Chameleon

by William Diehl

  "You think Hooker had some kind of revenge motive?"

  Kimura nodded. "It is certainly a possibility."

  "Hooker says Chameleon is a blackmailer, an extortionist, a terrorist. You name it. He implied that the whole industry uses Chameleon's services. Now they're his victims. They're terrified of him."

  "I assure you, the Chameleon you know as Asieda is dead."

  Kimura sat before the tea table and took out a flat box of cigarettes. "These are Shermans from New York. I understand they are superb." He took one out. It was pink with a gold-wrapped filter.

  "I will have to think about the aesthetics of these," he said, holding up the cigarette and contemplating it; then he lit it, taking a deep drag and exhaling very slowly. "Five cigarettes a day. That's what the spirits permit me."

  "How do you know that?" O'Hara said skeptically.

  "I asked them."

  "Tokenrui-san," O'Hara said. "You can solve the riddle of Chameleon for me. I am certain of it. If the man is dead, let me use your knowledge to, put an end to this ... this guntai shi, this death army."

  Kimura sat on the floor, crossing his legs in the lotus position. "Yamuchi Asieda was a wealthy importer in Tokyo, a man of royal blood and an honorable man," he said. "He was inducted into the higaru-dashi in 1939, a candidate for Tokenrui from the beginning. A man of consummate skill with the sword, as agile as a hummingbird, and a man who achieved the state of the seventh level with almost mystical persuasion.

  "Yamuchi Asieda was not in favor of the war. His business took him all over the world and he knew how great the stakes were, how big the gamble. He was not a war lord, not an assassin. He was a man who loved jewelry, paintings, Dresden china. But the Emperor himself asked Asieda to take over the training of agents for the secret service. It was quite natural. Asieda had partners all over the world, so he set about building a network of spies. The Emperor in exchange agreed that his identity would never be revealed. He took the code name Chameleon and selected Dragon's Nest as his headquarters because it was remote and impenetrable.

  "The only people who knew his true identity were four members of the War Council, and they all died at Hiroshima. When the war was over, Asieda became a nomad, wandering the islands, his identity lost forever in the ashes of the war. He died several years ago. So you see, this man was no terrorist, not an assassin. I can tell you no more, Kazuo—to do so would violate my word of honor."

  O'Hara wanted to press him, but he knew better. Instead he took the slip of paper out of his pocket. "A woman who followed me on the train gave me this."

  He handed it to Kimura. The old man looked at the slip without comment and handed it back.

  "She says Chameleon will be there alone, tonight. Nine o'clock."

  "And who was this woman?"

  "I only saw her for a moment. She appeared to be a geisha. She followed me from the train. There was desperation in her voice. I asked her why she was turning him in and she said she was a prisoner, she wanted her freedom."

  Kimura puffed on his pink cigarette and blew smoke rings in the air. "It seems too obvious for a trap. But then, what could be less obvious than the most obvious thing of all."

  "Tokenrui-san ..."

  "Do not go tonight. Give me another day or two to sort this out."

  "Tokenrui-san, I have not asked you to break your vow of silence. Do not ask me to play a coward's game. She will lead me to him. I am certain of it."

  "You know nothing of the woman. Nothing of the house. Nothing of Chameleon. And yet you would walk into this?"

  "I will be prepared."

  "If this Chameleon is as you think, are you prepared for a knife in the back? A wire around the throat? A silent bullet in the head?"

  "I will be prepared."

  "You try my faith in you."

  "This is today. I live for today. You taught me that. If the spirit flies tomorrow, it will be as full as I can make it."

  Kimura said nothing more. He stared past O'Hara at the wall. O'Hara finally got up.

  "I respect and honor your silence, Tokenrui-san, I hope you understand why I must go."

  "When the fool has enough scars, he becomes a wise man," said Kimura, still staring at the wall.

  "Arigato."

  "Be careful." And as O'Hara started out the door, the old man looked up at him and smiled. "When you write this story of yours, remember, rhythm is the best measure of the latitude and opulence of a writer. If unskilled, he is at once detected by the poverty of his chimes."

  "I'll remember that. Does the Tendai say that?"

  "No, Ralph Waldo Emerson said it."

  Laughing, O'Hara left the house.

  "Shall I follow him?" Sammi asked.

  "Of course."

  She had been elusive throughout the meal, saying very little, eating her raw fish and sipping sake and making him talk about himself. He was a widower, he had told her, and was in the book business. It was his first vacation alone. He had dreamed of coming to Kyoto, but the trip had turned out to be lonelier than he had thought.

  She had been sympathetic.

  Now she led him down through more fenced walkways, past other sounds, into the quiet, almost fairylike residential section. She opened a gate in the high fence and led him through it. A large two-story house, unlike the others around it, sat fifty feet or so back from the street. Its tapered roof and carved columns told Falmouth it was the house of a wealthy person. The grounds were perfectly manicured and spotted with dwarf willows and pines. She held a finger to her mouth and led him around to the side of the place. A small creek trickled tunefully through the grounds and disappeared into the shadows, and somewhere in the back, wind chimes sang to the breeze.

  Falmouth checked the place as carefully as he could without seeming obvious. The house was L-shaped. The only lights were at the far corner of the wing.

  Deserted.

  Beautiful. It might take some twisting to get the address. He didn't have time to woo the information out of the lady. It had to be quick.

  She stopped in front of one of the chambers in the main wing of the house and quietly slid back its paneled door. It wasn't much of a step into the house, which was built on short, thick stilts, raising it no more than a foot or so above the ground.

  When they were inside, she whispered, "My father lives in the back. No one else is here. We will leave the light off." She slid the panel shut, but light from the street filtered through the thin, opaque glass doors.

  She unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, then his tie, then drew him down beside her. He thought, damn the luck. To walk into a tasty piece like this and it all has to be business.

  She undid his gold watch and laid it gently on the floor beside the tatami.

  It was nine o'clock.

  She lay back and drew him down beside her. Her lips brushed his. She reached back and drew out the hairpin. Affixed to the jade handle was a stiletto six inches long.

  Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

  What the hell, Falmouth thought, a few more minutes more or less—

  It was almost the last thought he ever had.

  As he leaned over to kiss her, she held the dirk at arm's length and then plunged it into his ear.

  Fire burned deep into the back of his throat, seared his brain and then erupted in pain.

  His scream sliced the night like a hatchet. He rolled away from her, struggled to his knees, his trembling fingers touching the jade hilt, which stuck obscenely from the hole in his ear. The fire burned deeper and the pain of steel in his brain was unbearable.

  He got to his feet but the room was already a blur, the pain frozen in his throat. He was growling like a fox in a trap. The floor tilted. He turned, tried to regain his balance and stumbled sideways and plunged headlong through the door. The glass shattered into hundreds of light blossoms. The frame cracked and the door crashed with him into the garden.

  God, I'm losing it, he thought. Must ... get ... it out. And with all his strength h
e drew the stiletto from his head. Pain poured into the wound like burning oil. He staggered through the fish pond and fell face down into the rock garden. The knife dropped from his fingers into the creek.

  Plump.

  O'Hara found the address with little trouble. He tried the gate and found it unlocked. He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. Perfect.

  He had one leg through the gate when he heard the scream. It was unworldly, a man, shattering the night with anguish. He ran toward the scream, and as he rounded the corner of the house he saw a man plunge through a door. The man staggered into the fish pond, both hands clutching the side of his head, and then collapsed.

  O'Hara ran to him and rolled him over on his back. "My God," he cried, "Tony!"

  The woman stood in the shattered doorway of the house, a dark shape framed by the lights behind her, her black hair hanging in long strands about her shoulders.

  "He is dead, or will be in a moment," she said in a harsh voice. "The blade was soaked in arsenic."

  She reached up and grabbed the crown of her hair and pulled it and the thick black hair fell away.

  A wig.

  She threw it on the floor. She clutched her blouse with both hands and ripped it open. A padded shirt. She threw it aside also.

  And suddenly she was no longer she.

  She had become he.

  A he, tattooed from waist to chest with intertwined chameleons, writhing across his belly, up his chest, between his pectorals, his left nipple forming an obscene eye in one of the vivid lizards. Each one was a different color, the vivid patterns along the slender, twisting bodies ranging from cobalt blue to lemon orange to flaming red, their eyes glittering venomously, forked tongues licking the man's hard stomach.

  O'Hara was face to face with Chameleon.

  9

  HE WAS THE ULTIMATE CHAMELEON; the she-devil turned Satan.

  What was it Danilov had said? "I know and I don't know.... Everybody, nobody.... The chameleon is never what it seems."

  "So, Round-Eyes has finally met his match," the tattooed man said. "You should pray you are more fortunate than your friend."

  O'Hara rolled Falmouth over on his back. His gray eyes looked up with terror, as though he were looking at the face of death. Blood trickled from his ears, his nose, his mouth. His lips moved, a sporadic tremble, like a butterfly flirting with a flower.

  "Demon—"

  "Tony, can you hear me?"

  "Demon ... Bradley, me ... got us all. No bloody ... wonder."

  "Tony!"

  His eyes cleared for a moment. He smiled up at O'Hara. "Owe me ... hundred and twenty-five thou, Sailor," he said and died.

  O'Hara looked back at the doorway. Chameleon was motionless, hands at his sides, fingers stretched out, legs slightly parted.

  This was no old man; in fact, he was probably not much older than O'Hara. His body was hard and sinewed, his head shaved bald. O'Hara knew this man from somewhere.

  "Okari," O'Hara said. "You are the kendo teacher, Okari."

  "Hai. And you are the beikoku who is called Kazuo."

  "That's right, I'm the American. You speak English well."

  "I had a good teacher."

  "Did he teach you how to kill helpless men?"

  "Helpless. Hah! Look on his ankle. Up his sleeve. He would have done the same. An assassin has no honor."

  "He was my friend."

  "Then you need to be educated in the selection of friends. In fact, your education is about to begin. Is it true that you are a master of the sword?"

  O'Hara said nothing. The garden was soundless except for the trickling of water across the rocks in the fish pond and the tinkle of wind chimes from somewhere in the back of the house.

  O'Hara nodded. "I have worked with the sword," he said.

  "You are too modest, Marui-me. Come, Round-Eyes, give me a lesson."

  Chameleon backed slowly into the small room. O'Hara walked to the smashed doorway and looked in. It was a bedroom. The tatamis were laid out carefully in one end of the room. An obi lay at the head of the mats. There was a low table near the bed with a stick of incense smoldering in a holder. One overhead lantern shed an even but dim glow over the room. Chameleon slid back a panel in the wall and removed two samurai swords. The tattooed chameleons wrapped around his sides and across his back. Hardly an inch of skin had escaped the tattooist's needle. He turned around to face O'Hara.

  He was a bizarre sight, his tattooed body glistening in the yellow light from the lantern, the eye shadow, rouge and lipstick still concealing his true features. He knelt in the center of the room and placed the swords on the floor, their hilts aimed toward O'Hara.

  "It is your choice," Chameleon said.

  "I did not come here to kill you," O'Hara said.

  "Good, then we are of the same mind. I don't intend to let you."

  "You should not have killed Falmouth."

  "I have killed many like him. They come for blood and I give them blood."

  "And did you kill all of them the same way, by hiding behind the skirts of a woman and striking when their eyes were closed?"

  The muscles in Chameleon's jaw shimmered but he pressed his point. "You both came to kill me. He has failed. I am offering you a chance to avenge his death. Am I to believe that a son of the sword is afraid to lift the sword?"

  "I prefer to follow the law."

  Chameleon stood as O'Hara spoke. He took one of the swords and pulled it from its wooden scabbard and took several deliberate steps toward O'Hara, stopping perhaps three feet in front of him. He placed the point of his blade on O'Hara's throat and drew the sword slowly down to O'Hara's waist. It snipped off the buttons of his shirt, and they clattered to the floor. Chameleon flicked the shirt open with the point of his blade. There was a hairline cut from O'Hara's throat down to his navel.

  "Take up the samurai, Round-Eyes," Chameleon ordered.

  "No. I have taken a vow not to—"

  "—defend yourself? This is an instrument of honor. To master it for play is an insult to my ancestors."

  "If I lift the sword against you, I will dishonor it," O'Hara said. "You do not deserve honor. You kill from behind."

  "You know the mark of okubyo, the coward? The cheek cut that brands those who are afraid to defend their own honor?" He put the point of the samurai sword against O'Hara's cheekbone. A pearl of blood appeared.

  "I think you are the coward," O'Hara said.

  Rage boiled up into Chameleon's face. He stared at O'Hara with the eyes of a reptile, beads of hate framed by his chalk-white painted face, scarlet-slashed lips and black-shadowed eyelids. He tightened his grip on the leather hilt of the sword. The sound of skin and leather feathered O'Hara's ears.

  Chameleon stepped back six inches. He raised the sword over his head and then to the side. He was in a classic striking pose. One swipe could easily lop O'Hara's head off.

  O'Hara's jaw muscles twitched. To permit Chameleon to provoke him into betraying his own honor was unthinkable.

  Chameleon leaned slightly on his right foot. His arms were raised straight out from his shoulder, the sword tilted straight up. He shifted his weight and struck.

  The shining blade sighed through the air and O'Hara saw it coming in slow motion, a blur of death.

  He felt it nick his Adam's apple.

  Chameleon's recovery was perfect. In a single move he returned to the strike position, the Position of the Ox.

  O'Hara could feel the warmth of his blood trickling down his neck.

  Chameleon shifted his weight to the right again. His eyes lost their expression. They became fixed. O'Hara knew the next swing would behead him.

  It was now a matter of defense. Honor demanded that he respond.

  He stepped away from Chameleon's sword and bowed.

  He picked up the other sword. Chameleon returned to the standing position and lowered his blade.

  O'Hara checked the weight of the sword, hefting it first in his right hand, then his left, weighing it by f
eel. It was heavier than he was accustomed to, but weighted toward the blade rather than the hilt, which was good. The hilt was scarred and old, but the cutting edge of the blade twinkled like a razor.

  He knew the kendo teacher would probably favor the same death blows as the stick fighters. He would go for the chin-shoulder strike, or perhaps the hip cut.

  Chameleon backed across the room and stood with his sword at his side. He began a very low chant, his eyes focused somewhere outside the room. Memories tumbled from his subconscious, bits and pieces to be flushed from his mind, purifying planes and reflexes; smoke and fire and stinking flesh and howling boluses coughing steel, and the raven-croaked gospel of death; angry-voiced silhouettes on paper screens and a woman's soft arms along dark streets; black, steam-spitting Goliath, chaotic pilgrims, earthquake tremor and volcano's roar, the agony-cry of iron against iron, wheel against rail, and a city, far enough behind, evaporating in boiling dust that rises to the brink of heaven.

  Nightmares, congregated on the rim of his mind. Purged, they fled.

  He was ready.

  O'Hara fixed on the tinkle of the wind chimes, letting the sound cleanse his mind. He felt propelled out of his body, viewing the room from high above. His ears became the ears of a wolf. He could hear the air moving in the room and feel Chameleon's energy electrifying it. He became attuned to the space, could feel its currents, its molecules.

  He faced Chameleon, spread his legs slightly, held his sword at arm's length in front of him and lowered it slowly to the ground. The attitude of the challenge.

  Chameleon made the first move, a slashing drive straight for him, so quick that the sword was a silver blur singing through the air. O'Hara jumped back and parried the blow. The steel blades clashed, rang out in the tiny room, and his wrists felt the power of the attack.

  Chameleon moved like the wind and O'Hara moved with him, two men pirouetting with death to the clashing rhythm of their weapons. The room bristled with silver flashes, the shush of steel slicing the air, the harsh cry of steel on steel.

  To have tried to watch Chameleon would have been fatal; the tattooed man was much too fast. O'Hara sensed rather than saw his moves, feeling the air currents move with him, sensoring Chameleon's energy field. O'Hara's moves were classic defense moves, triggered by Chameleon's darts and twists. He heard the blade singing through the air with each of Chameleon's thrusts. He stepped out of time, moved mentally into the seventh level and every move was as if in slow motion. He felt the gleaming edge of Chameleon's blade slicing toward him from the left quadrant, center quadrant, then left again, then low, then thrust, and his own blade had time to parry, block, jab.