Cure

Prologue

February 28, 2010

Sunday, 2:06 a.m.

Kyoto, Japan

It happened in the blink of an eye. One instant everything was fine, considering the fact that Benjamin Corey was breaking into a foreign biological laboratory; the next instant it was a disaster in the making, and Ben Corey went from reasonably relaxed to simply terrified. Within seconds of the overhead lights flashing on, flooding the entire floor with raw fluorescent light, a cold sweat rose on his forehead, his heart began pounding in his chest, and, of all things, the tips of his fingers became numb, a fight-or-flight symptom he’d never experienced previously. What was supposed to be a walk in the park, as described the previous evening in Tokyo by his Japanese Yakuza contact, was now threatening to be anything but. An elderly uniformed guard approached down the lab’s central corridor, his visored hat tipped back from his forehead, a flashlight held high in his right hand near the side of his head. As he advanced he swung both his head and the flashlight beam down the aisles between the rows of laboratory benches. He held a cell phone against his left ear and spoke in a hushed staccato voice, apparently keeping Kyoto University’s central security office apprised of his progress investigating a lone light that had suddenly gone on in an office of the third floor in an otherwise completely dark and supposedly empty building. Each approaching step brought forth an ominous jangle from a large ring of keys clipped to his belt.

This was Ben Corey’s first episode of breaking and entering, and he promised himself it would be his last. He shouldn’t have been there, considering the fact that he was an M.D./Ph.D., a graduate of Harvard Business School, and the founding CEO of a promising start-up company called iPS USA LLC. He’d formed the company with the hopes of shepherding the commercialization of human induced pluripotent stem, or iPS, cells and, in the process, turning himself into a billionaire several times over.

The specific reason that Ben was there at that moment was under his arm: several lab workbooks owned by a former Kyoto University researcher, Satoshi Machita. In the books was proof that it was he, Satoshi Machita, who had been first to make iPS cells. Ben had found the books in the side office from which he’d just emerged. Satoshi had told Ben exactly where the books would be and essentially authorized Ben to get them, which Ben had used as the rationalization for his participation in the break-in. But there were other factors as well: Over the previous couple of years, Ben had struggled through a midlife crisis that still robbed him of age-appropriate maturity. He’d divorced his wife, with whom he’d had three children, now grown; quit his steady job at a highly successful biotech giant; married his former secretary, Stephanie Baker, and quickly fathered a new baby boy; lost forty pounds and took up triathlons and extreme skiing; and embarked on the risky venture of iPS USA at a time when raising capital was difficult at best, and to do so required significant compromises on his part, particularly regarding the source of the money.

In the wake of such significant life changes, Ben began to pride himself on being a “doer” rather than a “spectator.” When he’d come in contact with Satoshi Machita and the researcher’s story, he’d jumped at the chance to become involved. Soon Ben had come to consider Satoshi’s lab books as potential manna from heaven. If what Satoshi had said about being the first person to make iPS cells from his own fibroblasts was even half true, Ben was confident the books’ contents were going to shake up the biotechnology patent world by supplying the foundation of iPS USA’s intellectual property.

From then on, over a period of many months, Ben had personally taken responsibility to recover them. Even so, he’d not considered participating in the actual theft from Kyoto University until the Yakuza mob boss he’d met in Tokyo, in a meeting set up by an equivalent Mafia mob boss in New York who was supplying Ben’s seed capital, convinced him how easy it was going to be. “I doubt the door to the lab will even be locked,” the nattily dressed man in his Brioni suit had said when he’d met him at the bar of The Peninsula in Tokyo. “At two o’clock in the morning there might even be students working at their benches. Just ignore them, get whatever belongs to your employee, and walk out. There will be no problem, according to my sources. I have you set up with one of our finest Yamaguchi-gumi enforcers, who will meet you at your Kyoto hotel. You don’t even have to go into the lab yourself if you don’t care to. Just describe what you want him to get and where you think they will be found.”

At that point the new “doer” Ben had thought there was poetic justification for him to actually participate in the final step of what had been a months-long process. As important as the books were, he wanted to be one hundred percent certain the right lab books were taken. And on top of that, the rightful owner had authorized their recovery, so in his mind he was not stealing. Instead, he was acting as a kind of modern-day Robin Hood.

“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” the panicked Ben squeaked to his co-conspirator, the so-called “real” professional, Kaniji Goto. The two men were crouched behind one of the lab benches. In addition to the jangling keys, they could hear the uniformed guard’s sandals scuffing against the lab’s tiled floor.

With obvious irritation, Kaniji motioned for Ben to shut up. Ben took the order in stride, but what he couldn’t abide was that Kaniji had withdrawn a dagger from somewhere inside his outfit. The sudden light in the room glinted blindingly off the knife’s stainless-steel blade. It was clear to Ben that Kaniji was intent on some kind of violent confrontation instead of getting them the hell out of the building.

As the seconds ticked away and the guard drew closer, Ben upbraided himself for not aborting the mission when the supposedly professional Kaniji had first appeared an hour earlier to pick Ben up at his ryokan, or traditional Japanese inn. To Ben’s horror, Kaniji arrived dressed all in black, as though he was heading off to a masquerade ball. Over a black turtleneck and loose black pajama-like pants he wore a black martial-arts jacket cinched with a flat black belt. On his feet were black cross-trainers. Clutched in his hand was a black balaclava. To make matters worse, he spoke only limited English, making communication difficult.

But the combination of poor communication, the foreign locale, and the excitement of getting hold of the lab books all contributed to Ben’s willingness to let the raid go forward, despite the alarm bells going off in his head. And now, as Kaniji crept forward, brandishing the knife, Ben’s anxiety ratcheted skyward.

Hoping to avoid any confrontation between Kaniji and the guard, Ben quickly duckwalked forward and caught up with Kaniji. In desperation he grabbed Kaniji’s belt and yanked him backward.

Losing his balance, Kaniji fell over onto his buttocks but was up in a flash, spinning in the process like the martial arts professional he reputedly was. Momentarily flummoxed about having been unexpectedly upended by his partner in crime, he still managed to restrain his reflex attack. Instead he confronted Ben with an aggressively defensive stance. The knife tip quivered inches from Ben’s nose.

Ben froze in place, trying desperately to judge Kaniji’s mind-set while fearing that any movement on his part might unleash the attack that Kaniji was actively suppressing. It wasn’t easy. The balaclava Kaniji had donned before they had entered the laboratory completely masked his face, making it impossible to read his expression. Even the eye slits were featureless black holes. A second later both Ben and Kaniji were blinded by the guard’s flashlight.

Kaniji reacted by pure reflex. Spinning away from Ben and letting loose with a scream, he charged at the shocked guard, lifting his knife above his head, holding it like a dagger. Ben also sprang forward and again grabbed Kaniji’s belt. But rather than preventing Kaniji’s forward momentum, Ben found himself yanked ahead. The moment Kaniji collided full tilt with the guard, Ben slammed into Kaniji’s back, and all three plunged to the floor in a kind of writhing sandwich, with the guard on the bottom and Ben on top.

At the moment their bodies collided, Kaniji had brought the knife down suddenly, plunging its tip into the sulcus between the guard’s collarbone and the top edge of his shoulder. When the group hit the floor the blade was driven home, piercing the man’s carotid arch in the process.

Other than the whoosh of air expelled from Kaniji’s and the guard’s lungs as they all collided with the floor, the first thing Ben was aware of was intermittent jets of spouting fluid. It took him a moment in the confusion of the event to realize that it was blood. As Ben scrambled away he could see that the blood was coming in progressively smaller spurts as the guard’s heart extruded the rest of his total of six quarts.

Although Kaniji was now covered with blood, Ben had been hit with only a few large drops, which ran down his forehead when he stood up. He’d feverishly brushed them off with the back of his free hand and then shook the hand.

For a second Ben stared down at the two intertwined bodies awash in red, one still struggling to catch his breath, the other motionless and pale. Without another thought, Ben took off. Clutching the laboratory books under his left arm like a football, he ran headlong back the route he and Kaniji had taken on their way to Satoshi’s old office.

Bursting forth from the building’s main entrance on the ground floor, Ben hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. Without the ignition keys to Kaniji’s aged Datsun, there was no need to retrace the route to where the car was parked in a small copse of trees. As his mind raced through various but not too auspicious possibilities, he was shocked into action by the distant sound of approaching sirens. Although lost in a foreign city, he was aware of the Kamo River off to the west, which knifed through Kyoto north to south, and was near to the ryokan where he was staying in the old city.

With the stamina of someone who participated in triathlons, Ben struck off using the stars as a guide to get to the river. He ran swiftly and smoothly, trying to be as silent as possible. After only three blocks he heard the police sirens trail off, suggesting that the authorities had already reached the lab. Clamping his jaw shut tightly, Ben upped his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped. Anxious and trembling, he would have trouble answering the simplest of questions, let alone explaining why he was out running at that time of night carrying books taken from a Kyoto University lab. When he reached the river, he turned north and settled into a rapid but consistent stride, as if he was in a race.

Three weeks later

March 22, 2010

Monday, 9:37 a.m.

Tokyo, Japan

Naoki Tajiri had been in the mizu shōbai, or “water trade,” for longer than he cared to admit. Starting at the very bottom just after high school, washing sake cups, beer mugs, and shōchū glasses, he’d slowly moved up the ladder of responsibility. To add to his résumé, he’d made it a point to work in all manner of establishments, from the traditional nomiya, or drinking shop, to hard-core prostitution bar-lounges run by the Yakuza, the Japanese version of the Mafia. Naoki himself was not a member of any gang by choice, but he was tolerated and even in demand by the Yakuza for his experience, which was the reason he was the general manager of The Paradise, one of the most popular full-service night spots in the Akasaka district of Tokyo.

Although Naoki had begun his career in his small hometown, he’d moved to progressively larger towns over the years, finally reaching the big time in Kyoto, then Tokyo. Over the years Naoki had thought he’d seen just about everything associated with the water trade, including money, alcohol, gambling, sex, and murder. Until that morning.

It started with a phone call just before six a.m. Irritated at whoever was calling him just after he’d fallen asleep, he answered gruffly but soon changed his tune. The caller was Mitsuhiro Narumi, the saiko komon, or senior adviser, to the oyabun, or head of the Inagawa-kai, the Yakuza organization that owned The Paradise. For someone so senior to be calling him, a mere general manager of a nightclub, sent a shiver of fear down Naoki’s spine.

Naoki feared that something horrendous had happened at The Paradise overnight and, as the general manager, it was his responsibility to be aware of everything. But it was something else entirely: something rather extraordinary. Narumi-san was calling to inform him that Hisayuki Ishii, the oyabun, or head of another Yakuza family, would be coming to The Paradise for an important meeting with Kenichi Fujiwara, senior vice minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry: a very high-level, politically connected bureaucrat. Narumi-san had gone on to say that Naoki would be personally responsible for the meeting to go well. “Give them whatever they need or desire,” was his final order.

Relieved the call was not about a serious problem, Naoki then became curious why an oyabun of another Yakuza organization would be coming to an Inagawa-kai property, especially to talk with a government minister! But it was not his position to ask, and Narumi-san did not offer any explanations before abruptly terminating the conversation.

As the hour neared ten a.m., Naoki began to calm down. All was arranged. The regular furniture had been pushed aside and a special table had been placed in the center of the main cocktail lounge on the second floor. Naoki’s best bartender had been hauled out of his bed in case there was a request for exotic drinks. Four hostesses had been summoned in case their services were required by his visitors. The final touch was an ashtray, along with an assortment of cigarette packages, both foreign and domestic, at each of the two seats.

The oyabun arrived first, along with a cohort of cookie-cutter minions, all outfitted in black sharkskin suits, dark sunglasses, and spiked, heavily pomaded hair. The oyabun was dressed more conservatively in an expertly tailored dark wool Italian suit, worn with highly polished, English wingtip shoes. His hair was short and carefully groomed, and his manicure was perfect. He was the epitome of the highly successful businessman who ran a number of legitimate businesses on top of his responsibilities as the head of the Aizukotetsu-kai crime family, operating in Kyoto. He passed the bowing Naoki as if Naoki was a mere fixture of the environment. Once ensconced upstairs at the table, he brusquely accepted a splash of whiskey while distractedly shuffling through the assorted cigarette packs. As an added distraction, Naoki had motioned for his shift manager to bring out the women.

Naoki went back downstairs to the open-air entrance to the street to await the arrival of his second important guest. Since The Paradise was open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five and a quarter days a year, there was no door, per se. Instead there was an invisible curtain of moving air that kept out the cold of winter or the heat and humidity of summer. The idea was to capitalize on public whim by making entering as easy as possible. It was rare for a passing Japanese man not to step inside, intending to stay just for a moment, and then to remain for an hour or two.

The ground floor of The Paradise was a large pachinko parlor. Even at that time in the morning there were more than a hundred seemingly comatose players sitting in front of noisy vertical pinball games. With one hand they caused ball bearings to shoot up vertically before cascading down beneath the glass of the machines’ fronts. During the descent the stainless-steel balls smashed against various obstructions and byways. Pachinko inspired a near-fanatical devotion in many players, and though Naoki didn’t understand it, he didn’t care. The game was responsible for almost forty-five percent of the take of The Paradise.

Down the street, he could see the black sedans that had brought the oyabun and his retinue. Among the Toyota Crowns was the oyabun’s own vehicle, an impressive black Lexus LS 600h L, the new flagship of the Lexus brand and of the Japanese auto industry itself. The cars were all parked in an obvious no-parking zone, but Naoki wasn’t concerned. The local police would recognize the vehicles and leave them be. Naoki was well aware of the unorthodox and fluid relationship between government authorities, including the police, and the Yakuza, as was certainly evidenced by the upcoming meeting he was hosting that morning.

Checking the time, Naoki felt his nervousness return. Despite the slight pleased smile Naoki had perceived on the oyabun’s face when the hostesses had appeared, Naoki understood that the oyabun might consider his being forced to wait as a sign of disrespect on the part of the vice minister. To Naoki’s relief, however, the moment he turned his line of sight to the right, he was rewarded by the sight of the vice minister’s cavalcade.

Bearing down on him half a block away were three black Toyota Crowns so close together as to be seemingly conjoined. The middle one stopped directly in front of Naoki. Although Naoki extended a hand to open the vehicle’s rear door, a team of black-suited men with earpieces jumped from the two other cars and waved Naoki off. Naoki hastily complied.

Naoki bowed deeply when Kenichi Fujiwara stepped out onto the sidewalk. The man, who was dressed almost as sumptuously as the oyabun, hesitated briefly while glancing up to survey the ten-story façade of The Paradise. The five upper floors of the building were part of a love hotel, whose themed rooms could be rented by the hour or by the day. Kenichi’s expression was of mild disdain, suggesting the location had not been his choice. Regardless, he proceeded to enter The Paradise through the curtain of air by bypassing the bowing Naoki with the same disregard that the oyabun had exhibited on his arrival fifteen minutes earlier.

As Naoki straightened up and rushed ahead to gain the lead, he called out to his arriving guests loudly enough to be heard over the racket of the pachinko balls: “The meeting is to be held on the second floor. Please follow me!”

Upstairs, the hostesses were giggling and shyly covering their mouths. A moment later they found themselves swept to the side as the oyabun abruptly stood up from the table as he caught sight of the vice minister. Without complaint, the girls quickly retreated to the bar.

Although the two entourages eyed each other with a mixture of disdain and a twinge of suppressed hostility, the greeting between the two principals was cordial and painstakingly equal, like that of two friendly businessmen.

“Kenichi Fujiwara Daijin!” the oyabun said in a clipped, forceful voice, giving equal emphasis to each syllable.

“Hisayuki Ishii Kunicho!” the vice minister said in a similar manner.

At the same time they spoke they both bowed to each other at precisely the same angle, respectfully lowering their eyes in the process. Then they exchanged business cards, the vice minister first, holding out his card clasped by both thumbs and both forefingers while repeating a shallower bow. The oyabun then followed suit, mimicking the minister with precision.

Completing the business-card ritual, the men briefly turned to their respective attendants, and with simple glances and slight nods of the head directed them to opposite sides of the room. At that point the oyabun and the vice minister sat down, facing each other across the expanse of the mahogany library table that had been found for the occasion. Each carefully placed the other’s business card front and center, exactly parallel to the table’s side.

Without specific instructions to the contrary, Naoki, who was obviously not to be acknowledged, remained within earshot in case either of his two distinguished guests had any requests. He stood silently off to the side and tried vainly not to hear what was said. In his business, knowledge could be dangerous.

After a series of pleasantries, reaffirming their mutual respect, Kenichi got down to business. “We haven’t much time before my presence will be missed at the ministry. First let me express my sincere appreciation for your willingness to have made the tedious drive from Kyoto to Tokyo.”

“It was no bother,” Hisayuki said with a casual wave of his hand. “I had reason to come to Tokyo for one of my other business ventures.”

“Second, the minister himself sends his regards and hopes you understand that he would have much preferred to have had this meeting with you instead of me. He was unfortunately called to an unexpected meeting with the prime minister.”

Hisayuki didn’t respond verbally. Instead he merely nodded his head to indicate he’d heard. In truth the sudden change early that morning had irked him, but for fear he might risk cutting off his nose to spite his face, he’d accepted the alteration. A high-level meeting with the government, whether it was with the minister or the vice minister, was too unique not to be taken advantage of. Besides, in many ways the vice minister was more powerful than the minister. He was not an appointee of the prime minister but rather an established civil servant. And Hisayuki was curious about what the government wanted, and even more curious about what they would offer. Everything between the Yakuza and the government was a negotiation.

“I also want you to know that we would have liked to have come to Kyoto, but with the world economy and national economy as they are, we are continuously hounded by the media and felt we couldn’t take the risk. It is important that this meeting between us is strictly kept from the media. The government needs your help. You know as well as I, Japan does not have the equivalent of a CIA or an FBI.”

With some effort Hisayuki suppressed a contented smile. As a born negotiator, he loved being approached for a favor by someone capable of helping him. With his interest piqued, Hisayuki leaned over the table to bring his face closer to Kenichi’s. “Is it safe to assume in this particular circumstance that it is my reputed position as the oyabun of a Yakuza family that affords me the opportunity of being able to help the government?”

Kenichi leaned forward as well. “It is precisely the reason.”

Despite Hisayuki’s attempts to avoid it, a slight smile appeared on his face, forcing him to contradict his mantra of showing no emotion when negotiating. “Excuse me if I find this ironic,” he said as he controlled his expression. “Isn’t this the same government that passed the anti-gang laws of 1992 now asking for help? How can that be?”

“As you know, the government has always been ambivalent to the Yakuza, and those laws were passed for political reasons, not for law enforcement. On top of that, they haven’t been particularly enforced. More to the point, an equivalent to the American RICO Act has not been passed, and without such a law our anti-gang laws could never be truly enforced.”

Hisayuki tented his fingers. He liked where the conversation was going. “The irony is that the anti-gang laws have not had as much influence on vice operations as they have had on our legitimate businesses. Would you be averse to looking into some of these specific circumstances if I were to help you and the government?”

“That is specifically what we were planning to offer. The more legitimate the operation or company, and the freer it appears from Yakuza control, the more we can do. It will be our pleasure.”

“One other question before telling me what it is you are requesting: Why me? Why the Aizukotetsu-kai? Compared to the Yamaguchi-gumi or even the Inagawa-kai, we are very small.”

“We’ve come to you because you and Aizukotetsu-kai, as the ascendant Yakuza of Kyoto, are already involved.”

The oyabun’s eyebrows rose slightly, reflecting as much surprise as confusion. “How do you know we are involved, and what exactly is the issue?”

“We know you are involved because of the strong position you have taken in the relatively new company called iPS Patent Japan through your equity company, RRTW Ventures. With that much stock involved, we assume you feel, as the government does, that induced pluripotent stem cell technology is going to dominate the biotech industry for the next century. Most of us believe that within a decade or so these iPS cells are going to be the source of cures, not mere treatments, for a multitude of degenerative diseases. And they will spawn a highly profitable industry in the process. Am I correct?”

Hisayuki did not move.

“I’m going to take your silence as a yes. I’ll also assume, because of the size of your investment, that you believe Kyoto University was ill equipped to deal with the patent aspects of the breakthroughs emanating from their stem cell labs, because that’s specifically what iPS Patent Japan was to rectify and manage.”

Kenichi paused again, but Hisayuki remained as immobile as a statue, taken aback by the accuracy of what he was hearing. He had no idea that the position he had taken in iPS Patent Japan was something the government would know about, since the company was still private.

After clearing his throat and waiting a moment to see if the oyabun wanted to respond, the minister continued: “To say that the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry is concerned that our nation is in peril of losing its ascendancy in this critically important field of commercializing iPS technology to the Americans would make a mockery of our true feelings. We are desperate, especially as the Japanese public has already accepted Japan’s ascendancy in the field as a point of national pride. Even worse, we have recently come to learn that there has been a critical defection of a researcher from the Kyoto University stem cell lab.”

As if waking from a trance, Hisayuki straightened and blurted: “A defection to where?” The old-school Yakuza, like the Japanese extreme political right wing, were passionately patriotic. To him such behavior of a Japanese researcher would be anathema.

“To America, of course, which is why we are so concerned: New York, to be more specific. The defection has been engineered by a start-up company called iPS USA, which plans to take advantage of the patent chaos in the stem cell arena and with iPS technology in particular. Although the company is reported to be in the ‘stealth mode,’ it seems that their goal will be to corner all relevant intellectual property in this promising field.”

“Meaning they could end up controlling what promises to be a trillion-dollar industry, an industry that Japan rightfully should control.”

“Well said.”

“How much of a threat is this defector?”

“Enormous. iPS USA teamed up with a Yamaguchi-gumi cohort here in Tokyo with help from some New York Mafia connections in order to carry out industrial espionage in Kyoto. There was a break-in at their facility — a university security agent was killed — and they were able to acquire the only hard copies of the defector’s work. These highly valuable lab books were irresponsibly stored in an unlocked file cabinet in a Kyoto University lab. It’s a complicated and potentially disastrous mess.”

Hisayuki had heard vague rumblings about the Kyoto University break-in, even about the security guard’s death, but nothing about it involving the rival Yamaguchi-gumi. He knew there had been other attempted inroads by the Yamaguchi-gumi into his territory. In contrast to the other Yakuza families, the Yamaguchi, centered in the city of Kobe, flaunted tradition by being an expansionistic organization across Japan. But the idea that they were aiding an American concern by conducting industrial espionage in Kyoto was an outrage of the highest order. As the oyabun of Aizukotetsu-kai, he had to protect the investment in iPS Patent Japan.

“Why is this researcher’s work so important?”

“Because of what he did behind everybody’s back. As I understand it, he was working on mice stem cells and mice iPS cells as directed by higher-ups. But on his own time, he was working on human cells. In fact, he was working on his own cells from self-done biopsies from his forearms. As it turned out, he was the first to produce human iPS cells — not his bosses, who have taken credit. When he tried to point this out to his superiors at the university, he was ignored, then terminated, and then denied entrance back into the lab to collect his personal effects. Those personal effects included hard copies of his work that backed up his claims and that had been purposefully deleted from the university’s computer. The man was treated abominably, though by standing up for his rights, he has been ignoring Japanese custom. Competition in today’s academia, with its close association with industry, can be brutal.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“What is already happening!” Kenichi said indignantly. “In fact, how we originally became aware of this whole mess was internally, from the Japan patent office. With iPS USA’s help, our defector has already initiated suit against Kyoto University and against the validity of their iPS patents by retaining one of the most prestigious patent lawyers in Tokyo. In contrast to his previous lab bosses, he had no contract with the university concerning ownership of his work, meaning he owns it and not the university. He now has a series of U.S. patents pending, which will clearly challenge Kyoto’s patents at the WTO here in Japan, as well as those held by a university in Wisconsin, since the United States recognizes the time of the invention, not the time of filing. They’re the only country in the world to do so.”

“This is obviously an emergency,” Hisayuki snapped, with his face flushing. Inwardly he was bemoaning his decision to invest so heavily in iPS Patent Japan. If this scenario the vice minister was portending actually came to pass, the market value of iPS Patent Japan would fall to near zero. Angrily he demanded, “What is the name of this traitorous defector?”

“Satoshi Machita.”

“Is he from Kyoto?”

“Originally, yes. But now he and his immediate family, including both sets of grandparents, are now quasi-domiciled in the USA and are fast-tracked to become legal residents. This all happened thanks to the collusion between the Yamaguchi-gumi and iPS USA, but mostly the Yamaguchi-gumi, who were responsible for getting them out of Japan and into the States. We’re not sure why the Yamaguchi would do such a thing, but it could be due to a financial association with iPS USA. ”

“Where in the States is Satoshi living?”

“We have no confirmed information. We have no address. We’re assuming he is in New York, as that is where iPS USA is located and he is a member of the company’s scientific advisory board.”

“Does he have family remaining in Kyoto?”

“I’m afraid not. Not immediate family. The Yamaguchi moved everyone, including his wife, an unmarried sister, and all four grandparents.”

“It seems that you are informing me of all this rather late.”

“Most of what I am telling you has come to our attention only over the last few days after the patent office was alerted to the initiation of the legal action. And Kyoto University hasn’t helped. They only informed us what was missing after the break-in when we asked them directly.”

“What is it that you would have me advise the Aizukotetsu-kai to do if I had the power to make some suggestions, which I’m not about to admit to?”

The vice minister cleared his throat by coughing into his closed fist. He was not at all surprised by the oyabun’s ridiculous caginess, and responded in kind. “I’m not going to presume that I can tell the Aizukotetsu-kai how to run their organization. I felt it was important for me to tell someone what the current situation is and what the immediate dangers are to the Aizukotetsu-kai and its portfolio, but nothing more than that.”

“But something has to be done and done soon!”

“I totally agree, as does the minister and even the prime minister, but for obvious reasons our hands are tied. Yours, however, are not. You do have branch offices in New York, do you not?”

“What branch offices are you referring to, Fugiwara-san?” the oyabun questioned innocently, raising his bushy eyebrows for effect. There was no way he was going to tacitly acquiesce to such a statement, despite its being relatively common knowledge on the street.

“With all due respect, Ishii-san,” the vice minister said with a slight bow, “there is no time for posturing. The government is well aware of Yakuza operations in America, and their ties with local crime organizations. We know it is happening, and, to be honest, we are actually happy about your sending as much crystal meth to America as you do, since it means that it is much less of a problem here at home. Your other activities in terms of gun smuggling, gambling operations, and vice we are not so fond of, but it has been tolerated in case your connections could prove beneficial in some future circumstance, as in the current unfolding calamity.”

“Perhaps there are some acquaintances to whom I can pass along this information you have graciously provided,” Hisayuki said after a short pause. “Perhaps they can think of something that may aid both of our interests.”

“That’s the way it is supposed to work, and we at the ministry — in fact, the entire government — would be most appreciative.”

“I cannot promise anything,” Hisayuki quickly added as he weighed ideas. He knew they had to find the defector immediately, which he felt would not be a problem. But the perfidy of some Yamaguchi-gumi gang flouting established rules and operating in his city of Kyoto without his permission was a different problem. It could not be tolerated. He hoped it involved an isolated, renegade gang, and it was done without the knowledge of the Yamaguchi-gumi oyabun. Before he embarked on any course of action here at home, he vowed to find out that crucial bit of information. But he was limited by the reality that the Aizukotetsu-kai were dwarfed by the Yamaguchi-gumi like a developing nation facing a superpower.

“One thing that I would like to emphasize,” the vice minister said. “Whatever is to be done, particularly in America, must be done with the utmost discretion. Any harm to the defector must appear to be natural, and the Japanese government cannot be implicated in any way or form whatsoever.”

“That is a given,” the oyabun said distractedly.

Two days late

March 24, 2010

Wednesday, 4:14 p.m.

New York City

Satoshi Machita signed his name boldly and applied his personal inkan seal on all five copies of the agreement giving iPS USA exclusive world licensing rights for his pending iPS patents.

The contract provided for a fair and highly lucrative rate, including liberal stock options that would be in effect for the next twenty years. With a final flourish Satoshi raised his pen to those people present and acknowledged their excited applause. The signing represented a new chapter in both Satoshi’s life and the future of iPS USA, which was now positioned to control the worldwide commercial development of induced pluripotent stem cells, which most molecular biologists were convinced would provide a cure for human degenerative disease. It was to be a revolution in the history of medicine, a breakthrough that would dwarf all others.

As the president and CEO of iPS USA, Dr. Benjamin Corey was the first to step forward and shake Satoshi’s hand. Flashes popped among the cheers, intermittently washing the two men with bursts of frosty blue light. The six-foot-four, flaxen-haired Corey dwarfed his dark-haired companion, but no one took notice. Both were equal in the eyes of the witnesses, the larger man in biotech venture capital, the smaller in the rapidly advancing field of cellular biology.

At that point other members of the iPS USA team approached to shake the hand of the world’s newest multimillionaire-to-be. The team included Dr. Brad Lipson, COO; Carl Harris, CFO; Pauline Hargrave, chief counsel; Michael Calabrese, placement agent responsible for raising a significant amount of the company’s start-up capital; and Marcus Graham, chairman of the scientific advisory board, of which Satoshi was a member. As the mutual congratulations continued, since everyone present was certain to become much, much richer, Jacqueline Rosteau, Ben’s private secretary/assistant, popped the corks of several chilled bottles of 2000 Dom Pérignon, and everyone cheered anew at the festive sound.

Drawing to the side with full glasses of champagne, Ben and Carl contentedly glanced out the front windows of Ben’s office onto Fifth Avenue. The building was close to the corner of 57th Street, a busy part of the city, especially as rush hour neared. With a slight spring rain falling, many pedestrians carried umbrellas, and from above they looked like scurrying, insect-like creatures with black carapaces.

“When we first started talking about iPS USA,” Carl mused, “I never would have guessed in a million years we’d get this far this fast.”

“Nor I,” Ben admitted. “You can take a lot of credit for having found Michael with his boutique investment firm and his unique clients. You’re one in a million, my friend. Thanks.”

Ben and Carl had been friends during college but had gone their separate ways. While Ben went to medical school, Carl had gone on to get an advanced degree in accounting. From there he’d gone into the finance world, from which Ben had recruited him with the founding of iPS USA.

“Thank you, Ben,” Carl said. “I try to earn my keep.”

“And it certainly wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t learned of Satoshi’s existence, what he had accomplished, and how badly he’d been treated.”

“In that regard the real breakthrough was getting physical possession of his lab books.”

“You’re right about that, but don’t remind me,” Ben said with a shudder. Despite the passage of more than three weeks, thinking about the experience and his harebrained decision to participate still gave him chills. It had been a miracle that he’d not been nabbed along with his accomplice that night.

“Has there been any fallout in Japan?”

“No, not that I know of, and Michael insists his contacts haven’t heard anything, either. The Japanese government certainly has a strange, widely known but never acknowledged bedfellow-type relationship with their Yakuza, which is the antithesis of our government’s dealings with our Mafia.”

“Speaking of the Mafia,” Carl said, lowering his voice. “Are you worried about their continued involvement?”

“Of course, I don’t like it,” Ben admitted. “But as our largest angel investor along with their Yakuza partners, and considering the role they have played in our obtaining the lab books and getting Satoshi and his family over here so quickly, you have to grant we wouldn’t be where we are if it hadn’t been for their input. But you’re right. Continuing to allow their participation is like playing with fire, and it has to change. I spoke with Michael earlier about this very issue before Satoshi arrived, and he and I are going to meet in his office tomorrow mid-morning. He understands and agrees. I told him that as of today, his clients’ role has to revert back to their being silent investors, nothing more. We can offer some stock options to make them fade away.”

Carl raised his eyebrows, doubtful it would be so simple, but didn’t respond. Satoshi had come over to say good-bye and excuse himself from the party. “I want to get home to my family and give them the good news,” he said, bowing collectively to both Ben and Carl.

“We understand perfectly,” Ben said, exchanging a high-five with the diminutive and youthful-appearing researcher. When Ben had first met him he thought he was in his teens instead of his middle thirties. “Did you get a chance to meet with Pauline about those wills and trust documents?”

“I did and signed them all.”

“Terrific,” Ben said, exchanging another high-five. Satoshi had gotten his Ph.D. at Harvard and was well versed in American customs. After another round of handshakes, mutual congratulations, and promises to get together socially, Satoshi turned to leave, only to return after just a few steps.

“One thing I wanted to ask,” Satoshi said, looking directly at Ben. “Have you been able to make any progress on finding me lab access?” Still in its infancy, iPS USA was merely office space in the building on Fifth Avenue. It had no research facilities of its own and probably never would. Its business plan was to take advantage of the chaos associated with patents involving stem cells in general and induced pluripotent stem cells in particular. The idea was to corner the stem cell market by controlling the intellectual property associated with other people’s discoveries, and to do it before others knew what iPS USA was up to: a kind of intellectual-property blitzkrieg.

“Not yet,” Ben admitted. “But I believe I’m making progress up at Columbia Medical Center to rent some space in their new stem cell building. We should hear any day now. Stop in or give a call tomorrow! I’ll phone up there first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Satoshi said while bowing. “I am very happy.”

“Keep in touch!” Ben said, giving the smaller man a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Hai, hai,” Satoshi replied, and continued out.

“Research space?” Carl questioned after Satoshi left the room.

“He’s yearning for some bench time,” Ben said. “He feels a little like a fish out of water when he’s away from the lab.”

“I have to say, you guys have hit it off.”

“I suppose,” Ben said vaguely. “Jacqueline and I have taken him and his wife out to dinner a couple of times here in the city. He’s got a little boy, a year and a half old. I tell you, the kid doesn’t even look real, and he’s silent. Not a sound. He just looks around with these huge eyes as if he’s taking it all in.”

“What is he going to do in the laboratory?” Carl questioned, ever the bean counter. “Isn’t that going to be expensive?”

“He wants to work on electroporation techniques for iPS generation,” Ben said with a shrug. “I don’t know exactly, nor do I particularly care. What I do care about is keeping him happy, which is why we rushed to get him and his family into the States ASAP, without waiting for formalities to be completed. He’s a real researcher at heart and considers all the legal negotiations a waste of time. We don’t want him straying and changing his mind until we get everything completely buttoned up, patentwise. He’s going to be our golden goose, but only if we keep him contentedly in the nest.”

“So, right now, he’s an illegal alien.”

“I suppose, but it will soon change. I’m not concerned. Thanks to the secretary of commerce, the American consulate in Tokyo is in the process of getting them all green cards.”

“Where do he and his family live?” Carl questioned. Given Satoshi’s importance to the success of iPS USA, Carl felt it would be wise to know where he was at all times.

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Nor do I want to know, if someone from the authorities were to ask. I don’t think Michael even knows. At least that was my impression the last time we spoke about it. I do have Satoshi’s cell phone number.”

Carl laughed quietly, more out of amazement than humor.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” Carl said.

“Very clever!” Ben said sarcastically. “Are you trying to say that we shouldn’t have brought Satoshi into this when our efforts at industrial espionage turned up his name and history?”

“No, not necessarily. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable with our involvement with the Lucia family.”

“All the more reason for us to sever all contact. It might require a bit more stock options to make them go away than I’m hoping, but it will be more than worth it. I’ll leave the negotiations in your and Michael’s capable hands.”

“Thanks a lot!” Carl murmured equally sarcastically. “Hey, what was that about Pauline and trust documents? What kind of trust?”

“Satoshi is a little paranoid about Kyoto University and having bailed out of Japan. He worries about his wife and child if something were to happen to him. I realized that it was a good idea for iPS USA to have some safeguards in place as well. So I asked Pauline to talk to him, and she set him up with a couple of wills for him and his wife and a trust for the kid. Of course we stuck a statement in it that will also preserve our license agreement.”

“Who’s the trustee for the kid?”

“I am. Not my idea, but we can consider it an extra layer of safety.”

Satoshi Machita was elated. As he descended in the elaborately decorated, art deco elevator, he realized he’d never been quite so happy in all his life. He’d just moved to the United States, and he and his family were occupying a house just across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan. Of course, there were a number of things he would eventually miss from his old life in Japan — the cherry blossoms blooming around the glorious temples of his home city of Kyoto, and the view of the rising sun from the peak of Mount Fuji — but those serene pleasures would always be trumped by the sense of freedom he felt about life here: a life that he had learned to love while at Harvard and living in Boston. What he was not going to miss about Japan was the smothering sense of duty he’d struggled with for as long as he could remember: duty to his grandparents, duty to his parents and teachers, duty to his lab bosses and to the university higher-ups — even duty to his community and ultimately his country. There had never been any relief.

He paused inside the building’s entrance to look out through the fogged glass at the scurrying pedestrians and the snarled confusion of yellow taxis and city buses attempting to head downtown in the light rain and dense mist. For a moment Satoshi considered hailing a taxi but then changed his mind. Despite recognizing that the contract he’d just signed would make him a multimillionaire in the not-too-distant future, he still felt like the poor boy he had been growing up. Though the salary iPS USA was paying him to be on the company’s scientific advisory board was generous, given how little work he was doing, it wasn’t much, considering he had eight mouths to feed and rent to pay. Fearing retribution for leaving Japan, Satoshi had come to America with both sets of grandparents, his unmarried sister, and his wife and child. With such thoughts in mind, he decided to walk the three blocks over to Columbus Circle to catch a subway uptown to the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. From there, as he’d learned to do over the past number of weeks, he’d take a bus across the bridge to Fort Lee, New Jersey, where temporary housing had been found for him and his family.

As Satoshi exited the revolving door, he switched his athletic bag containing the newly signed contract from his right to his left hand so he could use his right to gather the lapels of his jacket and hold them closed at the base of his neck. The mist he’d noted from inside was both colder and wetter than he had imagined. After walking only a few steps he reconsidered taking a taxi, but all the taxis appeared to be occupied.

Satoshi stood at the curb until the light turned red for the vehicles on Fifth Avenue at the corner of 57th Street. As he searched vainly for an empty cab, his eyes strayed to a Japanese man standing on the opposite side of the street. What caught his eye and made him start were two things. First, the man was holding what appeared to be a photograph in his left hand, which he was intermittently looking at and then looking in Satoshi’s direction. It was as if he was comparing the photo with Satoshi. And second, and perhaps more disconcerting, Satoshi was reasonably sure from the man’s appearance that he was a Yakuza enforcer from Japan! He was wearing the typical black sharkskin suit, had spiked hair, and was wearing dark glasses despite the total lack of sun. Even more distinguishing was the fact that the man was missing the last joint of his little finger of the hand holding up the photograph. Like most Japanese, Satoshi was aware that members of the Yakuza, if they needed to show penance to their mob boss, or oyabun, were required to personally cut off the tip of their left fifth finger.

In the next second, making matters worse, Satoshi realized there were two such men, not one, and that the first was now pointing in Satoshi’s direction while the second was nodding his head in apparent agreement.

Now fearing that the men were about to cross the street and approach him, Satoshi gave up trying to hail a cab, spun on his heels, and immediately began to quickly walk north toward Central Park, weaving in and out of the sidewalk crowds. Even though the Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza had recently helped him and his family flee Japan and had found housing for them at the behest of Ben Corey and iPS USA, he’d never seen these particular individuals and assumed that they probably were from another Yakuza family. He had no idea why another Yakuza organization might want to talk to him, but he had no interest in finding out. As far as he was concerned, it could only end badly.

As he reached 58th Street, the traffic light encouraged him to cross Fifth Avenue instead of waiting to cross at 59th. As he did, he allowed himself to glance to his left to see if he could see the men in question in the crowd. Although he did not stop to search, he didn’t see them and began to hope the incident was just a figment of his overactive imagination. With a lighter step, he ducked under the skeletonized branches of the squat tree in the small park in front of the Plaza hotel and hurriedly passed beneath the gaze of the naked bronze sculpture of Pomona forever washing herself in her fountain.

As Satoshi was about to turn around the northeast corner of the Plaza hotel and head west on 59th Street, he ventured a glance over his shoulder. What he saw caused him to suck in a deep breath. The same two men he’d seen earlier were skirting the fountain and heading in his direction while carrying on a conversation with two men creeping along in a black SUV going in the wrong direction in the roadway in front of the hotel. The two Japanese men caught sight of Satoshi having spotted them and responded by upping their speed to a jog and breaking off all conversation.

Jogging himself, Satoshi was now convinced he was being followed and that the Yakuza types must have been waiting outside iPS USA for him to appear. He had no idea who they were and what they wanted. Ben had dealt with the Yamaguchi as far as his emigration and immigration were concerned. Yet his being followed had to have something to do with his relationship with iPS USA and his abrupt switch from Japan to the United States.

Still clutching his athletic bag in one hand and his lapels in the other, Satoshi sprinted ahead through the press of people, unsure of what to do. Columbus Circle’s always crowded, complicated subway station with its convergence of multiple train lines was like a distant oasis that promised safety, but how to get there before being overtaken by the men following him? He was anxiously certain that Yakuza look-alikes would be appearing behind him at any moment.

Salvation materialized in the next instant when a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged a passenger. Without a second’s hesitation, Satoshi veered off through the other pedestrians and leaped into the taxi before the disembarking passenger had even closed the door. Out of breath, Satoshi gasped, “Columbus Circle!”

Miffed at getting such a brief fare, the driver made an illegal U-turn that caused Satoshi to slide against the door he’d just managed to get closed. With his face briefly pressed against the glass, he held on, fighting against the centrifugal force that had him momentarily immobile. Once the cab straightened out, Satoshi pushed himself upright and glanced out the back window in time to see the two Japanese round the corner of the hotel and stumble to a halt. Whether they’d seen him jump into the cab, Satoshi didn’t know, but he hoped they hadn’t.

Satoshi made it to one of Columbus Circle’s subway station entrances without seeing the two Japanese men or the SUV behind him. Relieved to descend into the crowded, labyrinthine underworld, he quickly passed through the turnstile.

On the opposite side of the turnstile he confronted two very large New York City policemen. Reflexively Satoshi turned his head away as he passed. As an illegal alien, he was probably as afraid of the police as he was of the shady-looking men who he believed were following him. It was an uncomfortable plight of being afraid of both extremes, and he looked forward to obtaining the green cards Ben had been promising.

Quickly making his way to the proper track for the uptown A express, Satoshi approached the edge of the platform and stared into the maw of the tunnel to look for his train. He was eager for its arrival. Although he felt reasonably confident he had avoided a confrontation with the two Japanese men, he did not know what he would do if they suddenly appeared.

Stepping back from the edge of the platform, Satoshi found himself staring suspiciously at the other passengers, all of whom avoided eye contact. The platform rapidly filled as he waited. Commuters read newspapers or played with their cell phones or stared blankly ahead into the middle distance. More people arrived, pressing everyone closer and closer together. Trains thundered into the station but always on other tracks.

It was then that Satoshi saw him. It was the same man who’d eyed him across Fifth Avenue, holding the photograph. He was only five or six feet away and regarding Satoshi out of the corner of his piercingly back eyes. A chill descended Satoshi’s spine. With a renewed sense of fear, Satoshi tried to move to the side, away from the stranger, but it was difficult, as more and more passengers were arriving every few seconds.

Having managed to move only a few yards, Satoshi looked ahead to see what was specifically impeding him. It was then that he saw the second man, who was pretending to read a paper but who was in reality watching Satoshi. He was as close to Satoshi ahead as the other man was behind, trapping Satoshi between the track and a tiled wall.

With Satoshi’s fear now maxing out, the formidable A train made its startling entrance, roaring out of the mouth of its tunnel. There’d been only a meager premonition of its imminent appearance. One second there had been relative quiet, the next a crescendo of ferocious wind, earsplitting noise, and earth-shaking vibration. And it was during this minor maelstrom that Satoshi became aware that the two men were pushing through the waiting crowd, pressing in on him. He was prepared to scream if either touched him, but they didn’t. All he was aware of was a concussive hiss that he felt more than heard, since the noise had been completely drowned out by the arriving train. Simultaneously he’d felt a sharp, burning pain on the back of his leg where his leg and buttock joined, followed quickly by a yawning darkness and silence.

Susumu Nomura and Yoshiaki Eto had worked together as enforcers since they’d come to America more than five years previously on direct orders from Hisayuki Ishii, the oyabun of their Yakuza family, Aizukotetsu-kai. It had been a good marriage of sorts, combining Susumu’s fearlessness with Yoshiaki’s cautious planning. When they’d gotten the order to take out Satoshi Machita, Susumu was so excited and eager to please Hideki Shimoda, the saiko-komon and boss of the NYC branch office of the Aizukotetsu-kai, he wanted to do the hit immediately. On top of that, he wanted to do the hit in broad daylight on Fifth Avenue! For Susumu it was a serendipitous opportunity to demonstrate to the boss their loyalty and daring, which were prized Yakuza personality traits.

But Yoshiaki had been adamant, insisting that they had to take a few days to figure out a plan to fulfill the second part of the order: to make the hit look like the natural death of an unidentifiable individual. As it had been explained to them, it was important to avoid investigation of the affair by the police and possibly the FBI.

Having followed Yoshiaki’s plan, which involved tailing the man for a few days in Manhattan as he went from work to the A train, the hit had gone down perfectly, without anyone suspecting that it was even in process. At Yoshiaki’s suggestion, Susumu had purposefully waited until the A train had swept into the station to shoot Satoshi with the air gun hidden in the shaft of the umbrella that had been provided by Hideki Shimoda. The moment the trigger had been pulled, Yoshiaki had grabbed the man to keep him upright as his legs gave out. As the impatient passengers surged ahead to board the train, no one had noticed anything unusual as Susumu quickly relieved Satoshi of his athletic bag, his wallet, and his cell phone. The only minor surprise had been the seizure, but even that did not mar the hit. Having been warned that a short seizure was a possibility, Yoshiaki had just held Satoshi upright until his body went slack. At that point, when the last passengers were rushing for the train as the doors attempted to close, Yoshiaki merely laid the flaccid body down onto the cement platform, and he and Susumu walked calmly away.

Five minutes later the two Yakuza hit men mounted the final flight of stairs and emerged at the corner of Columbus Circle where they’d descended only a quarter-hour earlier. Both were pleased and proud that the event had gone down as well as it had. While Yoshiaki used his cell phone to call the men in the black SUV, Susumu unzipped the athletic bag and pulled out the thick licensing contract. After checking that there was nothing else of interest in the bag, he turned his attention to the document and quickly leafed through it, unsure what it was. His ability to read English was limited.

“No lab books?” Yoshiaki questioned as he waited for his call to go through. With his forefinger, he pulled open the athletic bag Susumu was still holding and looked into its depths. He was clearly disappointed that it was empty, save for a few magazines. What he was hoping to see were a couple of lab books, as their mission was both to assassinate Satoshi and to obtain the books. Yoshiaki, in particular, had become convinced the valuable lab books would be in the athletic bag because during the days they had been following Satoshi to plan the hit, Satoshi had been faithfully carrying the bag. “Just this bunch of papers,” Susumu said, holding up the multipage contract.

Yoshiaki put the phone in the crook of his neck and took the contract from Susumu. While he was scanning the first page his call went through. “We’re out,” he said simply in English. “We’re at the same subway entrance where you dropped us off.”

“We’re just across the circle. We’ll be there in a moment.”

“This is a legal contract,” Yoshiaki said, hanging up and switching back to Japanese. Even though both men had been in New York City for more than five years, their English was hardly fluent.

“Is it important?” Susumu questioned hopefully. If they weren’t going to be able to provide the lab books, Susumu wanted to supply something in their place. He was a man eager to please.

A black GMC Denali pulled over to the curb. Quickly Yoshiaki and Susumu piled into the rear seat, and as soon as the door was slammed, the vehicle angled out into the rush-hour traffic.

The man in the front passenger seat turned partially around. His name was Carlo Paparo. He was a big, muscular man with a shiny bald pate, large ears, and a pug nose. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, gray silk sport jacket, and black slacks. “Where is your researcher? Did you miss him?”

Susumu smiled. “We didn’t miss him.” Turning to Yoshiaki, he repeated his question in Japanese about the contract, but Yoshiaki shrugged his shoulders, indicating he didn’t know, as he stuffed it back into the athletic bag.

“What happened?” Carlo questioned. “It couldn’t have been much of a shakedown, as fast as you guys were.” Carlo’s orders had not been too specific. After having been reminded how important the business relationship was between the Vaccarros and the Aizukotetsu-kai, all he had been told was to help two guys who worked for the Aizukotetsu-kai to make contact with a Japanese guy who’d recently fled Japan. The help was to drive them around the city wherever they wanted to go.

“He had a heart attack,” Yoshiaki said, wanting to end the conversation.

“Heart attack?” Carlo questioned with dubious surprise.

“That would be our guess,” Yoshiaki said as he tried to restrain Susumu’s burst of laughter. Susumu got the message and brought himself quickly under control.

Carlo glared at the two men in turn. “What the hell’s going on here? Are you guys pulling my chain or what?”

“What is ‘pulling my chain’?” Yoshiaki asked. He’d never heard the expression.

Carlo waved the two men off and turned back around in his seat. As he did so he shared a quick glance with his partner, Brennan Monaghan. Both Brennan and Carlo were assistants to Louie Barbera and frequently operated as a team. Louie Barbera was running the Vaccarro family operation in Queens while Paulie Cerino was still doing time at Rikers Island. Brennan was driving Carlo’s car because Carlo hated to drive in traffic. He was too impatient and always ended up in some degree of road rage to the peril of everyone, including himself.

After having picked up the two Japanese men, Brennan had turned right onto Central Park West, heading north with the intent of getting to the East Side by cutting across the park. But it wasn’t going to be fast, because the driving was stop-and-go, and more stop than go.

“All right, you two,” Carlo said suddenly, while turning back around. It was clear he had become frustrated with the situation even though he wasn’t driving. “Are we finished with your doings or what?”

Yoshiaki held up his hand: “We’re trying to decide. Give us a moment!”

“Oh, for shit’s sake!” Carlo murmured, and turned back around. He actually thought about getting the hell out of the car and walking, letting Brennan pick him up when he caught up to him. He again turned back to his two wards. “You bozos are going to have to make up your minds. Otherwise I’m just going to dump your asses here and let you find a taxi. I got things to do myself.”

“Where is Fort Lee, New Jersey?” Susumu asked. He was holding a card. On his lap was Satoshi’s open wallet.

“It’s across the river,” Carlo responded with some hesitation. With the traffic as bad as it was, one of the last places he wanted to go was Fort Lee, New Jersey, which required crossing the George Washington Bridge. At that time of day, what would normally take twenty minutes or so would probably take well over an hour, maybe as much as two, and only if they were lucky and there were no accidents.

Susumu looked at his partner and said in Japanese, “Since we have the address, we should go and see if we can find the books. The saiko-komon said he wanted the lab books for sure. After we take the books we can take all identification. No one will know.”

“We don’t know if the books will be there.”

“We don’t know if they’ll not be there.”

For a moment Yoshiaki stared ahead, pondering the pluses and minuses. “Okay,” he finally said in English. “We go to Fort Lee!”

Carlo exhaled loudly and spun back around to look out the windshield. Ahead all he could see was a sea of stationary cars in both directions, even though there was a string of green lights stretched out into the distance. “I guess we go to New Jersey,” he said in a tired voice.

As Carlo had feared, it did take two hours to get to Fort Lee, and then another twenty minutes to find the appropriate street. It was short and alley-like, with several deserted redbrick one-story commercial buildings covered with graffiti, as well as a number of tiny run-down houses clad in old-fashioned off-white asbestos shingles. The sun had nearly set, and with the cloudy sky, Brennan had to turn on his headlights. The lights in the small house that matched the address in Satoshi’s wallet were also on, in contrast to those of the immediate neighbors’, which were dark and looked deserted.

“Here it is,” Brennan said. “What a palace! What’s the plan?” He was looking out his window at the overgrown yard filled with all manner of rubbish, including a rusting tricycle, a broken swing set, several bald tires, and a collection of empty beer cans. “What do you want us to do?”

Susumu opened one of the rear doors, and he and Yoshiaki slid out. Yoshiaki leaned back in. “We’ll be quick. Maybe it would be best if you turn off the headlights.”

Brennan did as he was told. The scene retreated into a misty gloom, which at least eliminated most of the trash and junk strewn about all the yards. At the same time it emphasized the dead-looking, skeletonized trees silhouetted against the pale, turbulent sky. “This place gives me the creeps,” he said.

“Ditto,” Carlo said.

The two hoodlums watched as the Japanese men hastily mounted the rickety steps leading up to a small covered porch. At that point they were mere dark silhouettes against the muted incandescent light emanating through the glazed front door. Pausing, both pulled out handguns from shoulder holsters.

“Holy shit!” Brennan voiced. “What the hell are they going to do?”

The next instant one of the intruders used the butt of his gun to smash the glass in the front door, reached in, and then opened the door. In a blink of the eye, both disappeared inside with the door left swinging silently on its hinges. Brennan turned to Carlo. “I don’t like this! This is potentially turning into something that’s a lot more than I expected. Worst case, I thought these clowns were going to beat someone up.”

“I don’t like it either,” Carlo admitted. “I don’t like being any part of this.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, then we’re outta here. They can find their own way back to the city.”

Both men fidgeted, keeping their eyes on the ostensibly peaceful little house. A few minutes later there was the muted sound of a gunshot followed quickly by several others. Both men jumped at each of the reports, guessing what each meant: a person was being killed in cold blood, and they, Brennan and Carlo, were accomplices.

During the next minute there were three more shots, for a total of six, causing Brennan and Carlo’s fears and anxieties to skyrocket. The problem was that neither knew what they should do, meaning exactly what would their boss, Louie Barbera, want them to do. Would he want them to stay and risk getting caught and charged as accomplices, or should they get the hell away from there to avoid putting the whole Vaccarro organization in jeopardy? Since there was no way of knowing the answer to this question, they stayed frozen in place until Carlo suddenly had the idea of putting in an emergency call to Barbera.

With the sudden movement of getting out his phone, Carlo caused Brennan to start anew. “Jesus!” Brennan complained. “Give me some warning!”

“Sorry,” Carlo said. “I’ve got to talk to Louie. He has to know what’s going down here. This is crazy.” Intent on dialing, Carlo didn’t even feel Brennan tapping on his shoulder until Brennan increased the force to a near punch.

“They’re coming out!” Brennan said anxiously, pointing out his side window.

Carlo looked. Both Susumu and Yoshiaki were charging down the porch steps and running toward the idling Denali, carrying loaded pillowcases over their shoulders. Carlo flipped his phone shut just as the men reached the vehicle and piled into the backseat. Without anyone speaking, Brennan put the SUV into gear and pulled away. He waited almost a block to turn on the headlights.

Brennan and Carlo didn’t speak for about ten minutes, whereas the two Japanese men had been carrying on a progressively animated conversation in Japanese. It was obvious they were not pleased with their accomplishments inside the house. By the time they reached the George Washington Bridge, Carlo had relaxed enough to talk.

“Did something go wrong?” Carlo questioned. He made it a point to sound disinterested.

“We were looking for some lab books, which we didn’t find,” Yoshiaki said.

“I’m sorry,” Carlo responded. “We heard what sounded like a number of gunshots. Were they?”

“Yes. There were six people in the house, more than we expected.”

Carlo and Brennan exchanged worried glances. Their intuitions told them that Louie was going to be surprised, and it wasn’t going to be in a good way.