The Company of the Dead (43 page)

The Shogun’s representative had intimated as much at their last meeting: that certain yakuza Families would move with them when Hideyoshi challenged the Emperor. But if Kobe had been involved, why was this such an issue now?

“Has Kobe been called before the Imperial court?” Kennedy asked.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Watanabe replied. “Hideyoshi’s honourable death by
seppuku
...” He gave Kennedy a curious look. “Ah, you didn’t know that. His death and this war change everything. I expected you to have a better understanding of the people you’d been dealing with.” His voice held a measure of disgust. It was the trace of pity in his demeanour that Kennedy couldn’t place. “Let me just say this. Whatever role you played on the Shogun’s behalf will enter the realm of mythology.”

“Mythology?”

“Hideyoshi and Ryuichi trace their lineage to the first Mikado, to the birth of history ... the Gods themselves.” Watanabe poured himself another glass of wine. He swayed slightly before the dressing table. “The Gods themselves. You, me, Kobe—we’re mortal. They dice with us, use us as they will. It’s always been that way.” He waved his hand dismissively and continued. “But a God has fallen. Hideyoshi is dead by his own hand. This means that he now sits by the throne of Jimmu in the Heavens.

“And you? You’re in the shit. You’ve lost your benefactor. You’ve lost your friends. A single moment has reduced you from Deity’s agent to traitor, and how many men have died for the whim of a god?” Watanabe drained the glass with a single, swift toss. “You’re in the shit, and I ...” He slammed the glass onto the table. “I have come to my decision.”

Watanabe was only a few feet away now. He peered at his own reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. He brought a hand up to his face, touching the skin around his eyes. He broke into a dazzling golden smile.

Kennedy inched towards the window, saying, “You believe all this?”

“I do and I don’t. It doesn’t matter what I believe, so long as I have belief.” Watanabe’s chuckle issued from the edge of madness. “It’s your lack of faith that led you to this place. But here’s where we stand. That letter was from Kobe, of course.” Watanabe turned to face him. “The money you gave me will be returned to your estate after the other Families have received their cut. I’m to deliver your head to Shimamura by morning.”

“What about Lightholler?”

“Nothing was said.”

Kennedy had the Beretta angled at the floor between Watanabe’s feet.

Watanabe laughed out loud. He raised a hand, gesturing for Kennedy to stop, to wait a moment. With his other hand he held his chest as the laughter faded away.

“You understand,” Watanabe said. “Even if you were my brother...”

A sudden deft movement and his left hand snapped back and forth. If it wasn’t for the silver blade in his grasp, he might not have appeared to have moved at all.

Kennedy raised the Beretta in a swift arc even as Watanabe dropped to his knees. He’d reversed the blade. Its tip was now pressed between the folds of his kimono.

Kennedy stepped forwards, bringing the gun’s barrel to his temple.

“Please,” Watanabe said through gritted teeth, “you’ll ruin my concentration.”

“Put the blade down.”

“Is there no end to your ignorance?”

“
Put the blade down.
”

“Your neck or my intestines,” Watanabe said. He inched the blade deeper to expose the flat board of his abdomen.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Lightholler stood in the open doorway, blinking.

“There’s a gun in my bag,” Kennedy said, without looking back. “Bring it.”

His entire world was at the end of his Beretta. Each fine strand of Watanabe’s hair, each individual pore. An artery pulsed its tortuous course under pale golden skin.

“You’re not going to make him—”

“
Get the fucking gun.
”

They sat cross-legged in the centre of the room; Watanabe’s blade lay on the carpet between them. Kennedy had the Mauser by his side while Lightholler balanced the Beretta in his hand. He gazed at Kennedy’s gun with a look of deliberation before placing his own on the ground.

“It is a peculiar irony when an enemy offers the opportunity for honour.” Watanabe’s voice was thick, the words came slowly. As if he’d already crossed some threshold.

Kennedy nodded.

“Kobe broke his promise of sanctuary. I won’t break mine. Kill myself, and I avoid the task of your disposal.” Watanabe paused. “Shimamura’s men will be here soon and I don’t care to witness their arrival. You should go now.”

“Come with us,” Lightholler said.

Watanabe’s response was a low growl. “They will arrive at dawn, and expect to find you sleeping in your room. Me in mine.”

Kennedy told himself he was talking to a dead man. He said, “Car keys.”

Watanabe withdrew them from a pocket. He placed them next to the sword. “Change cars as soon as possible.”

Lightholler rose from the floor slowly. “I don’t want any part of this.”

“Those men you had outside,” Kennedy said, reaching for the keys.

“One is watching the corridor, the others are with the car. They’ll let you pass.”

There was the faint rumble of thunder, dim and distant, more felt than heard. Watanabe glanced towards the window.

Kennedy fought the urge to pursue Lightholler’s approach, to show further disrespect to the yakuza. “Will it take you long to pack?” he asked Lightholler.

“Done.”

He looked back at Watanabe. He couldn’t resist a final gesture. He said, “You told me I had no benefactors left, no friends. You were wrong.”

“Leaving you to Shimamura is no act of kindness. A better friend might have killed you,” Watanabe replied. “I was speaking of something else.”

Lightholler said, “Let’s go.”

Another boom of thunder, louder now. Kennedy walked to the window and sniffed at the air. Ash and the scent of distant fire but nothing more. He said, “Tell me.”

“There’s not much to say.”

“Tell me.”

“There was a battle at sea. A German boat engaged a smuggling vessel off the South Carolina coast.”

Kennedy felt a sense of dread rising from within.

Lightholler said, “This doesn’t involve us.”

Kennedy silenced him with an open palm.

“We do business in Savannah,” Watanabe continued. “It’s close enough to the border, and information is the currency of the day, so...” He sighed heavily. “This I heard in passing. Enemies of the state, previously associated with yourself, died defending the South. Does this mean anything to you?”

“Who?”

“Hardas. Morgan.” Watanabe shrugged. His eyes returned to the blade.

Lightholler said, “I’m sorry, Joseph.”

Kennedy turned and let himself into his room. Bars of yellow brightness spilled onto the ceiling through half-closed blinds. He felt along the wall for the light switch, flicked it, and observed the chandelier rocking slowly from side to side. He walked over to the window and parted the blinds. The odd star winked back through a pall of low cloud. No rain, but a plume of smoke rising in the distance.

He leaned out the window. Two plumes of smoke.

He heard the thunderous rolling crash again, closer, and the sill trembled beneath his hands. Somewhere, a siren began its plaintive wail.

Hardas
.
Morgan
.

He walked into the bathroom and caught his face in the mirror. His hand scrabbled across the sink, closing on the razor he’d used earlier. He reached for soap and ran the water and scrubbed the soap into his beard. His image shuddered momentarily, then corrected itself.

Lightholler called from the other room.

He ran the blade over the gristle of his beard in long sweeps. Struck the blade sharply against the sink and then ran it back up under the curve of his chin to his lower lip. He splashed cold water over his face. The smile that answered his was thin and cruel.

When he re-entered Watanabe’s room he saw Lightholler standing by the exit, holding the Beretta in one hand and the satchel in the other. Watanabe stood in the centre of the room; his sword lay in two pieces on the ground before him.

Lightholler had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He slid an arm out of his jacket and made a show of slinging the satchel over his shoulder before replacing the sleeve. He said, “Watanabe thinks Shimamura’s men are blowing up hotels.”

“Crude,” Kennedy said. “Definitive. I’m in the mood to deal with it.”

“So much for honour.” The gangster picked up one of the broken pieces of sword and, examining it, said, “They told me dawn.” He went to the table, grabbed the wine bottle and emptied it with a toss of his head. “And this is how they come for you.” He spat on the floor.

“I hope the Families will understand,” he said, raising the splintered remains of the sword, “why this now goes in Shimamura’s heart.”

“Your Shingen’s where you left it.” Kennedy reached into his pockets. “Here are the bullets.”

“Give it to the captain.” Watanabe stooped to one knee and drew another Shingen from his ankle holster. “He’ll need more than a Beretta.”

Kennedy removed the pistol from behind the mattress and turned it over in his hands. He loaded it and rocked the grip in the palm of his hand. He handed it to Lightholler.

The next explosion rocked the room.

Kennedy drew his Mauser and released the safety. “Let’s go.”

“The staircase leads to the lobby and out the main entrance. Another set of stairs takes you down to the garage, otherwise there are three more exits via the kitchen, laundry and staff quarters.” Watanabe pointed down the length of the corridor. “Fire escape at the bottom opens out back.”

“What about the roof?” Kennedy asked.

“Too far from the other buildings. Too exposed.”

“Then we take the stairs.” Kennedy scanned the corridor. “Where’s your man?”

“If he’s not dead, I’ll kill him myself.” Watanabe led them towards the staircase.

“I smell smoke. Close by,” Lightholler said. “Why explosives?”

“They want to be sure,” Watanabe said. “It’s been done in the past. Nothing on this scale, though.”

Voices raised in fright or anger came weakly from behind closed doors. The siren’s wail had peaked to a crescendo and now there was the sharp crack of sporadic gunfire that might have been coming from anywhere. Lightholler gave Watanabe an enquiring look.

Watanabe shrugged.

“Unless Shimamura got his hands on a recoilless rifle, or rockets, whatever his men are up to has to be close range,” Kennedy said. “Small arms means the police might be involved, maybe even the military. That, or his crew needs to secure a perimeter before planting any more explosives.”

“These guys aren’t soldiers,” Lightholler said.

“Just telling you how I’d go about it.”

“What a misfortune to see such terrible times.” Watanabe had the broken shard of his sword in one hand and his Shingen in the other.

A door to their left opened and a woman, hair damp in rollers, stared out. Catching a glimpse of Watanabe, she crossed herself furiously and slammed the door shut again.

Watanabe sniggered, securing his blade to the sash of his kimono. “The japs are coming.”

“That’s what everyone’ll think.” Kennedy scowled. They’d reached the stairs. It was two flights down to the lobby. Close by, they heard the sound of pounding footsteps, but no one was in sight. “Where’s the car?”

“In front of the hotel.”

Shattering glass and more screams from below. A door burst open behind them and Kennedy saw a man emerge from one of the rooms. He almost bowled them over before they had a chance to bring up their guns. He was through them and taking the stairs two and three at a time.

Kennedy moved to follow but Watanabe had his sleeve.

“Too late for him,” Watanabe said. “He’ll draw them out.”

Kennedy’s attempt to break the gangster’s grip was perfunctory.

“Wait,” Watanabe said. He caught Kennedy’s glance, smiled, and said, “Please.”

The man disappeared from view. There was the clatter of desperate feet on tiles, then the sound came back up the staircase. Kennedy shoved Watanabe and Lightholler behind him with an outstretched arm. “Get back.”

The man reappeared a flight below, legs spread mid-stride, spine arched back and arms flung wide like a runner at the finish line. He was swept forwards by the salvo of bullets, leaving a smear of blood on the wall as he struck it and crumpled to the floor.

“Such a misfortune.”

“Down,” Kennedy ordered. He dropped to one knee and Watanabe and Lightholler fell in behind him. All three had their pistols trained above the man’s corpse.

The staircase shuddered beneath the rushed scramble of many feet.

“
Now
.”

Heads jerked into view. Four men in black suits, their black hair slick and tied back tight and high. The first volley hit them chest level, an invisible wall that held back their frenzied movements. One fired his automatic repeatedly into his shoes. The second volley dropped them onto the landing.

“There’ll be more,” Watanabe murmured, surveying the carnage.

“I know.”

“Look at their hair, what’s left of it. Topknots.”

“Shimamura’s men,” Kennedy said. “How’s the corridor?”

Lightholler’s head swung back and forth. “It’s clear.”

“How many more down there, you think?” Kennedy asked.

“Six, maybe seven,” Watanabe replied. “A few more watching the back exit. That’s if they’re taking out all the hotels along the strip.”

“They’ve got explosives, they’re in the building, they know they’ve got us,” Lightholler said. “We have to move now.”

The muzzle of a machine-pistol poked tentatively into view on the landing, followed by another Topknot. Watanabe put a bullet between his eyes.

“Okay,” Kennedy said. “We take the fire escape. John, cover the stairs.” Kennedy rose from his crouch, turned to Watanabe. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

He ran to the first door and kicked it open. Empty. Ran to the next and kicked it. It swung on loose hinges to reveal a couple: young, white, arms around each other, cowering on the nearer of two beds. “You, out now. The fire escape. This place is about to blow.”