Flashback

There was an airlock-sized room, evidently a CMRI security screen so necessary in the decades since dedicated jihadis had discovered that they could pack their body cavities full of plastic explosive, and then another door to go through. Nick and Sato stepped into a small luxurious room—luxurious in a spare, shoji- and tatami- and flower-decorated sense—that might have been in Nakamura’s mansion up in Evergreen had it not been for the view out the broad, multilayered windows. Nakamura was sitting in a swiveling leather chair behind a lacquered desk by two of those windows.

Nick hadn’t seen the billionaire since he was interviewed and hired nine days earlier—it seemed much longer ago to him—and Hiroshi Nakamura seemed exactly the same, down to the carefully parted gray hair, the manicured nails, and the black suit and narrow black tie. There were other comfortable-looking chairs and a couch in the small space, but Nakamura didn’t ask Nick to sit. Sato also remained standing, far enough to one side to seem subordinate but close enough to act as a bodyguard if Nick were to lunge toward Nakamura. Sato’s polymorphic smart-cast was thin enough and flexible enough to fit under the right sleeve of his dark suit jacket.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura. “Mr. Sato has explained to me that you have a request. I am traveling to Washington, D.C., today and my private jet is scheduled to leave from Denver International Airport in fifteen minutes. I give you one and a half minutes to make your request.”

“My son’s in serious trouble in Los Angeles,” said Nick. “His life is in danger. I need to get to L.A. and don’t have the money for an airline ticket. No cars are getting through, and the truck convoys aren’t even allowing passengers going west. I don’t have enough money for that either.”

Mr. Nakamura cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. “I have not heard a request yet, Mr. Bottom.”

Nick took a breath. He had less than a minute left.

“Mr. Nakamura, you offered me fifteen thousand dollars—old dollars—if I solved your son’s murder. I’m close to solving it. I think I could name the killer right now, but I need a bit more confirmation. I was going to ask you for the price of an air ticket to L.A.—seven hundred old bucks now—in exchange for that fifteen thousand. But they’ve shut down all commercial, freight, and civil-aviation flights into and out of L.A.”

Nakamura waited. He did not glance at his Rolex, but there was a black-face clock with a second hand right there on the cabin’s bulkhead.

“Nakamura Enterprises have regular flights to Las Vegas,” said Nick. He felt sweat trickle down his ribs. “I checked. From Las Vegas I’d be able to book some sort of transport—private plane, Jeep, whatever—into Los Angeles to look for my son. So get me room on any of your cargo or courier flights, today if possible, and advance me, say, three hundred bucks—old dollars—so I can pay someone for that last leg of the trip, and I swear that I’ll tell you who murdered your son when I get back. You can keep the rest of the fifteen thousand.”

“Very generous of you, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura with only the slightest hint of a smile. “Why don’t you tell me right now who murdered my son, collect the full fifteen thousand, and thus pay your way to Los Angeles—perhaps in your own private aircraft?”

“I can’t prove it now,” said Nick. “I guarantee that when I show you who killed your son, you’ll demand your proof.”

“But instead of concluding the investigation,” said Nakamura, “you are asking to take time off—how long? A week? Two weeks? In order to aid your son in his flight from justice. I understand he is wanted for murder.”

“No, sir. The LAPD and Homeland Security just have a warrant out for Val as a possible material witness. Look, I’m going to get to L.A. one way or the other to search for my boy, Mr. Nakamura. You’d do the same if your son were still alive and needed your help. If you help me get there today, I’ll be back sooner and able to wrap up the investigation. I know what evidence I need to find, if my hunch about your son’s killer is correct… and I think it is. Help me save my son so I can close the investigation on your son’s murder.”

Nakamura looked at Sato, but the security man’s expression did not change. The billionaire’s wristwatch chimed softly. Nakamura steepled his fingers and looked at Nick.

“Mr. Bottom, do you know where John Wayne Airport is?”

“Yeah, it’s in Santa Ana or Irvine—near there—about forty miles south of L.A.”

“We have no cargo aircraft going there presently,” said Nakamura, “but next Friday, September twenty-fourth, a flight from Tokyo will be refueling there between five-thirty and seven p.m., Pacific Daylight Savings Time. You will be on that flight, with or without your son. Is this understood?”

Nick wasn’t sure he did understand. “You’re giving me a way home to Denver if I find Val? Next Friday?”