Flashback

“I suggest nothing,” said Noukhaev. “Except that, regrettably, our time together is growing short.”

Nick sighed.

“But you think the one who gave the order to kill Keigo is one of the seven family daimyos competing with Nakamura for the Shogunate?”

“I did not say that.” Noukhaev turned his cigar around and blew the ash into flame.

“If I guess and give my reasons, will you confirm or deny the names?”

Noukhaev laughed his broad, aggravating laugh. Nick had had just about enough of it.

“Investigators do not guess, Nick Bottom. They deduce. They eliminate the impossible and improbable until only the inevitable remains.”

“Bullshit,” said Nick.

“Yes,” grinned the large-knuckled don.

“But you invited me to this meeting,” said Nick, more thinking aloud than communicating now. “If you’re not going to help me with the investigation, then you must have brought me here—and put yourself in some danger from Nakamura’s gee-bears—because you want to send him, Nakamura, a message.”

Noukhaev smoked his cigar.

Nick sipped more water. “Or maybe a message to Sato,” he said at last. “Were you serious about Sato being his own important daimyo in Japan? Colonel Death and all that? Ten thousand ninjas or samurai or whatever at his command?”

Nick hadn’t expected an answer but the don said, “Yes.”

“So, you’re saying, Sato’s also a player in all this. That he might have his own motives and not just be a mindless Nakamura vassal… someone who will commit seppuku at Mr. Nakamura’s order.”

“Oh, Hideki Sato will commit seppuku at once upon his liege lord’s command,” said Noukhaev. No smile. “He has already done worse than that.”

Nick wondered what could possibly be worse than being ordered to disembowel oneself. Much later, he realized that if he’d asked that question of Noukhaev then, the entire mystery would have been solved. Instead, he said, “And Sato’s really an assassin?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Why would Nakamura assign one of the world’s top assassins to spend so much time with me? To risk such a valuable man’s life by sending him down here through enemy-held territory, with me, so that I could see you, Don Khozh-Ahmed Noukhaev? Sato was almost killed when we were attacked, you know.”

Again, Nick was sure that there would be no answer to this ill-shaped, amorphous question, so he was deeply surprised when the don replied so earnestly.

“When you solve this murder, Nick Bottom—if you solve this murder—for the short period of time they will allow you to remain alive, perhaps just hours, more probably mere minutes, you will be the most dangerous man on earth.”

Nick set down his water glass. “Dangerous to whom, Don Noukhaev? To just the murderer and his keiretsu? Or zaibatsu or whatever the hell it’s called today?”

“Much more dangerous than that,” Noukhaev said softly. “And to many more people. To millions of people. Which is why they cannot allow you to live once you solve this crime.”

Me, dangerous to millions of people? That made no sense, no matter which way Nick turned it. He was totally at sea. Nothing explained anything to him and everything he heard made his head hurt more and his insides feel more queasy.

“Then I’d better not solve the fucking crime,” Nick said at last. His voice came out slightly slurred, as if he’d been drinking vodka rather than water.

“But you must solve this crime, Nick Bottom.” The don didn’t seem to be bantering or waxing sarcastic. His voice was as low and as serious as Nick had heard it.

“Why must I solve this crime?” Nick had gone for a sarcastic tone, but it had come out merely tired-slurred.

“Because she would have wanted you to,” said Noukhaev.

Nick sat up straight in his uncomfortable metal chair. She would have wanted him to?

“Who’s ‘she,’ Noukhaev?”

“Your wife, Nick Bottom,” said the don, flicking ashes with a relaxed move of his hairy wrist. “The lovely lady named Dara.”

Nick was on his feet, his hands balled into his fists. On his feet but swaying slightly. “How do you know my wife’s name?” Stupid thing to say, Nick realized at once. Noukhaev must have multiple dossiers on him, compiled as soon as Nakamura had hired him. He shook his head and tried again.

“What’s my wife got to do with anything? Why bring her into this?” Nick put a fist onto the desktop to help steady himself. The don had remained seated.

“Your wife, Dara Fox Bottom, was a beautiful woman,” Noukhaev said in low tones. “She sat right there… in the same chair that you just vacated…”

Nick swiveled awkwardly to look down at his empty chair. When he turned back to Noukhaev, he had to set both fists, knuckles first, onto the don’s desk to keep from falling.

“Dara here? Why? When?”

“The day after Keigo Nakamura interviewed me,” said Noukhaev. “Four days before the young Mr. Nakamura was murdered in Denver. He and his retinue had already flown home by the time your wife met with me.”

“Met with you… why?” managed Nick.