They retraced their steps and turned into the alley that led to the rear of the building.
“Amigo, what’s the point of this?”
“If I can get a good look at this Muramoto on his home grounds we might learn something about him.”
“For what?”
“We might have to take him out.”
“Suppose he’s just a peón in this setup, Pete. Taking him out won’t cool it.”
“That’s one of the things we might find out.”
They moved toward Muramoto’s rear windows. As they drew near one of the windows suddenly opened. Brook and Lopez burrowed into the wall. They heard running water. Then silence. They waited. A man cleared his throat. Brook edged to the window.
There was a spurt of rock followed by a voice speaking in Japanese. Then more music as the man inside explored his radio. After a while the sound snapped off.
“Just getting up, if we’re in luck,” Brook whispered. “If he leaves soon we can search his pad.”
Benny looked more interested.
They heard a phone being dialed. Brook concentrated, counting the clicks.
“Ten digits. A long distance call.”
“I know,” Benny said severely. “I can count, too.”
The man began talking. He was talking in English.
“Hello. Hello? This is Han.” His English was heavily spiced, but where the spices had been grown eluded them. I wish, Brook thought, I knew more about the Far East. “Yes, I understand... Okay... Yes, I will. On time. Goodbye.”
They heard him hang up, begin to move about. Benny Lopez muttered something violent in Spanish, but he waited as patiently as Brook. Suddenly they heard a door open and close.
“What are you waiting for, Pete?”
The room was unoccupied. He climbed over the sill fast, and Benny landed on Brook’s heels. A sagging unmade bed, a low table or two, several filthy tatami mats. The walls were decorated with color photographs cut out of magazines. They all showed muscle-men, Asiatic, Negro, and Caucasian, in gaudy animal skins — they seemed to favor leopard — flexing their mighty thews in “health” poses.
“Homo sexualis draws no color line,” Benny said with a grin. “Pity the poor noodle vendor. These guys are as far out of his reach as a Playmate to a skid row wino. But he can dream, can’t he?”
“Maybe it’s part of his legend,” Brook said dryly. “And he’s no ordinary noodle salesman. Ordinary noodle salesmen don’t listen to rock and make long distance calls in colloquial English.”
“Or use a cover name.” Benny looked thoughtful. “I wonder why ‘Han.’ Sounds Chinese.”
“It also sounds Korean, Japanese, and a few more, Benny. We won’t get anything out of that. Let’s use his phone.” Brook dialed the ten digits he had identified by the clicks.
A tenor voice said, “Yes?” in English.
A one-syllable word tells little about a voice. Brook plucked a name out of the air. “Hello? This Ronald Q. Forsythe?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Forsythe. Isn’t this Mr. Forsythe?”
“You have made a mistake.” The connection was bad; the voice was overlaid with scratches. Brook thought he detected an accent. But whether it was European or Asiatic he could not tell.
“I want to talk to Ronald Q. Forsythe. He told me to call.”
“There is no Forsythe here,” the voice said. As it stopped, another sound took its place. It was a sort of drawn-out moan, but there was something non-human about it. A note played on the bass pedal of an organ? “You have the wrong number.”
“Look, what the hell’s your name?” Brook demanded angrily. “I’m going to report you to Mr. Forsythe—”
The receiver went down at the other end.
“Nice try,” Benny said.
“Holloway doesn’t pay off on nice tries,” Brook said. “I handled that stupidly. We’ve got to find out who owns that phone number.”
“I’ll have it checked by the security resident,” Benny said. “Big deal.”
“I’ll bet you it’s a bootleg circuit not listed anywhere.” Brook took a step and stopped. “That moan.”
“What moan?”
“Over the phone while the line was open. At his end. I think it was at his end, though it might have come from the circuit. A long low note that gradually faded away. Almost like music.”
“Ship’s whistle?”
Brook shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, Benny. Hard to describe. If I could pin it down, it might give us a lead to Muramoto’s — ‘Han’s’ — contact.”
“That’s detective story stuff,” Benny scoffed. “By God, I’m going to report you to Holloway.”
“You do that,” Brook said, “and I’ll take you apart. Let’s get out our Sherlock Holmes kit and give this pad the treatment.”
Brook was in the closet and Benny was half under the bed when the door opened. Benny had just remarked in disgust that they were a couple of wild geese. At the opening of the door Benny clawed his way back from under the bed in a comical way and Brook dived out of the closet like a linebacker. The noodle vendor Muramoto — “Han” — was standing in the doorway gaping at them. His surprise lasted for two blinks. Then he was back in the hall behind a door-slam.
By the time they reached the street the sky was clear; it was 11 A.M. and the sun was hot. A cat scooted across their feet. It was the only sign of life.
“You and I,” said Benny, “ought to be barking up trees. What a goof-off!”
“One of us should have staked out while the other searched.”
“All right,” said Benny, looking Aztec.
“Blown,” Brook said. “The whole run blown! Come on, Benny, let’s go tell Holloway we’re coming home.”
“Is that bad?”
“You’ll find out how bad it is.”
Benny nodded unhappily. “I was just trying to cheer myself up.”
Just before midnight the phone in Brook’s room rang again. It was Benny; from the coded conversation Brook picked up the number he was to call. He dressed, sought out a street booth, and this time Benny asked urgently that they meet in ten minutes at an all-night coffee shop near the hotel.
They found a secluded spot at the rear and said nothing until Brook ordered their coffee and cake.
“I talked to Holloway,” Benny grunted. “Direct radiophone from one of the safe houses.”
“I take it he wasn’t happy-joyous,” Brook said.
“He was not. Let me give it to you in the Master’s words. ‘Do you realize your cover’s blown for certain?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Do you know it would be extremely dangerous, possibly even suicidal, to continue the run now?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Then you know what he said?”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Finish the run.’”
“You’re putting me on!”
Benny shook his head. “That’s what I said to Holloway. He said in that computer voice of his, ‘I don’t care for humorists, Mr. Lopez,’ and repeated the order. Blown cover, increase in danger, the whole bit — go ahead and get Krylov anyway, per plan. A risk, Mr. Holloway granted, a calculated risk, but this was important enough to lay a couple of FACE necks on the line. I suppose from his viewpoint behind that desk in Washington it makes sense. Only they’re our necks. You want more?”
Their coffee and cake arrived. Brook sipped until the waitress left. “Sticking your neck out, Benny, is the name of this game.”
“My hero,” Benny Lopez sneered.
Chapter 8
Brook sat in the marina bar of the Katori Spa and sipped a dubious concoction of rum, sugar and tea, served scalding hot. The bartender with the gold tooth had assured him in unarticled English that everyone sipped rum and tea when the weather was bad and there were doubts about sailing.