The Seventh Samurai Page 10

  Watanabe said nothing and Ikeda babbled on about the Fuurin Kazan until Watanabe was certain there was a modern organization that rallied under that ancient banner, that Jiro Ikeda was a member, and that he had been doing some secret work on the tunnel apart from the regular construction.

  Just before the older man passed out he said his son had been such a trusted member of the Fuurin Kazan that he had met its leader, the Seventh Samurai.

  The Seventh Samurai, Watanabe mused, more ancient history. Seven Samurai, or Seven Spears, had led Hideyoshi's troops to victory against Katsuie Shibata in the sixteenth century. Well after WWII the great Akira Kurosawa had directed a film called "The Seven Samurai." In turn, an American western had been made using the theme of the Kurosawa film. And now, Watanabe reflected, regarding the drunken man sleeping with his head on the low table, we have another episode, not seven samurai, but a man who regards himself as the Seventh Samurai. Watanabe wanted to meet him, possibly share a sake cup.

  He rose, slid back the shoji, stepped into the hall and called, "Okaasan, I fear your husband has had a drop too much." There was a stirring in the kitchen where the woman had been sipping green tea, watching TV and waiting to roll her husband into his futon.

  CHAPTER 16: Punishment at Sea

  Sam awoke to a gentle nudge of a crewman. Sunlight was streaming through a porthole and the seas seemed calm. Sam had been ill for the first few days, even in relatively calm waters, but his system had adjusted to the rhythm of the vessel. "Captain wants to see you, son."

  Yes, of course, the captain wanted to see him about his discovery in the hold. Maybe the skipper had already been down there to check the cargo. This could be an important day. Sam pulled on his clothing and followed the crewman to the captain's cabin. Nat was nowhere to be seen. The captain looked grim when Sam entered the cabin, followed by the crewman. For an old tub, the cabin was spacious and well appointed. Probably the only way they could keep an able man on board. The mate, Meir Jacobson, and the radioman were seated to one side. The captain motioned Sam to a chair just in front of his desk.

  "I'm sorry to have to call you here today, Sam, but we have some serious business to discuss. You've caused us considerable trouble."

  Captain Silverman looked at Sam, then through an open porthole at the ocean. The sky was crystal clear, a soft breeze was blowing, veering from the southwest to the southeast, then back. Several other merchant ships and perhaps a fisherman or two could be seen, some quite close, some hull down. During the night they had lost the storm and steamed into a busy shipping lane.

  "You mean about my discovery in the hold," Sam said brightly. "It is important, isn't it?"

  "Very important," the captain said with a touch of irony. "Have you noticed anything unusual about this ship?"

  "It's very old," Sam said, searching his mind for a good answer. "It needs maintenance. In fact I thought crewmen on a voyage like this spent time chipping paint and painting rust spots. But we don't do much of anything."

  "The crew is all Israeli," the captain continued. "That's very unusual. If you've talked to them, you may have learned they're all university graduates with a sprinkling of advanced degrees."

  "They do seem above average, better than I expected for a crew of a ship like this."

  "Truly," the captain said with a sigh. "We had picked the crew long before we were to cast off. Your father, a very influential man, insisted that you come aboard at the last minute. For some reason, God knows why, no other ship would do." Sam started to reply, but was silenced by a wave of the captain's hand. The other men sat silently, their faces serious, hardly blinking an eye.

  "We are all Israelis and, with some exceptions, we are members of the same organization. You might call it a conservative group, you might call it a right-wing group. In fact you would likely call it a group of fanatics. But the truth, if it be seen clearly, and we do see it with a lucid eye, is that we will be the salvation of Israel. And you have discovered a certain deadly military cargo that we carry, a cargo that each of the others is keenly aware of. In fact, it is this cargo that will place the hand of Israel on the helm of world leadership." The captain paused and looked at the other men in the compartment. "Sometimes I feel that we are guided by an unseen hand, that Jehovah is on the quarterdeck."

  "You already knew about the cargo?" Sam said. He seemed to pale through his newly acquired tan.

  "Know about it! It is the purpose of this voyage! It is the purpose of our lives! It is the basis for Israel's future place in the sun. Know about it! Of course we know about it!"

  Sam looked from one face to another. "You are trying to overthrow the government, or something like that?"

  "Nothing like that," the captain said, now calm after his brief outburst. "We have the time to explain this to you and we thought it our duty to explain things to you, despite your youth. You know the situation. Israel is a tiny nation surrounded by the hostile millions. Israel needs land and must expand to prosper. There is no other way. We must take land and carve out the nation we deserve."

  "But you would have to defeat many other nations. It would mean the death of maybe millions of Arabs, quite a few Israelis, our allies would turn against us. It sounds insane."

  "But it is not insane," the captain sighed again, but continued with determination. "A few Arabs must die. Who knows how many? A few others must die and a few Israelis must die. And for good purpose. We are an intellectual race. It is our hand that should be on the global tiller. There are Jewish cab drivers in New York who are smarter than the president of the United States."

  "There are cab drivers in every country and of every nationality than are smarter than the president of the United States," Sam responded. "The president of the United States doesn't even know how many countries there are in Africa."

  "Neither do I," the captain responded. "How many are there?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe fifty-three. Could I ask what you call your organization?"

  "There is no name for it yet. If no one knows, there is no secret to escape." He eyed the boy, uncertain of how to continue. He had given as full an explanation as he thought the occasion warranted.

  "You want me to join?" Sam asked. He had already decided to refuse. They wouldn't dare harm him because of his father's position. And he would remain on board and be the voice of moderation, the voice of logic among the rabid right. But Nat? Was Nat one of them?

  "We don't want you to join," the captain said. "We could never trust you. This was an important decision and we had the time, so we all agreed. We're going to have to kill you. We hoped the explanation, that you are in a way dying for Israel, a martyr for your country, would help. That's the decision and it will be carried out."

  "May God have mercy on you," the mate intoned.

  "Oh, no!" Sam cried, looking from one to another like a frightened rabbit. "You can't kill me. My father won't allow it. He's very big in politics. He could bring down the government over something like this. You can't do it!" He stamped his foot for emphasis.

  "Bring down the government," the captain smiled. "We're going to change the order of the world. The third temple will be built. Think of that."

  "My family's secular. There aren't that many observant Jews. The third temple is just another building to us. Temple schmemple."

  "It's just a symbol," the captain said. "But Israel's living on a powder keg. The Arabs are outbreeding us inside the old borders and the numbers multiply in the occupied territories. There won't be any Israel as we know it in fifty years. We're doomed."

  "But peace is just around the corner," the youth pleaded.

  "We lost our chance in 1903," the captain said quietly. "The British offered us Uganda in that year. If we had accepted it we would be sitting pretty today. Since you're going to die, I might as well be frank with you. What we're creating here is the third Holocaust. And it will be a doozy."

  "The third," the boy exclaimed. "When was the second?"

  "The carpet bombing of
Dresden, of course. That's common knowledge. Some say Hiroshima, but we discount that. But enough talk. Tie the boy up."

  The mate and two others wrestled the boy to the floor and bound him hand and foot. The man who had led Sam to the captain's quarters placed a noose around his neck and asked the captain if he should go ahead and strangle him. All the while, Sam was cursing, screaming, squirming and invoking the name of his father and the Knesset. "Snug it up," the captain said, "but just to quiet him. We'd better get the doctor up here."

  When the doctor arrived he advised them not to strangle Sam because the rope would leave telltale marks and an autopsy would show strangulation.

  "We planned to toss him overboard, Doc," the captain said. All the while Sam was making choking noises and gasping for breath and flailing his feet. "Shut up you little coward," the captain said, giving the boy a swift kick.

  "Better loosen the rope," the doctor said. When it was loose Sam gasped for breath, then choked out, "Doctor, you're a healer, a life giver! Not an executioner! Not a Nazi!"

  "Do what the captain told you. Close your mouth. We're all working here for the good of Israel. You explained it to him, didn't you?" the doctor asked the captain.

  "Of course, but he is young. I don't think he grasped the significance of what we're doing. How should we kill him?"

  The doctor smiled slightly. "Oddly enough, it is difficult to kill a human being. That sometimes makes my job easier. But you might just toss him overboard and keep your eye on him to make sure he drowns."

  "Too risky here. Too much shipping. We'd be seen for certain and someone might just pick him up before he's dead."

  "Wait till dark then," the doctor said. "There's no hurry is there?"

  "No, but we couldn't watch him after dark. He might float on his back, or find a floating log or something." By this time Sam was sobbing hoarsely while listening to a detailed discussion of the best way to kill him. And where was Nat?

  "Tie a line to his feet and dangle him in the water behind the ship. When you're sure he's dead, a half hour will do it for certain, haul him in, cut the rope away and give him a toss. The sharks will probably make a snack of him."

  "We'll do it," the captain said, then turned to the mate. "Put him in some empty locker. Don't give him anything. Do what the doctor suggested. Probably an hour or two before dawn would be best. We'll be well out of any busy shipping lanes by that time. And keep him out of my sight. I can't understand his childish whining. His father! His life! What about Israel and its future?" The captain gave the boy a light kick in the head, not enough to bruise him, then left him to the mate.

  CHAPTER 17: Watanabe and Shibata Have Lunch

  On his return to Osaka, Watanabe immediately scheduled a lunch with his boss, Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata. The leathery old man was intensely interested in the case and the covert way that was necessary to conduct the investigation added another dash of spice.

  Oddly enough, Watanabe learned that a man who called himself the Seventh Samurai and the organization known as Fuurin Kazan - wind, forest, fire and mountain - were not unknown to Shibata.

  "Some years ago - of course I was a much younger man with less responsibility - I learned on fairly good authority that there was such a man and such an organization, and it possibly had penetrated our central government, Tokyo that is, at a fairly high level. Why there was such an organization and what its purpose might be, why the childish code words, I knew not." The old man shrugged.

  "Then this organization would have an old history, going back to possibly the inception of the tunnel," Watanabe said.

  "I suppose it could," Shibata agreed, "but I knew nothing about the tunnel. I knew nothing about the organization, but as a proper police officer, I reported it to my superior. A few days later I was called into the office of a much higher placed man, a man well connected in Tokyo, I might add. He told me there might be such an organization, but assured me if there was there was no sinister intent. That is, it would do nothing to harm the Japanese people, Japan and the Emperor. On the contrary, he said if such a group existed, its purpose very likely was to restore the greater glory of Japan and possibly do certain natural things that the people and the government had been unable to do because of the Constitution inflicted upon us by the Blue-Eyed Shogun."

  Watanabe smiled. "He used the term Blue-Eyed Shogun?"

  "Yes," Shibata replied, also creasing a grin. "I remember the conversation distinctly because of its bizarre characteristics." Watanabe had not heard the term in years, but he knew it applied to Gen. Douglas MacArthur who was in fact a rather benign dictator of Japan in the immediate post war era. "And I did what I was told to do. Forget that I had ever heard of the man or the organization. I have done that until this moment. And I might add that I have never had a moment's trouble from Tokyo, or any place of authority, even though I have stepped outside the bounds from time to time."

  "Then you believe I have been investigating some super-secret patriotic organization that has only the good of Japan as its intent?" Watanabe felt a little sick.

  "I am still a policeman. I was called off the scent the first time. I had no evidence. But I did have an order from a highly respected superior, now dead I might add. But this is a different time and organizations can change, improve, or become corrupt. Let me ask you, what are we dealing with?"

  "Meaning no offense," Watanabe began slowly, "but since that early incident, you said you have done some over-the-top things and never had as much as a reprimand. Is that so?" He got a nod of assent. "Then you may be under the protection of this very organization, a reward for your forgetfulness."

  "Touch?. The very thought in my mind. And here we are, years later. Perhaps I can make amends, if amends are to be made. What do we have so far?"

  Watanabe searched his brain. "The mysterious death of one scuba diver and possibly two more near the tunnel site. At least that's where they went under. The death of the American who reported their death. He was first paid to get out of Japan, then, as an afterthought the victim of a contract killing."

  "I didn't know he was dead," Shibata said.

  "I was going to tell you. It happened shortly after Nana and I talked with him, shortly after he told his story. A member of an American motorcycle gang shot him. It was a kill-for-hire situation."

  "How did you learn about this, Watanabe-san?"

  "Well, Sir, it came about in a strange way. In fact, I'd rather not say right now if that's OK. " He didn't want to lie to the old man. He didn't think he could successfully. And he didn't want to say that he was present at the slaying, then prostrate on the desert floor while Nana shot John Wayne."

  "I understand," Shibata said. "What else do you have?"

  "I was blocked when I attempted to learn about Ben Hardy, the scuba diver, being virtually deported from Japan. Then I was given a remote assignment to get me off the case."

  "And it all adds up to what?"

  "I don't know. But I don't like it. There's also the death of Jiro Ikeda who worked on the tunnel. He was not listed as an employee according to your findings, and his death was never officially reported. Yet his family was well compensated. During my trip I heard stories of trains going into the tunnel loaded with odd supplies and coming out empty. Nighttime movements that are hard to explain. The financial records of the tunnel have never been clear. It took years to complete, billions of yen. It could be a major rip-off, a systematic looting of the national treasury."

  "And for what purpose?" Shibata asked.

  "Why, money for money's sake," Watanabe replied.

  "I don't think so. Those people highly placed, who have been highly placed for many years, the Seventh Samurai for example, has no need for money. The Japanese have money, but they don't know how to spend it. That is not a secret. Everyone knows how foolishly they spend it on worthless, expensive items. Something about this situation stinks. How do you propose we proceed?"

  "For one thing," Watanabe said, "I think the thing,
whatever it is, is coming to a head. You had heard about the organization, others had also no doubt, including my source, Ikeda-san. We can plod and work and pull a string out here and be blocked there, but eventually the powers that be would eventually bring us down. But there is a quick way to get the word out. I can put every scrap of information I have into a simple press release and distribute it to the Japanese and international press. If I put it on the web it cannot be blocked. Something should crack, someone should talk."

  Shibata smiled. "A very quick and dangerous fix. I have pulled strings to get you back on the job within a week. Those higher-ups we speak of may want you on the job, under control, rather than roaming around at large, finding out all manner of clues. But now I suggest you hold your press conference and release your dogs before you are reinstated. Gambatte (you can do it). You would still be a policeman, but on leave. We must be able to put some distance between us, if need be.

  Watanabe raised his hands in a so-be-it gesture. "It'll be good to be back and I can be ready in three days. I would like to announce the press conference about 10 a.m. and hold it about 2 p.m., say in a downtown hotel."

  "You have had this in your mind?"

  "Driving back from the Strait. Last night, lying awake in bed. The thought of going public with something like this, after what has already happened, I mean, it wasn't an easy decision. I know there could be consequences.

  The large oval plates of beef curry rice before the two men had grown cold as they talked. Shibata picked up the large spoon, always used for the favorite Japanese lunch. "We'd better eat."

  CHAPTER 18: The Pride of Dakar

  Eli Kotcher, head of the Massad, was holding one of his frequent huddles with Israeli Prime Minister Mordechai Baker during this time of profound crisis. "He won't talk, he can't talk, but we've got the culprit. The people who did this were incredibly good."

  "This man, this scientist, admits full complicity in the plot. He admits that, and possibly he alone is responsible for the theft of twenty-five nuclear warheads, yet he doesn't know who took them, or where they are?" Baker was ready to tear his hair out.