by J. M. Hayes
“Captain Kozo Sasaki to see Mr. Renya Kira,” the commander of his guards said. Sasaki’s name didn’t impress the little man, but Kira’s did. At his mention the man transformed himself from a bored, impatient clerk into an obsequious instrument of their pleasure. Given the speed and efficiency with which his removal from the Chinese front had been carried out, Sasaki suspected Kira must be an important man. The clerk’s reaction confirmed it.
“Allow me please, and I will inform Mr. Kira of your arrival,” he said. He bowed so deeply and frequently Sasaki was concerned he might begin banging his head on the desk. It was embarrassing, to see the man humiliate himself so. Under other circumstances, Sasaki might have forcibly stopped it.
The clerk picked up a telephone and held a whispered conversation with the instrument while continuing to favor them with a reassuring smile, easily as genuine as his paper shuffling.
In a remarkably short time a tall young man in a western-style business suit approached the reception desk, nodded at the servile clerk and the escorts, then offered a deep bow.
“Captain Sasaki, I presume?” he inquired, extending his hand for a western handshake. Sasaki accepted without comment. The gesture might or might not be an insult.
“I am Mr. Kira’s personal secretary. Mr Kira is anxious to meet you, but you may have some time to freshen up first.”
Sasaki had been in his uniform for more than forty hours. It was soiled and wrinkled, quite out of place alongside the secretary’s neatly pressed garments. Sasaki liked the contrast. Warrior and bureaucrat, actor and audience. Besides, he was anxious to find out what this was about, to know how seriously his life was threatened by the Kempeitai’s interest. He brushed at his great coat and a little dried mud fell on the tiled floor at their feet.
“No, let’s get on with it. The Emperor’s business cannot wait on niceties.”
“Very well,” the man agreed. Sasaki was surprised to discover that, though the secretary was put off by his refusal, he lacked the nerve to insist. Perhaps Sasaki was not in as much danger as he had imagined.
They took an elevator, then the secretary led the way down a long corridor. Sasaki’s boots, and those of his escort, echoed hollowly while the secretary’s shoes hardly whispered. Even the tiles seemed to recognize the difference in their status.
Sasaki detected no signal, but the men who guarded him peeled off at the door to Mr. Kira’s office and flanked it, waiting. The door itself was unmarked. Behind it lay a large outer office, richly upholstered with furniture and carpets as western as this secretary’s suit and manners. Everything was spotless, immaculate. Sasaki shrugged out of his great coat and tossed it onto a plush couch. For a moment he thought the secretary might throw his body across the sofa to protect its brocade surface. The potential damage to his suit must have deterred him and he merely stood and stared. Sasaki enjoyed his reaction, enjoyed establishing control.
“Mr. Kira?” Sasaki prompted.
“Ah, yes,” the man agreed. He went to his desk and picked up the phone. He was returning it to its cradle when the door to an inner office opened. A short, thick man with a grey moustache and goatee advanced into the room like some miniature sumo wrestler.
The newcomer bowed slightly, smiled, and took Sasaki’s arm. He led the way toward the inner office.
“My dear Captain Sasaki,” he proclaimed. “I am so delighted you could manage to visit me. Come in, come in.” The voice sounded genuinely pleased, devoid of irony at Sasaki’s lack of choice in the matter. “Please, take a seat, anywhere, make yourself comfortable.” The offer was made with the generosity of a man who could delegate the necessity of cleaning up after to someone else.
Kira’s office was considerably larger than his secretary’s. Its furnishings were likewise western, but less ostentatious. There was only one hint that they were in the heart of Japan. A portrait of Mr. Kira being warmly received by Emperor Hirohito hung on the only wall without a door or a window.
There was a plain wooden chair in front of Kira’s desk and Sasaki took it in preference to one of the several easy chairs.
Kira made his way behind the desk. Like his office, it was large, with three telephones, several neat stacks of paper and files, an ornamental clock that doubled as a pen holder, and a jade-handled letter opener with an unusually long, sharp blade. It all hardly began to fill the sweep of the desk’s surface. The Venetian blinds at the window behind Kira were open on a stunning scene of a delicate Shinto shrine and the smoke belching factory behind it. Sasaki couldn’t blame the man for turning his back on such a modern view, however symbolically appropriate it might be.
Kira sat in a swivel chair, rocked back and stared at his visitor with a wide smile for several moments. It was more disconcerting than the interrogation Sasaki had anticipated.
“They don’t think I’m quite sane, you know,” Kira said and smiled some more. Sasaki began to understand why “they” might feel that way. “You either, of course,” he added. He reached down, picked up a file and opened it.
“Kozo Sasaki,” he read aloud. “Born, 1905, Kobe. Parents, Admiral Atsumaro Sasaki and Helen Davidson, daughter of Lawrence Vernon Davidson, Assistant Chargé D’Affaires of the American Legation in Osaka from 1898 to 1905.” Except for the continued benevolent smile, this was more the behavior Sasaki had expected.
“Father, the eldest son of an old and important Samurai family. Expected to rise in power and influence following his sweeping successes in the Russo-Japanese War, but hampered by the embarrassment of an Occidental bride and a half-cast son. Retired from service, 1913, entered diplomatic corps and served at the embassy in Washington, D.C., United States, until his death in 1921. Cause of death, suicide due to grief following wife’s demise in automobile accident.
“Subject was then raised by maternal grandparents, but after a series of incidents, returned to paternal grandparents and Japan in 1923. Admitted to the Army Academy and graduated with honor in 1928. Subject showed flair, even brilliance, in matters involving personal combat and guerrilla warfare.
“Subject has seen service in Manchuria and North China. Pursues the war with ruthless abandon. Reckless, but successful. Respected and feared by those under his command. Disliked and avoided by fellow officers.
“Subject is believed to have murdered as many as six persons, though, in each instance, no proof exists. These include a schoolmate at the Fenster Hill Academy in Virginia, U.S.A. (the incident that resulted in his return to Japan), a fellow cadet and an instructor at the Army Academy, an American merchant in Osaka, and two superior officers in China.”
Kira looked up from his notes for a moment. “And they tell me there was fresh blood on your sword when you received your invitation to join me here.” The smile widened briefly before he began to read again.
“Subject appears motivated by a need to erase the shame of his parents’ relationship, especially the humiliation of the unmanly form and cause of his father’s death. He willingly serves Japan and his Emperor, but, ultimately, the service of his insatiable ego will remain the primary factor by which his future actions will be motivated. Subject is considered useful under certain circumstances, but highly unstable and potentially dangerous.
“Recommendations, in order of preference: One—terminate. Two—utilize with extreme caution in scheme which will feed subject’s ego, producing results favorable to Japan, and resulting in subject’s death. Three—continue observation and analysis, instituting option one at the first sign subject may be beyond our control.”
Sasaki listened impassively, watching Mr. Kira for clues. Though not completely accurate, the Kempeitai obviously knew him better than he’d suspected. One of the bodies they’d attributed to him was not his, though it was offset by more than a dozen others still undiscovered. He was surprised they suspected as much as they did, but he didn’t let it frighten him. Mr. Kira wouldn’t have wasted so much time and effort if he intended to follow the dossier’s first recommendation.
***
The Apache sprinted up the hill, ducking through the dogwoods and maples. He was fast, but the enemy had longer legs, was steadily gaining. He could hear the footsteps, even over the voices. Not much farther.
The Apache knew the place. He had been here before. He ducked around a thick stand of young oaks and threw himself into the dense laurels that lined the trail, worming his way to where he could no longer be seen from behind but could watch the trail ahead. He made it, but only just.
The enemy hurtled by. A few steps closer and he would have seen the Apache leave the trail.
The enemy slowed as he realized the Apache was no longer ahead of him. But his momentum was enough. He screeched, a high, almost girlish sound, as he sprung the trap and the noose closed around his leg. The sapling straightened and left him dangling, his head just bouncing on the mossy soil. The Apache of Virginia was surprised. He hadn’t thought it would work even that well.
“God damn it, Sasaki,” the enemy bawled. “You better come let me down if you know what’s good for you.”
Sasaki, the Apache, crawled out of the laurels and went to examine his handiwork. He stayed well out of the reach of Todd Walters’ flailing hands.
“If I know what’s good for me?” he mocked. “You were going to beat the shit out of me. Now I should let you go so we can get on with it?”
“If you don’t let me down, you little half-breed Jap bastard, I’m gonna kill you.”
Todd Walters, as head bully of Sasaki’s class at the Fenster Hill Academy of Arlington, Virginia, had been “killing” Sasaki little by little for years. The Indians—Sasaki was always an Indian because of his eyes and his skin color—had always lost to Todd’s Cowboys. Usually, they lost painfully. He and Todd hadn’t played Cowboys and Indians for years, until today, though only Sasaki was aware of it so far. There were lots of new games for the always bigger and stronger Todd to beat Sasaki at, and up, in the process.
Sasaki decided the rope would hold. He went over and got the blanket full of tools he’d cached in the hollow trunk of a dead oak nearby.
“What’re you doing?” Walters demanded. “My buddies are gonna whale on your scrawny yellow ass as soon as they catch up.”
“You don’t have any buddies,” Sasaki told him. “Not really. And they gave up half a mile ago. They’re probably back down in the dorm by now.”
Todd didn’t argue. He knew he had followers because he was tougher than anybody else. He didn’t really have friends. “What have you got there?”
Sasaki had, among other things, another rope. He tossed it over the limb of a mature maple, made a lasso out of one end, and began trying to secure Todd’s other leg. He wasn’t very good at roping, but no matter how much the other boy flailed and yelled, it was just a matter of time.
“Listen, Kozo. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that stuff,” Walters pleaded as Sasaki began to haul on the second rope. Strain as he might, he only managed to raise Todd another foot or two in the air.
“Of course you meant it,” Kozo Sasaki said as he secured the second rope and went for a third. “But you probably are sorry, at least right now. Of course you’ll still whip me again, every time you get the chance, if I let you go.”
“No, really I won’t.” Todd grabbed at the next rope Sasaki threw and succeeded only in getting both his hands caught by this lasso the first time it was thrown.
Sasaki yanked it tight, carried the other end of the rope back down the trail to another limb, and hauled on it until Walters was suspended, face down, some four feet above the forest floor.
“Ahhh! Jeez, Kozo! You don’t know how much that hurts,” Todd howled. “What are you doing to me?”
Kozo wasn’t sure he could explain. He just got the scissors instead and began cutting away Todd’s clothing. What with all the thrashing and yelling, it took a while and proved Kozo’s theory that Todd’s followers, in this case, hadn’t.
When Kozo pulled out the razor blade, Todd the bully began to cry. “Kozo! Please! I promise! I’ll do anything you want!”
He was right. He died slowly and in agony, just the way Sasaki had imagined.
***
Kira placed the documents on his desk, picked up the letter opener, and began tapping the point absentmindedly against his incisors. It made a faint ringing noise that grated on Sasaki’s nerves and made him wonder how unconsciously it was being done.
He could take the letter opener from Kira and kill him. That was no problem. Nor would the secretary be one. Getting past the professionals who had accompanied him from China, however, was unlikely, and surviving to escape from this building, unimaginable. He wasn’t afraid of dying, just dying without purpose, without an appropriately glorious cause to demonstrate his superiority and uniqueness. This wasn’t it.
“So, you’ve decided against killing me,” Kira said. It was eerily as if he’d been reading Sasaki’s thoughts. Kira put down the letter opener (it would have made an excellent defensive weapon) and leaned back in his chair. “A wise decision, Captain, because I plan to make use of you in a way which I think will satisfy us both.”
He picked up Sasaki’s file and dropped it in a waste paper basket beside his desk. “Facts, errors, and half-truths, I suspect. You should see my dossier. As I said, they think I am insane. But they are also aware of the brilliance of my espionage capabilities, and my family connections make eliminating me a dangerous undertaking. Still, they’ve tried twice, and solely because I am only sexually aroused by persons recently dead.” He said it as casually as one might confess to a slight social indiscretion, shrugging his shoulders in apology. “Each of us has our little quirks, Captain. You are prepared to embrace death in your way, I in mine.”
He was insane. For the first time, Sasaki felt uncomfortable. A lunatic was deciding his fate.
“Your dossier mentions that you have a fascination with the American Indians, that you are an expert on their methods of warfare. May I ask why?”
It took Sasaki a moment to adjust to this shift in the conversation. “I spent a great deal of my youth in the United States,” he finally responded. “A common children’s game there is Cowboys and Indians. When I was invited to participate, I was always cast in the role of the villainous Indian, thanks to the color of my skin and the slant of my eyes. I began to identify with them. I spent much of my spare time reading about them and the abuses they suffered during the centuries of conquest. Considering the widely divergent levels of technology of the combatants, the result was never in doubt. Just the same, I was constantly impressed with the skill they brought to that impossible struggle.”
Todd Walters had proved a valuable lesson. It was amazing how easily difficulties might be overcome if only unusual solutions were pursued.
“I’ve read your papers from the Academy,” Kira said. “They imply that the American Indians were among the world’s finest warrior peoples, natural guerrilla fighters. Those wars ended half a century ago. Might the descendants of those warriors retain such skills?”
Sasaki had never thought about it. In fact, he’d never seen a live Indian. He had nothing to base an opinion on except what he wanted the answer to be.
“They’ve been subjugated a long time. The very best were nearly all killed. But I believe a nucleus remains. Given an opportunity, it would seem likely.”
Kira leaned his chair back again and examined his fingernails. They were immaculate.
“Are you familiar with a tribe called the Papago?” he asked.
Sasaki thought for a moment but he didn’t recognize the name.
“They are inhabitants of Arizona in the American Southwest,” Kira prompted. “I am told they are related to the Pima.”
“Ah yes,” Sasaki said. “The Pima were traditional enemies of the Apache. The American Cavalry used them as scouts and allies.”
“Were they capable warriors?”
“They must have been if they fought the Apache and survived. The Apache were probably the finest guerrilla fight
ers the American Indians ever produced. Though very small in number, they denied control of vast territories to their White enemies. Any group that fought against them successfully must have been fine warriors indeed.”
Kira nodded. “It doesn’t really matter, but it would certainly make things more interesting if you are correct.”
He leaned forward again, putting the letter opener down. He rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.
“Have you managed to stay abreast of world affairs from your position at the front?”
“In general, I suppose,” Sasaki replied. “But news often reaches us late and we lack the time to study it.”
“Are you aware that the American government has begun to enlarge its armed forces? That they have instituted a conscription policy again?”
“Yes,” Sasaki lied. He had heard something, but thought it was only in the works, not a policy already implemented.
“It’s further evidence that the Americans will soon involve themselves in the war in Europe. There are some who argue they only intend to go to the aid of the tottering English and won’t risk fighting on more than one front, but those people are fools. They don’t understand America any more than America understands us. They don’t see that America believes herself to be the champion of world morality, however tempered by the quest for profit. They can’t understand why the Americans believe us to be another Fascist nation and do not realize we are only technologically modern. Psychologically, we remain a nation of feudal lords and peasants. America sees our invasion of China as evidence of a policy of world conquest and domination, not the senseless inability of our government to control its commanders or those commanders to control their troops.
“You realize, of course,” he confided, “the moment we went beyond the conquest of Manchuria, the moment we entered North China, we lost this war. We should be preparing to fight the Soviets, our true enemy in Asia, and befriend China, our natural ally. We should be preparing to meet the inevitable challenge from America for control of the Pacific. But, alas no, like dead leaves we rush wherever any impetuous breeze may carry us, and it carries us, devoutly screaming banzais, to our doom. So be it. If all that remains for us is death, at least we may occasionally choose a magnificent one.”