He pointed at the tiny stylized faces, said to represent kala, or protective spirits.
“According to the history, this probably belonged to a mercenary who moved to the area of Solo, Java, from Bali, sometime in the mid-1800s. As a mercenary, he would likely have been employed by the local ruler.”
He handed her the blade, and she took it and touched it to her forehead, a gesture of respect her guru had taught her. She noticed him nod in approval at her gesture.
The sheath was an informal one, the comers rounded, the wood a light color with a couple of darker splotches, and the shaft was covered with a plain tube of reddish copper.
“This is your favorite? Out of all these? Why?”
He nodded, as if expecting the question. “Because it’s a working weapon. It was never worn in the sash of a maharaja, but belonged to a professional warrior. It probably saw duty on the field of battle, and as such, it is full of fighting spirit. Might just be my imagination, but I can feel its power every time I touch it.”
“Too bad it’s in the museum’s collection,” she said. He glanced away from her. “Actually, it’s on loan to them.” He grinned.
She shook her head and returned his smile. Of course.
It did have the feel of a fighting instrument in her hand. Krises were stabbing weapons, with a pistol-shaped grip, this one angled slightly inward, pointed where a thrust, if it hit a torso, would drive it into the body’s center, where it would likely find a major organ. The waves would gouge a wider cut as it went in, and allow more blood to flow when it came back out. They were ceremonial weapons and cultural artifacts these days, but you could skewer an enemy just as well with one now as you could two hundred years ago, human anatomy not having changed much in the past couple million years.
Her own weapon had been used at least once that way that she knew of — she had seen John Howard take down a gunman who would have killed him, had she not thrown him the kris in time.
Remembering John reminded her of her days at Net Force, though, and she did not want to travel that path right now.
“I have trained with knives, but not the kris proper,” she said.
“I know some of the methods,” he said. “I’ll show you, if you want.”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“Over here, look at these, a matched pair…”
She went along to see. She was enjoying herself here, despite all that had happened. Yes, sooner or later, she was going to have to go home. But, like Scarlett O’Hara, she could worry about that another day…
5
Luther Ventura sat in the Koffee Me! store in the mall near the new entrance to Underground Seattle, holding a triple espresso. The textured cardboard sleeve around the paper cup allowed just enough heat to warm his hands slightly as he inhaled the fragrant vapor wafting up from the fluid. The brew smelled bitter, and it was as dark as a pedophile’s sins.
He inhaled the scent, connecting to it as a wine expert might enjoy the aroma of a great vintage.
When he was ready, Ventura sipped the espresso, let the hot liquid swirl around his mouth a bit, then swallowed it.
Ah.
When he drank or ate, that was what he did. He didn’t read the paper, he didn’t watch television, he didn’t split his attention — well, save for the basic Condition Orange he always maintained in public, but he had been doing that for so long it was almost a reflex. After twenty-five years of practice, you didn’t have to think about that consciously. You automatically sat with your back to the wall. You checked the entrances and exits of any building into which you went. You knew what kind of construction the building was, which walls you could smash through, which ones would likely stop a bullet. You were always aware of what was going on around you, tuned into the currents of who came and who left, alert for any small sign that danger might be casting a glare in your direction. You expanded your consciousness, relied on all your senses, including your hunches, tuned out nothing, but allowed yourself enough quiet that you could experience the total reality of the place where you were. Zanshin, the swordplayers called it. The Zen of being in the moment, no matter where you were and what you were doing, of being and not merely doing. To Ventura’s mind, this was all unthinking and basic, absolutely necessary to a man who wanted to stay alive in the business he’d been in.
Once upon a time, Luther Ventura had been an assassin. And, once upon a time, he had been the best in the business. He had worked for governments, he had worked for corporations, and he had worked freelance. Twenty-three years he had done it. Seventy-six major assignments, ninety-one people taken down in the doing of them, and he had never failed to complete a job.
Not any longer. He hadn’t assassinated anybody in a while, and if you didn’t sharpen your edge regularly, you got dull. Oh, he could still run with most of the elite; his skills had been considerable and they had not deserted him completely — but his time had passed. Somewhere out there was a man for whom hunting and taking human prey was a total focus. A man who was faster, stronger, younger, whose entire being was wrapped around what he did, and that made him better than Ventura. His ego didn’t want to hear that, but he wasn’t going to lie to himself. Experience could balance many things, but no fighter stayed champion forever. Those who tried to hang on too long always lost. Always.
He could still do twenty chins, he could run five miles in half an hour, and he could hit any target his weapon was capable of hitting, but he was pushing fifty, and his reflexes weren’t what they had once been. He wore glasses to read and, these days, he missed some of the high notes he knew were there when he listened to a Mozart concerto or a Bach fugue.
He could have tried to fool himself into thinking he still had all the moves, but that was the road to hell, sure enough.
Three years ago, he had taken out a Brazilian drug dealer protected by a hundred troops and a dozen skilled bodyguards. The tap had been extremely difficult and it had been perfect in every way.
Perfect.
Even if your talents never wavered, you couldn’t improve on perfection. The best you could ever do was match it, and there was no joy in that. It was not worth the risk. He was on the downhill slope, and the lean and hungry days were long gone. There weren’t any old assassins, not at the level he’d played on. So he’d folded his cards and walked away from the game a winner.
Sure, he had killed people recently, but those didn’t count, those had been defensive, more or less. Once, he had gone forth and stalked. Now he made his money protectiny people from other assassins. It was, in many ways, more difficult. There were still challenges to be met. That was his focus, and while it did not have the same level of excitement, it had some advantages. It was legal. It was less risky. And although he didn’t need the money, it was lucrative.
He put the espresso down, finished. All he needed was the first sip. He didn’t need the caffeine, didn’t want the artificial mind-set that came with it. One sip was enough. It was the essence of the experience, no more was necessary.
Finished with the coffee, he looked at his watch. It was one minute past eight A.M. He had a new client, though he was not to start officially working for the man for several days. But as soon as Ventura took on a job, it occupied his attention, and he did what it took to get into the proper mind-set.