by Peter Albano
“He’s dead,” the waiter said.
“He’s going home,” Brent said thickly. He leveled the Otsu. “Now pick him up.”
Quickly the pair picked up Kurosu by the shoulders and legs and turned toward the entrance. “Hold it!” Brent said. He shouted at the foyer, “The entrance is to be cleared. No security, no police — no one at all. Understood?”
Ochiai’s voice: “Understood.”
Dale heard a flurry of subdued voices and the sounds of hurrying feet and Ochiai spoke again: “The foyer is cleared except for myself.”
“The sidewalk?”
“No one. And the Mercedes just pulled up.”
“Get rid of the driver and then take off.”
“The police are on their way.”
Brent waved the pistol irritably. “Hold them back or I’ll take the maître d’ and one of his waiters with me.”
The voice was filled with frustration: “All right. All right. You can come now.”
Holding Kurosu’s feet, the waiter led with the maître d’ gripping the dead watertender’s shoulders. Brent followed and Dale came last. Hiromitsu Ochiai had been true to his word. The foyer and entrance were cleared and no one was on the sidewalk. A Mercedes SEL 560 was parked at the curb, keys in the ignition. Looking down the Hibiya Dori in both directions, Dale could see the revolving colored lights of police cars halting traffic at intersections. Brent ordered the men to put Azuma’s body into the backseat and then stared down the Hibiya Dori, stopping on the revolving lights. “Both of you, get in there with him,” he shouted.
“No! S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Lieutenant.”
“In. Now!” He waved the pistol.
Groaning, the maître d’hôtel and the waiter placed the corpse on the backseat. “In! In! One on each side.” The Frenchmen groaned, moaned, and complied. Brent turned to Dale. “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“Can you drive?”
She was caught by his eyes, which glowed as if lamps were burning behind them. Steady and unblinking, the look was frightening — the blood lust of a predator; the same animalistic fever she had seen at dock B-2 in the terrible fight at the parking lot when he had blindly swung at her when she attempted to stop him. She tore her eyes away and managed a reasonably firm, “Yes. I can.”
He waved her into the car.
Chapter VI
Only half of the glowing orb of the sun had crept over the horizon when a fatigued Brent Ross was summoned to Admiral Fujita’s office for the second time. As usual, the scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube, was seated next to the admiral. In addition, Admiral Mark Allen, Yoshi Matsuhara, and Dale McIntyre were all standing in the crowded office. Surprisingly, Police Captain Kamagasu Kudo was present, this time subdued and standing off to one side unobtrusively instead of grabbing center stage in front of the admiral. The usual pair of seaman guards flanked the door and a communications rating manned the phones in the corner.
Brent felt drained — exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the previous night, physical exertion, and the lack of sleep. He had been called into the admiral’s office the first time on boarding and had given his description of the terrible events and was dismissed. Then Dale McIntyre had been called in as he left.
For the woman’s protection and to keep her out of the hands of the police, she had been given a cabin next to the admiral’s. Frantically, she had showered and scrubbed the gore out of her hair and slipped on green fatigues which Fujita had ordered for her while her dress was sent to the ship’s laundry. But nothing would ever wash the memories of the night from her mind.
Passing her as she entered the admiral’s cabin, Brent would never forget the haunted look on her face. Puffed and underscored with blue pouches, the striking green eyes were wide and rimmed with tired lines, appearing as heavy and dead as stagnant swamp water — the look of one who had seen the Stygian Creek and grappled with the furies in the bowels of hell. She had brushed past Brent silently without even turning her head and had spent over an hour with the admiral while Brent answered an endless stream of questions from Mark Allen, Yoshi Matsuhara, and Colonel Irving Bernstein in Mark Allen’s cabin.
Now, standing in front of the admiral, Brent’s mind seemed fogged and out of balance, divorced from reality like a heavy drinker on the verge of stupefaction. Despite his strongest efforts, his thoughts wandered back to the bloody events like a film strip that insisted on repeating itself: the killer leaping over the table, knife glinting; the Arisaka roaring; the two assassins racing out of the foyer; the Otsu bucking; the roar of the weapons and acrid smell of gunpowder; Dale’s screams; the security guard’s insane charge; Kurosu’s brave death that had temporarily left him a sobbing ruin; the ride back with a stunned Dale and the disintegrating waiter and maître d’hôtel; a half-dozen police cars following the Mercedes all the way to the parking lot; the seaman guards gently unloading Watertender Azuma Kurosu’s body while the police parked at a discreet distance. Then, Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi examining the corpse on the quarterdeck and dispatching it to the ship’s crematorium in Fire Room Seven. And most galling, Horikoshi turning to Brent and saying sardonically, “Another one, Lieutenant. You are going to overwork the crew of the crematorium, yet, Mr. Ross.”
Too filled with grief, soured rage, and self-recrimination to speak, Brent had turned on his heel and walked off silently. Then the self-doubts struck home. Had he been remiss? Had he been so possessed by the woman’s sexuality he had become careless? Thrown away Kurosu’s life for a quick, cheap feel of a woman’s thighs? Disgust and self-loathing festered and turned his guts to acid.
Admiral Fujita’s voice addressing the police captain jarred Brent back to the present, “Captain Kudo, we are all anxious to hear the results of your investigation of last night’s incident.” The admiral’s demeanor was surprisingly cordial.
Kudo answered in a restrained voice. “It was a charnel house, Admiral. Six killed.”
There was something wrong with the number. “Six?” Brent said through the fog.
“I do not have his name, Lieutenant, but a young waiter with long dark hair and an earring in his right ear had his throat cut in the kitchen,” Kudo said.
Brent heard Dale’s broken voice, “No. No.”
Kudo continued, “The leader of the assassins was Ismael abu Hemeid. He was ‘Sabbah.’ We know very little about this group except that they are merciless killers and very professional.”
Bernstein spoke and there was bitterness in his voice. “Kadafi’s killer elite. Sabbah. Israelis know them well. The followers of ‘the old man of the mountain,’ Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah. Started his pride of assassins in Iran — Persia then — centuries ago. The cult has persisted till this day and now they are supported by the Libyans — given everything they want — food, liquor, women, or boys, if they prefer, training facilities. They still prefer the knife. Get high on hashish and will put cold steel into a great white, if ordered. And, of course, they find eternal paradise if killed while attacking.”
Kudo nodded in gratitude, picked up his thought. “The other two were Muzammil Siddiqi and Ammar Abdulhamid. They were newly recruited by Hemeid for this job. They were just thugs from the dockyards of Tripoli…”
“A hotel security guard was killed?” the admiral said.
Kudo turned his lips under and squared his jaw. “Yes, Admiral. Security Guard Kiotaki Kawaguchi was hit by four bullets. He died instantly.” He stared at Brent Ross while a heavy silence crept through the room like a thick, viscous fluid.
“I shot him,” Brent said simply.
“He charged into the middle of a gun battle. Azuma Kurosu was dying,” Dale said. She waved at Brent. “How could Brent know?” The finger stabbed at every man in the room. “All of you would have done the same.” The men stared at her silently. She started to plead. “I would’ve shot him.” The finger moved again, “You, you and you…” The voice trembled on the edge of hysteria.
Fujita’
s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Ms. McIntyre. I understand. Of course, the security guard was very foolish — stupid. He would have died at my hand, too.”
Kudo said to Admiral Fujita, “He is dead, sir. That is all that matters.”
Fujita’s demeanor hardened. “You will not take Brent Ross anywhere for questioning.”
“That is not why I requested to come on board, sir.”
“Then why? What do you want here, if you do not want Mr. Ross?”
The police captain sighed. “It is dangerous for any of your men to go ashore.”
Fujita’s chuckle was dry with irony, tone mocking. “Indeed, Captain. Any other new information for me?”
Kudo squirmed uncomfortably and a red hue crept up from the multiple chins hanging over his tight white starched collar and flushed the bulging cheeks. “I am here to request that you restrict your men. Most of the Japanese people are with you, however, these terrorist attacks are impossible to stop.”
“I know,” Fujita answered. “‘Sabbah’ tried to ram Yonaga with a ship loaded with explosives, dive a DC-3 into her. We had a petty officer murdered in a warehouse, an attempt to attack the ship with a truck bomb, two men killed in the gate house by that same truck…” He glanced at Brent Ross. “Two fights in the parking lot and a killing there.” The eyes moved to Yoshi. “An ambush in Ueno Park that left a woman dead and two members of the crew went on leave and never returned. Their families never saw them.” His hard gaze returned to the fat police captain. “And now, Watertender Azuma Kurosu, the man you would question over the death of a swine, is dead. We know about these cowardly terrorists — indeed, we do.”
“I would suggest that you restrict your men, Admiral.”
The admiral’s black eyes wandered over the policeman like twin gun sights; the huge round head set on Kudo’s neck like a pumpkin on a broomstick; the lemon-custard flesh of the jowls sagging down almost to the layered chins; the deep purple gash of the mouth; the spread legs braced in the stance of a pregnant woman in her third trimester, counterbalancing her enormous abdomen. The policeman had stepped over the line. Fujita’s voice was cracking ice. “I will make those decisions, Captain Kudo.”
“Why, of course, sir,” Kudo said hastily. He waved his hands as if he were fending off an assailant. “Only a suggestion, sir.”
Fujita nodded at the scribe, Katsube. “I have already canceled all liberty. Any personnel ashore on ship’s business will be escorted by our own armed guards.”
“You have the full cooperation of the police, Admiral. We are setting up roadblocks on all major thoroughfares entering the city and arresting anyone with a weapon.”
The admiral’s nod showed approval. “Long overdue, Captain.”
“The Self Defense Force relieved some of our riot police in the downtown area. Now we have the personnel, Admiral.”
The tiny admiral’s fist struck the table. “No more good men will be thrown away. We lost one of our best last night.”
The words whipped Brent’s soul like a lash. He felt icy guilt avalanche like snow down a spring slope. Weak and fatigued, he felt as if he were sliding over the rim of consciousness. He tried to push it away, but his culpability seemed overwhelming. Cruelly, his mind’s eye brought back every detail. His hand on the woman’s leg, groping like a schoolboy trying to shed his virginity in the backseat of a car. Kurosu on the floor in front of him, bleeding, groaning. The watertender looking up and whispering through the blood welling up from his punctured lungs, “Sorry, Mr. Ross. I let you down,” and then dying like a little boy dropping off to sleep. And other thoughts crowded in like maggots boiling up through rotten meat: the back of Konoye’s neck, the sloppy decapitation; Takii’s skinny neck, the feel of the great sword in its vicious arc, the thud and squirting blood. What had he become?
Brent took a step forward. “Admiral Fujita,” he said loudly. All eyes turned to the young American. “I request permission to commit seppuku.”
There were gasps. Fujita’s eyes widened and he straightened. Brent heard Mark Allen’s voice: “Insanity! He’s over the edge! Get a psychiatrist.”
Yoshi Matsuhara spoke: “You do not know what you are saying, Brent.”
Bernstein grabbed the young man’s arm: “You need rest, Brent. It’s been an ordeal — a terrible strain.”
Dale stepped close, panic in her eyes as the realization of Brent’s words seeped in slowly. “That’s suicide. You can’t mean it?”
Kudo’s eyes rolled and he said into Brent’s ear, “No, young man. The police will not trouble you. We know it was self-defense.”
Fujita waved them all to silence and his voice filled the room. “Why, Brent-san? Why this request?”
Brent held himself at stiff attention. “I am responsible.”
“Not true, Brent,” Dale shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling close.
Fujita ignored the woman. “Why are you responsible, Brent-san?”
Brent steeled himself. “I drank too much — was ah, involved with Ms. McIntyre when I should have been alert — left the protection of all of us to my man.” He looked around, blue of his eyes deepened by moisture. “I was careless — surprised.”
“Nonsense!” Mark Allen shouted. “Any of us can be surprised.” He waved a fist in exasperation. “My God, you don’t cut out your guts over that.”
Fujita spread his fingers and waved his hand at Allen like a fan and then gestured for Dale to speak. Dale said, “Of course we were surprised. That killer burst out of the kitchen.” She tugged on Brent’s arm and stared up into his eyes imploringly. “But, Brent, you reacted so fast I didn’t even know what was happening until that killer fell over me.”
“Kurosu’s dead,” Brent said blankly. “My eyes, my whole concentration, were on you.”
“Of course you were taken by the woman. But you killed two assassins and Ms. McIntyre was not even scratched,” Yoshi said.
Brent stared at Yoshi and his eyes were hard. “You feel guilt over Kimio — blame yourself for her death and you have requested seppuku. Who are you to tell me?”
“I am a Japanese, Brent-san.”
“You have said I am more Japanese than many.”
“Do not take me literally. You are not Asian — not one of us — not expected to…”
Brent hurried on impatiently. “There are two forms of seppuku — one to deny guilt, the other to express it. I am guilty. Will you be my kaishaku, Yoshi-san?”
Mark Allen’s voice: “This is crazy!”
“Enough! All of you!” Fujita’s hand slapped the desk. “Why are my most valuable men so determined to kill themselves?” His eyes moved from Yoshi to Brent and back. “Our enemies will afford both of you ample opportunities to move on to a higher plane of existence.” His gaze steadied on Brent and his hand found the Hagakure resting on the desk. “There is a time to live and a time to die. This is not your time to die, Brent-san. Your request is refused.” The eyes moved to Mark Allen and then back to Yoshi Matsuhara and there was a challenge in the stare. “Commander,” he said acidly. “Brent Ross has earned the position and respect of a samurai. Of all the men on this ship, you should know that better than anyone. You were born in America — came to this country as a young man just as Brent-san. Yet you consider yourself a samurai — live the life of Bushido. Asian or not, he has earned the Konoye sword honorably and fought alongside all of us bravely in the best tradition of Bushido.” He slapped the desk. “I never want to hear such a remark from you again.”
Yoshi’s jaw worked and he managed a tight “Yes, sir.” He returned to Brent Ross. “I meant no disrespect to you, Brent-san.” He returned to the admiral. “It was my opinion and, Admiral, it still is.”
“You are entitled to that,” Fujita said. “But express it elsewhere.” His eyes sought the overhead and he laced his fingers across his bony chest. He was somewhere else in the past. “According to the great sage Manu, ‘Deeds proceed from the body, speech, the mind and produce either good or evil an
d the soul in conjunction with the body performs three kinds of deeds: good, indifferent, and evil’.” The eyes descended to Brent Ross and the tone was soft and intimate. “No one can ever say your acts have been either indifferent or evil, Brent-san.”
Brent took a deep breath and expelled it audibly. “Thank you, Admiral. But respectfully, sir, I alone am responsible for my acts and my conduct last night did not measure up to my standards and the standards of Bushido.”
Mark Allen interrupted and his voice was anguished. “For Christ’s sake, Brent. Come back to reality.”
Fujita’s expression hinted approval of the American admiral’s words. He said to Mark Allen, “You need Lieutenant Ross in Blackfin?”
“Of course. You know I’ve requested his assignment.”
Fujita spoke to Brent. “I am posting you to Blackfin as communications officer. You will be in New York the day after tomorrow. Prepare your gear, Lieutenant. Your orders will be cut immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Brent wondered about the admiral’s faith in him as a samurai. Was it weakening? Tainted with doubts? Did Fujita share Mark Allen’s concern over his mental stability? Was he afraid terrorists would gun him down? Was he going mad? And why not? They had all been under crushing loads. Back-breaking pressures. The fighting had been incessant for years. And there were subtle philosophical and psychological dangers that could be more destructive than the enduring violence. How could he, an American to the core and a rational man, accept the Asian philosophy in which all things somehow are one, man part of the universal whole, flowing in the infinite river of life and at the same time believe in the natural law and world view of Christianity that had taught him from birth that man was created in the image of God and human nature the epitome of the universe. He had found himself trying to believe in both, but it required a splitting of the personality — a level of schizophrenia. Maybe Mark Allen was right.
Fujita’s words to Dale McIntyre interrupted the wild Niagara in Brent’s mind. “I understand you are to take a plane at Tokyo International at seventeen hundred hours this afternoon.”