. Nick wondered how many years it had been since Nakamura’s people or any law-enforcement or intelligence agency had managed to get a photo of this man.

“A good question,” said the deeply suntanned and wrinkled don, folding his hands on the metal desktop. “I would answer sincerely that nothing could warrant such treatment of a guest, Nick Bottom, but you are, of course, something more than a mere guest. Your employer, Mr. Hiroshi Nakamura, has reasons—good reasons, both political and strategic—for wishing that I no longer existed. He also has, under his control, certain orbital hyperkinetic weapons that the Japanese whimsically refer to, I believe, as gee-bears. Have you heard this term?”

“Yes,” said Nick, suspecting that Noukhaev knew all about Sato’s use of the things against the tanks the day before.

“So you see,” said the don, “it was tempting fate to give Mr. Nakamura absolute knowledge of my presence at the hacienda at any specific moment on any specific day.” He grinned. “Yes, you are thinking, Nick Bottom—This man is paranoid—and I would agree with you. I ask myself only, Am I paranoid enough? Please sit down before you fall.”

Nick sat before he fell.

Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev was reminding him of someone. He got it almost at once—Anthony Quinn, that twentieth-century movie actor that he and Val had liked—not so much because Noukhaev looked like Quinn, but because the voice and slight accent were similar, the quirk of the mouth into an arrogantly amused smile was similar, and because Noukhaev was hard to place ethnically, the same way that Anthony Quinn had played Mexicans, Indians, Arabs, and Greeks. The don also had a powerful body resembling the late actor’s—compact but broad-chested, massive forearms, a man’s strong hands.

Nick said, “So where are we now?”

Noukhaev laughed as if Nick had made a joke. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere that I believe even your omnipotent Mr. Nakamura does not know of.”

“He’s not my omnipotent Mr. Nakamura,” Nick said sourly. “And if he were omnipotent, he sure as hell wouldn’t have had to hire me to help find out who killed his kid.”

“Exactly!” cried Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev, holding up one brown finger. “Why did he hire you, Nick Bottom?”

“I have a hunch you want to enlighten me on why Nakamura hired me,” said Nick.

“You must know, Nick Bottom,” said the don. “And if you do not know, you must suspect.”

“I suspect everyone and no one,” said Nick. He’d wanted to say that line since he was nine years old. Nick guessed that it was probably the oxygen deprivation while he was gagged and bound that prompted him to say it now.

Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev squinted at him for a silent moment. Then the older man threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

Shit, he is nuts, thought Nick.

Noukhaev opened a lower desk drawer, removed a box, offered the box to Nick. Cigars. Nick shook his head and the don chose one for himself, went through the usual stupid ritual of biting, spitting (Nick had learned through movies that more sophisticated types cut the ends of the cigar off, or had their butlers do it), and lighting the expensive stogie with a lighter he produced from his khakis’ pockets.

Nick still thought the room was in a basement or deep underground, but the ventilation was very good. He got only a slight whiff of the cigar smoke.

“Why would one of the most powerful men on the planet hire you, Nick Bottom?” Noukhaev said rhetorically. Nick hated it when speakers got rhetorical. It insulted your intelligence.

“Nakamura has already carried out multiple investigations of his son’s murder,” continued the don, sitting back in his chair and exhaling blue-white smoke. “The Denver police—both before and after you—the CBI, the FBI, Homeland Security, his own security people, the Keisatsu-cho…”

If the Japanese National Police Agency had investigated Keigo Nakamura’s murder, it was news to Nick. For most of its history the Keisatsu-cho had just overseen and regulated local Japanese police departments—mostly setting standards, a bureaucracy with none of the powers of the FBI, not even agents or officers of its own—but in the last few decades since It All Hit The Fan and Japan had ended up on top (or at least near the top), the National Police Agency had grown real teeth, both with its new secret-police security agency, the Keibi-kyoku, and its overseas intelligence agency, the Gaiji Joho-bu. Beyond knowing their names and hearing and reading that the agency’s subdepartments were lethal, Nick knew nothing about them.

“… and then Mr. Nakamura hires you, Nick Bottom,” Noukhaev was concluding. He seemed to be enjoying the cigar. “Why do you think he did that?”

Full circle, thought Nick. He said, “Obviously not to solve his son’s murder, Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev. That leaves… what? To set you up as a target in this meeting at your hacienda so Mr. Nakamura could gee-bear you to dust and ashes? But there’s a problem with that, isn’t there?”

“What is that, Nick Bottom?”

“It was you who called Nakamura’s people and suggested this meeting,” said Nick. “At least that’s what Hideki Sato told me. So Nakamura couldn’t have known when he hired me that you’d be inviting me down here.”

Noukhaev nodded and exhaled more smoke. “Very true. But, Nick Bottom… ‘Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.’ Do you know who said that?”

“It would have to be Sun Tzu, Don Noukhaev.”

“Ahh, you know Sun Tzu, Nick Bottom?”

“Not in the least,” said Nick. “But I’ve met a hundred arrogant, condescending bastards playing the big, tough, intellectual generals who go around quoting him as if it meant something important.”

Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev froze, cigar halfway to his mouth, and Nick thought—Shit, I went too far.

He didn’t care.

Noukhaev threw his head back and laughed again. It sounded sincere.

“You are right, Nick Bottom,” growled the don after finishing his laugh and inhaling his smoke. “I was patronizing you. You were right to call me on it. But Sun Tzu did say that, and it does apply to our… ah… situation here. Hiroshi Nakamura is a general and he does know his Sun Tzu. He might well have hired you simply because he knows that I would be tempted to talk to such an underling… no offense intended, Nick Bottom.”

“None taken,” said Nick. “So is that why Nakamura hired me? If so, I guess my job’s at an end. And I failed, since if Sato and his boss watched the various trucks or Mercedeses or whatever leaving the hacienda at the same time, they’d probably know you were taking me somewhere else and call off the gee-bear strike.”

“There were eleven vans that left the hacienda at the same moment thirty-nine minutes ago, Nick Bottom,” said the don. “Hiroshi Nakamura has the resources to hit a hundred targets with his kinetic missiles. Allowing time for you to be brought into the place and for me to enter, the orbital weapons should be arriving about… now.”

Nick glanced at the ceiling. He couldn’t resist the impulse. Nor could he stop his testicles from trying to climb back up into his body. He’d seen what six gee-bears could do.

“Do you play chess, Nick Bottom?” The don’s eyes looked serious.

“Sort of. I guess I could be called a chess-duffer.”

Noukhaev nodded, although whether that was a confirmation that there was such a stupid term, Nick had no idea. The don said softly, “As a chess player, Nick Bottom, even a beginner, how would you improve the odds that Nakamura not use his weapons on the eleven possible targets?”

“I’d have each of them go to some important, public, crowded, and—if possible—historic spot,” Nick said at once. “And unload the trucks out of sight. At the St. Francis Cathedral, say, or the Loretto Chapel or the Inn of the Governors… places like that. Nakamura might still do it—what do American historical sites and American casualties mean to him or Sato?—but it might give him pause.”