Still, it was likely to be the shortest way to the little shrine at Fujiyoshida, where the Emperor was at this moment in deep meditation, contemplating the cosmic mysteries and, no doubt, seeking to know the unknowable. The latter was a Japanese characteristic.
To Nick Carter, hunched over the wheel of the Lincoln and keeping the speedometer on the highest number without killing himself, it appeared very likely that the Emperor would succeed in penetrating the mysteries beyond the grave. Richard Philston had a head start, plenty of time and, until now, had succeeded in decoying Nick and the Chicoms beautifully.
That graveled the AXEman. How stupid of him not to check. Not to even think to check. Philston had let it drop casually that the Emperor was in residence at the Palace — ergo! He had accepted it without question. With Johnny Chow and Tonaka the question had not arisen, since they had known nothing of the plot to kill the Emperor. Killmaster, with no access to newspapers, radio or TV, had been an easy dupe. It had, he thought now as he came to another detour sign, been simply routine on Philston's part. It would make no difference in the job that Pete Fremont had undertaken to do — and Philston was hedging against any last minute change of heart, betrayal or upset in his plans. So beautifully simple — send your audience to one theater and stage your play in another. No applause, no interference, no witnesses.
He slowed the Lincoln to a crawl as he went through a village where candles made a thousand saffron polka dots in the gloom. They were on Tokyo power here and it was still out. Beyond the village the detour continued, muddy, saturated by recent rains, better suited for ox carts than for the low-slung job he was driving. He slammed the gas pedal down and spun her on through the clinging mud. If he got bogged down it was the end.
Nick's right hand was still tucked uselessly into his jacket pocket. The Browning and the hunting knife were beside him on the seat. His left arm and hand, numb to the bone from wrenching the big steering wheel, settled down to a steady relentless ache.
Bill Talbot had shouted something at Nick as he pulled away in the Lincoln. Something about helicopters. That might work. Probably not. By the time they got matters organized, what with all the chaos in Tokyo and everything knocked out, and by the time they could get out to the airfields, it was going to he too late. And they didn't know what to look for. He knew Philston by sight. They didn't.
A helicopter, flapping into the tranquil shrine, would scare Philston away. Killmaster didn't want that. Not now. Not after he had come this far. Saving the Emperor was number one — but getting Richard Philston once and for all was a very close second. The man had done far too much damage in the world.
He came to a fork in the road. He missed a sign, rammed on the brakes and backed up to catch the sign in his lights. All he needed was to get lost. The sign said Fijiyoshida to the left and he had to trust it.
The road was good now for a stretch and he let the Lincoln out until he was doing ninety. He rolled the window down and let the damp wind blast at him. He was feeling better now, beginning to come around and into his second store of reserve strength. He careered through another village before he knew it was there and thought he heard a frantic whistle behind him. He grinned. That would be one indignant cop.
A sharp left turn raced up at him. Beyond it was an arching, narrow, one-car bridge. Nick saw the turn just in time, clamped on his brakes, and the car went into a long, sliding, tire-screeching, right-hand skid. The wheel lashed at him, trying to tear away from his numbed lingers. He fought her out of the skid, cornered into the turn with a wrenching scream of springs and shocks and ruined the right rear fender as he just made it into the bridge.
Beyond the bridge the road went to hell again. It made a sharp S turn and began to parallel the Fujisanroku electric railway. He passed a big red car standing dark and helpless on the tracks and caught a dim instant flash of people waving at him. A lot of people would be stranded tonight.
Less than ten miles now to the shrine. The road got worse and he had to slow. He forced himself to be calm, fighting back the frustration and impatience that gnawed at him. He was not an Oriental and every nerve cried for immediate and ultimate action, yet the bad road was a fact that must be faced Patience. To ease his mind he allowed himself to think back along the tangled path he had been following. Or, rather, the path he had been pushed along.
It was like an enormous, intricate maze in which four dim figures stalked, each intent on his own plans. A black symphony of counterpoint and double-double-cross.
Tonaka — she had been ambivalent. She had loved her father. Yet she had been pure Communist and, in the end, had set Nick up to be killed at the same time as her father. It must have been that way, only the assassin had botched it and killed Kunizo Matu first and so given Nick his chance. The cops could have been coincidental, but he still thought not. Probably Johnny. Chow had set up the killing, against Tonaka's best judgement, and had phoned the cops as a secondary measure. When it hadn't worked Tonaka had asserted herself and decided to pull Nick back into the web. She could have been waiting for orders from Peking. And working with a maniac like Chow could never have been easy. Thus the fake kidnaping and the breast sent to him along with the note. That meant he had been followed all along and had never once spotted the tail. Nick grimaced and slowed nearly to a stop for a gigantic chuck hole. It happened. Not often, but it did happen. Sometimes you were lucky and the mistake didn't kill you.
Richard Philston was as good as Nick had always heard he was. It would have been his idea to use Pete Fremont to plant the Eta story in the world press. At the time they must have been planning on using the real Pete Fremont. Maybe he would have done it. Perhaps Nick, playing the role of Pete, had spoken truly when he said a lot of whisky had gone under the bridge. But if Pete had been ready to sell out Kunizo Matu hadn't known it — and when he decided to use Pete as cover for Nick he had walked right into their hands.
Nick shook his head. It was as tangled a web as he had ever clawed his way out of. He was dying for a cigarette but no chance. He hit another detour and began to skirt a swamp that must have once been a paddy field. They had put down logs and covered them with gravel. From the paddies beyond the swamp the breeze brought an odor of rotting human feces.
Philston had been watching the Chicoms, probably a routine precaution, and his men had picked Nick up without any trouble. Philston thought he was Pete Fremont and Tonaka hadn't told him any differently. She and Johnny Chow must have gotten a real charge out of that — snatching Nick Carter right out from under Philston's nose. Killmaster! Who was as hated by the Russians, and as important to them as Philston himself was to the West.
Meantime Philston was getting his charge too. He was using the man he thought was Pete Fremont — with the Chicoms knowledge and permission — to set them up for the real payoff. To smear the Chinese with the onus of killing the Emperor of Japan.
Figures in the maze; each one intent on his own plan, each one trying to figure out how to double-cross the other. Using terror, using money, moving the little people around like pawns on the big board.
The road was blacktop now and he stepped on it. He had been to Fujiyoshida once before — a girl and saki pleasure jaunt — and for this he was now grateful. The shrine grounds had been closed that day, but Nick recalled seeing a map in a guide book, and now he sought to recall it. When he concentrated he could remember nearly anything — and he concentrated now.