The Kaisho (57 page)

It opened quickly, giving him the distinct impression that they had been observed drawing up. He was confronted by a delicate Japanese woman of no more than eighteen.

She bowed to him perfunctorily, then said, “This way, please,” in the terse, terribly efficient manner of a doctor or a nurse.

She led him down a long corridor lined with cherrywood paneling. At the end of it he was conducted into what appeared to be a brightly lit operating theater, albeit on a modest scale. A doctor was already scrubbed and waiting. He directed Okami to place Faith on the table and then leave.

“Anako will show you where you can wait,” the surgeon said as he began his preliminary workup on Faith. “I’ll join you when I can.”

The young woman named Anako ushered him into an adjacent room that had been set up as a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, a crystal chandelier hung from the center of the vaulted eighteen-foot ceiling, a jewel-toned Persian carpet covered the floor. The comfortable furniture—a pair of facing oversize sofas, two chairs with ottomans—was leather. Between the sofas was a bronze-and-glass coffee table on which sat a small clock. In one corner a French secretary stood with its surface entirely free of objects, polished to a hard gloss. Okami had been in museums with more dust.

Curious, he went to the bookshelves. He was startled to discover that almost all the volumes were in Japanese, save for an impressive section on historical warfare, which was in English and French. Elsewhere, there were histories and horticultural books in profusion, but most of the library was given over to philosophical texts, so obscure that even Okami, who by dint of his martial training was learned in that field, had never read them.

He took one of these volumes over to a chair, sat reading it for some time. Illumination came solely from the chandelier and several green-shaded lamps scattered around the room. Thick curtains were pulled tight across the high windows, and when he rose to part them, he discovered only blank wall behind them.

Recalling Faith Sawhill’s warning about the danger to him here, he was abruptly restless. Leaving the book on the chair, he went to the door and opened it. The hall was dim and so silent he could hear the muffled ticktock of the clock in the library behind him.

This end of the corridor was comprised of three rooms. Two of them he had already been in: the surgery and the library. Now he crossed the hall, put his ear against the third door. He could hear nothing.

Grasping the knob, he turned it, pushed inward. He found himself in a smallish room. It was altogether anonymous, rather like a doctor’s waiting room: white walls, a gray, low-pile carpet, a pair of steel engravings of turn-of-the-century clipper ships on the walls. One desk, three chairs, nothing more.

He went to the chair closest to the desk because he saw draped over it Faith Sawhill’s bloodstained uniform. Now that he had come this far he could see there was another door that he guessed led directly into the surgery.

He bent over the chair, stared at her uniform for some time. Then he carefully went through it. He found nothing but a matte-gray pen clipped to the inside breast pocket of her jacket and, within the same pocket, a short list of items to purchase.

It was when he was carefully replacing the list that he noticed something odd about the pen. It was thicker than an ordinary writing instrument, and now that he looked at it more closely, he saw that it was made of a substance he could not identify.

He plucked it from the pocket, turned it over and over as he scrutinized it. He pressed the button on the top and a tip clicked out. Then he noticed there were a series of bumps along the spine of the oversize clip.

He pressed the top one, heard a barely audible whine. He put the pen to his ear. Something was going on inside it. He pressed the second button and again heard the whine. The third button stopped the whine, and now he was beginning to get it. With a mounting sense of excitement, he pressed the fourth button and heard Faith Sawhill’s voice emanating from the pen—which, as it happened, was also a miniature wire recorder.

“Report from Tokyo. April seventeenth. We’ve hit the mother lode of intelligence. Donnough had proved an exemplary source, see accompanying microdot. Unfortunately, I’ve run into a rather complex wrinkle. A Yakuza
oyabun
named Mikio Okami knows more about our operation than is healthy. I’ve offered him a partnership, which, for now, is the best of a bad set of options.”

There was a slight pause, then her voice began again.

“I told him that Vincent is here to monitor Johnny, which is the truth, as far as it goes. He has no idea that Vincent is here to monitor me, as well. Well, even Johnny doesn’t know that, but then Johnny doesn’t really know much at all, does he? But that’s how you wanted it because, in the end, Johnny only cares about Johnny.”

Again, a slight pause.

“Okami believes Vincent is running the show over here, which is kind of funny, but certainly helpful from our point of view. I don’t believe Okami knows who we’re dealing with here, which is a relief. But he’s smart and tenacious—and I think he must have some kind of American backing of his own, which is alarming. I need to pump him, but in such a way that he believes he’s pumping me. Not so easy but don’t worry, I can handle it.”

Silence, while the remainder of the wire unspooled itself. Those were the only entries, but as far as Okami was concerned, they were more than enough. How foolish of him to have underestimated Faith Sawhill. She was a woman and he had seen her wholly in that light—and had dismissed her out of hand. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.

He ran the wire back to the spot he guessed it had originally been at, then replaced the pen. He went silently out of the room, back across the hall and into the library.

He sat for some time, the book he had selected open and unread in his lap. His first instinct was to take Faith Sawhill down, but in a moment he saw the foolhardiness of such rash action.

If the Willoughby plan was brought to fruition, they were all sunk—especially Japan, which desperately needed breathing room to regain its economic feet and build a base from which to haul itself from the ashes of defeat.

Even the Colonel would be helpless in such a doomsday scenario as Willoughby was preparing. Rearming Japan was about the last thing the country needed to heal its wounds and get on with its future. Being America’s point man against the Communists in the Pacific would keep Japan under its thumb for decades to come. That was absolutely unacceptable.

With a profound sense of unease, Okami realized that the Colonel’s prudence was correct. He now had the opportunity of a lifetime. Whatever Faith might say to her as yet unknown employer, she was going to make him a partner in the black market scheme here. Now that he knew what she wanted from him he would be prepared. He knew that he must protect the Colonel from her at all costs because her employer would undoubtedly see him as an enemy and do his best to destroy the Colonel.

That meant either trying to outwit Faith, or—an appalling thought—trying to come to some form of truce with her. Because Okami knew her employer held the key to stopping Willoughby’s plan to rearm Japan and reinstate its most heinous war criminals to their former positions of power. Not only was he in possession of the top-secret intelligence that could destroy Willoughby, he was also in a unique position with his high-powered contacts inside Washington to overcome those in the military and the U.S. Senate who were siding with Willoughby.

Also, he knew the physical nature of her reports. This, he sensed instinctively, was his biggest edge. Because, sooner or later, he or the Colonel would be able to trace those wire recordings and those microdots from Tokyo to their final destination in the United States, and at last they would know the nature of their enemy.

At that moment, the door to the library opened and the doctor strode in. “She’s going to be fine,” he said. “Though perhaps a small limp is inevitable since some nerve damage occurred.” Then he smiled. “Would you come with me, please? She would very much like to see you.”

Faith Sawhill was lying on the table as if she were dead. Okami, staring down at her, thought she looked very pale. Her eyes opened, and he was startled to find them as dark as his.

“You’re still here.”

“So far my stay has been uneventful.”

She licked her dry lips, and without being bidden, he poured her some water, slipped the straw between her lips as he lifted up her head, watched her drink her fill.

When she was through, she thanked him. “Have you seen anyone here?” she asked with some anxiety. Her voice was hoarse and still weak.

“Just the surgeon—and Anako, of course. I’ve been alone in the library.”

Faith nodded, and her face appeared to relax. Her eyes held his. “The alliance that Johnny wouldn’t grant you, I’m prepared to guarantee.”

Okami studied her for some time. “How did I get so lucky?”

“I’d rather have you as a partner than an enemy.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Besides, you did me a big favor, getting rid of Johnny. Vincent told me he was becoming increasingly uncontrollable.” She licked her lips again. “He only had contempt for women.”

“I’d be a much better partner,” he said. “I only underestimate them.”

Faith tried to laugh.

“Is it real this time?” he asked. “You know, you said I was at the
akachochin,
but we both know you didn’t mean it.”

“This time I do.” Her hand sought his. “So what do you say? Deal? We can be very helpful to one another. I need all the help I can get out here now that Vincent’s gone. Who knows when there’ll be a replacement, and anyway, until then, you would benefit from Vincent’s contacts.”

He appeared to consider this for some time. At length, he said, “Do you know the story about the six monkeys?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

He ignored her puzzled expression. “There was once an old man. He was very wise, and over the course of his long life many people sought his counsel. What was most interesting was that almost everyone who came to him asked the same question. ‘How,’ they would ask, ‘do I understand myself?’

“To this the old man gave the same reply. He brought out a curious cage constructed of bamboo. It was oblong and contained six windows. Inside the cage was a monkey. ‘Choose a window,’ he counseled them, ‘and then call the monkey. Observe closely his response. It will be a reflection of your own inner self.’”

For a long time there was only the sound of her breathing, supplemented by the methodical engines of medical science.

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. It’s a Zen riddle. It’s meant itself to be a pathway for thought and meditation.”

Faith screwed her face up, thinking. “I think I get it. The monkey responds differently to attitude and tone of voice.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

She looked up at him. “Which one of the six monkeys are you?”

“That’s for you to discover,” Okami said with a brief smile.

He clasped her hand in his. It was warm and dry, and unaccountably made him think of his father. “In the meantime, my dear Miss Sawhill, we should have green tea to properly seal this pact.”

“You won’t regret your decision.” Those dark eyes smiled up at him. “Partner.”

The autumn wind:
for me there are no
gods;
there are no
Buddhas.

—Masaoka Shiki

Naohiro Ushiba, Daijin of MITI, had heard it said that some called Tomoo Kozo the mad
oyabun.
There were many stories about him. One was that his penis was entirely covered in
irizumi,
the exquisitely wrought tattoos that all Yakuza wore on parts of their skin.
Irizumi
was applied as it had been done for centuries, with sharp bamboo dipped in colored inks. The pain, it was said, was formidable.

As Ushiba stared into Kozo’s face, he said, “From the moment you decided on your own to put a shadow on Nicholas Linnear’s wife, you set us on this very dangerous course.”

Kozo took a drag of his cigarette, his tiny black eyes moving over Ushiba’s face. “It was a smart move. Linnear had disappeared into the mists—at the behest of Okami. Should we have done nothing to keep track of him?”

“What about Nangi?”

Kozo shook his head. “The wife was his link. She always has been. And believe me, the moment Okami entered his life Linnear was not about to confide in Tanzan Nangi. How could he? With Linnear’s professed hatred of the Yakuza, how could he tell Nangi that he was going to become the Kaisho’s lackey?”

Ushiba lit a cigarette, kept pace with the restless Kozo as he circled the
koi
pond. “You may have fooled the other
oyabun
of the inner council, but not me. I think you instigated this attack on Okami merely to pit yourself against Linnear.” For Ushiba, aggression was often more gratifying than introspection. Besides, if Kozo truly was mad, perhaps he could be provoked into revealing his private motives for this decision to oust the Kaisho. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s just the kind of crazy challenge you can’t resist.”

“What nonsense!” Kozo circled the pond like a predator in a cage. “You know the dangers Okami represented as well as I do. We’ve rehashed them time and again. There’s no room anymore for the Kaisho. The kind of power he wielded is too dangerous to be left in one man’s hands. Simply put, the Kaisho has been supplanted by the Godaishu. Our network spread all around the world will work far more efficiently and with far more checks and balances than it would have being directed by one man.” Kozo blew smoke up toward the skylight. “All of Okami’s arguments against the Godaishu are scattered now like cherry blossoms in the rain. Okami should have foreseen his demise as Kaisho and planned for the eventuality of its passage into history. I know I would have.”

“But without Okami’s intimate knowledge of the Mafia, the Godaishu would never have come into being. He, not you or I, is its true father.”