The Gate

CHAPTER 3

“I need a Hush Puppy,” Lake said.

The man across the table from him whistled. “That’ll cost you big. What do you need the Puppy for? You got the High Standard I sold you, right? Or did you resell it?”

“I still have the High Standard,” Lake confirmed. “But I don’t like it, Jonas. Too light. That .22 bullet couldn’t hurt a rabbit.”

“It can kill you if you put the bullet in the right place,” Jonas said. “I remember …”

Lake pretended to listen as Jonas told his war story. The bar they were in was named Chain Drive, but that was a relic from its days when bikers had haunted the imitation leather booths and rickety wooden tables. The bikers were gone now and the Patriots had taken over.

As he leaned back against the back of the booth, it occurred to Lake that he would have preferred dealing with the bikers. He’d been working the Patriots since they’dchanged their name two years ago. Previously they’d been known as Militias, but the Oklahoma bombing had made that name a disadvantage. Some smart guy had come up with the new name, and because the group used the Internet for much of its communications, the name had caught on within two months.

The best estimate the Ranch had was that there were over a quarter million members of various Patriot groups around the country. Contrary to the claims of the media, though, Lake knew that most of those were law-abiding citizens who simply felt that the federal government had overstepped its bounds and they were exercising their freedom of speech. It was the handful of extremists among that quarter million that worried everyone.

The Ranch had put its focus on the Patriots six months after the Oklahoma bombing when the FBI, the aTF., the DBA, and the rest of the alphabet soup failed to agree on how to combat domestic terrorism. The President had grown tired of the infighting and pulled the entire problem away from all of them without them even knowing it had been pulled away. As the agencies still were working on a joint task force, the Ranch had been given a highly classified presidential directive. It was covered by Section 180102 of the Omnibus Crime Bill which allowed “Multi jurisdictional Task Forces” to be funded by “assets seized as a result of investigations.”

As far as Lake knew, the Ranch had been in existence for a long time before the problem of the Patriots or Militias, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, had arisen. Over half a century at least as Lake had heard references to competition with the OSS, Office of Strategic Services, during World War II for personnel. The OSS, and its follow-on, the CIA, had been the public front. The Ranch was the hidden part. Perhaps the Ranch had once been part of the OSS, if Feliks’s cigarette case was to be believed as being his, and then had split off sometime during World War II.

Lake found it amazing that it never really occurred to Congress, or the general public for that matter, that there simply had to be a covert government agency that no one had ever heard of, that conducted missions that could not be done by an organization open to public or congressional scrutiny. The CIA, no matter how covert its covert wing tried to operate, was known to the public and that meant that conflicting priorities and a lack of secrecy were built into the organization. It was only natural when the President ran out of other options that he picked the Ranch to delve into the problems of the right-wingers. The Ranch was where the buck always stopped.

Feliks was the leader of the Ranch. Had been ever since Lake had been hand-picked to join it five years ago. From what Lake could gather whenever he went to the Ranch, Feliks had been in charge for decades. Lake actually had no idea of the extent of the organization or how many people worked for it, such was the extent of the compartmentalization that Feliks imposed. In fact, Lake wondered if Feliks truly was the head of the organization. For all he knew, Feliks was just a section chief, although the man never seemed to have to defer his decision making to anyone else.

Lake had never met any of the other field operatives. Whenever he went back to the Ranch, located outside Las Vegas at a secret Air Force base that had been used for such things as testing the Stealth Fighter and other classified aircraft, he dealt only with Feliks or support personnel. His training had always been one^ on-one with the instructors, all of whom were the best in their specialties.

Lake had been well-qualified in the field of special operations before being recruited and, with the Ranch training, he knew he was among the best in the world. But as events just a few nights ago had proven, even the best could get killed when things didn’t quite work like they should. James Bond looked very good on the screen, but one thing Lake knew was that real life was full of screw-ups and human foibles! Training didn’t make him perfect but it did give him a leg up on other, less well-trained personnel.

Beyond the organizational security, there was a level of personal security that was extremely strict, for two reasons, one obvious, the other not so obvious. The first reason was to allow operatives to go deep undercover, something that was essential for the work to be done. On this operation, Lake had now been under for sixteen months, which was unheard of in law enforcement or even intelligence circles inside the United States. The reason it was unheard of was not only the psychological strain on the undercover person, but the fact that anyone under that long on the wrong side of the law in the States had to end up breaking the law in order for the cover to remain valid.

And Lake did break the law. That was the second reason for the tight security because, even with the presidential directive reference the Patriots, the Ranch operatives were committing crimes up to, and including, murder. Taking out the three men the other night wasn’t the only law Lake had broken. He broke the law every time he sold illegal automatic weapons and ordnance. But it was because he sold that gear and broke the law that criminals like Jonas trusted him as much as they were able to trust anyone they hadn’t grown up with.

Lake knew he had added three counts of murder to his list of felonies the previous evening, although he supposed a lawyer could make a good case for self-defense and a high degree of justification for action. Still, he hadn’t read anyone their rights or given them the option of surrender.

That thought made Lake smile, the gesture lost in the darkness of the booth. Lake wasn’t a cop. Never had been. That wasn’t what Feliks looked for at the Ranch. People in power were scared, and when people were scared they went for the best. And the Ranch always got the pick of the crop, even when people weren’t scared.

Lake knew another fertilizer bomb wasn’t what scared the piss out of everyone from the President on down. Something like the biological agent Lake had just stopped on the Golden Gate was the real fear. The amount of fissionable material floating out of the former Soviet Union was an other source of fear. The potential for a nuclear, chemical, or biological weapon of mass destruction being unleashed was no longer a question of if, but more one of when.

And that “when” occurred about every five or six months. So far the Ranch operatives had a perfect record against the Patriots and other terrorist organizations, covering four different attempts at domestic terrorism. Five, Lake reminded himself, after the events of the previous evening. Of course only Feliks and the President knew that.

“Can you get me a Hush Puppy?” Lake finally asked as Jonas’s story wound to a close somewhere in the jungles north of the DMZ in Vietnam, over thirty years ago.

“You don’t get a Hush Puppy to use,” Jonas said. “It’s a fucking piece of history. A goddamn classic.”

Lake’s expertise was weapons, but he didn’t look at them as stamps to be collected like many people did. They were tools. A great violinist didn’t buy a Stradivarius to hang it on the wall in a glass case and be looked at. He bought it to play it. Lake needed a new instrument. The .22 High Standard bullets had bounced off the man in the boat’s vest. The Ranch ordnance department had provided the High Standard and Lake had used it. Lake allowed himself only one mistake and he wouldn’t use it again. The only advantage the gun had was it could be fired repeatedly without re cocking unusual in a silenced semiautomatic weapon. In the future, Lake simply wanted one bullet that would do the job instead of two that wouldn’t.

A Hush Puppy was a Smith & Wesson Model 99, 9mm automatic pistol specially modified with a silencer. Because of the modifications, h had been officially designated the Mark 22 Mod O pistol with a Mark 3 Mod O silencer attached to the barrel. The gun had been developed during the Vietnam War for use by the Navy SEALs. The stated purpose was to kill enemy sentry dogs, thus the nickname. The next time Lake shot someone with a silenced weapon, he wanted a bigger bullet. One that could cut through a vest if the round was specially modified, and Lake knew how to modify bullets.

There were drawbacks to the Hush Puppy. It had a lock on the slide, to keep the slide locked closed when it was fired. This prevented metal on metal noise. But it also prevented the gun from ejecting the spent round and chambering a new one, unlike the operation of the High Standard. The Hush Puppy had to be manually unlocked and a new round chambered each time it was fired. That could take a trained man almost a second, a very long time when bullets were flying.

The Mark 3 silencer consisted of a hollow tube screwed on the end of the barrel. Inside the tube was a disposable insert that suppressed sound. The insert was a cylinder holding four quarter-inch-thick plastic disks with a small hole in the center. The disks slowed down the escaping gasses which in guns makes most of the noise of firing. Each insert was good for two dozen rounds. Combining the Mark 3 with specially developed subsonic ammunition and the slide lock, the gun was practically noiseless.

“I’ll give you three thousand, cash,” Lake said.

The museum curator vanished and Jonas the wheeler dealer was back. “You got it. Tomorrow soon enough?”

“Yeah.” Lake tapped the fat man on the arm. “And make sure I have a good Mark 3 with two new inserts.”

Jonas smiled. “You do know your guns.” He signaled and the bartender came over with two more beers. “I heard you were with that Starry fellow.”

Lake took a deep slug. “Yeah. Him and Preston.”

“Nobody’s seen them for a few days. I heard someone was looking for them,” Jonas said.

“Who’s looking?” In the dim light of the bar, Lake was studying the poster behind Jonas’s head. It showed Hitler, his arm raised in the Nazi salute. Below it was written in large letters: everyone in favor of gun control raise YOUR RIGHT HAND.

Jonas didn’t answer his question. “You know where they’re at?”

“I know where they were at,” Lake said. “We split in Novato a few days ago. They said they had a job to do. I got them the guns they needed and I guess they didn’t want me in on the action. They paid so I don’t care where they went.” “Can you get in contact with them?”

“I don’t have any plans to get in contact with them, so, no, I couldn’t get in contact with them,” Lake said. “But if they get in contact with me, I’ll let them know you’re concerned.”

“Heard the aTF. grabbed some of their buddies up in Portland,” Jonas said, changing the drift of the conversation.

Lake shrugged. “Hell, the goons raided Starry twice. The first one was why they came to me; they lost all their automatic rifles. On the second raid they grabbed some of Starry’s people on charges drummed up from what they seized on the first raid.”

The second aTF. raid had been set up by Feliks to give Lake a way into Starry’s group after supplying them with weapons. The first raid had been a setup months ago to get Lake into position to sell the weapons. It was all complicated and took a long time to work and the aTF. didn’t have a clue that they were being used by the Ranch. They thought the raids had been legitimate, which meant the Patriots also thought that. Which meant Lake was legitimate as far as the criminal element was concerned. In a strange way, Lake normally stayed on the wrong side of the law, only going on the right side when the stakes were raised high. That’s what made him so good.

Lake knew Jonas was fishing. Starry, Preston, and the third man simply disappearing off the face of the earth had to have jerked someone’s chain. Now he was hearing the rattle. Of course, Jonas hadn’t mentioned the third man.

“You haven’t heard from Starry?”

That was too blunt. Lake put down the beer. “Maybe Starry don’t want to be heard from. I just told you I don’t know how to get a hold of them. Last I saw of them, it looked to me like they were on a mission and they might not like me saying anything about their movements. I’ve learned to mind my own business.”

“Hey, chill, man. I know that. But information’s my business. I wouldn’t betray the cause. Just some people asking.”

“What people?” Lake asked.

“People,” Jonas repeated vaguely.

“Those people need any guns?” Lake asked. “That I can help you with. Starry, I can’t. And I don’t answer questions for people when I don’t know who they are. These people talking to you might be feds.”

“No, these people aren’t feds and they don’t need guns,” Jonas said. “At least not right now. They’re cool, man. Just some of Starry’s and Preston’s buds in the movement.” He finished his draft with one long gulp, then patted down his long flowing gray beard. “Hey, but there are some people asking around for some firepower.”

“People?” Lake repeated. “Not with the cause?”

Jonas laughed. “No, these people aren’t with the cause.”

“What kind of people?” Lake asked.

“Foreigners. Slopes. Asking around.”

“What kind of slopes?” Lake thought of the Japanese information planted in the van. Maybe it wasn’t a plant. Maybe Starry had gotten the glass jar from someone foreign that morning. Maybe even from the man in the boat.

“I don’t know. They all look alike to me. Japs, I guess. Maybe Chinese. Who the fuck can tell?”

I can, thought Lake. As can anyone who gave a shit. “What are they asking about?”

“Looking for automatic weapons with some special adaptations. Silencers.”

“Here?” Lake asked, surprised. This bar was the last place he’d expect a Japanese person to be searching for weapons. Besides hating the government, the Patriots hated foreigners, particularly Japanese. And Jews. And Blacks. And Hispanics. And just about everyone who wasn’t them.

“No, not here. On the street. But word gets back. The city’s not that big.”

“They can get all the firepower they need over in Jap town,” Lake said. “The local U.S. branch of the Yakuza has the market there.”

“Maybe they ain’t Japs, then,” Jonas said. “Or maybe the Yakuza don’t like them. That old man who runs the Yakuza is real particular about people horning in on his turf. He’s a badass dude and I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

“The Yakuza would still know,” Lake mused out loud. “But maybe they aren’t Japs. Might be Chinese, but if they’re chink then they can go to the Triads,” Lake added, feeling uncomfortable using the racial term.

“Hey,” Jonas said, misinterpreting his discomfort. “I don’t know who the hell they are. I just heard a whisper here, a whisper there. What the fuck you getting so riled about?”

“I don’t like slopes,” Lake said, idly rubbing his neck.

“Hey, I don’t like ‘em either,” Jonas said. “I lost a lot of good buddies back in the “Nam.”

“Can you set up a meet?” Lake asked.

“What?” Jonas said. “With who?”

“The slopes,” Lake said, clenching his jaw. “I’ve got guns.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like slopes?”

“I don’t. But I do like money.”

Getting a person into the United States required the proper documentation and the Black Ocean Society had handled that for Nishin with no problem. But getting weapons in was a different story, and instead of the hardware, Nakanga had given Nishin a place and a name to be memorized to take care of that logistical problem.

As he got closer to the designated place, Nishin felt more and more as if he were back in Japan. Very strange, considering he was less than two miles from the corner of Haight-Asbury, a place that had symbolized all the decadence of America during Nishin’s teenage years.

Japantown is an approximately twenty-block section of San Francisco that has a concentration of Japanese Americans living there along with all the trappings for tourists to get a taste of the Asian homeland. The area is bordered on the south by the Japan Center, a five-acre shopping center designed as a small Ginza. The two-level area encloses various shops, restaurants, galleries, and Japanese gardens. This time on a Friday night it was packed with people and well-lit. Not exactly what Nishin had expected or desired in a covert meeting place.

He checked the directory for the center and found his destination. The Yotoku Miyagi bookstore contained the city’s largest collection of books in Japanese. Therefore it was not strange at all when Nishin walked up to the register and made his request in his native tongue, naming a specific book he was looking for.

The response of the young woman standing behind the counter was not normal, though. Her eyes flickered back and forth, then lowered.

“You must go to the Morikawa Restaurant,” she said in a low voice. “Down the stairs directly across from the door you came in. Turn left. Two hundred meters. On the right. They will expect you.”

Nishin turned and departed, glancing over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. The woman was on the phone, but she still was avoiding looking at him.

He followed the instructions. The Morikawa was darker than the bookstore and there was a queue of people outside.

Nishin bypassed the line. A thin, Japanese man in a very expensive suit stood next to the maitre d’, his eyes watching Nishin’s approach. He took Nishin’s right elbow in his hand. “This way,” he said in Japanese.

Nishin felt the man’s thumb press into the nerve junction on the inside of his elbow, effectively paralyzing his right hand. They wove their way through the darkly lit bar, then through a swinging door. Another man sat on a stool in the small corridor, a raincoat folded over his lap. The two men nodded. Nishin heard a distinct click, a door unlocking. They passed the second man, going through another door. It swung shut behind them with another click. Two men stepped forward and Nishin’s guide let go of his arm. They were in a short corridor with walls of some dark material that Nishin couldn’t quite make out. The lighting was also strange.

“Hands out.”

One of the men ran a metal detector carefully around Nishin’s body. The other then patted him down, double checking. Then one on either side, they escorted him to a set of metal stairs. Their shoes clattered on the steel as they went up. A door opened and Nishin blinked. They were on the top of the Center in a glass-enclosed room about sixty feet long by thirty wide. The room was dimly lit by the reflected light from the surrounding city and the sky overhead. A dozen tables were spread out on the roof and the two men led him to one separate from the rest where several men dined.

Nishin was brought to a halt facing an older Japanese man who sat at the head of the table. Nishin could see that the man’s skin was covered in various tattoos, the signs of his Yakuza clan. Serpents disappeared into the collar of his gray silk shirt and dragons peeked out from his shirtsleeves. His fingers were covered with gaudy gold rings, jewels sparkling in the street lights. Nishin shifted his gaze about, checking out the roof.

The old man laughed. “The glass is specially made. It can take up to a fifty-caliber bullet. If my enemies wish to use something larger than that, then nothing much will stop them. It is also one-way. We can see out. Those on the outside see only black, making it also rather difficult for a sniper.”

Nishin returned his eyes forward and waited.

“I am Makio Okomo. Oyabun of all that you see. I received a message from your Sensei Nakanga,” the old man said. “I do not need such messages. You and your friends are out of date.” He waved a hand, taking in the Japanese Center. “My way is the new way. You fools waste much time and energy living in the past.”

Nishin remained silent.

Okomo leaned back in his seat. “What do you need?”

“Weapons. Information.”

Okomo’s hand slapped the table top. “This is my city. You are not in Japan now. You show me respect.”

Nishin stood still.

“I could have you killed and no one would ever hear from you again.” The old man gestured and the guards pulled Nishin’s jacket down around his shoulders. One of them flicked open a knife and with a single slash cut through Nishin’s shirt, the blade grazing the skin without leaving a mark. They pulled the cut shirt apart, exposing Nishin’s chest.

“You do not have the Black Ocean tattoo,” Okomo said, turning back to his meal. “Kill him.”

“Operatives of the Black Ocean do not have the tattoo Oyabun,” Nishin said as one of the guards pulled out a pistol and placed it next to his temple. The last word rolled off his tongue with difficulty. Showing any sign of respect for such a man distressed Nishin. “Only those who have been accepted into the inner circle have that honor. I am only a ronin of the Society.”

“And that is why you are cowards,” the Oyabun snapped. “Afraid to show who you are.” He held his arms out from his sides and the tattoos on them rippled in the reflected light. “My lowest man has no fear of showing who he is or that he belongs to me. He is proud of his marks!”

“The Sun Goddess knows who we are and what we do,” Nishin replied, holding his head up high.

Okomo’s mood changed and he laughed. “Ah, yes, you are Black Ocean. Only one of their fools would believe that. The Sun Goddess? The Emperor? Sheer stupidity.” He gestured and the two guards let go of him, the pistol disappearing.

Nishin shrugged his jacket back up over his shoulders. One of the guards put a metal briefcase at Nishin’s feet.

“Your weapons are in there.” Okomo raised a white eyebrow. “As Nakanga asked.” He gestured for Nishin to leave and picked up his chopsticks.

“There are North Korean agents in this city,” Nishin said. “I need to find them.”

The sticks poised. “Why are they here?”

“I do not know. That is why I need to find them.”

Okomo chuckled. “The dog is chasing its own tail. Political games don’t interest me.” He stuffed food in his mouth and chewed. “I will inform you when I have something to inform you of. My men will find you. Do not come back here.”

Nishin picked up the briefcase and followed the two guards back to the stairs.

Behind Nishin, Okomo waited until the Black Ocean agent was gone, then the old man stood. He quickly walked to an elevator, a pair of guards surrounding him as he moved. He stepped in, leaving the guards behind. It whisked him down over a hundred and fifty feet, through the Japan Center to a level four floors below ground. When the door opened again, Okomo stepped forward into a large room, then bowed toward a figure behind a desk twenty feet in front of him, hidden in the shadows cast by large halogen lamps on the far wall. Okomo spoke from the bow, his words echoing off the heavily carpeted floor. “The Black Ocean agent is here. I gave him the weapons. He has asked for information about North Koreans in the city. It goes as you said it would, Oyabun.”

When there was no reply, Okomo turned and reboarded the elevator to go back to his public role.

Two blocks away a man on a dark rooftop fiddled with the controls on the small laptop computer and continued to listen to the voices from the top of the Japan Center through the headphones he wore. In front of him a black aluminum tripod held what looked like a camera. Actually it was a laser resonator. It shot out a laser beam that hit the black glass on the top of the Japan Center. The beam was so delicate that it picked up the slightest vibration in the glass. Reflecting back to a receiver just below the transmitter, a computer inside interpreted the vibrations into the sounds dial caused them.

It had not taken the man long to tune out the background noise and get the computer to pick up the voices inside. He’d heard the entire exchange between Nishin and the old man. Satisfied that Nishin had left the room, he quickly broke down the laser and placed it into a backpack along with the computer. Within thirty seconds he was gone from his perch.

In the small room he’d rented, Nishin opened the aluminum case. The packing held specially cut slots for the weapons stored inside. Nishin pulled out a specialized Steyr AUG. The Yakuza had done well, Nishin reflected as he checked out the weapon. He’d used one before, as he’d used almost every weapon on the world’s arms market.

This AUG was a smaller version of the rifle that saw service in numerous Western countries. The magazine was fitted behind the trigger assembly which contributed greatly to its shorter length. A telescopic sight and laser designator was fixed on top of the barrel assembly. Nishin aimed, watching the red dot sweep around the dingy room. Very nice. There were six 30-round magazines of 9mm ammunition. The magazines were clear plastic, which allowed the firer to keep track of expenditure without having to remove the magazine from the weapon.

There was a safety, but no selector lever such as the M 16 or AK-47 had. The AUG was designed for a more professional shooter. A slight pull on the trigger fired one round. Pulling the trigger all the way to the rear fired the weapon on automatic. A stubby suppressor was fitted on the tip of the barrel that extended forward of the front plastic grip. Nishin had to trust that the 9mm ammunition was subsonic, otherwise there would be no reason for the suppressor. Nishin carefully disassembled the gun and checked every piece to make sure it was functional. He would not put it past the Yakuza to give him a gun with a filed-down firing pin. Satisfied that he could find nothing wrong, he reassembled the gun. Then he inserted a magazine and pulled back the charging handle. He fired a shot at the wood frame around the closet. A round splintered the wood, the gun making just the slightest sound. Nishin took the magazine out, cleared the chamber, and put the gun back in the case.

A Browning High Power 9mm automatic pistol, along with a shoulder holster, was also in the case. A reliable pistol. After checking it as he had the AUG, Nishin strapped the holster on, then slipped his jacket over it. He slid the case with the AUG under the bed.

The room was on the second floor of a six-story hotel. Nishin had picked it as he’d been taught in the terrorist camp in the Middle East so many years ago for its transient and illicit clientele, mostly prostitutes and drug addicts. He hadn’t even had to say a word when getting the room. He’d shoved two hundred-dollar bills at the clerk and received a key in return. Very convenient and inconspicuous, just as he’d expected.

Of course, if pressed, Nishin could have spoken in English and presented all the proper documents to prove he was an American. Nishin was no stranger to America or this type of work. The Black Ocean Society had seen to that and his present cover.

Nishin did not know where he had been born or who his parents had been. His earliest memories were of the Home place. It was where the Black Ocean Society raised its operatives. Perhaps he had been sold to the Society by a family with too many mouths to feed. Perhaps he was an orphan whom the Society had taken under its wings. He didn’t know, they had never told him, and he didn’t care.

He’d been cared for and schooled by the Society from the very beginning of his memories. Trained in foreign languages, martial arts, weapons, covert operations, communications — all the black arts. And above all was loyalty to the Sun Goddess, the Emperor, the Genoysha and the Society, the last two being one in the same in his mind.

When he was sixteen he had begun his fieldwork. There was always some group somewhere, protesting something. The only requirement was that the group had taken up arms and were willing to use them. The Black Ocean Society sent its operative students to such overseas groups, regardless of the group’s cause. The key was to learn and gain experience while staying away from the eye of Japanese law.

Libya. Lebanon. El Salvador. Yugoslavia. A short stint in Mexico with the rebels in the south when they rose up, then slipping away when a deal was struck with the government. Then to Chechnya. Nishin. had been in on the planning of the raid into Russia and the seizing of the hostages that had changed the course of that war.

Just two years ago, after Chechnya, the Genoysha had finally ruled that Nishin was able to do Society work and would no longer be risked getting experience. Only one in twenty of those Nishin had grown up with made it to that level. Many died gaining their experience, others simply weren’t good enough and were slotted elsewhere in support positions.

Putting aside memories of the past, Nishin left the room to take care of other preparations. He felt the soreness in his limbs as he walked the streets. He wasn’t one hundred percent recovered yet from his ocean experience. Someone else should have been sent, except for two things: he had been briefed on what was in North Korea, and he was one of the few operatives the Society had with field time in America. Despite its apparently open society, America was actually a very difficult place for covert, foreign operatives to work. The American intelligence agencies were more proficient than the media reported.

An all-night supermarket beckoned. Nishin walked in and wandered the aisles until he found the three items he was looking for. He paid and returned to the motel by a different route, occasionally backtracking to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

Back in the security of his room, Nishin removed the objects from the bag: a clear Plexiglas ice scraper with a rubber handle, a file, and a roll of medical tape. He began filing down the ice scraper. After an hour he had turned the wide edge into a single point. He took the newly formed weapon and used the tape to secure it vertically to his stomach, above his waist; the one place the man who had patted him down had not checked. The plastic would not be picked up by the metal detector.

The next time Nishin had to visit the Yakuza, he would be ready. If action was necessary. He thought of the old man and the smile on Nishin’s face was not a pretty sight.

Nishin turned off the light and lay down on the floor next to the bed. The AUG was locked and loaded next to him, his right hand lightly curled around the pistol grip.

A block away, the man who had been listening to Nishin’s Yakuza meeting lowered the lid on the metal case that held the laptop computer. He slid through a curtain to the front of the rental van. He drove to the hotel he was staying at. It was much nicer than Nishin’s. He parked in the garage and retired to his room.