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FOR THE GREATER
GLORY OF JAPAN
We were almost to the sixteenth floor
when the elevator came to o smooth halt. I
picked up my bag and prepared to exit
when I realized the operator hod not
opened the door. The row of lights above
the door indicated we were between the
fourteenth and fifteenth floors.
"Who(s going on?" I asked, looking closely
ot him for the first time.
The operator turned toward me, his face
stern, and stood very straight as he pulled o
narrow white shawl from his jacket and
wrapped it around his neck.
"Death to my enemies," he said quietly in
Japanese.
I quickly dropped my suitcase, expecting a
lunge from him. Instead he whirled and lifted
the emergency phone from its cradle and
gove it a yank.
A terrific explosion went off directly above
us with o dull compressive blast. The elevator
swayed sickeningly for an instant, and then
began to fall. .
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NEW
A Killmaster Spy Chiller
-NICK
THE SIGN
OF THE
PRAYER SHAWL
CHARTER
NEW
A DIVISION Of CHARTER COMMUNICATIONS INC.
A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
Sion screen above the counter indicated Fight 721 from
Tokyo and Honolulu was scheduled to arrive at 7:40
A.M. Owen was coming in on one of the DC-10 jumbo jets,
and I wanted to watch the big plane land.
It was already seven-thirty, so I hustled out to the wide
corridor leading to gate K-3, gripping the heavy binocular
case that hung from my shoulder to keep it from
bouncing against me as I half ran and half jogged. My
rapid footsteps echoed in the nearly deserted building as I
hurried past the morning janitorial staff. The bustle of San
Francisco's International had not yet reached its charac-
teristic level of near chaos, and the janitors watched me
pass with indifferent amusement.
The cloudless sky hung like a curtain of azure blue
through the floor to ceiling corridor windows. The
warmly-dressed ground crews outside seemed predisposed
to stand and talk, rather than work, clouds of condensed
moisture blowing out of their mouths with every sleepy-
eyed comment they made. Even the low carts and trailers
carrying baggage seemed to be moving at a sane pace in-
stead of the usual daredevil style seen at airports.
When I reached gate K-3 1 went immediately to the
window that overlooked the runways and took out my
fifty-power special issue Zeuss X-111 binoculars. I
scanned the horizon in a series of rapid sweeps but saw
no incoming planes, so I scanned the airport itself and the
surrounding countryside.
Airports had always fascinated me since I was a kid,
and even before becoming AXE Killmaster N3 1 knew of
their role in international smuggling and intrigue. I' never
lost an opportunity to observe the layout and daily oper-
ations of every one in which I happened to find myself.
Tidbits of fact were learned every time I looked around a
hanger, or hung around the gates watching people come
and go. Small bits of data were stored in my brain:
mostly trivial facts, it's true, but the few important items
of information gleaned in this way and recalled at some
crucial moment were more thansworth the slight trouble
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THE SIGN OF THE PRAYER SHAWL
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9
of careful observation. They could be and had been—on
several occasions—life savers. Besides, careful scrutiny is
a habit that grows rusty if not constantly used.
It was a wet morning too, and dew sparkled from the
flat green lawns that surrounded the few homes I could
see from my vantage point. To the north, toward San
Francisco itself, the fog was thick on the bay side of the
peninsula.
I lowered the field glasses and scanned the sky again
with my naked eye. This time I caught the tiny dark
speck in the distant blue atmospheric depths. I lifted the
binoculars.
The giant DC-10 drifted slowly through the field of my
glasses like some metallic predatory bird in a graceful,
and from here, silent dive toward prey. The flaps were al-
ready lowered and the landing gear was down. I knew the
DC-IO's wing span was three hundred and forty feet, and
from the angular size of the craft in the binocular's visual
field, I estimated its distance to be about five miles. At an
approach speed of around two hundred miles per hour, it
would touch down in less than two minutes. I glanced at
my watch and smiled with anticipation. The plane was
only a few minutes late; not long to wait for an old friend,
I told myself.
Yet the circumstances surrounding Owen's arrival from
Tokyo were far from clear to me. In fact, they were very
mysterious. Owen had been worried about something
when we talked by phone two days ago.
"I'll see you soon, Nick," he had said when our conver-
sation was almost over. That surprised me because I had
not expected the Far East resident agent for AXE to
travel to the States, nor had I expected to be in Japan at
any near date.
"What do you mean, Owen?" I asked.
"I don't have all the pieces of this puzzle yet, or I
could tell you more. But it's extremely important, Nick. I
can't risk a leak at this stage, so I'll take the next flight
out and talk to you in person. Hawk knows about it."
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
Owen had sounded almost frightened on the phone that
day. Frightened not for his personal safety, of course, but
frightened nevertheless. And that in itself was odd, be-
cause Owen Nashima was one of the most courageous
AXE agents I had ever known. His Japanese ancestry had
included a healthy amount of Samurai strain, which lent
him an absolute fearlessness in hand-to-hand combat
known well at the Washington offces of Amalgamated
Press and Wire Services, the front organization for AXE,
America's most covert and capable espionage agency.
Owen's fear had infected me. Whatever he was working
on must be big to warrant a special trip Stateside and a
person-to-person meeting.
And when Hawk had sent me the top secret message
the day after Owen telephoned, saying that Nashima
would arrive the next day in San Francisco, I knew that
even AXE's tough-minded Operations Chief was con-
cerned too. Yet Hawk's message to me had contained no
clue 'to what the matter might be all about.
Flight 721 was now in its final glidepath and I watched
the aircraft settle into its characteristic nose-up landing
posture. Damn, it would be good to see Owen again. Too
bad one of my best friends had to be stationed half way
around 'the world.
I couldn't help smiling as I watched the DC-10
descend. Owen was one of the most humorous agents ever
to infest AXE, as Hawk had grudgingly phrased it in one
Of his weaker moments. Nashima had completely inte-
grated the Eastern and Western ways of thinking and
feeling, with the result that his outlook on life, his humor
and even his approach to AXP operations were unique,
and often funny. But his methods were also highly effec-
tive, which was why Hawk had eptrusted the entire
Eastern Region to him.
I had met Owen five years ago while I was on a mis-
Sion to Japan calling for close cooperation between us. I
had been nervous about working with a man I had not
had the chance to personally evahlate, and the American-
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11
ized dive he chose for us to meet in didn't make me feel
any better.
After I had stood at one end of the bar for ten minutes
I was approached by a tall Japanese man wearing a clas-
sic silk kimono of blue, gold and red, looking like the lead
warrior in a Japanese play.
He stepped close and bowed low. "Mister Nick Car-
ter?" His singsong accent was so pronounced I could
barely understand my own name.
I nodded suspiciously.
He blurted in rapid-fire Japanese something to the ef-
fect that his name was Oshigao Nashima, then bowed
deeply again and when he came back up looked deeply
and directly into my eyes.
I was still learning Oriental languages and was not yet
completely fluent in Japanese. But I had understood
enough of what he said to realize that this man was my
partner.
I returned his deep gaze impatient to know what the
hell was going on. Reading the character of a person from
his face and eyes is a skill I pride myself on, and I wel-
comed the chance to see what kind of a man he was. Yet
when I looked into his eyes I was truly shocked. I could
see nothing from them. He had turned the most opaque
pair of eyes on me that I had ever encountered, and it
was disconcerting.
At first I thought it was an example of the inscrutable
oriental gaze, yet it quickly became more earnest than
that. I found myself locked into his gaze, and for five of
the longest seconds in my life, I was transfixed and immo-
bile as his eyes bored into mine and he seemed to read
my soul. At last he blinked and looked away for a moment.
Immediately his face became animated and softer, with
warmth flowing into his lively brown eyes. He extended
his hand and took mine.
"Call me Owen," he said in perfeet English, smiling
broadly.
We became fast friends during that mission and I
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
learned more from him than from almost any other agent
I have ever worked with. He was a master of Japanese
and Chinese dialect and idiom, and of the martial arts and
philosophies of the East. And he was an excellent teacher.
It would be good to see him again, and to learn what it
was that worried him so much.
The DC-10 was at about one thousand feet and less
than a mile from touchdown when it happened. I was
about to lower the binoculars when I noticed that the
plane was rocking sickeningly as if out of control. It
steadied itself, though, and the muted roar of the
supressed jet engines suddenly increased io a loud blast as
full thrust was poured into the J-18 engines powering the
craft. The big plane halted its descent and leveled off, then
banked sharply and went into a shallow dive directly
toward the main passenger terminal and control tower
atop that.
My hands were suddenly wet and slippery on the bin-
oculars as I stood helplessly behind the tinted glass win-
dow and watched the gigantic airplane zero in on the
control tower. It almost seemed as if the DC-10 were not
out of control. It was as if the pilot had suddenly gone
berserk and was playing some kind of gruesome game. I
could see the flight controllers frantically running back and
forth within their elevated prison from which there sud-
denly was no escape.
The plane dipped as if it would hit the tower broadside,
but then it nosed up and clipped off the glass top of the
structure. I squinted at the plane's flaps, doors and wings
during those few brief seconds, looking for any kind of
evidence of structural failure or damage that might ac.•
count for the monster bird to suddenly go mad. But I saw
nothing out of order, and, in a flash of reflected sunlight,
the plane went out of sight beyond the building.
A few seconds later I heard an explosive roar and an
extended ripping sound, the screech of metal being torn,
Of bolts and struts being pulled apart by superhuman
forces. As I turned from the windows and raced back
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along the corridor, . the sounds of the crash died slowly
and a single, horrendous explosion followed. It must have
been the fuel tanks, I thought, as I sprinted across the ter-
minal floor and took the stairs to the second level.
I did not have to search the horizon to see where the
DC-10 had come down. It had missed the freeway and
the few warehouses adjacent to the airport, and had
plowed through dozens of houses covering the rolling hills
to the east. From my vantage point it looked as if several
city blocks had been annihilated.
Sirens began to wail and official-looking people ran
through the terminal as I went back downstairs. My foot-
steps beat hard and sharp on the polished floor as I
sprinted to the doors and hailed a cab outside.
I jumped into the taxi before it came to a stop. "A
friend of mine was in that crash," I shouted. "There's
twenty bucks for you if you get me there fast."
The cabby snatched the bill and jerked the car into the
tramc. "We'll be the first ones there, buddy," he said.
We arrived with the firetrucks and ambulances. The
scene looked as if a tornado had gone through and
smashed house after house into fragments of white pine
and colored shingles. Brown earth was plowed up and
turned onto the green lawns. Slender threads of blue
smoke were rising already from the rubble, and a single
thick black column lifted skyward from the burning rub-
ber tire.
The cabby drove up a slight hill along the street paral-
lel to the crash path until he reached the end of the
destruction, where the airplane had come to a rest. What
was left of it, that is. Only the tail section remained intact,
and there were no seats visible in the hollow metal shell.
As I slammed the car door and stepped toward the
rubble, an irritating odor of burning kerosene struck me
full in the nostrils. I coughed involuntarily and breathed
less deeply to avoid taking in too much of the chemical.
The fuel vapors were wafting my way from a jet engine
laying in a backyard about fifty feet upwind. The huge
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NICK CARTER:
powerhouse torn loose from the tail section had come to
rest beside a small white doghouse behind a miraculously
undamaged house.
Looking downhill, I could see fragnents of the fuselage
scattered along the path of destruction. Bodies were
strewn here and there; some of them intact, others ripped
apart by the violent impact and deceleration. Some were
still strapped to their seats that had come loose from the
cabin floor.
As I stood desperately wondering where to begin look-
ing for Owen, I became aware of an eerie silence that had
spread over the awful landscape. It was almost a sorrow-
ful moment of solitude; as if some supernatural power
were observing and mourning the carnage.
Then the screams began. Low moans at first as the sur-
vivors came out of their shock and felt the searing pain in
their limbs and guts, and shortly thereafter came the loud
incoherent cries as those damaged souls tried to question
and make sense of the event that had suddenly shattered
lives.
My rescue reflexes came into play and I stumbled over
the rubble to where the calls were the loudest. I stopped
near a pair of upside-down seats. In one of them was
strapped a middle-aged woman, slender and pretty, while
in the other a young boy was twisted around and was
pushing against the earth under him.
He coughed and shook his head spasmodically, then lay
quietly as I pulled the seats upright and laid them on their
backs. The boy was suddenly too quiet.
I bent over him and saw that he was in shock and had
quit breathing. I gripped his jaw and forced open his
mouth, saw that his tongue was clear of his throat, then
took a deep breath and put my mouth over his, closing
bis nostrils with my free hand. His chest rose as I exhaled
forcefully into his mouth. By my third or fourth breath he
sputtered and pushed me away, and began to breathe on
his own.
I looked around to gee that tfi@ ambulance attendants
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were carrying stretchers among the wreckage and looking
for survivors. I stood up and snapped off a loud com-
mand. "Medic! This one can be saved."
They immediately rushed our way, and after glancing
down at the woman strapped into the seat next to the
boy, I went to search for other survivors. Her neck .had
been broken, and her jugular vein torn half out of her
throat.
I would have preferred to confine my search for Owen,
but the emergency demanded that as many as possible be
saved, so I continued to help in the rescue operation and
hoped against hope that Owen Nashima might be among
those still alive.
More ambulances were beginning to arrive now, and
neighborhood residents were arriving to help with the res-
cue work. The sun rose higher with the hours and the day
warmed. Miles to the north, the fog lifted from the bay
area, and it seemed oddly incongruous that such a nice
day could be coming amid this death and destruction.
As I loaded bodies onto stretchers, I could not shake
the feeling that somehow this crash was not an accident. I
was certain it was related to the secret Owen had discov-
ered and told no one about; a secret so important that
hundreds of innocent people had been killed to keep one
man from telling it. And I also had a dull ache in my gut;
the fear that my friend would not be found alive.
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CHAPTER Two
' 'I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, but Mr. Tsumoto did die in the
crash." The young Federal Aviation Administration In-
formation Offcer looked sympathetically up from the
clipboard that listed the fate of each passenger aboard
Northwest Orient Flight 721.
My face must have shown the sorrow I felt, because he
added softly, "Were you close to him?"
"Yes," I said slowly. "Tataka Tsumoto and I were the
closest of friends." Owen had flown under the cover name
of Tsumoto and I was one of the few people in the world
who knew the real identity of the person now dead under
that borrowed name.
The FAA investigative team had temporarily taken
over 2 section of Northwest Orient's ticket area at San
Francisco International in order to have an information
center to handle inquiries by relatives of the crash victims.
I leaned on one elbow on the off-white formica counter.
"Were any of his things salvaged from the wreckage?" I
asked. "Any papers?"
The omcer checked another clipboard. "His baggage
was lost," he said. "Burned, probably. But his wallet and
personal effects have been collected." His manner became
more businesslike. "They'll be sent to his next of kin."
I nodded. Owen wouldn't have left clues among any-
thing he carried on his person, so I did not think it would
be worthwhile to get possession of his things. Any impor-
tant papers he might have been carrying would have been
locked in his special briefcase. If the case had been tam-
pered with, or banged up in the crash, all the papers ina
side would have been immediately burned up with an in-
cinderary device. Neat and very enective.
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C 'What caused the crash?" I asked, changing my tack.
"Any word on it yet?"
"Our investigation is still under way, Mr. Carter," he
said. "We have not released anything yet to the press.
You can look for a story in the newspapers within the
next few days."
"But you've already had two days," I insisted, my emo-
tional state obvious in my voices
He shrugged. "I'm sorry. We're proceeding as fast as
possible under the circumstances."
I reached into a pocket and removed a package of my
custom-made Turkish cigarettes, extracted one and pre-
tended to study the gold embossed initials N.C. on the fil-
ter. I was more familiar than he was with those thousands
of bits and pieces of DC-10 scattered across acres of
plowed up suburban lawns and demolished houses. I had
spent most of the previous two days going over the area
looking for some clues about the crash, having used a FBI
cover identity to gain access to the crash site. In the con-
fusion I had not been able to find out anything about
Owen until this moment, but I had heard enough on-site
conversations among the bomb experts and FAA in-
spectors to learn that there was no explosion aboard the
aircraft. The crash was still a matter of conjecture.
"What about the flight recorder?" I asked the omcer
after a long moment. If anything would shed light on the
mishap, that fireproof metal box would. It contained a
small but capable tape unit that continuously recorded ra-
dio transmissions, cockpit talk and noises as well as the
flight status of all crucial systems of the DC-10 such as
engine thrust settings, flap positions and fuel levels. Flight
recorders were often the FAA's last resort in particularly
bad crashes when a plane was totally destroyed.
The information officer opened his mouth to answer,
but hesitated as he looked behind me.
Suddenly I was elbowed aside, not too gently, by a
frantic young Japanese man dressed in baggy slacks and a
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
loose fitting blue ski jacket. He interrupted without apol-
ogy and addressed the officer in a tense, excited voice.
"I am Higashi Tsumoto," he said in English with a
strong Japanese accent. "My cousin was to arrive on the
plane that crashed." He paused with a catch in his voice.
"Was he injured?"
He glanced at me with frightened eyes, and gestured
helplessly at the officer. "His name is Tataka Tsumoto."
The information officer studied him for a moment, then
seemed to forgive his rude intrusion. "There was a Tataka
Tsumoto on the flight," he said. "He dieg in the accident,
I'm sorry to say."
The Japanese man bowed his head and squeezed his
eyes tightly shut. "This will be very difficult for his
mother," he mumbled. Then he straightened up with a
look of resolution in his face. "I must return home to tell
his family. Are there any possessions I can deliver to
The information officer glanced around to another om-
Cial who sat at a desk. The second officer had been listen-
ing to the conversation and he rose and approached the
counter.
"If you can show us some identification, Mr. Tsumoto,
and sign the release forms, I think we could give his per-
sonal effects to you."
"Of course," the man nodded.
"If you will step this way please, sir," the officer said.
He led the Japanese man around the counter to a desk
where he had the man sign a number of forms. Then the
offcer went through a door into the back rooms.
I stood there wondering what the hell was going on, be-
cause Tataka Tsumoto was a cover name supposedly
known only to AXE personnel. Either this so-called
cousin was involved with AXE—which was doubtful—or
else a leak had revealed Owen's cover to others. Either
way something was wrong here. And the crash itself was
beginning to seem less and less like a horrible accident to
me.
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
loose fitting blue ski jacket. He interrupted without apol-
ogy and addressed the officer in a tense, excited voice.
"I am Higashi Tsumoto," he said in English with a
strong Japanese accent. "My cousin was to arrive on the
plane that crashed." He paused with a catch in his voice.
"Was he injured?"
He glanced at me with frightened eyes, and gestured
helplessly at the officer. "His name is Tataka Tsumoto."
The information officer studied him for a moment, then
seemed to forgive his rude intrusion. "There was a Tataka
Tsumoto on the flight," he said. "He dieg in the accident,
I'm sorry to say."
The Japanese man bowed his head and squeezed his
eyes tightly shut. "This will be very difficult for his
mother," he mumbled. Then he straightened up with a
look of resolution in his face. "I must return home to tell
his family. Are there any possessions I can deliver to
The information officer glanced around to another om-
Cial who sat at a desk. The second officer had been listen-
ing to the conversation and he rose and approached the
counter.
"If you can show us some identification, Mr. Tsumoto,
and sign the release forms, I think we could give his per-
sonal effects to you."
"Of course," the man nodded.
"If you will step this way please, sir," the officer said.
He led the Japanese man around the counter to a desk
where he had the man sign a number of forms. Then the
offcer went through a door into the back rooms.
I stood there wondering what the hell was going on, be-
cause Tataka Tsumoto was a cover name supposedly
known only to AXE personnel. Either this so-called
cousin was involved with AXE—which was doubtful—or
else a leak had revealed Owen's cover to others. Either
way something was wrong here. And the crash itself was
beginning to seem less and less like a horrible accident to
me.
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I motioned to the information omcer who returned to
where I was standing.
' 'What about the flight recorder?" I repeated my ear-
lier question. "Did it indicate any flight diffculties before
the crash?"
"It's been sent to Washington," he replied curtly as if
he thought the mention of that city would satisfy me.
I nodded and inhaled deeply on my cigarette, but my
curiosity was only heightened by his admission. I knew
that flight recorders were usually kept at the scene of the
FAA investigation, at least initially. "Isn't that a little un-
usual, this early in the investigation?" I asked.
"No," he said. "It's standard operating procedure." He
looked anxious to get back to whatever it was that would
take him away from my questions.
The Other omcer returned and set a small cardboard
box down on the desk, and handed Tsumoto's "cousin"
another form to sign.
The Japanese man signed the last form, got up and
tucked the carton under one arm, then surprised me by
turning my way. "l heard you say you were Tataka's
friend," he said. He hesitated a moment, then offered his
hand, shaking mine with a grave formality.
"It is a sad occasion," I said, bowing slightly to him.
His appearance was modern enough, yet there was some-
thing anachronistic about his manner. He had bowed
sharply with a certain stiffness that stamped him as a tra-
ditional Japanese; not as Americanized as his clothes
might suggest. "It is diffcult to lose a cousin," I offered
after an uncomfortable silence.
He sighed, then spoke solemnly. "We went to school
together here."
School in San Francisco? I knew Owen Nashima had
lived in San Francisco during part of his school years, a
period when his father was globe-hopping in pursuit of his
import-export business, and taking his first child and only
son with him.
But we were not talking about Owen Nashima; we were
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
talking about a cover identity named Tsumoto--—a fic-
tional character. Or were we?
Owen's father had been a renegade from his family and
had caused a furor among his brothers-in-law when he
deserted Japan just before the beginning of World War II,
and came to the United States. The family rift was great,
with Owen and his father at odds with Owen's mother
and sister as well as with his uncles. But the family was
patched together late, as I recalled. And although they
were never close after the war, at least they all seemed to
be on speaking terms.
Owen's strong attachment for his father led him to ac-
quire a taste for global intrigue and experience, traits that
eventually suited him for service in AXE.
But what would this Tsumoto imposter know about
Owen Nashima, I wondered? I was confused about a lot
of things, so I decided to play along with him to see what
he was up to.
"How is Tataka's father?" I asked. "Is his business do-
ing well?"
He brightened measurably at the question. "The import
business has never been better," he said. "Tataka's
mother and sister are well also."
What I was hearing was becoming more and more
strange with each exchange. Owen Nashima's father was
still an importer, and he did have only one sister. The
man in front of me talking about a Tataka Tsumoto was
describing Owen Nashima's family to perfection.
I found myself being forced to play along with this
man. Somewhere there was a clue of some kind. Was he
trying to force my hand? And how much did he actually
know about Owen, his cover identity, the crash of the air-
plane, and—more importantly—the •secret Owen had
been working on before he was killed? I had to find the
answers to those questions.
The cousin seemed anxious to sleave now, but before he
did he asked me a final surprising question. "Would you
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like to join me for a drink tonight and spend a little time
remembering our mutual friend?"
"I'd be delighted," I said in a properly subdued man-
ner. His invitation was obviously some kind of a trap, but
one that I was going to walk into with both eyes open.
"I'll meet you at the Chinaman's Hat at eight?" he
asked. "Are you familiar with Chinatown?"
"I can find the place," I replied.
He nodded and bowed again, then turned and rushed
away.
My first instinct was to follow the man, but then I de-
cided against it. If he was involved in this business, he
would show up at eight tonight as promised. And, mean-
while, I did not want to reveal my position or interest by
following him. If he spotted me, what little cover I had left
would be blown;
It was just eight o'clock by the time I had walked
Chinatown's narrow streets, passing dozens of small,
hole-in-the-wall Oriental shops with their glowing paper
globes and delicately painted signs, and I was more
depressed than I had been in a long time. ne bar in the
Chinaman's Hat made me nostalgic for the last days with
Owen in Tokyo when we matched up with a pair of inter-
esting women and closed several bars in the early morning
hours.
It was the mood in the Chinaman's Hat that made me
even more depressed: soft strains of Eastern music and
dim lights from paper lanterns made me naturally think of
Owen.
I had chosen a barstool at one end and had settled
down to a brandy Manhattan when Higashi Tsumoto
slipped onto the stool next to mine and ordered a sake.
He wore a nicely tailored brown suit and this evening
managed to look much more Americanized than he had
this afternoon at the airport. He gulped the drink silently
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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
and quickly despite it being steaming hot. Finally he
turned to me and opened the conversation.
"How did you know Tataka?"
"We met during a business deal in Tokyo several years
ago," I said.
"Are you in newspaper work as well?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Trading. Oriental furniture."
"l see," he said. "I thought' you might be a writer." He
stopped a moment to order another round for us, then
looked at me again with his appraising eyes. "Tataka has
been an editor for several years."
I sipped my drink to hide the shock I was feeling at the
moment. This man knew entirely too much about AXE
business and about Owen's background. But what was he
doing with this information? And what* did he want from
me?
"Was Tataka still with the same outfit, the ... the...
I said, trailing off, letting him have the opening.
"Amalgamated Press?" he said. "Yes, he was."
That was AXE's front, and it was supposedly a closely
guarded secret. Whoever this man was he was either a
fool or a very dangerous adversary. But whatever he was,
he was playing a cat and mouse game with me now.
Tsumoto finished his second drink and clicked the
small cup onto the bar with a sharp thrust of his hand,
then stared silently at me for a moment. "I'm very un-
happy with poor Tataka's fate," he said almost melo-
dramatically. "l think a Chinese bath would help. Would
you care to join me?"
"It's been years since I've permitted myself that
pleasure," I said, stepping down from the bar. "I'd be
happy to join you."
We left the Chinaman's Hat and walked a few blocks
to a large building constructed in Oriental style, with
heavy beams of dark wood supporting a pagoda-like roof
whose sweeping corners reached high into the black night.
Passing through a minature garden, we found the en-
trance and a small gracefully sign that identified
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the establishment as the Oriental Fare. Although no one
had followed us from the bar, I was sure I was being set
up, and every one of my senses were heightened waiting
for the smallest clue.
Inside, we were greeted by a young, tuxedoed Oriental
man who smiled enthusiastically, from behind a registra-
tion desk.
"What may I offer you gentlemen this evening for en-
tertainment?" he said, his greeting a mixture of American
come-on and Eastern subtletly.
"Massage and bath," Tsumoto said.
The host nodded and turned to the pigeonholes behind
him, retrieving two wooden slats covered with bright yel-
low Chinese symbols. "That will be fifty dollars each," he
said, pushing the wooden tickets across the counter.
We paid and took the stairs to the second floor, arriv-
ing at one end of a long corridor whose soft yellow walls
were covered with delicate Oriental sketches. A diminu-
tive Chinese madam emerged from the first door to our
right and stopped us with a friendly smile. She carried
two pairs of slippers which she indicated silently we were
to wear, and after storing our shoes, jackets, shirts and
ties, took our tokens and led us down the hall.
The distant sounds of Eastern stringed instruments
helped create an illusion that we were gliding through a
sunset-yellow evening sky among willow trees in a
Chinese countryside. Vivid images of my past visits to
that part of the world swept out of my memory and
whirled around in my mind as we progressed to the door
where she stopped and bade us enter with a sweep of her
We stepped into a small room fashioned in the Oriental
style of simplicity and grace. The walls were soft blue and
a faint aroma of sandlewood incense was in the air. A low
table set with cups and linen napkins stood to one side,
surrounded by dark blue cushions.
As the door was shut softly behind us, two strikingly
beautiful women in their mid-twenties stepped from be-
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hind a white rice-paper partition and bowed briefly.
Though neither of them was Oriental, they were as exotic
as the atmosphere in the room. The taller of the women
was a slender Polynesian with full lips, wide dark eyes
and sleek black hair. She introduced herself as Lia. The
other, a Philippine beauty named Naomi, was shorter but
no less attractive. Her dark, intense features gave her an
air of mystery.
They both wore plain, tight-fitting linen dresses with
purple trim around the high neck and a split up one side
of the skirt revealing a wide expanse of thigh. Although
both women greeted us with subdued smiles and a com-
fortable ease, -I noted a bright look of appreciation in
their eyes. We were not the usual fare of chubby, half-
drunk men skipping the happy hour at some convention
to get a quick piece of the massage action.
"Would you gentlemen care for some tea?" asked Lia.
I was about to accept when Tsumoto cut in curtly.
"Massage and bath first, then tea," he said.
He looked at me and I nodded to indicate that I would
honor the wish of my boorish companion. Lia and Naomi
bowed and led us past the white partition into a large
square room containing two massage couches and a tiled
bath about the size of a king-sized bed. The walls were
pale gold with red trim/ and the floor was carpeted in yel-
low. A frightening beast in gold and red was painted on
the wall near the bath, and its image was reflected in the
dim light from a series of mirrors over each couch.
The women indicated we could undress behind separate
partitions, and I was grateful for the chance to disrobe
without revealing my 9 mm Auger, Wilhelmina, or my
stiletto, Hugo. I had left my gas bomb at my hotel room
for the evening because I had not expected any large-
scale trouble.
I chose a purple towel from a stack of them and
wrapped it around my waist, stepping out from behind
the partition just as Tsumoto did. From the looks Lia and
Naomi gave us, we might have buen Olympian gods. My
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own physical condition had been kept razor-sharp for
years by hard physical exercise and a yearly stint of train-
ing with special AXE physical fitness instructors. But I
was surprised to see that Tsumoto was in much the same
condition. His clothing had hidden the size of his arms
and shoulders, and kept me from realizing until now that
although half a head shorter, Tsumoto was probably
stronger than I was.
"Please come this way and lie down," Lia said. As we
were stretching out on the couches, the women prepared
scented rubbing oils. Tsumoto, lying on his back, had
closed his eyes and now looked harmless enough—at least
for now. And if this was a trap, I had seen no indications
of any set up so far. For the moment, then, I was deter-
mined to enjoy myself.
When Lia bent over me a few minutes later, her hands
covered with scented oil, I saw that she had replaced her
dress with a towel that barely covered her breasts and
hips.
"Relax," she said. "And do not move." She whispered
the words as she pressed her hands gently over my face.
"Concentrate on feeling every muscle as I massage it. Let
your mind become one with your body."
I felt vulnerable to an attack by Tsumoto as I lay there,
so I took advantage of the silence to alter my conscious-
ness and go into a light Yoga trance to heighten my hear-
ing ability. Soon I was in a relaxed state of readiness and
could easily hear the murmur of Naomi's soothing voice
and Tsumoto's regular breathing.
Lia worked at my forehead with a series of lateral
strokes from the center of my face to the temple, using
her fingertips. Each move ended with a tiny circle over
the temple that made the entire side of my head tingle
with pleasure. She did similar strokes on my cheeks and
chin. Her touch was firm and professional.
After several minutes Lia removed the towel from my
midriff and began long strokes down my chest ending at
the groin. As she worked down onto my thighs, my mind
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was working on two levels. I was in defensive contact
with Tsumoto's breathing, waiting for the shift of rhythm
that would signal a move, and in addition I was sorting
out and integrating the conversation we had on the way
here.
Tsumoto was obviously nothing more than a lower
level flunky. I was certain Of that from the way he talked
and the things he had said. He was acting on someone
else's orders, not being intelligent enough to be an inde-
pendent agent. I figured he had been told Owen's back-
ground, but given the name Tsumoto to fit it into. He
probably knew little beyond what he had told me about
his so-called cousin. But I still had no idea what his pur-
pose was here with me.
By the end of the hour all parts of my body had been
thoroughly massaged and I was in a state of near eu-
phoria. Lia topped off the treatment with an electric vi-
brator rubdown of almost every square inch of my skin.
The gentle hum tickled each muscle back into readiness
and energized deeper mental levels of consciousness.
I sat up and faced Tsumoto, noticing a momentary
flicker of tension in his face. "Why was your cousin Ta-
taka coming to the States?" I asked.
"Business," he said after a brief hesitation.
I fired several more quick questions at him, and he
avoided answering each of them. He seemed to be lost in
thought.
"Please come to the bath," Lia said, laying the vibrator
on the low table between the shallow pool and the
couches as she led the way.
Tsumoto and I were soon sitting in the clear, lukewarm
water as the women prepared soaps and spice oil for the
bath. When they were ready, they turned around, dropped
their towels and moved slowly into the Water with no rush
to hide the smooth flesh of breasts and thigh and but-
tocks. They knelt in the bath and moved carefully behind
us. I could feel Lia's firm breasts touch teasingly on my
back as she stroked my shoulders ånd chest.
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I relaxed once more. There was definitely an enjoyable
sexual side to knowing that everything was being done for
my pleasure and soon I would have Lia in bed. As if an-
swering that thought, she snuggled closer and pressed her
torso full against my back. Still kneeling, she brought her
knees around my sides and nestled her soft groin against
my lower back, her breasts against my upper back and
shoulders. The scented water and oil made us slippery
and smooth against each other.
I was drifting away again when I suddenly noticed a
break in the rhythm of Tsumoto's breathing. Glancing
toward him I could see his shoulder muscles tensing
beneath Naomi's hands.
Just as I looked his way, he moved sharply and lunged
toward the hand vibrator which was still plugged into the
wall socket.
I immediately sprang toward him but he had antici-
pated my move and feinted to the right then swiveled
back to the left, grabbed the vibrator and held it high
above his head, turning toward us and emitting a high-
pitched, "Banzai!" Then he plunged the vibrator toward
the water.
I caught his wrist in both my hands and jerked upward,
pulling the machine away just before it reached the sur-
face. With both hands, Tsumoto gripped the electric death
weapon and tried to force it downward again. I knew we
would all be electrocuted if he succeeded. It took all my
strength to prevent his secogd attempt, but I succeeded in
pushing the vibrator high above our heads and holding it
there for the moment.
Tsumoto glared silently at me, his face contorted in a
maniacal rage. Suddenly he shifted his weight and kicked
viciously at my knee. I jerked my leg back and avoided
his attack, but my move gave him a slight advantage in
balance and he brought the vibrator down to waist level.
We stood face to face, every muscle in our bodies
straining to gain control of the situation, and, from that
point on, ours was a strange fight. It was an intense
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minute of attacking and defending, all done in the silent
graceful moves of Tai Chi, the slow-motion Kung Fu usu-
ally performed as a physical and spiritual exercise. I par-
ried every attack he made, and he succeeded in blunting
each of my attempts to gain control of the vibrator.
Finally Tsumoto let go with one hand and aimed a
blow at my Stomach which I burned away with my left
hand. I saw my chance in that moment, misting the vi-
brator upward and clockwise, wrenching it from his grip.
But, before I could toss it to safety, he smashed the side
of my neck with the side of his hand, held it high over his
head and again screamed, "Banzai," then Plunged it down
toward the water.
I was too far off balance this time to stop him, and in
the brief instant I had remaining, I managed somehow tp
flip backward up onto the carpeting. Only my heel was in
the water when the sharp jolt of electric current shot
through me, but it was only brief and harmless because I
was completely out of the water a split second later.
As I lunged for the cord where it was plugged in half-
way across the room, Naomi and Lia screamed and jerked
spasmodically around the huge tub, while Tsumoto had
fallen face first into the water and was grunting and
thrashing like some huge wild pig gone suddenly berserk.
Within a few short seconds after the vibrator had hit
the water I had the plug out, but it had been enough time
to kill all three of them. A deathly silence descended over
the room for a long moment as I stood, Wilhelmina in
hand, looking down at the reddened bodies of the two
women and the enigmatic Tsumoto.
Then someone screamed from another part of the
building, and I could hear the sounds of footsteps pound-
ing up the front stairs.
This was no time to stick around, I thought as I
grabbed my clothes, then ducked out into the corridor
and managed to make it through the back exit door be-
fore I was seen by anyone. When it came time to count
bodies, they would wonder where the second man had
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gone, but I was certain the investigation would be brief
and not very complete. Things like this were happening
almost nightly in this unsavory section of the city.
In the alley behind the building, no one was around
while I hurriedly dressed. Tsumoto was crazy, there was
no doubt about that. His move had been clearly suicidal.
But could he have also been some kind of a fanatic trying
to kill me at the same time? It would not have surprised
me if he had tried to kill me, because I was the lone
American contact waiting for Owen Nashima at the air-
port when his plane had crashed. If Tsumoto's superiors
were involved in the secret Owen had stumbled upon,
then my presence at the airport waiting for Owen impli-
cated me, too.
There was only one way to make headway in this situa-
tion now, I thought as I finished dressing and walked out
into the street and mingled with the crowd. I first had to
go to Washington and pursuade David Hawk that Owen's
death was not the end, but merely the beginning of an im-
portant mission. Then I had to fly to Tokyo to see Owen
Nashima's beautiful sister, Takeha, a woman I had met
years before; a woman I had met and loved.
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CHAPTER THREE
"Nick, I'm afraid the answer is no."
I stared at David Hawk and was momentarily at a loss
for words because I had just entered his small, crowded
Washington offce without saying a word. As far as I
knew, he had no idea what I was about to say, and yet he
was already telling me no.
He indicated a chair, told me to sit down, and when I
was settled he stared across the desk.
With his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened at the
neck, the operations chief of AXE, a man I had come to
love and respect, looked at this moment very much the
editor in chief of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services.
His messy omce even passed muster as a press omce, but
there was something in the glint, or was it twinkle, of his
eye that made me slightly uneasy. Was he a mind reader
too?
"You want to go to Tokyo to see Owen's sister, right?"
Hawk said. "Well, the answer is no. I've got too many im-
portant things for you right now. Maybe later."
I smiled, relieved. "New information," I said tersely.
Hawk sat forward, a new look of interest on his face.
After a moment he nodded for me to continue.
'61 made contact with an agent passing himself as the
cousin of Owen's cover."
"Go on," Hawk said softly. He lit his cigar, his eyes
watching mine.
6 'He gave me a song and dance abouit knowing Owen's
family," I said. "And then he tried to kill me. Ended up
hurting himself in the process." I related the entire in-
cident at the Oriental Fare, inclu