Fortunes of War

2

“Captain Kato and his men were all dead when the security men got there,” Takeo Yahiro told the prime minister, Atsuko Abe. “Apparently they committed suicide after they beheaded the emperor. The empress was the only person alive — she was passed out on the floor.”

Abe’s astonishment showed on his face. “The emperor was beheaded in the presence of his wife?”

“It would seem so, sir. She was lying on the floor in a faint when the security officers came upon the scene.”

Abe shook his head, trying to make the nightmare easier to endure. To assassinate a powerful official for political reasons was certainly not unheard of in Japan, but to do so in the presence of his wife…, the empress? He had never heard of such a thing. What would the public think?

“Captain Kato left a letter under the sword scabbard, sir, a letter written in blood. It gave the reasons for his actions.”

The prime minister was still fixated upon the presence of the empress at the murder scene. With his eyes closed, he asked, “Did the assassins touch the empress?”

“I do not know, sir. Perhaps the doctors—“

“Has the press gotten this detail?”

Takeo Yahiro spoke softly, yet with assurance. “No, sir. I took the liberty of refusing to allow any press release until senior officials were notified.”

Abe breathed deeply through his nose, considering, before he finally opened his eyes. He nodded almost imperceptibly, a mere fraction of an inch. “Very well, Yahiro. Inflaming the public will not accomplish anything. A tragedy, a horrible tragedy …”

“There was a letter, sir. The assassins were disciples of Mishima.”

“Ahh …” said the prime minister, then fell silent, thinking. Yukio Mishima had been an ultranationalist, a zealot. Unfortunately he had also been a writer, a novelist, one with a flaming passion for the brutal, bloody gesture. Thirty-eight years ago he and four followers stormed into Japan’s military headquarters in downtown Tokyo, barricaded themselves in the office of the commanding general, and called for the military to take over the nation. That didn’t happen, of course, but Mishima was not to be denied. He removed his tunic and plunged a sword into his belly; then one of his disciples lopped off his head before killing himself, as well. The whole thing was neatly and tidily done in the grand samurai tradition. Mishima seared a bold political statement into the national conscience in a way impossible to ignore. And, incidentally, there was no one left alive for the authorities to punish — except for a few people on a minor trespass charge. In the years since Mishima had become a cult figure. His ultranationalistic, militarist message was winning new converts every day, people who were finally coming to understand that they had an absolute duty to fulfill the nation’s destiny, to uphold its honor. “Public dissemination of the fact that the empress was a witness to her husband’s assassination would accomplish nothing,” Abe said. “The empress may mention it, sir.”

“She never speaks to the press without clearing her remarks with the Imperial Household Agency. She has suffered a terrible shock. When she recovers, she will understand that to speak of her presence at the murder scene would not be in the national interest.”

“Yes, sir. I will call the agency immediately.”

The prime minister merely nodded — Yahiro was quite reliable — then moved on. “Prince Hirohito must be placed on the throne. In a matter of hours. Ensure that the ancient ceremony is scrupulously observed — the nation’s honor demands it. He must receive the imperial and state seals and the replicas of the Amaterasu treasures.” The actual treasures — a mirror, a sword, and a crescent-shaped jewel — could be traced back to the Shinto sun goddess, Amaterasu, from whom the imperial family was descended, so they were too precious to be removed from their vault. “Arrange it, please, Yahiro.”

“Yes, Prime Minister. By all means.”

“The senior ministers will all attend. The empress may attend if the doctors think she is strong enough.”

The prime minister was almost overcome by the historic overtones of the moment and was briefly unable to speak. The emperor was dead. A new emperor was waiting to be enthroned. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. So much to be done “Clear my calendar and send for a speechwriter,” the prime minister told the aide. “And the protocol officer. We must declare a period of national mourning, notify the foreign embassies — all of that — then set up a state funeral. Heads of government from all over the world will undoubtedly attend, so there is much planning to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ensure that a copy of Captain Kato’s letter is given to the press. The public is entitled to know the reason for this great calamity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We are on the cusp of history, Yahiro. We must strive to measure up to the va/s of our responsibilities. Future generations will judge us critically.”

Yahiro pondered that remark as he went out of the office, but only for a few seconds. He was a busy man. Prime Minister Abe waited until the door closed on Yahiro; then he opened the door to the conference room that adjoined his office and went in. Two men in uniform were sitting at the large table. Small teacups sat on the table before them. One of the men was chief of the Japanese Self-Defense Force. The other was his deputy. The two soldiers looked expectantly at Abe’s face. “It is done.”

The soldiers straightened in their chairs, looked at one another. “His wife was with him … She saw it.”

“A bad omen,” one said. Careful planning, dedicated men, and then this horrible slipup. “We’ll try to keep the public from learning that fact,” Abe said. He made a gesture of irritation. “We must move on. There is much to be done.”

The generals got to their feet, then bowed. “For Japan,” the chief of staff said softly.

When Masako awoke, she was in her bed in the royal residence, a Western-style home on the grounds of the Imperial Palace. A physician and nurse were in attendance. The nurse was taking her pulse; the doctor was writing something. She closed her eyes. The scene came back so vividly she opened them again, focused on the ceiling. The nurse whispered to the doctor; the doctor came to check her head. He pressed on her forehead, which was sore. Apparently, she had hit it when she had fallen. “Please leave me alone,” she asked. It took a while, with much bowing by the nurse, but eventually the professionals left the room and closed the door behind them. Masako kept her eyes open. She was afraid of what she might see if she closed them. They killed him. She wondered if she was going to cry. When it became apparent that she was not, she sat up in bed, examined her sore head in a mirror. Yes, she had fallen on her forehead, which sported a vicious bruise. She fingered the place, felt the pain as she pressed, savored it. They killed him! A shy, gentle man, a figurehead with no power. Murdered. For reasons that would be specious, ridiculous. For reasons that would interest only an insane fanatic, they killed him. She felt empty, as if all life had been taken from her. She was only an unfeeling shell, a mere observer of this horrible tragedy that this woman named Masako was living through. She sat upon the bed, unwilling to move. Scenes of her life with Naruhito flashed through her mind, raced along, but finally they were gone and the tree outside had thrown the room in shadow, and she was merely alone, in an empty room, with her husband dead.

In Washington, D.C., the president of the United States was getting ready for bed. He was going to bed alone, as usual, because his wife was at a soiree somewhere in Georgetown, playing the First Lady role to the hilt. The president was chewing two anti-acid tablets when he picked up the ringing telephone and mumbled, “Uumpf.”

“Mr. President, the emperor of Japan was assassinated in the Imperial Palace about two hours ago. The report is that he was beheaded.”

The voice was that of Jack Innes, national security adviser. He would have been called about this matter by the duty officers in the White House situation room. “Who did it?”

“Apparently a junior officer in the military and three enlisted men. They got into the palace by posing as telephone repairmen. Lopped off the emperor’s head with a four-hundred-year-old samurai sword. Then they committed suicide.”

“All of them?”

“All four. The officer stabbed himself in the gut; then someone shot him in the head. The three enlisted apparently shot themselves.”

“Jesus I”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right-wing group?”

“Apparently they were followers of some right-wing cult, Mishima something. They left a letter written in blood, full of bullshit about Japan’s destiny and national glory.”

“Have we received any answer from the emperor to my letter?” the president asked. “Not to my knowledge, sir. I’ll check with the Tokyo embassy and the State Department.”

“Do we even know if he received it?”

“It was delivered to the Japanese government by our ambassador. That is all we know for certain.”

“We are fast running out of options.”

“We should know more in the morning, Mr. President.”

“When you know more, wake me up.”

“Yes, sir.”

President David Herbert Hood cradled the instrument and lay down on his bed. He was very tired. It seemed that he was always in that condition these days. So Naruhito was dead. Murdered. And the letter had accomplished nothing. The president, Jack Innes, and the secretary of state had sweated for three days over the wording in that letter. After careful consideration, they had decided not to mention the fact that the United States had a secret military protocol with Russia promising military aid if Russia’s borders were ever violated. The protocol was three years old, negotiated and signed as an inducement to Russia’s fledgling democratic government to speed up the pace of nuclear disarmament. Even he, David Herbert Hood, had personally told the Russian president that the secret protocol was a solemn promise: “Russian territory is as sacred as the boundaries of the United States.”

Well, a promise is a promise, but whether the promise would be honored was a different matter entirely. The president got out of bed and went to the window. He stood there looking at the lights of Washington. After a bit, he sank into a chair and rubbed his head. He had spent the last twenty years in politics and he had seen his share of unexpected disasters. Most of the time, he had learned, the best thing to do was nothing at all. Yes, nothing was usually best. The Japanese had another crisis on their hands, and the Japanese were going to have to solve it. He should get some sleep. The news from the far side of the Pacific had been getting steadily worse for years. Democracy in Russia had been a mixed blessing. Freed at last from Communist tyranny and mismanagement, the Russians soon found they lacked the ability to create a stable government. Corruption and bribery were endemic everywhere, in every occupation and walk of life. A dying man couldn’t see a doctor without bribing the receptionist. Apparently, the only people doing well in the post-Communist era were the criminals. Ethnic minorities all over Russia had seized this moment to demand self-government, their own enclaves. If the Russian government didn’t get a grip soon, a new dictator was inevitable. In the United States, the public didn’t want to hear bad news from overseas. The recent crisis in the Mideast had doubled the price of oil, here and around the world, a harbinger of shortages to come. Still, America had oil, so it didn’t suffer as badly as Japan did. And the oil was flowing again. All in all, life in America was very, very good. And David Herbert Hood had the extreme good fortune to be riding the crest of the wave, presiding at the world’s greatest party. His popularity was at a historic high; the nation was prosperous and at peace … He would go into the history books with a smile on his face, children would read his biography in grade school for the next century, at least, and … Japan was about to invade Siberia. The president stared gloomily at the lights out there in the night. He had this feeling that, for some reason just beyond the edge of the light, mankind had been enjoying a rare interlude of prosperity and peace. They certainly hadn’t earned it. The emperor … murdered. My God! The man was the benign symbol of all that was best in the Japanese culture. And they cut off his head!

Captain Jiro Kimura sat on the small balcony of his flat, staring between apartment and office buildings at Mount Fuji and drinking a beer. Although he was looking at Fuji, in his mind’s eye he saw Pikes Peak, stark, craggy, looming high into the blue Colorado sky. “The Peak of Pike,” his fellow cadets had called it, back when they were students at the U.s. Air Force Academy. It was in his second or third year that three of his friends convinced themselves, and him, that they should run up the mountain. And back down. They tried it the second weekend in September, a Pikes Peak marathon, thirteen miles up and thirteen down. Jiro Kimura smiled at the memory. What studs they had been back then, whippet-lean, tough as sole leather, ready to conquer the world!

They actually made it to the top of the mountain and back down. Still, the last few miles going up, the pace was not what anyone would call a run. Not above twelve thousand feet!

Although that weekend had been almost twelve years ago, Jiro could recall the faces of those boys as if it were yesterday. He could see Frank Truax’s shy, toothy grin; Joe Layfield’s freckles and jug ears; Ben Franklin Garcia’s white teeth flashing in his handsome brown face. Garcia had died six years ago in an F-16 crash, somewhere in Nevada. They said his engine flamed out and, rather than ejecting, he tried to stretch a glide. That sure sounded like Ben Garcia, “the pride of Pecos, Texas,” as they called him back then. He had been tough and smart, with something to prove, something Jiro Kimura could never quite put a finger on. Well, Ben was gone now, gone to wherever it is God sends those driven men when they finally fall to earth. Truax was somewhere in the states flying C-141’s, and Layfield was getting a master’s degree in finance. And Jiro Kimura was flying Japan’s top-secret fighter plane, the new Zero. His wife, Shizuko, came out onto the balcony with another beer. “Colonel Cassidy will be here soon,” she said, a gentle reminder that he might wish to dress in something besides a T-shirt and shorts. Jiro smiled his thanks. Bob Cassidy. He had been a major back then, a young fighter pilot at the Academy for a tour. He had been commander of Giro’s cadet squadron. He took a liking to the Japanese youngster, who had nowhere to go for weekends or holidays, so he took him home. Cassidy was married then, to Sweet Sabrina, as he always called her.

Never just Sabrina, always with the adjective before her name, and always with a smile. Sweet Sabrina … with the long brown hair and a ready smile … She and the boy died in a car wreck two years after Jiro graduated. Cassidy never remarried. He should have married again, Jiro Kimura told himself, and he involuntarily glanced through the open door at Shizuko, busy within. Perhaps Cassidy had never found another woman who measured up to Sweet Sabrina. Perhaps … Ah, if only he could go back. If only he could go back and relive those days, go back to the patio in Cassidy’s yard with Truax and Garcia and Layfield, with Sweet Sabrina serving cold beer to boys not yet twenty-one while Bob Cassidy pretended not to notice, someone tuning the radio to the station called “The Peak” because it played all the top hits. Just one day … that wouldn’t be asking too much. A hot day, in the high eighties or low nineties, so the sweat on your skin would evaporate as fast as it appeared, a hot, high, dry day, with that Colorado sun warming your face and a faint scent of juniper in the air and the shady side of Pikes Peak purple in the afternoon. Jiro missed those days. He missed those people. Or most of them, anyway. He certainly didn’t miss Major Tarleton, the physics professor, whose two uncles had died in the western Pacific, “fighting the Japs.” That was the way he’d phrased it, wasn’t it, while staring at Jiro as if he had personally ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor? There had been others, too, officers and enlisted, who went out of their way to let him know they didn’t appreciate the fact that a Japanese soldier was training at the U.s. Air Force Academy. Tarleton had been more than prejudiced — he had tried to ruin Jiro’s academic career, gave him a failing grade for quiz after quiz, even though every answer was correct. Afraid, alone, Jiro endured in silence. Then Tarleton accused him of cheating on an exam. An ice-cold Bob Cassidy called the young cadet into his office, grilled him until he had it all. The following Monday morning, Tarleton was gone, and Jiro heard no more about the alleged honor code violation. Cassidy was like that. He would risk everything to save one scared kid. Jiro Kimura took another drag at the beer and stared with unseeing eyes at the snowcapped cone of Fuji. Maybe what he missed was America. He wiped the tears from his eyes. They had never asked who his father was, what he did, how much money he had. Not once. They took him for who he was, what he was. And they made him one of them. Cassidy was a colonel now, the Air Force liaison officer at the U.s. embassy in Tokyo. He was still trim, still grinned, although maybe not as readily as he used to when Sweet Sabrina was alive. He worked too hard now. Jiro was sure of that. Good colonels work a lot more than captains, and Cassidy was a good one. In fact, he was one of the best. Back then some of the guys had called him “Hopalong” behind his back. Or “Butch.” They had to explain the references to Giro. He never did understand exactly how nicknames were derived or bestowed, although he did acquire the American taste for them. Still, for him, Cassidy was always Cassidy. Or Bob. How American! “Use my first name. That shows that you like me.”

Jiro was in the bedroom changing clothes when he heard the knock on the door and the sounds of Shizuko greeting Cassidy. “Oh, Colonel, so good to see you.” Shizuko’s English was not so good, but Cassidy had never had too much trouble understanding it. “Have you heard the news? About the emperor?” Cassidy’s voice was hard, very concerned. “What news?” He could hear the worry in Shizuko’s voice. “He was assassinated. They just announced it.” Shizuko said something that Jiro didn’t hear, then several seconds later he heard the sound of the television announcer. He quickly finished dressing and hurried into the living room. It was a small room, about a third the size of the one Cassidy used to have in Colorado Springs. Jiro shook his head, annoyed that that irrelevant thought should distract him at a time like this. He said hello to Cassidy, who gave a tiny bow while remaining intent on the television. “Sit, Colonel. Bob. Please.”

Cassidy knew some Japanese, apparently enough to follow the television announcer without too much difficulty. Shizuko hid her face in her hands. “Perhaps this isn’t a good evening …” Cassidy began, but Jiro waved him into silence. They sat on the mats in front of the television as the last of the afternoon light faded from the sky. It was completely dark when Jiro turned off the set and Shizuko went into the small Pullman-style kitchen to make dinner. Cassidy was about six feet tall, a wiry man with a runner’s build. Tonight he wore civilian clothes, dark slacks and a beige short-sleeve shirt. He had blue eyes, thinning sandy-colored hair, and a couple of chipped teeth, which had been that way for years. A cheap watch on his left wrist was his only jewelry. “Beer?”

“Sure.”

“Good to see you, Bob.” Kimura spoke like an American, Cassidy thought, with fluent, unaccented English. “When I heard the news on the radio, I almost turned around and went home,” Cassidy told his host. “Thought you and Shizuko might want some privacy. But I figured that these get-together times are so hard to arrange that …”

“Yeah. I needed to talk to you. This assassination is not good.” Jiro Kimura thought for several seconds, then shook his head. “Not good. Japan is on a strange, dangerous road.”

Cassidy looked around the apartment, accepted the offered beer. Kimura turned on a radio, played with the dial until he got music, then resumed his seat just across from his guest. “They are preparing to move the planes to forward bases,” Jiro said. “We are packing everything, crating all the support gear, all the special tools, spare engines, parts, tires, everything.”

“You mean bases outside of Japan?”

“Yes.”

Robert Cassidy sat in silence, digesting Kimura’s comment. Finally, he sipped his beer, then waited expectantly for his host to decide what else he wanted to say. For some reason, at that moment he recalled Jiro as he had first known him, a lost, miserable doolie at the U.s. Air Force Academy. A more forlorn kid, Cassidy had never met. Of course, the Japanese had sent their very best to the United States as an exchange student. Jiro finished second in his class, with a 3.98 grade point average — in aeronautical engineering. The first person in the class was a black girl from Georgia with a 180 IQ. After graduation, she didn’t spend a day in uniform; she went on to get a Ph.d. in physics on the Air Force’s dime. The last Cassidy heard, she was doing fusion research at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory.

Jiro became a first-rate fighter pilot — for Japan. Now he was flying an airplane that had been developed in the utmost secrecy. Until Ki-mura mentioned the new Zero to him six months ago, Cassidy had not known of the plane. Judging by the startled reaction his report caused in Washington when he sent it in, no one there knew about it, either. Since then he had received a blizzard of requests from Washington for further information on the new plane, and he had had just two further conversations with Jiro. The first occurred when he invited the Kimuras to dinner in Tokyo. Jiro didn’t mention his job during the course of the evening. Cassidy couldn’t bring himself to ask a question. It was obvious that Jiro had wrestled with his conscience long and hard before he violated the Japanese security regs the first time. Cassidy decided that the next move was up to Jiro. If he wanted to tell the U.s. government Japanese secrets, Cassidy would convey the information. But he would not ask. Last month he and Jiro had attended a baseball game together. In the isolation of a nearly empty upper deck of the stadium, Jiro discussed in general terms the dimensions of the Japanese military buildup that had been under way for at least five years. Some of that information Cassidy knew from other sources; some was new. He merely listened, asked questions only to clarify, then wrote a detailed report that evening when he got home. That afternoon Jiro had been short on specifics. Whatever internal battle Jiro was fighting then was apparently over now. Tonight he met Cassidy’s gaze. “The new Zero is the most advanced fighter on earth. Very maneuverable, stealthy, good range, speed, easy to fly. Very sophisticated radar and computer, GPS”—THIS was the global positioning system—“all the goodies. And it has Athena.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Cassidy said. “Athena is, or was, the American project code name for some very advanced stealth technology, an active ECM protection system. Somehow Japan acquired the technology, which had almost died in the United States due to a lack of development funds.”

Cassidy nodded. American spending on research and development of military technology had slowed to a trickle since the end of the Cold War. Jiro continued. “Athena arrived here just when the government was looking to spend serious money on developing a military tech edge.

They latched onto Athena and made it the centerpiece of the new Zero.”

“Explain to me how it works.”

When Jiro didn’t immediately reply, Cassidy added, “You know you don’t have to tell me anything, Jiro. I didn’t ask you for anything.”

“I know! I want to tell you, Bob.” Jiro Kimura searched for words. He stood and went out on the balcony. Cassidy followed. “I was born in this country. I live here. But America is also my home. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“I have two homes, two peoples. I will tell you what I can, and you must pass it on in great secrecy. If the Japanese find out I have even spoken of these matters, I will be in serious trouble.”

“Up to your ass in it, kiddo. I understand.”

“The world is too small for loyalties based on race. Or nationality.”

“That is sort of an advanced idea, but I’ll grant you—“

“Just don’t think less of me because I need to tell you these things. I don’t ever want to fight against Americans.”

He was facing Cassidy now, looking straight into his eyes. “Do you see how it is, Bob?”

“Yeah, kid. I see.”

Jiro rested his forearms on the balcony railing and looked between the high-rises at the white ghost of Fuji, just visible against the late-evening sky. “Athena is active ECM.” ECM meant electronic countermeasures. “It detects enemy radar transmissions, then radiates on the same frequency from antennas all over the plane to cancel out the incoming transmissions. Uses a small super-cooled computer.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jiro Kimura could see from the look on Cassidy’s face that he had no appreciation of the advantage that Athena conferred on the plane it protected. “What Athena does, Bob, is make the Zero invisible to radar.” Cassidy’s eyebrows went up. “Low-observable — stealth— technology began when designers tried to minimize the radar return by altering the shape of the craft. Then designers used radar-absorbent materials to the maximum extent practicable. Athena is stealth technology a generation beyond shapes and materials, which, as you know, limit the performance and capabilities of a stealth aircraft.

“The Zero is a conventional aircraft made of composites — a damn big engine, gas tanks stuck everywhere, vectored thrust, boundary layer control on a fixed wing, really extraordinary performance. It’s got all the electronic goodies to help its pilot find the enemy and kill him. Athena hides it.”

“Sounds like a hell of a plane.”

“It is that, Bob, one hell of a fighter plane. It can do simply unbelievable things in the air, and the brass wants us to use it as a straight and level interceptor. Find the enemy, launch missiles, fly home to an instrument approach. Sounds like something a bunch of brass-hatted desk pilots thought up from the safety of a corner office, huh?”

“Well, if you have enough missiles …”

“There are never enough.”

“How many Zeros are there?”

“About a hundred. The number is classified and no one mentions it. I have been trying to count nosewheels, so to speak.”

After a bit, the American colonel asked, “So where is the Japanese government planning on using these things?”

“Russia, I think. But no one had confirmed that.”

“When?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Abe is very nationalistic, advocates a larger role for the military in Japanese life. What do the folks in uniform think of all this?”

“Most of them like Abe, like what he is saying. The officers seem to be with him almost to a man.” Jiro paused to gather his thoughts. “The Japanese have much more respect for authority than Americans. They like being part of a large, organized society. It fits them somehow. The American concept of individual freedom …” He shook his head negatively and shrugged. “What about the Mishima disciples?” These ultra-right-wing nationalists were back in the news again, claiming converts in the military and civil service. “Mishima was a fanatic zealot, a fossil, a relic of a bygone age. Everybody knows that. But he preached a return to the noble-warrior concept, the samurai spirit, and that still fascinates a lot of Japanese.”

Bob Cassidy rubbed his face hard, then said, “I guess I have trouble taking Mishima, Abe, this samurai warrior shit — I have trouble taking any of that seriously. All that testosterone ranting and posturing … man, that crap went out everywhere else when gunpowder came in.

There is no such thing as a noble death in the nuclear age. The very term is an oxymoron. Didn’t Hiroshima and Nagasaki teach the Japanese that?”

A grimace crossed Jiro’s face. “Bob, you’re talking to the converted,” he said. “My morals were corrupted in Colorado Springs years ago. I’m just trying to explain.”

“The only noble death is from old age,” Cassidy continued, “but you gotta get there to get it, amigo. That’s getting harder and harder to do these days.”

Shizuko came out of the kitchen carrying a large dish.

“Thanks, Jiro.”

“I wish Shizuko and I were back in Colorado Springs, Bob, sitting on your patio with Sweet Sabrina.”

“We can’t ever go back,” Cassidy told him. “When the song is over, it’s over. I know. I wanted to go back so badly, I almost died.” In the middle of dinner, Jiro said, “The United States is going to have to take a stand, Bob. Atsuko Abe and his friends are crazy, but I don’t think they are crazy enough to strap on the United States.”

“I hope to God you’re right.”

Shizuko acted as if she didn’t understand the English words. “What if you aren’t?” Cassidy asked in a small voice. Jiro pretended he hadn’t heard.

Bob Cassidy’s thoughts went to Sweet Sabrina. It was good, he thought, to be with someone who remembered her fondly.

The U.s. ambassador to Japan was Stanley P. Hanratty, who owned a string of automobile dealerships around Cleveland and Akron. He was balding, overweight, and smart. His middle initial stood for Philip, a name he hated, yet he thought his name looked too informal without a middle name or initial or something, so he used the P. Stanley P. had spent twenty-seven years of his life getting to Japan. He started out selling used cars, mortgaged his house and soul to acquire a used-car sales lot, and then a second, and a third, finally a new car dealership, then another and another and another.

He was arranging the financing on the second dealership when he made his first big political contribution. Occasionally men from humble backgrounds have large ambitions, and Hanratty did: he wanted someday to be an ambassador to a big country.

For years, he listened to windy speeches, shook hands, wrote checks, and watched the political hopefuls come and go. By the time he had eight dealerships, he was giving to political parties in a six-figure way. Finally, he was rewarded with an ambassadorship.

Stanley P. had never forgotten the conversation when one of the members of the new president’s transition team called him about the position.

“The president-elect would like to send your name to the Senate. Mr. Hanratty, he wants you on his team.”

“Guinea-Bis what? How did you say that?”

“Bissau. It’s in Africa, I think.”

“North or south of the equator?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know. I seem to recall that it’s on the west side of the continent, but don’t hold me to that.”

Through the years, Stanley P. had invested a lot of money in his quest, so he didn’t hesitate. With feeling, he said, “You tell the president-elect that I’m honored he thought of me. I’ll be delighted to serve his administration anywhere he wants.”

After he hung up the telephone, he looked the place up in an atlas. U.s. ambassador to Guinea-Bissau!

In Guinea-Bissau, Hanratty did more than luxuriate in the ambassador’s quarters of the embassy, which in truth were not all that luxurious; he studiously applied himself to learning the business of diplomacy. He attacked the State Department’s paper-flow charts and the ins and outs of Bissauan politics with the same common sense, drive, and determination that he used to sell cars. He made shrewd evaluations of local politicians and wrote clear, concise, accurate reports. He didn’t once blame conditions in Guinea-Bissau on United States foreign policy, an attitude that State Department professionals found both unusual and refreshing. He also proved to have an extraordinary quality that endeared him to policy makers in Washington: if given instructions, he followed them to the letter.

After he correctly predicted that a military coup would occur in Guinea-Bissau if a certain person won an election, Hanratty was named ambassador to a nation in the Middle East endangered by fundamentalist Islamic zealots. He performed superbly there, too, so when the U.s. ambassador to Japan dropped dead of a heart attack, the secretary of state was relieved that he could send Stanley P. Hanratty to the American embassy in Tokyo.

Hanratty had been in Tokyo for thirteen months when the emperor was assassinated. During his habitual sixteen-hour workdays, he had become expert in the myriad aspects of U.s.-Japanese relations and made many friends in key places. This evening, just hours after the emperor’s murder, with the world still in shock, he was sitting in his office with the television on, putting the finishing touches on a private letter to the secretary of state, when he heard the knocking on the door. “Come in,” he called loudly, because the doors were thick and heavy. “Mr. Ambassador, I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time?”

“Colonel Cassidy, please come in.”

Stanley P. liked the Air Force attache, who occasionally dropped by to inform him firsthand of developments in the Japanese military that he would eventually read about weeks later in secret CIA summaries. The senior CIA officer, on the other hand, never told him anything. It was almost as if that gentleman thought the ambassador couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information, which frosted Stanley P. a little. “It’s been a long day, Colonel. How about a drink?”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Stanley P. removed a bottle of bourbon and two glasses from his lower desk drawer. He poured a shot in each glass and passed one to Cassidy. “I’ve been speculating, Colonel. Speculating with no information. Speculate with me a little.”

Cassidy sipped the whiskey. “Do you think it’s possible that a faction, shall we say, in the Japanese government might have had a hand in the emperor’s assassination?”

“I had dinner this evening with an officer in the Japanese Self-Defense Force, the air arm, and he said the officers are with Abe almost to a man. They think he’s going to save the nation.”

“The killers were soldiers, I believe.”

“That’s what the government is telling the press. I suppose some high official might have enlisted some zealots to undertake a suicide mission. There is historical precedence, as I recall.”

“There is precedent by the page,” the ambassador admitted. He concentrated on savoring the golden liquid. “The assassination is going down pretty hard with the guy on the street,” the colonel said. “I rode the train back to Tokyo. The people in the subways and trains seem pretty upset.”

“Murder is a filthy business,” the ambassador muttered. “This officer I had dinner with tonight…, he told me some things that he shouldn’t have. Perhaps the news of the assassination made him feel that … Oh, I don’t know!”

Cassidy brushed the thought away, unwilling to try to analyze his friend or make polite excuses for him. Jiro did what Jiro felt he had to do. “The Japanese have developed, manufactured, and put in service about one hundred new, highly capable fighter planes.” The colonel weighed his words. “They are more capable than anything in our inventory, according to my source.”

“How good is your source?”

“Beyond reproach. One hundred percent credible.”

The ambassador poured himself another drink, offered more to the colonel, who refused. Cassidy could see his and the ambassador’s reflections in the window glass. Beyond the reflections were the lights of Tokyo. “The thing my source confided in me that I believe you should know, sir, is this: His squadron is packing for deployment in the near future.”

“Deployment where?”

“Russia, he thought.”

“The appeal for Japanese help by the native minorities — there was a television broadcast about them last night. According to the government, they are the racial cousins of the Japanese.” The ambassador channel-surfed with his television remote. He had picked up more than a smattering of the language. “Perhaps they will just move your source’s squadron to another base here in Japan,” Stanley P. suggested to Cassidy. “That is possible, sir. My source didn’t think so, though. He thinks the squadron is going a lot farther than that.”