Tengu (13 page)

“We’ve come across a video . . . it’s got some hand-to-hand fighting on it and we’d like some help in analyzing the techniques,” Baker started to explain.

“Who’d you get it from?” I asked. “What did they tell you?”

Baker looked at his companions. The soft-voiced man said, “The previous owner is no longer able to comment on its provenance.”

Ah. “But you’ve got some idea,” I pressed.

The spook shrugged his shoulders in reply.

The Colonel took up the thread. “There are some distinctive . . . ” he paused for a minute to select the right word, then found it, “elements on the video and we want the benefit of your analysis, Burke. That’s it. You can leave the other stuff to us.”

Baker’s expression was flat and final. So I sat down and let them show me the thing. It wasn’t what I expected. When the clip stopped, I swallowed and said to them, “You know what this is?”

My friend from the CIA said, “Why don’t you tell us what it is?” He had a knack for sitting very still. But you could sense the intensity that he kept tied down and see a hint of it way back behind his eyes.

I thought about what I had just seen. “Where’d it come from, Malaysia?” Some of the people in the clip were clearly from someplace in southern Asia.

“The operational area is not your concern, Dr. Burke,” another of the quiet suits told me. “What can you tell us about the techniques used?”

“Why?” I pressed them. I was getting a little tired of dealing with these guys.

Baker reached across the table and ran the clip again. I didn’t particularly want to see it another time, but the doomed figures on the screen drew my attention.

It was filmed in a warehouse of some sort, a big space, where high, dingy windows let in enough light to make filming possible. The floor looked like concrete. It was stained, and by the time the film was done, there were new smears darkening the surface. Vague shapes of furniture or equipment loomed in the background, but the central area of focus was empty except for the fighters.

Although I probably shouldn’t call what happened a fight. It was more of a ritual execution. And it was pretty obvious that the victims never really had a chance. They were simply there to provide fodder for the men who worked on them. And, when it was over, the two bodies were pulled into the center of the floor and the camera panned on their faces.

“These two men were Marines,” Baker said in explanation, his voice a raspy growl. “Embassy guards.”

“The Jarheads usually take care of their own,” the man from Langley explained, “but they’re looking for some help on this one.”

“Special Operations Command has some local assets that could be significant for this,” another suit added tersely. It sounded like a rationale that had been presented before.

Baker’s jaw tightened and he grunted in dismissal. “I don’t give a damn about interservice rivalry. We all follow the same flag. And I’m going to figure out who did this, track them down, and nail them to the wall.” He glared at me and I had the fleeting thought that I would not like to be someone who Baker was going to track down.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Run it again.”

I screened that video any number of times, trying to let the flow of physical action imprint itself on my brain. Watching for movement patterns, habits of particular training styles, gaps in technique. I broke the hideous sequence of events down into more manageable discrete chunks that could be analyzed. It made it easier, but not much. I watched. And watched again. Made notes on a pad.

“Can you slow it down?” I asked. They could. “Can you make it louder?”

“Why?”

“I need to hear their breathing patterns.”

They waited in silence, running and rerunning the video for me until I told them to stop. They had dimmed the lights, and when they turned them back up, I rubbed my eyes.

“All right. What have we got here, Burke?” Baker turned a small tape recorder on.

“Before we go any further,” the quiet man said, “I just want to confirm that this is confidential and, as a government contract employee, you’re bound by your agreement not to divulge the contents of what you’ve learned to anyone on pain of prosecution.” It was quite a mouthful. And he wasn’t even looking at me when he said it. The question was really aimed at Baker.

The Colonel nodded. “He’s been fully processed and the forms are signed.” I didn’t remember anything like this, but then again, I had signed about ten different things when I arrived on the base. I felt vaguely foolish, but everyone in the room seemed very serious.

The man from the CIA pressed me. “We clear on this?”

I nodded. “Continue, Dr. Burke,” the Colonel said.

I looked down at my notes. If I closed my eyes, I could see flashes of the video imagery. I took a breath and began.

“I’ll probably repeat the obvious, but since you’re not telling me anything, you’ll have to bear with me. Start the clip, but run it slowly.” The lights went down and the screen lit up. “The victims were young and fit. The way they rubbed their wrists and moved their limbs about suggests that they had been bound for some time. I imagine it impeded their ability to defend themselves.” I looked around the table for someone who might offer me a clue, but got nothing.

“It wouldn’t have made much of a difference,” I continued. “The attackers are wearing hoods, so I can’t really be sure, but they look a little bit bigger than some of the Asian figures you glimpse around the periphery. Slightly different builds. Even so, you’d think the Marines would have given them a run for their money. But the attackers were professionally trained in just this sort of thing.”

“Stop,” Baker commented, and the video imagery froze. “How do you know about the training?”

“Watch the way they approach the Marines. Your guys had some training, I can see that. But it’s a very aggressive, lineal approach. The attackers move differently. Start it up.” The images moved.

“It doesn’t take your guys long to realize what’s up. They move in to meet the fight. They knew there wasn’t much of a chance, but you have to give ’em credit. They go down fighting.” It was probably not going to be much of a comfort to their families. I heard Baker draw in a breath to make a comment, but I continued. “The way they move in is characteristic of people trained with weapons, Baker. They bring the fight to their opponent. I’ve been watching the soldiers here move all week. They’re tough and hard and aggressive. They train with guns and bayonets. The guys in the hoods, however . . . Stop!” Once again, the figures on the screen were frozen in mid-action.

“The attackers are using classic combat stances . . . ”

One of the CIA men spoke up. “We had some of our people look at this. It’s not judo or aikido or karate based.”

I shook my head. “It’s older. Those styles are modern forms. They’re practiced in controlled environments: flat, regular floors.” I nodded at the figures on the screen. “These guys are using stances much more like what you would see in old-style martial arts, the
ko-ryu
. Techniques were designed for actual battlefield use, so stances were different. Start.” The video began again.

“The strikes could be a variant of karate,” another of the spooks offered.

“There are only so many different ways to hit someone,” I countered. “What’s really significant are the hips, shoulders, and heels.”

“Heels?” Baker sounded incredulous.

I didn’t answer him right away. “The movement patterns here are typical of Japanese as opposed to Chinese styles of unarmed fighting—the Japanese think of the torso as a cylinder that should be kept upright when fighting. The Chinese are a bit more flexible.” I watched a strike unfold on the screen. “The rotation of the hip into the strike makes me think of Japanese styles as well, although it could be Korean.”

“So you’re not sure?” The man with the Midwestern accent seemed vaguely annoyed.

I shrugged. “I wasn’t, until I saw this. Stop.” The resolution on the video was very enhanced: an arc of spittle froze in space.

“The attackers are well trained, but they still show some flaws. Notice the placement of the heel here as he strikes. It’s slightly raised. Not much, but the extension of the strike and the rotation of the hip pull at the leg. Even though he’s flattening out that back foot, the heel rises up a bit. It’s not uncommon. Many Korean styles have compensated by raising the heel up so the back foot rests on the ball of the foot. But this guy is struggling against that. So, again, I’d say it’s derived from a Japanese style. Start.”

They didn’t have much more to add, so I finished with my analysis. I tried to look more at my notes than at the images that flickered on the screen. The end was not pretty.

“Here, where the one attacker breaks the Marine’s arm, you see a pretty basic technique. Lots of systems use it. But the flow of the attacker, the way he uses his hands and focuses on the arm make me think it’s not a system that works with weapons held in each hand. So various systems from Malaysia and the Philippines seem to be out.” I noticed that the CIA people reacted to my mention of the Philippines. They shot Baker a look, but he didn’t react.

“Japanese training?” the Colonel asked.

I nodded. “At a very high level. Someone very skilled at combat from the old schools of Japan.”

“Any names you care to share with us, Dr. Burke?” One of the CIA men was poised with a pen.

On screen, the attackers finished the two young men off with a tight, concentrated jerk. You could hear the faint snap of the spinal cord. It made me feel faintly sick.

“I don’t know anyone with this kind of skill who would train people to do something like that, who would ever countenance this kind of . . . application. The
ko-ryu
are very selective. The masters are not people who share their knowledge with just anyone.”

“They share their knowledge with you, Dr. Burke.” The soft Midwestern voice was mild, but the implication hung in the air.

I looked once at Baker. His eyes were hard and told me nothing. I stood up and glared across the table. “Do you have a question you want to ask me?” It was an unconscious move, but I could feel my stomach tighten. It was the same feeling I get before combat. There’s also some energy projection that goes with it, and I think the man from Langley picked up on it, because he waved his hand and just smiled tightly.

“You want a written summary of this, Baker?” My voice was raspy with annoyance.

He shook his head. “Ashby will debrief you on tape.” The man from the CIA moved his chin slightly as if pointing something out to Baker. “Your notes will remain with me,” the soldier added.

“Fine,” I agreed. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be getting back to the training cadre . . . ”

“The debriefing takes priority and will be your final assignment here, Dr. Burke.” The soft-spoken man from Central Intelligence stood up and his attendants began disconnecting the computer and shutting things down. “Thanks for coming by.” He said it without sincerity and watched me without expression, arms motionless at his side.

It was hot in that room and I was glad to get out. Ashby was waiting for me. He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Do you know what I was watching?” I asked him.

“Yes.” He nodded solemnly and gestured for me to follow him down the hall. We entered a small room with a desk and two chairs. A small tape machine and microphone were waiting. On the otherwise bare walls there was a Special Operations Command plaque, a black oval with a gold spear thrusting upward, searching for a target.

“I don’t get it, Ashby,” I told him. “Why wait so long to show me?”

He tested the tape machine and looked at me. “We were waiting for some security clearances on you.”

“Clearances?”

Ashby shrugged. “Sure. Standard operating procedure for consultants. They do some basic checks on you. The Colonel wasn’t about to show you anything until he was reasonably sure about you . . . ”

“And?”

“And we were waiting to see—who you were. We didn’t want someone who, you know—who trained to fight fruit.”

He’d been talking with Baker. But I let the thought go. “I don’t get the feeling that the civilians were happy about me seeing the video.”

Ashby grimaced and waved them away. “The spooks? They’ve been having a bad few years. I wouldn’t take it personally. They’re cranky about everything. Important thing is that, one way or the other, you passed muster with Colonel Baker. That’s what counts.”

Then he got down to business and slowly walked me through my analysis of the video. He was calm and unhurried. He would ask a question, note my response, and go on to something else. After a few more inquiries, he’d ask the first question in a slightly different way, probing, seeking new details I may have omitted. It was a different side of the man. He had spent most of the week being a sort of good-natured escort and nursemaid, watching me with a slight smile on his face. But now the smile was gone.

“You’ve done this before, I think,” I told him. We had finished the interview and Ashby ejected the tape, labeled it carefully and slipped it into a manila envelope, concentrating precisely on his actions. Only when he was done did he look up at me.

“Sure,” he nodded. “It’s what I do.”

“You’re not with the training cadre, are you, Ashby?” But I said it without inflection. It wasn’t really a question.

“I’ve been through it,” he said. “But I specialize in other areas . . . ”

He got up and we left the building. Ashby had a car parked and waiting. There was no driver for a change. I slid in the passenger side and he started it up. It was a Chevy of some sort, a nondescript four-door sedan perfect for government work. The motor ticked smoothly. Heartbeat of America.

“Now what?” I asked him.

He picked up a clipboard from the backseat. An envelope was stuck on it. It had my name typed on the outside. “This is the consultant fee for the week as agreed upon in your contract,” he said. He handed me the clipboard. “Open it, make sure that it’s correct, then sign the receipt for me, please.”

“Pretty formal, Ashby.” But I did as I was told and signed.

He took the clipboard back. “Thank you, Dr. Burke. I’ve got you booked on a ten p.m. flight to New York tonight. It should give you time to get back to quarters, clean up and the like. A driver will pick you up,” he looked at his watch, “about seventeen thirty, okay?”