“The same place you intended to search,” Savage said. “Where would I find this holy man you mentioned?”
“He wouldn't speak with you.”
“Maybe. But I'd have to try, so just in case, how would I find him?”
“Your stubbornness is commendable.” But Akira looked doubtful as he brought a pen and paper from a narrow lacquered desk and wrote a sequence of numbers along with directions to several places. “The holy man is my sensei. He ought to be at this location.” Akira tapped the piece of paper. “But your priority is to go to the restaurant first.”
Savage took the piece of paper. “Absolutely.” He stood.
“I'll get dressed as fast as I can,” Rachel said.
Savage followed her from the room and along the corridor.
At the far end Eko knelt, stroking her grandson's hair as her tears dripped onto the corpse's face.
God help her, Savage thought.
God help us all.
8
Fifteen minutes later, Savage and Rachel carried their travel bags along the shadowy white-pebbled path. The once peaceful garden felt haunted. At the door, Savage turned and bowed to Akira.
Akira bowed in return. “Sayonara.”
“Sayonara. Let's hope it isn't for long.”
“I'll deal with the police and join you soon.” Akira made a motion so unexpected that for several seconds Savage didn't realize what he intended.
Akira's arm was outstretched. In a remarkable lapse from Japanese custom, he wanted to shake Savage's hand.
Savage's chest was warm with emotion as their palms met. Akira's grip felt gentle yet firm, delicate with the implied strength of a swordsman.
A moment later, Akira lifted the wooden bar from the metal hook on each side of the door. Savage cautiously pulled the door open, peered out, and scanned the deserted dark street. Detecting no obvious threat, he proceeded nervously along the sidewalk, making sure his body shielded Rachel. Under his jacket, he carried one of the intruders’ pistols, a calculated risk that the police wouldn't question why three intruders carried only two handguns.
Behind him, the door whispered shut. A thunk was the bar being put back in place. As they rounded a corner, despite Rachel's presence Savage felt hollow.
Incomplete.
Lonely.
AMATERASU
1
Making sure they weren't followed, they walked for several miles. By then, the sun was up, the streets bustling, noisy. Crossing intersections, Savage had to keep reminding himself not to check for cars approaching from the left, as he would have in America and most of Europe, but instead to glance toward the right, for here as in England motorists drove on the left side of the street and thus approached from a pedestrian's right.
At first, Savage's impulse had been to hire a taxi, but for the moment he and Rachel had no destination. Even if they did have an immediate destination, their lack of familiarity with the Japanese language made it impossible for them to give directions to a driver. Akira had partially solved that problem by writing his instructions—how to reach the restaurant and his sensei—in both English and Japanese script. Those instructions didn't help their present circumstance, however, and Savage and Rachel felt totally lost.
Still, they had to go somewhere. Wandering wasn't only pointless but fatiguing. Their travel bags became a burden.
“Maybe we should get on a bus,” Rachel said. “At least we'd be able to sit.”
She soon changed her mind. Every bus was crammed, with no possibility of finding a place even to stand.
Savage paused at the entrance to a subway.
“The trains will be as crowded as the buses,” Rachel said.
“That's more than likely, but let's have a look.”
They descended into a claustrophobia-producing maze. Travelers jostled past them, almost too urgent to cast curious glances at the two Caucasians among them. Savage's bag was slammed painfully against his leg. Ahead, he heard the echoing roar of a train. Emerging from a passageway, he faced a deafening, throng-filled cavern. At least, in contrast with New York subways, the terminal was clean and bright. A chart hung on a wall, various colored lines intersecting. Beneath Japanese ideograms, Savage saw English lettering.
“It's a map of the subway system,” Rachel said.
With effort, they deciphered the map and determined that this branch of the subway was called the Chiyoda line. Its green path led to midtown Tokyo, to the east of which was a black path labeled GINZA.
Savage examined the piece of paper Akira had given him. “The restaurant's in the Ginza district. If we take this train and get off at one of the midtown exits, maybe we'll be close to the rendezvous site.”
“Or even more lost than we are.”
“Have faith,” Savage said. “Isn't that what you keep telling me?”
Travelers lined up at a gate to buy tickets from a machine. Savage imitated them, using Japanese currency he'd obtained at the airport. When a train arrived, the waiting crowd surged toward its opening doors, thrusting Savage and Rachel inside. The sway of the speeding train and the crush of passengers pressed Rachel's breasts against him.
Several stops later, they left the subway, climbing congested stairs to the swelling din of midtown Tokyo. Office buildings and department stores towered before them. The swarm of traffic and pedestrians was overwhelming.
“We can't keep carrying these bags,” Rachel said.
They decided to find a hotel, but what they found instead was a massive railway terminal. Inside the busy concourse there were lockers, where they stored their bags, and finally unencumbered, they felt revitalized.
“Only nine o'clock,” Savage said. “We're not supposed to be at the restaurant till noon.”
“Then let's check out the sights.”
Rachel's buoyant mood was forced, Savage sensed, an anxious attempt to distract herself from the traumas of the night before. She managed to seem carefree only until she reached an exit from the station and noticed a vending machine filled with newspapers. Faltering, she pointed. The front page of a newspaper showed a large photograph of the Japanese they'd seen on television in the North Carolina motel.
“Muto Kamichi.” Savage exhaled forcefully, unable to repress the false memory of Kamichi's body being cut in half. At once he corrected himself, using the name the television announcer had called the anti-American politician. “Kunio Shirai.”
The photograph showed the gray-haired Japanese haranguing an excited group of what looked like students.
Why am I supposed to think I saw him die? Savage thought. An eerie chill swept through him. Does he think he saw us die?
“Let's get out of here,” Savage said, “and find someplace that isn't crowded. I need a chance to think.”
2
They headed west from the railway station and reached a large square called Kokyo Gaien. Beyond a moat, the Imperial Palace glinted. As Savage walked with Rachel along a wide gravel path toward the south of the square, he struggled to arrange his thoughts. “It's almost as if Akira and I were manipulated into coming to Japan.”
“I don't see how that's possible. Every step of the way, we made our own choices. From Greece to southern France to America to here,” Rachel said.
“Yet someone anticipated that we'd arrive at Akira's home. The assault team was ready. Someone's thinking ahead of us.”
“But how?”
They came to a street and once again proceeded west. To the left was the Parliament Building, to the right, beyond a moat, the Imperial Gardens, but Savage was too distracted to pay them attention.
He walked for quite a while in troubled silence. “If two men thought they'd seen each other die and then came into contact with each other,” he finally said, “what would they do?”
“That's obvious.” Rachel shrugged. “The same as you and Akira did. They'd be desperate to know what had really happened.”
“And if they discovered that someone they knew had arranged for them to
come into contact?”
“They'd go to that person and demand an explanation,” Rachel said.
“Logical and predictable. So we went to Graham and discovered that he'd been murdered. No answers. But we needed answers. Where else could we look for them?”
“Only one choice,” Rachel said. “Where you thought you'd seen each other die. The Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.”
“Which we discovered didn't exist. So is it also predictable that our next choice would have been to find out what else had never happened?” Savage asked. “To go to the Harrisburg hospital where we thought we'd been treated for our injuries and where we each remembered the same doctor?”
“But after that, your theory falls apart,” Rachel said. “Because no one could predict that you'd decide to have X rays taken to find out if you'd really been injured. And for certain, no one could predict that eventually you'd talk to Dr. Santizo in Philadelphia.”
They passed two institutional-looking buildings. A wooded park attracted them. A Japanese sign at the entrance had English beneath it: INNER GARDEN OF THE MEUI SHRINE.
“But a surveillance team could have been waiting at the hospital,” Savage said. “Or more likely at Medford Gap, where we'd be easier to spot when we showed up to search for the Mountain Retreat. In New York, we made sure we hadn't been followed. But after Medford Gap, we were so distracted we might not have realized we had a tail. When we left the car to go into the Harrisburg hospitals, the surveillance team could have planted a homing device on the car and followed us easily after that, all the way to Virginia Beach where they killed Mac to keep him from talking and tried to get you away from us. Now that I think of it, Mac's death didn't only stop us from getting information. We were blamed for his murder. It put more pressure on us to run.”
“And when we saw Kunio Shirai on television, we knew exactly where to run,” Rachel said. “Japan.” She shook her head. “There's a flaw in the logic, though. How could anyone be sure we'd see a picture of Shirai?”
“Because we'd be forced to check the news to learn what the police were saying about the murders. If not on television, then in magazines or newspapers, we'd eventually have found out about him.”
“… I agree.”
Savage frowned. “But the team that killed Mac works for someone different than the team that tried to kill us last night. One wants us to keep searching. The other wants us to stop.” He gestured, angry, bewildered.
Ahead, a wide path led them through a huge cypress gate, its tall pillars joined near the top by a beam and at the very top by other beams, each beam progressively wider, the entire structure reminding Savage of a massive Japanese ideogram. Trees and shrubs flanked the path and directed Savage's troubled gaze toward a large pagoda, its three stories emphasized by long, low buildings to the right and left: the Meiji Shrine. The pagoda's roof was flat, its sides sloping down, then curving up, creating a link between earth and sky. Savage was struck by the elegance and harmony.
A voice speaking English startled him. Rachel clutched his arm. Nervous, he pivoted and saw something so unexpected he blinked in confusion.
Americans!
Not a few but several dozen, and though Savage had arrived in Japan only yesterday, he'd become so used to seeing crowds composed exclusively of Orientals that for a moment this throng of awkward Caucasians seemed as foreign to him as he and Rachel felt amid the numerous Japanese they'd been following toward the shrine.
But the voice he'd heard speak English belonged to an attractive female Japanese in her twenties. She wore a burgundy skirt and blazer that resembled a uniform. Holding a clipboard with pages attached, she turned her head as she walked and addressed the Americans following her.
A tourist group, Savage realized.
“The Meiji Shrine is one of the most popular pilgrimage sites in Japan,” the guide explained, her English diction impressive, though the l and r in “pilgrimage” gave her trouble.
She paused where the path led into a courtyard. The group formed a semicircle.
“In eighteen sixty-seven,” she said, “after more than two and a half centuries in which a shogun was absolute ruler of Japan, an emperor again assumed power. The name of His Imperial Highness was Meiji”—she bowed her head—”and the return of authority to the emperor was called the Meiji Restoration, one of the four greatest cultural changes in the history of Japan.”
“What were the other three?” a man in blue-checkered pants interrupted.
The guide answered automatically. “Influences from China in the fifth century, the establishment of the Shogunate in sixteen hundred, and the United States occupation reforms after World War II.”
“… Didn't MacArthur make the emperor admit he wasn't a god?”
The tour guide's smile hardened. “Yes, your esteemed general required His Highness to renounce his divinity.” She smiled even harder, then gestured toward the pagoda. “When Emperor Meiji died in nineteen twelve, this shrine was created in his honor. The original buildings were destroyed in nineteen forty-five. This replica was constructed in nineteen fifty-eight.” She tactfully didn't mention that American bombing raids had been what destroyed the original buildings.
Savage watched her lead the group across the courtyard. About to follow toward the shrine, he glanced reflexively behind him and noticed, his stomach hardening, that some Americans hadn't proceeded with the group. They lingered thirty yards back on the tree-rimmed path.
Savage redirected his gaze toward the shrine. “Come on, let's join the group,” he told Rachel. He tried to sound casual but couldn't conceal the urgency in his voice.
She turned sharply toward him. “What's wrong?”
“Just look straight ahead. Match my pace. Pretend you're so fascinated by what the tour guide's saying, you want to keep up with her.”
“But what's … ?”
His heart cramped. “When I tell you, don't look behind us.”
They neared the group. The spacious courtyard was bathed in sunlight. Savage's spine felt cold.
“All right, I won't look behind me,” Rachel said.
“Five men on the path. For a moment, I thought they were tourists. But they're wearing suits, and they seem more interested in the shrubs along the path than they are in the shrine. Except for us. They're very interested in us.”
“Oh, God.”
“I don't know how they found us.” Savage's fingers turned numb as adrenaline forced blood toward his muscles. “We were careful. And that subway was too damned crowded for anyone to keep us in sight.”
“Then maybe they really are tourists. Businessmen with a few hours off, trying to get over jet lag. Maybe they're less interested in the shrine than they thought they'd be and wish they'd gone to a geisha house.”
“No,” Savage said, pulse hammering. They reached the tour group. He had to keep his voice low. “I recognized one of them.”
Rachel flinched. “You're sure?”
“As sure as I am that I saw Akira beheaded and Kamichi cut in half. One of those men was at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.”
“But the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat …”
“Doesn't exist. I know that. I'm telling you I remember him being there.” Savage's head throbbed. His mind reeled, assaulted again by jamais vu.
Though he tried to hide it, the distress in his voice made members of the tour group turn and frown at him. A fiftyish woman with blue-tinted hair told him, “Shush.” The Japanese guide hesitated, peering back toward the distraction.
Savage murmured apologies, guiding Rachel around the group, walking anxiously toward the looming shrine. “False memory, yes,” he told Rachel. “But that doesn't change the fact that it's in my head. It feels real to me. Akira and I both remember Kamichi having a conference with three men. One looked Italian, the other Spanish, or maybe Mexican or … The third, though, was American! And I saw him just now behind us on the path!”
“But the conference never happened.”
“I saw hi
m one other time.”
“What?”
“At the hospital. While I convalesced.”
“In Harrisburg? But you were never in a hospital in Harrisburg. How can you recognize a man you never met?”
“How could Akira and I recognize Kunio Shirai, the man we knew as Kamichi?”
“You never met Kamichi either.”
Savage flooded with terror. He needed all his discipline, the effects of all his years of training and hardship under fire, to keep from panicking. Reality—the shrine before him— seemed to waver. False memory insisted that it alone was true. If what I remember isn't true, Savage thought, how can I be sure that this is?
They entered the shrine. In a glimmering corridor that stretched to the right and left, Savage saw burnished doors emblazened with golden suns. Equipped with hinges in the middle, the doors had been folded open, revealing the precinct of what looked like a temple. Railings prevented him from going farther.
“This way,” Savage said, urging Rachel to the left, disrupting the concentration of Japanese who gazed toward the shrine's interior in reverence of solemn artifacts that symbolized their noble heritage prior to the U.S. occupation, prior to the Second World War.
Judging the corridor ahead, Savage jerked his eyes furtively to the left, through a doorway that led outside. The five Americans, led by the distinguished-looking, expensively dressed man he remembered from the Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital, hurried with strained long strides across the crowded courtyard, nearing the shrine. The only reason they didn't break into a run, Savage guessed, was that they knew their skin had attracted too much attention to them already. A commotion here would provoke a rapid police response.
The jasmine-scented corridor veered to the right. Struggling to avoid further groups of meditating Japanese, Savage and Rachel zigzagged, turned sideways, twisted, and veered, desperate to reach an exit on the left.