Oda snatched up the phone, looking at the number.
“What is it?” He kept his voice dismissive. With the idiot Tanaka it was important to set a standard from the beginning of any conversation. He had no time for second-rate gangsters who held to old ways that were fast getting them marginalized by virtually ever facet of Japanese society.
“Ah, Oda-san,” Tanaka said, “thank you for taking my call.”
“You are either calling to apologize or to threaten me. I am interested to hear which, for it will dictate what I do once we are finished.”
“It is neither, I’m afraid.”
“Very well,” Oda said, “that may also dictate certain actions.”
“I only wish to be of assistance.” Tanaka spoke quickly, risking interruption in order to keep Oda from giving any edicts he’d feel obliged to keep. “A man came to see me looking for you. I believe he will pay you a visit as well.”
“And how would he know where to look?”
There was a long silence — a liar’s pause — before Tanaka answered. “I fear one of my men may have given him some information before this man killed him.”
“How very convenient that the man who betrayed me is dead,” Oda said, his voice cold, snakelike.
“As soon as it came to my attention, I called to warn you,” Tanaka said.
“Describe this man.” Oda knew who it was before the yakuza boss told him.
“An American, I think,” Tanaka said. “Dark — both in features and demeanor. He has killed before. I am certain of that.”
“Thank you for the notice, Tanaka-san,” Oda said. “I will look forward to his visit with much pleasure.”
Oda ended the call and tossed the phone on his desk. He was not frightened of Jericho Quinn. But it was a mark of failure in his organization that the man was still alive and had gotten this far.
Certainly as head of the organization it was his fault that Quinn had been left alive for so long. His fault because he had left the job to others. Failure was one thing he would not tolerate. Someone would have to atone for this — and since he did not feel like punishing himself, he knew exactly where to begin.
CHAPTER 53
Governor Lee McKeon paced in front of the window of the cheap motel. It was impossible to sit still while he discussed weighty matters.
Qasim Ranjhani sat on the bed, leaning against the far wall. In contrast to McKeon’s nerves, Ranjhani’s hands were folded serenely in his lap. The governor had big ideas and the will to see them through, but for the most part, it was Ranjhani who worked the trenches. It was he who got his hands dirty while McKeon played the concerned politician. Years before, and under another name, McKeon had gotten his hands dirty as well.
The motel was located on Portland’s east side, off 82nd Avenue, well off the beaten path. The desk clerk stunk of cheap bourbon and was unlikely to even know there was a governor of Oregon, let alone what he looked like. McKeon was fairly certain someone from his Oregon State Police protective detail had followed him discreetly, but that could not be helped. This particular motel was known as a place for illicit affairs, particularly with other men. All the entries were from an inside hall, and several people had arrived at roughly the same time as McKeon. Unless they booted his door, anyone who had defied his order and followed him anyway would have no idea who he happened to be meeting with. Rumors of an affair he could weather, even an affair with another man — but if they’d known what he was actually planning, the men protecting him would have shot him on the spot.
“So,” McKeon said, fairly giddy with the possibilities. “We are actually going to do this?”
“So it seems, my friend. So it seems.” Ranjhani was cool and matter-of-fact. To talk of killing thousands to this man was to talk of killing a common fly.
“Do you believe they will all leave at once?”
“That depends on U.S. military response,” Ranjhani said. “The illness takes a week or so to develop. Most will think any initial symptoms are merely a reaction to the live virus vaccine.”
“Brilliant.” McKeon nodded.
“Oda has forty thousand units of vaccine for the American soldiers in Afghanistan and another fifteen thousand for Kuwait.” Ranjhani paused. “At your request, we have orchestrated a small outbreak to stir up emotion in South Korea. Roughly a hundred ninety-five thousand units are waiting in cold storage for shipment to the United States, but I suspect officials will rob some of those for their twenty-eight thousand troops in Seoul.”
Ranjhani was quiet for a time, allowing the governor to do the math.
“And what of Oda?” McKeon gave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I was under the impression he undertook this task in order to get American troops out of Japan.”
“There is a particular beauty in the domino effect of all this,” Ranjhani said. “When thousands of their emergency personnel begin to sicken and die, the U.S. government will have no choice but to recall overseas troops. It is difficult to be the world’s policeman if your own home is on fire.”
McKeon smiled. In a matter of hours, eighty thousand U.S. soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines and over 160,000 Americans — mainly medical and law enforcement personnel — would be vaccinated as “first responders.” Soon afterward, they would find that they were dying. South Korea would be left alone. American citizens would realize that their own government had spread the deadly virus. Conspiracy theorists would, at long last, be proven correct. The Middle East would be purged of infidel invaders as remaining troops rushed home to take care of a collapsing nation.
The governor held his breath, thinking through the details.
“It hinges on the tests.” McKeon’s voice clicked with tension.
“It does.” Ranjhani shrugged. “But the American officials are under tremendous pressure to approve a cure. The woman the CDC sent to Japan has already received two calls Oda believes came from the White House. Photographs of the sick flood the Internet, but just to push things along we have seeded several forums with the idea that the U.S. administration is conspiring with Japan to hold back the new vaccine in order to tamp down population growth.”
“Brilliant,” McKeon said, laughing, running a hand over his long face.
“Oda has given me assurances,” Ranjhani went on. “The tests will go as we have planned. Japan, after all, is no enemy. Why would they produce anything to hurt the United States?”
McKeon took a deep breath, addressing the elephant neither man had mentioned. “And what of our American agent? It sounds to me as though he could still pose a major problem.”
“Ah.” Ranjhani sighed. “I suppose Quinn proved useful in establishing Drake’s credibility. He is apparently in Japan looking for Oda and the girl who shot his ex-wife. He knows nothing of the vaccine, and, in any case, Oda assures me Quinn will be sorted out within hours.”
“That is welcome news.” An infectious grin spread across McKeon’s face. “It is all happening as my father predicted. Allah willing, in a very short time, the world we live in will be a very different place.”
“Ahh,” Ranjhani said. “That it will, my friend, insh’Allah.” He popped the latches on a scuffed aluminum briefcase that sat on the table before him. Inside were two simple boxes of polished wood, each a little smaller than a brick. “And that brings me to my real reason for coming to this country of infidels.”
CHAPTER 54
Bowen and Hase were greeted by two men carrying a heavy roll of carpet down the stairs from Ayako Shimizu’s apartment. Each wore a light blue tracksuit and Ray-Ban sunglasses. The lead man, slightly older than his partner, had a ponderous belly, and the sagging load caused him to grunt and sweat as he shuffled along. When he saw Detective Hase, he dropped his end and ran. Unsupported, the carpet fell out of the second man’s hands and unfurled on the damp pavement, revealing the body of a man in a red leather jacket.