Chameleon

8

A hundred feet away, among the trees in the park, Tony Falmouth watched O’Hara board the bus. He twisted, from his ear, the small speaker attached to his long-range parabolic mike. He had heard every word perfectly. He made an instant decision to follow the woman and drop O’Hara for the moment. It would be no problem to pick up O‘Hara’s trail. But this woman held the key, he felt it. His pulse began to trip. He was close. The small listening device telescoped into a thin accordion-like rod. He put it in his pocket, and jogging from tree to tree, started to follow her.

He followed her away from the market, along the edge of sprawling Maruyama Park. She skirted the heart of the city and shuffled into a small suburban section down through myriad quiet, high-fenced walkways that sheltered homes from which sequestered sounds segued as he passed from house to house: a baby crying, a radio playing elevator music, another soft rock, two women laughing softly, a man singing opera in pigeon Italian, a Coke TV commercial in Japanese. Lanterns swung idly overhead, moved by the gentle breeze, and cast Halloween shadows on the fences.

She was easy to follow; there were few people on the streets, and except for the muffled sounds from the houses, it was so quiet it was almost funereal. He could hear her sandals clopping on the cobblestones a block or so ahead of him.

Then she did the unexpected. She cut back to the main street and entered a small restaurant on Nijo-dori Street near the Hotel Fujita. Might she be a waitress? Or perhaps the manager? He did not want to lose her. She had given O’Hara an address, and Falmouth wanted that address.

He waited a few minutes and followed her in. It was not a fancy place, but it was serene and cool and very dark. It was so dark that it took him a moment to spot her, although the restaurant was almost empty. She was sitting alone near the back. The wall panels were open and there was a moss garden in the rear with a goldfish pond near the window. She was watching the enormous gold and black carp appraising the bottom for food. Falmouth walked to her table.

Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’

She shook her head.

Falmouth quickly switched to Japanese. ‘Tam a visitor here,’ he said. ‘I have always heard Kyoto is the most beautiful city in the world. Then I saw you and I forgot Kyoto. I realize this is quite improper, to approach you this way, but there is a Zen phrase which says, “Take time to enjoy the garden, you may pass it only once.” I. . . uh, I knew I probably would never see you again, so I followed you from the market. Please forgive my—’

She put her hand to his lips and silenced him. ‘I am not offended,’ she said in a low voice he could hardly hear. ‘I have lived in America. I understand Western ways.’

She turned away and looked back at the fish.

So far, so good, Falmouth thought. Now for the big move.

He played the flustered swain, sophisticated but with a touch of anxiety. ‘My name is John Willoughby. I’m from London. I really am taken with you. I could lie, of course, and tell you I am lonely and want some company. But the fact is, I would like to be with you. May I buy you dinner’?’

She chuckled softly and looked back over her shoulder at him. The jade handle of her hairpin glowed green against the jet-black bun of hair, and he could see her eyes glittering in the dim light as she whispered, ‘Yes, John Willoughby from London, you may.’

Kimura was away from the house when O’Hara returned, but Sammi was in the garden meditating. O’Hara waited for him to finish.

‘I need to talk to Tokenrui-san,’ he said. ‘When will he be back?’

Sammi shrugged. ‘You know him, he moves with the spirit.’

‘An apt observation,’ Kimura said. They turned and saw the old man standing in the doorway. ‘And what is it that is so urgent, Kazuo?’

‘I’ll take a powder,’ Sammi said.

‘It’s okay, this concerns us all,’ said O’Hara.

‘You seem sad,’ Kimura said.

‘I need your help, Tokenrui-san. But in asking, I do not wish to offend you. You are as my father.’

‘I know that, Kazuo. And I can see from the trouble on your face that it concerns you deeply, asking me this, I understand it is something you must do. So...?’

‘So . you knew Chameleon, didn’t you, Tokenrui-san?’

Kimura pondered the question for a few moments. ‘The world is full of Chameleons,’ he said finally.

‘Not the Chameleon I’m talking about. I know you trained the war chiefs of the Imperial Army ii the Way of the Secret Warrior, before and during the war. Chameleon was head of a special branch of the secret service accountable only to Tojo himself. He had to be higaru-dashi.’

‘That is a logical deduction. I am astounded no one has made it before this,’

‘Nobody cared before now.’

‘And what is different about now?’

‘I care now. And a lot of innocent people have died because of this man. A lot more will die.’

‘You are sure it is the same Chameleon?’

‘I’m not sure at all But I think you know the answer. Tokenrui-san, is Chameleon still alive?’

Kimura looked straight into O’Hara’s eyes. He shook his head. ‘No. The man you speak of as Chameleon is dead.’

‘But you did train him. He knew’ the Way of the Secret Warrior.’

Kimura hesitated a moment and then nodded. ‘He is dead now, I can see no violation of confidence by telling you that.’

‘How long has he been dead?’

‘The record says Yamuchi Asieda died in the holocaust at Hiroshima.’

‘I’m not interested in the records. Forget the damn records.’

‘I cannot do that, Kazuo. Nothing will be gained by changing things as they exist.’

‘I’m not interested in exposing some second-rate war criminal, I—’

‘Wait. Before you go on: Yamuchi, the man you know as Chameleon, was loved by many people. He was not a war criminal to us, he was a man who sacrificed much for his country. To my knowledge, he committed no acts of atrocity. He trained the kancho and he directed them. There was none better. One reason he was so good is that people trusted him. He had a great empathy for people, that is why they were attracted to him. It is why he was number one. He was also very clever, a fly too fast for the spider’s web.’

‘He must have done something. The government spent five years verifying his death.’

‘And why do you think they spent such time and money?’

‘They must have wanted him real had.’

‘They?’

‘The Army, the CID, whoever. .

‘Whoever, you say. One person, perhaps?’

O’Hara thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose one person with enough clout.’

‘Ah, clout, the magic word...’

Clout, thought O’Hara. Enough clout to place a name on the list of war criminals.

‘Like a general maybe?’ O’Hara said.

‘Ah, you begin to look beyond the obvious. Not “they,” not some faceless organization. Him. One man.’

‘Hooker was military governor here for six years,’ O’Hara

‘From 1945 to 1951.’

‘Yes,’ Kimura said. ‘With a passionate hatred of Chameleon.’

‘Why?’

‘An old wound. They were deadly enemies, remember.’

‘The war was over, Tokenrui-san, a lot of enemies were forgiven.’

‘Not all, however.’

‘But what did he do to Hooker, to kindle that kind of hatred?’

The old man pondered the question for a very long time, then said, ‘Perhaps he was frustrated because he could not identify Chameleon. There were no records. And no one ever betrayed the secret of his identity.’

‘You think Hooker had some kind of revenge motive?’ Kirmura nodded. ‘It is certainly a possibility.’

‘Hooker says Chameleon is a blackmailer, an extortionist, a terrorist. You name it. He implied that the whole industry uses Chameleon’s services. Now they’re his victims. They’re terrified of him.’

‘I assure you, the Chameleon you know as Asieda is dead.’ Kimura sat before the tea table and took out a flat box of cigarettes.

‘These are Shermans from New York, It understand they are superb.’

He took one out. It was pink with a gold-wrapped filter. ‘I will have to think about the aesthetics of these,’ he said, holding up the cigarette and contemplating it; then he lit it, taking a deep drag and exhaling very slowly. ‘Five cigarettes a day. That’s what the spirits permit me.’

‘How do you know that?’ O’Hara said sceptically.

‘I asked them.’

‘Tokenrui-san,’ O’Hara said. ‘You can solve the riddle of Chameleon for me. I am certain of it. If the man is dead, let me use your knowledge to put an end to this . . . this guntai shi, this death army.’

Kimura sat on the floor, crossing his legs in the lotus position.

‘Yamuchi Asieda was a wealthy importer in Tokyo, a man of royal blood and an honourable man,’ he said. ‘He was inducted into the higaru-dashi in l939 a candidate for Tokenrui from the beginning. A man of consummate skill with the sword, as agile as a hummingbird, and a man who achieved the state of the seventh level with almost mystical persuasion.

‘Yamuchi Asieda was not in favour of the war. His business took him all over the world and he knew how great the stakes were, how big the gamble. He was not a war lord, not an assassin. He was a man who loved jewellery, paintings, Dresden china. But the Emperor himself asked Asieda to take over the training of agents for the secret service. It was quite natural. Asieda had partners all over the working, so he set about building a network of spies. The Emperor in exchange agreed that his identity would never be revealed. He took the code name Chameleon and selected Dragon’s Nest as his headquarters because it was remote and impenetrable.

‘The only people who knew his true identity were four members of the War Council, and they all died at Hiroshima. When the war was over, Asieda became a nomad, wandering the islands, his identity lost forever in the ashes of the war. He died several years ago. So you see, this man was no terrorist, not an assassin. I can tell you no more, Kazuo —to do so would violate my word of honour.’

O’Hara wanted to press him, but he knew better. Instead he took the slip of paper out of his pocket. ‘A woman who followed me on the train gave me this.’

He handed it to Kimura. The old man looked at the slip without comment and handed it back.

‘She says Chameleon will be there alone, tonight. Nine o’clock.’

‘And who was this woman?’

‘I only saw her for a moment. She appeared to be a geisha. She followed me from the train. There was desperation in her voice. I asked her why she was turning him in and she said she was a prisoner, she wanted her freedom.’

Kimura puffed on his pink cigarette and blew smoke rings in the air.

‘It seems too obvious for a trap. But then, what could be less obvious than the most obvious thing of all.’

‘Tokenrui-san...’

‘Do not go tonight. Give me another day or two to sort this out.,

‘Tokenrui-san, I have not asked you to break your vow of silence. Do not ask me to play a coward’s game. She will lead me to him. I am certain of it.’

‘You know nothing of the woman. Nothing of the house. Nothing of Chameleon. And yet you would walk into this?’

‘I will be prepared.’

‘If this Chameleon is as you think, are you prepared for a knife in the back? A wire around the throat? A silent bullet in the head?’

‘I will be prepared.’

‘You try my faith in you.’

‘This is today. I live for today. You taught me that. If the spirit flies tomorrow, it will be as full as I can make it.’

Kimura said nothing more. He stared past O’Hara at the wall. O’Hara finally got up.

‘I respect and honour your silence, Tokenrui-san, I hope you understand why I must go.’

‘When the fool has enough scars, he becomes a wise man,’ said Kimura, still staring at the wall.

‘Arigato.’

‘Be careful.’ And as O’Hara started out the door, the old man looked up at him and smiled. ‘When you write this story of yours, remember, rhythm is the best measure of the latitude and opulence of a writer. If unskilled, he is at once detected by the poverty of his chimes.’

‘I’ll remember that. Does the Tendai say that?’

‘No, Ralph Waldo Emerson said it.’

Laughing, O’Hara left the house.

‘Shall I follow him?’ Sammi asked.

‘Of course.’

She had been elusive throughout the meal, saying very little, eating her raw fish and sipping sake arid making him talk about himself. He was a widower, he had told her, and was in the book business. It was his first vacation alone. He had dreamed of coming to Kyoto, but the trip had turned out to be lonelier than he had thought.

She had been sympathetic.

Now she led him down through more fenced walkways, past other sounds, into the quiet, almost fairylike residential section. She opened a gate in the high fence and led him through it. A large two-story house, unlike the others around it, sat fifty feet or so back from the street. Its tapered roof and carved columns told Falmouth it was the house of a wealthy person. The grounds were perfectly manicured and spotted with dwarf willows and pines. She held a finger to her mouth and led him around to the side of the place. A small creek trickled tunefully through the grounds and disappeared into the shadows, and somewhere in the back, wind chimes sang to the breeze.

Falmouth checked the place as carefully as he could without seeming obvious. The house was L—shaped. The only lights were at the far corner of the wing.

Deserted.

Beautiful. It might take some twisting to get the address. He didn’t have time to woo the information out of the lady. It had to be quick.

She stopped in front of one of the chambers in the main wing of the house and quietly slid back its panelled door. It wasn’t much of a step into the house, which was built on short, thick stilts, raising it no more than a foot or so above the ground.

When they were inside, she whispered, ‘My father lives in the back. No one else is here. We will leave the light off.’ She slid the panel shut, but light from the street filtered through the thin, opaque glass doors. She unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, then his tie, then drew him down beside her. He thought, damn the luck. To walk into a tasty piece like this and it all has to be business.

She undid his gold watch and laid it gently on the floor beside the tatami.

It was nine o’clock.

She lay back and drew him down beside her. Her lips brushed his. She reached back and drew out the hairpin. Affixed to the jade handle was a stiletto six inches long.

Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

What the hell, Falmouth thought, a few more minutes more or less—

It was almost the last thought he ever had.

As he leaned over to kiss her, she held the dirk at arm’s length and then plunged it into his ear.

Fire burned deep into the back of his throat, seared his brain and then erupted in pain.

His scream sliced the night like a hatchet. He rolled away from her, struggled to his knees, his trembling fingers touching the jade hilt, which stuck obscenely from the hole in his ear. The fire burned deeper and the pain of steel in his brain was unbearable.

He got to his feet but the room was already a blur, the pain frozen in his throat. He was growling like a fox in a trap. The floor tilted. He turned, tried to regain his balance and stumbled sideways and plunged headlong through the door. The glass shattered into hundreds of light blossoms. The frame cracked and the door crashed with him into the garden.

God, I’m losing it, he thought. Must. .. get ... it out. And with all his strength he drew the stiletto from his head. Pain poured into the wound like burning oil, He staggered through the fish pond and fell face down into the rock garden. The knife dropped from his fingers into the creek.

Plump.

O’Hara found the address with little trouble. He tried the gate and found it unlocked. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. Perfect.

He had one leg through the gate when he heard the scream. It was unworldly, a man, shattering the night with anguish. He ran toward the scream, and as he rounded the corner of the house he saw a man plunge through a door. The man staggered into the fish pond, both hands clutching the side of his head, and then collapsed.

O’Hara ran to him and rolled him over on his back. ‘My God,’ he cried, ‘Tony!’

The woman stood in the shattered doorway of the house, a dark shape framed by the lights behind her, her black hair hanging in long strands about her shoulders.

‘He is dead, or will be in a moment, ‘she said in a harsh voice. ‘The blade was soaked in arsenic.’

She reached up and grabbed the crown of her hair and pulled it and the thick black hair fell away.

A wig.

She threw it on the floor. She clutched her blouse with both hands and ripped it open. A padded shirt. She threw it aside also.

And suddenly she was no longer she.

She had become he.

A he, tattooed from waist to chest with intertwined chameleons, writhing across his belly, up his chest, between his pectorals, his left nipple forming an obscene eye in one of the vivid lizards. Each one was a different colour, the vivid patterns along the slender, twisting bodies ranging from cobalt blue to lemon orange to flaming red, their eyes glittering venomously, forked tongues licking the man’s hard stomach.

O’Hara was face to face with Chameleon.