“Can you mix a Maiden’s Blush?” Loren asked Toshie.
“Yes,” Toshie acknowledged. “Gin, curacao, grenadine, and lemon juice.” She turned to Diaz. “Senator?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I want to keep my mind straight.”
Loren saw that the table was set for six. “Who will be joining us besides Mr. Suma?” she asked Toshie.
“Mr. Suma’s right-hand man, Mr. Kamatori, and two Americans.
“Fellow hostages, no doubt,” muttered Diaz.
Toshie did not answer but stepped lightly behind a polished ebony bar inlaid with gold tile and began mixing Loren’s drink.
Diaz moved over to one wall and studied a large painting of a narrative scene drawn in ink that showed a bird’s-eye view onto several houses in a village, revealing the people and their daily lives inside. “I wonder what something like this is worth?”
“Six million Yankee dollars.”
It was a quiet Japanese voice in halting English with a trace of a British accent, courtesy of a British tutor.
Loren and Diaz turned and looked at Hideki Suma with no small feeling of nervousness. They identified him immediately from pictures in hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles.
Suma moved slowly into the cavernous room, followed by Kamatori. He stared at them benignly for a few moments with a slight inscrutable smile on his lips. ” ‘The Legend of Prince Genji,’ painted by Toyama in fourteen eighty-five. You have excellent commercial taste, Senator Diaz. You chose to admire the most expensive piece of art in the room.”
Because of Suma’s awesome reputation, Loren expected a giant of a man. Not, most certainly, a man who was slightly shorter than she.
He approached, gave a brief bow to both of them, and shook hands. “Hideki Suma.” His hands were soft but the grip firm. “And I believe you’ve met my chief aide, Moro Kamatori.”
“Our jailer,” Diaz replied acidly.
“A rather disgusting individual,” said Loren.
“But most efficient,” Suma came back with a sardonic inflection. He turned to Kamatori. “We seem to be missing two of our guests.”
Suma had no sooner spoken when he felt a movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Pitt and Giordino were being hustled through the dining-room entrance by two security robots. They were still clad in their flying suits, both with huge garish neckties knotted around their necks that were obviously cut from the sashes of kimonos they’d declined to wear.
“They do not show respect for you,” Kamatori growled. He made a move toward them, but Suma held out a hand and stopped him.
“Dirk!” Loren gasped. “Al!” She rushed over and literally leaped into Pitt’s arms, kissing him madly over his face. “Oh, God, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.” Then she hugged and kissed Giordino. “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”
“We flew in from a cruise ship,” Pitt said cheerfully, hugging Loren like the father of a kidnapped child who had been returned. “We heard this place was a four-star establishment and thought we’d drop in for some golf and tennis.”
Giordino grinned. “Is it true the aerobics instructors are built like goddesses?”
“You crazy nuts,” she blurted happily.
“Well, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino,” said Suma. “I’m delighted to meet the men who have created an international legend through their underwater exploits.”
“We’re hardly the stuff legends are made of,” Pitt said modestly.
“I am Hideki Suma. Welcome to Soseki Island.”
“I can’t say I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Suma. It’s difficult not to admire your entrepreneurial talents, but your methods of operation fall somewhere between Al Capone and Freddie from Elm Street.”
Suma was not used to insults. He paused, staring at Pitt in puzzled suspicion.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Giordino, boldly appraising Toshie as he edged toward the bar.
For the first time, Diaz smiled broadly as he shook Pitt’s hand. “You’ve just made my day.”
“Senator Diaz,” Pitt said, greeting the legislator. “Nice to see you again.”
“I’d have preferred meeting you with a Delta team at your back.”
“They’re being held in reserve for the finale.”
Suma ignored the remark and lowered himself into a low bamboo chair. “Drinks, gentlemen?”
“A tequila martini,” ordered Pitt.
“Tequila and dry vermouth,” answered Toshie. “With orange or lemon peel?”
“Lime, thank you.”
“And you, Mr. Giordino?”
“A Barking Dog, if you know how to make it.”
“One jigger each of gin, dry vermouth, sweet vermouth, and a dash or two of bitters,” Toshie elaborated.
“A bright girl,” said Loren. “She speaks several languages.”
“And she can make a Barking Dog,” Giordino murmured, his eyes taking on a dazed quality as Toshie gave him a provocative smile.
“To hell with this social crap!” Diaz burst out impatiently. “You’re all acting like we were invited to a friendly cocktail party.” He hesitated and then addressed himself to Suma. “I demand to know why you’ve brazenly kidnapped members of Congress and are holding us hostages. And I damn well want to know now.”
“Please sit down and relax, Senator,” Suma said in a quiet but iceberg tone. “You are an impatient man who wrongly believes everything worth doing must be done immediately, on the instant. There is a rhythm to life you people in the West have never touched. That is why our culture is superior to yours.”
“You’re nothing but an insular race of narcissists who think you’re a super race,” Diaz spat. “And you, Suma, are the worst of the lot.”
Suma was a classic, thought Pitt. There was no anger in the man’s face, no animosity, nothing but a supreme indifference. Suma seemed to look upon Diaz as little more than an insolent toddler.
Kamatori, though, stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, face twisted in hatred of the Americans, of all foreigners. His eyes were almost closed, his lips taut in a straight line. He looked like a maddened jackal about to spring.
Pitt had earlier sized up Kamatori as a dangerous killer. He moved casually to the bar, picked up his drink, and then eased subtly between Kamatori and the senator with a you’ve-got-to-get-past-me-first look. The ploy worked. Kamatori turned his anger from Diaz and stared at Pitt through circumspect eyes.
With timing near perfection, Toshie bowed with her hands between her knees, the silk of her kimono rustling, and announced that dinner was ready to be served.
“We shall continue our discussion after dinner,” said Suma, cordially herding everyone to a place at the table.
Pitt and Kamatori were the last ones to sit down. They paused and gazed at each other unblinkingly, like two boxers trying to stare each other down during the referee’s instructions before a fight. Kamatori flushed at the temples, his expression black and malevolent. Pitt poured oil on the fire by grinning contemptuously.
Both men knew that soon, very soon, one would kill the other.
47
THE DINNER WAS begun by an ancient form of culinary drama. A man Suma described as a shikibocho master appeared on his knees beside a plain board holding a fish that Pitt correctly identified as a bonito. Wearing a costume of silk brocade and a tall pointed cap, the shikibocho master displayed steel chopsticks and a wooden-handled long straight knife.
With hands moving the implements in a dazzling blur, he sliced up the fish using a prescribed number of slashes. At the conclusion of the ritualistic performance, he bowed and withdrew.
“Is he the chef?” asked Loren.
Suma shook his head. “No, he is merely a master of the fishslicing ceremony. The chef who specializes in the epicurean art of seafood preparation will now reassemble the fish, which will be served as an appetizer.”