Chameleon.
The ghost was nearby. He felt suffocated by its shroud. Everything else was immaterial.
He took off his shirt and sat for ten minutes in the lotus position in the center of the room without moving or blinking his eyes, listening to wind chimes, going to the wall. Then he unwound slowly, like a snake awakening in the sun, and in a series of moves so swift and smooth that he might have been a ballet dancer executing an intricate pas, he ran four stances: yoko-tobi-geri, the flying side kick; neko-ashi-dachi, the cat stance, for fast movement; zenkutsu-dachi, the forward stance, for punching; and kiba-dachi, the horse stance, for attacks to the side. And then, just as quickly, he ran four blows: the Tang hand, for chopping; Taisho, the classic palm, heel; and mawashizuki, the roundhouse strike to the collarbone.
He repeated the moves a dozen times, each time increasing his speed.
And then, just as quickly, he slowed the pace down, down, down, and twisting as if in slow motion and in one long move, he returned to the lotus position, where he sat motionless for another ten minutes.
He stood up and shook out his hands. He was ready.
And that is when he saw Tana. She was standing in the doorway, naked, her body streaked with dim light, with her hands at her sides and sleep in her eyes.
"The dogs told me you were here," she said.
He stepped into a shaft of light and held his hands so she could read them. "You were so peaceful I didn't want to awaken you. I forgot about the dogs."
She smiled. "And would you have slept in here so as not to awaken me?"
"Perhaps."
"I can sleep anytime." She came close to him. "You have not come back to stay."
"No. Only to talk to Tokenrui-san."
"He is away until tomorrow at the time of the last meal. But I would like to talk to you, to watch your lips."
He reached out and touched her very lightly on the lips, and she, in turn, touched the end of his fingers with her tongue.
"Sadness is written in your face," she said.
"I am tired."
"It is not tired that I see."
"It is the wrong time to talk about it."
She did not question his judgment. It was his thing to talk about and his right to pick the proper moment. Besides, he was here, even if only for the moment.
"I have missed you, Kazuo. It is hard for me to sleep without the comfort of your arms."
"And I have thought much about you."
She stroked his face with her fingertips. "It is good to touch you again."
Her nipples touched his chest and grew hard. She closed her eyes and said, "I have thought about you until I feel like a bee and am wet with wanting you."
He pressed against her and stroked her back, felt her move tighter against him. Her fingers moved to his pants and unbuckled them. She slid her hand down the front of them, felt him and wrapped her fingers around him and felt him surge at her touch. With her other hand she unzipped his pants and let them drop away. She took his hand with hers and put it between her legs, and guiding his fingers between her lips, began stroking herself with his hand. She licked her other hand and stroked him harder.
He felt her stiffen, rise up on her toes and begin to tremble. Her small screams seemed caught in her throat and then she opened her mouth and they came forth, a rush of cries that sent blood surging through his hard penis.
She guided him to her, felt him slipping into her and she wrapped one leg around his waist and rose and lowered herself on the toes of her other foot.
She enveloped him, sucked him deep into her, squeezed him and then released him, then she did it again. And again. And he too began to tremble. He groaned, only it was more like a growl, and then she wrapped her other leg around him and he grabbed her cheeks and began to rock her hips. Fire burned down his back, under his sac and then roared up through him and burst into her and she bit his lower lip as he cried out.
He dropped slowly to his knees, fell forward on one arm and lowered her to the floor. She lay there and looked up at him and her breath was still coming in short gasps.
"It was so quick it is a memory already," she said. "Come to bed, Kazuo, and you will awaken inside me and we will greet the sun with our cries."
5
THE SHORT JAPANESE WOMAN walked briskly down the fenced street to the kendo school. She could hear the sharp, flat reports of the bamboo swords striking each other before she entered the large, brightly lit room.
Inside, it might have been a scene from the seventeenth century. There were twenty students in all, each well protected by thick headgear and ribbed masks called men, hard, bamboo-backed jackets called do, by kotes, leather gauntlets covering their hands and wrists, and a padded tare shielding stomach and groin.
She walked down the side of the room to a podium in the front and stood silently in the corner, watching the master sensei, the teacher, as he seemed to float around the room, watching each of the teams as they dueled, occasionally stepping in to make a point. The shinai "swords," made of four bamboo slats laced together at the grip with leather, smacked sharply as the students attempted to score points, striking at the top of the head, the right wrist, the right torso and the throat.
The sensei taught by example. When he wished to instruct a student he simply moved in, taking over the role of the opponent. His moves were dazzling. She saw him score three points with what looked like a single move. He bowed to the student and moved on, working his way across the room until he was near her.
He leaned his shinai against the wall.
"Excuse me, Okati-san," she said. "I would not interrupt your class, but it is important."
"I understand, Ichida," he said quietly. "I assume things are happening in Tokyo?"
"Hai. The one known as Kazuo is much better than we thought."
"So? Kei and his friends did not discourage him, then?"
"Kei is in the hospital. His jaw is broken. The others were also hurt. He said it was like fighting the wind."
The kendo master said nothing for several seconds. He watched his students at work, and without turning, asked, "And has he made progress, this Kazuo?"
"Perhaps. He first went to the Hall of Records and then to visit a man named Hadashi at the Kancho-uchi. He was at the Kabuki Theater asking questions about make-up and actors who have worked there in the past. And now he is here."
"In Kyoto?"
"Hai. He stays at the home of the Tokenrui. And he has made plans to go to Tanabe later today."
"Interesting."
"He knows the country and our ways. He moves easily."
"He is just like the others. He was once with the CIA. They are all alike. What about the Englishman?"
"He is much more subtle. It is as if they did not know each other."
"And the other two?"
"They were still in Tokyo last night."
"I will deal with them later. Thank you. I am sorry about Kei, but I am sure he will recover. It is comforting to know I can rely on my friends."
The Japanese called Ichida bowed again. "Shall we continue to follow him?" she asked.
"No. But keep the two in Tokyo in view. First I must dispose of the assassin, O'Hara, who poses as a journalist. After that, we will deal with the others."
And with that he turned, and moving with the grace of a dancer, whirled through the students like a dervish, scoring point after point after point until he had challenged them all. And then he stopped and removed his men and laughed.
6
O'HARA COULD SEE THE FORTRESS, the way up in the cliffs on the side of the mountain, as they drove up the curving road from Tanabe. Its high stone walls seemed to grow out of needle pines and elm trees. Below it sprawled the islet-speckled Iyo-Nada Bay; beyond it, the island of Shikoku, and beyond that, to the west, Hiroshima. Far below, at the foot of the mountain, the pancake-shaped storage tanks of the Yumishawa Refinery glittered in the early-afternoon sun.
The castle above them had been built in the
seventeenth century by the shogun Tukagawa Ieyasu as a warning to all who entertained the idea of invading Japan from the south. General Hooker had used his considerable influence to arrange a long-term lease between the Japanese government and AMRAN, turning Dragon's Nest into the consortium's international headquarters. The view was spectacular. Fishing boats and freighters speckled the blue water of the bay far below, and the drive leading up to the fortress was lined with rose bushes and azaleas. Twenty minutes up the grassy volcano brought the taxi to its main gate.
Getting into the place was not quite as pleasant.
A security guard appeared at a doorway in the massive wooden gate of the twenty-foot stone wall and demanded credentials, letters of introduction, then searched O'Hara. He was Japanese and built like a sumo wrestler. His uniform, a dark-green suit over a black turtleneck sweater, seemed about to explode its seams. The small patch on his right arm said simply: AMRAN SECURITY. He also wore an identification badge over his breast pocket. At first he appeared concerned that O'Hara had no briefcase, but finally he shrugged off his anxiety. His examination complete, he motioned O'Hara to follow him through the small door.
O'Hara had made arrangements for the taxi to wait and he followed the guard into the dai-dairi, the inner courtyard. It was half the size of a football field, cobblestoned, and devoid of trees, gardens or any other pleasantries. On the far side of the yard were three one-story structures. O'Hara recognized the classic layout: in the center, the shishin-den, the ceremonial hall and main building of the compound; on its right, the seiryo-den, "the pure cool hall," usually the shogun's living quarters; and on its left, the kaisho-den, or barracks. The buildings had low-sloping tile roofs, curved at the bottom and supported by thick wooden pillars painted bright-red. The classic beauty of the architecture had been perfectly preserved except for two things: enclosed walkways connected the three buildings, and all the doors were sealed except the main door into the shishin-den.
There were three satellite dishes located on the roof of the ceremonial hall, and several spotlights on top of the wall. Without seeming obvious, O'Hara studied the exterior as he walked across the courtyard. Several men and women in black smocks worked in the yard, mopping, raking; obviously AMRAN kept the place spit-polished. Then he sensed that someone was watching him and he turned his head casually. There was a man in the shadows under one of the sloping rooftops, a vague form except for one cruel eye that caught a reflection of sunlight. The man began to move away, but not before O'Hara noticed his other eye, black-patched, with a jagged scar that streaked from his hairline to his jaw. Then he was gone.
Was it just a casual observance or was it a deliberate watch? He had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he knew this man, but he couldn't recall where or when they had met. A sense of elusiveness swept over him as they entered the main building. It was like trying to remember a dream. He shrugged and decided to forget it.
The sweeping entry hall had been turned into a reception room. Light came from windows in the eaves of its twenty-foot cantilevered ceiling. The oak beams were buffed and spotless. The walls were covered with ancient delicate paintings on silk screens. But the only object of furniture was a typically American stainless-steel desk. It sat in the middle of the room, and it was bare except for a guest log and a multibutton telephone. Small television cameras high in the beamed ceiling constantly scanned the room. There were also metal and electronic-chip detectors in the base of the walls. Nobody could get into any of the buildings without going through this room, and nobody could get through this room with any kind of metal or electronic device.
The man seated behind the desk wore the green suit and black turtleneck of the security force, with three stripes on his sleeve. He wore his holster Western style, with the muzzle hanging almost to his knee. He was broad-shouldered, thin at the waist, straight as a rifle barrel, hard as a diamond, and his leathery face was heavily tanned. Not an ounce of fat on him, and judging from the expression on his face, it would probably be painful for him to smile. O'Hara knew the type. Probably an ex-career top kick or drill instructor.
He recognized the man beside the guard immediately from history books and old newsreels. He had been gaunt then, wraithlike from three years in a prison camp, his hollow eyes reflecting a glazy kind of joy, his khakis hanging from a bony frame. He was heavier now, almost dapper with white hair and a white waxed mustache, its ends curling toward the ceiling. He snapped a swagger stick against starched khaki trouser and came toward O'Hara with his hand out. General Jesse Garvey, the Martyr of Suchi Barracks.
"Mr. O'Hara?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Dragon's Nest. I'm General Garvey, exec veepee, and this is Sergeant Travors, Security."
"My pleasure," O'Hara said to Garvey. "I recognized you immediately, sir. It's a real honor."
"Thank you."
"Looks like an Army post," O'Hara said with a smile, looking back at Travors.
"General Hooker runs it like the Army. Force of habit, s'pose."
"I guess so."
"Well, he's waiting. Come along."
As they walked across the big anteroom O'Hara heard muted sounds from behind the walls: electric typewriters, computers beeping, tape recorders rewinding. Somewhere in the enormous old building there was a lot going on.
Garvey ushered him into a room and pulled the door shut behind him. It was suddenly as quiet as a church at midnight.
The room was enormous, probably the audience chamber of the shogun, O'Hara thought, and very dark. No sunlight entered the room. Its windows were sealed with thatched bamboo screens, and the opposite wall had been converted into an enclosed greenhouse. Grow lights cast vague, purple shadows among the plants and ferns while ancient statues of temple dogs and guard lions stood silent sentinel in dim corners. His heels popped on the hardwood floors.
It was hot and humid and smelled vaguely of pipe tobacco.
O'Hara sat down in a large leather chair, part of a group near the entrance to the room. A single light, shaded with a Philippine basket shade, shed a tiny orb of light on the end table next to the chair. There was nothing to read.
He waited. The only sound was the ticking of a clock somewhere in the chamber.
He began to perspire. He figured that the humidity in the room must be close to a hundred percent, and the temperature had to be over eighty.
He attuned himself to the space, listening to every movement: dew dripping off the plants; the tiny feet of an insect scratching across the floor, the faint electric hum of the grow lights; the metronomic melody of the ticking clock.
And there was something else. Slow, shallow breathing. Someone else was in the room with him.
O'Hara began to peruse the darkness through squinted eyes. The sound was coming from a particularly dark corner near the plant house.
A match scratched, a burst of amber light followed by flickering flame. In its wavering light he saw Hooker's historic profile, the hawk-like nose, the granite jaw, the long, classic neck.
"That was very good, sir. Excellent! You were on to me in... less than a minute. Incredible concentration."
He plucked the string on the lamp; an obese Buddha, his red-enameled belly glistening in the light, sat cross-legged at its base, staring through inscrutable, painted eyes out into the room.
"I must apologize for that bit of melodrama. My eyes are very sensitive to light."
The old man sat behind an enormous campaign desk, bare except for the Buddha lamp with its ancient fringed shade and pull string, an antique wooden letter box and an appointment book. There were eight high-backed chairs in a row in front of the desk.
"I also apologize for the humidity. I'll be eighty on my next birthday. My blood's gotten a bit thin. If it's less than eighty-two degrees, I get chills. How about a drink? It'll help."
"Tea would be fine."
"Hot or cold?"
"Cold, please."
He pressed a button somewhere under the desk and Travors appeared at th
e door.
"Iced tea for Mr. O'Hara, Sergeant. I'll have a glass of soda, please."
"Yes, sir." And he was gone.
"Some things never change," Hooker said. "I was in the military for so long, I still think of my assistants in terms of rank rather than title."
"There does seem to be a lot of security people on the premises."
"One can never be too careful," he said somewhat cryptically.
"Actually this is quite a fortress," he went on. "Took'em five years to build it, 1607 to 1612. It was meant to discourage foreigners from entering Japan after the shogunate shut the country down. I'm sure you noticed the view on your way up. It commands the entire bay and the island of Kyushu."
"It's quite impressive."
"Five years of hard work, and the old boy never came to see it when it was finished." He shook his head. "All that labor. Fact is, Dragon's Nest has never been attacked."
"How come you decided to use it?"
"Sentiment, I suppose. It was my summer HQ when I was military governor after the war. Before that, some special branch of the Japanese secret service was billeted here."
A Japanese woman scurried into the room with their drinks, bowed and left. She was young, in her early twenties, and quite pretty, and she never took her eyes off the floor.
"Well, Mr. O'Hara, here's to your health and good luck on your story. How can I help?"
Age had etched the rigid lines in Hooker's face into deep crevices. His high cheekbones stood out like the pinnacles of a cliff. His skin was almost transparent from age and his eyes glowered from under heavy white brows. He stared keenly at O'Hara through tinted sunglasses as he tapped tobacco into the chalky bowl of his clay pipe.
"I'm doing some background for a story on the oil industry," O'Hara said. "Your consortium interests me because it's new."
"A youngster, so t' speak. Actually, there's a lot of experience in this group." Hooker abruptly changed the subject. "You've come a long way to do your research."
"I was in Japan on other business."
"I see. Do you like the country?"
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