To Free a Spy (27 page)

Antonov nodded. “After the pair left I got Romi to ask the old superintendent about them. They were brothers who had been coming there since he could remember. He did not know for sure but said the regulars there assumed the slow one was a radiation victim.”

“So you think the retarded guy’s brother is Snake-eyes’ boss, the guy he threatened to nuke?” Warfield asked.

“Long shot, but I can’t ignore it. It all fits with what Romi overheard.”

Antonov excused himself and got up to go to the restroom and Komeito followed a comfortable distance behind. Some of the diners watched the tall
gaijin
cross the dining room toward an archway that led to the restrooms. Not even foreigners were often as large as Antonov.

Warfield leaned back and mulled Antonov’s theory. To say it was a long shot would be the understatement of the day. What were the odds against Antonov and his prostitute running into Snake-eyes’ boss and his brother there? But on the other hand, Antonov and Romi were at the right bath house—Romi claimed she overheard Snake-eyes call its name, the Tomodachi Sento, and the old attendant there had noticed someone who could have been Snake-eyes hanging around outside the bath house. And how many pairs of men fitting the description of the brothers could there be, at
any
bath house? Warfield conceded it was worth looking into. Besides, what else did they have to go on?

Warfield looked around at the wall murals and the décor. The Izumi was elegant by any standard. A vase of cut flowers sat in the center of each table and candles provided soft light. Japanese music played unobtrusively in the background. Every table was occupied and the clientele appeared to be well-heeled, belying the fact that Japan’s economy had languished in the recent several years.

Warfield glanced at his watch. Antonov and Komeito had been gone for ten or twelve minutes now. When he looked toward the restrooms Komeito was walking toward him, almost running. Antonov was nowhere in sight.

By the time Komeito reached the table it was obvious something was wrong. He leaned over Warfield’s shoulder.

“You must follow me, quickly, quickly!” His voice was quiet but demanding. When Warfield started asking questions Komeito was firm. “You must trust me and do as I say now. Do not delay!”

Warfield was stunned. “Where is Antonov?”

Komeito drew a breath through clenched teeth. “Warfield, you must comply this second. You are in danger.” Komeito started toward the main entrance through the bar.

Warfield, his mind reeling, followed as Komeito routed his way through the tables, out the front door and to a black limousine sitting at the curb. It was Antonov’s and Komeito rattled off instructions to the driver in rapid-fire Japanese as he and Warfield climbed in. Then he turned to Warfield, his eyes wide with terror. “Antonov is dead!”

Warfield was dumbfounded.

As the driver hurried away from the Izumi, Komeito spoke to someone in Japanese on his cell phone, listened for a moment, looked at his watch, and barked another mouthful of words. He lowered the privacy window that separated them from TK the driver and rattled off more Japanese.

There was a time to lead and a time to follow, and Warfield understood his role in the present situation. He was in a strange place, didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the city. Komeito did, and Warfield, believing Antonov trusted him, was inclined to follow, at least until the immediate crisis was over. But the obvious questions raced through his head all the same. If Antonov was dead, who killed him? Why? Was Komeito involved? Was it possible Warfield was the dupe in some kind of plot? In Warfield’s business nothing was taken at face value. But don’t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself. Observe, analyze, plan,
then
act. Every crevice of his mind searched for something he could grasp.

Sirens wailed in the distance as TK cut the car lights and pulled to a stop in the darkness of an alley at the back of a building. Warfield recognized the dimly lit logo on the delivery door as the East Island Winds Hotel where he checked in hours earlier. The hotel door opened but light rain had started to fall and the steam rising from the warm pavement made it difficult to make out the human figure silhouetted against the light inside. The car had not even stopped when Komeito jumped out, ran to the person at the door and got back in the car with a luggage bag. He told TK to go.

“If all right with you,” Komeito said, “we go to my
gensanchi
. Safe there.”

Warfield nodded. As they drove through the worst scramble of streets he could remember, the rain got heavier and the sounds of the sirens faded. TK had put distance between them and the Izumi—and Antonov’s dead body. Warfield tried to imagine the scene at the restaurant and knew the police would learn of his involvement with Antonov. Someone at the restaurant would describe the Western-looking man sitting with the victim and the authorities would learn Antonov was connected with Komeito, and Komeito with Warfield: He was with Komeito at the hotel front desk when he checked in. Being caught up in a police investigation would mean his and Komeito’s names and photos in the papers with Antonov’s, and that could alert Petrevich.

Petrevich of course was Warfield’s prime suspect in Antonov’s death. Antonov was a threat to him and his project, whatever that was.

Komeito listened to news on the radio and told Warfield they were announcing the discovery of a man found dead in the restroom at the Izumi.

When they reached Komeito’s home his face reflected the trauma of the last hour. Warfield wondered whether he himself looked as bad. He now demanded that Komeito explain what happened at the Izumi.

“First, Antonov waited outside the door while I checked out the toilet security. Opened all the stall doors. No one there, so Antonov goes in. I wait outside restroom for him. No one enters during that time. After he has been there too long I go in to check. Throat is cut. Head almost separated from body. Blood everywhere.” Komeito shook his head as he recounted the scene.

“God almighty!”
Warfield whispered.

“Hai! I cannot believe this has happened. It is my responsibility,” Komeito said, looking at the floor.

Warfield was puzzled. “But you said you checked it out first. How did the killer get in there, Komeito?”

Komeito shook his head. “Door to supply closet is standing open when I go back in to check on Antonov. Killer must have waited inside closet with door locked, and when someone enters he checks to see if it is Antonov. Closet locked when I go in before Antonov.”

“So the killer tracks Antonov there to the Izumi and waits for him in the supply closet, figuring Antonov is going to the john sooner or later. When he does, it’s his waterloo.”

Komeito shook his head. “Waterloo?”

“Means it was over for Antonov,” Warfield said, “but how the hell did the killer exit? You were standing at the door.”

“Window to outside. It is cranked open wide when I find Antonov.”

Warfield thought for a second. “Why the stop behind the hotel?”

“The man at hotel works for me sometimes. Trustworthy. He went to the general’s room and packed his things. That’s what he brought to the door.” Komeito gestured to the suitcase.

Warfield thought for a minute. “Tell me everything you and Antonov did before I got here.”

Komeito spent ten minutes describing when, where and what. When he finished, Warfield asked about Romi.

“Gaishou,
whore, as Antonov said. Took us to Tomodachi bath house. Antonov and Romi stayed there and Antonov sent me to meet you at airport. After I left you at hotel, I picked up Antonov and Romi at a bar near bath house.”

“You know her, Komeito?”

“Only few days, with general.”

Warfield opened Antonov’s travel bag from the hotel. There were the usual—slacks, shirts, underwear, toiletries—but a couple of things caught his attention. A leather notebook contained a five-by-seven black and white photograph of a man. “What’s this say?” Warfield said, referring to Cyrillic characters at the bottom of the photo.

“Ahh, Boris M. Petrevich. So now at least you know what your man looks like.”

The other item of interest to Warfield was a note pad from the East Island Winds Hotel. Antonov, or someone, had penciled two sets of numbers on it.

“First one is a phone number,” Komeito said.

The other was the number
8.6,
underlined twice. Komeito said it meant nothing to him.

“You will be staying in Tokyo?” Komeito asked, after they finished going through the bag.

Warfield nodded.

“I work with you if you want.”

Of course Warfield wanted to keep him around. He wanted to keep an eye on him. No one was eliminated as a suspect in Antonov’s death, at least not yet.

“Need a different car. Regular sedan that won’t be noticed.”

Komeito nodded.

“And check into a hotel. They’ll start looking for us. I’ll move to a different one under another name.”

“Okay.”

“You trust TK?”

“Yes. He drove for Antonov. Russian security clearance, like me.”

“You got a private voice-mailbox?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else have access to it?”

“No one.”

“Change the access code anyway. We’ll use that to communicate. No direct calls between us. I’ll need the phone number and code.” Both men were lost in their own thoughts for a few seconds. Then Warfield said, “Now let’s go to the Texas Saloon.”

On the drive to the Texas, Warfield went over what he knew, and every detail of what Komeito had said. When they got to the bar TK parked about a block away and Komeito suggested he and TK go in alone, as the Japanese bartender would be less inclined to open up to an outsider.

Warfield vetoed that. He wanted to see the bartender himself. Komeito could go with him.

It was after midnight when they walked in. The lounge was rather deep but relatively narrow from side to side, having a hardwood-covered section of the floor to the left, which adjoined the bar and separated it from an L-shaped carpeted area with tables on the right side and to the rear. It was empty except for a Conway Twitty song pouring from the jukebox and cigarette smoke that lingered in the air. And the bartender.

“Too late. Bar is closed,” the bartender said, without looking up from the cocktail glass he was washing.

Warfield had told Komeito to keep an eye on the back of the lounge and watch the door that connected to the Russian hangout in the rear. Warfield walked to the end of the long bar where the bartender was putting things in order to close for the night.
Tex-san
was sewn into the white shirt he was wearing, which was adorned with black pearl snaps instead of buttons. The Western hat he wore was too large for his face and despite his muscular build gave him a cartoon-like appearance.

“I said bar is closed.” His English wasn’t bad.

“How ’bout a beer? We’ll make it quick.” Warfield looked the place over. “Last time I was here it was crowded.”

“It happens,” Tex grunted, setting two drafts on the bar.

A set of steer horns hung above the back bar, and clusters of photos of cowboys in rodeo scenes covered the walls. A life-size cardboard cutout of a Japanese Marlboro Man stood near the end of the bar. The wood floor was finished to a high luster. Half way through his beer, Warfield made reference to a large blond-haired man he saw the last time he was in the place. He tried to sound casual. “Think he said something about an atomic bomb. Surprised anybody jokes about that here.”

The bartender put down the glass he was cleaning and looked at Warfield. “Funny,
gaijin
. I don’t remember seeing you here that night.”

“You were probably busy.”

Japanese don’t always make direct eye contact but Tex leaned on the bar and lasered into Warfield’s eyes.
“Kyomou!
You lie. I remember that night! Four people were here. Me, the drunk Russian, a woman and another man. You
not
here!” He sucked in a breath through yellow teeth and slammed both fists on the bar. “I do not know why you are here. Now leave!”

Warfield finished the last of the beer, pulled a bill out of his wallet and laid it on the bar. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me the name of that Russian before I go.”

“If you have a message for him, write it down. I do not think it will be very healthy for you, so please do that.”

“Note could get lost. I’ll wait here for awhile and see if he comes in.”

Tex erupted. “You don’t understand, gaijin. Bar is closed!” Tex palmed a knife he used behind the bar. When he reached with his free hand to pick up Warfield’s money, Warfield grabbed his arm with both hands and jerked him over the bar in a single motion. His hat and the knife flew free when Tex hit the floor. Warfield grabbed the knife and plunged it through the bartender’s hand, pinning it to the wood floor. It was over in three seconds.

Tex’s scream could have been heard back in the Moscow East where he may have had allies. Komeito stood guard at the connecting door while Warfield sat astraddle of Tex, his hand on his throat, as Tex answered his questions before passing out.

TK was waiting with the engine running. Warfield ordered him to drive to his hotel, and told Komeito Tex’s pained revelations as they rode: Snake-eyes—Ivan was his name—comes there on some Saturday nights. Tex heard him say he followed his boss to the Tomodachi Sento one evening and that he threatened to nuke the bath house, as Romi had said. He also said Snake-eyes shoots off his mouth all the time and Tex never knew when he was serious. Then there was something about pizza.

He turned to Komeito. “Know about Guido’s Pizza?”

“Hai. Guido’s. All over city.”

“Snake-eyes orders pizza brought to the Texas Saloon when he’s there.”

When they got back to the hotel vicinity, by then four hours after Antonov’s murder, police cars and other emergency vehicles jammed the streets.

Komeito decided he should go to the police. He was known at the Izumi and it would look suspicious if he dropped out of sight. He could tell the truth and the police would not hold him since they knew and trusted him. He would say Warfield was a guest of Antonov’s who remained at the dinner table the entire evening, and left the Izumi at Komeito’s insistence in the interest of safety. If the police needed Warfield or him they would be available. Warfield agreed, and told Komeito to leave him a voicemail message when he left the police station.