He wore a dark, slim-cut suit, knotted gold tie, and a pale blue shirt with silver cuff links. A whisper of gray touched the dreads at his temples, but he had an athletic build, and although he didn’t fall into any conventional idea of masculine beauty, Jessup thought he had an unfairly handsome face.

  To a rancher like Jessup, Randall was his exact opposite. People of the night, Jessup had always assumed, were bartenders and sporting women; gamblers, con artists, and gangsters; artists and newspapermen; people who had no one to go home to. Randall was an expat high-ranking executive at Golden Eagle Industries.

  The waiter brought a bottle of Glenfiddich and five tumblers. He arranged the glasses, poured a generous amount in each, set the bottle on the table, and walked away.

  Landau lifted his spectacles and stared at the bottle. “You’ve done your homework, Mr. Aubrey. I appreciate a man who makes an effort to acquire the essential details.”

  Randall smiled. And even though they were opposites, Jessup admired his panache.

  Randall said, “You’re an easy target to research, Salman. Declan Hughes sent me a file on you as thick as my…. Well, pretty thick. And please call me Randall.”

  “Thick as your what?” Jessup asked as he picked up a tumbler.

  Randall hesitated. “I was about to say thick as my arm, but that seemed like too drastic an exaggeration.”

  “Yes,” Jessup said, “from what I see, only President Harrington has a file that ample.”

  “For fuck sakes,” Patrick said, “you two have been totally eye-fucking each other since we sat down. Why do you people always make any situation so awkward?”

  “You people?” Vishal asked. “Which people would that be?”

  Patrick bristled. “This is family business, Vishal, so butt the fuck out.”

  “My relationship with Matt Reece makes me your—”

  “You are so not my brother. Matt Reece is eighteen, which makes you a pedophile, and I hate pedophiles.”

  “Matt Reece watched you pickpocket a man. You stole his wallet and raced off. After that, downhearted and desperate, he became suicidal. I was the only one he could turn to. I gave him the comfort he needed.”

  Jessup shot his son a hard stare.

  “That doesn’t make you any less guilty,” Patrick snapped.

  Vishal said, “Which proves you’re not only a petty thief, you’re also a moron.”

  “He’s no moron,” Jessup said. “He’s a moroff. You know, more off than on.” Jessup turned to Randall. “I’m so sorry, Randall. My son’s homophobic comment was directed solely at me, as you’ve done nothing inappropriate.” He turned to Vishal. “And I welcome you to this family, even if he doesn’t. I’m so grateful to you for having my son’s back when the rest of us failed him.”

  Jessup glanced at Patrick, and his face grew hard. “I’ve tried to instill the best manners, ideas, and morals into both my children, but at least one of them ignored me. It’s my fault, I grant you, although what I could have done different is a mystery to me.”

  Patrick’s eyes blazed, but he kept his mouth closed, for the moment.

  “No offense taken, Jessup,” Randall said with a wink, a slow stroke of his eyelash that told Jessup everything he wanted to know.

  “Tell you what,” Landau said, “no more bickering until I’ve enjoyed at least one scotch. My back is killing me, and I’m in no mood to hear any of this.” He lifted a plastic bottle from his jacket pocket, opened the tab, and shook out two pills. He popped them in his mouth and swallowed an impressive amount of scotch. He drank like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste. “How about some food? These pills will eat my gut raw if I take them on an empty stomach, which I just did.”

  Randall waved a hand at the waiter and spoke rapid-fire Japanese. The others lifted their glasses and drank without another word.

  As the scotch evened out everyone’s mood, Randall asked Landau why he assumed Kenji was returning to Japan.

  Landau described Kenji’s note, specifically, the comment about lightning never striking the same place twice. “You see, after the atomic bombs were dropped, I became convinced of what he meant in that note.”

  Randall lost his smile. “All this carnage, he planned it?”

  Landau nodded. “In the study of psychological trauma, one often discovers both human vulnerability and the capacity for evil in human nature. I’ve always found it strange how those two things go hand in hand.”

  The waiter appeared with a tray of plates, each one containing a turkey sandwich and french fries. Jessup expected bento boxes or noodle soup, and realized that his edgy mood was brought on partly due to hunger. He couldn’t wait to dig in.

  “He’s not a monster!” Patrick said as he picked up his sandwich. “He’s purging the world of weapons. It’s not his fault people are too stupid to see his vision.” He lifted the sandwich, ripped off a hunk, and chewed with force.

  Vishal said, “Tell that to the women and children in Tel Aviv.”

  “He didn’t order those nuclear strikes,” Patrick said through a mouth full of turkey.

  “Right, and Hitler never shoved people into the ovens,” Vishal said.

  “Kenji’s a hero!”

  “He’s a cold-blooded mass murderer,” Vishal said with equal force.

  “This squabbling is less than constructive,” Landau said, lifting his glass.

  “You’re betting a lot on a hunch,” Randall told Landau. “You have to admit, that’s pretty thin evidence.”

  Landau nibbled a french fry. “Firearms are illegal here, so only the police have them. And after World War II, Japan relies on the US for protection. Their own military is almost nonexistent. If we end up in global war, Japan won’t be attacked because it’s not a military threat. When all the other industrial nations have decimated each other, Japan will arise as the world’s industrial leader, dominating all nations for the next thousand years.”

  “That was in Kenji’s note,” Jessup said. “He wrote, ‘the meek are about to inherit the earth.’”

  “I grant you the numbers add up,” Randall said, “but there is still a hidden X in this equation, and that is motive. From what you tell me, he must be reasonably sane. So what would prompt him to engineer a world war?”

  “Keep in mind he grew up with the horror of the postatomic blast. He saw his loved ones, the ones who survived, being routed by radiation sickness. Imagine being raised in a place of nothing but death and sorrow. Based on the profile that we compiled, I think something evil has been growing within his psyche over the last seventy years, something rising out of primal despair. It grew out of Japan’s bloody past, and then its domination by Western powers. Perhaps he sees himself as a nemesis to Western nations, galvanized to address all of the accumulated wrongs suffered by his people.”

  “A madman obsessed with vengeance? You’re grasping at straws,” Randall said.

  Landau poured himself three fingers and lifted his glass. “Kenji has suffered great spiritual anguish, an utter wrenching of his soul. I believe, once he stumbled onto this breakthrough, he realized a way to make others share his anguish.”

  Randall looked unconvinced.

  “He’s brought great torment to the West. If we can agree that he planned this, then the only logical motive, the one playing out, is revenge.” Landau downed his drink and placed the glass on the table. “Sure, it’s a long shot, but it’s all we have to go on.”

  Randall held up his hands in a motion of surrender. “Okay. I’m not convinced, but I’ll help in any way I can.” He glanced at Jessup. “Just let me know what you need.”

  There was no denying Randall held an internal power. His way of facing the world was upright and open. Although he was only slightly older than Jessup, he listened and spoke with an intense directness of a man twice his age. It was unnerving and uplifting.

  “We assume he’ll arrive by sailboat,” Landau said. “We need to initiate a search around Hiroshima, and we need to keep it to ourselves. We don’t want any governments knowing what we’re doing. If they think he’s here, lightning could strike twice.”

  “Our own government too?” Randall said. “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”

  Landau said, “Kenji will be armed. We’re confident he’s already murdered at least two people. We’ll need a way to defend ourselves. I couldn’t bring my handgun through customs. Is it possible to acquire weapons here?”

  “There’s a black market for everything,” Randall said, “but it’s hush-hush and very expensive. And we draw firearms only in a life-threatening situation.”

  “What will the law do to us if they catch us with guns?” Jessup asked.

  Randall smiled. “It’s better to know the judge than to trust the law. I have contacts at the highest levels to get us out of anything short of murdering Emperor Akihito.”

  After a leisurely meal and a third round of drinks, they hurried to catch the 1:30 a.m. train. The doors closed, and the train moved as they found their seats. As they came out of the station, Jessup saw the glow of that vast city. He felt engulfed by it. He was a stranger in a country where everyone spoke only Japanese. He couldn’t even read the signs in the train station. How the hell was he supposed to find Matt Reece in this alien land?

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “THIS HAOLE’S too scrawny to work,” the ferret told the captain. “Feed him to the cats and be done with him.” Matt Reece followed the ferret’s gaze to a line of cages holding big game cats—three Bengal tigers, a half-dozen lions, and a pair of cheetahs.

  He assumed the ferret was pulling his chain, but he wasn’t sure. The other sensation he felt was astonishment at all these exotic animals. Not only cats, but elephants, zebras, giraffes, buffalos (African, Asian, and North American varieties), and cages crammed with monkeys, baboons, and mountain gorillas. Someone was creating an impressive zoo. Were they hoping to expand tourism? If so, they had a strange way of going about it.

  The ferret drove his rifle butt into his back, and it caused a different pain than the rough ride into port or the humiliation of standing exposed. This pain awakened that stronger person—that part of himself brave enough to fight Kenji, to shotgun blast Nirvana’s sails. It was a core of strength buried deep, obscured and hidden all these years. This rifle in his back, this naked humiliation, caused an inner warfare to flare, and a new, almost lunatic-sounding inner voice clamored for retribution. It wanted to hurt these people, and most of all it wanted to punish Kenji for bringing him here. This new lunatic voice was something separate—a new persona. He thought of it as Kirby, the creature Kenji invented in him. Kirby felt like a beam of coherent, homochromatic light lasering from within his head. No warmth in it, only cold rage.

  This new identity didn’t feel like a rite of passage into manhood, but rather, like being freshly born into this new world. He tried to quell this force, but he sensed Kirby’s embryonic power, and it terrified him. The ferret shoved the rifle in his back with more vigor, and before Matt Reece could stop himself, he turned and heaved the man away from him. It happened so fast and the man was so surprised, he couldn’t move his feet back fast enough, and he toppled over.

  Matt Reece’s mouth went dry as the soldiers around him lapsed into silence. There was a sense of rage from everyone, held poorly in check and ready to be unleashed.

  As the ferret rose, the sound of pounding hooves caught Matt Reece’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder. A column of riders appeared at the margin of the jungle. Five horses thundered toward the docks. A woman—she seemed more like an ethereal shadow—with dark hair flying behind her rode the lead horse, a chestnut-colored Holsteiner. She wore military pants, combat boots, black tank top, Cochise headband, and something more—an inflexible, aggressive challenge that was underscored by the automatic weapon slung across her back and the ice-blue-mirrored shades hiding her eyes. The horses pulled up to a stop, and the riders slid off their mounts.

  In the late-morning glare, the riders floated across the earth like spirits, vaporous and unreal. Indeed, they seemed to glide without moving their limbs. The others held back, but the woman with mirrored eyes came close enough for Matt Reece to see her features.

  She was near Patrick’s age, carried an AR-15, a Glock sidearm holstered to her waist, and wore bandoleers that held ammo clips crossing her chest. She was dark-skinned with lean arm muscles hard as green fruit. She ripped off her glasses to give him a once-over. Her face looked boyish—protruding nose, full lips, and emotional eyes that were blue and slightly crossed, giving her a sweet, ever-questioning air—yet her ensemble made her look lethal. She swung her rifle into her arms, cradling it loosely.

  He saw his reflection in her naked eyes. It was utterly strange, with all that was happening, that he should notice his image imprinted on each pupil. He stood twinned in those orbs of blue, and for a moment he could think of nothing else. He sensed her desire to touch him and her powerlessness to do so in front of the soldiers. He wore nothing but skin over emaciated muscles, which now that he was in the midst of these troops, seemed pitifully inadequate, even laughable. He felt himself blush under her gaze.

  “So you thought you’d be safe here?” The words seemed harmless, but her tone made him think she had stainless steel balls. “Thousands of miles of water in every direction makes us an outpost to hide in while the world self-destructs. Well, you assumed wrong, you haole shit. We don’t take kindly to white trash coming to take what’s ours.”

  Right then he didn’t much care about the world or this island, and he didn’t give a fig about this woman with mirrored eyes and steel balls. He glanced beyond her. The four men she rode with were all dark-skinned, in their twenties, shirtless, and had middleweight-boxer’s builds. They wore military fatigue pants with the same Cochise wrap across their foreheads, and they were as heavily armed as the woman. They seemed a different breed from the other soldiers. He assumed they were native Hawaiian and members of an elite forces unit.

  He was grateful that over the weeks he spent aboard the Valhalla, the henna dye had faded, and so did his green tint. His skin was now bronzed, and his hair had grown to a comfortable length. Another week of sun and he would be as dark as this woman. He tried to make himself be understood while talking with the flash drive still pressed between his teeth and cheek. “All I want,” he said with a raspy voice, “is a spot of shade to sit and rest.”

  “When’s the last time you had a meal?” the captain asked. His tone and manner seemed to soften, yet the ferret’s rifle was once again jabbing his spine.

  Matt Reece shrugged. “Weeks. I can only guess how many. I don’t know what day it is.” He looked into the captain’s eyes, hoping for a bit of sympathy.

  Nothing.

  “You have to work if you want to eat. What can you do to earn your keep?”

  “Horse wrangler. I ride as well as any man.” He glanced at the woman. “Or lady.”

  “Oooo weee,” she said with a snicker. “Damn, boys, we got ourselves a genuine John Wayne who wants to halter break an island filly.”

  She held Matt Reece’s stare. He found it strange they had yet to ask his name or where he came from, and he decided they already knew. News reports about him and Kenji must have reached the island.

  The captain smiled. “Don’t get your hopes up, cowboy. She’s the Boss Man’s bastard, and nobody’s cinched a saddle on her rump yet.”

  The men standing around guffawed, but there was no humor in the sound. That’s when he knew there were old alliances here, a pecking order well established. This woman was royalty; the elite soldiers with her were knights. The captain seemed priestly. The rest—including the ferret—were court squires fighting for the princess’s favor.

  “That’s because she’s more stallion than any of you,” he said.

  A shove from behind sent him sprawling onto rough wood planks. Reflexes took over and he rolled onto his back as the ferret stepped over him. He cocked a leg and sent a foot flying into the ferret’s crotch. The man doubled over, groaning a sound that was more outrage than pain. When he straightened up, he dropped his rifle and pulled a bowie knife from the scabbard strapped to his belt.

  The ferret leaped on him, straddling his chest. He swayed a foot above Matt Reece, his knife pointed at the heart. Matt Reece gripped the ferret’s wrist with both hands, trying to push the blade away, but the knife inched downward. “No,” Matt Reece said in a thin voice. Matt Reece’s head spun, and he felt himself blacking out. He gasped for breath.

  “Freeze!” The woman stepped forward, clicking off the safety on her weapon. She pressed the barrel to the ferret’s temple.

  The knife raised an inch.

  The ferret swiveled his head until he looked at her with his ratlike eyes. “Back off, girly. This haole mahu attacked me. I have a right to gut this bitch like a tuna.”

  She didn’t flinch. “That’d be problematic with a 9-millimeter bullet in your brain.”

  “Captain wouldn’t like that,” he croaked, nodding to the captain.

  The captain seemed to enjoy this little drama and made no move to intrude.

  “You’re betting your life on whether I give two shits what this buffoon likes?”

  The captain’s smile faded.

  The ferret glanced at his rifle lying a few feet from him.

  “I’m not that slow,” she said, “and you’re not that lucky.”

  The ferret scrambled to his feet and slipped his knife back into its scabbard.

  Matt Reece regained his feet. His head spun from relief and exhaustion. He was rather surprised to still be alive. Everyone but the woman visibly wanted the fight to continue, which made him queasy. He would not fight. He knew this with calm certainty, in the same way one knows the depth of one’s own soul.

  “Haole and mahu, what does that mean?” Matt Reece asked.

  “Haole is a non-Hawaiian,” the captain said. “Mahu means faggot.”