The Nicholas Linnear Novels (74 page)

Then he recalled why Croaker had gone to Key West. He read the article again, this time from first sentence to last. On vacation, indeed. As if Croaker’s
kami
hovered in close asylum at his right hand, he heard again,
He’s a murderer, Nick. If I had any lingering doubts as to Tomkin’s complicity in the Angela Didion case, they went bye-bye with that order to officially shut down. He’s a shark, man. You’d better face up to it.
A hot wind from the cemetery, out from the shade elms, assailed him as he began to see past events in a chill new light. The confrontations between Tomkin and Croaker had been deliberate. Croaker had wanted to needle Tomkin, perhaps provoking him into making some precipitous move, like an attempt to silence Croaker. Now it had come, the whisper of the gibbet. And Frank, Tomkin’s chief bodyguard, had been gone several days, who knew where?

I’ve gotta nail him on this. It’s a matter of honor.
Every remembered word a knife twist.
If I don’t do it, nobody’s gonna be able to.

He got up and went to the phone, his mind abruptly quite clear, and dialed a number. His whole body seemed to ache as if he had been recently beaten. He did not think it fair that this should have happened to them; friendship as special as this was meant to be savored, not snatched away by a thief in the night. He felt strongly as if they had both been cheated. This, he knew, was Western thinking and he set it aside, compartmentalizing it, as he had been taught, just as someone places a treasured item on a high shelf, out of harm’s way. Still, for the briefest moment, he could picture the four of them on a long sleek sloop, wet from the salt spray, laughing and carefree, the sun in their eyes. Then he banished the vision, letting it part from him as if it were the last ray of the sun slipping below the dark horizon. But did that change anything? Not at all, as he had already seen. Love and friendship were inextricably entwined in Japan and he was, after all the time in the West, the clothes, the new veneers, an Easterner, now and forever. He knew this with an abrupt and wrenching conviction that both thrilled and calmed him. He had a sense of place now, as well as a sense of time.

And sacrifice, revenge, the cornerstones of Japanese history, were both a part of him, too. This had been Itami’s last message to him, though, at the time, he had not fully understood.

Croaker’s death made it all too plain.

Now a quote attributed to Ieyasu Tokugawa flew through his head like a bird of prey, circling in the sky of his mind. He knew what to do.

“What is it?” Justine asked him. Her voice was thick as if she were still in shock.

He put his finger to his lips, said into the phone, “Is he in? It’s Nicholas Linnear.” He waited a moment. Justine came up behind him, entwining her arms around him.

Frank answered. So he had returned. Bastard. But his voice was controlled as he said, “Had a good vacation? Yeah. Too bad you missed all the excitement.” He felt the press of her breasts against his back. He put one arm around behind him, holding her. “Sure. Next time I see you, I’ll tell you all about it.” And thought: It might be a lot sooner than you think. Frank said to hold on a minute.

He closed his eyes briefly, saw the sea at that time of day when the sun, having left the sky, turns it into the brightest piece of topography; in twilight, the water shines like a carpet of light.

“Hello,” he said. “I’ve thought about your offer. Yes. Yes, I know what I said then.” His eyes snapped open and Justine, so close against him, felt the tension flooding through him and wondered at the disparity between his words and his feelings. “But things have—changed a bit. I’ve reconsidered. Yes. I thought you might be.” Oh, Ieyasu! How right I shall prove you! “Any time you say.” His knuckles went white as they gripped the receiver. “Yes. I just read about it in the paper. Sure. A friend. I got to know him a bit.” Justine, sensing his mounting anger, pressed herself more tightly to him as if her presence might mollify him in some way. Nicholas, feeling her warmth seep into him, knew that quite soon—certainly before they went down to the beach—he would want to make love to her, need to even as he grieved for his friend. Perhaps because of it. He was returning to life now and so was she.

“In a week?” he said. “No, I don’t think there will be a problem. You’ll just need to fill me in on all the details. But even that… Well, we can go over it on the plane, can’t we? Yes. Yes.” He listened for a moment more, his mind far away. “I’ll see you, then. Soon. Very soon.”

He was one now with Ieyasu, with his words:
To come to know your enemy, first you must become his friend.
He drew all the warmth he could from Justine, now. Because he had gone cold with the realization that Tomkin had sent Frank out to find the woman in Key West. And then Croaker had been killed in Key West.
Murder.
The word rang like a heavy bell in his mind. If not for you—he thought into the phone as he cradled it.

And once you become his friend, all his defenses come down. Then can you choose the most fitting method for his demise.

T
HERE ARE, IN JAPANESE
martial philosophy—which incorporates many elements of both the Buddhist and Shinto religions—five cardinal signs: Ground, Water, Wind, Fire and the Void.

Miyamoto Musashi’s
Go Rin No Sho
exists to this day.* It is, literally,
A Book of Five Rings.

The Ninja
, too, is a book of five rings.

*
A Book of Five Rings
by Miyamoto Musashi, translated by Victor Harris, is published by The Overlook Press, Woodstock, New York.

B
ECAUSE, IN SOME INSTANCES,
I met many of the real people in positions which, of necessity, are in this novel, I wish to state that none of the characters drawn here in any way resemble their real-life counterparts who, without exception, were extremely helpful to me.

I would like to thank:

Dr. Geetha Natarajan, Associate Medical Examiner, City of New York

Lieutenant Jim Doyle, Commander, Village Police, Westhampton Beach

and, especially:

Dr. Michael Baden, former Chief Medical Examiner, City of New York

Thanks to the numerous individuals who assisted me with translations, and to my father, who proofed the manuscript.

Special thanks to Ruth and Arthur for invaluable R&R in Shangri-La.

And to Mom, for her courage.

FOR VICTORIA
with love…in all kinds of weather

FOR MY FATHER
with love to the human encyclopedia

Tsugi-no ma-no tomoshi

mo kiete

yo-samu kana

The next room’s light

that too goes out, and now—

the chill of night

—Shiki (1867-1902)

Nara Prefecture, Japan. Spring, Present

BOOK ONE: SHIH

New York / Tokyo / Hokkaido. Spring, Present

Marianas Islands, North Pacific Ocean. Spring, 1944

BOOK TWO: CHUN HSING

Washington / New York / Tokyo / Key West. Spring, Present

Kyoto / Tokyo. Spring 1945-Autumn 1952

BOOK THREE: K’AI HO

New York / Tokyo / Key West / Oshino. Spring, Present

Tokyo. Autumn 194?-Autumn 1963

BOOK FOUR: FA CHI

Hong Kong / Washington / Tokyo / Maui / Raleigh / Hokkaido. Spring, Present

Kumamoto / Asama Kogen / Switzerland. Autumn-Winter 1963-Spring 198?

BOOK FIVE: THE MIKO

New York City / Hong Kong / Hokkaido / Maui / Washington / Tokyo. Spring, Present

Tokyo Suburbs, Spring, Present

Glossary

M
ASASHIGI KUSUNOKI, THE
sensei
of this
dōjō
, was making tea. He knelt on the reed
tatami
; his kimono, light gray on dark gray, swirled around him as if he were the eye of a great dark whirlpool.

He poured steaming hot water into an earthen cup and, as he took up the reed whisk to make the pale green froth, the form of Tsutsumu shadowed the open doorway. Beyond his bent body, the polished wooden floor on the
dōjō
stretched away, gleaming and perfect.

Kusunoki had his back to the doorway. He faced the edge of the
shōji
screen and the large window through which could be seen the cherry trees in full blossom, clouds come to walk the earth, marching up the densely wooded slopes of Yoshino, their oblique branches as green as the hills beyond, covered with ancient moss. The scent of cedar was very strong now, as it almost always was in this section of Nara prefecture, save during those few weeks of winter when the snow lay heavy through the ridges and rises of the terrain.

Kusunoki never tired of that view. It was steeped in the history of Japan. It was here that Minamoto no Yoshitsune sought the shelter of these fortresslike mountains in order to defeat the treachery of the Shōgun, his brother; it was here that the great doomed Emperor Go-Daigo assembled his troops and ended his exile, beginning his attempt to return to the throne; here, too, where Shugendo developed, the way of mountain ascetics, a peculiar fusion of Buddhism and Shinto. Mount Omine was out there and on its slopes congregated the
yamabushi
, the wandering, self-mortifying adherents of this syncretic religion.

He looked now at the tea, its color lightening as the spume rose, and he saw all there was to see beyond that thin pane of glass.

Behind him, Tsutsumu was about to announce himself softly but, seeing the
sensei
kneeling, unaware, froze his tongue. For a long time he contemplated the figure on the
tatami,
and as he did so his muscles began to lose their relaxedness. He had been alert; now he was ready. His mind sought the many pathways toward victory while his eyes drank in the utter stillness in the other. The hands must be moving, Tsutsumu told himself, because I know he is preparing the tea…yet he might as well be a statue for all I can see of it.

He knew the time to be right and, unbidden, he rose, unfurling himself like a sail before the wind. Taking two swift, silent strides, he crossed the threshold and was within striking distance. His body torqued with the first onset of intrinsic energy.

At that instant, Kusunoki turned and, extending the hot cup of tea, said, “It is always an honor to invite a pupil so quick to learn into my study.”

His eyes locked onto Tsutsumu, and the student felt as if he had hit against an invisible, impenetrable wall. All the fire of the energy he had banked for so long, now at last turned loose, was stifled, held momentarily in thrall, then dissipated.

Tsutsumu shivered involuntarily. He blinked as an owl might in daylight. He felt intensely vulnerable without that which had always been his.

The
sensei
was smiling pleasantly. “Come,” he said, and Tsutsumu saw that another cup of tea had somehow materialized. “Let us drink together…to show respect and our mutual good intentions.”

The student smiled awkwardly and, shakily, sat on the
tatami
facing Kusunoki. Between them was a break in the reed mats that was far more than an architectural or an esthetic delineation. It was the space between host and guest, always observed.

Tsutsumu took the cup and, holding it carefully and correctly in both hands, prepared to drink. The warmth of the tea rushed into his palms. He bowed to his
sensei
, touched the curved rim of the cup to his lips, and drank the intensely bitter beverage. It was very good, and he closed his eyes for an instant, forgetting where he was and, even, who he was, to the extent that that was possible. He tasted the earth of Japan and with it all things Japanese. History and legend, honor and courage, the weight of
kami
, hovering. And, above all, duty.
Giri.

Then his eyes opened and all was as it had been before. He felt again the uncomfortableness of being so far from home. He was from the north and Nara was an alien place to him; he had never liked it here. Yet he had come and had stayed for two long years.
Giri.