A Knife Edge (9 page)

“Hello? North Pole?” said a male voice.

“Sorry?” I replied.

“Is this Santa Claus?”

“What?”

“You remember? You gave me your card.”

That wasn't a big help. I handed around my card like flu virus got handed around on public transport.

“I met you on the
Natusima.
The name's Cooke.” He coughed again, a rasping metallic sound.

My memory kicked in. “Cooke with an
e,
right? You're the cook.”

“You got it.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cooke?”

“You said I should call if anything came to mind.”

“That's right.” The line wasn't great. There was a couple of seconds of delay every time he answered a question. I wondered where he was calling from.

“You asked me whether I saw the guy who got eat fall in the water. I told you no.”

“I remember.”

“Well, y'see, I said no ‘cause I didn't see him fall. That's because he didn't
fall
—the Jap guy was thrown.”

T
hrown? So you saw this happen?”

“I was having a smoke on the deck, in my spot—the place where I met you,” he said. “There wasn't much light from the moon. It was real calm, but cold. A storm was comin' in. I saw the doctor come out the hatch. He was drunk. I watched him lean up against the gunnel and I heard him puke over the side. I turned to flick my smoke into the water. Next thing I hear is a shout and a splash. I look back and the doctor ain't there no more.”

“You said he was thrown. How do you know he didn't slip?”

“You've been on the boat. The gunnel—where he was standing—comes up around your chest. If he'd slipped, the only place he'd have landed would've been his ass. Going over the side there wasn't possible, not without help. And he wouldn't have been able to jump it. He weren't no athlete. And anyway, like I said, he was drunk, swaying about like the ground was movin' under his feet, only it wasn't.”

“What about you, Mr. Cooke; were you also drunk at the time?”

“I'd had a drink or two, but I wasn't fallin' down.” “If you saw a man in the freezing water, why didn't you raise the alarm? Or throw in a life preserver?”

“He went under right away. I couldn't see him.”

This didn't feel right. Cooke saw, or rather heard, a man go overboard, yet he'd done absolutely nothing about it. So what if he couldn't see him? With a little fast action, the doctor could have been saved. And then it hit me. “You wanted to see what would happen.”

“What?”

“You said you saw him… I think the words you used were ‘he got eat.'“

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, you did.” I sensed a shrug coming down the line like I'd accused him of accidentally burning a hole in my parka with a cigarette. “You watched the shark eat a man for the hell of it—for entertainment.” I had the image of Dr. Tanaka in the water, screaming for help, choking with white cold fear. No one would have heard his cries—everyone was at the party. Everyone except for Cooke, and according to him one other person—the killer.

“I didn't do no crime,” Cooke said.

There's nothing in the rule book that makes it a crime to stand around eating popcorn while you watch someone else commit murder. There's also nothing in the rule book that said I couldn't make him squirm. “In a certain light, you could be portrayed as an accessory to murder. You witnessed a crime take place. You were right there, and you did nothing to stop it.”

Cooke came back fighting. “Accessory? I don't think so. Like I said, it was a dark night, and the doctor was in shadow. It might be that I could change my mind about what I saw. And anyway, you know and I know, there ain't no crime in minding your own damn business.”

I'd met plenty of people like this guy over the years, the type that enjoyed watching others take the heat and, in this particular instance, get eaten alive. “So what you saw was hidden in shadow, and you were also drunk,” I told him. “That makes anything you might tell me worthless.” Even a half-wit prosecutor could chew holes in this guy's so-called eyewitness account.

“There's a killer walking around who should be locked up. I'm just a concerned citizen, doing my duty.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do you want to know who threw the doctor overboard, or don't you?” he said.

At this point, I had no investigation. That was because, according to the Tokyo Police and indeed to my own report, the one I was about to submit, no crime had been committed. So of course I was anxious to know if Dr. Tanaka had been murdered, only I didn't want to give this asshole the satisfaction of knowing he was the one about to wind me up and set me loose. Sometimes, though, Justice has to take whatever she can damn well get. “Just tell me what you
saw,”
I said, making my voice sound bored.

“After the shark had had its fill, I saw another person on deck.”

“You keep going on about how dark it was. So how come you can all of a sudden see someone's face out there?”

“I got a good look at him when he opened the hatch to go back inside. He stepped into the light.”

This asshole was drawing it out like a wood splinter.

“I saw the professor,” he said.

“Professor Boyle?” I asked, making sure.

“There weren't any other professors on board,” he replied, enjoying the moment.

Why would Boyle murder his associate? The question reminded me of Durban and her story about the panda. Perhaps there was another shark there that night cruising the
Natusima's
stern, a shark in a man's skin. “Where are you calling from, Mr. Cooke?” I asked.

“So now you're interested, right?”

I let the delay in the line answer for me.

“I'm on the
Natusima,”
he said after a lengthy pause that ended with a cough.

“You still tied up in Yokohama Bay?”

“No. In the Philippine Sea, heading toward the Marianas. I'm using one of them satellite phones.”

There was the delay accounted for. Wonderful. “Why didn't you tell me any of this when I was on your ship?”

“I wasn't sure about what I saw.”

“And you are now?” I wondered if Cooke had waited to see if there were any angles worth playing. Had he perhaps unsuccessfully tried to blackmail Boyle before this attack of civic-mindedness had overcome him?

“Yeah—couldn't get it out of my head.”

Sure.

“I also thought maybe you'd think I done it. And if the professor fingers me, it's my word against his. Who're you going to believe—a guy who peels spuds for a living or a doofus with letters after his name?”

He had a point. But something about Professor Boyle didn't jell. And now I had a witness to the crime, albeit one whose story was as flimsy as a bride's negligé. The question now: What to do about it?

“When are you back in port, Mr. Cooke?” I could see myself being winched out of a helo onto the deck of the
Natusima
to take Cooke's statement in person. Like hell I could.

“Just over a week. We'll be pulling into Guam.”

Guam: Andersen Air Force Base. I could get OSI there to take Cooke's statement or, failing that, someone from JAG. “Mr. Cooke, I want you to write down everything you've told me, date it, sign it, and have it witnessed by the ship's master. Then I want you to fax it to me.” I gave him the number. “When you arrive at Guam, you'll get a visit from someone who'll ask you a bunch of questions.”

“One of Santa's little helpers?”

“You got anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.

“Just Merry Christmas to you and Mrs. Claus.”

The line went dead. He'd hung up. Mrs. Claus—Anna. “Thanks for reminding me, asshole,” I said to the handset before putting it back on the cradle. I glanced again at the title page of
Boyle's speech: “Playing God.” I recalled my last meeting with Dr. Tanaka in the coroner's refrigerator. If Cooke wasn't lying, the professor sure was pretty good at smiting. The phone rang again.

“Hello, Arlen,” I said.

“Who've you been talking to?”

“Don't I get a hello?”

“We've already done all that. I've been down here twenty minutes already.”

“Where's down here?”

“The cafeteria.”

I realized why he was angry: He was probably drinking the coffee. “Have I been on the phone all that time?” I looked at my watch. A good half an hour had passed since we'd last spoken.

“I don't know—you tell me. You've got seven minutes to get down here.”

“You got anything for me?” I asked.

“That's six minutes, fifty-five seconds …”

Seven minutes. Arlen was referring to the often-quoted brag that, despite occupying close to four million square feet and having three times the floor space of the Empire State Building, no point in the Pentagon was further than seven minutes away from any other point in the Pentagon. It's probably true, but only if you're Jesse Owens in spikes. I made it in eight minutes thirty.

The smell of the cafeteria always spoke to me well before I arrived there. What it was telling me was to turn around and run in the opposite direction. If I could have dissected that smell, it would have been a combination of sugar, deep-fried dough, grease, and the aforementioned coffee.

Despite this, however, the cafeteria was always reasonably full, as was the case this time, the gentle roar of hundreds of conversations rising toward the ceiling. It was a sea of uniforms. Every military service was represented here, mixed in with politicians, clerks, public servants, contractors, spooks—the individual cogs that made up the inner workings of the greatest fighting machine the world has ever known. The place had to be bugged.

I scanned the floor and saw Arlen standing, waving his arm above his head. On the small, round table in front of him were two cups of coffee, one half empty, and two sugar doughnuts, one with a bite out of it.

“Stale?” I said, gesturing at the spread.

“Yeah,” he replied. “And so are the doughnuts. What took you?”

He wasn't expecting an excuse so I didn't offer one.

At the nearest table a couple of tanned, gray-haired marine gunnery sergeants stared angrily at a third man, also a marine, who wore the insignia of the JAG corps—a lawyer. He was speaking to them in hushed tones, underlining the point he was making with hand movements. Whatever he was saying, it wasn't giving the two older men a whole lot of joy. I wanted to tell the sergeants my current favorite lawyer joke to cheer them up, but I could sense that they were well beyond being humored, so, to get things rolling, I said to Arlen, “Hey… a couple of lawyers are in a bank when a gang of robbers bursts in and begins taking the money from the tellers. Another gang member lines the customers up and starts stripping them of their wallets, cash, and jewelry. While this is happening, Lawyer One feels something being jammed into his hand by his associate, Lawyer Two. Lawyer Number One whispers to Lawyer Two, ‘What's this for?' To which Lawyer Number Two answers, ‘It's all that money I owe you.' “

“They're not getting any better, are they?” said Arlen.

“Seemed appropriate,” I said, gesturing at the JAG guy in a huddle with the marine sergeants.

“Where do you want to start?” Arlen asked, but he already had his own thoughts on how to get things under way because he said, almost immediately, “Vin, I'm sorry things worked out the way they did between you and Anna.”

I gave him what I hoped would pass for a smile and said, “So how'd you make out with Moreton Genetics?” After a moment's hesitation, Arlen reached down to a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a plain manila folder, placing it on the table. I
made a bet with myself that a hidden surveillance camera had picked up that action and captured it on tape.

“I think you should wait till you get out of here before you go through this,” Arlen advised. His eyes held not the slightest flicker of emotion. Sometimes nothing can say everything.

“So,” I said, placing the folder on my lap. “How's everything across the river?”

But something had distracted Arlen. The expression on his face had changed. In fact, he now had one. He was also looking past my shoulder. Somewhere close by, I heard a cup smash on the tiled floor. I was about to say, “Another happy customer when Arlen got to his feet. I glanced around and saw that several people were following suit. One of the Air Force lieutenants had her hand up against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, and I realized that the entire cafeteria had fallen silent, like it was holding its breath. I'd experienced group shock like this only once before, one day in the month of September that was both a long time ago and just yesterday. I turned and saw all eyes focused on the television monitors scattered about the place. The channel was tuned to CNN. Then the cells and beepers began to ring, a chorus of two hundred assorted ringtones—Beethoven's Fifth, dogs barking, bells tolling, rock songs, rap, blues, applause, a door slamming, the growl of a NASCAR V8 revving up … My own cell was vibrating against my leg. On the television screen was a view being filmed from a network news chopper. The caption read,
Live.
Smoke, fire, and torrential rain made it difficult to see what was going on below the aircraft. The helo flew into relatively clear air revealing a familiar skyscraper with many of its upper-story windows smashed and its lower floors shrouded in smoke. The helo continued on past a building that had collapsed in on itself and was burning fiercely. A second title appeared on the screen.

It read,
San Francisco Attacked.

W
hen I arrived in San Francisco, the air was still heavy with dust that stank of burnt concrete, scorched paper, and cooked sewage. The smell took me back to Baghdad and Afghanistan and Kosovo, the three war zones I've been unlucky enough to experience firsthand. The smell would hang around for some time—it was the type that sticks to the back of the nostrils and puts down roots. San Franciscans wouldn't forget that smell for years to come, nor would any town downwind.

The Transamerica Pyramid building in downtown San Francisco was built to withstand significant earthquakes and so its structural integrity had not been compromised by the blast, despite numerous assertions by so-called experts on television that it would come down like a World Trade Center tower at any moment. Several other buildings in the immediate vicinity, in particular an upmarket apartment block, had fared far worse. That had been utterly consumed, along with the majority of its residents, by a gas explosion and subsequent fire. Broken glass had fallen away from buildings three blocks from the epicenters of the twin blasts, causing a frightful array of injuries.