Flashback

“Yes,” said Nick, suspecting that Noukhaev knew all about Sato’s use of the things against the tanks the day before.

“So you see,” said the don, “it was tempting fate to give Mr. Nakamura absolute knowledge of my presence at the hacienda at any specific moment on any specific day.” He grinned. “Yes, you are thinking, Nick Bottom—This man is paranoid—and I would agree with you. I ask myself only, Am I paranoid enough? Please sit down before you fall.”

Nick sat before he fell.

Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev was reminding him of someone. He got it almost at once—Anthony Quinn, that twentieth-century movie actor that he and Val had liked—not so much because Noukhaev looked like Quinn, but because the voice and slight accent were similar, the quirk of the mouth into an arrogantly amused smile was similar, and because Noukhaev was hard to place ethnically, the same way that Anthony Quinn had played Mexicans, Indians, Arabs, and Greeks. The don also had a powerful body resembling the late actor’s—compact but broad-chested, massive forearms, a man’s strong hands.

Nick said, “So where are we now?”

Noukhaev laughed as if Nick had made a joke. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere that I believe even your omnipotent Mr. Nakamura does not know of.”

“He’s not my omnipotent Mr. Nakamura,” Nick said sourly. “And if he were omnipotent, he sure as hell wouldn’t have had to hire me to help find out who killed his kid.”

“Exactly!” cried Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev, holding up one brown finger. “Why did he hire you, Nick Bottom?”

“I have a hunch you want to enlighten me on why Nakamura hired me,” said Nick.

“You must know, Nick Bottom,” said the don. “And if you do not know, you must suspect.”

“I suspect everyone and no one,” said Nick. He’d wanted to say that line since he was nine years old. Nick guessed that it was probably the oxygen deprivation while he was gagged and bound that prompted him to say it now.

Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev squinted at him for a silent moment. Then the older man threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

Shit, he is nuts, thought Nick.

Noukhaev opened a lower desk drawer, removed a box, offered the box to Nick. Cigars. Nick shook his head and the don chose one for himself, went through the usual stupid ritual of biting, spitting (Nick had learned through movies that more sophisticated types cut the ends of the cigar off, or had their butlers do it), and lighting the expensive stogie with a lighter he produced from his khakis’ pockets.

Nick still thought the room was in a basement or deep underground, but the ventilation was very good. He got only a slight whiff of the cigar smoke.

“Why would one of the most powerful men on the planet hire you, Nick Bottom?” Noukhaev said rhetorically. Nick hated it when speakers got rhetorical. It insulted your intelligence.

“Nakamura has already carried out multiple investigations of his son’s murder,” continued the don, sitting back in his chair and exhaling blue-white smoke. “The Denver police—both before and after you—the CBI, the FBI, Homeland Security, his own security people, the Keisatsu-ch…”

If the Japanese National Police Agency had investigated Keigo Nakamura’s murder, it was news to Nick. For most of its history the Keisatsu-ch had just overseen and regulated local Japanese police departments—mostly setting standards, a bureaucracy with none of the powers of the FBI, not even agents or officers of its own—but in the last few decades since It All Hit The Fan and Japan had ended up on top (or at least near the top), the National Police Agency had grown real teeth, both with its new secret-police security agency, the Keibi-kyoku, and its overseas intelligence agency, the Gaiji Jh-bu. Beyond knowing their names and hearing and reading that the agency’s subdepartments were lethal, Nick knew nothing about them.

“… and then Mr. Nakamura hires you, Nick Bottom,” Noukhaev was concluding. He seemed to be enjoying the cigar. “Why do you think he did that?”

Full circle, thought Nick. He said, “Obviously not to solve his son’s murder, Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev. That leaves… what? To set you up as a target in this meeting at your hacienda so Mr. Nakamura could gee-bear you to dust and ashes? But there’s a problem with that, isn’t there?”

“What is that, Nick Bottom?”

“It was you who called Nakamura’s people and suggested this meeting,” said Nick. “At least that’s what Hideki Sato told me. So Nakamura couldn’t have known when he hired me that you’d be inviting me down here.”

Noukhaev nodded and exhaled more smoke. “Very true. But, Nick Bottom… ‘Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.’ Do you know who said that?”

“It would have to be Sun Tzu, Don Noukhaev.”

“Ahh, you know Sun Tzu, Nick Bottom?”

“Not in the least,” said Nick. “But I’ve met a hundred arrogant, condescending bastards playing the big, tough, intellectual generals who go around quoting him as if it meant something important.”