Fortunes of War (2 page)

“But you have signed an agreement with the Russians! They will sell us oil.”

“That, Your Excellency, is precisely the problem. As long as we are buying Russian oil, we are at their mercy.
Japan must have its own resources
.”

The son of an industrialist, Atsuko Abe had spent the first two decades of his adult life in the Japanese Self-Defense Force, the military. Although he was selected for flag rank, he left at an early age and obtained a post in the defense ministry. There Abe made friends with politicians across the spectrum, rose in influence, won promotion after promotion. Finally, he left the bureaucracy and ran for a seat in the Diet, which he won handily. He had been there for almost ten years, surfing the political riptides that surged through the capital.

He was ready now, at sixty-two years of age.
This
was his moment.

The emperor refused to look away. “
Our
hour? How dare you? This nation has never been in a shadow. Our way of life is honorable; we have kept faith with our ancestors. Our nation has made mistakes in the past, for which our people have paid dearly, but our honor is unstained. We need no hour of conquest, no triumph of violence, no blood on our hands.”

“You are born to your position,” Abe said bitterly. “What do you know of struggle, of triumph?”

The emperor fought to maintain his composure. “Russia has nuclear weapons, which the Russians might use to defend themselves. Have you the right to risk the very life of this nation?”

“We are in a grave crisis, Your Excellency.”

“Don't patronize me, Prime Minister.”

Abe bowed. When he straightened, he said, “Forgive me, Excellency. The fact you do not know is that Japan also is a nuclear power. I am convinced that Russia will not risk nuclear war to retain a wasteland that has never earned her a single yen of profit.”

The emperor sat stunned. “Japan has nuclear weapons?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“How? How were these weapons developed and manufactured?”

“With the greatest secrecy. Obviously.” The manufacture of these weapons was Abe's greatest triumph, a program reluctantly agreed to by politicians watching their world collapse, then accomplished under a security blanket worthy of Joseph Stalin.

“The government did this without the consent of the Diet? Without the knowledge and consent of the Japanese people? In violation of the constitution and the laws?”

Abe merely bowed his head.

“What if you are wrong about Russia?” the emperor demanded. “Answer me that. What if Russia retaliates with nuclear weapons?”

“The risk is as great for Russia as it is for Japan, and Russia has less at stake.”

“They may not see the equation as you do, Prime Minister.”

Abe said nothing.

The emperor was too astonished to go further. The man is mad, he thought. The prime minister has gone completely mad.

After a bit, the emperor recovered his voice sufficiently to ask, “What do you suggest I tell the president of the United States in answer to his letter?”

Abe made an irritated gesture. “Ignore it. No answer is necessary, Your Excellency. The president does not know his place.”

Naruhito shook his head ponderously from side to side. “My grandfather, Hirohito, received a letter from President Roosevelt on the eve of World War Two, pleading for peace. Hirohito did not answer that letter. He refused to intervene with the government. All my life, I have wondered how history might have been different had my grandfather spoken up for what he believed.”

“Emperor Hirohito believed that the government was acting in the nation's best interests.”

“Perhaps he did. I am not convinced that your government is now.”

Abe shook himself. He had come too far, endured too much. He faced the emperor like a sumo wrestler. “The government must speak for you, and the nation, which are the same.
That
is the law.”

“Do not speak to me of law. Not after what you have told me.”

Abe pounded his chest. “You reign, I
rule
. That is the Japanese way.”

Abe took several deep breaths to compose himself. “If you will give me a copy of the letter, I will have the foreign minister prepare a reply.”

The emperor didn't seem to hear. He continued, thinking aloud: “In this era of nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons, war is obsolete.
It is no longer a viable political option. The nation that plunges headlong into war in the twenty-first century will, I fear, merely be committing national suicide.
Death
, sir, is most definitely not Japan's destiny. Death is final and eternal, whether it comes slowly, from natural causes, or swiftly, in a spectacular blaze of glory.
Life
, sir, must be our business.
Life
is our concern.”

Before Abe could think of a polite reply, the emperor added softly, “You carry a very heavy burden, Prime Minister. You carry the hopes and dreams of every Japanese alive today and those of our honored ancestors. You literally carry Japan upon your back.”

“Your Excellency, I am aware of my responsibilities,” Atsuko Abe retorted, as politely as he could. He struggled to keep a grip on his temper. “Keenly aware,” he added through clenched teeth.

“In your public speeches that I have read, sir, you speak as if Japan's destiny were as obvious as the rising sun on a clear morning,” Emperor Naruhito said without rancor. “I suggest you consult the representatives of the people in the Diet before you make any major commitments.”

He could think of nothing else to say to this fool facing him….

“Follow the law,” the emperor added. That was always excellent advice, but…

“The Japanese are a great people,” the emperor told the prime minister, to fill the silence. “If you keep faith with them, they will have faith in you.”

Abe forced his head down in a gesture of respect. The skin on his head was tan, the hair cropped short.

Naruhito could stand no more of this scoundrel. He rose stiffly, bowed, and walked from the room.

That had been two days ago.

Naruhito had forsaken his ceremonial, almost-mystical position as head of state to speak the truth as he believed it, for the good of the nation. He had never done that before, but Abe…advocating the unthinkable…telling the emperor to his face what his duty was—never in his life had Naruhito been so insulted. The memory of Abe's words still burned deeply.

He had written a letter to the president of the United States, written it by hand because he did not wish to trust a secretary.

The truth was bitter: He could not affect events.

The children were singing now, led by Naruhito's wife, Masako. A flush of warmth went through the emperor as he regarded her, his dearly beloved wife, his empress, singing softly, leading the children.

Truly, he loved life. Loved his wife, his people, his nation
…this
Japanese nation. His life, the nation's life, they were all bound up together, one and inseparable. A profound sense of loss swept over him. Time
is
running out….

 

Captain Shunko Kato stood concealed by a curtain at a second-floor window in the Imperial Palace, watching the ceremony on the lawn below. Behind him stood the other three erstwhile telephone repairmen,
his
men, standing motionless, seemingly at perfect ease. They weren't, Kato knew. He could feel the tension, tight as a violin string. Military discipline held them motionless, silent, each man in communion only with his thoughts.

The sunlight coming through the window made a lopsided rectangle on the floor. Kato looked at the sunlit floor, the great frame that held the window, the hedge, the lawn, the people, the bold, brazen sky above….

He was seeing all this for the last time. Ah, but to dwell on his personal fate was unworthy. Kato brushed the thought away and concentrated on the figures before him on the lawn.

There was the emperor, shorter than the average Japanese male at five feet four, erect, carrying a tummy. Surrounding the group were security officers in civilian clothes—most of these men had their backs to the ceremony.

Kato retreated a few inches. He ensured he was concealed by the shadow of the drape, hidden from the observation of anyone on the lawn who might look at this window. Satisfied, he scanned the security guards quickly, taking in their state of alertness at a glance; then he turned his attention back to the royal party.

The emperor stood slightly in front of a group of officials, watching the empress and the children, seemingly caught up in the simple ritual. No doubt he was. He certainly had nothing else to worry about. The emperor, Kato was sure, was quite oblivious to the desperation that had ravaged so many lives since the bank collapse. How could it be otherwise? The emperor certainly didn't move in ordinary circles.

Yet the man must read newspapers, occasionally watch television. How could he miss the corruption of the politicians, the bribes, the influence peddling, the stench of scandal after scandal? Could he not see the misery of the common people, always loyal, always betrayed?

He never spoke out against corruption, avarice, greed. Never. And never condemning, he silently approved.

Kato felt his chest swelling with indignation. Oh, that they called such a man “Son of Heaven!” An extraordinary obscenity.

The empress was saying good-bye to the children. The ceremony was ending.

Kato turned, surveyed his men. Still wearing the blue jumpers and caps of the telephone company, they were as fit as professional athletes, lean, with ropy muscles and easy, fluid movements. Kato had trained them, hardened them, made them soldiers in the Bushido tradition. In truth, he was proud of them, and now that pride showed on his face. The men looked back at him with faces that were also unable to conceal their emotion.

“For Japan,” he said softly, just loudly enough for them to hear.

“For Japan.” Their lips moved soundlessly, for he had told them to make no sound. Still, the reply echoed in Kato's ears.

“Banzai,” he mouthed.

“Banzai!” The silent reply lashed his soul.

 

The security guards escorted the emperor and empress toward the door of the Imperial Palace. One of them held it open for the emperor, who always preceded his wife by two paces. The security men did not enter the hallway; they remained outside. The entire palace was inside a security zone.

Inside the building, away from other eyes, the emperor paused to let Masako reach his side. She flashed him a grin, a very un-Japanese gesture, but then she had spent years in the United States attending college before their marriage. He dearly enjoyed seeing her grin, and he smiled his pleasure.

She took his arm and leaned forward, so that her lips brushed his cheek. His smile broadened.

Arm in arm, they walked down the hall to the end, then turned right.

Four men stood silently, waiting. They blocked the hallway.

The emperor stopped.

One of the men moved noiselessly to position himself behind the royal couple, but the others did not give way. Nor, the emperor noted with surprise, did they bow. Not even the tiniest bob.

Naruhito looked from face to face. Not one of the men broke eye contact.

“Yes?” he said finally.

“Your wife may leave, Your Excellency,” said one of the men. His voice was strong, even, yet not loud.

“Who are you?” asked the emperor.

“I am Captain Shunko Kato of the Japanese Self-Defense Force.” Kato bowed deeply from the waist, but none of the other men moved a muscle. “These enlisted men are under my command.”

“By whose authority are you here?”

“By our own.”

Naruhito felt his wife's hand tighten on his arm. He looked again from face to face, waiting for them to look away as a gesture of respect. None of them did.

“Why are you here?” the emperor asked finally. He realized that time was on his side, not theirs, and he wished to draw this out as long as possible.

Kato seemed to read his thoughts. “We are here for Japan,” Kato said crisply, then added, “The empress must leave now.”

Naruhito could read the inevitable in their faces. Although the thought did not occur to Captain Kato, Naruhito had as much courage as any man there. He turned toward the empress.

“You must go, dear wife.”

She stared into his face, panic-stricken. Both her hands clutched his arm in a fierce grip.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “We have no choice. Go, and know I love you.”

She tore her eyes from him and swept them around the group, looking directly into the eyes of each man. Three of them averted their gaze.

Then she turned and walked back toward the lawn.

From a decorative table nearby, Kato took a samurai sword, which the emperor had not previously noticed. With one swift motion, the officer withdrew the blade from the sheath.

“For Japan,” he said, grasping the handle with both hands.

The sword was very old, the emperor noticed. Hundreds of years old. His heart was audibly pounding in his ears. He looked again at each face. They were fanatics.

Resigned, Emperor Naruhito sank to his knees. He would not let them see him afraid. Thank heavens his hands were not trembling. He
closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts. Enough of these zealots. He thought of his wife and his son and daughter.

The last thing he heard was the slick whisper of the blade whirring through the air.

 

Masako walked slowly toward the door where just seconds ago she and her husband had entered the palace. Every step was torture, agony….

The men were assassins.

Masako, in her horror, had sensed it the moment she saw them. They had no respect; their faces registered extraordinary tension—not like loyal subjects meeting their emperor and his wife, but like assassins.

She knew her nation's history, of course, knew how assassins had plagued rulers and politicians in times of turmoil, how they always murdered
for Japan—
as if their passionate patriotism could excuse the blood, could excuse slashing the life from men who had little or no control over the events that fired the murderers—then atoned for their crimes in orgies of ritual suicide.