"I know it."
"Pauley doesn't want to lose you."
"You asked me, Mr. Howe. Don't you think I'm ready?"
"Okay, we can talk about it."
Eliza swallowed hard. Just like that, a shot at New York. But what did she have to do for it? "So ... what about Frank O'Hara?"
"I want you to find him and deliver a message for me."
"Find him?" She laughed. "Is he lost?"
"Precisely, Eliza. He's been on the run. The CIA's been trying to kill him for almost a year now."
4
KINUGASA-YAMA IS A GENTLY SLOPING MOUNTAIN On the northern edge of the vast Park of the Shoguns in Kyoto. Along its peak are rows of delicate pine trees, and when the wind is from the west and the pines sway before it, the mountain has the appearance of a lion with a great shaggy mane crouched beside the park as if to protect this, the most venerable place in Japan.
A half mile to the south of the mountain is Tofuku-ji, the tallest and most sacred Shinto shrine in the country. It towers five stories, each story with a roof curved delicately toward heaven, each rooftop representing an element—earth, wind, fire, water and air—and a spire, whose nine rings carved into its shaft represent the nine rings of heaven.
It has been said that the rock garden which lies between Tofuku-ji and the Ryoan-ji temple nearby is the most perfect stone garden in existence and is exactly the same today as it was in the fifteenth century, when it was designed by Shinto priests.
The place was deserted except for an old man who was stooped over a long-handled rake, carefully cleaning and resetting each pebble in the stone garden. He did not look up as Eliza hurried past.
A light spring rain had fallen earlier in the morning, but it had stopped and now a chilly west wind ruffled the mane of Kinugasa-yama. She hurried through the park, afraid to take even a minute to enjoy its beauty. Kimura had promised to meet her at eleven-thirty, and it was now twenty-five after. She was keyed-up, for the first time since her plane had landed at Honeda Airport a week before.
She had been on the scent for seven weeks now. Her time was running out. She had called, written or traveled halfway around the world in these past seven weeks, had tracked O'Hara to the Caribbean, to Mexico, as far south as Buenaventura, Colombia, and east to Recife, Brazil. He had doubled back to Maracaibo, then returned to the States. She had followed a cold trail west to Seattle, from there to Vancouver and then back south again to San Francisco.
His trail was thin, devious and maddening. He had changed names half a dozen times; in South America it had been Solenza; in Canada, Carnet; on the West Coast, Barret. She had used the Howe empire's contacts with the customs bureau, the passport office and half a dozen major airlines. Twice she had lost the scent, only to pick it up elsewhere. She tracked down old friends, newspaper buddies, retired intelligence agents, even an old girl friend or two.
It was like talking about a ghost. His friends were mutely loyal. His enemies seemed to have given up the trail. But Gunn could be ferocious in her persistence. It had paid off with bits and pieces of information. As the trail lengthened, criss-crossed, disappeared and reappeared, her dossier on him grew fatter. And yet, after seven weeks, she felt she knew little more than what was on paper.
Basics. Period.
She had memorized every line, waiting for some incidental bit of information that might intersect what she already knew and provide a valuable clue.Francis Xavier O'Hara: Born San Diego, December 21, 1944. Father: vice admiral in U.S. Navy who had two destroyers blown out from under him by kamikaze at Okinawa. Stationed briefly at San Diego in early 1944. Mother: Ph.D. in languages and history, Cambridge. Died when O'Hara was fourteen. Father commanding officer, U.S. Naval Station, Osaka, Japan, for five years until retirement; remained in Japan after retiring until his death in 1968. O'Hara graduate of American high school, Osaka, 1963; University of Tokyo (majors: languages and history), 1967; graduate degree, Oriental philosophy, 1968. Trained in kendo, tai chi, karate and Shinto discipline. Hobbies: scuba diving, karate, kendo, chess, cross-sticks, and dogs, particularly akitas, probably because they are native to Japan. Nickname: called Kazuo, by Japanese friends. Enlisted U.S. Navy as ensign, 1968; assigned naval intelligence and reassigned to the CIA, 1970; specialty: counterespionage, also involved in covert actions. Resigned 1975. Free-lance writer specializing in investigative reporting, 1976 until 1978. Went underground soon after publishing series for the Washington Post on CIA illegal covert operations in Africa, Asia and the Caribbean.
There were some personal references—from teachers, former shipmates, fellow agents, friends, two women he had lived with briefly at different times. There was also hat size, 7; shoe size, 10; weight, 162; height, 5'10"; hair, sandy; eyes, green. No scars. The usual things that pop up in a computer analysis.
Basics.
Yet the more she learned, the more determined she was to find him.
Then the break came. It was the dog that did it.
She had interviewed some old friends of O'Hara's in San Francisco, Don Smith, a managing editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, and his wife, Rose, who was with the ballet company. They were cordial, but had not seen or heard from O'Hara in a couple of years. They were much more excited about their new puppy. A gift from a friend. It was an akita.
Her instincts hummed. She checked the American Kennel Club. She was interested in acquiring an akita. Could they tell her the breeder of the Smiths' dog?
Yes, but it would take a few days.
Then she got word from the kennel club. The dog had been bred in Kyoto. The sire's name was Kazuo. The name plucked a nerve. She went back to her notes. Kazuo was O'Hara's Japanese nickname. The owner of the dog was listed as Akira Kimura. Kyoto was almost a suburb of Osaka, where O'Hara had spent most of his youth.
She had catnapped her way across the Pacific, trying desperately to scan a Fodor's guide to Japan and an English/Japanese dictionary. She had been tired when she left San Francisco and by the time she landed in Tokyo, ten hours later, she was exhausted; wracked with jet lag, sick of bad food, weary from lack of sleep and piqued with frustration.
What the hell was she doing there? In a strange land she knew nothing about, staying in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese hotel, rather than a big American spread. Thousands of miles from home. Alone. And chasing a ghost.
Terrific, Gunn, way to go. Little wonder O'Hara had eluded a dozen or more money-hungry assassins. He was as elusive as a dream. A bad dream at that.
If O'Hara was alive, and at this point she really wasn't too sure about that, he had to be here. She felt it. It was the only place left in the world where he might find sanctuary.
She made the first of nine phone calls to Kimura on a Tuesday. Kimura was a Japanese professor who had taught philosophy and martial arts at the American School. It took several phone calls to learn that he was now a Shinto master and that he lived in Kyoto. There was a phone number where she could leave a message. But, she was told, Kimura-san was strange, sometimes he did not return phone calls.
When he finally called back on Thursday morning, she said, "I am interested in acquiring an akita. Some friends have a puppy they got from you. The Smiths in San Francisco?"
He was abrupt. "I have no friends in San Francisco. It is a mistake."
"They got the dog from you, according to the kennel club."
There was a long pause, and then: "Miss Gunn, you are not interested in a dog."
She was flustered by his honesty. Then she decided to be honest too. "Please—dozo—I am a journalist with an American television station. I am trying to find Frank O'Hara. We are peers, O'Hara and I."
"O'Hara-san has many peers, but his friends are fewer than the months of the year," the voice on the other end of the line said. It was a soft voice, almost a whisper—his English perfect, his diction impeccable-and yet she felt intimidated by it.
"I have good news for him. Please see me, talk to me?"
"I have heard the same story before. The
re is one difference, however. You are a woman. They have never sent a woman before."
"Please, just talk to me. If you don't believe me, you've only lost an hour or so of your time."
"I have not said I even know his whereabouts. I was one of his teachers in high school. That was ..." He hesitated a moment, trying to remember.
"... seventeen years ago," she said. "He graduated the summer of 1963."
"Hai. And I am over seventy. I doubt that I can be of help."
"Dozo, Kimura-san. I am desperate. Just have tea with me. I will convince you I'm sincere."
"You have a denwa in your room?"
"Hai."
"And the number?"
"Uh ... it's 82-12-571."
"I will call you back. Konnichi wa." The line went dead.
"Well, damn," she said and hung up. She went to the window and slid the panel back and watched a young gardener, his hair tressed in a tenugui headband, raking the sand garden outside her room, picking up every leaf and twig until the beige island surrounded by moss was spotless. He worked soundlessly and seemingly without effort. She stared back at the phone. Her shoulders ached and she felt like going down to the ofuro to take a bath, but she was afraid she would miss his call. Eliza had overcome her modesty in the public bath very early in the trip. Now she found that the hot waters not only were rejuvenating but cleared her mind and helped her think.
A half-hour passed, and nothing. She fluffed up the futon quilt and lay down, but her mind was much too busy for napping.
When the phone finally did ring, she snatched it up before the second bell. "Yes ... this is Eliza Gunn."
"Miss Gunn, this is Dr. Kimura. I will meet you but the time will be short. And it must be today. Can you leave now?"
"Yes. Right this minute."
'The train station is ten minutes west of the Hishitomi Ryokan. You may take the local train from the eki on the San'in Main Line and get off at the Hanazano station. From there it is only a few blocks to the Tofuku-ji temple. I will meet you at the hall of the Ashikaga shoguns next to the temple. It is now nine forty-five. Eleven-thirty should give you ample time."
"Thank you," she said sincerely. "Arigato ... arigato very much."
"You have nothing to thank me for yet, Gunn-san. Sayonara."
"Sayonara, Dr. Kimura."
The gardener, who had worked his way to the shrubs outside Eliza's room, turned abruptly and left the courtyard. He went down the hall and knocked on a door. A big man with a beard opened it. "What's happening, Sammi?" he asked.
The gardener went in. "She's leaving now," Sammi said, changing into his black jogging suit and sneakers.
"Good," the big man said. "I'll give her a few more minutes." Sammi worked quickly but he was not worried about losing her. He knew where she was going. When she left the hotel he was in a pachinko parlor nearby. He watched her go by and waited several more minutes before leaving. He was more interested in the man who was following her.
II
During the twenty-minute ride from Osaka, Eliza leafed idly through one of her travel books, but she had the attention span of an amoeba. Was Kimura leading her on? Or was she coming close to the end of almost two months of hard work? The Japanese countryside flashed by, a dizzying patchwork of lush green farms separated by mini-forests. She knew very little about Kyoto, except that it had been the capital of Japan during the rule of the shoguns, which lasted for a thousand years, and that many Westerners believed it to be the most beautiful city in the world. But she paid little attention to its beauty as she rushed through the giant arched torii at the park entrance. She could see Tofuku-ji, rising above the other pagodas, and she ran toward it. Statues of shogun warriors crouched in the shadows of the curved eaves of the temples and lurked under cedar and pine trees. The grounds and stone gardens were immaculately manicured and every building, every tree and pond and garden, seemed perfectly placed and in tune with nature. The rain clouds had passed, now, and soft sunlight bathed the heart of the park.
When she reached the garden of the Tofuku-ji, the grounds were deserted and quiet. A breeze rattled gently through the cedar and fir trees. Somewhere, from inside one of the buildings, she heard the soft ping of wind bells. A fish jumped in one of the ponds. Then it was silent again.
The hall of the shoguns was a small, dark, forbidding hall near the main temple, a startling and strange place, out of context with the peaceful aura of the rest of the park. It was as if they were there to guard the integrity of the place, two long rows of wooden statues, the Ashikaga shoguns, sixteen of them, seated facing one another, their fierce glass eyes aglow in the dim light. She walked timidly into the place, squinting her eyes to get accustomed to the dark, peering nervously from one row to the other as she walked down the highly polished wooden floor, her heels clacking hollowly until she finally rose on her tiptoes and hurried to the other end of the room. She was relieved when she got outside. She stood under the curved pagoda roofs of the Tofuku-ji, wondering whether it would be sacrilegious to smoke.
Behind her, inside the darkened hallway of warriors, there was movement. A man stepped from behind one of the statues, his mean eyes glowing almost as fiercely as the agates in the faces of the statues. He moved closer, then stopped finally and waited, as still as the statues that protected him. A man was approaching her from the other side of the stone garden. He stepped farther back into the shadows.
He was an ancient Japanese man, erect and proud, his delicate beard and wispy hair the color of snow, his skin almost transparent with age, as if cellophane had been wrapped around his fragile bones to keep them together. He wore a traditional kimono of dark-blue silk, zori sandals, a wide, flat thatched hat that looked like a platter, and he was carrying an umbrella, which he used as a cane. He came to her silently, as if his footsteps left no mark behind them. He stopped in front of her. He was taller than she had imagined he would be and he stood for a moment looking down at her.
"Well, Gunn-san, you do not appear very dangerous."
"Me? Dangerous?" She laughed. "I just ran through that museum of statues over there like a four-year-old running in the dark."
She knew Japanese businessmen were sticklers about exchanging business cards and she offered him hers. Kimura looked at it for a moment and put it away in the folds of his kimono. "I am sorry, I do not have a card," he said. He gazed down at her through fading brown eyes, and added, "You are certainly prettier than the others who have come looking for Kazuo."
"Believe me, I am Eliza Gunn and I work for WCGH in Boston and I have come because I am a friend of O'Hara's."
"Ah? And how long have you known O'Hara-san?"
She chewed the corner of her lip. "Well, I really don't know O'Hara. Personally, I mean. I know a lot about him, though. I have a message for him, a letter from Charles Gordon Howe. He is one of the most respected men in journalism."
"I know of Howe. It is rumored he is honest."
"Thanks for that, anyway."
"It proves nothing."
"If he will just meet me, I can tell him whom to call to verify the letter."
"I have not said I know the whereabouts of O'Hara, your friend."
"Okay, so I exaggerated. But if you did know how to get in touch with him, you could tell him it's important to see me, right?"
They walked along the bank of one of the many ponds in the park. The chill wind blew across the water, forming mist that swirled among the mossy rocks at its edge.
"Even if I knew where O'Hara-san was, I would use caution in repeating anything to him," Kimura said. "When a blind man leads a blind man, they are both in danger of falling in the river."
"Supposing I told you the sanction has been lifted. That he's no longer in danger."
The old man made no sign of surprise. He said, "In the Shinto philosophy there is a saying: 'The man who faces a chasm in front and behind must sit and wait.' To take a false step in a time of danger is to invite disaster."
"But I'm telling you, the danger
is gone."
"It will take much proof. The one they call Fuyu-san, the Winter Man, has the heart of a weasel and the tongue of a crow. I would trust a cobra first."
"But that's the point. The Winter Man has been neutralized. He's impotent now. It's Mr. Howe who is making the assurance."
"An improvement."
"So I have to convince you first, is that it?"
"Since I am to be the parrot, you must first teach the parrot to talk."
Eliza stopped and stared up at the old man for several seconds. "I think I got that one," she said. "But I'm not real sure. I'll tell you the truth, I'm having a little trouble with your epigrams. Can't you just say what you mean straight out?"
Kimura laughed and then nodded. "My own grandson once asked me the same question. The difficulty lies in trying to interpret the symbolism of our words into the definitiveness of yours. Is 'definitiveness' a good word?"
"Sounds okay to me," she said. "I'm still not sure I get the point."
Kimura stopped. His eyes were warmer, but still wary. "The wise man speaks his truth in symbols. It is your choice to interpret what he says." He looked back at her. "What is truth to me is not necessarily truth to you."
The sun slipped behind a cloud and the wind grew colder. She rubbed her hands together and shook a chill off her shoulders.
"Are you cold?" he asked her.
"A little."
"Come. The Shokin-tei is nearby. Many believe it is the loveliest tearoom in Japan."
He led her away from the main temple, across the manicured lawns and over a short footbridge to a one-story building with a thatched roof and vermilion walls. Inside, the place was spotless, its lacquered floors covered with tatamis. They left their shoes at the door and sat cross-legged on zabuton cushions beside a low table. The room was a model of stark beauty. Its sliding glass doors were open and facing the park, and the only decoration was a tokonama just big enough for a scroll painting and a bowl of flowers. The room was cool but comfortable. A waitress appeared and took their order. There was no one else in the teahouse.
Chameleon Page 11