His method was always the same. First, cleanse the mind of all emotional or personal considerations — they weakened logic; second, feed the facts into the mental computer; third, consider all alternatives, options, dangers. Once this was done, logic released the solution from his brain.
Sitting in the rear of the launch, he considered the facts. He was safe, safer than he had been for thirty years. They had lured Corrigon to Atlanta and eliminated him, and with him the last danger of recognition. His partner was about to leave the country but DeLaroza no longer felt he needed him. In Yokohama friends in the Yakuza were waiting to take care of that problem. Hotchins was no longer the dark-horse candidate. With Lowenthal and his people on the team Hotchins would become a serious contender and eventually the favourite.
Now only Domino posed a threat. No, more than a threat, she was dangerous. She could connect DeLaroza to Hotchins and possibly Corrigon to DeLaroza. Unwittingly she could tie the noose that would hang them all.
Those were the facts. The logic? Hotchins did not love the girl; he was obsessed by her sensuality. But he had made his decision clear that morning and although he had promised to consider giving her up, DeLaroza knew all the hungers that go with power. Like all self-made men, Hotchins was fiercely protective of his independence. In the end he would deal with the Domino situation emotionally and DeLaroza knew he could press the issue no further.
For be also knew Hotchins’s passion to become president.
The conclusion was obvious.
His mind made up, DeLaroza leaned forward, cupping his hands against the chill breeze, and lit the cigar.
‘Chiang,’ he called to his bodyguard and the Chinese turned to him. In addition to his powerful build Chiang had a scar running from his hairline down the right side of his face, across his eye to his jaw. The eye dropped from the old wound, half-closed, and the pupil had turned almost white. It added another dimension to his imposing size. ‘We must put the cover over the seats back here,’ DeLaroza said in Chinese. ‘It is too cold for open riding.’
Chiang nodded and DeLaroza knew it would be done before the day ended. DeLaroza bad saved Chiang from a prison in Macao almost ten years before. Now no task was too menial or too demanding: Chiang bad devoted his life to DeLaroza.
Twenty miles north of the marina the lake narrowed and the current became stronger. A mile or so ahead there was a steady rumble as the river emptied into the lake. It was a desolate area and rarely travelled. The launch slowed, swung easily around a tree-scarred peninsula. A cove emerged in front of them and at its far end, partially obscured by tall pines, the curious geometry of a Chinese junk appeared. Its polished stern rose high above the water, sloping gently towards the bow. Its tall masts were partially obscured by spidery burnt-orange sails which were furled tightly against them. The cabin was slightly astern, its roof bordered by a frieze of temple dogs and dragons that curled around the cornice.
Chiang guided the launch expertly alongside a small pontoon dock that was lashed to the side of the junk and quickly tied it down. Then he helped DeLaroza out of the launch. The big man slowly mounted the jacob’s ladder to the deck and stood for a few moments admiring his treasure. The deck and cabin glistened with teak oil that had been hand-rubbed into every crevice and pore. The paint, although old, was perfectly preserved. He called her Psalm-Lo, The Three Devils, after the legend of the dragons.
DeLaroza looked at Chiang and pointed below decks.
‘Hal,’ Chiang answered.
DeLaroza knew that the three Orientals who manned the junk despised the Gwai-lo, the foreign devil, who was living on board, although they would never say anything to DeLaroza. They had been his servants, his bodyguards, his soldiers, for many years. Each was a master of karate; each was an expert at Tai Chi, the Way of the Peaceful Warrior; each had a deadly proficiency with the dagger and the yinza, a small steel disc the size of a silver dollar with twelve barbs around its perimeter which when scaled with the flick of a powerful wrist could pierce the skull and drive deep into the brain. And each of them religiously followed the ancient rituals of his ancestors. To them the Gwai-lo was a coward who killed without honour.
DeLaroza went below. The cabin was divided into three sections. Below the foredecks each member of the crew had his own quarters and behind them, towards the stern, was the galley. To the rear, under the lofty stern, were two bedrooms, one decorated in modern decor, the other with antiques smuggled out of Kowloon to avoid the new laws that prohibited the removal of historic artefacts from the crown colony. The living room was a museum: teak and rosewood chests with sculptured gold handles and hinges; sofas and chairs covered with thin-striped silk from the finest shops on Pearl Street; hand-painted mandarin screens dating from the dynasty of the boy emperor, Ping, eight hundred years ago; delicate Royal Doulton porcelain figures, jade statues, and Lalique crystal.
Against one wall was a mahogany cabinet with glass doors and inside, displayed against purple velvet, were several ancient weapons: a jewel-encrusted samurai sword; an awkward blunderbuss with an ornate buttplate and a curious swirling hammer; several daggers, their worn blood gutters hinting of dark deeds from the clouded past.
DeLaroza stood quietly in the darkened room looking for — who was he now? His partner had had so many names through the years that DeLaroza sometimes had difficulty remembering who he was from day to day. Howard? Yes, Howard Burns, that’s what he again called himself.
At least I have been consistent in my own alias, DeLaroza thought.
The junk moved gently in the water. The screens muffled the sounds of the lake, the water slapping against the hull, the dock nudging the side, timbers groaning underfoot. But the cabin was still.
And yet DeLaroza knew he was there, could sense that deadly presence and smell the odour of death that seemed to exude from his partner’s every pore.
‘Howard?’ he said, peering into the dark corners of the cabin.
There was no answer. But there was a stirring, a shifting of shadows, and then he saw the eyes, gleaming, alert, cold, the eyes of a snake. Burns moved into the light filtering through the portholes and DeLaroza sensed that he was in the presence of a man verging on madness. His gaunt face reflected a lifetime of killing. His thin, ‘veined fingers were taut. A muscle in his jaw jerked with the beat of his pulse. He had a stubble of grey beard and the nostrils in his hawk-like nose twitched, like a predator sniffing out his prey.
In one hand he held a .22 calibre Woodsman, its long, slender barrel encased in the ugly silencer.
Burns said nothing. He moved slowly into the centre of the cabin, his eyes darting feverishly.
He stepped closer to DeLaroza and held the gun an inch from his heart, his eyes afire with rage.
‘Bang,’ he shouted and an icy hand squeezed DeLaroza’s heart. ‘You’re an inch from being dead,’ he said. ‘Next time don’t keep me hangin’ like that. I ain’t heard shit from you in almost a week.’
DeLaroza stared down at the gun. ‘Don’t make jokes,’ he whispered.
‘You think I’m joking?’ He waved the pistol around, backed into the shadows. ‘You think I’m joking? Stuck out here with these goddamn slant-eyed creeps of yours. They don’t ever talk. Move around like mice. Half the time I can’t hear them, don’t know where the hell they are. I got the willies. They’re all the time doin’ this weird slow- motion shit, moving around on one leg, like a bunch of faggot ballet dancers. The TV ain’t worth a slit. All I get on this fuckin’ radio is static . .
He lashed out suddenly, smashing the pistol into the loudspeaker of the radio, which flew off into the corner and crashed in the shadows. An instant later the hatch opened and Chiang stood above them, glaring down, his fingers stiff at his side. Burns aimed the pistol at the Chinese.