“Joe, get over here.”

  Joe Dickwell had witnessed the reunion of the father and daughter from a distance. No desire to intrude.

  “Jesus, you’re unsociable.”

  Kelley, exalting in her ability to make Joe uncomfortable. Another one of the inherited sins of the father. No chance for maudlin reminiscing. Not with Kelley Bronsan about. Live life to its fullest. Today is all we have. Her sermon on the flight.

  “Meet my old man. Don’t worry, he’s had his shots.”

  The grimace from Dan noticeable even from a distance. Joe filing this. Unless you were his daughter, Dan Bronsan would be laughed at only at one’s extreme peril.

  “An honor to meet you, Mr. Bronsan. Your daughter has spoken very well of you.”

  Dan the gruff handshake. Kelley interrupting before the salutations could be completed.

  “Ask him what his last name is, Dad.”

  “Jeez, Kelley.”

  Departing from the intended “Jesus” as he remembered Kelley’s description of her sainted father. Never diss the Catholic Church, and never take the Lord’s name in vain.

  “I actually have an Old English name, sir.”

  Kelley breaking up again out of view from her father. Joe seeing her.

  Turning red.

  “English, aye. Spent some time there in my day. I’ve got a bit of the bard in me, don’t you know.” Zelig coming out again. The old Woody Allen movie. Dan the chameleon. Becoming whoever he was around. The ultimate people-pleaser.

  “Well what is it, my boy?”

  “Dickwell, sir.”

  Kelley thought she would pee in her pants.

  “Yes, sir. From the Old English.”

  Dan, still oblivious.

  “I believe that ‘Dickel’ is actually the common variation of the name. You’ve heard of the whiskey George Dickel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe, breathing easier. Dan either entirely ignorant to what was going on or purposely casting a blind eye to his daughter’s impetuousness.

  “In any case, a good English name. A pleasure to meet you, son.”

  Kelley with mixed emotions that the storm she had created had been weathered. She liked Joe very much and didn’t want to hurt him, but there was a big part of her that wanted to push him away. Her survival instinct she supposed.

  “Here on business or pleasure, Joe?”

  “Actually a little of both, sir.”

  “Call me Dan.”

  “Sure, Dan. I’ll be teaching English in the Ebisu area for Berlitz. It’s a one-year contract with an option to extend. I’m really excited about it.”

  “Another English teacher. Just what we need.” Under his breath but heard by Kelley.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, yes you should have a great experience.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Actually, Berlitz has put me up in an apartment in Ebisu. I think this is my shuttle right now.”

  Looking at Kelley. A look of encouragement. Seeing something there but not really able to nail it.

  “I’ll be at the Sanno in Hiroo. Give me a call if you get sick of explaining idioms to cute little Japanese girls.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Yea, he’s all right.”

  As they drove towards Hiroo, Dan thinking that despite all of his daughter’s wonderful traits, she would never win any Academy Awards for acting.

  Joe Dickwell had definitely lit the flame.

  34

  “That Jap bastard!”

  Adam Welsh sitting at the Sanno Hotel bar. Thoughts of the altercation in the cave come and go. Third Jack Daniels of the night. The daughter of John Barleycorn delivering them as fast as he could drink them. A Thursday night. Unusual even for Adam Welsh.

  If Adam had his way, he would never see the States again. At least not California. Maybe New York. A few visits to Mom every year. That would be it though. Settle here in Tokyo or the Philippines. Wherever he could work. Always wanted to write. Needed to get off the booze though. Time to go back to the meetings. First another drink.

  The last few days a blur, yet so final. Rose, Art both gone. Adam staring over at Art’s old seat. Countless conversations over the last few years. Art the father Adam never really had. Davey Welsh never really present. “Present,” a word the therapist would use. Adam almost chuckling over this now. True enough though. Davey Welsh, the “Don Quixote of Long Island.” Tilting at windmills with John Barleycorn, his Sancho Panza.

  “Adam. Things are going to change. Getting out of this dump. Moving to…” (fill in the blank here – the destination changing every week.)The main thing was to move. The geographic as the therapists would point out. Problem was, wherever Davey went, there was Davey. Change needed to be made from within, and the poor bastard was too godamn scared to go inside. Joyce, the loving, loyal wife staying till the end. Mixed feelings here from Adam. The shrinks would probably say that he blamed his blessed mother. Mom at church daily. Front row. Lighting the candles. Five decades on the Rosary.

  “Another Jack Daniels, Adam San?”

  Daughter of John Barleycorn this day disguised as a modern day geisha. Chiyo, the barmaid smiling at him now. Cute girl. He had asked her out numerous times after the obligatory nine or ten shots. She’d actually accepted once. A night of Roppongi bar-hopping ensuing with poor Chiyo ending up praying to the porcelain god at a restroom in McDonalds. The price one paid for attempting to match drinks with an alcoholic with the tolerance level unique to the last stages of the disease. Somehow she had gotten home in a taxi. No help from Adam who was busy chatting up an oversized belt buckle that belonged to a female member of the Medellin Cartel. The buckle coming perilously close to his face in response to a rather obnoxious and lewd retort. One of Adam’s failings with the ladies. Small talk more often than not tending to go from “What’s your name?” to “Let’s fuck” in a nanosecond. Amazing how it worked with the Japanese girls. Not so with this weathered Latina veteran of the sex wars who, if Adam had only known the backstory, so to speak, would make most of Adam’s one-night stands look like Newport debutantes. The five African-American semi-professional basketball players present were more than happy to come to “Eva Peron’s” defense, one with a glancing blow to Adam’s balls. The rest accelerating his departure from the Motown bar with a few shoves down a flight of stairs and out the door and into the street. Adam having none of this. A stable person would have flagged down the first taxi and returned to the hotel to sleep it off. Adam, accused of many things but stable not one of them. Getting up. Dusting off and heading directly to the Roppongi Police Station. Adam’s disheveled, bloody, drunken entrance into the station being met with the same reception as perhaps another atom bomb drop. Let the gaijins kill each other for all they cared. Adam adamant. Finally the decidedly unenthusiastic police suiting up in riot gear and following Adam back to the Motown. The tall gaijin Ichabod Crane on acid, leading the munchkin-like police to do battle with Eva Peron and her mercenary “Watusis.” Eva and the Watusis still there when Adam and his entourage arrived.

  “God-damn, he brought the Five-0,” emanating from the would-be “Nutcracker.” The crowd jeering. Screaming at Adam.

  “His fault! He started it!”

  The crescendo deafening.

  Adam beside himself with rage. Incredulous. The eternal victim mode snapped on in Adam.

  Back to the station. Riot gear clad munchkins, Ichabod, Eva and the enraged Watusis in tow. Eva muttering something in Spanish alluding to Adam’s future as a eunuch.

  “Why did you have to go and get Five-0!?”

  The Nutcracker and then, “Man you shouldn’t drink!”

  Adam never forgetting this one.

  Dropping the charges. No doubt influenced by Eva’s castration comments and numerous death threats from the Watusis. Ignoring the recommendation of the munchkins to return to his hotel. Staggering down the road a few hours later.

  “There he is!”

  The Watusis on him in an instant. Lucky for Adam, better with a jump shot than a roundhouse. A few scuffs and bruises. Pride suffering the worst. He called Keiko. Keiko whom he had stood up coming to his rescue nonetheless. Listening to his pathetic commentary.

  Soon after she had disappeared.

  35

  The office of the United States Naval Investigative Service was located in the basement of the Hardy Army barracks in Hiroo, Japan, a section of Tokyo. It would perhaps seem strange to the layman for the Navy to be cohabitating with the Army, but this was the age of the new military. The Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines not so much fighting forces as such but slickly advertised conglomerates competing with Fortune 500 companies for the services of the youth of America. The military looked at by many as a vehicle for further training and college funds. A bridge to the eventual “real job.”

  Lt. Joe Dickwell, USNR, flashed a bemused smile as these thoughts ran through his head as he approached the check-in desk or rather the quarter deck to put it more accurately. Even ashore the Navy still the Navy. Thank God that had not changed yet, he thought.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  “Lt Dickwell, here to see Commander Blasingame.”

  A slight pause and the Navy enlisted woman on duty had won the internal battle that pretty much everyone that had ever been introduced to Joe Dickwell had to fight. The burst of laughter repressed.

  Good for her.

  “Please follow me, sir.”

  “Joe, great to see ya! How was the flight? You didn’t get stuck with an old Air Force pilot did ya? Those wingnuts bore me to tears! Can always tell the Navy Comair pilots though. Landing just like a carrier trap. Love it. Gets the juices flowing. Might as well turn the Muzak on when the wingnuts bring it in. Shit though, I guess we need ‘em.”

  Commander Steve Blasingame got up from behind the large oaken desk in the Naval Investigative Services C.O.’s office and shook Joe’s hand firmly. It was a wonder he was even able to rise at all from the chair given the seemingly endless array of battle ribbons he carried on his broad chest. Diminutive in stature but not to be underestimated. Joe knew that many a taller man had made that mistake and paid a painful price. The nickname “Bulldog Blasingame,” an appropriate moniker.

  “Great flight, sir. Thank you for asking. You’re looking fit if I may say so. Shore duty seems to appeal to you.”

  “You may suck my…”

  Trailing off. The female Third Class Petty Officer within earshot. Admirals had been forced into early retirement for less. The new Navy-Post Tailhook version.

  “Belay that. Whatever. Yea, I love it here, Joe. Believe that and I’ll tell you that Clinton is a great Commander in Chief.”

  “Yes, sir, underway the only way.”

  “Aye. Let’s cut to the chase, Joe. What did they brief you on in Washington before you left? The office is secure. No worries.”

  “Well, sir, I was told that the subway attack that killed the American woman was orchestrated by a Japanese terrorist organization.”

  “Do you know anybody here in Tokyo, Joe?”

  Thinking about Kelley now. The “teaching job” cover story. What if I run into her?

  “No one, sir.”

  “How about on the plane over? Meet anybody? Small talk. You know, eleven or twelve hours. God, I’d have to talk to somebody.”

  “Actually there was a girl, sir. We spoke a good part of the trip.”

  “What’s she doing here? Business? Pleasure?”

  “Pleasure, sir. Her father’s an ex-pat. Works for Svenson Telecommunications, Japan. She’s staying at the Sanno Hotel, I believe.”

  “Jesus, that’s about a stone’s throw from here.”

  “I told her I was here to teach English in Ebisu.”

  Blasingame paused for moment. Satisfied.

  “Okay. This is the deal, Joe. The consensus among the spook types is that the death of the American woman was just a taste. A precursor. We have reason to believe that a shipment of sarin gas is right here in Tokyo.”

  “How? From where?”

  “Possibly a mole inside one of the American bases. More than likely, Yokosuka. We’ve got some real good leads now, but time is against us. N.S.A. and Japanese Intelligence seem to think that the next strike will be very soon. Possibly a few days from now. Aum knows that the gas can’t be hidden for an extended period. Joe, you’re here because you know what that shit can do. What it has done.”

  The horrible image suddenly appearing from some deep recess in Joe’s brain. Grotesquely disfigured human beings. Picasso’s Guernica in all its horror. Not on a canvass now. There in the Kurd village. Saddam testing the horrible gas on his own people. An entire village wiped out by the sarin. The children the worst. Miniature hellions in death. CNN not covering this. The American government zipping it up like it was Area 51. The widespread panic that would have ensued had anyone known just exactly what this horrible agent could do. An entire village of Kurds. Over five thousand human beings annihilated by little more than a cupful of the sarin pellets.

  “We believe the stuff is being staged somewhere on or near Yokosuka Naval Base. Our investigation is focused on a ‘Jack Bender,’ retired Navy, ET1 type. Here’s his file.”

  Jack, looking up at Joe from the inside page of the Naval Investigative Service report. Unassuming. Docile even. Like someone’s favorite uncle. Something behind those eyes though. Joe thinking of old pictures of Ted Bundy for some reason. Not the physical resemblance of course. Bundy much younger. That thing behind the eyes though. Something lurking there. Waiting to pounce.

  “Why don’t we just pick him up?”

  Joe, wanting to pull the words right back into his mouth but too late. Jet lag must be still with him. Had to be. Of course they couldn’t take Jack Bender down. That would be suicide. As soon as they brought him in, the Cult would let loose the sarin that they had and promptly wipe out God knows how many innocents before anyone could do anything about it. Cult members dying themselves. A glorious death. The way they’d want it. No, had to wait. Let him lead them to it somehow.

  “Need you to get inside, Joe. Meet this guy Bender. Not much time. The English Teacher thing could actually work out.”

  “How do I get close to our Mr. Bender?”

  Commander Blasingame couldn’t suppress the almost devilish grin that came over him.

  “When was the last time you got so drunk that you thought you were going to shake out of your damn skin the next morning, Joe?”

  “Been a long time, sir. Don’t know if I have ever actually got to that point.”

  “Well, Joe, time to start. When you leave this office, you will commence the bender of all benders. No pun intended.”

  “Don’t think I follow, sir.”

  “You will, Joe. You will. Tomorrow night, you’ll be attending your first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous on Yokosuka Base.”

  Joe Dickwell woke up with the mother of all headaches. The events of the night before slowly coming into view now. Like some yet unrecognizable creature stampeding towards Joe. Captured in the rear view mirror of his alcohol soaked psyche. The meeting with Commander Blasingame. Yes, coming back now. The creature taking more of a distinct form albeit not a less menacing one. Talk of the Aum Cult. Shoko Asahara. The American woman’s death on the subway. The gas that was located somewhere in Tokyo. Jack Bender – The mole. The necessity to infiltrate the Aum through Bender. Finally, the decision to use Bender’s Alcoholics Anonymous meetings to gain access to the Aum. Joe Dickwell, a tee-totaler by nature, would have to feign a booze problem. Blasingame had not wanted to rely on Dickwell’s acting ability. He needed Joe to actually get drunk and possibly be seen by Adam’s friends in a Tokyo bar. Maybe even by Adam himself. (Adam of course would tell Jack.) Adam dry now but that changed by the moment, Blasingame knew.

  A bulge next to Joe. Flesh of some kind. The smell of orange juice and sake. A concoction that should be administered to serial killers and child molesters, thought Joe as he tried without success to stop his bed from spinning by using his trembling foot as a brake. He saw the torso beside him and promptly vomited the entire contents of his intestinal tract onto it.

  Upon further review, the mass of flesh was in fact a rather large Japanese woman. The marine escorts that Blasingame had been assigned to watch Joe from afar had apparently not done their job of keeping him out of danger. Jar-head assholes.

  Aside from a short grunt, she seemed non-plussed and simply rolled over and continued her erratic snoring.

  Joe had ended up in Shinjuku, a bar district in Tokyo full of booze, Yakusa and loose women. Joe had met “Orca” after his tenth or eleventh sake and orange juice. (The number of drinks Blasingame had suggested.) From the looks of his surroundings, cracked walls, putrid smells and stale alcohol, Joe was in the abode of the whale-woman.

  Leave immediately.

  The sudden urge. All-consuming now. Joe had to get out of there. Another overpowering need to puke, his esophagus retracting rapidly. Nothing. Joe had heard some heavy hitter friends speak of the dry heaves. This must be what he was experiencing now. He tried to think of a time that he had felt worse. The incident remotely similar to his current state involved his testicles being impaled by the handle bars of his sting ray bicycle with its banana seat so many years ago.

  With all the self-will he could muster, he pulled himself off the bed and lurched for the door. Please God be open, his thought as he approached the bright red knob. With feelings that he was sure Jonah could empathize with, upon final regurgitation from his whale-prison, Joe exited the apartment and headed for the train station with the fervor that only those who have seen the light and returned can muster.

  Joe Dickwell was going to an A.A. meeting.

  36

  “Glad you could make it, Adam. I really am happy to see you here.”