“The Texas Saloon, entrance to the Moscow East.” Antonov said he had talked with a prostitute named Romi, whom he’d met there. She had noticed the big man with blond hair in the Russian club. Saw him later in the Texas Saloon drunk, obnoxious, talking loud. She told Antonov he might learn more from the bartender at the Texas.
“A man of that description is noticed in Japan, you know,” Antonov said.
Warfield nodded. “Like us.”
Antonov released a cloud of blue smoke above the table.
“Yes, like us.”
They looked at Komeito. He was laughing at them.
“What else did this Romi tell you?” Warfield asked Antonov.
“One other minor detaiclass="underline" The blond Russian kid, there in the Texas Saloon, threatened to kill his boss — his Japanese superior — at his bath house.”
“She heard him say that?”
Antonov nodded. “The man’s brother too. I don’t know why the brother. Romi says the blond Russian called him retarded.”
Warfield seemed skeptical. “How much credibility do you give the girl?”
Antonov shrugged. “You tell me. She also said he brags about building bombs for a living.”
“We’re getting warmer.”
“And that the Russian and the bartender got into a hot argument.”
Warfield blew a stream of cigar smoke. “Maybe vodka talk.”
“Could be, yes. Let us ask the bartender what he thinks. Name is Tex.”
“I suppose Petrevich will not return to the club,” Warfield said.
“Not openly. Too smart for that. After seeing me there he will play it safe.”
“You never saw the kid with blond hair again?” Warfield asked.
“No.”
“He got a name yet?”
“No, but we will find him. His eyelids are tattooed.”
Warfield couldn’t keep from smiling. “That should help! We’ll just catch him sleeping.”
Antonov chuckled. “Snake on each eyelid. They look at each other. All coiled up, tongues leaping out like this.” He pointed his index fingers at each other and wiggled them, and darted his tongue in and out. Warfield and Komeito laughed. This big Russian could be a clown.
“Know anything about this bath house?” Warfield asked.
“Romi knew it was called the Tomodachi Sento-yu. Took me there. I even got into the water to see what it was like. When she questioned the old man running the place for me and described Snake-eyes to him, he said he’d seen a man who fit the description outside the bath house a few days earlier looking the place over. Probably him.”
Warfield nodded.
“It gets better,” Antonov said. “We are talking with the super at the bath house when two men walk in together. Japanese. Something wrong with one of them. May be the retarded brother. Maybe not. Romi thinks the man we saw was a radiation victim.”
“Radiation?”
Antonov nodded to Komeito to explain.
Komeito sat forward in his seat. “Romi suspect this because schools in Japan teach about it. When the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, radiation affected certain fetuses in the womb. Some very badly,” Komeito said.
“And Romi thinks he might be one of them.” Warfield said.
Antonov nodded. “After the pair left I got Romi to ask the old superintendent about them. They were brothers who had been coming there since he could remember. He did not know for sure but said the regulars there assumed the slow one was a radiation victim.”
“So you think the retarded guy’s brother is Snake-eyes’ boss, the guy he threatened to nuke?” Warfield asked.
“Long shot, but I can’t ignore it. It all fits with what Romi overheard.”
Antonov excused himself and got up to go to the restroom and Komeito followed a comfortable distance behind. Some of the diners watched the tall gaijin cross the dining room toward an archway that led to the restrooms. Not even foreigners were often as large as Antonov.
Warfield leaned back and mulled Antonov’s theory. To say it was a long shot would be the understatement of the day. What were the odds against Antonov and his prostitute running into Snake-eyes’ boss and his brother there? But on the other hand, Antonov and Romi were at the right bath house — Romi claimed she overheard Snake-eyes call its name, the Tomodachi Sento, and the old attendant there had noticed someone who could have been Snake-eyes hanging around outside the bath house. And how many pairs of men fitting the description of the brothers could there be, at any bath house? Warfield conceded it was worth looking into. Besides, what else did they have to go on?
Warfield looked around at the wall murals and the décor. The Izumi was elegant by any standard. A vase of cut flowers sat in the center of each table and candles provided soft light. Japanese music played unobtrusively in the background. Every table was occupied and the clientele appeared to be well-heeled, belying the fact that Japan’s economy had languished in the recent several years.
Warfield glanced at his watch. Antonov and Komeito had been gone for ten or twelve minutes now. When he looked toward the restrooms Komeito was walking toward him, almost running. Antonov was nowhere in sight.
By the time Komeito reached the table it was obvious something was wrong. He leaned over Warfield’s shoulder.
“You must follow me, quickly, quickly!” His voice was quiet but demanding. When Warfield started asking questions Komeito was firm. “You must trust me and do as I say now. Do not delay!”
Warfield was stunned. “Where is Antonov?”
Komeito drew a breath through clenched teeth. “Warfield, you must comply this second. You are in danger.” Komeito started toward the main entrance through the bar.
Warfield, his mind reeling, followed as Komeito routed his way through the tables, out the front door and to a black limousine sitting at the curb. It was Antonov’s and Komeito rattled off instructions to the driver in rapid-fire Japanese as he and Warfield climbed in. Then he turned to Warfield, his eyes wide with terror. “Antonov is dead!”
Warfield was dumbfounded.
As the driver hurried away from the Izumi, Komeito spoke to someone in Japanese on his cell phone, listened for a moment, looked at his watch, and barked another mouthful of words. He lowered the privacy window that separated them from TK the driver and rattled off more Japanese.
There was a time to lead and a time to follow, and Warfield understood his role in the present situation. He was in a strange place, didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the city. Komeito did, and Warfield, believing Antonov trusted him, was inclined to follow, at least until the immediate crisis was over. But the obvious questions raced through his head all the same. If Antonov was dead, who killed him? Why? Was Komeito involved? Was it possible Warfield was the dupe in some kind of plot? In Warfield’s business nothing was taken at face value. But don’t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself. Observe, analyze, plan, then act. Every crevice of his mind searched for something he could grasp.
Sirens wailed in the distance as TK cut the car lights and pulled to a stop in the darkness of an alley at the back of a building. Warfield recognized the dimly lit logo on the delivery door as the East Island Winds Hotel where he checked in hours earlier. The hotel door opened but light rain had started to fall and the steam rising from the warm pavement made it difficult to make out the human figure silhouetted against the light inside. The car had not even stopped when Komeito jumped out, ran to the person at the door and got back in the car with a luggage bag. He told TK to go.
“If all right with you,” Komeito said, “we go to my gensanchi. Safe there.”
Warfield nodded. As they drove through the worst scramble of streets he could remember, the rain got heavier and the sounds of the sirens faded. TK had put distance between them and the Izumi — and Antonov’s dead body. Warfield tried to imagine the scene at the restaurant and knew the police would learn of his involvement with Antonov. Someone at the restaurant would describe the Western-looking man sitting with the victim and the authorities would learn Antonov was connected with Komeito, and Komeito with Warfield: He was with Komeito at the hotel front desk when he checked in. Being caught up in a police investigation would mean his and Komeito’s names and photos in the papers with Antonov’s, and that could alert Petrevich.