The faint clink of equipment confirmed her guess: one of her uncle’s security measures, a periodic foot patrol around the outside of the castle walls.
A patrol of several men walked by. The voices belonged to two men debating amongst themselves whether or not Captain Kozono’s latest alert was but another drill or were they expecting something?
She doubted that Captain Kozono, the commander of her uncle’s security force guarding the castle, even knew about the network of passages, much less these foot soldiers.
Moments more and their voices faded to nothing. They would be back. They would follow the wall around to the cliff’s edge on the other side, then return, but she estimated she had more than enough time before then.
She bolted across the clearing and down the hill, toward the trees on the far side where the land gradually dipped. The road was accessible from there. She knew which paths to take to keep her from view of the castle.
There was always the chance she would encounter another patrol, a chance she was willing to take, the pressure having so built up in her that she desperately needed to escape those walls behind her.
Walls everywhere.
This bolt across the clearing in itself would be worth whatever happened to her. She felt like a bird on the wing after being caged for too long.
There would be more walls, soon enough.
She would go to the city, although she was not exactly certain what she would do when she got there. She could no longer only think about it and nothing more. She had to act.
Passing the library that day, she had looked in through the open door and seen the Baron seated at his writing table, using the delicate, fine-bristled brush and black ink cake to make an entry in his journal, but she had not gone in to join him as she might once have.
An attack on MacArthur … Ninja.
She had seen no trace of the ninja on the grounds and this time had not gone spying. She knew enough, but she did not know who to turn to with what she knew.
The radio spoke of cooperation with the conquerors, according to the Emperor’s decree, but she was sure there would be others who felt as her uncle did and they could possibly be in positions of authority.
Who would listen to what she had to say? Who could she trust?
General MacArthur had landed yesterday and thus far, nothing had happened. She tried to tell herself that something happened to cancel the plans of her uncle and his circle of conspirators; that she would not have to betray her uncle.
Then, about thirty minutes ago, the cars bringing the rotund Colonel Hayashi of the Air Force and cadaverous General Nagano of the Army had arrived.
She watched again as they disappeared inside. Not wanting to encounter Okada, she stayed in her rooms until she was sure they had withdrawn to the Baron’s study. Surprisingly, the Kempeitai major did not attend this meeting.
Keiko had tried leaving the grounds as if for one of her walks through the countryside, but they stopped her at the front gate. Captain Kozono himself had told her he had no choice, that he was following her uncle’s orders that no one be allowed to leave the castle. There were to be no exceptions.
She had submerged her anger at this and made a show of submissive obedience, for she knew her actions would be reported to the Baron. She then proceeded to the wine cellar, to the passage and outside.
If Hayashi and Nagano were again present, it could only mean that this was to be the night of the attempt on MacArthur’s life by the ninja assassins. A symbolic strike against the enemy, she had overheard the Baron telling them. It would not matter if the ninja escaped or were slain in the act. The deed would be done and there would be no turning back. The killing and destruction that were so close to ending would go on and on.
The ninja had a very good chance of succeeding in their task against conventional military sentries if only a tenth of the legends about the ninja were true, she told herself.
She alone stood some chance of at least getting a warning through to the Americans in Yokohama. It would require her going into Yokohama. The radio continued to broadcast regular reports about General MacArthur’s group billeted at the New Grand Hotel. She must go there. This was too much responsibility to walk away from.
Someone would believe her.
Beyond sight of the castle, the countryside undulated away before her. She trod along a small pathway through a grove of fig trees, past a deserted Buddhist shrine. She crossed a goat pasture. The sun in the west warmed her not unpleasantly as she hurried along, and she thought of the child she had been long ago, at play in these fields and forests, and of how that child and the world had changed so much. A sadness coursed through her that only reinforced her resolve.
She wished she had made the decision yesterday to tell someone what she knew to betray the man who had given her everything—but she had been unable to do this.
Her emotions still confused her. She told herself again that she must follow through on this course of action she had chosen, no matter what the consequences.
Terraced tiers of paddies rising away from the fields and the tiny pastures she passed through were barren of cattle or of any human presence. She reached the road, which was in terrible disrepair, potholed from erosion and the American bombers. There was no traffic in sight at this time. Buses traveled the road north into town, but with no semblance of regularity.
Turning north, in the direction of the train station at Tateyama two kilometers distant, she began walking.
Fifteen minutes later, Baron Tamura stood with Hayashi and Nagano in the entrance of the passage by the stand of trees. They watched three raggedly dressed figures shamble across the hillside and disappear from sight in the direction of the road. The ninja assassins—Nakajima, Saito, and Mikassa—left as they had arrived, clothed in tattered combinations of uniform and civilian clothes.
“It is indeed incredible,” said Hayashi. “No one looking at them would suspect those three of being what they are.” The pudgy Air Force colonel’s face was awash with perspiration.
“They are Japan’s heritage,” said Baron Tamura, “and its future.” His eyes gazed off in the direction taken by the ninja.
“I have two divisions on standby and know of other officers who have shifted troop strength unnoticed during the confusion of demobilization,” Hayashi said.
“And I have one division of the Eastern Army,” said Nagano. “I trust we will be more successful than the rebels of two weeks ago.”
Baron Tamura said, “The invisible assassins shall not fail us.”
“And if they are captured?”
“They will not allow themselves to be captured alive. The American will be no match for ninjutsu.”
“All is in readiness, then,” said Hayashi. “Our forces yours and ours, Baron-san, are poised to strike. They but await the word from us.”
“I only hope we have not made an error in judgment in allowing Major Okada to live,” said Nagano.
“We have nothing to fear from the Kempeitai,” said Hayashi. “They are all but disbanded.”
“Okada is even more powerful than his duties would suggest,” Nagano said earnestly. “He poses a serious threat to us, heading up the secret police as he does.”
“General Nagano,” said the Baron, studying the cadaverous man, “you seem inordinately concerned over Major Okada.”
“I only wish us to succeed, Baron-san.”
Baron Tamura turned and gestured toward the entrance to the passage.
“Come, let us return. We will drink saki and wait for word from Yokohama.”
Nagano and Hayashi nodded and stepped back into the passageway, Nagano first.
Nagano did not see the look that passed between Hayashi and Baron Tamura.
The New Grand Hotel was a luxury establishment built after the earthquake of 1923, a magnificent structure that had survived the bombing raids with slight damage, an oasis in a wilderness of ruin. It would be MacArthur’s base until the official signing of the peace treaty on
Sunday aboard the Missouri, after which he would establish headquarters in Tokyo.
MacArthur, along with Eichelberger and their immediate group including Ballard and his men, were met at the hotel entrance by the hotel owner, an elderly Japanese in a wing collar, swallow-tailed coat and pin-striped trousers. He had bowed deeply to MacArthur before showing the party to room 315, which had connecting chambers, providing the hotel’s best suite, although it was far from sumptuous by American standards.
The corridors became a madhouse shortly afterward as more than a hundred lesser officers jockeyed for rooms. One hundred and fifty-nine general officers from all the allied armies and navies found quarters in the hotel, taxing room service and the maids to the limit and beyond.
Eichelberger established a defense perimeter around the hotel with the same five hundred paratroopers from Atsugi wearing jungle greens.
MacArthur inadvertently helped things along by remaining closeted in his suite of rooms during the following day, the 31st, concerning himself primarily with effecting the immediate, safe release of the allied P.O.W.s held in the Japanese home islands.
Room 315 became the operations center for the early stages of the allied occupation of Japan as U.S. soldiers and marines continued pouring into the country by aircraft and ship.
Ballard and his men were in and out of Room 315 throughout the day in their capacity as MacArthur’s personal bodyguards.
There were, of course, rifle-carrying guards stationed to either side of the door in the hallway and, were the general to take a notion to travel outside the hotel, truckloads of troops would have accompanied him.
But in the meantime Ballard and his team remained a “floating unit,” circulating all through the New Grand, double-checking security and staying close to MacArthur most of the time, accountable solely to him.
Ballard had been present earlier that evening when Major General Jonathan M. Wainwright, himself a recently released P.O.W., came to see his old boss. MacArthur was visibly moved by the spectral figure leaning on a cane, an emaciated scarecrow with sunken eyes, pitted cheeks, hair snowy white, and skin like old leather; the man who had taken the general’s place on Corregidor was now wasted by his years of internment and clearly bore the burden of having surrendered to the enemy. The two embraced warmly and Ballard quietly let himself out.
Ballard was sent for by the general around dusk. As MacArthur, pacing determinedly as ever, finished dictating to a stenographer, Ballard went from window to window, drawing the drapes. MacArthur’s voice boomed in his ears.
“… thus, occupation troops are forbidden to consume local victuals. They shall eat only their own rations. Finally, martial law and all curfew decrees imposed upon the city are hereby cancelled. The first step in the reformation of Japan is to be an exhibition of generosity and compassion by all members of the occupying force.” MacArthur stopped his pacing and said to the steno, “That will be all for now. Have those directives cut and distributed immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
The steno withdrew, leaving MacArthur and Ballard alone during a break in the stream of activity flowing in, out, and through room 315.
MacArthur exhaled like a man who wanted to drop into one of the comfortable-looking wing chairs surrounding them. He remained standing. He tamped tobacco into his meerschaum.
“And how does everything look from your perspective, this evening, Sergeant?”
“Eichelberger’s men have the hotel sealed tight from the street up to the roof and we’re monitoring the checkpoints on each floor as well as those outside the hotel.”
“Very good.” A thin smile from MacArthur. “It looks as if we might very well pull this one off as planned.”
“As long as you work and take your meals and sleep inside this hotel room, General, I think I can guarantee your safety. As for out there,” Ballard nodded beyond the draperies, “well, Japan is a world I don’t know much about.”
MacArthur touched fire to the bowl and puffed the pipe to life. “You were relieved then, I take it, that I dined up here today instead of down in the dining room.”
“You’re safest up here, General.” Ballard glanced again at the draperies that flapped slightly in a breeze off the bay, the windows open wide against the warmth. “And I’m not all that sure about up here.”
Rather than dine in his suite the first evening at the hotel, MacArthur had dined in the main dining room with his staff, one of whom had thought the general’s steak might be poisoned and suggested that a Japanese taste it first, which had pretty much been what Ballard was about to suggest as the food was served. The general had laughed and said it was a good steak and he did not care to share it with anyone, a gesture that hardly passed unnoticed.
The hotel staff, it seemed, had expected a tasting of the food, and the elderly owner quickly reappeared at the table to gush gratitude for the demonstration of what he called “great trust.”
MacArthur now said to Ballard, “Word of everything I say and do will quickly spread through the country. Our war with these people has been brutal and without mercy on either side. It was important that a gesture of trust be made in the good faith of the Japanese people.”
An aide joined them.
“Sir, the members of the liaison committee are here.”
“Show them in.” MacArthur frowned at Ballard as the aide left them. “The Japanese have been reporting instances of American servicemen raping Japanese women. I intend to assure the Japanese liaison that I have already ordered an immediate investigation of such allegations and have reaffirmed the death penalty for convicted rapists. The Army and the Navy will maintain discipline among their forces.”
“Yes, sir,” Ballard said. The general was well known to be a tangential conversationalist. “I’ll get out of your way then, sir.”
“I haven’t gotten around to why I sent for you, Sergeant. I wanted to pass on to you a commander’s hunch.”
“Sir?”
“If they intend to attempt to assassinate me, it will come tonight and it won’t be poisoned food or any nonsense like that.”
“My men and I spent this afternoon resting up for tonight, sir. Security around this hotel is tight as a drum.”
“They could try to sabotage the treaty signing in two days,” MacArthur said, “but my hunch is it will come before then. That’s when I’ve expected all along that you and your men would earn your keep, Sergeant. After dark. Tonight.”
Chapter Nineteen
The old steam locomotive, pulling a string of decrepit cars, wheezed, clattered, and shrieked to a stop in the main Yokohama station.
Keiko had boarded too far along the line to get one of the wooden seats, but she managed to find space to stand in the aisle of the third coach behind the engine. The over-crowded car lurched, and the tightly packed mass of humanity—the farmers, and country women in their shapeless mompei and wide straw hats—commenced pushing and shoving, especially the men who thought nothing of elbowing or rudely pushing a woman out of the way or to make her move faster.
The station was mass confusion.
She made her way quickly through to the street, past countless men milling about, their backs loaded down with large bundles wrapped and tied with cloth strips, everything they could carry to escape American requisitioning. She passed an unarmed group of soldiers standing at attention, meekly obeying an officer who had already been stripped of his braid, but had not yet relinquished his long samurai saber. Here and there in the swarm of travelers she thought she identified detectives of the Tokko, the civilian plainclothes police. They stood off to the side grimly observing what went on around them as if waiting to pounce.
There were far fewer women about than men. The general consensus seemed to be that the conquerors were hairy barbarians who would rape the women. Keiko had heard radio broadcasts urging women to flee into the hills if at all possible.
Civilians were advised to leave watches and other valuables at home when they did venture out, and
women were advised to wear only loose-fitting clothing and to make themselves unattractive. They were urged to refrain from such “provocative” acts as smiling or smoking a cigarette.
Keiko had been told by one of the servants at the castle that female employees at some of the remaining government plants were being given cyanide capsules to swallow if attacked.
She still did not know exactly what she would do when she reached the New Grand Hotel. It occurred to her that she might falter at the last second and change her mind and turn back.
She told herself this would not happen. She was stronger than that.
It was dark when she left the station and began walking in the direction of the hotel.
Nakajima motioned Saito and Mikassa back. They waited until Baron Tamura’s niece disappeared beyond the milling crowd inside the terminal.
Nakajima worked to quell the indecision nagging him. It was something he was unaccustomed to. He had been born a ninja, had started training as a ninja apprentice when he was old enough to walk, and had gone on to develop under the tutelage of Sakano, a successor to the Togokure School of Ninjutsu that stretched back over seven hundred years.
Saito said, in a voice low enough not to be overheard by passersby, “Do you think she knows why we have come to the city?”
Nakajima reached his decision.
“She did not see us,” he said, “on the train nor at the castle.”
“Why is she in the city then?”
“A coincidence, no more. Baron Tamura would not have allowed her to learn of our mission, and we were well hidden throughout our time there. She can know nothing.”
“We should contact Baron Tamura.”
“No!” Nakajima glared. “We cannot trust the telephones. We continue to the hotel. The girl will not concern us. Nothing can stop us.”
There came a discreet knock at the door.
“Come,” Baron Tamura called.
Kozono, commandant of the castle’s security force, stepped in and bowed deeply.
“If I may impose upon a moment of your time, Baron san .”
Blood Red Sun Page 14
