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  Kengo’s story jibed with most of what Bolan knew. “Sota and Mu’s unit went rogue.”

  “Sota and Mu were third-generation Whispering Pines, and despite that unit’s brave and noble service during the war, they have strayed far from the path in the modern era.”

  “What’s the status of the Whispering Pine now?”

  “In the past four days they have undergone what might be described as a hostile takeover and reorganization.”

  Keller grinned. “Tell me the bad guys don’t know this has happened.”

  “This action took place under the auspices of my clan. We were most thorough. However, the Whispering Pine, to their credit, did not lie down quietly. Many of them were killed, including much of their hierarchy. This has left us with an incomplete picture of who exactly contracted them and what the true ambitions of this unknown agency may be. This is why my clan has ordered me to cooperate with you. We must pool our resources to resolve this problem.

  “And it is our current assessment that the takeover happened without our enemy’s knowledge, and we still have a line of communication with them.”

  Ous blew a smoke ring. “Our enemy will believe that you are Whispering Pine ninjas, and work for them.”

  “That is our sincere hope, Mr. Ous. However, there is a very real possibility that the enemy knows something is terribly wrong and setting us up for an ambush.”

  Babar scratched his scar-divided beard. “I am not sure I can pass for Japanese.”

  Kengo laughed. “No, and neither can Ous. Even if I had the time and resources to remake you, I do not believe your accents and mannerisms could be suppressed, and we will only have one shot at this.”

  “What about me? You gonna Geisha me up?” Keller quirked an eyebrow at Bolan. “He put me in a burka.”

  “I believe it would be best if you take the role of command and control, and along with Mr. Ous and Subedar Babar be our strike team if we require reinforcement.”

  Ous tugged on his pipe and peered at Bolan. “Am I to believe that you are going to turn our friend Japanese?”

  Everyone in the room looked at Bolan. Kengo fold his arms across his chest in confidence and smiled. “I believe he will make a fine ninja.”

  BOLAN REMEMBERED his mother once said that one had to suffer for beauty. Ninja beauty school had a harsh head-mistress. Upon Bolan’s acquiescence to the transformation, a crate had miraculously manifested itself outside the CIA station’s gate and Kengo had gone to work. The soldier was six-three, and 220 pounds of solid muscle. Nothing could be done about his size. Everything else appeared to be fair game. Like all skin colors, Asian skin tone was mostly determined by melanin and sun exposure. Kengo chemically peeled away Bolan’s saddle-leather “Mighty One” sun damage, and then used his own, self-described “midtone Asian” coloring as a template. Asians also tended to have significantly smaller skin pores than Caucasians, which had led many Westerners historically to describe the Asian complexion of having a “porcelain” look.

  Kengo deep-cleansed Bolan’s pores and temporarily contracted them chemically. The effect was very subtle but the before-and-after difference was huge.

  Kengo didn’t stop there. He sculpted Bolan’s eyebrows and took his self-inflicted number-four shag and clipped it down to a three. Kengo thickened and coarsened Bolan’s hair so that it looked like it was one step away from the “hedge-hog” look that a lot of Asians got when they started to grow out their hair. He stripped away nearly all of Bolan’s body hair above and below the waist. Keller was all giggles during the process. “Give him the bikini wax, Ken! I want him to taste the pain!”

  Both warriors declined on either inflicting it or enduring it.

  The eyes were where he did his best work. Bolan received a number of injections. Kengo insisted it wasn’t Botox. The process wouldn’t involve the nerve enervation of a Botox injection, and he insisted it would work much faster and the effects would wear off over a period of a week or two. He also insisted that unlike Botox, the effects could be chemically reversed in a matter of hours.

  Whatever cosmetic concoction Kengo injected into the soldier’s face, Bolan thought it burned like fire.

  Bolan spent the night feeling like a runner who had hit the lactic acid threshold, except he felt the burning and cramping in the muscles around his eyes rather than in his legs. Only one in several million Asians sported baby-blues like Bolan’s. Very dark brown, almost black extended-wear contact lenses took care of that. The soldier put them in and went downstairs to the library for his big reveal.

  For a moment stunned silence gripped Bolan’s team. Keller was the first to speak. “Oh…my…God.”

  Kengo nodded. “I am very pleased.”

  Bolan looked at himself in the library’s full mirror. Whatever Kengo had injected him with had pulled the corners of his eyes up, the inner corners slightly down. The process hadn’t only changed the shape of his eyes but narrowed them. The same process had slightly lifted the outer corners of his eyebrows and again slightly drawn the inner corners down. The effect was an almost permanent though mild look of disdain for everything he saw, like a haughty Mongolian conqueror. Bolan’s new “hawklike” gaze would have given the ninja Syed a run for his money. The Executioner had done a few quick draw drills in his room before coming down and was pleased to find the alterations hadn’t affected his peripheral vision. Short of radical plastic surgery, which Bolan had undergone more than once in his War Everlasting, he had to admit even to himself that this was the most unrecognizable he had ever seen himself. It literally felt like he was wearing a mask, and talking and eating tended to tug on it uncomfortably.

  There was nothing to be done about Bolan’s nose, cheekbones or chin. He didn’t specifically look Japanese. Indeed he looked like a man of mixed ancestries. Adding in his size and build, what Bolan did look like was the kind of man rogue ninjas would send to clean up someone else’s mess.

  He looked like a killing machine of Asian manufacture.

  Babar grinned and ran his fingers across the railroad tracks of scarring across his face. “I wish to be next!”

  “Quite remarkable,” Ous agreed, “Unless you spoke, I would not recognize you on the street.”

  “Speaking of that,” Kengo said. “I am pleased that I cannot detect what part of the United States you are from by your accent. I will speak to our contacts in English at all times. You will do the same. I do not claim any command or seniority over you, but ninjas often work in pairs, so publically I will be sempai.”

  Sempai meant senior and often mentor. Bolan nodded, “And I’m kohai, your protégé or assistant.”

  “Correct. However, if for any reason you feel the need to speak, please do so. By necessity my people have a somewhat relaxed attitude about these things, particularly in the field.”

  “Got it.”

  “However, should someone besides myself speak to you in Japanese, simply turn to me. I will sort the situation out.”

  “And what do you suggest if you’re not around?”

  “Kill them instantly. Whoever it is will not be a friend of ours.”

  Bolan ran a hand over his tingling, tightened and tinted face. “I’ve never been a ninja before. Any special equipment needs?”

  “We have little in the way of specific issue weapons. We only don the traditional dress and use swords when we wish to terrorize our opponents, and deliberately let them know whom it is they are dealing with.”

  Keller gave Kengo a dry look. “What about that head sickle you’re packing?”

  Kengo sighed tolerantly. “Agent Keller, taking off a grown man or woman’s head quickly and cleanly, even with a sword or an ax, is far more difficult than you may have been lead to believe. In fact swords and axes designed to decapitate are usually useless for any other activity. In feudal Japan the taking of heads as trophies in battle was commonplace. The kubikiri was designed to be the most efficient tool to remove a head that a warrior could easily carry along with the rest of his
weapons and equipment. Despite modern advances in forensic science, in my profession we still believe that the presentation of the head provides the absolute most positive proof that we have succeeded in our mission.”

  Keller looked askance at Kengo. “Got it.”

  Kengo turned to Bolan. “To answer your question, I would recommend whatever easily concealable weapons rig you feel most comfortable with.” He gave Bolan a sly look of challenge. “I can provide you with a kubikiri if you wish.”

  “Definitely,” Bolan replied. “When’s our meet?”

  “Tonight, and until then I recommend you eat soft food and rest your face.” The ninja grinned happily. “It may be a long night.”

  Kolkata Station, Secure Communications Room

  “HOLY CRAP!” It took a great deal to startle Aaron Kurtzman. Bolan’s new look coming across the streaming satellite link was up to the task. It was even more rare to see the man utterly dumbfounded. “Stricker, you’re…”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Japanese.”

  “That was the plan,” Bolan stated.

  “Or some…unreasonable facsimile thereof. What did they do to you?”

  “Secret ninja techniques,” Bolan replied.

  “Really?” Kurtzman blinked. He leaned into the camera. “How does it feel?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Kurtzman asked, getting down to business.

  “Kengo says the information his clan got out of the Whispering Pine massacre was incomplete. We don’t know much about the enemy. Kengo’s clan does have an open line of communication. His clan has set up a meet. Ous and I did some real damage to the Whispering Pine contingent in the FATA. It’s natural that they would want answers and payback. The plan is to pass ourselves off as genuine Whispering Pines, be employed as assets and break open the investigation.”

  “Tall order.” Kurtzman shook his head. “Then again, look at you. Just look at you.”

  “We’ll pass along some nonessential data on NCIS and the state of its investigation. Though I think our best opening bid might be the Shushan woman.”

  “You’re going to offer to ninja her out of captivity?”

  “With Keller and Farkas orchestrating it from behind the scenes,” Bolan told him. “They got her out once. That tells me they have something big planned for her. I think they just might want her out again.”

  “And have you figured a way to ensure her loyalty?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Kurtzman asked.

  “Tonight?” Bolan checked his watch. “Go take a meeting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bolan drove. The CIA had slicked up the Hindustan Motors Contessa. The vehicle had been manufactured in the nineties and had the appearance of a U.S. seventies muscle car. The slicking up had all been on the inside. The exterior was scratched and dinged. The faded paint that had once been “ox-blood” red could now be described charitably as rusted-out brown, and that was where the primer wasn’t showing through. On the other hand the suspension was tip-top and as tight as a drum for a car of its age, much less one that’d had always had the reputation of being soft in the rear. The rumble and clank of the engine told Bolan that someone had taken out the old 4-cylinder gasoline engine and dropped in a highly modified Isuzu 6-cylinder turbo-diesel. He had liked the car on sight and had a vague urge to put the pedal down to see what the old girl could really do.

  The soldier rolled along the west bank of the River Hooghly. He and Kengo both had their windows open to catch the evening breeze off the river. North Kolkata was the oldest part of the city. Nineteenth century architecture sat surrounded by mazes of narrow alleyways. It was the oldest part of the ancient city and also one of the poorest. Kengo watched slums, sweatshops, ancient temples and relics of the British raj pass by. He made a circular gesture with his hand that encompassed the city and Bolan’s driving.

  “You have operated in Kolkata before.”

  Bolan didn’t deny it.

  “May I ask you a question?” Kengo asked.

  “Sure.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Kengo was the most unninjalike person Bolan had ever met. More and more it convinced him that Kengo was indeed the very real deal. The man had been utterly forthright with every question asked of him. Bolan saw no reason not to return the favor. “Assassins.”

  Kengo stared at Bolan for a moment. “Interesting subject.”

  “My investigation started in Afghanistan. There was evidence there that we were dealing with the Persian Hashasheen.”

  “The Ismaili Assassins. I have heard of them.”

  “I’ve had dealings with them before,” Bolan stated.

  “Really?”

  “Then I came to Pakistan and discovered ninjas.”

  “Well…” Kengo laughed. “That is to your credit.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes. Most people do not discover ninjas,” Kengo said. “Usually in these kinds of situations ninjas discover them, and then they are never heard from again.”

  Once more Bolan found himself liking Kengo. “Now I’m in India, and I think of another breed of assassins.”

  Kengo nodded thoughtfully. “You speak of the Thuggees of Kali.”

  “I’ve opposed them before.”

  “I believe you.”

  “When I last dealt with them, I thought I had destroyed them. At the time they could turn invisible and had stolen three Pakistani nuclear warheads.”

  Kengo internalized this. “You are a very interesting person.”

  “It goes back to my original theory,” Bolan said.

  “Off-the-rack assassins, yes, and thank you for sharing your file with me. You suspected elements of the Persian Assassins. Tell me, did you destroy them, as well?”

  “All who opposed me.”

  Kengo took a moment to take that in, as well. “And now you suspect that perhaps you were not thorough enough in your destruction of the Thuggees.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Kengo chewed that over. “There is a saying in Japan, that when one stamps upon a nest of snakes it is not always certain that some few may have wriggled away among all the wriggling.”

  “Not bad.”

  Kengo gave Bolan a curious look. “Could they truly turn themselves invisible?”

  “You’re a ninja,” Bolan countered. “Can’t you?”

  “It is said that a ninja can walk through walls. Listened for, he cannot be heard. Looked for, he cannot be seen. Felt, he cannot be touched.”

  It hurt Bolan’s face but he smiled. “You stole that from Kung Fu.”

  Kengo laughed. “That was a good show.”

  “It was.”

  Kengo verbally diverted. “How does your face feel?”

  “It’s starting to go numb.”

  “That is normal. You will be able to make facial expressions, but you will have to make them deliberately.”

  Bolan glanced in the rearview mirror. He deliberately smiled at his reflection. He frowned with effort, and it took two seconds of conscious effort to raise his eyebrows out of the V Kengo had given him to match. He stopped trying, and his face fell back into the predatory scowl.

  Kengo shrugged. “There are worse things for a ninja than having a battle mask for a face.” Bolan pulled the car over by the banks of Hooghly. Kengo glanced at him questioningly. “Yes?”

  “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “Within limits, I have been ordered to be so,” Kengo said.

  “Since we’re going in together, I figured one good turn deserved another.”

  Kengo considered this. “Thank you?”

  “I told you when I fought the Thuggees they could turn invisible.”

  “Yes, I found this very intriguing.”

  “They were using light-transfer technology,” Bolan stated.

  “Fiber-optic receptors.” Kengo nodded to himself. “Transferring light from
one side of an object to another.”

  “It was crude. They hadn’t figured out how to make it into armor or clothing. They were pretty much hiding under fiber-optic bed comforters, but when they weren’t moving, you didn’t see them. You saw what was behind them. All you saw was the room or the landscape,” Bolan explained.

  “I will tell you that my people have been very interested in this for some time, but I find it hard to believe that India has developed this technology.”

  “Why’s that?” the soldier probed.

  “Because if they had, we would already have stolen it from them.”

  “It was the Thuggees of Kali who stole it from a Silicon Valley start-up they had infiltrated in California.”

  Kengo eyes narrowed. “I see.”

  “Like I said, it was crude. If they moved, or if there was a light source behind them, you could see distortions. But in an ambush, or an assassination situation, it gave them a terrible advantage, and they were as practiced as their forebears with their strangling cords.”

  Kengo mentally revisited his knowledge of assassin cults from around the world and their methods. “The rumal. Thank you Cooper-san. I will be vigilant.”

  “We brainstormed about how to fight invisible opponents using this technology. We came up with a number of solutions. They varied from bursting sacks of flour in the air to paint ball rifles and grenades.”

  “I am very grateful you have shared this information with me.”

  “One more thing.”

  Kengo cocked his head and grinned disarmingly. “Oh?”

  “A woman I know locked on to the fact that the light transfer technology transferred incoming light and sent it along the fibers to the receptors behind you.”

  Kengo frowned. “That is the accepted view of how this technology works.”