Yokohama

Hasan was scared. He was so scared that, earlier, he had wet himself. He couldn't help it. Fortunately, it wasn't much, but he could feel the dampness. And the initial warmth was changing to an uncomfortable clammy sensation.

It was the men who scared him, who had gotten into his taxi, one on each side, as it had pulled over at a corner on the way to Andoh's. He hadn't noticed because he'd been re-reading the article in the Herald Tribune and assumed they'd stopped for a traffic light.

Then the rear doors had suddenly been yanked open and two men had climbed in. They were young punks, with severely cropped hair, exaggerated black suits and sunglasses, although the day was cloudy.