The Kaisho (55 page)

“Those men should be behind bars. I know some of the atrocities they’re responsible for.”

“So does Willoughby, I can assure you. He has no trouble sleeping at night. But that’s because he’s got the Communists on the brain. His idea is to use these Jap officers as the nucleus of a new military general staff for a rearmed Japan. ‘The Soviets,’ he likes to say, ‘are only spitting distance away.’”

Okami could hear the sound of his blood rushing in his inner ear. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. What had he stumbled into? He had been right about Willoughby. But what was Sawhill running—as Donnough had put it—between Donnough and Alba? And why Alba and not his boss Johnny Leonforte?

“I’m late,” Sawhill said. “Let me have it.”

Her voice was abruptly louder, and with a start, Okami realized she was nearer the door.

“Here it is,” Donnough said. “The latest poop on Willoughby’s group of fifteen. This ought to make Alba’s day.”

Okami heard a rustling, and he pulled away from the door, turned, and sprinted back down the corridor. He was heading quickly down the stairs when he heard the door open behind him and the click of high heels in the corridor above him.

He was sitting on a black lacquer bench, waiting for her, when she came down the stairs.

“Miss Sawhill,” he said, rising and smiling at her as she reached ground level.

Faith Sawhill turned in his direction. Her cool dark-blue eyes appraised him as if he were an interesting handbag in a shop window.

“And you are Mikio Okami. I remember you.”

“That’s good. I wonder whether we could have a drink.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” Faith said, frowning. She tucked a manila folder she had been clutching under her arm. “I’m already late. Jonathan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Don’t you mean Vincent Alba?”

For the first time, Faith appeared briefly startled. “Why, yes, under the circumstances I think I can spare a minute or two.”

Okami took her to an
akachochin
down the street. Its red lantern swung cheerily in the darkness. Inside, it was boisterous and so smoky they couldn’t see the far end of the long, narrow room. Unconcerned by the din, Okami pushed his way to the bar, ordered two scotches without asking Faith what she wanted, then led her to an empty booth at the rear of the place.

“You and Alba have a nice little racket going,” Okami said as soon as they were seated.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Maybe you two are sleeping together behind Johnny’s back.”

Faith laughed. “Yeah, and maybe the moon is made of green cheese.” She laughed again. “The guy’s an ape.”

“An ape you’re working for.”

Faith turned her head. Her dark blue eyes sometimes had the uncanny ability to take on the tone of her surroundings. Right now they possessed the fugitive translucence of smoke. She smiled. “You’re either clairvoyant or a good eavesdropper.”

“What’s he got that Johnny doesn’t?”

“Alba? He’s absolutely loyal. And he knows how to take orders.” Faith picked up her glass, sipped the whiskey. “Johnny’s erratic, a hothead. His schemes of conquest aren’t always in line with reality.”

“So Vincent Alba is his shepherd.”

She nodded. “That’s as good a way to put it as any.”

Okami spent the next several minutes studying this woman. She was exceedingly beautiful, with an oval face, catlike eyes, and a rich bow of a mouth that reminded Okami of a particularly memorable geisha he had once known. Besides that, however, she knew how to conduct a conversation, and this above all else made her intriguing.

“Who does Alba work for?”

“Right now you’re better off not knowing,” Faith said in such a serious tone that it gave Okami pause.

“Perhaps I should be asking Major Donnough these questions.”

To her credit, Faith didn’t even blink an eye. “I can see the drift of this conversation.” She arched an eyebrow. “Am I to assume Vincent and I have a new partner?”

“It’s as easy as that?”

She shrugged. “When in Rome...” She saw his perplexed look, added, “This is your country so you have us at a disadvantage. Besides, if you blow the whistle on Donnough, we’re all down the tubes. My decision’s simple. Two-thirds of the pot is better than none at all.”

He considered for a moment. “What’s Alba doing with the information on Willoughby’s group of war criminals?”

“Nothing that I know of. He’s merely passing it back to the States.”

“And you two have no idea of its use?”

“None.”

Okami decided this was getting him nowhere. “And what if I put a gun to Vincent Alba’s head while I ask him these questions?”

Faith snorted and her eyes turned dark. “Jesus, you slobs are all alike, aren’t you? Everything’s settled by a weapon.”

Okami found himself pricked by the note of scorn in her voice. He held out his hand. “Let me see what Donnough passed on to you.”

Faith gave him a curious look, as if she were seeing him for the first time. “I can see you’ve given me no choice.”

He quickly scanned the intelligence reports Donnough had copied. Willoughby had been a busy boy. Lieutenant General Arisue, former chief of Military Intelligence for the General Staff, and several of his officers had already been incorporated into G-2’s historical section, where they were providing Willoughby with up-to-date reports on Soviet troop movements in the Far East, as well as evaluating other intelligence. Col. Takushiro Hattori, who had been chief of the First Section of the General Staff’s Ops Division, was now in charge of Japanese military demobilization. That was appalling on two counts. A war criminal was in charge of weeding out other war criminals, and should Willoughby’s plan for Japan’s rearming become a reality, Hattori would be in charge of remobilizing the army.

This is infamous,
Okami thought. It took some concentration to stop himself from shaking with rage. These men, whom he now saw paraded before him like a chorus line in a dance hall, had been elevated to some perverted form of celebrity, instead of being condemned to the seven levels of hell as they deserved.

“You seem a bit tense, Mr. Okami,” Faith said. “Perhaps I should order us another round of drinks.”

Okami, wrestling with his personal animosity, was beginning to ponder the larger implications of this report, namely, of what possible use was it to Vincent Alba’s boss back in the States? Whoever he might be, he was certainly a Mafia capo. Why would he find it interesting that elements of the U.S. Army were employing war criminals in their intelligence network?

The scotches came and Okami drank his straight down. He no longer cared what Faith Sawhill thought of him. The revelations of Donnough’s report had made her irrelevant. She was, despite her beauty and her cleverness, only a woman, whose role in this game he already knew. She was a minor player, like Johnny Leonforte. What had Donnough called her?—a runner. He and the Colonel had wondered if someone was backing Leonforte and now he had his answer: Vincent Alba’s mysterious capo stateside.

He looked up. “Tell me, Miss Sawhill, what’s your role in all this? The Mafia’s strictly a man’s game.”

“And you know all about men’s games, don’t you, Mr. Okami.” She smiled so sweetly when she said this he might have been her lover. She looked down for a moment before continuing. “The truth is I have a restless soul. I’m a good American. I came out here to do my duty for my country to the best of my abilities.”

“And just happened to fall in with the wrong crowd,” he said skeptically.

“I fell in love with the wrong man.” Sadness and remorse filled her face. “I admit to being stupid, falling for Johnny, for his manic energy and his crazy dreams.” She lifted a hand, let it fall to her lap. “Why did it happen? It’s the aftermath of the war—or maybe it’s this city—Tokyo—so alien and strange and devastated. I—got sucked into everything.” That smile again, so disarming. “I’m as curious as a cat, you see. Even Vincent and Johnny couldn’t hide their work from me for long. Vincent, when he found out, was all for throwing me out, but”—the smile broadened—“I wrapped my thigh around Johnny’s and he let me stay. So I got involved like a tree caught up in a twister—a powerful storm.”

Okami wondered whether to believe her. Then he realized that it didn’t matter—she didn’t matter at all. Only the intelligence purloined from Willoughby had consequence here.

He rose, the report still in his hand. “I’ll make a copy of this. You’ll have it back by morning.”

Faith looked distressed. “Vincent will have a fit.”

“Let him. He’d better get used to having a new partner.”

“This report is invaluable,” Okami said. “It’s the weapon I’ve needed to get my revenge.”

The Colonel was studying the papers while he and Okami walked in Ueno Park. The Colonel gave no sign that he saw the brandy bottle Okami carried and from which he took a swig from time to time. Okami had not been to bed. He was drunk, had been drinking ever since he had left Faith Sawhill, his elation mounting with each step he had taken because he now saw a way to crush those he hated most.

It was early morning, fog still curling in off the Sumida River. A china blue sky was peeking out from the dregs of night like a baby robin out of its shell. Below, the Yoshino cherry trees were bursting with sprays of pink blossoms so pale they were almost white.

There was a scent in the air that Okami always associated with his childhood. In those days, he had seen very little of his father, but each spring his father would take Okami and his brother to Ueno Park for cherry blossom viewing. The sweet, ethereal scent reminded him of holding his father’s hand. It was hard and dry and comforting. He had felt happy with the tall figure towering over him.

“Look at the cherry blossoms above your head,” he could remember his father whispering in an almost reverential tone. “They bloom so quickly, and then at the height of their beauty, fall to the ground and die. This is why we love them so, because all men are like these blossoms; we have their beauty inside ourselves, we’re one with them.
Shizen”
—nature—“is a word that was imported from China because here we had no word for it. Why did we need it? Aren’t man and nature one and the same?”

Years later, when Okami had been summoned to his father’s house the night he was killed, he had knelt beside the bed, waiting for his mother’s arrival. He would not allow any of his father’s men into the bedroom, though he could not stop them from swarming around the house and grounds and guarding him. Later, he would deal one by one with those who had been remiss in their duty to his father. But for this moment he had bent his head and, taking his father’s cold hand in his, had out of season smelled that soft, sweet scent of cherry blossoms at the height of their brief, effulgent life.

Now, walking again in Ueno, Okami inhaled deeply that miraculous scent, redolent of metaphysics and memories. He glanced over at the Colonel, who was going over the reports again and again, mostly without comment.

Okami said, “If you take this intelligence straight to MacArthur—”

The Colonel looked up sharply. “What makes you think that he isn’t already aware of Willoughby’s plans?”

Okami had no ready answer for that.

“Here among the cherry trees,” the Colonel said softly, “we must take time to look at this picture calmly.” He took several deep breaths, and Okami was reminded all over again why he liked this Westerner so much.

“I know what these men are capable of,” the Colonel went on in that same soothing tone. “I know they gave the orders to execute your brother.”

“He was a pacifist,” Okami said in a strangled voice. “He was the brave one, not me. He spoke out for what I was feeling in my heart but never said aloud.”

“Perhaps he was a bit foolish, too. Those were not times to speak your mind if it went against the majority.”

“No, no, don’t you see, he was true to himself. A hero.” The bitterness in Okami’s voice was like poison lacing a goblet of wine. “And I was the one who was decorated—a joke, surely, because I did what I did out of fear for my own life; my captain would have shot me in the back if I had not obeyed orders. But I should have risked that.”

Perhaps because he was drunk, he added, “Aren’t you going to ask me
why
I should have risked being shot in the back?”

The Colonel stopped, took the empty brandy bottle out of Okami’s hand. “I know why. For glory. ‘If only we might fall, like cherry blossoms in the spring—so pure and radiant!’”

At the Colonel’s recitation of a poem a kamikaze pilot had written just before flying to his death, Okami began to weep. He was drunk, and among friends, so this was permissible—desirable, even. The excruciating internal pressures of holding all emotion inside oneself required periodic exorcism.

“General MacArthur can’t possibly condone what Willoughby is contemplating,” Okami said as he wiped his eyes. The cool, fresh air was dissipating his drunkenness despite his best efforts to keep it going. “Rearming Japan now would be a diplomatic disaster for your country and an economic one for mine. If Japan can’t find a way to forge a new economic foundation based on peacetime commodities, there will be no future at all for us.”

“I agree. And so, I believe, does MacArthur.” The Colonel clasped his hands behind his back, slapping one against the other rhythmically. “But we still have no idea where this information is being funneled or who might now have access to it. Who is our enemy now, Okami-san? I cannot see them, can you? And I have a growing suspicion they may be powerful—and they may be legion.”

“I see no time for this—contemplation.” In his state, Okami spat the last word. “You must go to MacArthur—”

The Colonel shook his head. “No, listen to me, my friend, we must defuse the scenario Willoughby has in mind—but we must be circumspect. MacArthur detests any sense of rift between his people—he’s got his own problems with the president and the allies, and he’s wary of anything that could be turned into negative publicity. And we must gain a sense of those arrayed against us. Tell me, Okami-san, would you draw your
katana
while you are deaf, dumb, and blind?”