Chapter 10
The first step is always the hardest.
Pamela Isley had spent the better part of a year designing and manufacturing the basic form of the capsule, and had she not managed to find a biologically compatible adhesive all that work would have been in vain. Once the tests of encapsulated cells had been successful, however, creating new cultures was a simple matter of manipulating the genetic mechanism of the yeast cells to produce whatever toxins and antitoxins she desired. Like some manic junkie, she injected herself over and over with various encapsulated cell lines, cells that would protect her against everything from strychnine to tear gas. Of course, there were some substances that there was no defense against, such as metallic compounds and acid burns, but at this early stage there was almost nothing that anyone could inject or infect her with that could kill or even incapacitate her. There are some other things I should work on, like pain resistance and ensuring consciousness, but that can wait for later.
Currently in her new private lab--a perk won merely by unbuttoning a few buttons on her blouse in front of Staughton's replacement--Pamela now worked on methods of attack. Short of time, she decided to concentrate on neurotoxins, which had the virtues of being extremely lethal, fast acting, and absorbable through the skin. After injecting herself with the respective antidote-producing cells, she carefully implanted five different neurotoxin-producing cell lines in the fingertips of her right hand. All used a simple pressure trigger, meaning all she needed to do was rub her fingers together to produce the necessary venom.
Let's see how it works on mammals. She rubbed her index finger gently, then waited until it became moist. She then bent down over a cage and stroked a white lab rat on its back. In less than a minute, it shuddered and lay still. Her index finger contained cells that produced batrachotoxin, a supremely lethal nerve toxin produced by the South American tree frog Phyllobates Terribilis. For a person, skin absorption alone might not be sufficiently lethal, so she made a note to investigate additional delivery mechanisms. Impressive as this was, it was her little finger she paid most attention to, the one that produced TTX, tetrodotoxin. On her dainty little pinky finger rested the entire plan to take out Hayashi.
Her finger against Hayashi, Inc. It would be no contest.
The intermission finally gave Pamela a chance to regain her hearing. She stood alone in the packed lobby of Harrison Theater, surrounded by patrons of the Gotham Taiko Troupe who took the time to sip sake and eat copious amounts of free sushi. She stiffly made her way across the floor, her movements restricted more by the tight black qipao dress she wore than the mass of people. The black wig she wore also irritated her cheeks, but she remained focused on the task at hand. Working her way across the room, ignoring the men who tried to pick her up, she searched the crowd through her sepia-tinted sunglasses until finally found him: a short, somewhat portly man with peppery grey hair. Hayashi was talking with several other middle-aged Japanese, but as she sauntered towards him he quickly finished his conversation and began approaching her.
"Konban wa, Hayashi-san," she said with an exaggerated American accent. The two severe bodyguards flanking Hayashi grinned and started whispering in Japanese. Smiling, he took her gloved hand and kissed it. In a slight accent, he said, "And good evening to you, Miss?"
"Pamela Isley. I'm an admirer of your work."
He looked impressed. "Indeed. And what do you do, Miss Isley?"
"I'm a biochemist, but I've always been fascinated by computers." She drew nearer, pulling down on the sides of her dress so it became even tighter over her chest. "I read in the papers that your conglomerate is expanding in Gotham, is this correct, Hayashi-san?"
Hayashi smiled and nodded. "Our new state-of-the-art microchip assembly plant will be opening in a few weeks." Along with all your lovely silicon waste that'll be dumped straight into Gotham's East River. "Your Japanese is excellent, Miss Isley," he continued.
Pamela giggled girlishly and turned away as if embarrassed, "Oh Mister Hayashi, you're just flattering me!" she said in fluent but accented Japanese. He primped her hair again, and batted her eyelashes at him, doing her best to act ten years younger. She remembered from her college Japanese classes that old Japanese men had a thing for prepubescent girls, and she didn't want to disappoint.
Judging by the lewd look on his face, the synergistic combination of an American woman speaking Japanese like a teenager appeared to be working. Coming closer, he said huskily, "No, I'm not--and please, call me Takeda. We Japanese are too formal sometimes." It took her some time to realize that he was trying to mimic a movie actor picking up a woman onscreen. She had to keep herself from laughing in derision. Obviously Japanese men are just as dumb as American ones.
"Of course, Takeda." Offering her hand, she said in a suddenly formal tone of voice: "May I join you for the second half?"
"I would be honored." He took her proffered arm and they reentered the concert hall.
As they entered the long black limo waiting outside, she snuggled up to Hayashi, who was loosening his tie and pouring a drink. "So, Pamela, shall we go back to my downtown suite?"
Her ears were still buzzing, but she had been able to understand him. "Sorry, what did you say?" She wondered if he would take advantage of the opening.
He did; coming closer, he whispered in her ear: "I just wanted to know what you wanted to do now. The night is young."
Smiling, she turned and patted him on the cheek. "I'm hungry, let's go to Shiroi Hama!"
He blinked. "'White Beach'? Is it good?"
"Oh yes, Hayashi-san! Can we go there, pretty please?" She gave him her best teeny-bopper pout.
Like an exasperated father giving in to his over-insistent daughter, he said: "Ok, let's go there." He lowered the window to the driver and barked to the driver in rapid Japanese. They drove through the blazing streets of Gotham, winding their way southwest. The gleaming high towers quickly gave way to seedy low-rise buildings as they entered old Japantown. The name was a misnomer, as hardly any of Gotham's original Japanese community lived here now; today, it was mostly a mass of illegal immigrants from all corners of Asia, and run by a shadowy coalition of crime syndicates. There were hardly any English signs hanging over the mass of stores and businesses cramming both sides of the street, and what few there were mainly advertised the same risqué businesses that the non-English ones did.
They pulled up in front of Shiroi Hama, a truly shabby-looking Japanese restaurant. Hardly anyone was there except for a couple of extremely tough-looking Asian men in suits. Pamela wondered what if any ties Hayashi had to the yakuza. To her mild suprise, Hayashi had a clear look of disgust on his face. "This does not look like a good place, no? Let's go back to downtown, I know a much better place."
Pamela quickly held up her hand. "No! I really enjoy the food here. And besides, if I don't get out of this straitjacket soon, I'm going to faint!" She unbutton the top button of her qipao for effect. The other three men just stared in silence. "We can order, and eat in that nice little ryokan around the block," she continued. "Actually, it's not quite so nice; a little bit of a naughty place, if you know what I mean." She wriggled in her seat and crossed her legs, exposing her left leg from under the dress.
Their intense stares suggested they did. Finally Hayshi said: "Alright, you lead the way, we're strangers here!"
"Excellent! Here is the number, why don't one of you place the order, my Japanese isn't good enough." She laughed, but her anxiety was high--the last thing she wanted was hard evidence tying her whereabouts with Hayashi's tonight.
There was a bewildered look on their faces, but they had no objections. One of his bodyguards began taking orders. After she mentioned hers, Hayashi was very surprised. "I had no idea you liked fugu."
"I picked up a taste for it when I was an exchange student in Japan." That was a lie; she had learned Japanese in college, and had never eaten any fish in her entire life. "As a biologist, I find it an absolutely fascinating species." That part was true, especially certain key organs in the blowfish.
Hayashi frowned; before he could say anything, she added: "Don't worry, Shiroi Hama has an excellent reputation." In reality it was completely the opposite, an important requirement for her plans. She prepared to give him a doctored newspaper review, but he waved it off.
"Alright, like you said, no worries. You enjoy your fugu and I'll enjoy my unagi donburi." They pulled up to the little motel, a shabby concrete building with a faux Japanese roof. One of the guards went in and checked out the executive suite, and then she, Hayashi, the two bodyguards and the driver all retired to the suite, which consisted of a large open floor with spare walls adorned with modern Japanese art. She took out several cushions and spread them out on the floor around the low table in the middle of the room. They all sat around, listening to some Japanese music on the radio and pouring drinks.
"It's warm in here, isn't it?" Pamela said, fanning herself. She further unbuttoned the qipao, revealing her shapely bra underneath. The others just continued to watch her in silence, taking sips from their glasses and lighting up cigarettes. A knock on the door interrupted their reverie, and a bodyguard opened it. A restaurant deliveryman heavily laden with food entered, quickly placing the food on the table and leaving.
"Itadakimasu!" As they began eating Pamela discretely removed her gloves and began rubbing her little finger vigorously. Ostentatiously she touched her fugu with her hands as if to examine it, then she put it down and picked it up with her chopsticks. Taking a bite and swallowing--it tasted terrible--she then offered it to Hayashi, who waved her off as he began slurping noodles. Shrugging, she took another bite, making sure to pull the chopsticks out of her mouth slowly, her lips puckered tightly around them. Mesmerized, Hayashi quickly came over to her side and opened his mouth; laughing, she offered her fugu to him, and he wolfed it down. The others laughed as well.
As the evening progressed, the four men became more and more inebriated. During the night, she tipsied up to each of them, chatting breathlessly, taking a sip from their glasses then offering the cup to them. Using her tongue to play with their drinks, none of them refused to share. After flirting with each of them, she suddenly stood up and began to do an impromptu geisha dance. Uninhibited, they cheered and whistled.
"So," she said breathing heavily, "how's everyone feeling?"
Hayashi was laughing, having a great old time. "Wonderful! You're so talented, Pamela!" He then stopped speaking, sticking out his tongue and touching it.
Playfully she stuck out her tongue back at him. Hayashi's eyelids fluttered; swaying, he slipped to the floor, unmoving. One bodyguard leapt to his feet. He took two steps towards him when he staggered and fell. The driver had already collapsed, while the last bodyguard, his face rapidly whitening, had a look of fury on his face. Taking out a gun from his jacket, he leapt towards her—
—and fell in a heap at her feet, unmoving as annoying J-pop continued to play on the radio.
Slowly Pamela Isley stood up and straightened out her dress. The four men were sprawled around her, completely motionless. Methodically she examined each of them with detached clinical interest. The driver and one of the bodyguards was dead, but Hayashi and the other were still alive. That changed after she waited for ten more minutes.
Carefully she opened the front door and peaked around. It was nearly midnight, and the streets were deserted. Pamela put her gloves back on and carefully moved the bodies into more natural positions. She then distributed the remaining fugu onto their plates, even dribbling tiny pieces of it into the other three's mouths. Finally she gave the room a quick lookover, then left. She took care in walking in the shadows, avoiding any contact with the few individuals loitering about. After a harrowing twenty minutes, she finally reached a large street and hailed a cab. This time, she made sure to pay.
There was nothing in the morning papers, but the evening TV news on Sunday reported that Mr. Hayashi, CEO of the Hayashi Electronics Corporation, and three other people had died of fugu poisoning, a known risk when ordering the rare Japanese delicacy. It was reported in the middle of the news program, between a report on gang violence and another on the latest celebrity rumors.
Upon learning the victims had purchased the tainted fish from a restaurant that had been cited on numerous occasions for unsanitary conditions, city health officials ordered that Shiroi Hama be closed until further notice.
Pamela Isley could hardly sleep that night. Her plans were going well, so she decided to move up her timetable. Tomorrow would be a busy day indeed.