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  "I won't be going anywhere," Bolan said. "I've got a few unanswered questions of my own."

  Fujitsu smiled. "Of course. I am sure you do. Perhaps we can answer them together sometime soon."

  Brognola didn't say anything, but Bolan sensed the restrained anger surging inside the Justice man.

  Twenty minutes later the three of them were back on the street in Tucker's car. Bolan sat in the back seat. He'd had all of his personal effects returned except for the pistol. He watched the neon-lit streets unfurl around them as stills from the photographs Fujitsu had shown him slipped through his mind. "Does the name Hosaka mean anything to you, Hal?" he asked. He watched Tucker's reflection against the windshield as a bewildered expression filled his face.

  Brognola swiveled in the seat. "He's one of the people we've been assigned to protect," the big Fed said. "How did you tumble to him?"

  Thinking back on the information he'd uncovered about Hosaka, Bolan said, "It's time we had a long talk."

  Chapter Eleven

  "As near as we can piece it together at this point," Brognola said as he turned out the lights, "the assault on Japanese businesses in the States began six months ago. However, most of the agencies assigned to this in one capacity or another believe it started a long time before that, with less aggressive maneuvers."

  Bolan, washed and freshly shaven, sat on the floor with his back to the wall and a coffeepot at his side. Around him, seated on the various chairs and the sofa in Brognola's motel room, were the other eight male and female members of the Justice team based in Tokyo. Five of them were obviously of Oriental heritage. When they had filed sleepily into the room after receiving a summons from Brognola, the Executioner had studied each of the three women, looking for the one who had been at the Sumida River. She wasn't among them.

  "There have been eleven attacks in those six months," Brognola went on. He glanced at Bolan. "What do you know about the publishing offices being hit in L.A. four days ago?"

  Bolan put his cup down. "The international newspaper I had available just sketched the bare bones of it. I know that it was incendiary in nature, executed by what was thought to be a small group of professionals, and nineteen people were killed in the ensuing fire."

  "Two of those nineteen were security people who went down under small-arms fire," Tucker added. The CIA man sat perched on a desk beside a curtained window.

  "Right." Brognola thumbed the remote control of the slide projector placed on a coffee table and color splashed against the white wall. The picture cleared and showed the blazing top of a skyscraper against a black, smoggy night. "This is what's left of the skyscraper in L.A. owned by Hosaka Industries. As stated, there were nineteen deaths related to this incident."

  The picture changed again, showing a Japanese-owned real estate brokerage. The colorful sign hanging in front of the destroyed building hung by one corner. Fire trucks were frozen in the frame, forever too late. The picture shifted to reveal corpses almost shredded by the explosion.

  "As far as we know now," Brognola said, "it began here, in Denver, with the deaths of four staff members."

  "Are explosives always used?" Bolan asked.

  A few of the agents seated around the room turned to study him.

  "No," Brognola replied. "There are enough differences in the attack sites to tell us the hits were made by different people, and enough similarities to tell us that sometimes the same people were used."

  "Who owned the real estate office?" Bolan asked.

  "Shoji Kokan, a major land developer for the Japanese in America. Even though that office was small, they managed to compete head-to-head against the Canadians in that market. I'm told Kokan's people were turning millions of dollars through that office every year."

  "Were all of the target areas big money-makers for the companies based in Tokyo?" one of the Justice men asked.

  Brognola shook his head. "No. In fact, the publishing office that was destroyed in L.A. barely broke even." He looked around the room. "Any more questions?"

  Bolan poured himself another cup of coffee during the silence. He stared at the pictures, riffled the facts through his mind and tried to fit in the bits of intel he'd gleaned since hitting the ground running. None of it seemed to go together. He sipped the coffee and listened.

  "Look, people," Brognola addressed his audience, "I know we're all tired and anxious about tomorrow evening's function, but we're taking a final stab at this thing before we're in the middle of it."

  "Looks like you and Belasko have already been there, sir," one of the women observed.

  Brognola turned to the speaker. "Things took an unexpected turn for the worse today, Janet, as we all know. In addition to looking for whoever's behind these attacks, apparently we've been uncovered by our quarry. The attempt on Mike today is clear proof of that."

  "And we no longer enjoy even the sham of cooperation we started with where our Japanese counterparts are concerned," Tucker said. The CIA agent's words had a sobering effect on the group.

  "Eleven hits in six months," Brognola said, tapping the white wall where the corpse-filled picture still showed, "that we know of." The slide changed. "This was one of the cement companies Nogawa Building recently bought out in Atlanta. You're looking at 3.2 million dollars' worth of damage. Eight employees lost their lives that night."

  The head Fed continued the litany of death that Justice and other agencies had threaded together in the past few months.

  A Japanese-owned and — operated investment agency in New York had been hit next. Six men wearing ski masks assembled at an arranged area inside the building, then cut a bloody swath through the offices with automatic weapons before rappeling to the street and making their escape. Blurred slides from a security camera of the men in action accompanied Brognola's narration. Ten people were left dead. Owners of a Suzuki motorcycle dealership in Nashville arrived one morning to find their buildings burned to the ground, and their stock reduced to rubble. Three people were left dead, two salesmen working late, and a man cleaning up the offices. A Japanese-backed think tank in Silicon Valley was ransacked by a team that had no problems with security designed to protect the building from industrial espionage instead of commando tactics. Files were burned in the cabinets. The slides showed people sprawled across heavily stuffed furniture and lying on the floor. Nine people were dead. And on and on.

  Bolan pushed the empty coffee cup away. He'd had his fill an hour ago. He gazed at the pictures that continued flashing on the wall, remembering how the stories behind most of them had caught his attention at one time or another in the past few months. In fact, most of them were logged in his war journal for follow-up at a later time if the situations didn't resolve themselves. Even then, with the different bits and pieces of information set before him in his own hand, he hadn't seen a national pattern; especially when they were sandwiched between other stories. Now, with everything spread before him, he could see it starting to take shape. But he still couldn't see what it hinged on.

  The slide projector clicked and shifted. A van, wreathed in flames, was canted on one side. A film crew seemed to be in fuzzy focus around them. "We're not sure about this one," Brognola said, "but we think it might be a twelfth attack. It didn't fit the MO on this case at the time because it was believed to be an accident. Diligent research by FBI experts have led us to believe someone set extra charges under this van, which was manned by the special effects people, and the explosion was triggered by the electronic detonation designed to bring off the climax of the film. At first it appeared to be possible negligence on the part of the special effects people. The film was a science fiction epic being filmed in Orlando and was under heavy pressure to finish. There were other accidents while the filming went on, and that led back to the original belief of negligence. The movie was produced by Japanese investors hoping to break into the Hollywood market." The Fed faced his audience. "For our part, we'll take its presence in our file under advisement. The bottom line is that the film won
't be finished at present due to the adverse publicity. Seven people died in that van, most of them Japanese nationals, and the cost of lost revenues is expected to run into the millions."

  The scene blurred, was whipped away, then replaced by an interior shot of an assembly plant. Bolan sat up straighter as he viewed the carnage that had been left behind. Bodies were draped around overturned machinery warped by explosions. Bullet holes staggered across coveralls, stitched as surely as the names of the employees who had died in the cross fire. Smashed, twisted and burned truck bodies lay everywhere.

  "This is the case that brought Justice onto the scene," Brognola said gruffly. "Over eighty people were killed in the assault at this light truck assembly plant in Detroit."

  The picture winked away, replaced by another of an office area with bullet holes through the windows. More bodies were inside.

  "VICAP — the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program — was initially assigned to this," Brognola went on, "because they thought we were looking for a small group of individuals. It quickly became apparent that we were dealing with a small army. The whole hit lasted only minutes and details were nailed down with skilled precision."

  The slide projector whirred. A montage of scenes followed, detailing the blood-slick floors, the increasing number of bodies and the helplessness of the assembly workers to defend themselves.

  "The VICAP team started the ball rolling by grouping the Detroit hit with two of the others. The targets had been the same, and the people killed fell into a category of their own, as well. This," Brognola tapped the wall with his cane, "showed the willingness on the part of the attackers to add even more lives to the balance. Whatever the stakes are as these people view them, evidently they're working on some sort of timetable that's been moved up. The hit on the publishing offices in L.A. is mild by comparison, yet larger than most of the other sites."

  "American deaths to Japanese deaths at the assembly plant ran five to one," Tucker stated.

  "There were a number of Japanese Americans among the dead," said Ron Roberts, an agent who'd been at the scene. He turned around to face the CIA man.

  Tucker returned the look. "Even so the split was sixty-forty. These people aren't as particular as they were when they started out."

  "So there's not going to be any cooperation between us and the Japanese?" one of the Justice agents asked.

  "As far as I'm concerned," Brognola said in a level voice, "this is still a joint effort. Fujitsu, their man in charge, doesn't seem to play the same way we do, but we can't afford to be standoffish at this point."

  "Is this because of the action at the Sumida River?" Roberts asked.

  "Yes." Brognola didn't hesitate.

  "And we were involved?"

  "Yes. That was the ambush attempt on Belasko."

  Heads turned in Bolan's direction, and he could read new assessments flickering into the eyes of the agents.

  "The news also reported there were Americans down at the scene," Roberts went on.

  Tucker got to his feet. "That hasn't been proved yet. The IDs on the bodies were false. We don't know who they were."

  Roberts turned to face the CIA man. "I was also told that some of those unidentified bodies carried military tattoos."

  "Tattoos can be copied," Tucker replied, "by anyone seeking to frame the United States for this."

  Roberts rolled his eyes. "Then these guys knew they were going to be shot out of the saddle, right? Land of the kamikaze and all that, so why not?"

  Tucker started to respond, but Brognola cut him short. "Who they were doesn't matter at this point. Our job tomorrow is to make sure the Hosaka Consortium meeting takes place without a hitch."

  The voices died away as all eyes returned to Brognola.

  "The one factor linking all these attacks, besides the Japanese one, has been that all of these businesses were owned in part, or outright, by the people who are going to be at that meeting tomorrow." Brognola paused to let that sink in. "We're working security with the Metropolitan Police and Japanese Special Services on this one, and you can bet we're not going to know all of their players. So make your play close to the vest if something goes wrong. We're skating on very thin ice here."

  "The Japanese government hasn't been able to talk those people out of that meeting since the attack this morning?" one of the female agents asked.

  Brognola shook his head. "No. In fact, the government has given those people assurances that nothing will happen. If Hosaka, Kokan and the others are able to work out their differences, the consortium they form will have a major impact on Japanese trade strategies."

  "So everything's spinning around the pursuit of the U.S. dollar," Roberts observed.

  "Yeah, that's one way of looking at it," Brognola agreed. "But you need to keep in mind that there are a lot of outlets for Japanese investment over there, as well."

  "All of which amount to a slow but sure buy-out of America as we know it," Roberts added.

  "We're talking politics here, Ron," one of the other men said. Bolan could detect from the tired anger in the man's voice that the argument was an old one. "Not economics."

  Roberts nodded. "With Japan in the picture, it's one and the same."

  "Shit, Ron, come on."

  "Enough!" Brognola's voice was harsh and commanding. "We're aware there are a number of views we can take on this. You people need to remember the only reason we're here is to prevent a schism between our government and the Japanese."

  Roberts blinked behind his glasses, but Bolan didn't see the man backing away from the fight. Evidently the agent held strong convictions about the kind of role Japan's business section played in the United States. The warrior wondered why Brognola had felt compelled to bring the man along, then figured Roberts must have had his high points, as well.

  Brognola looked at Bolan. "Anything you'd care to add, Mike?"

  Before Bolan could respond, Roberts cut in. "One thing I'd like to know, Agent Belasko, is why those guys tried to cap you and not any of the rest of us."

  Bolan rose to his feet and addressed them from the front of the room. "I don't know."

  Roberts looked skeptical.

  "Whatever the reasons," Bolan continued, "that attack showed us a number of things. It showed they've penetrated our intelligence-gathering resources. It showed they are probably not only aware of me, but of each of you, as well."

  Most of the faces looked uncomfortable with that possibility. Bolan pushed it home, wanting them to respect the power and abilities of the unknown group. "It showed how well trained they are. These people moved with military precision and skill. They secured the area and set up the ambush as if they've done it many times before." His voice turned cold. "These people are professionals, and you're going to end up dead if you don't respect that."

  Roberts smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "I don't know about the others, but it makes me wonder how you managed to get away unscathed."

  "I'm not entirely unscathed." Bolan lifted his shirt to display his bandaged side.

  Roberts didn't appear to be impressed. "What about the likelihood that those people were Americans?"

  "I think they were. At least some of them."

  Roberts looked back over his shoulder at Tucker. "Makes you wonder where they got their training, doesn't it, Agent Tucker?" The CIA man remained silent. "And it helps illustrate why the Japanese government wasn't exactly willing to open their doors to a bunch of Agency people when Langley volunteered their services," Roberts added.

  "Let's call it a night, ladies and gentlemen," Brognola interrupted, "before things get too tense." He directed a look at Roberts, then at Tucker, making sure they knew to pack it in. "Thank you for your time and get a good night's sleep. You're going to need it. Mike, if you've got some time, I'd like to have a short meeting."

  Bolan nodded. He watched as Tucker and Roberts filed through the door with the rest of the team and wondered which man he'd rather have on his side if it came down to i
t. Then he wondered what made him think he would get a choice.

  * * *

  "Hello," Michi Ransom called softly. She stood quietly on the hilltop as the slight breeze chilled her. Her dark jeans and black turtleneck made her a part of the night around her.

  Near the tomb directly in front of her, she saw the robed and hooded man turn his head to face her. He kept his palms together in front of him, still on his knees. The sleeves of the robe were large and voluminous.

  Moonlight speared through the cherry trees overhanging the hilltop and painted angular planes on the tomb and the robed man's face. Dark night spilled down the hill around them, shooting tendrils through the dense foliage that hid the trail the woman had followed. She had found the trail without effort because of the summers she had spent making sure it would continue to exist. Her fingers had blistered from tying back wayward branches and uprooting bushes and trees that first year. Even then the aches of her body never came close to the empty hollowness in her heart.

  The robed man came to his feet effortlessly, as if gravity and old age had no laws for him. Slowly he shook back his sleeves and pulled his hood back. Gray hair less than an inch in length covered his skull.

  Ransom moved past him, walking to the tomb and placing the cherry blossoms on it. They had suffered very little in the fifteen-minute walk from her rental car. She stared at them as they shivered in the breeze as she did. Tears slid from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  The old man moved silently to her side. He gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. Studying her, he slowly wiped the tears from her face. "She has been gone so long. Why do you cry?"

  "For you," Ransom replied. "Because I know you can't weep for her."

  "I thank you," he said in a soft voice. He bowed slightly. "It is a most precious gift."

  Impulsively, knowing he wouldn't respond in kind because of who he was and what he represented, Ransom reached forward and hugged him. The lean body under the robe was as hard as a rock, and too many of the shapes beneath it felt familiar. He smoothed her hair, and it was more than she felt she had any right to expect.