Durling had handled him very well indeed. 'It'll be good to see her again. Anne really likes her. Anything else?'
'Not right now.'
'Jack, thanks for the heads-up,' Durling said to conclude the meeting on a positive note.
Ryan left the office by the west door, walking past the (Teddy) Roosevelt Room and heading toward his office. Ed Kealty was in again, he saw, working in his office. He wondered when that one would break, realizing that the President, however pleased with the events of this day, still had that scandal hanging over him. That sword again, Jack thought. He had gone a little close to the edge this time, and it was his mission to make the President's job easier, not harder. There was more to it, after all, than foreign entanglements—and politics, something he had tried to keep at arm's length for years, was as real as anything else.
It would be a safe time to do it, they knew. Goto was giving a speech on TV tonight, his maiden broadcast as Prime Minister, and whatever he said, it guaranteed that he wouldn't be with his young mistress that evening. Perhaps the night's mission would be an interesting and useful counterpoint to what the politician had to say, a reply, of sorts, from America. They both liked that idea.
John Clark and Ding Chavez were walking along the block at the proper time, looking across the crowded street at the nondescript building. They always seemed that way, John thought. Maybe someone would tumble to the idea that a garish facade or an office tower was actually better camouflage, or maybe not. More likely it was boredom talking again. A man came out and removed his sunglasses with his left hand. He smoothed his hair, stroking the back of his head twice with his left hand, then moved off. Nomuri had never ascertained the location of Kim Norton's room. Moving in that close was a risk, but the orders had come to take that risk, and now, having given the signal, he walked off toward where he'd left his car. Ten seconds later Nomuri was lost in the crowded sidewalk, Clark saw. He could do that. He had the right height and looks. So did Ding. With his size, glossy black hair, and complexion, Chavez at a distance could almost blend in here. The haircut he'd imposed on his partner helped even more. From behind he was just another person on the sidewalk. That was useful, Clark told himself, feeling ever more conspicuous, especially at a moment like this.
'Showtime,' Ding breathed. Both men crossed the street as unobtrusively as possible.
Clark was dressed as a businessman, but rarely had he felt more naked. Neither he nor Ding had so much as a folding pocket knife. Though both men were well skilled in unarmed combat, both had enough experience to prefer arms—the better to keep one's enemies at a distance.
Luck smiled on them. There was no one in the tiny lobby of the building to note their presence. The two men took the stairs up. Second floor, all the way back, left side.
Nomuri had done his job well. The corridor was empty. Clark had the lead, and headed quickly down the dimly lit passage. The lock was a simple one. With Ding standing guard, he took out his burglar tools and defeated it, then opened the door quickly. They were already inside before they realized that the mission was a bust.
Kimberly Norton was dead. She lay on a futon, wearing a medium-expensive silk kimono that was bunched just below the knees, exposing her lower legs. Postmortem lividity was beginning to color the underside of her body as gravity drew her blood downward. Soon the top of the body would be the color of ash, and the lower regions would be maroon. Death was so cruel, John thought. It wasn't enough that it stole life. It also stole whatever beauty the victim had once possessed. She'd been pretty—well, that was the point, wasn't it? John checked the body against the photograph, a passing resemblance to his younger daughter, Patsy. He handed the picture to Ding. He wondered if the lad would make the same connection.
'It's her.'
'Concur, John,' Chavez observed huskily. 'It's her.' Pause. 'Shit,' he concluded quietly, examining the face for a long moment that made his face twist with anger. So, Clark thought, he sees it too.
'Got a camera?'
'Yeah.' Ding pulled a compact 35mm out of his pants pocket. 'Play cop?'
'That's right.'
Clark stooped down to examine the body. It was frustrating. He wasn't a pathologist, and though he had much knowledge of death, more knowledge still was needed to do this right. There…in the vein on the top of her foot, a single indentation. Not much more than that. So she'd been on drugs? If so, she'd been a careful user, John thought. She'd always cleaned the needle and…He looked around the room. There. A bottle of alcohol and a plastic bag of cotton swabs, and a bag of plastic syringes.
'I don't see any other needle marks.'
'They don't always show, man,' Chavez observed.
Clark sighed and untied the kimono, opening it. She'd been wearing nothing under it.
'Fuck!' Chavez rasped. There was fluid inside her thighs.
'That's a singularly unsuitable thing to say,' Clark whispered back. It was as close as he'd come to losing his temper in many years. 'Take your pictures.'
Ding didn't answer. The camera flashed and whirred away. He recorded the scene as a forensic photographer might have done. Clark then started to rearrange the kimono, uselessly giving the girl back whatever dignity that death and men had failed to rob from her.
'Wait a minute…left hand.'
Clark examined it. One nail was broken. All the others were medium-long, evenly coated with a neutral polish. He examined the others. There was something under them.
'Scratched somebody?' Clark asked.
'See anyplace she scratched herself, Mr. C?' Ding asked.
'No.'
'Then she wasn't alone when it happened, man. Check her ankles again,' Chavez said urgently.
On the left one, the foot with the puncture, the underside of the ankle revealed bruises almost concealed by the building lividity. Chavez shot his last frame.
'I thought so.'
'Tell me why later. We're out of here,' John said, standing. Within less than a minute they were out the back door, down the meandering alley, and back on a main thoroughfare to wait for their car.
'That was close,' Chavez observed as the police car pulled up to Number 18. There was a TV crew fifteen seconds behind.
'Don't you just love it? They're going to tie up everything real nice and neat…What is it, Ding?'
'Ain't right, Mr. C. Supposed to look like an OD, right?'
'Yeah, why?'
'You OD on smack, man, it just stops. Boom, bye-bye. I seen a guy go out like that back in the old days, never got the sticker out of his arm, okay? Heart stops, lungs stop, gone. You don't get up and set the needle down and then lay back down, okay? Bruises on the leg. Somebody stuck her. She was murdered, John. And probably she was raped, too.'
'I saw the paraphernalia. All U.S.—made. Nice setup. They close the case, blame the girl and her family, give their own people an object lesson.' Clark looked over as the car pulled around the corner. 'Good eye, Ding.'
'Thanks, boss.' Chavez fell silent again, his anger building now that he had nothing to do but think it over. 'You know, I'd really like to meet that guy.'
'We won't.'
Time for a little perverse fantasy: 'I know, but I used to be a Ninja, remember? It might be real fun, especially barehanded.'
'That just breaks bones, pretty often your own bones.'
'I'd like to see his eyes when it happens.'
'So put a good scope on the rifle,' Clark advised.
'True,' Chavez conceded. 'What kind of person gets off on that, Mr. C?'
'One sick motherfucker, Domingo. I met a few, once.'
Just before they got into the car, Ding's black eyes locked on Clark.
'Maybe I will meet this one personally, John.
'Where is she?' Nomuri asked from behind the wheel.
'Drive,' Clark told him.
