Such as tell me we both knew there was no such thing as "black label"
Suntory.
"Guess he'll be here shortly." I turned back to Noda.
"He should be here in no time at all, Mr. Walton. Two of my guards have
been posted outside his building since he returned there yesterday. For
his own safety. They will bring him."
With that chilling bit of news Matsuo Noda proceeded to yank out the
phone cord, then head back to his office. The Art of War. You leave
nothing to chance. In fact his two sumo heavies were now standing
outside my office, keeping a close eye on us. Guess he no longer had
full confidence in Jim Bob.
"Tam, did you catch what just happened?" I'd walked back over to the
terminals.
"I did." She was staring into space.
"Henderson was our best hope to get out of here alive. He has a
suspicious mind the equal of Sherlock Holmes's. But now..."
"Matt, what's he going to do to us all?"
"Don't think it'll be pretty."
"Then . . ." She'd turned and was staring at the security entrance,
wearing a quizzical expression.
I wheeled around to look too, and at first I thought I might have been
hallucinating. A female figure was emerging through the doors, wearing
an outfit whose style I couldn't quite place. Maybe it was one of those
bulky creations such as Yohji Yamamoto or some other avant-garde
Japanese designer might dream up, but it didn't resemble anything I'd
ever seen before. Silk like a kimono, yet with a flowing quality.
Ancient almost.
Then I had a vision, just offbeat enough to fit. An ink illustration
out of the The Tale of Genji flashed before my eyes, and I realized I
was seeing a _hakama_, something that hadn't been around the streets of
Japan for roughly eight hundred years.
The woman in it was wearing peculiar makeup, not punk, though it might
have been. It was pale, like the delicate ink shadings on a Heian hand
scroll. She looked for all the world like a court lady of ages past;
she'd have fit right in at some 1185 Heian linked-verse soiree. Old
Kyoto come to life.
Is this the latest neo-New Wave? What in good Christ . . .
The only uncoordinated touch was the handbag, leather and starkly
modern, with a lock attached.
Jim Bob gave her a glazed stare as she moved right past him, headed for
us. The sumo pair was bowing to the floor.
Well, well, the Emperor's most devoted courtier had finally arrived.
Into our presence on this day of days had returned none other than Ms.
Akira Mori. One look at her eyes told me she'd come to kill somebody.