Russell Brooks - Pandora's Succession

Valerik didn’t answer as he watched them both laugh. These lowlifes are enjoying this. As he walked, he tasted the salty, metallic blood in the space where three of his teeth used to be. The shove he got from behind made him lose his footing and he stumbled to the ground-to the shoes of the real sadist. Typical of these men. They always took pleasure in abusing their victims.

The white-haired man approached him, pen twirling in his hand. “Valerik, my old friend. Look at you. Once a decorated KGB operative and a notable agent of Ares. Now you’re a crazed fanatic.”

“And you,” said Valerik, swallowing a small amount of blood and coughing a few times. “Profiting from the demise of the Soviet Union. You and your group are no more than terrorists. Shameful, petty terrorists.”

The white-haired man chuckled and stopped twirling his pen. “Is that how you see us? You betrayed us because you think we’re terrorists?” The white-haired man then turned around, walked back to the waterfront and stopped short, a foot from the edge. The only sounds heard were the lapping of the water, a dragging boat horn, and blurred city noise in the background.

“You had an excellent plan to use your rank to infiltrate one of our labs and destroy it. But I doubt you’d be so obtuse as to destroy the only supply of Pandora without saving some for yourself and for your friends at Hexagon Pharmaceuticals.”

How did he know about Hexagon? It must be Ares’s mole within the CIA. It was the only explanation. My God! The girl-Dr. Parris-she’s got to be CIA.

The white-haired man turned around with such dramatic flair that he appeared to cause the small breeze that sent a chill deep through to Valerik’s bones. The white-haired man got down on one knee so close to him that Valerik could hear the clicking his pen made as he twirled it close to his ear. “Where is it?”

Valerik began to get up slowly, but he felt a sneaker dig into the back of his neck and push him back down. There was no sense in trying. These men always kept their victims down. He knew it was over for him, so there was no sense giving in to them.

“I have no answers for you. Your time will soon be over. You’ll pay for your crimes against humanity.” Valerik swallowed. “All of them.” He knew what was coming next, but there wouldn’t be any joy among them, and that was all the satisfaction he needed. He saw it in the flustered expression on the white-haired man’s face as he looked at his henchmen.

“Do you hear that?” said the white-haired man as he looked at the others. “The words of a true dreamer.”

What happened next, occurred so fast that all Valerik heard were feet shuffling on the ground. A lot of dust was thrown in his face and a sharp pain wrapped around and dug deep into his neck with the tightness of a knotted balloon. His face hit the pavement once and then there was a moment’s view of the dock as dirt got kicked into his eyes. With his arms at his side, he had no way to loosen the vise-like pinching of his esophagus, as it cut off the flow of air, and the pain sank deep down into his neck. The pain dug deeper, he felt it sink into the bone. Darkness closed in.

The white-haired man unwound the wire from around Valerik’s neck and dropped the body back down to the ground. He released one end of the pen and the inner wire was dropped back inside along with the cap. He tossed the pen up in the air once, caught it, fit it back into his breast pocket and sighed. “Pathetic.”

“Do we toss him in the bay?” asked Pyotr.

“Yes-actually, no. Let’s send a message to his group. One that’s strong enough to provoke a response. Dump him somewhere where he’ll be easily found. I want to watch it on the evening news.” He faced the Tokyo Bay and sighed. He heard Valerik being dragged across the pavement while he irrationally took out his pen and began to twirl it. He had lost count of how many lives had been taken with this pen.

There, that felt better.

Valerik didn’t squeal. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Other options were still available. Now that Fox was in town, he already knew what the next one would be.

Azabu District, Minato Ward, Tokyo

For Parris, driving her car from West Tokyo to the Minato Ward at lunch hour would’ve been chaotic. So she drove from Hexagon and parked close to the Tobitakyu Station, a five minute walk from her apartment building. She caught the train, transferred to the subway to Akabanebashi Station where got into a taxi.

Going out to lunch wasn’t her style, what with all the news reports on E. coli and salmonella poisoning every few months back in the US. Had she been at work, she would’ve prepared a tuna-fish sandwich. This was second to her favorite, flying fish, if only it were readily available in Tokyo.

She had no plans to go into town. She was here only because of the designer vase filled with a dozen long-stem red roses that sat in her cubicle when she stopped by the office that morning to give Hashimoto her report. She got the hint that something was up the moment she stepped off the elevator to her floor. All of her colleagues smiled and giggled when they saw her. The sender’s name was Scott Ripley-it was a code to let her know that a fellow operative wanted to meet with her.

She wondered why Levickis didn’t inform her of this, and it made her leery about being followed-this, coupled with the unsettling feeling she got when she passed Valerik at the entrance to the parking lot earlier. The advantage of being in a city like Tokyo was that the subways were a surveillance nightmare. With thousands of people commuting by the hour, it would be very easy for Parris to lose anyone that followed her, so long as she avoided being captured by the closed-circuit cameras that were found throughout the city. Throughout the trip she did not spot anyone suspicious.

While Parris was driven through the Azabu District, she took out her compact, looked in the mirror to make sure that her make-up and headband covered up her facial bruises. There was nothing to worry about.

The narrow street they drove on had a tan-colored stone wall on one side. The driver turned into the open-gate entrance where the name International Tea House was stapled on the wall next to the gate, in both Japanese characters, and also in English underneath them. Beyond the gate, Parris saw the two-story stone mansion. The building was obscured from the street by several different trees, as the other homes were. The number of trees surrounding the place ensured privacy from anyone on the outside. She thanked the driver while she handed him a few bills, and got out of the cab. She closed the door, opened up her umbrella against the light rain that had started to fall. She turned towards the double doors to the mansion, about ten feet away.

She was a bit nervous meeting this mysterious Scott Ripley, the man who had sent her the flowers. Levickis told her earlier, that the person did not want to identify himself for personal reasons. But with the lavish surroundings, Parris got the hint that her meeting could possibly also be social.

One of the double doors opened and a short, plump young woman appeared, dressed in a cherry blazer and black pants. “Good afternoon, Dr. Parris. My name’s Sora.”

“Hello, Sora,” Parris replied as she closed her umbrella and walked quickly past her. What is it with these bright cherry blazers? They’re so out of place.

Parris came to a carpeted hallway with some doors on either side. Not knowing where to go to next, she stopped.

“Mr. Ripley’s waiting for you in the dining room. It’s the first set of double doors to your left. I’ll take your umbrella for you.”

“Thanks.” Parris handed Sora her umbrella. She would later check it for any tracking devices. If it was bugged she would conveniently forget it in the cab on her way back to Akabanebashi Station.