The Shiro Project

by David Khara

  Through the slightly ajar door, Elena watched her “genetic brother,” which was what she called him in private. As a kid, she had mastered the art of faking sleep, and when the giant crossed the bedroom as quietly as a mouse, she tried not to spoil his valiant attempt to respect her slumber. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the titan’s back. His many scars impressed her far more than his muscles. His body was a virtual altar to pain and suffering.

  A few minutes later she jumped out of bed and went to the common room, where a breakfast ordered by the Kidon agent awaited her. She sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea to go with the decadent Viennese pastries. Eytan arrived just in time to grab a slice of toast and a croissant before everything was gone.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, unwrapping a pat of butter and slathering it over his toast.

  “Like a baby. And yourself?”

  He nodded affirmatively as he grabbed a porcelain cup, which looked tiny in his hand. A killer who played tea party! Elena giggled at the absurdity of the scene.

  “That was a good call with Japan,” he said, spreading the jam on his toast.

  “I don’t deserve that much credit. There aren’t many manufacturers who make materials for P3 and P4 labs. According to my contacts’ cross-references, the Shinje Corp., also known as the S. Corp., has acquired materials from various companies that are essential for this kind of setup: a bunch of Class II biosafety cabinets, positive-pressure protective suits, fluorescence microscopes, nitrogen tanks, that kind of thing. The list goes on. The orders were spaced out over a long period, most likely to avoid unwanted attention. The company works in the medical sector. However, it doesn’t claim to have any P4 labs.”

  “How suspicious.”

  “Yes, especially since the Shinje Corp. doesn’t make vaccines or medications. It makes prosthetic limbs. In fact, they’re at the forefront of traumatology and bionic technology. I did a little Internet search while you were in the shower. And the results are quite interesting.”

  She stood up, picked up a hotel note pad from the table, and sat back down.

  “Check it out. Shinje Corp., created in 1949. Like several other Japanese companies, it was a major player in the nation’s postwar economic miracle, the boom that catapulted Japan onto the world’s financial stage. Seeing what was left of the nation at the end of World War II, the term ‘miracle’ is no exaggeration.” Elena stopped to pour herself another cup of tea. “I was more interested in the company’s founder, Hirokazu Shinje. Fascinating character. This man was one of the first people to talk openly about Unit 731’s crimes and acknowledge his own involvement. The media wasn’t terribly interested in his revelations. That disgusted him so much, he decided to live as a recluse.”

  “Doesn’t sound like your typical terrorist,” Eytan said. “Are you sure about all this?”

  “That’s what I read online. There are a lot of sites that talk about him, and they all say more or less the same thing. Are you ready for the cherry on top? In the nineteen sixties, Shinje created a charitable foundation.”

  “I don’t get it,” Eytan said.

  “You don’t? It’s so simple. Maybe the guy isn’t as apologetic as he wants to look. He could be using his good deeds to cover up what he’s really doing: continuing the work of his mentor, Ishii. He might be following the model of the Aum Shinrikyo cult, which was responsible for the sarin gas attack in the Tokyo subway, and have his own group of zealots.”

  “Do you really think that at the age of ninety, maybe even older, Shinje would have the energy and drive to undertake such an endeavor?”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time trying to understand the deranged thoughts of a crazy old man. All I care about is ending this as soon as possible. Now that we know where the materials were delivered, we’re back in business.”

  “But why attack the Russians and the Czechs?”

  Elena put down her notes.

  “That’s the last piece of the puzzle.”

  They both continued their breakfast in silence. According to Elena’s theory, the missing piece of the puzzle could be in Japan. Still, there was something about Shinje that wasn’t adding up. And there was another matter, which had nothing to do with the Japanese entrepreneur or any biological weapons that he might or might not be working on. Eytan was in a good mood, and Elena looked, well, relaxed. This was as good a time as any to test his luck.

  “Elena, I’ve got a personal question for you. It’s been on my mind for a while now.”

  “Shoot,” she replied as she folded her napkin and put it on the table.

  “Why—”

  He hesitated.

  “Why what?” she asked.

  “Why did you accept Bleiberg’s treatments? What exactly were you expecting?”

  The woman’s face tensed.

  “That’s none of your business,” she said, getting up from the table.

  “I don’t want to upset you, I just want to understand. The survival rate was only thirty percent with Bleiberg’s genetic modifications. Why take such a risk?”

  Elena headed toward the bedroom. She stopped at the doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Because thirty percent is always better than zero.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Brussels, 1955

  An endless parade of adults in white coats filed through the hospital hallway. A little girl, no stranger to the scene, was waiting patiently on a long red bench outside the doctor’s office. Despite the pain, she swung her legs to the beat of a nursery rhyme that her mother had taught her the night before.

  A nurse approached, her hands clasped behind her back. The girl had always admired her red hair, cut in a boyish style.

  “Right or left?” she asked with a heavy Dutch accent.

  The child got a kick out of this ritual. She had cracked the code a long time ago, and even though there was no longer any element of surprise, winning a mint lollipop was an exciting prospect.

  “Right,” the girl said softly, pretending to guess.

  The nurse made a pouty face that quickly became a huge smile. She brandished the candy in her right fist.

  “Thanks, Hanne,” the child exclaimed, hamming it up as she took the lollipop.

  The woman gently stroked the little girl’s cheek. “Your daddy should be here soon,” she said.

  The little girl didn’t reply. She was focused on unwrapping her treat. The nurse and the child sat quietly, oblivious to the pediatric ward and the rest of the world around them. Time stood still, giving them this singular moment of peace.

  A squeaky hospital bed pushed by an orderly jolted them from their trance. Duty called. The nurse stood up, smoothed her white coat, and directed the new arrival to his room.

  A short time later, a stylish man appeared. In the eyes of the little girl, he was the tallest and most handsome person in the world. The black patch over his left eye, along with the Russian accent, commanded respect and added to his seemingly serious demeanor. But the little girl knew that a kindhearted soul was behind that formidable façade.

  Waving his black hat, he held out his arms.

  “Come, my sweet pea. The doctor wants to see you.”

  The little girl got down from the bench and walked stiffly toward her father. When she finally reached him, she tackled him with a bear hug. He tried to hide the tears welling in his eyes, but she knew they were there.

  Only her father was present for these consultations. Her mother could no longer cope with her daughter’s worsening condition and the painful exams she was subjected to.

  Andreï Kourilyenko would never forget the moment the doctor revealed the diagnosis. “Your daughter has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. ALS for short. It’s a degenerative autoimmune disease, and it’s very rare in children. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t need to hear the prognosis from the doctor to know there was no hope for his daughter. His days during the war as a political commissar in charge of scientific research had given him a solid enough medical back
ground to understand. On a diplomatic assignment in the West, he had joined the secret society Consortium. Andreï had traded a life full of fear and distrust for a comfortable existence with his wife and daughter. The Russian, hardened by years of Stalinism, could have lived in total bliss. But any prospects for that bliss were swept away by his little girl’s illness, followed by his wife’s depression. The fatal diagnosis destroyed everything. Not even Andreï himself knew how he had mustered the strength to bear the unbearable reality.

  “How much time?” he had asked.

  The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed his face, as if to avoid eye contact.

  “Your daughter’s life expectancy is a matter of months, two years at the most.”

  Andreï felt his throat tense up.

  “Is she going to suffer?”

  “This form of sclerosis causes numerous muscular and respiratory complications. But I cannot predict exactly how it will manifest for your daughter.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Andreï insisted.

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  Six months had passed since the doctor’s devastating news. Denial hadn’t changed a thing. The unstoppable illness continued to advance. First came constipation, followed by excruciating joint pain, which led to weakened motor function. And yet she never complained. She made every effort to stay cheerful and downplay her symptoms. It broke Andreï’s heart. There was no reward for her bravery. Signs of muscular atrophy were intensifying, mostly in her lower body. She could still walk, but for how much longer? Soon she wouldn’t even be able to breathe.

  The exam dragged on, as usual. While the doctor jotted his findings on his clipboard, Andreï stroked the little girl’s hair and whispered words of encouragement. Lies.

  “Don’t worry, Elena, everything will be all right.”

  Another six months, and now Elena was bedridden. Her lungs were failing. She was pretending to sleep, because her father didn’t cry as much when he thought she was resting peacefully. But she opened her eyes a bit when she heard someone talking to him.

  He was wearing a beige raincoat buttoned all the way to the neck. A wide-brimmed gray hat hid his features. His voice, however, sounded stern. Her father, who always enjoyed talking with people, was strangely quiet. He even seemed to be afraid of the stranger.

  “How have you been holding up since our last encounter?” Despite the seemingly sympathetic words, the man sounded indifferent.

  “Why are you asking, Bleiberg?” her father said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “I was just being polite. There’s no need to take offense.”

  He walked around the room, examining the furniture, as if he were conducting an inspection. He stopped at the foot of the bed, put on a pair of glasses, and picked up her chart. He scanned it.

  “Stop wasting time with this charade. You never do anything without a reason. What do you want?”

  “Oh, me? Nothing. Wouldn’t you expect a courtesy visit in a dire situation such as this, especially since I have the resources to cure your daughter?”

  Elena almost cried out. She wanted so badly to be healed, to say good riddance to her aching body and the aloof doctors with cold hands who treated her like she was a thing, not a person. She still hoped for some life-saving treatment. And here it was, in the unexpected form of a strange visitor saddled with an ugly German accent.

  “How?” stammered her father.

  “Oh, come on! You know very well,” said this man named Bleiberg. “A simple injection, and the big bad illness will be nothing more than a memory.”

  The man made a fist and blew into it. Then he revealed his empty palm, as if he had performed a magic feat.

  “So, there it is,” her father replied, shaking his head. “You’ve accomplished miracles, but at what price? Your secret experiments for the SS send shivers up my spine. Assuming I do accept your offer, what would you expect in return? You’re not the kind to hand out gifts.”

  “You’ve kept your keen soviet insight,” Bleiberg said. “I’m not asking for much, compared with what I’m offering. Of course, I can’t guarantee success for the treatment. But a thirty percent chance is better than zero, right?”

  The two men stared at each other. The stranger’s calm demeanor was a stark contrast to her father’s anxiety. Bleiberg pointed at her.

  “If she survives my treatment, I want her,” he announced.

  Elena watched her father put his hands over his face. “Never! I can’t let you take my daughter and turn her into a guinea pig.”

  “Surprising. You’re prepared to watch your only child suffer an agonizing death out of respect for what moral code? One only you understand?”

  “Real doctors are taking care of her here. Nobody is pretending to be God.”

  “And what good is that doing her? What results are these real doctors achieving? Pity, compassion, and even this illusion that you call love won’t save your daughter. Take time to think over my offer. Weigh the good against the bad. I’ll come back tomorrow for your final decision. Have a good night, Commissar.”

  Bleiberg adjusted his hat and held out a hand to Andreï. He didn’t take it.

  How could her father so quickly refuse an offer she had been praying for? How could he deny her this chance to live? The realization kindled a feeling deep inside her. A feeling that would never leave her. It was hatred.

  Elena opened her eyes wide. The man glanced at her while her father wasn’t looking. Elena gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He smiled and left the room like a puff of air.

  Andreï remained silent for several minutes. He looked at his daughter, who had closed her eyes again. Just thinking about her in this man’s clutches revolted him.

  The next day, Professor Viktor Bleiberg showed up bright and early.

  Elena survived the injection and soon enjoyed a full recovery.

  She saw her father only one more time.

  The day she killed him.

  CHAPTER 28

  Prague, 2010

  Just before leaving the hotel, Eytan made a quick call to the Israeli attaché in Brussels. Because Cypher had prohibited him from contacting the Mossad network, his options for obtaining a stash of weapons in Japan were limited. The Kidon operative was pleasantly surprised to hear that Colonel Amar was familiar with intelligence service methods and eager to help—no questions asked. Eytan, however, did have to promise that his actions wouldn’t cause an international incident, considering the last time.

  Elena and he agreed that flying out of Prague would be too risky. The likelihood that a victim of the camp siege could give even a vague description of the duo was slim, but it was possible, all the same.

  They left before sunrise for a more than four-hour motorcycle ride to Frankfurt and hopped on a plane from there. Both takeoff and the long-distance flight were smooth sailing. Cypher had sprung for two seats in business class, and Eytan was getting a taste of the sweet life, with all the legroom a giant could ever wish for.

  After eleven hours in the sky, most of which were dedicated to contemplating potential scenarios, they landed at Narita International Airport in Tokyo, a city where they had never before set foot. With their false passports in hand, the two agents breezed through customs. They loaded up on yens and took a taxi to Shibuya.

  The sidewalks of the bustling urban shopping district were crammed with an eclectic mix of people. There were briefcase-wielding businessmen in form-fitting dark suits and girls in high school uniforms. Teenage boys sporting buzz cuts, razor cuts, and flattops stopped here and there to ogle young women in dresses so short, Eytan could almost see what wasn’t underneath. Another woman in a gold silk kimono, a traditional bun atop her head, weaved her way against the current of pedestrian traffic. She looked like someone straight out of a James Clavell novel.

  The pedestrians, walking alone and in groups, appeared largely indifferent to one another, yet the mass of humanity seemed to be in brilliant harmony. Live and let live, Eytan thou
ght.

  Like two kids entering Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, Eytan and Elena marveled at the huge billboard screens displaying advertisements of all sorts. Eytan had heard that there were digital billboards in Tokyo that could read a passerby’s gender and age. Off the main thoroughfares sporting these technological wonders were ancient alleys bulging with tiny shops offering anything a tourist or Tokyo native could possibly want.

  The taxi dropped them off at the Neko Café, the spot where Ehud Amar had arranged to have the promised materials delivered. The two agents were ushered to a small room, where a strange figure—a cross between a teenager and a manga doll—asked them to take off their shoes and wash their hands. While Elena obliged with no trouble at all, Eytan fumbled. He wasn’t used to any ceremony of this sort and felt like a Barnum and Bailey clown. It took him a few moments, but once they were both barefooted and clean-handed, Eytan and Elena exchanged bows with their host and were allowed to go through the curtains leading to the restaurant.

  Here they were presented with another rather unordinary sight.

  The place was littered with cats. Felines pranced freely among the happy diners, who were sitting at tables and on large cushions on the floor.

  The two agents found an inconspicuous spot in a corner of the room. Elena was grinning. She had teased Eytan that he would look even larger in Japan, and, indeed, young women all around were throwing glances at her colleague. The Israeli agent was usually able to adapt to any situation, but this was totally out of his comfort zone. Nonetheless, he sat quietly in his chair, his hands in his lap, even when two cats jumped up and began strutting across the table, their tails in the air.

  Instead of a traditional menu, the waiter brought them a touch-screen tablet that displayed the food and drink selections—in English, to the agents’ relief. Their orders were sent to the kitchen with the press of a button. Distracted by the whole atmosphere of the restaurant, Eytan and Elena had almost forgotten their reason for coming.

  Two minutes later, bowls of soup and meat arrived at the table. One of the cats, a Chartreux, glided over to Elena’s bowl of meat and started purring. Elena looked at it for a minute, then put a bit of meat in her palm and presented it to their furry guest. It delicately nibbled the gift and looked to her for more. The other cat sidled over to Eytan and did the same. He offered this cat some meat. The sensation of its small, coarse tongue licking his fingers clean put a smile on his face. It wasn’t long before Eytan and Elena had given most of their food to the creatures. In exchange, the cats allowed the pair to stroke them.