The Shiro Project

by David Khara

  The crowd was dense and indifferent. Eytan and Elena were skeptically reading the giant marquee on the shiny glass and steel edifice.

  “No surprise here,” Elena said. “The center’s inaugural event is an international conference on virology.”

  “Between the fancy-pants specialists from around the world, all the government officials, and reporters who are here to cover the event, you’ve got everyone needed for a lovely bloodbath,” Eytan replied.

  He was already focused on three refrigerated trucks bearing the logo of a French celebrity chef. They were parked at the service entrance. Deliverymen were unloading carts with food trays and hauling them into the building as a few bored-looking security officers nodded them through the doors. No decent shindig would be complete without a caterer and inevitable finger foods, Eytan thought.

  “If you were planning on taking out all these people in one spot with the help of a virus, how would you do it?” Elena said.

  “Something simple, like circulating it through the ventilation system.”

  “Easy and effective.”

  “All we have to do now is find the HVAC equipment,” Eytan said. He was feeling charged. He rubbed his hands together and continued. “Did you know that Tokyo has the most three-star Michelin restaurants in the world?”

  “Oh yeah? Uh, no, I didn’t know that. What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Pardon my French.”

  He grinned at Elena.

  “So what do you have up your sleeve now?”

  “You really have to start eating better,” he whispered in her ear before starting down the sidewalk that led to the service entrance.

  Eytan and Elena walked to the back of the third truck, a few steps behind a young delivery guy. The latter jumped in to collect the remaining food supply. Eytan hopped in behind the man. Elena partially closed the back doors to obscure the scene from any onlookers. A few seconds and some thumping sounds later, the agent’s hand emerged. He was holding a mini mille-feuille, which she swiped from him, laughing.

  Eytan and Elena loaded the two carts that were left and walked past the security officers, who ignored them as they entered the building. The glittery glass-walled lobby was already bustling with activity. A number of guests were making their way to two massive see-through staircases that led to a mezzanine floor.

  An employee directed them away from the lobby and toward double doors concealed from public view. The two agents did as they were instructed and entered the kitchen, where waiters and waitresses were juggling trays and ice buckets. In the middle of the frenzy, Elena and Eytan dumped their load on a stainless-steel counter. Elena tapped a waiter’s elbow and asked how to get to the basement. Distracted and anxious to get his food out to the guests, he nodded toward another door.

  Elena gestured to Eytan to follow her, and they both vanished amid the general indifference.

  The basement was a labyrinth of cramped hallways that rumbled with the sounds of machinery. A network of pipes ran along the walls and ceiling, forcing Eytan to crouch, which triggered a new round of pain.

  “Since we each have only one bullet left, it’ll be hand-to-hand combat,” Eytan said as they entered what he presumed was the building’s nerve center. “There’s a good chance our opponents will be launching their attack as soon as all the guests have gathered for the speech. We’ll wait for them here.”

  The building’s electrical panels, as well as the heating, cooling, and ventilation systems, were in this space.

  “I hope we’re right about their plan,” Elena said. “How are your injuries holding up?”

  “Badly, but fortunately for us, it’s our force of will that makes us indestructible,” Eytan replied. He tried stretching his arm toward the ceiling and grimaced.

  “Amen” Elena said.

  Half an hour later, two men in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers burst into the room, pushing a large cart loaded with metal barrels marked “chromium.” The tall Asian men stopped in the middle of the room and started unloading the cargo.

  The duo became a trio with the arrival of a new member, who was stockier than his counterparts. They exchanged a few nervous words. An authoritative command from the hallway put an end to their discussion. The three henchmen stood straight in a military manner and saluted the last arrival, who was wearing a three-piece business suit. Elena recognized the Caucasian man with the harsh face and square jaw. He was Sean Woodridge, whose picture she had seen in the paper. Elena guessed he was in his early sixties, although he still had a full head of blond hair. The small wrinkles in the corners of his blue eyes accentuated the depth of his gaze. Over six feet tall, he radiated natural authority as he addressed his undeniably devoted troupe in perfect Japanese.

  Eytan chose this moment to emerge from his hiding spot in an adjacent storage area stocked with brooms and cleaning supplies.

  “Surprise!” he yelled with open arms. The four men glared at him as though he were a ghost. The shocked looks on their faces disappeared as Woodridge opened his mouth to speak.

  “You should be dead,” he said.

  “I should be,” Eytan confirmed, smiling.

  “Only a minor setback.”

  Woodridge barked another order in Japanese. The three minions rushed toward the giant. Two of them had barely taken a step, when each received a strong kick to the head. Hanging from a well-secured cold-water pipe in the ceiling, Elena had been waiting for the right moment. She jumped to the ground, swayed a little, caught her balance, and advanced toward the two guys, groggy but very much in the fight.

  Eytan’s assailant, handicapped by his opponent’s almost unfair height advantage, attempted a jab. It caught air, but a second later the man successfully landed a kick to Eytan’s injured side. Despite the pain, the agent trapped the attacker’s calf with his right arm, placed his right hand against his thigh, and swept him off the ground. Eytan released him, and the man went sailing into the electrical panel. One eliminated from the equation.

  Out of breath, Eytan watched as Elena tried to dance around the two remaining henchmen, who had formed a barrier to block the way to their boss. He was now on the run.

  “He’s getting away!” Eytan yelled.

  When she turned toward him, he could tell by her pale complexion and fatigued eyes that she was waning. She pulled out her gun and pointed it toward the runaway.

  “Aim for his legs,” Eytan ordered.

  Elena lowered her weapon, but one of the men kicked it and threw her off-target.

  Woodridge grabbed his back and slowed to a trot. Nevertheless, he continued down the hall and soon disappeared.

  “Go get him,” Elena said. “I’ll take care of the others.”

  Her voice sounded shaky, but she managed to whack the two Japanese men with a series of swivel kicks and cleared the way for Eytan, who quickly darted through the opening.

  CHAPTER 33

  With great concentration, Elena had vanquished her adversaries. She had taken the first man out by kicking him in the stomach. The second one had required an additional flurry of punches and a devastating uppercut, which had cracked his neck. With sweat dripping down her face, she relished this victory. But it was bittersweet. Was it because she had become aware of her own weakness? Because she dreaded ending her life stuck in a hospital bed? Illness and old age were agonizing prospects. Thanks to the miracles of science, she had escaped the first one, and she had hoped to avoid the second. Her current state, however, proved that nature would always win out. How ironic.

  The pain bore into her skull. She felt nauseous and was having trouble navigating the basement hallways. Then she pictured her partner’s scarred back, which she had glimpsed in their hotel room in Prague. As intense pain shot through her head, she grasped the meaning of Eytan’s words. It’s our force of will that makes us indestructible. She pressed on, placing one foot in front of the other and leaning against the walls to keep her balance. At last, she arrived at the door leading to the outside. She wanted to finish
the job once and for all.

  Eytan was running as fast as his injuries would allow. He could feel the blood soaking his T-shirt, and it only increased his desire to destroy Woodridge. The latter had left the building and had scampered into the mazelike hedges in the park.

  The Kidon agent disregarded the pain that hindered his breathing a little more with each stride. The narrow and convoluted walkways, however, soon caused him to slow down. He found it difficult, even impossible, to orient himself in the labyrinth of paths and plantings. Eytan doubted that Woodridge was doing any better. He decided to favor caution over speed, hoping he would find the way out before his opponent. And anyway, running too fast would only worsen his bleeding and render him even weaker.

  Eytan finally came to a circular area about two hundred feet in diameter. A fountain set off by a double row of cheery trees was at the center. Water flowed from a tall piece of granite into a finely sculpted basin flanked by stone benches. The layout was perfectly symmetrical, giving the space a sense of timeless balance. The splashing of the water, coupled with the swooshing sound of wind flowing through the hedges, created a hypnotic musicality. The person who built this sanctuary was clearly a worshiper of nature, beauty, and peace. Woodridge was standing in front of the water feature, his back to Eytan, his arms dangling at his sides and his briefcase at his feet. He turned to face the agent, who was advancing slowly.

  “Exquisite, isn’t it?”

  Eytan stopped a few feet from him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so soothing,” replied the giant, the nose of his weapon pointing toward the ground.

  “I’m surprised that a goon from a deadly secret-service organization would appreciate a place like this,” Woodridge said, directing his own weapon toward Eytan, who then raised his gun and pointed it at the man.

  “And I’m just as shocked to see a terrorist marveling its beauty.”

  “I’m not a terrorist,” Woodridge said. He was visibly offended.

  The reaction underscored Eytan’s theory about the man.

  “And I’m no goon,” the giant said.

  “Have we gotten off on the wrong foot?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for proper introductions? I’m Sean Woodridge, recently named president of the Shinje Corp. after the passing of Shinje-san. Before that unfortunate event, I was his second-in-command.

  The man finished his sentence with a perfectly executed Japanese-style bow.

  “Eytan Morg, Metsada agent, Nazi and war-criminal hunter, responsible for stopping your biochemical attacks.”

  His introduction was not accompanied with a bow, which brought a smile to Woodridge’s face.

  “Metsada?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a special ops division of Mossad. But I’m actually here on a personal mission. It would take too long to explain.”

  Eytan sat down on one of the stone benches. He opened his jacket to reveal the blood smeared across the right side of his polo. In a similar fashion, Sean exposed the wound inflicted by Elena’s gunshot and sat down on the opposite bench.

  “To be honest, I didn’t think your intentions were purely terrorist in nature,” Eytan said.

  “The Children of Shiro is anything but a terrorist group.”

  “I figured as much after searching your office.”

  “And what brought you here?”

  “The black-and-white photo taken at Fort Detrick. Did you know you look exactly like your mother?”

  “My father told me that all the time,” the man said.

  “And he was right,” Eytan concluded. He stretched out his legs and allowed himself to relax a bit.

  “So tell me, Sean. What or whom are you seeking revenge for?”

  CHAPTER 34

  Harbin, Unit 731, August 1945

  The bitter taste of defeat and dishonor was mixed with the unbearable smell of burning flesh, as corpses were heaved into the device named “the barbecue.” The attack on Manchuria by the soviets, combined with the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, had spread fear throughout the military ranks and provoked panic among the leaders of Unit 731.

  Although Hirokazu Shinje welcomed the end of the war and consequently all activities at Shiro Ishii’s research center, he hoped to flee the grounds before it fell into the hands of the communists.

  A chaotic frenzy had ruled the complex since Mr. Ishii’s announcement of the Japanese surrender. They had been ordered to destroy all evidence of experiments conducted in the previous nine years. Documents were being systematically incinerated, along with the remaining test subjects.

  With his arms folded across his chest, Hirokazu watched pensively as the rusty furnace consumed the last of his papers. He had no regrets about the scientific work he had accomplished. His studies had paved the way for numerous vaccines against tropical diseases and would most certainly resonate favorably within medical communities around the world in the looming postwar era. And anyway, unlike his colleagues, who got drunk at night and slept with enslaved prostitutes in the unit’s whorehouses, he had dedicated his evenings to designing prosthetic limbs for the mutilated guinea pigs.

  Hirokazu had lost his haughtiness. He was no longer a self-assured, arrogant graduate. He had lost any desire to compete with his fellow researchers, who had the fanatic desire to please his majesty, Lieutenant General Shiro Ishii. Their absorption had pushed them to commit extreme acts that were more barbaric than scientific, all the while stabbing their colleagues in the back.

  When the medical team was ordered to gather on the main square across from the executive-staff offices, rumors of an Ishii-mandated collective suicide began to circulate. Those who knew him well, especially Hirokazu Shinje, understood how little this immoral man cared about the code of bushido. Ishii’s priority had always been his own advancement and glory. Not in a million years would he choose to die for the sake of honor.

  And as Hirokazu expected, suicide was never mentioned during the impassioned speech delivered to the troupes.

  As the explosive blasts started reducing Unit 731 to a pile of rubble, everyone on the square promised to stay silent about the tests and the tactics. No matter the circumstance. No matter the price.

  The future would prove to Hirokazu that it was easier laying down the law than abiding by it.

  Tokyo, 1946

  Hirokazu’s highly anticipated homecoming was traumatic. Radio propaganda, the only source of information for troops occupying China, had not relayed the extent of Japan’s bleak condition.

  Napalm bombs had ravaged the wooden houses in the old city of Tokyo, demolishing most of them. It was reported that more than one hundred thousand people had perished in the flames of a single air raid.

  On January 1, 1946, the newspapers had published a message from Emperor Hirohito. He was renouncing his divine status. His nationalist generals had thrown the country into a senseless war. Faced with the humiliating reality that the country was not destined for world domination, all of Japan was paying the price.

  After a short stay with his parents upon his return home, Hirokazu started working at a hospital in Tokyo. The facility welcomed the esteemed physician like a godsend. It was drowning in a flood of sick and wounded patients—victims of mutilations, burnings, and malnutrition. He was never short of work and spent his days and many nights consulting with and operating on patients.

  The fatigue and long hours were nothing compared with his experience in Unit 731. Memories of it haunted him in his sleep. As time went on, however, Hirokazu started to heal and make amends. He began to enjoy the true purpose of medicine. Little by little, his unease subsided, although it never disappeared.

  In the spring, he started seeing a beautiful nurse at the hospital, Iyona. Their relationship blossomed quickly and seemed to have all the right ingredients for marriage. He loved the woman with all his heart. She was petite yet brave and had the most adorable little nose. But Hirokazu never brought up the subject of marriag
e. And as he stalled, much bigger events intervened.

  Over the course of the year, newspapers, which were now controlled by the Americans, had reported incessantly on war crimes committed under General Tōjō Hideki’s authority. The papers followed all events leading to the trials of regime dignitaries. Some men of honor had killed themselves before they could be arrested. Others collaborated, shifting blame to their subordinates. This cowardly behavior rattled Hirokazu.

  Then one day, he came across an article that referred to the atrocities committed by Unit 731 in Manchuria. According to the report, everyone who had worked under Shiro Ishii was considered a criminal. The truth flashed before the eyes of the doctor, who felt years older than his age: Unit 731 had tarnished the entire human race. It was decided. If he had to go on trial, he would confess and accept the judges’ verdict.

  What was the point of marrying Iyona and condemning her to premature widowhood?

  New York, 1983

  The seminar was taking place in a four-hundred-seat lecture hall, but no more than two dozen people were scattered throughout the room. They listened in horror to the fate brought upon the people of Harbin. In a shaky voice, Hirokazu detailed how plague-infested fleas had been released over whole villages. With his notes in hand, he recited the number of deaths caused by these experiments and others. By the end of the war, the final tally was estimated at three hundred thousand to five hundred thousand. Hirokazu proceeded to recount how human beings were frozen for frostbite experiments, how they were cut open while still alive, how their unborn children were mutilated in the name of science. Determined to atone for his crimes, he spared nothing as he outlined the details of Unit 731 to the courageous few who were spending two hours with him, plunged deep into the last circle of hell.

  Three critical events over the course of thirty years had pushed Hirokazu to go on a worldwide tour to expose the realities of Unit 731. First was Ishii’s clandestine sale of Unit 731’s medical discoveries to the US intelligence service in a successful attempt to save his own skin. Money, immunity, and obscurity—the perfect recipe for absolution.