Chapter 16
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Even before Mochu spoke, Shiki realized the news from Tokyo wasn't good "Natsume Hyuuga left for Kyoto this morning." Mochu said without preamble. "I don't know why."

Shiki sat back in the black leather chair in the sitting room of his Saint-Martin suite. It was time to leave Paris and go back to Switzerland. But the Sakuras were still here. Yuka is here.

"Mikan Sakura's a pretty young woman," he said.

"Agreed." But Mochu, a meticulous thought unimaginative man, would be merely stating a fact, not extrapolating from it any reason for Hyuuga to head south. "Do you want me to go down there?"

"If you have to. What's Ruka Sakura's condition?"

"Improving."

Why had someone shot him? Shiki stood up under the low, slanted ceiling and looked out his window, bicyclist pedaling past the picture of Eifel Tower. His instincts seldom lead him astray.

"The FBI agent in charge of the investigation went to see Agent Nogi again today," Mochu went on. "I doubt it was a courtesy call."

"You think something's up?"

"I don't have any additional information. Until I do, it's my advice that you go back to Switzerland and lay low until this thing gets cleared up."

Always the thundercloud. It was why Mochu would never be a real player. Shiki opened an expensive humidor and lifted out a fat, fragrant cigar. "Find out why Agent Hyuuga is there, I don't want any interference in what you have to do. Again, no footsteps back to me. None. Understood?"

"Of course."

Shiki hung up and lit his cigar. He had to trust that Mochu was up to the job. Tax evasion was a nonviolent crime, one for which many people had at least some sympathy, but the attempted murder of two federal agents and the fear generated murder by a sniper attack in Central Park weren't something he wanted tied back to him in any way, even peripherally. He was under enough federal scrutiny as it was.

Ruka Sakura and his sister were children of privilege and position, if not of immense wealth; Shiki didn't know what to make of them. They'd never had to struggle. Neither had Yuka, but she was naturally gracious and well-mannered.

It was possible Mikan had seen him at the Musée du Louvre. Likely, even.

Did it matter?

He was a fugitive simply because he'd failed to turn up for his trial on tax charges.

But the Sakuras were friends with the minister. They had their own reputations to protect. Having a wanted man turn up out of Yuka's past would be a cause for concern.

Shiki savored the flavor of his cigar as he put his questions out of his mind. He debated whether he should take the risk of hiring a prostitute tonight, and then envision himself with Yuka, beautiful Yuka.

Oh, God.

Chocking on a mouthful of smoke, he ran into the bathroom and stabbed out his cigar in the sink. He drank from the faucet, pushing back the image. Even now, he could see her at eighteen, smiling at him, taking as interest in him. What a misfit he'd been. An outsider.

The tension of knowing what was happening in Tokyo was getting to him. He hated waiting.

A prostitute, even in permissive Paris, brought with it certain hazards, to his health, to his mental well-being – to his freedom if he had the wrong prostitute, one who recognized him, who talked. It had happened once. But he'd dealt with the problem before it had got out of hand. As he had Misaki Andou.

As he would deal with any problem in Tokyo. His phone rang again. It wouldn't be Mochu. He had his orders. But few people had Shiki's number in Paris. He picked up the extension but said nothing.

"I'm going to have something you want within forty-eight hours," the voice on the other end, indistinguishably male or female, said. "Be prepared to wire five million U.S. dollars into my account. I'll call with the number when I have what you want."

Shiki sank back onto the leather chair. "Andou?"

But the person on the other end had already disconnected.

Shiki tensed the muscled in his hands to keep himself throwing the phone across the room, instead carefully, quietly cradling it. Control was essential. He had to maintain his grasp of the situation at all times, or he'd never win.

What did the caller expect to have that was worth five million dollars?

Shiki regretted having blurted a name. His men had lost track of Tsubasa Andou weeks ago.

Was he responsible for the Central Park attack?

Was it a trap he'd set?

In hindsight, Shiki knew he'd handled the former Special Forces officer badly. By not presenting authorities with a suspect for Andou's wife's death, Shiki had put his entire operation – he'd put himself – in jeopardy. The only answer now was to have Tsubasa Andou killed. The sooner the better.

Five million dollars. It was ridiculous.

Shiki didn't call Mochu back to tell him about the anonymous call. It wouldn't affect his orders. He knew what he need to do. If the trail in Tokyo led to Tsubasa Andou, distraught widower, army officer bent on revenge, then Mochu would deal with it.

Leaning back in his chair, Shiki listened to the noise of the street below him. While he wanted to recapture the urge to have a whore, he couldn't. He could only imagine his mother on her death bed in northern Japan, calling her only son – her only child – as she sobbed herself quietly into the grave.

He let the tears flow unchecked. There was no one to see them, no one in his life who cared or understood that he'd loved his mother.

"Why?" she cried to him over the phone "Why didn't you just pay your taxes like everyone else?"

But life was so much more complicated than his mother had ever been able to grasp.

Now he didn't even dare send money for her headstone.

The federal government would hound him forever. They'd never let him come home. They'd slap him in cuffs at his poor mother's grave and stick him in jail until he stood trail. He'd added how many years to his maximum sentence by running? Five years, ten years? He didn't even know.

His lawyer had urged him to surrender to Japanese authorities. They'd have been relieved if he'd turned himself over to Ruka 'Nogi' Sakura at the Musée du Louvre.

But Shiki knew if he went to prison, he'd never get out.

If his enemies didn't rat him out, his so called friend s would. One way or another, the feds would figure out that tax evasion was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to his crimes.

And once he was vulnerable, friend and enemy alike would find a way to kill him. He wouldn't last a month in prison. The federal authorities couldn't protect him.

No one would care that he planned to do good with the fortune he'd amassed. If the ends didn't fully justify the means, he knew he wasn't a mad man. Look at Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, and Hearst. Had they led exemplary live? They all had skeleton in their closets.

"Mama, mama," he whispered. "What do I do?" But there was no answer. She was dead, gone forever.

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~Claire-chan143