The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) (24 page)

Beckman sighed and nodded and left the house by the front door. Exactly seven minutes later, Masuto helped him crawl through Ana's window.

“You're right,” he admitted. “They're in a car down the street.”

“Yes, I imagined so. Now, over here, this French door leads from Ana's room onto the sun porch. I always keep it closed and the grass shade drawn, but as you can see, with the lights out here and the lamp on on the sun porch, you have a good view of the whole porch. I don't mind the children watching me meditate. I hope they're inclined to imitate me, but mostly I meditate before they awaken or after they sleep.”

“I still don't understand why the meditation.”

“All right, let me try to explain. They know I have a reputation for karate, but I don't want a contest. I don't want them coming in with guns. I sit in the lotus position, and a simple inquiry will tell them that in such a position, I am immobilized. I cannot leap to my feet. I am more or less defenseless. I want it that way. Even if they come to kill me, I want them to feel free to talk.”

“That's great. Even if they come to kill you. That's great. That's absolutely brilliant. I hate to say this, Masao, but you sound like the number one shmuck of southern California.”

“I suppose so.”

“There's got to be another way to do this.”

“No.” His voice hardened. “We'll do it this way.”

“What is with you? Can't I make a suggestion?”

“I'm putting my life in your hands,” Masuto said. “We're too long good friends for you to get angry now. If at a point they try to kill me—well, it's up to you.”

“Great. I need that.”

“I trust you, Sy.”

“Sure, I can see myself explaining to Kati why you're dead. Explaining it to Wainwright, thank God, will not be necessary. I'll be fired first.”

“We'll both stay alive. And, Sy—”

“Yeah?”

“Don't interfere. Don't stop it. Don't breathe—unless it means my life or someone else's life. You can hear everything through this door. So take your position, and then we wait.”

Sitting on a chair in the darkness behind the French door, Beckman watched Masuto remove his shoes and then compose himself in the lotus position on the small round cushion which he had placed on the black mat. He placed his hands together on his lap, one on top of the other, thumbs touching. His lids drooped as he stared at the floor in front of him and he became motionless, with only the rise and fall of his breath to say that there was life in the saffron-robed figure. It had been a long and difficult day, and in Ana's dark room, Beckman struggled to remain awake. He had drawn a chair up to the door, and he sat there, his big forty-five caliber automatic pistol in his hand, staring at the motionless figure of Masuto.

They must have decided to wait half an hour after Beckman had pretended to leave. The little house was hardly soundproof, and the noise of the door opening brought Beckman back from his half-doze, awake now and intent.

The man who entered the house and walked across the living room to face Masuto was about five feet nine inches, a tight body, a lined, severe face, intelligent blue eyes, and thin sandy hair. He was about forty-five years old. As Masuto looked up at him, he held out a hand, palm down, and said, “No, please don't rise Mr. Masuto. I prefer you in this position, and I have heard too much about the lethal power of your hands to want them on my level. Indeed, if you insist on rising, I will have to draw my gun, and I much prefer a conversation that is not at the point of a pistol.”

“I have no intention of rising,” Masuto assured him. “It is you who interrupt my meditation.”

“For which I apologize.” His English was excellent, but with a slight accent which Masuto guessed was Russian. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Alexander Brekov, and I am legal counsel to our ambassador in Washington. But that is simply a mutually understood subterfuge. I am actually a part of the K.G.B., and I tell you this without hesitation because it is well known to your F.B.I. and also to your C.I.A.”

“Or possibly because you intend to kill me before you leave?” Masuto wondered.

“You are an interesting adversary, Mr. Masuto. Feona decided that you had to be destroyed. She was foolish, and the foolish die. I decided that you're a reasonable man. Zen Buddhists are reasonable men. I see no reason why you should be different.”

“I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. Tell me, Mr. Brekov. Who was Feona Scott?”

“K.G.B.” He half smiled. “You Americans love those three letters. She was a Russian agent.” He shrugged. “Not the best. Let me explain. The man you know as Robert Mackenzie is a Soviet agent whose real name is Andre Rostikoff. Years of effort—very expensive effort—went into his training, from age fourteen. I can't tell you what it takes to take a Russian and turn him into a Scot—his memory of history and family, his language, his manner, his walk, his reactions—so that he becomes even more Scottish than a man born in Scotland. And do you know how Mr. Mackenzie, né Rostikoff, repaid the Soviet people? By becoming a double agent. We were not sure of this at first, but certain things in his reports aroused our suspicions, and Feona, whose real name was Sonia Dukovsky, was sent to join him and to find out what was going on. This she did. She obtained the proof that he was indeed working with the C.I.A., and that through his efforts, two of our agents were uncovered.”

“And then, unexpectedly,” Masuto said, “his twin brother appeared.”

“Yes—I suppose that was obvious to you. His twin brother was one of those who attack us because we do not see civil liberties in the Western manner. He was a poet of sorts, a dissenter, and finally he was given the right to emigrate. Now, how he tracked down his brother out here in California, I don't know. Possibly there had been some communication; I suspect so. In any case, he showed up at the Mackenzie house at an unfortunate moment, with both Robert and his drunken wife away. I'm sure you know what happened. Feona lost her head and killed him, and then she phoned me, and I sent the man you know as Thatcher over there. His name is Gregory Roboff, and he's not very smart. By the way, he is sitting in the car across the street, and while he is not bright, he is an excellent shot. Just a remark. He allowed Feona to talk him into that crazy business of putting poor Ivan Rostikoff into the bathtub, because she read it in that drunken woman's notebook. Well, that is why Robert Mackenzie shot her. He is a sentimentalist. He avenged his brother's death.” Now Brekov took out a package of Turkish cigarettes. “May I smoke?”

No one had ever smoked in his meditation room.

“There is an ashtray in the next room. You may bring it in here if you wish. You say Feona Scott desired me dead. Why? I did her no harm.”

“She knew your reputation. She was sure you would find out too much too quickly.”

“And you are here tonight to complete her unfinished business?”

“Oh, no. No, indeed. I am here to strike a bargain, to make a deal, as you people say, to create a mutually advantageous situation. I am sure you know what I want.”

“Robert Mackenzie.”

“Exactly. We are quite certain that you know where he is. I want you to tell me where he is.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a packet of currency. “Here I have fifty hundred-dollar bills. I have four such packets, twenty thousand dollars. That is a great deal of money for a policeman, wouldn't you agree?”

“Yes, a great deal of money.”

“And what am I asking, Mr. Masuto? The man is a traitor and a murderer. He has betrayed those who nurtured him and loved him. What call has he upon you?”

“I have never had to think that through,” Masuto said, “because I don't know where he is.”

“Come, come. Of course you do.”

“Considering that I do know, Mr. Brekov, why should I take sides in your quarrel with him? I sit here doing a very simple thing, bringing harm to no one, sitting with my legs crossed and meditating in the manner of my ancestors. My master in downtown Los Angeles is an old Roshi. Would he be permitted to teach me in your country? Is there a Zendo anywhere in your country?”

“That is not the point. What is this country you are being loyal to? The only country that ever used the atom bomb—and used it to wipe out two Japanese cities—men, women, and children. This is the country you are being loyal to?”

“More than that, Mr. Brekov. My father and mother and I as a small child were taken to the concentration camp at Madigan. But my loyalty is not to people who drop atom bombs or make concentration camps or wipe out free speech and free press as you do. No, not at all. My loyalty is to the human species, which century after century suffers the malignant stupidity of men like yourself and your masters. I hate spies and I loathe your K.G.B. as much as I loathe our C.I.A. And my distaste for those organizations and what they stand for is so great that even if I knew where Robert Mackenzie is, I would not tell you.”

“Hear! Hear!” a voice cried. “Bravo, Masuto! Turn around, Brekov, but slowly, carefully.”

He had been hidden by Brekov's legs. Now, as Brekov stepped aside, Masuto saw him, Mackenzie at last, and recognized him though he had never seen him before. He held a heavy automatic pistol in his hand, and he said to Brekov, “Back up. Move in back of Masuto there.” Mackenzie stood between the open French doors, just inside the meditation room. “If you're thinking of that idiot Thatcher, Brekov, and of him charging in here to rescue you, forget it. Mr. Thatcher is dead, very dead. Before Feona died, she confessed that Thatcher had done the job with her. So now I've evened it out, haven't I, you loathsome bastard. Can you believe that Thatcher was stupid enough to let me get into the car with him and to congratulate me on my readiness to give myself up. He saw you getting him the Order of Lenin. It was the last thing he saw before I strangled him. You know, I have only one regret—that I have to kill Masuto here. The poor yellow bastard did me no harm, but he's a witness—”

He was cut off by a voice that roared, “Police! Drop it, Mackenzie!”

Mackenzie spun around and flung a shot toward the French door to Ana's room. Beckman shot through the door, hitting Mackenzie in the chest, and as Mackenzie collapsed, the gun falling from his hand, Beckman was shouting, “Don't touch your gun, Brekov, or I'll kill you where you stand!”

Brekov smiled and raised both hands. Masuto untangled himself from the lotus position, picked up Mackenzie's gun, and then Beckman came through the French door.

“Sy, thank you,” Masuto said to him.

“Believe me, I do not have a gun,” Brekov said. “I never carry a gun.”

Beckman was bent over Mackenzie. “He's dead.”

Masuto ran his hands over Brekov. He had no gun.

“You saved my life,” Brekov said to Beckman.

“I'm Jewish,” Beckman snarled. “You hear me, you son of a bitch, I'm Jewish! So don't thank me!”

“You're also an accessory to two murders,” Masuto said to Brekov. “Mackenzie's brother and a policeman named Clint.”

Brekov shrugged. “I have diplomatic immunity. And since what I came here for has been accomplished, there is no reason for me to remain. So I say good night, Mr. Masuto.”

“Is that right?” Beckman demanded indignantly.

“I'm afraid so,” Masuto said. “But you'll have to wait here, Mr. Brekov, until the Culver City police get here. Apparently, there's a dead man in your car across the street, and you can't walk away from either him or the car.”

“You have no right to hold me here.”

“Goddamn you, shut your mouth and sit down!” Beckman yelled. “Your immunity won't keep me from beating the shit out of you. Just sit down and try not to be a total asshole.” Beckman was shaking now. He took off his jacket and covered Mackenzie. “I won't sleep for a week. Why do we go on with this lousy job, Masuto?”

Masuto poured a glass of gin, neat. “Get this down.”

Beckman gulped it, coughed, and said, “You call the cops and Wainwright, Masao. I can't talk to anyone.”

“The Culver City cops, the captain, the State Department, the C.I.A., the F.B.I.—I know what you mean, Sy. Oh, the hell with it. I might as well start calling.”

It was four o'clock in the morning before it was all finished, and the Culver City cops and the Beverly Hills cops and the two F.B.I. men and the man from the C.I.A. had all finished and departed, and Beckman had gone home to his wife, and the bodies had been removed, and Brekov had taken his diplomatic immunity back to Washington—and that was when Masuto finally got to cleaning up. He swept up the bits of glass and then scrubbed at the vinyl floor until the bloodstains were gone. There were two bullet holes in Ana's door and a bullet hole in the wall of her room—from the single wild shot Mackenzie had gotten off. Wainwright had given him the following day off, if he made up the time, which he promised to do. He decided that he would sleep for three hours, then find a glazier and have the glass replaced, cover the bullet hole with some plaster of Paris, and then drive out to Uncle Toda's place.

Perhaps if he got there early enough, he could bring Kati and the kids home before dark.

A Biography of Howard Fast

Howard Fast (1914–2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast's commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast's mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London's
The Iron Heel
, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.