The Grey Pilgrim (7 page)

Rat Skin chewed his nearly toothless gums in suppressed fury, but he knew when to give in. “I fear there is great danger here,” he said, in a voice as thin as his shanks, “but Jujul is right when he says we must learn about our enemies. I do not like it, but I also say, let her come.”

The two who had followed his lead continued to do so.

“Yes,” one said.

“Let it be so,” agreed the other.

Jujul had won. They would invite this strange White Woman. With luck, she would come.

As the men began to rise and depart from the council he pulled out the bent and frayed paper the stranger named Fitzpatrick had left. There was so much to learn. What message, if any, had been sent him? And, if it was important, why entrust it to so fragile a material? What manner of man was this Fitzpatrick? Could he be reasoned with, or might Jujul have to kill him? So much to learn, so very much. At least now there would be a chance to learn it.

An Immortality Few Earn

Kempeitai Headquarters in Tokyo occupied a modern building of insipid European design only a few blocks from the American Embassy. The army staff car delivered Sasaki there after only one minor accident. The bicyclist they struck wasn’t seriously injured, if the tenor of his curses was an indication, but the chauffeur and his escorts didn’t stop to find out.

An unusual snow had recently fallen democratically upon the roofs of rich and poor alike, thatching them with the same thin blanket of sooted white. The snow had been shoveled from the streets and lay in melting piles along the sidewalks, dikes to hold back the traffic from the shops and homes behind—a congested flood that moved with the sluggish uncertainty of a serpent caught by an early cold snap.

The car pulled up at the main entrance and Sasaki and his heavily armed attendants spilled into the smoke-tinged air. Sasaki automatically scanned his environment, weighing threats and evaluating opportunities. As usual, these men who had surrounded him from the moment he returned to his headquarters in the ribbon seller’s city stationed themselves in a professional manner. He was contained or he was dead. There might come a time to choose the latter option, but not yet.

Guards at the entrance came stiffly to attention in recognition of his rank, or the authority of his companions. Inside, it was warm from the steam heat and concentrated tension of those crowding the building’s foyer. Not many people awaited appointments with the military police without trepidation. There would have been nearly as much sweat here had there been no heat.

They took him to a reception desk where a small clerk with thick spectacles shuffled one pile of paper into three, then recombined them into a new order. Sasaki had the feeling he could make the job last a week.

“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.