Year of the Demon (61 page)

“And you and I never thought to question that assumption until we saw
that
.” Han jabbed a finger at the cluttered folding tables lined along the right-hand wall—the explosives assembly line. He shook his head, flabbergasted. He couldn’t even bring himself to look Mariko in the eye; he was too embarrassed by the idea that Joko Daishi had so thoroughly duped them. “This dude is thinking
way
farther ahead than we are.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, months ahead. Maybe years ahead.” He snorted a self-conscious laugh. “You don’t suppose he writes it all down in a day planner, do you?”

“Years ahead. . . .” Mariko didn’t even mean to say it aloud. She looked at the tables too, and at the hodgepodge collection scattered across them. Nails and screws: shrapnel. SIM cards, rubber-coated wire, outdated cell phones: remote detonators. Right beside them, gutted flashlights: handheld detonators. Any one of those items was totally innocuous. The only way to see them as dangerous was to take a much longer view.

And then she saw it. The Year of the Demon. Right above those tables. “Holy shit, Han, it’s right in front of our faces. He’s got a calendar!”

She turned and broke into a run. The cops watching over Joko Daishi instantly formed a defensive barrier, just in case Mariko was ready for round two. But Mariko was headed for the explosives assembly line, and specifically for the astrological calendar hung above it.

Only one day was circled, smack in the middle. Mariko could make no sense of the rest of it—too many months, too many weird astrological squiggles—but she knew for a fact that Joko Daishi had been hurrying things along lately. Preparing for the Year of the Demon. The appointed hour. It was a good bet that the circled day was today. Tomorrow if she was lucky, but there was no point in assuming her luck would suddenly improve.

No. She didn’t need to be lucky. She’d already seen another calendar with today’s date circled on it. That little wallet-sized copy of the Yomiuri Giants season schedule. She still had it in her pocket.

“Han!” She pulled the schedule out of its Ziploc bag, unfolded it too quickly, nearly tearing it. One game was circled. A home game. Today.

It had started three hours ago.

“His target is the game, the Tokyo Dome,” Mariko said. “We have to go—”

“No,” he said, and she followed his gaze to Joko Daishi. The son of a bitch still looked as giddy as a little boy, but a boy who was anticipating something, not a boy who’d already won. “We haven’t heard anything over the radio. If there was an attack, we’d have gotten the call—or at least heard about it,
neh?
”

He whipped his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the app that kept him up to date on box scores. “Come on, come on,” he said. Mariko had far too much time to think about how long eight or nine seconds could be. “Okay, the game’s not over yet. Bottom of the eighth, two outs, the Giants are up five to four.”

“Han, I really don’t give a shit about the scores—”

“I’m saying it’s not a blowout. The stands are still full, Mariko. The stands are still full.”

Of targets, Mariko thought. Han didn’t need to say it. But as she saw it, his logic was flawed. “Akahata’s late if he’s trying to set off bombs in the stands. He should have done it midgame. It’s like you said: if this had been a blowout—”

“The stands would be half-empty already. People trying to beat the rush to the trains.”

“The trains!” Mariko’s skin went cold. “Han, he’s going to hit the subway.”

“No. Oh no, no, no.” Han began to quiver. “What if he . . . what if we can’t . . . ?”

Paralysis through analysis, Mariko thought. There wasn’t time to consider worst-case scenarios; she and Han needed to act. “Come on,” she said. “The Giants are your favorite team. You’ve been to a million games. What’s the train station down there?”

“Four stations. One is JR’s, the other three go to the subway.”

Mariko looked back at Joko Daishi, who watched the two of them eagerly. “He wants to cause chaos, right? Remind people of old fears?”

“Then it’s the subway,” Han said. “Like the sarin gas attack when we were kids.”

“Exactly.”

“Then our best bets are Suidobashi Station or Korakuen Station. Kasuga’s nearby, but it’s the other two that are always jam-packed after a game. If he wants a body count, it’s got to be Suidobashi or Korakuen.” His face went white. “Mariko, they’re going to be packed like sardines down there. It’s going to be a massacre.”

Mariko started running for the door, Han a pace or two behind her. She didn’t have time to give orders to the rest of her detail; there was too much to explain, too many loose ends to be tied up on-site before she could even think about a mass redeployment to the subway stations. “You take Suidobashi,” she told Han, “I’m taking Korakuen.”

“Oh, hell,” he said.

She heard him miss a step. Looking back, she saw him slowing, staring at the phone, halfway through the movement of trying to cram the phone back in his pocket. “Top of the ninth,” he said. “Still five-four. We’ve got three outs before all hell breaks loose.”

60

M
ariko raced to Korakuen Station, lights running hot, siren as loud as it got and still not loud enough. Even before she became a cop, she remembered thinking people ought to go to prison for not pulling over to give emergency vehicles right of way. How these idiots failed to notice an ambulance or a fire engine riding their bumper had always been a mystery to her. Today she wished not pulling over was a capital offense. Death by strangulation, and Mariko wanted to do the strangling.

She clenched down on the steering wheel instead, thinking about all the mistakes she’d made in the last few minutes. She should have taken side streets, not the main thoroughfares. She should have ordered one of her officers on scene to call the Bureau of Transportation and order them to close Suidobashi and Korakuen stations so that she didn’t have to call it in herself. She’d made the call to Dispatch easily enough, but she’d done it driving one-handed at maximum speed, and plenty of cops had put themselves in the hospital that way.

Most of all, she should have asked Joko Daishi whether Akahata’s target was a subway car or a subway platform. Maybe he wouldn’t have answered. Maybe he would have been delighted to tell her. Now all Mariko could do was wonder which target was worse. Detonating a bomb inside a subway car would contain the blast, all but guaranteeing everyone aboard would die. Detonating it on the platform would let the bomb’s fury disperse, trading guaranteed fatalities for a far greater number of injuries.

It was possible, of course, that Mariko and Han had it wrong altogether, that Akahata was bound for somewhere else, some other target they hadn’t even imagined. But Mariko couldn’t allow herself to think that way. She made the best guess she could on the evidence she had—and following that logic, she committed herself to another hypothesis: Akahata would hit a platform, not a subway car. For one thing, he’d prefer a fixed location, a place he could observe, timing the blast to maximize his body count. For another, there were dozens of train cars to choose from, and only two likely stations. Mariko
had
to believe he would target one of the stations; the other possibility left her feeling hopeless.

She heard Sakakibara’s voice over the radio just as she was approaching her final turn. She ripped the steering wheel over, her tires shrieking in protest, and as soon as she could free a hand she snatched up the mic. “Sir?”

“We reached Transportation. They’ve got the stations closed. That game let out ten minutes ago, Frodo. You’re going to have a crowd.”

“I see them.” Her tires screeched again as she stomped on the brakes.

“Backup’s on the way, but you’re the—”

Mariko didn’t stop to hear the rest. “On the way” wasn’t good enough news to wait for the details. She brought the car to a halt just a few meters from the mob that had gathered outside Korakuen Station.

Just as Sakakibara had said, someone in TMPD had reached the Bureau of Transportation and ordered them to close the station. They’d done it wisely too, posting an
OUT OF SERVICE
notice at the entryway. Mariko hoped that might turn some of the crowd away, because a good-sized blast down on the platform would send a shock wave up the stairs too. Anyone up top was standing in the muzzle of a flamethrower.

Fighting her way through the crowd, she wanted to shout at the top of her lungs, telling them there was a great big goddamn bomb right below their feet and they ought to get the hell out of her way. But panicked mobs were dangerous, and her next best plan—firing her SIG P230 in the air like a sheriff in a cowboy movie—would panic them too. So all she could do was lead with her elbows and knees and shout, “TMPD! Make way!”

She knew it was only seconds but it felt like it took forever to burrow a tunnel through the mass of fans. When she finally reached the turnstile, she planted a palm on it and got overeager on her jump, almost pulling a one-handed cartwheel as she cleared it. It cost her a stutter step when she hit the ground. She came close to rolling her ankle but didn’t. Then her SIG was in her left hand and she was racing toward the stairs.

There were two flights, one for the eastbound tracks, one for the westbound. Which one would Akahata choose? The one with the greater promise for passengers, Mariko supposed. But she didn’t know where the most Giants fans lived. She didn’t know where people went after ball games. Han would have known. She wanted to call him but she didn’t want to take the time. She wanted to pause for a few seconds, to mentally locate herself on the city map, to reason it out, but she didn’t have time for that either. Paralysis through analysis. Overthinking was the enemy. Sometimes you just had to act.

She took the closest flight of stairs and didn’t even bother to look whether it led her to the eastbound or westbound trains. When she got to the bottom, she found the platform occupied. There were forty or fifty people down there—hardly crowded by Tokyo’s standards, but Mariko was surprised to see anyone at all. Mentally she kicked herself for being so stupid: the station might have been closed at street level, but nothing could prevent people from disembarking trains they’d already boarded elsewhere.

It was the kind of platform with two sets of parallel tracks between it and the opposite platform. Every surface seemed to shimmer: the steel tops of the rails, buffed hundreds of times a day by the wheels of train cars; the pillars wearing their ceramic tiles like snakeskin; more ceramic tiles on the walls, still more lining the floor; the ceiling panels, flat and smooth as mirrors. Commuters ambled about in a kind of human Brownian motion, fiddling with book bags or sending texts.

Mariko spotted Akahata in their midst, loitering, dressed as a sanitation worker. He stood four or five paces away from a wheeled caddy that held a big blue trash can and a bunch of cleaning supplies. People were keeping their distance, predictably scared of the guy who looked like he’d just limped away from a knock-down, drag-out bar brawl. His face was still a ruin, a spatter pattern of purple and red. Mariko watched a girl, walking idly and texting, come close enough to catch him in her peripheral vision. The girl started, blanched, and backed away. Mariko wondered how many others had done the same.

Akahata looked at the girl, and looking past her, he saw Mariko.

His bloodshot eyes flicked to the trash can. It was big, heavy, but sitting on its stout plastic casters it would be easy for one guy to move. Perfect for housing a great big bomb.

Mariko put her front sight on him. Civilians crowded her backdrop; doubts about her aim infected her mind. A moment’s hesitation was all Akahata needed. He grabbed a high school boy in uniform and held him like a human shield. One bruised forearm snaked around the kid’s throat, tight as a python.

“Let him go!” Mariko shouted.

Akahata responded by chanting his mantra and taking one step toward the trash can on his caddy.

For a fleeting second Mariko wondered why she was still alive. Why hadn’t Akahata unleashed his bomb? Then she understood: he didn’t have a remote detonator. There was no need for one. He’d been waiting for masses of baseball fans to crowd the platform; the trigger was on the bomb itself, and he wouldn’t trigger it until his victims had walled him in. As he took one more step toward the caddy, Mariko was surer than ever that his trash can was an enormous IED.

Mariko moved to flank him, trying to cut an angle around the kid so she’d have a clean shot at center body mass. But the kid was struggling, jerking Akahata this way and that. He wasn’t strong enough to break Akahata’s lunatic strength, but his tugging and twisting gave Mariko a constantly moving target.

She shifted targets, aiming at Akahata’s head. Her backdrop still wasn’t clear. Some of the commuters had the sense to flee, but too many panicked, frozen like so many deer caught in the glow of an oncoming light. Mariko kept moving to flank, yelling at Akahata to let the kid go, sidestepping until her backdrop was the empty black tunnel above the train tracks. It hardly mattered. A head shot behind a struggling human shield was damn near impossible even for an expert marksman. Cops went to sniper school to make shots like that—and they didn’t do it southpaw either.

Akahata took another step toward the trash can. His eyes were wide and wild, his head lurching this way and that as his hostage tried in vain to break his grip. The kid seemed more scared of Mariko’s pistol than of Akahata, flinching at the sight of it, squirming whenever it moved. Stupid, Mariko thought; if you’d just stay still for a second, this pistol will save your life.

“Last warning,” she said, not at all sure she meant it, “let the kid go.”

Akahata broke off from his mantra and said, “What difference does it make? He will die. We all die in the end. Don’t you see that’s what we’re trying to teach you?”

Mariko had no time for the religious bullshit, but she saw a different truth in Akahata’s words. If he reached that bomb, everyone on the platform would die. Just as well to start shooting, and if she killed the kid, so be it, so long as she brought down Akahata too.