more drawers and shelves, but then decided against it. That wasn’t why she was here.
She was here to send a message.
17
Beijing Airport
China
K aito Yoshima handed his passport through the window and smiled easily as the control officer examined him with unveiled contempt. The standoff in the Senkaku Islands had calmed somewhat with the withdrawal of Japan’s new battleship, but his unsuccessful attempt on General Takahashi’s life had inflamed both countries. Just as he’d predicted.
Of course his superiors would run for cover. They would blame his inexplicable failure for the escalation between the two countries. As though a successful assassination would have been more palatable to the Japanese people and China would treat Takahashi’s death with solemnity instead of celebrating it in the streets.
“What is your purpose here?” the man said in halting English.
Yoshima pulled out a piece of paper covered with Chinese characters. The document said that he was an economic consultant under contract to the Chinese government. A convenient cover story for when it was impractical for him to travel under his Chinese identity.
In the past the document had made these low-level workers snap to pretty quickly, but that power seemed to be waning. Instead of handing it back to him with a curt nod, the man examined it with an expression turning from contempt to disgust.
Finally he slammed his stamp into the well-worn Japanese passport and looked past him to the German tourist next in line.
Yoshima walked through the crowded hallway toward baggage claim, spirited along by the flow of people around him.
It had been impossible to know how to react to his situation, so he’d done what he always did: taken the most dangerous course.
Now, though, he was beginning to regret his decision. There had been nothing but silence from his masters after Takahashi’s survival was confirmed by the press. And while he was confident that he would soon find himself in the role of scapegoat, there was some question as to what that meant exactly. After the inevitable flurry of politicians looking to leverage the failed assassination to further their careers, would it be quietly acknowledged that he had followed his orders to the letter and that Takahashi’s survival was a bizarre fluke? Would he receive a formal reprimand that would be completely meaningless in a profession as clandestine as his? Or would he disappear like so many of his classmates before him?
In truth, though, that wasn’t what was causing him to hang back and obsessively scan the crowd surrounding him.
No, at least in the short term, he had a much more dangerous situation to contend with.
Of course he had cameras and other security devices hidden in his condominium, each uploading to its own secure site on the Internet. He knew Randi Russell had been there, but he also knew that she’d made no effort to disable his security, disguise her identity, or even make her search look workman-like. Why? Was this her idea of a request for a parley? Or was that just what she wanted him to think? Perhaps her real goal was to draw him close enough to kill.
Yoshima felt someone press a hand against the back of his neck and then a sudden weight in his jacket pocket. He spun violently only to find the startled face of an old woman who quickly scurried into the crowd. A quick brush of his fingers beneath his collar turned up a strip of tape stuck to his skin and the small, hard bump beneath it.
A search for who had put it there would be futile, he knew. It could have been anyone—even the old woman. Randi loved criminals and he had no doubt that in a scenario like this, she would have employed one of the finest pickpockets in the country.
His jacket vibrated and he reached for the phone that had been placed there, once again letting himself be swept forward. There was little point in further caution or worry. He was entirely at the mercy of the person on the other end of the
She was here to send a message.
17
Beijing Airport
China
K aito Yoshima handed his passport through the window and smiled easily as the control officer examined him with unveiled contempt. The standoff in the Senkaku Islands had calmed somewhat with the withdrawal of Japan’s new battleship, but his unsuccessful attempt on General Takahashi’s life had inflamed both countries. Just as he’d predicted.
Of course his superiors would run for cover. They would blame his inexplicable failure for the escalation between the two countries. As though a successful assassination would have been more palatable to the Japanese people and China would treat Takahashi’s death with solemnity instead of celebrating it in the streets.
“What is your purpose here?” the man said in halting English.
Yoshima pulled out a piece of paper covered with Chinese characters. The document said that he was an economic consultant under contract to the Chinese government. A convenient cover story for when it was impractical for him to travel under his Chinese identity.
In the past the document had made these low-level workers snap to pretty quickly, but that power seemed to be waning. Instead of handing it back to him with a curt nod, the man examined it with an expression turning from contempt to disgust.
Finally he slammed his stamp into the well-worn Japanese passport and looked past him to the German tourist next in line.
Yoshima walked through the crowded hallway toward baggage claim, spirited along by the flow of people around him.
It had been impossible to know how to react to his situation, so he’d done what he always did: taken the most dangerous course.
Now, though, he was beginning to regret his decision. There had been nothing but silence from his masters after Takahashi’s survival was confirmed by the press. And while he was confident that he would soon find himself in the role of scapegoat, there was some question as to what that meant exactly. After the inevitable flurry of politicians looking to leverage the failed assassination to further their careers, would it be quietly acknowledged that he had followed his orders to the letter and that Takahashi’s survival was a bizarre fluke? Would he receive a formal reprimand that would be completely meaningless in a profession as clandestine as his? Or would he disappear like so many of his classmates before him?
In truth, though, that wasn’t what was causing him to hang back and obsessively scan the crowd surrounding him.
No, at least in the short term, he had a much more dangerous situation to contend with.
Of course he had cameras and other security devices hidden in his condominium, each uploading to its own secure site on the Internet. He knew Randi Russell had been there, but he also knew that she’d made no effort to disable his security, disguise her identity, or even make her search look workman-like. Why? Was this her idea of a request for a parley? Or was that just what she wanted him to think? Perhaps her real goal was to draw him close enough to kill.
Yoshima felt someone press a hand against the back of his neck and then a sudden weight in his jacket pocket. He spun violently only to find the startled face of an old woman who quickly scurried into the crowd. A quick brush of his fingers beneath his collar turned up a strip of tape stuck to his skin and the small, hard bump beneath it.
A search for who had put it there would be futile, he knew. It could have been anyone—even the old woman. Randi loved criminals and he had no doubt that in a scenario like this, she would have employed one of the finest pickpockets in the country.
His jacket vibrated and he reached for the phone that had been placed there, once again letting himself be swept forward. There was little point in further caution or worry. He was entirely at the mercy of the person on the other end of the
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