Siege Page 8

  Morressy shook his head. "No one else knows. I only came into possession of the knowledge because he was bragging to me yesterday of how much he was charging some Americans for false passports."

  "He has to know what went down today. What's going to keep him from running?"

  "Where could he go? And if he did run, he'd be admitting his guilt. No, Shigeru's still in Tokyo. I'd be willing to bet my life on that."

  Bolan gave the man a thin smile. "You might be doing just that."

  The thought settled uncomfortably on Morressy, shading his face as gray as the rain clouds.

  "Where can I find him?"

  "He hangs out at the Club Morena, down in the Roppongi, but it doesn't open till seven-thirty this evening."

  "What about a home address?"

  Morressy shook his head.

  People had filled the alley now, but maintained a discreet distance from the dead men. "How will I know him?" Bolan asked.

  "He's known to the hostesses. Ask them."

  "Shigeru isn't going to want to see an American now."

  Morressy touched the top of his ear. "The top of his left ear was slicked off by a knife, and there's a birthmark here." He rubbed the left side of his jaw.

  Bolan riffled through the belongings of the two dead men, coming up with a Beretta and a Taurus. He claimed the Taurus and the three extra clips that he found on the driver. The .45's use was almost at an end because finding replacement ammunition for it would be difficult. The Taurus cut those difficulties down by using the same round as the Uzi. He jammed the Brazilian pistol into the same pocket as Morressy's H&K. "If this information you've given me doesn't pan out," he said in a low, tight voice, "I'll be looking for you again."

  Morressy nodded, unable to speak.

  The Executioner shouldered his duffel and jogged from the alley, avoiding the people scattered around him. He paused at the corner of the alley to check on Morressy. The arms dealer leaned against the crumpled van, his hands covering his face.

  Bolan touched his shirt to feel the bandages underneath. His fingers came away stained crimson. The wound was bleeding again, or perhaps it had never really stopped. In a way he was grateful for the pain because it kept the fatigue from his overnight journey at bay. He sprinted across the street, letting his combat senses define his territory and warn him of any threat. He wondered briefly at Brognola's fate at the hands of the assassin, then forced the issue from his mind because it was too emotional.

  He glanced up at the next street, found Tokyo Tower and began plotting his course back to his rental car. It would take time getting there, but it would also allow him to find out how much his body could take before he put it to the test.

  He hefted the duffel bag in satisfaction. At least now he had ordnance. The team of assassins this morning had been waiting for an unarmed man. Now he was ready, willing and able to take the war back to them.

  * * *

  "What the hell is this?" Brognola demanded of the white-coated technician standing in the middle of the roomful of sheet-covered bodies. He leaned on the cane in a useless effort to take some of the weight off his injured leg. The chill of the morgue soaked into his bones and made his skin tighten. The technician looked up in irritation, his pencil poised as he worked on a clipboard that he held. "You are Tucker-san?"

  "No," Brognola growled. "He's Tucker." He pointed at the CIA man, who was lifting the sheet covering the nearest body.

  "Ah, then you will be Brognola-san." The technician nodded in satisfaction, then checked off another series of items on his list. "Fujitsu-san asked that you wait here until he arrives."

  "This is a morgue," Brognola said. He gazed around at the bodies and the bloodstained sheets as misgivings about the impromptu meeting stirred up dark thoughts.

  "Hai," the technician agreed. He moved through the bodies, pushing up his glasses briefly to check one of the toe tags. "Fujitsu-san said that his business with you must be done here. I assure you, this place being used as a conference room is most improper, but Fujitsu-san felt its effect would be necessary."

  "Hey, Hal," Tucker called.

  Brognola glanced at the agent and saw that he had moved on to the next table. "What?"

  "We've seen these dead guys before." Tucker lifted the sheet on the third table, cocking his head to survey the body. "About an hour ago, down by the Sumida River, they didn't look this good."

  Brognola limped over to join Tucker. He didn't recognize the face under the sheet, but the chances of a Tokyo morgue containing this many Caucasians were too slim to give him any doubt from where the bodies had been brought. He reached out and snared the toe tag at the bottom of the table. Japanese characters covered most of it. "What does this say?" he asked the technician.

  The man pushed his glasses up again and glanced briefly at the tag. "It lists height, weight, hair and eye color, and the approximate age."

  "This line of characters is the same," Brognola said, pointing to another tag.

  "It is what you would call 'John Doe' in your country. Even though these men are not known, they must be called something for our files until their true names are discovered."

  Tucker let the sheet slide through his fingers. "I've got the feeling someone thinks a first-class reaming session is in order," he said quietly.

  Brognola silently agreed. He leaned back against a table covered with scalpels, drills, saws and other implements of the coroner's trade.

  Tucker thrust his hands into his pockets. His collar was unbuttoned, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. "What do you figure the chances are that we'll be shot out of the water on this one before we get a real break?"

  "Real good," Brognola replied honestly. He gazed silently at the tattooed arm sticking out from one of the tables, recognizing it as belonging to the Special Forces in general, and the Phoenix Project in particular. He tried to remember if it was the same tattoo he'd seen earlier, then decided if it wasn't, it was another just like it.

  The door burst open a few minutes later to allow Fujitsu's entrance. The Foreign Affairs liaison dismissed the morgue technician with a curt nod as he turned to Tucker and Brognola. Once the lab man was gone, Fujitsu walked to the table nearest him and yanked the sheet back. The corpse was sheathed in blood and a ragged line of bullet holes had been punched through the chest. The dead man's face was curiously devoid of any expression. "Do you know this man?" the Foreign Affairs man asked in a voice tight with anger and frustration.

  Brognola shook his head.

  Switching to Tucker, Fujitsu repeated his question. "Do you know this man?"

  "No."

  Fujitsu covered the body and moved on to the next one, deliberately choosing one that put him closer to his audience. "Perhaps you know this man?" He swept the sheet back, revealing a dead man with an arrow through one of his eyes.

  "No."

  "And you, Mr. Tucker?"

  "No," the CIA man said after a pause.

  "So, out of a whole roomful of dead men, neither of you can offer any assistance in identifying any of them." Fujitsu dropped the sheet back into place. "Yet both of you are highly touted in your fields."

  Brognola kept a handle on his temper. Striker was still out there somewhere, and it wouldn't do any good to antagonize the people they were supposed to be assisting. "We were assigned to help your government find out who's attacking Japanese holdings in the United States," he said in a neutral voice. "If I knew who any of these men were, I would tell you."

  Fujitsu looked at him speculatively. "I wonder how true that statement is."

  Brognola returned the gaze but kept quiet. He shifted his weight again in another attempt to alleviate some of the pain in his leg.

  "Have you anything to offer, Mr. Tucker? You have been in Japan a number of years now. Has this given you any insights you would like to share with us?"

  Tucker's voice was harsh. "If you've got something to say, Fujitsu, spit it out and let's deal with it."

  A slight smile tugge
d at Fujitsu's lips but lacked any sign of humor. "Yes, let us do that. You have been here a number of years, as I have said, Mr. Tucker, and during that time things between us have not always been seen the same way. We have had, should we say, our disagreements."

  "Ours, and those of others."

  "Yes, and sometimes we have found ourselves sitting on opposite sides of the fence as we faced the problems our respective governments have given us. Luckily we have always been able to sort things out in the past." Fujitsu sighed. "Now, however, that option does not appear to be possible. I have a roomful of dead men bearing tattoos of the American Special Forces, men who have served in the Phoenix Project in Vietnam. And, as we are all aware, that was a CIA project. Do you think it would be too far off base for me to assume these men, at least the ones with these tattoos, were once a part of that CIA operation?"

  "That doesn't mean they're still with the Agency," Tucker said defensively.

  Brognola unwrapped a cigar from his pocket and stuck it into his mouth.

  "You would not know these men were a part of the CIA if your employers did not want you to," Fujitsu said. He encompassed the room with a gesture of his arm. "Your agency has a history of clandestine operations in my country as well as in others. My father was killed by a G-2 man during the occupation. He was on strike against the Tightest government when MacArthur's SCAP soldiers were busy releasing Yakuza into the streets to help pull Tokyo in the direction the American government wanted Japan to go. You are too young to remember that, Tucker, but I remember. I was eleven years old the day my father's friends came to our home to tell my mother of his murder at the hands of the Americans."

  Tucker opened his mouth to say something.

  Fujitsu stilled the protest with a curt hand gesture. "Silence. There is nothing you can say about this. You will be trapped into telling me things are different now, or that the CIA has never done anything like this. Maybe you would even try to excuse it by telling me it was still wartime. I do not care to hear it. You will never know everything that was done during those times. Neither will I. But I do know that your government worked with Yakuza members to rebuild this country in the image they chose, the very same way they did with the Mafia in Italy. I know how the black markets and other crimes thrived under the leadership of Yoshio Kodama. Your agency has tried to bend the rules in this country many times, Tucker. Not in the least have been the attempts to stockpile nuclear arms here, despite that being outlawed in treaties. I know the kind of people you work for, and you cannot really defend them to yourself because you know those people, too."

  Silence fell over the room as Tucker looked away.

  "Before you get the idea that I am dismissing you from this conversation, Mr. Brognola," Fujitsu said, "let me address you concerning your man, Belasko."

  "What about him?"

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know."

  Fujitsu nodded in satisfaction. "He's not on any of these tables, is he?"

  "No."

  "Yet he was supposed to check in with you as soon as he arrived in Tokyo, was he not?"

  "You know he was," Brognola said, letting some of his irritation show in his tone. "I had to clear his entrance through your office, as well."

  "Then where is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is this standard operating procedure for your office, Mr. Brognola? Because if it is, I find it lacking in respect and responsibility."

  "Maybe he ran into the same kind of trouble that Tucker and I had this morning," Brognola said evenly. "We were almost gunned down in your office this morning by a street punk with a big gun. If that is an example of your security, I find that not only lacking in respect and responsibility, but goddamn dangerous to boot."

  The Foreign Affairs man's face tightened and grayed with repressed anger. "Both of you are here at the sufferance of the Japanese government," he stated, "yet neither of you seem willing to volunteer information that will help us find out who is attacking Japanese-held businesses in America and killing Japanese employees."

  "It isn't just Japanese employees being killed over there," Tucker said sharply. "Whoever the assassins are, they're not prejudiced about political or racial issues when they're inside their targets. At the light truck factory in Detroit the American deaths to Japanese deaths was five to one."

  "The principal targets are Japanese holdings, Mr. Tucker," Fujitsu said. "Let us not forget that."

  Brognola took the cigar from his mouth and shook his head. "For three men who are supposed to be pooling their talents on this, we're not getting along very well."

  Tucker didn't look at him.

  "Until I am sure we all share a common goal," Fujitsu stated, "I do not intend to."

  "That's your prerogative," Brognola said, "but I have a job to do and I intend to do it until it's done or my services are no longer wanted by your government."

  "That may be sooner than you think," Fujitsu promised. "I am told your President's plea to let you work on things from this end was passionate. However, do not expect his words to carry you if you are unable to aid in this investigation."

  Brognola resisted making a retort. Fujitsu wasn't a politician like many of the ones he'd been forced to deal with over the years, but his views were just as political. He leaned on his cane and began walking toward the door.

  "And, Tucker," Fujitsu called after the CIA man, "I hope for your sake that these men really are unknown to you."

  Brognola led the way into the narrow hall of the morgue, with Tucker right behind him. "Was it just my imagination," the CIA man asked, "or was Fujitsu really coming on a little strong?"

  "It wasn't your imagination," Brognola replied, grimacing as he looked up the flight of stairs leading to the first floor of the building.

  "I didn't think so. I was on the edge of my seat waiting for that old cowboy line about this town not being big enough for the both of us."

  "The three of us," Brognola grunted. He wrapped a hand around the bar mounted on the wall and began pulling himself up. A woman's voice calling his name made him stop and turn around.

  "You wanted on telephone," the young woman in a nurse's uniform stated with difficulty. "You come, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "I show you."

  Tucker tagged along. "This private?" he asked.

  "If it was, whoever's on the other end wouldn't be calling me over an unrestricted line."

  The young nurse handed Brognola a telephone. He sat in the chair behind the small desk as she went away, grateful for the comfort. He stared at his reflection in the window overlooking the hallway. "Brognola."

  "Just a moment, please." There was a click. "Your party is on the line now, Mr. Brognola."

  "Thank you. Hello?"

  "How's the leg?"

  Brognola recognized Bolan's deep voice at once and some of the worry left him. He saw himself smile, and a couple of interns passing in the hallway glanced at him quizzically. "It's been better. I see you're still alive, too."

  "Despite an almost overwhelming objection. You've heard about it?"

  "I've seen some of your work. How soon can we meet?"

  "Soon. At the moment I'm following up on some leads that this morning's activities generated. I don't know if this ties into what you've planned here, but the people I met this morning had to have picked me up somewhere along your trail. I came in clean."

  "Yeah, well, that's entirely possible. There are some undisclosed players on this one." Brognola detected the fatigue in Bolan's voice. "What kind of shape are you in from this morning?"

  "I've seen better days."

  "Maybe you ought to consider coming on in now and letting some of the people I brought with me take over for a while."

  "Not now, Hal. This one's hot and bloody so far, and definitely not for someone who hasn't been in the jungle before. I'll be in soon. Where can I meet you?"

  Brognola gave him the address of the hotel the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had selected for the Justic
e team.

  "I've also got a lead on the guy who tried to whack you and the CIA guy."

  "You're ahead of me, but I'm working an angle that might pay off."

  "We both know the CIA's going to run its own plays on this, but what's the home team like?" Bolan asked.

  Brognola watched Fujitsu walk down the hall with an erect carriage, like a soldier going off to war. "Inscrutable," he replied softly. "Very inscrutable. Watch your ass on this one, Striker, because anything could come out of left field."

  "I've found that out." Bolan broke the connection.

  Chapter Seven

  Winterroad came up firing, holding the SIG-Sauer in both hands as he emptied the clip into the tent. The flare still blazed in the campfire, throwing jade shadows over the trees, the camp and the Bronco. He whirled back down as the slide on the automatic locked back empty, then pushed himself onto his elbows to another vantage point as the gunner holding the MAC-10 ripped splinters from the trees and bushes he'd hidden behind. Dropping the empty clip, he shivered when he thought about the cost of replacing it if he couldn't find it in the darkness. The Agency didn't pay for everything. Finally he slammed the next magazine home and turned onto his side to look down the hill.

  Gaping black holes flapped in the sides of the tent. The flare continued fizzling as it spread dozens of small fires in a rough circle around it. There was no sign of De Luca or whomever might have been manning the MAC-10.

  Taking careful aim, Winterroad placed five shots across the front of the Bronco in an effort to hole the radiator and limit the vehicle's usefulness. Sparks flew from the grillwork. He pulled his head back down as a line of bullets scythed over his head. Branches and leaves tumbled across his back as he scrambled to another clump of brush and trees.

  "Harry," he called softly, watching the campsite for movement. He didn't know if De Luca would take a chance on coming after them or if the man was alone. He still wasn't sure De Luca was even in the tent. He called again, louder. "Harry."

  "Here, damn it."