The sun was still a pink line below the clouds on the eastern horizon when he stuck his head out of the captain’s cabin. Land lay off the port side of the vessel, but Quinn realized they were coming around the long barrier peninsula that protected the port from the more open waters of the Korean Strait. It was still dark enough for a covert arrival.
Quinn stepped out of the cramped cabin and popped his neck from side to side, breathing in the moist sea air. Standing along the rail, he could just make out the red outline of Hakata Tower looming ghostlike through the heavy mist, still two miles away.
Japan. He could smell the mystery of the place.
Though he spoke flawless Arabic and excellent Chinese, Japan’s culture had bitten Jericho more deeply than any he’d ever experienced. He’d taken immersion language classes in junior high and high school in Alaska, surrounding himself with all things samurai from food to martial arts. The Anchorage Rotary Club had sponsored him for a semester of high school in the Roppongi area of Tokyo his sophomore year.
That had been well before Kim came into the picture, and he’d met a girl there. Her name was Sayuri, and at sixteen, she seemed to him to be the embodiment of all that was feminine. Wise beyond her years, she had warned him that Japan had a way of getting into a person’s blood. He would return to Alaska, and, though memories of her would surely fade, he would forever be tugged back toward her country.
He smiled when he thought about it, ocean spray stinging his face. He was on a mission, sure to be deadly for someone, but in truth, he couldn’t wait to step onto Japanese soil merely for the thrill of being back.
A shuddering rumble from deep within the Korean ship drew him out of his reminiscing. Deckhands moved to the rail opposite Quinn, standing ready with boat hooks. The captain came out of the wheelhouse carrying a plastic tote heavily wrapped in duct tape. He whistled Quinn over as another boat, much smaller than the Korean ship, materialized out of the mist and pulled up alongside. Rigged for squid fishing, a long, overhead line with dozens of clear glass lamps like basketball-size Christmas ornaments ran down the center length of the smaller boat. Neither vessel came to a full stop, but matched speed and course at what Quinn guessed to be less than five or six knots.
The captain dropped the plastic tote to the waiting hands of two men on the squid boat and then pantomimed for Quinn to climb over and jump down with it.
Quinn nodded, understanding immediately what the captain wanted. The Korean ship would dock at the commercial pier — behind what would surely be a very tall fence and subject to search by Japan Customs. The squid boat, being a local vessel, would simply dock in Fukuoka harbor with all the other fishing boats. Both Quinn and whatever was in the plastic tote could quietly enter Japan without notice from any authorities.
Quinn gave the smiling Korean captain five more twenty-dollar bills and slipped over the edge with his leather satchel to drop down next to the pilothouse on the spray-soaked deck of the smaller boat.
The squid boat skipper was a short man with a wide, unsmiling face weathered by the sea and tension of smuggling contraband. A blue bandanna, tied at all four corners, dropped over his head in a functional but comical hat to keep water from dripping in his eyes. He obviously spoke Japanese, but since he was now carrying an illegal immigrant and tote full of what was probably illicit Chinese Ecstasy, the man kept his thoughts to himself.
Quinn spent the next half hour while the boat slogged toward Fukuoka Harbor standing under a blue-tarp bimini soaking up the spindrift from the breaking waves and the uneasy stares of the three-man crew.
The wind picked up as they chugged up next to the pier. Heavy spray washed across the concrete docks, blown by a steady wind from the east and open water. The crew deployed bumper tires and threw ropes to two waiting dockhands. Two Japanese Coast Guard cutters bobbed with the tide at their berths. Across the quay, a man in a blue uniform braved the elements and scrubbed the deck of a forty-foot police boat.
Quinn softened the squid boat captain’s glare with a series of polite bows and a wad of twenties — a good sum for a quarter hour ride. Then, slinging the leather bag over his shoulder, he stepped over the gunnel and into Japan.
Apart from a handful of stevedores smoking cigarettes while they waited on the other side of the Customs fence for the early morning arrival of the Korean car hauler, the docks were all but deserted. Spotlights chased back the shadows around two ships already at berth, glinting off car glass and chrome. There were no agents to greet him, no swarm of police — and so far, no assassin’s bullet. Light poles bristled with surveillance cameras, but most were pointed toward the other direction. For the time being at least, Quinn’s only company as he walked toward the quiet parking lot seemed to be a lonely seagull wheeling above in the wind and spray.
A shrill whistle turned his attention toward the narrow byway that ran along the commercial docks, adjacent to the blocky white building that contained the Fukuoka Port government offices. Twenty yards away, in the parking lot on the far side of a well-groomed hedgerow, a woman straddled a small yellow motorbike. A cigarette hung from her lips, glowing brightly against the gray of early morning. She tossed her head when Quinn looked at her, letting him know she’d meant the whistle for him.
The woman wore a shorty helmet that left her chin exposed. Painted rally-style, it was canary yellow to match the bike with a white stripe down the center. Wide goggles protected her eyes from the rain. It was difficult to tell much about her face. It did not smile, but Quinn thought that might be a function of her lips holding the cigarette. Despite the wet weather she wore a stylish denim jacket, darkened by rain at the shoulders. A black dress that stopped at midthigh and gray tights revealed strong legs. Flat-heeled leather boots that came halfway up stout calves rounded out her outfit.
White cotton gloves on the handlebars, she tossed her head again, beckoning him to hurry before looking back and forth over her shoulder.
“Welcome to Japan, Mr. Quinn,” she said in English when he got close enough to hear.
“Hai,” he said in Japanese. Yes. He was surprised Miyagi hadn’t told her friend to use Hackman, the name on his passport.
“I am Ayako,” she said. “Get on.” Her voice held the honeyed purr of a heavy drinker. She handed him a battered black helmet and white cloth mask worn by so many in Asia during flu and hay fever season. “The police would certainly stop us if you do not wear the helmet,” she said. “With the mask, people will have to look closely to see you are not Japanese. Americans are usually too vain to wear them, even if it would keep them from getting sick.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Quinn slung the leather bag over his shoulder and fastened the helmet under his chin. He pulled the elastic straps of the mask over each ear, concealing his face.
“I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to.” Ayako craned her head around to look at him, revving the little engine. It sounded more like a lawnmower than a bike. Dark eyes stared from behind the large goggles, making her look at once adventurous and comical. As with Emiko, it was difficult to tell this one’s age. Her damp hair and amber skin softened in the diffuse light of early morning, she could have been a college coed. But if she was a friend from Miyagi’s childhood, Ayako had to be at least in her late thirties.
Quinn climbed on behind her, scooting as close as he dared to keep from falling off the back of the little bike.