Dragon (Dirk Pitt 10)

Kamatori looked at Pitt with pure antagonism in his eyes. After a lapse of nearly a minute he stepped forward until he was almost leaning over Pitt.

"Do you like to hunt game, Mr. Pitt?" he asked abruptly.

"Not really. It's no sport if the prey can't shoot back."

"You abhor the sight of blood and death then?"

"Don't most well-adjusted people?"

"Perhaps you prefer to identify with the hunted."

"You know Americans," Pitt said conversationally. "We're suckers for the underdog."

Kamatori stared at Pitt murderously. Then he shrugged. "Mr. Suma has honored you with an invitation for dinner. You will be escorted to the dining room at seven o'clock. Kimonos can be found in the closet.

Please dress appropriately." Then he spun about briskly and strode from the room.

Giordino stared after him curiously. "What was all that doubletalk about hunting?"

Pitt closed his eyes in preparation to doze. "I do believe he intends to hunt us down like rabbits and lop off our heads."

It was the kind of dining room the most palatial castles of Europe still have to entertain royal and celebrity guests. It was of vast proportions, with an open heavy-beamed ceiling twelve meters high. The floor was covered by a bamboo carpet interwoven with red silk, and the walls were paneled in highly polished rosewood.

Authentic paintings by Japanese masters hung precisely spaced as though each was in harmony with the other. The room was lit entirely with candles inside paper lanterns.

Loren had never seen anything to match its beauty. She stood like a statue as she admired the startling effect. Mike Diaz walked around her. He also came to a halt as he gazed about the richly adorned walls.

The only thing that seemed oddly out of place, that was not distinctly Japanese, was the long ceramic dining table that curled halfway across the room in a series of curves and appeared to have been fired in one giant piece. The matching chairs and place settings were spaced so that guests were not elbow-to-elbow but sitting partially i

n front of or in back of one another.

Toshie, dressed in a traditional blue silk kimono, came forward and bowed. "Mr. Suma begs your forgiveness for being late, but he will join you shortly. While you wait, may I fix you a drink?"

"You speak very good English," Loren complimented her.

"I can also converse in French, Spanish, German, and Russian," Toshie said with eyes lowered as if embarrassed to tout her knowledge.

Loren wore one of several kimonos she found in the closet of her guarded cottage. It beautifully draped her tall lithe body, and the silk was dyed a deep burgundy that complemented the light bronze of her fading summer tan. She smiled warmly at Toshie and said, "I envy you. I can barely order a meal in French."

"So we're to meet the great yellow peril at last," muttered Diaz. He was in no mood to be polite and went out of his way to be rude. As a symbol of his defiance he had refused the offered Japanese-style clothing and stood in the rumpled fishing togs he wore when abducted. "Now maybe we'll find out what crazy scheme is going on around here."

"Can you mix a Maiden's Blush?" Loren asked Toshie.

"Yes," Toshie acknowledged. "Gin, curacao, grenadine, and lemon juice." She turned to Diaz.

"Senator?"

"Nothing," he said flatly. "I want to keep my mind straight."

Loren saw that the table was set for six. "Who will be joining us besides Mr. Suma?" she asked Toshie.

"Mr. Suma's right-hand man, Mr. Kamatori, and two Americans.

"Fellow hostages, no doubt," muttered Diaz.

Toshie did not answer but stepped lightly behind a polished ebony bar inlaid with gold tile and began mixing Loren's drink.

Diaz moved over to one wall and studied a large painting of a narrative scene drawn in ink that showed a bird's-eye view onto several houses in a village, revealing the people and their daily lives inside.