The bow became abruptly even more respectful until gravity exerted itself to the full and the bodyguard's corpse collapsed in an undignified heap. Blood from his head wound trickled its way into the carefully raked gravel of a Zen stone garden.
The chauffeur spoke one word into a miniature two-way radio, and seconds later another black limousine sped into the grounds of the Hodama residence and the gates were closed. A total of ten attackers had now emerged from the two cars. Their sureness of movement revealing much training and rehearsal, the attackers swiftly surrounded the house and then entered simultaneously at one command.
Inside the house, Hodama was looking forward to the simple pleasure of a good long soak in a hot bath. Although U.S. bombers had destroyed the original property which had been on the site and the house was merely a meticulous reconstruction, the bath itself was an original and had been specially built into the new house, which was otherwise equipped with the most modern of plumbing.
Special construction had been required because the bath, a heavy, open-topped copper cylinder with a curved base that made it look more like a deep cauldron than a Western bath, was heated by a small fire located directly underneath it. For convenience to the external woodpile, the firebox was placed in an outside wall and was accessible only from the outside. Inside the bathroom, the copper bath was built in flush to the tiled floor. Operation was a matter of filling the bath with water, lighting the fire until the water reached the required temperature, putting out the fire, and then — having carefully tested the water again — stepping gingerly into the steaming water and sitting on the built-in wooden seat to luxuriate in the soothing heat.
Hodama was deeply attached to his copper bath. He liked to say that it had been in his family for more generations than he could count. He could sit in it with the water up to his chin and his legs dangling and think in a way that did not seem to be possible in a chilly, drafty, low-slung Western bath.
That morning, his manservant, Amika, who had the responsibility for lighting the fire and making the other preparations, had just told Hodama that the bath was ready.
Slowly, Hodama shuffled into the tiled bathroom. He was feeling mentally alert but physically every one of his eighty-four years. He no longer slept much and had already been working for several hours. The soothing water beckoned.
Hodama was wearing a light cotton yukata, a form of kimono, with the left side over the right side. Right over left was used only for corpses. The yukata was held together by a simple obi. Over this he wore a haori, a half coat like a cardigan. At his age he was susceptible to the cold, particularly in the chill hours of early morning. On his feet he wore sandals.
The bathroom was a good-sized room with a place to change his clothes and a massage table, in addition to the washing and changing areas. When he was younger he had enjoyed many women on that couch. Now it was used merely for its formal purpose.
Amika helped Hodama to undress, hung up his clothes, then followed him across to the bathing area. Wooden boards placed across the tiles allowed drainage. There Hodama sat on a small wooden stool and soaped himself down. When he was ready, Amika ladled water from a wooden bucket over him until the last trace of soap was removed. He would enter the bath clean and thoroughly rinsed, in the Japanese fashion. The idea of soaking in his own effluvia, as Westerners did, was repellent.
The water temperature was perfect. Hodama smiled in anticipation and nodded approvingly at Amika. The manservant acknowledged the look with the deferential smile and slight bow that was appropriate for his status as a long-serving retainer, and then the front of his face dissolved and he leaped headfirst into the steaming copper bath.
Crimson leached into the water.
Hodama gave a cry and staggered back in shock. He felt himself being seized and then flung facedown on the massage table. His hands and feet were held and then bound with something hard and thin that cut into his flesh. He was then hauled to his feet.
Men in dark business suits, three or four that he could see, their faces covered in hoods of black cloth, faced him. Two, at least, held silenced weapons.
There was a sound of a heavy metal object dropping onto the wooden laths and someone started tying something to his feet. He looked down and saw a cast-iron weight.
Blood drained from his face. Suddenly he realized what was about to happen, and his fear was total.
"Who are you?" he managed to croak. "What is it you want? Don't you know who I am?"
One of the figures nodded grimly. "Oh yes, Hodama-san, we know exactly who you are." He gave an exaggerated bow. "That is precisely the point."
Two of the figures went to the edge of the bath, crouched down, then hauled Amika's dead body out of the bath and flung it into a corner of the room.
Hodama stood there bound, naked, slight, and wizened — smaller by several inches than the men around him — and tried to preserve what dignity he could. The heat increased in the room. The water in the bath began to bubble gently. As the bubbles increased, his composure collapsed.
"I have power," he screamed. "You cannot do this and hope to escape. It is madness…"
The figure who had bowed made a gesture and one of the other figures hit Hodama very hard in the stomach. He doubled up and fell to his knees and retched. Through a haze of pain, he looked up. There was something familiar about the figure. Both the laugh and the voice had struck a chord. "Who are you?" he said quietly. "I have to know."
The figure shook his head. "You have to die," he said grimly. "That is all you still have to do." He made another gesture.
Two of the hooded figures lifted Hodama, suspended him over the copper bath, and slowly lowered him into the bloody, boiling water.
1
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
January 1
HugoFitzduane placed his Swiss-made Sig automatic pistol on a high shelf in the bathroom and reflected that firearms and small children did not mix well. On further consideration, he decided that much the same could be said about more than a few adults.
For his own part he had adjusted to being under terrorist threat as well as one reasonably could — security precautions were time-consuming and tedious — but then Peter had arrived on the scene, a small, pink, rather creased-looking little package with a dusting of blond fuzz at the noisier end, and Fitzduane had started looking at the world very differently.
He tested the water with his hand. He had read in one of the baby books that the right tool for this was an elbow, but that seemed a ridiculous way to go about such a straightforward activity, and Peter normally seemed quite satisfied with the result. If he wasn't, he yelled. Children, Fitzduane had found, were believers in direct and immediate communication.
"Boots," called Fitzduane, trying to sound stern and in command of the situation, "bath time." He added a threat. "Come here or I'll tickle your toes." Peter's nickname had evolved from the consequences of the weather in the West of Ireland. Given his fondness for running around outside and splashing into puddles and playing with mud, Peter had learned to ask for his red Wellington boots on one of his first determined forays into speech.