"No, thanks."

Watanabe replaced the glass on the dresser. He drank from his own, leaning against the opposite wall in casual mimicry of Kennedy. He said, "So."

"So."

"If you're going to use that gun, you'd best do so now."

Kennedy let the gun slip back into the holster and brought his hands out from under his jacket, palms open.

"What are you packing these days?" Watanabe asked lightly.

"A Mauser, if anything."

Watanabe nodded towards Kennedy's shoulder. "That's no Mauser."

Kennedy pulled out the pistol.

"Ah," Watanabe said, smiling. "A Beretta."

Kennedy nodded. He held the gun lightly now, his hand away from the grip.

"Never use one myself," Watanabe said. "Only really good for close work. And even then..." His voice trailed off.

Kennedy placed the pistol on the window ledge.

"Apologies for my rudeness outside," Watanabe continued, "but that dye job and beard would fool only the most uninterested of observers."

Kennedy stroked the stubble at his chin. "I'm making the best of a bad situation."

"By walking down Main Street? I told you to stay here."

"Where the hell were you?"

There was a brief silence, breached only by Watanabe's delicate sips of wine. The sips became mouthfuls. He topped up his glass and said, "I wonder where I should start."

"Your driver," Kennedy said. "Why did you get rid of him?"

"For your protection. Too late, sadly, to be of any benefit."

They were talking quietly. It was unlikely that Lightholler heard anything unless he was pressed up against the door.

"I saw the flight list and the envelope," Kennedy said. "I couldn't find the letter. I've been wondering what changed between Pleasant Valley and here. I'm wondering if you even tried to arrange our flight."

"I think you know the answer to that," Watanabe said softly.

"I'd like to hear your reasons. But for the sake of everything we've been through, tell me, is this something you're going to handle yourself, or are you just keeping me busy till the rest of your boys arrive?"

The Beretta lay on the window's ledge beside him. Good for close work, but even then...

"This is my responsibility and it's a simple matter," Watanabe said. "But not as simple as you might have supposed. Only one of us is going to leave this room alive."

It was hard to believe that this was where it ended. Kennedy recalled the fear he'd experienced at the border crossing, sealed in the Cadillac's cargo hold. Where was that feeling now?

He said, "I'll have some of that wine now."

"My driver had hidden affiliations with Shimamura."

"Shimamura works the southeast coast. I've dealt with his people before."

"He is now aware that I-that Kobe's Family-had you under protection. My driver made the call while we were changing cars." Watanabe took another mouthful of wine and licked his lips. "He told me that before I killed him."

"Cold comfort."

"Shimamura knows that we arranged to get you across the border. As a result of your little adventure just now, he probably knows you're in Nashville."

Kennedy shrugged. "Does that matter now?"

The Beretta might not stop Watanabe, but it could slow him down. How long would it take Lightholler to get into the room? Were Watanabe's men just outside the door?

"Not all the Families are as open-minded as ours about your dealings with the Shogun."

"What dealings?"

"Please," Watanabe said, "the least you can do is speak plainly with me. Not everything went up in flames when the Germans took New York."

Kennedy brought the wine to his lips. He nodded, urging Watanabe on.

"You struck a deal with the Shogun, that much is certain." Watanabe shook his head. "The fact that Hideyoshi entertained Imperial aspirations, that he desired the Chrysanthemum Throne, was one of the worst-kept secrets in the Shogunate, but it was a secret. Do you understand this?" Watanabe was keeping his hands visible and low. He'd made no move for the Shingen. "We have suspected your involvement for some time now."

The Shogun's representative had intimated as much at their last meeting: that certain yakuza Families would move with them when Hideyoshi challenged the Emperor. But if Kobe had been involved, why was this such an issue now?

"Has Kobe been called before the Imperial court?" Kennedy asked.

"It's only a matter of time," Watanabe replied. "Hideyoshi's honourable death by seppuku..." He gave Kennedy a curious look. "Ah, you didn't know that. His death and this war change everything. I expected you to have a better understanding of the people you'd been dealing with." His voice held a measure of disgust. It was the trace of pity in his demeanour that Kennedy couldn't place. "Let me just say this. Whatever role you played on the Shogun's behalf will enter the realm of mythology."

"Mythology?"

"Hideyoshi and Ryuichi trace their lineage to the first Mikado, to the birth of history ... the Gods themselves." Watanabe poured himself another glass of wine. He swayed slightly before the dressing table. "The Gods themselves. You, me, Kobe-we're mortal. They dice with us, use us as they will. It's always been that way." He waved his hand dismissively and continued. "But a God has fallen. Hideyoshi is dead by his own hand. This means that he now sits by the throne of Jimmu in the Heavens.

"And you? You're in the shit. You've lost your benefactor. You've lost your friends. A single moment has reduced you from Deity's agent to traitor, and how many men have died for the whim of a god?" Watanabe drained the glass with a single, swift toss. "You're in the shit, and I ..." He slammed the glass onto the table. "I have come to my decision."

Watanabe was only a few feet away now. He peered at his own reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. He brought a hand up to his face, touching the skin around his eyes. He broke into a dazzling golden smile.

Kennedy inched towards the window, saying, "You believe all this?"

"I do and I don't. It doesn't matter what I believe, so long as I have belief." Watanabe's chuckle issued from the edge of madness. "It's your lack of faith that led you to this place. But here's where we stand. That letter was from Kobe, of course." Watanabe turned to face him. "The money you gave me will be returned to your estate after the other Families have received their cut. I'm to deliver your head to Shimamura by morning."

"What about Lightholler?"

"Nothing was said."

Kennedy had the Beretta angled at the floor between Watanabe's feet.

Watanabe laughed out loud. He raised a hand, gesturing for Kennedy to stop, to wait a moment. With his other hand he held his chest as the laughter faded away.

"You understand," Watanabe said. "Even if you were my brother..."

A sudden deft movement and his left hand snapped back and forth. If it wasn't for the silver blade in his grasp, he might not have appeared to have moved at all.

Kennedy raised the Beretta in a swift arc even as Watanabe dropped to his knees. He'd reversed the blade. Its tip was now pressed between the folds of his kimono.

Kennedy stepped forwards, bringing the gun's barrel to his temple.

"Please," Watanabe said through gritted teeth, "you'll ruin my concentration."

"Put the blade down."

"Is there no end to your ignorance?"

"Put the blade down."

"Your neck or my intestines," Watanabe said. He inched the blade deeper to expose the flat board of his abdomen.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Lightholler stood in the open doorway, blinking.

"There's a gun in my bag," Kennedy said, without looking back. "Bring it."

His entire world was at the end of his Beretta. Each fine strand of Watanabe's hair, each individual pore. An artery pulsed its tortuous course under pale golden skin.

"You're not going to make him-"

"Get the fucking gun."

They sat cross-legged in the centre of the room; Watanabe's blade lay on the carpet between them. Kennedy had the Mauser by his side while Lightholler balanced the Beretta in his hand. He gazed at Kennedy's gun with a look of deliberation before placing his own on the ground.

"It is a peculiar irony when an enemy offers the opportunity for honour." Watanabe's voice was thick, the words came slowly. As if he'd already crossed some threshold.

Kennedy nodded.

"Kobe broke his promise of sanctuary. I won't break mine. Kill myself, and I avoid the task of your disposal." Watanabe paused. "Shimamura's men will be here soon and I don't care to witness their arrival. You should go now."

"Come with us," Lightholler said.

Watanabe's response was a low growl. "They will arrive at dawn, and expect to find you sleeping in your room. Me in mine."

Kennedy told himself he was talking to a dead man. He said, "Car keys."

Watanabe withdrew them from a pocket. He placed them next to the sword. "Change cars as soon as possible."

Lightholler rose from the floor slowly. "I don't want any part of this."

"Those men you had outside," Kennedy said, reaching for the keys.

"One is watching the corridor, the others are with the car. They'll let you pass."

There was the faint rumble of thunder, dim and distant, more felt than heard. Watanabe glanced towards the window.

Kennedy fought the urge to pursue Lightholler's approach, to show further disrespect to the yakuza. "Will it take you long to pack?" he asked Lightholler.

"Done."

He looked back at Watanabe. He couldn't resist a final gesture. He said, "You told me I had no benefactors left, no friends. You were wrong."

"Leaving you to Shimamura is no act of kindness. A better friend might have killed you," Watanabe replied. "I was speaking of something else."

Lightholler said, "Let's go."

Another boom of thunder, louder now. Kennedy walked to the window and sniffed at the air. Ash and the scent of distant fire but nothing more. He said, "Tell me."

"There's not much to say."

"Tell me."

"There was a battle at sea. A German boat engaged a smuggling vessel off the South Carolina coast."

Kennedy felt a sense of dread rising from within.

Lightholler said, "This doesn't involve us."

Kennedy silenced him with an open palm.

"We do business in Savannah," Watanabe continued. "It's close enough to the border, and information is the currency of the day, so..." He sighed heavily. "This I heard in passing. Enemies of the state, previously associated with yourself, died defending the South. Does this mean anything to you?"

"Who?"

"Hardas. Morgan." Watanabe shrugged. His eyes returned to the blade.

Lightholler said, "I'm sorry, Joseph."

Kennedy turned and let himself into his room. Bars of yellow brightness spilled onto the ceiling through half-closed blinds. He felt along the wall for the light switch, flicked it, and observed the chandelier rocking slowly from side to side. He walked over to the window and parted the blinds. The odd star winked back through a pall of low cloud. No rain, but a plume of smoke rising in the distance.

He leaned out the window. Two plumes of smoke.

He heard the thunderous rolling crash again, closer, and the sill trembled beneath his hands. Somewhere, a siren began its plaintive wail.

Hardas. Morgan.

He walked into the bathroom and caught his face in the mirror. His hand scrabbled across the sink, closing on the razor he'd used earlier. He reached for soap and ran the water and scrubbed the soap into his beard. His image shuddered momentarily, then corrected itself.