Robin Cook - Cure

As Satoshi was about to turn around the northeast corner of the Plaza hotel and head west on 59th Street, he ventured a glance over his shoulder. What he saw caused him to suck in a deep breath. The same two men he’d seen earlier were skirting the fountain and heading in his direction while carrying on a conversation with two men creeping along in a black SUV going in the wrong direction in the roadway in front of the hotel. The two Japanese men caught sight of Satoshi having spotted them and responded by upping their speed to a jog and breaking off all conversation.

Jogging himself, Satoshi was now convinced he was being followed and that the Yakuza types must have been waiting outside iPS USA for him to appear. He had no idea who they were and what they wanted. Ben had dealt with the Yamaguchi as far as his emigration and immigration were concerned. Yet his being followed had to have something to do with his relationship with iPS USA and his abrupt switch from Japan to the United States.

Still clutching his athletic bag in one hand and his lapels in the other, Satoshi sprinted ahead through the press of people, unsure of what to do. Columbus Circle’s always crowded, complicated subway station with its convergence of multiple train lines was like a distant oasis that promised safety, but how to get there before being overtaken by the men following him? He was anxiously certain that Yakuza look-alikes would be appearing behind him at any moment.

Salvation materialized in the next instant when a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged a passenger. Without a second’s hesitation, Satoshi veered off through the other pedestrians and leaped into the taxi before the disembarking passenger had even closed the door. Out of breath, Satoshi gasped, “Columbus Circle!”

Miffed at getting such a brief fare, the driver made an illegal U-turn that caused Satoshi to slide against the door he’d just managed to get closed. With his face briefly pressed against the glass, he held on, fighting against the centrifugal force that had him momentarily immobile. Once the cab straightened out, Satoshi pushed himself upright and glanced out the back window in time to see the two Japanese round the corner of the hotel and stumble to a halt. Whether they’d seen him jump into the cab, Satoshi didn’t know, but he hoped they hadn’t.

Satoshi made it to one of Columbus Circle’s subway station entrances without seeing the two Japanese men or the SUV behind him. Relieved to descend into the crowded, labyrinthine underworld, he quickly passed through the turnstile.

On the opposite side of the turnstile he confronted two very large New York City policemen. Reflexively Satoshi turned his head away as he passed. As an illegal alien, he was probably as afraid of the police as he was of the shady-looking men who he believed were following him. It was an uncomfortable plight of being afraid of both extremes, and he looked forward to obtaining the green cards Ben had been promising.

Quickly making his way to the proper track for the uptown A express, Satoshi approached the edge of the platform and stared into the maw of the tunnel to look for his train. He was eager for its arrival. Although he felt reasonably confident he had avoided a confrontation with the two Japanese men, he did not know what he would do if they suddenly appeared.

Stepping back from the edge of the platform, Satoshi found himself staring suspiciously at the other passengers, all of whom avoided eye contact. The platform rapidly filled as he waited. Commuters read newspapers or played with their cell phones or stared blankly ahead into the middle distance. More people arrived, pressing everyone closer and closer together. Trains thundered into the station but always on other tracks.

It was then that Satoshi saw him. It was the same man who’d eyed him across Fifth Avenue, holding the photograph. He was only five or six feet away and regarding Satoshi out of the corner of his piercingly back eyes. A chill descended Satoshi’s spine. With a renewed sense of fear, Satoshi tried to move to the side, away from the stranger, but it was difficult, as more and more passengers were arriving every few seconds.

Having managed to move only a few yards, Satoshi looked ahead to see what was specifically impeding him. It was then that he saw the second man, who was pretending to read a paper but who was in reality watching Satoshi. He was as close to Satoshi ahead as the other man was behind, trapping Satoshi between the track and a tiled wall.

With Satoshi’s fear now maxing out, the formidable A train made its startling entrance, roaring out of the mouth of its tunnel. There’d been only a meager premonition of its imminent appearance. One second there had been relative quiet, the next a crescendo of ferocious wind, earsplitting noise, and earth-shaking vibration. And it was during this minor maelstrom that Satoshi became aware that the two men were pushing through the waiting crowd, pressing in on him. He was prepared to scream if either touched him, but they didn’t. All he was aware of was a concussive hiss that he felt more than heard, since the noise had been completely drowned out by the arriving train. Simultaneously he’d felt a sharp, burning pain on the back of his leg where his leg and buttock joined, followed quickly by a yawning darkness and silence.

Susumu Nomura and Yoshiaki Eto had worked together as enforcers since they’d come to America more than five years previously on direct orders from Hisayuki Ishii, the oyabun of their Yakuza family, Aizukotetsu-kai. It had been a good marriage of sorts, combining Susumu’s fearlessness with Yoshiaki’s cautious planning. When they’d gotten the order to take out Satoshi Machita, Susumu was so excited and eager to please Hideki Shimoda, the saiko-komon and boss of the NYC branch office of the Aizukotetsu-kai, he wanted to do the hit immediately. On top of that, he wanted to do the hit in broad daylight on Fifth Avenue! For Susumu it was a serendipitous opportunity to demonstrate to the boss their loyalty and daring, which were prized Yakuza personality traits.

But Yoshiaki had been adamant, insisting that they had to take a few days to figure out a plan to fulfill the second part of the order: to make the hit look like the natural death of an unidentifiable individual. As it had been explained to them, it was important to avoid investigation of the affair by the police and possibly the FBI.

Having followed Yoshiaki’s plan, which involved tailing the man for a few days in Manhattan as he went from work to the A train, the hit had gone down perfectly, without anyone suspecting that it was even in process. At Yoshiaki’s suggestion, Susumu had purposefully waited until the A train had swept into the station to shoot Satoshi with the air gun hidden in the shaft of the umbrella that had been provided by Hideki Shimoda. The moment the trigger had been pulled, Yoshiaki had grabbed the man to keep him upright as his legs gave out. As the impatient passengers surged ahead to board the train, no one had noticed anything unusual as Susumu quickly relieved Satoshi of his athletic bag, his wallet, and his cell phone. The only minor surprise had been the seizure, but even that did not mar the hit. Having been warned that a short seizure was a possibility, Yoshiaki had just held Satoshi upright until his body went slack. At that point, when the last passengers were rushing for the train as the doors attempted to close, Yoshiaki merely laid the flaccid body down onto the cement platform, and he and Susumu walked calmly away.

Five minutes later the two Yakuza hit men mounted the final flight of stairs and emerged at the corner of Columbus Circle where they’d descended only a quarter-hour earlier. Both were pleased and proud that the event had gone down as well as it had. While Yoshiaki used his cell phone to call the men in the black SUV, Susumu unzipped the athletic bag and pulled out the thick licensing contract. After checking that there was nothing else of interest in the bag, he turned his attention to the document and quickly leafed through it, unsure what it was. His ability to read English was limited.