Zero. Part 1
ZERO.
Eric Van l.u.s.tbader.
SPRING, PRESENT.
WEST MAUI,.
HAWAII/TOKYO,.
j.a.pAN.
Not another night.
The man known as Civet opened his eyes. A gray-green gekko was staring at him.
Immobile, the tiny lizard clung to a wallpaper anthurium blossom. Its head was twisted so that it could continue to stare at Civet.
Not another night.
Beyond the screened window-doors, coconut palms whispered as cooling winds coming off the West Maui Mountains brushed their long, sensuous fronds in a lover's caress. It was here, to this special spot in Hawaii, that Civet always came after an a.s.signment. After an extraction. But this went beyond an extraction, beyond even death.
Civet wiped the sweat from his high forehead. He felt his fingers trembling as the animus of his nightmare stalked him. But the presence of a nightmare meant that at least he had slept.
Yes, another night.
He saw the pale gold light flooding the tips of the palms as the sun rose above the peaks to the east, and thought, I've gotten through another night.
It was always like this after he completed a directive. Yet this was different. So different that his very bones ached with the knowledge that he had carried out a directive of his own making. His mind boiled with the understanding that this was either the beginning of his life-or the end.
Civet sat up in the huge bed. The sheets drifted around his waist as, wrapping his arms about them, he hugged his knees against his chest.
He glanced at the bedside table. On it was a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey and a water gla.s.s. Civet found himself reaching for the bottle and caught himself. Quite deliberately, he turned his head away.
And was confronted by the gekko's unblinking stare. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d looks so accusing, Civet thought. But it was his own conscience, he knew, that transformed the gekko's stare into something more than dull curiosity. It probably doesn't even know what I am, Civet thought. But Civet knew what he was. Only too well.
He was cold. Cold and sweating. With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the king-size bed. The expanse of bed covers behind him seemed endless. The empty s.p.a.ce depressed him so that his memory brought back to him Mi-chiko's scent, a heady combination of perfume and the musk of her own skin.
He was dizzy. He put his head in his hands and thought, Ah G.o.d, but I miss her. Even after all these years, the wound is still fresh. It seems just yesterday that I lay with her.
Thinking of Michiko was like putting an ice pick in his heart. But, he thought bleakly, it was better than contemplating what he had done. Three days ago. So different. How could he have known how different it would be? An eternity of agony, because now there was no turning back. It did no good at all to know that it was different this time. It only served to remind him of what he had once been, to make him feel more like Sisyphus, putting his shoulder to the rock, rolling it up the hill yet again. It made no difference that he had been at it in the service of his country. There had been no glory in what he had been-only medals engraved with his name locked in a sealed room, and blood on his hands. (Was that why he had gotten into the habit of burning his clothes after the completion of each directive-because of the blood?) That, more than anything else, Civet decided, was the consequence of killing another human being: a descent into purgatory. The dark closing in each night like the accusatory finger of G.o.d. The river of life turned to dust in your hand, ashes that once G.o.d had animated with His breath. How much more terrifying then, to contemplate the death of millions.
Civet thought a lot about G.o.d these days. He felt now that with each a.s.signment, with each life he expunged from the world, he was taking a step closer to his maker. At night, he trembled in the solar wind of His presence;he breathed in an energy beyond his comprehension. Yet it was a power that terrified rather than energized him.
Tracing it back-logic and connections were among his strong suits-he at length came to the realization that his terror stemmed not from the fact that he was repentant for his sins, but rather that he felt no remorse for the life he had chosen for himself. But not even he would have thought that his life would have led him down this particular path.
For the first time in decades, he was truly alone. Which, of course, was why thoughts of G.o.d blew persistently through his mind. Everything now had devolved onto him. And he was a fugitive, running for his life. Once, already, they had almost caught up with him. Everything gone up in smoke. Almost. But he had evaded them; he had come here.
How long? he wondered. How long did he have until they tracked him down here?
Two days; three, at most. They were smart. And they had the organization.
Christ, no one had to tell him that! He almost laughed at the bitter irony of it; he bit his Up instead.
And now, he thought, it all comes down to one h.e.l.lish gamble. Hope may spring eternal, but it is such a fragile thing. I am gambling everything-more even than my own life, oh, much more!-on an instinct. I believe, truly, that I am right. But what if I am not?
All around him he felt the stirring of ordinary people for whom two kids, two cars and an hour's commute to work were the parameters of life. Civet shuddered at the thought of living his life in any mundane fashion.
Yet it puzzled him sometimes, this lack of contrition on his part. He felt like a monk who, having come so far in his ecclesiastical studies, nevertheless finds himself unable to take his final vows.
During his life, he had been in many places of worship. Once, twenty years ago, he had almost been killed in one and had, in turn, been forced to extract his a.s.sailant. Piety, he had come to learn, rarely coincided with purity of spirit. Civet knew many men in his profession who went to church every week.
They seemed to be the ones who enjoyed killing the most.
Civet did not enjoy his work in the same visceral, oftentimes s.e.xual manner these others did. But surely, he told himself time and again, one cannot be as good as I am at what I do without enjoying it.
It was the shadow world of secrets he inhabited that Civet really loved. It was like an Englishman's cup of tea, ever present and wanning. It made him feel apart, utterly independent, free. He was a fiercely painted kite riding the feral winds most people could not even imagine. He was made special; exalted, even.
Yet each aftermath was remorseless in its grip on him, and again he would return to purgatory. But this was different, and only he could know why.
The gekko was staring. Civet grabbed the bottle, poured himself four fingers.
He looked at it, put it aside. He slipped off the bed onto his knees and prayed to a G.o.d he could not imagine, let alone understand. Was it Buddha to whom he prayed? Jehovah? Jesus? Civet could not say. But now, at this moment of ultimate crisis in his life-in, he believed, the future of the world-he needed to speak with something greater than himself. Michiko would have said it was nature. Civet could only bow his head and let his mind flow like a river to its source.
He threw the liquor into the sink. The ice he had not used during the night had melted, and he scooped some of the still-cool water. Then, to escape the lizard's disturbing gaze, he padded to the screen doors and let himself out onto the lanai. The lizard's scrutiny seemed to have become almost human to his keyed-up senses.
He was on one of the top floors, a strict stipulation with him. He was personally comfortable with the vistas thus afforded him and professionally at ease with the view of his immediate environment a high floor provided. He had been taught to be a very careful man.
Beyond the clattering palms and, below, the tropical profusion of the orchid gardens, the cerulean waters of the Molokai Channel beckoned invitingly. Theearly wind had died, and with a practiced eye, Civet knew that it would be a calm day. A great day for fishing.
He could already see the shining strand arrowing down into the water, could feel the tension on the line, the shuddering, and then the great monster tug as the onaga, the deepwater snapper he loved to eat, took the bait. Oh yes, he thought, happier now. The tang of the salt on his face, the challenge in the pull and leap of the big fish. That was the kind of activity that would wash his emotions clean of the detritus of the extraction.
Extraction was part of the jargon--as odd as the argot of an African bushman-that men in Civet's profession used to indicate a sanctioned killing.
Below his lanai he saw a couple in their twenties cutting through the gra.s.s in their jogging outfits. Disturbed, the mynas rose, cawing. And as his eyes followed the arc of the birds' flight, Civet saw the figure standing beside the coconut palm.
The figure was partially in shadow and yet the power that emanated from it reached Civet seven stories above.
Civet forgot the hopping mynas, the jogging couple; he was oblivious of the soft air, the spectacular view across to the island of Molokai, which he loved so well. He was fully concentrated on the figure. Civet, who was as adept at tracking as he was at killing, was used to identifying people at a distance.
Civet was now at the far end of the lanai. Palm fronds waved, partially obscuring the figure. But the angle was better, and at last Civet could get a look at the face.
The gla.s.s Civet had been holding crashed to the cement floor, and he found himself gripping the railing to stop himself from falling to his knees.
Vertigo overcame him. His mouth was open and he was gasping for breath. It cannot be, he thought. Not yet. I need to rest; I'm exhausted from all this running. It simply cannot be.
But he knew what it meant: They had already found him.
He turned and rushed back into the room, sc.r.a.ping his knee on the edge of the bed. He staggered into the bathroom, where he vomited in great racking convulsions. He wasn't emotionally ready. Dear G.o.d, he thought, protect me from what I have to do. Protect those I love if I don't make it.
His imagination, racing in panic, unraveled what was ahead of him. Stop it! he admonished himself. He got hold of himself at last, splashed cold water on his face, into his mouth, across the back of his neck. Then he hurriedly dressed, put wallet, car keys, pa.s.sport and a small eelskin case into various pockets of his tropical-weight jacket. He reread the postcard he had written in the dead of night, then he went out the door.
He avoided the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time. In the lobby, he hurried past pale-skinned tourists in garish aloha shirts. Deposited the postcard with the concierge, who a.s.sured him it would go out with the morning's mail.
In the belowground car park, he took a quick scan, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. When he was satisfied with his security, he crossed to his rented Mustang. Got down on his knees and, with his customary thoroughness, inspected the underside of the carriage.
He looked along the entire length of the tailpipe, as well as in it. Places where the deadly items he had seen in the war's aftermath could easily be secreted. Finishing his check, he began prana, the semimystical deep breathing that allowed him to think clearly in difficult situations.
Still on his knees, he went over the car trunk lock, looking for the minute scratches that would indicate an intruder's attempts to pop it. There was nothing. He rose and unlocked the trunk.
A couple with a small boy came into the car park, and he was obliged to wait until they got into their car and drove away.
Working quickly, he transferred the contents of the trunk to the front pa.s.senger seat. Then he climbed into the driver's seat, put the convertible's top up. In a moment the Mustang's engine coughed to life, and throwing it in gear, Civet got out of there.He took the Napili Road because he disliked the new highway that had recently been built further up the ridge slope. This, as well as his driving, was purely instinctual.
The face-the shadowed face! Its features burned into his mind, glowing like coals thrust into his eyes. There was a heat upon him, so unnatural that it made him shiver as if he had the ague. For a moment his resolve wavered; death cracked its bare knuckles in his face. His fingers, white upon the wheel, hurt with the unconscious power of his grip.
He fled Napili as if chased by a ghost. At the Methodist church, he turned right onto Honoapiilani Highway, a three-lane road where he could pick up speed.
He had just begun to accelerate when he saw the black blur of the Ferrari Marcello coming up behind him. It had taken the Kapalua Highway and now shot into the mainstream of traffic not more than a hundred yards behind Civet's Mustang. In an instant, he got a clear look at the driver. His heart began to race once again.
Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Civet wrenched the steering wheel to the right. At the same time, he trod hard on the accelerator. The Mustang gave a shrill squeal, and with a thick cloud of red dirt and torn foliage, he shot off along the wide verge.
Horns blared as startled drivers protested this dangerous maneuver. Glancing in his rearview mirror, Civet could see the black Marcello weaving in and out of traffic as it kept pace with him.
Civet cursed his American car which, in horsepower and maneuverability, was no match for the Ferrari. Back on the macadam of the highway, he took a sweeping curve at eighty-five. On his right, the water of Napili Bay glistened, on his left, the mountains, still mist-shrouded, rose in plateaus. One was open, inviting, the other arcane, mysterious. But both were powerful-much more powerful, Civet thought now, than I am, a puny human being driving a ton of welded metal.
Past Kahana's ugly new high-rises he sped. He used the wide verge to pa.s.s when he could. In some spots it was paved, in others it was packed red dirt, the ruts jarring his spine through the Mustang's mushy suspension.
Another glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that the Ferrari was fast overtaking him. It was now barely fifty yards behind.
They were fast approaching Kaanapali, Maui's largest resort area. This strip of five hotels and numerous condominiums was the major cause of traffic and pedestrian congestion on this side of Maui. It was to Kaanapali that Civet now decided to head. Within its warren of walks, restaurants, shops and high-rises, he would have the best chance of losing his pursuer.
Jammed on the horn, tramped on the brakes as a car began to pull out from the right. Cursing, Civet poked his foot at the accelerator as he heard the squeal of the intruding car's brakes. He had a brief glimpse of a woman's face, white with fear, as he sped by, his horn still sounding.
But the incident had had its consequences. The Marcello, thundering, was only twenty yards behind.
Civet concentrated on the traffic piling up in front of him in antic.i.p.ation of the first of Kaanapali's three access roads. A road crew was at work here; traffic was being squeezed right. He was going much too fast. One-handed, he was obliged to swerve at a precipitous angle onto the verge to avoid rear-ending a slow-moving Nissan.
Civet was compelled to decelerate drastically, and a glance in his rearview mirror showed the Marcello almost upon him. Unless he could find a break in the traffic, he knew he would be finished.
Already the road ahead of him seemed smeared with grease. Colors fluttered, blue to green, red to orange, and back again. Light dilated as if the sun were running in and out of dense cloud with appalling rapidity. Jammed on his brakes. He was almost on top of the car in front of him! In the next instant, he saw a minute opening as the line of cars siphoning through the work area was halted to allow traffic from the resort onto the highway. What the h.e.l.l,he thought, tramping on the accelerator.
Took deep breaths, trying to slow his hammering pulse and, at the same time, ignoring the blare of horns, the shouts, the screech of hastily applied brakes as he shot through the gap.
He was running at eighty again, but now the Marcello was on his tail, and as Civet went through maneuver after maneuver, a growing conviction began to dictate his next moves. When he had exhausted his entire repertory of evasive measures, he abandoned the idea of ducking into Kaanapali. He had no lead on the Ferrari and, consequently, no chance to disappear inside the resort complex.
They were heading toward the major access to Kaanapali. Here, the highway gained a median island, planted with palms and giant ferns, around which the two-way traffic divided.
His mind making rapid calculations, Civet accelerated through the traffic, weaving this way and that. Horns blared; people shouted at him. The median was coming up on his left. Civet slowed, switched to the right-hand lane as if he were about to turn into Kaanapali. The Marcello followed.
At the last instant, Civet accelerated sharply, cut the wheel hard over. He slammed into the rear fender of a Chevy; the right front wheel of his Mustang ran up onto the verge, so that for one terrifying moment, he was canted over at an angle. Then with a bone-jarring slam he was down, the Mustang rocking on its springs as Civet faced oncoming traffic.
He swung left onto the far verge, accelerated.
The Marcello, still pacing him, was now at a safe distance, separated from Civet by a line of intervening traffic and the median island.
Glancing over, Civet grinned. The adrenaline was pumping through him like the ocean shining in sunlight beyond the now-impotent Marcello. Civet felt the ocean's power energizing him, glanced back to the paved verge ahead of him and cried out.
Where just an instant before it had been clear, he now was bearing down on a pair of teenage girls clad in Fila jogging suits. All pink and powder-blue, their blond hair wrapped in ponytails, flying along behind them. So young, bursting with life. Their browned faces were serene as they ran. They were talking, laughing at something.
Christ, Civet thought wildly, they don't see me! At eighty-five, he was bearing down on them with h.e.l.lish speed. Even as he applied the brakes, Civet knew he was going too fast to stop in time. To the left there was a fifteen-foot-high ridge decorated by wild bougainvillea. Bright sprays of pink, orange, purple trailing down the ridge.
He was too close, his speed too great. He was going to hit the girls dead on unless . . .
Civet turned the only way he could: right, into the oncoming traffic. If he could catch a break in the traffic, make the gra.s.s-covered median, he would be- Screeching of metal, hot and tortured beyond its breaking point. The Mustang clipped the front end of an oncoming truck, taking out a headlight and part of a fender. It was too much for the Mustang, which lifted upward like a rearing stallion. When it came down, he was broken free of the seat belt.
Instinctively, Civet looked toward where the teenagers stood, backed against the ridge on the far side of the verge, fists in their mouths, horrified. They were safe. Safe.
Then he was tumbling, tumbling. In his mind's eye, he saw that face again.
That haunting face! And for the first time today, he put a name to it: Zero.
A moment later, the Mustang screamed as if it were a living thing. Flames blew through the pa.s.senger compartment, igniting the world.
Hiroshi Taki lay bare to the waist. The sliding screens out to the garden were open so that the cool night air could caress his flesh.
There was an old man, Hiroshi thought, with untold power. And now he is dead.
Three days ago, Hiroshi had watched the last several moments of his father's life. He had seen the knowledge that he desired most in all the world in hisfather's eyes. It was the knowledge of the decades. There were many men within j.a.pan-powerful, wealthy, influential men-who would certainly divest themselves of the trappings of their exalted station in life to be the recipient of that knowledge.
Yet it was Hiroshi Taki, eldest son of Wataro Taki, who was to be the recipient of this invaluable treasure trove of information that had helped build one of the most powerful shadow empires in the world.
Or so Hiroshi believed. Then a stroke had paralyzed the left side of his father's body-and mind. The knowledge was still there, to be sure. Hiroshi could sense it, a dark and deadly fish in the sea of pain that filled Wataro Taki's eyes.
It was not fair, Hiroshi had thought, for a human being like his father to endure such pain and frustration. Just as it was unfair for a man such as himself to be denied his birthright. It was not fair. But it was their karma, father and eldest son.
Of his brothers, Joji and Masashi, Hiroshi Taki had no thoughts at all. They were irrelevant. The birthright, the heritage of information was to be his.
And now, with every moment, it was sinking further and further away from him.
Until he was consumed with the desire to reach down inside his father's mind and extract the precious knowledge.
Wataro Taki's death three days ago had robbed Hiroshi of everything. It had taken away the awful pain. And it had obliterated everything of value within the old man's head.