Kenji gazed off into the middle distance for a moment as if he could see the words he was thinking, watch them ricochet around like billiard balls after a strong break. “I have worked for Takahiro Ohnishi almost my entire life. I owe him everything. He is my master and I am his slave. I have killed for him and I have raped little girls for him. In fact, I did both again tonight. There is nothing I would not do if he asked.
“But there is something about me that he does not know, something that I myself didn’t acknowledge for many years.” He paused for a moment, then chuckled quietly. “Given his concept of honor, I actually believe he would understand my betrayal.
“My parents met only twice in their lives. The first time was when my father raped my mother, when he was stationed in Korea during the Second World War. She was a comfort girl, an unwilling prostitute like so many other young women who had the misfortune of being poor and attractive during the Japanese occupation. Her own father had sold her into prostitution so the family could survive.
“The second time my parents met was six years later, when my father returned to Korea to buy me from her. An injury during the war had left him impotent so I was to be his legacy, his only chance at immortality. Until his death, he worked for Ohnishi-San. I inherited his position.
“For most of my life, I saw myself as pure Japanese. I hid my Korean side in shame. But something has happened in the last few months — something that has given me reason to feel proud of my Korean heritage. Surely you understand this. You are half Japanese and half Chinese.”
“I am an American,” Jill stated firmly.
Kenji turned to her, his face both handsome and cruel. “Let us hope that you can see beyond that, or our relationship and your life will end very quickly. Very soon it will become necessary for Ohnishi’s coup attempt to fail. Mayor Takamora is dead and soon Ohnishi will follow him. When this happens, we will need you to use your influence to calm the people and put an end to the violence.”
“I’m a reporter. I report the news, I don’t make it.” Even as Jill spoke she remembered the words of her former colleague.
Kenji said, “A journalist can sway more opinion and change more policies than every politician alive today. You have a power that most people don’t even recognize they have given to you. When the time comes, a few days from now, a week at most, you will divulge everything you know about Ohnishi and Takamora. Since they will be dead, whatever you say will not be refuted. I will provide you with many more details. People must be focused on the coup attempt; it must remain the top story for several weeks.” At Jill’s questioning look, Kenji shook his head. “The reasons for this do not concern you. Once this is done, I promise that you will never be bothered again, and your complicity never revealed.”
“And if I refuse?” Jill asked with more bravery than she felt.
“Refuse now and I will kill you immediately,” Kenji said matter of factly. “But I don’t need an answer yet. I want you to think about it.”
As he left, he added, “I chose you because I believe you will actually have a hard time making your decision. Do not disappoint me.”
Arlington, Virginia
Tiny’s Bar was, of course, named after its owner. On his first visit to the pub four blocks from his house, Mercer had expected to see a huge man behind the bar. Yet Tiny, Paul Gordon, was tiny, no more than four foot eight, about ninety pounds with his pockets full of bricks.
The bar was small, only eight stools and six four-person booths. The linoleum floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in years. The walls were decorated with horse racing pictures and trophies from Saratoga, Belmont Park, and Yonkers Raceway, just a few of the tracks where Paul had raced as a professional jockey. He had never reached the status of Willy Shoemaker, but he was a consistent rider with proven ability. But he gambled, and went on a particularly long losing streak. To pay back the debt, his loan shark ordered him to throw a certain race.
Explaining it once to Mercer, Tiny had said that the horse was too much of a true winner to allow any other to beat her. He didn’t have the heart to rein her back and come in second. That night he was treated to a sumptuous victory banquet by the horse’s owner. The next morning the loan shark’s enforcers broke both of Tiny’s kneecaps with a steel wrecking bar. During the following months of painful rehabilitation, Tiny cursed the stupid nag for being so swift. He finally forgave Dandy Maid only after he opened a bar in his native Washington.
When Mercer entered the bar, Tiny waved one small arm and immediately poured a vodka gimlet, easy on the Rose’s lime.
“Thanks, I need this.” Mercer took his drink to the red leatherette booth occupied by Tish and Harry White. Apart from two workers from the industrial laundry around the block, the bar was empty.
“Sorry I had to take Tish out of your house, Mercer, but you ran out of Jack Daniel’s.”
“I have a fresh bottle under the back bar.”
“Had, Mercer. You had a fresh bottle under the back bar. Besides, who the hell would look for her in this hole in the wall?”
“I agree, no harm done.” Mercer turned to Tish. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” She giggled, slightly drunk. “But I must say I’m not used to drinking in the afternoon.”
“Stick with Harry and me, we’ll show you the ropes.” Mercer smiled warmly. Perhaps a little buzz would be good for her. Brace her for what he was going to ask her to do.
“What did you find in your office?”
“More clues, I think. There’s one more thing I want to check tonight and then I’ll turn us both over to the authorities.”
“What do you mean ‘turn us over’?”
“Tish, you were under the protection of the FBI when I nabbed you, and I’m sure they want you back. Also, I have to answer for the corpses I left in the gutters downtown.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, Harry, I see two suits coming in,” Tiny said, peering out the filthy front window.
Mercer turned to Harry, one eyebrow cocked in question.
“Tish told me the story about yesterday, so I took the precaution of having Tiny keep an eye out.”
“Good thinking.” Mercer held out his hand to Tish. “Come on.”
He led her out of the barroom and into the small kitchen in the back. They paused in front of a pane of glass set into the tiled wall, and Tish realized that the mirror behind the bar was a two-way mirror. She looked over Tiny’s shoulder as two beefy men strode through the front door and flashed badges. FBI, not local cops, was Mercer’s guess.
“Philip Mercer?” Tiny responded to their question. “Yeah, I know him. I haven’t seen him in a week or more. He travels a lot.” Tiny’s thin voice raised a notch. “If I had seen him, he wouldn’t owe me eighty bucks in old bar tabs.”
Tiny thrust a wad of chits under one agent’s face. Mercer winced, hoping the agent didn’t look too closely. Those tabs all belonged to Harry.
Harry stood up and staggered one step, steadying himself on the back of the booth. Mercer wondered if his friend was acting.
“I seen Mercer,” Harry nearly shouted, spit spraying from his lips. Acting, for sure.
“Where?” one of the agents asked eagerly.
“It was 1943; he was a cook for my battalion. Couldn’t cook worth a damn; gave us all food poisoning on Tarawa, or maybe it was Iwo Jima.” Harry downed a heavy slug of bourbon. “If it was on Iwo, that must have been ’45. Poor Frank Merker bought it on Okinawa.”
“No, it’s Philip Mercer we’re looking for.”
“Don’t recall any Philbert Mercy,” Harry said slowly. His eyes glazed over and he slumped into his seat. “I once knew a stripper named Phyllis mmmm…” His head hit the table with the sound of a fallen coconut, snores following a moment later.
The two agents left after warning Tiny to call if Philip Mercer showed up. Tiny and Harry played their roles for a few minutes more, until they were satisfied that the FBI men had moved on. As Mercer led Tish out of the
