were more important things to do than stand and stare and cry. She’d been assisting paramedics, slinging debris, moving the wounded, and most recently—because she was too damn tired to do anything else—directing supplies. A steady stream of trucks now flowed in from the city, carrying everything from tarps to trauma surgeons. Since all the main roads to the airport were jam-packed, some high-ranking disaster management expert in the Self Defense Force had rerouted everything onto the airstrip and up through the departure/arrival gates. From there it was herding cats. Everything had to get to its proper place and none of it arrived in any logical order. Mariko was one of the cat-herders.
When she saw the boxes marked CORONER GRADE VINYL BAGS, she knew where they had to go. The image of all those red and blue blankets had never fully escaped her. She rolled up in one of those electric airport carts, ready to tell the guys carrying the boxes to hop aboard, and had to brake before running smack into another vehicle. She was surprised to see she recognized the driver.
“Han?”
Mariko hardly recognized her former partner. The electric cart wasn’t his style, but more jarring was the regulation haircut he’d been subjected to when he was reassigned from Narcotics to general patrol. Working undercover had been the only reason he was allowed to grow his hair out and keep his sideburns in the seventies. And of course his hair wasn’t just shorter; it was white now, too, as was Mariko’s—as were their shoulders, the tops of their shoes, and every other horizontal surface in the blown-out terminal. Gypsum, pulverized cement, fire extinguisher propellant, cigarette ashes from the scores of relief workers, all stirred up in a bitter, chalky concatenation that billowed up with every footstep. Mariko couldn’t see it in the air, but it coagulated on her skin as soon as she worked up a sweat. She’d given up trying to wash it off.
Han was wearing the same gritty mask, with a powdered wig to match. Even so, she could see how tired he was. Like hers, his mask was cracked in places. Every time he’d pinched his eyes shut to rub at them, every time he’d frowned or winced, wrinkles had formed, channeling away the sweat and dust and leaving little flesh-colored creases behind. Mariko knew she looked the same: weary and ready to crumble.
“Women drivers,” he said, shaking his head in mock disgust. “Who lost his mind long enough to give you the keys to that thing?”
Mariko couldn’t help but smile. Her white mask crackled in new places, and she realized this was the first time she’d smiled since arriving at Haneda. Not that there had been much cause for mirth.
“You look like hell,” he said. “Wild guess: you haven’t taken a break since you’ve been here, have you?”
“No.”
“You want to grab something to eat? I hear they set up a breakfast buffet in the food court.”
“Breakfast . . . ?” That didn’t add up. “Han, what time is it?”
“About six.”
“Six in the morning?” Mariko sagged in her seat. “No wonder I’m tired.”
“Come on, let’s eat. Someone else can get these body bags where they need to be. I’ve been avoiding the north end anyway.”
Mariko nodded. She and Han had always thought along similar lines. That was one of the things she liked best about him.
He insisted on driving, not because he had to be the man in their relationship but because she was teetering on the brink of exhaustion. There weren’t many guys in the department who treated her like just another cop, guys who could be friends without also thinking of her as a little sister or a nice piece of ass. Mariko slumped in her padded seat, grateful that she’d crossed paths with him and no one else.
At the food court, Mariko gorged herself on greasy American food, a childhood staple. Prior to that moment, she’d never fully grasped what the Americans meant by “comfort food.” Then the first salty McDonald’s French fry broke crisply between her teeth and something deep inside of her got permission to relax. She gobbled down an entire packet of fries before turning to anything remotely healthy. Han waited until she had a bowlful of rice in her belly before he offered the real delight: a little glass bottle of Chivas Regal. Mariko could have kissed him. “Where’d you get that?”
“Are you kidding? All the airport cops are on disaster detail. Those duty-free shops are wide open for