Mala’s pale. “That can’t- that’s not possible.”
I’m already on my mobile, dialing my head of security. The call goes to a message.
This dinnae happen. My call is always answered at any time of the day or night.
“Lachlan, call Lucas, we need her found now.” With a frown, he dials my son-in-law’s number. It rings through to a message. Lucas always picks up.
“I’m thinking she already knows,” Mala says. “She could be anywhere. Boston, New York-” The blood drains from her face. “Tokyo. She’s in Tokyo.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Michael…
AsOyabunof the Matsumori Yakuza, Ren’s domain is a master class in lordly dominance. This section of the house boasts a spectacular view of the mountainside and the city below. It's easy to imagine some medieval warrior watching the raging hordes surging up the mountain to attack him and crushing his enemies with superior firepower.
Also, firepower is very much in evidence now because the patrolling guards outside are making no effort to be unobtrusive. The show of force is unsettling; traditionally, one used for an enemy and not an ally. We've made proper recompense for the disaster two months ago, but it's possible Ren still holds a grudge. He's tending to a tiny bonsai tree, pliers in hand, and steps back to survey it, snipping off another tiny branch before deigning to put the tool down and turn to us.
"Welcome Michael MacTavish, young Chieftain. I trust your journey here was comfortable?"
"Of course," I bow my head and smile, and we continue with a round of pleasantries until Ren is satisfied. “While we are eager to discuss this potential new project,” he says, “we have made a new acquaintance that seems to know your family quite well in a way that lessens our confidence in our partnership considerably. He nods to his son who walks to a small adjoining room, opening the door.
“Hey boss, or should I just say Michael now,” Xenia says. “Now that I don't work for you anymore."
"What the feck are you doing here, Xenia?” I say, so on fire with rage that feels like my skin is ready to split, trying to hold it all in.
It's been her. All along.
The one logical and stupidly obvious choice, our clever little mastermind who would always have her fingers in everything.
“Now don't get cranky with me," she says cheerfully. “You're the ones who insisted on making things so boring recently.”
Minato holds out his hand graciously, she takes it, allowing him to lead her to a seat on a silk covered couch. “Can I get you a drink?” he says, his glee and malice radiating bright enough to light up the mountaintop.
That would be lovely,” Xenia says, “Junmai Daiginjosake, if you have it.Gentlemen, I would like to speak with Michael for a moment. This of course, does not change our agreement and I am certain you will be listening in on the devices you have stationed throughout this room.”She points to Ren’s massive desk, then over to a lantern hanging by the window, and craning her neck, nods at a beautiful enamel chest by the door, her lips twitching with amusement.
Minato hands her a delicate cup of sake. “Father?”
Ren nods. “We will allow it. Fifteen minutes, no more."
I wait till the door is closed, though I'm not sure why, given the fact that father and son are likely piled on top of each other, avidly turning up the listening devices as loud as they can.
"My family has given you everything, Xenia,” I say.
I'm halfway across the enormous room, watching her delicately sip her sake, calculating the number of ways that I can kill herwith the implements in the room. The pruning shears, not sharp enough, there’s plenty of glass to break, priceless pottery I can use. I can stab the bitch with a pen through the eye, if I take one off Ren's desk.
“Well, that's true. You did give me everything,” she allows. There's a strange, flat shine to her eyes that I've never seen before. I remember times when she'd been deep into her work, where she'd almost abandoned her proper, well-bred American persona, but never anything like this. She's kept this part of her shoved down and concealed behind multiple layers in the same way that I thought she'd been protecting our system.
“It can't be more money,” I say calmly as I stroll slowly across the room.
“No,” she agrees.
“It can't be toys; your lab is bigger than the one allocated for the UK Ministry of Defence.”
“Also true,” she agrees.
Thinking of the security breaches and when they escalated, I ponder, “I'm thinking about when ye must have gotten bored and impatient. I'm thinking ye kicked off your sick little round of games about three years ago?”
“Yeah,” she says, taking another ladylike sip. “Remember that Colombian deal when the jet carrying the product crashed and they blamed you for the loss? Man, that was a mess to clean up.” She chuckles, and even her laugh is strange and unfocused as if she's seen other people do it and knew that it's a human response so she thought she'd give it a try. This new Xenia is shocking, but what hits me the hardest is how much more natural it feels on her, like she shed her stifling coat of normalcy and the monster is happy to stretch free.
