The Company of the Dead (16 page)

“I left a snapshot of Lightholler with Kobe,” Hardas offered.

“We’re not waiting. Whoever neutralised Shaw and Collins is going to come after us.”

“Kobe took my money. He won’t talk,” Hardas said.

The yakuza held little love for any authority, East or West, that was true enough. Currency was their creed. Under reasonable circumstances Hardas’s words might have been a guarantee. But Kennedy was familiar enough with Bureau extraction procedures. He felt a stab of remorse. He said, “Whoever’s on our tail will make Kobe talk. We have to cut our losses. Our flight is booked for 2100 hours.”

The sentry stood at a distance, his dark coat haloed cherry-red in the strobe’s flicker. He seemed to be waiting for something. In the other lanes the traffic proceeded at a crawl.

Over the years, certain laws might have been observed with increasing laxity but one held firm. In a world where the stultifying progress of technology was an affront to those who held power, the older ways were held in high regard. The roadways reserved for the passage of the aristocracy were sacrosanct. You could only travel in the left lane in a horse-drawn vehicle or rickshaw, and you could only occupy such a conveyance if you held the title of
daimyo
or greater.

Lightholler eyed the agent’s bankroll. Money could buy you out of a lot of trouble in New York City, but not under the watchful lenses of the traffic cameras. The drivers and passengers in the other cars kept their eyes straight ahead, in careful control of their curiosity.

The sentry finally approached the Hotspur, his coat straining slightly against his stocky frame with each step. He placed a hand against the driver’s door and waited as the man wound the window down. His head was shaved to a raw stubble. He wore his collar raised. His face, shrouded in shadow, was concealed behind a filter mask.

“Officer, I can explain everything,” Shaw began, leaning towards the open window with a cheek-wide grin. His voice was infused with warmth.

There was a blinding flash of light. Lightholler heard the sound of bone shattering even before the ear-splitting blast of gunfire registered. Shaw’s body jerked and his head snapped back in a shower of blood. Lightholler’s face tingled with sticky warmth.

With ridiculous slowness the sentry brought his firearm back across Lightholler’s line of sight. A part of him noted the weapon’s singular design, the long thick bulk of the magazine clip in front of the trigger guard, the dark aperture of the Mauser meeting his own eyes briefly as it swung towards Collins, who was now fumbling for his Dillinger.

Both guns discharged simultaneously.

The Dillinger barked twice within the fold of the agent’s coat, punching small holes in the driver’s seat. Collins rolled forwards onto his weapon with a groan.

The windshield behind them was a mosaic of bone and brain. The driver was twitching spasmodically in his seat, his hands clasping his abdomen where Collins’ stray rounds had emerged. His face twisted in the rear-view mirror, then exploded with the sentry’s third bullet.

It all happened in less than a minute.

The sentry turned his gun back towards Lightholler, who was bound in a struggle with the two fresh corpses. He had one foot on a bloodied skull, slipping against the slick car door seeking purchase, squeezing behind the other’s body towards the other locked door. Warmth spread in his groin and a small part of him regarded the moisture, hoping for piss rather than blood.

“Captain,” the sentry said in English.

Lightholler threw his arms up in front of his face, biting blood out of his lower lip in expectation. His eyes screwed shut as moments stretched towards eternity.

“Captain...”

Captain?

Lightholler froze, then slowly lowered his arms.

“Get out of the car.” The sentry’s voice, filtered by the mask, was laboured.

Lightholler’s legs were water as he shifted across one of the bodies and made his way out the passenger door.

“Please...” he started to say.

“Walk.” The sentry motioned towards the road divider with his gun barrel. “Climb across.”

Lightholler clambered over the divider. Unable to ignore him now, drivers began staring at the Hotspur’s blood-curtained windows. He weaved through the cars, the sentry at his heels.

Sirens began to sound in the distance.

A cab pulled up, slowly.

“Wait here.” The sentry approached the vehicle. He hunched over for a few moments and then turned back to Lightholler. “Where were you supposed to meet Kennedy?”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”

“Believe me when I tell you, you’ve nowhere else to turn.” The sentry indicated the Hotspur with a nod. “You’re a marked man.” His distorted voice sounded almost compassionate.

The sirens were closer. The whole tunnel was lit with flashing red lights. Crazy shadows began to leap the walls.

“Get in.
Go
.” The sentry gestured towards the waiting vehicle.

Lightholler didn’t need to be told twice.

Hardas was gazing past Kennedy’s shoulder. Kennedy turned to see Friedman appear at his side.

Friedman said, “There’s someone here to see you, Major.”

For a fleeting moment Kennedy didn’t recognise the man Friedman escorted to the table.

Lightholler’s eyes flicked from Hardas to Morgan before finally settling on Kennedy. His shirt was unbuttoned, damp with sweat and stained with wide splashes of dark brown. He held his jacket crumpled and wound around one arm like a bandage or a falconer’s glove. His face was concrete-grey except for the harsh red-etched lines of his mouth. He swayed slightly where he stood.

“You fucking bastard.” His voice was low, his eyes centred on Kennedy.

Kennedy stared at his shirt. “You’ve been shot.”

“As it turns out,” Lightholler snarled, “I’m the only one who wasn’t.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I’ve lost my career, my ship, and I’ve been abducted.” His face flushed scarlet with anger. “I’ve just come from a fucking firefight. What the
fuck
have you gotten me into?”

Kennedy glanced at Friedman, who responded with a nod before heading to the front of the café. He’d noted the unhealthy attention of some of the café’s occupants. A few men near the bar were already staring with something like anticipation, perhaps in the hope of a brawl to break the monotony of their afternoon.

“Please, Captain, sit down.” Kennedy hadn’t counted on this godsend. Somehow, Lightholler was back in the picture.

Lightholler appeared to appreciate the fact that they’d gained an audience. Kennedy watched the emotions play across his face: a struggle taking place between a desire to satisfy the forming crowd and some decidedly English form of discretion. Hardas caught Kennedy’s eye, waiting for a signal. Kennedy didn’t respond. There was no need for a show of strength. Better to allow him the illusion of alternatives.

“If I don’t like what I hear, I’m leaving.” Lightholler lowered himself slowly into a chair. “Marked man or not, I’m going to the nearest police station. I’m going to the embassy. If I
really
don’t like what I hear, I’m going straight to the fucking Shogun. Is that clear?”

“Are you hurt?”

“It’s not my blood.”

“Who took you?”

“They said they were CBI. They said that you’d sent them.”

“I sent two men for you. Agents Shaw and Collins.”

“That’s them. They had a driver.” Lightholler’s anger gave way to a calmness that was all the more disturbing.

“A driver?”

Morgan said something under his breath. Hardas chewed at his lower lip in silence.

“Where are they now?” Kennedy asked.

“They’re dead,” Lightholler replied. “Why don’t you know that?”

The alternatives raced through Kennedy’s mind. Lightholler’s bloodstained shirt. Webster’s words. The CBI assassins that Shine had removed. Wetworks were in town and someone had put another three men in the ground.

Why don’t you know that?

“Who killed my men?” Kennedy’s question was a whisper.

“They weren’t your men.” There was a note of satisfaction in Lightholler’s tone.

“Explain yourself.”

“Shaw said you were a sell-out, he had no idea where you...” Lightholler’s satisfaction faded into horror. “They’re coming here.”

“Who’s coming? You said they were dead.”

“Someone called Cooper. His team, whatever that means.”

“Christ,” Hardas said. “We’re screwed.”

“He won’t try anything here,” Kennedy said.

“It’s Cooper, damn it,” Hardas replied. “There’s going to be a fucking bloodbath.”

“Call Shine. Have him set up a corridor to the other place. Tell Friedman what’s going on.”

Hardas left the table to make the call.

“Major?” Morgan’s voice was barely a croak. “I can’t do this.”

Kennedy turned on him. “You got back late last night. You dealt us this hand. Not another word from you. Understand?”

Morgan fell silent.

Hardas returned to the table. “It’s done,” he said.

Kennedy turned to Lightholler and said, “Captain, who killed my men?”

“A tunnel sentry,” Lightholler replied, more cooperative now. “He took out all three of them. He put me in a cab and sent me here.”

Kennedy tried to process the information. “A Japanese sentry?”

“He was wearing a filter mask but he sounded Caucasian. He called me Captain,” Lightholler replied. “He knew who I was.”

“It’s the Germans,” Hardas said. “Has to be. You may not have been working for them as we first suspected, Captain, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need you.”

“Need me for
what
? I don’t understand.”

“It seems as if everyone wants a piece of you, Captain Lightholler,” Kennedy said. “And you’re the only one who doesn’t know why.” He softened his tone, lowered his voice. “I can help you. I’m going to start by filling you in on some of what’s happening here.”

It’s not going to be easy, though,
Kennedy mused silently. The only means of convincing Lightholler lay buried under a rock in Nevada. Lying to him now might poison any chance of cooperation when it was needed. Telling the truth would render him an unwilling companion. Kennedy had to take that chance.

He added, “When I’m finished, you won’t believe a word of it, but I assure you, that will change.”

“What the hell do you
want
from me?”

“There’s a war coming, and it will defy anyone’s previous understanding of the word, Captain. A war with no victors. Maybe even no survivors,” Kennedy said. “All I want is for you to help us prevent that from ever happening.”

Kennedy rose from his seat and gestured towards a door at the rear of the café, an unspoken invitation to the point of no return. The others scraped back their chairs and stood to join him.

Leave or stay?
Lightholler’s alternatives were a twirling rondo in his mind.

Three men were dead in the Queens Midtown Tunnel. The tally would rise—of that he was certain. As far as he could tell, there were no options. He rose to follow them.

They reached the door and Kennedy unlocked it. It opened onto the street. Lightholler followed him outside, Morgan close behind, Hardas bringing up the rear.

The rain had cleared. They wound through the streets of Greenwich Village to enter a small, unassuming building on Downing Street. The “other place” turned out to be a shabby echo of the Lone Star. Kennedy nodded to the bartender and hustled Lightholler into a darkened alcove near the back of the bar. The others followed him in and Kennedy closed the door.

A sink rested against the opposite wall. A round table stood in the room’s centre, bearing a stack of crystal glasses, a bottle of rye, a pitcher of iced water and a star-shaped ashtray already littered with half a dozen stale cigarette and cigar butts. Four uncomfortable-looking folding metal chairs were arrayed around the table.

Kennedy said, “Make sure he’s clean.”

Hardas produced the same device he’d used back at the Waldorf. He scanned Lightholler and said, “All clear, Major.”

Lightholler sat down. He bunched his jacket on his lap and stared at the water rings that marked the table. He patted his pockets, then rummaged through his jacket with more purpose.

Hardas reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Texas Tea. He gave it a shake and slipped one of the cigarettes into his mouth before offering one to Lightholler, who accepted it. He lit it.

The others dropped into their chairs.

“It’s time I got some answers,” Lightholler said. “If my life is in danger, and my own country has kicked me loose, I think I have the right to know why.”

“Let me tell you what you won’t be reading in the papers,” Kennedy began. “Japanese forces have engaged Russian units all along the Siberian border.”

“There’s a ceasefire in place.”

“It’s not holding,” Kennedy replied. “The German–Confed war games finished last month, but the German 5th Fleet is still squatting in the North Atlantic. There are eighteen divisions of German infantry stationed in Arkansas, maybe more. At least one of them are Brandenburgs.”

“Brandenburg divisions have been banned from operating outside of German territories since the Vietnam pact.”

“Yet they’re here,” Kennedy said. “I saw them.”

“They’re here, alright,” Hardas muttered.

“What about the peace talks?” Lightholler asked.

“That media circus they held aboard your ship was a sham, Captain,” Hardas said. “Nothing more than a publicity stunt.”

“They’ve been rescheduled to continue in Germany,” Lightholler said, with more assurance. “The Japanese Imperial airship is moored over Berlin, and the Emperor’s son himself is part of the delegation. Surely Ryuichi wouldn’t send one of his own sons as ambassador into hostile territory if he didn’t intend to pursue peace.”

“Smoke and mirrors, Captain,” Morgan said glumly.

“Still, what you’re implying makes no sense,” Lightholler said, “Japan can’t
afford
a prolonged war with Russia.”

“What if they expect it to be brief?” Morgan countered. “They don’t want peace with the Russians—they just want to keep Germany out of the picture long enough to secure their own conquests. They know that sooner or later the Germans are going to have to come to Russia’s aid, and they want to put that off as long as they can.”