He looked at Takagi. Takagi nodded.
The man jammed the tip of the knife into the wood beside his little finger, and rocked it sideways.
There was a sharp crunch-pop and blood gushed from the severed stump. The man let out a stifled cry. On shaking legs, he rose to his feet, swayed slightly, then picked up the cutting board and placed it on Takagi’s desk blotter.
Takagi nodded. “Go.” The man turned and left the room.
Takagi considered the situation. He knew little about Tanner aside from his military background and current employer, an exporter/importer in the United States. There was nothing to suggest he was anything more than an ordinary vacationer. Nothing, that is, except his actions at the hotel.
Was it all coincidence? Perhaps, perhaps not. Takagi was tempted to settle the matter, but another murder — especially of an American — would raise too much suspicion. Ohira’s murder had been necessary. It had left many unanswered questions. Who had he been working for, if anyone? Could there be a compromise?
Takagi dismissed this. Like so many men of wealth and power, he considered himself untouchable, and in Japan this was the virtual truth. No, he decided, there was no compromise. The ship would depart soon, and once the facility was destroyed there would be no trail left to follow. He was safe.
“Watch him,” Takagi said to Noboru. “As long as he remains a simple vacationer, he is to be left alone. If his interests change, however, I expect you to handle it personally. Do you understand?”
Tange Noboru nodded. “Hai.”
For a long time after Noburo left, Takagi stared out the window and considered his decision. Was there a connection beyond Ohira’s chance encounter with Tanner? Had he overlooked—
Stop this! he commanded himself. Doubt? Hiromasa Takagi, doubting himself? He jabbed the intercom button on his desk. “Susiko! Come in here!”
The door opened and a young girl entered. She was sixteen years old, beautiful and delicate, with short black hair framing her face. Her eyes were liquid brown, doelike. Susiko had been fourteen when Takagi purchased her from a courtesan in Kyoto. Then, as now, she was perfect. A child-woman.
I am in control,Takagi thought, staring at her. “Disrobe,” he commanded.
Eyes downcast, Susiko shed her robe. Her breasts were pert and just budding. In accordance with Takagi’s instructions, she was smooth-shaven.
“Come here.”
Susiko walked around the desk and stood before him. He reached up and fondled her right breast. The girl trembled but made no sound. She was frightened. He relished it. He felt himself hardening. He caressed her nipple between his thumb and index finger, paused, then pinched down. She cried out and collapsed to his feet.
“Tell me what you want,” Takagi murmured.
Shoulders trembling, she stared at the floor. “Please, I—”
“Tell me what you want!”
“You,” she choked. “I want you.”
He gently cupped her chin and lifted her face. He slapped her; a red welt appeared on her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you.”
Takagi smiled and nodded. “Very good.”
13
“For Christ’s sake, Judith, how many times do I have to tell you: Your ass is too big for that dress!” Herb Smith yelled from the bathroom. “You’re not a goddamned supermodel, you know.”
Judith Smith bit her lip. “Well, I just… I just thought—”
“Put on something else, and hurry up. The car will be here in five minutes.”
Judith nodded, blinking away the tears. “Okay, Herb.”
She went into the bathroom, careful not to slam the door lest it draw another bark. She snatched tissues from the counter dispenser and dabbed her eyes. My eyeliner… I can’t ruin my… “Your ass is too big. You’re not a goddamned supermodel.” How would Marsha tell her to handle that? Maybe she wasn’t a model, but she was certainly attractive, wasn’t she? But Herb said—
“Stop it,” she said, staring at her reflection. “Stop it. You deserve better—”
“Judith, quit talking to yourself and get ready. I will not be late because you can’t fit your ass into a five-hundred-dollar dress!”
“Okay, Herb, I’m coming.”
She stared into the mirror. The woman she saw was so different from the one of twenty-five years ago. Young Judith had been bright and confident and madly in love with a promising Georgia state senator who had won her heart on their first date. Less than a year later they were married, and that’s when everything changed. She soon realized Herb had campaigned for her just as he campaigned for office: with ruthless pragmatism. She was simply window dressing, and he’d chosen her as he would choose a pair of shoes.
As the years went by and she worked at the marriage, certain that her dedication would change him, Judith made a fatal mistake: She began to believe it was her fault She wasn’t trying hard enough. She wasn’t attentive enough. She wasn’t this, she wasn’t that. She tried harder. And thus the cycle began. Smith grew more abusive; she took the blame. He controlled, she submitted.
What had it felt like to be that younger woman? Was she gone? Judith wondered. Was this who she was? Marsha Burns didn’t think so, and neither did her friends — her real friends, that was, not the Washington gossips. She’d over-heard the conversations: “She’s damaged goods. Even if she managed to find the courage to leave that drunken, philandering husband of hers, who would have her?” Judith knew about the drinking, the affairs, all the hushed-up gropings of young staffers. She even knew about the bimbo he had tucked away in that studio apartment in Georgetown. Despite all that, it terrified Judith to think of herself as anything but Mrs. Senator Herbert Smith.
“Judith, if you’re not down here in one minute, I’m leaving without you!”
“Okay, Herb, almost ready.”
Judith peeled off her dress and selected another from the closet. It was her least favorite, but he approved of it. It presented the right image, he said. She smoothed it over her hips, took one last look at her makeup, and hurried downstairs.
Down the block from the Smith home, Ibrahim Fayyad watched the couple climb into the limousine. He checked the photo folder on his lap. There was no mistaking Herb Smith: the paunch, the ruddy skin, the thinning hair idiotically combed over his balding pate. The man was a pig. His wife, however, was another story. She was a handsome woman.
He watched the limo pull out of the driveway and disappear down the street. He pressed the Talk button on his portable radio. “Ibn, you have them?”
“We have them. We are following.”
Fayyad nodded to Hasim in the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”
The Smiths’ backyard was invitingly dark with the nearest neighbor a hundred yards away behind a tall fence. It took Fayyad less than a minute to pick the lock to the back door and another thirty seconds to bypass the alarm system. Once inside, he stood still, letting his eyes adjust. The house was dark except for a small bulb over the stove.
Fayyad told Hasim to wait in the kitchen.
He walked through the dining room and into the living room. The decor was predominantly feminine. All her choices, Fayyad suspected. The senator could not be bothered. As long as the correct image was portrayed, he would not care. Fayyad touched nothing but closely studied the photographs and paintings. Each one told him something about her. All the paintings were impressionist, most of them Monets. No pictures of children. According to al-Baz’s brief, the marriage was childless. Why? he wondered. And what effect did that have on her?