The Miko - 02 (81 page)

Nicholas recalled the first satellite readout Protorov had shown him that indicated a crescendo of earthquake activity. He said nothing about it, however.

“I did not choose the time,
Oba
; it was chosen for me.”

She nodded, smiling slightly. “That is why we must all learn to Cross at a Ford, eh, Nicholas?”

He was slightly surprised. “I did not know that you had read Musashi.”

“Read
and
studied him.” Now she was laughing outright. “There are many things you do not know about me, though surely in all the world there is no other with whom I have shared so many secrets.

“It was I who guided certain businessmen to Saigō; people whom this Raphael Tomkin had offended; people who wanted him dead.”

Nicholas turned to look at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you think for a minute,
watashi no musuko
, that I lost track of you when you left your home? My love is as long as my protection. Whose daughter had you fallen in love with? How long would it take Saigō to find out the same piece of information? How long before the diamondlike precision of merging the two assignments—one professional, the other personal—would dawn on him? Surely it would appeal to his delicate sense of logic; he could not resist it.”

Nicholas’ mind was reeling. “You…It was
you
who sent him after me?” He put his hand to his head; he could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

“My dear,” she said softly, “he was like a cape buffalo or one of our giant wild boars who had been wounded. He was dangerous, and becoming more so each day that dawned. I could not in good conscience allow that to continue.”

She stopped them in their walk and for the first time touched him, a light but definite gesture, full—as was the case with all Japanese gestures no matter how small—of exquisite meaning.

“Did you think I would send him to harm you? I sent him to his death. Perhaps I murdered him, if one chooses to look at it in a certain light.”

“But other people died in the process,
Oba.
You must have thought of that.”

She said nothing, moving across the grass dappled in the shadow of a sculpted arbor of boxwood trees. “What would you have me say,
watashi no musuko
? Life is imperfect because we are humans and not gods. Gods by their very definition do not live but rather exist.”

They paused and she put her hand against the gnarled back of a tree trunk. “I am sorry for death…any death. But often some good tissue must be excised in order to destroy a malignancy.

“It is not fair and it is certainly not to my liking. But it is a time that we must learn to Cross at a Ford. It is not what we choose but rather, as you have said, it chooses us.”

That was not precisely what he had said, but he suspected Itami knew that. What she had said was far more apt, in any case. He knew that what had happened between Saigō and himself was really not either of their doing. Rather it had been determined a generation before by the abiding enmity between their fathers. Filial piety bound them, causing them to end what had been begun so long ago.

He could not help but think of those who had perished because of an honor, a code that was not theirs: Eileen Okura, Terry Tanaka, Doc Deerforth, how many cops and others whose names he did not know? and, yes, even Lew Croaker. Nicholas understood the wisdom of his aunt’s words, even agreed with them. Yet something inside him recoiled, calling out as if from a distance,
It’s too much; even the expunging of one life is too great a price to pay for the extirpation of
giri.

After a time, Itami said, “I have been truthful with you, Nicholas. Now you must return the kindness. Tell me why you have come here. It was not just to see me again after all this time.”

“Part of it was that, yes.” But she was right again. All the way on the trip south his mind had been rolling the question around. As he had done so it began to increase in size until even in sleep he could not be rid of it.

Akiko.

She was not Yukio, yet she had Yukio’s face. Why? Surely she could not have been born with features so precisely akin to his lost love’s. Nature simply did not repeat its handiwork in such a manner save perhaps between twins.

And if, as he believed now, her face was manmade, then he was led like a dog on a leash back to the one person who could wish him destroyed; one person who could conceive of such emotional torture.

Itami had been quite correct: he was totally evil. Saigō. So he had instinctively come here, to his cousin’s house, in search of answers to the unanswerable.

“But there is another reason,
Oba
; a more urgent one. I recently came across a woman with Yukio’s face. She wasn’t Yukio and she was. Her name is Akiko.”

Itami turned away, her face to the dying sun. “I knew a woman with such a name, once,” she said. “I loved her once; she revered me once. As was proper between mother and daughter-in-law.”

Nicholas felt his heart constrict. What Itami was suggesting felt monstrous to him, unclean if not unholy. “She was married to Saigō?” he managed to get out.

Itami nodded.

“Was she a student?”

Itami knew very well what kind of student he meant. To them there was only one kind. “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper. “They met in Kumamoto. She was there for two years, studying before she left.”

“Where did she go?”

“I do not want to talk of it.”

“Itami-san—”

“It is a shameful thing.” Her voice was cold; old and sad for the first time. “Do not make me utter it.”

He moved around in front of her. “I must know. I must! She is your son’s—”

“Do not call him that!”

“She is Saigō’s last weapon against me, can’t you see that? If you do not help me, I am afraid she may succeed where he did not.”

Her eyes were clear. “Is this truly so?”

He nodded.
“Hai, Oba.”

“In the alps somewhere to the north lives a
sensei.
His name is Kyōki.”

“That is no name,” Nicholas said, stunned. “That is a state of being: madness.”

“Nevertheless, that is where Akiko went; that is where she learned to mask her
wa
; where she learned
jaho.
”

Itami made a face and turned away. “There, I’ve said it all now, though it makes me ill.”

He waited a long time before he spoke again. There were many reasons for this. He wanted, first of all, to allow her to recover her composure. Too, he wanted to drink in this most serene surrounding that gentled his spirit like a mother’s caress. Lastly, he did not want this time between them to end.

But at last he was moved to speech. “I must go,
Haha.
”

“Yes.”

“Will you kiss me good-bye as my father taught Cheong to do?”

Itami turned. Her eyes were brimming and so huge they seemed to encompass the world. Gently her hands held him and, lifting herself lightly on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his cheek just as she had done it thousands of times before.

“Happy birthday,
Haha
,” he whispered.

“Live long, Nicholas,” Itami breathed. But she was already alone in the bower, the birds trilling sweetly overhead with the first onrush of twilight.

To Justine, Tokyo was as bewildering as New York City would be to a teenager from Nebraska. It was not what she had expected it to be nor what she had wanted it to be.

It throbbed all around her like a neon hive, its atmosphere as chokingly heavy as that of a coal mine. She entered into it with increasing trepidation and by the time she had been conveyed to the portals of the Okura was prepared to turn right around and go home. The only thing that prevented her was Nicholas or, more accurately, the thought of him.

Craig Allonge was staying at the Okura. She knew him slightly and in desperation she scribbled a note for him and asked the concierge to see that he got it the moment he returned to the hotel.

Then she went up to her room and collapsed on the bed. Her skin felt as if it had been coated with oil and her hair was greasy from the long flight. Groaning, she got up and drew a bath, using water as hot as she could tolerate. She felt she would need that to peel all the layers of grime off her.

She had soaped up and was soaking, her knotted muscles slowly unwinding, when the phone rang. There was an extension within reach and she used it. It was Allonge. He had been set up with a temporary office at Sato Petrochemicals and had returned to the hotel to change for lunch. He was a shirtsleeves man and no one had told him how formal the Japanese could be.

When Justine asked about Nicholas, Allonge did not know what to tell her. He heard the agitation in her voice and did not want to alarm her unduly by telling her he had no idea where his boss might be. Instead he said he would find out and would call her right back. He disconnected and called Sato’s office. No, there was no word as yet from Mr. Linnear. Did Allonge-san wish to speak with Nangi-san?

Tanzan Nangi’s return from Hong Kong was news to Allonge and he said, “Yes, put me through, please.” When the connection was made he told Nangi about Justine.

“Bring her back with you,” Nangi said. “I’ll talk to the young lady.”

Nangi put down the receiver and swung away from his desk. Having just an hour ago deplaned at Narita, his thoughts were still partially back in Hong Kong. He thought of Fortuitous Chiu and his Dragon father. But even more his thoughts were concentrated on the Green Pang Triad. Sometime within the month they would raid the Sun Wa Trading Company on Tai Ping Shan Street. There would be violence, people killed. One of those people would be Mr. Liu; perhaps another would be a young woman by the name of Succulent Pien.

Whatever the outcome, it would have nothing to do with Nangi; it was, rather, Triad warfare; a territorial dispute. Or at least that would be how all the newspapers would write it up; how the populace would see it. That was the accepted way of life in the Crown Colony. Lo Whan would have to accept it as well.
Karma.
Perhaps he should have consulted a
feng shui
man before entering into the agreement with Nangi.

In fact, the raid had been agreed upon by Nangi and Fortuitous Chiu before the meeting with Lo Whan at Ocean Park took place. That had been the reason for all the
h’eung yau
spread around, the partriotic angle that Nangi had asked Fortuitous Chiu to bring up to Third Cousin Tok. Nangi had not abrogated his agreement with Lo Whan; and the disinformation connection with Redman would cease to exist within three weeks time.

But his satisfaction was to be shortlived because in a moment a discreet knock was heard at his door and Nangi swiveled around. He saw Kei Hagura, one of Seiichi’s senior vice presidents.

“Enter, Hagura-san.” The man looked decidedly unwell, Nangi thought. Perhaps he needs some time off with his wife and children. There is nothing like being with one’s family to restore the spirit.

“Pardon me for intruding, Nangi-san.” Hagura was bowing profusely. His face was white and pinched and over his shoulder Nangi became aware of a stir within the hive of offices on the fifty-second floor.

“Come, come, Hagura-san.” Nangi’s voice was slightly irritated. “What can I do for you?”

Hagura’s head was down; his eyes would not meet Nangi’s own. “A report has just come over the wire from our Hokkaido office. There has been some kind of…well…an accident, perhaps. No one is quite certain as yet.”

Nangi sat forward, his pulse accelerated.

“What sort of accident, Hagura-san? How bad was it? Who was involved?”

“I am afraid that it concerns Sato-san.” Hagura’s voice was faltering just as if he had contracted laryngitis. “There has been some form of automotive accident.”

“And Sato-san?” There was a catch to Nangi’s voice. “How is he?”

“There was no chance for anyone,” Hagura said. He did not want to say the word, as if his reluctance would make all of this mere speculation rather than fact.

“Hagura-san,” Nangi commanded.

The senior vice president closed his eyes in acquiescence to the inevitable. “Sato-san is dead, sir.”

Nangi was careful to let nothing show. Face was all important now, he knew. This
kobun
was like a
samurai
in the employ of the Shōgun. It was absolutely committed to its course. It could only march forward; never retreat. Even to falter was forbidden. And
Tenchi
could not wait.

“Thank you, Hagura-san. I appreciate how difficult this must have been for you.”

Hagura bowed, accepting the compliment. “It was my duty, Nangi-san.” Inside he was mightily impressed with Nangi-san’s
wa.
He felt the harmony still pervading the room, lending it power. In the face of his tragic and totally unexpected news this was heartening indeed. The news of what had happened in here would spread through the
kobun
, Nangi’s heroism and iron determination offsetting some of the void all must feel at Seiichi Sato’s passing.

Alone in the office after Hagura’s departure, Nangi broke apart. Tears filled his eyes; there was a fist in his throat that made swallowing painful. He stared out through the high panes of glass.

First Gōtarō, he thought. Then Obā-chama, Makita. But not Seiichi, never Seiichi. How many people in one’s life were there who one could talk to? How many were there in a lifetime who understood him? One or two, a handful if one were exceptionally fortunate.

Who would he talk to now? Nangi asked himself. Who would he confide in, formulate plans with, gloat over his recent triumph in Hong Kong with? All of this had fallen to Seiichi. Now there was no one.

There was anger as well as a deep and abiding sadness within him now. For this time he turned his love around and hated the God in whom he believed, in whom he put all his trust, and into whose care he had delivered his immortal soul.

How could you do such a thing? he railed inside. Where is the sense of it? There was only a perception of harsh cruelty, of an unfairness so huge as to be overwhelming. They had been like twins, Tanzan and Seiichi, knowing each other’s heart, trusting each other’s spirit through all their squabbles, arguments, disagreements. And as in every good marriage, those battles had been ironed out in the end to the satisfaction of both of them. No more. Why?