by Peter Albano
Allen looked at Ross. “Good Lord, this will set it off.” The Japanese stared at each other silently.
“But why? Why?” Fujita asked. “Why should I,” he gestured, “be concerned. My responsibility is to the emperor – the hostages.”
“It’s all tied together now, Admiral,” Dempster said. The Israelis are your… I mean our allies. Our fortunes will sway with theirs. They’re the first domino.” He hunched forward, spoke softly. “May I inquire, sir, into the nature of your orders from the emperor?”
Fujita shifted his weight, leaned toward the American. “Rescue the hostages, take whatever actions are necessary to restore order in the Mediterranean – restore the flow of oil.” The old wintry eyes moved the length of the table. “We will support Israel!”
“Banzais,” back-slapping. The Americans sighed, exchanged relieved looks. “A wise decision,” Miller said. And then matter-of-facdy, “I understand you took two prisoners from Zilah.”
The old admiral’s face was stone. “Three.”
“We would like to interrogate them.”
Fujita turned to Kawamoto. “What is their condition, Captain Kawamoto?”
The executive officer moved his watery eyes over the CIA men. “They are injured and, in my opinion, incapable of answering questions.” He moved his eyes to Fujita, stared silently.
“Very well,” the admiral said. And then to Miller, “I will inform you when the prisoners are able to see you.”
Brent knew something was being held back – a deception or was it camouflage to hide some kind of hideous samurai’s revenge.
Jaw hard set, Miller began to rise. And then casually, “By the way, sir, two Israeli intelligence officers – Colonel Bernstein and Captain Aranson request permission to come aboard to confer with you.”
There was an ominous glint in Fujita’s eyes. “Where are they?”
“At the Israeli Embassy.”
The old admiral nodded to Commander Fujimoto. “Give the necessary information to my communications officer. He can transmit my permission to come aboard.”
Miller came to his feet. “I can do it, Admiral, when I go ashore.”
“You are not going ashore.”
Dempster came to his feet. Both CIA men stared at Admiral Fujita. The Japanese chuckled. Brent was sure he detected an amused smile playing with the corner of Mark Allen’s lips. Every eye was on Miller.
The high voice was suddenly shrill, like a taut violin string. “I have my orders, Admiral. I am expected—”
“I just changed your orders, Mister Miller.” Fujita nodded to Matsuhara as if a signal had been prearranged. The pilot opened the door, gestured, and in a moment four armed guards crowded into the room, taking positions behind the Americans.
“You’re making a mistake, Admiral,” Miller spat.
“You can’t do this,” Dempster shouted.
“I will decide what can be done on this vessel, Mister Dempster.”
“Why? Why?” Miller said.
“You will stay aboard until Yonaga clears Tokyo Bay.”
“But, why—”
“There has been too much talk about Yonaga’s mission; that is why. I will have you flown ashore. You are not prisoners,” the old man smiled. “You are remaining aboard for further discussions.”
“Shit! Shit!”
The Japanese looked at each other. Laughed.
Chapter XI
“You’re going ashore, Brent,” Mark Allen said, closing the door behind him.
Seated on his bunk, Brent looked up. “Ashore – what’s that?” the young ensign chided.
Allen laughed. “I know – it’s been a long time. I feel like I’ve been in an isolation ward, too.” He became serious. “We have an assignment for you at the Israeli Embassy.”
“Israeli Embassy?”
“Yes, Brent. You’re to interview the two Israeli intelligence officers – Bernstein and Aranson.”
“I thought they were coming aboard.”
Allen sat down with a sigh. “They were… but then Admiral Fujita looked at their first names.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Bernstein is Irving.”
“So?”
“Aranson is Sarah.”
Brent pondered for a moment. “You mean Sarah Aranson can’t come aboard?”
“Right. Fujita blew up – phoned the embassy himself.”
“He’s still in the nineteenth century.”
“Of course, Brent. His generation is extremely chauvinistic. Women belong in the home – cooking, cleaning, raising children.”
“Bernstein’s a man – he can come aboard.”
“He refuses.”
“Why can’t Kawamoto or some other member of Fujita’s staff do it?”
“Too busy, Brent. Our debriefing’s finished; we have more time and there’s something else, Brent.” The young man stared expectantly. “National boundaries and politics have changed immensely since Yonaga left in nineteen forty-one.”
“But Fujita seems aware.”
“True. He’s smart and has studied news reports.”
“Fragmentary reports, Admiral.”
“That’s it, Brent. They just aren’t well informed on the situation in the Middle East. They know little even of the leaders.”
“Who does?” Both men laughed. Brent continued, thoughtfully. “You know, Admiral, this thing with Bernstein – his refusal to come aboard, it sounds farfetched; even phony. They’re military – they have orders, too.”
The older man cleared hair from his forehead with a toss of the head. “Yes. True. You can’t trust these spies. Truth is the first thing they shed when they join up. You’ll find out tomorrow.”
Brent nodded, hunched forward. “This is really a staff assignment, Admiral.”
“True.”
“When do I draw my samurai sword?”
Allen laughed. “And hachimachi headband, Brent.” The young ensign was chuckling as he walked to his closet. He reached for his best dress blues.
*
Crossing the gangway, Brent could not resist staring at the great steel giant. Pausing, he ran his eyes over the soaring island, tilted stack, armored flight deck, forests of antiaircraft guns and the great hull, bulging with armor. The sheer size, impossible weight bearing down on flimsy supports, brought a giddiness and thoughts of the monster crashing to earth, crushing everything in its reach. And everywhere, scaffolding crowded with workmen, scraping, painting, shouting excitedly through the clatter and whine of tools.
Tilting his head, the young American stared upward, found the main director and a group of workmen installing parabolic antennas.
“Well,” he snorted to himself, “he got his radar – yes, indeed.” And then thoughtfully, “He always gets his way – always.”
He felt a sudden, unexpected pang of bitterness. Quickly, he turned and walked through the yard. Approaching a cluster of cabs, he passed through the yard’s single entrance where four armed ratings and an officer stood alertly. All were members of Yonaga’s crew. Brent returned their salute, muttering, “Caution is the bedfellow of responsibility.” He smiled as he approached a Mazda four-door sedan.
*
Seated in the back seat of the cab, Brent stared at the seething polyglot of twelve million called Tokyo. As his old driver weaved through the chaotic traffic, his eyes found a true “crossroads of the world,” a synthesis of east and west, a mingling of civilizations and races. Women in western dress blended with others in kimonos, jeans, Indian saris, or form-fitting Chinese sheaths. There were mothers with children on their backs and men, too, carrying boys. And the men’s dress was varied – rags, smart suits, overalls, sandals, boots, thongs and shorts. He saw men of all races and all religions: Buddhist monks, Shinto priests, Indian mahatmas, Muslim mullahs and Catholic priests.
And the shops bulged with products of the new technologies: cassette recorders, tape decks, televisions and computers. But it was the people – the colorful, nois
y, jostling crowd pushing and shoving itself in and out of shops and carrying bundles and children that fascinated Brent.
“Nowhere else on earth,” he said to himself, staring at the colorful, shifting, kaleidoscopic scene.
Passing through the heart of the city, the cab suddenly screeched to a halt as a solemn procession of elegantly dressed priests – some walking, others on horseback, and still others seated in little carts drawn by servants – passed slowly by. Brent smiled at the spectacle but cursed the delay. Finally, the last vehicle, a ceremonial cart containing the deity being honored, passed and Brent caught a glimpse of a jade figure staring upward, supplicating.
“Fujita,” he said to himself, pulling back, jarring his head on a window molding.
Suddenly, his mind was on the past, filled with memories of his father. Rubbing his head, he stirred uneasily, realizing he had not dwelled on his father’s murder, justice and, yes, vengeance for weeks. True, he had pledged on his father’s memory to wait, restrain himself even in the face of Matsuhara’s taunts. But it was more than restraint or discipline. Yes, indeed. Fujita, the little deity, the ghost of the seventh carrier. He was the Svengali, the sorcerer who bent men’s minds. No, it was more than that. The ancient admiral seemed to penetrate consciousness; command and direct thoughts.
“Insane,” Brent muttered to himself, shaking his head, driving his knuckles into the upholstery. But why had he gradually felt allied with the old admiral, especially on the bridge the night the Zilah had made her foolish attack? Strange, he thought, strange. And now he had left the ship and freed himself from the admiral. The hunger for personal justice and retribution suddenly gnawed and grew like an unremitted cancer. Was he no better than Stafford, Matsuhara and that crazy Fujimoto who stewed in their own hate, savoring revenge like the forty-seven ronin? Was that it? He knuckled his forehead, muttered an oath. No! He was a naval officer, charged with a vital responsibility in a desperate world.
He shook his head. Purged ghosts with a sigh and returned his eyes and mind to the passing panorama. He would wait. But one day, accounts would be settled and, he knew, the scales would be balanced in the end. He would see to it. The young man smiled.
With a roar the cab returned to life and resumed weaving through the city. The Ginza, with its cold department stores, faceless shops and nightclubs splashed with ideograms, was quickly left behind, and the cab entered a sprawling residential area. All of the houses were one or two stories high and surrounded by neat gardens. Here like nowhere else, the uneven distribution of wealth was evident – luxury side-by-side with squalor.
A sudden screech of tires and jarring stop shocked Brent from his thoughts. “The Israeli Embassy,” the cab driver sing-songed, gesturing toward a modern, squat steel and concrete building.
Brent reached for his wallet.
*
“Colonel Irving Bernstein, Israeli Intelligence,” the khaki-clad officer said with an unmistakable Teutonic accent, rising from a chair behind his desk. Elderly with white hair, the man's face and manner showed strength. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and pointed beard and, despite his years, he handled himself with a lithe, easy grace that indicated trained muscles. He gestured to his companion who was seated in one of the two available chairs in the sparse, map-lined office.
“Captain Sarah Aranson.”
Sarah Aranson was a tall, slender woman of perhaps thirty. As she rose and extended her hand, Brent found a strong yet attractive face with wide brown eyes, narrow nose and full lips. And her chin was sculpted, skin tanned and healthy, brown hair short yet coiffed smartly about her ears. As Brent smiled and shook the firm hand, he knew there was something unique about this woman – a quality he had never seen in a woman before. Was it the character that shone from the tiny lines radiating from the corners of her mouth and eyes? Perhaps. Or maybe it was the steel that he found in her small hand – the steel that held her back rigid and told him he was in the presence of a soldier.
“Shalom,” she said flatly, pulling her hand away and returning to her chair. Despite a loose-fitting blouse and slacks, Brent could see a full-formed body flowing beneath the khaki; rounded hips and firm jutting breasts. The ensign caught his breath, seated himself and moved his eyes back to Bernstein who had found his chair.
“Your Admiral Fujita objects to female officers,” Bernstein said.
“He’s a nineteenth century man,” Brent offered.
“Aren’t they all,” Aranson said with a tinge of bitterness.
“Colonel,” Brent said. “I can’t believe you refused to come aboard, actually had your orders changed, because of anger over Admiral Fujita’s chauvinism.” He nodded toward the woman.
“For such a young man, you are very discerning,” Bernstein said. “True. There is much more to it.” He glanced at Sarah and then back to the American.
“You’ve heard of Aaron Lefkowitz?”
“Sorry; no.”
“He was one of our best men. He was murdered yesterday.”
“Here-in Tokyo?”
“Yes. In broad daylight. Hacked to pieces in an alley.”
“Good Lord.”
“There is a secret Arab organization – a savage group of assassins that kills only with the knife. They call themselves ‘Sabbah.’”
“‘Sabbah’?”
“Yes. After Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah.”
“Was he ‘the old man of the mountain?”
“Yes. Hasan started the whole thing in Persia – Iran now – centuries ago.”
“They get high on drugs.”
“Yes, Ensign. Hashish.”
“They still exist – still murder?”
“They’ve never stopped and we have reason to believe ‘Sabbah’ is now under the control of Moammar Kadafi.”
“Only with the knife?”
“In personal attacks, yes. Just as in ancient times, they become wild on hashish. They smoke it, chew it, even make potions of it and then hunt down their victims – attack with unbelievable strength and recklessness.” He pressed both palms to the desk. “And on at least one occasion, with a ship.”
“The Zilah.”
“Yes. According to our informants, Zilah was manned by them.”
“Her attack was reckless.”
“Suicidal, Ensign?”
“Yes.”
The old Israeli dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “We understand you took prisoners. We’d like to interrogate.”
Brent turned his lips under, then pursed them. “I would suggest you discuss the matter with Admiral Fujita.” His tone was brusque.
The Israelis exchanged a glance. “Of course,” Bernstein said casually like a man accustomed to rebukes. And then quickly, “But you do understand why my orders were changed?”
“Yes. But permanently?”
Shrugging, Bernstein turned his palms up. “Unknown, Ensign. Perhaps later this week I will come… ah, I mean I’ll request Admiral Fujita’s permission to come aboard.”
“I understand, sir. But you have something for me – something important or I wouldn’t be here.”
Cupping his chin, Bernstein leaned forward, sleeve bunching, exposing his forearm. Then Brent saw the blue, tattooed numbers. The intelligence officer saw Brent’s eyes, smiled and held up his arm.
“A souvenir from my German friends – Auschwitz, class of forty-five.” And then quickly, “You are aware of the situation in the Middle East.”
Brent stared into the hard eyes. “Wayne Miller and Frank Dempster briefed Fujita’s staff, Admiral Allen and me yesterday.”
“Good. Good. They’re the best,” Bernstein said. And then quickly, “We must know when Yonaga leaves for the Mediterranean.”
Coming erect, Brent was not able to conceal his hostility. He remembered Admiral Fujita’s words; quoted them. “‘Is there anyone in Tokyo who does not know of Yonaga’s mission?”
The Israelis laughed as if they were sharing a private joke. Bernstein continued. “As far as we know,�
� he nodded at the woman, “only Admiral Fujita’s staff, you, Admiral Allen, Captain Aranson and I are aware of the mission.” And then quizzically, “Don’t you watch television?”
“The Admiral won’t allow it on board.”
The Israelis exchanged a nod. “Smart, smart,” Bernstein observed. “But apparently you’ve been isolated. News reports started yesterday right after you went into dry dock – reports of Yonaga’s rusted, deteriorated hull, frozen machinery and exhausted crewmen.”
“I didn’t even listen to the radio, but that sounds like Miller and Dempster.”
“Of course,” Bernstein pressed on. “You know I’ve been assigned to Yonaga as special liaison.”
“But those orders were changed. We went over that.”
“We have constructed a code – we call it ‘Green One’ – to be used only for communications between Yonaga and Israel.” He pulled an envelope from his desk, handed it to Brent. “‘Green One’ is polyalpha-betic. This gives priming keys, nulls – everything you’ll need – even the software and computer ‘specs.’”
“No encryption box?”
“We didn’t have time to wire one. The discs will have to do.”
Brent slipped the envelope into his pocket. “We don’t have a computer. Fujita hates them as much as television.”
The Israeli colonel looked shocked. “You must have a computer. You know that.”
“Yes. I’ll inform the admiral.”
The Israelis eyed each other silently. “Can you inform us tomorrow?”
“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon.”
Nodding, Bernstein scribbled on a slip of paper. “Here is my number. Ask for ‘Ishmael.’ If you can access a computer, say ‘Momma, I have a new Mazda.’ If not, ‘My car broke down.’ We’ll take it from there.” Brent nodded, then tapped his pocket. “Colonel, you just handed me a complete, new code.”
“Right.”
“I didn’t even identify myself. I could be a spy.” The Israelis chuckled. Bernstein said, “‘Green One’ is only designed for communications with Yonaga. If it does not arrive at its destination, we will know.”
“I could copy it.”