Red Shark

The fog cleared and Scott sat up. He looked around and thought for a moment he was in an art museum filled with lacquer work, scrolls, and ceramics. Then he remembered the hammer blow delivered to the back of his neck by someone unseen, perhaps the man standing motionless, like a statue, in a corner of the room. He was solidly built and looked like a dozing Buddha with both arms folded across his chest and a pair of hooded eyes, but his tense facial muscles and rigid stance said otherwise. Even now he seemed to sense something and lifted his head, as if sniffing the air.

Tokugawa offered Scott a cup of hot saki, which he refused. “I am puzzled, Commander Scott. What did you think you were going to do? Storm my home and free Ms. Kida?”

“Where is she? I want to see her.”

“Who sent you?”

Scott slowly got to his feet and felt shaky for it. “No one. I’m acting on my own. I want to see Fumiko.” He rotated his head to work out pain and stiffness.

Tokugawa frowned. “You are in no position to make demands. You were ordered out of Japan, but since you saw fit to disobey, I summoned security forces, who are on their way here to arrest you and Ms. Kida. You have violated Japanese security laws, a very serious offense.”

“The director general of JDIH keeps you pretty well informed.” Scott saw his cell phone, passport, and Rick’s Glock lying on a small table across the room. “I know why you tried to kill us — because we discovered your secret plan to attack the United States with nuclear weapons. But the old man — Higashi — you didn’t have to kill him.”

Tokugawa, unfazed, wiped an eye. “Nuclear weapons? You and Ms. Kida seem to have a penchant for fantasy, Commander. Perhaps it is fueled by your country’s habit of bullying weaker countries into submission under the pretext of making America secure. You see terrorist plots and treachery everywhere. Even in Japan, your ally.”

“Does the director general know about your collaboration with Marshal Jin?”

Tokugawa’s face turned stony. “Unlike you, he does not meddle in my affairs. You are involved in something you don’t understand.”

“I understand Jin’s a madman. But what can you possibly gain?”

Tokugawa felt behind him for a chair and sat down. “In the seventeenth century, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu, the sworn enemy of Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa Shogun, wrote on the subject of a man’s duty to his family. He said that a man who does not avenge his father’s death in battle is a coward and traitor. Every Japanese soldier who fought in the Pacific War understood Yoshimitsu’s words. But they also understood something else: gyokusai, a word that describes what it means for a Japanese to face an overwhelming enemy force and to die a glorious and courageous death.”

“And you want revenge.”

“For men like my father who fought against American imperialism, the war was seisen — sacred. A man who fought for Japan and in defeat was condemned to death by the victorious Americans had to be avenged.”

“By destroying the United States?”

Tokugawa’s voice took on an edge. “Not destroying but crippling the United States to halt its relentless pursuit of global hegemony.”

Scott looked at the old man with loathing. Powerful, corrupt, willing to collaborate in the murder of millions for an ancient cause no sane man would embrace. But how to stop it? Tokugawa was old and immune to fear and guilt, and even the prospect of death would only harden his warped beliefs.

A shoji screen slid open, and an elderly man and woman bearing trays of covered dishes entered the room. The couple kept their eyes on their work while Tokugawa watched them arrange the dishes on a table. Finished, they bowed deeply and withdrew.

Tokugawa said, “Please join me, Commander. It is late, and you must be hungry.”

“I want to see Fumiko,” Scott said.