Pushed ahead by the crowd behind him, Hanamura stepped right into Jiro Miyaza.
The engineer, whose identity Hanamura borrowed, had exited the adjacent elevator with his wife and two children. They were headed for the same parking level for an evening drive aboveground. Inexplicably, Miyaza’s eyes were drawn to the clearance pass clipped to Hanamura’s pocket.
For a moment he simply stared, then his eyes widened and he looked into Hanamura’s face with disbelieving eyes.
“What are you doing with my pass?” he demanded indignantly.
“Internal security,” Hanamura answered calmly with an air of authority. “We’re examining security areas to see if the guards are alert and pick us out. I happened to be issued your name and ID number.”
“My brother is assistant head of security. He never mentioned such an inspection to me.”
“We don’t advertise,” Hanamura said, glaring at Miyaza, who refused to back down.
Hanamura tried to edge his way past Miyaza, but the engineer grabbed his arm.
“Wait! I want to verify this.”
Hanamura’s lightning move was almost undetectable. He rammed his palm into Miyaza’s chest, breaking the sternum. The engineer gasped for air, clutched his chest, and sank to his knees. Hanamura pushed him aside and calmly walked toward his vehicle, which he had backed into its stall. He quickly threw open the unlocked door of the Murmoto V-6 four-wheel-drive, slipped behind the wheel, and turned the ignition key. The engine started on the second turn, and he shoved the shift lever into drive and headed for the exit ramp and the gate only one level above.
He might have made it if Miyaza’s wife and children hadn’t screamed their heads off and pointed frantically toward Hanamura. A nearby security guard rushed over and questioned them. He barely made any sense of their hysterical jabbering, but he was smart enough to use his portable radio to alert the guards manning the main entry gate.
Nothing went Hanamura’s way. He was a fraction of a second too late. A guard stepped from the gatehouse and raised his hand for Hanamura to stop. Two of his comrades posted on opposite sides of the exit tunnel lifted their weapons at the ready position. And then there was the heavy steel barrier shaft across the drive.
Hanamura took in the scene with one trained glance. There was no stopping in an attempt to bluff his way past. He braced himself for the impact, slammed his foot against the gas pedal, and crouched down in the seat as far as he could go. He struck the shaft partly on the raised bumper of the truck and partly across the headlights, smashing them back into the fenders and pushing the grillwork against the radiator.
The shock was not as bad as Hanamura expected, just a crunch of metal and glass and a twisting screech as the momentum of the truck snapped the steel barrier off where it hinged into a concrete piling. Then the windows vanished in a spray of slivers as the guards opened up with their automatic rifles. It was the only small bit of luck that came his way. The guards aimed high instead of blasting the engine compartment and gas tank or blowing out the tires.
The firing abruptly ceased as he broke clear of the tunnel and raced through a stream of cars entering the underground city from the other, incoming road. Hanamura paid as much attention to the view in his rearview mirror as he did to the road and traffic ahead. He didn’t doubt for a second that Suma’s security people were alerting the police to set up roadblocks. Throwing the Murmoto into four-wheel-drive, he cut off the pavement and shot down a dirt road muddied by a pouring rainstorm. Only after bumping through a forested area for ten kilometers did he become aware of a burning pain in his shoulder and a sticky flow of fluid down his left side. He pulled to a stop under a large pine tree and examined his left shoulder and arm.
He’d been struck three times. One bullet through the biceps, one that cut a groove in his collarbone, and another through the fleshy part of his shoulder. They were not killing injuries, but if not cared for they could become extremely serious. It was the heavy loss of blood that worried Hanamura. Already he felt the early stages of light- headedness. He tore off his shirt and made a couple of crude bandages, stemming the blood flow as best he could.
The shock and the pain were slowly replaced with numbness and the haze that was seeping into his mind. The embassy was a hundred and sixty kilometers away in the heart of Tokyo. He’d never make it through the multitude of busy streets without being stopped by a policeman, curious about the bullet-riddled truck, or by Suma’s network of armed forces, who would block every major road leading into the city. Briefly he considered making for the safety of the MAIT team’s inn, but Asakusa was on the northeast of Tokyo, opposite Edo City on the west.
He looked up through the shattered windshield at the rainy sky. The low clouds would hinder an air hunt by helicopter. That was a help. Relying on the rugged Murmoto’s four-wheel traction, Hanamura decided to drive cross-country and travel the back roads before abandoning the pickup and hopefully stealing a car.
Hanamura drove on through the rain, detouring around streams and rice paddies, always headed toward the lights of the city, glowing dimly against the overcast sky. The closer he came to the metropolitan mainstream, the more densely populated it became. The open country ended almost immediately, and the small back roads soon widened into busy highways and expressways.
The Murmoto was faltering too. The radiator was damaged from the collision with the barrier, and steam hissed from under the hood in growing wisps of white. He glanced at the instrument panel. The heat gauge needle was quivering into the red. It was time to find another car.
Then he blacked out from the loss of blood and slumped across the wheel.
The Murmoto drifted off the road and sideswiped several parked cars before crashing through the thin wooden wall of a house. The jolt brought him back to consciousness, and he stared dazedly around a small courtyard the Murmoto had demolished. He was thankful the inhabitants of the house were away and he’d missed any furnished rooms.
The one headlight still threw a beam, illuminating a gate in back of the courtyard. Hanamura stumbled through it into an alley behind the house as the shouting of startled neighbors erupted behind him. Ten minutes later, after staggering across a small park, he dropped in exhaustion and hid in a muddy ditch.
He lay there listening to the sirens screaming toward his wrecked pickup truck. Once, after he felt strong enough, he began to move deeper into one of Tokyo’s secluded neighborhoods, but a security vehicle drove slowly up and down the road beaming searchlights into the park and surrounding narrow streets. It was then he lost consciousness again.
When the wet cold woke him, he fully realized he was too weak to steal a car and go on. Slowly, stiffly, and clenching his teeth against the pain that returned in agonizing waves, he swayed across the road and approached the man working on the engine of his truck.
“Can you please help me?” Hanamura begged feebly.
The man turned around and stared dumbly at the injured stranger weaving before him. “You’re hurt,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”
“I was in an accident up the street and need help.”
The man put his arm around Hanamura’s waist. “Let me get you in the house, my wife can aid you while I call an ambulance.”
Hanamura shook him off. “Never mind that, I’ll be all right.”
“Then you should go directly to a hospital,” the man said sincerely. “I will drive you.”
“No, please,” Hanamura evaded. “But I’d be most grateful if you will deliver a packet for me to the American embassy. It’s quite urgent. I’m a courier and was on my way from Edo City when my car skidded and ran off the road.”
The owner of the delivery truck stood uncomprehending as Hanamura scribbled something in English on the back flap of the envelope and handed it to him. “You want me to take this to the American embassy instead of taking you to the hospital?”
“Yes, I must return to the scene of my accident. The police will see to an ambulance.”
None of it made any sense to the delivery truck driver, but he accepted the request without argument. “Who do I ask for at the embassy?”
“A Mr. Showalter.” Hanamura reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed the driver a large wad of yen notes. “For any inconvenience. Do you know where to go?”
The driver’s face lit up at his unexpected windfall. “Yes, the embassy is near the junction of number three and four expressways.”
“How soon can you leave?”
