Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

When she woke a tray of food rested next to the door. There were a couple of oranges, half a loaf of crusty french bread, and a quarter stick of butter, along with a waxed paper cup of cool coffee. Jill noticed immediately that nothing on the tray could provide her with a weapon, no glass or tin cans, no utensils that could be sharpened by scraping them against the floor.

The waste bucket in the far corner of the room had been removed during the night and replaced with a fresh one, much to her relief.

Now Jill sat quietly, stoically, like a twenty-year veteran of prison, taking the time as it came, with neither expectations nor hope. For a while she’d tried to understand why someone had kidnapped her, but she realized that knowing the truth wouldn’t do her any good. She suspected that Takahiro Ohnishi was behind her abduction, but the knowledge was worthless to her in her present circumstances. Her only interests were in survival.

Since Ohnishi had gone through the trouble of snatching her from her home, he must not want to kill her. He wanted something from her, something that only she could give.

It had to be her credibility as a reporter. If she was correct about Ohnishi and Mayor Takamora’s attempt to break Hawaii away from the rest of the Union, then they would need the legitimacy that only the media could give, the soothing voice and face on the television assuring the people that everything was all right and under control. It would be simple to coerce her into giving false reports and no one who’d placed their trust in her as a reporter would ever know that they were being deceived.

It was the same question of ethics and integrity that she’d faced before storming out of the studio, but this time the stakes were much higher. Yesterday it had been a question about her job, her career. Today it was her life at risk. Jill had thought about all of this throughout the long morning, but by late afternoon and into the evening her mind dulled and lost focus. She had settled into a torpor. She was just thinking about falling back asleep, her back was already pressed against the wall, her head held only limply by her slender neck.

The door opened without warning. Jill jerked out of her lethargy, edging along the wall to gain distance between herself and the dark figure that entered her cell. She noted idly that night had fallen once again, though she didn’t know the time since she’d been stripped of her watch and shoes when she’d been left in the cell.

“I did not mean to startle you, Miss Tzu, my apologies.” The man’s voice was flat and lifeless, echoing inside him like a distant whisper.

“I know you, don’t I?” Jill had gotten to her feet.

“We have not formally met, but we have spoken on the phone several times. I am Kenji.”

“I knew Ohnishi was behind this.” There was little triumph in her voice.

Kenji slid further into the room, his feet gliding on the floor with the ease of quicksilver. There was a dangerous elegance about him. It was the charm of the serpent, slow, seductive, evil. He eased himself to the floor, hunching down in the very place where Jill had been a moment earlier.

“You are a very perceptive woman and an excellent reporter. I watched your latest piece, and I must say you made a bold and accurate assessment of my employer and his involvement with Mayor Takamora. You are correct in assuming that they both want Hawaii to be an independent nation, albeit one with strong ties to Japan. However, you are wrong in guessing that Ohnishi is behind your abduction.”

“You?” Kenji nodded. “Why?”

“You are intelligent enough to know why you were kidnapped.”

“You want me to report some sort of propaganda,” Jill said accusingly.

“Correct. In fact, the propaganda, as you call it, will not be that far from the truth. You can even air that piece you just finished.”

Jill was startled and confused. “Why would you want that? It fully exposes your little plot.”

“Not my plot, Miss Tzu, Ohnishi’s plot.”

“I don’t understand.” Despite herself, Jill couldn’t help slipping back into her comfortable role as a reporter, digging for facts.

Kenji gazed off into the middle distance for a moment as if he could see the words he was thinking, watch them ricochet around like billiard balls after a strong break. “I have worked for Takahiro Ohnishi almost my entire life. I owe him everything. He is my master and I am his slave. I have killed for him and I have raped little girls for him. In fact, I did both again tonight. There is nothing I would not do if he asked.

“But there is something about me that he does not know, something that I myself didn’t acknowledge for many years.” He paused for a moment, then chuckled quietly. “Given his concept of honor, I actually believe he would understand my betrayal.

“My parents met only twice in their lives. The first time was when my father raped my mother, when he was stationed in Korea during the Second World War. She was a comfort girl, an unwilling prostitute like so many other young women who had the misfortune of being poor and attractive during the Japanese occupation. Her own father had sold her into prostitution so the family could survive.

“The second time my parents met was six years later, when my father returned to Korea to buy me from her. An injury during the war had left him impotent so I was to be his legacy, his only chance at immortality. Until his death, he worked for Ohnishi-San. I inherited his position.

“For most of my life, I saw myself as pure Japanese. I hid my Korean side in shame. But something has happened in the last few months — something that has given me reason to feel proud of my Korean heritage. Surely you understand this. You are half Japanese and half Chinese.”

“I am an American,” Jill stated firmly.

Kenji turned to her, his face both handsome and cruel. “Let us hope that you can see beyond that, or our relationship and your life will end very quickly. Very soon it will become necessary for Ohnishi’s coup attempt to fail. Mayor Takamora is dead and soon Ohnishi will follow him. When this happens, we will need you to use your influence to calm the people and put an end to the violence.”

“I’m a reporter. I report the news, I don’t make it.” Even as Jill spoke she remembered the words of her former colleague.

Kenji said, “A journalist can sway more opinion and change more policies than every politician alive today. You have a power that most people don’t even recognize they have given to you. When the time comes, a few days from now, a week at most, you will divulge everything you know about Ohnishi and Takamora. Since they will be dead, whatever you say will not be refuted. I will provide you with many more details. People must be focused on the coup attempt; it must remain the top story for several weeks.” At Jill’s questioning look, Kenji shook his head. “The reasons for this do not concern you. Once this is done, I promise that you will never be bothered again, and your complicity never revealed.”

“And if I refuse?” Jill asked with more bravery than she felt.

“Refuse now and I will kill you immediately,” Kenji said matter of factly. “But I don’t need an answer yet. I want you to think about it.”

As he left, he added, “I chose you because I believe you will actually have a hard time making your decision. Do not disappoint me.”

Tiny’s Bar was, of course, named after its owner. On his first visit to the pub four blocks from his house, Mercer had expected to see a huge man behind the bar. Yet Tiny, Paul Gordon, was tiny, no more than four foot eight, about ninety pounds with his pockets full of bricks.

The bar was small, only eight stools and six four-person booths. The linoleum floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in years. The walls were decorated with horse racing pictures and trophies from Saratoga, Belmont Park, and Yonkers Raceway, just a few of the tracks where Paul had raced as a professional jockey. He had never reached the status of Willy Shoemaker, but he was a consistent rider with proven ability. But he gambled, and went on a particularly long losing streak. To pay back the debt, his loan shark ordered him to throw a certain race.