by Peter Albano
“Shalom,” she said, standing in front of her desk and extending her hand, ignoring Bernstein and Matsuhara in spite of military protocol.
“My name’s Irv Bernstein,” the colonel said in obvious good humor.
Dropping Brent’s hand, she laughed. “Sorry, colonel,” Sarah said, grasping both of his hands in hers. “Shalom.”
Bernstein turned to Matsuhara, who stood awkwardly just inside the door. “This is Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, Yonaga’s fighter operations officer.”
Again the warm smile and the extended hand. “Yes. We’ve met.”
Matsuhara took the woman’s hand, face slightly flushed. Then Brent realized that instant — that moment of contact — was the first time Matsuhara had touched a woman in over forty years. “You’ve met?” Brent asked. “When?”
“Last December after you played games with those Sabbah in the alley by the graving dock. They were sewing you back together in the sick bay, and the commander was kind enough to give me an impromptu tour of Yonaga.” Again, the brilliant smile. “Please be seated.” She gestured to a group of plump leather chairs clustered around a cluttered desk, which was placed to one side of barred french windows. Snipers, Brent thought. Always the chance.
Bernstein was all business. “You have the new encryption box, captain?”
“Yes,” she said. But Brent’s eyes were not on Sarah. Instead, he watched Yoshi, who stared at the woman with narrowed eyes, his face the visage of such intense concentration the man appeared hypnotized. Brent moved his eyes back to the lovely face as Sarah continued. “We have a few surprises for our Russian and Arab friends.” Rising, she walked to the corner of the room to a small strongbox while Brent and Yoshi followed the tantalizing sway of trim hips. She’s built for slacks, Brent thought to himself.
Bernstein spoke to Matsuhara, who tore his eyes from the woman with an effort as she leaned over the safe, revealing even more of her body, pants molded to her flesh. “You know the encryption box has its own software and automatically encrypts messages using predetermined key generating systems, priming keys, nulls…”
The Japanese nodded. “Yes, colonel. I have seen ours. We have two in the radio room hooked to computers.”
“Right. One from NIS and the other from Israeli Intelligence. They do our enciphering electronically, but…” He shrugged.
“But, our enemy has broken our codes.”
Sarah returned with a small leather carrying case complete with shoulder strap, chain, and handcuff. Seating herself and placing the case on the table she said, “We’ve seeded this little jewel with a new pseudorandom sequence.” Brent grinned at the look of bafflement on Yoshi’s face.
“They’ll expect that, Sarah,” the American said.
“Of course. But we’ve added a little kicker.”
“You’ve screwed around with the frequency,” Bernstein said.
“Yes, colonel. You remember.” Patting the box, she looked at Brent. “We’ve added frequency agility.”
“You mean random frequency hopping?”
“That’s right, Brent.” She turned to Bernstein, eyes glinting. There was pride in her voice. “We’ll time hop, too, colonel.”
Completely lost, Matsuhara remained silent.
“You have been busy,” Bernstein laughed.
“Then it has the capacity to transmit in random bursts,” Brent said.
“Correct. Some transmissions will be completed in milliseconds and at random intervals, and at the same time, it will change frequencies at random.”
“That should slow them down,” Bernstein said.
Matsuhara broke his silence. “But not stop them?”
Bernstein shook his head. “Eventually they’ll break it.”
At that moment the door opened and a short Japanese woman of about forty entered, carrying a tray with a silver service. Beautiful, she had features as delicate as the brush strokes of a Heian artist. Her eyes were the same shiny color of chipped black diamonds that shone from her hair. Slowly, they moved from Sarah to Bernstein, to Brent, finally lingering on Yoshi Matsuhara, who recoiled as if he felt a shock like a blow to the chest. Her skin had the silken texture of a Kyoto doll, well-formed body lithesome under her tailored business suit.
As the woman placed the tray of tea and cakes on the table, the men stood. “This is Kimio Urshazawa,” Sarah said. Smiling, the beauty nodded briefly to each man and turned toward the door.
Eyes on Matsuhara’s working jaw, Sarah added, “Please stay, Kimio.” And then to the men she said, “Mrs. Urshazawa is my executive secretary and has top secret clearance.”
“Oh, yes. I remember,” Bernstein said. “We hired you last November. Good to see you again, Kimio.”
“You, too, colonel,” the woman said in a soft voice. Seating herself, the secretary crossed her legs, slender calves like marble through the hose.
“Mrs. Urshazawa’s husband was the first mate on the Mayeda Maru.”
The horror of the murder of the entire crew and all of the passengers of the hijacked liner by Kadafi’s killers in Tripoli Harbor brought hard looks to the eyes of the men.
“I’m sorry,” Brent said.
“Please, gentlemen,” the woman said with downcast eyes. “Have some tea and cakes.”
They talked casually of Tokyo, the new Japan, and the effects of the oil shortage, carefully avoiding Mayeda Maru. But time was short, and Brent glanced uneasily at his watch.
“We’d better return aboard soon or the admiral will send a platoon after us.”
Bernstein laughed his agreement, but Matsuhara was lost in Kimio’s eyes. Reluctantly, the men rose.
As Kimio, Bernstein, and Matsuhara filed through the door, Sarah locked the handcuff on Brent’s wrist. Quickly he slid the strap attached to the carrying case over his shoulder. “Colonel Bernstein has the key,” she said, holding his arm. She moved close, hand tightening.
Despite an aching hunger, he managed to say, “I know, Sarah.”
“Brent,” she said softly, lips close to his. “Tomorrow night?”
“Yes. Port section has liberty. I’m due.”
“And Yoshi Matsuhara. Can you bring him? Kimio is a widow and…”
“I think he showed a slight interest,” Brent answered.
They both laughed.
“I’ll ask Kimio — phone tomorrow on our leased line.” And then with her warm soft eyes searching his she said, “Shalom aleichem.”
“Shalom aleichem to you, Sarah.”
*
The next day, Brent sought out Commander Matsuhara on the hangar deck. Dressed in green fatigues splotched with oil and grease, the officer was lost in a gaggle of mechanics carefully lowering a huge 14-cylinder, 1200 horsepower Sakae into place on the front of his fighter. Yoshi smiled and waved at the American and returned to his work, supervising the connecting of fuel lines and the securing of engine mounts bolted to the fire wall. Impatiently, Brent waited for nearly a half hour.
“Now,” Yoshi said, stepping back from the Zero. “Sorry you had to wait.”
“Something private, Yoshi.”
The pilot gestured upward to the gallery deck.
*
Matsuhara’s cabin was as small and Spartan as Brent’s. Following Yoshi’s gesture, the ensign sank on the hard board of the cot while the pilot sat in a chair behind a small desk. “Staff meeting, Brent-san,” he quipped.
Again the familiar san, first used by Fujita, jolted Brent, leaving a deep, warm feeling. “That’s right, commander,” he said, matching the pilot’s warmth. “Some tactics for this evening.”
“You have a campaign in mind?”
Brent laughed. “Not really, Yoshi.” He tapped his forehead. “I’m going to see Sarah this evening and Sarah just called. Kimio Urshazawa would like to see you — have dinner with you — maybe we could all go to a Kabuki first.”
The humor vanished and the pilot straightened. “I have not been in the company of a woman for over four decades, Brent.”
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“I know.”
“We are warriors.”
“Warriors have women — families. I’m not suggesting we take Sarah and Kimio with us when we tangle with Kadafi’s task force,” Brent chided.
“I would like to talk to a woman. You know, Brent, when you are on a ship, working with the same men year in and year out, conversation is exhausted.”
“Yes. Even in the few months on Yonaga, I felt it.”
“Think of what it has been like these past decades. We became silent, read all the books over and over, lost ourselves in our aircraft, simulated problems in our trainers, dismantled and reassembled engines and weapons endlessly, fought time with daily exercise.”
Brent knew of the cloistered, monastic existence and hard workouts that kept Yonaga’s men amazingly youthful. Mark Allen said he had noticed this phenomenon in Soichi Yokoi when he emerged from the jungles of Guam, and Lt. Hiroo Onoda, who was debriefed by the admiral in 1975 after Onoda’s thirty-year holdout on Lubang in the Philippines. Staring at the flyer’s black hair, unlined face, and solid physique, Brent knew that Yoshi had probably entered flight training at age fifteen and had probably not yet reached his sixtieth birthday.
“I am almost sixty years of age,” the flyer said as if Brent’s mind was open to him. “Perhaps Mrs. Urshazawa is not interested…”
“Yoshi! She asked for you. She’s interested in you.”
The pilot smiled broadly like a lost traveler who had suddenly found an oasis in the Sahara. “I would be delighted to go, Brent-san.”
*
Sitting cross-legged on a zabuton in a box under the balcony of the Kobayashi-za, one of Japan’s oldest Kabuki theaters, Brent felt uncomfortable on the thin cushion, hoping the performance would begin. Legs cramping from the unaccustomed strain, he shifted his weight and leaned toward Sarah, who smiled, covering his hand with hers. She was dressed in a tight silk blouse that seemed to wrap itself around her breasts, and her short skirt was tight, long perfectly formed legs folded beneath her.
Kimio was spectacular, dressed in a traditional kimono of deep purple with embroidered camellias, orchids, and hibiscus wrapped about her tiny waist with a narrow yellow obi fringed with gold lace. Even her hair was done in traditional style with willow sprigs and gold pins scattered in the lustrous folds.
Yoshi sat next to her, eyes feasting with unabashed hunger. Staring at the curtains, Kimio leaned toward Brent. “Have you ever seen Kabuki?”
“No, Kimio.”
“The Kobayashi-za is a very old theater — dates back to the early seventeenth century. It is said a Shinto priestess and her troupe danced Tokyo’s first Kabuki performance here in about 1610.”
“Women?” Brent interrupted. “I thought there were no women.”
Kimio’s smile flashed perfect white teeth, and she spoke a little louder as the conversations of the restless crowd grew in volume. “That’s true,” she agreed. “Women started Kabuki, but later too many performers were linked to prostitution and they were banned.” She shrugged. “Now it’s all male — but the female impersonations — onnagata — are very convincing.”
“Indeed they are,” Yoshi said suddenly. Sarah giggled.
Kimio continued. “The title of this evening’s performance translates literally as The Forty-seven Seek and Find.”
“Vengeance,” Brent said.
“Sacred to us, Brent,” Yoshi said with sudden grimness. “Every schoolboy is — was taught this true tale of classic vengeance.”
“Watch carefully as the story unfolds, Brent,” Kimio said. “The actors talk very fast, and the action is highly stylized. But there is Lord Asano who will be tricked by a scoundrel named Kira into unsheathing his sword in the imperial palace, which was a capital crime. Asano commits seppuku, his lands will be confiscated, and his forty-seven samurai become ronin — vagabonds, drunks.”
“Yes,” Brent nodded. “Admiral Fujita told me this story. On the anniversary of Asano’s death, the forty-seven rise — they have faked their debauching — and cut the villain Akisa to pieces.”
“Then they commit seppuku,” Yoshi said.
“Of course.”
“That is the Japanese way, Brent.”
A clack of hard wood hyoshigi silenced the audience and a stagehand cloaked in black hauled back the curtain revealing paper cherry trees along a river made of tin. A vast estate crowned by a fortress was on one side of the river while a large paper and paste rice field occupied the other. Musicians crouching at one side of the stage began to pluck the three strings of their samisens, and a narrator opened his chant.
Brent’s eyes widened when the actors stormed onto the stage. Deathly white-skin makeup highlighted by eerie black lines of mascara, garish mouths concealed by heavy white paint and replaced by tiny painted lips of vermillion were grotesque. Ponderous costumes seemed ludicrous with wings, horns, and even spider legs radiating from one actor’s neck. Speaking in squeaking falsettos, the onnagata were extraordinary in mimicking female mannerisms. In fact, one young onnagata who had the female lead was quite lovely. Gradually Brent realized a Romeo and Juliet subplot had been woven into the tale, but the two lovers were never allowed to meet, separated by a cardboard bridge over the tin river.
Fascinated, Brent watched as the action spilled over onto the hanamishi — auxiliary aisles that extended in the audience. The American could not restrain a chuckle as a butterfly fluttered across the stage, the insect dangling from a stick and line carried by a stagehand dressed and hooded in black. And then another black-garbed assistant worked a stuffed fox. Groups of these phantoms rushed out periodically to straighten the magnificent but cumbersome costumes. With the exception of the American, nobody noticed them.
Then came the denouement with the forty-seven dying in a heap in front of the fortress while the lovers disemboweled themselves at opposite ends of the bridge.
“Magnificent! Magnificent!” Yoshi said softly, rising and taking Kimio by the elbow.
“Yes,” Kimio sighed, brushing a tear from her cheek. They stood for a moment, close to each other.
But Brent’s attention was on Sarah, who rose to him almost from the force of his stare alone. “It’s over, Brent,” she said with no meaning whatsoever.
“I know,” he answered just as inanely.
They moved toward the aisle.
*
The restaurant, Tanamma-Ro, was as classic as the theater. Fenced, it was an enclave of small huts built around a manicured garden. A little wizened man ushered the four diners into a large, private “four-mat” hut with a low table, zabutons, and walls hung with exquisite sepia ink drawings and classic calligraphy. A tokonoma was in an alcove — a piece of haniwa sculpture on a mahogany stand and a Heian vase with a cunning flower arrangement.
“You are the guest of honor, commander,” Kimio said. “Please sit with your back to the tokonoma.” After exchanging bows with the woman, Yoshi squatted slowly and ceremoniously in the place of honor. Quickly, the others settled on their zabutons.
“Now the surprise,” Sarah said. The women giggled.
At that moment, the door opened and two women entered with tiny, mincing steps. They were dressed in kimonos of rich silk, coifs exquisite with sprigs of cherry blossoms and jeweled combs. Their faces were painted starch white, lips carmine red, eyes dark as a cloud-covered night. One carried a samisen.
The leader and older of the pair spoke. “I am your geisha, Miyume.” She glanced at the American with a coy, little-girl’s smile. “Miyume means ‘beautiful dream’ and geisha means ‘cultivated person.’
“Sarah retained me and my maiko, Kojiku — my apprentice, ‘Little Crysanthemum’ — to serve and entertain you tonight.” She nodded to Kojiku, who sat in a corner and began to pluck the three strings of the samisen and sing softly.
Quickly but with studied grace, the geisha distributed white porcelain cups and filled them with hot, spiced sake. “Saka-zuki,” she said.
Brent correctly surmised
that his ensign’s uniform and youthful face had misled Miyume into believing he knew very little of the Japanese culture. He smiled to himself as he watched the lovely woman set aside the sake server and step back demurely, fan raised as she swayed into a delicate yet sensuous dance. He was watching an ancient, fading tradition designed to relax the daimyo, shogun, or business executive in an ambience stripped of wives and responsibilities. The geisha would ply her clients with sake, play games, tell jokes, dance, and sing. Although she did not market her body, she was ever alert for the wealthy patron, hoping to retire someday as the courtesan of a wealthy man. She was not accustomed to women and was not trained to entertain them. However, Sarah and Miyume were obviously friendly, and the geisha seemed completely at ease.
The fan was dropped on a small table, the samisen went silent and the cups were refilled.
Yoshi raised his saka-zuki. “To the emperor.” They all drank.
Brent offered his own. “Yonaga.”
Again the cups were filled, and Brent felt a mild glow begin to spread. He knew Japanese did their serious drinking before eating, and it was late. He was very hungry and knew he would feel the effects of the hot, spiced wine quickly. “Ah, what the hell,” he said under his breath. “Maybe in four more weeks…”
“You say something, Brent?” Sarah asked.
“Ah, no,” the ensign answered. “Just that this sake is perfectly spiced.” He looked down and miraculously the cup was filled again. He took another sip.