The helicopter ride back to Tokyo seemed much faster, despite all the questions that were swimming in Neil’s mind. He pulled out his cell phone and called Nakamura. “Just checking in, faithful manservant,” Neil said.
“Sir, I’ve got some interesting information on spices. I’ll meet you for tea. And we’ll have some friends joining us as well. I’ll e-mail you the map.”
Friends? What friends, exactly? Neil thought but didn’t risk saying it out loud. “Okay, see you later.”
The helicopter landed and Neil walked out onto the port’s wooden planks. The setting sun reflected off the waves, bathing all the crates and ropes in an eerie glow. Neil had the distinct impression that the whole dock was waving and moving, but maybe it was just him finding his legs again after all that flying.
The copter took off, blowing Neil’s hair in even crazier directions than usual. He ran for cover behind some crates. He was sure he saw something move in the shadows just before he arrived, but there was nothing there. A scent of something flowery lingered in the air, but with the howling air from the rotors he couldn’t be sure what it was.
The copter left and Neil stood up and pulled out his phone. He opened the e-mail and was happy to see that Nakamura had chosen a tea shop not far from the dock. He’d also booked them into a nicer hotel. Good. Neil could use some tea, then a shower, then sleep.
He also took a peek at The Chef. He stopped mid-step. Something else had been changed—the name of the ship. It was something in Japanese. Neil was sure the name had been in English before. That wasn’t in the note to Koko. Larry was still sending him clues!
Neil practically ran to the tea shop. He wasn’t prepared for the sight that met him when he arrived. Nakamura had booked a private room at the back and the hostess walked him to an ornate silk curtain, then bowed and left. Neil took off his shoes and stepped inside.
“Isabella! What are you doing here?!”
“Shhhh,” Isabella whispered, motioning for him to sit down. Nakamura was sitting on her other side, pouring everyone tea.
Neil heard a sound behind him and turned around. Jones had been standing flat against the wall—just in case someone had followed Neil, Neil presumed. Jones closed the curtain and then walked over to join everyone at the low table.
Neil sat next to Isabella, shocked by her unexpected appearance, but happy.
“I am here on a scent-buying excursion,” she said as she poured Neil some tea. He could smell that it was sencha green tea, incredibly rich and almost sweet. “But really we are here to offer you some help and protection. Speaking of that, how was your first duel?”
“Well, I won, obviously,” Neil said. He filled them in on the rest of the details, including the battle, the stolen art, and the chained chefs.
“You must not go back,” Isabella said. “This man is insane.”
Neil nodded. “No kidding. But if I quit this battle, I have a feeling he’ll be using me as shark bait. There are a lot of people paying him a lot of money to watch and I can guarantee there’s a lot of money riding on the outcome. Now that I’m in, there’s no getting out. Besides, if he’s a suspect, then it doesn’t hurt to have me stick around. Maybe he’ll let something slip?”
“Like his trigger finger,” Jones said flatly.
“Thanks for the cheery words. There’s a chef I’d like you to meet. I think you’d hit it off,” Neil said.
Jones just stared at him until Neil turned his head away.
Nakamura sipped his tea and nodded. “That guy is a piece of work, but Isabella and Jones have been doing some digging around. There are no records of any ship, Nori’s or otherwise, being in that area of the ocean that day.”
“Doesn’t mean that they would have been registered. They are illegally fishing, you know.”
“I never said we were checking with the legal authorities,” Nakamura said.
“What, the perfume trade is crawling with informants?” Neil said sarcastically.
Nakamura coughed.
Neil glanced at Isabella who avoided his eyes. Jones, it turns out, was still staring at him. Neil felt an uncomfortable silence.
Isabella jumped in. “But we’ve also been working on a way to let Larry know that we’re here and looking for him.”
“How?” Neil said.
Nakamura chuckled. “They suggest we think like Larry.”
“That is a scary thought,” Neil said.
Isabella smacked his arm and continued. “What we mean is that if Larry has been using The Chef to contact you, you should use The Chef to contact him. Use clues only you and he will understand.”
Neil smacked himself on the head and pulled his phone out of his bag. “I was so excited to see you I totally forgot. Larry’s changed the site again. What does this name mean?” He held the phone up to Nakamura.
“It looks like Hiro’s name, Takoyaki, in Japanese . . . but an old form of Japanese. Maybe Koko added it as a kind of honor to her brother.”
Neil pursed his lips and stared at the image. “Maybe it’s a sign that Larry thinks Hiro is still alive, on a boat somewhere? Maybe Nori’s got him held up somewhere on that floating country he calls a yacht.”
“You said there were chefs . . . in chains?” Isabella said. “Maybe he keeps prisoners?”
Neil shuddered. “I have a feeling that’s what Nori has planned for me if I lose. But I’ll see if I can do any searching around at tomorrow’s duel. Meanwhile, back to thinking like Larry.” Neil shuddered again.
“I’m actually on record thinking this is a stupid plan,” Jones said, staying as still as a statue. Neil realized he wasn’t glaring at him anymore—he was keeping an eye on the curtain, like a cat waiting for a mouse to poke its head out of a hole in the wall. Jones creeped Neil out sometimes . . . no, all the time.
“Jones has a point,” Neil said. “I can’t change the site.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled The Chef for any sign of a contact us or feedback button but didn’t see any. “I think Larry said he got rid of those because he was getting too many readers asking him out on dates.”
Isabella scoffed. “Now I know he writes fiction.”
“Speaking of fiction, this is interesting,” Neil said. “There is a link on the bottom of the page to another site.” Neil clicked and was taken to a fan fiction site. There were letters of condolences in English and Japanese for Hiro and Larry, and one creepy request for a date beyond the grave from a medium named Minerva in Portland. There was also a whole collection of stories that fans had written in about The Chef. Almost all were illustrated, some with good and many with horrible manga-style pictures.
They gathered around Neil’s phone . . . except for Jones, who continued to stare intently at the curtain.
“Okay, excellent,” Nakamura said. “So how do we leave a message that only Larry will understand?”
“Easy.” Isabella smiled. “Coffee!”
Neil smiled as well. “Jacu bird coffee.”
An hour later, after a wonderful meal of rice, soup, fried fish, and grilled vegetables, they had a story.
Neil ran the details over again to make sure they’d hidden enough clues. “The Chef is called on to battle a flock of electronic birds. They are stealing prime coffee beans from the farms of some poor laborers.”
“Sort of evil versions of those birds that poop out the coffee beans Larry likes,” Isabella said.
Neil nodded. “He’ll get that reference and start looking for some details. The Chef defeats them by catching them with his hat and then ripping out their circuit boards.”
“And that’s where Zoe’s picture comes in?” Isabella asked.
“Yes. We’ll hide the clue in there.” Neil called Zoe and asked her to draw the Chef crushing the circuit board of one of the birds. The circuit boards would have numbers on them. To a casual reader, they’d just look like the kind of serial numbers you’d see on any electronic device. But these would be the time and coordinates for a meeting. Zoe happily whipped off the manga doodle—“The rougher it looks the better,” Neil said—and sent it back within minutes.
Neil added the file to the story and posted both to the website. “Now we wait and hope,” he said.
“I think it’s time we all got some sleep,” Isabella said.
Neil agreed. He started to get up and saw that Jones was already standing, fists clenched, staring intently at the curtain.
“Did you see something?” Nakamura whispered, sidling up next to him.
“Didn’t see. Heard. Breathing.”
Jones crept silently to the curtain and ripped it open. Despite the shocked look on the faces of the other tea drinkers, there was no one else there. Jones looked down. An envelope was lying on the ground. It was addressed: Neil Flambé—Instructions for Round #2.