The Japanese Trilogy Boxed Set (Lust, Money & Murder #13, 14 & 15)

By Mike Wells

This specially-priced boxed set contains the entire Japanese Trilogy from the “unputdownable” Lust, Money & Murder series by Mike Wells. Included are 3 full-length novels: Lust, Money & Murder Books #13, 14 & 15.
Note: this trilogy can be read as a standalone. If you have already purchased Lust, Money & Murder Books 13, 14 & 15 separately, you should not buy this boxed set.

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 1 (Lust, Money & Murder #13)

Criminal mastermind Giorgio Cattoretti is back, and in rare form. The Cat has developed a brilliant new plan to make himself millions, but to pull it off, he needs to track down a key man who is hiding out from the Yakuza in one of the most isolated areas of Japan. The Lust, Money & Murder Japanese Trilogy features the usual cast of captivating characters—Elaine Brogan, Luna Faye, Nick LaGrange, Dmitry, Tony, and of course the notorious Cattoretti.

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 2 - The Invisible Manhunt: (Lust, Money & Murder Series Book 14)

When Giorgio Cattoretti enlists the help of Elaine Brogan to track down the international serial killer he unknowingly let loose on the world, Elaine reluctantly agrees. She believes that the deranged murderer knows the location of The Factory, the illegal passport production facility that she’s been after for months. When Elaine and Luna Faye ask to be put in charge of the case, they’re forced to cooperate with a team of competing foreign crime specialists who, above all else, must not learn the killer’s true identity. Elaine’s relentless pursuit takes her from Lyon, France, to Kiev, Ukraine, to Budapest Hungary, to Dubai, UAE, and finally, to Barcelona, Spain.

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 3: (Lust, Money & Murder #15)

Thanks to Elaine Brogan, Giorgio Cattoretti finally finds himself behind bars in one of the worst maximum security penitentiaries in Europe. He’s desperate to find a way out. Meanwhile, Elaine and Luna Faye continue their effort to track down The Factory, even though their boss has ordered them to drop the case. A rapidly-unfolding series of events leads Elaine to Japan, where she is pitted not only against Cattoretti and the Yakuza criminals but, to her astonishment, even her own husband. The last book of The Japanese Trilogy reaches an explosive climax that will have you turning the pages faster and faster until you reach the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005052126

Mike Wells

Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

Book preview

The Japanese Trilogy Boxed Set

The Japanese Trilogy Boxed Set

(Lust, Money & Murder - Books 13, 14 & 15)

Mike Wells

Mike Wells Books

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Copyright © 2021 Mike Wells

All rights reserved.

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Contents

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 1 - Face-Off

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 2 - Face-Off

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Chapter 139

Chapter 140

Chapter 141

Chapter 142

Chapter 143

Chapter 144

Chapter 145

Chapter 146

Chapter 147

Chapter 148

Chapter 149

Chapter 150

Chapter 151

Chapter 152

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 3 - The Factory

Chapter 153

Chapter 154

Chapter 155

Chapter 156

Chapter 157

Chapter 158

Chapter 159

Chapter 160

Chapter 161

Chapter 162

Chapter 163

Chapter 164

Chapter 165

Chapter 166

Chapter 167

Chapter 168

Chapter 169

Chapter 170

Chapter 171

Chapter 172

Chapter 173

Chapter 174

Chapter 175

Chapter 176

Chapter 177

Chapter 178

Chapter 179

Chapter 180

Chapter 181

Chapter 182

Chapter 183

Chapter 184

Chapter 185

Chapter 186

Chapter 187

Chapter 188

Chapter 189

Chapter 190

Chapter 191

Chapter 192

Chapter 193

Chapter 194

Chapter 195

Chapter 196

Chapter 197

Chapter 198

Chapter 199

Chapter 200

Chapter 201

Chapter 202

Chapter 203

Chapter 204

Chapter 205

Chapter 206

Chapter 207

Chapter 208

Chapter 209

Chapter 210

Chapter 211

Chapter 212

Chapter 213

Chapter 214

Chapter 215

Chapter 216

Chapter 217

Chapter 218

Chapter 219

Chapter 220

Chapter 221

Chapter 222

Chapter 223

Chapter 224

Chapter 225

Chapter 226

Chapter 227

Chapter 228

Chapter 229

Chapter 230

Chapter 231

Chapter 232

Chapter 233

Chapter 234

Chapter 235

Chapter 236

Chapter 237

Chapter 238

Chapter 239

Chapter 240

Chapter 241

Chapter 242

Chapter 243

Chapter 244

Chapter 245

Chapter 246

Chapter 247

Chapter 248

Chapter 249

Chapter 250

Chapter 251

Chapter 252

Chapter 253

Chapter 254

Chapter 255

Chapter 256

Chapter 257

Chapter 258

Chapter 259

Chapter 260

Chapter 261

Chapter 262

Chapter 263

Epilogue

A Letter to My Readers

Acknowledgments

Also by Mike Wells

About the Author

The Japanese Trilogy, Book 1 - Face-Off

Prologue

Lovska, Croatia

The hunting lodge was one hundred kilometers southeast of Zagreb. It belonged to the Croatian Minister of Finance.

Five men were sitting around the long wooden table in the living room. Mounted on one of the cedar walls were several trophies, the heads of a deer, a moose…the centerpiece was a wild boar, its long, twisted white tusks protruding from its open mouth.

Still wearing their camouflaged hunting outfits, the men were sweaty and worn out. They were enjoying glasses of homemade sljivovica—Croatian plum brandy—and congratulating each other on their successful kills. A half dozen wild boar were visible out the window, their lifeless carcasses laid out in a neat row in the grass.

But the men did not come here only to hunt. There was an important matter of business at hand, one that demanded absolute secrecy, and that could not be discussed in the government offices back in Zagreb.

One of the ministers rose from his chair and pulled a document out of his hunting bag.

This is the final report from the insurance company, he said, and slid it to the center of the table. It was marked TOP SECRET. There was only one copy of the three page document, which was typed in Croatian. The men passed it around and read it, one by one.

The report was based on data supplied from Jakob Henikstein, the insurance adjuster who had investigated the ‘robbery’ of the diamond cutting factory in Dubrovnik that the government had subsidized, set up by Giorgio Cattoretti.

Henikstein had discovered that one massive, raw pink diamond was removed from inventory only two days before the robbery took place, and it was found on Giorgio Cattoretti the afternoon he and his family managed to successfully slip out of the country. Henikstein had grown suspicious of him, watched his villa for several days, and followed him and confronted him. According to Henikstein, they had gotten into a scuffle and Cattoretti and his family escaped, but Henikstein had recovered the diamond.

There was no question now that the robbery was orchestrated by The Cat, a nickname that all of the ministers had learned to loathe.

The report also went on to say that it was believed that Cattoretti was now under the protection of the Greek government and that he had some operating role at ‘Panacea,’ a top secret clinic that was located on a tiny island in the Aegean Sea.

Jakob Henikstein was a very resourceful man.

Well? the Minister of Justice finally said, as the last of the ministers closed the report and set it back down on the table.

What is this Panacea place? he asked.

It’s a posh clinic where Arab sheiks send their slutty daughters to have their hymens sewn back shut.

I should send mine there.

Gentlemen, the Minister of Justice said, this is no joking matter. He looked evenly at the faces around the table. "What are we going to do about this Italian šupak?" It was the Croatian word for asshole.

The room was silent. Everything else the men had said up to this point was only foreplay—they all knew why this meeting had been called. The insurance company had refused to pay, the Croatian bank called in its loan, and now it looked like the government was going to take the entire hit, to the tune of one hundred million dollars. Giorgio Cattoretti had made fools out of them all.

I say we have him stuffed and his head mounted on the wall, the Minister of Commerce said, with the rest of these animals.

The men laughed.

Seriously. My friends, it is a matter of principle. We may be a small country, but we cannot let ourselves be jacked around by a lowlife crook like him. The minister paused and then added, Again.

The Minister of Finance recited a Croatian proverb, "One who digs a hole for another falls into the pit himself."

Well, last time, no one fell into the hole but Köhler—the thief got exactly what he deserved. Wilhelm Köhler was a German con artist who had screwed the country out of sixty-million euros worth of gas turbines. The criminal owned a house in Zagreb, and a masked ‘burglar’ broke in and not only killed him, but his whole family.

Yes, and I suppose the man’s poor wife and child got what they deserved, too? another minister said.

If you weren’t so cheap we could have hired a better one. The hired assassin had lost his mask after the break in, and both the wife and daughter had seen his face, and he had panicked. It had been a tragic screw-up.

I think we should just turn Cattoretti in to Interpol, the Minister of Finance said.

Not a chance. In effect, that would just be turning him over to the Americans, and you know how that goes. The man will probably end up ‘serving time’ in one of those hotels over there; what do they call them?

White collar prisons, the Minister of Justice said.

Like I said, hotels. Anyway, do we really want the world to know that we let him screw us like this?

I have found a new contractor, the Minister of Justice said. He’s a former agent for the Romanian secret police. This guy is a pro, a freelancer. His nickname is The Lullaby.

There was some laughter.

He is very good at what he does, believe me.

One of the ministers asked, How much does this Lullaby charge to sing someone to sleep?

One hundred thousand euros. Fifty up front, fifty after the hit.

Can he make it look like an ‘accident’?

Who cares? Giorgio Cattoretti has a list of enemies longer than my arm—mafia dons, FBI agents, politicians, entire governments... The minister paused, glancing at the report. The problem is one of access. From what I’ve heard, that Greek island he’s hiding on is a fortress, completely impenetrable. Anyway, it would ruffle too many powerful feathers if we eliminated him there.

I wonder if he will risk traveling outside of Greece...

He might, now that he has a new identity. The report said that he was operating under a new alias, Adrian Garcia, and that he was in possession of a Spanish passport in that name.

I have a reliable contact in Greek immigration, the Minister of Justice said. I can ask him to give me a heads-up whenever Cattoretti exits through passport control in Athens.

I don’t like this at all, the Minister of Foreign Affairs said. It was the first word he’d uttered since the conversation started.

You are suddenly developing a conscience? the Minister of Justice said. You were more than happy to accept the man’s bribes when he owned the factory.

"Quite the opposite. I want him to know who ordered it, and why. The minister thumped his fist on the table. I want revenge, dammit!"

Me, too, another minister said. I think that is the most important part—remuneration for the hit should be contingent on The Lullaby making it clear who ordered the hit before he takes Cattoretti out.

I’m sure we can put that in the contract, the Minister of Justice said.

The Minister of Finance glanced at the furry heads of the slain animals on the walls. Their black, glossy eyes seemed to be staring down at the humans sitting around the table.

He had the strangest feeling of being judged.

A few days later, the Minister of Finance was sitting in his Mercedes, parked under a narrow train overpass in an industrial section of Zagreb.

It was one o’clock in the morning. A cold, misty drizzle had been coming down all evening.

Sweaty with anxiety, the minister kept glancing at his watch. All the car doors were locked. In the back seat was a satchel that contained fifty thousand euros in cash.

The last thing he wanted to do was meet this nasty piece of work called The Lullaby in person. He and the other ministers had drawn straws and he was the lucky bastard who had gotten stuck with this task. Just listening to the man speak on the phone, with his toneless, matter-of-fact voice, sent chills up the minister’s spine. The hired assassin acted as if he was making an appointment to have his car serviced.

After another couple of nerve-wracking minutes, a sedan appeared in the mist and slowly rolled to a stop about twenty meters away.

The minister gave the prearranged signal, flashing his lights twice, quickly, and then one more time, leaving them on for about two seconds.

The car started moving again and came to a stop facing his, their fenders almost touching.

The door opened and a tall, lean man got out. His head was as bald and smooth as a billiard ball. It was hard to tell much else in the dim gray mist, other than that he was wearing a long black raincoat. And black gloves.

He stepped over to the passenger side of the minister’s car and grabbed the door handle, but it was locked.

Uh, sorry, the minister muttered, and clumsily found the button and unlocked it.

The man opened the door, peered inside at the minister’s face, and then climbed inside, snapping the door shut.

The Lullaby.

The man’s skin was pale and looked as thin as tracing paper, blue veins visible on his scalp and below his temple. But he had a remarkably affable face, considering his profession, with laugh lines around his mouth. He might have been some kindly grandfather—the minister could almost see him holding a baby in his arms, singing the child to sl…No, that was the wrong thought to have.

You have my payment? The Lullaby said, in English.

The minister hesitated, then reached into the back seat, having to turn towards the dangerous man and to expose his chest as he did so.

The Lullaby merely set the satchel in his lap, his gloved hands resting lightly on it. He did not open it. And the target’s information?

The target. The minister cringed at the hit-man terminology. He was an accountant, for god’s sake.

He reached under his seat and produced an envelope. In it were several photos of Giorgio Cattoretti, along with a copy of his passport and a list of known aliases.

The Lullaby glanced at the documents. Looking satisfied, he smiled, revealing his teeth. They were unusually fine, stained a light yellow, and arranged in two slightly uneven rows, like corn on the cob.

So, I understand you will notify me when he leaves Greece.

Correct.

Chasing him down while he’s traveling will require more resources, will cost you extra. You can pay those expenses on the back end. The hit-man paused. Do you prefer that I use a specific method? Do you want him to suffer?

The minister swallowed. The ‘how’ isn’t important to us.

Suit yourself. He reached for the door handle.

But we do have another requirement, the minister said, stopping him. Two, actually.

He let go of the door handle. I’m listening.

The first is that you wear a body cam and make a video.

The Lullaby considered this, and gave a little shrug. Not an unusual request these days. Another extra charge. He paused and smiled, flashing those fine, yellowed teeth again. Just do not ask me to post it on YouTube.

The minister did not laugh. We also want you to deliver a message to him from us before you…

Dispatch him?

The minister grimaced. Right. We want to make sure you capture his reaction on video. This is very important to us. The minister paused, mustering up his nerve. If you do not do this, you will not get paid.

The Lullaby eyed him for a long, unnerving few seconds. You are very demanding.

The minister swallowed hard.

The Lullaby regarded him for another long moment, as if sizing him up for a coffin, and said, I see no problem with that, but it is unusual. All things considered, I will have to charge you one-fifty.

That price is acceptable, but…

But what?

I do not have any more cash with me to add to the down payment.

You can give me the rest on the back end.

The minister was relieved. I am glad you trust us.

Trust you? The Lullaby gave a gentle smile, revealing his creepy teeth again. One of the perks of my profession is that I never have any trouble collecting debts.

I...see.

So, what is the message you want delivered…?

1

Marseille, France

When Elaine Brogan’s sat-phone started ringing in her carry-on bag, she was returning from a week-long business trip to the United States.

She stopped on the side of the airport corridor. Blowing a limp strand of hair out of her face, she opened her bag and found the sat-phone. She was hot and exhausted.

ITALIAN FOOD CATERER, the display said.

A feeling of dread swept over her. That was the tag she used for Giorgio Cattoretti’s number. She had not heard a word from him since he had taken over Panacea.

Don’t answer it, she told herself.

After the Spyro Leandrou/Panacea situation had been resolved, she had sworn to herself that she would not have any more to do with Cattoretti. It only led to complications and trouble.

She switched the phone to vibrate-only mode and put it back into her bag.

A few minutes later, Elaine was driving her SUV northeast along the D9, overjoyed that she was almost home. She had only been away for a week, but it seemed like a month—she missed the kids, as well as Nick and Tony, terribly. She was shouldered with new job responsibilities now, and even though her workload had become almost unmanageable, she was determined to keep it together.

She had her boss, Martin Valdez, to ‘thank’ for her stressful situation. Ever since Spyro Leandrou had been forced out of Panacea, Valdez had been riding high. Then using the information from Leandrou’s secret ‘red book,’ Interpol had coordinated a series of high-profile kidney-trafficking busts in Pakistan, Macedonia, South Africa, and the Philippines. Martin Valdez was a notable figure at each press conference, presenting himself as an ‘advisor’ from the Secret Service who had initially identified the organ-trafficking from money-laundering activity.

All this hoopla had garnered Valdez so much visibility that the President of the United States had taken note and formed a task force against illegal organ trafficking, and he made Valdez the head of it.

Shortly thereafter, Valdez had recommended Elaine for another task force that the President helped put together, a joint USA-European Union team charged with reducing the number of counterfeit passports that were produced. Due to the millions of refugees in Europe, it was becoming a bigger and bigger problem, and Elaine’s anti-counterfeiting work with paper money made her a natural fit.

Valdez had thought he was doing Elaine a favor, and even though it was against her better judgment, she had graciously agreed. Now she sorely regretted that decision. This had been her third week-long trip away from home in the past two months, and the small amount of extra time Valdez told her that the task force would require had spiraled into twenty extra hours a week.

When she turned into the driveway of the farmhouse, the gate was already open. The porch light came on as she parked the SUV and got out.

Nick trotted out to greet her, with Ryan on his heels.

Momma! her son cried, as if she really had been gone for a month. The boy rushed up to her, throwing his arms around her hips and hugging her.

Amelia wobbled along behind him, barefoot and wearing only a diaper, saying, Mamamamama. Elaine scooped her up in her arms.

"Signora! Tony called, and opened the door for her. He was wearing his white apron. We are so-a glad you’re-a home!"

Tony looked tired, with shadows under his brown eyes.

I hope the children didn’t wear you out, Elaine said.

"Oh, no, they were both little angelini, like always."

Elaine laughed. I bet they were.

Soon, the whole family was clustered round the dining table munching on bruschetta and mozzarella sticks that Tony had made—it was all delicious, especially after a week of bland hotel food.

By the way, babe, Nick said, three secure courier packages arrived while you were gone. I put them up in your office.

Elaine groaned. Thanks…I think.

She knew what they contained, and she dreaded opening them.

After they finally got the two overly-excited kids calmed down and into bed, Elaine went upstairs to the sunroom, where her home office was located. Nick was following along behind her, a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

In addition to fake $100 bills, the wall under her office marker board was filled with shelf after shelf of counterfeit passports. One short month after joining the task force, she was buried in the damn booklets. Along with fake U.S. passports, there were passports from nearly every one of the twenty-eight EU member states. Nick had built her the set of special narrow wooden shelves just to store them and to keep them in order.

Elaine took a step towards her desk and reached for one of the packages that had arrived, but Nick gently took hold of her arm. You don’t have to do that now. He guided her into her comfy chair and told her to lean back and put her feet up. "You’re still keyed up from your trip, honey. You have to relax."

He poured some wine into the glasses and handed her one.

Thank you, she said, trying to let herself unwind.

As she sipped the wine, Nick began massaging her shoulders. Oh, that feels woooonderful, she purred, closing her eyes. "You really are an angelo."

After a moment, he said, I wish you didn’t have to leave again tomorrow.

Me, too, she murmured. She had to fly to Lyon so that she could brief Valdez on the results of the task force meeting in Washington.

After a couple of minutes of Nick’s blissful massage, her sat-phone started to vibrate. It was still in her handbag, but the room was quiet enough for Nick to hear it.

Cattoretti.

She was determined not to let that thought disturb her, enjoying the fingers digging into her aching shoulder muscles. Nick’s hands were magical. She felt the need to explain, so she said, I’m sure it’s Luna, wanting to know how the trip went. I’ll update her tomorrow.

"Are you still hungry? If you are, Tony made some biscotti—"

No, I’m fine.

You want a foot massage?

Elaine smiled and opened her eyes a little. You know what this reminds me of?

What?

Bulgaria. When I used to fill out those awful DOPS forms for you.

Nick laughed. Yeah, those were the days, weren’t they? After a moment, he said, Who would have ever thought we would get married and have two kids?

I thought it, Elaine mused, but said nothing.

Finally, the sat-phone had stopped ringing.

Elaine sat up straighter, her gaze again focused on the packages on her desk. Before Nick could stop her, she leaned forward and quickly picked up one of the envelopes and ripped it open.

Passports in a number of colors spilled out onto her desk.

The relaxation spilled out of her, too.

She shook her head in frustration—just from the sheer quantity, she was sure that most of them were low quality fakes. She picked up a passport from Sweden. Why do they keep sending me these? she snapped. "Why, Nick?"

Nick took the passport and glanced at it, thumbing through it. I don’t see what—

It’s stapled together! Real passports are stitched together, like books.

Oh. Right. He sheepishly handed it back.

Elaine shook her head again. "And the staples aren’t even straight, for god’s sake," she said, and tossed it back in the pile. Even Ryan could tell it wasn’t real.

Currently, Elaine was only supposed to be receiving the highest quality fakes, those that had all standard security features correctly implemented, and which also had the biometric RFID chips. Rumor had it that there was an underground source somewhere in Eastern Europe that was producing false passports in large quantities, with such good quality that even the DSS—the Diplomatic Security Service—could not tell they were counterfeit. On the black market, this clandestine operation was known as ‘The Factory."

Elaine told Nick, How can I ever zero in on this mysterious source that’s supposedly out there when they keep wasting my time with all this nonsense?

Did you talk to the chairman?

"Yes, just before I left. And you know what he said? 'Oh, I thought that issue had been resolved!'

Elaine ripped open the other two packages and dumped the passports out on her desk. She rapidly went through them, one after another, hoping to find a high quality counterfeit, but they were all instantly recognizable as fake, at least by her practiced eye.

When Elaine plopped back down into her chair, she wanted to cry. "Almost every member on that task force is a paper-pushing bureaucrat, Nick! I’m the only one who actually knows how to do anything."

That’s probably why Valdez recommended you.

He’s a real sport, Elaine muttered.

Nick gazed at her sympathetically and put his arm around her. Just stick it out, honey—it’s only one year. Besides, being a member of this task force is an impressive feather in your cap. Maybe by the end of it, you’ll not only be the Queen of Counterfeits, but the Princess of Passports.

Despite how exhausted Elaine was from her trip, she was still wired and frustrated with how things were going with the task force that sleep would not come. She was mad at herself for not telling Martin Valdez that it would be too much for her to take on. Elaine swore that she would never become the proverbial workaholic, but that’s exactly what she felt like right now.

Making sure that Nick was soundly asleep, she slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and padded quietly downstairs to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of milk, snatched up a couple of the chocolate almond biscotti that Tony had made, and took them back to her office.

Elaine sat there eating her midnight snack, staring at the sat-phone sitting on her desk. It was plugged into the charger and set to Night Mode, so it wouldn’t make a sound if anyone called or sent a message.

Such as Giorgio Cattoretti.

She finally picked it up and glanced at the display.

The ‘Italian Food Caterer’ had called two more times.

You know you’re going to call him back, some voice in her head yammered. So just pick up the phone and do it.

There was actually a reason she did want to talk to The Cat, and she knew she would give into that reason sooner or later. After the Panacea and kidney trafficking case was over, she had not gotten a satisfactory answer from Giorgio about what had happened to her mother. During their last phone conversation, he had claimed that the last time he saw Kathy was when she stabbed Lonnie Hendrix and pushed him over the cliff. Elaine had not directly asked Giorgio if he had killed her mother, but she had clearly implied it, and he did not deny it or try to defend himself. He simply said, Let me put it this way: if some person did step in and kill Kathy Brogan, you should consider it a favor.

That was a non-answer, of course, and certainly made Cattoretti look guilty. Elaine supposed that after everything Kathy had done, she didn’t really care if he, or anybody else, killed her—the woman certainly deserved it, or at least to spend the rest of her life behind bars.

It was the not knowing that ate away at Elaine. She didn’t think she cared so much about the outcome, one way or another—it was just the lack of information and of closure.

Elaine sat there in her office a long time, slowly nibbling on her cookie and sipping her milk, staring at the sat-phone. She finally sighed, Okay, and made the call.

The phone on the other end rang only once.

"¿Diga?" Giorgio said, as if he were really Spanish. Just hearing his voice made her stomach cramp.

It’s me, she said in a low voice. Her office door was shut but the house was dead quiet--the last thing she wanted was for Nick to know she was making contact with him.

"Ah, cara. Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. He paused. Life is treating you well, I hope?"

Well enough, Elaine said, anxious for him to get to the point. Every time she talked to him, it stirred all her emotions.

The reason I’m calling is that I want to borrow a gun.

Elaine blinked, not sure she had heard him right. "That’s why you called me? To borrow a gun?"

Not just any gun—the one you lent me to protect your mother with, that breaks down and magically passes through airport security.

It was hard for her to believe he would ask her this kind of a favor, as if she were one of his criminal partners. "And why in the world would you ask me to do that?"

"Two reasons. First, you owe me for helping you rescue your mother. Second, you want Panacea to be successful, now that I’ve taken it over. You stuck your neck out for me, cara, and I appreciate it."

I don’t see the connection, she said, growing angry. What does borrowing a gun like that have to do with running Panacea?

Giorgio did not immediately respond. It’s a bit complicated to explain. I would rather not do it over the phone, even a sat-phone. Giorgio paused. Would it be possible for you to meet me somewhere?

Elaine did not know what to say, but she did feel that she owed him at least a little for helping her protect her mother from Spyro Leandrou. Where did you have in mind?

Well, as you know it’s a little risky for me to travel internationally. Would it be possible for you to come to Athens? I can travel within Greece with no problem, of course.

If you don’t want to cross any international borders, then I don’t see why you need that type of gun in the first place. Besides, I’m not going to lend you a murder weapon.

Giorgio laughed. "Cara, I’m not planning to kill anybody with it, but I am taking a trip abroad, and for a good reason—to hire more staff for Panacea. The part of the world where I’m going may be dangerous. I only need it for self-defense."

Elaine sighed. Are you serious?

Perfectly. He paused and added, You were happy enough to lend that gun to me when you wanted me to help your mother.

He had a point.

Besides that, you told me it was untraceable, so there’s no way it can come back to you.

Elaine didn’t respond.

"Just meet me in Athens, cara, and hear me out. I’ll reimburse you for your plane tickets, hotel, everything. If nothing else, I think you’ll find what I have to say interesting. Bring the gun with you. If you still don’t want to lend it to me after we meet, I will completely understand. No hard feelings—I promise. I’ll find another solution…"

2

The following morning, Elaine boarded a flight bound for Athens. She decided that she at least should go hear what Cattoretti had to say. She didn’t actually have to be in Lyon until Tuesday at eleven a.m. to brief Martin Valdez on the task force activity, and she could as easily prepare for that meeting on the airplane flights as she could anywhere else.

Elaine arrived in Athens about four o’clock in the afternoon. She had told Cattoretti that she would meet him at five at the restaurant of the same hotel where she’d stayed when Spyro Leandrou had sent her to Panacea the first time.

She had bought the plane ticket in cash. When she took a taxi to the hotel, she paid the driver cash, too. She didn’t want to leave any trail of a meeting with Cattoretti.

As she climbed out of the taxi, she glanced at the elegant hotel, and beyond it. There was a fabulous view of the Acropolis up on the hill.

She brought along a small carry-on bag, which contained a change of clothes. It also contained the hi-tech plastic pistol that Cattoretti wanted to borrow. There were three of the weapons at home—Nick’s, hers, and a spare one that had never been fired. Unfortunately, the spare was locked up separately, and only Nick had the key. Now that they had kids old enough to poke around in drawers, all three of the guns were kept in locked cabinets that Nick had installed in the back of their walk-in closet.

If she decided to lend Cattoretti one of the special pistols, it would have to be hers—she didn’t think she would need it herself in the foreseeable future, not with this task force work that she was buried in now. Hopefully Nick wouldn’t find out about it. If he did…well, she could only imagine his reaction. You lent that low-life son-of-a-bitch a GUN?

As Elaine rolled the suitcase through the hotel lobby, she remembered the last time she was here, when she spent the night and then took a taxi to find the secret Panacea entrance at the kebab shop. She wasn’t sure whether those memories were good or bad.

When she entered the restaurant, it was only 4:45 p.m., but Giorgio was already there. Since it was between mealtimes for people in Greece, the restaurant was almost empty.

The Cat was seated at a corner table, in one of his perfectly-fitting Italian suits. He was wearing his eye patch and had grown his beard out. This somehow made him look shady and distinguished at the same time.

"Thank you so much for coming, cara," he said, rising from his chair. As she neared him, he reached out as if to embrace her, and perhaps to kiss her on the cheek, but she thrust out her hand before he could do either.

Nice to see you again, she said curtly, and they merely shook hands. He looked a little disappointed.

He held her chair for her, and after she sat down, he turned and glanced out the window. Now, the majestically-pillared Acropolis was catching the final, golden rays of the sun. Something about the backdrop of the deep blue sky made the ancient building look surreal, almost futuristic.

Amazing view, eh? Giorgio said. I suppose that’s why you picked this place. Due to the eye patch, he had to swivel his head a little to take in the entire panorama. His face was deeply tanned now from living most of the past year on a Mediterranean island.

Smiling again at Elaine, Giorgio said, But you are even more stunning than the view. As always.

Thank you. Elaine paused and made herself say, You’re looking well, too.

I took the liberty of ordering an appetizer and some Greek wine. He picked up the bottle and filled her glass. Although being Italian, I can’t say I’m a big fan of the Greeks as winemakers. Their stuff is too fruity for my taste.

On the plate were a dozen yellowish, rectangular shaped chunks of what looked like pieces of toasted tofu.

He nodded to the appetizer. This particular delicacy, however, is a different story. Grilled Halloumi cheese. He picked up a netted lemon and began squeezing the juice over all the slices. Made from a mixture of goat and sheep’s milk. It’s only made on the island of Cyprus—it’s delicious. I became totally addicted to this delicacy when I was living there.

It is delicious, Elaine agreed, after she tasted it. The flavor was a bit like mozzarella, only a little saltier.

After a moment, Giorgio said, I obviously didn’t ask you here to talk about cheese.

A waiter approached and offered Elaine a menu, which she set aside for the time being.

Just as Giorgio started to speak again, she said, I have a question for you. She wanted to get this out first, so he could not use it as a bargaining chip for the gun.

Giorgio said, You want to ask me about Kathy…?

Elaine wasn’t really surprised that he had guessed. Right.

Well, I didn’t… Giorgio glanced around the empty restaurant and then lowered his voice. "I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’ve been thinking. I already told you that."

No, you did not. When I asked you the question, you tap-danced around it.

Cattoretti steadily gazed at her with his one uncovered eye. Well, I’m telling you now—I didn’t harm a hair on her head. What kind of an animal do you think I am? He paused, then cocked his head. I will admit, I was so disgusted with her that I felt like it. To be honest, the only reason she’s alive is because she’s your mother.

Where is she?

Giorgio pointed at her. That, I’m not going to tell you.

They sat there in silence for a minute—now, there was soft Greek music playing in the background. Another couple entered the restaurant and were seated.

With a sympathetic sigh, Giorgio said, Elaine, you have to let go. I know it’s hard to do, but that woman was no mother to you.

What did you do with her?

I sold her as a sex slave. Giorgio chuckled at the look on Elaine’s face. "I’m only joking! You still don’t understand my sense of humor, cara."

She glared at him. No, I don’t.

With a sigh, Giorgio said, Your mother is still in this world, I promise you. She doesn’t deserve to be, and she considers herself lucky. I won’t say another word on this subject. As you Americans like to say, wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me.

Elaine started to take another bite of the cheese, but now realized this conversation had quelled her appetite. She set the slice back down on the plate.

So why do you want to borrow the gun, Giorgio? She glanced at her watch. I don’t have much time—I have to be in Lyon early tomorrow morning.

You’re not spending the night…? Somehow, the words with me? seemed to be tagged onto the end of the sentence.

No, I’m leaving on a red eye as soon as we’re done here.

Oh. That is a pity…

Fortunately, the waiter walked up and interrupted this line of conversation.

As soon as the man was gone, Giorgio motioned to her with his wine glass, his eye suddenly sparkled with excitement.

"Elaine—you’re going to love this. The reason I need the gun is that I’m going to Japan to recruit the best damn plastic surgeon in the world to come to work at Panacea. This doctor is so good that the Yakuza kidnapped him to change the faces of some of their gang members."

This was a surprise. "You’re going to kidnap a doctor from the Yakuza?"

Giorgio laughed. No, no. He escaped from the gangsters, killed one of them in the process, and he’s been hiding out ever since. I’m almost sure he’s in the Iya Valley.

The Iya…?

The Iya Valley. It’s one of the most remote areas of Japan. I’m going to track him down and make him an offer he can’t ref— Giorgio quickly raised his hands, smiling. "No, that’s not the right way to put it. I’m going to offer him a huge salary, one that he hopefully won’t be able to resist. And, living on Panacea Island, he won’t have to worry about any Yakuza—he’ll be safe and sound there."

Elaine had to admit, she hadn’t expected this. You’re actually running the clinic legitimately?

Giorgio frowned, looking insulted. Of course I am! I shut down the illegal kidney transplants as soon as I took over, as promised. As a result of that, we lost quite a few doctors and a significant chunk of income. So, I’m staffing it with the best damn plastic surgeons I can find, starting some new service offerings, trying to make up for the lost revenue.

Elaine nodded, but she had a hard time imagining him running any legitimate business. She was sure he had something up his sleeve—maybe one of his ‘new service offerings’ was to charge international fugitives huge sums to alter their faces.

This notion brought her thoughts back to the task force. Elaine had told herself she wouldn’t try to pick Cattoretti’s brain on this matter…but he was such a valuable source of black market information it would be negligent not to at least ask.

What? Giorgio said, lowering his wine glass.

Elaine told him about her appointment to the task force.

This calls for a toast, he said, and raised his glass to her. Congratulations, Elaine!

Thanks, she said, smiling for the first time, and clinking her glass with his. Despite how she felt about him, his words raised her spirits. The powers that be seem to believe that there is some big, clandestine operation set up somewhere in Eastern Europe that’s producing passports at the same quality level as the counterfeit currency you used to produce way back when. Fakes that are so good that even DSS agents can’t identify them. She paused. Supposedly it’s called ‘The Factory.’

Giorgio smiled, revealing his bleached teeth. Great branding. I like it.

Elaine sighed. Seriously, have you ever heard anything like that?

He shook his head. No. And besides, I can’t see how such a thing would be possible. Passports are a lot more complicated than paper money—they have an RFID chip inside…well, I don’t have to tell you that. He paused. In short, no, I don’t think it’s possible. I think your ‘Factory’ is an urban legend.

Elaine regarded him warily. You really don’t think it can be done? It’s not easy, but those RFID chips can be hacked…

Yes, but they can’t be manufactured from scratch. He paused. Well, I might be able to manage it, but how many criminals out in the world are as sophisticated as me? He smiled again.

Certainly there aren’t many who are as egotistical.

The Cat chuckled, and he motioned to her. "Having said that, if you do happen to run across this mythical operation, would you mind putting me in—?"

Giorgio…

What? You know I have a problem traveling! I could use a passport like that. Looking annoyed, he glanced down at her carry-on bag. Is the gun in there?

She hesitated. Yes.

Well, are you going to lend it to me or not? I just need it for a week—that’s how long I’m giving myself to track down this doctor. It’s probably a long shot, but I want to try.

She had learned that when dealing with The Cat, it was always quid pro quo. Whenever she asked him for a favor, he always wanted one in return.

So what do I get out of this?

You already got something out of it—I saved your mother from Spyro.

You haven’t been very helpful with this rumor about The Factory. It’s not like you to simply dismiss an operation like that as impossible.

I didn’t say it wasn’t possible!

Then shake up your network and find out if it’s real.

Giorgio sighed. "Fine, cara. If that’s what you want, consider it done."

Elaine and Giorgio shared a taxi back to the airport. He dropped her off at the main terminal—he was heading to the civil aviation terminal, where he would take his private jet back to Panacea Island.

Thank you so much, Giorgio told her, and once again he tried to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she merely shook hands again.

When do you think you can get it back to me? she said, referring to the gun.

I’ll get in touch as soon as I return from Japan.

She nodded, but eyed him doubtfully. Good luck, Giorgio.

Same to you, Elaine.

As he climbed back in the taxi and watched her walk away, he smiled, shaking his head. What a woman! Just not his. Yet.

Everything Giorgio had told Elaine was true, but there was an important detail that he had omitted.

He was actually adding only one new service to Panacea’s offerings.

It was called NewLife.

The Japanese doctor that he wanted to hire was indeed one of the best plastic surgeons in the world, but also happened to be the only physician on the planet who had perfected fingerprint alteration surgery. He could give a person a completely new set of prints with absolutely no visible scarring, undetectable by even the most experienced forensic experts.

This is why the Yakuza had kidnapped him, and this is why Giorgio was willing to go to great lengths, and great expense, to hire him.

The tagline The Cat had created for NewLife was: Walk into the clinic as one person, and walk out as another.

NewLife would not only allow himself to take on a completely new identity, it would make him and Panacea tens of millions.

3

The following morning, The Cat was back at Panacea.

Giorgio was thrilled to be the owner of the top secret clinic tucked away on the tiny Mediterranean island, an island that was listed on no maps and did not officially exist.

The first thing he did every day was to personally greet any new patients who had arrived on the island.

Hello, I’m Adrian Garcia, the owner, he would say, with an unmistakable sense of pride. Adrian Garcia was the alias under which he had acquired the facility. I just wanted to make sure that you settled in all right and to see if there’s anything you need. When he made these visits, he was always decked out in one of his perfectly-tailored Italian suits, complemented by his eye patch, of course. He felt that the black leather accessory added a certain mystique to the client experience, creating the impression they were on a kind of pirate ship hidden in the shimmering blue waters of the Mediterranean. To accentuate the effect, upon leaving, he would always smile again and say, Welcome aboard!

Despite the fact that most patients were wearing their black silk Panacea masks when they opened their doors, and that entry to the clinic was strictly on an anonymous basis, Giorgio usually knew who they were. He had beefed up the digital face recognition (DFR) system in use at the secret admissions office in Athens.

With certain clients, in addition to the personal greeting, he would hand them a Panacea card with his sat-phone number and a secure email written on the back. We are in the process of launching an exciting new service called NewLife. It’s a set of cosmetic surgeries that offers total identity change…

When he had the Japanese doctor and everything else in place, he wanted a few clients lined up so he could hit the ground running.

He often marveled at his own criminal progression, at its grace and symmetry. He had started by selling counterfeit Rolex watches, then moved up to making counterfeit designer clothing, then counterfeit handbags, shoes and other accessories, then counterfeit jewelry, and finally, making counterfeit U.S. $100 bills.

Now, he was going to make counterfeit people.

On this particular morning, as soon as Giorgio finished his rounds, he went back up to his third floor office and began making concrete plans for his trip to Japan.

Although Asian cultures had always fascinated him and he had been to Japan a few times, he had never ventured out beyond Tokyo and the surrounding area.

The region where he believed that Dr. Toro Otsuka was hiding out, the Iya Valley, was located deep in the interior of Shikoku Island, the largest island off mainland Japan. More than eight hundred kilometers from Tokyo, the Iya consisted of an almost inaccessible network of dramatic gorges and rivers nestled between two formidable mountains. The region was so remote and isolated that the locals even referred to Japanese visitors as gaijin, or foreigners.

When Giorgio researched it, he was fascinated to learn that Iya was veiled in mystery and folklore—Japanese warriors and refugees had a long history of hiding out there, including the Samurai. The population had shrunk significantly in the past fifty years, with most of the residents—farmers—moving to mainland cities. The Iya was now scattered with abandoned villages. However, the descendants of the leader of the Heike clan supposedly still lived in the furthest reaches, occupying a thatch-roofed mansion with their crimson, twelfth-century war banner proudly framing the entrance.

The reason that Giorgio thought Dr. Otsuka was hiding out there was because he had learned that the doctor had made several trips to the Iya Valley to gather the flowers that he used to make a special healing ointment for his skin graft surgery. Apparently, the ointment was a key part of his success.

Cattoretti figured the doctor might be holed up in one of the abandoned villages.

Giorgio spent some time studying detailed maps of the region, and browsing photographs. The Iya Valley looked surreal, with steep mountain slopes plunging dramatically into rocky gorges, gray mists eerily obscuring some of the view. The only way to cross some of the rivers was on foot, by stepping across precarious vine bridges that spanned the deep, dangerous maws.

It was the perfect place for Dr. Otsuka to hide. Giorgio had a few run-ins with the Yakuza over the years, and he couldn’t imagine the tattooed, black-suited, street-shoe-clad gangsters venturing out to a place like that, for any reason. They were strictly city dwellers.

But with Giorgio’s limited eyesight, he wasn’t about to attempt to drive around the Iya Valley by himself. Apparently, the few crumbling paved roads in the area ran up and down mountainsides, with harrowing drop-offs, wide enough only for a single, small car.

He decided the best way to proceed was to pose as a tourist and find a Japanese guide through a travel agency. He had to be careful to avoid any run-ins with the Yakuza.

4

After planning his cover story, and browsing through some of the travel agencies listed in Tokyo, Giorgio picked a small one that seemed to specialize in excursions and day tours.

The phone was answered after the first ring. Whoever picked it up said something in Japanese, and then, Watanabe Travel Agency.

I’m from Spain, Giorgio said, and I’m making a trip to Japan this week. I need a translator and a driver—preferably the same person.

Ah, okay. The man sounded young, and spoke with a heavy Japanese accent. Where you want go?

The Iya Valley.

Iya Varrey! Why you want go Iya Varrey?

Giorgio hesitated. Because—

I give you great day tour to Hakone. You take bath in hot springs, you see Great Buddha of Kotokuin.

I don’t want—

You not want see Great Buddha? Okay, okay, I give you day tour to Odawara City. You see Odawara Castle, so interesting!

Look, I want—

Day tour to Yokohama? You see Cup Noodle Museum, Ramen Museum, Kirin Beer Museum—

I don’t want to see a damn cup noodle museum, Giorgio growled. I need to go to the Iya Valley. Can you get me a guide, or not?

Iya Varrey... The man sighed. You want interpreter and driver, you say?

Yes, that’s right. But as I said, I’d like it to be the same person. He should also know the Iya Valley well enough to show me around.

You drive hard bargain, the man said.

What do you mean?

Few people from Iya Varrey in Tokyo. Iya Varrey very isorated, people stay to themselves. Nobody go there.

Okay, then, I’ll just call another travel agen—

No, no, no, I find you good guide! Speak Engrish good, drive car, and know area. The man paused. Probabry expensive—how many days you need guide? One, two?

A week, at least.

One week? Why you go Iya Varrey for one week? No hotels there, no nothing—only sreeping outside.

Giorgio rattled off his prepared story. I’m searching for my great grandfather’s village. He was Japanese, born and grew up there. I’m writing a family history...

You drive hard bargain, the travel agent repeated. The man obviously didn’t understand the meaning of the expression. I terephone you back, okay? I rook around, I find good guide, I terephone you back.

That’s fine. Giorgio gave a phone number and a fake name.

And you no need contact another agency, okay? I take good care of you, okay?

Hard Bargain called Giorgio back late that afternoon.

I find your guide, he said. Know Iya Varrey very good, speak Engrish very good, and have driving ricense.

Giorgio was skeptical. Are you sure he knows the Iya Valley?

Oh, yes, I sure. She from Shikoku Island.

Wait a minute—did you say ‘she’?

Yes, she. Woman guide. Is probrem for you?

Giorgio considered this. He didn’t doubt it was difficult to find a guide who actually knew the Iya Valley. And she speaks English well?

Oh, you drive hard bargain! Sure she speak Engrish well—she student.

Student? Giorgio said, surprised.

No schoogirr, she student in university, she study for doctor Engrish ranguage.

A Ph.D. student in English. At least she was smart. Giorgio decided it was probably better to have a female guide, who would make him seem less threatening to the locals. Okay, that’s fine, as long as she can drive and knows the Iya Valley.

"No funny business! She nice girr. If you stay hotel, you must pay have her own room."

I’m not coming to Japan on a sex tour.

Too bad. Maybe next time, okay? We have all you want. Threesome, golden shower, Geisha, naughty nurse, Thai radyboy. I get you big discount from ruv hotel—

Giorgio hung up.

5

When Giorgio left on his trip to Japan, he first traveled to Athens in the usual way, taking a Panacea helicopter to Santorini Island with a couple of his departing clinic patients, and then a commercial flight to Athens.

He was dressed casually, in a sport shirt, windbreaker, khaki trousers, and sneakers. He was also wearing a blue baseball cap and his tinted glasses. Instead of a carry-on bag, he lugged a large backpack that was stuffed with more casual clothes and some camping gear—when he reached the Iya Valley, he was prepared to do a lot of hiking.

At the Athens airport, he strolled straight to the Aeroflot counter. Using his Adrian Garcia passport, he bought a ticket with cash to Tokyo. There were no nonstop commercial flights to Tokyo, either, and he reasoned that a one-stop connection through the Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow was the safest route. With the problems that Russia had with Chechen terrorists, he was sure that they used facial recognition systems in all their major airports, and that these systems were tied into the Interpol database. But, hopefully, with his glasses, baseball cap, and beard to hide the scar along his jaw line, he could avoid them long enough to change planes.

He was sick and tired of becoming anxious and stressed out every time he traveled internationally. It irked him there were people who had done far worse than he had who lived wherever they wanted, traveled wherever they wanted, and did whatever the hell they wanted. Example: all those cocky Russian oligarchs who lived in splendor, globetrotting on their private jets and super yachts, enjoying absolutely the best things money could buy. Did those men achieve their success in life any more legitimately than he had achieved his? No! Some of them even held esteemed positions in their local communities.

And here he was, owner of the best private clinic in the world, yet he couldn’t even go to Japan without being afraid he would be arrested at every airport passport control point.

He had enough on his plate without worrying about that.

But The Cat reassured himself that this long-standing problem would soon be solved.

When he hired Dr. Otsuka and started NewLife, he was going to be the first patient.

6

The total travel time to Tokyo, including the layover in Moscow, was more than sixteen hours.

When the plane finally landed at Narita Airport, Giorgio was tired and irritable.

Fortunately, his stop at Sheremetyevo was uneventful, but his blood pressure increased again as he approached the passport control booths in Tokyo with the throngs of other arriving passengers.

He was still wearing his baseball cap. As he waited in the queue, he kept his head down, playing chess on his phone.

A nerve-wracking twenty minutes later, he finally reached the front of the line and the officer at the booth waved at him to step forward. When he approached, he took his baseball cap and his sunglasses off and slid his Spanish passport and return ticket through the window.

He had Elaine’s gun with him now, too, hidden in the toilet kit in his backpack.

The man opened the passport, glanced at Giorgio’s face, and then ran it through the reader.

Giorgio purposefully stood a little farther forward than he needed to, with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He had spotted the camera as he walked up. He knew that facial recognition systems only worked well with straight-on images—profile images were difficult to analyze. This was because the key identifying measurements were the various distances between the eyes, nostrils, chin, mouth corners, etc.

Why you visit Japan? the officer asked, halfway looking at him, but his eyes mainly on the computer screen.

Tourism.

He started flipping through the passport, looking at the previous border crossing stamps. There weren’t many.

You have been to Japan before?

No, this is my first time.

The officer glanced at the return ticket. And you stay one week?

That’s right. I wish I could stay longer…

The guard glanced at the queue of passengers, and then back at Giorgio. You come alone to Japan?

Yes.

He was peering at the screen again, squinting, reading something.

The DFR system got a hit, Giorgio thought, but he fought the urge to panic.

It seemed like time stood still. His right knee was trembling, and he shifted a little on his feet to try to stop it.

Just play it cool, he told himself.

The computer beeped.

The officer finally took his eyes away from the screen, picked up a large metal stamp, and thumped it down on one of the pages in the back of Giorgio’s passport.

He smiled as he handed it back. Enjoy your stay in Japan, Mister Garcia.

By the time Giorgio walked through the Green Line in customs and emerged into the airport lobby, he was giddy with relief. He only now knew how much he had been sweating—he could feel that the back of his shirt, under his windbreaker, was soaked.

A large group of people were gathered around the exit from customs, family members greeting loved ones and drivers holding up name signs for arriving passengers.

He scanned the crowd for a woman, and then he saw her, holding up a handwritten sign that said HUGO, in pink block letters. Mr. Hard Bargain had of