Flashback

and sunomono—the big man specified that he wanted it sauced with ponzu and wasabi mayonnaise—and barbecued squid in soy ginger sauce. He also ordered a bowl of nabeyaki udon without the poached egg. And sake.

When the flight attendant turned to Nick and bowed, obviously inquiring as to whether he’d changed his mind and would like something after all, Nick said, “Yes, I’d also like some sake.”

When the woman was gone, Sato asked, “Do you need medical attention, Bottom-san? One of the crew has military medical training and the proper equipment and drugs.”

Nick shook his head again. “Just some scratches and dinged-in ribs. I had them taped.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. The A310/360’s two engines were so quiet that almost no sound from them entered the cabin; Nick knew they were on only because of the faint vibration underfoot and in the arms of his leather chair. He was close to dozing off when Sato spoke.

“You did not find your son, then, Bottom-san?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Nor any clue as to his current whereabouts?”

Nick shrugged. “What are you doing here, Sato? You were supposed to be with Mr. Nakamura in Washington until tomorrow.”

The security chief—or was it assassin?—grunted. “Nakamura-sama is returning to Denver tomorrow, but a company flight to John Wayne Airport opened up today and he suggested I come out to make sure you made this flight.”

“If I hadn’t?” said Nick. He was very aware that no one had frisked him and that he still had the fully loaded Glock 9 on his left hip.

Sato made his clumsy version of a shrug. “I would have contacted authorities to inquire as to your fate, Bottom-san. Beginning with your assistant chief Ambrose, whom you mentioned in Denver. Or is it, as you said on the tarmac, ‘Chief’ Ambrose?”

“Promotion,” said Nick. Even talking sent pain through his tightly taped but still-aching ribs. “The regular CHP chief had a fatal heart attack on the third day of the rioting and fighting in L.A. and Dale received a temporary field promotion.”

“But your friend in the California Highway Patrol was not able to help you find your son?”

Nick shook his head again. The food came in, carried by three beautiful female attendants, and looked delicious. Nick wasn’t sure why he hadn’t ordered something: he hadn’t eaten in more than ten hours and it would be after midnight, Denver time, when they landed at DIA. Even his mall condos’ late-night cafeteria would be shut down by the time he got there.

Nick found himself salivating from just looking at Sato’s dinner laid out on the table, but it was the smell of the nabeyaki udon broth that really made his stomach rumble.

He gulped some sake, rose painfully, and said, “Where’s the lavatory?”

There were two doors on the aft bulkhead. The flight attendants had come in through the one on the right. Sato pointed to the door on the left.

A few minutes later, Nick stood in front of the wide mirror. This aircraft lavatory was three times the size of the bathroom in his cubie and had an actual bath as well as shower. The face and figure staring back at him looked out of place in the lemon-soap luxury of the executive-jet lavatory: Nick’s shirt was torn and bloodied, his tan jacket and chinos filthy—the left pant leg ripped and blood-soaked with white bandages showing through—and Nick had scrapes and new scars on his cheekbone and right temple. He’d received nine stitches along that cheekbone at the CHP barracks and the effect was moderately Frankenstein-like. They’d scrubbed off the worst of the grime there, but Nick still washed his hands and face vigorously in the plane lav, handling the thick hand towel gingerly, as if he didn’t want his dirt and blood to contaminate it.

Nick removed the Glock from the crossdraw holster, made sure the safety was off and that there was a round in the chamber, and set the heavy pistol back in place. If Omura-sama was correct—and Nick had believed him— then Sato was escorting him home to a death sentence. And one that would be carried out soon, probably tomorrow afternoon or evening when Nakamura arrived home to his mountaintop above Denver.

But Nick had his pistol now. An oversight? A test?

Either way, the 9mm Glock was real and his to use. But use how? Come out shooting, kill Sato first, then move from one hanging oxygen mask to the next until he could get onto the flight deck and demand that the pilot fly him…

Where? There was no nation in this hemisphere now that did not have extradition treaties with the New Nippon.

And what if Val had made it to Denver and was waiting for him?

But all this was academic, since Nick knew the door to access the flight deck could probably take repeated RPG rounds without opening or giving way. And that the crew was almost certainly armed, but wouldn’t even need that. All they’d have to do was keep the plane at altitude—assuming that some of his rounds either made it all the way through Sato or missed and depressurized the aircraft—and shut off the oxygen to his compartment. They could do that, of course, even if a stray round hadn’t depressurized the compartment. Nick shook his head and stared at the much thinner, almost gaunt by his standards of the last five years or so, and visibly beaten-up figure in the mirror. He was too tired. Too many nights with too little sleep. It was hard to think.

When he came out, there was a cluster of little plates and a bowl and a replenished glass of sake on his side of the small table as well.

“This meal was so good that I took the liberty, Bottom-san,” grunted Sato. “I personally do not enjoy the poached egg with the noodles in nabeyaki udon, but most people do. I had them serve it to you on the side. The slices of cooked octopus in the tako su are garnished with sticks of pale green cucumber, bathed in ponzu sauce and topped with sesame seeds, sliced scallion, and a drizzle of wasabi mayonnaise. I believe you will find that the sauce has an engagingly smoky, citrus taste that complements the octopus. Why are you smiling, Bottom-san?”

“No reason,” said Nick, although he’d come close to laughing at Sato’s impersonation of an eager maitre d’. “I guess I’m more hungry than I knew, Sato-san. Thank you.”

Sato nodded abruptly. “The pepper tuna and sunomono are similarly sauced with ponzu and wasabi mayonnaise,” he said. “The black pepper–crusted tuna, seared on the outside but still raw, then sliced thin, is a favorite of mine. I hope you enjoy it, Bottom-san.”

“I am certain I will, Sato-san,” said Nick. He was still standing and he realized that he was bowing his thanks, and bowing low.

Sato grunted and Nick settled into his chair, giving out his own involuntary grunt from the pain in his ribs. The smell from the bowl of broth and other food brought tears to his eyes.

Galina Kschessinska, aka Galina Sue Coyne, was of a kind that Nick had interviewed many times, sometimes as eager witness, although more often as perp or accomplice. In any of the roles, the clinical description of the Galina Kschessinska type remained the same: malignant narcissist.

“I haven’t had anyone come to talk to me for several days,” said the middle-aged woman. Her eyes looked like small, pale oysters that had been swallowed by successive layers of makeup. Nick thought that her plastic surgeon should be arrested and tortured for crimes against humanity. “I was beginning to think,” she continued, inhaling smoke from her No-C stick at the end of a pearl cigarette holder, “that the police had lost interest in the case.”

Why would that be, just because the world is burning down here? thought Nick. He shook his head. Vigorously. “Oh, no, Ms. Kschessinska, the case is still very much open and we’re very interested in finding the culprit or culprits who shot your son… and for his death, let me say again, I’m very, very sorry.”

The woman lowered her eyes and gave herself a half-moment of dramatic silence. “Yesss,” she said finally, sending the pitiful purr-hiss out through projected pain. “Poor William.” Whatever her relationship with her son Billy had been, thought Nick, her mourning period for the kid hadn’t quite lasted the past week. And she’d obviously enjoyed the attention she’d received from the media and cops and wanted more of it. Today she seemed either drugged or drunk or a bit of both. Between her mild accent and the more-than-mild slurring, Nick had to concentrate to understand what she was saying.