"I must go."
"Yes," he said in a low voice. "Go. We shouldn't meet here again. I drove through an area called Halewa Heights last night. I will go there after sunset tonight and the next three nights and wait until eleven o'clock. You need only to drive or ride your bicycle to a point just above the developed section there and I will find you. But you must come before eleven. After that, it will be too late."
"Too late? Why?"
"No time to explain now. It's best that you don't spend any more time with me here in public." He stood up. "Tonight. Come tonight. Please."
With that, he strode away. Meiko noticed that as Matsuo walked in the general direction of the man in the flowered shirt, the man quickly turned and hurried away.
With tension cramping her muscles and tying her intestines in knots, Meiko headed home.
* * *
That night, as Matsuo waited in the consulate car, he stared down at Pearl Harbor spread out far below him. The view from Halewa Heights was perfect. With a simple pair of field glasses, he could see every nook and cranny of the east loch, could almost count the antennae of the battleships lined up in pairs this side of Ford Island. His only regret was that the Lexington was gone. He and Yamamoto had hoped to catch one of the Pacific Fleet's three carriers in port; but with eight—eight—heavy battleships as sitting targets, it seemed greedy to ask for more.
Earlier this evening in Honolulu he had had a long talk with Yoshikawa, one of Naval Intelligence's agents assigned to the Hawaiian consulate as a minor official. They had met in the backroom of a seedy bar on Hotel Street. He knew it was a safe room because the bar was owned and run by a Japanese agent. They had talked freely—at least Yoshikawa had. Matsuo mentioned nothing of what he knew of the attack. Only the very highest levels of the government and military knew that Pearl Harbor was to be a target. Consul Kita and his staff were in the dark and Matsuo wanted to keep it that way. If they knew nothing, they could give nothing away, even accidentally, over a tapped phone line.
When Matsuo asked about any mention on the airwaves of Mount Niitaka, Yoshikawa had replied that, yes, an enigmatic message had been received on Tuesday. They had no idea for whom it was intended, but it had read, "Niitaka yama nobore ichi-ni-rei-ya."
Matsuo had nodded then, as if the message contained no meaning beyond the words themselves. But now, as he sat here on a dirt road above the skeletons of new houses on the rim of a residential area creeping up the hillside, he gazed at the bulk of the US Pacific Fleet lit up below in the dark, and heard the words echo in his mind.
Climb Mount Niitaka, 1208.
That was the signal, the go-ahead to the Strike Force from Tokyo: Attack Pearl Harbor, December 8. Matsuo knew that although the force had crossed the international date line, it was still running internally on Tokyo time. And December 8, Tokyo time, would be Sunday in Pearl Harbor.
He checked his watch: 9:00 P.M. In fifty-eight hours, Japan's declaration of war would be delivered to the US Secretary of State in Washington. One hour after that, the bombers of the Strike Force would be attacking those ships below.
Matsuo waited and watched, searching the streets for a beautiful Japanese woman on a bicycle until his eyes ached with the strain. He waited until 11:15, and then forced himself to face the obvious.
Meiko wasn't coming tonight.
No sense in waiting any longer. The sub that was to pick them up would surface at midnight for ten minutes only. If they weren't there in the inflatable raft Matsuo had in the trunk of the car, it would submerge and return in twenty-four hours.
Reluctantly, Matsuo started the engine and put the car in gear. He hoped Meiko wouldn't wait until the last minute. They had only two nights left.
DECEMBER 6
TOKYO
Hiroki stared around at the tense faces in the War Room. Sugiyama and Nagano, Chiefs of Staff of the Army and Navy, and their Vice Chiefs awaited his words.
They're frightened, he thought.
The cold hard reality of what they were about to undertake had seeped through their bluff, confident exteriors. They looked almost ready to back down. They needed some backbone. They had the advantage of choosing whether or not to fight, of choosing the time and place of battle. But that wasn't enough, it seemed. They wanted even more of an edge.
Hiroki sighed. Perhaps he was being unfair. After all, these men didn't have his advantage. They hadn't listened to the Seer, hadn't heard how the war would be won despite seemingly unconquerable odds. They knew only that they were about to attack one of the world's industrial giants.
"What news do you bring?" Nagano asked.
"I have convinced the foreign minister to delay delivery of the final note another half hour."
The Chief of the Navy waved his fist in the air and shouted "Banzai!" The others followed his lead.
The import was clear. With the delegation arriving only half an hour before the attack, and counting on a bare minimum of fifteen minutes to read the declaration, only another scant fifteen minutes remained for the Secretary of State to send a war alert to the Pacific.
Sake was poured, and the Supreme Command awaited Hiroki's toast:
"Tea in Washington!" he said, and they all drank.
* * *
Shimazu tingled with anticipation. He was well satisfied with the course of events.
"Their cowardice serves our purposes well," he said after Hiroki had told them of the Supreme Command's jitters. "The more the Pearl Harbor strike appears to be a sneak attack, the better."
"Why is that, sensei?"
"Consider: The angrier the Americans are, the less likely they will be to agree to an early settlement—something Admiral Yamamoto wants but which we must avoid at all costs. The Order supports this conflict not merely for the Empire's material well-being, but to rid the East of white rule once and for all. There must be no cease-fire until that is accomplished."
"Perhaps we will be lucky and have a further delay at the Washington end," Hiroki said. "But that seems unlikely. The message will be transmitted in English in our top diplomatic cipher. No translation will be necessary at our embassy."
"I wonder about that code," Shimazu said. "Are you sure it is safe?"
"Absolutely."
Shimazu hoped Hiroki was right. If the Americans intercepted and deciphered the Fourteen Part Message, they would be ready for the Strike Force when it arrived. Japan's plans for a decisive victory could then become a humiliating defeat.
But of course Hiroki was right. The Seers' visions had uniformly predicted stunning victories at the start of the war. And the visions never failed. How had he forgotten that? Caught in the maze of temporal matters involved in guiding Japan toward this war, was he losing sight of the spiritual concerns that had first brought him to the Order so many years ago?
Yes, he told himself, regretfully. Yes, I am. But I am doing it for the Son of Heaven, for the Empire, for the honor of the Order. I will put these material matters behind me and seek that spiritual trail again. After the war. After the war is won.
In the meantime, he had had a disturbing vision under the influence of the Seers' drug. In a parting of the yellow mist he had seen Meiko Mazaki returning to Japan. But how could that be? She was dead.
Wasn't she?
OAHU
My habit was to spend the first Saturday morning of the month at the Pearl office. It was quiet then, the interruptions were rare, and I found it a good time to clean up all the loose ends of paperwork that had accumulated during the preceding month.
The work went quickly. I’d managed to get a fairly decent amount of sleep last night, forcibly clearing my mind of any worries about impending disaster for Pearl. And it had worked. I’d awakened refreshed and buoyant to find Hawaii still at peace with the world. Meiko was still asleep when I left, but I planned to take her to the Battle of the Bands tonight. She liked American swing music and I figured something like that would help pull her out of the funk she was in.
I checked the wire
s after lunch. Some long messages were going from Tokyo to Washington in Purple. Something was going on. More than ever I wished we had some magic here to decipher it.
I was just finishing up and readying to head back to Honolulu when portly, balding Fred Jansen, Chief Ship's Clerk, hurried past in the hall. He must have spotted me because he stopped short and saluted.
"Sir, is Captain Thornton available today?"
"No, Jansen, he's not."
I glanced at the clock: just shy of one. Thornton was probably in his seat at the stadium right now, waiting for the annual Shrine Game to begin. The University of Hawaii was playing Willamette and I doubted there was a man on base who didn't have a bet on the game one way or the other.
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes, sir." He held up a foot-long cardboard tube. "I found this lying on top of the safe."
"And?"
"And I think it should be locked up over the weekend but I don't have the combination."
Neither did I. That was limited to the higher-ups in Intelligence such as Commanders Layton and Rochefort, and Captains Mayfield and Thornton.
"Let's see what you've got."
Jansen pulled a large sheet of drafting paper from the tube and spread it out on my desk.
"I didn't feel right leaving this around."
I could see why—a map of the harbor with the positions of every single ship penciled in and labeled by name. The torpedo and submarine nets were penciled in, too. I rolled it up and slipped it back in the tube.
"I'll take care of it."
Obviously relieved to have the matter taken out of his hands, Jansen saluted smartly and hurried out. I intended to see that whoever had left this lying around got hell for it Monday morning. But meantime, what was I going to do with it?
I could think of only one solution: Bring it home.
I locked up and headed for my car.
* * *
Meiko concealed her dismay as she stared at the tube Frank had laid on the table.
"Can't you take it back?" she said.
"Honey, I explained that. I couldn't leave it lying around the office."
"But now it's lying around here. What if somebody steals it? Or it gets lost? Or the house burns down?"
Frank laughed good-naturedly. "The first two will never happen, and if, God forbid, the house burns down, well then ONI will just have to draw up another diagram. Look: I'm not even going to hide it." He walked over to the refrigerator and laid the tube on top of it. "There. We'll leave it in plain sight. By tomorrow night, it will be worthless, anyway. It changes day-to-day during the week as the ships go in and out of drydock."
"Then why don't we just burn it?" Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears.
"Meiko, what's wrong?" he said, losing his smile. "I've brought home papers lots of times and it's never bothered you like this. Are you all right?"
"I'm just not feeling well, Frank."
And it was true. The presence of the map sickened her. Like knowing that a snake was coiled somewhere in the house.
He stepped close and put a hand on her forehead. "You getting sick?"
"I don't know. I'll be all right. I'm just so tired all the time."
"Want to call off going to the Battle of the Bands?"
She managed a smile. "If you don't mind. Maybe I'll just go to bed early."
"Sure, hon. Whatever you want. But if you're not better by Monday morning, I'm taking you over to the base hospital and have one of the doctors look at you."
"Okay. Sure. I think I'll go lie down now—maybe take a nap before dinner."
She broke away and headed for the bedroom, feeling as if she should be slithering along the floor, leaving a trail of slime.
* * *
Eleven o'clock. Meiko checked the phosphorescent glow of the hands on the bedside clock for the dozenth time in the past few minutes.
It has to be now.
She had gone to bed shortly after dinner, complaining again of being tired, and had lain awake ever since while Frank sat in the living room, smoking and listening to the radio. She tossed back and forth under the covers, not knowing what to do, knowing only that she had to leave tonight or never leave at all.
But how?
She had feigned sleep when Frank had come to bed half an hour ago, and now he was sleeping peacefully beside her. She lay a hand gently on his shoulder.
Poor Frank.
She had tried so desperately these past days to find a way to tell him, but it was hopeless. No words could lessen the pain of her leaving. She would have to sneak off, like a thief in the night.
Thief!
Perhaps that was the key. She would steal the harbor diagram and let Frank think that was why she had left him. Would that make it easier? Would it be less painful for him to think she had left him for Japan rather than for another man? Knowing she was clutching at straws, Meiko doubted it.
She kissed Frank on the cheek and then slowly, carefully, slipped out of bed. On the way out of the room, she grabbed a house kimono off the hook behind the bedroom door and then eased it closed. She slipped out of her nightgown and into the kimono, then turned on the light. She sat down at the kitchen table and wrote Frank a brief note that she prayed he would understand.
She started out knowing exactly what she would say, but as she wrote, the words made less and less sense until she felt the sobs heave in her chest and the tears begin to stream down her cheeks. Finally, she crumpled it up and jotted down the first words that came to her mind. She left it on the table, then took the tube map and started for the door.
She stopped with her hand on the knob and looked back toward the bedroom. There had to be more. Frank deserved better than this. The pressure built up inside her until she felt she would have to scream or explode.
Why? Why did it have to be this way?
She knew there was no answer. Her course was set now. There could be no turning back.
Loathing herself, Meiko fled the apartment, found her bicycle in the dark, and pedaled at full speed toward Halewa Heights.
* * *
As soon as I awoke, I knew I was alone. I felt the empty spot beside me on the mattress and knew that Meiko had not merely left the bed, she had left the apartment—it had that unmistakable empty feel to it.
I jumped up, calling her name, though I knew I would get no answer. With my heart pounding in my throat, I hurried to the front room. The kitchen lights were still on and the first thing I saw was the note on the table. It took a few moments for my eyes to focus.
Dearest Frank,
I have never lied to you, not once since the day we met in The Bon
Marché until now. Please do not hate me for what I am doing.
It is chu.
Forgive me,
Meiko
Chu? Her obligation to the Emperor? What on earth could—?
And then I glanced at the top of the refrigerator. The tube with the Pearl Harbor diagram was gone.
"Oh, no!" I heard myself say. I felt as if I were crumbling inside. "Oh, God, no!"
Frantic, I ran my hand over the top of the refrigerator and craned my neck to look behind. No tube. I looked at the note again and saw two circular spots where the ink had run. They were still damp. Tears? If so, maybe there was hope. She couldn't have written it too long ago. Maybe I could still catch her, still save her from herself and whatever it was she thought chu was demanding of her.
I ran out to the carport. The car was still there but Meiko's bike was gone. Only two ways she could be headed—the beach or the Japanese consulate. I decided to try Ala Moana first. I didn't know why. Perhaps because Meiko always seemed to gravitate toward the beach.
I raced the car through Kalihi, barely pausing at the intersections. But in one of those fraction-of-a-second pauses I saw something. I looked again and it was gone, but instead of continuing on my way to Ala Moana, I idled the car and stared into the night.
It had been far up the street, maybe three-quarters of a mil
e away, just a flash of movement under a streetlight. It could have been anything—a pedestrian, another car. Or someone riding a bicycle.
I turned and gunned the car. I knew I was wasting time, but something drew me that way.
The street ran uphill and merged with Moanaloa Road. As I cruised along, I saw it again, and this time I knew what it was: someone on a bike. I slowed and cut my lights. As I pulled closer, the lights of a car coming the other way plainly showed that the rider was a woman. A long cardboard tube was strapped to her bike's rear fender.
Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Meiko. Where was she going? What did she hope to accomplish by this? I wanted to gun the car ahead of her, cut her off, pull her from the bike, and shake some sense into her.
But I didn't. Instead of flooring the gas pedal, I dropped back. If I stayed half a mile or so behind, matched my speed to hers, and let other cars go by as I hugged the shoulder, I could follow her without her ever guessing. She was obviously going to meet somebody. Somebody who had contacted her and subverted her against me and the country that had adopted her.
I meant to find out who that somebody was.
* * *
Matsuo paced back and forth in front of the car, smoking and checking his watch incessantly. Where was she? Time was so short. Only a few minutes left before he would have to head for the beach. If he missed the rendezvous with the sub, the war would be over for him. Pearl would be attacked tomorrow, and he would be stuck here—most likely imprisoned for the duration.
If the attack was still on. He had no way of knowing. The agents at the consulate were not monitoring marine signals and did not know what to listen for, anyway. And radio silence was so strict among the ships of the Strike Force that the sea could have swallowed it up during the night and no one would know. But the force could have been spotted by a reconnaissance flight and, having lost the element of surprise, the raid would be called off and the ships sent back to Tokyo.
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