Tengu (25 page)

Ueda smiled tightly. “How so, Detective?”

“Probably make a big ugly splash if word got out that the Japanese government was running amok in Manila.”

“Amok,” Art commented happily, “I like it.”

“And how would this happen?” Ueda inquired quietly.

“I’m sure someone would be willing to testify about your activities in return for immunity,” Micky answered. “The government would be interested in something like that, right Reyes?”

The big man stirred slightly. “Undoubtedly,” the Inspector brightened up, looking at Ueda like he wanted to kill him.

“And who would testify?” Ueda asked. “Marangan? He’s hardly a creditable witness.” You could see the calculations whirring behind his eyes.

Micky waved the suggestion away. “Him? Nah. I’m thinking about someone else.”

“Us,” I told Ueda. And I looked right at him while I continued, even though my words were directed at Reyes. “But that’s not going to get Yamashita back, so here’s the plan: We’ll tell you what we know, Inspector, but the deal is that we get to come with you when you track these people down.” The big Filipino opened his mouth as if about to protest, but I kept talking. “You get the information you need to solve the case. We get the kidnap victims back. And Ueda makes sure that his loose ends get tied up.” This was the clincher for Ueda—he would want to be there to wipe out the Japanese connection: the Tengu.

“Deal?” Art prompted.

Reyes was shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can go this far.”

“Sure you can, Inspector,” Micky told him. “Chalk it up to international cooperation in the war on terrorism. You’ll be a freakin’ hero.”

“It’s also the best way for you to keep tabs on us,” I added to Reyes.

“We can be somewhat unruly,” Art reminded him.

The Inspector looked at Ueda, who straightened up and bowed tightly. Reyes bowed slightly in return.

Nobody spoke for a moment or so. Then I licked my lips and asked Ueda quietly, “What can you tell us about the
Tengu
?”

It hadn’t taken Ueda long to tell us what he knew. It changed everything. We had three hours before the plane left for Davao, the largest city on Mindanao. Reyes churned off to grease official wheels, and Ueda took us shopping.

My gut felt like it was filled with acid. The knowledge of what we faced had rocked me. I was a man surging into a maelstrom, in a tearing hurry to get going and yet dreading where he would end up.

The Australian, on the other hand, acted like we had all the time in the world.

“Going into the bush?” he asked us happily, nodding at the prospect. “Getcha everything you need, right here.”

It was a big run-down building, hidden behind a marine repair shop in a part of the waterfront that tourists didn’t see much of. Crates were stacked up haphazardly along the rutted drive that led up to the wide warehouse doors, and machine parts rusted silently in the scrubby grass. You could smell oil and dust and rotting things in the mud that ringed the bay. But the Australian didn’t seem to mind. He was big and square, with a shaved head that glistened. He seemed pleased with the world in general and, once he had recognized Ueda, immensely glad to see us.

The attaché nodded at him. “Gentlemen, Mr. Tom Horowitz. He is an . . . outfitter.”

Horowitz grinned tightly. “That’s right. Tom Horowitz, Sydney branch of the Diaspora. Supplier of . . . ” his mouth opened a bit wider in mirth, displaying teeth that were as square and wide as he was, “ . . . well most anything you need, gents.” He was wiping his hands with a rag, working the skin vigorously. He peered critically at the results for a minute, squinted into the sun, and finally looked at us, almost as if he’d forgotten we were there. He shook his head slightly. “Come on in outta the sun. Ramonito!” he called at the top of his lungs, and walked through the double doors into the gloom. We followed.

“We will need standard equipment for backcountry travel,” Ueda began, handing him a list.

Horowitz nodded as he read. “Clothes, boots . . . ”

“Gloves,” Art added. I looked a question at him. “You go into the jungle, everything’s got stickers, Connor.”

Horowitz looked up at Ueda and wagged his eyebrows. “Topo maps for south Mindanao? We’re off on an adventure, eh?” A small Filipino emerged from the back of the building. “Ramonito,” the Australian said, “let’s get these gents kitted out.” He lumbered over to an old refrigerator, cracked it open and pulled out a bottle of San Miguel beer, and held it up. “Anyone?”

We shook our heads no. I looked at Ueda impatiently. “We are on a very tight schedule, Mr. Horowitz,” he reminded him.

“Gotcha, mate,” Horowitz answered. He screwed off the cap, tossed it into a corner, and gulped down half of the bottle in one, long pull. “I’ll have to drink a little faster, won’t I?” He winked at us.

“For Christ’s sake, Ueda,” I said, “we’re wasting time with this joker.” I started to move toward Horowitz, but he held up his hand, and he no longer looked as friendly. “Easy now, sonny,” he told me. “No need to get your dick in a knot.” He set the bottle down and, as he stretched out his arm, the short sleeve of his shirt rolled up and you could just see the tattoo: a winged dagger with a three-word motto:
Who Dares Wins
.

“Calm down, boys,” Horowitz said to us all. “Give him your boot sizes and Ramonito’ll get your kit worked up. And while he does that,” he finished his beer and licked his lips in satisfaction, “we’ll get the toys together.” Horowitz looked at me and cackled. Then he beckoned and we went further into the warehouse.

“You think this guy knows what he’s doin’?” Micky asked in a murmur.

Art nodded. “Probably. Did you see the tattoo? Special Air Service.” But he didn’t say it very loudly.

Ahead of us, Horowitz was talking on. “Don’t need to know where you’re going, Ueda, just what you’ll be up against,” he said over his shoulder.

“Small arms, perhaps some RPGs and light machineguns,” Ueda answered him.

We got to a locked door and Horowitz fished a key out of his pants. He unlocked the door, heaved the heavy slab sideways, and threw on the lights. The room was perhaps twenty-five feet square, windowless, and the jumping light of ceiling fluorescents pulsed over tables piled high with armaments of every conceivable type.

Micky whistled.

“It’s like Ali Baba’s cave,” Art said.

Horowitz stalked into the room and began handling weapons with a careful precision that spoke of experienced formality. He looked at us without expression for a moment, and then asked Ueda, “What type of weapons’ competence do your people have?” The Aussie accent was still there, but the words had a clipped focus that had been absent from his earlier speech.

“Two are policemen,” Ueda answered and Horowitz frowned at the news. “The other one has . . . more specialized skills.”

“Really?” Horowitz replied with a smile that got wider. “Really.” Then he began selecting various items from his stock. “You’ll want side-arms. Certain. I’ve got some nice nine millimeter Berettas. You mates familiar with nines?”

Micky nodded. “We use Glocks.”

Horowitz nodded back. “Nice. Berettas do you, though?”

“Sure,” Art told him.

Horowitz moved along a table. “Anyone see military service?”

“Marines,” Micky told him.

“Army,” Art added, “Tenth SFG.”

“All right, mate,” Horowitz smiled. “We can work with that. Let’s go with the tried and true, eh? I can give you either the M-16 or the M-4. A variety of sight options . . . ”

My brother and Art walked over and examined the rifles in question. Micky looked at his partner. “I’m thinking we go with the A-2 with the mounted grenade launcher . . . ”

Art nodded in agreement. “More bang for the buck.” He faced Horowitz. “It’s been a while. How about a laser sight? I’d like to hit what I’m aiming at if it comes to that.”

“Roger that, mate. I can set it up, no worries,” he told Art. Then he turned my way. “What about him?”

“Keep it simple,” Art suggested. “A standard M-4 will do fine. Firepower is not his thing.”

Again the smile from Horowitz. “What is your style, mate?”

I shrugged, not in the mood for conversation or explanation. “You got any knives?”

It took perhaps twenty minutes to assemble the gear. Ramonito worked quietly from a list, packing gear into black duffel bags as Ueda looked on, occasionally glancing at his watch. Horowitz packed the weapons, humming happily to himself.

“If you’re headin’ south, ya don’t want to come up short on ammunition,” he told us.

“That,” Art agreed in a judicious tone, “would be bad.”

Horowitz’s half grin disappeared and his eyes got that strange bright look again. “Bad? You don’t know the half of it. You Yanks were here in the Philippines about a hundred years ago, fighting the Moros. The standard sidearm then was a .38. The Army adopted the .45 when they were down here. Know why? Ya could pump .38s into an attacking Moro all day and he just kept comin’. Not enough stopping power, ya see. They needed a bigger slug. And even then . . . ” Horowitz paused while he stepped back into a memory, and it was obviously not a good one. Finally, he stirred, looked around him, and got back to packing. “I’ve added some extra magazines . . . ” his comment trailed off. He was still in that unwanted past. Art looked at Micky and raised his eyebrows. My brother shrugged, but kept silent.

Horowitz’s assistant Ramonito didn’t have much to say. He had wet brown eyes and watched us slyly and smiled a bit, which told you nothing about what he was thinking; most Filipinos, with the exception of Reyes, smiled as a matter of habit. It was only as he finished tallying the supply items and zipped up the duffels that he grew momentarily somber.

“If you would load these bags, I’ll settle up with Mr. Horowitz,” Ueda said to us. We each grabbed something and headed for the door.

But Ramonito put a restraining hand on my arm. His voice was very soft, almost a whisper. “If you fight the Moros, you will need more than this,” he said, nodding at the equipment. He pressed something into my palm. It was hard and cold. “Go with God,” he said simply, then ghosted off into the shadows of the warehouse.

I came out into the brightness of the day, squinting a little, and looking at what I held in my hand. It was a small, copper colored medal of some sort with a small loop that could be used to attach a chain.

“What gives?” Micky asked. “St. Christopher’s medal?”

I shook my head. The engraving on the medal was vaguely religious—a picture of a human figure carrying a cross in one hand and a spear in the other—but it was no saint that I was familiar with. A few words in Latin were engraved under the figure:
Deus
noster refugium
.

“It’s a charm,” I told them, as its significance sunk in. “A talisman. The Filipinos call them
anting-anting
.”

“For good luck?” Art asked hopefully.

“Sure. But in the old days, their warriors used to believe that wearing this amulet made you invulnerable.”

“So this is a pre-.45 sort of thing,” Micky responded sarcastically.

“What’s the inscription?” Art asked.

“
Deus noster refugium
, God is our refuge and our strength,” I translated.

“Well, Him and the M203 grenade launcher,” my brother added.

I thought about the inscription for a minute and laughed. “It’s probably more appropriate than you think, Mick. It’s the opening line from Psalm 46, ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble.’ Or something like that.”

“Connor, my boy,” Art told me, “for all your heathen ramblings you’re still a good Catholic boy at heart.”

“Yeah,” my brother broke in, “but remind me to explain to you how to shoot a gun.” It was a welcome bit of sarcasm. Micky hardly ever let anyone see that things were bothering him. Art, either. Today they both had grown quieter and tenser as things unfolded. It only added to my alarm. I was relieved by their banter.

“Oh, there’s more,” I told them, reluctant to let the moment go. What lay ahead was too frightening. “You guys’ll like it. See if you recognize this . . . ” I closed my eyes to see if I could remember the quote correctly and tried to use the appropriate accent: “He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of the earth. He breaketh the bow and snappeth the spear asunder . . . I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth . . . ’”

“Hey!” Micky exclaimed with a grin. “Color Sergeant Bourne!” He looked at Art, whose face had also lit up in recognition. “It’s from
Zulu
!”

“I thought you’d get it,” I said with satisfaction. In the course of a long career cooped up in cars together, Art and Micky have become inveterate movie freaks. They discuss directors and scenes and recycle old dialogue relentlessly. Now, in this strange place, came a reminder of something familiar, a link to a ’60’s era motion picture they knew and loved.

“Great flick,” Art commented. He held up a questioning finger. “And introducing who in his first starring role?”

“Michael Caine,” Micky answered with satisfaction. “And don’t forget his co-star . . . ”

“Stanley Baker,” Art replied. “Ah. A fine actor. Unappreciated, really. Career cut short. Gone too soon . . . ”

“He was also in
The Guns of Navarrone
,” I added helpfully. But they both looked at me like they were offended that I had broken into their little game. The moment was gone.

“You gonna wear it, Connor?” Micky asked, gesturing at the
anting-anting
.

I shrugged. “I’m watching Horowitz load all that gear and I’m thinking I could use all the help possible.” They said nothing in response to that, growing somber again. We loaded the SUV in silence and waited for Ueda. The day was clear and pleasant, the sun warm but not too warm. Aside from the smell of the water, it would have been nice to lean against the side of the vehicle, eyes closed, and pretend that all was right with the world. But time was short.

“I never really said . . . ” I began, but faltered. I started again. “I never really thanked you both . . . for coming.” I looked each of them in the eye. I hesitated to say more, struck by the awareness that what Ueda had told us earlier today made the whole enterprise vastly more complex, and potentially more lethal for all of us.