“Come in, Tiguro,” he called even as Nagami was raising his hand to knock.
Nagami entered, dressed as impeccably as always. He was slight but broad-shouldered, and had all his suits custom-made in London. Unlike Takahashi, he had lived among the Americans for the better part of his life, and therefore his English was perfect.
“You have brought word of more successes for me to punch into my computer, no doubt,” Takahashi said. “Who has called in?”
“It is not that, Kami-san.”
“Weetz, then. Has Weetz arrived?”
“He is waiting on deck, Kami-san. But I have come with unfortunate news.”
Takahashi’s pinkish eyes bore into him. “What is this unfortunate news?”
“The people we dispatched failed to eliminate the Hunsecker woman.”
“You’re telling me she was too much for them?”
“She had help. That much we know. From whom, we don’t.”
“You assured me no one had placed any credence in her story.”
“No one we were aware of,” Nagami said, and swallowed hard.
“This is not good, Tiguro.”
“Our sources are searching for her even now. She has dropped out of sight.”
“What of her brothers? Perhaps we could use them….”
Nagami shook his head. “Also no trace.”
Takahashi’s face crinkled in disgust. “You will keep me abreast of your progress in this matter, Tiguro.”
Nagami bowed slightly. “Yes, Kami-san.”
“Do not disgrace me.”
His head was still lowered. “Of course not, Kami-san.”
“Now send the American down to see me immediately.”
Nagami bowed again and was gone. Weetz strutted in with the grace of a cat. His suit was a dark gray Italian, perfectly tailored. He was a tall man with eyes like razors. He was chomping, as always, on a piece of chewing gum, when he sat down facing the albino’s desk.
“Your work goes well, I understand,” Takahashi said to him.
“You called me here to compliment me?”
“Hardly. You recall I said there were ninety-six targets?”
“Sure.”
“There are ninety-seven. I left one out — one that requires special attention.”
Takahashi slid a file folder toward the killer. Weetz took it, eyes never leaving the Japanese until the folder was open on his lap. Takahashi watched those razor-sharp eyes narrow.
“I see what you mean,” said Weetz.
“Yes.”
“So why me?”
“This is your specialty, I believe.”
“It also entails more risk than the other sixteen kills combined.”
“Can it be done?”
Weetz smirked. “Look, mister, hide a man down in a mine shaft and I’ll shoot him through the air hole. We’re talking levels here.”
“This level requires your expertise.”
“Won’t come cheap, boss.”
“Name your price.”
“Five million.”
“Make it seven point five. That’s what I was prepared to offer.”
“When?”
“You’ll have forty-eight hours notice. You will not act until given the word.”
Weetz gazed back down at the folder in his lap. “Hits like this take time to set up.”
“You’ll have to make do,” said Takahashi.
“Seven point five on completion, right?”
“You’re well worth it, Mr. Weetz.”
Chapter 13
Professor Reston Ainsley lived in a brick house enclosed by a narrow yard on the outskirts of Georgetown. Virginia Maxwell had arranged a car for McCracken, and he squeezed it into a space just beyond a tow zone. The Ainsley residence seemed well kept, if undistinguished. The first of the fall leaves had already been swept off the walkway and stacked in piles, waiting to be bagged. Blaine climbed to the porch and rang the doorbell.
“Ainsley residence,” a mechanical voice responded through a speaker. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see the professor. He’s expecting me.”
“State your name.”
“Blaine McCracken.”
“Yes, he is expecting you.”
There was a click, then the solid wood door swung mechanically inward. Blaine stepped through and heard a soft whirring sound an instant before a hulking mass of steel and wires approached from the right. He tensed as the robot drew directly up to him.
“Professor Ainsley is waiting for you in the study. Please follow me.”
The robot’s head was an opaque oblong attached to a flexible steel neck. The words emerged from a plate just above a host of flashing diode lights in its chest. Its midsection was chiseled into the form of a man’s, and its arms were lifelike as well, albeit connected by visible wires and fittings instead of sinew and tendons. Its hands ended in steel pincers. Its torso and legs were covered with wires and what looked like Kevlar tubing. The thing actually walked like a man, right down to a slight flex in its metallic knees. Its feet pads were rimmed by steel pods that flattened out as it lowered its weight. The thing could look Blaine in the eye at six-two, and it seemed incredibly nimble for a machine.
“Mr. McCracken to see you, Professor.”
“Show him in, Obie One,” responded a nasal human voice, and the robot extended its hand outward to bid Blaine on.
“Thank you,” he found himself saying.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Blaine eased past the robot through a pair of double doors that led into a den cluttered with machines. It had the feel, strangely, of a child’s playroom, where the toys had been left out long after the boy or girl was finished with them.
“Drat,” came the nasal voice again, and McCracken watched as a man seated near the window dumped the contents of his lap onto the floor. Professor Reston Ainsley spun his wheelchair around and rolled toward McCracken, crunching bits of previously discarded materials beneath his wheels. “I see you’ve met Obie One, Mr. McCracken.”
Blaine remained fascinated by the robot. It was advanced far beyond anything he thought science had achieved.
“Actually, we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Then, allow me,” offered the man in the wheelchair. Ainsley’s wild white hair made him look like a first cousin to Einstein. His right ear was totally concealed by jagged curls, the left uncovered. “Blaine McCracken, this is Obie One, short for Operational Ballistic Droid.”
On cue, the robot extended its right hand and opened its steel fingers all the way.
“Right.” Blaine met the robot’s grasp with his own. “Likewise, Obie One.”
The robot gave him enough of a squeeze for McCracken to feel its incredible power. It could have crunched his bones had it wanted to.
“Would you like me to remain, Professor?”
“That won’t be necessary, Obie One. But please inform Obie Three Mr. McCracken and I will require some refreshments.” The old man turned his wild eyes to Blaine. “Some lunch, perhaps?”
“Just a soft drink will be fine.”
Ainsley looked back at Obie One. “And I will have my usual, Obie One.”
“Yes, sir.”
McCracken watched the robot swing around on its heels and stride away noisily.
“Now, Mr. McCracken, what can I do for you?”
“Incredible…”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just admiring your work. Obie One, I mean.”