her uniform. She couldn’t even guess where she’d left her jacket and cap. “You’ve been hard at it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good for you. I’ll see to it that a reporter gets to you for a couple of quotes. I know just the one, a very sympathetic woman from NHK. She’ll make you look good.”
Mariko didn’t know how to take that. All the makeup in the world couldn’t make her look pretty. Then she realized Kusama only had thoughts for repairing her smeared reputation. All she could think of to say was, “Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it. Listen, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been giving press updates every half hour all night long. These ten-minute catnaps in between aren’t doing the trick anymore; I’ve got to find a place to sleep. Lieutenant, you look like you mean business. Let’s make this brief, shall we?”
“Absolutely,” Sakakibara said. “Two things, sir. First, I want Buzz Lightyear and Woody here to be reinstated at their former rank.”
Kusama studied Mariko and Han with a critical eye. “If I’m not mistaken, Officer Watanabe faced an internal review board and was lucky to come away with his skin. Got a covert informant killed, as I recall.”
“I did, sir,” said Han.
Kusama nodded, apparently appreciative of Han’s forthright confession. “And I can’t see how Detective Oshiro could be any less temperamental today than she was yesterday afternoon.”
“Sir, I apologize—”
Sakakibara cut her off. “They’re both smart cops. We’re going to want every good head we’ve got assigned to this Haneda detail. We’ll need detectives, and we need sergeants for them to report to. It streamlines everything if you reinstate these two; they already know the job.”
Kusama sighed. “All right. If I weren’t this tired, I’d fight you on it, but damn you, I am this tired.” He fished in his pocket and produced a gold-and-silver pin. Mariko’s sergeant’s tag. Mariko hadn’t realized he’d picked it up as they’d left his office. He looked at it, resting in his soft-skinned palm, then looked up at Sakakibara. “You do understand I’m doing this against my better judgment.”
“Mine too, sir. These two are a royal pain in the ass.”
“You’re the one who’s answerable for their mistakes, is that clear?”
Sakakibara fixed his eyes on Han and Mariko. His glare could have melted steel. “Crystal clear. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Han and Mariko said in unison.
“Done,” said Kusama, stifling a yawn. “Your second item?”
“I could use an update like the ones you’re giving the press,” Sakakibara said. “I wouldn’t say we’re all in the dark about what happened, but we sure as hell aren’t in the light yet, either.”
Kusama craned his head to peek through the crack between the Unimog’s cab and its trailer. He didn’t seem to like what he saw—too many microphones, perhaps—because he motioned for his three subordinates to follow him. He led them deeper into the airport, past where the security checkpoint used to be, back among the darkened storefronts.
“We have very little to go on,” he said. “I’ve announced early reports that Jemaah Islamiyah has claimed responsibility, and that investigations are under way to verify those reports.”
“Sir,” Mariko said, “begging your pardon, but this isn’t the work of Islamist extremists. This was the Divine Wind.”
Kusama sighed, this time out of exasperation, not exhaustion. “I wasn’t aware we had any women on the bomb squad.”
“And I thought we agreed that you were going to shut the hell up,” Sakakibara said.
Mariko bowed, and kept her gaze fixed on her captain’s feet. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just—well, I don’t need to be on the bomb squad to know how Joko Daishi thinks.”
“Aha,” Kusama said. “Do enlighten us.”
“Joko Daishi means ‘Great Teacher of the Purging Fire,’ neh? This guy sees society as being impure, and he wants to burn away all our sins. He thinks comfort and stability are obstacles to enlightenment.”
“I remember the file.”
“Well, that’s why he detonated his bombs outside the security gates.”
“Explain,” said Kusama.
“He’s telling us safety is an illusion. The security screens are supposed to make flying safer, neh? But they don’t—at least not according to Joko Daishi. They just create a bottleneck. They give him a target.”
Kusama looked at her over the top of his smoking cigarette. “Then why not bomb the checkout line at a grocery store? Isn’t that a bottleneck?”
“It is, sir. But the purpose of the cashier isn’t to keep us safe. Look, back in the sixties, the bottleneck was right at the airplane’s door. A crowd of hundreds turns into a single file, neh?”