opponent. He outweighed even Ichi, probably tipping the scales in excess of five hundred pounds. Hiro flexed his muscles and stamped his feet. Hawke followed his example, too focused on what he must do to feel ridiculous. He tried to imagine his opponent to be a small object, to simply be pushed aside, and found this a difficult feat of imagination.
He approached his line in the dohyo, staring at the other man implacably. The man squatted, assuming the shikiri, supporting his weight upon his fists. Hawke felt an odd calm, stemming no doubt from Ichi’s serene confidence in the outcome. He, too, bent and placed his fists on the line, inhaling deeply as he did so.
He gave no warning. A half second after his fists touched the clay, Hawke exploded up and into the man. He launched his body with every ounce of the coiled energy in his legs and caught Hiro precisely where he’d been shown. The man took the unexpectedly vicious blow to his sternum and staggered back. For one horrible moment, Hawke thought he might recover, but the blow had caught him completely off guard. Backpedaling heavily, he briefly lost his balance, and one knee hit the clay.
Hawke didn’t hear the cheers that erupted, or the surprising applause coming from the women on the other side of the ring. He walked over to Hiro, who was still kneeling, and offered the man his hand. The great sumo warrior smiled at him and grasped it, rising to his feet.
Hawke showed no emotion.
The first match was over, but his second was already about to begin. Bin Wazir was getting to his feet. He felt light-headed from the pain in his side and black spots were floating before his eyes. He shook his head and willed them away. Just then he noticed an odd thing. The four suspended television monitors were no longer broadcasting a live image of the dohyo and the matches. Instead, there was an image of a British airliner in flight. Had he lost it completely? The shaky picture appeared to be taken from another aircraft flying alongside.
He recognized this for what it was, a distraction, and turned his eyes away.
Standing at the edge of the ring, Hawke accepted a sip of water from a ladle handed to him by Ichi, who then handed him a paper towel to wipe his lips. “To cleanse the spirit,” Ichi-san said.
Bin Wazir entered the dohyo, raising each leg high and bringing it down hard. Hawke followed suit.
Both men cast their salt into the center of the ring. Hawke made his cast high and hard, emulating Hiro’s heroic gesture, an early show of strength and confidence. His opponent favored him with a long, hard stare that was, Hawke imagined, the sumo equivalent of trash talk on a football field. The Dog showed no emotion, nor did Hawke, as they squared off opposite each other and bent to place their fists on the clay.
It was a simple game, as Ichi had said. Mass versus speed.
Hawke pulled as much air down into his lungs as he could without blacking out from the sharp knives in his side and waited. He knew instinctively the instantaneous explosion of the tachi-ai would not work twice in succession. Eyeing the Dog, and readying himself, he looked for some sign from his opponent. Again, he felt a kind of serenity, imparted perhaps when Ichi had given him the water and the towel for his lips.
To cleanse the spirit.
In the same instant Hawke saw his flicker of intent, Bin Wazir lunged.
He came in low, and Hawke was ready.
He sprang upwards and, placing both hands on the man’s massive shoulders, leapfrogged cleanly over his back. The Dog’s momentum carried him forward. Hawke, who had landed on his feet and whirled about, thought for a second the man might need to put a hand down to keep him from falling, thus ending the match. He was not so lucky. Bin Wazir kept his footing. He then stopped, and turned around to face Hawke, stamping his feet.
They circled each other now, using all of the dohyo, still showing each other nothing.
“You’re hurt,” Bin Wazir said, smiling. “Your whole left side is crushed. Must be painful.”
“Just a scratch,” Hawke said, advancing.
Hawke’s mind was racing, searching every corner for some advantage. Ichi-san had not covered this section of the sumo arts in his lessons. Suddenly, a bright image flickered above him. It caught his eye and he looked up for the briefest instant. What he saw on the television monitors horrified him, and in that moment the Dog had him.
What he saw, before bin Wazir wrapped him in both of his powerful arms and lifted him bodily from the clay, was the British airliner exploding into a huge fireball. The plane was disintegrating before his eyes, flaming jet fuel and pieces of metal and human beings falling earthward in a rain of liquid fire.
The man’s grip tightened about his ribcage. The pain was horrific. A jagged splinter of bone must be piercing something inside. Nothing to do but try to ignore it and try to keep the blackness at bay. He realized that biz Wazir had pinioned him in such a way as to make escape all but impossible. He had to find a way to buy a moment to think before he completely blacked out.
“You blew up that airliner yourself,” he said, pushing the single button he knew might work—Snay bin Wazir’s ego.
“Yes, I did,” the Dog said. “One of yours. It appears I will kill a lot of Englishmen today. I could kill you now —but why spoil the fun? We should complete the match, no? You appear to have many supporters in the audience.”
“Sporting of you,” Hawke grimaced, his voice scratchy and harsh as the man released him.
Back on his feet, he moved to the edge of the ring, breathing deeply, trying to regain his strength. A sheen of perspiration coated his face, grey with pain. Bin Wazir would be counting on delaying tactics, so Hawke charged. Speed versus mass, now. Bin Wazir tried to sidestep him, but Hawke was too quick. He dove for him, and heard a satisfying crack as his right shoulder slammed the Dog’s left knee. The knee went backward, the patella shattered. The man grunted in pain, but did not go down. Hawke rolled away and sprang to his feet. On the four screens, the rain of fire continued.
“Why pick on England? I thought it was the Americans you and the Emir were after,” Hawke taunted, circling the enraged man again and again.
“Americans, yes,” the Dog said. “My holy warriors will kill them too. Today. Perhaps ten million or more.”
Hawke edged closer, feinting left and right. Suddenly, the pain was forgotten and he felt a surge of strength. His mind had finally taken over. “That many? The Pigskin, Mr. bin Wazir? Tell me, are your little bombs already inside America?”
Bin Wazir laughed and lashed out, an unexpected blow. Hawke barely dodged it with a head feint. Spinning away, he chopped down hard on the man’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. It registered, but the man was unfazed.
“You see that airliner disappear, Mr. Hawke? Look, you can still see the pieces falling from the sky, burning up on the screen. Look!”
“That trick only works once, bin Wazir. The Dog. That’s what they call you isn’t it? A dog? Some kind of mutt, one would only imagine?”
“One English planeload of fat, happy infidel tourists, see it, Mr. Hawke? Happily bound for Los Angeles, but now a flaming tribute to mark my martyred nephew Rafi’s grave. Allah be praised! Another plane, identical, now takes its place. A ship full of warriors who carry death to America.”
“Really?” Hawke said, moving in now. “As we speak?”
“In one hour, America as you know it ceases to exist. A scourge far more lethal than the atom is about to be unleashed. An angel of death will descend.”
“I think this match is over,” Hawke said.
His left leg lashed out and up, catching the man full in the groin. When he bent over in agony, Hawke was on him. He lifted his right knee twice into the Dog’s face and drove the small bones of the man’s nose and eyesockets inward with tremendous force. Another blow to the side of his head stunned him further; a second slashing flat- handed strike tore the tendons of his neck and caused his head to loll upon his shoulders. A final smash to the back of his skull drove him face down into the clay. He was still alive, but he wasn’t getting up anytime soon. Hawke stood above him, his nostrils flaring at the stink of the man, panting, finally allowing himself to believe he had survived.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
