The Shiro Project

by David Khara

  Next came the revelation of this agreement by US government officials during a taking-out-the-garbage mission designed to unmask the wrongdoings of previous administrations. They were doing this under the guise of starting fresh.

  The final event was Iyona’s death. She had succumbed to pneumonia in the winter of 1982, thirty-four years after Hirokazu and she had married. Hirokazu had never been brought to trial or even charged. During their marriage, the couple had tried to become parents, but Iyona could never carry a baby to term. Eventually, the physical and emotional trauma led them to abandon the idea altogether.

  The year they were married, Hirokazu started a company that manufactured orthopedic prosthetics. Initially, he marketed his products in Japan. But his company soon took off, and it wasn’t long before he was distributing his prosthetics around the world.

  During their thirty-six years together, Hirokazu had never told Iyona about his past in Manchuria. He didn’t want to return to that dark place, and he was scared that Iyona would stop loving him.

  So now, as a widower, he was testifying out in the open for the whole world to hear. He assumed that his status as the founder of a global company and an example of a modern Japan whose corporate frenzy had swept away all militant and—even worse—nationalist leanings would draw hoards of spectators and reporters. But in this Cold War era, few seemed to care about what he had to say. More often than not, he found the lecture hall practically empty. The press didn’t seem interested either.

  The New York conference marked the end of his tour, but he planned to lead other campaigns, as his road to redemption was a long one.

  At the end of his speech, he opened up the floor to the audience. It was really a formality, as he hardly ever received any questions. As he expected, his offer was met with silence, and the lecture hall emptied. One young man, however, remained. Not only did he stay, he also stepped up to the stage. The fellow towered over Hirokazu. He had a natural poise, underscored by broad shoulders and the confident manner in which he held his head. But these characteristics were less striking than his blond hair, which seemed to shine brighter than the summer sun. He didn’t appear to be any older than thirty. And now he was doing a timid but promising ojigi.

  “Mr. Shinje,” he said with just the right amount of respect. “Thank you for delivering such a fascinating lecture.”

  “Thank you for coming to hear it,” Hirokazu replied, bowing in turn. “I’m surprised to see someone as young as yourself interested in this subject.”

  “It affects me on a personal level.”

  “How so?”

  “My mother worked at Fort Detrick in the late fifties. She was killed under circumstances classified as top secret for reasons of national security. The incident was exposed in published documents detailing the biological experimentation program led by the US from 1950 to 1970. At the same time, the American government made public its collaboration with Unit 731’s most prominent scientists. My mother was killed by a biological weapon in the building where she and her team worked. Rumor has it that the researchers at Fort Detrick were following up on Shiro Ishii’s work. I’m convinced that…”

  “I see,” Hirokazu said.

  “According to my father, she would sometimes meet with German and Japanese scientists for the purpose of her mission.”

  Hirokazu froze. The full responsibility he and his brother scientists bore had materialized in front of him, in this young man, the living proof that all actions had consequences, even long after those acts were committed. The sharp pain of guilt clawed at the Japanese man’s soul.

  “And what’s your career plan?”

  “I recently graduated from law school, sir, where I specialized in commercial law. I speak several languages. I’m working on my Japanese.”

  It would take a long time for the boy to master all the nuances of the culture, but he certainly knew the Japanese way of making a request without flat-out asking. His desire was obvious.

  “Perhaps you are curious enough about my country to try your hand at a professional experience there?” Hirokazu asked.

  “Certainly, sir. I would like to immerse myself in both the Japanese language and the Japanese culture.”

  Nice response, Hirokazu thought.

  “Wonderful. I should be able to find a place for you. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the young man replied. He gave his future employer a perfect bow.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “I never gave it to you, sir. My name is Woodridge. Sean Woodridge.”

  A park near Hirokazu Shinje’s residence, north of Tokyo

  Only a small portion of his day was dedicated to business. At most, he would look over a few proposals from his board of directors. The years had flown by, leaving Hirokazu with a head of white hair, a deeply wrinkled face, and some brown liver spots. He used a wheelchair, but he considered himself quite healthy for his many years on earth. He had a youthful mind and a resilient body, and he had never been sick a day, even though his lack of sleep should have weakened his immune system. His business, meanwhile, was still quite successful, and he was married again—to a wonderful woman who was fifteen years his junior. It was enough to make any man happy. On this particular summer evening, he was gazing at the setting sun’s reflection on one of his estate’s tranquil ponds.

  Why had he been blessed this way? Indeed, why had his former Unit 731 colleagues, also successful businessmen and government officials, been similarly blessed? Numerous companies—mostly pharmaceuticals—had benefited substantially from the research conducted at Harbin.

  Hirokazu was proud of just one of his accomplishments: his foundation. Under the masterful management of his assistant, the foundation was making charitable contributions to organizations around the world that helped young victims of armed conflict. These organizations gave children the medical and educational assistance they desperately needed. As he waited by the pond, Hirokazu looked forward to meeting with his right-hand man to go over the final touches on his plans for their biggest project to date.

  “Lovely evening, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Shinje?” It was a familiar voice that Hirokazu was always glad to hear.

  “Indeed. I’m trying to appreciate my remaining few.”

  “Don’t say things like that. You’re as solid as an oak tree,” Sean Woodridge replied as he turned the old man’s wheelchair around.

  He sat down on the ground across from Hirokazu with no concern about getting grass stains on his well-tailored suit. He held a thick stack of papers that were threatening to fly away.

  “How are the plans coming?” Hirokazu asked eagerly.

  “It’s all here, sir. Construction is almost finished. By the end of summer, our research center near Utsunomiya will be Shinje’s summer camp and will welcome more than one hundred children. I’ve brought you maps and photos to give you an idea. We’ll have a dedication ceremony together.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. I’ve moved up the dedication of our new conference center in Tokyo in order to be at the camp for the opening.”

  “I’m sure the children and the staff will be delighted to see you. However, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Hirokazu nodded and waited for his second-in-command to continue.

  “One of our security people has informed me of a laboratory developing a genetically modified virus to be used for military purposes. I’ve taken care of it, sir.”

  Hirokazu sighed and looked at Sean with fondness.

  “Are you sure that’s the only solution?”

  “Sir, you’ve traveled the globe, alerted the press, and faced criticism from your own people. You’ve done everything in your power to tell the world. But your bravery has been met with silence and contempt. If we don’t act, who will?”

  “I don’t mean to contradict you, but are you really sure there is no other…”

  Hirokazu’s face was twisted in a grimace. The
elderly man clutched his right arm. “My chest…” He tried to get up but fell forward instead.

  Sean leaped up to catch his mentor and shouted for help. His male nurse, who had been sitting on a nearby bench, came running at full speed. By the time he arrived, Sean was holding the dead man in his arms and running his fingers through his hair. Hirokazu’s eyes were locked on Sean’s.

  Sean picked up the dossier and slipped it under Hirokazu’s wrinkled hands. He reread the title on the folder: “The Children of Shinje Summer Camp.”

  Sean let the tears wash over him.

  The Children of Shinje was Hirokazu Shinje’s legacy.

  For his part, Sean Woodridge would give the world the Children of Shiro.

  CHAPTER 35

  Tokyo, 2010

  Eytan listened closely to Sean Woodridge’s story. Each and every word shone with respect and admiration for the person whom Sean called Shinje-san.

  The two wounded men were calmly staring at each other. Eytan searched his pocket for his cigar case. He took it out, selected a smoke, and stuck it between his teeth.

  “It could have been a beautiful story,” he said as he lit a match.

  “Yes, it could have been.” Woodridge pointed at the Cuban. “Is this the appropriate place for that?”

  “I can’t think of a more appropriate place or occasion.”

  He held out the case to Woodridge, who accepted. A few seconds later, they were taking in the sweet vanilla aroma.

  “Japan’s surrender marked the end of World War II and the immediate transition into the Cold War,” Sean said. “As a Mossad agent, you must be familiar with Operation Paperclip.”

  Eytan nodded. “Yeah. A bunch of German scientist were given jobs in the US after the war.”

  “The same thing happened here, around one man in particular.”

  “Shiro Ishii, the boss of Unit 731,” Eytan said.

  “Exactly. Seeing as you’ve heard of the man, I’ll skip over his long list of wrongdoings. Once the soviets arrived in Manchuria, all activity at the center was terminated, and shortly thereafter, Unit 731 was blown up by its own people. Ishii and his crew sold their research to the US. The Americans had become obsessed with the idea that the Soviets could get their hands on the research and use it to develop biological and chemical weapons.”

  “The two allies turned on each other as early as the Yalta Conference. Just two years prior, the Americans were sending Stalin supplies and raw materials. The Americans and the British even called him Uncle Joe.”

  “Yes, it’s absurd. Ishii was a greedy crook and used the superpowers’ mutual distrust to full advantage. Thanks to his deal with the Americans, he and his collaborators got off with a nice chunk of change and immunity. The US held up its end of the bargain, keeping the sensitive information secret until the nineteen eighties.”

  “I remember that. But all the same, the revelations didn’t cause much of a stir.”

  “No, despite Shinje-san’s best efforts. So I vowed to do everything in my power to keep such horrors from happening again. Whatever it took. In order to keep that promise, I created the Children of Shiro, an organization for those who had been abused by various governments in the past half century. The Shinje Foundation generously donated the money needed to train our organization’s members. They were then assigned to problematic labs around the globe. They served as private watchdogs. Their mission was to alert us of any significant changes in the status quo.”

  “Which is what happened.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why the need to create your own labs and steal those strains?”

  “We take weapons from evil people and use their own arms against them. The Russian authorities conducted nuclear tests on their own soldiers, while the Czechs were developing poisons and psychoactive drugs. Thanks to our intervention, they’re now off their stride, focused on when and where the next disaster will occur. If it weren’t for you, tonight would have marked the pinnacle of our activities. Alas…”

  “So why these specific activities, as you call them, to achieve your goals?”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Woodridge studied Eytan’s blue eyes. “And yet it’s so obvious. We live in an image-crazed society. Men like you who are ready to throw a punch or draw a gun—you’re living in the past. Fighting an enemy with metal and ammo isn’t enough anymore. Nowadays, you need the power of the camera, as well. Nothing beats a media-friendly massacre covered incessantly by every single news outlet. So, in that respect, the Internet deserves a medal as one of the deadliest weapons out there. Know why? Because if you toss a victim to the wolves, the masses will lap it up. Toss hundreds of victims to the wolves, and they’ll lap it up even more greedily. They’ll devour any ludicrous piece of garbage, as long as they get pleasure out of it. Never once getting their hands dirty. These days, our conversations are filled with this kind of crap. And those who aren’t interested, those who are more restrained, they’re social outcasts. Reason is collapsing under the weight of emotion. Well, if people are begging for sensationalism, we’re more than happy to give it to them.”

  “And thus finish the failed mission Shinje set out for himself in the nineteen eighties. I see,” Eytan muttered. He sighed and asked, “Did you think you could pull this off with no consequences? Were you willing to risk your own mentor’s life? He was planning to be here for the dedication.”

  “I would have gotten him out in time. But it didn’t matter in the end, because he died before we could open the center. To answer your first question, yes, I was prepared to do anything necessary to force the world powers to admit their crimes. The martyrs in Moscow and Pardubice are a testament to our determination. I wanted to ignite a global awakening, even if it meant taking innocent lives. This was my fate. And man must accept his fate. Trying to avoid it is delusional.”

  “Fate, the ultimate excuse. But it won’t exonerate your sins. We’re all responsible for our actions.’”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to understand.”

  “Ah, but Sean, I’m the one person who could actually understand you.”

  Eytan slowly removed his jacket and dropped it to the ground. He rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt to reveal the serial number tattooed on his forearm.

  “Who are you?” Sean Woodridge asked, horrified.

  “I’m what remains of a boy who was deported to Poland in 1940 by the Nazis. The very pseudo scientists you condemn conducted experiments on Jewish kids for over a year in hopes of perfecting the Aryan race. I’m living proof of their success and also their failure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I survived. I ran away and joined the Polish resistance. Since then, I’ve devoted my life to hunting down Nazi criminals and bringing them to justice or, if I have no choice, taking them out myself. I’m their own weapon of destruction turned against them.”

  Sean was silent for a moment. Having delved into the dark depths of such horrors himself, he was not surprised by the story.

  “So you and I are exactly the same,” he said. Eytan could hear the note of vindication in his voice.

  “We couldn’t be more different. You sacrifice lives, while I try to save them. I don’t let anger determine my actions. The ends don’t always justify the means. If they did, we’d be no better than our opponents.”

  “It’s not always that black and white. Do you know what MacArthur said in his speech after Japan surrendered?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I know his words by heart. They disgust me. ‘It is my earnest hope and, indeed, the hope of all mankind that from this solemn occasion a better world shall emerge out of the blood and carnage of the past—a world dedicated to the dignity of man and the fulfillment of his most cherished wish for freedom, tolerance, and justice.’ Two years later, he approved Shiro Ishii’s immunity.”

  “Enlightening.”

  “There you have it. I sought to condemn the cynical behavior of a few men so that the smallest
number of people would suffer from their wrongdoings.”

  “I don’t approve of your methods, Sean, as much as your motivations speak to me.”

  Sean Woodridge closed his eyes. The evening wind ruffled his blond hair. “This is a beautiful place to leave this life,” he said softly. He was smiling wistfully.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Eytan replied. “But no one has to die today. Hand me your gun, Sean, and let’s leave it at that.”

  Woodridge opened his eyes again.

  “Don’t worry about the barrels in the conference center. The virus has a short life span. In a few hours, it will be harmless. Inside my briefcase you’ll find a set of envelopes. They hold all the information about the actions we’ve taken. It’s up to you to decide what to do with it. Congratulations, Eytan Morg, you’ve completed your mission.”

  Before Eytan could react, Sean brought the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Elena, now freed of her head pain, heard the gunshot in the park. She ran toward the sound and stopped when she spotted Eytan leaving the grounds. He was carrying a briefcase in his right hand. His left hand was tucked inside his jacket. He was holding his side and walking with great difficulty.

  She ran up to him, offering to help. He declined.

  “It’s over,” he said gravely.

  “I took care of the guys in the equipment room. Did you kill Woodridge?”

  “No. He accepted the consequences of his own failure,” Eytan said.

  “That guy was crazy, wasn’t he?”

  “Madness leads to desperation. Desperation leads to madness. And the victims become the executioners. We’re living proof, wouldn’t you agree? If only he had used a different method.”

  “‘If only’ could apply to us too,” Elena said. She put her hand on the giant’s arm. “At least we succeeded.”

  Silence fell on the park. Eytan inhaled deeply. Had they actually succeeded?