Linnear 02 - The Miko (42 page)

Nicholas was instantly alert. “Miira?”

“Right now there’s no way for us to know.” Minck stared directly into Nicholas’ eyes and there was no mistaking his intent.

“Oh, no,” Nicholas said. “That’s not my line of work.”

“On the contrary.” Minck’s eyes would not let him go.

“But you have men trained for this. Use them.”

“I have,” Minck said simply. “For nine months. The last one was sent back in appalling disrepair. There’s no point in sending another of mine in; I’ve run out of cover. Besides, my time’s just about run out.”

Nicholas thought about that for a moment. “Are you convinced that Miira is placed within the keiretsu?”

“Where else would the Soviets place Dig Dug to extract maximum information about Tenchi?”

“It’s likely then that they’re further along in solving the mystery than you are.”

The ensuing pause was more forceful than anything Minck could have said.

“Do you know anything else about the mummy?” Nicholas asked, knowing that he was one step closer to doing what Minck desperately wanted him to do.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Jesus, why don’t you try blindfolding me, putting the donkey’s tail in my hand, and spinning me around.”

Minck stared at his polished nails. “I’ve heard it said that ninjatrue ninja, that iscan kill people blindfolded, in the dark. I’ve heard that they can infiltrate the most heavily guarded areas; appear and disappear at will into the night. Disguise themselves in the most remarkable ways.”

“All of that’s true,” Nicholas said. “But I won’t do it for you.”

“Oh, it’s not for me that you’ll do it, Nicholas. Not at all. There is, as you call it, giri. Tomkin passed on responsibility to you. I think you owe him that. I know that he would ask it of you if he were here. Besides, the merger will be meaningless if the Soviets succeed in penetrating Tenchi.”

Now, Nicholas knew, nothing mattered. What he thought of Minck or what Minck wanted him to do. There was giri. And without duty, life would become a meaningless jumble of unrelated noise and action. When he had walked in here an hour or so ago he had had no intention of being coerced into a situation he had no interest in. But Minck had very cleverly robbed him of that option. There was giri. Nicholas owed Minck nothing and Minck knew it. But Tomkin was another matter entirely.

Now, in the light of all this new information, what was Nicholas to make of the three murders at Sato Petrochemicals? Could they possibly be the handiwork of Miira? He thought it unlikely, since Miira’s job entailed anonymity and quiet, and therefore decided not to bring it up to Minck. Besides, he had given his word to Sato not to talk of them with anyone. Technically, of course, that referred to only the first murder.

“What do you know about Tenchi?” he asked after a time.

“Four hundred billion yen, that’s what the Japanese government has already poured into the project, and there’s no end in sight.”

“Christ, what the hell is it?”

“Your guess will probably be as good as mine.”

“Oh, God.”

Minck stood up. “There is no one else, and that’s no lie.” He walked back to the windows. The sprinklers had begun again, their sprays beading the glass at the beginning of each pass.

“And now, I suppose, we come to the person who signed the intercepted signal.”

Minck’s back stiffened just as if he had scented the enemy. “Oh, yes. That. You’ve got a good memory. It was signed, ‘Protorov.’”

Minck turned around, the light streaming in behind him, shadowing his face. “Viktor Protorov, my friend, is the head of the RGB’s Ninth Directorate.”

“What’s their field of expertise?”

“It varies with whom you speak to. Some say the Ninth is the KGB’s overlord, their own private watchdog. But that seems to me to be overly redundant even for the Russians. Besides, that would be just the thing the GRU would agitate for, so I’d discount it.”

“Well, then.”

“My own theory is that the Ninth controls and regulates the worldwide terrorist network the Soviets train and, in some cases at least, control.”

“A very dangerous man, this Gospadin Protorov.” He was watching Minck carefully because he suspected that they had come to the heart of the matter.

With barely a flicker of his eyelids Minck said, “Extremely dangerous. He’s exceptionally militant. Exceptionally bright. But even worse for us, he’s no bureaucrat.”

“They’ll purge him in the end, then,” Nicholas observed. “They’ll take care of him for you.”

“I suppose they’ll try.”

“Meaning?”

Minck came away from the windows. “For years Protorov was head of the First Directorate. Then about six years ago he was elevated. I rather think that this particular Gospadin has already amassed too much power for that.”

“I’ll have to remember to use extreme caution, then.”

“Ah,” Minck said. He watched Nicholas. “I’d be, er, grateful if you did. Protorov has a nasty habit of bringing ferrets in and playing around with them.”

“Is that what I am now? A ferret?”

“Sato Petrochemicals is the tunnel I’m putting you down,” Minck said, taking Nicholas’ hand. “Mind you only light the lamps as you go.”

They went back through the odd house. “Tanya will give you an access code that will tie you in to the network twenty-four hours a day. You can always get either one of us.” He smiled at last, perhaps out of relief. “And, Nicholas, I’d appreciate it if you’d memorize the thing.”

Dusk was gathering when Tengu decided it was time to take his leave of the dojo. Ever since his brother in arms, Tsutsumu, had been found slain at the feet of the sensei, Kusunoki, he had become increasingly ill at ease in this walled castle that had been his home now for more than a year.

How had Tsutsumu been discovered? He had begun asking himself that terrifying question as soon as he had heard the news. If Tsutsumu, then why not him?

In the time he had been here he had come to understand that there were more forces in the world than he had ever dreamed could exist. He had witnessed feats he had previously thought impossible and to this day could not fathom. All these and more could be his if he stayed on and worked diligently. But that was not to be.

The signal from Control had assured that. Tengu now wondered who he was more afraid of, Control or these strange folk all around him. Though he had lived with them, he was intelligent enough to know that he was not part of them. He floated outside their orbit as a cold moon does a sun, soaking up what energy it could through the vastness of the gulf between them.

Part of him was loathe to leave, but that area could stand little scrutiny, Tengu knew, and he forcibly pushed his thoughts in another direction.

Even so he would not be preparing to depart now had he not found the safe. It was an accident and, afterward, Tengu realized that that would have been the only way anyone would have stumbled upon such a cleverly concealed cache.

All the novices took turns picking the day lilies that, dew laden, lined the slopes of the Yoshino foothills beyond the walled compound. Today had been his turn and just before dawnas Kusunoki had done when he was aliveTengu climbed the slopes in search of the most esthetically pleasing blooms.

Returning to the dojo, he went to the sensei’s study. It was deserted. As was the custom at the dojo, this room would never again be used save for studied contemplation of the spirit of the master, which was the spirit of all that was taught here.

Tengu knelt before the earthenware vase which stood atop the raised platform of the tokonoma, the contemplative alcove within Masashigi Kusunoki’s study. Pouring fresh spring water into the narrow neck of the vase, he began to carefully arrange the lilies.

In truth his mind was far away. Instead of concentrating on the spirit of the flowers in his hands, his mind was recalling all that he had done during the past week to discover the sensei’s, secret. What it had to do with he did not knowand it was not for him to know.

Of course his search was hampered by how circumspect he needed to be around these highly dangerous people. But at that moment he was engrossed with wondering where he had been remiss.

And because his mind was wandering in the Zen sense, he became clumsy. But, ironically, it was just this clumsiness that led to his discovery. As he was arranging the lilies, several drops of water fell onto the highly polished wooden surface. As he moved to wipe them off with the edge of his sleeve, he perceived the barest hairline shadow.

At first he thought it to be a natural fracture of the grain caused by the expansion and contraction with changing temperature. But his concentration returned and he then observed that the line ran straight as an arrow’s shaft for perhaps five inches. At that point he saw another hairline connecting with the first at right angles. His pulse began to jump and he looked around, fearful that he might be observed. All was quiet.

Now as he craned his neck he could see that the porcelain vase was at the very center of what could only be a secret door. He jammed the flowers into the vase and carefully lifted it away, putting it to one side.

He produced a blade so thin it appeared no wider than a filament of wire. The point of this he slowly lowered to the hairline shadow, probing with the utmost caution for should he slip or in any way mark this polished, smooth surface, he would be undone. Already his brother in arms had been discovered, by what method he could not guess, and destroyed. There must not be the slightest hint that another traitor existed within the dojo.

His ears attuned for the slightest alteration in the quiet background sounds from within the buildings, he worked his blade surely and methodically, rejoicing at the slightest movement of the wood panel, content to be patient.

And at last he was rewarded. There was no hinge; the piece just lifted out. Tengu nodded to himself. Considering the nature of the hiding place it was a far securer system, for the sensei was sure to see any signs of tampering with such a tight fit.

Beneath the panel was a drop of perhaps three inches, then a horizontal metal door with a spring lock. Again, using his multipurpose knife, the man popped the lock. Inside he found papers. It was these he had come here to search for. Quickly now, he stuffed the wad of rice paper into his loose cotton jacket. He could feel their frail fluttering like a trapped bird against his bare skin. Then he set about returning the double-lidded safe to its original position.

Concentrating fiercely, he spent an extra few minutes arranging the day lilies in the simplest yet most sublime arrangement. His ikebana sensei would have approved.

Now, in the failing light, he finished packing up his meager belongings in a cotton roll sack that fitted across his shoulders and, touching the packet of papers held fast by his belt against one side of his lower belly, he emerged from his room into the empty corridor.

Swiftly, yet with no hurrying of his spirit, he went through the maze of the dojo, passing without incident through the ancient stone gates. He skirted the red lacquer torii which stood guard over the grounds and took the high, winding path that would lead him through the foothills of the thickly wooded slopes of the Yoshino mountains. Rising stands of cypress, cedar, and fir, rendering the air heady with their scents, swept away almost to the apex of the vault of the heavens, standing black and impenetrable against the last fiery glow of sunset.

Already, to the east, a few first-magnitude stars could be seen dimpling the oncoming bowl of night. Swallows and gray plovers darted through the rustling edges of the fields below him, on their way home before the keen-eyed predators of the dark roused themselves and took wing.

Behind him, lights were already lit within the walled fortress of the dojo, wavering and hazy. He was well quit of them. It took all of his concentration to keep his thoughts utterly disciplined every moment he was there. It was an exhausting business even for one such as he, for he knew by observing carefully that this particular dojo specialized not only in a myriad of arcane bujutsu subdisciplines involving the body but a number involving the mind as well.

As he pushed onward up the twisting woody slope, Tengu contemplated this. He was somewhat acquainted with the dark side of ninjutsu. But here in Yoshino he had begun to enter into areas in which even he did not feel entirely comfortable.

Rounding a long, sweeping bend, he lost sight at last of the bastion which had been his home for so long. He felt as if some obscure weight which had been crushing his heart had been lifted from him. And, like the horned owl, who, bloody clawed and bloody beaked, lifts it prey up into the night, he felt a kind of eerie elation that seemed to fizz the blood in his veins.

And with it came a curiosity he could not control. Searching for a slight break in the underbrush on the upward slope to his left, he struck off from the path in an oblique angle. Now, hidden within the sheltering cedars, he sat cross-legged on a moss-encrusted rock. He chose it because it had the appearance of Tokubei, the great mythic fire-breathing toad.

Mounting it made him feel more keenly the hero that he was. He reached into the crossed opening of his jacket.

He looked up and outward past the barely discernable mountain path to the wide valley beyond, dotted here and there by glowing lights from small houses and farms. He caught the pungent scent of a fire and he thought of the hearth, a steaming bowl of miso soup piled high with noodles. Then he shook himself and, producing a plastic-sheathed pencil flash, unfolded the sheets of rice paper he had stolen from Kusunoki’s safe.

With a curt nod he set himself to reading the vertical lines of ideograms. Why not? He had certainly earned the privilege. For fully half an hour he pored over the text, substituting kanji for the ryu’s complex ciphers, and as he did so his heart began to pound within his chest, his pulse rate shot up, and he found he had to fight to control his breathing. Buddha! he thought. What have I stumbled onto? His fingers trembled when he thought of the overriding implications for Japan.

And so engrossed was he in his reading that he did not notice until it was very-close a small bobbing light flitting like a will-o’-the-wisp through the trunks of the cedars. Immediately, he doused the pencil flash, but it was already too late. The light had stopped its rhythmic movement and now shone still and fierce at a spot on the path directly below where he sat.