

# SEVENTH SAMURAI

##

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Image: Photo by Doug Walker

CHAPTER 1: Tsugaru Strait

In the Detective Section of the Osaka Police Department the sandy-haired Westerner in a rugby pullover and faded khaki cotton trousers stood out like a parrot among penguins – even his shoes, which were tatty sneakers with no logo. All around him, Japanese in dark business suits, white shirts, conservative ties and polished leather footwear went about their daily tasks.

Watanabe guessed the man had come to see him. Returning from the coffee machine, Watanabe detoured three desks out of his way and thrust out his right hand toward the man who was still looking a little lost. "Taro Watanabe."

"Detective Watanabe?"

"The same."

"You talk like an American."

"I'm famous." Watanabe stood, paper cup of coffee in his hand, waiting for the man to introduce himself. The accent seemed American, but his manner was tentative, like a diver staring at cold ocean water, uncertain whether to make the plunge. He took a deep reassuring breath before he spoke.

"I'm Ben Hardy. I've been thinking about coming in for several days. Then I had a free day, so I just dropped in." The shadow of a polite smile brushed his features.

Watanabe smiled. "You giving yourself up?"

"No. Not that." Hardy's manner was serious. He was deeply tanned, some early wrinkles likely indicating solar skin damage. His dress was as casual as Watanabe's, Berks over bare feet, worn jeans set off by a tooled western belt, faded denim shirt. "I'm a scuba diver. There was an accident a couple of weeks ago. You may have heard about it."

"Up near the Tsugara Strait?" Watanabe questioned, referring to the body of water that separates the large island of Honshu from the northern island of Hokkaido.

"Yes," Hardy said, then hesitated. Watanabe took a sip of his coffee and waited for him to continue. "There's something strange about the accident. I need to talk to somebody."

"We can talk," the detective said. "But that's way out of my territory. Would you like coffee?"

"No thanks."

Watanabe led the way to his cubicle. As head of the Osaka Flying Squad, a catch-all group that usually involved itself with any crime having to do with foreigners in the Kansai, the general name for the western industrial area of Japan, he could treat his guests to a small amount of privacy. He waved Hardy to a chair, then seated himself behind his coffee ringed desk. "Do you mind if I put this on tape?"

"Not at all." Hardy waited while Watanabe rummaged in his drawer for a tape, peeled off the old label, pushed the cassette into a dusty recorder, then satisfied himself that it was working. "It's not much of a story. I'm a licensed scuba instructor, but I don't make my living that way. I teach English conversation."

Watanabe nodded. There were hundreds of English teachers in the Kansai, thousands in the Tokyo area. They were known as "native speakers," and if they worked long hours they made a surprising amount of money, far more than Watanabe's police pay.

"But I belong to a scuba club and me and these three Japanese were up at the Strait doing a little routine diving. It was good weather, calm seas and almost no boat traffic in the area."

"Did I read they were students?" Watanabe questioned.

"You mean scuba students, not college students?"

"Yes."

"Well, you may have read that," Hardy said, "but it isn't entirely true. I was the most experienced person and the only licensed instructor. But all three were thoroughly trained and Kenji was an excellent diver. He would have been an instructor soon."

"He's the one who was drowned?"

"They all drowned." Hardy was grim, verging on the emotional. "But Kenji's body washed ashore. The others are still listed as missing, but they're dead. We were a long way from shore and visibility was excellent."

"Just how did it happen?"

"Kenji and I were topside in the boat. The other two were diving as a pair, a good safety practice. Time passed and they didn't surface. Their air should have been running low, so Kenji went looking for them." Hardy shrugged, a bleak look on his face as he relived the moment. "That's it. He never came back."

"You stayed in the boat?"

"For a long time I did. I mean this was just unheard of. Two trained divers dropping from sight. Then a third, very experienced man, disappearing. There just isn't any explanation."

"Of course, Mr. Hardy, you went through this with the police."

"Sure. Call me Ben. But my Japanese isn't all that good and their interpreter isn't all that good."

"What you're saying, Ben, is that you have some new information?"

"No, it's not that, Watanabe-san. It's just that I'm not sure that I got through to the locals up there on the Strait, and if I did get through, I'm not sure they believed me. There was a lot of smiling and nodding to one another. You're Japanese, I know, but my friends tell me you spent a lot of time in the States. Anyway, you know how Japanese feel about foreigners."

"Yes, I do. There are people in this department, even in this section, who consider me to be a foreigner, a gaijin, because of the time I spent abroad. I know exactly what you mean. Continue."

"That's about the whole story, except three men, all competent, with good equipment, all drowning, just isn't in the cards."

"But you were together," said. "Possibly your air tanks were similar. Possibly an identical flaw from the same source."

"Sure, I thought of that. I did recheck my equipment during that long wait. Then I went down for a look around and found nothing. I rechecked my equipment later. It was perfect. But there is one more thing. Kenji's body. It washed up on a deserted beach on the east coast of northern Honshu. Early identification was made through an ID bracelet. The family later identified the body. I never did see it and I'm just as happy. But I understand there was no tank and his flippers were missing."

"Is that so unusual?" Watanabe asked. "A body in the water for some time?"

"Probably. I don't know. The flipper would come off, but the tank? I don't know. I didn't see the body and I don't know what shape it was in. This is one thing I thought you might want to do. If there's some sort of report, an autopsy, it might be worth looking at."

Watanabe finished his coffee and tossed the cup in the wastebasket. "What you're hinting at, Ben, is foul play." The detective eyed Hardy sharply and said, "You think Kenji was killed, murdered, by a person, or persons, or, what the hell, a creature unknown."

"It sounds implausible, doesn't it. But there's one more thing. I've studied winds, tides, currents, anything I could get my hands on in English, and there's no way that Kenji could have drowned near the boat and been carried to that beach."

"I can check that," Watanabe said evenly. "Naturally, there's some explanation for whatever happened. But now you're talking two jurisdictions, aren't you? One where the divers were lost, another where the body was found."

"Those spots are far removed."

"And the three victims. We can assume there were three. They're all from the Kansai?"

"Yes," Hardy said. "All from the Osaka area, two from Kobe, one from Sakai City."

"And you are a foreigner. I think that's all I need for some tenuous form of jurisdiction. I'll bounce it off my boss, but he pretty well gives me carte blanche. I can get a copy of whatever report the police up there made out when you made your report and whatever there is about the body. I should be able to get more on tides and ocean currents than you did. The damage has been done and there's no need for speed, but I should have something in a couple of weeks."

Phones were ringing, the low hum of Japanese invaded the cubicle, the aroma of curry rice drifted in, lunchtime neared and some were sending out for take away, an attractive young woman with brown eyes and glistening black hair poked her head around the corner and asked if Watanabe-san wanted green tea. He declined. Shoving a piece of paper across the desk to Hardy, he said, "Give me your name, address, telephone, e-mail and write down the high points, particularly where you got the boat, where you stayed, where and when you did the police reports, times and dates."

Hardy nodded in agreement and began writing. Watanabe suspected it had been a severe shock to Hardy to lose three companions in one stroke, three persons that he, as the senior member, felt some responsibility toward. It would be enough to get the most well-balanced person slightly off track for a time. An American living alone in the Japanese culture might be even more prone to paranoia. The least Watanabe could do was assure Hardy that he was on his side, then draw a logical explanation from the evidence, have another meeting with Hardy and talk the thing through. And, make it perfectly clear that Hardy was not in the least responsible for the three deaths if the facts led to that conclusion, as Watanabe was fairly certain they would.

CHAPTER 2: Genesis

On April 1st, 1945, the American assault on Okinawa began. Small boats, bristling with men and arms, made for a sandy beach by the village of Hagushi on the western coast and toward the southern end of the large island. Beyond the village were gentle, rising slopes and pleasant fields with patches of ripe winter barley. The entire scene was one of tranquility, the yellow sunlight highlighting armies of scarlet, green and blue wildflowers, arcane paintings from the brush of a mad genius, a pleasing abstract canvas in stark contrast to the brutish strife to come. Incredibly, there was no resistance from the Japanese. Two hours after the first American troops rushed ashore, fully prepared for savage gun and rocket fire, patrols of the Seventh Infantry secured Kadena airfield. The Sixth Marines occupied Yontan airfield an hour later.

So peacefully had these two major objectives been captured that a Japanese fighter plane eased down to a landing at Yontan that afternoon. The pilot climbed from his aircraft and strolled toward the hangars. Suddenly realizing that the armed men near the hangars were not Japanese, he drew his pistol. What thoughts must have crossed his mind as three rifle shots, fired as one, pierced his body and he was thrown back on the hard ground, dead, or dying, the initial casualty of an island struggle that would run up a spendthrift butcher bill that could have as easily been avoided.

By the end of that first day as many as 60,000 men had come ashore at a cost of fewer than 30 lives. By nightfall a huge beachhead had been established, and by the end of the second day the First Marines were virtually across the Ishikawa isthmus, a narrow strip of land separating the northern two thirds of the island from the southern tip.

After four days, the Americans were well over two weeks ahead of their timetable. If the American forces were following the successful plan according to their land commander, Lt. Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr., the Japanese defenders were also following a plan laid down by Lt. Gen. Mitsuru Ushijima.

Ushijima, with a large number of crack troops equipped with excellent weapons, knew his cause was lost, but vowed to take an awful toll in American lives, a vow he was to keep.

The death toll was to include General Buckner, who, while observing an attack by the Eighth Marine Regiment on June 18th, 1945 was killed by a shell-splintered rock. And it was to include General Ushijimi, who died calmly and by his own hand, in full Japanese ritual, after a night of feasting and farewells.

When the 83-day fight ended, the bloodiest land battle of the Pacific war showed Japanese losses at 110,000 killed and 10,760 taken prisoner. The U.S. Army and Marines lost 7,612 killed and missing, 31,806 wounded and more than 26,000 other casualties. The figure for those unfit for duty because of combat fatigue were particularly high during the fierce struggle.

U.S. sailors and navy pilots operating from the sea lost more than 4,000 killed and 7,000 wounded. At this point in the war the Japanese were using Kamikaze, explosive-laden suicide planes.

General Ushijima opted to make his stand in the south and dug into the rugged terrain that would be defended ridge by ridge and foot by foot below the Ishikawa isthmus. Line after line of his defenses formed rough circles around his headquarters, Shuri Castle. Natural limestone caves, intricate networks of tunnels and above-ground masonry vaults, used by the locals to house the bones of their dead, provided cover for rifles, mortars and machine guns.

Huge rooms had been dug underground. Spider holes – rifle pits with well-fitted lids – could hide the defenders until the enemy had passed. The shoot-and-hide, fight-and-run, then attack again tactics took a bitter toll. The experience of the Seventh Infantry Division, which took seven days to cover 6,000 yards to the village of Ouki, paid a price of 1,120 casualties.

A portion of General Ushijima's defenders were Okinawan. A home guard unit called the Boeitai, and numbering 20,000, was taken into the Japanese Thirty-Second Army. These locals were used mainly for menial tasks such as digging tunnels.

***

The evening before the invasion, along with his diploma from the Shuri Middle school on Okinawa, thirteen-year-old Akira Yoshimoto received orders to report to the Japanese army.

Yoshimoto was not an Okinawan. His father served with the Japanese army in Manchuria, then in Singapore. There was never an official report of his death. The last the family heard from him was a letter from the Raffles hotel where he was billeted with other officers. Like many other Japanese servicemen, he simply never returned from the war.

Yoshimoto's maternal grandfather was a man of some influence in the Osaka area and sent the boy and his mother to Okinawa where he thought they would be safe. He had the idea that if the war came to a disastrous end for the Japanese, as he suspected it would, the Americans would by-pass Okinawa and strike directly at the home islands.

Indeed, there were high ranking Americans who shared this view. Gen. Douglas MacArthur, who carried off most of the Pacific campaign with a surprising small loss of life, accused Admiral Chester W. Nimitz of tossing away thousands of American lives by insisting on driving the Japanese from Okinawa instead of sealing them off and letting natured take its course.

The thirteen-year-old was inducted and entered a unit called "Blood and Iron for the Emperor," or "Tekketsu." Most of these youngsters were assigned to the Thirty-Second Army's communication network, but as conditions deteriorated they were given a short course in guerrilla tactics and told to fight to the end, to the very last man.

After living days in terror of American naval shelling, aircraft bombardment, mortar fire, grenades and small arms fire and the particular hell of hand-transported and tank-mounted flame throwers that incinerated cave-dwelling Japanese like so many broiled chickens, Akira Yoshimoto found himself in a cave with six Japanese enlisted men and a dying officer.

A few meters down the slope from the cavern's entrance was a heavy concentration of U.S. Marines armed with satchel charges that could effectively seal the mouth of the cave.

During the day, the seven enlisted men had taken turns creeping to the brush-littered cave mouth and taking shots at their tormentors, spacing them far enough apart as to not to draw undo attention to their position.

The cave commanded a fine view of the valley below and at one time had been a sector command post. For this reason, there were cases of canned crab, bottles of sake and other provisions in the large underground opening. When night fell, the men closed the entrance to the cave by using blankets propped by long poles. They then lit several candles and gathered in a semicircle around the bed of pine boughs they had fashioned for the dying officer, Colonel Toshiki Inouye.

The group of battle-weary and bedraggled men from a hodgepodge of units assembled in the dim cave by the flickering light of candles, the background staccato of battle only meters away, the distant thunder and thud of naval guns and land artillery and the ubiquitous smell of death was an impressive scene, particularly to a new recruit of Yoshimoto's age. He never forgot it.

By that primitive light, the scene could have been centuries old, the sake bottles were opened and small china cups passed to every man. The fresh smell of sake, the true Japanese drink, was like a breath of spring life to the weary men, evocative of the home islands and a thousand blending memories stretching back to childhood.

The colonel propped himself up on an elbow. The move was difficult and took much of his strength, but no one dared offer to help him. After a sip of sake, he spoke. "All Japanese should become fighters and die for the Emperor."

There was nodded assent. The men were ill at ease. Most had never been this close to such a high-ranking officer. They sat cross-legged, ready to bow if he flicked an eye toward them.

The Colonel, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in the cave, in fact serene. He knew he was dying. He looked into each man's face, lingering on the youth, Yoshimoto. At that moment, Yoshimoto felt a certain bond between himself and the older man, a man he regarded as a samurai warrior.

"You are my seven samurai," the Colonel said quietly. "When dawn comes I know you will attack the enemy with the fire and ferocity expected of you. I wish I could lead the attack, but my wounds are severe. My spirit will be with you and, if you survive, if you come through this hellish fight, I expect each and every one of you to seek reprisal, a grand reprisal for all of us, our humiliation and our shame."

At this point he paused and, even by the dim light of the candles, seemed to grow paler. One of the older men refilled his sake cup and urged him to drink. A sip of sake, then another, seemed to restore some vitality. The Colonel continued. "I am grieved to report that because of my wounds I am unable to bring about my own death in the honorable prescribed fashion. I will therefore take the second choice and ask one of you to end my life.

"When that is done there is no need to cremate or otherwise dispose of my body. Perhaps the Americans with their flamethrowers will do the job. Just leave me where I die and prepare yourselves for the battle to come."

The candles played odd figures on the cave walls, shadows dancing in silent exultation, the stale air, the smell of smoke and the body stenches of those long unwashed. It is a tradition of the Japanese to bathe frequently, but here was only the grunge and weariness of a defeated army, a dying army and a fading tradition.

The Colonel eyed the grim-faced group and inquired, "Which of you is the youngest?"

Yoshimoto was certain that he was. The others were veteran soldiers who had been through more than one campaign. Meekly, he pushed a hand to the level of his shoulder and said, "I think I am, Sir."

"Then it will be you," the Colonel said, "a soul unblemished by the years. There is a straight razor in my kit. I assure you it is sharp. Bring it here, then cut my throat with it."

Yoshimoto was frozen with fear. He would have preferred to run outside the cave and face the Marine guns rather than cut this man's throat. He considered bolting from the cave, but a deeper sense of duty held him back. He was after all Japanese and still an impressionable boy. Samurai stories danced in his head. Under the unflickering gaze of the Colonel, he slowly forced himself to rise from the cave floor, go to the Colonel's kit and find the cutthroat razor.

It was of German manufacture. The blade was flawless and glittered in the dancing fire flames of the candles. The boy returned to the Colonel's side and knelt on the cave floor, awkwardly holding what would become a bloody instrument of death.

The Colonel seemed almost in a trance, far removed from the cave, his thoughts straying to a time when a bold young lieutenant strolled with his bride-to-be beneath the cherry blossoms near the Imperial Palace. At length his spirit returned and his flame-flecked eyes seemed fully alert. "All right, son. You may cut my throat."

Yoshimoto had little recollection of what happened after that. The actual job was easier than he thought it would be, such was the sharpness of the blade. He cleaned the blood from his hands as best he could. Then he gulped sake. It was his first experience with the fiery beverage.

The others saw to it that he ate crabmeat from the small can. They were proud of him for performing his duty. Some of them dozed now and then because of too much sake, but none of them really slept that night. Among the other supplies in the cave were officers' swords. Half in jest the men talked of themselves as the legendary seven samurai to which the Colonel had referred.

As dawn turned the black sky gray, with the blankets over the cave mouth down, a sullen breeze ushered in a wretched morning. One soldier, holding a sword in his two hands, muttered, "There can be no death." Yoshimoto wondered what he meant. Were they not surrounded by death? Could one rise above death? Was death a welcome escape?

They had decided to use the swords in their attack against the dug-in Americans. They shared a sense of hopelessness and a night worn out by drinking had deadened their nerve ends to the point that they acted almost like robots, programmed to hold the swords and move as a body toward the waiting guns of the enemy.

Some had concealed hand grenades in their clothing. If wounded and facing capture they could blow themselves and their enemies into eternity.

Once outside the cave the men stumbled and staggered toward the Americans. When the first shot was fired, they picked up their cry of "banzai." In the face of automatic weapons it was short lived.

Yoshimoto stumbled, slashed himself on the right calf, then tripped, bashing his forehead against a rock and knocking himself senseless. Hours later he woke up, his head banging from an imperial hangover. His wounds were bandaged and a heavy cloth swathed the gash on his forehead. He was a prisoner behind enemy lines.

CHAPTER 3: Exit Ben Hardy

Sunday morning, Taro Watanabe and his girlfriend, Nana Liberman, were off to a festival in Sakai Higashi. They stood on the station platform enjoying the fine fall day. At the rear of the platform were a small valley and a cemetery, whose stones were tightly clustered to preserve space and house the bones of the dead.

Near the cemetery was a small house with a cheap tin roof, rather than the heavy tile roof so common in Japan. A woman in rice farmer's garb, a large cloth hiding her face, was pushing a wheelbarrow near the house. Beyond was a small shrub and tree nursery, and on a hill a couple of miles distant rose the huge brick complex of the Kinki teaching hospital.

Nana drew the usual stares from the others on the platform, her long straight taffy-colored hair, green eyes, a trim, athletic five-foot-seven, moderate bust, blue jeans and a mannish Oxford white shirt set her apart.

Watanabe was a shade taller than Nana and thoroughly Japanese in appearance except that his hair was on the sandy side. Looking over a large group of Japanese one finds jet-black hair of the raven variety is uncommon, except in very old women who get theirs from bottles. His hair was neatly trimmed as always, his eyesight good and his teeth white and – thanks to an orthodontist in the States – straight.

Nana seemed pensive and Watanabe feared she might still be brooding over a remark overheard from a nearby restaurant table the evening before. A Japanese had amused his male dinner guests with the remark that both women and Christmas cakes, central to the Japanese celebration of the holiday, were no good after twenty-five.

Watanabe sometimes wished that Nana had not bothered to learn Japanese. He had seen the glint in Nana's green eyes as her temper flared. She turned and shot a searing glance toward the nearby table. The man who had made the remark locked eyes with her for a short time before his smile faded and he turned away.

In the States, Nana had been a member of NOW and a spear carrier in numerous feminist causes. It was not always easy for her to live in a society where men could do little wrong.

She had been drawn to the island nation by the high wages available to those willing to work hard as English teachers, a sense of adventure and the chance to travel throughout Asia. What rankled her was the way most Japanese women accepted their inferior situation. In any office, or at any social gathering, they would fall all over each other to make green tea and to serve it to the men. She was blind to the fact that over the centuries Japanese women had carved their own niche in society, controlled the family budget and, in their own way, treated Japanese men like large, possibly dull, children.

Watanabe attempted to take these outbursts philosophically, often reminding himself of the Japanese saying, "Heavy rice bows low" – the greater your intellect, the greater your humility – although he sometimes wondered if thinking of himself as "heavy rice" contributed to his humility.

Because of his years in the United States, three of them on the Boston police force, and his fluency in English, he was often considered an outsider, a _gaijin_ , by Japanese associates. He didn't dress like the Japanese and he didn't think like them and he didn't know all their arcane customs and beliefs. Sometimes, when down in the dumps, he felt he had the worst of two worlds. He also thought of himself as an outlet for Nana's anger, which usually vanished as soon as it was aroused by things Japanese.

They had been thrown together when a female friend of Nana's had been the victim in a bizarre samurai sword murder.

It had been almost a year since he had moved in with her, and their relationship, with notable exceptions, had been surprisingly good. Nana remained a free spirit. She would not be pushed or cajoled into the Japanese mold.

The very country of their residence was a problem, their contrasting cultures and personalities and always, just under the surface like the sadness in a Strauss waltz, the fact that Watanabe was married to someone else.

The electric train arrived and the two of them boarded. The trainman whistled, the doors slid closed and the big metal boxes moved down the tracks toward Sakai Higashi. The dark shadow of the train traveled with them at the exact speed. A spring-green rice paddy shot past, then a decaying brick factory and a crossing gate with three bicycles waiting to continue their journey across the tracks. There were standees on the train, old people, students, and lovers holding hands, most in casual attire for the festival. Billboards and tall concrete and steel apartments flashed by, the type some Japanese called rabbit warrens, then smaller stations. This was an express train. It would stop at Sakai Higashi, but it's base was the great station complex at Namba in the heart of Osaka.

Swaying with the rhythm of the train, Watanabe briefly filled Nana in on his conversation with Ben Hardy. "It's been three or four weeks since I talked with him and there seems to be something to his story. He lives somewhere in Sakai and I thought we might drop in on him today, just for a minute."

"Can't you just call him?" Nana questioned. "It's Sunday."

"That's the problem. I've been trying to get him for the last week. I get his machine. I didn't leave a message the first couple of times, but I have since. No response."

"Maybe he wants to forget about the whole thing. Do you think they'll ever find the other two bodies?"

"After all this time, I doubt it. But I need to get more information from Hardy. There's a piece missing somewhere."

The Sakai Higashi station was humming with activity. Shoppers were mixed with the festival crowd. Most people were in western dress, but here and there a splendid kimono produced an explosion of raucous color. At the bottom of the long escalator that led to the sidewalk, members of the local Lion's Club, in purple and yellow field caps and white outfits, conducted an anti-drug campaign, giving away small metric rulers with appropriate slogans.

Moving with the flow for a couple of blocks, Watanabe and Nana came to an almost American-style parade. Instead of people in _happi_ coats carrying or dragging portable shrines, several large high school bands marked the beginning of Sakai as a seaport for western ships sometime in the 16th Century. One such band, made up of wooden flutes, was playing the U.S. Marine Corps hymn.

The street was dotted with stands selling ice cream, hot dogs, soft drinks and _tako_ , a small round ball made with something like pancake mix and containing chopped up octopus. The vendors cooked them on a grill fueled by bottled gas, turning them expertly. Nana complained that the _tako_ she had eaten never seemed to be quite done. There were also stands selling tiny live goldfish, Japanese rice sweets and the fine knives for which Sakai was renowned.

The city is also known as the burial place for the ancient rulers of Japan. From the air, green spaces can be seen marking the mysterious keyhole-shaped tombs that cannot be desecrated. It amounts to a scattering of parks imposed on a people who generally use every inch of urban space for commerce or housing.

Farther along a women's folk song and dance group, dressed in _yukata_ went through stylized movements while holding blue towels. Nana announced she was hungry. They grabbed a cab and Watanabe directed it through a maze of tricky, narrow streets in search of an eel restaurant he had been to once in the dim past. After several wrong turns, the driver was all smiles when they found it, happy to be off the hook.

It wasn't much, just a narrow family-run restaurant on a mostly residential street. Nana asked what the name of the place would be in English. Watanabe studied the kanji and finally said, "Calm Happy Number."

"What the hell does that mean?" Watanabe shrugged and led the way inside.

As an appetizer they were given a small bowl of eel kidneys, although Watanabe explained that some restaurants of this type run short of eel kidneys and sometimes substitute kidneys from other sea creatures. Then came the main course, eel _donburi_ , a bowl of hot rice with a little sauce and two slices of smoked eel. This was served with two slices of pickled daikon, the giant white radish, and a bowl of clear soup, which Watanabe said he thought was made with eel skin, but he wasn't sure. Watanabe was quite pleased with the meal, but Nana thought it was rather ordinary.

They managed to find another cab and went through another tortuous search, this time for Ben Hardy's apartment, through streets with no names and past houses and buildings with no consecutive numbering. Typical Japan.

After the trouble they had gone through, Watanabe was pleased that Hardy answered the door almost immediately.

"I've been trying to call you," Watanabe said.

It took Hardy a second or two to recognize Watanabe in this setting. He didn't seem particularly happy to see him. He looked from one to the other and finally said, "I've been trying to get away on a little trip. I'm sorry I didn't return your calls." He cast a puzzled eye in Nana's direction. _Gaijin_ males married Japanese women, sometimes as a sham bride to mask another lifestyle, but it was a mixed up _gaijin_ female who married a local. She didn't have the look of a loser.

"This is Nana Liberman," Watanabe said. "We've been at the festival. Thought I'd just drop by. I've had time to do some checking."

"Yeah," he nodded to Nana. "Well, it was a bad experience. I guess I'd be smart just to forget it."

"I know what you mean," Watanabe replied. "But maybe we could come inside for just a minute and go over some things."

"I wish I could, but the place is a mess. I'm just in the middle of packing and I've been too busy to clean. Maybe later on I could stop in, but I think the police up there at the Strait were right. It was just a fluke accident. I'm sorry I caused you any trouble."

"I'm sure it was an accident," Watanabe agreed. "But up until this time, all the information I've gathered backs you up. The body couldn't have possibly been carried by currents to where it was found. It would be like drifting upstream in a river."

"That's what it seemed like to me at first," a dour-faced Hardy said. "But you know ocean tides can reverse the flow of a river. We're dealing with a whole section of saltwater here and a bundle of tricky currents. I was still in a state of shock when I came to you. I just couldn't believe those three were dead. Now I accept it."

Nana nodded in agreement. "It's probably the hardest to say goodbye when you don't see someone. I mean, they were alive when they went under water. Then you just didn't see them again. I can see where it would be hard to accept that they're gone for good. Of course there was one body."

"Are you a cop too?"

"No Watanabe and I are friends." Hardy was likely the only foreigner in the neighborhood. From where Nana was standing on the street she had a clear view inside Hardy's narrow townhouse, a jumble of clothing thrown over a chair, an unmade futon and beyond, in the tiny galley kitchen, a counter littered with pots, pans and dirty dishes. Several empty beer bottles stood on the kitchen floor. The street itself was narrow and pure Japanese, gray water flowed in a partially covered ditch to one side. Sewage would go in underground tanks to be picked up periodically by vacuum trucks.

Hardy mulled what Nana had said, then responded, "You've got a good grip on the situation. 'Accept!' That's it. You come to accept the situation, then you say farewell. Goodbye. _Sayonara_. You close the book. I'm not saying I don't still think a bout it."

"Well, OK," Watanabe said. "I didn't come here for a philosophical conversation on how to handle grief. I am a policeman and I am conducting an investigation. And, say what you like about the currents, there's something amiss here and I intend to find out what it is."

"Far be it from me to stop your investigation," Ben said. "It's just that I'm going on this little trip. You told me yourself there was no hurry. We can get together when I come back."

"I guess that would be OK. You did start me down this road. Basically, all I want to do is go over the events of that day again. You laid it out for me before, but I didn't ask questions and I know quite a bit more about the situation now. So give me a buzz when you get back."

"Fine." Ben finally smiled. He thrust out a hand and shook first with Watanabe, then with Nana. "You'll hear from me within a day of my return. Nice talkin' to you both." He stepped inside and closed the door.

Monday morning, Nana made miso soup and rice for breakfast. She had no classes until the afternoon and they both liked a traditional Japanese breakfast now and again. The soup was made with fish flakes carved from a piece of bonito as hard as wood, salty miso and a few vegetables.

"What makes you think Ben Hardy will return to Japan?" Nana asked as she poured steaming green tea into two _chawan_.

"He said so," Watanabe shrugged. "Foreigners make frequent trips abroad."

"Not at this time," Nana said. "Universities and junior colleges aren't out until just before Christmas. I'm sure a guy like Hardy doesn't just work for language schools. In fact I think I've heard his name mentioned. I think he works at the women's college out toward Kobe."

"Mukogawa?"

"Yeah."

Watanabe scratched his chin. "Maybe he's just going to Hong Kong or Seoul for a couple of days."

"Well that doesn't make much sense, does it? There was some trash outside his place. Household stuff being thrown away."

"He's not the only one who lives there. Those places are jammed together."

Nana blew the steam from her tea. "I could see behind him through the doorway. There were more boxes inside."

Watanabe smiled. "You're playing policeman, aren't you? I have no reason to believe the man would lie to me. I'm going to treat him like he's perfectly honest until he proves otherwise. He's committed no crime that I know of."

"I'm not playing policeman," Nana said haughtily. "I'm just saying Hardy is leaving the country and you're never going to see him again."

"Patience is a characteristic of a good policeman and a national characteristic of we Japanese," Watanabe said. "Anyway, why didn't you tell me all this yesterday?"

"You were there. You know the university schedules. I'm not the detective, you are. I'm just another _gaijin_ English teacher. Detect something!"

"Well, time will tell," Watanabe said, attempting to end the conversation.

"Yes, time and your Japanese patience. Which means do nothing, doesn't it? You could call the airlines and find out if he has a round-trip ticket."

"Sure, what airline should I call? When's he leaving?"

"You're the detective."

"It wasn't difficult for Watanabe to learn Ben Hardy's travel plans. It took time and a few phone calls. Hardy had been scheduled to fly out of Osaka that very afternoon. _Had_ been scheduled. The scuba diver had changed his plans on Sunday afternoon. He had taken the Shinkansen train to Tokyo and caught the morning flight to Los Angeles.

Nana was right. Hardy's ticket was one-way. On top of that, the ticket was first class. Totally out of character for a foreign teacher.

The class of the ticket bothered Watanabe almost as much as its one-way status. He called the immigration office in Osaka and got a clerk to pull Hardy's file. He had always been prompt about renewing his work visa and he had always gotten a re-entry visa before leaving the country – except this time.

Even though tourist visas had been done away with by mutual agreement between the two countries, any American with a Japanese work visa absolutely had to get a re-entry visa before going abroad in order to re-enter Japan. Otherwise there would be serious complications. Hardy obviously had no intention of returning. He had stood in the doorway and lied to Watanabe on that pleasant Sunday afternoon.

"You were right," Watanabe told Nana that evening.

"I did see inside the house. You didn't," she said.

"That's why he didn't want us to come in."

"I suspect so. Have you any idea what he's up to?"

"I'm baffled as of now. Immigration gave me a couple of names and addresses. Former employers in the States. I sent letters to them. Asked them if they might know his whereabouts."

"Was there a home address? A family address?" Nana asked.

"I don't think so. I mean there was an address, but it looked like an apartment, in a California town called El Centro."

"El Centro," Nana said in surprise. "That's in the desert, an odd place for a scuba diver."

"I know. I checked the map. I dropped a note to the police chief. Maybe I'll get something. But I still can't understand the ticket. He traveled first class JAL."

Nana brightened. "That is strange. JAL doesn't give many discounts. It's expensive if you buy your ticket in Japan. And first class. A little wider seat, a little more free booze, a wider selection of magazines, a stewardess fawning over you. I don't know anyone who would pay the price."

"And it wasn't the only thing available. There were economy seats empty. He was traveling alone, a single. I can't believe he bought a first class ticket."

"That's it," Nana blurted. "He didn't."

"But he did," Watanabe shot back. "I checked and checked again. It bothered me."

"No," Nana insisted. "You're absolutely right. I know Hardy's type. I've been to meetings, bar rooms, parties, where travel always comes up during the conversation. It would be a little unusual to travel JAL because most _gaijin_ think it's more expensive. I'm not sure if it always is, or not. But some other airlines would be more common. Maybe KAL or Northwestern. Or anything else the discount travel agents sell. But first class, no! No _gaijin_ at my level would do that unless their mother was on her deathbed and there was no other seat available. So, you're right. He didn't buy it. I'd bet on it. If you find out who paid for that ticket you might find out why Hardy left Japan in such a hurry."

CHAPTER 4: Akira Yoshimoto Comes Home

On August 6, 1945 an atomic bomb was dropped over Hiroshima. The decision to drop the bomb was made by President Harry S Truman, who hoped for an immediate surrender. It didn't work. Three days later a second atomic bomb was dropped, this time on Nagasaki. Japan surrendered on August 14th. Surrender terms were agreed to and signed on September 2nd aboard the Battleship Missouri.

Akira Yoshimoto learned of the bombings and the surrender in a prisoner-of-war camp. He was stronger now and his mind was clearing of the confusion of battle and the trauma and the sake and his final hours as a Japanese soldier.

He had slight scars from the sword wounds he had accidentally inflicted upon himself and a jagged scar on his forehead from being dashed against the rock. That one would remain with him for life. It would be whispered that he had received it in battle as a soldier of the Imperial Army, but he would refuse to discuss it.

For the most part, he had been treated well. Camp life had settled into a routine. The prisoners were better fed and less harshly treated than they had been in the Japanese army.

But one guard, Corporal Ridley, Yoshimoto learned to despise. Ridley was a stocky, running-to-fat young man from Arkansas. He was the type of tough farm kid who would be given a shotgun in some southern states of that era and put out to watch over a chain gang. A round, moon-like face and small pig eyes, bad skin that always seemed to ooze oil.

He insisted on being called Corporal Ridley and the Japanese struggled with both the "R's" and the "L" in his name, but almost always got it wrong because the two letters are pronounced similarly by most Japanese.

Most of the men held with Yoshimoto were veterans accustomed not only to being derided, but also physically abused by their noncoms. They took Ridley's bluster in stride because the man never once as much as touched a prisoner. Ridley's orders were shouted in a booming, taunting voice: "Best by God you fall in;" "Best by God you move your yellow asses," or "Best by God you police up the area." Prisoners and other guards alike called him "Best by God" behind his back.

Because Ridley was a natural bully and because Yoshimoto was a frail youth who had not yet reached his fifteenth birthday, the corporal picked him out for special attention. Of course Ridley knew only a word or two of Japanese and most of the Japanese knew no more English, but through shouts and body language he made himself understood.

The more the guard insisted that Yoshimoto pronounce his name correctly, the more confused and frustrated the boy became until sometimes he thought he might cry in front of everyone, which would have been his final humiliation. It never quite came to that. Sometimes another American guard would intervene and sometimes Ridley would simply tire of his sport.

Many of the Japanese prisoners thought of themselves as living corpses. First off, they assumed they would be killed immediately after capture. A great many had been captured only after being seriously injured and a great many had later died of their wounds.

Surrender was not supposed to be an option in the Imperial Army. For that reason the troops were not told how to conduct themselves if captured. This was a great aid to American intelligence. Most captured Japanese, who thought themselves no better than dead, would answer all questions freely.

Each prisoner was haunted by fear that through capture he had betrayed not only the Emperor and his country, but that he had disgraced his village. Most of Japan was a series of small villages, even clusters of humanity in great urban centers such as Tokyo and Osaka had the sense of villages, small shops with residents rooted to their neighborhood. A Japanese would be born and pass on of old age in the same small space, or family compound. Mobility would come much later with the evolution of the so-called economic miracle – the rise and demise of a very different Japan.

In early December, the beginning of an awful winter of poverty, hunger and freezing despair, Akira Yoshimoto was returned to Japan. About a hundred prisoners were herded aboard an LST for the voyage through the Ryukyu Islands, then northward, passing east of the large island of Kyushu and landing at Hiroshima where the prisoners helped unload food and medical supplies for survivors of the devastation. Back on board the LST, they continued the voyage through the Inland Sea and finally to Osaka.

The prisoners were dressed in American uniforms with "PW," for Prisoner of War, painted on the back. They were in the harbor, not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the nearest dock, when the vessel stopped dead in the water. An hour passed, then another.

Finally, they were off-loaded into small boats and taken to the Osaka receiving center on shore where there was another long wait in an unheated room. The men shivered and stamped feet and rubbed their hands together, their breath, small white clouds in the frigid room. This was a far cry from the milder Okinawa climate. They were back in Japan, in the reality of a defeated nation.

It grew dark and gasoline lanterns were lit. There seemed to be little organization. A couple of warmly dressed American guards lounged on the dock outside the building, talking and joking, with little concern for their charges. The small bundles of belongings the PWs had carried off the LST hadn't been searched.

Finally, a cheerful Japanese man came in with a large cardboard box full of _bento_ boxes – cold box lunches made up mostly of rice with a few shreds of fish and pickled vegetables. An oil stove was brought in and a kettle to boil water for tea. The man said they would be processed the next morning. He indicated a series of cupboards along the wall that contained futons.

That was Yoshimoto's first night home, on the main island of Honshu, in a warehouse-like room with hissing gasoline lanterns, a supper of cold rice and hot cups of tea. Then to sleep on futons that were scarcely clean. No one had greeted him; it was almost like a visit to an alien planet. Yet the men around him seemed content ̵ rice to fill the belly, steaming green tea and a warm futon, this was the Japan of their youth. In their brief journey from the vessel to the shore they had glimpsed the desolation caused by the carpet bombing, gutted buildings, a wall standing here and there, a grotesquely charred tree, its twisted limbs fixed in death. Feeling lost, Yoshimoto drifted into sleep amid the snoring and hacking coughs of his companions.

In the morning there was hot rice and tea. They were lined up and marched between a team of Japanese who sprayed them, their clothing and belongings, with DDT. Then they reassembled and took seats on the floor while waiting to be interviewed.

When Yoshimoto's turn came he was told to go to desk number five where he was motioned to a seat by a cadaverous old man who wore the uniform of a U.S. Army Air Corps master sergeant. The sergeant had survived the Bataan Death March following the April 1942 surrender. He was fifteen years younger than his gaunt appearance indicated. By rights he should be at home recuperating in the States, but he was regular army and had been sent to Japan because of his fluent Japanese.

"I'm Sergeant Chalk. If you answer my questions honestly you will be given a formal paper that must be presented to the head man of your village. Your name?"

"Akira Yoshimoto."

The sergeant inspected his list of the names of the new arrivals, both in Kanji, Chinese characters used by the Japanese, and Roman letters. "It says your outfit was called 'Tekketsu.' Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," Yoshimoto replied. Here it comes, he thought. This sergeant, this old _gaijin_ who speaks Japanese, knows as well as I do that Tekketsu means "Blood and Iron for the Emperor." He probably knows that we were ordered to fight to the last man. I will surely be shot. Why did they bother to bring me to Osaka?

"Do you know that the Emperor himself surrendered Japan to the Americans?"

"I have been told that," Yoshimoto said, mustering courage. There had been those among the prisoners who believed it and those who didn't believe. Yoshimoto wasn't certain.

"Well, it is true. If you don't believe it now you soon will. If the Emperor has surrendered, are you prepared to live a peaceful life in Japan?"

What kind of question was that from a man on the brink of having him shot? "Yes, I would like to lead a peaceful life." His heart was beating fast and he could not look this _gaijin_ in the eye. He would like to live any type of a life, but confusion ruled his thoughts. His mind darting to those hours in the cave when he was a samurai, one of seven. The only survivor, the one who had killed the colonel. In fact he was the Seventh Samurai and now he must die like a samurai. But he wished it were not so.

"How old are you?" Sergeant Chalk asked, deviating from his normal pattern of questions. Yoshimoto's extreme youth struck him as particularly pathetic. Chalk had every reason to hate the Japanese. He had seen comrades beaten to death, starved, die for lack of the simplest medical treatment. He himself had been beaten and starved; malnutrition might well shorten his life span. He had become perilously close to death on more than one occasion at the hands of his Japanese captors. Yet talking to these pitiful, dispirited, creatures, it was hard to feel hatred.

"My birthday is December 20th," Yoshimoto said, dodging the question, ashamed of his youth.

"I see," Chalk said sadly, "and where is your hometown and family?"

"Hirakatashi," he replied, using the "shi" ending, which means "city."

Chalk made a note of the city. "Very nearby, and are your parents there?"

"My father, I think, was killed in the war. No one knows for certain. We last heard from him in Singapore. I'm not sure where my mother is. She was on Okinawa."

"I see," Chalk said, outwardly calm. But there were certain words, buzzwords, that brought unusual sounds and visions to his mind. Singapore was one. Not all that far from the Philippines where he was stationed at the outbreak of the war.

Singapore fell almost two months before Bataan and the story of the Japanese rampage, the blood frenzy, was well known. British nurses raped at their stations and thrown to their deaths from hospital windows. Prisoners killed, thousands of Chinese murdered. Singapore, Bataan, Corregidor. Would he never forget? And now this Japanese soldier, this youngster who should be on the soccer field, or collecting butterflies, or studying geography. This frightened boy. "Were you conscripted into the army from Hirakatashi?"

"No. I was on Okinawa. I had just graduated from Shuri Middle School. My entire class was taken in. We graduated the night before the invasion."

"Do you know if any of your class members survived?"

"No, sergeant, I hope I am the only one. It is a great disgrace for me to be here and I would not want to look into the face of another member of my class."

Chalk looked into the boy's sad eyes. He spoke very seriously in hopes that his words would take hold. "I want to tell you, Yoshimoto-san, that there are many brave Japanese soldiers being repatriated every day. They are returning to their homes and villages. Their families and friends are happy to welcome them back to civilian life. Japan has a lot of problems, but young people like yourself are needed to put the country back together."

Yoshimoto nodded, but said nothing.

"Now, do you know if any of your family is still in Hirakatashi?"

"My grandfather's house is there. I know he would never leave. He would wait there for my mother and father and me."

Chalk could have let the boy go at that moment, but he hesitated. He disliked the idea of turning this youth out into the cold, devastation and heartbreak of post-war Osaka. From time to time during the interview he had glanced at the scar on Yoshimoto's forehead. Now on impulse he asked the boy to tell him how it happened.

He knew he was taking too much time with one prisoner, but there were only a hundred for processing today and there were six interviewers. More than three hundred had passed through the office the day before.

By asking a question here and there, Chalk managed to draw out the entire story of the cave, the colonel, the drunken banzai charge. Yoshimoto seemed happy to get it off his chest. Not a word of it had he mentioned to fellow prisoners. Thus Chalk, a father-confessor, was quick to understand and forgive.

When the story was over, Chalk nodded and said, "You've had quite an experience. I'll bet you're glad to be home."

"Yes, I am glad to be in Osaka. But what will happen to me?"

"I'm through with you, at least officially. You have 200 yen coming." He pushed the envelope of money across the table and instructed Yoshimoto to count it and sign a receipt. Then he filled in a certificate and presented it to the boy. "Give this to the mayor, or whoever's in charge of Hirakatashi. It gets you back in the record book. So you're free to go."

"I'm free?"

"Yes, you are once more an ordinary Japanese citizen. You can find a job, go to school, whatever. There is no blemish on your record."

"Even after what I told you?"

"Your story is not much different from many other soldiers in the war. Your career was a bit shorter and a little more unusual than most. But so what? It's forgotten."

"I just walk out of here then?"

"Yes, you can if you want to. But that bothers me a little. Your grandfather may or may not be in Hirakatashi. Where the rest of your family is, who knows? Obviously, you never should have been in the army. You're too young. If that's so, you're also too young to face civilian life alone."

"I was a soldier!" the boy insisted.

"Of course you were, Yoshimoto-san. And a good soldier. I know. But usually a person is two or three years older before he becomes a soldier, and those are important years. Take me, I joined the army in Topeka, Kansas in 1925. I was seventeen years old, almost eighteen. I knew what I wanted to do. Did you really want to lay down your life for the Emperor the day after you got out of middle school?"

The boy thought for a moment. "I guess not. But we had been forced into this war and it was national honor."

"OK," Chalk said. He was tired of hearing how America had really started the war. "Let me put it this way. There are kids much younger than you begging and eating out of garbage cans, sleeping in packing crates, all over Osaka. I may be able to save you that if your family is not in Hirakatashi. Tomorrow is Sunday. I have no duty. I have nothing to do. I'll get a car and we'll drive to Hirakatashi. If your grandfather's there, you're back with your family. If not I'll try to place you in some sort of home or program."

"What sort of home or program?" Yoshimoto asked, immediately suspicious.

"I don't know, but there must be something. But this is just an offer on my part." The sergeant was already wondering where he could get a car. It was illegal for Japanese to ride in Jeeps. "You're free. You can walk out of here if you want to."

Yoshimoto considered a moment. "I'd like your help."

Chalk took the boy to a guarded room where prisoners were detained if their stories didn't have a truthful ring. There was hot water and Japanese tea and a toilet. Also a few tattered newspapers. Three older men were in the room, rough-looking customers. Yoshimoto scowled and busied himself with a newspaper. The time was just after three.

When Sergeant Chalk came for the boy at five, two of the men were gone. The third sat glumly, his hands thrust into his pockets.

"Here, put this on," Chalk said, handing him a coat. It was a small field jacket, the kind that came over the hips. It had a draw string so the waist could be pulled tight. There was no "PW" printed on the back. Yoshimoto slipped it on quickly and almost managed a smile.

"You're a civilian now. Let's go," Chalk said.

The boy followed the older man past a burned-out brick warehouse, past a row of rusting Japanese military trucks. The building they sought appeared to be a warehouse with a corrugated tin roof and wide vertical planks on the side.

Chalk went to the door marked with a stenciled number 10 and unlocked a padlock. Partitions had been thrown up in the building to make a series of semi-private rooms. There were two bunks in the room, each neatly made with a rough wool khaki blanket. Between the two was a big table made from a single large piece of plywood. A lamp, radio, hotplate, cigarettes, some canned goods, a bayonet and a half-empty whisky bottle were on the table.

Chalk moved immediately to an oil heater and stooped to light it with a large, wooden kitchen match. When he was certain it had caught, he rose and said, "That's Sergeant McKay's bunk. You can sleep there. He's in the infirmary with the flu. He pointed to a door at the back of the cubicle. "There are showers and toilets through that door. But don't use them when I'm gone. You're really not supposed to be here."

"You're going somewhere?" There was alarm in Yoshimoto's eyes.

"Just out to get some chow. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Do you have to use the toilet?" Yoshimoto shook his head. "I'm going to padlock the outside door so no one can come in. But you won't be locked in. You can leave through the shower room if you want to go." Yoshimoto looked at the rear door and shook his head again. He rather liked the idea of being locked in. He might be free, but so far the land seemed alien to him.

They dined on corned beef slathered with mustard between thick slices of bread. Chalk used the bayonet both as bread knife and can opener. After the sandwiches he shared out a can of beans he had let warm on the oil heater. Then he returned from the shower room with a kettle of water. Coffee was served steaming from heavy GI mugs with no handles. The knife was used again, this time to punch open a can of condensed milk. Chalk laced his cup with whisky, and then offered the bottle to Yoshimoto. The boy refused.

Shortly after Chalk had cleaned up the dinner mess he sat on the edge of his bunk and announced he was going to turn in.

"I can't seem to get enough rest," he said. He had wanted to talk to the boy about prison camp and share his experiences, but he didn't. Then he thought he might tell Yoshimoto about Satsuki, his Japanese wife who might still be alive somewhere in the Philippines. She was his real reason for not returning to the States. But he was played out.

He put out the fire and stripped to his skivvies, then sat on the bunk and drank a couple of fingers of whisky from the cup. It would be cold, so he would sleep in his socks. "Put the light out when you go to bed," he told Yoshimoto.

Yoshimoto slept fitfully. He was used to sharing a room with many people. There were always noises; this was a different sort of silence than he was used to. He had heard trucks moving nearby then the dull blast from a ship's horn in the harbor. The sounds of aircraft droned overhead. Then Chalk's sleep was troubled: Turnings and grunts and moans and sometimes a spoken word, but in English. He wondered where Chalk had learned Japanese.

He kicked back the sheet and blanket and sat on the edge of the cot. The night was chill, but he had slept in his clothing. His thoughts troubled him, particularly at this hour. Three o'clock, four o'clock, he wasn't sure. He shouldn't have told Sergeant Chalk about the cave and the Colonel. He had thought of it for hours and now he was certain he had made a serious error.

Chalk was his enemy. He had been tricked in some way and now had been isolated from his fellows. Alone and virtually cooperating with the enemy. After all, he was a Japanese soldier. In fact, the seventh samurai.

A towel was tacked over the front window, a makeshift curtain, but a light outside filtered through and around the edges. Yoshimoto could see perfectly well.

Yoshimoto stared at Chalk, lying on his side, his face to the wall. Slowly he moved to the table and picked up the bayonet, then carefully returned to his cot. He ran his finger over the long, cold blade. It was nicked from misuse, but the point was good. Chalk had somehow tricked him, compromised him.

The romantic tales of _bushido_ – the historic unwritten code of conduct for Japanese noble and samurai class – instructed him to be indifferent to death if he knew he was in the right. Yoshimoto knew. He clutched the haft of the bayonet in both hands, the point toward the floor, then rose slowly to his feet.

Across the room, Sergeant Chalk moaned and rolled onto his back. Yoshimoto read this sudden shift as an omen for him to act. Quickly and silently he crossed the darkened room, lifted the blade high into the air then plunged it with a fury into the sleeping man's chest.

He maintained his tight grip on the bayonet for a moment, expecting some sudden, violent reaction from the prone figure. But there was none. A slight gurgling sound, then breathing ceased. It was as if he had brought peace to the still body. He retraced his steps and sat on the cot. For a long time he stared at the haft and the few inches of blade that rose above the chest. Then he crossed the room and with great effort withdrew the bayonet from the dead man. He carefully wiped the blade and handle with a towel. If he had dared he would have entered the shower room and washed the weapon clean.

After returning the bayonet to the table he sat back down on his cot. He felt no remorse and very little emotion. He had slain twice with a blade and he was not yet fifteen. He was accustomed to death, He had helped bury battle-dead, lifeless objects like the carcasses of cattle. Yoshimoto had been imprisoned with men who had been horribly burnt by the flamethrowers the Americans had used to clear the caves and gullies. Few survived that brutality. Chalk had been his enemy.

Chalk's wallet was on the table. Yoshimoto picked it up and carried it near the window to examine it. For some inexplicable reason there was a picture of a Japanese woman in the wallet. She was not very young and not very pretty. Yoshimoto puzzled over why an American sergeant would carry such a photo. There were three one hundred dollar bills, four twenties, a one and a five.

Yoshimoto reasoned that taking the money would cheapen his act of courage. Yet Chalk obviously didn't need it and to take it might lead authorities to believe that this act of violence was committed by a common criminal, rather than one who scrupulously followed the code of _bushido_. He took the money and tossed the wallet on the floor where it could easily be seen.

Picking up Sergeant Chalk's watch from the table he returned to his cot to examine it. It was a handsome watch. The time was just after five and it was still full dark outside. He turned the watch over in the dim light and ran his thumb over the inscription: Burt, All My Love, Satsuki – 1940. He had no knowledge of English and the words meant nothing to him. He would not keep the watch. Japanese were not thieves.

He put the watch back on the table and pulled on the field jacket that Chalk had given him. Yoshimoto heard an engine start nearby and what sounded like a rooster crowing. The area would be waking up. The cooks would be the first to stir. There would be guards.

Cautiously, he peered from the window at the gray wretched morning. Then on impulse he picked up the watch and shoved it into his pocket, performing the act quickly, as if he were under surveillance. After rechecking the deserted area he was outside and had padlocked the door.

Yoshimoto walked away into the rubble of Osaka.

CHAPTER 5: Tracking Ben Hardy

It was relatively easy for Detective Taro Watanabe to learn who paid for Ben Hardy's ticket – the Japanese Immigration Department. Government travel was not an uncommon transaction, and it had been done by phone. Hardy himself had the flight moved up at the last moment.

Learning why Immigration had paid for the ticket was not so simple. Watanabe was blocked at every turn by the Osaka office. In desperation he called Tokyo and was referred back to Osaka. He had begun his quest on Monday morning. After three days of sandwiching calls to Immigration between other work, he showed up at the Immigration office in person early Thursday before the staff arrived.

The office was on the fifth floor of a government building near Osaka Castle. Watanabe sat on a padded bench among the nervous foreigners waiting anxiously either to obtain work visas or get their work visas renewed. There were Brits, Americans, Australians and New Zealanders, mostly language teachers, along with Filipino and Thai prostitutes who sat under the watchful eye of their yakuza mafia masters who would palm them off as dancers and entertainers. The yakuza were generally husky, cheerful men, given to weight lifting and high fashion. They were members of a class that in the old days had trouble finding decent work, so they got together and started their own thing. They considered short prison terms as rest periods on a health farm and a respite from consuming various types of alcohol and womanizing.

Watanabe's objective was Takashi Mitani, the office chief who had declined to talk with him on the telephone. By questioning early staff arrivals he got a description of Mitani and learned that his custom was to stop by the coffee shop down the hall. As described, Mitani was drinking coffee and reading the daily Yomiuri Shimbun.

Watanabe sat down and pushed his credentials across the table. "Mitani san, I'm Detective Watanabe, attached to the Osaka police. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Mitani said nothing at first, but examined the ID in detail. "There's been a crime?" he finally asked.

"I'm investigating under that premise. I'm sure you're aware of my telephone calls."

"I do recall something about them. I thought we had referred you to Tokyo." Mitani sipped his coffee and gazed out the window.

"Yes, I talked with Tokyo Immigration. They said this was an Osaka matter. It seems to be in your lap."

"Well, just what is the question?" Mitani asked. His tone indicated he hadn't any idea what information Watanabe was seeking.

"In the course of my investigation I was interrogating a witness, an American named Ben Hardy. Benjamin Hardy, I assume. I had not completed my questioning when I learned he had left Japan, returned to the United States."

Mitani shrugged. "Usually we can't stop people from leaving. " He smiled slightly. "Our main job, it seems, is to keep people out."

"Yes," Watanabe returned the faint smile. "But you assisted this man in leaving. Immigration bought him a first class ticket on JAL."

"We try to use JAL as much as possible. It is a leading Japanese airline with a good safety record."

"Of course, but my question is why did you fly this particular person to the States at this particular time?"

"And my answer," Mitani shot back, "Is I don't know. I can't keep track of everything."

Watanabe's anger began to rise. "This isn't just idle chit chat, Mitani san. You're talking to a police detective. Your refusal to cooperate puzzles me."

Mitani backed off. "I'm not refusing to cooperate. All I'm saying is I don't know the details of this case. I'll see who handled it and I'll have that person call you. Now I've got to go to work." He rose to his feet.

Watanabe didn't move. "I can get a warrant for you and your records and I won't hesitate to do it."

"You're very confrontational, Watanabe-san. We can negotiate this through channels the Japanese way."

"I've been through channels for three days and I haven't gotten shit. This isn't inter-agency feuding. You're dealing with the Osaka police investigating a serious crime involving the loss of Japanese life."

Mitani stared at the wall in back of Watanabe for several seconds. "All right, give me half an hour to get the files together, then come to my office."

Watanabe bought a paper and a cup of coffee. When he checked his watch only fifteen minutes had passed. He turned to the editorial page and read a column about continuing trade disputes between Japan and the U.S.

The writer touched on the point that the U.S. had produced 180 Nobel laureates compared with Japan's seven. He said that many years ago the U.S. had the know-how to put a man on the moon and suggested that Japan's considerable research abilities had been poured into commercial gimmickry – ultra thin tape players, tiny TV sets and so forth.

Watanabe turned the page and read where some obscure American trade official was threatening to invoke some obscure trade law. Every day it seemed there was some threat from some different American official. No one seemed to really speak for the U.S. government. Through the years, the Japanese, while considering the threats an irritant, had learned that headlines were all a game. Nothing ever changed. Why should it? The Japanese were good at making things and the Americans were good at buying them. Now China posed a growing trade threat to both the U.S. and Japan. The Chinese paid their workers next to nothing and could undersell almost everyone on the face of the globe.

Thirty minutes were up and Watanabe made his way to Takashi Mitani's office. The secretary immediately took him into the inner office and installed him in a comfortable chair by Mitani's large desk.

"This man, Benjamin Hardy, " Mitani began, "is, frankly, an undesirable. At least in the eyes of our department. He was more or less deported. That is, he was asked to go and decided to comply."

"Did he commit some sort of crime?"

"No. Not that we know of. Deporting people is not uncommon, as you know. But sometimes it's a messy business. It's easier, cleaner, just to ask someone to leave and to have them do it. I'm sure he knew we could have gone through the ritual and forced him to leave."

"Just what did he do?"

"I'm not sure of all the details. It may have been his daily life, a lifestyle. The words 'social deviate' are used. But you must understand in a case like this there is no complete report, no ironclad file. It was felt that it was in the best interest of Japan that he leave the country. I'm sure you run across many people like that in your line of work."

"Of course," Watanabe said, "but they're all Japanese. Can you give me any specifics?"

"You may have mentioned it. The loss of Japanese lives. That incident up on the Tsugaru Strait where three young men lost their lives in a scuba accident. Hardy seems to have been responsible for that."

"But it was an accident, wasn't it?" Watanabe asked.

"Well, was it?" Mitani questioned. "What are you investigating?"

Watanabe had fallen into his own trap. "I concede that's part of it. Could you tell me why he was given a first class ticket? Why first class?"

Mitani smiled. "These _gaijin_ teachers are money grubbers. That's why they're over here. Some of them are like children. They lack the patience and endurance of we Japanese. Any little inducement like that influences them. If we can pay for a first class ticket and avoid formal charges, it's money well spent."

"I wonder if I might borrow the file on this man?"

Mitani smiled and shrugged. "I've told you basically what's in it. Whatever else there is isn't written down. It's immigration policy not to release files. Of course, if you get a court order, that's up to you. I'm just doing my job."

CHAPTER 6: Akira Yoshimoto's Cousin

Before Christmas in 1945, when Akira Yoshimoto walked into the heart of Osaka, hardly one brick rested on another in many parts of the city. In addition to the two hundred yen each repatriated soldier was given, Yoshimoto had $386 and the watch he had taken from Sergeant Chalk.

Osaka was being turned into a shanty town with bits and pieces of debris, scraps of canvas, and rusted sheets of metal jerry-rigged into shelters. Walls and clumps of broken buildings rose here and there like dark flowers on a rubble-strewn plain. The flimsy houses had burned, their well-tended gardens of moss, stone, shrubs and quiet pools swallowed by firestorms. During the final days of the war, U.S. bombers would rally over nearby Lake Biwa and spread their drum roll of high explosives and incendiaries, using the dusky waters of the Yodo river as a guide.

Two cities in the area had been spared for cultural reasons. Kyoto, the home of Japanese emperors for a thousand years before the move was made to Tokyo, was untouched. It remains today the treasure chest of Japanese history and ongoing cultural activities. Nara, less important than Kyoto, but famed for its huge statue of Buddha, its tame deer and unique pagoda, was also unharmed.

The morning air was cold and Yoshimoto was happy to have the field jacket Chalk had given him. He was better dressed than most Japanese on the streets of Osaka. The streets themselves were clear, and motorized traffic, mostly U.S. military, was moving. In addition there was a motley assortment of push, or pull carts, men and women burdened with sacks or baskets, plus bicycles.

The youthful ex-soldier felt neither remorse, nor fear. Nor did he feel hatred for the man he had killed. The contrary was true. He felt a bond, a sort of kinship, as he picked his way through the growing foot traffic while the city shook off the mist of dawn and came alive. He was pleased to see the electric trains were in service.

As he neared the station a stout, dirty man came out of nowhere and grabbed his arm. "Hey, kid, give me your coat or I'll beat the shit out of you." Passersby ignored the two and hurried on their way. Yoshimoto was about to speak when he thought better of it. He gave his assailant a quick kick in the leg and twisted away, then hurried into the station. My first day of freedom, he thought, and accosted in daylight on the streets of Osaka by a Japanese thug. What has happened to my country?

The station was crowded. Although it was unheated, the crowd generated its own warmth. There were peddlers, although prices for tacky goods were high, and almost the only customers were foreign military. One middle-aged man had even found both charcoal and chestnuts somewhere and was doing a brisk business selling the roasted nuts. Steaming sake, served in small cedar boxes, was also a popular item.

Yoshimoto was surprised that there seemed to be no friction between the Japanese and American troops. The only harassment was being done by ragged groups of beggar boys and girls who importuned the GIs for gum, candy, cigarettes, or coins. Even at this morning hour there were prostitutes offering their services at every opportunity. Yoshimoto was not shocked to see prostitutes, but he was chagrined because they were all Japanese. Prostitutes, or "comfort girls," were a normal contingent of the Japanese army, but they were almost never Japanese. They were Korean, Chinese, Filipino or Burmese teenagers rounded up by Japanese troops during sweeps through the countryside.

The train that passed through Hirakatashi on its way to Kyoto was jammed. Many of the riders were city dwellers with empty rucksacks, or cloths for carrying. Yoshimoto soon learned that this morning exodus into the countryside was to forage for food – winter vegetables such as cabbage or daikon, perhaps a few dried fish, or even a chicken. Livings were made trading in black market food.

At Hirakatashi, Yoshimoto pushed his way out of the crowded train and handed in his ticket as he passed through the wicket. Homes, shops and industries clustered near the tracks, blossoming at major stations, had not escaped the bombing.

However, fields were under cultivation and winter crops were thriving under the watchful eyes of farm men and women who had learned that to turn one's back on the crop was to lose it. Times were desperate and the worst weeks of winter lay ahead.

The weather had turned fine and a warming sun was in an almost clear sky when Yoshimoto approached his grandfather's house. It was almost two kilometers from the station along a narrow lane that made right angle turns around rice fields. To his left, the fields rose layer upon layer, terraced over the years to drain from one to another. The rice had been harvested in October and the fields had been drained, cultivated and planted in winter crops that would be marketed long before a new crop of rice was put in just before the summer rains.

A wisp of smoke rose from the partly ruined compound of Yoshimoto's grandfather. The last time Yoshimoto visited, there had been a large tile-roofed home with four spacious tatami rooms and many sliding doors. There had also been a freestanding kitchen, a bathhouse and three additional outbuildings. The structures formed a quadrangle around a large courtyard. They were filled by a high, tile-topped mud wall. The building walls on the outside of the complex were windowless.

The boy paused a moment to study the familiar buildings. He guessed correctly that a bomb had landed in the courtyard, carrying away a section of the wall, reducing the outbuildings to rubble and destroying a good portion of the house. As he watched, a shabbily dressed girl emerged from the house and dumped a pan of water in the courtyard, then immediately returned indoors.

Yoshimoto stepped through the breach in the wall, walked to the door where the girl had disappeared, opened it, and shouted the midday greeting – " _Konnichiwa_." The girl came into the hall, a towel in her hands. "What do you want?"

"This is my grandfather's house."

The girl looked him up and down suspiciously. "Who is your grandfather?"

"Oda-san, of course," the boy shot back.

His answer failed to satisfy the girl. This was a time when desperate men and women, often driven by hunger and fear, roamed the countryside individually and in small gangs. She was aware that the kanji for Oda was in a square of marble set in the gatepost. "What is Oda-san's first name?" she questioned, trying to appear calm. She had been alone in the house since the previous day.

"It is Tooru Oda, of course. Where is my grandfather?" The boy was impatient.

"He is not here. You will have to come back later." She turned to go.

"One moment!" Yoshimoto said. "He is my only relative. I am just back from the war."

"You, a soldier?" The girl stifled a smile.

"Of course, I was a soldier for the Emperor!" Yoshimoto shouted. "Why would you doubt me?"

"I am sorry," the girl replied, surprised at his sudden anger. "You do seem young, though."

"Yes, I am not old. But I am old enough to be a soldier. Who are you and what are you doing in my grandfather's house?"

"I suppose I am your cousin. My name is Suzuki. I am keeping house for your grandfather."

It was Yoshimoto's turn to be suspicious. "My mother is an only child. I have no cousins! What have you done with my grandfather?"

The girl responded with an icy stare and finally said, haughtily, "Your grandfather's sister was my grandmother. We lived on Shikoku. My family is dead. I've been living here for four months."

"I'm sorry, Suzuki-san. Everything has gone to hell. When will Oda-san return?"

"Not until tomorrow. He has gone to the Japan Sea to look after some property. You must be Akira-san?" The boy nodded and studied the girl. She wore a faded blue skirt that was ragged in several places along the hem. Whatever blouse she was wearing was covered by a heavy, dark sweater. A large apron covered the front of her body. Her feet were encased in thick wool socks.

"Let's go in the kitchen. It's warmer in there. There's tea." The girl pointed to a row of slippers. Yoshimoto kicked off his shoes and slipped into a pair, then followed the girl into the next room and took a seat at a wooden table.

"This wasn't always the kitchen," he said. It was a six-tatami room, six thick mats covered with rice straw, each of them a meter wide and two meters long.

A kettle was steaming over a charcoal fire. The girl put green tea into a ceramic pot, then poured in the water. "The kitchen was destroyed in a bombing. How old are you Akira-san?"

"Fifteen," he lied. But it was only days until his birthday and fifteen sounded better than fourteen. He guessed the girl was slightly older than him. "And how old are you?"

She smiled as she placed a cup in front of him and filled it with tea. It was an attractive smile. Her teeth were straight and looked perfect, unusual for a Japanese woman. "I'm sixteen. It's nice to have a relative here. We are better off than most and we have to protect the house and the land. Another person will help."

"There's money here?" Yoshimoto asked.

"I don't know that. I don't think so. Maybe Oda-san has some, but I haven't had one yen since I've been here. But a cup of rice, a carrot, gobo – food is like gold."

"There are criminals?" Yoshimoto asked in surprise.

"I suppose. But they are hungry people. Hungry and cold. We have food. Many have none. I was hungry on Shikoku."

"There are many farms on Shikoku?"

"Yes, but the military took almost everything. We ate rice bran. Do you know how long a person can live on rice bran?"

"Of course not," Yoshimoto said. "But I thought farmers would have food."

"The military took the food," the girl repeated. "People have died of starvation in the middle of Osaka. Haven't you been hungry?"

"Not hungry – maybe the food wasn't too good – but not hungry. There was food on Okinawa. Then in the army there was food. The Americans gave us plenty of food in prison camp."

"You were captured by the Americans!" the girl said in surprise.

"Of course. What do you think?" Yoshimoto was testy. "How do you think I got here? Everyone was captured by the Americans. Even the Emperor. We are all prisoners."

"But you surrendered," Suzuki said.

"No, I did not surrender," Yoshimoto said firmly. "My group formed a banzai attack. I was knocked unconscious and taken prisoner." He didn't bother to explain that he was drunk and stumbling and fell and hit his head on a rock. Later, he would emblazon the story with a few thoughtful heroic details, but for now he chose errors of omission.

"You must be very brave," the girl said.

"I simply did my duty," he said solemnly. It was the first time he had thought of himself as a heroic and somewhat tragic figure. He liked it. "And I will continue to do my duty," he said enigmatically.

"Are you hungry?" Suzuki asked.

She boiled rice and fixed miso soup, putting in extra carrots and an onion. And there was pickled daikon and ginger. After the meal they walked around the house and grounds. No effort had been made to make repairs. That would be left to professionals, or a neighborhood handyman.

After the walk, Yoshimoto slipped into a futon and slept till almost dusk.

They ate the rest of the rice and then talked about their lives by the flickering light of a candle. "Is there anything to drink?" Yoshimoto asked. The charcoal fire, which had never provided adequate heat, was dying.

"I can make tea," Suzuki responded.

"No. I meant alcohol. It is so cold here. Okinawa was warm."

"You're too young to drink."

"I was a soldier," he said as sternly as he could. "On Okinawa we had sake."

"There is some _shochu_. Oda-san drinks it with hot water. He likes lemon in it, but there has never been lemon since I've been here."

"Good. Let's have _shochu_."

"Girls shouldn't drink," Suzuki said as she fished the bottle out of the cabinet, half filled a teacup and poured water from a steaming kettle.

Yoshimoto warmed his hands on the cup, then took a tentative sip. "What's your first name?"

"Kyoko."

Yoshimoto took a deep drink of the hot water and _shochu_. "I think I will call you Kyoko," he announced. "Kyoko's a nice name."

The girl nodded.

"I'd like you to be my lover," the boy said suddenly.

The statement startled Kyoko. She was about to mention his age again, but she knew it seemed to upset him. "I don't want a lover."

"What reason do you have to refuse me?" he questioned.

"I simply don't want a lover. Not you, or anyone else. You'd better go to bed now. Your grandfather will be home tomorrow."

"Not so fast. I want to settle this thing."

"As far as I'm concerned it is settled," Kyoko said, rising from the table. "I'm getting in my futon."

"We should sleep together, it's warmer," he persisted. He drained his cup and set it down on the table with a sharp crack.

"Be careful. You'll break the cup. If you keep this up I'll tell your grandfather."

"I'll give you five American dollars if you sleep with me."

This was another surprise to Kyoko. The amount seemed a fortune to her. She had little money while growing up on Shikoku and had been given no money since coming to Hirakatashi. The offer was very appealing. "I don't believe you have five American dollars."

"I do have it," Yoshimoto insisted.

"Well, I don't believe it. And I'm sleeping here, in this room. You sleep in the other room." She pulled a futon from a shelf and began arranging it on the floor.

Yoshimoto was angered that she didn't believe him. He dug in his pocket for the stolen American money, keeping an eye on Kyoko. He didn't want her to see how much money he had. He found a five and smoothed it on the table near the candle. "There it is," he said in triumph.

She walked to the table and looked at the greenback. She looked from it to Yoshimoto, then back to the currency. She picked it up and examined it on both sides. "It looks real," she finally said.

"It is," Yoshimoto said quietly. "And I have more. The money's yours if you want it."

She hesitated and took a deep breath. "You have more American money?" she questioned.

"Yes. And later I could share more with you."

"If I become your whore?"

"That's not it, Kyoko. The war was bad, now we must help one another. You sleep with me and I'll share my money." He knew she was tempted and he was careful with his words.

"OK, I'll do it," she said. "Do you have condoms?" She used the word _sakku_ for condom, which is very much like the word _saku_ for blossom, or _sakura_ for cherry tree.

"No, I don't," Yoshimoto said, then quickly added, "but I can get some tomorrow."

"Your grandfather will be home tomorrow. But I don't want a baby. So I guess we can't do it."

Yoshimoto was on his feet and moved near the girl. "Kyoko, just one little chance. I have the money. I'll have condoms tomorrow. But tonight, what's just one chance?"

She still held the bill in her hand. "Well, I guess maybe once. All right." She pushed the money into a pocket. "It's so cold. I don't know how this is going to work."

"Take off your clothes," Yoshimoto said.

"In this weather? I'd freeze."

"I'd like to see your breasts."

"That's no treat. I'm flat-chested. I probably look like you," she sniggered. "Take off your clothes and look in a mirror."

Yoshimoto scowled. This isn't the way he thought it should be. "Well, take off your skirt."

"Akira-kun, really, it's much too cold. I'll take my pants off, but nothing else. She reached under her skirt and stepped out of a pair of men's boxer-type underpants.

"Women don't wear those things," Yoshimoto said.

"We wear anything we can get. I'm crawling in the futon. Blow the candle out and get in."

CHAPTER 7: The California Connection

Detective Watanabe had considerable trouble figuring out what time it was in El Centro, California. He wanted to talk to the police chief, but he didn't want to call in the middle of the night. He finally dialed 0056 and asked an international operator what time it was in L.A. No problem. He dialed direct from Nana's late at night. To his surprise a sergeant answered the phone and put him through to the chief immediately.

"Detective Watanabe, Osaka, Japan, police. I wrote you a letter two or three weeks ago about Ben Hardy."

"Yes, Chief Jerry Dillard here. I got your letter and I talked to this Hardy. I've been meaning to write to you. I understand it wasn't urgent."

"That's right," Watanabe said. "At least something's gone right in this case. You actually talked with him?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't have much to say. I'm afraid you're on a dead-end on that score."

"He lives there in El Centro and he is the same Ben Hardy?"

"Oh, sure," the Chief said. "He lives out on the desert near here. Drives an old truck. I don't know what he does out there. Lots of folks out there. Some say they're artists, some are criminals, some deal drugs, some drink, some steal, some do nothing, most want to be left alone. Not a bad idea."

"And when you saw him, he talked about Japan?"

"Made no secret of it. And when I mentioned your name he said to tell you this is deep shit and you'd best stay out of it."

"Deep shit? He said deep shit?" Watanabe asked.

"He did that and seemed sincere. It might be good advice."

"You know something else then?"

"What do you mean?" the chief asked.

"You said it might be good advice. Why would you think that?"

"First of all because he said it, and he knows something or the other about what this case is about. Now if he's a suspect and you have specifics, I'll pick him up when he comes back to town."

"No, I'm just after information. He's clean, as far as I know. Do you have another reason to think it might be good advice?"

"No. But I've learned to listen to what people say. I've seen men ignore a few words and end up in considerable trouble. My other reason was just Japan. I've heard some strange things about how they operate over there. Now that I've told you all I can, will you fill me in?"

"I could and would, but it's complicated and I seem to be left with no facts. Also, I'm paying for this call. What I'll do is put it in a letter, or, better yet, I'll ask my boss if I can come to El Centro and talk to Hardy. Then I could tell you in person if there's anything to tell."

"It's that important? You'd make that trip?"

"I really don't know, Chief. The thought just came to mind and I said it. I will ask though. If I'm turned down, as I expect, I'll write you a letter."

After he hung up, Watanabe sat quietly, studying his fingernails. Nana, seated on the couch reading the Japanese Times, asked, "You want a beer?"

"Split one."

She went to the kitchen and returned with an uncapped 633-milliliter bottle of Asahi and two glasses. She filled a glass and passed it to Watanabe. "Deep shit, huh?"

"That's what the El Centro police chief said. He talked to Hardy, and about all Hardy said was, stay out of it, this is deep shit."

"The plot sickens," Nana quipped. "He was given a first class JAL ticket and told to exit old Nippon. There's something happening, Taro. Somebody, somewhere, and not at ground level, has something to hide."

"I suppose," Watanabe agreed. "Well, I'll talk to Shibata-san tomorrow. Ask him if I can go to El Centro. He'll refuse and that will be the end of it."

"Why should he refuse?" Nana asked. She tore open a sack of shredded, dry bonito and dumped it into a bowl, then picked up one of the leathery shreds and began to chew. She liked the taste, but it sometimes got caught between her teeth.

"With the facts that I have to give him, if I were in his place, I'd refuse me." Watanabe helped himself to the bonito and took a sip of beer. Life was good.

Nana played with a scrap of the dried fish. "I have a vacation starting Christmas. You get time off for New Year's. If you could add a day or two we could have a week or nine days."

CHAPTER 8: Akira Yoshimoto's Pledge

Yoshimoto's grandfather returned to Hirakatashi and because they were better off than most families, Yoshimoto was enrolled in high school. Winter turned to spring, and when the plum trees bloomed, Kyoko found she was pregnant.

Kyoko and Akira managed the abortion without the knowledge of the grandfather, but two weeks later Kyoko collapsed while doing the laundry and required hospitalization. She was gone from the house for the better part of a month. The women's hospital was some distance away and neither Yoshimoto nor the grandfather bothered to visit her during her stay. That was a job that would have normally been handled by female members of the family, and Kyoko was the only female. Yoshimoto's mother had not yet returned from Okinawa.

When Kyoko returned she found Yoshimoto alone in the house. She placed the cloth containing her possessions on the kitchen table and said, "You can fuck me as much as you like now, Akira-kun. I can never have children."

Yoshimoto digested the information and nodded slowly. "When I returned from Okinawa, Kyoko, I vowed that I would never marry. I intend to devote my life to the revival of Japan, to an ultimate reprisal for the terrors the enemy has inflicted on us. I intend to keep that pledge."

Being more than a little saddened by her own melancholy plight and the prospect of a barren future with no hope for children and hence no hope for marriage, Kyoko was somewhat taken aback by Yoshimoto's reply. "You can marry if you want, but the choice has been taken from my hands and from my womb. As for the war, we started it, we lost it. It's bad for everyone. Thousands of Japanese are stranded in China; many have abandoned their children. It can't be helped. We will endure and we will continue."

"You have a good spirit, Kyoko, but don't think for a minute that we started the war with America. We expanded in Asia in order to bring order out of chaos. Roosevelt and the Americans forced us to go to war. Unfortunately, we fell into the Pearl Harbor trap."

"It can't be helped, Akira-kun, using the Japanese idiom _shikattaganai_. As for your marrying, or not marrying, that's up to you. I am a suitable whore now."

"No, not a whore. I will never marry, but I will need female companionship. I would like you to continue with me, to work with me, to let my goals be your goals through life. I have many plans and I need someone with me, but not a wife."

"You will go into your grandfather's business and you need someone to cook and scrub for you. Someone who can bring you sexual pleasure?" Kyoko's temper flared. She went to the cupboard and got two cups for tea and placed them on the table. "Why not just find a wife? That's what you're talking about."

Yoshimoto insisted that he was not interested in a wife. "Of course we both need to eat and sleep. And sex is a natural part of life. But by necessity, my plans must be secret. I need someone to share them with, someone to help me. I will not follow my grandfather into business. I intend to go into government."

"The government?" Kyoko repeated in surprise. "You mean be a clerk in city hall, or work for the immigration service, or become a postman?"

"Of course not," Yoshimoto snapped. "That's why I must plan so carefully. Grandfather has powerful friends. I believe he can help me get into Tokyo University. With that background and his influence I believe I will be ticketed for high government office."

"You are ambitious, Akira-kun." Kyoko's anger was fading and a note of admiration had crept into her voice.

"I am ambitious for Japan. Not for myself. Someday, if things work out, I will tell you a story about what happened in a cave on Okinawa. But for now, I would like your agreement to continue on this road with me. I need your pledge."

To Kyoko, Yoshimoto's offer sounded very much like marriage, without some of the more obnoxious trappings. A Japanese marriage carried with it the obligation for the wife to always be at home and to always fulfill all household duties. Her work generally started before dawn and didn't end until well after dark when she prepared and stirred the bath water. Of course the husband always bathed first. There were many idle moments during the day to chat with neighbors, plus frequent trips to the market, that became her social life.

The husband on the other hand, was free to do as he pleased. And what he pleased to do often included drinking bouts with friends and consorting with youthful prostitutes.

If she was reading him right this would be far better than marriage. In fact she believed it would be a form of marriage, more akin to an equal partnership, although she would carefully avoid mention of that.

Kyoko decided to seek a concession. "You know, I don't know what your plan is, Akira-kun. But I feel you will work hard and try to find a place of honor in the central government. And I would think that we would both have to move to Tokyo."

"That is essential, Kyoko. I want you with me even through my college days so I will not be distracted by common social activities."

This sounded even better. She had contemplated being stuck penuriously in rural Hirakatashi while Yoshimoto lived it up at Tokyo University. "What you say is appealing to me. My affection toward you has grown over the weeks. But I will not stand by as a faithful, uh (she almost said wife) friend if you visit prostitutes, or have flirtations with other women."

"My proposal includes mutual fidelity. It is part of my plan."

She wanted to smile, but she didn't want to break the solemn mood Yoshimoto was in. "Then I agree."

"Thank you, Kyoko-chan." He grasped her hand warmly, then sat down for his tea. "I'm sorry about the botched abortion. But, as you say, there are advantages."

She shot him a quick, angry glance, then continued pouring the tea. "It can't be helped. The women in the hospital were kind. No mention of an abortion."

"That's good," Yoshimoto said.

Both of them had been apprehensive because it was the spring of 1946 and abortion in Japan was a criminal offense until the Protection Law was passed in 1948. Only women were punished as criminals for abortion prior to 1948. After 1948 factors such as insanity, the mother's safety, poverty – in fact any reason a doctor wanted – could be used. A woman who had had several abortions might be refused, but there were always other doctors. In Japan, with the need for large rural families diminished, abortion became a common form of birth control.

So the two cousins, little more than children, reached a private agreement that would pattern their lives.

CHAPTER 9: No Complaints

Detective Watanabe's boss, Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata was troubled by the requested trip to El Centro. "First of all, you don't seem to have any kind of a case, Watanabe-san. There is no logical reason to assume a crime has been committed. Secondly, you seem to have ruffled some feathers in Immigration and somewhere higher up in the central government."

"You've had a complaint?" Watanabe asked.

"That's just the problem. There hasn't been a complaint," the leathery-skinned old battler growled. "What I've had is a couple of discreet calls from a couple of very high-level messenger boys. They're simply asking what's going on. But the questions were phrased in such a way that I took them as a warning. Be careful. Drop this investigation."

"You want me to drop it?" Shibata wasn't easily intimidated by superiors or subordinates. In fact his nickname was "Tough Guy." Watanabe would have been surprised to learn that two phone calls could call him off the scent. But he did have a point; there wasn't much of a case.

"I didn't say drop it. If you had simply presented me with the facts you have, I might have said drop it. But the very fact that there have been two calls. That's suspicious. I mean, why bother? But there must be a reason that we don't know about."

"Then there was the first-class ticket," Watanabe reminded.

"That's true," Shibata agreed. "But money in Japan this day and age, you never know how it's going to be spent. If you've been reading the paper you know that Osaka city officials have spent millions of yen on entertainment. Eating and drinking, nightclubs, they've been treating one another. Fantastic!"

"But the mayor apologized," Watanabe smiled.

"Yes, the mayor apologized," Shibata said with a grim smile. "And that makes it alL right. Well, back to your request. My answer is, I don't have an answer. I can't justify sending you to California on the evidence you have. But I also don't want to fold under pressure, no matter how discreet that pressure might be. So don't close the file. Do what you can from Osaka, but don't let it interfere too much with other matters. And stay out of fights with other government agencies. If there must be a confrontation, I'll handle it." He banged a knotty fist on his desk for emphasis.

"Very good, Sir." Watanabe rose to go, then hesitated. "I have a friend, a foreign woman," he began.

Shibata interrupted. "It is well known that you are living with a _gaijin_ , Watanabe-san."

"Yes." He was not surprised that it was known. He had made no attempt to hide it, but neither had he broadcast the arrangement. "Well, when you live with someone you discuss things. Within reason of course. One's daily life." Shibata nodded impatiently. The old man hoped he wasn't about to learn of some sticky personal problem. "She was taken by the thought that I might travel to California. She is an American. Now I didn't tell her I was going. The contrary is true..."

"Yes, yes, I know all about the girl. She is the one I met, is she not? Liberman-san. The inspector had trouble pronouncing the "L" and the "R" in Nana's last name.

"She is. And she suggested she has a vacation beginning at Christmas and if I could extend my New Year's time off, the two of us could holiday in the States and stop by and see this Ben Hardy in El Centro."

"Interesting, Watanabe-san. You would take your vacation time and while holiday-making would conduct an unauthorized inquiry."

"Unauthorized?"

"We seem to be in a delicate gray area. I can authorize time off and I am pleased to do so. You deserve it. What you do in California is your own business." Again, Shibata stumbled over a pronunciation, this time California.

"Then you will not discourage me?"

"Why should I discourage a good police officer from enjoying a well-earned vacation?"

***

The day before Watanabe and Nana left for California they headed for a downtown Osaka pub called the Hawk & Thistle.

The owner was Japanese, but he had collected the trappings and ambiance of a British pub. It was a hangout for a portion of the expatriate community.

The time was just past six, but the Hawk & Thistle was already crowded. A variety of expats – Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, Americans and a few northern Europeans – sat on the upholstered benches around the sides of the room, stood at tall pedestal tables, or hung over the bar. Nana and Watanabe found stools at a table occupied by three familiar faces: Bill Marty, a U.S. consulate worker, L.P. Crow, another American, and Charles Kirk, a Scot. Watanabe immediately headed for the bar and a couple of pints of beer.

Watanabe got the beer and returned to the table. His mind raced ahead. He had no particular plan for tomorrow. Fly into L.A., get a car, drive to El Centro. He dreaded driving. Switching from left to the right side of the road was always traumatic. It wasn't so bad in the city where there was lots of traffic. It was in the country where there were no other cars where one found oneself back on the left side and around the curve comes a semi. Then there was his wife, Harriet. For the first time in a long time he would find himself in the same country with her, but a continent would divide them. Harriet had an apartment in Boston.

Nana took a deep drink from her pint glass. "You seem preoccupied, Taro."

"Thinkin' about the trip."

"You going away?" Crow asked.

"Yes, we fly to L.A. tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to getting behind the wheel."

"I can imagine," Crow said. "I was in New York in February and made the mistake of renting a car. Two days before I had been driving in Osaka and honked at a man who was walking in the road carrying a shopping bag. He actually looked around at me, bowed and moved over to allow me to pass. So, in New York, I tapped the horn lightly at a man jaywalking in mid-block." Crow's face broke into a huge grin. "The son-of-a-bitch actually kicked my fender then offered to drag me out of the car and beat the shit out of me."

Everyone laughed. "Some contrast," Watanabe said. "I was merely thinking about changing from left to right. Maybe I'd better watch my manners, too."

The evening passed pleasantly enough, and Watanabe's transient thought of his wife evaporated. Her parents were Japanese, but she was born and reared in America. They had had a good life in Boston, then Watanabe's parents asked him to return and care for them in their declining years.

Dutifully, he came, bringing Harriet with him. Japan was new and wonderful for Harriet at first. Then it gradually wore her down, the burden of being a Japanese housewife, being subservient to her mother-in-law, not knowing customs bred into every Japanese woman, being unable to read and write Japanese properly, a hundred little slights that burgeoned. One day she was gone, back to Boston. They corresponded infrequently.

CHAPTER 10: An American Vacation

In a row of three seats, Nana sat by the window and Watanabe sat in the middle, buffering her from whatever forces held sway over a jumbo jet. Watanabe didn't mind, he couldn't sleep anyway and tried to read, first in Japanese, then in English. Nana had two small bottles of wine, one red, one white, then zonked off, her head on a pillow, her nose resting against the plastic window. He knew that she would be as lively as a cricket when they touched down and he would be among the ambulatory dead.

A Japanese teenager sat on the aisle next to him. She was excited about the trip, frequently up and down, visiting with her friends toward the rear of the plane. Disneyland would be an important stop for her. She told Watanabe that she had been to Disneyland in Tokyo, but there were long lines, and even after paying at the gate one must pay for each ride inside. And she talked about food. Her father had scoffed at western food, but her mother had assured her that everything would be all right. She had heard that there were McDonald's in California and that the food was exactly the same as the McDonald's in Japan. Could that be true?

Watanabe was red eyed and haggard when the plane lost altitude as it approached L.A. Then it was flaps down followed by touch down and spoilers and everyone standing in the aisles wondering if the doors would ever open. The Japanese teenagers were shouting to one another in high excitement, Nana was beaming. The good cheer was almost too much for the bleary focused detective. He was having second doubts about the trip.

Then it was immigration and finally customs, claim the slim bags and finally the lobby and freedom. Getting off was at least easier than getting on. The 9/11 wake-up call had placed the globe on alert. Nana had lost a nail file at security in Osaka, and Watanabe had given up his Swiss Army knife with its cherished corkscrew feature. Now what? Grab a cab and go somewhere to sleep, or rent a car and press ahead?

Nana was eager for the desert, so they opted for the car, with her driving and Watanabe scrunched up in the back seat finally asleep. He woke once the car was parked and Nana was emerging from a seedy looking pawn shop with a small package. She slid the package under the front seat and started the engine.

"What have you been up to?" Watanabe asked.

"Shopping?"

"For what?"

"Protection."

"From what?"

"Whatever."

"What is it? An alarm system?"

Nana laughed. "Yeah, I'm going to wire you up."

"Come on now."

"OK. You may not like it. A thirty-eight police special."

"You bought a revolver!"

"Yeah, what of it?"

Watanabe had long been aware of Nana's fascination with guns, but this, this wasn't the Wild West, not even a Chicago gangland scene. It was the peaceful desert. "How could they sell it to you? Isn't there a waiting period?"

"I was charming."

"You had sex with the man?"

"No, silly. I know you aren't serious or you'd be my first victim. By the way, I need more ammunition. It's loaded, but that's it."

"Why did they let you buy it?"

"I paid a little extra. Don't worry, we can peddle it before we start the home trip."

"God almighty," Watanabe sighed, then returned to sleep.

They spent the night in an El Centro motel. Over breakfast, Nana explained to Watanabe that many American women carry a handgun in their purse.

"I too am an American citizen," he replied, "and I too know the mores of this savage land. I don't believe the percentages you speak of are very high."

"In Texas."

"We are not in Texas. We are in the California desert. The quirky Texans have only one state out of the fifty. Try Rhode Island."

"Rhode Island sucks," Nana responded, then dug into her ham and eggs and asked for a coffee refill.

After breakfast they sought out the police chief, Jerry Dillard, who gave them general directions to Ben Hardy's digs. It was getting on toward noon of their second day in the States when they arrived at his dusty retreat.

The entire ramshackle structure was set against the wall of a large arroyo, an aging green trailer home with an additional roof over it to guard against the scorching sun. It had been extended with a wood-frame building sided with four-by-eight reverse board-and-batten panels. The roof of the extension was plywood nailed over with tarpaper that was torn here and there. Not a pretty sight. Nana wondered if there were ever flash floods in the area. If so, good-bye tacky cabin.

At the sound of their car, Hardy emerged, blinking in the dazzling desert sunshine.

"Long time, no see," Watanabe said, climbing from the car.

"Well I'm a son-of-a-bitch," Hardy said laughing, "you tracked me out to this hell hole."

"You hidin' out?" Nana asked.

"No. I like it here." He looked up at the sky around him, held out his arms and said, "Freedom. Can't beat it. But the two of you, here in the desert. Did they kick you out of Japan too?"

"We're on vacation," Watanabe said, "but we never did get to talk to you much about the drownings. Do you have a few minutes?"

"To me time is not money. I got plenty of it and spend it freely. But I did enter into an agreement not to talk about the situation, or at least I think I did. The fact is I don't know much more than I already told you."

"Who did you cut this deal with?" Watanabe asked.

"Damned if I know. But whoever it is, they know what they're doing and they've got plenty of cash backing them up."

"You're talking about something that happened in Japan?"

"For sure. At least it started there. But they've got long arms." Ben Hardy looked around at the empty desert as if he were being watched. There was nothing but the sun and the baked earth, rocks and a few embattled plants fighting for survival. "Really, I shouldn't even be talking to you now. But you're here and I'll let you come inside and talk if you promise to keep me out of it and get the hell on out of here and not come back."

Watanabe shrugged. "Why not." It was the best deal he was going to get. He had no authority here and there was no reason to ask the U.S. lawmen to bring Hardy in for questioning.

The three of them went inside the dark cave of a dwelling and found seats on threadbare furniture that looked as if it had come from some scrap heap.

"I've recycled this stuff," Hardy said, gesturing toward the general décor. He brought a two-quart bottle from the refrigerator and poured them each a glass of water. The furnace-like heat of the desert was already beginning to parch their lips and suck liquid from their bodies. "Small things become important out here. A glass of cold water is like a precious gem. I think that's why I like it. Back to basics."

For all Hardy's earthy demeanor and desert rat appearance, Watanabe realized he was dealing with an intelligent human being. All the oddball contract teachers crawling over countries in Asia and other parts of the globe were fairly well educated and had gathered additional knowledge from their students.

Hardy took a sip of water and smacked his lips. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"First, why did you leave Osaka in such a hurry?"

"It must have been the Japanese government. They never did identify themselves. Two well-dressed guys came to my door and pushed their way in. They told me to get out of the country."

"And you did? No questions asked?"

"No!" Hardy was emphatic. "I got damned mad. There wasn't much of an argument. Both of them were bigger than me. One picked up my table television and smashed it on the floor. He said I wouldn't want to take it on the plane."

"They spoke English?"

"One of them spoke it pretty good. The other, no. There was a police box down the street from where I lived and I said I was going to get a cop. They just laughed, and one said go ahead. If you bring a cop back here we'll have you arrested. It'll just mean you'll spend a few months in jail before we ship you back to the States."

"How could they have had you arrested?" Nana asked.

"I asked the same question. They told me drugs. They would take me to jail and they would find drugs in my apartment."

"And you believed them?" Watanabe asked.

"Damn right I did. And still do. They were two sharp cowboys and had everything under control. After I settled down, they talked money. They would fly me home first class and they would give me the equivalent of a year's pay."

"What does that amount to?" Watanabe asked.

"I asked for $40,000. It varies a lot, but that's about what it amounts to if you work halfway hard." Watanabe glanced at Nana and she nodded in agreement.

"And they paid you that amount in yen?"

"We had a little problem over that. I was happy to get the offer. Naturally, I was in Japan to make money and to save money. As you know, living's cheap here except for stupid tourists. The fact is I hadn't meant to stay more than one more year. The culture was getting to me. No offense to you, Watanabe, but things can get pretty creepy over there. "

"You got that right," Nana tossed in.

"But I didn't want to get yen and have to convert to dollars and I didn't want to carry that much cash back to the States. If you have more than ten thousand dollars in currency, travelers' checks or so forth you're supposed to fill out a form. It's OK to bring the money in, but if you don't fill out the form they can really zap you. If you do fill out the form they raise questions about why you're carrying so much money. Anyway, I just didn't want to carry that much back."

"You could have had a bank transfer it to your account back in the States," Nana said.

"I know that. But a transaction that large, the bank has to report it to the IRS, and you know what they do. They're paid to take money away from you."

"So what did you do?" Watanabe asked.

"It was no problem. They gave me half a million yen to show good faith. The remainder was handed over to me in cash when I got to the States. These guys were sharp operators. That's why I shouldn't be talking to you now. But I felt I owed you some explanation."

"Let me get this straight," Watanabe said. "Someone met the plane and handed you thousands of U.S. dollars?"

Hardy poured himself some more water and passed the jug to Nana. It seemed to be growing hotter in the small room and the heat was intensely dry. "It was almost like that. They had reserved a room for me at a nearby motel, a place called the Seven Palms. A man showed up the next day with the money in a package. All wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a string."

"Was it one of those two men?" Nana asked.

"No." Hardy shook his head. "He was Japanese, but a middle aged man. Potbelly, balding. Good English. I just had the idea he worked at the Japanese Consulate in L.A., but that was just a hunch. He was pleasant. He gave me the package and left. I didn't even see the car he was driving."

"If that's how the Japanese deport people, I'd like to know where to get an application," Nana said.

"You got the idea this was a government operation then?" Watanabe asked.

"Government operation. Government cover up. What do you think?"

Watanabe poured himself more water. Why anyone wanted to live on this desert in a ramshackle hut was beyond his ken. "Why do you say 'cover-up?'"

"Well, you're a cop. You've been investigating. But nobody's let you in on the secret, have they?"

Watanabe shook his head. "I'm as baffled as you are, maybe more so. And my boss is as much in the dark as I am. And he carries some clout in police circles. What's that noise?" Watanabe had thought it was an airplane at first, a low hum, growing louder, but it had lasted too long for a passing plane.

"Cycles," Hardy said. "Bikers. Lot of bikers on the desert. A few of my friends ride those big hogs. I'm not partial to them myself." The noise continued to mount. It became apparent that there were several motorcycles and that they were approaching Hardy's jerry-built home. Hardy left his chair and went out front to meet the bikers.

Watanabe and Nana heard the sound die as the bikers pulled to a halt, heard someone shout, "Are you Ben Hardy?" The next thing they heard were two shots. They rushed to the door to see Hardy sprawled on the baked desert floor, dead or dying.

A big man with a black mustache and huge belly was standing in front of the nearest motorcycle reloading a pistol. One of the other bikers shouted, "There's two other motherfuckers in the cabin and one of them's a girl." The big man raised his pistol and snapped off a shot that whistled between Watanabe and Nana.

The two frantically fell back into the cabin, and Watanabe pushed the door shut as shots two and three slammed into the heavy door.

One of the bikers shouted, "Girl, you might as well start pulling your pants off now." Nana scrambled for her purse, found the gun and ran to the window and squeezed off two shots at the big man. Both missed, but it caused the crowd to fall back and seek cover.

"Nana, for Christ's sake!" Watanabe shouted. "Stop shooting."

"I'll fix their asses good," she shouted back. "If they want my pants they'll have to fight me for them!"

"Calm down," Watanabe said in a hoarse whisper. "We can't shoot all of them. There aren't enough bullets. Did you hit anybody?"

"No, but I scared the shit out of them. You should have seen them run."

"It gives us a little time, but the fact is we're trapped in here. How much ammunition do you have?"

"Four bullets. I had six. I meant to buy a box, but I forgot. Damn."

"How many guys do you suppose are out there?"

"Twelve, maybe fifteen. There's a truck, too."

"I didn't see a truck," Watanabe said. "Is it a van?"

"No. An old pickup truck. It's not unusual for a motorcycle gang. They camp out. They need stuff. Blankets, food, firewood. Then they steal things."

"And they might want to carry off Ben Hardy's body. This looks like a contract killing. They asked him his name. He either nodded, or said yes. I couldn't hear. Then they shot him. There'll be no mercy for us. I'm just sorry I got you into this, Nana."

"No sweat. My eyes were open. What better way to die than as a young lover. Well, relatively young. Maybe Hardy had a gun."

"I'll look around. You watch the window." Watanabe had little fear of gunfire from the gang. At least not at this time. As far as he had seen they only had one revolver that wouldn't be accurate at any distance. The big-bellied man had clear shots at them and missed each time.

The heat was stifling in the cabin. There was no electricity so no air conditioning, not even a fan. The refrigerator operated on kerosene. And there was no phone. Watanabe hoped for a battery-operated radio or a cell phone, but found nothing. And no gun. He did find a mean looking butcher knife with a 10-inch blade. He gave it to Nana.

There was a noise as if someone was on the roof. Nana squeezed off two shots through the plywood and tarpaper. They both crouched and waited with an eye on the window and another on the ceiling. There was no additional sound. "Someone must have snuck up and tossed something on the roof," Watanabe said.

"Yeah," Nana agreed. "Two more rounds gone. Two left. I'll save them. Maybe somebody will come by."

Watanabe thought, yes, maybe the U.S. cavalry. They were up a dry wash miles from any thoroughfare in a sparsely populated area. He knew they could squat on this barren place for a year with little hope of anyone dropping by.

A shout came from outside. "Come out or we'll burn your fuckin' cabin. We'll give you five minutes."

"Can they do that?" Nana asked.

"Easily," Watanabe replied. "This building is backed up against a mud cliff. All they have to do is get on top of that cliff and drop something on us. Some sort of gasoline bomb would do the trick."

"Why didn't they just go ahead and do it?"

"That's a good point. The smoke might attract attention. There might be someone in the area – maybe a plane or a chopper. They also don't want to get shot trying to take us. Maybe we can negotiate."

"Negotiate? You mean trade them something? What have we got?"

"I don't know. It depends on what they want. But it's worth a shot." Watanabe moved to the window and shouted, "Let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" the big-bellied man shouted back.

"You go away and we promise not to chase you."

He could hear the laughter, then a shout back, "Send the bitch out and we'll go away." More laughter and some conversation he couldn't understand.

Watanabe looked around at the walls of the shack and felt the heavy dry heat. It would burn like a torch and the two of them would have no option but to run coughing into the open, directly into the arms of the gang. He guessed they would kill him quickly, although he couldn't be sure. They might keep Nana alive for days. His eyes fell on a heavy hiking stick. It appeared to be hardwood, probably oak. He crawled across the room and grasped the stick in his two hands. "I'll fight the fat man," he shouted through the window.

"Watanabe, are you crazy," Nana chided. "That man would make two of you."

"I've got a plan," he said quietly. He could hear more laughter from outside.

"You want bare hands, or knives," the fat man shouted. Nana held up the long bladed knife Watanabe had given her, but he shook his head, no.

"Sticks," he shouted back.

"Sticks," came a questioning shout. "Sticks and stones?"

"No. I have a long stick in here. It's like a hiking staff. If you get a stick, I'll fight you. Right in front of this cabin."

"Listen shithead, I don't have any little Boy Scout sticks out here. I got a knife though, and my two fists. And it's getting' fuckin' hot out here in this sun. Get your ass out here, or I'll burn your asses out."

"He sounds mean," Nana said.

"Don't try to cheer me up. There must be another stick around here."

"What is this stick business?" Nana snapped. The heat of the desert was getting to both of them. Whether it was hotter inside or out would be hard to say.

"It's Kendo," Watanabe said. "Japanese sword fighting. All through school I did Kendo. It's done with wooden staves. I'm sure I can beat him."

"That makes sense. Maybe you could even go against his knife with your stick."

"Maybe. Is there any more water?"

Nana found more water and poured them each a drink, then a refill. "This should give us some edge. I don't think they have much water out there."

"Get your skinny ass out here," came a bellow from outside the cabin. "One of my boys found me a stick and it's a big mother."

Watanabe went to the window. The fat man was standing near the cabin hefting a large piece of wood in his two hands. It looked like a two-by-four and it must have been five or six feet long. "OK," Watanabe shouted. "If I win we go free?"

"Shit, yes, man. If you knock my brains out with your stick, you walk."

"And the girl?"

"Shit, yes, man. Her too. Get your ass out here and let's go at it." Fats seemed in a jovial mood, playing a role for his gang. He had the shoulders of a weight lifter.

Watanabe moved cautiously from the cabin, blinking in the glare of the sizzling sun.

"It's some kind of chink," one of the bikers shouted.

"Are you Chinese, man?" fats asked, holding the board like a ball bat, eyeing Watanabe's head.

"Japanese," Watanabe replied softly. He knew he would have to duck and dodge. His small stave, as tough as it might be, could hardly deflect a well-swung blow from the heavy timber.

"He's a little Jap," the fat man shouted.

"Throw the fucker a raw fish," one of the bikers taunted.

Watanabe darted in with a swift, low swing of his stave. It caught the fat man on the left ankle, almost toppling him to the ground. The big man hopped and danced with amazing agility, limping out of range.

"You yellow bastard," the fat man raged, then rushed like a mad bull in spite of his badly bruised ankle. Watanabe stepped nimbly aside and brought his stave down full force on his tormentor's back, triggering another roar of anger. The fat man had lost his good humor. His eyes were those of a snake about to strike. But where? Which way? He feinted, then fell back. His injured ankle seemed to bother him more.

The fat man staggered to one side and his entire left leg seemed on the verge of collapse. Watanabe knew he must finish the man if he even hoped to walk away alive. He raised the stave above his head and rushed to the attack. Too late, he saw that he had been tricked. A flicker of smile crossed the fat man's mouth as he spun the two-by-four in the air and cracked Watanabe's stave into two pieces, then whacked Watanabe in the right shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Watanabe lay on his back, his sight dimmed, his head dazed. He was aware of the fat man standing over him with the two-by-four, slowly raising it for what would probably be the deathblow. It would come crashing down on his lower forehead cracking his head like a ripe melon. He stared blankly, the heat of the day at its height, sun burning into his glazed eyes. In that long second, it was as if paralysis and fate had taken over.

Watanabe heard the crack of the pistol, saw the fat man straighten, the timber falling from his hand, then slump to his knees. Nana was out of the cabin, smoking gun in hand, she walked within three feet of the fat man. On his knees he stared at her in a look of shocked surprise. She raised the gun, took careful aim and shot him in the face. He toppled over backwards, dead.

"If that wasn't one hell of a show, I'll kiss your ass," one of the bikers whooped. "Did you see that look on old John's face? "I'm a son-of-a-bitch, I wish I'd just had a camera. Lady, you can ride with us anytime."

Watanabe struggled to his feet and Nana pushed the gun into her waistband. Both were temporarily speechless.

"Let's see if John was holdin' out on us," a biker with a sleeveless blue jean jacket and a skull tattooed across his forehead said. They clustered around the body, rolling it over and getting to his wallet.

After a quick count, a short man with dark, hairy arms announced, "He sure as shit was. There's better'n four thousand dollars here. I believe we should give the lady at least a hundred."

Nana looked sick, but she was pleased to be elevated from a bitch to a lady with just two rounds of ammunition and a dead man on the ground. Was she slated for a star in her crown? A biker moved from the crowd and walked to where Nana and Watanabe were standing. "I'm Clark Gable. Between the two of you, you just killed John Wayne." He stood their smiling.

Nana looked blank.

"We're the actors. Name of our group. There's Steve McQueen over there and Tom Cruise." He pointed to two bikers. "That little curly headed guy over there, he wanted to be Humphrey Bogart, but we call him Shirley Temple."

"Everyone laughed except the short man who shouted, "You assholes. Now that John's dead, I think I should be John Wayne."

"John killed the man on the ground over there for money," Clark Gable said. "Some of us don't like to do those things." He took a long look at the assembled bikers. "Others don't give a shit, but John was a real mean guy and he didn't win any popularity contest to become boss. He told us that he got three thousand for the killing – that's fifteen hundred for him and fifteen hundred for the rest of us. The fucker lied. He was down to his last cent before this job. You did us a favor." Watanabe guessed that Clark Gable was assuming the mantle of gang boss.

Clark turned to Nana. "Lady, you shot John down just like he shot that man yonder down. So I don't guess you'll run to the law. And we don't need two more bodies to bury. It'll be hard enough finding a hole big enough for John. So you go your way and we'll go ours." He turned to the bikers. "Let's get these dead ones in the truck, boys." There was a little muttering, but Clark had assumed command.

Watanabe and Nana walked to their car and headed for civilization.

Neither of them spoke until they neared El Centro. The air conditioner was pushed to high, but they were both sweating profusely. "I guess we'll have to go to the police chief, or the sheriff," Watanabe finally said.

"You do and you'll never smile again. We're both damned lucky to be alive. This sort of thing isn't too uncommon on the desert. We would have just disappeared. The car would have been chopped up and sold for parts."

"But we've witnessed, been part of, a serious crime."

"I shot a man, Taro. A prosecutor could make a jury believe I did it in cold blood. The Actors could say that you and I were in no danger, that I was trigger-happy. Should I have let them kill you?"

"Subjectively, no. And objectively, no. Absolutely no at all levels. How about instead of running to the cops, how about we get about two gallons of cold beer and a couple of frosty liters of icy Chablis and rent the biggest and most expensive room we can find at poolside?"

"If we're still alive tomorrow, let's head north toward San Francisco. This is a vacation."

Watanabe grinned. "A jug of wine and thou.

"Poor Ben Hardy," Nana mused. "When they learned in Osaka that you were ticketed for L.A., that was his death warrant." Watanabe nodded in agreement.

CHAPTER 11: To Kill Watanabe?

Akira Yoshimoto sipped warm sake from a small, delicate cup and nibbled _jyako_ , tiny dried whole fish with a sharp salty tang. Outside, the lights of Tokyo lay like a bright web twenty-two stories below. Across the low table on the tatami floor sat Kyoko Suzuki. Their paths seldom crossed during the day. Yoshimoto generally dined with government officials, or alone, but the cousins tried to spend time together every evening in the condo they shared.

Through the years Yoshimoto had held various government posts and at present served the Diet cabinet as finance minister. He had seen to it that his cousin had also assumed increasing responsibility, but never in his department. Through a network of strategic friendships, she had eyes and ears throughout the bureaucracy.

"Kyoko, it might be more seemly if you wore kimono when we are here together in the evening." It was a familiar theme, one that Yoshimoto harped on every three to four months.

"Oh, Akira," the woman replied with some exasperation, "You should know that I haven't owned a kimono for more than 20 years. I don't even wear them to weddings."

"There are shops; we have money," he replied evenly. "You look like someone out of an American movie," he added, eyeing with some distaste the oversized sweatshirt and blue jeans. Both of them were barefoot on the tatami mats.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll start wearing a kimono when you do. No one ever complained about men wearing western styles. Your shirt, suit and tie are like a uniform. And always white T-shirt and white boxer underpants. Black socks, Black shoes."

"That's different," the aging bureaucrat said, pushing his sake cup towards Kyoko for a refill. She carefully refilled the cup and poured herself more Kirin beer.

"And too," she continued. "Do you know how much trouble it is to properly put on a kimono? I'd need a hairdresser and a dresser every night. It's crazy. Anyway, there are more important things. I'm concerned about us killing people. We could become reckless."

"What we are doing is akin to war, and those who died did it almost cheerfully. What we are doing is for Japan and the Japanese people. How many did we lose in building under the sea? Such dangerous work, and doubly so because it was done in secret. Those who died are heroes!"

"It's not that, Akira. I was thinking of the young American. We were forced to seek the help of an American hoodlum. I'm not concerned with the loss of life. It's the possibility of detection that alarms me."

"I see. The danger might lie in the opposite direction. Dead men are profoundly silent. That noisy American was a fly in our sake cup. We may have made a mistake by simply not having him disappear here in Japan. But it's always a problem when foreigners are involved, especially Americans. Their government is so touchy about their rights."

"Then there is this detective, this Watanabe, and his _gaijin_. Did they contact the man before he was killed and, if so, what did they learn?"

"Nothing that would lead him back to us, I can assure you. It's all suspicions, but nothing concrete. And time seems to be on our side. Everything is going well. The warheads will soon be at sea. No one can stop us, Kyoko."

"I wish I had your confidence," she replied. "This Watanabe is no dummy and he keeps poking around. He could turn up something."

Yoshimoto sipped his sake. There was mild amusement in his eyes. "You want to have Watanabe killed and probably his girlfriend as well. Is that it?"

"I think it would be wise. He's the only one who even has a hint of suspicion. My point is, if the two of them are to be killed, it must be planned and executed with extreme care. It must look like an accident."

"Yes, I see. If it is to be done, that's how it should be done. But there's one hitch. Watanabe has a patron, an old superintendent supervisor named Yasunobo Shibata. He's a tough old bird and well known in Osaka. And he has many admirers in Tokyo. It would be hard to fool Shibata, and for his protégé he would dig into the case like a bulldog. There is an unfortunate domino thing – one tile falls and topples another. I've been thinking of having Watanabe reassigned to some office make-work project for six months. That's more than enough time. The girl is just a western whore and means nothing. This Watanabe is another matter. He is not a true Japanese."

"Yes," Kyoko agreed, "he seems to be doing a little independent thinking."

"I don't need your sarcasm, Kyoko. " Once more Yoshimoto pushed his cup over for a refill. "But Watanabe was reared partly in the States. His father was a salary-man and his company sent his family abroad with him. Always a mistake. Watanabe remained for college and then got a job with the Boston police department. For three years he worked there as a detective. He has a different outlook, a different approach to things, which makes him unpredictable and dangerous."

"And if he is dangerous and persists in his snooping, there is another way," Kyoko said. "Shibata could precede the two of them in death. Or, ideally, the three of them could die in the same accident. Say a single prop plane flying them to a meeting somewhere or the other."

"If it becomes necessary, that is a splendid plan." Yoshimoto raised his sake cup. "To us, Kyoko, and the years we have invested in our careers, years that will soon bear fruit. Japan will soon assume its place as the leader in a very different world – a well-ordered world. Banzai!"

CHAPTER 12: Panic in Israel

Mordechai Baker sat on a small couch near the desk in his spacious office. The brilliant Middle East sun streamed in through French doors that opened into a well-kept garden. As he often did to relax, he played the harmonica. As he played, the words of the tune danced through his head: "Hurrah for the Bonny Blue Flag..."

Baker had been born in a small community in North Carolina, USA, where his father ran a dry goods store. He had lived in a big white frame house within sight of the Pasquotank River. He could sit in a great wooden rocker on the front porch and hear the bell of the drawbridge as it lifted to allow the passage of vessels.

He had spent his high school days fishing for blues near Cape Hatteras and partying on the beach and playing in the wild surf. During his last summer in college he had worked in a kibbutz in Israel, and the experience, the surge of energy he felt, of a youthful nation struggling for survival, caused him to return immediately upon graduation.

Now he could be called the most important man in Israel, for the moment anyway. He had pieced together a coalition government and was well into his second year as prime minister.

A sharp rap on the door caused him to wipe the harmonica mouthpiece on his trousers and stuff the instrument into his shirt pocket. "Come in," he shouted.

His secretary entered followed by Eli Kotcher, who as head of Mossad, Israel's intelligence agency, could be thought of as the most dangerous man in the small country. He had information at his fingertips that could wreck careers and cause financial panic.

"Mr. Kotcher insisted on seeing you immediately," the secretary announced sharply with a withering glance at the miscreant. She was obviously upset by Kotcher's manner, which at best could be described as brusque.

Mordechai said "Shalom" and shrugged his shoulders.

After the secretary stalked out, Kotcher asked, "Is this office clean?"

"With the help you get nowadays, who knows?" the prime minister responded. He enjoyed being flippant now and then, particularly with Kotcher.

"This is serious business, Mordechai." The Mossad chief seemed to be highly worked up.

"No bugs that I know of. We have people constantly checking. You can talk freely."

"How about the secretary? Can she hear us?

"You are serious, aren't you? We have an intercom, but it's turned off. The door is soundproof. There's no one in the garden. There's only one other entrance and it's locked from the inside. There are guards, as you know. You can talk, Eli. What's on your mind?"

Kotcher sat down on the couch close to Baker and spoke in a low voice. "Twenty-five nuclear warheads are missing."

"And I am the Queen of Syria," Baker replied, trying to mock Kotcher's deadly tone.

"Look,. Chief, I'm serious. Twenty-five of those babies are gone. And they've been gone for some days. It was dumb luck that we learned of the theft at this time." Kotcher stared at the now speechless prime minister and said for emphasis, "They are gone, stolen! S-T-O-L-E-N."

Baker rose to his feet and finally said, "I can't believe it. The security. We have a special agency with that sole responsibility. The high-voltage fences. The mines. The dogs. The hardened bunkers. Steel doors. Concrete. It's not like shoplifting in a dime store, Eli. _Gottenyu_ (Oh God), tell me you're putting me on."

"I'm sorry, Chief. They are missing. We've looked and counted and re-looked. They were in containers. The containers are empty. As you know, they're moved from place to place occasionally for normal maintenance. At that time, they're removed from their containers, checked out thoroughly and repacked. Of course each warhead is individually numbered."

Baker sunk into his large leather chair behind his desk. His face was pallid and his mind a maelstrom of confusion at the enormity of what Eli was saying.

"As it happened, a maintenance technician found he had not attached the proper paperwork to one of the warheads. When they brought that one back in they found that container empty. Of course, then all of them were checked and the thefts discovered."

"That's a major share of our arsenal," Baker said, still stunned. "Who did it? Who's the thief?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Kotcher said.

"Goddammit, Eli, you're suppose to head the best intelligence service in the world. Surely someone can't walk off with twenty-five nuclear warheads and not leave a trace, not a footprint, not a fingerprint!"

"Well, Mordechai, it must be an inside job. The fact is you're the only one I've told, except for the technicians and guards who were in on the discovery. A leak would be... there's just no words strong enough. No one must know."

Baker eyed the security chief suspiciously. "Are you crazy, man? Twenty-five warheads drifting around and we can't tell anyone? What if the Arabs have them?"

"I don't think any group or organization in any Arab country is capable of pulling off a job like this. I'd stake my reputation on it."

"Your reputation isn't worth shit right now, Eli. If it wasn't the Arabs, who took them, then who, and why?" Baker was just regaining his powers of reason.

"Why, I don't know. Blackmail. Ransom. A war. Say it was the Arabs. It would take them a long time to learn how to use them. They would have to fit them onto rockets, work out some sort of delivery system and they would have to know exactly what they're doing. Even with fair technology, there would be no immediate danger. And we would hear of it. I'm certain of that. The Mossad is the best, and we aren't limited by politicians like the CIA, nor will there be snapshots of us abusing prisoners. But I don't think the Arabs could take them. Certainly they would have needed tremendous assistance from highly-placed Israelis and I don't see that sort of treachery."

"Treachery!" Mordechai shouted. "This is treachery and you're telling me that Israelis are responsible? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, yes. Certainly no outsider could have penetrated our security. There's just no other answer."

"You think this was done by Israelis for Israelis?"

"That puzzles me, Mordechai. I don't understand the motive. Maybe they're hidden somewhere nearby and there'll be a ransom note. That would be the easy way to get off the hook."

"I don't believe there will be an easy answer. If it were ransom, stealing one would do, certainly not twenty-five. But we must get busy. You must get busy. And there are people who will have to be told!"

"Yes, a few. But for God's sake, not the cabinet. There'll be an instant leak. How would it look for high-tech, high-security Israel, a nation that won't admit to having the bomb, to suddenly announce that twenty-five of them have been stolen?"

"I'm aware of all the implications, Eli. Of course our careers would be over. But that's nothing compared to the threat if these are in the wrong hands. And I don't know what the right hands would be. Say they were stolen by enemies of Israel. No rockets or missiles would be needed. They could be right here in Israel. Detonated. That's enough to blow little Israel off the map ten times over. It's one of those unthinkable, Armageddon-type things. I know what it means now to have your blood run cold. I'm thoroughly chilled out. How can we eat, sleep, do anything while this hangs over our heads? It's like total paralysis."

"I came to you first, Chief. I'll hand pick a small group of tight-lipped professionals and get the hounds in the field. As you say, we'll go around the clock. And one more thing. We must be ruthless in questioning our own people."

"I don't quite understand," the prime minister said.

"We must move under the assumption that it is an inside job. There are only a limited number of people who could do this. We will have to question them and question them in a serious manner. The Third Temple people spring to mind. It will mean giving some rough treatment to some highly respected professionals, probably most of them completely innocent. And we will have to hold some of them incommunicado for an indefinite period."

Baker shook his head grimly. "Yes, the Third Temple people. But how and why? They've certainly been a thorn in our side. But mostly they've been protesting pulling the settlers out of Palestinian territory. That hilltop, Temple Mount, has been the focus of attention for both sides, but what would the bombs have to do with it?"

"The group known as Revava might just be a stalking horse," Eli said. "They are the obvious out-front people who want to build the third temple on that site the Arabs call Al Aqsa. So it stirs up a lot of sand. There are many others who want the prophecy fulfilled. There are many others in Israel and abroad who want to see Israel expand into all the Palestinian area and to see it endure forevermore."

"My mind is beginning to grasp the picture, maybe grasping at straws, but it seems whoever has perpetrated this foul deed must have strong allies abroad, Arab or otherwise. And otherwise would be the path if we are talking about what one might refer to as extreme right-wing Israeli patriots. So if you must use harsh methods, you must. It's odd, but for all the effort to be poured into this quest, we simply seek to return to square one. And there should be a way to question without answering too many questions. We could say there's been a major theft, but not a nuclear warhead. We must find a _mosser_ (stool pigeon) or a _moisheh kapoyer_ (klutz) among the guilty. _Mirtsishem_ (God willing)."

"I'll do the best I can. I simply wanted to warn you that some innocent toes, highly placed toes, some toes in the religious community, are going to be trod on. You'll get complaints, probably cabinet members asking for my head on a pikestaff."

"I understand. What about other agencies? Does Shin-Beth know?"

"I'll have to tell somebody there," Kotcher said, referring to the agency in charge of internal security. "Of course somebody there might be in on this. But so what? Telling them about it would be old news if that's the case."

"What about our allies? The US in particular? They scream if they think they've been left out of something important."

"Too much danger of a leak. Down the road we might have to bring others on board. Maybe we'll get a quick break. But remember, many of the Third Temple people are deeply religious and might be called the backbone of Israel. And these people already believe there has been a religious miracle."

"Miracle?"

"Of course. That God gave Israel a victory over twenty-two Arab states."

"Oh, yeah, that. I think Ezer Weizman's preemptive strike against the Arabs might explain that. We caught them with their pants down."

"But we did win against heavy odds. Then the next phase is the ongoing gathering of the people of Israel around the globe to the Promised Land."

"I don't really believe in these phases, Eli."

"You may not, but the devout do. Then comes the liberation and consecration of the Temple Mount and then the building of the third temple."

"Along with the restoration of animal sacrifices?"

"That goes hand in glove with the temple, but I don't think there'll be a need for money changers. A few ATM's will do the job. But at that time we'll be ready for the final step, the arrival of the King of Israel, Messiah Ben David."

"Hooray, Eli. You may be right. You may be wrong. But let's move rapidly and quietly to ferret out these lost souls."

"Shalom, Mordechai."

When the Mossad chief was gone, Mordechai walked to his French doors and stared at the peaceful greenery of his garden. Then he proceeded to a credenza and mixed himself a stiff drink.

CHAPTER 13: Watanabe Takes a Leave

Detective Taro Watanabe wrestled through a few sleepless nights over what to tell his boss about the meeting near El Centro with Ben Hardy. Even in the chill of Osaka, the night before he would make his report, he found himself sweating. Watanabe and the aging superintendent supervisor had great respect for one another and the young officer didn't want to tarnish the relationship with a lie. He toyed with the idea of telling Yasunobo Shibata that he simply couldn't locate Hardy. In the end he decided on the truth, but not the whole truth. He told him that he and Nana did meet Hardy, that Hardy had told his story, and that was all. He simply pretended that he and Nana had driven off before the band of Actors had biked up to the shanty and slaughtered Hardy for money there on the California desert.

"It would seem that there is some sort of unusual cover-up going on," Shibata said, after he had heard Watanabe's story. Watanabe thought to himself that he couldn't agree more. He himself was covering up the fact that Nana had killed the fat man. But Shibata was right; something crazy was afoot at a high level. He was about to tell Shibata his plan for the next step, but the older man continued talking.

"I have an unusual assignment for you, Watanabe. You are to be a liaison man with the American Navy, the shore patrol, down in Kyushu for a few months. I've been assured the assignment will last no more than six months."

"But why me?" Watanabe asked in amazement.

"Tokyo asked for you. Actually, it's very flattering. You know you were picked directly by Tokyo for the job you're in now. Not only because of your English, but because of your service with the Boston police department. They've had a lot of troubles between the locals and the U.S. Navy personnel down that way. You'll be talking to both sides, a counselor holding sensitivity sessions, that sort of thing. It makes sense."

"It does make sense. I am equipped for the job. But why me at this time? Did that cross your mind?"

The leathery-faced old man shrugged. "Of course it did. Somebody very well placed in Tokyo could be trying to get you out of the way. And if they are, it's working. Frankly, I argued against it. But I had no effective argument. We aren't investigating anything concrete. You are suited for the job in Kyushu. There is a need. I can assign somebody else to what you are doing."

Watanabe stared at his shoes. "And how would you instruct them?"

"What orders would I give them? Excellent question. Obviously, the investigation is over. But there comes a time when we must follow orders."

"But I can't," Watanabe said emphatically.

"Refuse to follow orders?" The old man frowned.

"I returned to Japan with my wife, Harriet, from Boston to be with my aging parents. They demanded that I do my duty and come home and be with them in their fading years. I did my duty as a Japanese should. It broke up my marriage, but I have hung on. Even though my wife, with whom I'm still married, has Japanese ancestry, the culture here got to her. She simply couldn't stay. But I did my duty," Watanabe stressed.

If there is anything seared into the Japanese mind it is to obey the father and do one's duty to parents. There was a time when duty to the Emperor and hence the country would have come first, but that time passed after the Emperor renounced his divine status. "Now you are asking me to desert my parents. I can't do it."

"I see," Shibata nodded. "You have an excellent point, but place me in an awkward situation. The Japanese police do not bend their orders to solve family problems. You know that."

"I know it very well. I would like a six-month leave of absence. I do not have money problems. My parents have provided very well for their old age and beyond."

"It's interesting to have you work for me, Watanabe. I'll say that. I won't stand in your way. I'll put the papers in and notify Tokyo of your reasons. But a word of care, we may be playing with a situation that could blow up in our faces. Since you will remain in the Osaka area I hope that we can have lunch together now and then during the six-month period."

"I would like nothing better," Watanabe smiled. "There will be many things to talk over."

So Watanabe was on his own, and any plan he concocted he would have to carry out on his own.

CHAPTER 14: Passage to Japan

The rust-splotched, clanking freighter, Pride of Dakar, breasted gray-backed rollers in the Indian Ocean. Her decks awash with green water, the ancient vessel plowed her bow deep into the storm-swept water and seemed to tremble forever before her creaking plates once more heaved up for air. Then it was down again, rolling and pitching until her master feared the cargo might shift. The Pride of Dakar carried Liberian registry, but the crew was totally Israeli, unusual for one of the most ill-fitted rust buckets to ply the seas.

The mate and a young crewmen burst through the bridge hatchway, then both threw their weight against it to get it closed against the howling sea. "Captain, there's no problem in the hold," the mate reported. "One crate had gotten loose, but Sam and I got it lashed down. Everything else is secure." He cast a hard glance toward the young seaman named Sam.

Actually, Sam was not a seaman at all, but a college student out for a vacation lark. His father, who was a member of parliament, had pulled strings to get him on the vessel just hours before it departed from Tel Aviv-Yafo. The young man seemed highly excited.

"Very good," Captain Silverman said, almost shouting over the gale creaking and twisting the Pride of Dakar. "Why don't you get some coffee?"

"There's something else, Captain," Sam said almost breathlessly.

"Yes," Meir Jacobson, the mate, put in. "Young Sam here thought he saw something down below."

The captain was suddenly alert. He glanced at the helmsman, who had his eyes riveted on the swirling storm, then fixed Sam with a steady gaze. "What is it?"

"It's not farm equipment and refrigerators," the young man blurted out. "There's some sort of military hardware in the cargo that's not on the manifest! My father told me exactly what the ship was carrying before we left Tel Aviv. We may be carrying contraband." The young man was beaming with excitement. He had discovered some sort of mystery at sea on his very first trip. Up until this time the trip had been a colossal bore to him.

The captain felt his heart sink. The youthful Sam was the only one on board not in on the secret of the cargo. He was the only one not a member of the small assortment of right-wing individuals who had joined forces to take desperate action to expand Israeli territory, rebuild the third temple as a spin off, and insure Israel's position as a world leader. Long ago a few of these men had entered into a pact with a small group of Japanese fanatics still smarting from the defeat in WWII. The Japanese had sought them out as natural allies in a scheme to marry the technologies of the two nations while taking advantage of the devious and secret ways of Japan's political structure.

Captain Silverman attempted to stall. "How can you be sure of this?"

"A crate was broken. I put my flashlight inside. Military hardware. Military markings, I think nuclear. Not refrigerators and certainly not farm equipment. We should radio at once and ask for orders!"

The captain forced a smile. How could the mate have permitted the boy among the crates? One small glitch and now this smart-ass kid wants to radio for help. "I am the captain and I will take appropriate action," he assured the boy.

"But, Sir," Sam sputtered, "I'm telling you what I saw, what I know. Someone has smuggled something aboard, something that could be very dangerous. Who's it for?"

"What you say is correct," the captain continued. "But there is time. When the storm subsides in a few hours I'll go into the hold myself and check the cargo. Then if something is awry, I'll make a full report. We're all Israeli here. We're all loyal to our government. But naturally, what you've seen must be carefully verified. Then we'll use the radio."

"Of course," Sam agreed. "I am a little excited. The entire crew is Israeli, isn't it? There's not a foreigner among us. Except maybe Maury Bennett. I think he's an American."

"There are many American Israelis. Take the prime minister," Meir said.

The captain nodded and smiled, which caused the mate to smile. Both men had been upset when they had been forced to take the boy on board. To turn down a simple request from a member of parliament would have aroused suspicion.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep, Sam," the mate said. "We'll wake you when the storm's over. You'll want to show the captain what you found." The boy grinned happily and went off to his bunk.

When he was gone, Meir Jacobsen said, "I'm sorry, Captain. He followed me into the hold. He was curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat," the captain said into the mate's ear. He had little fear of being overheard by the helmsman. The entire crew would agree the boy had to die. Oddly enough it had been almost a foregone conclusion. Sooner or later the boy would have learned of their mission and he would either be converted, or executed. Then it was not like the old days when the ship's radio was the only method of communication. Now there were other ways in the hands of the many.

The captain made his way to the radio room where he told the operator. "A problem, Sparks, no messages from anyone until I give the orders."

Sam, holding to bulkheads and railings on the heaving ship, made his way to the crew quarters. He touched the hand of his bunkmate, Nat Lowe, and said in a hoarse whisper over the noise of the vessel, "I may have found someone's secret. Something really big. The ship may be carrying contraband."

Nat came fully awake and sat bolt upright. "Did you tell anybody?" The question carried an intensity that surprised Sam. Nat was generally totally kicked back.

"Yes, silly. I told the captain. And Meir Jacobson was with me when I found these crates in the hold. One was broken open."

"Oh," Nat said, suddenly depressed. The light was too dim for Sam to see the scowl on his lover's face.

Sam removed his outer clothing and clambered into his bunk. The trip was becoming more interesting. He had resisted when his father first mentioned signing on a merchant ship. His father had tried every way he knew to get the boy away from his computer and out into God's own sunshine. But then there had been a change. Sam had insisted on signing on the Pride of Dakar, an aging vessel that carried a mixed cargo for the Orient. Sam smiled with delighted satisfaction as he drifted off to sleep. Here he was living an adventure on the high seas. And more than that, anytime he wanted he could reach out and touch his lover and no one would be the wiser.

CHAPTER 15: Watanabe Takes a Trip

To find out what was happening at the Tsugaru Strait, Watanabe decided to visit the Strait. He drove alone. Nana was busy with schoolwork. After two days in a matchbox-sized hotel room in Aomori, a cheerless city with the usual noodle shops, sushi restaurants, and the occasional Kentucky Fried Chicken or McDonald's, he drove into the countryside and decided to spend time at the typical Japanese inn, a _ryokan_ , with its usually talkative landlord.

During the day he visited temples and shrines as a tourist might. The temples were Buddhist and the shrines Shinto, the native religion. With Japanese pragmatism about mixing religion, the temples often included a Shinto shrine, frequently dedicated to the fox god.

Sometimes Watanabe would walk along the shore, at every opportunity attempting to draw the natives into conversation about the Seikan tunnel. The undersea tunnel seemed the logical place to start. It was the only point of activity on the otherwise farming-fishing-timber area that bordered the Strait. It had been the only thing to disrupt the sleepy humdrum of Japanese life in the area.

The Seikan tunnel had cost billions upon billions of yen. The official cost was pegged at 700 billion yen, but many believed that was a low figure. A geological survey was done in 1946; work actually started in 1964. Grand opening for the tunnel, which links the large island of Honshu with the northern island of Hokkaido, was March 13, 1988. Its length, 33.1 miles, made it the longest railroad tunnel in Japan, excluding subways.

The tunnel was meant to replace regular ferry service that dated from 1908 between the two islands. It replaced the service, but by the time it opened, air travel had become so popular that there were suggestions that the tunnel be sealed off, or used for a giant mushroom farm. There were those within government who fought a winning battle for its preservation. A penalty in human life was made to construct the tunnel. Officially, thirty-three workers died, but there were persistent rumors that the toll was substantially higher.

The old shopworn stories about the tunnel that had sprouted over its years of construction were rehashed for Watanabe. What surprised him was the fact that some of the people who should know quite a lot about the tunnel seemed close-mouthed. They seemed more eager to talk about anything else when the subject of the tunnel was brought up. The detective felt there was something there, but he couldn't get a grip on it.

Frustrated, Watanabe packed his small bag and walked into the kitchen of the _ryokan_ to settle his bill. He was wearing comfortable sandals, cotton trousers and a blue and green sports shirt, befitting a tourist. There were only two guest rooms in the small inn that commanded a fine view of the strait. "This is a peaceful place," Watanabe said to the innkeeper-housewife, who hurried to serve him green tea.

"Thank you," Watanabe-san. "It is peaceful on this day, but it is not always so. The waters of the strait are dangerous."

"Yes, I suppose. I read where some scuba divers drowned not long ago."

"Death is no stranger to these waters. Our only son was one of the victims. It was a blow to both of us, of course. But my husband has never really been the same since. The boy was the gem of his life."

Watanabe sipped his tea and wondered how long ago the boy had drowned. The woman was not young. "He fell into the water as a child?" Watanabe questioned.

"No, nothing like that. He was an adult, almost thirty and soon to be married. Jiro was a skilled engineer."

"I'm sorry," Watanabe said. "Was he drowned?"

"No. Not drowned. Few of the men who died were drowned. We don't know exactly how Jiro was killed. Some puzzling things happened in the tunnel. We were well compensated for his death. They were not stingy."

"But weren't you anxious to learn the details of where and when he died? And how?"

"I was," the woman said seriously. "But my husband told me not to ask foolish questions. Jiro is gone and there's an end to it. But there wasn't an end to it for my husband. He took to the sake cup and is seldom sober. Before that accident my husband was a hard worker."

"I've been here two days. I don't believe I've seen your husband," Watanabe said.

"He's been visiting his sister in the next village. But he'll be back this afternoon." The women shook her head in sadness. "And if you are here, you'll see him. He asks everyone who stops to drink with him. But I suppose you'll be going."

"No," Watanabe said quickly. "My doctor told me to rest and this is a fine place for it. I will stay at least another day."

"Huh," the woman said cheerfully. "You look young and healthy to me. Why should one so young need rest?"

"Big city life is fast paced. And one must listen to a doctor. They are trained to protect us."

"Perhaps. And I notice you are wearing sandals. Jiro was about your age when he died and I would scold him for the same lapse."

Watanabe looked at his feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't wear these on tatami."

"Let's hope your feet were bare in your tatami room. And you know we provide slippers for our guests."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

She beamed and said, "There is miso and rice for breakfast."

During the morning Watanabe found a pay phone and called Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata. He asked the old battler to find out the details of the death of Jiro Ikeda who died during the construction of the Seikan tunnel. He said he would call back for the information by late afternoon. After that he visited a sake shop and bought a liter of first class sake. Tonight would be party time at the _ryokan_.

Returning to the _ryokan_ after making his second call to his boss, Watanabe had no difficulty befriending Ikeda-san. It was just after five and the innkeeper had already had a drink or two judging by his breath. "My wife tells me you are here for your health, Watanabe-san."

"My doctor has told me to rest. This is a very peaceful place. You can't imagine how crowded and noisy Osaka can be."

"A drop of sake will help relax you. Come in and have a drink with me."

"It would be a pleasure," Watanabe said, then followed the man into the house, expecting to go to the kitchen. Instead he was led to a small tatami room that contained only a low table and a wooden cabinet.

Ikeda got sake cups and a bottle from the cabinet and placed them on the table. "This room is off limits to my wife," the man chuckled. "She is not one for drinking, but she is a good wife. An obedient wife." He filled the cups and they said " _Kampai_ ," then downed the liquid, the only true Japanese drink. Watanabe savored the aromatic taste. It crossed his mind that he could become very fond, too fond, of this evening ritual.

They talked of fishing, about vacations at the shore, about the higher meaning of Mount Fuji, about anything that came up except the Seikan tunnel. He must get the older man talking about the tunnel while the older man was still able to talk.

After more than an hour the detective went to his room and returned with the fresh bottle of sake. "My turn to treat," he laughed. The innkeeper was tomato faced, and Watanabe could feel his own face growing warm. He poured them each some sake and said it was remarkable that the Japanese people had been able to construct something like the Seikan tunnel, the longest in the world! And it was not just one tunnel, but there were auxiliary tunnels for escape and other purposes.

He had picked the right moment. Ikeda went through the entire story of the tunnel. He had lived in this house since he was a child and remembered the first geological survey team who visited the area during the difficult times after the war. Finally, he talked about his son, Jiro, and the immense loss he felt, and still felt. And what great work Jiro had been involved in and what a great future Jiro would have had if he had lived. Then he fell silent.

Watanabe refilled their cups. The second phone call to Shibata had brought him the information that there was no record of Jiro Ikeda having been a fatality while working on the tunnel. He urged more sake on the older man. Watanabe picked his words carefully. "Your son was more than just a tunnel engineer, wasn't he?"

Ikeda nodded assent, then asked, "How did you know?"

"I have friends who worked on the tunnel. I know that some things are not as they seem."

"It's good to talk to someone who knows," Ikeda said. "My wife suspected something. I had to order her silence. She doesn't know, no one could guess, how the wrong word to the wrong person could destroy the plan." The elder Ikeda had to fight back tears when he said, "No one knows what a great hero my son really was. They think he was just another victim of some sort of construction accident. But he was with them, he was with the _Fuurin Kazan_. And you know what that is. You are the first one who has dropped such a hint. Did you know my son?"

"No, but I have been told that he was a brave man." Watanabe poured more sake and tried to think what to say next. He did know _Fuurin Kazan_. He had not missed that much of Japanese history. The four kanji, or ideograms – the symbols the Chinese use for writing that have been used by the Japanese for many years – had been joined by a Chinese tactician named Sonshi who was thought to have been born in the fifth century B.C. In the mid fifteen hundreds, also called Japan's warlike age, a Japanese warlord, Shingen Takeda, revived the four kanji on his battle flag.

The ideograms, or kanji, that compose _Fuurin Kazan_ mean, wind, forest, fire and mountain. Soldiers under that banner were said to have been swift as the wind, as silent as the forest, fierce in their attack as fire, and could stand like a mountain against their enemies.

Watanabe said nothing and Ikeda babbled on about the _Fuurin Kazan_ until Watanabe was certain there was a modern organization that rallied under that ancient banner, that Jiro Ikeda was a member, and that he had been doing some secret work on the tunnel apart from the regular construction.

Just before the older man passed out he said his son had been such a trusted member of the _Fuurin Kazan_ that he had met its leader, the Seventh Samurai.

The Seventh Samurai, Watanabe mused, more ancient history. Seven Samurai, or Seven Spears, had led Hideyoshi's troops to victory against Katsuie Shibata in the sixteenth century. Well after WWII the great Akira Kurosawa had directed a film called "The Seven Samurai." In turn, an American western had been made using the theme of the Kurosawa film. And now, Watanabe reflected, regarding the drunken man sleeping with his head on the low table, we have another episode, not seven samurai, but a man who regards himself as the Seventh Samurai. Watanabe wanted to meet him, possibly share a sake cup.

He rose, slid back the shoji, stepped into the hall and called, " _Okaasan_ , I fear your husband has had a drop too much." There was a stirring in the kitchen where the woman had been sipping green tea, watching TV and waiting to roll her husband into his futon.

CHAPTER 16: Punishment at Sea

Sam awoke to a gentle nudge of a crewman. Sunlight was streaming through a porthole and the seas seemed calm. Sam had been ill for the first few days, even in relatively calm waters, but his system had adjusted to the rhythm of the vessel. "Captain wants to see you, son."

Yes, of course, the captain wanted to see him about his discovery in the hold. Maybe the skipper had already been down there to check the cargo. This could be an important day. Sam pulled on his clothing and followed the crewman to the captain's cabin. Nat was nowhere to be seen. The captain looked grim when Sam entered the cabin, followed by the crewman. For an old tub, the cabin was spacious and well appointed. Probably the only way they could keep an able man on board. The mate, Meir Jacobson, and the radioman were seated to one side. The captain motioned Sam to a chair just in front of his desk.

"I'm sorry to have to call you here today, Sam, but we have some serious business to discuss. You've caused us considerable trouble."

Captain Silverman looked at Sam, then through an open porthole at the ocean. The sky was crystal clear, a soft breeze was blowing, veering from the southwest to the southeast, then back. Several other merchant ships and perhaps a fisherman or two could be seen, some quite close, some hull down. During the night they had lost the storm and steamed into a busy shipping lane.

"You mean about my discovery in the hold," Sam said brightly. "It is important, isn't it?"

"Very important," the captain said with a touch of irony. "Have you noticed anything unusual about this ship?"

"It's very old," Sam said, searching his mind for a good answer. "It needs maintenance. In fact I thought crewmen on a voyage like this spent time chipping paint and painting rust spots. But we don't do much of anything."

"The crew is all Israeli," the captain continued. "That's very unusual. If you've talked to them, you may have learned they're all university graduates with a sprinkling of advanced degrees."

"They do seem above average, better than I expected for a crew of a ship like this."

"Truly," the captain said with a sigh. "We had picked the crew long before we were to cast off. Your father, a very influential man, insisted that you come aboard at the last minute. For some reason, God knows why, no other ship would do." Sam started to reply, but was silenced by a wave of the captain's hand. The other men sat silently, their faces serious, hardly blinking an eye.

"We are all Israelis and, with some exceptions, we are members of the same organization. You might call it a conservative group, you might call it a right-wing group. In fact you would likely call it a group of fanatics. But the truth, if it be seen clearly, and we do see it with a lucid eye, is that we will be the salvation of Israel. And you have discovered a certain deadly military cargo that we carry, a cargo that each of the others is keenly aware of. In fact, it is this cargo that will place the hand of Israel on the helm of world leadership." The captain paused and looked at the other men in the compartment. "Sometimes I feel that we are guided by an unseen hand, that Jehovah is on the quarterdeck."

"You already knew about the cargo?" Sam said. He seemed to pale through his newly acquired tan.

"Know about it! It is the purpose of this voyage! It is the purpose of our lives! It is the basis for Israel's future place in the sun. Know about it! Of course we know about it!"

\Sam looked from one face to another. "You are trying to overthrow the government, or something like that?"

"Nothing like that," the captain said, now calm after his brief outburst. "We have the time to explain this to you and we thought it our duty to explain things to you, despite your youth. You know the situation. Israel is a tiny nation surrounded by the hostile millions. Israel needs land and must expand to prosper. There is no other way. We must take land and carve out the nation we deserve."

"But you would have to defeat many other nations. It would mean the death of maybe millions of Arabs, quite a few Israelis, our allies would turn against us. It sounds insane."

"But it is not insane," the captain sighed again, but continued with determination. "A few Arabs must die. Who knows how many? A few others must die and a few Israelis must die. And for good purpose. We are an intellectual race. It is our hand that should be on the global tiller. There are Jewish cab drivers in New York who are smarter than the president of the United States."

"There are cab drivers in every country and of every nationality than are smarter than the president of the United States," Sam responded. "The president of the United States doesn't even know how many countries there are in Africa."

"Neither do I," the captain responded. "How many are there?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe fifty-three. Could I ask what you call your organization?"

"There is no name for it yet. If no one knows, there is no secret to escape." He eyed the boy, uncertain of how to continue. He had given as full an explanation as he thought the occasion warranted.

"You want me to join?" Sam asked. He had already decided to refuse. They wouldn't dare harm him because of his father's position. And he would remain on board and be the voice of moderation, the voice of logic among the rabid right. But Nat? Was Nat one of them?

"We don't want you to join," the captain said. "We could never trust you. This was an important decision and we had the time, so we all agreed. We're going to have to kill you. We hoped the explanation, that you are in a way dying for Israel, a martyr for your country, would help. That's the decision and it will be carried out."

"May God have mercy on you," the mate intoned.

"Oh, no!" Sam cried, looking from one to another like a frightened rabbit. "You can't kill me. My father won't allow it. He's very big in politics. He could bring down the government over something like this. You can't do it!" He stamped his foot for emphasis.

"Bring down the government," the captain smiled. "We're going to change the order of the world. The third temple will be built. Think of that."

"My family's secular. There aren't that many observant Jews. The third temple is just another building to us. Temple schmemple."

"It's just a symbol," the captain said. "But Israel's living on a powder keg. The Arabs are outbreeding us inside the old borders and the numbers multiply in the occupied territories. There won't be any Israel as we know it in fifty years. We're doomed."

"But peace is just around the corner," the youth pleaded.

"We lost our chance in 1903," the captain said quietly. "The British offered us Uganda in that year. If we had accepted it we would be sitting pretty today. Since you're going to die, I might as well be frank with you. What we're creating here is the third Holocaust. And it will be a doozy."

"The third," the boy exclaimed. "When was the second?"

"The carpet bombing of Dresden, of course. That's common knowledge. Some say Hiroshima, but we discount that. But enough talk. Tie the boy up."

The mate and two others wrestled the boy to the floor and bound him hand and foot. The man who had led Sam to the captain's quarters placed a noose around his neck and asked the captain if he should go ahead and strangle him. All the while, Sam was cursing, screaming, squirming and invoking the name of his father and the Knesset. "Snug it up," the captain said, "but just to quiet him. We'd better get the doctor up here."

When the doctor arrived he advised them not to strangle Sam because the rope would leave telltale marks and an autopsy would show strangulation.

"We planned to toss him overboard, Doc," the captain said. All the while Sam was making choking noises and gasping for breath and flailing his feet. "Shut up you little coward," the captain said, giving the boy a swift kick.

"Better loosen the rope," the doctor said. When it was loose Sam gasped for breath, then choked out, "Doctor, you're a healer, a life giver! Not an executioner! Not a Nazi!"

"Do what the captain told you. Close your mouth. We're all working here for the good of Israel. You explained it to him, didn't you?" the doctor asked the captain.

"Of course, but he is young. I don't think he grasped the significance of what we're doing. How should we kill him?"

The doctor smiled slightly. "Oddly enough, it is difficult to kill a human being. That sometimes makes my job easier. But you might just toss him overboard and keep your eye on him to make sure he drowns."

"Too risky here. Too much shipping. We'd be seen for certain and someone might just pick him up before he's dead."

"Wait till dark then," the doctor said. "There's no hurry is there?"

"No, but we couldn't watch him after dark. He might float on his back, or find a floating log or something." By this time Sam was sobbing hoarsely while listening to a detailed discussion of the best way to kill him. And where was Nat?

"Tie a line to his feet and dangle him in the water behind the ship. When you're sure he's dead, a half hour will do it for certain, haul him in, cut the rope away and give him a toss. The sharks will probably make a snack of him."

"We'll do it," the captain said, then turned to the mate. "Put him in some empty locker. Don't give him anything. Do what the doctor suggested. Probably an hour or two before dawn would be best. We'll be well out of any busy shipping lanes by that time. And keep him out of my sight. I can't understand his childish whining. His father! His life! What about Israel and its future?" The captain gave the boy a light kick in the head, not enough to bruise him, then left him to the mate.

CHAPTER 17: Watanabe and Shibata Have Lunch

On his return to Osaka, Watanabe immediately scheduled a lunch with his boss, Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata. The leathery old man was intensely interested in the case and the covert way that was necessary to conduct the investigation added another dash of spice.

Oddly enough, Watanabe learned that a man who called himself the Seventh Samurai and the organization known as _Fuurin Kazan_ – wind, forest, fire and mountain – were not unknown to Shibata.

"Some years ago – of course I was a much younger man with less responsibility – I learned on fairly good authority that there was such a man and such an organization, and it possibly had penetrated our central government, Tokyo that is, at a fairly high level. Why there was such an organization and what its purpose might be, why the childish code words, I knew not." The old man shrugged.

"Then this organization would have an old history, going back to possibly the inception of the tunnel," Watanabe said.

"I suppose it could," Shibata agreed, "but I knew nothing about the tunnel. I knew nothing about the organization, but as a proper police officer, I reported it to my superior. A few days later I was called into the office of a much higher placed man, a man well connected in Tokyo, I might add. He told me there might be such an organization, but assured me if there was there was no sinister intent. That is, it would do nothing to harm the Japanese people, Japan and the Emperor. On the contrary, he said if such a group existed, its purpose very likely was to restore the greater glory of Japan and possibly do certain natural things that the people and the government had been unable to do because of the Constitution inflicted upon us by the Blue-Eyed Shogun."

Watanabe smiled. "He used the term Blue-Eyed Shogun?"

"Yes," Shibata replied, also creasing a grin. "I remember the conversation distinctly because of its bizarre characteristics." Watanabe had not heard the term in years, but he knew it applied to Gen. Douglas MacArthur who was in fact a rather benign dictator of Japan in the immediate post war era. "And I did what I was told to do. Forget that I had ever heard of the man or the organization. I have done that until this moment. And I might add that I have never had a moment's trouble from Tokyo, or any place of authority, even though I have stepped outside the bounds from time to time."

"Then you believe I have been investigating some super-secret patriotic organization that has only the good of Japan as its intent?" Watanabe felt a little sick.

"I am still a policeman. I was called off the scent the first time. I had no evidence. But I did have an order from a highly respected superior, now dead I might add. But this is a different time and organizations can change, improve, or become corrupt. Let me ask you, what are we dealing with?"

"Meaning no offense," Watanabe began slowly, "but since that early incident, you said you have done some over-the-top things and never had as much as a reprimand. Is that so?" He got a nod of assent. "Then you may be under the protection of this very organization, a reward for your forgetfulness."

"Touché. The very thought in my mind. And here we are, years later. Perhaps I can make amends, if amends are to be made. What do we have so far?"

Watanabe searched his brain. "The mysterious death of one scuba diver and possibly two more near the tunnel site. At least that's where they went under. The death of the American who reported their death. He was first paid to get out of Japan, then, as an afterthought the victim of a contract killing."

"I didn't know he was dead," Shibata said.

"I was going to tell you. It happened shortly after Nana and I talked with him, shortly after he told his story. A member of an American motorcycle gang shot him. It was a kill-for-hire situation."

"How did you learn about this, Watanabe-san?"

"Well, Sir, it came about in a strange way. In fact, I'd rather not say right now if that's OK. " He didn't want to lie to the old man. He didn't think he could successfully. And he didn't want to say that he was present at the slaying, then prostrate on the desert floor while Nana shot John Wayne."

"I understand," Shibata said. "What else do you have?"

"I was blocked when I attempted to learn about Ben Hardy, the scuba diver, being virtually deported from Japan. Then I was given a remote assignment to get me off the case."

"And it all adds up to what?"

"I don't know. But I don't like it. There's also the death of Jiro Ikeda who worked on the tunnel. He was not listed as an employee according to your findings, and his death was never officially reported. Yet his family was well compensated. During my trip I heard stories of trains going into the tunnel loaded with odd supplies and coming out empty. Nighttime movements that are hard to explain. The financial records of the tunnel have never been clear. It took years to complete, billions of yen. It could be a major rip-off, a systematic looting of the national treasury."

"And for what purpose?" Shibata asked.

"Why, money for money's sake," Watanabe replied.

"I don't think so. Those people highly placed, who have been highly placed for many years, the Seventh Samurai for example, has no need for money. The Japanese have money, but they don't know how to spend it. That is not a secret. Everyone knows how foolishly they spend it on worthless, expensive items. Something about this situation stinks. How do you propose we proceed?"

"For one thing," Watanabe said, "I think the thing, whatever it is, is coming to a head. You had heard about the organization, others had also no doubt, including my source, Ikeda-san. We can plod and work and pull a string out here and be blocked there, but eventually the powers that be would eventually bring us down. But there is a quick way to get the word out. I can put every scrap of information I have into a simple press release and distribute it to the Japanese and international press. If I put it on the web it cannot be blocked. Something should crack, someone should talk."

Shibata smiled. "A very quick and dangerous fix. I have pulled strings to get you back on the job within a week. Those higher-ups we speak of may want you on the job, under control, rather than roaming around at large, finding out all manner of clues. But now I suggest you hold your press conference and release your dogs before you are reinstated. _Gambatte_ (you can do it). You would still be a policeman, but on leave. We must be able to put some distance between us, if need be.

Watanabe raised his hands in a so-be-it gesture. "It'll be good to be back and I can be ready in three days. I would like to announce the press conference about 10 a.m. and hold it about 2 p.m., say in a downtown hotel."

"You have had this in your mind?"

"Driving back from the Strait. Last night, lying awake in bed. The thought of going public with something like this, after what has already happened, I mean, it wasn't an easy decision. I know there could be consequences.

The large oval plates of beef curry rice before the two men had grown cold as they talked. Shibata picked up the large spoon, always used for the favorite Japanese lunch. "We'd better eat."

CHAPTER 18: The Pride of Dakar

Eli Kotcher, head of the Massad, was holding one of his frequent huddles with Israeli Prime Minister Mordechai Baker during this time of profound crisis. "He won't talk, he can't talk, but we've got the culprit. The people who did this were incredibly good."

"This man, this scientist, admits full complicity in the plot. He admits that, and possibly he alone is responsible for the theft of twenty-five nuclear warheads, yet he doesn't know who took them, or where they are?" Baker was ready to tear his hair out.

"That's right. He's a member of a group. As far as we can learn it has no name. That's for security purposes. It's also split into small units, like cells. No one knows who anyone else is, but they're right wing. I mean way out. I think they think they've figured someway to start WWIII and have Israel come out on top."

"But where in hell are the warheads?" Baker demanded, slapping his desk so hard it made his hand burn.

"I don't know, but we have a lead on a ship – an old freighter called the Pride of Dakar. It arrived from Italy, apparently with no cargo. The crew, mixed nationalities, was dismissed and given tickets back to Naples. Fortunately, three Italians got involved with some girls here and hung around. Our boys talked to them and they told a strange tale. In Naples the ship was refitted so the entire cargo deck could be removed. In just a few hours time these large bolts or nuts could be unscrewed and the entire deck removed. None of them had ever seen anything like it before. They could figure out no reason for it. The cargo hatches are large enough to handle anything stored in the hold."

Mordechai Baker shook his head in fatigue and frustration. He had missed entire nights of sleep lately. "I can see no reason for it either. But the trick is to find the ship. Where is it?"

"Let me finish. Our experts believe the removal of the cargo deck would facilitate unloading a delicate cargo, particularly under difficult circumstances. Say the ship didn't come into a regular port for some reason, or had to unload at night with little light."

"I see," said the prime minister, "and where's the ship now? I assume it's already sailed."

"Oh, yes, days ago. It's supposedly bound for Madras, India, and then to Jakarta. This type of vessel, a tramp if you will, doesn't plan too far ahead. Its owners are continually cabling instructions."

"And the owners in this case?"

"Some blind office in Spain. It's really a secretarial service. They agreed recently to receive mail and phone calls for a man, presumably the owner, a Señor García, who cannot be located, of course."

"Of course. And what else?" Baker was coming alive. Kotcher seemed to be onto something.

"Two of the Italian seamen saw the new crew arrive on board. They all appeared to be Israeli and a cut above your standard seadog. Probably all college grads dressed up in what they fancied as sailor's togs. Some carried computers. No yo ho ho, or kegs of rum. Of course the master, the mate, the radioman and the engine crew all had papers. But a couple of these had come out of retirement, and the others were accustomed to far better vessels."

"And the papers on the crew?"

"All lost or misplaced. We've been over the offices and sifted through the files time after time. There are no explanations. The papers are missing. We don't have a list of the crew. But the vessel was seen in the Gulf of Aden. I can only presume it's in the Indian Ocean now."

"We are in full pursuit?"

"As full as we can be under full secrecy. Every Israeli vessel has been advised to look for it. The U.S. Navy, which keeps a fleet in the area, has an alert. Apparently a member of the Knesset pulled some strings to get his son on board at the last minute. We don't think he knew anything about what was going on, but the captain was forced to take the boy along. So we've told our allies that the son of a very important Israeli citizen who has fallen terminally ill is aboard. Missions of mercy are always popular."

"That sounds good, Eli. But still, it's not like a military alert. If the U.S. Navy was really scouring the seas..."

"This should work, Chief. We've got to play it cozy."

"I suppose. Do anything you can. What if we do spot this ship? And we certainly must."

"We have our commando units ready to go at a moment's notice. We're trying to position them on the scene and have asked permission of the U.S. Navy to place them on the fleet carrier."

"Very good. I suppose we'll have to tell the Americans something at some point. But at a very high level. Don't skimp on commandos, or equipment. The life of Israel. Or better yet, the world, may be at stake."

"No problem, Chief. We've got enough force to take over three freighters. When Israel strikes, it strikes hard!"

Baker rolled his eyes. "You'd best find something to strike before getting carried away. If we ever resolve this thing, I want to see some housecleaning done in your department. Someone in there must be in league with these people. I'll want lie detector tests, starting with you."

"I understand."

"Over the years we've had some unusual gone-missings in Israel. Of course there are the usual unsolved killings, runaway husbands and so forth, but engineers and scientists have dropped out of sight, like off the face of the earth."

"I'm aware of that."

"One common thread among these professional people, Eli. They were all either ultra-conservative, you might even say fanatical about our religion, or they were members of extreme right-wing groups. Whatever is going on took considerable long-range planning. You make up a list of those good people who have gone missing, some with their wives, and explore the possibility of a link."

"I'll get someone on it, Chief."

"Now tell me this, to where is the Pride of Dakar bound?"

"I don't know."

"Then maybe it's already there."

"That could be."

"And what about these hordes of the faithful who continue to attempt to storm Temple Mount thus tying up a significant portion of our military. Are any of them involved in this plot?"

"I think, yes," Kotcher replied. "It may be that the leaders of those religious militants who want the third temple might be in on it in some way, not that they're totally informed. But they have been told enough to keep up the pressure as a diversion."

"Tell me this, Eli. Do you think Israel will survive until 2050 under the present circumstance?"

Kotcher shook his head grimly. "I don't know, Chief. We should have taken Uganda."

"I'm tempted to agree. But we must do the best we can with what we have. If we master this crisis we might want to move with alacrity on several other fronts. There are things that we haven't done that we should have done."

***

On board the Pride of Dakar the hour was just past midnight. Nat had been busy. He had taken the key to the locker where Sam was imprisoned from a board on the bridge. He had determined the ship's position, then smuggled extra gear on board one of the life rafts. The ship was asleep and making good time through five-foot swells. Two men were on the bridge.

Nat moved stealthily along the railing, paused to make certain he was at the right locker, then tapped softly. Sam, his eyes red from tears, thought his captors had come to trail him over the side, then abandon his body at sea when they were certain he was dead. He had lost all track of time and could not even struggle. He was tied hand and foot.

Nat unlocked the padlock, opened the hatch a crack and said, "It's me, Nat. I'll get you out of here. Are you there?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God you've come, Nat. You can't imagine. They planned to kill me."

" _Shveig_! (quiet). Can you walk?"

"No. I'm tied. Did you hear? They were going to kill me. Are we going to take over the ship?"

"No. Now be quiet." He moved inside the locker and, by feeling his way, cut the ropes from Sam's hands and feet. "Now get up and follow me on deck. For God's sake be quiet, or we'll both be dead." The boy stood on shaky legs and managed to follow Nat on deck. The locker was relocked and the key tossed over the side. Nat led Sam to a nearby life raft set at an angle in order to easily slide into the water. He handed the boy a life jacket. "Put this on. We'll have to get out of here on a raft."

"A raft?" Sam whispered with amazement. "We're hundreds of miles from shore. We could die on a raft. If we could go to the radio room and send a message to my father..."

"For the love of God, Sam. You're lucky to be alive. This is our only hope. The moment I cut the raft free and you see it slide toward the water, jump. If you're separated from the raft by only a few feet the currents or the wind could carry it away. Get on the raft. There's a loose line. Whoever gets on first, make sure the other one gets on. You ready?"

"I guess so." The boy sounded uncertain.

"A moment's hesitation and you're either dead on board, or dead in the water. Take your choice. I'll jump with the raft, anyway."

"OK, I'm ready." He crouched at the railing as Nat sawed through the line. The raft slipped over the side and the two went over just behind it. First the raft, then the two hit the water with a dull splash, too small a sound to be heard from the enclosed bridge. The hull of the Pride of Dakar slipped by them, steaming south, far from the nearest shipping lane.

Nat and Sam, clambering aboard from opposite sides, were left in the phosphorescent wake of the old freighter. They were alone in a small raft on a very large ocean. Nat wondered if he had done the right thing. He had followed his heart.

***

An hour before dawn Captain Silverman was awakened by a heavy hammering on his cabin door. It was the mate, Meir Jacobson, with the bad news. "The boy's gone."

"That stupid little wimp?"

"Yes, Sir. He and a life raft. And, I think, Nat Lowe. We've been searching for the better part of an hour. The locker was locked, but empty. The key is gone. It had been on the bridge keyboard. Nat must have freed the boy, and the two of them left on the raft. Do you want to search for them, Captain?"

Silverman attempted to shake the sleep from his head. He was a night person, an owl, not a lark. "Ask somebody to bring me a cup of coffee, Meir."

"Right away, Sir."

The captain was halfway through a heavy crockery mug of steaming black coffee when a crewman came to the cabin with an envelope. "A letter for the captain. We found it near the bottom of Nat Lowe's duffel." The man passed the envelope to the mate who in turn passed it to the captain.

The captain pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and spread it on the table.

"To Captain Silverman: It is with deep regret, but not dishonor, that I have aided Sam to escape from the ship. As you probably know by now, the two of us have taken a raft and gone over the side. We may die on the sea, I don't know. _Got vaist_ (God knows). But I couldn't let the boy be executed, nor could I publicly defend him. We love each other. In Sam I thought I might have found a permanent relationship. This is just to explain why I have done what I have done. I am still 100 percent loyal to our cause. On the raft, I will try to talk sense to the boy, make absolutely sure that his lips are sealed. If I am not convinced of this fact, I will seal them myself. I have hidden a revolver away on the raft for this purpose. I hope you will trust me. Meir Jacobson is fully equipped to handle the project for which I was brought along. Yours in love of Israel and love of justice. Nat Lowe."

Silverman wearily flipped the letter to Jacobson then silently sipped his coffee, now grown cold, until the other man had finished reading. "Can you handle the scuttling job, Meir?"

"I think so, Captain. This letter clears things up. Nat approached me last night and talked about scuttling the ship at some length. He told me how it should be done and left a sheaf of written instructions. Said he wanted to be sure there was backup if anything happened to him."

"And you can do it?" He looked the mate squarely in the eye.

"I'm certain I can. The people who meet us, the Japanese, will have the place marked out. They'll tell me exactly where to drop the two anchors. Then it's a matter of opening the port and starboard sea cocks at the same time. Most of the crew will be off the ship by that time. The superstructure will have been sealed to serve as sort of a flotation device to keep the ship more or less erect. But it's best we do have some list when we hit the bottom. Makes offloading easier. I can do it."

"So, Nat Lowe was gay. I never suspected. They're supposed to be poor security risks."

"I've heard that," Jacobson replied. "We've got one foot in the academic and intellectual world in this project. None of these guys act like seamen."

The captain smiled. "There are two guys out there on deck now wearing phylactery." He referred to small leather boxes containing scripture quotes that are strapped to the left arm and forehead of the devoutly faithful for morning worship.

"It's been a headache to feed the kosher boys," Jacobson said. "Keeping a kosher galley on an old tub like this is next to impossible. And those rules are so damn silly. You know the food's not particularly wholesome."

"I know that. I read somewhere that more than 200,000 products, including their many ingredients in more than 5,500 factories in almost seventy countries have been certified kosher by the Orthodox Union. It's a big business, and like many big businesses, there's money to be made. But you talk wholesome fitness food. Oreo cookies and all the ingredients. Read the ingredient list on some of these products. A blue zillion. There's a rabbinic administrator who oversees the certification. A single flavor might have fifteen ingredients, each of them has to be certified kosher."

"It's idiotic," the mate replied.

"Idiotic, perhaps, but a test of faith. I mean, you believe the Passover story, you believe the creation tale. It's our religion. In the final analysis, we're all Jews, kosher or not. Three Cheese Pizza Bagels, Ice Cream Classic Cake Log, Snickers bar – those are three of the kosher items my kids love even though we're not a kosher family."

"I've heard that getting an item certified kosher can add an economic growth spurt."

The captain agreed. "To a large company like General Mills or Nabisco the kosher certificate on a single product can translate into not thousands, but millions of dollars. Consider this –- Seventh Day Adventists, Muslims, vegetarians, the lactose intolerant, health nuts and maybe a few others believe in kosher for better or for worse."

"So be it. That's what makes the world go round. So I eat treif (non-kosher), me, a fanatic Israelite. Then you don't want to search for Nat and the boy?"

"No. For one thing, I believe Nat. Also, they're off the shipping lanes. They could easily die. Another thing, we don't have time. There might already be a search, at least informally, for the Pride of Dakar. So... we'll change her into the Glory as we go south. We go to work at sunset. Toss the false superstructure in the stern overboard to alter her silhouette, paint the decks a pristine white, trim in blue, hang a platform over the stern and have the new plate welded over the old. The Glory will be a Panamanian registered ship with all papers properly filed in Bristol."

"Bristol, U.K.?"

"Sure. The morning sun will find us out of our cocoon for the glory of Israel."

"And the glory of our Japanese friends."

"Of course. Our partners in global destruction. I pray for those millions who are about to die. You should too."

"It's troubling, Captain. We've talked and talked, pondered and talked again. We can save Israel, or we can let Israel die. Maybe we should have taken Uganda, but it's too late now."

"We are _bashert_ (fated). Pass the word for the men to get as much sleep as possible before sundown."

CHAPTER 19: Watanabe's Press Conference

The night before Taro Watanabe was to hold his press conference he had a call at home. A male voice said, "G'dye Myte."

There was immediate recognition: an Australian known in Osaka pub circles as simply "Digger," who Watanabe was certain ran the Kansai CIA desk. The two had worked together in the past, although Digger had never revealed his true occupation. He thought it too clever by half for the CIA to place a non-American, unassociated with its local consulate, in charge of the station.

The Kansai, the giant industrial center in western Japan, of which Osaka is the hub, is often overlooked in favor of bustling, glitzy, government-centered Tokyo. But the Kansai holds the industrial muscle plus the cultural wellspring of Japan.

Digger asked Watanabe to meet him early the next morning on the large downtown island across from the Yodoyabashi subway station near city hall. Watanabe agreed.

By the look of the wet patches on his sweats, Digger had been jogging when Watanabe showed up. "You look perfect, a _gaijin_ running along the river bank. No one would look twice," Watanabe said.

"Thanks, myte. It's a bit of a quest to blend into the Orient, but with a few big hotels and a handful of western businessmen, not impossible."

"What's the occasion?"

"I wish I knew, Watanabe. Something's happening and I thought I'd take the odd shot in your direction, you with the Flying Squad and the foreign connections. It's coming mostly from Mossad, the Israel spy types, but they've managed to stir up a few other possums. Everyone of their stations around the globe seems to be buzzing with activity looking for something, but no one seems to know what. Maybe they don't even know! A bit maddening. And they won't share, the greedy lot." Digger was in his usual good humor.

Watanabe shook his head. "Can't help you, Digger. I'm working on something maybe equally mysterious, but I see no connection with Mossad. And by nightfall, I'm hoping my thing isn't a secret anymore. I'm so frustrated, I'm planning to hold a press conference at the Nikko this afternoon and spill my guts."

"You're joking? A Japanese cop going public?"

"Seeking the public's help. Somebody out there knows more than I do and I'd like to talk to them."

"I'll have an eye on the tube," Digger said. "Just wanted to put the Mossad bug in your ear in case something turns up." The tall Aussie wheeled and jogged off along the river path. He was big, Digger was. Of course everything's bigger in Oz.

Watanabe started on his way, then paused when his eye caught a well-dressed man leaning against the wall of the river levee. The man, who pretended to be reading a day-old paper, was watching him, of that Watanabe was certain. No time for that now. He hurried off to call a long list of news media and invite them to the Nikko at two. His message would be: Osaka Detective Taro Watanabe, now on leave of absence, has an announcement that could involve a national scandal.

By noon Watanabe had completed his calling. He had a bowl of noodles in a stand-and-eat, then hurried to Shibata's office, his sheaf of press releases under his arm.

The secretary waved Watanabe in immediately. The old policeman was seated behind his desk and two other men, middle-aged and expensively dressed, were seated nearby. "These men are here on an urgent mission from Tokyo, Watanabe-san," Shibata said formally. "You might introduce yourself."

Watanabe bowed and gave his name and position. The men rose, bowed slightly to indicate the smallest degree of respect and introduced themselves as Yamada-san and Nawata-san, both special agents from the finance minister's office in Tokyo.

"We are sorry to sweep down upon you with such haste, Watanabe-san, but we have learned of your press conference on a matter of, did you say, 'national scandal?'"

"I did, Yamada-san, but only possible. The fact is, I myself am searching for information. I simply want to bring some facts to light for public consideration. Possibly someone will come forward, someone who knows more than I do."

"Of course," Yamada replied. "And this package that you carry, these are the press releases?"

"Yes, I plan to go from here to the Nikko Hotel."

"If I may cite higher authority, Watanabe-san. The finance minister's office is deeply concerned over this announcement. So many matters of national scandal involve money. Is it not true?" Yamada was polite to the point of oiliness.

"Of course. My information is available to all. That's the point."

"But improperly released information, rumors if you will, could harm Japan's national posture. Our recent history is not as clean as we might like it. To add a shovel of needless dirt is something I'm certain all responsible citizens would hope to avoid."

"Of course, Yamada-san, I'm acting in what I see to be the best interest of Japan. I always have and always will." Watanabe sensed these men were here to block him, but in what way he did not know. They were nose to nose and out in the open and they did seem to speak with the authority of the finance minister, certainly a national power broker. "What is it you want?"

"We would like you to come to Tokyo and speak with the finance minister. Then, if it seems suitable, your announcement can be made from there. It would only delay the announcement a few hours. Our helicopter is waiting. We go to the airport, we fly to Tokyo, another helicopter, then have you back here in time for dinner. We in Tokyo know how you Osakans love food," the man joked. "Isn't it said that you would bankrupt yourself for a good meal?"

"That's the old saying," Watanabe agreed. He could have added the companion piece: Fights and fires are the flower of Tokyo.

Shibata beamed from behind his desk. He was enjoying the entire confrontation. "But I have already invited the press to the Osaka Nikko at 2 p.m. There is little time."

"We have taken the initiative and cancelled the conference at the finance minister's request. If anyone misses the new notice we will have a person at the Nikko to explain." He then turned to Shibata. "Superintendent Supervisor, I hope you won't object to coming to Tokyo with us also?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," the old man said, rising from behind his desk. Watanabe felt the two had little choice. He suspected that both of the special agents were armed and suspected that there might be others nearby. This was no casual invitation.

True to their word, the quartet arrived in Tokyo by mid-afternoon, although Watanabe suspected they wouldn't be back in Osaka for dinner, hungry enough for bankruptcy or not.

They were escorted immediately to the offices of the finance minister himself, Akira Yoshimoto. Only one special agent, the spokesman Hiroaki Yamada accompanied Watanabe and Shibata into the grand office. Introductions were made all around, and a lovely young lady served green tea and small sweets on exquisite porcelain plates, then withdrew without a word.

There was silence as they sipped, waiting for Yoshimoto to begin the conversation. Finally, he addressed Watanabe directly. "Detective Watanabe, please tell me what you have uncovered that might lead our small island nation into yet another national scandal?"

Watanabe went over the case point by point as well as passing one of the press releases to the minister. Yoshimoto was about to say something when there was a sharp rap on the door, quickly followed by the door opening.

A well-dressed older woman stepped into the room, bowed slightly, too slightly for a woman, and took a seat. "This is my cousin and sometime advisor, Suzuki-san. She is a long-time government executive and highly regarded. She asked to sit in and I saw no reason to bar her." All the visitors made a slight bow in her direction.

Kyoko Suzuki made a quick study of the faces of Watanabe and Shibata, then cast a disturbing look at Yoshimoto. "Where is the woman?"

"The western woman?" Yoshimoto said flippantly. "Who cares?" His polite air dwindled.

"I care," Suzuki snapped. "Where is she?" she demanded of special agent Yamada.

He attempted to force a smile. "Probably you are speaking of Watanabe-san's girlfriend, a _gaijin_ woman. I'm sure she's in Osaka, or that area. He communicated with her when we reached the airport. She is only a girlfriend, Suzuki-san."

Suzuki, her face fierce with anger, almost rose from her seat. "He communicated? In what way?" she demanded.

Yoshimoto, behind his desk, looked plainly troubled. One of the fish had escaped the net and it was his lack of emphasis that was to blame.

Watanabe was certain now he had made the right decision in wrangling the call to Nana. These people, these high government officials, had no intention of letting him, or his boss, return to Osaka. But how? And why? Watanabe listened in fascination. He glanced at Shibata. The old man had instantly grasped the situation and his face was serene, but his eyes danced with glee. Everyone in the room was a player in a high-stakes game.

"Watanabe-san simply said he had a dinner date in Osaka and would make a call and cancel it," Yamada said quietly.

"And you let him?" Suzuki burned.

"Of course. It seemed only polite."

"Tell me about the call. You overheard it, of course."

"I did. I was standing next to him. He used a credit card and a pre-dial card, one of those newer phones. I was surprised he lacked a cell phone. Of course I couldn't see the number."

"What did he say, Yamada-san?" The woman was becoming impatient.

"Unfortunately, he spoke rapid-fire English. Full speed, or faster." He glanced at Watanabe. "He speaks like a native."

"But you speak English. You spent years in the States."

"Yes, but not as good as he. I did tape the conversation and slow it down while we were waiting for an elevator. He said, "I've been detained, let 'em go."

"That was all?"

"Yes, yes, except he started by stating his name. I've been detained merely means he's been held up, or delayed. Just as he said."

Suzuki had spent years studying English and attempting to build up a vocabulary. One of her interests had been the fine meanings of words that made up the language she had studied, but had difficulty speaking. "Can't detained mean something similar to arrested?" she asked.

"Uh," Yamada stammered, "it's possible. Police do detain criminals. But it's common the other way, too."

The angry woman turned to Watanabe. "And what does detained mean to you, Watanabe-san?"

"Delayed. I'm sorry if the call upset you."

"I am not upset. I just like a clear view of things. What did the 'let 'em go' part of the conversation mean?"

"Well, first," Watanabe began, "I'd like you to know that I'm acting as a private citizen. I'm on leave of absence. So this has nothing to do with the Superintendent Supervisor, or the department. I did gather certain information and, on reflection, in flying here from Osaka with your two persuasive special agents – let me say they are most polite – I decided to release the press releases to the press. They should be in the hands of the press at this moment."

Suzuki assumed an aloof look. "In what way have they been released?"

"Fax, telex, the internet and Fed Ex for the foreign press not stationed in Japan."

"You've released this information internationally?" Yoshimoto shouted.

"I'm certain it will harm no one, but merely bring us additional clues," Watanabe replied. A nerve had been struck.

Yoshimoto was about to retort angrily when Suzuki walked to his desk in a calming manner. "Just what information does Watanabe-san's press release contain?" she asked.

"Well," Yoshimoto regained composure. It looks childish on the surface. Something about some club, or organization called the Fuurin Kazan supposedly headed by some idiot who calls himself the Seventh Samurai. It's nothing to get excited about."

"I see that now," Suzuki said, holding the press release. "I'm afraid we made a mistake. We got the twisted report that you two, plus the girlfriend, might be doing something to harm the government. You know how rumors get mixed up from mouth to mouth. You'll excuse my intemperate outburst. But when the government of Japan is in peril, I'm a patriot."

"Yes, as I am," Watanabe said, pretending to buy her lame excuse. It had been an awkward moment. "I'm sorry if we caused you any trouble."

"There was no trouble," Yoshimoto assured the two, diffusing the tension with an upbeat smile. "In fact, my office will personally take this matter under investigation, although I doubt that much will come of it. As I've said before, much of the recent scandal in Japan is linked to money, which happens to fall into my domain. But this first disclosure of such an organization and such a man, without substantiation, would only seem a barroom story. But we will get to the bottom of it."

Shibata, who had remained silent, couldn't resist putting in a word. "Many years ago, Yoshimoto-san, I heard of this organization and of this Seventh Samurai. I was told by a high-ranking member of my department that it indeed might exist, but if it did, it existed for patriotic purposes that were above suspicion. I followed his advice and kept my mouth shut at that time. Now we are not certain what purpose, or course, this organization might take, but there is a suspicion of murder. Murder is against the law and falls into my domain. What I hadn't revealed before is this. At the same time I also heard that there was a woman also involved at the top of Fuurin Kazan. That this woman wielded some power, but was more in the background than the Seventh Samurai. This woman was known only as the Geisha. Perhaps that will aid in your investigation." Shibata watched the two with the calm eyes of a jungle cat.

Yoshimoto seemed at a loss for words. Suzuki swallowed hard, but did not lose her composure. She froze, a smile on her lips, and said, "The stories our agents heard might parallel yours. That's why we had you come here, you see. This woman, the Geisha, could easily be Watanabe-san's girlfriend. It all seems to fit."

"I doubt that," Shibata smiled. There was a saying for what Suzuki was doing: Pissing on one leg and wiping it off with the other. "Judging by the time I heard the story that would place her more in your age group, Suzuki-san." The old man was clearly enjoying himself. To trifle with power at this level was a heady business.

"Come, let us not wear away the pleasant afternoon with dry talk of suspects and clues," Yoshimoto said, rising from his desk and becoming the political bon vivant. "There is beer, sake and whisky to drink. Followed by dinner. We will show you Kansai people that a good time can be had in Tokyo. Yes, we will detain the two of you for dinner and a few smiles! And perhaps the youthful Watanabe-san, away from home, can seek out a much more flesh-and-blood geisha than the one mentioned earlier."

CHAPTER 20: The Raft

The first two days on the raft were like a dream. The weather was fine and they hoisted the sail and moved slowly northward in search of a landfall that Nat knew was well over two-hundred miles distant, possibly more. The skies were clear and there were stormy petrels and frigate birds. Whence they came was a puzzle, but Nat knew they must steer north rather than dart off searching hither and yon. Large blue fish that neither could identify seemed determined to follow the raft, sometimes bumping the bottom, as well as the occasional shark, circling darkly underneath, sometimes rising to within inches of the surface searching for some protrusion that might offer a bite.

They came across a large sea turtle and managed to haul it into the raft, its flippers flailing wildly, beak snapping the air. Nat finished it with a knife slit through the tough throat muscles, then spent hours butchering it and cutting the meat into strips to be dried. The flesh tasted good. But there was no problem of food and water at that time. Nat had stowed enough extra in the raft, which was large enough for several more men. He had even thought to bring a bottle of brandy, which they sipped in the pleasant evenings. The sun was hot by day, and they rigged a cover for the small vessel. At night the stars were brilliant, often accompanied by a fresh and balmy breeze, punctuated by a random splash of a breaching fish.

Nat knew hard times were on the way. They might tire to the point of exhaustion, or delirium. He took advantage of these early hours to talk earnestly with his young lover.

"What we are doing, we are doing for Israel," he asserted. "I don't want you to join us, Sam, although you can if you want. What I want is your absolute assurance that you wont interfere."

"Nat, what you're doing is wrong, but you're away from it now. My father will take care of you. You'll be rewarded. This is no time for Israel to start trouble in the world. We've already got bad press. We've been shooting Arabs in the occupied territories like it was a sport – like they're rabbits on the run."

"It's not like that, Sam. Israel needs land, and nothing can stand in its way. I mean it's now or never. But we can't afford to take land crowded with Arabs. They outbreed us and they will continue to outbreed us until they're a majority in Israel itself. Time is not our friend. So, it's now or never. The Jews are victims and they always will be victims unless we do something and do it now. You see our allies are getting soft. The cold war ended long ago, the Iraqi thing is a mess, but it's only a diversion, there's a clamor for peace, American politicians want to use their money at home. We're going to be ignored and isolated and swallowed in an Arab sea. We must strike and strike now, don't you see!"

"Well, we can't expect the Yanks to fund us forever. Why should we?"

"That's just it. That's why we have to establish ourselves. For years American Jews have poured millions into political campaigns for congressmen, senators, the President and so forth. They say America has the best Congress money can buy. But the problem is, it won't stay bought. We've paid for it ten times over, and still men retire, new men come along, the Arabs make gains, people talk brotherhood. It just isn't a long-term solution. We are very few, our group, but we can make a difference, we can change the world now."

"I'd like to know just what the plan is, Nat?" Sam asked this many times.

Nat shook his head in the negative. "You know I won't tell you unless you pledge silence. I will say right-wing Christians in America, many of them celebrities, are staunch friends of Israel, and a few very wealthy ones have contributed to our group."

"These people, they must be the ones called Christian Fascists, they know the details of the plan?" San questioned.

Nat stifled a chuckle. "Not hardly. They know we are extremists, but they aren't in on our plans. Our plans do not make provisions for their welfare, although it might. There might be a few individuals we would try to protect. You see, only a very select group, myself not included, know all the provisions of our plan." Nat paused and looked at the sky. Clouds had formed to the south and west, the wind was freshening. Soon they would have to take in sail. "You realize, Sam, that Jewish immigration to Israel has fallen off while the number of Palestinians between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean is increasing. That's the reason for the pullout from Gaza. Breeding. You wouldn't remember our army invading Lebanon in the early 80s. Useless wheel-spinning."

"But now we are on the path of peace. I have friends who want nothing more than peace and a good life."

Nat sighed in exasperation. "My words mean little to you. We are lovers and I was hoping for some kind of lasting arrangement, something more permanent. You know how I feel about you."

Sam was tiring of talk that he equated with some sort of marriage. "I'm twenty years younger than you, Nat," he almost whined. "I have things to do, places to visit, people to meet. I could even follow my father into the Knesset. I could be a power in Israel. It's unfair to ask me to tie myself down. But, don't you see? My father will protect you. You can distance yourself from all this trouble, from that awful ship. We can have a good time together and still be fine friends. Hey, let's have some more brandy."

So the conversation strayed back and forth, with Sam supporting the intifada and deploring Palestinian deaths, preaching peace and brotherhood, and Nat, the most hard-core of right-wingers, a member of the most hawkish secret militant group in Israel, backing a bold military move in partnership with an equally nationalistic, militant minority in Japan. Nat wondered if he should just shoot Sam and have it over with. Yet his emotions ran deep and he loved the boy. Through his early life he had been a loner, a dreary isolated existence. He continued to search for a solution.

At dawn of the fourth day, cirrostratus clouds moved in and there was a sea change. They were due for a storm. Nat readied the raft as best he could, instructing Sam, then rigged a sea anchor.

"Our job is survival and to reach land," the older man lectured. "The last thing we should expect is rescue. If we get to the shipping lanes, a ship could pass within three miles of us and never see us."

"We have flares," Sam protested.

"Doesn't matter," Nat went on. "This kind of survival is like playing golf, or tennis. The stroke is what counts, hitting the ball is just incidental to the stroke. Our stroke is to sail north to land. If during that time we are spotted and picked up, so be it. But we must plan for the long haul, to learn to survive on the surface of the sea in a small boat, to learn to survive like the petrels and the turtles and the fish under the sea, to exist in a new environment."

"I want to be rescued," Sam said.

"Another thing," Nat continued. "If we hit the shipping lanes, these large vessels, container ships, tankers, they don't keep much of a lookout. We could easily be run down. Maybe they travel 20 knots an hour. We can see from this low raft at the most seven nautical miles to the horizon. Let's just say that after a ship comes into our line of vision it would be upon us in 20 minutes. That would mean we would need to be constantly alert to avoid being run down."

Then a storm in full fury hit the raft. For hours they struggled, bailing, working with the sea anchor, re-rigging their cover, trying desperately to stay on board. They tied themselves to the raft with short lines. Finally, the sea anchor parted, the raft breached to in the trough of giant rollers, and then flipped over. Coughing salt water and struggling, they clung to their lines and bobbed in their life jackets in the boiling water. When the storm eased up, they were exhausted and crawled onto the overturned raft, panting.

The sea became flat, flat as a tennis court that extended into infinity to all points of the compass. The sun was a fiery devil that found them on the exposed flat surface of the raft bottom and seemed to single them out for a special searing. They knew thirst. Nat knew they could not survive there and he forced the protesting boy to join him in the water to get the raft upright once more. It took hours, diving under, pushing the thwarts, almost succeeding, only to have it flop back.

Finally it was turned. There had been no sharks, but they had been bumped by the large blue fish, some of them must have weighed twenty-five or thirty pounds. Once again in the raft, Sam dropped in a crumpled ball of sleep. Nat took inventory and found most of their supplies were gone. Most of the water, provisions, the turtle meat, implements, the first aid kit – gone.

The voyage changed from almost a honeymoon trip to a journey through hell. The raft was a prison that was haunted by dragons from above and below. Both of them got salt-water boils. During the day they dumped buckets of salt water over their heads to keep their brains from exploding in the sun. At night they shivered. And always the large blue fish bumping the bottom of the raft. And sometimes the sharks came, circling grimly, playing the waiting game. The glint of light coming from the water was blinding and the sun a tormentor.

Nat set the raft to rights and prepared for survival, while Sam lay across a thwart, staring at the ocean, wondering why he of all people had been selected for this ordeal.

CHAPTER 21: Watanabe's Tokyo Evening

After the sometimes tense session in Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto's office, Watanabe and Shibata were permitted to refresh themselves before the promised – or rather mandated – dinner.

"You know, Watanabe-san," the old cop smiled as he splashed water over his face in a rest room, "I congratulate you for pulling off that trick with your girlfriend. I've got a feeling that if those press releases were not distributed that something less pleasant than dinner might have been planned for us."

Watanabe pointed to the ceiling and the old man nodded. Certainly there might be bugs. But everyone now knew what the stakes were and Watanabe and his boss were reasonably certain that the finance minister knew all about the Fuurin Kazan. Both of them were waiting for the second shoe to drop.

Dinner was served, not in a restaurant, but on low tables on the floor of a tatami room in Yoshimoto's large suite of offices. Young ladies clad in kimono discreetly carried in one course after another.

"Shibata-san," Yoshimoto's cousin Suzuki said to the old policeman during the meal, "You would have made a good samurai. Do you ever long for the old days?"

"I suppose I do, Suzuki-san," he replied. "Those would have been interesting days, but as for myself being a samurai, I think I lack the temperament. I have always been too fond of food, drink and pleasures of the flesh."

"Must a samurai sacrifice these things?" Yoshimoto asked.

The leathery-faced old man drained his sake cup and set it down where it was immediately refilled by a shy young lady, or at least a young lady who pretended to be shy. "The true samurai, the one I would be if I could be a samurai, leads an aesthetic life. This higher appreciation of beauty in our culture is achieved in various ways. Certainly bushido, the way of the warrior, which many consider the heart and soul of Japan, is important. Honor, constant attention to the martial arts plus study and concentration are needed. Then there are such things as the tea ceremony, which the true samurai must know, which teaches humility, contemplation and regard for simple beauty. This is all basic to _wabi sabi_ , the two words that embody the life of the samurai more than any other. Of course they mean a taste for the simple and quiet. Simple meals and a simple place to rest one's head. There is no place in that world for the vain, the abusive, the coarse, the greedy, or for one who lusts after power."

"We love our samurai dramas on TV, but who could live such a role?" Suzuki asked.

"Perhaps there is a spirit of samurai, an essence that can be forever captured as the spirit of the Japanese people. The Japanese see things differently than the rest of the world," the finance minister said. "Foreigners will never understand that our wants and needs have to do with the tranquility and peace of _wabi sabi_ , that the things we want for Japan, we would like to share with the world as well." Yoshimoto smiled at the others, then turned to his cousin. "Kyoko, I would like to show Watanabe-san some things in my office. Perhaps you could escort Shibata-san around the building?"

As Yoshimoto led Watanabe out of the room, Shibata was telling Suzuki that in the old days he would have preferred to be a ninja. "But again, discipline is needed and I grow too heavy. And to master the art of _ninjutsu_ one must almost be born into a ninja family. You see, training begins at the age of five or six with daily work on at least four skills: balance, agility, strength and stamina. There are others. As you know, it is an art of invisibility, dark clothing; the ninja spy or assassin strikes at night. Skill in the use of all weapons. Frustrating and confusing the enemy, starting rumors, character assassination -- it takes years."

"Almost like a graduate degree," the woman said.

Shibata fixed Kyoko with a friendly eye: "Deception, stealth, changing shape and form, pretending one is something they are not, then striking like a snake. Would that kind of life appeal to you, Suzuki-san?"

"I am but a woman, a member of the weaker sex, surely not fit for the _ninjutsu_ line of work."

"To the contrary. Some of the finest ninjas were women who had no conscience and would show no mercy."

"Fascinating. Perhaps we can share another sake cup before I lead you on the grand tour." She added wistfully, "If we were both but young, perhaps we would choose different paths for this journey through life."

By this time Watanabe had followed Yoshimoto into the inner office and watched the older man open a cabinet and lift out a bottle of sake. When he gave it a shake it seemed to contain a blizzard of gold!

"It's dazzling," Watanabe said with a laugh. They had had several sake cups during the long meal, but Yoshimoto poured two more, the clear rice wine and the glittering flakes making opulent snowstorms in the tiny cups. "Is it gold?"

"Yes," Yoshimoto grinned. "As pure as it can be. Our doctors tell us a little gold will do us no harm. Here, drink!" They lifted their cups.

"This is not the _wabi sabi_ Shibata-san spoke of, the love of the serene and humble," Watanabe said. He could taste no difference in the sake because of the gold. It warmed him and was of excellent quality.

"We Japanese have always thought of gold during auspicious events," the finance minister said. "Now that we have achieved our economic miracle and are moving ahead on a steady keel, if not advancing the way many would like, we have even a stronger appetite for the metal. You can get it in coffee made with French mineral water, in sushi, even sprinkled on noodles. It is a symbol of success."

"But everyone in Japan is not rich," Watanabe reminded. "The economic miracle crested some years ago. Many families are struggling. We have homeless on the streets."

"Every great civilization has a few drop outs," Yoshimoto said. "But today the Japanese people are enjoying a life of plenty. Just look at the throngs crowding the shopping streets. We have captured a certain spirit of success. Such times come only now and then." He poured more sake and took a seat and motioned for Watanabe to sit down. "We must capture the moment. I know, my career has moved from the shambles of war to this peak of power were you find me now." Watanabe thought Yoshimoto might be slightly drunk, but the suave older man seemed totally in control. "In different times, say I was a Buddhist, or a Shinto priest, or even a Christian, I could have become a great spiritual leader with a large following. Instead I took a different path through the chairs of government, and through persistence and attention to detail have risen to the top." Yoshimoto paused for a moment, then asked, "And what does one do at the top?"

The question puzzled Watanabe. "Rest, enjoy the fruits of your labor? Play golf? I really don't know."

"I have a dream of Japan as an even greater nation than it is at present. Before the war, when I was a child, the Japanese goal was to bring order to a chaotic Asia. We did not set out to dominate the world, and we were tricked into the war with America. Perhaps our politicians did lose patience in negotiating with the Americans, but we were nevertheless tricked into that war and, in hindsight, certain defeat."

"I've heard similar arguments," Watanabe said. In fact it was a right-wing mantra.

"Of course you have. I don't mean to labor the point, but what I'm saying is the Japanese goals remain the same. In some way because of our harmonious way of life, our dedication to order and the continuity of the family, we as a nation can bring order to the world. This simple thing is my dream."

"To bring order and harmony to the world?" Watanabe asked. It seemed an incredible goal.

"Exactly. And I need good people to help me. You've shown great initiative in uncovering this tunnel thing, whatever it is. Probably someone has stolen a lot of money from that project. We'll get the facts. But aside from that, I could use you on my staff, Watanabe-san. You've seen my people, two of them today. They lack initiative. I hope you'll consider coming to work for my office. You wouldn't be stuck here; your limits would be somewhere up in the heavens." He sipped sake and waited for a response.

"Your offer, if it is that, is very flattering. But my old mother and father in Osaka need my attention. Duty to one's parents."

"That's no problem," Yoshimoto said. "Many of our Tokyo people live in Osaka. The Bullet Train, the Shinkansen, brings them here every Monday morning and carries them home every Friday night. It is the best of two worlds. You can have your home in Osaka, your parents, your wife, your girlfriend, and another set of social arrangements in Tokyo during the week. Just think about it and let me know in a day or two. I can arrange your transfer at any time. I see something in you I like, Watanabe-san."

"Thank you," Watanabe replied. "Of course I'll consider it." He was beginning to develop a true respect for Yoshimoto as a dangerous man, something lurking just under the urbane surface vibrated danger. There was a snakelike glint to his eyes, devoid of conscience, or compassion. He thought to change the subject. "It's interesting that you could have been a religious leader." Watanabe then reached over and refilled the cups.

"Twice in my life I have had deeply moving religious experiences. The first in a cave on Okinawa as a young soldier. I witnessed the death of a fine old Japanese colonel who had a profound influence on my life. The second experience... oddly enough, I too am from the Osaka area. When I returned from the war, just a ragged youngster, I was befriended by an American army sergeant." Yoshimoto sipped his drink and thought of Sergeant Burt Chalk for a long time before he continued. "I feel this man had some divinity in him, just as our Emperor has divinity, although the Emperor's comes directly from the sun goddess. I felt this man, this _gaijin_ soldier, carried a message for me."

On impulse, Yoshimoto turned and pointed to what looked like a small plaque on the wall. "He gave me a token, that watch. I felt it meant more than just a small gift. I've kept it with me ever since."

Watanabe strained his eyes in the muted light of the office. It was an old watch with a tarnished gold band and a pinkish face. He couldn't make out the brand name on the face. He wondered if Yoshimoto was putting him on with these stories, or if the man was some sort of fanatic. Certainly he seemed dedicated to whatever force was driving him. Watanabe finished his drink and stood up. It was late.

Kyoko Suzuki and Yoshimoto bid goodbye to Watanabe and his boss at the elevator, but did not leave them alone. The two Osaka policemen were escorted to their hotel and installed in a grand suite by a couple of polite young men who offered to provide them anything they needed – anything.

Shibata laughed and Watanabe shrugged. Evidently the two meant female companionship. When Watanabe had entered into his affair with Nana he promised to tell her in advance if he planned to be unfaithful, so they could call it off. She had made a similar pledge. During the early days of their relationship, Watanabe had difficulty keeping the agreement, but on this night, after the grueling day and the food and the sake, plus the surprising offer from Yoshimoto, he was ready for a deep, steaming Japanese bath and his bed.

Suzuki and the finance minister returned to his office for a brief consultation.

"We have them now and we should dispatch them," Suzuki insisted. "And we should send someone to silence the girl. These are dangerous people, the only people through the years that we have been unable to control."

"I think you are unduly alarmed, Kyoko," Yoshimoto said quietly. "I have offered Watanabe-san a job. We can string these two along. I even like the pair of them. They could serve us."

"Or, more likely, they could bring us down. This press release is explosive. Too much has gone on at the tunnel over the years. Someone will talk, word will get out."

"But not in time, Kyoko. The Israeli ship is probably somewhere near Indonesia by now. We will have the warheads. The missiles are ready to be wheeled onto the seabed. The Israeli and Japanese technical crews are in the tunnel. Computers have been programmed and reprogrammed. The supplies are in place. There is no stopping us now."

"I hope you're right. There are enough variables in the plan to distract Buddha himself."

"I've worked it out over the years. I identified the Israelis as having the brains, the guts and the need to be our cohorts. I managed to identify those who insisted a third temple must be built and those realists who knew Israel's days were numbered, as well as technical adventurers. And with their help they were joined into dark union. Remember, just after the war we started together. It's been a long road. But the end is in sight. Overnight Japan will become the world power."

"There's Israel, remember," Suzuki said. "Our friends there are in this too."

"Of course," Yoshimoto agreed. "And they shall have what they want. The Arab world will be brought to its knees. And Israel will have considerable influence in the world. But Japan is situated in such a way and its people have the will and economic power to become dominant. Incidentally, the Mossad, the Israeli secret service, is also poking around. They know their warheads are missing, but are at a loss to know what to do. The Israeli government is in a state of paralysis, afraid to tell even its closest allies that it had nuclear weapons and that they have been stolen. It is a delicious joke."

"There are also many people in the Japanese government who will be alarmed by this press release. Things could go bad fast."

"I have things in hand," Yoshimoto announced. I'll sleep in the office tonight."

"Again?" Suzuki questioned. "You should come home and have your bath."

"I have much to think of," he insisted.

"I hope it's not Yoko Kaji," Suzuki snapped.

"And who might that be?" Yoshimoto asked imperiously.

"The young lady I see so much in your office, the granddaughter of one of your friends. She was also one of the serving girls tonight and paid you special attention. Yoko Kaji – I have checked on her background. I hope at your age, after a lifetime of fidelity to your work and to me, that you are not about to make a fool of yourself."

"Don't chide me, Kyoko. I am my own person and I care little for young ladies. My job has a thousand details. I cannot lead the life of a normal man."

"Let it be so. Goodnight, Akira."

CHAPTER 22: Survival

For two days Nat had been fooling with the solar still that was part of the raft's equipment. It consisted mainly of a balloon, but he couldn't get it to function properly. He had been hard put to keep Sam from drinking seawater. The sodium in the water would draw fluid from the body and shut down the organs one after the other, leading to death. As it was, neither of them had had a bowel movement since the second day and, to add to their pain and parched skin, both had developed hemorrhoids.

After two days without water, their first break came. A flying fish fell into the raft. Nat divided it and urged Sam to eat his share. There was liquid in the flesh. The following day they caught another sea turtle and after a half-hour scrap managed to flop it upside down in the bottom of the raft. Both suffered cuts and scratches from the flippers and sharp shell. Nat cut himself several more times as he butchered the shellback. He was careful to catch the blood after cutting the throat and they both drank deeply of the dark fluid, which they found to their joy was not too salty.

They ate what meat they could, and Nat cut the remainder into strips and strung it about the raft to dry. The turtle seemed to be the turning point. It gave them both strength and hope. That night they had a sudden shower and caught a supply of fresh water in their sail and the waterproof cloth they used to cover the raft.

The following day Nat mended a broken gaff with some twine and set out to catch one of the large blue fish that regularly wove in flitting patterns beneath the raft, occasionally bumping the vessel. After a few unsuccessful tries, holding the gaff deep in the water for minutes at a time, he hooked a fifteen-pounder just under the gills and flopped it on board. Again, the fish surrendered both liquid and food. Nat ate one of the large, flat eyes and offered the other to Sam who refused it in disgust.

But they were learning to live with the sea. They found a tangle of sea grass and ship's debris. They pulled it on board. In the debris were tiny shrimp and crabs that they shook and plopped live into their mouths, noisily crunching the small crustaceans.

As their strength returned, they learned to trim the raft in foul weather, to hang on frantically to windward as the large waves curled over their small vessel, and be one with the sea. And they began to talk once more and argue.

Nat would tell Sam how Israel lived under the gun from birth. That their children, grandchildren all down the line of descendents face periods of violence with their neighbors, that the stress would someday become unbearable. And how ultimately Israel would be swamped by a burgeoning Arab population. There was simply no way out under the present circumstances. There would be no third temple. There would be no Israel.

"I know what Israel is," Sam insisted. "I grew up there! How can we acquire enough land to defend Israel? The Russians couldn't defend Moscow against ICBMs. The Americans can't defend St. Louis. What do you want? World domination?"

To this question, Nat was silent. Sam thought the militant group was looking for something along that line. "Tell me the plan, Nat. At least tell me your part of it. Or what was to be your part."

"I can tell you nothing," Nat said grimly. "You know what I do, what my job is. Underwater salvage, underwater demolition. Obviously they didn't bring me along to make speeches. Let's talk about something else. Let's try for another one of those blue fish." Nat looked into the water beneath the raft and saw the blues shooting by in darting patterns. Deeper down he saw the dark circlings of the sharks.

CHAPTER 23: The White House

President Jim Black slammed down one of the several phones on his desk and shouted to his secretary, "Get Kipp on the line, dammit. " He was referring to his national security advisor, Kipp Pell. Seconds later the secretary pressed a buzzer. Kipp was on the line.

"Kipp! What the hell's going on? I just got a call from a senator who tells me we have Israeli commandos and three of their assault helicopters aboard one of our carriers in the Indian Ocean. I get this from the Hill. Why don't I know about these things?"

"Sorry, Mr. President. I don't have all the facts myself. I did hear something about it. The Israelis contacted the Pentagon and asked for some help to search for a little ship. It's a matter of illness of some sort. It's advertised as a mission of mercy."

"Mission of mercy my ass. If Senator Tinsmith is correct, these guys are battle ready and the Navy thinks they have White House approval. Tinsmith's son is serving aboard and e-mailed him. What a way to find out! God knows what those nuts might do. Kipp, get those guys under wraps and tell the Navy there is no White House approval. The Israelis slipped this one in through the back door. Get back to me, Kipp. Minutes, not hours."

"Yes, Sir."

"Remember," the president shouted for emphasis, "Our ass is way out on this one and if it stays there, someone's going to kick it." He clicked the phone dead on his desk and took a deep breath. "Mary," he shouted, "get me the Israeli prime minister on the horn." With all the electronic devices available, Black preferred to shout to his secretary. It gave him a chance to release pent-up pressure of which he had a good supply.

For the next five minutes he busied himself with the ever-present task of signing letters and notes. Then the buzzer, and Mary Fiedler shouted from the outer office. "It's Prime Minister Baker."

"Prime minister," he said, lifting the phone, "how are you this fine day?" He had no idea if it was morning, evening, or night in the Mideast.

"Just fine, Mr. President, I was just thinking of you." The two had not developed a first-name relationship. Differences erupted frequently. They did have a common interest in the Southeastern Athletic Conference, the Atlantic Coast Conference, the Big South, Duke, Old Dominion, North Carolina, Georgia and a few other teams that they would sometimes discuss at length, but there was a certain arms-length feeling between the two. "Did you get the case of wine I sent over?"

"Yes, a good bouquet, an interesting wine. You're doing some great things over there," the President said, as he recalled that it could only be consumed icy cold and as quickly as possible. He had sent the bulk of the case to a charity auction in Rockville. "I understand we have some of your troops aboard one of our aircraft carriers. I believe it's the fleet carrier in the Indian Ocean."

"Yes, I want to thank you for that. It's a big help to us, our little nation. We're looking for a freighter called the Pride of Dakar. The son of a very sick man is aboard. It would be nice if we could unite him with his father at this tragic hour."

"Everyone likes to help out in time of need. A freighter generally can be reached by radio or located in some port of call. It seems to me a simple request would have done the job. Our sailors are capable of keeping their eyes open for a freighter. We could even launch an air search of some kind."

"Your Navy has been assisting with an informal air search, I'm pleased to say. But no luck yet."

"I thought that might be the case. I don't know how you arranged this, Prime Minister, but somehow your people short-circuited my office. We weren't in the loop."

"It's not that important, Mr. President. A simple mercy mission. It happens every day."

"Yes, I know about mercy. Except you have assault helicopters and armed commandos on one of our naval vessels. I'm afraid we will have to get them off immediately, and get them off in a way that doesn't offend any of our neighbors of allies. I don't know how you got them on, but maybe you can get them off in the same way. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions on this one, but my informant was a very angry senator who heads a very strong committee, and he could cause me a lot of embarrassment."

"I understand," Baker said flatly. "I meant to call you on this because there is something more to it." The President rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Here it comes, whatever it is. "There's been a theft of some very sensitive materials that could have wide-ranging international implications. We believe that material is aboard that freighter. I happen to have briefed our ambassador in Washington on this matter. He's standing by right now and can be in your office in twenty minutes to give you the story. We're in a rotten spot, Mr. President."

"If I'm in on this, I want the whole story, unvarnished, with the bark on. Don't set me up for a surprise down the line."

"Our back are to the wall, Mr. President. I know I should have called you earlier, but we tried to contain the situation. Our ambassador will be there within minutes. Back door?"

"By all means. Have him come through the Old Executive Office building. No limousine. In fact a cab would be best."

"You got it." Prime Minister Baker cradled his phone, then put through the call to Washington himself.

CHAPTER 24: Rescue

Their last night at sea, a hard rain fell. It hissed as it hit the water around the raft and pounded like bullets on their cloth protection. They huddled under the shelter between the thwarts and ate turtle eggs embedded in deep yellow fat. Fresh water was plentiful. Their boils were vanishing and their blisters had healed. The sea was their larder. In the gray dawn they heard the mewing of wheeling gulls and a fish splashed near their raft. The quickening light brought ships, U.S. naval vessels. They had sailed among them during the night.

"We're saved," Sam shouted. "God damn, Nat, we're saved." He jumped to his feet and began to dance. He waved the gaff in the air and shouted, but the ships were too distant to hear. But they would be seen, it was all a matter of time. Sun glinted the water, and a grim-faced Nat Lowe pulled the revolver from the tight pocket on the side of the raft. "I think they see us," Sam shouted. "I think I see someone on that ship waving to me!"

"Look at me," Nat said.

"What is it?" Sam asked. "Do you see them waving, too?" He turned toward his lover.

"I have a gun under this cloth, Sam. I'm sorry but I have to shoot you."

A smile, then a look of wild disbelief crossed Sam's face. Then he realized Nat was flat serious. "No, Nat, please not that." The boy started to turn in an appeal to the nearby vessels.

Nat fired two shots, one in the chest, the second closer to the stomach. He reached forward and twisted Sam's legs, rolling him into the sea. He jumped as if to grab him, but actually he was dropping the gun into the water. He saw the body hesitate on the surface, then start spiraling down, saw the glint of teeth and the flash of fin. The patient sharks began their feast. The water tinged pink.

On the bridge of the carrier, a signalman reported to the officer of the deck. "Sir, we have the report of a life raft in the water with one or two men aboard. It is stenciled with the name, Pride of Dakar.

Both Nat Lowe and the raft were carried to the deck of the carrier by helicopter, the USS Birdsong, where Nat stood on shaky legs, his body stinking from the days at sea, his clothing filthy rags. A few of the Israeli commandos, including the major in command, crowded to get a look at him.

The executive officer of the carrier said the obvious, "You're very lucky to be alive."

"I know it," he answered, then looked with hollow eyes at the group gathering around him, puzzled that some seemed to be Israeli military.

"We'd better get you to sickbay," the exec added. He was about to issue the order when the Israeli major intervened.

"This is the reason we're here, to take care of the Pride of Dakar. We have a doctor. Let us take him to our quarters. We might find out where the ship is."

"You are an Israeli?" the exec asked Nat.

"I am."

"It's OK with me," he said to the major. "Take good care of him. He's been through a lot. I'll have the raft cleaned up, It smells like shit."

The Israelis moved off with Nat in their midst. They helped him along to the big room where they had set up headquarters, with bedrolls on the floor. Once inside, the major turned to Nat and demanded, "Where's the ship? Where's the Pride of Dakar?"

"I'd like to sit down," Nat said. A chair was brought and Nat slowly lowered his reeking body into it. Someone in the crowd suggested a shower.

"Where's the ship," the major demanded once more.

Nat shook his head slowly, his eyes on the deck. "I don't know."

"Where was it when you saw it? How'd you get here? Did it sink?"

"Days ago. Don't know how many. We were far south. This young man, Sam, fell over. No one nearby but me. I cut away the raft and went in after him. No time to raise an alarm. By the time we were in the raft, the ship was gone. That's it."

"That's not it," said the major. "For one thing, where is this Sam?"

"Shot himself this morning, dropped over the side. Went out of his head."

"Was he the young man, the student? His father's in the Knesset?"

"That's him," Nat acknowledged.

"And you. Who are you?"

"Nat Lowe, merchant seaman. I was one of the crew."

"Where's the ship bound and what's its cargo?" the major snapped.

"We were going to India, I think, and then to Indonesia. I was just a crew member."

"And the cargo?"

"Mixed, I suppose. I'm not an officer. I was a crewmember, a seaman. I can't answer your questions. I'd like to rest."

"Plenty of time to rest after you've answered all my questions. I know who you are and what you've been up to. I need details, and you will answer my questions," the major's voice grew angry, "one way or the other."

"Shall I make him talk, Sir?" a sergeant asked.

"We'll give him one more chance to answer on his own, then the trouble starts. You'd better start talking, Nat!" The major felt he had an advantage if he could keep Nat in a weakened condition, confused from the hell at sea and possibly distraught over the boy's death. "We'd better take him into a small room."

"Sir," a voice boomed from the edge of the group.

The major looked around and said, "What?"

"Sir," the booming voice said again. The source was a large black man in a U.S. Navy uniform. "We cannot have men abused, or tortured aboard this ship."

"Who are you?" the major questioned.

"I'm Lieutenant Harry Burgess. This man needs treatment."

"Well, Lieutenant, I'm a major in the Israeli army and the executive officer put me in charge of this man. You'd best be on your way." He turned back to Nat and was about to help him into a smaller room when Burgess spoke again.

"We run this vessel according to the book and it does not include abuse, or torture. This man needs attention and I'll see that he gets it." He stepped to the hatchway, opened it and told a marine guard that he needed two marines to help him. Then he folded his arms and looked at the major who was at a momentary loss. The door opened again and a marine private and a lance corporal came in. "Take this man we picked up to sickbay," Burgess ordered, "then see that he's placed under guard."

The marines looked at the crowd of surly Israelis, then looked at Burgess. Finally, one said, "Aye, Aye, Sir." They made their way to the ragged Nat Lowe and escorted him out of the room.

"You'll regret this, Lieutenant," the major said.

"I'll regret nothing," he shot back. "We've had enough trouble in Iraq and Gitmo with prisoners being ill treated. That's a lesson we've learned." He opened the door once more and asked the marine guard if he could find an officer, then resumed his arms folded stance, staring at the major. Moments later a marine major entered the room.

"You asked for me, Lieutenant?" he questioned.

"Yes, these Israelis were about to try to beat some information out of the survivor we just picked up. There's been some flap about them being on board. I don't think they should have weapons, but I'll leave that up to you. In the meantime, I'll report to the exec." He saluted and was gone.

"I'm Major Punt Sakler," the marine officer said to the crowd at large. "Who's in charge here?"

The Israeli major stepped forward. "I am, and we demand the survivor of the Pride of Dakar be returned to us. He has information that is vital to the security of Israel and it could be important to your country."

"I see," Major Sakler said. "The lieutenant will doubtless pass your concerns on to the exec. In the meantime, you men seem loaded for bear. I think we all better stack our weapons over near that bulkhead." He made a motion with his hand.

"We won't give up our weapons," the Israeli officer asserted. There was grumbling among his men.

"On a U.S. Navy ship, with my men on board, there's no way that you can keep those weapons. They'll be returned to you when you leave. There seems to be a question about why you are on board and what your purpose might be. It hasn't been made clear. Stack the weapons."

The Israeli major turned to his men and said, "Stack the weapons."

***

Nat Lowe had bathed, been checked over by medics and put to bed between clean sheets. A marine guard was placed outside the door. For all his ordeal, he was in remarkably good shape, but now he knew the Israelis had him and they knew something was inside his head. If they didn't get it today, during this hour, they would fly him back to Israel, probably tomorrow at the latest and work on him. Brutal torture? Probably not. Sophisticated drugs would probably best serve their purposes. But would they be able to unlock the secrets in his head? Learn the destination of the freighter and tap into the Japanese connection? He didn't know everything, but he knew more than enough. After a light meal he fell into a fitful sleep.

A friendly Israeli came sauntering along the passage to where the marine guard sat on a low stool. "How is our survivor?" he asked.

"I think he's just fine. The corpsmen gave him a clean bill of health. I suppose he'll sleep for a week."

"That's great. This is a wonderful ship. So big, like a city in itself. He turned to go, then doubled back in a cat-like move, and pushed a long, slender blade through the marine's back and into his heart. Then he was in the cabin, blade in hand, bending over his intended victim. "Sorry. Nat," he whispered, then plunged the blade under Nat's arm and through the heart. He made no effort to withdraw it, but simply wiped the prints with the sheet.

Not long after, when the two bodies were found, it was determined that the murder weapon was a meat skewer, like those commonly used for shish kabob. The wake of the Pride of Dakar would not be traced through Nat Lowe. The organization with no name had men strategically place here, there and everywhere. And just before the order was given for the third holocaust, many of the loyal would take cover and a multitude of others would die.

CHAPTER 25: The Tokyo Detective

Taro Watanabe slept late the day after his meeting with Akira Yoshimoto. He awoke to find his boss had gone to greet old friends at the Tokyo police department. Watanabe grabbed a bowl of miso soup and rice at the hotel coffee shop. Then he too headed for the Tokyo police department. He had long intended to meet with his counterpart, the man who headed the Tokyo flying squad that concerned itself with crimes by and against foreigners.

He found the person he was looking for, Detective Goro Maeda, in his office and the two discussed their respective jobs. The Tokyo area, or the Kanto, contained thousands of foreigners from many different countries. Maeda's largest job seemed to be simply keeping track of enough interpreters to handle the problems that seemed to erupt daily.

Many third-world workers had either come to Japan legally, or slipped in unnoticed in search of high paying jobs. Those who came legally often hung on illegally after tourist or work visas expired. Bar girls and dancers – prostitutes – were shipped in by the hundreds by the Japanese mafia, the yakuza, from such places as the Philippines, Thailand, Malaysia and other countries, even Australia. Everyone was anxious to grab their slice of the Japanese economic miracle, which had crested some years back. The miracle had grown old and moved on, now boom times seemed in store for China. Watanabe found his problems in the Osaka area dwarfed by those of big, earthy, seamy Tokyo.

"I wouldn't trade places with you Maeda-san, for all the yen in the Bank of Japan. Confusion seems to be a way of life in Tokyo."

"From the outside we must seem in chaos, but one case at a time. We straighten things out. I hope to visit Osaka some day soon. I'll look you up. Maybe you can show me the sights."

"I'll look forward to it," Watanabe replied, if you're a tourist, you'll probably be more interested in Kyoto and Nara. One guidebook tells tourists if you ever get to Osaka, get on a train for Kyoto instantly. We do have a large castle, but even that is overshadowed by the one they use in the samurai films farther west."

"No," Maeda said, "my grandfather died in Osaka years before I was born. I've always been interested in the place."

"Your grandfather. He would be quite old today."

Maeda smiled. "Probably over one hundred, but I believe he was in his forties when he died."

"He was a native?"

"I never knew him. He was a _gaijin_ , an American soldier, there after the war to interview Japanese returnees. He and my grandmother were in the Philippines when the war started. He was taken prisoner and forced on the Bataan Death March. Miraculously, he survived the march and prison camp, only to be murdered after the war. He could have returned to the States, but he spoke good Japanese and wanted to stay in Japan in hopes my grandmother and my father would show up. They did, but he was dead."

"That's an awful story," Watanabe said. "Was it a tavern fight, or something like that?"

"No. He was a quiet man. And not really well after his treatment as a prisoner. He was murdered in his room. His money and his watch were stolen. The murderer was never caught. Years ago, when I was a young cop, I tried to get the files on the case, but no luck. They were sealed up someplace in the States."

"You were turned down?"

"Definitely. I got a report that an investigation had been made and closed. It was emphatic."

Watanabe was puzzled and he told Maeda that he had been able to obtain such records in the past. He would try to get the information if Maeda would give him the facts.

When the Tokyo detective had written down the pertinent facts, he passed the sheet to Watanabe. "Master Sergeant Burt Chalk," he read. He asked why the detective's last name wasn't Chalk.

Maeda smiled. "Can you imagine a Tokyo policeman named Goro Chalk?" Watanabe couldn't. "I got to choose my citizenship. Most of the folks were Japanese, so I picked Japanese. You cannot be a Japanese citizen without a Japanese name. My father was half Japanese and my mom was totally Japanese, but at that time in Japan, not long after the war, a lot of people didn't actually get married. They just moved in together. It's a bit confusing. Anyway, I picked my grandmother's maiden name, and thanks to her I mastered English at an early age. So here I am."

The two men shook hands, and Watanabe went off to his hotel to meet Shibata. Then they would board the Bullet Train for the ride past Mount Fuji, the beautifully shaped, but often cloud-shrouded symbol of Japan. Then Osaka.

CHAPTER 26: The Search

Guy Blades was telling the captain that the merchant ship that was the object of their search had to pass between Singapore and Australia. Blades wore the two-inch stripe of a U.S. Navy rear admiral. "But goddammit," he added hotly, "the fuckin' Israelis took so long in letting us in on their little secret that it might have passed already. And," he threw up his hands in frustration, "we don't know where it's bound. The Israelis have made a mess of this so far, but maybe we can pick up the ball."

"How do we know the ship hasn't been altered in some way?" a senior captain asked.

"We don't," Blades said. "It could have been repainted, renamed, the superstructure changed in many ways. Parts added. Remember this, whatever it is, was well planned. And these monkeys aren't playing kid games. But the length and tonnage would remain about the same." He looked grimly at the officers in the room. "We must check every vessel that might be, and I stress the words _that might be_ the Pride of Dakar. This is more important than fighting in a war. This could prevent a very nasty war."

"If we don't know where she's bound, why should she pass between Singapore and Australia?" someone asked.

"This is speculation, but logical speculation. India was ruled out. So were Burma, the old Burma that is, Malaysia, Sumatra. Scratch also Australia and New Zealand. But we do have the Aussies keeping a weather eye out. We ruled in the Pacific Rim. Had to. The ship is going someplace."

"What about South America?" the man who had asked the first question asked. "If that's the case, it would go well south of Australia."

"That's a possibility and we don't intend to ignore any possibility. We will continue to talk with Australia and give them help if need be. Of course New Zealand will be useless as always. It could also be lying in some tropical river covered by a jungle canopy. Keep that in mind. Talk to the locals if you get the opportunity. Enlist their help. Ask if they have seen anything strange."

"Sir," a young officer shouted from the back of the room.

"Yes, lieutenant."

"Just what is the importance of this vessel? What is its cargo and where might it be bound if not India and other countries you mentioned?"

"Details of the cargo are not to be discussed. But I can tell you, and don't pass this on, it's highly sophisticated and deadly military hardware that needs to be matched up with other highly sophisticated hardware in order to be effective. We need to keep the two apart."

"Something like the big cannon parts that were intercepted on the way to the Mideast years ago?"

"I suppose. Parts that must be joined. But in this case we don't know who it is we're dealing with. We do know that they're fanatics, but high caliber fanatics. They know what they're doing. They have technical people at the top level."

"You're saying they have capacity to put together and use nuclear weapons?" another captain said.

"I didn't say that," Blades replied. "You did. But there is technical skill here, not unlike that possessed by the Koreans, the people on Taiwan, or the Japanese. Or maybe some group in Singapore or Hong Kong. Whether the cargo is going to some country where these people, whoever they are, live, or to some deserted place where they will link up, we don't know. But we want an all-out, all weather, round-the-clock search."

"It shouldn't be too difficult to find a certain sized merchant ship, some slow-moving tub, even if it has been painted," a lieutenant commander put in.

"It's a wide ocean," Blades replied. "Let's hope luck is on our side. But let me add that the captain of this slow-moving tub is a man named Silverman who served in the Norwegian navy, resigned to captain a cruise ship of considerable size, after that skippered supertankers. Finally took early retirement after an unfortunate oil spill. He was not to blame, incidentally, but took responsibility, as he should. So he came out of retirement to captain the Pride of Dakar. And this ship was modified in Italy before it took on its present cargo. The entire deck section over the hold can be easily removed. We also think there was engine room work done and new screws installed. It could move faster than we think."

"Will we concentrate on the South China Sea, Sir?" someone asked.

Admiral Blades moved his pointer around the map behind him. "The South China Sea, the Java Sea, the Banda Sea, the Straits of Malacca, the Philippine Sea, the East China Sea, the Sea of Japan, the Pacific Ocean. You name it. We must be ubiquitous. We will be ubiquitous."

"When will we get the specs of the Pride of Dakar?"

"We have packets for each of you. They are to be considered top secret. Specific orders will be available within two hours."

"Does this mean no shore leave?" a young lieutenant asked wistfully. The rest of the men in the room laughed, as did Admiral Blades.

"Absolutely. We are going on full alert without saying it's full alert. I personally would like to tell the world what we're doing if it's this fuckin' important, but we have orders. Pretend that yours is the only ship on full alert, or do whatever you have to do to further the deception. Remember, crewmen do e-mail home. The bar girls throughout the Pacific will know immediately that something's up, and it's not what they were hoping for." Again, everyone laughed and the admiral dismissed them.

As Blades was speaking, the newborn merchant vessel Glory had passed through the Java Sea and was in the sea road of the Makassar Strait, steaming in pleasant weather for the Celebes Sea, there to continue a devious course north.

***

In Israel, Eli Kotcher, under greater pressure after the assassination of Nat Lowe, had every Mossad agent available interviewing Lowe's acquaintances and checking and double-checking his movements before he boarded the Pride of Dakar.

In a desert barracks complex, the Israeli commandos who had been on board the carrier when Lowe was murdered were under close guard and being interrogated by teams of specialists.

Kotcher was certain they would find the assassin even if they had to resort to drugs, isolation and rough treatment, but he was also reasonably certain that when they did find their man that he would know nothing about the overall plan. He was right on both counts.

CHAPTER 27: Pieces of the Puzzle

Taro Watanabe had no difficulty obtaining the old U.S. Army report on the murder of the Tokyo detective's grandfather. It was faxed to him two hours after he made a couple of telephone calls to the States.

From the look of the report there hadn't been much of an investigation. Watanabe suspected that it would have been next to impossible for the American authorities to locate anybody in Japan, criminal or honest, during those chaotic times just after the war.

The report stated that Sergeant Burt Chalk had been murdered in his bunk, a wound in his chest from a bayonet he kept in his room. His roommate, Sergeant McKay, was in the infirmary with the flu at the time. Chalk's cash was missing and his wallet was found on the floor. His watch was also missing. Sergeant McKay thought it was a Benrus. He wasn't certain. He had seen it on Chalk's wrist and remembered it had a pinkish face, or pinkish crystal.

There were fingerprints in the room that belonged to neither Chalk or McKay. They had been on the wallet, on the plastic enclosure for photo and cards, and in other parts of the room. These prints were available if Watanabe thought he had come up with a suspect. A list of the Japanese returnees who Chalk had interviewed during the days just prior to the murder was also available upon request. There was also a note on the report that whoever killed Chalk would be a very old man and very likely dead. The note writer added that there was no clue whether the evil deed was done by an American or a Japanese.

Watanabe read the report carefully. As old as it was it fell into his jurisdiction because it involved a foreigner in the Kansai. He photocopied the report and mailed it to Detective Goro Maeda in Tokyo. The original he put in his desk drawer. There was something in the report that bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He shrugged it off. Any unsolved murder of a _gaijin_ in the Osaka area would bother him, no matter what.

Watanabe called Nana and asked her to meet him at the Hawk & Thistle after work for a beer and a snack. He had just hung up when the mysterious Digger called and asked for a meeting, this time on a pedestrian street overpass in the heart of the entertainment district. Watanabe sat back in his chair and sighed. There were so many questions, so few answers.

Digger was already on the overpass when Watanabe arrived. It was a good choice. Few people climbed the stairs, preferring to wait for the light to change at street level. A ragged bum slept on flattened cardboard boxes, his clothing caked with dirt. Otherwise, the two of them were alone. "G'dye, Myte," Digger said cheerfully.

"I read about your press release. The mystery of the tunnel. Anything come of it yet?"

"No. We've had a few calls. People who agree that something has been going on for quite awhile. A few people with missing relatives, in fact. But nothing solid. What's on your mind this fine day?" Watanabe looked over the rail at the swarms of people coming out of the covered shopping street, crossing the wide boulevard and reentering what appeared to be a huge cave devoted to commerce.

"It's this Mossad thing I mentioned earlier. It's heating up and it seems to be focusing on our part of the world, the Pacific Rim. The U.S. Navy's gotten into the act."

Watanabe smiled. It seemed an unlikely partnership, the Mossad and the U.S. Navy. "I don't understand."

"That makes a pair of us, Myte. The Navy's on full alert from the Indian Ocean to the North and South Pacific. They're looking for something, probably a certain ship. And the Mossad is looking over their shoulder. There's some big shit coming down, Watanabe. My people haven't seen fit to be candid with me, if indeed they know what it is."

Watanabe assumed he meant the CIA headquarters in Northern Virginia. If they weren't keeping their own people posted, it must be super secret. But with the entire Pacific Fleet involved, how could it be secret? "There is a Japanese military intelligence, of course. But they don't confide in me," Watanabe said. "Maybe you should ask them."

"I'm not tight with them, either," Digger confessed. "What is it exactly that you're investigating at the Tsugaru Strait?"

"Something under water," Watanabe said without thinking.

"You mean in the water? On the bottom, not in the tunnel?"

"I suppose so," Watanabe replied. I never really thought of it in that light. I had been thinking, been led to believe, that maybe money was stolen, skimmed off somewhere. But in truth, the scuba divers must have found something in the water."

"On the bottom?" Digger questioned.

"Yes, I would think on the bottom, near the tunnel. And in the tunnel, too. A man named Ikeda, his son died there, worked in the tunnel, but there were not any official records. Ikeda is the one who mentioned the Seventh Samurai and the Fuurin Kazan.

"Wind, forest, fire and mountain," Digger said.

"Exactly, the ancient battle standard."

"Then what you have is some sort of secret military organization working inside and outside the tunnel, but always underwater," Digger reasoned.

"Yes," Watanabe agreed. "I had never thought of it in just that way before, but what a great cover water would make for such an operation."

"Particularly if one had gills," Digger smiled. "But you are working on a wet case, and I have the U.S. Navy and the Mossad, also interested in salt water. Maybe we can put the two things together."

"I doubt that." Watanabe glanced at his watch. It was just after five. "I'm meeting Nana at the Hawk & Thistle soon as I can get there. Care to lift a few?"

"Bob's your uncle, if you're shouting, Myte."

Watanabe recognized the bit of Aussie slang to mean, yes, if you're buying. The two set out for the authentic British pub that sold Kirin beer and was owned by a smiling Japanese merchant.

CHAPTER 28: Akira Yoshimoto's Lust

Yoko Kaji arranged white and pink flowers in a vase in Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto's inner office. It was late in the day, too late for fresh flowers, but Yoko changed the flowers in the office as frequently as possible. It was one way of being near the old man and drawing his attention. She wore a tight skirt and tried to posture as provocatively as possible during her forays with the flowers. Of course she still had to maintain the traditional shyness that older men expect of a young Japanese lady.

The fact of the matter was that her family was poor and Yoshimoto was known to be very wealthy. Yoko wanted at least a trip to Hawaii. If possible she would like to go to Los Angeles and visit Disneyland. She loved Mickey Mouse and had her bedroom strewn with his photos and stuffed effigies.

"You look tired, Kaji-san," Yoshimoto said. "Perhaps you have been working too hard." He had taken the girl into his office staff as a favor to her grandfather and had no idea what her duties were other than to serve green tea and arrange flowers. But she was a pretty young thing and obviously in the flower of life. Her clothing hid little.

Yoko did her best to blush and place a hand over her mouth. "I have been studying English at night, Yoshimoto-san. I thought it would help me in my work." In fact she had been writhing and panting on the bed of a love hotel until four in the morning. Her partner was a sushi chef she had met three days earlier.

Yoshimoto puzzled to himself how her knowledge of English would help her either serve tea, or arrange flowers. On impulse he asked her to stay late and tell him about her studies. When she agreed, he buzzed his secretary and told her she could go home. He invited Yoko to sit on the couch, and he sat across from her. Her short skirt was drawn up almost to her hips when she was seated and she made no effort to conceal anything. "How old are you, Kaji-san?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment and placed a hand over her mouth again to show shyness. She was almost twenty-one and she knew Japanese men preferred girls in their teens. She dodged the question by saying, "I just graduated from junior college in March."

"And what did you study there?" Yoshimoto asked. He was hardly aware of what he was saying. His thoughts were on her young body and the tight-stretched skirt. In his lifetime, he had never been to one of the love hotels that had hourly rates and were scattered everywhere in Japan. Nor had he visited the soaplands, the semi-legal houses of prostitution. Almost all of his colleagues had regularly been untrue to their wives, while he had remained faithful to his cousin-mistress with his sights set rigidly on one goal.

Now that his work was almost ended, his carefully laid plans about to be executed, his moment of fame possibly just a few days away, if he just had a fresh, unblemished thing like this to share it with... someone who would truly admire and idolize him. Not Kyoko Suzuki, who was more likely to criticize than she was to praise. Even now as he looked at Yoko he could feel his passion rise. Her body was like a full, ripe peach, he thought, lush with the juices of life.

Yoko shifted her body in a sensual manner. "I was a secretarial major, but I studied English, too. My teacher told me I was very good." As she spoke she remembered when her teacher had said that. They had been in bed together in his apartment. She stuck her tongue out slightly and wet her lips. "I think you are very handsome and very mature, Yoshimoto-san. There is so much more to you than the silly young men my age." She put both hands on her knees then drew them up slowly on the sides of her hips, finally using them to smooth her lap.

"Do you live alone, Kaji-san?"

"Yes, I do. And sometimes I'm very lonely. But I have my studies." Her studies consisted of a Japanese-English dictionary that she placed under a leg of a table to keep it from wobbling.

"Would you like a drink? I have whisky, beer and sake, and a wet bar." Yoshimoto rose and walked to the wall where he slid back a section of walnut paneling.

"It would be naughty of me, but I'd like to try whisky," Yoko said shyly. She was dying for a drink. Her hangover still lingered despite the aspirin she had been taking throughout the day. She watched as Yoshimoto mixed two whiskies and ginger ale. She wished he had used more whisky. If she was going to bed with this old man, as she had planned to, she would prefer to be drunk. "Oh, it looks so good," she gushed. "So refreshing. I suppose you know all about drinking, Yoshimoto-san."

Yoshimoto looked at her and smiled. "Moderation is the most important thing about drinking and the most important rule in life." He handed her the drink and said, "Cheers."

"I just knew you spoke English," Yoko said, then took a long, quick gulp of her drink.

"A little," Yoshimoto said. Yoko downed her drink and Yoshimoto guessed that this was her first experience with whisky and was about to caution her when she stood up. She seemed to be unsteady and took a step toward the old man.

"I feel a little dizzy," she said, then lurched into his arms. "Please steady me." Yoshimoto put his arms around her and she responded with her arms around him. The he felt her knee move between his legs. A moment later he was on top of her on the floor and they were undressing one another.

Later that night he escorted her to her room and she insisted he come in. She led him to her narrow bed and proclaimed her love for him.

Still later, in his office, where he spent the night, Yoshimoto had a feeling of elation and joy, but it was mixed with caution. He was convinced that he had won the heart of the young lady, but if Kyoko Suzuki learned of the affair she would come down on him like a hammer. This was no time to take risks. He could go to Kyoko, confess his sin, ask forgiveness and send Yoko away. She would forgive him and the problem would be solved.

But the tender, innocent Yoko, was eager for his love and committed to him with the passion that only burns in the young. He must have her again.

But he would be cautious. Caution had ruled his life from the early days.

CHAPTER 29: Sea Chase

Admiral Guy Blades had picked the Belknap class, guided missile cruiser, the USS Winslow, as his flagship, partly because it had accommodations and partly because it would be positioned better than any other vessel to intercept the Pride of Dakar. Anyway, that was his best guess. The vessel was considerably east of the Philippines and west of the Yap islands. The day before they had been steaming in the company of a Knox-class frigate, the Kirby, but it had gone off at 25 knots to take up its own station. Now the Winslow was alone in a vast sea, alone like hundreds of other U.S. and Australian vessels large and small, each hoping to find the needle that was the Pride of Dakar in the immense haystack of salt water.

Blades had been sipping coffee and glancing through a copy of National Geographic when his aid, Lieutenant Cheddar banged once on the door and entered immediately. Cheddar had a knack of being just as polite as he had to be, no more, no less. One place he didn't want to be was in the Navy, and the worst place he could imagine was in the Navy and at sea, the circumstances in which he found himself.

Regardless, Cheddar was always cheerful. His father had been an admiral who was determined to enjoy a second naval career vicariously through his son. Cheddar rebelled, but only part way. He had an underlying feeling of loyalty toward his father. He had refused to enter the Naval Academy, and had attended Brown University instead. But he had joined the Naval ROTC unit, which obligated him to serve a minimum amount of time. He had been shameless about having his father call in IOUs to get him on Blades' staff, under the false assumption that he would spend a couple of years in Hawaii and then resign to pursue money, comfort and young ladies.

To his dismay, he found himself at sea, confined to a 547-foot-long cruiser that carried under 500 officers and men, including the flag staff. His father, on the other hand, retired to Coronado, California, living on reruns of "Victory at Sea," couldn't have been more delighted.

Cheddar tossed the minimum salute to the admiral and reported. "They think they've seen the Pride of Dakar, Sir. Only it's repainted white and blue and renamed Glory."

"That's the first break we've had, Cheddar. Where the fuck is it?" Blades put aside his national Geographic.

"South of here. Apparently it came through the Celebes Sea. It's steering wide of the Philippines and heading our way."

Blades smiled. "Son of a bitch, I was right. Does the captain have anything to say?"

"Captain Horne says there's no problem. There's no way we can miss the Glory, or the Pride of Dakar, whatever it's called."

"He always was too optimistic," Blades frowned. Blades and John Horne had been classmates at the academy. It was now obvious that Horne had risen as high as he would go through the Naval command. There was resentment on Horne's part that Blades was an admiral aboard his ship, which resulted in tension between the two officers.

"Do you think we should pull other ships off station to intercept the Glory, Sir?"

"I don't know. Horne's probably right. We do have the New Threat upgrade and every imaginable electronic gimmick aboard this ship. We even have a chopper." He suddenly looked at Cheddar. "Just how certain are they that this Glory is actually the Pride of Dakar?"

Cheddar glanced at his scribbled notes. "Dimensions, general profile. Also, the Glory's owners seem phony. There is such a ship and she is insured, but everything within recent days. Efforts to contact the owners have been fruitless. The Glory's paint job is new.

"Also, she seems to have no itinerary, no ports of call. The first spotting was by luck. Some fishermen in the Makassar Strait saw her and mentioned it to one of our people because she was out of the shipping lanes. Then a patrol plane took low-level pictures south of Mindanao."

"If it is our quarry, the patrol plane might have caused her to change course," Blades said.

"It did," Cheddar continued. "She was seen later by a trawler. She was headed our way."

"Very good," Blades nodded. "Very good. Any speed or indication when she might reach us?"

"Tomorrow toward sunset. There's a good chance we could send out planes and find her yet today."

"Yes, we could," the admiral replied. "But we don't have orders to sink her, although it might be the best idea. And harassment from the air might make her change course during the night. We don't know how fast she can travel. Better to wait. We can't risk concentrating ships in our area. We have a net out and moving ships off station would merely weaken the net. Tomorrow, at first light, we can start and air search, and there'd be no chance of escape. Get me a rundown on the weather for the next few days."

"Aye, aye, Sir." Cheddar did what passed for a salute and returned to the bridge.

When he was gone, Blades picked up the National Geographic, but could not concentrate. He was thinking of Cheddar. He couldn't help but like the young man, but there was something lax about him, not the stuff a taut ship was made of. As a young officer, Blades had served under Cheddar's father. The old man had variously been called "The Big Cheese," or "Hard Cheese." The world was changing and with it the navy.

He took a long, hard look at the barometer on the cabin wall. The glass was dropping. Weather ahead.

***

Captain Silverman had the entire crew assembled on the forward deck. The Glory was dead in the water. "Men," he began, "we have a problem on our hands. Not necessarily fatal, though. The entire U.S. Navy is looking for us and we are far from our destination."

"How did they find out," someone shouted.

"Our prime minister, I suppose," the captain continued. "Naturally, the Mossad is turning everything upside down. They learned about the Pride of Dakar. Probably guessed we'd try to disguise it. Have been watching for a ship that meets the general description. Checked on the ownership of the Glory. Found it's legitimate, but fishy. And as you know, we've been buzzed by aircraft. Very likely they took pictures. So now they know generally where we are and generally which direction. I don't think they know our destination. Sparks has been monitoring almost around the clock. There's a lot of radio traffic. They are looking for us and they seem puzzled. So there's where we stand."

"You aren't thinking about giving up, are you?" a bearded young man questioned.

" _Noch nisht_ (not yet) and probably never," Silverman laughed. "It was just _glick_ (luck) to have no problems so far. The reason we're here, the reason we've made certain modifications, is to avoid capture. We have several carefully thought out options. We're doing one of them right now."

"What's that?" came a question.

"Sitting. There are no ships or planes in this part of the ocean. The people looking for us expect us to be moving, expect us to adhere to some kind of schedule. Well, we can sit and let them sweat. Of course we're shut down. No power can be used except for radio. No fans, no air conditioning." He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Anyone who wants to can sleep on deck. It'll be hot, but there's plenty of water. Stay hydrated."

"How long do we sit, Captain?"

"I don't know. Sparks monitors the radio. We keep an eye on the weather and we wait. There are other options that may come along later. That will mean work, a hard, fast work, for every man. This is a good time to explain and get our ducks in a row. Our mission remains the same: The salvation of Israel and to build the third temple. Something for everyone."

***

Late the following afternoon Admiral Blades went to the bridge of the Winslow, a place he usually tried to avoid. It could be awkward being on board a ship like this, a single vessel with the fleet spread in a line hundreds of miles long, waiting and watching. Captain Horne was in command of the Winslow, and Blades was careful not to step on his toes, or override his authority. Horne was on the bridge when Blades came in, trailed by Lieutenant Cheddar.

"Any news of our quarry?" Blades asked Captain Horne.

"Nothing. According to our information the Glory should be just a few miles south of us. We've had aircraft scour the area, but no trace. She could have gone any which way, even south."

"You're suggesting a wider search pattern?" Blades asked.

"No, Guy, we wouldn't know where to look. We could move the entire fleet south, though. Hunt them down. We know she's down there someplace."

"And she knows we're up here, John. If we move the fleet it's possible she could hide somewhere and pass us by. We have to hang in here on full alert."

Captain Horne scratched his chin. He didn't like commanding a flagship. He would have preferred his own ship no matter how humble, far from the top gold. "You think whoever's in charge of this Glory knows we're looking for them?"

"I do. I can't believe otherwise. We've got enough radio traffic from our ships at sea and Naval air, plus ground-based air, to make the casual listener believe it's Armageddon time. It doesn't take a genius, and this Captain Silverman is a first-rate man."

Horne scowled. "He still has a merchant tub and a mishmash of a crew. Hell, he might have broken down and be sitting someplace dead in the water. Maybe he can't even run, and for damn sure, he can't hide."

Blades was tired of the conversation. Ever since he had known Horne the man had an attitude problem, a cynical outlook on the world. Such people found homes in the navy, but they didn't make it a better service. Graduation from the Naval Academy carried with it certain guarantees: no matter how big of a screw-up you were they would keep you and promote you to a certain level. Horne had hit his level and was painfully aware of it.

"We have to sit and we have to wait. We might have a problem in keeping up morale, keeping the men interested, keeping them alert. We mustn't let Glory slip by us, us or any of our ships. There's too much at stake," Blades said.

"If she comes this way she won't get by the Winslow," Horne boasted. "We have Norden surface search and every kind of electronic detection device. All in top condition and manned by a well-drilled crew. That scow doesn't have a chance against the Winslow. I don't know about the rest of the fleet."

Blades smiled. He would rather see some positive action than hear a few words, but he said, "I admire your spirit, Captain. I understand we have some weather moving in."

"Yes, overcast, certainly, maybe rain squalls, but we have eyes in the dark."

The admiral said goodbye and, still trailed by Cheddar, took a stroll around the deck. The weather was still good, although a few clouds were appearing on the horizon. Gentle swells, no more than three feet high, caressed the Winslow."

The vessel differed from many other missile cruisers because it had a single missile launcher forward and a five-inch gun mount toward the after part of the ship. This permitted missile stowage in the bow section, while allowing for a helicopter hangar and platform aft of the superstructure. With four Babcock and Wilcox boilers and two General Electric geared turbines, the Winslow had a range of 8,000 miles at 14 knots, or 2,500 miles at 30 knots. A top speed of 32.5 knots was possible.

"The two men were on the fan tail, just beyond the five-inch gun. "Cheddar," the admiral asked, "do you enjoy life at sea?"

"I was a Navy brat, Admiral. My father was also a Navy brat, but he took to it a little better than I did. His father was a CPO. So he outstripped his dad. I see no way to do better than mine. Not even as well. I'm not a lifer."

"I suppose that answers my question," Blades said. "Traditions can be rather trying and dedicated people are bores." His eyes swept the skies and the gathering clouds. "I'd say we'll be in the soup by morning." He dismissed Cheddar and returned to his cabin to take a nap.

Blades slept very little. Just keeping a fleet this size at sea was a problem. His flag staff numbered only eighteen – six officers including himself and Cheddar and twelve enlisted men. With this number they had to monitor ships spread over much of the Pacific Rim. A flotilla, by comparison, would be simple to control. Already they had lost a helicopter south of Guam, the pilot missing. A repair ship had collided with a Knox-class frigate in the Truk Islands, taking the frigate and its almost 300 men temporarily out of action.

Blades' flag staff was working watch for watch, one on, one off. His radio communications in the flag offices were far superior to the Winslow itself. The flag staff had its own mess and generally kept to itself, not mingling with the officers and men of the Winslow, except for Cheddar, who was Blades' personal aid and the one he relied on to keep him informed about what was going on on the Winslow.

The problem was that nothing was going on. The Glory had definitely been sighted to the south, whether it was the Pride of Dakar in disguise, or not. At its worst speed it should have been intercepted by now, or at least sighted by plane or located on radar. But there was nothing. Could it have turned south again? Should he draw the noose tight and concentrate on the Glory? What if it wasn't the Pride of Dakar? These things weighed on Blades' mind as he lay half awake in the gray dawn that followed the long night.

Three sharp bangs on his cabin door were followed by the rattle of the handle. He had slipped the catch on so Cheddar couldn't get in. Blades stumbled across the deck in his skivvies and unlatched the door. "Morning, Cheddar."

"We've been underway for some time, Admiral. I'm sorry, Sir. I was sleeping and no one alerted me."

Blades paused and listened. Yes, they were underway and possibly even gaining speed. He should have sensed the vibrations, a stepped-up tempo of a vessel underway. Maybe he was getting old. "What's happened, Cheddar?"

"Distress signal, Sir. A merchant ship."

Blades felt his temper suddenly rise. "What the fuck! We can't leave our station for a merchant's distress signal! What's that half-witted Horne think he's doing?"

"It's the Glory, Sir."

"The Glory," Blades said slowly. Then looked straight at Cheddar and asked, "The Glory is sending a distress signal?"

"Maybe, Sir. We're revved up to flank speed."

Blades began pulling on his clothes and gathering his thoughts. "Caution to the wind, eh? Flank speed. This was a bona fide call, Cheddar?"

"I'm not an old salt, Admiral. I don't know. It seems a trifle bizarre."

"Well, is there a ship out there?" he shouted, as he tied his shoes.

"They have something on radar. In fact they have two or three things on radar. They don't seem to know what they all are."

"With our equipment they don't know what they're looking at?" Blades said in amazement.

"There seems to be some mystery, Sir."

Blades was out the cabin door like a shot, with Cheddar in his wake. John Horne was not on the bridge. "Where in hell is the captain?" Blades demanded of the officer of the watch.

A frightened ensign snapped a salute and stammered, "He's on the bow, Admiral, Sir."

"What the fuck is he doing on the bow?" Blades questioned, attempting to lower his voice.

"Watching for the Glory, Sir."

"You mean we're in danger of colliding?" Blades asked sarcastically.

"I don't know, Sir. We're locked into the distress signal."

Blades nodded grimly. There was no reason to join Horne on the bow. He made a fast pace for the radar room. The room was jammed with personnel, all systems were manned – the Raytheon and Lockheed radars, the Norden surface search, the General Electric-Hughes sonars, even the Western Electric and Sperry fire control units.

The admiral sought out the officer in charge and asked to speak with the man who had first spotted the Glory on radar. He was led to a chief petty officer who was still busy at his screen. "Chief, the admiral would like to know about this contact."

The chief wheeled and faced the admiral. He was obviously not cowed by the heavy gold. His eyes lit up when he saw he was facing someone with sound judgment. "I think it's a ship, Sir. But there's some other crap out there. I'm not ready to swear to anything at this point."

"You think it's a ship, Chief! What the fuck is all this equipment? Radar or a video game? Can you tell a ship when you see one?"

The chief was unfazed by the admiral's bluster. Fifteen years ago he had served as a seaman on a destroyer the admiral had captained. "Yes, Sir. It looks like a ship and the radio people have verified that the distress signal is coming from the same location. But the truth is, there's something odd about this blip, although it's just a feeling I have. Also, I'd swear there's been some chaff fired out there somewhere. And we have something else that seems to be a ship, this one moving. But it's not a clear blip and no one can pick up the engine noise."

"OK," Blades said. "You'd get no engine noise from the Glory if its engines are dead. That checks. But you think there's been chaff, some distraction?"

"Yes, Sir, almost like our chaff. Like a decoy."

"Countermeasures. Are there any Navy ships in the area?"

"Negative, Sir," the chief replied. "I don't get a solid blip of a ship anywhere. I mean not for certain."

"How far are we away from what you think is the Glory, Chief?"

"Not far. Depends on our speed."

Blades glanced at the officer who was standing at his elbow. "Commander?"

The lieutenant commander glanced at a gauge on the bulkhead. They were doing better than their top speed. It stood at 34 knots. They could hear the churning and feel the vibrations as the huge vessel plowed the sea. "Fifteen minutes, Admiral."

Blades nodded. Whatever was up ahead, they would know soon enough. If the weather hadn't been so scuzzy they could have sent the chopper, or called in other air. As it was they would be almost on top of the Glory before they could make visual contact. Walking slowly and thoughtfully, Blades went on deck, made his way to the bow and stood by the captain. "Well, John, what do you think we'll find up ahead?"

"The Glory, of course the Glory. We got distress signals in English and I think in Hebrew. Plus mayday. What else could it be in this deserted part of the ocean?"

"Radar doesn't seem to be sure."

"Nonsense, Guy. Radar says there's something there. That confirms the signal."

"We'll know soon enough." The wispy fog was changing to drizzling rain. Blades glanced at Cheddar who stepped off to fetch rain gear. The admiral and the captain stood in silence for ten minutes. The captain was in contact with the bridge by small hand radio. Crewmembers were standing by the lifeboats and other emergency gear. The ship's entire compliment of marines had been turned out to make an armed boarding party. Horne had left nothing to chance. This was his show.

A freshening wind began to blow the fog away, but the rain increased. Cheddar returned wearing a hooded poncho and helped the admiral into one.

The tempo of the Winslow changed again, the bow wave vanished and the vessel settled into the water.

"We're stopping," Cheddar said.

Blades glanced at the captain and Horne talked into his radio. "What's happening?"

"The ship seems to be off to our starboard, Sir. About two thousand meters."

"Why aren't we steering for it?" he shouted.

"We are now, Sir. But the radio signal is still up ahead." The Winslow was underway again, slowly turning to the starboard.

"You mean the ship and the radio signal aren't together?"

"That is true, Sir. As best we can determine," came the halting reply. The Winslow picked up speed slightly as it completed its turn. Blades could overhear both sides of the captain's radio conversation. Horne wiped the rain from his forehead with the palm of his hand. He seemed pale. The Winslow churned ahead and in minutes dark forms began to take shape on the water in front of the ship.

"Full stop," the captain said into the radio.

They watched in silence as the ship drifted ahead and the dark shapes came into clear view through the rain. Blades spoke first. "They're like weather balloons, lashed together."

Horne nodded grimly. "With thin metal plates stuck on them with some kind of mastic. It's like we use for chaff. And they're beginning to break up."

"Yes," Blades agreed. "And the one with the radio must have drifted away some minutes ago. The wind did it."

"But they served their purpose, didn't they? They got me over here, miles south, while the Glory went north."

"Indeed she did, John. How do you suppose she fooled our radar?"

"I don't know, but she did. Partly, anyway. But she can't run fast enough for the Winslow." He shouted into his radio, "North, north, flank speed north. Follow the ghost image the chief was talking about.!" Turning to Blades, he said quietly, "We'll catch her, Guy. We'll get her."

"You'd better, John. You'd better." Horne caught the admiral's meaning. If he let a merchant ship fool him a second time, it would be a board of inquiry leading to his being cashiered. But there was no doubt in Horne's mind now, he knew where the Glory was and he would run her down!

Admiral Blades went to his flag command center and began moving a second network of ships to the north. He could hardly trust Horne a second time. If the Glory fled north, others would be waiting.

He knew now what a sly rogue this Captain Silverman was. In Italy a new power plant might have been installed. Certainly the screws were replaced with new models that ran almost silently. Then there was the chaff. So the Glory carried countermeasures and probably the best of modern radar and sonar, a top drawer operation. And now the weather was on their side, but only temporarily.

This Silverman is smart, too smart to think he can hide from the entire Pacific fleet, the admiral thought. That puzzled Blades.

CHAPTER 30: Watanabe Plans a Dive

Taro Watanabe's Tokyo counterpart, Detective Goro Maeda, had no sooner received the report on his grandfather's death than he was on the phone to Watanabe. "That's great work, Watanabe-san," he exclaimed. "I tried to get something, anything, on three separate occasions and never did get a clear answer. How'd you do it?"

"No problem, Maeda-san. The American bureaucracy is as bad as Japan's. Meters and kilometers of red tape. I asked a friend on the Boston police force. He got it without difficulty and faxed it to me. You think it will lead anywhere?"

"I'd like to give it a shot. What I need now is that list of war returnees that my grandfather interviewed during the few days before his death. As I see it, one of them is my only hope. One of them might know something, might be the murderer. I don't know. Whatever happens it would make me feel better that I had done something positive. It might soothe my grandfather's spirit, wherever it is."

"Where are your grandfather's bones?" Watanabe asked.

"That's a problem. Grandmother wanted the ashes interred in the family grave, but the Americans are big on flesh burials. They shipped the body back to the States and buried it in a military cemetery before she found out what happened. She did get to go there and visit the grave once before she died. It was a great comfort to her."

Watanabe glanced at his watch. He had an appointment in Kobe in an hour and the train took at least a half-hour. "Got to run now, Maeda-san. I'll get that list to you as soon as I can. And good luck on tracking down some of those old coots, or finding one alive."

"I'll do my best."

In Kobe, Watanabe called on an attorney named Jun Sumida. He gave Sumida all the information he had on the Tsugaru Strait incident, filled in details about the deaths of Ben Hardy and the other scuba divers, then asked Sumida's help.

"Let me get this straight," Sumida said. You want me and my friends to take an entire weekend, make the long trip to Tsugaru Strait and dive into unknown waters that have already claimed several lives? Is that what you're saying?" The attorney was smiling slightly.

"I suppose so, Sumida-san. As president of the Kobe Scuba club you were the logical person for me to turn to. Frankly, I could never get police authorization to do this officially. I've given you everything I know about the problem, or case, if you can call it that. If your members find nothing, maybe that would tell us something."

"Will you dive with us, Watanabe-san?"

Watanabe had to think about that for a moment. "I've never dived. I'm an average swimmer." He hesitated a moment, then said, "I will dive if you think I can master it quickly. Do you have extra equipment?"

"I'm sure I can find some. If you'll dive with us I can make a stronger case with the members. Life in Japan can be dull – the grind of work, the train rides, the small apartments. The club could use a little excitement. I'll do my best for you. In fact, we have a meeting the day after tomorrow. We'll put it to a vote and see how many volunteers we get."

"Wonderful, Sumida-san. In the meantime I'll read a book on scuba diving."

"And you'd better start jogging twice a day. Most of the police I know in Kobe aren't into physical fitness."

"I'll take power walks."

"Jogging," Sumida insisted.

***

That night Watanabe sat in the kitchen drinking Asahi beer and watching Nana prepare sashimi. She had assembled abalone, sea bream, squid, daikon, which is the giant Japanese radish that is served shredded, and, of course, wasabi, the strong Japanese horseradish that is often mixed with soy sauce. The main fish, tuna, was Nana's favorite. She sliced the raw fish less than half an inch thick and arranged them on two plates along with the daikon. As she worked, Watanabe told her of his plan to enlist the Kobe scuba club and spend a weekend at the Strait.

"Dangerous," Nana said, "but effective. You're going right to the source of the problem. Of course, I'll go too."

"I hadn't considered that. There's no reason for you to go. It will probably be uncomfortable."

"I'll go," Nana said flatly. She pushed a plate of the raw fish in front of Watanabe and got a large bottle of soy sauce from the cabinet. Watanabe withdrew his wooden chopsticks from their paper sleeve, twisted the sleeve into a type of chopstick rest and prepared to eat. The fish looked delicious. He knew it was no use to argue with Nana. "It will be a nice holiday for us, going to the Strait," she said She mixed wasabi and soy in a small dish and dredged a slice of tuna through it then popped it into her mouth. "Yummy."

"Well, you said it was dangerous. It doesn't sound like much of a holiday. They may let me dive."

Nana looked up from her sashimi and made a face. "You can't dive."

"I can dive," Watanabe insisted. "I just don't know how to yet. The head of the club, Jun Sumida, said it would be better if I dive too. Then the other members will feel better about it."

Nana flashed a look of suspicion. She did not have a poker face. "Is the head of the club a woman?"

"No. His name is Jun, not Junko."

"Sometimes you don't know," Nana said, pouring herself a glass of beer. "Some girls named Junko sign their names Jun. You don't know who they are."

"There are names that fit either male or female in English, too."

"I suppose," Nana said. "What shall I pack to take to the Strait." It wasn't meant as a question, she was already imagining placing clothing and other articles into a bag.

***

Watanabe got prompt service on the next bit of information from the States, the list of war returnees Sergeant Chalk had interviewed during the last days before his murder. Watanabe was pleased because he knew that Detective Maeda was anxious to get it after all these years.

He made a photocopy to mail to Maeda. Just before stuffing the original in his desk, he took a quick look. He was amazed to see the name Akira Yoshimoto among the very last men Chalk had interviewed. Could it be the finance minister of Japan had actually been interviewed by Maeda's grandfather? Or was it just someone with an identical name. Neither of the two names was unusual.

Watanabe wondered if Maeda would notice the coincidence, or if he was aware who the finance minister was. Japanese politicians move from job to job and are often difficult to track. For many years the system was one party controlled by politicos who juggled jobs among themselves. One man would lose favor and drop out of sight then later reemerge in another post. He made a note to call Maeda in a day or two and fill him in. If it was the same person, here is a man who is still alive and definitely in control of all of his faculties.

CHAPTER 31: That Girl is Trouble

Kyoko Suzuki burned with jealousy. She also burned with hatred. Both emotions were directed at the fresh, youthful figure of Yoko Kaji. She was certain the young woman was making a play for Akira Yoshimoto, but she was not certain how far the affair had gone, or if Yoshimoto had responded. She had no wish to offend her cousin-lover, but each day she had become more irritated. The aging politician spent more and more nights on the futon in his office, pleading the press of work.

During the times when she would visit Yoshimoto in his office during the day, she would see the young Yoko serving tea, arranging flowers, or hovering like a butterfly around the old man's desk.

When they were alone, she told her cousin, "Beware of that girl. She will cause trouble for you, for us, for the project. We have gone too far to be tripped up by an empty-headed piece of fluff."

Yoshimoto bristled. "What do you mean, Kyoko?"

"Yoko Kaji, of course. She is always near you. She will make a fool of you if you let her. We have built a strong organization with no flaws, a solid wall of like-minded people moving toward one purpose. This girl could prove a crack in the wall."

"That is nonsense. She is just an office girl, the granddaughter of a friend. She has no ambition, no skills. She will be a housewife someday. I'm sure, a good one."

"I am not the only one who has noticed what is going on, Akira. Everyone has eyes to see. An office romance will be costly for you."

"Costly in what way?" Yoshimoto shot back. "Is that some kind of threat?"

"No it is not. The price you pay will be the loss of the respect of your followers. You have a position. You are the Seventh Samurai, the leader of the Fuurin Kazan. A dalliance of this type, it does not fit the aesthetic lifestyle you have set for yourself, that we have set, like the Fuurin Kazan demands." Kyoko spoke of ideals, not the jealousy and hatred that was in her heart, which had been gnawing at her for days. She had given her life to this man and this cause.

Yoshimoto was sobered by her words. He knew she was right, whatever her motive. For a man his age to chase after a youngster like Yoko was unseemly. Yet he lusted after the young girl and was reluctant to let her go. In fact, wasn't it Yoko who had pursued him? Indeed, he could conduct the affair in total secrecy. At least, almost total, if it wasn't for Kyoko. But was she correct? Were others watching?

"I understand what you say, Kyoko. Even though this girl Yoko means nothing to me, except that I am her protector because of family friendship, I must avoid even the appearance of involvement. So I will be careful. I don't know what action I will take. Possibly transfer her to another office."

"That would be wise, Akira. In fact, I could take her into my office. I might even be able to train her into a useful employee, although the impossible is sometimes just that. She need only be smart enough to do the job and dumb enough to think it's important. The IQ of an eggplant would probably serve her admirably. As you say, she will make an excellent housewife."

"Your offer is most generous, Kyoko. But perhaps it would be best to transfer her to some post where there has been no prior judgment of her, pro or con."

"As always, you know best, Akira." Kyoko felt she had scored a victory and thought it best to take her winnings and retreat while she was still ahead. "I must go now, Akira. Your favorite meal will be waiting for you tonight."

Yoshimoto started to say that he would not be home, but thought better of it. "I am in good appetite."

After Kyoko was gone he sat for a long while and stared at the latest arrangement of fresh flowers. How to keep Yoko? He just couldn't set her up in an apartment. Too obvious. He of all people, an unmarried man! He should be free to do as he pleased. But here was Kyoko, much more enmeshed in his life than any wife would be And there was the pledge he had made many years ago. Perhaps one last fling with Yoko, then send her off. She had spoken about Hawaii and Los Angeles. He would think about it later. His mind was in a whirl.

And where were those warheads exactly?

CHAPTER 32: The Israeli Dilemma

Israeli Prime Minister Mordechai Baker had just hung up the phone after talking with the U.S. President when Eli Kotcher entered his office. The head of the Mossad came close to Baker's desk and said in a loud whisper, "It's Japan."

Baker smiled. He was in a semi good mood. He had just been convinced the world wasn't coming to an end, but he still felt like a man about to have his kneecaps shot at. "What's Japan?" he asked.

"The group we're after. The group with no name. It's allied with a bunch of Japanese right-wingers. The warheads are headed for Japan."

"I see," Baker said quietly. "This does add a dimension. Gives us a beginning."

Kotcher was disturbed that Baker wasn't excited by his breakthrough. He should be calling the Japanese prime minister right now. Why so laid back? "Aren't you going to do anything?" His tone was one of exasperation.

"Yes I am. You and I both are. We're going to keep chipping away and we're going to start sending people to Japan and we're going to try very hard to cover our ass. I just talked to President Black. He assures me that a U.S. cruiser is in hot pursuit of the Pride of Dakar, or the Glory, or whatever it's called now. Everyone seems certain it's the ship we're after. So it's a matter of time before they catch her and board her."

"So it's all over," the Mossad chief said.

"Hardly," Baker tossed back. "It's just beginning. It means that the U.S. Navy will soon have in its custody twenty-five Israeli nuclear warheads, warheads that we have denied having. It also means that there will be survivors of this organization with no name and they must be rounded up. But can we bring them to open trial? We're supposed to be a democracy."

"Doesn't matter," Kotcher said. "We can administer justice without a trial. We're not a bunch of pansies."

"I'll ignore that statement for the moment. Let's go on. It also means that the Japanese group is still intact. There must be some Israelis in Japan with that group. If they were going to fit these warheads to missiles and fire them at someone, both groups are doubtless represented in some secret place. Technical people as well as ideological. We have to mop up that mess."

"The Japanese can help us there."

"Possibly," the prime minister said. "But the Japanese worship harmony. They're good at sweeping things under the rug and hoping for the best. We don't want a repeat of this incident, ever."

"No we don't, but the ship hasn't been taken yet. How can you be certain the Americans will get it?"

"Well," Baker smiled. "They've spent billions on weaponry. They spend billions to payroll their navy. How can a worn-down cargo ship be any match against the U.S. Navy? It's laughable."

"Maybe," the Mossad chief said, "but I'll feel better when the ship's been taken, even if the Americans do get the warheads. This Captain Silverman is no fool. The Americans will give our warheads back, won't they?"

"Why should they?" Baker asked. "We're not supposed to have them. It certainly wasn't me who insisted that we build them."

"But they mean our very survival!" Kotcher exclaimed.

Baker smiled a weary smile. "Let's let the boys in the Knesset agonize over that one. What I want is a thorough roundup of this no-name gang, plus first-rate intelligence on what's going on in Japan."

"Japan's tough," Kotcher said. "In the first place, a foreigner has a tough time over there, so we have to depend on Japanese informants. Most Japanese at the level we're interested in aren't interested in a few extra yen. And we can't blackmail them with extramarital sex because it's an accepted way of life. There's a big problem when it comes to doing our thing in Japan."

"Your problems, Eli. That's your job. I'll worry about how to deal with the Americans once they get their mitts on our warheads. You fuss with catching these right-wing lunatics from both countries. I want this mess cleaned up!"

Baker had clearly ended the conversation. Kotcher nodded and left the room.

CHAPTER 33: End of the Chase

The crew of the Glory was exhausted, but jubilant. And still they labored on. They had eluded a Belknap-class guided missile cruiser and were headed north at top speed while it was heading south for the decoy made up of a series of large balloons and a radio signal. The Glory's radar system explicitly showed what was happening. Their deception had worked.

Headed north, they had passed the Winslow well to the east. Captain Silverman had directed the crew to paint the port side of the vessel with an experimental substance Israel had developed to confound radar detection. It was a heavy black liquid that had the consistency and appearance of that used to seal driveways. Time made it impossible for the crew to paint the entire port side, but the substance worked, at least enough to fool the Winslow. The ship didn't turn toward the Glory when they were only a few miles apart, but instead picked up on the balloon decoy and the radio signal. Silverman guessed the radio signal had spelled the difference.

He also knew that the Winslow would not be fooled for long and that it could travel in excess of thirty knots. In good weather, although that was no problem now, its reach was sharply lengthened by a helicopter. And there could be other Yank vessels closing in. He had put every available member of the weary crew to repainting the Glory, this time quite a different color. The nameplate had already been removed from her stern and cast into the sea.

***

Rear Admiral Guy Blades spent the first hour of the new pursuit in his flag command center working over charts. He was convinced that they were indeed chasing the Glory as he called in ships from the north, east and west to block any escape route. He was also aware that Captain Horne was driving the Winslow beyond its top-rated speed and wondered how long the vessel could take the intense strain. He had not made calculations, but he guessed the ship's fuel consumption was well over what it might be at a more studied pace.

Horne was obviously making a wild dash for the Glory in hopes of rectifying his earlier mistake in going for the decoy. But if Blades had been in command of the Winslow with the Glory not too far ahead and the fleet being brought in, he would have opted for caution.

But he was not in command. The only orders he thought appropriate under the circumstances were the orders he issued to call his captains: Pursue the Glory as you see fit.

After satisfying himself that a sufficient number of vessels would close in on the prey, Blades spent a few moments snacking on dried cranberries and drinking a glass of tepid tea. He liked the taste of the dried berries and had heard that they contained certain beneficial vitamins and maybe minerals, but he couldn't recall just which ones. He then set off for the Winslow's radar operations, closely trailed by Cheddar. Despite his distaste for life at sea, Cheddar was getting in the swing of things. A sense of excitement, a feeling of the chase charged the air of the cruiser.

Captain Horne was also in the radar room. Blades nodded to him, but went directly to the station still manned by the same chief petty officer he had spoken to before. "You getting any better picture, Chief?"

"Yes, Sir. It's a stern view. Merchant vessel. We're closing in, but not too fast considering our speed."

Blades looked at the screen, but could tell nothing. Radar had always mystified him. In fact he had trouble sending and receiving e-mail. He looked at Horne. "Any chance of the weather clearing up, John?"

"Probably tomorrow. Then we can get the chopper up if we haven't caught them yet. But we should have them by dawn."

Blades motioned toward the radar screen. "She is traveling fast, isn't she?"

Horne nodded in agreement. "Too fast for a merchant ship of her age. They've done something special to her power plant. And not at sea. Whatever the modifications, they had to be made in dry dock."

"Italy," Blades said. "No expense was spared. They have a bagful of tricks." He wondered if during the time they were searching for her she could have offloaded her cargo. So many small islands, so many vagrant merchant ships. What a thought. She could be the decoy! He turned to the chief. "Why'd we miss her the first time, Chief?"

"Good question, Sir. There's some stuff they're beginning to try on subs. You just paint it on. It coats the metal and confuses radar. That could be it. We did get a picture, but it wasn't your ideal profile. Far from it. Then there was chaff and the decoy and things were moving right along. A regular side show."

"I understand," Blades said, although he wondered if a board of inquiry would. The admiral turned to the captain. "I think I'll go to the bridge, John. Do you care to join me?"

When they were alone, Blades asked Horne if the Winslow's power plant was in good shape.

"You mean will they take the strain of max speed for several hours? Yes, I think they will. I'd like to be the one to run down the Glory, Guy. I'm sure you know why."

"Certainly," Blades replied.

Few on board slept that night. Every member of the crew understood that the Winslow had been tricked by a merchant ship, and to reclaim its honor it must catch that ship. The engine room was a busy place, giving the bridge maximum power throughout the long night.

The Winslow groaned and tossed a heavy bow wave through the skuzzy weather. Rain periodically pelted the ship and there was never a star to be seen in the sky. Only low, roily clouds, illuminated now and then by lightning.

Toward dawn Blades had made another check of his flag command center to find all personnel on duty. Satisfied that his orders were being carried out throughout the fleet, although a destroyer south of Parece Vela had lost a man overboard, he retired to his cabin for a quiet cup of coffee with Cheddar.

"There are always accidents at sea, Cheddar. Always have been, I suppose. Have you ever been to Macau?"

"No, Admiral. I've heard it's a gambling place."

"I suppose that's all it is to most tourists. The Portuguese started their colony there some 400 years ago. Since then it has reverted to China. It has a harbor like Hong Kong, but not like Hong Kong. Hong Kong has a wonderful deep-water harbor. Macau's is shallow, unfit for modern ships. So if you go to Hong Kong, you can take an excursion boat to Macau if you want to gamble. But there are a couple of other attractions there. There's an old church front, I suppose it was a cathedral, and there's a smaller church with a cemetery for foreigners. If you walk through that cemetery you'll find the graves of more than one American seaman who died in Macau roads. The epitaphs read, 'fell from aloft.' Usually, they will also say that the headstone was purchased with money from his shipmates."

Blades paused and sipped his coffee. "The sea was their home, shipmates were their families and a foreign grave is their final resting place. This is the business that the two of us are in. It has changed, but it remains the same."

Cheddar wondered if Blades was trying to be a surrogate father to him. Nothing would please his real father more than his deciding to make the navy his career. He could return home on leave to Coronado occasionally and the two of them could watch reruns of "Victory at Sea" together. Cheddar was about to make some reply to Blades when the entire ship shuddered. It shuddered again, then came an awful jolt from the bow, their coffees went flying, a sickening grinding noise came from somewhere below, then the power failed and the lights went out. Cheddar was lying on the floor against the forward bulkhead, his legs over the trunk of Blades' body. "Holy Christ," he muttered. "Do you suppose the Glory carries torpedoes?"

He could feel the admiral struggling to a sitting position. Finally, the older man said, "It's a possibility we haven't considered. I would put nothing past Captain Silverman. But we weren't torpedoed. One torpedo wouldn't do this to the Winslow. We've run aground."

His words had a chilling impact on Cheddar. As a Navy brat and now an officer, he knew what it meant for a captain to run his ship aground, particularly with a full, well trained crew on board, relatively good weather and not in the confines of a harbor. "How could that be?" he questioned, sitting up.

"You got me," the admiral said slowly, "but that fuckin' Horne managed to do it. His ass isn't worth shit. Do we have a flashlight around here?"

"I don't think so," Cheddar relied. "I never expected the power to go out. We're listing, aren't we?"

"To starboard, quite a bit," Blades said.

"Could we be taking on water?" Cheddar asked. He suddenly became aware that they were miles from shore and in the middle of a mild storm. Going over the side into a lifeboat held little appeal. He suspected that his father back in Coronado would think him disgraced just because he was on a ship that ran aground. So much for a nautical career.

"No," Blades said in disgust. "I don't think we're in any danger of sinking. I don't think the water's deep enough here." Clinging to the bulkhead, he struggled to his feet. "We better get to our flag command. We'll have to transfer the flag somehow to something a little more seaworthy."

The two men started to feel their way along the passage, when somewhere a generator kicked in and dim lights came on.

The two made their way to the bridge where they found Captain Horne. He was like a walking cadaver and a look of panic crossed his face when he saw the admiral. He rushed up to him, "Guy, you've got to help me. This didn't happen, not to me."

"Quiet, John. " Blades glanced around at the others on the bridge. "I'll talk to you later." Horne seemed on the brink of a breakdown. "You'd better go to your cabin, John. I'll ask the exec to take over."

Captain Horne nodded. He had about all he could take in the last 24 hours. His career was a shambles and he was nearly a basket case. "Thanks, Guy. I think I need some rest." His walk was almost a shuffle when he left the bridge.

Blades talked to the executive officer, made certain proper damage assessment and repairs were underway, inquired how many men were injured and asked for a report from the sick bay, double checked the radio reports, then returned to his fleet command center. Luckily all radio equipment was in working order and there was no need for him to stand down while someone else took over the fleet.

What had happened was obvious. They were in shoaling waters, areas of coral reefs and in some cases minor islands. Captain Silverman, with his shallower draft vessel and light cargo, had carefully led the Winslow into a box. The Winslow was watching the Glory on radar and the Glory was watching the Winslow. When Silverman had the Winslow in the right position he made a quick change of course. In his enthusiasm to run the smaller ship down, Horne ordered a course change before making proper note of reefs in the area. They were on the coral just as frantic warnings were being issued to the bridge.

Once more the Glory had outwitted the Winslow, this time leaving it badly damaged and hung up on a reef. Without waiting for damage assessment, Blades knew by the list that it would take tugs to pull the vessel free of the coral. And what of the damage to the hull?

He could use the Winslow as a stationary fleet flagship for now, but he would have his flag transferred long before the vessel was off the reef. He asked Cheddar to find out how difficult it would be to get the helicopter off the listing ship. Then Blades went to the radar station to determine the location of the Glory.

"Sorry, Admiral," the chief said. "The grounding must have jarred loose some of our surface search equipment topside. We have full power back, but they're checking the wiring on the mast now. We should be back in business in an hour, or so."

"We need a fix on that vessel as soon as possible, Chief."

"Aye, Aye, Sir."

Cheddar found the admiral and told him there's be no problem launching the chopper. "They're checking it for damage now. Then they have to simply block it up level. The crew chief said it'd be ready in half an hour."

Blades stepped out on deck and checked the weather. There was still a heavy, low cloud cover. The helicopter was all-weather and could fly in this soup and possibly locate the Glory with its instruments, but maybe not visually. What Blades wanted was a good, visual sighting, someone who could get close enough to eyeball the Glory. He wanted to be absolutely certain what they were chasing.

The rest of the fleet was closing in, but these waters with their coral atolls and frequent reefs were tricky. The Winslow's grounding had sent a chill note of caution through the fleet. It would be late evening at best even before the nearest ship could close with the Glory, and that only providing she kept her present course. So probably they were talking the following day, which would give the Glory plenty of leeway. The Winslow was close enough to keep track of her for the moment, if the radar was operational.

Blades was beginning to feel a little grungy. He told Cheddar to have a breakfast brought to his cabin, that he was going to shave and clean up. He suggested that Cheddar do the same and join him for breakfast. Cheddar went off to do the admiral's bidding, wondering all the while if he would ever see his bunk again.

During breakfast, Cheddar asked Blades if there was any chance that Horne could get out of the foul stew that he had cooked for himself. Blades cut a length of sausage with his fork, speared the smaller section and ate it. "Possibly. He has more than 20 years in, not a bad record, and he is an Academy graduate." He took a sip of coffee and two forkfuls of scrambled eggs. "They just might let him retire." Blades was eager to get back to the radar equipment.

He was pleased to find it back in service. "Where's the Glory, Chief?"

"No reading, Sir."

"What does that mean, Chief?"

"It's gone, Sir."

Blades took a deep breath. "Your equipment isn't working right?"

"As far as I can tell, it's working as well as ever. There's just no ship."

"Could it have gotten out of range during the breakdown?" Blades asked sharply. There was a nightmarish quality about the last two days.

"I don't see how, Admiral. But there is something near where we last had it."

Another ghost? Blades thought. Another decoy, or have they painted the entire ship with an anti-radar substance. "What is it?"

"It could be a small boat, but whatever it is, it's stationary, No movement."

"Is it like one of those things you saw before? A decoy? A ship painted with a substance?"

"No, Sir. This is a solid reading. A small ship. But too small for any large vessel profile. But it's not moving. I don't think it will move."

"You've seen something like this before, anytime?"

"Yes, Admiral. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a derelict, a wreck, mostly submerged, probably on a reef in fairly shallow water. Not unusual, Sir."

"Then it could be the Glory! She too could have hit a reef and been ripped open and have gone under. It could happen."

"I suppose so, Sir, but..."

"But what?"

"Well, Sir, this ship we're after is well skippered. A good skipper like that isn't going to run his ship onto a reef."

Captain Horne did run his ship on a reef. All present, including Cheddar, had exactly the same thought. Nobody spoke it aloud.

"We'd better get that helicopter aloft," Blades said. Then he headed for the bridge.

CHAPTER 34: The Watch

Watanabe remembered the watch when he was on his way to work. He had taken the train to the great station at Namba, then boarded the packed subway. He was one of the last on after running for the last car, always the most tightly populated. He had almost gotten his arm caught in the sliding door. He stood, unable to move, the press of the crowd against his back making it even difficult to breath. He had four stations to go: Shinsaibashi, near a couple of large department stores, hotels and a shopping street; Hommachi, in the middle of numerous companies, a magnet for the suit-and-tie workers that Japanese always referred to as "salarymen;" then Yodoyabashi, just across the Tosabori river from city hall and the prefectural library. At last the subway could pass under the two rivers, go near the U.S. Consulate and finally release Watanabe at the huge Umeda station, a cultural riot of hotels, other train lines, restaurants, department stores, the main post office and more hordes of people.

Jammed on the subway, Watanabe found himself staring at a salaryman's wrist. On the wrist was a gold watch with a tinted crystal. The wrist was attached to a hand that was pushed against the glass, a prop that kept its owner from being pushed this way and that by the mob. A small light flashed in the back of Watanabe's head when he guessed that Sgt. Burt Chalk's watch, the one thought stolen so many years ago, was part of a plaque on Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto's inner office wall.

So the watch had not been stolen. Chalk had given it to Yoshimoto as a gift. Yoshimoto might have valuable information, even details, of the last hours of Sergeant Chalk. Even if the information didn't help solve the crime, it would be a lift for Goro Maeda to talk to someone who had actually talked to his grandfather just before his death.

Watanabe was one of the first off the subway and he bounded up the stairs ahead of the crowd. He walked briskly through the long, wide corridors of the station, flanked by many expensive shops, and remembered that he was supposed to jog twice a day to get in shape for scuba diving. Then it was into the sunlight and finally to his office.

He picked up the phone and called Detective Maeda in Tokyo. Maeda wasn't in. He had worked late the night before, probably his usual routine, and was expected about midmorning, anyway before lunch. Watanabe hung up and stared at the phone.

After acting impulsively, he was glad the Tokyo detective was out. After all, Chalk's murder happened in his jurisdiction and, technically, if the watch in Yoshimoto's office was Chalk's, some would consider Yoshimoto a suspect. Of course it was absurd to think that someone who had risen to the post of finance minister for all of Japan was capable of committing murder for petty gain. And it was even more ridiculous to think a murderer would keep the watch of his victim as a memento, even display it in his office.

Watanabe picked up the phone again and talked to Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata's secretary. He asked if he might see the old man this morning. The girl called back in a few minutes and said, "Come at ten."

When Watanabe entered Shibata's office, the old man creased a leathery smile. "Thank you for our adventure in Tokyo, Watanabe-san. I still don't know what it was all about, but it was interesting. Have you learned more about the tunnel through your pleas for help?"

Watanabe took a seat near Shibata's desk. "I am more convinced than ever that a long-standing militant group exists. Its leaders are in the top level of the country, and using the tunnel as some sort of rallying point. But not just inside the tunnel, also outside, because of the scuba divers."

"Perhaps you and I should become divers, Watanabe-san," the old man smiled.

Watanabe had told him nothing of his trip to Kobe to enlist the help of Jun Sumida, the scuba club chief. He wondered if Shibata had guessed, or been informed, or simply reasoned along logical lines.

"I'm thinking of that," Watanabe said, then quickly changed the subject.

He told about the watch in Yoshimoto's office, about helping Maeda to find his grandfather's murderer and about the report from the States. "I think some people could jump at the conclusion that Yoshimoto might be involved in the murder. But he has the watch openly displayed in his office, and he said an American serviceman gave it to him as a gift."

"And there is reason to believe it is the same watch?" Shibata said seriously.

"Yes, the pinkish face and the fact that Yoshimoto's name appears on a list of war-returnees Sergeant Chalk interviewed, apparently the last series of interviews before his death."

"As I see it," Shibata said, leaning back in his chair and placing the ends of his heavy fingers together, "your job is to prove that Yoshimoto is not the murderer. It seems a simple matter, but well worth your time. It would also give you another opportunity to talk to the finance minister and possibly discuss the tunnel. But this time I will remain in the relative calm of Osaka while you visit Tokyo."

"I see," Watanabe said, wondering what he had got himself into this time. "The Americans think they have the killer's prints. I get Yoshimoto's prints and match them with the killer's. When they don't match he is eliminated as a suspect. I also get Yoshimoto to talk about the Fuurin Kazan and to identify the Seventh Samurai."

"That should do nicely," Shibata grinned.

"And could you tell me how I might get his prints, short of going to his office with an ink pad and paper?"

"Get something Yoshimoto has touched," the old man said.

Watanabe suppressed a smile. "There is a young lady, one who helped serve dinner, who Yoshimoto looked at with some interest."

Shibata laughed. "I don't think we can lift prints from the flesh of a young lady, but while you're in Tokyo you might give her a detailed examination. Let me know what you find."

Watanabe puzzled most of the afternoon over what he could get that Yoshimoto had touched that would hold a clear print. He called the States and asked that the fingerprints of the suspect be sent to his office. Then he called Goro Maeda in Tokyo and asked if he had a picture of his grandfather. He did.

Watanabe's next move was to the police laboratory. A fingerprint specialist gave him some pieces of plastic that he said would hold prints, even if just casually touched. Watanabe would enclose the photo of Chalk in plastic, let Yoshimoto hold it, then slip it back into the envelope.

CHAPTER 35: Kyoko's Suspicions

Although Akira Yoshimoto did transfer his youthful lover, Yoko Kaji, out of his office. He transferred her only two floors below. He also began going to his condo more in the evening because he feared Kyoko Suzuki's wrath. She was, after all, the Geisha, respected and feared as the second in command of the Fuurin Kazan. She was in fact the steady hand behind Yoshimoto's power.

It was a small thing that sent Kyoko Suzuki into a fit of pique. Japanese seldom touch when greeting others, not even close family members after years of separation. They bow. And they can tell much from a bow, as much or more than westerners can determine from a handshake. Kyoko was going into Yoshimoto's office when the young Yoko emerged. The girl smiled and bowed, but it was a taunting bow, a sniggering bow, a bow that seemed to say, "Yoshimoto has taken me as a lover and he would like to get rid of you, old woman, "

Kyoko demanded of Yoshimoto what the young tart was doing in his office.

"She was here on an innocent errand," Yoshimoto replied. "She had seen her grandfather over the weekend and he told her to give me his regards. That was it."

"She is a dutiful grandchild," Kyoko said coldly.

"She is that. And a sweet child," Yoshimoto added.

"It is strange that the finance minister of Japan can spend his valuable working hours chatting about family matters with children. Many others, with important affairs of state, are barred from this office. Such appointments can almost be interpreted as assignations."

"You do have a point there, Kyoko-chan," Yoshimoto said smoothly, using the endearing "chan." He got up and walked to the window and gazed over the city. "Of course it is politic to keep old friends happy during these critical days. The warheads are on their way, but I must say a bit overdue. We will have to assume their arrival and begin issuing orders for the final phase of the operation."

"The move to the tunnel?" Kyoko questioned. Was it so close? Were all the years of work actually near fruition?

"Yes, our loyal troops and followers. The nucleus of government, should the existing one be destroyed. The supplies are in place. We need only the warheads."

"When will we go to the tunnel?"

Yoshimoto hesitated. "Of course I must stay at my desk till the last. I am the contact for the warheads. But you, as my second in command, should be in the tunnel soon. From now on there will be much activity."

Kyoko was immediately suspicious. "There are others already in the tunnel who can handle day-to-day details. Some have been there for years, others will be joining them right along."

"That's true. But one can grow stale in the tunnel over a period of time. Your arrival, the Geisha herself, will signal that the time of glory is near. It will send a powerful message."

"The message can wait until we at least learn where the warheads are and when they can be expected at Tsugaru Strait. I am not going into exile. It is unseemly of you to see that girl in your office or anyplace else."

"I understand your concern for my reputation. I will follow the teachings of Confucius and avoid even the appearance of scandal. He counsels us not to bend down to tie our shoes while walking through a neighbor's melon field."

"And do not stop to straighten your hat while walking through another's orchard," Kyoko said. She gazed at her aging cousin who had been her lover for so many years. How little he had changed since they first met during those dismal days of despair after the war. And how far they had come together. He needed her help then, and the need had not diminished through the years. In many ways he was so childlike; she must protect him against himself."

When Kyoko left Yoshimoto's office, she dropped in on the head of security for the Ministry of Finance. Ryuji Kawakami played a dual role. He was also head of security for the Fuurin Kazan. She told him she wanted a bug planted in Yoshimoto's office.

"You jest, I'm sure," he replied. "I'm responsible for keeping bugs out of Yoshimoto-san's office. My men sweep it for electronic devices twice a week."

"I do not joke, Kawakami-san. Who better to place a bug and sustain it than you?"

"No one, of course, but Yoshimoto-san is the Seventh Samurai. He is our leader, possibly the savior of Japan. This is treasonable talk. Spare me! Go now and I'll forget it."

"I too am a leader of the Fuurin Kazan. Its best interest is my interest. Sometimes people follow paths that are not to their benefit, paths that could betray us all. There is a young lady who has thrown herself at our leader. It might be difficult for an old man to resist such temptation. It is important that we know how far the involvement has gone, and to know of the girl's activities too. Who are her friends? Is she our enemy? There has been a detective snooping around us, as we all know. Watanabe from Osaka."

By the time she left Kawakami's office, she had convinced him not only to plant a bug, but to assign a team to follow Yoko Kaji.

CHAPTER 36: The Spies

It was late afternoon when Digger entered the Hawk & Thistle. The place had opened just twenty minutes earlier and was almost deserted. A couple was trying their luck at darts, but obviously didn't know how to play. Digger went to the bar for a pint of beer, then went to a corner table with the intention of reading the Asian Wall Street Journal he had picked up at a hotel near Umeda. He had barely gotten into the first story when someone sat down beside him and whispered. "Digger."

The Aussie looked up in surprise. "G'dye, Myte. Long time no see, Abe. Abe Lazarus! I thought you were dead."

"Very funny," Abe responded. The newcomer was above average height with a fringe of red stubble ringing an otherwise baldhead. He was thin, pug nosed and had an expressive mouth, not suited for poker.

"What's the Mossad's finest doing in this out-of-the-way spot?" Digger questioned.

Lazarus looked around furtively and made a motion with his hands to keep the voices down. "Can we talk here?"

"Spy business?"

"Of course. A social butterfly, I am not."

"Probably not. A lot of foreigners hang out in here. We can walk."

"Good. Lead on."

Digger looked longingly at his almost new pint and decided not to drain it in one gulp. The two men left the bar, but did not go into the crowded shopping street. Instead they walked into a section that was largely financial institutions, office buildings and government agencies. "When'd you get in town?" Digger asked.

"Two days ago."

"You speak Japanese?"

"They gave me a one-day crash course in Berlin. I have a tourist phrase book. I've learned to say, 'These are not my shoes.' I speak perfect German and several Slavic languages. So I end up in Japan. I could also give you a few choice Yiddish words about the present situation. Tell me what's going on over here?"

"You want me to sum up the last twenty years of Japanese history in five minutes?" Digger asked.

"No. Current events would do nicely. Is there anything big on the present horizon? I'd just like to chew the fat."

"Come on now, Abe. No one comes to Osaka on vacation. You want information? Maybe I'll trade you."

"But do you know anything?"

"I can speak Japanese. At least I can order us dinner, that is if you're buying."

"I suppose it's worth dinner. Can we eat kosher?"

"Right, Myte. There's a kosher Chinese place just around the corner."

During the course of the dinner the two spies exchanged what meager bits of information they had. Lazarus said that some dangerous war materials, he didn't know what, were headed for Japan and the U.S. Navy was attempting an intercept. He said the items had been stolen from somewhere in the Mideast, but did not specify where. Digger went out on a limb and said something unusual was happening up at the Tsugaru Strait, but he wasn't sure what. This was the only chip he had to bargain with, so he tossed it on the table.

They agreed to stay in touch and to pool what they could find out. But they were suspicious of one another, each man wondering what the other was holding out. Each man not fully briefed by his own handlers.

CHAPTER 37: Wreck of the Maru

Small bits of pale blue filtered through the cloud cover as the Winslow's chopper thump-thumped its way into the air, circled skyward and headed for the site where radar indicated there was something in the water.

Admiral Blades, Cheddar and the executive officer, now in command of the ship, waited on the bridge. Certainly, whatever it was had been near their last fix on the Glory. There had been some other radar activity, but nothing that would indicate the Glory. It had simply vanished.

Word from the helicopter was not long in coming. They had been that close when the Winslow ran aground. "It's an old wreck," crackled the voice through the radio speaker. "Red with rust, just the tip of the bow out of water, most of the deck and superstructure well submerged, some parts forward awash in the swells.

The admiral took the microphone. "Does there appear to be any damage?"

"She's pretty well smashed up. What portholes we can see are out, railings smashed, the mast is severed. Seems to be a large, ragged hole in her cargo deck, maybe an explosion." The thump-thump of the noises could be plainly heard as the chopper circled the wreck.

"Is she near deep water?" Blades questioned.

"Treacherous. Shoaling, lots of reefs. She must have been driven up here in a storm. If it would float, I don't believe you could ever get her out. But I'm not a salvage expert."

"Describe the type of vessel."

"Freighter. Run of the mill merchant ship. Large cargo hatches, one of them missing. Cargo boom forward, broken."

"How about a name?"

"We've been looking for that. The pilot, his eyes are better than mine, thinks he can make out one word on her bow. We're hovering as low and close as we can safely get. I can see it now with glasses."

"What is it?" Blades demanded.

"Maru."

"Japanese," the admiral said. There was disappointment in his voice. He was hoping for the Glory. "There is no question that it's an old wreck?"

"I'd say so," came the voice. "Rust over everything. No sign of life. Lifeboats gone. Hammered by storms. Wasting away. I'm sorry, Sir."

"So am I," Blades said. He handed the mike to the exec.

"How do you know it's Japanese, Sir?" Cheddar asked.

Blades looked at him in wonder. The young man had certainly missed a lot by not attending the Academy. "Most Japanese merchant ships have the second name 'maru.' I don't know why. The word actually means 'circle' in Japanese. Ask your average Japanese why the ships carry that second name and they don't know either. I've tried it a few times. Now you tell me something. Where's the Glory?"

"On the bottom," Cheddar replied.

"That's the only option, isn't it?" Blades said. "But it makes me uneasy. If there is a material to foil radar and if Silverman had a chance to coat the entire ship with it, and if, if, if. This is going to be a little hard to explain." He hung onto a stanchion to steady himself on the listing deck. "Maybe it's our radar. We have other ships moving in, plus we can mount a total air search now that the skies are clearing off."

He turned to the exec and said, "Have the chopper make a broad sweep of the area once he's satisfied himself about the wreck. I'll be at the flag command center." He strode off across the sloping deck with Cheddar three steps behind.

Blades knew he must plan a detailed search of the entire area. He must get calculations on just how long it would take a fast merchant ship to clear the area in any direction, then see that sufficient planes and ships were there to complete the search. But when he reached flag command a message had just been decoded for him.

After reading the message he looked up at Cheddar and said without expression, "I've been relieved. They've named a vice admiral and he's already on board the Sterett and approaching the area."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Cheddar said, his hangdog look indicating he was truly crestfallen.

"It's all right," Blades said. "Keeping his voice flat. "No prejudice. They believe the Glory was headed for Japan. Part of the flag staff here will go aboard the Sterett to assure continuity. You and I will join the military attaché section of our embassy in Tokyo. You'll get to wear civvies and strut around the Ginza."

"No shit, Sir!"

"No shit, Cheddar. We'll be out of here in two hours. Pack."

CHAPTER 38: Captain Silverman

Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto's secretary came into his inner office with an envelope in her hand. "There is a bearded _gaijin_ waiting. He did not give his name, just scribbled a note and sealed it in this envelope. Shall I have the guards remove him from the building?"

"Perhaps I should read the note first," Yoshimoto said, taking the envelope from the secretary and tearing it open. The note was short and written in crude kanji, the character writing borrowed from the Chinese. The first complicated kanji was pronounced _himitsu_ , which meant secret. The second was _bakudan_ , which meant bomb, and the third was _fune_ , or ship. Yoshimoto could read the note all right, but it was not a good Japanese sentence. "Did he copy this from anything?"

The secretary, still standing in front of the desk, waiting to summon the guards, replied, "He had some sort of book. I think it's a Japanese-English dictionary."

Yoshimoto nodded. "I'll see him."

"He could be dangerous. He is a _gaijin_. He talks funny. What few Japanese words he did he did say, he read from a piece of paper."

"I'll be careful. I'll buzz if I want help. And I want you to call an interpreter. Not just any interpreter, but Adachi. Ring me when he gets here. In the meantime, send the foreigner in."

Captain Silverman was ushered into Yoshimoto's office. The Israeli captain said "Hello" in English and Yoshimoto motioned him into a chair. Yoshimoto knew possibly five words in English, two of which were "hello" and "goodbye." He had known a few more in prison camp during the twilight days of the war, but his memory had faded. There was nothing to do but wait for the interpreter, a loyal member of the Fuurin Kazan. Minutes passed and the two men watched one another, each attempting to size the other up. Silverman had grown a beard during the short time he had been away from the Glory. He wondered if it was a good disguise. Most foreigners he had seen since arriving in Tokyo were beardless. Finally a box on Yoshimoto's desk buzzed and he pushed a button.

"Adachi-san is here."

"Good. Send him in. Don't disturb us."

Adachi entered the office and greeted Yoshimoto in Japanese. Yoshimoto explained that the foreigner was probably an important and expected guest. But they needed to make certain. "Give nothing away," he warned. "Recognition signals have been arranged in advance, but this is the wrong place."

"If this man is a secret agent," Adachi said, looking at the foreigner, "then there is a good chance that he speaks Japanese and knows exactly what we are saying."

Yoshimoto pushed a button on his desk. When the secretary responded, he said, "Call Kawakami and have him send two guards to wait in the outer office. If I buzz you twice, send them in." He glanced at the foreigner. No reaction. "Go ahead with your interview."

It took five minutes of sparring chatter before they were sure of one another's identity. Silverman had some difficulty making sure the interpreter was in on the plan. But finally both sides were satisfied and Silverman explained why the Glory had not shown up in Tsugaru Strait.

"We were pursued by the U.S. Navy. I managed to outwit a ship that was in close pursuit, but a major part of the fleet was closing in, so I took the only appropriate action. I scuttled the Glory."

Yoshimoto listened in horror. The warheads were at the bottom of the sea. His entire plan was in jeopardy. Too many final arrangements had been made to keep it secret much longer. He tried to keep a stoic face and a serene mind, but some nuance of emotion must have shown his disappointment. Silverman was quick to say, "The warheads aren't lost. They are salvageable."

"How can this be?" Yoshimoto said through Adachi. "Was the U.S. Navy watching while you scuttled your ship?"

"No. There was a storm. The scuttling was one of our contingency plans. I was prepared for it. We worked like demons through the night painting the ship a rust color, smashing equipment, making it look like an ancient wreck. Then with most of the crew off in fast power launches, I drove it into a shallow reef to make certain, opened the sea cocks. And there it lies today, partly awash, with the warheads still in the hold, waiting for offloading."

"This complicates matters, but it is not an impossible situation," Yoshimoto said. "What sort of salvage operation do you envision, Silverman-san?"

"Amphibious military vessels would do best. Then possibly a seagoing barge, or take them to a nearby island and airlift them. There are options open."

"I see," Yoshimoto said. "We will call a meeting of our military advisors immediately. In the meantime tell me briefly how you got here and could you have been detected?"

"After we left the Glory we headed for a group of small islands. I was able to pay a private pilot to take us to the Philippines, and his silence is insured."

"You paid him a large sum?" Yoshimoto broke in.

"Promised him a large sum. Gave him a few U.S. dollars. Once in the Philippines we thought it best to kill him. His body is well hidden."

Yoshimoto nodded his approval. "You did the wise thing."

"The bulk of the crew is still in Manila, waiting for word from me. I have three men with me. They're in the hotel."

Yoshimoto thought for a minute. "We will probably need you to help with the salvage operation, Captain-san. But the other men, it might be best to get out of sight. I can have them escorted to the tunnel. Does that sound wise?

"Yes. I should go to the ship, and we don't need the other men if you have good seamen in your organization. Of course I will need an interpreter. I've been interested in the tunnel. When I heard about it, I could hardly believe it."

Yoshimoto smiled. "It is one of the wonders of the world. The building of the railroad tunnel, the regular tunnel, was done strictly for political considerations. Contracts, jobs, money rake-offs. Me and my associates, many of them dead before the plan reached this point, simply poured a little more money into the project, substituted drawings, did some work in secret. But the fact is, many of the men working underground and under the Strait had no idea where they were, or what they were doing. Their job was to dig and pour concrete and install ventilators. Naturally, the openings to the sea, the missiles and the missile carriers, were done by highly skilled people in complete secrecy. The world just doesn't know what we Japanese can do when we set our minds to it."

"But it soon will," Silverman said.

"Hopefully not. Even after the conflagration we hope to continue the fantasy that it was an accidental war touched off by either the U.S., France, or one of the new republics, or whoever. Maybe even North Korea, our ancient foe. But the Japanese, along with the Israelis, will be around to pick up the pieces and put the world back together."

"A better world, I assure you," Silverman said.

"A well ordered world. A world of harmony and accord," Yoshimoto agreed.

CHAPTER 39: Watanabe's Trip to Tokyo

The picture of Sergeant Burt Chalk arrived by overnight mail from Tokyo. A young and carefree sergeant looked out from the yellowed photo, apparently taken in the Philippines just before the outbreak of war. Watanabe had borrowed it from Goro Maeda, but did not give the detective details of what he was doing. It had been decided it was best to clear Yoshimoto of the crime before mentioning it to Maeda. Besides, Watanabe was convinced that Yoshimoto was somehow involved in the tunnel conspiracy, whatever it was.

There were more questions than answers when it came to the tunnel. What puzzled Watanabe most was motive. No one would go to the trouble to build a well-financed, super-secret organization over a long period of years without a good reason. But what was it? Not money, Watanabe was almost certain. And he couldn't see how power alone entered into it. Could this group be thinking of overthrowing the Japanese government? But why?

With the Japanese economy so tightly entwined with the U.S., the risk of sanctions from the U.S. would mean economic suicide. It was laughable to think a small phalanx of fanatics who were somehow linked to the tunnel would have a shot at overthrowing the large, well-oiled, Japanese government.

With these thoughts in his head, Watanabe carefully enclosed the photo of Sergeant Chalk in special plastic, taped it shut, wiped the plastic clean, then inserted it into an envelope. He put the first envelope into a second envelope to insure that some careless person opening the envelope would not destroy whatever fingerprints might be gathered.

A phone call to Yoshimoto's office seeking an appointment brought a return phone call within minutes. Yes, Watanabe could see the cabinet officer just before noon the following day.

At the library, Watanabe checked out a couple of books on scuba diving. The time when he and the scuba divers from the Kobe club would go to the Strait was fast approaching. He must prepare to dive. And he must remember to jog! He took a deep breath and flexed his biceps. He felt good. But the thought of the cold waters of the Tsugaru Strait had a chilling effect.

He opened one of the books and read: "Buoyancy compensators have reduced the need for superb physical conditioning among scuba divers. " Watanabe's eyes lit up with renewed interest. Just what were these "buoyancy compensators?" He flipped through the book looking for a quick clue, finally coming to a photograph of three scuba divers wearing life vests. Yes, that was it, vests could be inflated to help bring one to the surface, or permit rest on the water's surface. Watanabe read on. Such buoyancy compensators drastically reduce underwater diving fatigue and offer a significant margin of safety.

That night and even on the Bullet Train headed for Tokyo the following day, Watanabe devoured the two books. He was confident that with a buoyancy compensator he could dive with the best of them. His confidence remained high even though one of the books contained a melancholy caveat: To learn diving you must have an instructor.

So what, Watanabe thought, I'll be diving with a whole club full of qualified people.

CHAPTER 40: Akira Yoshimoto's Orders

One moment Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto felt the exuberance of youth, the next he felt he might suffer a heart attack. He was on the naked body of Yoko Kaji in a side room off his office, a room he used as a bedchamber when he spent the night at his office. Naked on the futon, Yoko was everything he dreamed of: young, soft, fragrant, a sexual delight. How could he give her up? Why should he? She adored him! No, he knew it was more idolatry. He was the smooth older man and she was at his feet, a love slave.

Yoko quivered and squirmed, her body a machine, a tool, a magnet. She had used a back door into his office as he had suggested. Now she had a key. It was just past noon. She had spent most of the previous night performing a variety of sexual acts with her sushi chef.

Then, this morning, her new boss had asked her to come early to work. She had offered no resistance when he led her to the stockroom and laid her on the office supply cartons. He was kind of cute and not too old. Of course he was married, but most men of the world were. But now, as was natural, she gave most of her loyalty to Yoshimoto, old and slow as he was.

"You are like a flower, Yoko chan," he said, rolling onto his back and panting. "Like a blossom."

"A blossom only for you, Yoshimoto-san." He had insisted that she always address him formally. He had told Kyoto Suzuki the same thing years ago, but the old woman did not follow his rules. "But I feel I have a rival in Suzuki-san. When I see her she looks at me hatefully. And she is your cousin. There are rumors."

"I have never married, Yoko. I am my own man. If I wanted you, I could marry." Yoko almost gasped. Marriage wasn't what she had in mind, marriage with this old man. He would probably keep her locked in the bedroom! "I do what I please."

"I know that you are a strong man, Yoshimoto-san. A wonderful lover and a national leader. I am so proud to be your lover. But I fear Suzuki-san."

Yoshimoto smiled at the innocent child's ramblings. He put a hand on her shoulder to calm her, then moved it to her breast and slid it down along her firm body. "Very soon Suzuki-san is going on a trip, a long trip. If she is a problem she will come between us no more. You will have your Yoshimoto as often as you like." Yoko almost made a wry face as she heard the words and felt the old man's hands on her body. Instead, she smiled and kissed him.

***

Night fell in Tokyo. The sun set somewhere in the direction of Kyoto, or Korea, or China, its final rays illuminating smoky, polluted skies that drifted among garish skyscrapers.

Yoshimoto arrived at the condo knowing that Kyoko Suzuki would be waiting for him. He asked the two men with him to wait in the hall, then let himself in to the apartment.

"Good evening, Akira. It is a pleasure to have you home in the evening. Even in these hectic times, one must relax." The two of them discussed the visit by Captain Silverman, the salvage operations now begun, and the new Israelis already in the tunnel. The new ones joining the Israeli technical staff who had been there almost since the beginning, a pallid lot who had not seen the sun for many moons. Despite their differences, Yoshimoto relied almost daily on Suzuki's judgment and advice. It was with confused emotions that he began to talk about what had brought him to this place on this night.

With some apprehension he faced the woman who had been his companion and confidante through the years of his youth, middle age, and now old age.

"Kyoko," he said abruptly, "I'm sending you to the tunnel." He waited while the words soaked in.

"Indeed. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"I know about your plan to plant listening devices in my office," he said sternly, screwing up his courage. "You have betrayed me. Yet I believe it was a temporary lapse. I will not punish you severely. You are needed in the tunnel."

Suzuki was unmoved by his admonishment. "I asked Kawakami to wire your office to protect you from yourself. I have offered you this protection throughout your adult life, if you would but realize it. Sometimes you are like a child. Now you will throw away a lifetime's ambition on this little trollop, Yoko. Better that you had formed a liaison with a soapland."

Yoshimoto was about to defend his beloved Yoko when he thought better of it. After all, he did not know everything about her. But he did know her to be a sweet, innocent child. It was only his mature charms and his standing as an authority figure that had led to the easy surrender of her virtue. Of course it had been assisted by whisky. The poor tender thing had no chance!

"It is your lack of trust that has caused your downfall, Kyoko. But I still need you by my side. Your following in our organization is not inconsiderable. I am aware of your stature."

"Am I to be a prisoner?"

"Not a prisoner, but an honored guest and leader in the fastness of the tunnel. You can advise me on morale and political considerations. Of course the missile section is in competent hands and the planned launchings will be executed at the earliest moment the warheads can be mounted. You cannot influence these plans, nor, in fact, can I. It is a technical age. Far different from those dark days on Okinawa when I and other stalwarts charged American automatic weapons with only our swords."

Kyoko had heard the story many times before and was not impressed. It seemed a foolish thing to her. How men could think it heroic was a mystery. "Are you saying that I will not be a prisoner?"

"I am saying that you will have my ear and that when I join you in the tunnel we will once again be as one, but you will not be permitted to leave the tunnel. Why should you want to leave?"

"Then I will be a prisoner!"

"If you feel you are a prisoner, then I suppose you will be one. We are all prisoners in our own fashion. Prisoners of this planet, prisoners of our passions, prisoners of society and so forth." Yoshimoto was losing patience. "You will leave tonight, immediately. There are two men waiting to escort you. Pack a few things, very few, but make no contacts. They are men you know and I will send them in now." Yoshimoto turned and went into the hall.

Kyoko seemed cool on the surface, but she was steaming mad. She knew she was being gotten out of the way so Yoshimoto could spend every possible moment with that young strumpet. She rushed to her suite, grabbed a large purse and tossed in her cell phone. Then she began packing. She was soon joined by the two men, old friends of hers who seemed uncomfortable. "You have chosen unpleasant work," she snapped.

"We did not volunteer for this job. We must all do our duty when the top man issues orders," one of the men said. The other studied the carpet and was silent.

"I suppose I can use the toilet," she said angrily.

"Yes, Suzuki-san. You are our honored guest and still the Geisha. Our loyalty to you is second only to the Seventh Samurai."

Kyoko glared at them and carried her purse into the bathroom. She turned the tap on to cover the noise of her telephone call, then dialed Osaka information to find the number of Taro Watanabe's number.

When she got through to his residence she found the detective was out. She was talking instead to a foreign woman whose Japanese was none too good. Kyoko realized this might be her last chance to vent her anger against Yoshimoto. In slow Japanese she urged Nana to take a simple message. Then she repeated it twice so that Nana might make some sense of it.

When she had hung up, Nana stared at the paper she had used to write the note: "It is the tunnel. There is an Israeli link. Danger for the world, like Hiroshima. The Geisha." Nana put the odd message aside. She would give it to Watanabe the minute he returned from his interview with Yoshimoto in Tokyo.

CHAPTER 41: In the Tunnel

Watanabe arrived at Yoshimoto's office just before noon. The receptionist greeted him with a deep bow and immediately ushered him into the private secretary's office. The secretary served him green tea and _namagashi_ , small sweet cakes made from pounded rice and filled with sugar and red bean paste.

A male administrative assistant popped in almost immediately to say Yoshimoto was in a hastily called session of the Diet, but would be along momentarily. Watanabe was made to feel like an important guest.

When Yoshimoto did arrive he was all smiles and bows. The minister asked Watanabe to join him for a simple meal in a room adjacent to his inner office. The meal was typical of what Japanese salarymen have for lunch: a large, deep oval plate of what is called "curry-rice," the white rice heaped on one side of the plate, the brown curry sauce on the other, slightly overlapping. There were a few slices of pickled daikon, yellowed by the pickling process. Ice-cold Suntory beer and steaming hot green tea was also available.

The minister was chatty during lunch, urbane and witty, giving a running account of the morning's Diet session, poking fun at major members of the Diet who Watanabe had only read about, dwelling on the average Diet man's love of fine clothing, expensive ties and endless nights on the town at the expense of others.

He touched on specific bills, measures to improve Japan's neglected highway and waste treatment systems, along with methods to overturn the archaic tax system that benefited land speculators and wealthy farmers to the disadvantage of the multitude of urban dwellers who even Yoshimoto conceded lived in "rabbit hutches." Yoshimoto's efforts in every area seemed ubiquitous, his storehouse of knowledge bottomless.

Watanabe was totally charmed. Perhaps he should be working in Tokyo. This was the power center where it was all happening. He could walk among the people who made things happen. In fact someday he might be one of those people.

After lunch they went to Yoshimoto's office and the minister asked the reason for Watanabe's appointment. Watanabe opened the brown envelope that he had placed on the desk in front of him and carefully withdrew the photo of Sergeant Chalk, touching it as little as possible. He passed it to Yoshimoto and explained the circumstances, that many years ago this American had been murdered and Yoshimoto was one of the last returnees Chalk had interviewed. The case was still open. Did Yoshimoto recognize the man?

Yoshimoto stared at the cheerful young man in the picture, who stared back at him. He couldn't believe what was happening, to be confronted by the crime after all these years, to come face to face, even photographically, with a man who to him had become some sort of religious messenger.

Even now the man's watch hung enshrined on his wall. He had shown it to many visitors to illustrate the deep bonds that can develop between the vanquished and the conquerors, natural ties among the family of man. Sergeant Chalk and the dead colonel on Okinawa, Colonel Toshiki Inouye, these were the twin heroes in Yoshimoto's mind, the two men who had sustained him through many trying hours. These were the men who had brought him a message from the highest authority, who had conspired to create him as the Seventh Samurai. And now this detective brought a picture, an icon of Sergeant Chalk to his office.

Yoshimoto handled the picture fondly. Finally he said, "That is the American military man who befriended me. I was but a boy. What a man he was, to comfort me, to counsel me. You say he was murdered? It seems inconceivable that such a man would place himself in a position to be murdered. Your story saddens me."

"Then it was you?" Watanabe said, his abrupt question startling Yoshimoto, making the minister feel as if he had been accused of murder. The detective went on with his thought. "You were one of the last to be interviewed by Chalk? I thought it might be another with an identical name."

"No," Yoshimoto said smoothly, now recovered and certain of his ground. "It was me. I'd never forget. Chalk made a lasting impression on me. You understand my youth. I was impressionable. I think he was a very great man." Yoshimoto decided to get it all out and confess the watch. "And he did give me his watch. Perhaps he had two, but he gave me his watch. It's on the wall over there." He motioned with his hand.

"Well that clears that up," Watanabe said. "You see the sergeant's roommate reported the watch was gone, so the authorities assumed that whoever killed him had stolen the watch. This lets us eliminate that clue."

"Of course," Yoshimoto said. "All these years I've kept it as a treasure, and all these years it's been an item sought by police. How did such a case remain open for so many years?"

Watanabe smiled. "It didn't. I happened to be talking to a Tokyo detective, Goro Maeda, a few days ago. It seems Chalk was his grandfather. Chalk married a Japanese national before the war. They were together in the Philippines, and she was pregnant at the outbreak of the war, Pearl Harbor. Chalk was captured and imprisoned by the Imperial Army and never did see his wife again. She and her son returned to Japan after the murder."

"I'm sorry to hear such a sad tale. How did your meeting reopen the case?"

"Maeda told me he had tried to get the report on his grandfather's death some years ago, but got nowhere with American authorities," Watanabe said. "I've had some experience along those lines and was able to get the report. It's just something Maeda wanted to do, perhaps to soothe his grandfather's spirit. Very likely the killer is also dead."

"Very likely," Yoshimoto agreed. Watanabe took the photo from Yoshimoto's hands and slipped it back into first one, then another envelope. "If possible I would like to have that photo or a copy," Yoshimoto said. "I suppose I am a sentimental old man."

"I see no problem," Watanabe replied. He had reached the point where he wanted to talk some more about the tunnel, but was unsure how to open the conversation. He suddenly remembered Digger's information about the Mossad and the U.S. Navy. Perhaps he could start with this gossip and somehow bring up the tunnel. "Have you heard that the Mossad has been active in Japan recently?"

"I don't believe I know what the Mossad is," the minister answered.

"I know very little about it. It's Israeli Intelligence. It's supposed to be one of the best in the world, maybe _the_ best. I had heard rumors that they were doing something in Japan and thought a man in your position might have some inside knowledge."

Once again Yoshimoto was taken aback. Did this Osaka detective know more than he was saying? Perhaps Kyoko was right. He might be dangerous. Yoshimoto shrugged. "I am startled, Watanabe-san. What would Israeli intelligence want in Japan, unless they steal industrial secrets? I'm sure that's not the case. Did you hear anything else?"

"There was something. Something about the U.S. Navy being on alert."

Yoshimoto was quick to ask. "These two things are linked?"

"The person who asked me, asked about them both."

"Why would you be asked?" Yoshimoto questioned.

"I don't know," Watanabe admitted. "The person who asked me, and I believe he is a member of what we call the intelligence community, knew only that I was working on some mystery that involved the tunnel under the Tsugaru Strait."

"The tunnel, the Mossad and the U.S. Navy, these three things are joined?" Yoshimoto asked slowly. He felt Watanabe might be playing games with him. He wished that Kyoko Suzuki could be by his side. He needed her advice at this moment. He must learn Watanabe's involvement, his sources, if he knew more than he was saying. Then there was this picture of Sergeant Chalk. This Watanabe was indeed a dangerous man, but was he working alone? Who were his confederates?

It was Watanabe's turn to shrug. "I really don't see how they could be, but there are certain things going on in Japan today that seem to have no explanation. The tunnel thing, that's what I'd really like to get to the bottom of."

There it was. Yoshimoto's opening and the answer to his problem. "Yes," he agreed, "Something is amiss at the tunnel, and perhaps the two of us can solve it together. At least we can make a good start. If I weren't tied up this afternoon, we'd leave instantly. But I'll clear my calendar, and early tomorrow morning you and I will make a surprise visit to the tunnel. We'll do a complete tour. Then I'll see to it that the tunnel officials give you complete access to any and all information up there. You can stay with it until you've solved whatever it is. It could be major theft."

Watanabe thought Yoshimoto was impetuous, but it seemed a great opportunity. Yet, could this be a sincere offer? "But I must return to Osaka," he said.

"No problem," Yoshimoto said. "I'll have you temporarily assigned to the Tokyo department. You won't even have to call your office. In fact, it's best you don't. Remember our visit to the tunnel will be a surprise," Yoshimoto grinned. "A grand surprise."

One of Yoshimoto's male administrative assistants accompanied Watanabe to a hotel and arranged for the bill. It was explained that Watanabe's expenses would come directly from the Finance Ministry. He then took Watanabe on a shopping trip to purchase the few things he would need for the short trip. Watanabe had left Osaka carrying only the photograph and his scuba books.

Yoshimoto's aid also insisted on taking Watanabe on a tour of Tokyo, then dinner at an expensive restaurant. Later he dropped him at his hotel and said he would pick him up at six a.m. for the trip to the Strait. It seemed Yoshimoto had arranged for a government plane to fly the three of them. It was only after the aid left that Watanabe was able to go to the hotel desk, purchase stamps and mail Sergeant Chalk's picture to Yasunobo Shibata in Osaka.

It was just midnight when he returned to his room. He got a beer from the small refrigerator, started his bath water and, despite the hour, decided to call Nana and explain why he was delayed. He tried dialing direct, but to his surprise a hotel employee answered. "I'm sorry, Sir, but the phones are temporarily not working."

"In a hotel this big in Tokyo?" Watanabe asked with amazement.

"It is unpleasant. The telephone company works on the lines late at night, when there are few calls. We will get a message to anyone you like, free of charge."

"That is good service," Watanabe said. In fact it was appealing. He would not have to answer Nana's questions about why he hadn't phoned her earlier in the evening. "You will explain why I wasn't able to call directly?"

"Of course, Sir." He gave them Nana's name and phone number. He could have used his cell phone, but Yoshimoto's aid had borrowed it, explaining his wasn't working. No matter, he would get it back tomorrow. Watanabe snapped open a beer and settled into the steaming bath up to his chin. By that time the water had overflowed onto the floor, but all Japanese bathroom floors have drains for just that purpose.

***

Morning came early with a knock on the door. Watanabe stared through sleepy eyes at the same bright-eyed man who had taken him to dinner. A morning paper was in his hand.

"Sorry to wake you, Watanabe-san. But the pilot is already at the airport. Yoshimoto-san will soon be there. We will have a bento in the plane.

Watanabe nodded. "I'll be right there." A bento is a box lunch and he could imagine what it would have in it – cold rice and a few pickled things. He hurriedly brushed his teeth and dressed, not bothering to shave. His beard was not heavy. Minutes later he was in a taxi headed for the airport. He was happy he had told the clerk to go ahead and call Nana. He had no chance to do so.

It seemed that no sooner had the driver wheeled into the general aviation section of the airport and up to the waiting plane that they were airborne and heading north.

"It is a short flight, Watanabe-san," Yoshimoto said, admiring the morning sky. Watanabe noted that Yoshimoto appeared all too healthy at this hour. Watanabe supposed he should have actually tried jogging. The aid handed him a plastic bento. Two short chopsticks were attached to it with a rubber band. Inside were cold rice and a few pickled things.

A twelve-passenger van with a driver and two men met the plane when it landed at a small strip not far from the tunnel entrance. Although none of them was in uniform, all three appeared to Watanabe to be either policemen or military. If it hadn't been for the fact that Finance Minister Yoshimoto was by his side, Watanabe would have been suspicious of the arrangement. The three from Tokyo were driven to a high-fenced construction company. An alert guard with a vicious looking dog by his side waved them through the gate.

"This is the company that worked on the tunnel from the beginning," Yoshimoto explained. "It still does much of the maintenance work. It has a railroad siding that permits work trains to go directly into the tunnel. That's how we will enter. You see I have been doing detective work."

Watanabe smiled and nodded. He was beginning to feel uneasy, but didn't know why. Near a train of three freight cars and a small work engine, the van wheeled to a stop and a man in workman's clothing pushed open the door of the end freight car. Yoshimoto led the way out of the van, mounted crude steps made from empty packing crates and stepped into the car.

"We're going into the tunnel by freight car?" Watanabe questioned, following Yoshimoto into the car. The three men from the van joined them.

"Of course the tunnel is for trains," Yoshimoto said. "But this is a special car." He signaled the workman to push the door shut. They were in total darkness. Watanabe reached to his hip to make certain his revolver was still there. Then a bright light came on inside the car. They were standing in a very small room next to a regular sized door. Yoshimoto opened the door and led them into a comfortably furnished room with no windows. It was like a business office with a desk, leather chairs, maps and diagrams on the wall, tables, lamps, and magazines. "This is a comfortable way to tour the tunnel," the minister laughed.

"Except that it will be difficult to see without windows," Watanabe said.

"Of course. But this will get us into the tunnel. Because of the various train schedules it will be a few minutes before we get started. I would like to use those minutes to talk about the tunnel and about Japan."

The minister took the large swivel seat behind the desk. "During the warlike days there was chaos. This was the age from about 1467 to 1568. It was during the last days of that age that Shingen Takeda placed the Fuurin Kazan kanji on his battle standard. Thus you might say that standard was aloft when Japan emerged from chaos into its present order and harmony. Of course we know the kanji had been originated by the Chinese tactician Sonshi about the fifth century."

Watanabe noted that his companions were listening to Yoshimoto's words with religious intensity. They seemed to hang on every syllable At this point, Yoshimoto repeated the ancient words that explain the Fuurin Kazan, the wind, forest, fire and mountain.

When he finished, Watanabe noted that the listeners grunted in approval and appreciation. At that moment, the car they were in shuddered slightly as it moved backwards a few inches, then slowly glided forward.

Yoshimoto continued his talk. "So, it would be fitting that the purpose of the society you have spoken of, Watanabe-san, the Fuurin Kazan, would be not only to continue the order and harmony of Japan, but to bring that order and harmony to the rest of the world. It's just a thought, but I think a very good one. With that in mind, it would be difficult to believe that any right thinking Japanese, when given this information, would not be moved to embrace the Fuurin Kazan, if indeed that is the purpose."

"Every group, every religion, believes its purposes, its goals are the best," Watanabe interjected.

"Yes," Yoshimoto said. "But given two thousand years of Japanese history, the turmoil and bloodshed this nation has been through to reach its present position, certain facts stand out that are not present in the _gaijin_ world." He put his hand on his chest. "Sometimes we feel things that we know are right." The others grunted approval.

Watanabe felt a sudden change in tempo, the slight noise of the moving train through heavily insulated walls seemed even more subdued. He looked at the ceiling.

"Yes, we now are in the Seikan Tunnel," Yoshimoto said, then added, "it is the longest railroad tunnel in the world and was opened March 13, 1988. It is truly a marvel. How great a marvel, most people little know. Come, let us have green tea." He led the way to a galley in the back of the car where a large insulated jug of hot water was waiting.

Watanabe sipped the Japanese tea and wondered about Yoshimoto. The man was a contradiction. First the bizarre stories about early religious experiences, now the odd talk about the Fuurin Kazan. Yet, when called upon, Yoshimoto could play the role of the most polished of statesmen. The detective realized that many foreigners viewed Japan and the Japanese as contradictions – seemingly meek, mild people who were sometimes given to angry swaggering. For some years much of the western world had cast a jaundiced eye at the "land of the _nouveaux très riches_."

The train slowed and stopped and Yoshimoto stood up. "Watanabe-san, I have duties that prey upon my time. If you will allow these gentlemen to start the tour, I'm sure you will find many surprises and hopefully stumble upon exactly what you seek." He walked to the door and motioned for Watanabe and the others to step outside.

"Until later," he said as Watanabe passed. Then the door was closed and they were in darkness for a few seconds until the large boxcar door slid open. Outside the light was dim, a string of bare bulbs strung against rough concrete served as illumination. From the platform, the men led Watanabe into a dark tunnel. One produced a flashlight and walked ahead. He came to an apparent guard station and exchanged a few words with the man on duty. Then they proceeded a few more feet and stopped. Finally a door slid open. They entered a large, well lit area, first approaching yet another guard post, this one manned by a neatly suited young man and three armed men in workmen's coveralls.

The man in the suit looked up from a list he was holding and asked, "Watanabe-san, Taro Watanabe?"

Watanabe nodded and stepped forward. "I am Taro Watanabe."

"You are an honored guest," the man smiled. "But we have one rule here. None of the guests can carry arms. We will check your weapon until you leave."

"But I'm a policeman," Watanabe protested. "I'm required to carry a weapon."

"But you are far from your jurisdiction and, believe me, there are no bank robbers here. Also, we are far under the sea and we have certain sensitive equipment. If there was an accident..." The man shrugged.

Watanabe tried to think of options. It was their rule and he was on their turf. He drew his revolver, unloaded it and dropped the shells into his coat pocket and handed it over. "Don't tell my boss," he quipped.

"No one will ever know," the man said. "Now to acquaint you with the tunnel. We have asked someone who has intimate knowledge to brief you, someone you have met before, Suzuki-san, a cousin of Minister Yoshimoto."

Watanabe nodded. He was surprised. Kyoko Suzuki was known as Yoshimoto's right hand. What was she doing in the tunnel? And what was this place? It looked more like a large warehouse than a railroad tunnel. Watanabe was led through a series of locked doors until they came to a hall that looked very much like a hotel corridor lined with numbered doors. The escorts stopped in front of one of the doors and knocked. The knock was answered by a grim-faced Suzuki herself. She said nothing, but nodded to Watanabe to come in. The others did not follow, but closed the door behind him.

"Take a chair," Suzuki said. "Do you care for tea?"

"No, thank you, we had some on the train." Watanabe looked around. It was like a hotel suite, but there were no windows. He dropped into a chair.

"This is, uh, unusual," he said. "Are you staying in the tunnel?"

Suzuki cast him a scornful look. Yes, I'm staying here until the Event. I'm a prisoner in this damned underwater torture chamber." Her anger seemed to mount. "I, the Geisha am held prisoner in this tunnel!"

"You're a prisoner, and you're the Geisha that Shibata mentioned?"

"It is true," Suzuki said. She slumped into a chair.

"But why would Yoshimoto bring me here? What's going on? Has he uncovered some sort of plot?"

Suzuki was suddenly amused. "So you don't know yet, Watanabe-san. You didn't get my message, did you?"

"I got no message. What sort of message?"

"It doesn't matter. Not now. We'll have plenty of time to talk."

"I don't understand what's going on," Watanabe admitted.

"What's going on is we're both prisoners here. Yoshimoto is the Seventh Samurai. He saw you as a threat. There are others here in our same predicament, all waiting for the Event. It shouldn't be long in coming if it happens. If it doesn't happen we are all dead. If it does happen, we may also be dead. This isn't the time to make long-range plans."

"But they said I was an honored guest."

Suzuki laughed. "Yes, so am I. And you'll be the honored dead if you cause trouble, or don't come around to Yoshimoto's way of thinking. We're not locked in these rooms. We're free to move around through much of the hidden tunnel. There's no chance to escape this far under the sea. I'll show you to your room down the hall, then we might as well talk. It beats the pile of American video tapes they've given me to help me pass the time."

CHAPTER 42: Nana Calls Shibata

Watanabe had been gone all night, all the next day and into the next day, when Nana's anger faded into apprehension. He really wasn't like that. She decided to call his office. Someone there told her Detective Watanabe had been temporarily assigned to the Tokyo police department. This message served not to placate Nana, but to revive her anger. He had gone off on some sort of posh assignment and decided not to even let her know? She stewed about it most of the night, and after her classes on the following day decided to call Watanabe's boss.

Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata was delighted to talk with her despite her poor Japanese. He had met her previously when she had accompanied Watanabe on a case in Hokkaido. Also, he thought she might shed some light on what Watanabe was doing in Tokyo. He found she didn't know either.

"I'm sorry, Liberman-san," he told the angry woman. "We had an official memo from the Tokyo police. It said Watanabe's services are needed on a temporary basis. I, like all others in the department, follow orders. I thought he might have called you."

"And I thought he would have called me," she replied. "Then I got this crazy message from some woman who calls herself the Geisha."

"The Geisha," Shibata repeated, remembering his trip with Watanabe to Tokyo and their conversation about the FUurin Kazan. "Perhaps you should give me this message and tell me how and when it arrived."

Nana read from her note about the tunnel, the Israeli connection and about some world danger akin to Hiroshima. She told him it was a telephone call and gave him the approximate time. Shibata made laborious notes, translated from her fractured Japanese.

The old cop could make little sense of the message, but because Nana had assisted Watanabe with his press release and already had a grip on the FUurin Kazan and the Seventh Samurai, he explained to her who the Geisha might be. Nana agreed to call Shibata if she learned anything further, and he agreed to call her if he learned of Watanabe's whereabouts. He would make such an effort.

After Shibata had finished on the phone he took the envelope he had received from Watanabe from his desk drawer and opened it once more. There was the scribbled note that Yoshimoto's fingerprints should be on the plastic enveloping the photo of Sergeant Chalk. The superintendent had meant to hold the package for Watanabe's return, but now realized that Watanabe had mailed it for a purpose. He knew at the time he would be out of touch.

Shibata went to Watanabe's desk and found the prints of the murder suspect that had been lifted from Sergeant Chalk's room long ago. He took everything to the police lab and turned it over to the fingerprint specialist. Then he returned to his desk and began calling Tokyo.

Nana was far from satisfied with her phone conversation with Shibata. She knew Watanabe had discussed this case with Digger, but where to phone the elusive Aussie was a mystery. She knew he was a habitué of the Hawk & Thistle, and it was still early enough to take the train to Namba and walk to the pub.

The shopping street was jammed, crowded mostly with teenagers window shopping and greeting each other. Spotted among the numerous Japanese restaurants and shops was a Shakey's Pizza, a McDonald's and a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Japanese youngsters wore T-shirts with nonsensical English phrases on them, words some unknown Japanese must have looked up in a dictionary and strung together in a pattern such as English speaking youngsters might wear on a shirt emblazoned with inscrutable Oriental writing.

Nana struck out. Digger was not in the pub. After a pint of beer and some chatter with casual acquaintances, she boarded the Nankai train and returned home. She had been home not more than forty-five minutes and was finishing up some cold tofu with fish flakes and soy sauce when the phone rang.

"Nana? Digger here. G'dye. I've been trying to reach Watanabe for days."

"I was just at the Hawk looking for you. Watanabe's on some kind of assignment in Tokyo. No one seems to know what it is, not even his boss. And he hasn't called me."

"I'm surprised," Digger said. "He didn't explain it to you?"

"No! The rat. He is living here, you know."

"You didn't quarrel?"

"No. Frankly, I'm a little frightened. I got this weird message over the phone from some woman calling herself the Geisha. It was about danger and Israel and Hiroshima. I wrote it down, but it doesn't make much sense. But I might know who the Geisha is."

"You say it mentioned Israel?" Digger wondered if the line was tapped, but it didn't matter.

"Yes, an Israeli connection," Nana said. "And the tunnel, maybe I forgot."

"The tunnel?" the Aussie asked. "The Seikan Tunnel under the Tsugaru Strait?"

"I guess. That's all Watanabe's been thinking about lately."

"Who might the Geisha be?"

Nana explained that Shibata years ago had heard that the Geisha was a partner – _the_ partner – of the Seventh Samurai, the leader of the mysterious Fuurin Kazan, which now seemed more a reality than it had a few days ago. "Shibata is trying to find out where Watanabe is and just what he's doing. I think the old man will, too. I'm hoping to know tomorrow. If Watanabe just forgot to call me he's going to be in deep shit."

"I understand," Digger said. "Whatever this thing is, I think it's getting out of hand. I know a little more now then when I talked with Watanabe. Look, there's a guy at the American consulate, Bill Marty. He can usually contact me. I'll go see Shibata tomorrow morning. I've got the germ of a plan, but I can't talk about it over this phone."

"Can I meet you somewhere tomorrow?"

"Probably not. Things might move fast. I'll try to call you. Remember, Bill Marty, if you learn anything more."

Nana brooded after Digger hung up. If he thought she was going to sit here and wait, he was nuts. She wished she had a gun. The one she had in America was beautiful, but she had to dispose of it. They were hard to come by in Japan. Regardless, she too would be at Shibata's office when the old man came in tomorrow.

***

As was his usual custom, Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobu Shibata stopped at the small snack room and purchased coffee from a coin-operated machine before going to his office. He was halfway through the paper cup when a junior detective approached him. "Superintendent, I thought you might like to know that two _gaijin_ are waiting in your outer office."

"Two?" Shibata said. "This is unusual. Men or women?"

"One of each, Superintendent. They were here when I came in thirty minutes ago. I was afraid to approach them. I speak no foreign language and you never know what a _gaijin_ will do. They are given to fits of temper, so I've been told."

"Yes," Shibata chuckled. "And they have an eye in the middle of their forehead. I suppose I should go and see them." He downed the rest of his coffee and made his way to his office.

Both Nana and Digger gave the formal morning greeting when he entered the room. _"Ohayo gozaimasu."_ To which Shibata responded with the much abbreviated form used by older men.

If Nana's Japanese was halting, Digger's was near perfect. Nana's listening comprehension was better than her speech. She understood almost everything. The superintendent had also met Digger during that exciting trip to Hokkaido, so neither one was a stranger.

"Liberman-san, Digger-san, welcome to my office. What brings the two of you at this hour?"

The two explained that they were concerned about Watanabe and might be able to fit a few pieces of the tunnel puzzle together. Nana's interest in the matter was obvious and Digger said he was still employed in the same profession as when they met in Hokkaido – an international intelligence consultant.

"Yes, I understand your work, Digger-san." At that moment, Shibata's phone buzzed and he picked it up. He listened for a few moments, then asked, "Are you certain of that?" Then hung up. He had a puzzled look on his face when he turned once more to the two foreigners. "I have just been given some surprise information, but first let's hear what you two have pieced together."

Digger explained what he had learned from the Mossad agent, Abe Lazarus, from his own sources through the U.S. Embassy, from Watanabe's work and now a message from the Geisha that, if legitimate, seemed to pull it all together. "Because of all this," he concluded, "I think we should take the Geisha's message seriously. I have some ideas, but this isn't the time or the place. Let me ask, where is Watanabe?"

"I'm at a loss," Shibata said. "I could find no police official who had requested Watanabe's help. The nearest I could come is that the request came from the Finance Ministry. It would have had to come from a high office."

"Finance Minister Yoshimoto?" Digger questioned.

Shibata put up his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. "That would explain it. And now that you have brought me what you have, this would not seem the time for secrets. I have just learned that fingerprints lifted from a room where an American Army sergeant was murdered just after the war ended were made by none other than Finance Minister Akira Yoshimoto. I have never in my career been so baffled, been so unsure of what course to follow."

"You must arrest him!" Nana insisted.

"Perhaps they were made innocently," Digger suggested.

"I'm afraid they are incriminating. The young lady has good instincts. But this is the finance minister of Japan arrested for an ancient murder on the basis of fingerprints? We in Japan have far too many scandals. Sometimes I wonder if my own people know right from wrong."

"I understand opportunity and motive are important in such crimes," Nana said.

"Another bulls eye. He had the opportunity and the motive is obvious – robbery."

"I can see the opportunity for scandal," Digger said. "But the fact is this Yoshimoto seems to be in the middle of whatever this tunnel plot might be. My suggestion is that you and I, Shibata-san, go to Tokyo and lay this whole thing before some people at the American Embassy. They're on top of it, along with Japanese intelligence. You wouldn't be circumventing your own people. What do you say?"

Shibata was thoughtful. When he spoke, he agreed with Digger. He reached for the phone and asked his secretary to make reservations on the first fast Bullet Train to Tokyo. He was interrupted by Nana who demanded three reservations.

"I'm coming too," she said, frowning, "If shit's coming down, I'm going to be there to watch it fall!"

"Just so it doesn't fall on us," Digger said.

Shibata hung up. "I was moved to agree with you, Digger. Because I checked the telephone call from Tokyo to Liberman-san's home. The one from the Geisha. It came from Kyoko Suzuki's cell phone, Yoshimoto's cousin. Now, she too, seems to have dropped from sight."

CHAPTER 43: The Warheads

Getting the first warhead had been like getting the first olive out of a bottle. From then on it became so easy that the crew became over confidant.

First, it was the superb seamanship of Captain Silverman that had put them in an ideal location. They had come south with a large seagoing barge, a heavy-duty helicopter lashed to its deck and two tough seagoing tugs.

The Japanese Defense Force vessels, manned by loyal members of the Fuurin Kazan, made good time until they approached the actual site of the wreck of the Glory. Captain Silverman eased the tugs and the barge through the coral outcropping and shoals, arriving as close as they could get to the Glory at dusk, just as planned.

Then the small inflatables went out to the Glory and Fuurin Kazan members began reassembling the helicopter and readying the airship for flight. On board the Glory the cargo decks were unbolted and wrapped with cables so they could be carried off. Then the Japanese divers went into the hold and, after a two-hour struggle, harnessed the first of the warheads to be hauled away. By two a.m. the helicopter was called into service. Working with spotlights, it lifted the deck sections piece by piece and dropped them nearby into the sea. Then it took the first warhead, neatly lifting it straight up from the hold and depositing it in the hold of the large, clumsy barge a few hundred feet away. Then it was all routine, with everyone smiling at the ease of the transfer until number nineteen came along.

The precious load had hardly cleared the deck of the Glory when the chopper slipped backwards, swinging the payload in a wide, low arc that smashed a man from the deck, then slowly swung back again, this time hitting the piece of the Glory that jutted above the water, smashing the warhead's harness and dropping the damaged piece of destruction into the sea.

One Japanese was killed outright, caught by the vicious lashing of the snapped harness cable. The warhead's crate was shattered, its plastic case cracked. Silently, invisibly, radiation oozed from the damaged casing as it rested at the Glory's side in the shallow sea bottom.

"There's a dropped warhead. It's in the water, cable broken. There's some radiation. Can't tell how much yet," an interpreter told a grim faced Captain Silverman.

Silverman nodded. "We've been lucky so far. There's nothing to do but try to offload the others, get them on the barge and get them the hell out of here before dawn." He knew the first tendrils of light would be in the eastern sky within an hour. "And, for the love of God, let's be a little more careful," he added, stating the obvious.

By noon the barge and its pair of attendant tugs were far from the Glory, heading north at their best pace. The area of the wrecked ship was radioactive, the dead man had been left in the water, and what contamination had gotten to the crew aboard the Glory could not even be guessed at. There was no equipment for that sort of assessment, but not a man complained. Members of the Fuurin Kazan were a dedicated lot.

CHAPTER 44: Tokyo Denouement

Lieutenant (j.g.) Cheddar was at the podium for a meeting of a strange mixture of people in the large conference room at the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo. In the chair nearby sat Vice Admiral Guy Blades, complete with new gold stripes glistening on his sleeves. He had been notified of his promotion when he arrived in Tokyo.

Cheddar let his eyes wander about the crowd. They rested momentarily on Nana Liberman, a pretty woman with long, straight taffy hair. Even from this distance he could tell her eyes were green. She was not skinny, but thin and on the tall side, taller than some of the Japanese men who were also in the room.

The admiral coughed slightly for Cheddar to stop wool gathering and begin.

"Admiral Blades has asked me to make what introductions there are, at least to put you all at ease that there are no spies in the room, at least no amateur spies." His quip drew a slight laugh, although Digger and Eli Kotcher were stone faced. "We are in the midst of, not a national crisis, but a global crisis. There is a real danger of a group – or groups – of fanatics, arming missiles with nuclear warheads and touching off WWIII, or the end of the civilized world, whatever you want to call it. We are not just sitting here in Tokyo while this is happening, believe me. There are military and non-military units working at this moment to find, capture, or destroy, these fanatics. There is a question of who they are and where they are." Cheddar paused and looked around the room.

"I'll make this as brief as possible," he continued. "We've waived certain security clearances because each person without a clearance in this room has some particular information to offer, or might profit from the information we have to share." He referred to a list on the podium and read the names of Japanese government officials present, U.S. Embassy people, Shibata and half a dozen others. "Now I'll turn the meeting over to Admiral Blades."

"We've been plagued with bad luck throughout this operation," Blades said, looking into every face in the crowd. "As some of you know, and as we learned too late, twenty-five nuclear warheads were stolen from a heavily guarded Israeli military facility. Naturally, the Israelis were reluctant to announce this to the world. They did give us a series of inklings and hints, and finally the entire truth came out, but all the information was given to us just a little too late. The warheads moved by ship through the Indian Ocean. When we found this out, the ship was out of reach." Blades paused and drank from a glass of water on the podium.

"We did in fact track the ship and run it down. But the captain, one of the best mariners in the world, a Captain Silverman, tricked us into believing the ship had escaped when actually it had been scuttled. I must confess to error here. I was aboard the Winslow, which was tracking it. My intention was to board the scuttled vessel, which had every earmark of a years-old wreck, to make certain it was not our quarry. Before I could issue those orders, I was called to Tokyo."

Blades slammed his fist down on the podium. "I had the warheads right there in my hand and let them go!"

He calmed himself and in a softer voice said, "I apologize for my error. Later, when the scuttled ship seemed the only answer to the warhead's disappearance, the U.S. Navy returned to the wreck. It was indeed the vessel we were seeking, but the warheads were gone, most of them. At least one had been smashed and was on the sea floor, maybe more. But most were gone, perhaps twenty-four. Frankly, there's so much radiation around the wreck that we're calling in special equipment to deal with it."

"How can anyone hope to start a war with only twenty-four warheads?" one of the Japanese asked. "At the height of the Soviet Union they had 30,000. America had and has thousands."

"Believe me, it's quite possible," Blades replied. "Fire a few at the U.S., fire one toward London, lob another at Moscow, take out Cairo, Paris, Beijing and North Korea, the Ukraine. You'd have a global holocaust in short order. Everybody suspecting everybody. Every country firing at their supposed enemy – and instantly.

"But let me continue. We have reason to believe that Captain Silverman came to Japan after scuttling the ship, which was named the Glory at the time. I won't go into the details. We knew the identity of this captain and he's a well-known man, much photographed. He once captained a cruise ship. We asked Mossad to send us photographs, which we circulated through Japan. The police were watching. Three days later it turned out the Mossad had sent us the wrong photos. We were actually circulating the photo of a man wanted for child molestation in a town called Tira, wherever that is."

"I can explain that," Eli Kotcher, the head of the Mossad shouted. "The man from Tira had a very similar name. It was a mistake, a very serious mistake, but still a mistake."

"Mr. Kotcher," Blades said. "You've come to Tokyo to take personal charge of this case from the Japanese end. It's that serious. Yet you allow a clerical error of this nature?"

"Mistakes happen," Kotcher shrugged.

"There seem to be a series of mistakes," another voice from the audience said. This time it was Digger. I talked to a Mossad agent in Osaka. I won't tell you his name. But he had been sent to Japan with no knowledge of the Japanese language, or customs. He had been poorly briefed, was operating in the dark, so to speak. I found that other Mossad agents had also been sent to Japan, and on checking them out found that they were in the same predicament. Poorly briefed, no Japanese. Yet I learned that several Mossad agents who had spent years in Asia and were fluent in Japanese were not sent in. If this is a hair-down session where we speak our mind, I'd venture that someone high up in the Mossad is a traitor to Israel, and I'd say that person is Eli Kotcher."

An electric silence filled the room. Kotcher scowled but said nothing. Finally, Blades spoke. "I share Digger's suspicions. Half of my Naval career has been in Intelligence and it's been my experience that the Mossad does not make foolish errors. If not the best, it is one of the best agencies. It is, however, insulated. The stock of politicians and parties rise and fall in Israel with volcanic spurts and explosions. But the Mossad moves along untouched. It is a sacred cow, and like all sacred cows is vulnerable to corruption, possibly enhanced by a sense of immortality. I have taken the liberty to telephone the Israeli prime minister, Mordechai Baker. With regret, he agrees that this series of errors could not have happened without help."

"Impossible," Kotcher shouted. "In five days we will have this thing solved and the warheads will be returned. Just give me five days. I'll stake my reputation on it!"

"Not five days, not five hours, not five minutes," Mr. Kotcher. You are under arrest. The two gentlemen seated in back of you will take you into custody," Blades said solemnly.

Kotcher glanced behind him and saw a pair of burley Japanese. He was on his feet like a shot, racing to where Nana sat. She was the only woman in the room, and he grabbed her arm and at the same time drew a pistol from a belt holster fastened to the small of his back. He pulled Nana against the wall, brandishing the weapon.

"I'm not a traitor to Israel," he shouted. "I am one of the greatest Israeli heroes. The world sits and waits for our young nation, our ancient culture, to go down the drain. A matter of time. I and other patriots act and act boldly to preserve our dream." His eyes darted around the room, the wild eyes of a cornered animal. He had no fear of death, but he needed time, time for the warheads to be fitted, for the missiles to be launched. He was confident and proud that it could not have been done without him – the warheads could not have been stolen and taken so easily from the country, the stalling, the buying time, the chance for Captain Silverman to do his fine job. Now these people knew, but they weren't really certain. Even if they suspected the tunnel they couldn't really know its complexities and secrets.

"Stay where you are, or I'll kill the girl," Kotcher yelled. The two men who were supposed to take him into custody were poised to move on him. Shibata crouched forward in his chair like a smoky-eyed dragon, his revolver cradled in his two hands in his lap.

Nana's temper flared like a prairie fire. She was outraged to think that this man would think that she would be a docile hostage. But she was distracted for a split second by the weapon in Kotcher's hand, an Austrian manufactured Glock. She had read about the lightweight plastic framed automatic, but had never seen one, her dream weapon. She viewed the heavy arm of her captor as an opportunity to take him down and gain that prize for herself. A heavy jar of brass polish, forgotten by a cleaning woman, was in the windowsill by her side. Kotcher's eyes were on the small group, his mind racing to find an opening, a way out. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Nana grasped the jar in her free hand and in a long, sweeping move, smashed it into Kotcher's forehead. His head cracked like a melon hit by a brick. He slumped down and as he did, Nana snatched the pistol. Then she stepped back pushing the pistol into her skirt pocket. There was blood on her hand and arm. There was blood on the floor and blood streaming from the comatose Kotcher's forehead. The people in the room slowly rose and gathered around the man. Blades told Cheddar to find a corpsman.

Nana, at the back of the crowd, dabbing at the blood on her hand and arm with a handkerchief, found herself next to the smiling Shibata. He said in slow Japanese, so she could understand, "You have a liking for guns." Nana smiled and tried to look helpless. She did not succeed.

After Kotcher had been removed on a well-guarded stretcher, there was lively discussion of what additional measures should be taken. Blades already suspected that some members of the Japanese Defense Force were involved. But how many and which ones? Digger and Nana related the message from the Geisha and reported that she was nowhere to be found. Cheddar added that Finance Minister Yoshimoto had not been seen since the night before despite a considerable search.

The Japanese Intelligence chief stated that the Seikan Tunnel had been closed and his men were going over it inch by inch. Blades offered the services of the U.S. Corps of Engineers to supplement the Japanese. He was pleased that the offer was immediately accepted.

It was difficult to tell who to trust.

Shibata, who as the sole member of the Japanese police at the meeting, said that he would brief the Tokyo department on what was happening, then get an all-points bulletin out for the finance minister and his cousin, Kyoko Suzuki, as well as Taro Watanabe. Blades assured him that the Japanese prime minister would endorse that move and any other Shibata might come up with.

Digger and Nana were both seeking ways to get to the Tsugaru Strait. They all believed the tunnel was the key. But a preliminary search and an exhaustive search had turned up nothing. It was a very long tunnel.

CHAPTER 45: Final Preparations

Closing the tunnel had played into the hands of Captain Silverman with his barge and two tugs. With the tunnel closed, those wishing to move material between Hokkaido and Honshu had resorted to any type of vessel they could find. The water was alive with activity, and one more barge and two tugs were little noticed, even though the Japanese Defense Force and the U.S. Navy were extremely active in the area.

At dusk, Captain Silverman had the barge in position. Just after one a.m. the scuttling operation began. By three a.m. the barge with its deadly cargo rested on the bottom of the Strait within easy access of the undersea doors of the Fuurin Kazan tunnel. Before dawn the tugs were clear of the area.

Captain Silverman and his few crewmembers sought out a designated dugout in the mountains of Hokkaido to wait out what they referred to as the Event. Similar preparations were being made in other parts of Japan and Israel. The so-called good people must survive the coming holocaust. At eight a.m. on the same day, Admiral Blades ordered all craft, large and small, barred from the area of the Tsugaru Strait. He was finally on the scene and had taken bold action – twenty-four hours too late.

Already scuba divers of the Fuurin Kazan had emerged from their underwater fastness and had begun the difficult job of getting the hatch off the barge and unloading the warheads that were on the floor of the sea. The missiles were lined up inside the large bay of the tunnel, ready to be powered free of the tunnel confines and elevated to launch position.

***

During their confinement, Kyoko Suzuki and Taro Watanabe had spent hours discussing the Fuurin Kazan and the tunnel. How the rockets would be fired, how a confusion of carefully planned bogus launchings around the globe would mask the exact source of the launchings. Every nation would be led to believe they were being attacked by an enemy. Kyoko still held hope of being restored to what she considered her rightful place as Yoshimoto's mistress. She had tried to convert Watanabe to the cause. Watanabe had taken a neutral position, trying not to irritate the woman who might offer the key to escape, although the tunnel security seemed without flaw.

Neither of them had seen Minister Yoshimoto since coming to the tunnel, and his unexpected entrance as they sat talking and drinking cold barley tea came as a double shock.

The man was actually wearing samurai robes, complete with the two swords of the samurai, one long, one short. He carried a large bottle of sake in one hand.

Watanabe didn't know whether to laugh or bow. But his watch told him it was daytime in the changeless tunnel light, so he spoke the daytime greeting. " _Konnichi wa_ Yoshimoto-san."

"You will excuse my appearance," Yoshimoto said, addressing both of them "This is a day for celebration, and my advisers thought it best for me to don these robes to appear at a formal gathering." He put the sake bottle on the low table. "The tunnel has been sealed. The Event will be soon, tomorrow probably. Naturally, the skies must be auspicious."

Watanabe looked from one to the other in disbelief. "You consult some kind of horoscope before launching missiles?"

"No," Kyoko said. "He means the skies must be clear of spy satellites."

"Yes," Yoshimoto said. "Of course we know the schedules of most of these spy satellites, who doesn't? As Suzuki-san may have told you, our plan, with just a few warheads, depends partly on the major powers not knowing the source. So we launch when no satellites are present and we set off explosions in other parts of the globe where there are satellites, explosions that will have the general appearance of missile launchings."

"But what if the powers figure out your plan? Won't they simply aim their missiles at Japan? Won't our beloved islands be destroyed ten times over?" Watanabe asked.

"One would think so," the minister said, settling himself on the tatami floor. "But, no, not even with full knowledge that something like that might be going on, when missiles are headed for New York, London, Washington, Moscow, Cairo and so forth, and flashes indicate they might have been launched by the Americans, French, Russians, Koreans or Chinese, no one will have time for a detailed inquiry. Each will think the other is taking advantage of a situation. It will be launch and launch again until the major powers are in shambles. The military mind takes over. But peaceful Japan, with no real army, should be ignored.

"And now the tunnel is sealed and my task is complete. I brought you a bottle of first class sake for you to share in honor of the Event."

"You look handsome in your robes, Akira. I hope you meant that our job is complete. For haven't I been with you from the start? And could you have done it without me? I would expect to be by your side at the celebration." Kyoko waited, awkwardly, unsmiling.

Yoshimoto seemed to sigh under his silken robes. "I owe you a great debt, Kyoko. But I must attend to these things on my own. When a new government is formed, a high place for you is assured. Now I must go." He rose and started for the door.

Kyoko was on her feet, shouting, "Did you dare bring that bitch with you to the tunnel?"

"I do as I please," Yoshimoto replied, haughtily, "I am the Seventh Samurai."

"You are the Seventh Samurai because I was always behind you, taking care of details, through the years. You are a foolish old man, flattered by the attentions of a silly girl. I'll be damned if I'll sit here and see this happen!"

Yoshimoto stopped short of the door and turned toward the outraged woman. "You have little choice, Kyoko san. Sayonara!" He was out the door and Kyoko was boiling with anger.

She turned to Watanabe. "Open the sake, I need a drink." He opened the large bottle and filled two teacups with the rice wine. They sat silently and sipped for a full five minutes.

"Is there no escape from the tunnel?" Watanabe finally asked. They had been over the same ground before, but given her present state of mind she might look at things in a different light.

Kyoko finished her last drop of sake and pushed her cup toward Watanabe for a refill. Slowly, she shook her head. "There is no going, or coming. The old fool said the tunnel is sealed. That means our secret section has been sealed off from the rest of the tunnel. Huge concrete and steel doors have been lowered into place. It also means that anyone searching the regular tunnel could hunt for weeks or months and never know we are here. Even if there is a suspicion, when you are this far under the sea floor you don't smash through a stout wall."

"But doesn't this secret tunnel rely on the regular tunnel for electricity and fresh air?" Watanabe asked.

"Not entirely, although we have through the years. The excess use of electricity has been covered up by our government workers to the point that excess now seems normal. But we have our own generators and our own ventilating system, our own access to fresh air."

"Then that is our way out," Watanabe said, "through the ventilating system."

"No," the woman replied. She had suddenly appeared to grow older. "That was the fear from the beginning, that the ventilating system would be the one weak spot. Special pains were taken to make it impossible to use as an escape route. Bars, electricity, water. It would take a month for a hundred men armed with every sort of tool to make it through that system. We are surely here for the Event. What happens then, who knows? It was always a gamble, always a chance," she said wearily. "And Japan will not be totally spared. Poisonous clouds might envelop the Earth."

"But the missiles, they are here. And you say the warheads are to be brought in and fitted from the sea bottom. So there is access to the sea."

Kyoko's face brightened into a smile as she sipped her second cup of sake. "Yes, if you were a fish, you would do very well out there."

"There is sea access then," Watanabe questioned.

"Of course. That's the whole point. We can work underwater and no one sees. That was the idea from the start. An undersea force that can change the world."

"Is there more than one entrance? Are they well guarded?"

"There are several entrances. They call them sea locks and there is no particular security. Only our scuba divers use them. It is relatively simple to get out. But difficult, if not impossible for a diver from the outside to get in."

"But the divers in the accident, the ones with the _gaijin_ from the States, they found the sea locks?"

"That was unfortunate," Kyoko said. "They not only came upon the locks, but upon a major sea door for the missiles. The men were doing a training exercise at the time. The sports divers were captured."

"And killed."

"One was killed, but it was accidental. His was the body found on the shore, a shore where the currents could not have carried it, I'm sorry to say. That's what started the trouble. One simple mistake. The others were captured and are here today as honored guests. They will be useful after the Event."

Watanabe decided not to drink any more sake. He would need his wits about him. "I am a fish," he said. I can scuba dive. Can you take me to the sea lock?"

After a long while, Kyoko replied, "Perhaps. I have been denied access only to that part of the tunnel that houses the headquarters and nerve center, along with Yoshimoto's apartment. I have special access cards to most other parts and I know certain things that Yoshimoto, at this moment, would rather that I do not know. You notice that the telephones have been removed?"

"Well, yes, but they were only good within the tunnel, weren't they?"

"Yes, that's true," Kyoko said mysteriously. "Now let us explore our part of the tunnel. Give me a few minutes to change into slacks and tennis shoes. It will at least be a diversion."

CHAPTER 46: Factional Japan

Israel Prime Minister Mordechai Baker finally had U.S. President Jim Black on the line. "We had a bad apple at the top of the barrel," Baker was stating. "Eli Kotcher was like an institution around here. The bad part is this no-name organization has drawing power. Demographics. The Arabs are simply out breeding us and it won't be long until we're a minority in our own country, and we're supposedly a democracy. So the Knesset will have an Arab majority? No way. But what can we do? Then there's this third temple thing. The religious nuts, and we have an ample share, think their destiny is bound up with a piece of architecture that must be built on a certain spot. Then many here worry that all our children are slated for the military, that some will die and the best we can hope for is to muddle by under the threat of terrorism. Not an appetizing lifestyle."

"Sure," Black replied. "The quick fix is always a hit. Solve the problem by launching a few missiles at the cost of immense human suffering and hellish consequences. Prying out the members of that group is your problem. Ours is finding the missiles and destroying them. Admiral Blades is a good man and now has complete power to act as he pleases. Canada and our North American Defense are on full alert. Likewise other nuclear powers. We've moved missile cruisers and frigates to the area of the Tsugaru Strait. It's a delicate situation. Some of our military hawks think someone might take advantage of it to launch an attack, that we would falter in our response and thus seal our own doom. I'm sure there are still those in Russia, the other republics, Korea and God knows were else who feel the same way. High stakes poker. Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"You've got the clout with the Japanese. How much help are you getting over there?" Baker asked.

"They've placed their Defense Forces under Admiral Blades. There had been some hesitation, some reluctance to respond. As you know, Japan is not exactly a democratic society. It's basically a one-party system. Has been since 1955, and that party is run by factions. So the factions are extremely important. Minister Yoshimoto was, or is, a member of the prime minister's faction, the second most important member. It's a bitter pill for them to swallow that he's not only a murderer, but the leader of anything like the Fuurin Kazan. They are helping us, but is their heart really in it? Do they believe? I can't answer that."

"I've heard they're intensely peace loving," Baker said.

"Well, yes," the President replied. "Ever since World War Two. For more than 50 years they've harped on a peace culture, holding up Hiroshima for all the world to see. At times they've almost seemed to reverse roles with us, that the war was our fault, that Hiroshima was all our crime, the despicable act of a bloodthirsty people. It's brought them tremendous prosperity and created us as their best customer. But now China's more productive. Sometimes I feel like I'm not the President of the U.S., but the head consumer, the chief shopper."

"You're not alone. We too are one of their markets. By the way, would you like me to send you some more Israeli wine?"

A brief silence, then the President said, "I wish you wouldn't. As it is we have wine from California, New York, Virginia and Ohio, to name just four states. If anybody caught me drinking foreign wine, no matter how I got it, it's just a problem I don't need. But I'll send you a few jugs from California."

"I wouldn't mind that," Baker said.

***

Admiral Guy Blades had sought a suitable land base for his flag staff, which now included several Japanese, two Israelis and one Aussie. Finding none, he found himself once more on a Belknap-class guided missile cruiser, this time smack in the middle of the Tsugaru Strait.

Blades was operating under the theory that the warheads had been delivered and that the missiles would be fired from somewhere underwater in the area of the Strait. If there were a firing, every missile under his command would be used to down the renegade. Other vessels would move in to depth charge and use homing torpedoes on the firing area.

In the meantime, he had one improved LA-class submarine prowling the Strait and CINPACFLT was speeding a Seawolf-class sub to the area. These were the best the U.S. Navy had to offer, their systems a complex of sophisticated computer programs, microprocessors and sensors. Both advanced hydrophones and sonar were fully operational on the two attack subs. Blades knew if the Fuurin Kazan were successful in launching missiles, one or both of the attack subs might be badly damaged, or lost, in the onslaught of fire that would follow. It was a chance he was prepared to take.

***

Silently the scuba divers of the Fuurin Kazan worked beneath the Strait. Using floatation belts and lift bags, they gently removed the warheads from the barge one by one and swam them back to the massive airlocks that housed the missiles. Once inside, the outer doors were eased shut, water was expelled, and technicians began uncrating the warheads and fitting them to the waiting missiles.

***

Digger and Nana hitchhiked with Blades' staff to the Strait and wheedled their way on board the cruiser. Cheddar prevailed upon the admiral to let them take a small boat and get a first-hand look at the Strait. So the three of them were in a small boat, a coxswain at the tiller, plying the choppy waters of the Tsugaru Strait.

They had been at it for the better part of an hour, going aimlessly this way and that, without a clue to what they were looking for.

Digger glanced at Cheddar, who had been unusually quiet for the last fifteen minutes. "I say, Myte. You look a bit green around the gills." The words "green" and "gills" made Cheddar shudder. He hunched over lower, his head resting against the gunwale, and hoped he would throw up and get it over with. Had his father really enjoyed this life for all those years?

Nana snuggled the foul weather jacket close to her chin and felt the raw wind of the Strait on her face. At least she was doing something. She felt salt on her lips, the misty spindrift, and wondered where Watanabe was at this moment.

CHAPTER 47: Sword of the Samurai

Finance Minister Yoshimoto was feeling good. The ceremony had gone well, everyone had shouted "banzai" at the end and he had drawn his Sword and flourished it in the air. The samurai robes had been a good idea. Everyone had been impressed and of course everyone had drunk too much sake.

In his apartment he found a petulant Yoko Kaji waiting for him.

"Really, Yoshimoto-san, I sit here with nothing to do while you go to some sort of costume party. There isn't even television here. At least no reception, just a couple of videotapes. And what trash they are, samurai dramas. Why are we here?"

"Isn't it enough that we're together, Yoko-chan? You have your Akira, and in a few days, with a little patience, you'll be surprised how good things will be."

"I doubt that. All I really wanted was a trip to Hawaii. I don't think that's too much to ask."

"It isn't too much, Yoko-chan. You will have that and much more. I'm almost sorry we were intimate so soon." Yoshimoto moved to a sideboard and poured himself sake. "Perhaps we should have saved that ecstasy for our wedding night. You are so young. I suppose my charisma overpowered you."

"Wedding night! Wait a minute. There's been no talk of marriage. I think maybe I should get out of here. This place is scary. I'm going home tomorrow."

"Yoko-chan," Yoshimoto shouted. "Your place is by my side. I have decided. You will do my bidding."

"That's a little old fashioned, isn't it?" she shouted back. "Besides, you're three times my age and I would never marry you!" She stamped her foot for emphasis then walked across the room and stared at the wall.

"But we are lovers, Yoko-chan," Yoshimoto implored.

"I have plenty of lovers. I have a sushi chef near the office. He said he would take me to Hawaii!"

"You've been seeing a sushi chef? You slept with a sushi chef? Where? In your apartment?" Yoshimoto was enraged.

"No, at least he had the decency to take me to a love hotel. And he's only thirty years old."

"And there have been others?" Yoshimoto demanded, blind with rage.

"There's the office manager on the new job you assigned me."

"You made love to a finance ministry clerk at love hotels?" Yoshimoto was amazed.

"No, in the supply room, unless things are busy. Then we go into the broom closet."

"Broom closet," Yoshimoto bellowed. "You make love standing up?"

"He stands up, I kneel down. There's plenty of room."

"Why did I trust you?" Yoshimoto shouted to the walls. "You blow a clerical employee in the broom closet!"

"That's a vulgar term," Yoko protested. "It's called oral sex and it's wonderful because there's absolutely no danger of pregnancy. What could be better?"

"Yoko," Yoshimoto demanded, "how long have you been having sex? When did it start?"

"Grandpa, your friend, violated me when I was thirteen. He's done it regularly ever since, but he's a nice old guy and he always leaves me a present. Candy and trinkets when I was young. More recently money. Sometimes as much as two thousand yen."

"Two thousand yen is nothing," Yoshimoto bellowed. "They charge twenty or thirty thousand yen in the soaplands. I was ready to marry, to actually marry, after all these years, a two-thousand yen whore."

Yoshimoto was beside himself with anger. Some of his friends had seen the girl. Did they know what she was? He had shut out Kyoko. For what? He had made an ass of himself. And what timing! A time when his triumph was almost assured, when he should be the soul of dignity and decorum. The Seventh Samurai had rolled in the gutter with a common whore. And there she stood, defiant before him.

In his rage, Yoshimoto drew his short sword and lunged toward Yoko. The nimble girl dodged and he went crashing into the wall. He turned and chased her across the room, flailing at her with his sword. She screamed and ran, putting the bed between herself and what seemed to be a madman. He moved slowly around the bed, panting from the activity, ready to thrust his blade into the core of her body. She cowered against the wall, lips quivering, then scrambled across the bed.

Yoko raced for the door, frantically twisting the knob. Yoshimoto had locked it on the way in. She turned slowly, aware of what waited her.

The sharp blade slid between her ribs, just below the left breast. Yoshimoto had gone for the heart. She died almost instantly, eyes fogging over, muscles relaxing. Yoshimoto dropped the sword and Yoko crumpled to the floor, coming to rest on her side. In that position she looked like a very small, very young girl, who had put on her mother's makeup.

Yoshimoto turned and sobbed. He was no longer drunk, no longer angry. His hands were shaking. He had one thought. He must find Kyoko Suzuki. She would know what to do and she would comfort him. She had been right. He was a foolish old man.

CHAPTER 48: Washington D.C.

In the Oval Office, President Black had called his National Security Advisor Kipp Pell. He was laying out a ticklish situation that just days before had been unthinkable. "You see, Kipp, if these birds are able to trigger a global nuclear firestorm we should be doing much more about it."

"I'm keenly aware of that, Mr. President, I sent you a memo on courses of action."

"Yes," President Black responded, "one hundred and twenty pages. I read the one-page synopsis. I'm not concerned with those details, although I know they're important. I am concerned with two things. First, if the American public finds out what's really going on there'd be widespread panic. Try as you might to second-guess a situation, the outcome is totally unpredictable. Secondly, if we decide to try some orderly plan to remove people from our population centers and get as many as possible into shelters, the rest of the world would take that as a message that we might be ready to attack."

"In light of our behavior in the last few years a lot of the global community might think that. Some wonder where we will strike next. But with our military short handed and occupied in various adventures, a nuclear war might be considered an option."

"Nonsense, Kipp."

"I'm strictly talking perception, Mr. President. How we are perceived through the eyes of say the French. They just don't know which way the cat's going to jump. But my point is we must do something."

"We are doing something, Kipp. Admiral Blades is the best man we have for the job. We've concentrated our forces and concentrated our firepower on the Tsugaru Strait. It's my understanding that if there are missiles and if they fire them individually, we have a good chance of getting every one of them. If they have the ability to gang fire them... If they do that, that's another matter."

"It would be best to find them before they're fired."

"Of course it would," the President shot back. He had never realized how stupid his security advisor was. But he calmed down quickly. He was using Pell, really, to think out loud.

"Going in we never realized how large the Tsugaru Strait is and how vast the tunnel is. It's thirty-three miles long and there are many side tunnels, escape routes. It's a hairy maze. If they've blocked the access to their secret tunnel it might take us a year to find it."

"But they've got to eat and they've got to breathe," Pell exclaimed.

"I know that and they do too," Black said wearily. "They've had years to plan out every detail. What I think we should do at this end is quietly dust off the old Civil Defense plans, have everyone at the Pentagon know just exactly what he is to do if an actual bomb falls, then sit back and wait."

"We've already done that," Pell replied.

"Good," the President nodded. "Make certain they're taking it seriously. Some type of quiz might be in order. And anything else along those lines, but quietly, quietly, no leaks."

"The press is already asking a lot of questions. Our Navy activities haven't gone unnoticed. Or the airlift of Army Engineers. And Navy Seal units."

"Let them ask. And let the Internet chatter lead only to confusion. There's so many opinions making the rounds, so many blogs, one doesn't know what to believe. I don't think they can guess this one unless someone tells them directly. Keep in touch, Kipp."

CHAPTER 49: The Sea Locks

Watanabe and Suzuki had hardly gone twenty feet when they were challenged by the guard at the end of the hall.

"I am the Geisha," Kyoko responded angrily. "I go where I please."

"I'm sorry, Geisha-san, but I have orders. I am merely asking where you are going." The guard eyed Watanabe warily and was about to ask for his identity when Kyoko responded.

"If you must know, my friend and I are going to play a game of pool."

"There is no harm in that, Geisha-san. Go right ahead."

They continued down the corridor and Kyoko used a coded card to open a door. A few more steps and they came to a room large enough for a pair of pool tables. "So, you weren't joking," Watanabe said.

"A small number of people have been here for many years. They must have recreation. There is a pool room, there are video tapes, there is a library and now and then even prostitutes."

"I suppose it would get boring." Watanabe picked up a pool cue, hefted it, returned it to the rack and picked up another. He tried a shot, missed the mark and scratched the cue ball.

"Boring, indeed. It's like living in a cave, but underwater. If you think about that it can get to you. One or two people have lost their minds, gone berserk. One did considerable damage, but that was more than a year ago."

"What did you do with them?" Watanabe tried another shot. This time he managed to knock the seven ball into a corner pocket, but the cue ball followed it in. He wondered how long they had to pretend to play pool before they could move on.

"What could we do with them?" Kyoko asked. "We couldn't kill them. That would be bad for tunnel morale. I mean everyone would have known if you get a little flaky, you get shot. No, we still have them. We found we had to build a little jail. There were fights among guards, scraps over prostitutes, that sort of thing. So the jail is for crazies, or short-term discipline. We have all the problems of a small city – waste disposal, refrigeration, an infirmary. The only thing we've avoided is children and schools."

"And maybe religion," Watanabe said.

"No, we have that. We have a Buddhist temple and a Shinto shrine. Our people tend to be sustained by religion and love of country. If we could go public, this would make a great social study, a society cooped up in a cave. And not just Japanese, Israeli intellectuals. We have a small kosher kitchen, three rabbis, and the Jews have their women here. In retrospect, it's just incredible. The people's money we have poured into this place!"

Watanabe sensed that one part of Kyoko remained loyal to the Fuurin Kazan and the secret army she had built up over the years. How long would her anger toward Yoshimoto endure? "Can we go to the sea locks?" he asked.

"We can try. Follow me." When they left the poolroom, Watanabe kept his pool stick with him. It was the heaviest one he could find and it felt something like a kendo stave in his hand. They continued down the hall, then climbed a set of dank concrete stairs ill lit by dim electric bulbs and wide enough for only one person to pass at a time. At the top of the stairs was a small guardroom with a slightly brighter bulb.

A heavy set guard, surprised to see anyone at this hour, jumped to his feet and drew his revolver. Kyoko read his name, printed in kanji on a plastic rectangle pinned to his jacket.

"Do not be alarmed, Ishida-san. It is only I, the Geisha, and a friend, out for a stroll."

The guard bowed slightly. "I am honored by your presence. But no one must go beyond this point. The gates to the sea are out there, a dangerous place."

"But I would like to show my friend," Kyoko said.

"It is not possible at this time, Geisha-san. We are under full security, and my orders are strict." He bowed again, regretting that he had to turn down a request from the Geisha herself, but knowing that he must follow orders. And, when he did bow, Watanabe whirled the cue stick like a flash, striking the guard in the head and knocking him senseless.

Kyoko surveyed the scene coolly. The guard sprawled on the gray concrete floor, Watanabe holding a cue stick. "Well, it would be hard to explain this one," she said. "I suppose I am committed to helping you escape with all the consequences."

"Thank you, Suzuki-san." Watanabe found handcuffs and trussed the man around a steel pipe. Then he stuffed the man's pistol into his belt. "Which way do we go?"

Kyoko led the way through a short passage, then up more narrow stairs, concrete walls sweating water that made it wet and slippery underfoot. At one point she stopped, half turned and whispered, "I've only been here once before."

"Are we going to the place where the missiles are kept," Watanabe asked.

"No. They are farther down. The large doors open on the sea floor where the tracks and launching apparatus have been installed. We couldn't possibly get into that area. It must be a place of frantic activity just now. There are probably missiles ready for launching already."

"Then they won't launch them as they get them ready?" Watanabe felt certain that if a missile had been launched, they would know. In fact, Kyoko had told him they would play the " _Kimigayo_ ," the Japanese national anthem, over the public address system to mark the launching.

"No, the plan is to launch them in two large groups. This will add to the confusion in the world and make detection and destruction almost impossible. Once aloft, they will home to their various targets." She took a deep breath and continued up the stairs.

At the top they emerged into a well-lit domed room. There was a guard's desk, but no guard. However, one entered almost immediately. He was an older man, wearing sergeant's stripes. Apparently he had been using the toilet. He stopped abruptly when he saw the two of them, but did not reach for his gun. They were too far away to read his name, and apparently he didn't recognize Kyoko. "I don't know who you are," he said, beginning to move toward his desk, "but I must send for my officer."

Watanabe had left the cue stick in the guard station below. Anyway, he was too far away to use it. With no other choice, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot the man dead.

Kyoko flinched at the sound of the gunfire. Watanabe wondered if the shot could be heard. He looked around for an escape route, then realized how foolish it would be to attempt to run and hide in a sealed tunnel complex. The water and the scuba gear was the only hope.

"I'm sorry you had to do that," Kyoko said. "But there was no other way."

"Yes," Watanabe agreed automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. He had fired in the heat of the moment, partly, he was sure, from fear. Now, with the man dead on the floor he knew there must have been another way. He felt a coldness in his chest as if his heart stopped beating. Then he forced himself to ask, "Which way now?"

"Through the door in back of the desk." They walked around the dead man, not looking at him, and went through the door. They found themselves in a gallery with five metal doors, each painted in a different color. "Each door leads to a sea lock," Kyoko explained. "They are also color-coded on the seaside. Divers using these doors would wear a colored strap on their wrist corresponding to the doors."

"Wouldn't there normally be attendants inside?" Watanabe asked.

"I'm sure there would be," Kyoko responded. "I'm not sure of the details. I know that you can go out alone, but need assistance coming back. Of course the divers are always in pairs."

"We better look at the equipment," Watanabe said.

"Each room has its own. I do know that," Kyoko said. She led the way through the green door. Found a switch and turned on a light.

There was scuba gear strewn around the room. Tanks were in one corner. Diving knives, watches, cylinder backpacks and hose and regulators were heaped in an untidy pile on the table. "This stuff looks like its been used and not put away," Watanabe said. "The air cylinders might be near empty, or badly depleted."

"Let's try another room," Kyoko said. Watanabe followed her, wondering if the old woman planned to join him in his escape attempt. She seemed to be in good physical shape. Certainly if she remained in the tunnel she would face a serious inquiry.

They went through the red door and found the room in the same condition as the green. Then to the blue room. Everything was in order. Watanabe was satisfied. He began assembling the equipment needed for two people on the assumption that Kyoko was going with him.

"Do you know anything about scuba diving?" he asked. When she replied in the negative he began explaining the equipment. He found two-piece wet suits, gave one to her and told her to put it on. Then he donned one himself.

"Have you been diving long?" Kyoko asked.

Watanabe had been afraid she would ask. "I've never dived, but I planned to. In the last few days I've read two scuba diving books."

Kyoko laughed aloud. "What a situation I've gotten into. We've knocked out one guard, killed another. Now I'm about to escape into deep water with a man who's never dived. This must be my lucky day! I should have checked the stars."

"All we do, Suzuki-san, is reach the surface. These buoyancy compensators will keep us afloat." He indicated a pair of life vests. "We have control over the air content in several ways. First we can blow them up a little by mouth before we exit. Then there's a gas cartridge. Pull a string and the vest will inflate."

He showed her how the cartridge worked, then pointed to another string. "This is an emergency dump valve. If you're rising too fast, which is dangerous, pull this string and you let the air out fast."

"What if you fire the gas cartridge and the vest blows up and explodes? I suppose you'd sink like a rock."

"No, there's an over-pressure relief valve. No time to explain everything. This will be one quick trip." They selected masks, helped each other on with cylinder backpacks and tried the breathing pieces. Watanabe was facing away from the door adjusting his equipment when the door eased open. A man stood in the open door holding a submachine gun. Kyoko could see another man behind him.

"Don't move, either of you," the armed man said. "Put up your hands." Watanabe turned in surprise and bitter disappointment. They had been so close. If he had put on the equipment and gone alone he would have made it. He raised his hands and faced the guard in silence.

"This man kidnapped me!" Kyoko exclaimed. "And he has a gun. It's there on the table. Watanabe had placed it there, meaning to put it in his belt before going out the sea lock. "Shall I get it?"

The guard eyed the woman suspiciously and said, "No. I'm going to lock you both up until after the Event. Then we'll see what's what."

"But I am the Geisha," Kyoko said. "Surely you know me. My cousin is the Seventh Samurai."

"Forgive me, if you are who you say you are, but I don't know what's going on here. I do know there's a dead man in the other room and no one is authorized to be diving at this time, except those preparing for the Event. It will be soon, so your confinement will be short."

He looked at the gun across the room and decided to leave it where it was. If this man had killed the guard he was probably very dangerous. Ignoring Kyoko for the moment he turned to Watanabe and was about to order him into the gallery where his partner was waiting.

When they had first come into the room Kyoko had noticed a spring-loaded spear gun lying on the table. She had picked it up momentarily, long enough to see how the simple mechanism worked. Now she reached behind her, felt for the gun, grasped it, released the safety and in one move brought it around her body and fired the barbed spear into the guard's side. He screamed in pain, his gun barrel turned toward the ceiling. Watanabe stepped forward, grabbed the weapon and pushed the guard back into the gallery. He fired a burst into the gallery then slammed the door shut, but there was no lock.

"Did you shoot the man's partner?" Kyoko shouted.

"No, he ducked. I tried to scare him. Let's get out of here! Got everything on?"

"I think so. How about you?"

"Yeah," Watanabe said, then handed her the submachine gun. "Watch the door. I'll see how this sea lock works." Watanabe struggled, but it wouldn't give. He kicked it, then found a wrench and banged on it. Still it wouldn't open. "There must be some trick to it." He began a careful examination.

"Hurry up," Kyoko said. "They're sure to raise an alarm."

"I'm doing the best I can," Watanabe said, searching frantically, but thoroughly. Finally he found spring-loaded pistol grip catches on each side of the door. Once they were released, the heavy steel door, circled by a thick rubber seal, opened easily. "OK, get in," Watanabe said.

As he spoke, the door from the gallery began to inch open. Kyoko emptied the sub machinegun into the door, dropped the weapon and darted into the sea lock. Watanabe followed and dragged the door shut from the inside. He found the light, protected by heavy, rubber-grommeted glass, and switched it on.

Instructions for exiting to the sea were stenciled on the wall. Watanabe read them carefully, then opened the large valve to admit seawater into the chamber. Both of them shuddered as the cold water splashed their bodies and rose above their ankles. "Let's inflate these vests just a little," Watanabe said.

In his haste, Watanabe had left the gun on the table. He had strapped on a diving knife and underwater watch and compass, passing up the depth gauge. The surface was his only goal. "I've never been so cold. My legs feel like they're locked." The water was up to Kyoko's elbows and rising fast.

"Get ready for the pressure," Watanabe said. "You'll feel it soon. Better start breathing through your mouthpiece. Try to relax. Remember, if you don't rise fast enough, pull the gas string."

Kyoko nodded and pushed the breathing piece into her mouth. The water was almost to her chin. They could hear noises on the other side of the door. The guard must have regained his courage and entered the room.

Watanabe hoped there wasn't any way to lock the outer door. He adjusted his mouthpiece and facemask as water swirled about his neck and soon engulfed him. His hand was on the heavy handle that controlled the outer door. He reached over and squeezed Kyoko's arm and felt her hand give his forearm a firm squeeze. The sea lock was filled with water now, the pressure mounting. Watanabe put his weight against the handle and it slowly gave way.

Then he pushed open the heavy door to the sea, gripped Kyoko's hand in his and they stepped out into the cold, briny darkness.

CHAPTER 50: The Deception

In the nerve center of the Fuurin Kazan secret underwater fastness, the technical staff was in full charge. Most of the energy was spent uniting warheads and missiles and making the units operational. But a small specialized segment of the staff was monitoring the undersea waters outside and the surface of the water above.

Long ago, throughout the waters of the Tsugaru Strait they had deployed hydrophones – elaborate ears, microphones that process undersea noises, but make no noise themselves, permitting listening without detection. Technicians had also installed sonar devices, but no one of the Fuurin Kazan dared used them. Although the pulses of electromagnetic radiation employed by sonar are effective in locating and classifying objects, they can be detected.

The Fuurin Kazan's other source of information included people who watch the surface of the Strait and report through secure telephone lines, plus members of the Japanese Defense Force who had access to all levels of information and similarly reported.

The technical staff in the Fuurin Kazan nerve center had excellent knowledge of what was going on as the time neared for the missile launches, and what they knew they didn't like. The U.S. Navy and Defense Force vessels were all too near the launch site.

In just two hours the first twelve missiles would be ready for launch. The remaining missiles would be let go minutes later.

The trick was to lure the enemy away from the launch site. Plans for this purpose had been finalized a year earlier. Now the officer in charge pushed the button to activate the first noise box. Two such boxes were in place, away from the actual launch site, but near enough to the tunnel so that they would be taken seriously. The first such box was west of the tunnel near the Hokkaido shore, just south of a lighthouse called Shirakami. The second was east of the tunnel near the midway point, in a vast stretch of open water.

Noise boxes were exactly what they were called: Large steel boxes equipped to make a variety of noises at the whim of their operator. Each could emit two types of motor noises. The operator could combine the noises into many medleys. There was also sonar equipment that could pulse out electromagnetic radiation to further confound the enemy.

But the trump card mounted on each noise box was an actual missile that could be launched. It was designed to have an extremely short range, yet generate the maximum heat and make the maximum racket during launch.

With the first noisemaker activated, the operator pressed a button for "moderate engine noise." He would let that go for five minutes then switch on the second box and immediately activate its sonar. That program would have a seven or eight minute duration.

***

In his flag command headquarters in the front of the bridge of his Belknap-class cruiser, Admiral Blades paced the deck. With all the force he had at his command, including a Virginia-class and California-class guided missile cruiser, nothing concrete had been learned about the Fuurin Kazan operation. The Seawolf-class sub had also come on station and was prowling the waters of the Strait west of the tunnel, while the LA-class took the east side.

"Dammit, they've got to make some fuckin' noise," Blades said for the third time.

"We have some activity, Sir," a youthful ensign shouted.

"What is it, Ensign?"

"The Seawolf reports engine noise up toward the Hokkaido shore. Cannot identify."

"Could be a fishing boat that's gone astray," Blades said.

"The noise is well underwater, Sir. Near the bottom."

"Let's get a helicopter up there quick. Drop a few hydrophones. Is Seawolf headed that way?"

"She's closing, Sir. Best speed."

Minutes later there was a report on sonar on the other side of the tunnel in deep, open water. The source could not be identified. More helicopters were dispatched and the LA-class sub moved in to take a look.

Not long after that the engine noises near Hokkaido were replaced by odd sounds, not the normal sounds of a submarine, or other vessels underway. "We might have something here," Blades said hopefully.

Next the sonar noises on the west side of the tunnel gave way to strange engine noises, followed by an unusual assortment of sounds. "I think some sly fucker is blowing smoke up our ass," Blades said curtly. "But we have to follow up. Let's close on the noises, but not give away all the apples. Let me know when any vessel or aircraft is in torpedo range. Whatever's making the noises, we'll smoke it, then lay down a pattern of depth charges. Alert any subs to be ready to clear the area when the time comes."

***

In the Fuurin Kazan command center it was duly noted with some pride that an assortment of U.S. Navy and Defense Force vessels were converging on the locations of the two noise boxes. At the first sign of attack on the two boxes, the missiles would be fired.

CHAPTER 51: In the Water

Watanabe and Kyoko were suspended in the cold water, neither going up or down. Watanabe had misjudged. They had not blown enough air into their buoyancy compensators. He held Kyoko's hand firmly in the silent darkness, silence interrupted only by the sounds of their breathing, and she clutched his, desperately seeking some clue as to what to do next. Watanabe knew what to do, but he had no way of communicating with Kyoko. They must blow more air into their buoyancy compensators, but to do this, they each needed two hands. He had made another mistake, not linking them together with a line. If he let Kyoko go, even for a moment, she might drift off and be lost forever in the inky blackness.

Watanabe reasoned if he could somehow hang onto Kyoko he could put enough air in his own vest to lift the two of them gently and slowly to the surface. The pressure was immense. It pressed in on his ears like ice picks. He knew Kyoko must be feeling it and might be giving way to panic. He at least had read the books and knew what to expect.

If he could not hold Kyoko with his hands, he would use his legs, he reasoned. Slowly he brought his legs up around the woman's slim waist and grasped her. His feet were already numbed by the icy water, but he took his best grip and released her hand. Then he took deep breaths from his regulator, removed it from his mouth, found the mouthpiece to his vest, blew into it, and as quickly as possible returned the regulator to his mouth. It was working. He could feel his body rise and he tightened his leg grip on Kyoko.

He had taken the regulator out of his mouth for the third time when Kyoko suddenly twisted and squirmed free. She was fighting him! She had been too far underwater for too long. The pressure and intense chill had gotten to her. Then she felt restrained by his leg grip. She pushed off of his body with her legs and was gone in the tar-black water.

Without her weight, Watanabe's body rose slowly through the water. Finding Kyoko was impossible, he knew. Her loss was maddening to him. Despite all his efforts, what had he succeeded in doing? The missiles would soon be fired and he knew the tunnel was impregnable on a short-term basis.

His body continued upward, like a pathetic figure on a long, cold elevator ride. He breathed heavily again, removed the regulator and put more air into his vest. He would never reach the surface, he was sure.

Then finally, he was there. He pushed up his mask and turned away from the direction of the low swells. Low in the water, he blew more air into his vest and attempted to look around. There was darkness on all sides. He listened intently. A small splash, then what sounded like a hoarse gasp.

"Suzuki-san," he shouted. "Is that you, Suzuki-san?" Another splash, this time louder, like someone hitting the water with their hands. It wasn't far. He swam in that direction. "Suzuki-san, I'm on my way." He continued following the sound until he came to a black form, bobbing on the swells. "Suzuki-san," he cried, grasping her arm. "are you all right?"

"Watanabe, I'm finished," she croaked. "My lungs, bleeding."

Watanabe felt her buoyancy compensator. It was fully inflated. He guessed that she had pulled the cord on her CO2 cartridge and shot from the high-pressure depths to the low-pressure surface like a bullet. Her lungs could have almost exploded. "Hold on to my tank straps, Suzuki-san. I think I spotted a light. I'll pull you ashore. You'll be OK."

"Not all right," she said hoarsely, then seemed to choke. "I'm dead. I must tell you." Each word was forced out, obviously causing pain. Watanabe stopped pleading and listened. "If you're in time, there's a way to stop Yoshimoto from this awful thing. A telephone number in the secret tunnel, a coded message with a pushbutton phone, and the tunnel blows, sealed forever."

"How could that be?" Watanabe asked.

"If the Fuurin Kazan was to fail, they were all to die together in the tunnel, their secret locked under the Straits. Explosive charges set in several places to blow openings to the sea. It would be all over in minutes."

"And no missiles would be fired?"

With labored words, Kyoko said, "None. Everything is done through electric wires linked to the tunnel's computers. Once the water hits the circuit, everything shorts out. But the message." She gave him the access number and he repeated it three times.

"We translated the message into English to make it more difficult. It will be easier for you," Kyoko gasped. "It is this: 'Fuurin Kazan,' then without punctuation punch the time and the date. The date should be in numbers, first the day, then the month, then the year, the entire four digits of the year. After that punch in 'banzai sayonara.'"

"That's it," Watanabe questioned.

"Yes, repeat it. I am in pain."

Watanabe repeated the entire sequence with instructions.

"That is correct," Kyoko croaked. "Give me your knife."

"I can't let you kill yourself, Suzuki-san. I'll tow you ashore. I tell you, I see a light."

"Watanabe, I will not kill myself with the knife. It will not touch my body."

Her words were spoken with such agony that Watanabe unsnapped the knife sheath, pulled the sharp blade and passed it to her chill-numbed hands. Although Watanabe could not see exactly what she was doing, he could tell by the sounds. She punctured her life vest, her buoyancy compensator, and immediately slid beneath the dark waters without another sound.

Watanabe hesitated but a second, then struck out for shore, for the light he had seen over the chop of the Strait. Three minutes passed, then five. He didn't seem to be making any progress. His arms were like lead. He paused to jettison his air cylinder, regulator, compass, watch. He swam a few more yards, then ditched the partly inflated life vest and the top of his wet suit. He was tiring, but now he slipped through the water more easily. At times he would stop and wait until a swell carried him upward to take another fix on the light. He was closer. He was gaining.

Watanabe rolled sluggishly in the water, no longer feeling the cold. His legs were iron. He let them drop for a moment until his foot knocked into something hard and sharp. Pain. It dawned on him. He was on a rock.

The light was still some distance away when he crawled and scrambled onto the rocky shore.

CHAPTER 52: The Firings

Lieutenant Cheddar had just brought coffee to Nana Liberman in the flag command aboard the cruiser. She and Digger had been permitted to hold down a pair of corner chairs during the long night. For all the tedious vigil, Nana and Digger looked fairly chipper. Cheddar was dragging. He had had too much coffee. The seasickness of the day before had taken its toll, and to add to his cheer, a few minutes before the admiral had told him that his eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow,

With dawn near, the tempo of the chase picked up. They were converging on an unidentified noise and the decision had been made to silence it, whatever it was.

The dull hum of activity in flag command was shattered when a chief shouted, "The LA sub has just fired its first torpedo." Five seconds later, "There goes its second."

The room fell into almost total silence, then the chief shouted, "Holy shit! They've fired a missile."

"Who has?" the admiral demanded.

"Wherever the noise was coming from. They've fired a missile." He paused a second, then said, "It's out of the water, headed straight up."

"Gimme the headset," Blades said, taking earphones and mike from an ensign. Reports coming over the headset were a composite from the sub, other fleet vessels and aircraft in the area. Blades had no additional orders to issue; everyone knew exactly what to do. Knock out the missile. Depth charge the launching site. The sub was to get clear.

Blades said slowly, so all could hear, "The LA sub's torpedoes seem to have scored a direct hit on whatever it is. A torpedo is in the water, a helicopter torpedo, and moving toward the other noise source."

He waited, counting the seconds. "Now another missile's been fired, this one from the second noise source." Only the two missiles, he thought. Not a gang firing. They would have a good chance of getting them both.

But strange, those noises, so obvious. Was it a trap? "The second noise source has also been hit. We'll move in to depth charge. And I think we'll get both missiles." A faint cheer went up in flag command.

"Don't be overconfident," the admiral warned, then issued orders to all ships not actually involved in the action to stay on total alert.

"Do you think there'll be more missiles, Sir," Cheddar asked.

"Could be. This whole thing with the odd noises and the two missiles might be an elaborate decoy. These people haven't made any mistakes. Then there's the real threat of radiation." The admiral held up a hand for silence. "I'm happy to tell you that both missiles have been destroyed. They reached a height of four, or five miles, then boom."

"That's great news, Sir," Cheddar said. "But if they were decoys, maybe they self-destructed."

"I'm painfully aware of that, Cheddar. But the fact is, so far two missiles have been launched, two have been destroyed." Once again he issued orders for all sea, ground and air units to remain on alert for more missiles."

CHAPTER 53: The Farmhouse

Watanabe was totally miserable. If the water had been bone chilling and treacherous, the pitfalls of land held their own special punishment. Sharp rocks and stubble tore at his bare feet. There were fences to climb and mud-slimy ditches to negotiate. Stumbling, recovering, falling, picking himself up and going forward. He made for a light high on a pole at the rear of a farmhouse.

As he neared the house a pair of dogs set up a great hue and cry. Watanabe paused for a moment and found a sturdy stick. He would fight them if he must. He stumbled on as the dogs raced to meet him. He sidestepped and almost fell, but managed to whack one of the animals solidly on the ear. Both dogs fled, one yelping with pain. Then he was in the farmyard and at the farm door, banging with the butt of his stick. "Police," he cried. "I am a policeman."

The farmer and his wife, already alerted by the dogs, were behind the locked door. They were discussing whether to open the door or not when they heard the cry of "police."

"How do we know you are a policeman," the farmer shouted through the door.

"I have identification," Watanabe shouted. He had stuffed his wallet into the pants of the wet suit before he had left the tunnel. Now he fumbled for it.

"Your accent is strange," the farmer shouted.

"Osaka dialect," Watanabe replied. "I am an Osaka policeman. My business is urgent. Please open this door at once!"

Compelled to be obedient to the law, the farmer opened the door. Both the man and the wife gawked at the muddy, bedraggled figure, clad in only a wet suit bottom. Watanabe held up his police force ID and said, "I must use the phone at once."

"By all means," the farmer said. "It is on the small table in the hall. There are slippers here."

Watanabe looked at the slippers, shook his head, then climbed the step into the hall, grabbed the telephone. The message was clear in his mind. Then to his utter shock he saw he was holding a dial phone. Only a pushbutton phone would work. But in this old farmhouse, isolated on the shore of the Tsugaru Strait, he should have known. The farmer and his wife had followed him up the single step into the hall. Watanabe turned to them, the instrument still in his hand and said to them in a heartsick voice, "I must have a pushbutton phone."

For the first time, the farm wife spoke, "There is one in our daughter's room upstairs."

Watanabe looked around, saw the stairs and bolted for them. The farmer and his wife did not follow. There was only one room upstairs. Watanabe found a wall switch and put on the light. A futon across the room moved and a teenage girl sat up in surprise. She was nude, at least above the waist. She quickly covered her upper body with a sheet.

"I'm a policeman," Watanabe said hurriedly, "I must use the phone. The girl said nothing, but glanced at the phone, which was within arm's reach of her futon.

Watanabe dropped to the floor at the edge of the futon and picked up the phone. There was a dial tone. The girl, now within inches of him, dropped the sheet from her breasts and looked him brazenly in the eye. Watanabe took a deep breath and punched the access number. The phone rang and the girl stirred. She put her arms behind her, bracing herself on the tatami. She was a pretty thing, Watanabe thought, maybe about sixteen. He was beginning to think he had the wrong number when he heard a click on the other end of the line.

He managed to forget the girl completely as he pulled the message and Kyoko's instructions from his head. There was a clock in the room. He punched in the time, struggled momentarily for the date, then went on to the last two words.

Just as Kyoko had said, the line remained open and he heard the beginning of " _Kimigayo_ ," the Japanese national anthem. Kyoko said it would play for thirty seconds throughout the tunnel before the charges detonated and let in the sea.

As he listened he remembered the words of the anthem that is in praise of the Emperor. It holds forth the hope that the Emperor's reign will last long enough for a small pebble to grow into a large moss-covered rock. Watanabe waited and he watched the seconds go by on the clock, then his eyes were drawn to the girl and the girl's breasts.

The music continued, the familiar theme of his homeland. And he waited to destroy the empire beneath the sea. Suddenly the girl's breasts symbolized life to him. She was like a flower, waiting for a bee. The two of them, they could start the world again from scratch. He remembered one of the profoundest things an American president had ever said.

In school, in the States, he had learned about the presidents. It had been one of those deep thinkers from Ohio. Not Grant, or McKinley. No, it was Harding. He had said, "Every woman deserves a pretty baby." Something like that, anyway. The beginning and the end of the president's thoughts on women's rights. But it was true. Watanabe realized it as the seconds ticked by and the enormity of what he was doing soaked in. He was not a mass murder, he told himself, but a large-scale executioner.

He thought of the Japanese phrase that translates something like, "Your baby is hard to look at." It is quite polite and means, "Madame, you have an ugly baby." Difficult to look at, yet it is still your baby. Why did these thoughts race through his head at this time?

There was a stirring in this girl who faced him bare breasted, the age-old stirring of new life, fresh life. This girl was eternity with her fresh skin and soft breasts. She probably thought she was boldly sharing a moment never dreamed of before, but she was acting out a role etched in stone at time's beginning.

The music stopped. It stopped!

Beneath the sea there would be explosions, rushing water, hundreds dying at this instant. Panic-stricken shrieks cut short by the rush of the sea. Japanese, mostly Japanese, but some Israelis. Mostly there by their own choice, but some prisoners, dying, dying under the sea. He could hear their shrieks all the better for the silence. Would he always hear them?

The girl still stared at him, then saw something in his eyes. She pulled the futon over her breasts, threw herself on her stomach. Buried her body in the heavy futon. He could see the rhythmic movement, the futon wracked with her sobs. She was sobbing, suddenly frightened, like a spooked fawn. He could rip away the futon, flip her on her back, force her legs apart. New life, while those under the sea were dying, battered by the water.

I can live here, Watanabe thought. Farm this farm. She could help me in the fields, her baby strapped to her body, just as babies in Africa and America are close to their mother's bodies. He would work in the fields and at night drink beer and sake and swagger around the farmhouse shouting of his achievements, what he had done, what he intended to do, what he had not done and never would do. His hopes, his fears, his sorrows, while growing old, waiting for new life.

Watanabe dropped the phone into the cradle, rose and walked to the stairs. At the last moment, he turned and said, "Thanks for letting me use your phone." The futon was still, the sobbing stopped.

He had not played his assigned role. He had snuffed out life, but failed to plant new seed. An exhausted Watanabe flicked off the light and walked downstairs.

CHAPTER 54: The Final Event

In the tunnel, the technicians waiting to fire the missiles waited as they were being elevated into position, and heard the " _Kimigayo_ " begin over the loud speakers. "I wonder why they are playing that," the man in charge said. "It wasn't supposed to play until after the firing."

"The old man," one of his assistants replied, "the Seventh Samurai, he probably became impatient. He drinks too much."

"Song or no song," an Israeli geek tossed in, "I know where three of the first group of missiles is headed. One each for Damascas, Cairo and Riyadh. They won't have Israel to kick around anymore."

In his room, Akira Yoshimoto heard the patriotic song begin. He did not know, nor did he care, why it was playing. He had finished his final cup of sake, and in his mind he was back in the cave on Okinawa. Dawn had come and the frantic banzai attack had begun. But this time it was Yoshimoto, the Seventh Samurai, who led the attack into the enemy guns, sword flashing in the early morning light. To glory!

***

At flag command on the cruiser there had been no reports of activity since the two missiles exploded. The launching sited had been thoroughly depth charged.

The fading night was turning into one of grim monotony as periodic reports came in from land, sea and air positions.

"Do you suppose we got 'em, Sir," Cheddar asked the admiral.

Blades shrugged. He didn't think so. He felt like a victim, a fall guy, for some type of clever confidence game.

A CPO who was monitoring the radio equipment called from across the room. "There's been some kind of major underwater explosion, Admiral. But no missiles. Just a series of rumbles, then silence."

"Maybe it's an earthquake," Cheddar put in.

***

Watanabe borrowed shirt, pants and straw sandals from the farmer.

On the road he flagged down a truck full of Defense Force troopers and U.S. Navy Shore patrol. He explained that he must see whoever was in charge of the military operation right away. That he had vital information.

They examined his police ID, chattered among themselves, then patched a message through to Admiral Blades.

Blades told Nana, who was ecstatic to know Watanabe was alive.

The admiral dispatched the cruiser's chopper to pick up the detective.

Once Watanabe was aboard, the chopper took off in a circular pattern, then almost floated into the pleasant morning sky. The sun climbed higher and Watanabe could see the choppy waters of the Strait below, the sun glinting off first one surface, then another.

The thought of Kyoko Suzuki, slashing her life vest, now dead somewhere in those waters, came to mind. He pushed it out. Then came a larger vision, a secret army of men entombed in a fortress beneath the Strait. How many, he couldn't guess. Would anyone ever go down and probe the watery passages? Search out the scope of the operation? Certainly there must be an attempt to recover the warheads. Or would the tomb be unheralded and ignored, left to be puzzled over by some future archeologist.

Watanabe tried not to think of the magnitude of what he had done with his coded telephone message. Alone, battered and almost destroyed by the sea, he had pushed the buttons for the death knell of the Fuurin Kazan.

The chopper approached the cruiser. Five white gulls wheeled over the sparkling sea to the north, as pretty as a picture.

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

Connect with Me Online

At Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Larchmont>

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