The Shiro Project

by David Khara

  “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  “I’ll need a moment to explain. Do you have your doctored passport?”

  “Of course. Where are we going?”

  “Tokyo.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Tokyo, autumn 1947

  The hotel’s banquet room looked like the command center of a hectic military base. Men in US and British dress uniforms filled the room. Peter Aikman had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He already stood out in his civilian clothes, so even the slightest guffaw would certainly bring all eyes on him, which was the last thing he wanted.

  At least for now he was flying safely under the radar.

  Peter scanned the sea of officers. Grouped in threes and fours, they were all conversing and sipping their drinks. Peter stood on his toes to get a better view of the room. Finding a man who wasn’t even five feet tall in the midst of all these decorated lumberjacks was going to be a challenge.

  If only these assholes weren’t so big and cozy with each other, he thought as he elbowed his way to the bar. The room was hot, and the bodies exuded pungent smells of BO, cheap cigarettes, and spicy aftershave.

  He noted with a smirk that the generals had taken the best spots beneath giant fans whose blades were spinning at full speed. The privileges of rank.

  Life had to be good at the top.

  Peter finally arrived at a circular bar carved from exotic wood. Behind it were three Marine Corps bartenders hustling to fill the drink orders. Members of the Japanese serving staff were waiting in line to pick up the drinks and deliver them to the foreign military officers. Their hotel, just like their country, had been invaded. Peter wondered what feelings these men held behind their impassive faces. Did they hate the officers? Or were they relieved that they could get on with their lives? He brushed off any urge to find answers to those questions. What was the point? The Pentagon agent had seen some grotesque images since the end of the war, including the emaciated survivors of Poland’s concentration camps. In his opinion, the invading Allies were far more humane than the enemies they had vanquished. Still, he had developed an uncharacteristic bit of compassion for the ordinary civilians who had nothing to do with the atrocities committed by their governments. Maybe he was developing a conscience? Maybe a grain of morality was sprouting inside his cold and calculating mind?

  “Peter! I almost thought you wouldn’t find me!”

  The treble voice came out of nowhere, and its unique nature left no doubt as to its owner. A small man with a limp popped up between two captains and pushed his way through. He was wearing a broad smile. No matter the occasion, that wide smile was always evident on Elliot Garnikel’s plump face.

  “Sorry, excuse me, thanks,” he repeated as he shoved aside the obstacles in his path with his cane, which was as much a part of him as his portly build and bald head. And the bastard knew how to use his handicaps to his advantage. He had a ravishing beauty on each arm.

  “You’ve really got to tell me how you do it,” Peter joked. He checked out his friend’s female companions as they took their leave.

  Elliot let out a laugh—a sort of restrained chirping that morphed into a wheeze.

  “Women don’t care as much about a man’s looks as his ability to meet their needs, my friend. And in that respect, I am the uncontested champion. Don’t let it get to you, pretty boy,” he said with a wink.

  Peter smiled but was quickly irritated. The noisy fans and the loud conversations were drowning out “In the Mood,” one of his Glenn Miller favorites. He changed the subject. “The conquered territories have become one big board game for high-ranking military officers, secret agents, and tipsy scoundrels. And yesterday’s enemies, now tamed, have become meek business associates. Makes you wonder the point of the whole war.”

  “What do you expect?” Elliot replied. “The world has gone mad. You know, Japan has always had a strange relationship with war. They call it bushido—the way of the samurai. It’s an entire philosophy based on the concepts of frugality, honor, mastery of the martial arts, and loyalty to the master. These warrior values are stripped of all emotion. And sacrificing your life in the name of the emperor is considered the highest form of valor. Honestly, I don’t get it. What I do know is that many poor souls have died because of the absurd notion. But anyhow, now’s the time to make up and play nice, which means there’s money to be made.”

  “You’re nothing but a crook,” Peter said as he took out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

  “What can I say? I’ve got beginner’s luck,” Elliot said. “Follow me. They’re probably waiting for you.”

  The unlikely duo made their way through the crowd toward the hotel’s main staircase.

  “What about MacArthur?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, he’s doing his job well and is a master in the art of seduction. The Japanese are very grateful for his help in protecting Hirohito. I must admit, he did well there. Getting the major war criminals to keep the emperor blameless—that took real skill. By preserving the historical symbol of their independence and identity, he’s been able to strip the Japanese of their power quite easily.”

  “Surprising. I always took him for a dangerous and out-of-control lunatic,” Peter said, going up the stairs with his friend. Because of Elliot’s disability, the slow climb felt laborious, and Peter was anxious to get to his meeting.

  “Out of control? It’s possible,” Elliot said. “As for your other postulations, he may be dangerous, but he’s definitely not crazy. Look around. We’re at peace with Japan. Ten years from now, they’ll be drinking our Cokes and eating Oscar Mayer hotdogs, even though we gut-punched them with two atomic bombs. Pulling off that kind of accomplishment takes qualities that men like you could never understand, my friend.”

  “You’re right. I care only about the results, not the methods for achieving them. I just hope that MacNutcase’s envoy stays the course, because we’re dealing with an important matter today.”

  “I don’t know the specifics of this meeting. No offense, but I’m still surprised that you were chosen for this mission. You’re not exactly famous for your negotiating skills.”

  “I’m not here to negotiate but to make sure the terms of the contract are respected,” Peter responded as he wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  The small man stopped in front of a door and knocked three times with his cane. A Japanese man who looked as stiff as a board answered. He was wearing a stylish broad-shoulder jacket with wide lapels. He was also sporting a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses.

  What a ridiculous getup, Peter thought.

  “Hello, I’m the colonel’s translator. Please come in,” the Japanese man said, removing his sunglasses. He bowed, and the two visitors did the same.

  “Thanks, but I won’t be joining you,” Elliot said as he turned to leave the room. “I’m only an intermediary here, and my job is done. Peter, I’ll be waiting for you at the bar.”

  “I didn’t have time to inform Mr. Garnikel of his greatly desired presence,” Peter said.

  He nudged his friend. Elliot grumbled, but nothing intelligible came out of his mouth. The Japanese man started leading them to another doorway. Peter smiled and pushed his fussing pal forward. His limp seemed more dramatic than usual.

  Peter stooped and whispered in Elliot’s ear. “You have to be here for this meeting. I need an objective witness. Don’t worry. A nice fat envelope awaits you.”

  “Please warn me next time. You know how much I hate getting mixed up in your affairs.”

  Peter swiped his finger in front of his mouth. It was time he zip his lip. The message was loud and clear.

  The three men entered a mostly unfurnished room filled with smoke. The walls hadn’t been painted, and old newspapers covered the floor. High class all the way, Peter thought. The hotel had been built six months earlier and wasn’t supposed to open to the public until the spring of 1948. In the meantime, the army had commandeered the ground floor for soirées and the unf
inished rooms upstairs for meetings.

  A beat-up circular table with five chairs was conveniently positioned under a ceiling fan.

  Two cigarette-smoking men were standing in the room. Peter recognized both of them. While preparing the contract, he had met the first one, Simon Dickel, a member of MacArthur’s staff. Tall and broad shouldered, Dickel was dressed in an impeccable uniform. His brown hair was cut short, according to military protocol. The arrogant prick was as cold and calculating as they came.

  Peter had never met the other man but was certain of his identity, nonetheless. Colonel Nagoshi was both revered and reviled. Some considered him a reasonable person open to negotiation and focused on rebuilding his country. Others called him a bloodthirsty devil who had no respect for human life—one of the worst war criminals the world had ever known.

  Some chips and playing cards, and this could have been a back-alley gambling room, Peter thought. But a more thorough observation of the poker faces dispelled any temptation to challenge them to a game.

  The translator placed himself beside Nagoshi, and a new round of bows marked the start of the meeting. Dickel asked everyone to take a seat and initiated the discussion.

  “Mr. Aikman, you may begin, since it’s your responsibility to lead this meeting.”

  Peter ignored the tinge of jealousy in his voice. Clearly, the American military man was used to being the one in charge. Peter placed his briefcase on the table. He inserted a small key in a lock on each side of the handle. With the press of his thumbs, he opened the briefcase and wordlessly took out two folders. He placed one in front of MacArthur’s man and the other before the icy colonel.

  “Gentlemen, following our specialists’ examination of your credentials, I am pleased to confirm the terms of our collaboration. This contract will finalize our agreement. You have two copies, one in English and the other in Japanese. As your translator can verify, the two versions spell out the same conditions, point by point. As this meeting will be our last, I invite you to read over the memorandum of understanding carefully, and if there are any terms that need to be clarified, now is the time to do so.”

  Colonel Nagoshi leaned over to his translator. They spoke for a few minutes in Japanese and then proceeded to read the contract. After a good fifteen minutes, they exchanged folders.

  “The requests made by Lieutenant General Ishii have, indeed, been honored, and we are thankful for that,” the translator said.

  Another bowing session ensued. These men could use the most overly polite formalities to mask their savage behavior, Peter thought. Despite his distrust, the Pentagon agent bowed in return.

  “A quarter million in cash and a top-secret classification for all activities carried out by the lieutenant general in exchange for the entirety of his research. Your boss has been granted immunity from prosecution, and Uncle Sam has been quite generous. However, if our little soviet comrades should come into possession of your discoveries, the contract will become null and void, and you can imagine the consequences if that were to happen.”

  “Your warnings are unnecessary. The lieutenant general does not hold the Soviet Union in high regard. He would take his own life before collaborating with Stalin.”

  “The lieutenant general is a man of honor,” Peter said. No one could miss the mocking tone in his voice.

  “Okay,” Dickel interrupted. “The funds will be delivered to Mr. Ishii’s residence within three days. Your communication with Proconsul MacArthur’s services will end once the exchange is executed. At that point, the lieutenant general will work directly with our intelligence service. Is that correct, Aikman?”

  “Absolutely,” Peter responded. “And I’ll be serving as your liaison officer until further notice. By the way, our specialists appreciate the value of your unit’s scientific research. If they wish to meet the lieutenant general and his team, would you see any harm in that?”

  “Provided that there is additional compensation, your request would be welcomed,” the translator announced after consulting with Colonel Nagoshi.

  The five men remained still and observed each other for several long seconds.

  “Perfect, I believe we are finished here, gentlemen,” Dickel said.

  He rose from his seat and headed toward the door.

  The colonel followed, as did his translator and Peter. A round of military handshakes and Japanese-style bows finalized the meeting. The two Japanese men and Dickel left. Elliot, however, was still glued to his chair. No one had bothered to say good-bye to him.

  “You really screwed me over,” Elliot seethed as he rose from his chair.

  “I don’t get what you’re insinuating,” Peter responded casually. He leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette.

  Elliot swung at the briefcase, and it went flying across the room. The agent could hardly believe the little guy had it in him.

  “Do you know what these madmen have done in Manchuria?”

  “I have a vague idea, but until further notice, that’s not my responsibility,” Peter said and sighed.

  “You can’t get off that easily, not after what you told me about the camps in Europe. These guys committed worse crimes than the Nazis. And shit, people like me were at the top of the Germans’ kill list!”

  Peter stared into space. “Jewish and handicapped—you’re right. You would have been a prime candidate for Hitler’s killing machine. But with your trafficking activities and notorious scheming, you’re in no position to give me any lessons on morality.”

  “I do business, Peter, but not at any price. This… This is another beast altogether. What Shiro Ishii has gotten here is blood money, paid for with thousands of lives. The stories circulating around Shiro Ishii go far beyond what I’ve heard about the Nazi death camps. And to think he has immunity now.” He was shaking.

  “You should settle down, Elliot. What just happened here is bigger than the both of us. It’s politics.”

  “No! It’s exploitation of human suffering, all for military gain,” Elliot shouted as he pounded the floor with his cane.

  “Do you honestly think we have seen the end of warfare?” Peter asked. “The defeat of Germany and Japan does not mean peace. Our former ally, Stalin, has become our enemy. We supported him so that he could control the Eastern Front against Hitler, and we knew him well enough to understand that nothing would stop him from turning on us when the time was right. So we’re acting accordingly, even if it means wiping the slate clean on the experiments conducted by Ishii and his men. This kind of compromise is for the good of our nation’s security.”

  “Compromise? To me, it sounds more like you’re rushing blindly into the arms of war criminals!”

  “You shouldn’t react this way. Need I remind you of the integral role you played in this transaction? Without your contacts we wouldn’t have been able to meet with these men. You’re just as involved in this as I am.”

  “If I had known… For God’s sake, Peter. What did you do?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve done, Elliot.” Peter walked over to the door and locked it. Turning around and walking back, he slipped a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at the small man and pulled the trigger. The swooshing fan blades drowned out the sound of the gunshot.

  Elliot Garnikel remained speechless for several seconds. He dropped his cane and brought both hands to his stomach. It didn’t take long for pain to replace the confusion.

  Peter put his weapon back in its holster and approached the wounded man. How could such an apparently weak man continue to stand his ground with a bullet in his belly? He bent down to look his dying friend in the eye.

  “I’m sorry, Elliot. But if it’s any consolation, all the other participants in this transaction will drop off, as well. A little plane crash awaits that moronic Dickel. Honestly, I would have preferred avoiding this, but your reaction proved just how important it is to uphold the secrecy of the agreement.”

  Elliot keeled over, seized by convulsions, his bul
ging eyes never leaving Peter Aikman’s impassive face. The latter placed two fingers on his victim’s neck. After confirming that there was no pulse, the man from the Pentagon got back up and headed toward the door. He turned the handle, then peered back.

  “You know what we did in this room, Elliot? We made a good deal.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Prague, 2010

  He slid the razor over his skull with military precision. Each stroke reinforced his resolve to keep hold of his true self, or at least stray from it as little as possible. This daily routine, seemingly insignificant, was symbolic of his resistance. Naturally brown-haired, Eytan could never accept the blond hair Professor Bleiberg’s experiments had given him. And so he observed the same ritual every day. An act initiated out of anger and defiance had become a few meditative moments of introspection. As he caught a glimpse of the faint orange sun rising above the rooftops of Prague, he obsessed over his execution of the unfortunate Czech soldier. He felt dishonorable. He had lived by a strict code of conduct, and with this murder, his code was wobbling on a thin edge—razor thin.

  It was the only way to protect Branislav and his family. Killing war criminals was one thing, but here, the victim was only doing his job. Damn Elena, arrogant and negligent once again, and that kid, who showed his face too soon. Mistakes that forced him to break his code, changing him from an assassin into a cold-blooded murderer.

  And who were these children of Shiro? They were spreading chaos and costing blameless people their lives. That was the very definition of terrorism. He’d have to stop them, whatever the cost. If only to relieve the weight of shame pressing on his conscience.

  Elena was still asleep in the next room. With their flight to Tokyo scheduled to leave late in the morning, they had agreed to treat themselves to a little extra rest. He had let Elena have the bed and had settled for the fold-out couch in the common room. It didn’t quite accommodate his size.

  He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his face.