Pandora's Succession (13 page)

Downing rocked in his chair and smiled. “This is what I like about you, Ridley. When you’re on the ball, you’re really on it. And that’s the reason why I haven’t reassigned you yet.” Downing stopped rocking in his chair. “Now, I’m not going to ask much of you, but just that you keep your emotions out of what happens from here on. Or else, assuming you do come back alive, I may have you re-evaluated and reassigned. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

As Fox turned away, Downing looked up at him. “Oh, Fox?”

Fox turned back to him. “Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?”

Fox hesitated for a moment. He knew what the General was referring to, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it. He couldn’t afford to miss the chance of finding Hiller’s killers. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that Parris was also connected to a major player. “No, sir. You were very clear on the situation at hand and what needs to be done.”

Downing closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and nodded. “All right then. I was only asking because the last time we were in this room, I thought there was something important you wanted to tell me before Walsh interrupted us with the bad news.”

Fox looked back into the General’s eyes. There was no point in turning away from the old spymaster, because Fox knew that it would only confirm that he was hiding something. “It was nothing important.”
There, no denial that anything’s on my mind. That should put the issue to rest. Downing wouldn’t be digging anymore.

“That’s good to know.”

Fox was about to leave when an idea came to him. He turned back to his superior. “Oh sir, I don’t normally make requests.”

“What is it?”

“I’d have a much better chance at controlling my emotions if Ms. Vasell could arrange that both Walsh and Dobbs flew on a different flight and stayed in a different hotel than me. After all, I recall the time that the roof of the church she attends needed emergency repairs, and that they were short on funds. I also recall how my large anonymous donation helped them out.”

There was a brief silence before Downing smiled curtly and nodded. “I’ll make sure I mention it to her.”

Chapter 13

Despite having the windshield wipers at maximum, it still felt as though Fox drove through a waterfall in the dark. Pushing speeds that were well over one-hundred-and-twenty kilometers per hour on the two-lane rural provincial highway at night didn’t help either. Only a reckless person would attempt driving in these conditions, and that’s how many people described Ridley Fox. Fuck them. That’s their opinion because to him this was a Sunday drive.

The flashing red, blue and white lights Fox saw through the downpour became his guide. He didn’t bother to turn off the engine or shut the door after he pulled off onto the shoulder. He just ran towards the flashing lights. His hair now clung to his forehead and the side of his face. By the time he reached the yellow barrier tape, Fox was literally carrying rain in his clothes. He ripped through the tape and two police officers ran towards him, each grabbing a shoulder to restrain him.

“Whoa, back up! This is a crime scene. Where do you think you’re going?” yelled one of them. Both cops were over six feet tall, just like Fox. Had anyone other than these two men been stupid enough to attempt what they just had, Fox wouldn’t have left them standing for long.

Small waves of water spattered around them, as Fox struggled to fight off the officers. “Goddamn it! I’m Captain Warrant Officer Ridley Fox. That’s my fiancée over there so get the hell off of me!”

“It’s all right, let him through,” said a man on the inside of the yellow tape. He was dressed in a trench coat and wore a brimmed hat.

Fox shoved the two officers aside. He darted past the man in the trench coat who was about to identify himself. But Fox didn’t care for that right now—a black body bag was being wheeled away from an overturned vehicle by two paramedics.

The EMTs backed away as Fox skidded to a stop at the gurney. He fumbled for the zipper and yanked it downwards, exposing her. His head fell onto her breasts. “Oh my God! No, no, no!” He lifted his head, looked beyond the heavy rain that pelted him and hollered as loud as he could. If God heard his cry and felt his anguish, then it was apparent in the series of lightning flashes that streaked across the sky at that precise moment.

Someone nudged Fox. It was the man with the trench coat. “Mr. Ripley.”

“Mr. Ripley,” said the stewardess as she nudged his left shoulder. He never really cared for this pseudonym. He woke up to see her pleasant warm smile and almond-shaped eyes.

Again that nightmare—he couldn’t remember the last time it occurred, but it was bothering him again.

“You’ll have to fasten your seatbelt. We’ll be landing at Narita Airport in less than ten minutes.”

Fox put his left hand to his forehead, he was sweating. “Domo arigato gozaimasu.” Which meant
thank you very much
in Japanese.

There was the usual long wait at customs once he got off the plane. Fox collected his luggage and was in the terminal corridor when a blow to his right shoulder and arm nearly made him spin around and drop his luggage.

“Sorry,” the man immediately said in Japanese, and then moved on. Typical—just bump and move on. But at least this one apologized.

Fox tightened his grip on the handle of his suit bag, swinging it over his shoulder when the word
pickpocket
came to mind. He immediately felt for his wallet and detected its shape through his pocket.

All right, so he didn’t steal my wallet.
Then why were the man’s hands were around his shoulders? Another thought came to mind. He felt inside the breast pocket of his blazer. His fingers touched a piece of paper that was not there before.

He looked a few feet to his right. The mens room sign stood out from all of the other neon-lit names that were found along the corridor. Fox walked through the curved open door entrance and headed to the last stall. He locked it and hung his suit bag on the hook.

Amidst the background noises of automatically flushing toilets and running water, Fox took the folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and read it. It was a simple message written in English:
Do not trust anyone in the Boeisho. They’re waiting for you outside. Go with them to avoid suspicion. I’ll meet up with you soon.
There was no signature or any other indication as to whom it was from, and Fox hadn’t recognized the man. But the Boeisho was here and most likely would be there to wait for Walsh and Dobbs also. The worst case scenario would be for them to be detained and questioned by the Boeisho.

Fox took out his cell phone and texted a message to Marie Vasell, advising her to arrange that Walsh and Dobbs be flown to Okinawa Base. When he was done, he put away his phone, tore up the paper and dropped the shredded pieces into the toilet—the automatic flusher took care of the rest.

Once he reached the atrium, he looked through the windows at all the green taxis lined up at the curb. People crisscrossed in front of him constantly. A young woman, stood out—probably a student. She rushed to meet an older couple who he assumed to be her parents. He also took notice of several men in expensive-looking suits, either pulling their luggage behind them, or carrying a single briefcase. Then there was the individual complaining behind him and the man to his left who was upset at hearing his flight was delayed.

Fox glanced at a digital clock hanging overhead—it was 12:45 AM, meaning that it was 5:45 PM at Entebbe. He was used to the time zone changes, and the twelve hour flight on the Boeing 747 had given him enough time to rest.

The exit loomed just ahead when he was caught off guard by two black-suited men as they accosted him.

Fox glanced at them. “Are you here to welcome me?”

“Come with us, Mr. Fox,” said the man on Fox’s right. Then they both stepped aside and gestured Fox to pass between them.

Outside, the powerful smell of exhaust fumes struck his nostrils. The other man circled around Fox’s left and redirected him to the right. “This way. You should know where to go from here.” At the front of a row of six taxis, were two black fleet sedans.

When they got to the second sedan, the man on Fox’s right extended his arm. “Your bag?”

Fox handed it to him. “So are you going to tell me who you are, or can I assume that you’re Boeisho?”

“Please, step this way,” said the other man.

Not too talkative.

He opened the back door for Fox, while the other placed his suit bag in the trunk. When Fox bent down to get inside, he saw the occupant and paused in the doorway.

“Good evening, Mr. Fox. Welcome to Tokyo,” said the man dressed in a navy colored suit. His receding hairline exposed an almost square forehead, and his cheekbones glistened when he smiled. Fox knew there was more to him than his cunning grin. On the outside, he appeared to be a warm and friendly man, but there was the other side—the one which held onto many secrets that one would kill to know.

Fox spotted a brown manila envelope in a holder attached to the side of the front door.

“Come in, you must be exhausted from your trip.”

“You can say so.” The door was closed behind him and the driver slowly drove off.

The man smiled. “I’m Head of Section, Yuji Tanaka. We knew it was only a matter of time before you’d arrive.” Tanaka produced a ceramic vase-like flask that Fox recognized as a tokkuri and two small cups called oshokos.

“Sake?”

“Sure.” Fox took an oshoko from him. “I’ve heard many things about you. Congratulations on your recent promotion.”

“It was well earned” He lifted the flask. Being no stranger to Japanese customs, Fox held out the oshoko with his right hand while supporting it underneath with his left, as Tanaka poured him a cupful. Fox put his cup down on the stand, was handed the tokkuri, and did the same for Tanaka. Once he finished serving Tanaka, he put down the tokkuri, picked up his cup and took a sip. He preferred the ceramic oshokos to the wooden ones which had a tendency to mask the non-chilled sake’s true aroma.

Tanaka lifted his oshoko. “I hope I made the right selection. Junmai-Shu is to your liking?”

Fox put down his oshoko. “It’s good to know I still have buddies in your organization who like to talk about me.” It was nice that Tanaka knew he preferred the low fragrant, but explosive impact that Junmai-Shu made once it was swallowed, as opposed to the weaker flavors.

“Yes, especially a female agent or two who would love to be here right now.” If there was one thing Fox noticed about Tanaka’s face, it was definitely his glistening cheekbones.

“They still haven’t gotten over that yet? Nothing more than an occupational hazard, that’s all I have to say about it. So why did you come out here to meet me?”

“The office tends to be a bit boring after a while. I came to meet you myself, primarily because of the delicacy of the situation. The fewer who know of it, the better.”

“So delicate that you had me followed?”

“I won’t discuss our methods of intelligence gathering.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But on to the subject.” Tanaka then crossed his leg. “Tell me—in your opinion—what would someone have to do to be the most powerful man on earth?”

Fox thought about the question and wondered what this had to do with what happened in Uganda, assuming that Tanaka was referring to that.

“I’d say it’d be someone who’d have the greatest amount of influence over people and who stands to gain a lot and lose practically nothing at the same time.”

“Such as?”

This has to be going somewhere
. “It would be someone who exercises his resources in the most efficient way, so as to blackmail, if not control, a small or even a large group of people. A community even. The most common forms of influence are money and weaponry. Then there are religious cults that use spiritual influences and brainwashing techniques to aid a selected group to share the worldview of their leader, for example.”

Fox saw Tanaka’s eyes glisten at the mentioning of the religious cult. He was definitely onto something. Tanaka slid into the corner where he now faced Fox at an angle. “This has something to do with a cult, doesn’t it?”

“A Doomsday cult, to be precise. For the past eight months, the Boeisho has kept a close watch over a particular cult called The Promise. Its leader is a man named Hideaki Hashimoto. Interestingly, he’s also the CEO of Hexagon Pharmaceuticals. He’s done an excellent job keeping his private life out of the public. All of his recruits are between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five and live in his mansion in West Tokyo. Practically all of the members have, at one time, either brought shame to themselves or to their families and Hashimoto convinced them of their own self-worth. They’ve all become militant and are prepared for the end of the world to come to the rest of society, but he will be their savior.” Tanaka took a short sip of his sake.

“That’s when we stepped up our surveillance. We’ve had a few incidents in the past with cults—you probably remember attacks in the subway and shopping centers—so we weren’t going to let this one get out of hand. Hashimoto isn’t without his own personal protection, too. He has his own private group of ninjas. We had three agents infiltrate the cult. Two weeks ago we lost contact with them. But before we did, we were able to find out that they were going to steal a bio-weapon from a secret facility somewhere in Europe.”