"Spare me."
But Clancy was on his feet halfway to his case.
"They were firing Springfields today," he called back over his shoulder. "The old bolt-action jobs. Range at five hundred meters."
Tidwell sighed. These firing range reports were monotonous, but Clancy was a big firearms freak.
"Here we go. These are the worst ten." He waved a stack of photos at Tidwell. On each photo was a man-shaped silhouette target with a small irregularly shaped hole in the center of the chest.
"There isn't a single-shot grouping in there you couldn't cover with a nickel, and these are the worst."
"I assume they're still shooting five-shot groups."
Clancy snorted.
"I don't think Kumo has let them hear of any other kind."
"Firing position?"
"Prone unsupported. Pencil scopes battlefield zeroed at four hundred meters."
Tidwell shook his head.
"I'll tell you, Clancy, man for man I've never seen anything like these guys. It's my studied and considered opinion that any one of them could take both of us one-handed. Even..."-he jerked a thumb at the figures on the screen behind them-"...even blindfolded."
On the screen, a man tried to stand at a distance and stab the blindfolded Aki with a spear, with disastrous results.
Clancy borrowed Tidwell's drink and took a sip.
"And you're still standing by your decision? About extending our entry date to the war by two months?"
"Now look, Clancy..."
"I'm not arguing. Just checking."
"They aren't ready yet. They're still a pack of individuals. A highly trained mob is still a mob."
"What's Kumo's reaction? That's his established entry date you're extending."
"He was only thinking about the new 'superweapons' when he set that date. He's been trained from birth to think of combat as an individual venture."
"Hey, those new weapons are really something, aren't they?"
"Superweapons or not, those men have to learn to function as a team before they'll be ready for the war. They said I would have free rein in choosing men and tactics, and by God, this time I'm not going into battle until they're ready. I don't care if it takes two months or two years."
"But Kumo..."
"Kumo and I work for the same employer and they put me in charge. We'll move when I say we're ready."
Clancy shrugged his shoulders.
"Just asking, Steve. No need to...whoa. Could you back that up?"
He pointed excitedly at the screen. Tidwell obligingly hit the hold button. On the screen, two men were in the process of attacking simultaneously from both sides with swords. Images of Clancy and Tidwell were also on the screen standing on either side of Kumo.
"How far do you want it backed?"
"Back it up to where you interrupt the demonstration."
Tidwell obliged.
The scene began anew. There was an attacker on the screen cautiously circling Aki with a knife. Suddenly Tidwell appeared on the screen, closely followed by Clancy. Until this point they had been standing off-camera, watching the proceedings. Finally Tidwell could contain his feelings-of skepticism no longer and stepped forward, silently holding his hand up to halt the action. He signaled the man with the knife to retire from the field, then turned and beckoned two specific men to approach him. With a series of quick flowing motions, he began to explain what he wanted.
"This is the part I want to see. Damn. You know, you're really good, Steve. You know how long it would take me to explain that using gestures? You'll have to coach me on it sometime. You used to fool around with the old Indian sign language a lot, didn't you? Steve?"
No reply came. Clancy tore his eyes away from the screen and shot a glance at Tidwell. Tidwell was sitting and staring at the screen. Every muscle in his body was suddenly tense-not rigid but poised, as if he was about to fight.
"What is it, Steve? Did you see something?"
Without answering, Tidwell stopped the film, reversed it, then started it again.
Again the knifeman circled. Again the two mercenaries appeared on the screen. Tidwell punched the hold button and the action froze.
He rose from his chair and slowly approached the screen. Then he thoughtfully sipped his drink and stared at a point away from the main action. He stared at Kumo. Kumo, the old sensei who never showed emotion. In the split second frozen by the camera, at the instant the two men stepped past him and interrupted the demonstration, in that fleeting moment as he looked at Tidwell's back, Kunio's face was contorted in an expression of raw, naked hatred.
9
Fred dispensed with the waiter's profuse thanks with an airy wave of his hand. He could still vividly remember his high school days working as a busboy, and as a result, habitually overtipped.
"Incredible! You feel it necessary to offer bribes even for the simplest of services."
"Have you ever tried waiting on tables for twelve hours solid, Ivan, old friend?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I have. My pay for the entire twelve hours was less than you just gave that man as a tip. But I did not mean to start another argument, my friend. I was merely commenting on the differences between how money is handled here and how it was in my old homeland."
"Well, you're in America now."
"Yes, and as I said, I apologize. I meant no offense. Please, for once let us end our meeting on a pleasant note."
"Fine by me."
Still maintaining an annoyed air, Fred rose to leave. However, he was puzzling over Ivan's last remark. Strange. It was the first time Ivan had ever apologized for getting under Fred's skin. If anything, he usually enjoyed doing it. In fact, Ivan had been acting strange all evening-no, make that all day.
Fred habitually spent more time studying his enemies than he did his friends, trying to memorize their quirks, their moods, anything that might give him an advantage in a confrontation. Quickly reviewing Ivan's reactions or lack thereof during the entire day, Fred would be willing to bet a month's wages that there was something bothering him. But what?
He paused for a moment to light a cigarette, and was rewarded by having Ivan rise to join him.
"Please, Fred. Might I walk with you for a bit?"
"Sure. I'm heading back to my hotel. Tag along and I'll buy you a drink. It's just across the park."
Ivan fell in step beside him and they left the restaurant in silence. Fred played the waiting game as they crossed the street and started down the sidewalk through the park. The night sounds of the city filtered through the air, giving a feeling of unreality, a persistent counterpoint to the deep shadows of the trees.
"Fred, we have been meeting privately at dinner for two months now. During these unofficial talks, I feel we have grown to know each other, yes?"
"I suppose."
C'mon, you bastard, spit it out. What's in the wind?
"I have a personal favor to ask of you."
Bingo! Deep in Fred's mind, a bright-eyed fox perked up its ears. If this was what it sounded like, he'd finally have his rival right where he wanted him. Nothing like having a member of the opposition over a barrel.
"What's the problem?"
"It is my daughter. I have recently received word she is alive...ah, I am getting ahead of myself. When I escaped...when I left my homeland, I was told that both my wife and daughter had been killed. Now word has been smuggled to me that my daughter is alive and living with friends. However, there is danger of the authorities finding her and I wish very badly to have her join me here in America."
"Have you told them at Oil?"
"Yes, but they cannot help me. They say I have not been working for them long enough."
"Bastards!"
"I have saved some money, but it is not enough. They say they can give me a loan in another six months, but I am afraid. My fellow workers will not help me. I am not well liked because of my many promotions. I thought that perhaps..."
His voice trailed off into silence.
Fred's mind was racing. He'd help Ivan, of course. If Communications would not spring for the money, he'd do it out of his own pocket. This was too good an opportunity to miss. The big question was what could he get out of Ivan in return. Fred could probably shake him down for one big favor before Oil found out that their number two negotiator had sold out, but if he played it right, one would be plenty.