The Honorable Traitors

by John Lutz

The grid reference Dick Lester had provided was J29. The only part of the rectangle that wasn’t blue was Governors Island. Mishima was relieved. The island was small. The search wouldn’t take long. Now he remembered that in World War II, the island had served as headquarters for the U.S. First Army, of which Capt. Bart Lester was an officer. No doubt the connection had served to facilitate Lester’s arrangement of a secure hiding place for the bomb.

  Mishima closed the atlas and put it away. Making his plans for tomorrow, he gazed thoughtfully out the window, not noticing the magnificent view of the glittering midtown skyline against the night sky until the floodlit spire of the Empire State Building abruptly went dark.

  Having read a great deal about New York, he knew that the floodlights went out at 2 am. It was the early morning of August 4.

  * * *

  They didn’t get home until the middle of the night. Laker’s loft was hot and stuffy. He offered to turn on the central air, but Ava said it would cool the place down more quickly to open the windows. She walked the perimeter of the huge place, heaving up the balky old wooden sashes. It was an unseasonably cool night, and the air that blew in was delightfully fresh and moist. A light rain was falling, which reminded her of her visit here. Less than a month ago, but it felt like years.

  Laker was rolling up the hides of the teepee he used as a bedroom. Ventilation, plains Indian-style. Between the wooden spars she could see that he had a wide and comfortable-looking bed in there.

  “You want the shower first?” he asked.

  “I want the bathtub, with you in it.”

  She took his hand and pulled him into the one corner of the loft that had walls. The bathroom was equipped with a shower cabinet, but she preferred the big, old-fashioned claw-footed tub. She put in the plug and twisted the faucet handles. By the time she unstrapped her surgical boot, Laker was half-naked. She helped him finish the job, then stood back to admire.

  “You haven’t put on many pounds since you were a running back at Notre Dame.”

  “Tried not to.”

  “Added a few scars, though.” Frowning, she ran her hand along a seam that ran across his hip. “A nasty one. How did you get it?”

  “That’s classified. Stop talking and get naked.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In a minute she was lying back in the big tub, with Laker pressed against the whole length of her, the water slowly rising around them, his hands in her hair, his lips kissing her eyelids, her brow and cheeks, her mouth. Then he shifted lower, hands caressing her breasts, lips and tongue her nipples. After a while, a long while, he gave her another order.

  “Sit on the edge of the tub.”

  “Yes, sir.” She hoisted her bare, dripping body out of the water. “But why?”

  “Because I can’t hold my breath when my tongue is out,” answered Laker, as his head went down between her thighs.

  * * *

  They made love a second time in the teepee, and afterward Ava tumbled into a deep sleep. She awakened a couple of hours later, to the dim light of predawn. Stepping out of the teepee and pulling on a robe, she saw Laker in the living area, talking on his cell phone. He was speaking softly, but it’d been enough to wake her. Limping without her surgical boot, she made her way to where he was sitting on the sofa. He was fully dressed in a lightweight tan suit. On the coffee table in front of him was a color photo of a purple flower. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it.

  Laker ended his call and smiled at her. “Good morning. Shuttle leaves in an hour. We’ll get coffee at the airport.”

  “Okay, I’ll dress.” But curiosity held her. “What’s this?”

  “Reproduction of a painting called Oleander, by Seiki Kuroda.”

  Now she remembered. “The poster Mishima and his friends put up, before he spoke at Hiroshima.”

  “Right. The oleander was the first flower to bloom after the bombing in 1945. It’s the official flower of Hiroshima. Most of Kuroda’s works are in Japanese museums, but this one, his masterpiece, is in the Whitney.”

  “In downtown Manhattan?”

  “Yes.”

  Ava considered the implications. Didn’t like them. She sat down in the chair across from Laker. He glanced at his watch. “The car will be here—”

  “Never mind. Explain this to me.”

  “Joanie emailed the transcript of the interview with Mishima, after his arrest. He talked a lot about this painting, how significant it was to him of Japanese resurgence. He’ll go to the Whitney to see it.”

  “Before he destroys it along with the rest of the city.”

  “Only he’s not going to, because I’m going to be waiting for him at the Whitney.”

  She looked at him and waited. But that was all.

  “You mean that’s your plan?” she said. “Your entire plan. You actually got Mason to approve it?”

  Laker turned his good ear. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “There’s something you maybe haven’t thought of, you and Mason. It occurred to me while we were watching the video of the Peace Festival last night—”

  “It’s occurred to us.”

  She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “August 6 was the day Hiroshima was destroyed. Mishima’s revenge will be sweeter if he sets off the bomb on August 6. Today is August 4.”

  “That’s what Mason and I figure.”

  “We’ve got to sound the alarm. Deploy every resource we’ve got.”

  “You mean have the NYPD issue an All-Points Bulletin for Mishima? Give them that old video? Ava, the one thing we can be sure about is that he doesn’t look like that now.”

  “We have to find the bomb, then.”

  “Search all five boroughs? In two days?”

  “Evacuate the city.”

  “And cause a panic. Not to mention alerting Mishima. Any of your ideas would alert him.” He shifted forward in his seat, meeting her gaze. His tone was grave and urgent. “That would lose us our advantage. Right now, Mishima has no idea that we know who he is and where he is. Finally we’re a step ahead of him. We set a trap and he’ll walk into it.”

  She sighed and looked away. “You’re very convincing.”

  “But you’re not convinced.”

  “No. But I can see how you talked Mason into this. Your confidence. Your reputation. Lucky Laker.” She shook her head. “Arrogant Laker is more like it.”

  “Ava, we don’t have a lot of options. This is the best one.”

  “We can’t risk everything on it. There must be something else we can do.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A car horn sounded in the street. Laker glanced at his watch and got up. He said, “Sounds like you’re not going with me.”

  “You don’t need me to sit on a chair in a museum and keep an eye on a painting. I’m staying here.”

  “Ava—”

  “I know, you can have four muscle-bound men here in a few minutes to drag me to some safe house in Maryland for the duration. Please don’t. I promise I won’t call the NYPD or the mayor or the Times.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “Oh, what I usually do. Go to a library. See what I can find in a book.”

  The horn honked again. Laker picked up his suitcase. “I have to go. Please call me.”

  Ava nodded as he turned away. It didn’t occur to her until he was gone that they hadn’t kissed good-bye.

  46

  During the Revolution, the Americans had bombarded British ships from an earthwork on Governors Island. After the war, they’d built a massive sandstone and granite fortification on the spot, called Fort Jay, to guard the approaches to New York Harbor. But no enemy ship had ever gotten within range of its guns. The island, having been passed around the Army, Navy, and Coast Guard for a couple of centuries, had recently become a public park.

  Mishima had ridden over on a ferry packed with pleasure seekers on a sunny summer morning. It had taken the rest of the
day to locate Bobby Soxer’s hiding place. But he’d felt reassured rather than frustrated. Captain Bart Lester and his colleagues had done their work well. The hiding place was secure, and he was confident he’d find the device in good condition. Getting to it was going to take preparation. Equipment would have to be obtained, a ruse conceived and executed.

  But there was ample time, and no one to hinder him. This moment was to be savored. He paused before Fort Jay’s main gate to admire the sculpture atop it, an American eagle with wings spread, perched atop a cannon, backed by unfurled banners. Then he strolled in the opposite direction from the ferry slip, exploring the rest of the island.

  The surroundings became less martial. He walked along a green shaded by tall trees and bordered by an old stone church and plain, spacious houses of brick and wood. They’d been built for officers in the early nineteenth century. Some were being converted to the headquarters of arts organizations, he noted. That might be useful to know.

  He wandered on to the island’s north shore. The water came into view, and the Statue of Liberty. Turning, he saw the looming skyscrapers of the financial district, so close yet remote on the other side of the water. Here was a refuge from the raucous city. He passed a field where people were playing softball. Others were picnicking or dozing in hammocks. Stepping aside as a group of laughing cyclists peddled by, Mishima reflected that war was a thing of the past for Americans. They still had to send their soldiers to fight in distant lands, and their media told them they were vulnerable to terrorists, but in their homeland they felt safe. How short their memories were. He picked out the tallest and most silvery of the skyscrapers: the Freedom Tower. Only a few years had passed since it’d replaced the fallen World Trade Center.

  He joined the crowd for the ferry ride back to Manhattan. Sated with pleasure, they chatted easily among themselves. Mishima was dressed like the rest of them, untucked shirt, shorts, sandals, Mets cap, sunglasses. He hadn’t bothered with the dark contact lenses today. In windy conditions they were irritating. Anyway soon he would be finished with hiding the color of his eyes.

  Only a few minutes later, he emerged from the Manhattan terminal into a world of concrete and steel. He hailed a taxi. Traffic was heavy, the ride long. It was a relief to enter the cool, tastefully furnished lobby of Hotel Katabano. The desk clerk bowed as he approached. “Good evening, sir.”

  Mishima glanced at his watch. It was a minute past five. He appreciated the punctiliousness of the salutation. “I wonder if you could do something for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “I would like to have flowers delivered to my room.”

  “Yes sir. An assortment?”

  “No. All oleander.”

  The clerk was entering the information on a keyboard. “Do you have a preferred color, sir?”

  “Purple.”

  * * *

  If you gazed at it for long enough, you forgot you were looking at a flower. The artist had painted a single oleander bloom, on a huge scale. The canvas was as tall as Laker, as wide as his spread arms. It was just a circle of five petals, each one a subtly different shape, rendered in multiple shades of purple.

  “You must really like Seiki Kuroda.”

  A guard had paused beside the bench he was sitting on. She was a young Latina with a long braid down her back. Considering what a trendy place the Whitney was, the guards’ uniforms were stodgy: black suit, white shirt, black tie.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been here a long time.”

  “Oh. Yes. It’s the first Kuroda I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the flower itself that attracts me.”

  She nodded. “They’re beautiful. But don’t plant ’em in your garden.”

  “No?”

  “Oleander’s poisonous. Every bit of it, flower, leaves, stems. Never touch it.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “But you’re safe enough looking at a painting.”

  Smiling, she walked away. Turned after a few paces. “Oh, closing time is in fifteen minutes.”

  He nodded. An entire day wasted, Ava would say. He wondered where she was. What she was doing. If she was going to call.

  47

  Rush hour on the morning of August 5, and Capitol Hill was bustling. Ava was sitting at a tiny table in an overpriced coffee shop. Behind her, the espresso machine hissed and panted. Across the street stood the headquarters of the Gray Outfit. It looked much like the old townhouses on either side of it, now that the bay window Akiro Mishima had smashed had been replaced, as well as the marigolds and zinnias in the front garden he’d trampled. You could almost believe it was, as the placard next to the front door said, the office of the National Alliance of Auto Parts Distributors.

  The door of the coffee shop opened and a pale, blond, flat-chested young woman came in. She was the person Ava’d been waiting for. She looked like she needed coffee this morning. As if she hadn’t slept well. Weariness and worry put years on her youthful face. As she waited for the barista to make her latte, she was drumming her fingers nervously on the counter.

  Planting her surgical boot, Ava rose and stepped up behind her. “Rafella Söhn?”

  The woman jumped, twisted round to look over her shoulder. She seemed reassured to see it was another woman, not much older than herself. Kinder perhaps to put an end to her dawning relief, Ava thought. Her first fearful reaction had been the right one.

  “I’m Ava North.”

  Rafella’s reaction was instantaneous. She tried to flee. But she only took a step before two men sitting at one of the cafe’s sidewalk tables sprang up and blocked the door, watching her with flat eyes.

  “What you’ve feared is happening,” Ava said. “At least the wait is over.”

  Rafella’s eyes rolled up in her head and she stumbled. Ava took her arm and helped her into one of the rickety chairs at her table. She called out to the barista to forget the coffee order. She had a glass of cold water ready on the table to offer to Rafella, who took it in both hands and sipped carefully. She was shaking, but she managed to look Ava in the eye.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to see your ID before we go any further.”

  “You know who I am and why I’m here. What you’re really thinking about is, where did I go wrong? What was the fatal slip-up? The answer is, you took out a book by Gerald Styron called The Second Bomb. You didn’t request it at work, you borrowed it from your local library. That was smart. It held me up for a couple of hours.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Is it illegal to read books by revisionist historians?”

  “No. What’s illegal is passing secret information to enemy agents. It’s called treason.”

  She forced a bark of laughter. “If you had any real evidence against me, I’d be in handcuffs and on the way to the federal courthouse by now.”

  “Your day in court will be delayed. You’re going to a Gray Outfit safe house in the country, where you will be interrogated by the people you’ve betrayed. After Sam Mason has a few words with you.”

  Rafella looked like she was going to faint again.

  “If you answer my questions, it will go easier on you. You may also help to save many lives. I think that matters to you. That’s why I’m giving you the chance.”

  Rafella bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. After a minute’s silence she said, “Who is he, really?”

  “His name is Akiro Mishima.”

  “Is he a terrorist?”

  “He’s something worse.”

  Rafella dropped her hands. “I was such a fool. I had no idea what kind of man he was until too late.”

  “You’re not alone in being fooled.”

  “He approached me as Ikio Ozawa, a historian from Tokyo University. I did check him out online, but he’d prepared a false trail for me. He knew that when I was in college I’d gone to demonstrations supporting President Obama’s drive to reduce nuclear arsenals. Said that showed my idealism and
he needed my help. He seemed sort of shy and clumsy. A foreigner. An academic. If he’d been different, tried to seduce me, it would’ve aroused my suspicions.”

  “He’s clever. He reads people and prepares a script and role for himself accordingly.”

  “He told me about the work of this man Styron. He was a physics professor, an expert on technical aspects of the World War II nuclear bombs. His book asks the question, Wasn’t destroying Hiroshima enough? Why did Nagasaki have to be flattened, too? His answer was that it was a horrible experiment by the U.S. military establishment. Little Boy, the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, was a uranium gun-type weapon. But the scientists at Los Alamos had developed another type, a plutonium-implosion design they thought was superior. Fat Man was that type. The Americans dropped it on Nagasaki just to see how it worked. They were horrible racists, Ozawa—I mean Mishima—said. The ‘Japs’ weren’t even human beings to them.”

  “Styron couldn’t prove those charges,” Ava said. “His work was discredited and his university fired him.”

  “Mishima said Styron was right, he just hadn’t been able to find the evidence. That was why he needed my help. He wanted something very small from me. To locate Styron. After his disgrace, he dropped out of sight.”

  “Yes,” Ava said. “The rumor was he’d gone off the grid, become some kind of survivalist.”

  “It seemed harmless enough, what Mishima wanted me to do. And not risky. I just had to put in a routine request to all federal and state agencies for information, saying it had come from an officer of the Gray Outfit.”

  “But that wasn’t the end.”

  “No, of course not. Once I broke the regulations, he had a hold on me. The scholarly disguise was dropped. He wouldn’t say who he really was, but I knew he was an enemy agent. He didn’t value me as anything but an intel asset. He’d expose me if I didn’t do as he said. And what he wanted, of course, was information about Mason and Laker. And you. The raid on the building—was it Mishima himself who broke in, who killed those men?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t tell me that was coming. I was as shocked as everyone. But once it happened, I knew I was partly to blame. I was so terrified. I hated him. And myself. But I kept doing what he said.”