But after their initial infiltration, the team would split up — Navarone would lead the other five on a rescue mission to the Forbidden City, while Cole would work alone, getting close enough to Wu so that he could kill the man without detection.
It was a skill he had learnt in the mountain prison of Pakistan, taught to him by an Indian freedom fighter — or a ‘cross-border terrorist’ according to the Pakistani authorities — named Panickar Thilak. The art of Marma Adi was a secret part of the ancient practice of Kalaripayattu, the world’s most ancient martial art, and consisted of striking various points of the human body in specific sequences that would have a range of different effects depending also on the time of day they were hit. A touch here, a press there, another gentle squeeze — disguised as a bump, a handshake, an embrace — could disrupt the internal organs to such a degree that death would result.
The highest part of the art was to target the points in such a way that death was delayed — sometimes by as much as several days — which ensured that the assassin could be long gone from the area, with nobody any the wiser; when the victim finally died, it would be put down to a heart attack, an embolism, a brain aneurysm. Perfectly natural, and perfectly normal.
It was this skill which had made Cole infamous as ‘the Asset’ — a man who could kill without leaving a trace; and it was a skill that his corrupt government controller, Charles Hansard, had ruthlessly exploited.
It was also a skill that had paid well — Hansard had paid over a million dollars per hit, allowing Cole and his family to enjoy a life of luxury in the Cayman Islands. When he had found out the truth about Hansard — and could no longer be sure of the justification for the jobs he had carried out for the man — he had liquidated his assets immediately, given the money away to a string of different charities. He was no longer able to countenance using the money for himself — it was tainted.
But he was once again earning a comfortable living — the Paradigm Group was a private business, and he was paid accordingly — and once more found himself in luxurious surroundings, the neighborhood of Woodland-Normanstone Terrace perhaps DC’s finest.
But it was no longer the same, he had to admit as he tasted the Macallan once again; nothing would ever be the same again.
He knew he had to stop himself before he was hit by the nightmarish images of his wife and children dying before his eyes, but the very thought reawakened different images — the Japanese girl, beaten, gun raised towards him, on the floor, blood foaming at her mouth.
Michiko.
The name came to his mind, unbidden.
That’s what Haynes had called her, wasn’t it? Michiko.
Strange that he hadn’t remembered it before. A Japanese name, sixteen to twenty years old… he felt his mind start to drift off, the cut glass heavy now in his hand.
A part of him knew that the girl might well be his daughter; knew even who the mother might be. It was why he’d been glad of a new mission, happy to have something to take his mind off it. For memories of the woman who might be the girl’s — Michiko’s — mother were shrouded in pain, terrible to remember.
But before he left for China, he had to know.
He put down the Macallan and reached for the telephone, dialing the number for the Tucson Police Department and asking for the lead investigator on the incident at the ‘Haynes’ ranch’.
He could have used his top security clearance to demand answers, but didn’t want to alarm anyone. Instead, he chose the route to information most police officers were familiar with — enquiries from the press.
Cole was used to posing as a journalist — it was a common cover for operatives, and one he’d used countless times over the years. Slipping into the persona was second nature.
He had to sweet-talk his way past several people until he found someone willing to talk, but that was only to be expected. It was still easy enough; if it wasn’t, newspapers would never get written.
After a few enquiries about the event itself, Cole changed the subject. ‘What can you tell me about the girl?’
‘The girl?’ Sergeant Lautner said. ‘How’d you hear about her?’
‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I never reveal my sources.’
Lautner grunted, a noise Cole took to be his version of laughter. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. Better nobody knows, huh?’ He paused, breathed deeply, and Cole imagined he was smoking; on a cordless extension, hiding in a storeroom, smoking and selling secrets.
‘Japanese national,’ Lautner said finally. ‘Seventeen years old, found unconscious with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Beaten badly too, cigarette burns on her body — tortured, looks like. A coupla days or more.’
‘How is she?’ Cole asked, feeling the first — unnecessary? — pangs of parental concern.
‘Oh, she’s fine,’ Lautner said. ‘Bullet wound’s not much more than a scratch really. We’re not getting much out of her though, she’s clammed up tight as a drum. Refuses to say what she was doing there, we figure she was brought in to entertain the boys, you know? A pro, maybe even imported specially from Japan.’ Lautner chuckled. ‘Despite their ideals of racial purity, they want all the colors of the rainbow when it comes to boom-boom time, you know?’
Cole held his tongue; he had to keep the police officer happy. ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ he said, chuckling himself despite his disgust. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Sure we do — got it right off her passport, which we found in the ranch house. Let me think now, I’m not so good with these foreign names. Really confused us at first, they have their names the other way around to us, you know?’
Cole did know; it was common practice in the orient, with its strong sense of family and its patriarchal cultures, for the surname to come before the given name. In the more individualist west, given names always came first.
Cole didn’t doubt that Lautner had been confused. He was a man who felt he should be higher than he was — passed over for promotion time and time again, and Cole knew he wouldn’t be able to understand why. It wouldn’t be his fault, oh no — he had everything the department needed, he was just being stiffed because they didn’t like him. And now he would show them, by selling stories to the press. Cole had seen it before, too many times — such people were perfect recruits for men like Cole. Jilted, jealous, and desperate to get their own back.
Cole also knew that the real reason Lautner would have been passed over was because he wasn’t half as bright as he liked to think he was.
‘Yeah, those Jap names are weird, huh?’ Cole offered.
‘You’re damn straight there,’ the sergeant said with another grunting laugh.
‘Her name?’ Cole reminded him.
‘Yeah, right. First name is Michi something… ’
‘Michiko?’ Cole prompted.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Lautner said gratefully. ‘Michiko. Surname — I don’t know if I’m pronouncing this right — Aoki.’
Aoki Michiko.
Cole’s blood ran cold at the name, and hearing it said aloud finally confirmed his secret thoughts, his private fears.
He did know the girl’s mother.
Aoki Asami.
Asami meant ‘morning beauty’, and she had been just that — a stunning woman.
They had met in Thailand, starting a romance which had ended in tragedy.
Violence.
Horror.
Aoki Michiko could be his daughter, and Cole suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to see her, to hold her, to hear what she had to say.
But there was China. Beijing. General Wu.
He calculated quickly. His men would all be in DC by tomorrow morning, there would be the initial briefings in Forest Hills, then they would move immediately to the SEAL facility at Coronado on the west coast to draw weapons and equipment before continuing on to a rendezvous in Guam the next day.