The Nicholas Linnear Novels (81 page)

“Ah, what’s fifty mil more or less,” Tomkin said, massaging his temple with some force. He grimaced. “Goddamn migraines.” He looked at Nicholas wearily. “My doctor says it’s purely a product of the world I live in.” He made a rueful smile. “You know what he prescribed? A permanent Palm Springs vacation. He wants me to rot by the side of a pool like the rest of those flyblown palms.” He winced at the pain. “But he ought to know, all right. He’s writing a book called
Fifteen Ways to a Migraine-Free Life.
He thinks it’s going to be a bestseller. ‘Everyone gets migraines these days,’ he says. ‘God bless stress.’”

Tomkin went and sat down on the edge of the plush sofa. He opened the small refrigerator just beyond, poured himself a drink. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s a hand-delivered invitation. I got one as well.”

Tomkin put down his drink. “Let’s see it.” He tore open the flap, pulled out a stiff, engraved card. “It’s in goddamned
kanji
,” he said angrily, pushing it back at Nicholas. “What’s it say?”

“You and I, it seems, are invited to Sato’s wedding. It’s on Saturday.”

Tomkin grunted, downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp. “Christ,” he murmured, “just what we need now.” He looked up as he poured himself another. “How about you?”

Nicholas shook his head and Tomkin shrugged. “Just trying to get your liver in shape. These sonsabitches drink their Suntory Scotch like it was water. You go out with them of an evening, you’d better be prepared for the onslaught.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Nicholas said coldly. “I’m well aware of their habits.”

“Sure, sure,” Tomkin said. “Just trying to be friendly. You did all right on the battlefield with those two jokers.” He gestured with his glass. “You speak to Justine yet?”

Nicholas shook his head. “She didn’t want me to take this trip at all.”

“Well, that’s only natural. I’m sure she’s missing you.”

Nicholas watched Tomkin wade through his second Scotch on the rocks and wondered if that was an antidote to his migraines. “It’s more than that,” he said slowly. “When Saigō got to her he used
saiminjutsu
on her, a little-known art even among ninja.”

“A kind of hypnosis, wasn’t it?”

“In a way, in Western terms. But it went way beyond that.” He sat down next to Tomkin. “She tried to kill me. It was the hypnotic suggestion Saigō planted within her, but still.” He shook his head. “My healing broke the
saiminjutsu
spell, but the deep remorse she feels…I was not able to erase.”

“She blames herself? But it’s not her fault!”

“How many times have I assured her of that.”

Tomkin swirled the dregs of his drink around and around. “She’s a tough one. Take it from me, I know. She’ll get over it.”

Nicholas was thinking of how badly Justine had taken his decision to work for her father. Her bitterness toward what she saw as her father’s manipulation of her life up until just several years ago was understandable to him. They were, he felt, two people unable to communicate with each other. Tomkin had expected certain things from her and, not finding them, had reacted in his typical overbearing manner. Justine simply could not forgive him for his various intrusions into her life.

Repeatedly he had used bribes or threats to discourage a succession of boyfriends. “My father’s a master manipulator, Nick,” she had told him over and over again. “He’s a bastard without a heart or a conscience. He’s never cared about anyone but himself, not me, certainly not Gelda; not even my mother.”

Yet, Nicholas knew, Justine was blind to the kind of men she had been attracted to. They had been manipulators all—far worse than her father ever had been. No wonder Tomkin had been so hostile toward him when they had first met. He naturally assumed that Nicholas was another in the long line bent on using his daughter.

It was impossible to make Justine see that it was his very love for her that obliged him to interfere in an area that, up until now, she had been unable to handle. This did not absolve Tomkin, but it seemed a realistic starting point for the two of them to come together and possibly understand each other.

The tirade that had followed Nicholas’ announcement of his going to work for Tomkin Industries, if only temporarily, had been followed by days of uncomfortable silence; Justine had simply not wanted to talk about it further. But in the last days before his departure it had seemed to Nicholas as if she had relented a bit, and was more at ease with his decision. “After all,” she had said as she saw him off, “it’s only for a while, isn’t it?”

“What?” he said now, setting his concern for her back in its niche in the shadows of his mind.

“I asked who Sato’s marrying,” Tomkin said.

Nicholas looked down at the invitation. “A woman named Akiko Ofuda. Do you know anything about her?”

Tomkin shook his head.

“She’s the newest major interest in your partner’s life,” Nicholas said seriously. “I think it’s time you thought about hiring a new team of researchers.”

With great difficulty Tanzan Nangi turned fully around. At his back the snow-clad slopes of Fuji-yama were fast disappearing into a vast golden haze the consistency of bisque. Tokyo buzzed at his feet like a giant
pachinko
machine.

“I don’t like him,” he said, his voice like chalk scraping a blackboard.

“Tomkin?”

Nangi arched an eyebrow as he extracted a cigarette from its case. “You know very well whom I mean.”

Sato gave him a benevolent smile. “Of course you don’t, my friend. Isn’t that why you assigned Miss Yoshida—a
woman
—to meet them at the airport? Tell me which Japanese business associate of ours you would have insulted in that fashion. None, I can tell you! You even disapprove of the amount of responsibility I accord her here because it is, as you say, man’s province, and not the traditional way.”

“You have always run this
kobun
as you have seen fit. I begrudge you nothing, as you know quite well. But as for these
iteki,
I saw no earthly reason why we should lose valuable man-hours by reassigning an upper-echelon executive for their convenience.”

“Oh, yes,” Sato said. “Tomkin is a
gaijin
and Nicholas Linnear is something far worse to you. He’s only half Oriental. And then it has never been determined to anyone’s satisfaction how much of that is Japanese.”

“Are you saying that I am a racist?” Nangi said, blowing out smoke.

“Not in the least.” Sato sat back in his swivel chair. “Merely a patriot.” He shrugged. “But in the end what does Cheong Linnear’s lineage mean to us?”

“It’s a potential lever.” Nangi’s odd triangular eyes blazed with a dark light. “We are going to need every weapon in our arsenal to bring down these brash
iteki
—these barbarians who think of us as so much rice they can gobble up.” Nangi’s shoulders quivered at odd moments as if they had a will of their own. “Do you think it means anything to me that his father was Colonel Linnear, the ‘round-eyed savior of Japan’?” His face screwed up in contempt. “How could any
iteki
feel for us, Seiichi, tell me that.”

“Sit down, old friend,” Sato said softly, taking his eyes off the older man to save him face. “You already hurt enough as it is.”

Nangi said nothing but, walking awkwardly, managed to sit at right angles to Sato, his back erect, his thin buttocks against the very edge of the chair.

Sato knew that Nangi was lucky to be alive. But of course life was a relative thing and this thorny enigma was never far from his thoughts, even now after thirty-eight years. Did the man tied to the iron lung think life was worthwhile? So, too, Sato sometimes wished to crawl inside his friend’s head for just the moment it would take to learn the answer to the riddle. And in those moments shame would suffuse him; precisely the same kind of shame he had felt when his older brother, Gōtarō, had found him sitting, sexually aroused by their father’s book of
shunga
, erotic prints.

There was no privacy in Japan, it was often said. The crowding because of the lack of space that had existed for centuries; the building materials—oiled paper and wood—that the islands’ frequent and devastating earthquakes, the seasonal typhoons dictated be used in order to facilitate speedy rebuilding: these factors went a long way in guiding the flow of Japanese society.

Because real privacy, as a Westerner understands it, is physically impossible, the Japanese have developed a kind of inner privacy that, outwardly, manifests itself by the many-layered scheme of formality and politeness that each individual lives by because it is his only bulwark against the encroachment of chaos.

That was why the thought of stepping into someone else’s mind, especially so close a friend, brought the sweat of shame out on Sato. Now he riffled through the file they had compiled on Tomkin Industries in order to cover his intense discomfort.

“As for Tomkin, we should not underestimate him, Nangi-san,” he said now. Nangi looked up as he heard the note of weariness in the younger man’s voice.

“How so?”

“His blustering barbarian ways cannot mask for long his keen mind. He hit us squarely when he said that we’re much too dependent on foreign energy sources to allow ourselves to become isolated from the rest of the world.”

Nangi waved away Sato’s words. “A mere stab in the dark. The man’s an animal, nothing more.”

Sato gave a deep sigh. “And yet he’s quite correct. Why else would we be laboring so long and hard on
Tenchi
, eh? It is something that is critically draining our financial resources; it is the most desperate gamble Japan has taken since Pearl Harbor. In many ways it is more crucial to this country’s future than the war ever was. We were able to rebound from that defeat.” Sato shook his head. “But if
Tenchi
should fail or if—Buddha forbid!—we should be found out, then I fear that there will be nothing left of our beloved islands but atomic ash.”

“Tsutsumu’s dead, along with Kusunoki.” The voice was flat and cold. It might have been conveying the message, “Here are ten pounds of rice.”

“Before or after?” By contrast this voice was heavy, thick with foreign inflection. “That is the only thing that matters.”

“Before.”

There was a muffled curse in a language the first man could not understand. “Are you certain? Absolutely certain?”

“I was thorough enough to do an anal search. He had nothing on him.” There was a slight pause. “Do you wish me to withdraw?” Still the voice was emotionless, as if all feeling had been trained out of it.

“Certainly not. Stay just where you are. Any sudden movement on your part could only bring down suspicion and these people are not to be underestimated. They’re fanatics; exceptionally dangerous fanatics.”

“Yes…I know.”

“You have your orders; adhere to them. The
dōjō
’s bound to be in turmoil for the next few days at least. Even they need time to gather themselves. They haven’t picked Kusunoki’s successor yet, have they?”

“There are meetings going on to which I am not privy. As yet there have been no announcements. But tension is high all through the
dōjō
.”

“Good. Now is the time to burrow in. Get as close as you dare. Strike in the midst of this confusion; our tactics are more efficient in this atmosphere.”

“Kusunoki’s death has turned them into alarmists; they see hostiles in the movement of the shadows.”

“Then be especially bold.”

“The danger has increased.”

“And has your dedication to the goals of the Motherland therefore decreased?”

“I will not waver from the cause; you know that.”

“Good. Then this conversation is at an end.”

A light went on atop the scarred metal desk, dim and buzzing, coldly fluorescent, emanating from an ancient khaki gooseneck lamp that had been functionally ugly when new and now was light-years away from that.

This fitful pale mauve illumination revealed a face no more unusual than an accountant’s or a professor’s. Black eyes above sloped Slavic cheekbones were penetratingly intelligent, to be sure, but his fine, tufted hair, the liver spots high on his domed forehead, and the rather weak chin all combined to paint a portrait of a bland, unremarkable man. Nothing could be further from the truth.

His slender-fingered hand came away from the phone; already his mind was racing. He did not like the sudden murder of the
sensei
; he knew well Kusunoki’s power and was astonished that the
sensei
had been overpowered at all. Still, he was trained to use any and all unforeseen circumstance to his benefit, and striking swiftly and surely during times of confusion was standard procedure.

Contrary to what his brethren back home espoused, he enjoyed working with these locals. While he would never invite one to marry his daughter—if he had one—he could admire their expertise, their dogged persistence, and, above all, their rabid fanaticism. This fascinated him; it was also his secret weapon against political assassination back home.

While his position, among all his brethren, was most secure—simply because he fed them a steady diet of fear and secrecy, two elements which never failed to catch their attention—still one found it good practice to keep shuffling the cards, keeping options open, finding the soft spots in one’s superiors’ private lives that would turn the key in the lock of one’s future. That was a lesson he had learned well and hard.

He turned away from the phone, activating the portable but very powerful 512K computer terminal, rechecking the myriad random elements he had thrown at the original program. Still it was holding up.

His grunt in the otherwise silent room told of his satisfaction. With an effort, he rose and lumbered to the door as thick and impenetrable as a bank vault. Dialing the combination, he let himself out.

Nicholas left the dazzling glitter of the enormous hotel behind him, a city within a city, and took the immaculate, silent subway into the Asakusa district. The blank-faced jostling throng who rode along with him with their fashionable clothes and French-style makeup were outwardly very different from the members of the war generation. Yet Nicholas could not forget what happened here—as it did throughout all of Tokyo—on March 9, 1945. The firebombing by American warplanes.