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'
Case
,
mon
.
.
.
’
The
man
was
small
,
Japanese
,
his
throat
bound
to
the
back
of
the
narrow
articulated
chair
with
a
length
of
some
sort
of
fine
steel
wire
.
The
wire
was
invisible
,
where
it
crossed
the
black
temperfoam
of
the
headrest
,
and
it
had
cut
as
deeply
into
his
larynx
.
A
single
sphere
of
dark
blood
had
congealed
there
like
some
strange
precious
stone
,
a
red
-
black
pearl
.
Case
saw
the
crude
wooden
handles
that
drifted
at
either
end
of
the
garrotte
,
like
worn
sections
of
broom
handle
.
'
Wonder
how
long
he
had
that
on
him
?
’
Case
said
,
remembering
Corto
’
s
postwar
pilgrimage
.
'
He
know
how
pilot
boat
,
Case
,
bossman
?
’
'
Maybe
.
He
was
Special
Forces
.
’
'
Well
,
this
Japan
-
boy
,
he
not
be
pilotin
’
.
Doubt
I
pilot
her
easy
myself
.
Ver
’
new
boat
.
.
.
’
'
So
find
us
the
bridge
.
’
Maelcum
frowned
,
rolled
backward
,
and
kicked
.
Case
followed
him
into
a
larger
space
,
a
kind
of
lounge
,
shredding
and
crumpling
the
lengths
of
printout
that
snared
him
in
his
passage
.
There
were
more
of
the
articulated
chairs
,
here
,
something
that
resembled
a
bar
,
and
the
Hosaka
.
The
printer
,
still
spewing
its
flimsy
tongue
of
paper
,
was
an
in
-
built
bulkhead
unit
,
a
neat
slot
in
a
panel
of
handrubbed
veneer
.
He
pulled
himself
over
the
circle
of
chairs
and
reached
it
,
punching
a
white
stud
to
the
left
of
the
slot
.
The
chattering
stopped
.
He
turned
and
stared
at
the
Hosaka
.
Its
face
had
been
drilled
through
,
at
least
a
dozen
times
.
The
holes
were
small
,
circular
,
edges
blackened
.
Tiny
spheres
of
bright
alloy
were
orbiting
the
dead
computer
.
'
Good
guess
,
’
he
said
to
Maelcum
.
