Chameleon (34 page)

6

O’Hara could see the fortress, way up in the cliffs on the side of the mountain, as they drove up the curving road from Tanabe. Its high stone walls seemed to grow out of needle pines and elm trees. Below it sprawled the islet-speckled Iyo-Nada Bay; beyond it, the island of Shikoku, and beyond that, to the west, Hiroshima. Far below, at the foot of the mountain, the pancake-shaped storage tanks of the Yumishawa Refinery glittered in the early-afternoon sun.

The castle above them had been built in the seventeenth century by the shogun Tukagawa Ieyasu as a warning to all who entertained the idea of invading Japan from the south. General Hooker had used his considerable influence to arrange a long-term lease between the Japanese government and AMRAN, turning Dragon’s Nest into the consortium’s international headquarters. The view was spectacular. Fishing boats and freighters speckled the blue water of the bay far below, and the drive leading up to the fortress was lined with rose bushes and azaleas. Twenty minutes up the grassy volcano brought the taxi to its main gate.

Getting into the place was not quite as pleasant.

A security guard appeared at a doorway in the massive wooden gate of the twenty-foot stone wall and demanded credentials, letters of introduction, then searched O’Hara. He was Japanese and built like a sumo wrestler. His uniform, a dark-green suit over a black turtleneck sweater, seemed about to explode its seams. The small patch on his right arm said simply: AMRAN SECURITY. He also wore an identification badge over his breast pocket. At first he appeared concerned that O’Hara had no briefcase, but finally he shrugged off his anxiety. His examination complete, he motioned O’Hara to follow him through the small door.

O’Hara had made arrangements for the taxi to wait and he followed the guard into the dai-dairi, the inner courtyard. It was half the size of a football field, cobblestoned, and devoid of trees, gardens or any other pleasantries. On the far side of the yard were three one-story structures. O’Hara recognized the classic layout: in the centre, the shishin-den, the ceremonial hail and main building of the compound; on its right, the seiryo-den, ‘the pure cool hail,’ usually the shogun’s living quarters; and on its left, the kaisho-den, or barracks. The buildings had low-sloping tile roofs, curved at the bottom and supported by thick wooden pillars painted bright-red. The classic beauty of the architecture had been perfectly preserved except for two things: enclosed walkways connected the three buildings, and all the doors were sealed except the main door into the shishin-den.

There were three satellite dishes located on the roof of the ceremonial hail, and several spotlights on top of the wall. Without seeming obvious, O’Hara studied the exterior as

walked across the courtyard. Several men and women in black smocks worked in the yard, mopping, raking; obviously AMRAN kept the place spit-polished. Then he sensed that someone was watching him and he turned his head casually. There was a man in the shadows under one of the sloping rooftops, a vague form except for one cruel eye that caught a reflection of sunlight. The man began to move away, but not before O’Hara noticed his other eye, black-patched, with a jagged scar that streaked from his hairline to his jaw. Then he was gone.

Was it just a casual observance or was it a deliberate watch? He had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he knew this man, but he couldn’t recall where or when they had met. A sense of elusiveness swept over him as they entered the main building. It was like trying to remember a dream. He shrugged and decided to forget it.

The sweeping entry hail had been turned into a reception room. Light came from windows in the eaves of its twenty-foot cantilevered ceiling. The oak beams were buffed and spotless. The walls were covered with ancient delicate paintings on silk screens. But the only object of furniture was a typically American stainless-steel desk. It sat in the middle of the room, and it was bare except for a guest log and a multi-button telephone. Small television cameras high in the beamed ceiling constantly scanned the room. There were also metal and electronic-chip detectors in the base of the walls, Nobody could get into any of the buildings without going through this room, and nobody could get through this room with any kind of metal or electronic device.

The man seated behind the desk wore the green suit and black turtleneck of the security force, with three stripes on his sleeve. He wore his holster Western style, with the muzzle hanging almost to his knee. He was broad-shouldered, thin at the waist, straight as a rifle barrel, hard as a diamond, and his leathery face was heavily tanned. Not an ounce of fat on him, and judging from the expression on his face, it would probably be painful for him to smile. O’Hara. knew the type. Probably an ex-career top kick or drill instructor.

He recognized the man beside the guard immediately from history books and old newsreels. lie had been gaunt then, wraithlike from three years in a prison camp, his hollow eyes reflecting a glazy kind of joy, his khakis hanging from a bony frame. He was heavier now, almost clapper with white hair and a white waxed moustache, its ends curling toward the ceiling. He snapped a swagger stick against starched khaki trouser and came toward O’Hara with his hand cut. General Jesse Garvey, the Martyr of Suchi Barracks.

Mr O’Hara?’

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome to Dragon’s Nest. I’ m General Garvey, exec vee-pee, and this is Sergeant Travors, Security.’

‘My pleasure,’ O’Hara said to Garvey. ‘I recognized you immediately, sir. It’s a real honour.’

Thank you.’

‘Looks like an Army post,’ O’ Hara said with a smile, looking back at Travors.

General Hooker runs it like the Army. Force of habit, s’ pose.

“I guess so.’

‘Well, he’s waiting. Come along.

As they walked across the big anteroom O’Hara heard muted sounds from behind the walls: electric typewriters, computers beeping, tape recorders rewinding. Somewhere in the enormous old building there was a lot going on.

Garvey ushered him into a room and pulled the door shut behind him. It was suddenly as quiet as a church at midnight.

The room was enormous, probably the audience chamber of the shogun, O’Hara thought, and very dark. No sunlight entered the room. Its windows were sealed with thatched bamboo screens, and the opposite wall had been converted into an enclosed greenhouse. Grow lights cast vague, purple shadows among the plants and ferns while ancient statues of temple dogs and guard lions stood silent sentinel in dim corners. His heels popped on the hardwood floors.

It was hot and humid and smelled vaguely of pipe tobacco.

O’Hara sat down in a large leather chair, part of a group near the entrance to the room. A single light, shaded with a Philippine basket shade, shed a tiny orb of light on the end table next to the chair. There was nothing to read.

He waited. The only sound was the ticking of a clock somewhere in the chamber.

He began to perspire. He figured that the humidity in the room must be close to a hundred percent, and the temperature had to be over eighty.

He attuned himself to the space, listening to every movement: dew dripping off the plants; the tiny feet of an insect scratching across the floor; the faint electric hum of the grow lights; the metronomic melody of the ticking clock.

And there was something else. Slow, shallow breathing. Someone else was in the room with him.

O’Hara began to peruse the darkness through squinted eyes. The sound was coming from a particularly dark corner near the plant house.

A match scratched, a burst of amber light followed by flickering flame. In its wavering light he saw Hooker’s historic profile, the hawk-like nose, the granite jaw, the long, classic neck.

‘That was very good, sir. Excellent! You were on to me in less than a minute. Incredible concentration.’

He plucked the string on the lamp; an obese Buddha, his red-enamelled belly glistening in the light, sat cross-legged at its base, staring through inscrutable, painted eyes out into the room.

‘I must apologize for that bit of melodrama. My eyes are very sensitive to light.’

The old man Sat behind an enormous campaign desk, bare except for the Buddha lamp with its ancient fringed shade and pull string, an antique wooden letter box and an appointment book. There were eight high-backed chairs in a row in front of the desk.

‘I also apologize for the humidity. I’ll be eighty on my next birthday. My blood’s gotten a bit thin. If it’s less than eighty-two degrees, I get chills. How about a drink? It’ll help.’

‘Tea would be fine.’

‘Hot or cold?’

‘Cold, please.’

He pressed a button somewhere under the desk and Travors appeared at the door.

‘Iced tea for Mr O’Hara, Sergeant_ I’ll have a glass of soda, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’ And he was gone.

‘Some things never change,’ Hooker said. ‘I was in the military for so long, I still think of my assistants in terms of rank rather than title.’

‘There does seem to be a lot of security people on the premises.’

‘One can never be too careful,’ lie said somewhat cryptically.

‘Actually this is quite a fortress,’ he went on. ‘Took ‘em five years to build it, 1607 to 1612. It was meant to discourage foreigners from entering Japan after the shogunate shut the country down. I’m sure you noticed the view on your way up. It commands the entire bay and the island of Kyushu.’

‘It’s quite impressive.’

‘Five years of hard work, and the old boy never came to see it when it was finished.’ He shook his head. ‘All that labour. Fact is, Dragon’s Nest has never been attacked.’

‘How come you decided to use it?’

‘Sentiment, I suppose. It was my summer HQ when I was military governor after the war. Before that, some special branch of the Japanese secret service was billeted here.’

A Japanese woman scurried into the room with their drinks, bowed and left. She was young, in her early twenties, and quite pretty, and she never took her eyes off the floor.

‘Well, Mr O’Hara, here’s to your health and good luck on your story. How can I help?’

Age had etched the rigid lines in Hooker’s face into deep crevices. His high cheekbones stood out like the pinnacles of a cliff. His skin was almost transparent from age and his eyes glowered from under heavy white brows. He stared keenly at O’Hara through tinted sunglasses as he tapped tobacco into the chalky bowl of his clay pipe.

‘I’m doing some background for a story on the oil industry,’ O’Hara said. ‘Your consortium interests me because it’s new.’

‘A youngster, so t’ speak. Actually, there’s a lot of experience in this group.’ Hooker abruptly changed the subject. ‘You’ve come a long way to do your research.’

‘I was in Japan on other business.’

‘I see. Do you like the country?’

‘I grew up here.’

‘Oh? What part?’

‘Tokyo, then Kyoto.’

‘Ah, I assume then that we have a love of the country in common.’

This is a lot of bull, O’Hara thought.. By now the old bird knows chapter and verse on me. Why is he playing games?

0’ Hara nodded. ‘Kyoto is my favorite spot in the world.’

‘A bit tranquil for an old soldier like myself,’ Hooker said, leaning back in his chair and gazing at O’Hara over the smoldering bowl.

‘You’re also the only American petroleum operation based in Japan,’ O’Hara said, ‘and that interests me.’

‘Well, there’s nothing mysterious about it. There are a lot of reasons why we located in this particular spot.’

O’Hara smiled. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here, to find out some of them.’

‘Good. Fire away.’

O’Hara took out a pad and felt-tip pen. He could still hear a clock ticking somewhere but there was no sign of it. The sound seemed to be coming from the general. A watch perhaps.

‘You seem concerned about something, sir,’ Hooker said.

‘It’s nothing. I keep hearing a clock ticking somewhere.’

‘Ah. The clock is in here, Mr O’Hara,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘A noisy but efficient pacemaker. My doctors don’t want to go tampering with it now.’ He laughed. ‘If it stops ticking, please call my doctor.’

O’Hara began with obvious questions about Hooker and his association with AMRAN.

‘I was president of Intercon Oil. We first proposed the consortium.’

‘When did you get involved in the oil business, sir?’

‘Oh, fifteen, twenty years ago. When I was a candidate for President. Some of my staunchest supporters were Texans. When I dropped out of the race, I was asked to take over Intercon. The company was in trouble. Lack of strong top management. In two years we had it purring like a freshly tuned jeep.’

‘Why did you propose a consortii.zm?’

‘It gave the companies involved new financial strength. Like any industry, it takes money to make money.’

‘Do the members of the consortium share information?’

Hooker nodded. ‘The technology of all the companies is mutually shared, but they operate individually. Their profits are their own. AMRAN is not a profit centre, it is more of a service organization.’

‘Are you still connected .with Intercon?’

‘Only in an advisory capacity. Most of our time here is spent on AMRAN operations.’

‘When was the consortium actually formed?’

‘We finally got chartered about a year ago. It took quite some time to put this together. You can imagine the problems, trying to bring several major companies under the same umbrella. It took a helluva lot of negotiating to satisfy the needs and demands of each of the corporate structures. I repeat, Mr O’Hara, each of these companies retains its autonomy.’

‘Yes. How long did the negotiating take?’

‘We started talking about it back in ... oh, seventy-five, thereabouts.’

‘Which companies eventually joined’?’

‘My own, Intercon. Then there was Sunset Oil, Hensell, American Petroleum ...‘ A swift recollection, a brief flash from the past, pierced his concentration, uninvited and unexpected, and erased what he was about to say from his mind. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, perturbed, ‘what ... uh, was I saying?’

‘You were giving me a list of AMRAN members.’

‘Of course! Let’s see, where was I. -