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"The Roacherian Effect" A novel by John C. Delavan
Chapter Seven
As they left the airport in Tokyo, Arnburg and Peterson tossed their bags into a waiting taxi. In flawless Japanese, Peterson said, "Tour the city, driver. Just drive anywhere you like." After thirty minutes of seemingly aimless wandering and absolute silence from the two Americans in the backseat, Peterson leaned forward and said, "Imperial Palace Hotel. Quickly, please." Swinging the cab around, the driver made a beeline for the hotel, which was now on the other side of the city.
Reaching the hotel, Arnburg paid two weeks in advance for a middle-priced room, telling the desk clerk they were so tired after their long flight they were going to sleep and didn't wish to be disturbed until the following day.
After unpacking, showering and changing clothes, they quietly left the hotel by a side exit, unobserved. "Dan Goldsmith" and "Tom Goodwin" vanished. They had no intention of returning for their belongings or their passports. Ever. This ability to disappear was the reason they used completely false identities; each carefully constructed to lead investigators around in circles, only to come up empty handed.
Three hours later they moved into a cheap but clean hotel located in a back alley on the outskirts of the city. Peterson stayed here often during his childhood years as an Air Force brat whose alcoholic father hadn't wanted him around. Always flirting with the law but never getting caught for anything serious, he had used this hotel as a temporary "home away from home" when hiding from his drunken father's wrath or the long arm of the law. He chose this particular hotel for a base of operations as an adult for good reason -- it was owned by a relative of his friend, Sensei Kubota.
Sensei Kubota, who operated a ninjitsu dojo with a seedy reputation, had known Peterson since those childhood days and now acted as his lieutenant in his underworld dealings within Japan. In a few hours, Kubota had arranged for, and received, new passports and accompanying identification for Arnburg and Peterson; and had converted the film of the stolen file into microfilm.
Arnburg slid open the traditional Japanese shoji doors, wooden frames covered with thick, translucent rice paper; and stood looking out on the hotel's dismal little courtyard. Only a small, bare lightbulb, hanging from a cord near the old outhouse, illuminated the area at night. Its dim light danced to the accompaniment of a cold winter wind, heavy with the smells of steamed white rice, soy, fish, ginger and other Japanese spices. A half-starved dog huddled in a corner near the kitchen. The space was crisscrossed with sagging lines from which items of clothing were hung, frozen solid in the chill January air.
"I think we should contact Choi and let him know we're still willing to fulfill the contract. I can't bring myself to believe his people set up anything as amateurish as the airplane fiasco."
"And I say we find out what's on the film, contact other people and sell this stuff to the highest bidder. Choi's people blew their rights to it when that creep jumped you." Peterson had already reasoned that the safe-deposit box in Hong Kong had probably been emptied and watched; and he wanted to not only cut their losses, but perhaps net a greater profit as well.
"No. If we do that we lose our credibility in this business, and if we lose our reputation we can kiss off any more work. We might even lose this next job if we don't get off our butts and contact Choi. I don't know about you, but I want to retire next year rich ...not this year dead. Understand?"
Peterson walked over to the open doorway and stood next to Arnburg. Staring out at the courtyard and the pitiful dog shivering in the corner, he remembered how crummy his life was before he teamed up with this wonderful man. Peterson reflected on how he always seemed to make wrong decisions on his own, but Arnburg always managed to make right ones. It had been that way even in the early days, when they had first met in the Army Rangers . Now Peterson was content to let Arnburg make the right decisions for them both.
"OK, Jack. You win. I'll get word to Choi through my friends. But we gotta arrange this thing so our butts are covered, okay? I'm still not a hundred percent convinced it wasn't a set up, even if that creep did have the payoff with him." Peterson's voice trailed off as he walked away from the open shoji doors, and sat heavily on the traditional Japanese futon bed.
"Shut the door and come to bed, will you Jack?" Peterson patted the bed next to him. Sliding the shoji closed, Arnburg turned and smiled, crossing the room as he let his robe slide to the floor behind him. He slipped into Peterson's arms as a chill gust of wind caused the dog outside to press even closer to the warm kitchen wall separating him from the charcoal cooking stove.
* *
Early the next morning, Peterson spoke with Kubota and arranged for word to go out quietly that they were still willing to complete the original contract with Choi's people.