Roppongi, page 15
Benny needed another drink. He motioned to the bar.
“Another Courvoisier, please.”
The animated, larger than life Benny not present now. A seriousness of the deadly variety falling over Benny Carter’s dark visage.
“Did anyone follow you here, Keiko?”
“I don’t think so. No one would be expecting me to come here.”
Of course, Asahara had seen the change in Keiko. Her breakdown on hearing of the death of Rose Carney an indication that she could no longer be trusted, let alone depended on. As Keiko sat here in this booth at the Sanno Hotel lounge, a confessional booth of sorts, she had no way of knowing that plans for her eminent demise were being drawn up only a few short miles away in the rooms above the Gas Panic bar.
“Look, honey, you’re not safe.”
Benny back to the fatherly mode if only briefly.
“I’ll get you a room here tonight. You’ll be safe here.”
Keiko started to protest, but Benny’s look indicated that negotiations would not be forthcoming on this issue.
“Wait here, baby, while I get the room.”
Benny gone in an instant, never noticing the brief glance from Joe Dickwell. A studied look. Just long enough to file away essential information of a descriptive nature. This done, his eyes moving towards the small Japanese woman seated alone now in the booth a few feet away. The woman known to both Japanese and American intelligence as possibly the last hope of averting a holocaust of the chemical variety the likes of which the world had never experienced.
. . . . .
“Dusty, how about a real drink?”
Bill Dwyer, retired Army Colonel. White-haired pixie, about 5’6” tall but strong as a bull, at least before years of living off the good graces of a filthy, rich Japanese wife took their inevitable toll.
Dwyer had been a hero in the Korean War. As a young Second Lieutenant, he had damn near saved his entire platoon after he and his men were caught at Chosin thanks to the brilliant planning of an egotistical demagogue by the name of Douglas MacArthur.
These days though life for William Dwyer, USA (Ret) consisted of a daily regimen of nickel slots and pitchers of beer sprinkled with war stories for any poor bastard who happened to be sitting within earshot.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Bill. Still on duty and all that.”
Dusty Rhodes knew that this response would always work with Bill Dwyer. The laugh and conspiratorial nod followed with Dwyer turning his attention, limited as it was these days, back to the bar television.
“Subject has exited the lounge. Make sure you give him a room if he asks for one. It’ll make our job a lot easier if ‘Geisha 1’ stays here voluntarily.”
“Affirmative. He’s at the front desk now.”
The “hands-free” hook-up very discreet indeed. Just two businessmen talking to themselves. Nothing out of the ordinary here in Tokyo, or for that matter, any major city in the world these days.
Keiko Watanabe had been followed. Art Chambers, in one of the last heroic acts in a life resplendent with them, had managed to figure out the connection between his beloved Rose and Keiko. His old friends in Naval Intelligence had made sure he was given a daily brief, albeit unofficially, on all they had on the Aum Cult. To be sure, Art’s initial reaction was one of outrage when he was told by the Naval Investigative Service that Rose was being followed by Asahara’s soldiers. N.I.S. and Japanese Intel was in turn able to keep tabs on Aum. Tragically, they were not cognizant of the fact that Rose was actually a target herself until it was too late. In a sense, Rose Carney’s death had served a purpose in that it exposed the fact that the Cult had sarin gas but, even more importantly, had developed a weapons grade variety of the lethal nerve agent. The night that Rose died, Art was to have let her know everything when they met at the Sanno. It was not to be, and Art Chambers died with the knowledge that he may have been at least partly responsible for his love’s demise.
“Yes, Mr. Carter. No problem at all, sir. We have a suite available. Would that be all right?”
“Yea, great. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying…ahh…okay, reserve it for two days.”
“Very good, sir.”
Walking past the guy talking to himself. Benny Carter could spot a surveillance team a mile away. He’d noticed the first two as soon as they entered the bar. Keiko undoubtedly the mark. Benny approaching Keiko, the two agents no longer at the bar.
“Well, cherry blossom, one of us is living a good life, and I know it’s not me, so….”
“Mr. Carter? Benny Carter, is that your name?”
The large, heavy frame of Dusty Rhodes directly behind Benny. Joe Dickwell a few feet to his left. Benny and Keiko cornered in the booth.
“Master Sergeant Benny Carter, United States Air Force, Retired to you, Mr.…
“Rhodes, Dusty Rhodes, FBI Special Agent-in-Charge but in a previous life, 1st Marine Division, Khe San, Vietnam 1965 - 1968, Gunnery Sergeant…but you can call me Dusty. Life goes on with or without us, Master Sergeant.”
A pause sensing the tension boiling over now and then, “This is Lieutenant Joe Dickwell of the Naval Investigative Service. May we join you? We’d just like to ask a few questions. Miss…” The nod towards Keiko, ashen faced now in the dark recess of the booth.
Benny smiling at Dickwell. Rhodes could be dealt with later. The rage at his earlier introduction temporarily put on the backburner. Not forgotten by any means.
“No problem. As long as you don’t call me sir. As I said, I was enlisted. Tough break, Dickwell.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kind of a double-whammy. Born with that last name and then becoming a Zero.”
The derogatory term enlisted men used for officers not seeming to bother Dickwell.
“I’m proud of my rank, Master Sergeant, as I’m sure you are of yours. As for my name, well, let’s just say I’ve kind of gotten used to it. Helped me learn how to fight as a kid too, if you get my drift.”
Benny with the big smile now. This Dickwell maybe not such a bad guy. Some balls anyway.
“Yea, I had a few fights growing up myself. Course they weren’t about my name, more about my “colorful” personality if you get my drift.”
The tension easing. Rhodes sensing it. Glancing at Keiko as he sat down next to her. Dickwell moving in beside Carter.
“And how are you today, Miss…?”
“Look, you guys know exactly who she is already. This place is crawling with spooks. Let’s cut to the godamn chase. She told me everything.”
Keiko exploding, “Benny, no!”
Cutting her off, “This is for Art…and Rose, baby, We have to do this. It’s the only way. There’s not much time.” And then to Joe and Dusty, “I got her a suite here as I’m sure you gentlemen already know. Maids probably bugging it right now. What do you say we all go up there?”
41
“The traitor is in Hiroo. The American hotel.”
The small figure, shaking visibly in the dimly lit room. The heavy bass thunpita, thumpita from below. The music from the Gas Panic bar providing a surreal contrast. The group of sociopaths and general societal rejects in their samurai-like attire reminiscent of a scene from a Kurosawa movie. One floor below, the Thursday night crowd picking up. Americans, Japanese, assorted Iranians. Many of the Middle Easterners drawn to Roppongi by a burgeoning illicit phone card industry. All young and following the decadent siren song of the offspring of African slaves turned entrepreneurial millionaires in the West. Their toxic music being injected into first the Americas and now the unsuspecting East.
These the thoughts of the large, brooding bear known as The One to his followers. He stared through the hapless figure before him.
“You have failed, my son. Not only your brothers and sisters but yourself as well. You do understand this, do you not?”
“Master, I…we thought she was asleep. The drugs. She could not have awoke so soon. I only took my eyes off her…a minute, maybe two, or three…”
“Enough. You have failed, and you will die like the dog that you are.”
The young man engulfed in pure terror now. With the Cult only a few months. A college student who had lost direction. Drugs, drinking, a perfect tool for the Cult. The other two sentries were already dead. The young man very much aware of this. The slight, almost imperceptive nod given by Asahara. The two soldiers out of the shadows, pulling the young man to his knees. The glint of the sword caught out of the corner of his eye. Thoughts of his mother and father. His first day of school. How odd. The blade taking his head from his body. The torso shaking violently. Asahara almost overcome with excitement. Touching himself. The others not daring to move. The body finally still. Asahara from out of nowhere. The head now in his hands. Raising it to his face. Kissing the dead lips now, tongue probing deep inside the still hot mouth. The dead, sweet mouth. A soldier vomits and runs from the room. Asahara releasing his lips and raising the hot cylinder in the air. The candlelit room lighting the maniacal otherworldly vestige that is the face of Shoko Asahara.
“Throw this garbage away. Atashi San, come, there is work to be done. The time of the rebirth is fast approaching.”
“The car is downstairs in the alley, Master. The others are at the compound awaiting your arrival.”
Atashi not betraying any outward signs of the horror that he had just witnessed. In the years that he had been with Asahara as his closest advisor, he had been present at many such examples of what most would call pure, unadulterated insanity. Atashi, however, preferred to think of these episodes as acceptable trade-offs when dealing with the evil genius of The One.
In the SUV now. A black Ford Bronco. The driver staring straight ahead as Asahara and his loyal henchman spoke in the back. The bullet-proof partition separating them from the driver who would, in any case, be executed upon reaching the Compound. No loose ends in the world of the divine leader of the Aum Cult.
“In two days’ time, the world will be changed forever. A new world, my friend.”
Atashi finding it somewhat disconcerting that Asahara had not bothered to wash the blood off his hands and face. When he spoke, it was in the low, almost humble tones that the Japanese people came to expect from sumo wrestlers. The difference though with Asahara was the unpredictable tirades that could transport him from a mild-mannered cerebral man to an enraged animal. No warning. Then, so swift as to be almost indiscernible, the polite, soft-spoken sumo wrestler would reappear. Atashi transfixed on the specks of blood mixed with bits of flesh that were curiously suspended from Asahara’s lip.
“The Arabs will be there? All of them, I trust?”
“Yes, and the science and technology people as well, Master.”
“Very well. And the cunt?”
“A martyr is in place. She will die within the hour.”
In the world of Shoko Asahara, Keiko Watanabe was now a source of unrelenting outrage. The fact that she was a woman and had betrayed The One just added to his fury. She would die indeed. Asahara’s only regret that he could not be there to personally carry out the execution. Impossible now though. He should have eliminated her earlier. The death of the Rose Carney harlot had ended the usefulness of Keiko. Had he had a moment of weakness?
Atashi’s words brought him back to the task at hand.
. . . . .
Aum Cult compound number three was located about fifteen miles outside of Tokyo center. Tokyo, a city very much like Los Angeles in that it is basically spread out. It’s prefectures would be called counties in California. Mass transit very much a part of the scene in Tokyo. Unlike Los Angeles though, the train and subway system spread throughout the metropolitan area probably the most clean and efficient in the world. The band of evil geniuses that were meeting in this idyllic country setting among the beautiful trees and singing larks, fully intended to change how the world viewed this system, forever.
As the SUV came to a halt in front of the country estate of Ren Hideo, former Chair of the Biological Sciences department at Tokyo University, Atashi could have sworn the larks ceased in mid-song. Just his imagination, he thought. A casualty of a long day.
Hideo himself now exiting the house on the dead run. Arriving at the Bronco door just as Asahara himself came out.
“An honor, Master.”
Bowing so low as to almost lick the multicolored pebbles that adorned the path to the front door of the house. This splintered genius once one of the most respected scientists in all of Japan. He had been approached by The One himself after a bitter divorce and the onset of heavy drinking. A few meetings, the proper drugs administered (everyone had their drug in the world of Shoko Asahara) and now devoid of a soul yet still intact, the intelligence necessary to accomplish the transformation of raw sarin to weapons grade form.
“I trust that you had a pleasant journey.”
A slight stutter now that came and went. The drugs, the shattered life all possible causes. No matter, he would be redeemed. The wife who had helped destroy Ren Hideo would see once and for all the tragic error she had made when she left him. The university as well. Mistaking his genius for insanity. No one understanding him. Leaving the university finally, in disgrace. He needed to drink. The pills, valium, a haven as well. The constant firestorm raging in his mind needed to be quenched. Asahara his savior. Now all would be made right again. In just a few days. The wife would be part of the purification process. Part of the quenching.
“It was a fine journey, my son. Very pleasant, indeed.”
The use of “son” not wasted on Atashi. The horrifying slaughter of the errant sentry still imprinted in his mind’s eye. Would Hideo suffer the same fate when his usefulness had expired? No matter, Hideo’s life, like the lives of the rest of the lemmings, had for all intents and purposes ended before their recruitment into the Cult. After all, thought Atashi, with a slight smile, the Cult was not a place for functional, shiny, happy people. Disposable people though. One and all.
“The others are awaiting your arrival, Master. They are in the upper room. All security measures have, of course, been tended to.”
Asahara and Atashi followed their feeble host through the front rooms of the house. As they went past the Pollock and the Picasso, Atashi thought of the curious pairing, but then glanced at the owner and shrugged off the thought.
42
The lumbering mass of contorted flesh that was Dan Bronsan passed through the front doors of the Sanno Hotel in the same way that a supertanker might navigate its way through a lock of the Panama Canal. The palsied eye atop the superstructure reminding one of the erratic rotation of the navigation radar on one of those behemoths of the seas.
A tough day at the office for Dan. The Japanese engineers asking even stupider questions than usual, he thought. The trade-off for making the big bucks as Adam Welsh had said on a few occasions. Yes, thought Dan, life full of trade-offs.
“The Black Moses come to save the pagan infidels from themselves.”
Dan spotting Benny Carter in the lobby. Eager to try out his latest witty salutation. No use just saying hello when one had a plethora of Shakespearean lines to throw out to the peasants, reasoned Dan.
“Oh, Dan, yea, how are you?”
Strange. No comeback, let alone any perceptible reaction from Benny Carter, one of the few people Dan rated as almost an equal in the art of intellectual banter. Too formal. Something wrong. The lobby for that matter, very different in some way. Too many suits.
“Benny, you old dog. Got some young lovely upstairs, aye? Well, before you go up, you’ll have to meet Kelley, my daughter. She’s here you know. Just got in yesterday.”
The darting glance from Benny. First to Dan then to the dark-suited figure at the elevator about twenty feet away. Dan’s look too late as the doors opened and Joe Dickwell disappeared.
“Look, Dan, got to go. I’m sorry. Give my best to Kelley. We’ll all get together soon, old buddy.”
“Old Buddy,” Something definitely wrong with this picture.
“But Ben…”
Too late. Benny almost sprinting to the elevator. Doors sliding open and then closed. He was gone.
“Jesus wept.”
Dan muttering to himself. The cute girl at the desk catching his sedentary eye. A new girl. Her bright badge indicating her name and her trainee status.
“Satsu, how are you today? My you are a beauty … you must have a bit of the Emerald Isle in you, my darling, with those green eyes of yours.”
Giggles emanating from the new girl. One of the things Dan loved about this country. The same line in Los Angeles or New York almost guaranteed to provoke a sneer or a dismissive, condescending ,“Can I help you, sir.”
The allusion to the Irish not lost on the girl. One of the things one would not know without having experienced the Japanese culture here in Tokyo as Dan had. The close relationship between the Irish and the Japanese. Dan, the eternal historian, had attended numerous well-catered affairs sponsored by the Japanese-Irish Friendship Society. Between numerous bites of corned beef washed down by ample supplies of Guinness, Dan had learned that this unlikely alliance was forged largely as a result of World War II. Japan and Ireland both fought against the allies. This the common denominator in a friendship that was still going strong after all these years. Dan had hoisted many a pint with Peter O’Mara in fact, the Irish Ambassador to Japan at Paddy Foleys, the Irish pub in the center of Roppongi that was the rival of any drinking establishment in Dublin itself. The ambassador a decent enough guy though Dan wondered about his sexual preference at times. Adam Welsh having no doubts. Dan never did understand Adam’s disdain for the man. Adam would drink with just about anyone, but when the ambassador arrived on the scene, Adam would go the other way. Dan would not have been so upset about it however except for the fact that it always seemed to be Adam’s round on these occasions. Dan had since learned never to bring up the ambassador with Adam. On more than a few occasions he actually felt that Adam was going to take a swing at him.
