centuriesâhad been squandered, every family ripped asunder, the homeland devastated, laid waste.
All that was history, the dead past. As long ago and far away as the Mejii restoration, as the first shogunâ¦and yet it wasnât. The war had scarred them all.
An hourâs strolling back and forth through the neighborhood brought Okada to a small peep parlor. With a long last look in a window at the reflections of the people behind him, he paid his admission and went inside.
The foyer was dimly lit. Sound came from hidden speakers: Japanese music, adenoidal wailing above a twanging string instrumentâjust noise.
From the foyer, one entered a long hallway, each side of which was lined with doors. Small red bulbs in the ceiling illuminated the very air, which was almost an impenetrable solid: swirling cigarette smoke, the smell of perspiration, and something sickeningly sweetâsemen.
The walls seemed to close in; it was almost impossible to breathe.
An attendant was in the hall, a small man in a white shirt with no collar. His teeth were so misshapen that his lips were twisted into a permanent sneer. A smoldering cigarette hung from one corner of hismouth. He looked at Okada with dead eyes and lifted his fingers, signaling numbers.
Thirty-two.
Okada looked for that number on a door. It was beyond the attendant.
He turned sideways in the narrow hallway to get by the attendant. As he did so, the man behind him opened a door. For a few seconds, Okada and the attendant were isolated in a tiny space in the hallway, isolated from all other human eyes.
In that brief moment, Okada pressed the message into the attendantâs hand.
He found booth 32, opened the door, and entered.
Â
There were ten of them waiting for him to come home, but Masataka Okada didnât know that. They were arranged in two circles, the first of which covered the possible approach routes to the apartment building, and the second of which covered the entrances. Two men were in the apartment with his wife, waiting.
The man in the subway station saw him first, waited until he was out of sight, then reported the contact on his handheld radio.
Okada was nervous, wary. The sensations of Shinjuku had been wasted upon him tonight. He hadnât been able to get the message from Ju off his mind, couldnât stop thinking about the murder of the emperor, couldnât stop thinking about his motherâs scarred back. Despite being keyed up and alert, he didnât see the man in the subway.
A block later, he did spot the man watching the side entrance to the building where he lived. This man was in a parked car, and he made the mistake of looking around. When he saw Okada, he looked away, but too late.
Masataka Okada kept walking toward the entrance as his mind raced.
They had come. Finally. They were here for him!
His wifeâ¦she was upstairs. Fortunately, she knew absolutely nothing about his spying, not even that he did it. So there was nothing she could tell them.
It shouldnât have to end like this. Really, it shouldnât.
He had done his best. He didnât want future generations of Japanese to go through what his parents had endured, and he had had the courage to act on his convictions. Now it was time to pay the piper.
Well, the Americans had the message from Ju, as well as all the others, all the copies of documents that he had made and passed on detailing the secret arms contracts and the buildup of the military that had been going on for the last seven years. They knew, and Abe didnât know they knew.
Abe would find out, if these men managed to arrest him. They would get the truth from him one way or the other. Okada had no illusions on that score. They would use any means necessary to make him talk; there was just too much at stake.
The dark doorway of the building loomed in front of him.
If he walked through that door, they had him. Some of them might be inside just now, waiting to grab him,
All that was history, the dead past. As long ago and far away as the Mejii restoration, as the first shogunâ¦and yet it wasnât. The war had scarred them all.
An hourâs strolling back and forth through the neighborhood brought Okada to a small peep parlor. With a long last look in a window at the reflections of the people behind him, he paid his admission and went inside.
The foyer was dimly lit. Sound came from hidden speakers: Japanese music, adenoidal wailing above a twanging string instrumentâjust noise.
From the foyer, one entered a long hallway, each side of which was lined with doors. Small red bulbs in the ceiling illuminated the very air, which was almost an impenetrable solid: swirling cigarette smoke, the smell of perspiration, and something sickeningly sweetâsemen.
The walls seemed to close in; it was almost impossible to breathe.
An attendant was in the hall, a small man in a white shirt with no collar. His teeth were so misshapen that his lips were twisted into a permanent sneer. A smoldering cigarette hung from one corner of hismouth. He looked at Okada with dead eyes and lifted his fingers, signaling numbers.
Thirty-two.
Okada looked for that number on a door. It was beyond the attendant.
He turned sideways in the narrow hallway to get by the attendant. As he did so, the man behind him opened a door. For a few seconds, Okada and the attendant were isolated in a tiny space in the hallway, isolated from all other human eyes.
In that brief moment, Okada pressed the message into the attendantâs hand.
He found booth 32, opened the door, and entered.
Â
There were ten of them waiting for him to come home, but Masataka Okada didnât know that. They were arranged in two circles, the first of which covered the possible approach routes to the apartment building, and the second of which covered the entrances. Two men were in the apartment with his wife, waiting.
The man in the subway station saw him first, waited until he was out of sight, then reported the contact on his handheld radio.
Okada was nervous, wary. The sensations of Shinjuku had been wasted upon him tonight. He hadnât been able to get the message from Ju off his mind, couldnât stop thinking about the murder of the emperor, couldnât stop thinking about his motherâs scarred back. Despite being keyed up and alert, he didnât see the man in the subway.
A block later, he did spot the man watching the side entrance to the building where he lived. This man was in a parked car, and he made the mistake of looking around. When he saw Okada, he looked away, but too late.
Masataka Okada kept walking toward the entrance as his mind raced.
They had come. Finally. They were here for him!
His wifeâ¦she was upstairs. Fortunately, she knew absolutely nothing about his spying, not even that he did it. So there was nothing she could tell them.
It shouldnât have to end like this. Really, it shouldnât.
He had done his best. He didnât want future generations of Japanese to go through what his parents had endured, and he had had the courage to act on his convictions. Now it was time to pay the piper.
Well, the Americans had the message from Ju, as well as all the others, all the copies of documents that he had made and passed on detailing the secret arms contracts and the buildup of the military that had been going on for the last seven years. They knew, and Abe didnât know they knew.
Abe would find out, if these men managed to arrest him. They would get the truth from him one way or the other. Okada had no illusions on that score. They would use any means necessary to make him talk; there was just too much at stake.
The dark doorway of the building loomed in front of him.
If he walked through that door, they had him. Some of them might be inside just now, waiting to grab him,
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