Yamashita didn’t know if they really did or not—he’d never tasted real caviar—but the fact that some thought so made the contract he’d signed for 200 kilos of Altaisian caviar very valuable.
He was making a killing. Even considering Drescher’s cut, he’d made more money in the last month than he’d ever made before.
So this was why people became collaborators.
Yamashita watched the tail out of the corner of his eye. A young man with short, blond hair who’d tried to dress like a local, but missed the mark.
One of MacPhail’s.
Yamashita had taken a cab to the meeting, but he decided to walk a couple blocks and look for a likely place.
He ambled past an open air fish market, where native blue snappers and six-legged crabs were laid out on beds of shaved ice. People crowded round the displays and called out their orders. Bills flashed back and forth.
Yamashita pushed his way through the crowd and glanced back. He’d lost the tail.
He sighed heavily.
Yamashita doubled back and pretended to examine something the fishmongers called “prawns” but looked more like roaches to him. After a few moments he saw a familiar blond head in the crowd.
He walked past the fish market, paused to window-shop in a little jewelry store and then ducked down a side street that turned out to be a blind alley.
Perfect.
Yamashita glanced around like he was lost. His right hand drifted down to the small of his back where he felt a little patch of slickness beneath his shirt.
How long was this going to take?
He heard a small sound behind him. He didn’t turn. Instead he muttered, “I’m sure she said this was the place.”
Something hard and heavy smashed against the side of his head and the world dimmed. Yamashita lurched to one side and fought to keep his feet.
He staggered around and threw a punch in a random direction, landing a glancing blow to his attacker’s jaw.
It wasn’t enough.
Another blow slammed down, the ground rushed up to meet him, and—
• • •
Yamashita had a nightmare about being beaten, blows raining down again and again until he curled up into a ball on the floor and just took them. Later he woke up and found out that it hadn’t been a dream.
A tight pain in his chest told him they’d broken two, maybe three ribs. His mouth tasted like blood and the blurry vision in his left eye hinted at a detached retina.
But the worst was his head. Whenever he moved, molten agony shot through his skull, incandescent white light filled his vision. Concussion.
Or worse.
He reached back to touch the small of his back and found they’d stripped off his shirt, no doubt looking for the tattoos they knew had to be there.
Hopefully they hadn’t looked too close.
He lay there for a long time, his body and face pressed against the cold concrete floor, eyes closed, waiting for what came next.
After a time a voice said, “It seems ya dinna lose your pinky in an accident after all.”
“No,” Yamashita croaked. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t look up to confirm that today his death had dressed up like Angus MacPhail. It was enough to hear his voice.
“You’re yakuza.”
“Hai,” said Yamashita in a gravelly voice that hurt his throat.
“First Ghosts or Second?”
“First.” Yamashita slowly opened his eyes and saw a blurry shape.
The shape nodded. “I especially liked the bit about the health club. Course it dinna do any good in the end, but no doubt you’re a clever jake.”
Yamashita said nothing.
“We’ve rounded up all your friends. Rest assured, ya won’t die alone, man.”
“I can—”
“Can what? What do ya have to trade this time?”
“Sabotage,” Yamashita whispered.
There was a long silence from the MacPhail-shape as he thought this through. “A nice try,” he said finally. “But before we’re done you’ll beg to tell us all about it. And even if ya dinna break, sabotage is something we can find ourselves. Have ya got anything else?”
Yamashita fell silent.
“That’s what I thought. You’ll never see the outside of this cell, Watanabe, or whatever your name is. I promise ya that.”
“Drescher won’t—”
MacPhail’s harsh laughter cut him off. “Colonel Drescher is in no position to help ya now. Trust me.” The blurry shape stood. “May as well rest. We’ll talk more later.”
A door clicked shut and Yamashita drifted back into comforting oblivion.
• • •
For some amount of time that Yamashita couldn’t even guess at, the world turned off. And then someone bent over him, a dark shape blocking the bright glare of the naked bulb overhead.
Yamashita tasted something cool and clean. The man was trickling water into his mouth.
He grunted and rolled over onto his side.
“Oh, so you’re awake,” said a voice.
“Hungry,” Yamashita croaked.
“Sure, I’ll feed you. The Kommandant says you have to be strong enough to talk.”
The guard turned to pick up a tray.
Yamashita reached down to the small of his back and felt the slickness there. He peeled back the two sheets of plastic, one from the other, careful only to touch the edge.
“Here we are,” said the guard.
Yamashita’s stomach growled at the thick smell of beef stew.
The man set the tray down.
Yamashita moved like lightning. He ripped the decal off, lunged forward, and slapped the plastic surface against the man’s face.
The guard stumbled backwards and fell. The decal was coated with a fast-acting neural agent; the guard never had a chance. He collapsed, overturning the tray, and spilling beef stew all over the cold, hard floor.
He lay there seizing violently for a moment and then he was suddenly, terribly still.
Yamashita staggered to his feet and almost blacked out. He stood there for a few minutes, breathing hard, clawing his way back to reality.
Then he bent down and picked up the guard’s M&G flechette pistol.
An exact replica of one of Yamashita’s tattoos—an orange tiger—marked the dead man’s cheek. It was masterful work. Even looking for it, Yamashita had a hard time seeing the nearly invisible plastic.
But he found it at last and peeled up the decal. Then he
