Shimazu suddenly remembered how the Seers held the new children when they were first brought to the temple. They used contact with the child itself to guide and focus their vision. Perhaps that would work for Hiroki.
"There may be a way."
"Anything!" Hiroki cried. "I'll try anything."
* * *
Hiroki drank the steaming elixir in slow, steady swallows. It was bitter and yet had a thick, cloying sweetness that almost gagged him. He forced it down, then waited for the blindfold to be tied over his eyes, blocking out the sight of Shimazu and his quarters. When it was in place, he lay back on the futon and waited.
His skin was damp with fear-sweat. What if the elixir damaged normal vision? Who would know? Until now it had only been used by Seers, and they had their eyes removed long before their first dose. He couldn't bear to be blind, led around by the hand, dependent on others. He would commit seppuku before living like that.
Was there any hope of success? Was he risking his eyesight recklessly?
"Open your hand," he heard Shimazu say.
Hiroki did and felt a scrap of parchment-like paper pressed against his palm.
"What is that?"
"One of the scroll fragments you found. I want you to hold it while you are in the trance. I have good reason to believe a relic such as this will guide your vision to the right time and place."
"Aren't you afraid it will be damaged?"
"The ideograms on it have been copied and recopied elsewhere. Its message is preserved."
Hiroki closed his fingers gently around the fragment and tried to relax.
Shimazu said, "Think of something that happened an hour ago. Then something that happened yesterday. Guide your vision backward in time. Point out the direction you wish it to follow, and pray it will lead you the rest of the way."
He lay in silence on the futon, waiting, thinking, concentrating. A glowing yellow fog rose behind his eyelids but he could see nothing else. Time passed slowly in the formless glow within the blindfold. How long would this take—if it worked at all? Nothing was happening. Even the nausea was gone. He was about to give up, to sit up and remove the blindfold when he saw a faint shadow within the fog.
Hiroki stiffened and waited, not sure if he had really seen it or imagined it. It came again, darker this time, lasting longer.
He wanted to shout to Shimazu but held his tongue, afraid he might disturb the effect. The shadows continued to darken, and through breaks in the fog, colors began to appear.
Okamoto, he thought, trying to direct the vision to the ancient caretaker of the scrolls. Find me Okamoto.
The colors began to solidify into shapes, more clear-cut images that remained just beyond his grasp, taunting him.
Suddenly he was looking through the eyes of another, walking down a street.
Hiroki felt his arms and legs fly about and slam against the futon for support as vertigo spun him like a top. His body knew it was lying flat yet his eyes were telling him that he was up and walking. It was disturbing, disorienting, and he could not close his eyes to shut out the images because they were already closed. Gradually the seasick feeling passed and he adjusted to looking out at the world through the eyes of another.
His excitement grew as he tried to recognize his surroundings in the fading sunset light and realized that he was in the past. The road was packed dirt, alive with quaintly dressed pedestrians and bouncing, rattling carts drawn by either ox or horse or human. The sixteenth century would have looked like this. Was he behind the eyes of Okamoto himself?
But if so, where was Okamoto?
Hiroki watched carefully, trying to pick out a landmark, a familiar mountain or horizon, but it was getting so dark. Soon, his host lit a lantern and carried it ahead of him to light the way. Finally he stopped his trek and set the lantern down.
They were at the building site of a small structure. A foundation had been started and a deep alcove of sorts had been carved out of the volcanic rock of the hillside it abutted. Hiroki watched as hands took up a shovel and began to dig in the earth of the alcove. He heard and felt nothing, but sensed weakness, a deadly weariness in the arms wielding the shovel. The bites into the earth were shallow, and the shovelfuls of dirt trembled as they lifted from the hole.
Finally the digging stopped. The hands produced an oblong urn from a sack. Its narrow mouth was sealed. The hands placed it in the hole and filled the dirt in after it. After that was tamped down, another hole was begun. The arms seemed weaker still and the vision blurred and wavered at times. A second urn was buried and then a third hole was started. But when this hole reached half the depth of the first two, the vision shimmered and went black for a few heartbeats.
Hiroki broke out in a cold sweat all over. Something was wrong. Had something gone amiss with the elixir? Was it wearing oft? Or was it Okamoto? He remembered Yajima saying he had found evidence that the monk had been ill during his southward trek. Was he dying?
Suddenly the vision returned, more blurred than before. He saw the hands struggle with a third urn, saw them push it into the shallow third hole and cover it with a thin layer of earth. Then Okamoto was turning, crawling from the alcove, reaching for the lamp. Again the vision swam and faded to a darkness so absolute that Hiroki knew instinctively that there would be no return to light.
Hiroki tried to lift his hands to remove the blindfold but they wouldn't move. He tried to call Shimazu's name but his tongue was frozen. Terror ripped through him. Was he dying like Okamoto? Was the vision carrying him along into death, too? He struggled to turn, to call out, to move even a finger but he could not. He was falling—tumbling through an empty, hungry void that had no end. His mind screamed—
And suddenly he heard his voice screaming. Hands were on him and Shimazu was saying, "What's wrong? Are you all right? What do you see?"
He felt his own hands move, dart to his face, pull off the blindfold. Light! Blessed light! Shimazu hung over him, his impassive green eyes staring down through his mask.
I was dying. I almost went down with Okamoto.
And then he recognized the alcove in the vision. It formed the rear chamber of the shrine where he and Yajima had found the fragments. The scrolls were buried under the floor of the shrine.
"I know where they are!" Hiroki shouted. "I can find the scrolls!"
APRIL
Commander Hiroto, Matsuo's immediate superior, handed him a small cup of green tea, saying, "We have reason to believe the Americans are nearing completion of an atomic bomb."
The words jolted Matsuo. "I thought they were still years away from success, sir."
Commander Hiroto sipped slowly. He was a short, brawny man with very short hair and cheeks so round and full that they seemed to squeeze his eyes closed. He was an old hand at espionage and intelligence. Matsuo liked and respected him. He swallowed and shook his head.
"We all thought that, but word from General Arisue's office—"
"General Arisue—" Matsuo began but the commander silenced him with an upraised hand.
"I know what you are going to say. But hear me out first."
Matsuo settled back. He knew Major General Seizo Arisue as an unprincipled, supremely ambitious man who used every opportunity available—and as head of Army Intelligence there were many—to line his pockets and further his political ambitions. Anything from that man was suspect.
"Two separate sources in Lisbon—double agents—confirm that the American atomic bomb project, centered in a place called Los Alamos in the State of New Mexico, is in an advanced stage of development. They suspect that a prototype will be ready for testing this summer."
"How does Lisbon know all this?"
"Because an American named David Greenglass, a technician at the Los Alamos site, has been selling blueprints to the Russians. If the Americans can produce a working atomic bomb, Japan is doomed."
Matsuo was unimpressed. "I don't see how an atomic weapon can do any more damage than their firebombs did last month."
/>
The sight of those piles of charred corpses still haunted his dreams every night.
"I disagree. The March incendiary raid used three hundred bombers dropping firebombs for three hours and was helped by gale winds. You remember what Dr. Kakihana said when he was here: One atomic bomb dropped by a single plane could wipe out a medium-sized city."
Matsuo closed his eyes and tried to imagine a single bomb causing the horror of destruction he had witnessed that night. It was inconceivable. But Dr. Hidetake Kakihana from the University of Tokyo was world renowned. He had spoken to a select group of intelligence officers at the Naval Club a few years ago. He had said then that an atomic bomb was ten years away for Japan, but maybe less for America, depending on how many expatriate German physicists they had working for them. However, he had thought it would take the Americans at least another five years.
Apparently he had been wrong.
And Matsuo remembered something else Dr. Kakihana had mentioned: radiation. This was something released by an atomic bomb that would cause sickness and lingering death affecting as many or more people than it killed with its immediate blast.
One plane, one bomb, and every city in Japan would have its own tenth of March.
Not on my homeland. I can't let that happen.
"They haven't tested it yet," he said, looking for a bright side. "They may never get a working model."
Commander Hirota leveled his gaze at Matsuo. "Can we rely on that?"
"No. Of course not. Is there any way we can get our own set of blueprints?"
"Obviously not from the Russians. They aren't going to share with us, and it is unlikely that this Greenglass will sell to us—he is probably a communist. We've always relied on the German spy network within the borders of the US, but with the Third Reich all but dead, organized German espionage in America has fallen apart. Since we have no reliable agents in place, we are left with one obvious option." He fixed Matsuo with his stare. "Send someone to America."
Matsuo felt a trapdoor opening under his chair. He fought to hide his dismay.
"And that someone is me?"
"Who better? You grew up there, you've traveled the country, you can speak English just like a native. If anyone can pass for an American, it's you."
"I hate America, sir," Matsuo said, carefully. He was phrasing this as delicately as he could. "I would prefer not to go back there."
"You are the best man for the assignment."
"If you will excuse my boldness, sir, I do feel I can better serve the Emperor here."
"You have been chosen. It is chu."
Matsuo repressed a sigh. It is always chu.
He rose and bowed. "When do I leave?"
"In four to six weeks. A submarine will be requisitioned and specially fitted to take you to the western shore of the United States."
Four to six weeks?
"Is there enough time to set up contacts and—"
"This is an emergency mission, Okumo-san. A desperate gamble. We will arrange what we can, but while you are there you will be on your own much of the time, deciding what to do on a day-to-day basis."
" ‘Playing it by ear,' as the Americans say."
Commander Hiroto nodded. "Very apt." He paused, then cleared his throat. "We are counting on you, Okumo-san. We don't expect you to bring back even part of the secret of the bomb, nor do we expect your mission to result in any effective sabotage of the project. It would be truly glorious if you could accomplish either, but I am aware of the severe limitations you will face merely by being Asian.
"Simply put, we need to know how far along the Americans are. We need to know if they've had a successful test. Their success will change the whole complexion of the war—of all wars to come. We need to know because the day may come soon when they threaten our cities with atomic destruction unless we surrender. We must know if that threat is real. Hundreds of thousands of lives may depend on your success, Okumo-san."
Matsuo felt the walls of the room closing in. He was willing to do anything for the war effort. If he thought it would truly make a difference in the outcome, he might even go so far as to ram an explosives-loaded Zero into the deck of an American carrier; anything short of returning to America.
"I know how you feel about your days in America," Commander Hiroto said, "and I would not ask you if I knew of some other way."
Matsuo bowed to his superior officer, acknowledging the truth of his words. If Commander Hiroto saw no other way, then he would accept that.
But his heart shriveled at the thought.
They were sending him back to America.
* * *
"Wonderful news on two fronts," Hiroki said, bowing before Shimazu. "The transcriptions are complete, and President Roosevelt is dead."
"I am aware of both," Shimazu said. "For a while I was afraid that this country bumpkin named Truman might offer more favorable terms of surrender. That would swing tremendous weight to the side of the defeatists in the diet. Even the military might cave in. But true to the vision, President Truman is as much of a warmonger as his predecessor: He too insists on unconditional surrender."
"The war goes on," Hiroki said. "And with the scrolls transcribed, perhaps we shall begin to change the tide."
Hiroki could not hide his elation. Two of the three scrolls were once again in the possession of the Order. The third did not seem to matter.
Although the earth under the floor of the shrine in Hiroshima had been thoroughly excavated, the third was never found. He had to presume that it had been accidentally unearthed sometime during the past few centuries and was now lost for good. He had feared that some vital bit of information might be missing and had barely slept during the days and nights the Order's scholars had labored over the scrolls, transcribing the cascade of ideograms, many of them archaic and no longer in use, into more usable language. But that laborious task was now completed and it was clear that the first two scrolls held all the information needed.
"I asked that the full transcription be brought to you here for your perusal," Hiroki said.
"Yes. Very kind of you, but that will not be necessary."
Hiroki looked questioningly into those green eyes, then smiled and bowed. "Ah, yes, sensei. You, too, have been reading the transcribed pages as they have fallen still wet from the brushes of the scholars."
"No," said Shimazu. "I read the originals the night you brought them back from Hiroshima."
Hiroki hid his annoyance as well as his wonder. Shimazu never failed to amaze him. To translate such an array of ancient ideograms at a glance was an extraordinary feat. To say nothing of it demonstrated a great wa. But Hiroki wished his sensei had at least mentioned it to him. He could have been spared so much anxiety if only Shimazu had deigned to inform him that the scrolls held all they needed to know. But then, of course, he hadn't thought to ask.
"Do you think the third scroll contained anything of great value, sensei?"
"No. I believe the third scroll was very short. I gather from the references in the first two and from the fragments we have that it was merely a summary of the others."
That meant they had all the answers. The scrolls told how to distill an extract—an ekisu—that would turn any child into a potential Black Wind shoten! No more arduous, time-consuming surgery. No more useless deaths on the operating table. Just a sip of liquid…
"That is most heartening to know. I intend to oversee the compounding of the ekisu as soon as we can assemble all the ingredients. Some of them are . . . esoteric, to say the least."
"True, but they can be found. We may have to send someone to one of the traditional apothecaries in China for a few ingredients. But that should not take long."
Hiroki thought he had better hurry someone off on that mission. No telling how much longer Japan would control any territory in China.
Shimazu said, "You have, I imagine, noticed the recurrent mention of zasshu in the second scroll?"
Hiroki had wondered at the use of the term. I
t meant "mongrel." It appeared to have great significance to the authors of the scrolls.
"Yes, although I confess that in my hurried, piecemeal reading of the transcriptions I did not fully grasp its import."
"Perhaps the finer points of the author's prose were not carried through to the transcription."
Hiroki could almost imagine a condescending smile behind the silk mask. He bowed.
"Enlighten me, sensei."
"The strongest, most destructive Black Winds are formed by a zasshu shoten—a child of mixed lineage, with one parent Japanese and the other from one of the lesser races."
"A zasshu shoten. There are many mongrels available among the Koreans! A half-Japanese, half-Korean child will meet the criterion."
"So will a half-Japanese, half-American child," Shimazu said.
"Well, yes, of course, but—" Suddenly Hiroki was aware of his sensei's eyes boring into his. Was he missing something? And then he remembered: "Meiko's child!"
Shimazu nodded. "Yes. That one would make an excellent shoten. And we can draw a certain amount of pleasure from the delicious irony of the very Americanness of the child being used as a weapon against the Americans, don't you think?"
"Yes, sensei."
He thought he sensed more than irony in Shimazu's desire for this particular child. Why? But irony, delicious or otherwise, meant nothing to Hiroki at this moment.
Meiko… she had hurt him, shunned him, shamed him. Here was a chance to strike back. Perhaps it would even be necessary for someone to slit her throat during the course of the abduction. His honor would be satisfied then, but it wouldn't be enough.
Better for her to live, to be wounded as she had wounded him, to feel the pain of loss as he had, to know what it was like to have someone she thought of as her own snatched from her grasp forever.
But no. This was beneath him. He would not lower himself to take her precious little mongrel child merely to exact revenge. He would do it for the war, for Japan, for the Emperor.
It was chu.
"But we must not be hasty," Shimazu said. "We have no need of the child until we have the ekisu. And I would not wish to deepen the rift between you and your brother."