I pulled out onto the sidewalk, knocking down trash cans and mauling parked bicycles. A pedestrian dove out of the way. A few meters from the base access road I hauled the steering wheel to the right and accelerated diagonally across the meridian, driving over plantings and aiming for Holtzer’s vehicle. The guard turned, saw me bearing down at high speed, and leaped clear just in time to save himself. I rammed the sedan full force into the driver-side rear door, spinning the car away from the impact and forming a two-car wreck shaped like the letter V. I was braced for the impact, and the seat belt and air bag, which deployed and deflated in a nanosecond as advertised, got me through.
I released the seat belt and tried the door, but it was jammed shut. I swiveled onto my back and shot my feet through the open window, grabbing the handle at the top of the door and using it to propel myself through.
It was only two steps to the sedan. I grabbed the steering wheel through the open window and hauled myself inside, my knees slamming into the door frame on the way in. I launched myself across the driver’s lap, scrambled to get my feet under me, then dove into the back. Holtzer was in the left seat, leaning forward, obviously disoriented from the impact. A young guy I took to be one of Holtzer’s aides sat next to him, a metal Halliburton attaché case between them.
I grabbed Holtzer around the head with my left arm, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against his temple with my right. I saw one of the Marine guards outside the driver’s window, his gun drawn, looking for an opening. I pulled Holtzer’s head closer.
“Get back, or I’ll blow his fucking head off!” I bellowed at him.
His expression was uncertain, but he kept the gun up. “Everyone out of the car!” I shouted. “Now!”
I reached all the way around Holtzer’s neck with my hand and took hold of my own lapel. We were cheek to cheek, and the Marine with the gun would have to have a hell of a lot of confidence in his marksmanship to try to get a shot off now.
“Out of the car!” I shouted again. “Now! You!” I yelled at the driver. “Roll up that fucking window! Roll it up!”
The driver pressed a switch and his window went up. I yelled at him again to get out and then to close the door. He stumbled out, slamming the door as he exited. “You!” I yelled at the aide. “Get out! Close the door behind you!”
Holtzer started to protest, but I squeezed his neck tighter, choking off the words. The aide glanced once at Holtzer, then tried the door.
“It’s jammed,” he said, obviously stunned and unable to take it all in.
“Climb across to the front!” I shouted. “Now!”
He scrambled forward and got out, taking the attaché case with him.
“All right, asshole, us too,” I said to Holtzer, letting go of his neck. “But first give me that disk.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy,” he said. “It’s in my left breast pocket.”
“Take it out. Slowly.”
He reached over with his right hand and carefully took out the disk.
“Set it on my knee,” I said, and he did so. “Now lace your fingers together, turn toward the window, and put your hands behind your head.” I didn’t want him to try to make a play for the gun while I was picking up the disk.
I picked it up and slipped it into one of my jacket pockets. “Now we’re going to get out. But slowly. Or your head is going to be all over the upholstery.”
He turned to me, his eyes hard. “Rain, you don’t understand what you’re doing. Put the gun down before the guards outside blow you away.”
“If you’re not on your way out of this vehicle in the next three seconds,” I snarled, leveling the Beretta, “I will shoot you in the balls. Whether I leave it at that, I can’t say.”
Something was nagging at me, something about the way he had turned over the disk. Too readily.
Then I realized: It was a decoy. A disposable. He would never have given me the real disk so easily.
The attaché, I thought.
“Now!” I yelled, and he reached for the door handle. I pressed the gun barrel against his face.
We eased out of the car and were immediately surrounded by a phalanx of six Marine guards, all with drawn guns and deadly serious faces.
“Stay back or I’ll blow his head off!” I yelled, shoving the gun up under his jaw. I saw the aide standing behind the guards, the attaché case set at his feet. “You, over there! Open up that case!” He looked at me uncomprehendingly. “Yes, you! Open up that attaché case right now!”
He looked bewildered. “I can’t. It’s locked.”
“Give him the key,” I growled to Holtzer.
He laughed. “Like hell.”
Six people had the drop on me. I yanked Holtzer to the left so they would have to re-aim, giving myself a split second to pull the gun away from his head and crack him in the temple with the butt. He sank to his knees, stunned, and I went down with him, staying close to his body for what cover it could provide. I patted his left pants pocket, heard a jingling. Reached inside and pulled out a set of keys.
“Bring the case over here!” I yelled at the aide. “Bring it or he’s dead!”
The aide hesitated for a second, then picked up the case and carried it over. He set it down in front of us.
I tossed him the keys. “Now open it.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Holtzer yelled, struggling to his feet. “Don’t open it!”
“Open it!” I shouted again. “Or I’ll blow him away!”
“I order you not to open that case!” Holtzer screamed. “It’s the U.S. diplomatic pouch!” The aide was frozen, his face uncertain. “Goddamnit, listen to me! He’s bluffing!”
“Shut up!” I yelled, digging the barrel of the gun in under his chin. “Listen. You think he’s willing to take a chance on dying over the diplomatic pouch? What could be in there that’s so important? Open it!”
“Shoot him!” Holtzer screamed suddenly at the guards. “Shoot him!”
“Open that case or you’ll be wearing his fucking brains!”
The aide’s eyes went from the case to Holtzer, then back. It seemed that everyone was frozen.
It happened suddenly. The aide dropped to his knees, fumbling with the key. Holtzer started to protest, and I cracked him in the head with the pistol again. He sagged against me.
The case popped open.
Inside, clearly visible between two protective layers of foam, was Kawamura’s disk.
A long second passed, then I heard a familiar voice from behind me.
“Arrest this man.”
I turned and saw Tatsu walking toward me, three Japanese cops behind him.
The cops converged on me, one of them unclipping a set of handcuffs from his equipment belt.
One of the Marine guards started to protest.
“We are outside the base,” Tatsu explained in fluent English. “You have no jurisdiction. This is a Japanese domestic matter.”
My arms were bent behind my back, and I felt the handcuffs clicking into place. Tatstu held my eyes long enough for me to see the sadness in his, then turned and walked away.
24
THEY PUT ME in a squad car and drove me to Keisatsucho headquarters. I was photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a concrete cell. No one mentioned what I was being charged with, or offered to allow me to contact a lawyer. What the hell, I don’t know too many lawyers anyway.
The cell wasn’t bad. There was no window, and I kept time by counting the meals they brought me. Three times a day a taciturn guard dropped off a tray with rice and vinegared fish, some vegetables, and picked up the tray from the previous meal. The food was okay. After every third meal I was allowed to shower.
I was waiting for my sixteenth meal, trying not to worry about Midori, when two guards came for me and told me to follow them. They took me to a small room with a table and two chairs. A naked bulb hung over the table from the ceiling. Looks like it’s time for your interrogation, I thought.