Chapter 23: An Easterly Wind Blows

Lord Thornbow leaned back; the leather desk chair squeaked slightly as he did so. Mr. Patel stood to the right of his boss's desk, facing the visitor, his eyes had a distracted look about them, but his ears taking in all.

"I might have a way, but," the supplicant began, his accent thick, but Thornbow cut him off mid-sentence.

"I am wholly uninterested in 'mights, ' Takuya-san. Have you, or have you not?"

The visitor hesitated, and shuddered slightly, either in fear of his host or his proposed solution, he knew not. "Hai. Y-yes." He nodded, his body language communicating that he was pulling out the last resort option, an option he would sooner not have to use. It was not too late, he mused, though if he continued on this course, the point of no return was imminent Mr. Patel excused himself to the small private office just off that of his Lordship's. The smaller room was wired for sound, so he would be able to hear the offer without Takuya knowing. His choice was now made. There was no turning back.

As the Japanese visitor handed over a folder he pleaded with Lord Thornbow, "In exchange for this you must promise me two things. I must regain complete control of my family, and," dropping his voice to a whisper, "He must die, he must--this I demand."

Thornbow slowly turned the pages in the folder, moistening his the tip of his index finger as he did so to facilitate the action. He did not answer until he had completed the dossier. As he closed the folder he deigned to answer. "Agreed, but you must leave the artifact with me."

Takuya opened his attaché case and removed a small chamois bag with a drawstring at the top and handed it across the desk to Lord Thornbow, who opened it and removed a piece of mineral greatly resembling obsidian, about the size of a child's fist. Oblong, tapering to the end to form a blunted point, the dark glass-like substance seemed to have a luster to it belying its black hue. Lord Thornbow noted that it was surprisingly warm to the touch.

"When she has completed the task for me, when delivery is made, I will return this to you, and not before. Then he will die. The control of your family will once again be yours. I need not say, Takuya-san, that I am a man of my word."

"No, indeed, Your Lordship, you need not," was the answer the Japanese visitor gave as he stood and then bowed formally.

Mr. Patel returned and showed the visitor to the door.

It was a hot day in the concrete jungle that is Manhattan. Alan waited on the stoop in the early morning, the contractor due to arrive at any moment. A few minutes before nine Wilkins arrived, his briefcase bulging. The closing on the house, a medium-sized single-family brownstone in the West Nineties, just west of Amsterdam Avenue, had taken place at Wilkins's office the Friday before, and Jack would be arriving in two days, renting an apartment on a short-term basis at the Apthorp until the renovation and modifications were complete. Alan was glad to see Stan, because he himself did not have a set of keys with which to allow the workers to enter.

Wilkins pressed Alan about coming into the office one day over the coming week. "It's a feeding frenzy! The amount of money just laying around is enormous. I've talked to Bernard, and he thinks this contract could just about equal all of the work the company has ever done, in pure dollar amounts." The chaos in Iraq, specifically the looting of the National Museum and Library had necessitated the U.S. government to put out a request for bids for contractors to coordinate the restoration of the collections, including recataloging all of the recovered items, and a setting up of a system, in conjunction with Interpol, for tracking the illicit trade in looted artifacts. "We're talking low eight figures, Alan. We need to set up a conference call with Rome, us, and Neil. We need Neil back here, or at the very least, in Rome. We need to hire a lobbyist, someone who knows who has the juice in Washington, and most importantly we need Jack to get in on this. He has the most knowledge."

"Yeah, totally," Alan put in, trying to stanch the lawyer's over enthusiasm. "I'll talk to him when he gets in. Pencil in Thursday or Friday, but I'll let you know." He checked his watch, worried about the parking meter and missing Kate's flight. "It's a good thing Jack can travel so soon," he added absently, as he bid a good day to his attorney, and headed to his car.

Kate's flight was late, so he bought a coffee from a stand in the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia. She had taken off from a small airport in Maine, and then transferred to the shuttle in Boston. When the flight arrived, only about ten minutes late, Alan watched the stream of passengers as they came out, but Kate was one of the last off the plane.

"Am I ever happy to be home," she said wearily as they made their way to out of the terminal.

At first glance she looked good. Alan had never really seen her with a tan, but even her near-religious application of sun block during her canoe trips in Maine had not prevented Kate's usually porcelain from bronzing. She was wearing a halter top tucked into khaki shorts, and sandals. Her upper body was toned, real definition to her arms, but her belt was cinched tight. Alan could tell she had lost weight, and she looked over-thin. They kissed in the terminal, the commuters averting their eyes to their wet reunion, and he took her duffel bag and led her to the car.

"What are you doing?" he asked with alarm as she began unbuckling his belt, leaning over his groin to better see what she was doing.

"You have to ask?" she giggled.

He grasped her by the shoulders and put her back in her seat. "Not here," he said with a grin. "Patience," he counseled, pulling out of the lot and steering the car towards the Grand Central Parkway.

The ride back to their hometown was fast due to the lull in heavy traffic common at midday. Kate filled him in on the going on of her summer.

"Well, for a pilot project, it went really well. We had three groups of girls, and each group spent a week in the canoes, and then three days doing life skill building exercises. This summer we put through thirty girls in three groups in forty-five days. Next summer I want to double that, so I'm going to start drafting grant proposals for next year right away."

"Isn't it your dad who hands out the grant money?" he asked with a smirk, not taking his eyes off the road so she couldn't see the expression on his face.

"Yeah," she admitted, "But don't forget, there's still all the committees each proposal has to pass, and then the board of directors."

"Yes, the board of directors. Your aunts and uncles. Cousins. Your brother Cal. Your dad's old college roommate."

"It still has to be a good proposal," she sniffed.

"Are you going to do it yourself, or get professional help?"

"I'm thinking that if I can squeeze the money out of the foundation I'll hire a full- or part-time employee. Something to talk to my dad about. Someone t handle all of the organizational stuff, and the proposal writing, and I'll just supervise and participate in the summer programs."

"Cool. It's nice to see you getting into something like this."

Michiko did not understand why the abbot of her monastery wanted to see her. A novice, a boy of twelve or thirteen, had interrupted her in the midst of her morning meditations, not at all a happenstance occurrence, handing her a small square of rice paper with the message upon it. Straightening her robes as she stood, she followed the boy through the hewn-stone passageways to the central courtyard. The novice stopped in place as she crossed the open area to the opposite side, towards the abbot's office, not following her along.

She scanned the boy's mind as they parted, hoping for a clue as to the nature of this unusual summons. She had lived at this holy place near the northern end of Hokkaido almost half her life, rarely even leaving its walls. Now twenty years of age, at first a novice, then a student, and now a Mistress of the Art, a teacher of others; the last nine years had been spent honing her skills, deepening her abilities. Sadly, however, her sweep through the mind of the young messenger told her nothing. It was, of course a breach of protocol for her to even probe him at all, but he was new, unskilled in the Art, and would know nothing of her trespass. She was only slightly worried that the abbot would learn of her bad manners; he himself had recently told her that her own skills surpassed his, implying that at his retirement he planned to push for her to succeed him, to become the abbess. As she reached the entrance to the abbot's place she put her worries behind her, confident she could suppress within her the act she had just committed from his ken.

The door to the abbot's office stood before her, a door made entirely of wood, not a nail or any other metal a part of it. Even the hinges were of wood. The ritual upon entering his office was simple. One did not knock, but merely pulled the door and entered. There was a small stand holding a candle, and the visitor lit the candle, which illuminated the anteroom. The anteroom was separated from the main room by a rice paper screen, and the abbot would know the visitor had arrived by seeing the light from the opposite side of the screen. Michiko did this, and then knelt. Mere seconds passed before the abbot bade her to enter.

"Much of what I am about to explain to you, young mistress, will not seem to make any sense to you, but listen you must nonetheless."

She nodded.

He continued: "From time to time masters and mistresses are required to do service outside these walls. Often in the past, young one, these tasks have been distasteful, perversions of our code. Service to the Empire, to the emperor himself, made demands on our order, demands we would have been happier not to undertake. Gladly, those days have passed.

The abbot reached for a small glass of water on the table between them, and Michiko did likewise.

"I regret to inform you that your services are needed, needed outside the confines of our monastery."

A loud knock on the outer door interrupted him, startling them both. The abbot closed his eyes, frustration and dread upon his face. "Enter," he sighed. The new party opened the door and pulled the screen open without invitation. The man who intruded was big, especially for a Japanese, more than six feet tall. He wore a black Western-style suit, a white shirt with solid black necktie, but what caught her eye the most was the collar. Not the collar itself, but what was peeking out from the top of it. She saw the edge of a lick of flames, brilliantly inked into the man's skin.

Yakuza.

A gangster. The last sort of outsider she had ever expected to contaminate the purity of this place.

"This man," the abbot said, not bothering with proper introductions, "Will inform you of your task."

The gangster grunted, at which the abbot blanched.

"If you would be so kind," the abbot said to the Yakuza, gesturing to the door, but the man failed to budge. His mission orders were explicit: once in sight of the mistress he was not to leave her side until she was delivered to Tokyo.

<You must follow him, Mistress Michiko. The future of our order depends upon the success of your mission.> the abbot projected.

<Why, Abbot, why?>

<I wish there was more time to explain, young mistress, but this barbarian arrived sooner than I had expected. The stone has been stolen, held for ransom by this man's obuyan. It will be returned if you complete the task. I do not have to tell you what this means for our order. Go with him.>

She bowed to her abbot and followed the man out. In the car to the airfield she scanned the gangster's mind, finding no information contained therein the slightest bit helpful.

When Alan and Kate arrived at her house they found it empty. Conchita, the family maid, was on a long vacation, Pauline was at her job, as was her dad. The question her mom's whereabouts were solved by a note left on the kitchen table.

"Hi Kate,

Welcome home. Sorry I'm not here to see you, but Aunt Vicky fell in her apartment. We think it's her hip, and I'm at NYU Medical Center dealing with the doctors. You can reach me on my cell if you need to.

Love,

Mom"

"Who's Aunt Vicky?" Alan asked, reading the note over her shoulder.

"Not my aunt, my mom's aunt. She's like really old, eightysomething."

"Oh yeah, I think I met her at Pauline's sweet sixteen."

"Probably. You know what this means? We have the house to ourselves." She took his hand and led him to the stairs, but they were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was a steady BEEP BEEP BEEP, rather than its usual trilling ring, signifying that this was a call coming in on the secure line. Alan released her hand and answered the call.

"Sorry about this, I have to take this call," he said to her as he brought the phone up to his ear.

"Alan?"

"Yes, Karick, it's me."

"I'm back in New York, at the office. You have to come in. Now."

"Now?" he asked with some exasperation. He was really looking forward to some alone time with Kate.

"Yes, it's imperative. Are you at home?"

"No, at my girlfriend's."

"Good. Do not go back to your house." Karick hung up.

Slightly puzzled, Alan pocketed his own phone and shrugged his shoulders as a form of apology to Kate. She had heard his side of the conversation, so he didn't need to explain. "I'll see you later," he said as he kissed her cheek at the door.

Karick had called immediately after he had cleared customs at JFK, and his cab reached the entrance of the office building just as Alan was walking up.

"What's the big deal?" Alan asked as they entered the building. Karick put his finger to his lips and whispered that he wanted to wait until they were behind closed doors. Locking the door behind them the former Czech intelligence agent rushed to the computer in the corner and booted it up.

"So?" Alan asked again.

"The team in London. They've spotted him. He's moving. Coming here. The Indian, Patel." Karick often spoke like this when he was excited or anxious, spitting out short sentences in machine-gun fashion. He beckoned Alan over and tilted the screen. A slideshow of surveillance pictures was running, the first showing Patel, the man who had arranged Alan's kidnapping last Thanksgiving weekend (which Karick had carried out), leaving a Belgravia mansion in a black car. Karick's London team had trailed the car to Heathrow, calling him on the way, and Karick had grabbed the next flight. It was the first time the London team had spotted Lord Thornbow's right hand man since last year.

"Where is he now?"

"The Marriott in midtown. I have a small group watching the hotel."

Alan understood why his summons had been so urgent. Patel meant trouble. "So what now? I can't go home?"

"No, I have a team headed up to your place right this moment. I needed you here, and not there, to give them time to get settled."

The phone on the desk started to ring, and Alan answered. It was Jack, calling from London.

"Sorry to put a bit of a scare into you, young man, but Tadeusz and I discussed it, and we decided that his place was next to you, for the moment."

"No, no, it's cool. I understand. When are you coming in?"

"Two days from now, and a good thing, too. I think I'll be needed. When my step-brother makes his move through this Patel fellow he will be in for quite a surprise. I don't think they reckoned they were going to face two Vessels, as opposed to just you." He bade his good-byes and hung up. Five minutes later Karick's team called in to say they were in place. Alan agreed to lend his car to Karick for a few days. It was better that way, anyway, since Thornbow's people undoubtedly knew of his, and he could always borrow either his mom's or dad's.

"Be careful," Karick said as Alan walked out into the hall. The door to the office clicked shut behind him.

The burly gangster said nothing to her on the drive to the airfield, instead concentrating on the road. To her surprise, upon leaving the abbot's office, she saw that her belongings had been packed into a small suitcase, her sword in its scabbard placed neatly to the side.

A small private plane was waiting on the field's lone runway, its engines already turning, and they boarded forthwith. Thankfully, from her point of view, the gangster (his name Kozo, a fact he had not volunteered, she had to steal it from his mind) took the seat farthest from hers. Without having anything better to do with her time she leaned back in the plush seat and slept. Danger would come to her, she knew, but it was on a distant horizon; Kozo, though dangerous, was not the slightest danger to her.