"Does that mean we can expect delivery of the item on schedule?" Neither of them would dare use its name, even over a secure line such as this one.

"Yes. Within a day or two," Karsk said. "It is being shipped now. You understand how difficult that is, given the circ.u.mstances."

"Completely," Shiina said, relieved that the final piece of his plan was ready. "And I appreciate the care you are taking." They spoke in j.a.panese.

Shiina may have thought that it was out of courtesy to him, but it was because Karsk liked to get every nuance of a conversation. Karsk had made a career of languages, believing that when contacts offered verbal reports in a second-or a third-language, valuable sub-rosa information was invariably lost.

Accordingly, Karsk spoke twelve languages, and twice that many dialects, fluently. "Just remember to keep all Russian lettering and numerals off the item," Shiina continued. "I don't want anyone to know the origin of the item."

Especially Masashi, he thought, recalling how much Masashi hated the Russians.

"Have no worries about that," Karsk said. "We have no desire to let that particular secret out." He did not want to contemplate the disastrous consequences of such an eventuality. "Now, about the rest?"

"The destruction of the Taki-gumi is at hand," Shiina said, and the pleasurein his voice was unmistakable. How good it is, Karsk thought, to have those who are working for you think as you do. Especially those who did not believe they were working for you at all, because you had deluded them into believing that they were your equal, your partner. Like Kozo Shiina.

"Hiroshi Taki is dead," Shiina was saying now. "Through my instigation, though, as we planned, it was Masashi who gave the order. Now, also as we discussed, I have set the two remaining Taki brothers, Joji and Masashi, against one another."

"Sometimes I wonder," Karsk said, watching the ice floes in the Moskva throw dull light back at the cars pa.s.sing along the highway, "whether you will take as much pleasure in your country's coming new status in the world as you do in the destruction of Wataro Taki's creation."

"An odd thought," Kozo Shiina said, "since I a.s.sumed you would understand that the two are inextricably linked. With Wataro alive, the Jiban would never achieve its goal; j.a.pan would never have her proper place in the world. And you would never bring America to its knees."

"Perhaps," Karsk said. "But we would have found another way."

"No, no, Karsk. Remember your history. The only way you Russians ever invade a country is with the Red Army."

"We don't want to invade the United States," Karsk said. "Such an endeavor-even if we were to be successful without devastating the entire earth-would quickly bleed Russia dry. Contrary to what you might think, I have read my history. I know that the decline of the Roman Empire was due to its spreading itself too thin. The Romans were too good at then-trade-warfare.

They defeated everyone. That was the easy part, as it turned out. What was difficult-impossible, according to history-was to keep all one's possessions under control. Too many people, too many local rebellions. Funding the burgeoning Roman army eventually bankrupted the Empire. We do not intend to make the same mistake."

"Then what is it that you want to do to America?" Shiina asked.

Karsk, watching his smoke dissipate against the window pane, saw that it had begun to snow. His shoulder seemed frozen from its contact with the frame, the Moscow spring. Grinding out his cigarette, he wondered why it was that he smoked only when he was in Russia. "Something that you are providing as your part of our long-standing bargain, Shiina-san," he said. "The destruction of the American economy."

When Ude returned to Hana, he was bleeding. He recalled a vision he had had some time ago. He was the sun, and he was afire. The light he generated was enormous, incalculable. He pulsed with light, with heat, with life. Until he had begun to bleed. What G.o.dlike ichor does a star ooze when it is wounded?

Plasma? Magma? Never mind. Ude, the sun, was bleeding. And as he bled, he could feel the light, the heat, the life, ebbing from him.

He had begun to scream. Until the woman who had been with him had forced twenty-five cc's of Thorazine down his throat.

Now, in the darkness of Fat Boy Ichimada's shuttered house in Hana, Ude's fingers scrabbled at the wire binding Audrey to the chair. Her chin lolled against her chest, and he slapped her cheek repeatedly. "Help me," he shouted at her. "Help me! I'm bleeding!"

Audrey's eyes opened. She did not know where she was, she did not know who was shouting at her. Starved, dehydrated and terrified, she screamed and pa.s.sed out.

Ude watched her, panting. He thought of how she had been, sleeping peacefully, when he had broken into the house. She had not been tied up, and there had been food and water at her bedside, which he had consumed as he read the unsigned note lying under the pitcher of water. Audrey, it had read, do not be afraid. I have taken you to Hawaii in order to save you. You are safe from those who wish you harm. Stay here until I return for you. Trust me.

Ude had destroyed the note. It was he who had bound Audrey to the chair, to keep her from wandering off while he attended to other business.

Now he attended to the drip of his own blood.Audrey awoke sometime later to the sound of birds. A gekko lay atop one breast, asleep. Seeing it, she screamed. Her hand snapped out, flinging the small lizard from her body.

She sat up. Where am I? she wondered. Her head ached as fiercely as if it had been squeezed in a vise. There was an odd, acrid taste in the back of her throat. Her mouth was dry; she was burning with thirst.

All around her were trees-thick, lush, overgrown. Sunlight and shadow played across her body. She was clothed- blue cotton shorts, a white T-shirt, purple Jellies plastic sandals on her feet. None of them new, none of them hers.

Something printed on the shirt. She plucked the material away from her body so that she could read: kona iron man, TRIATHLON, 1985.

Kona? Where was Kona? She racked her brain. Wasn't that in Hawaii? She looked around. Felt the warm breeze on her bare arms and legs. Heard the birds calling, the insects droning. Is that where I am? Hawaii?

And then: What happened?

She put her pounding head in her hands, squeezed her eyes shut against the glare of the sunlight. The brilliance made her headache worse. Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d.

Please make the pounding stop.

Now she recalled being at home in Bellehaven, hearing noises in the house, going downstairs. a.s.suming it was Michael downstairs in their father's study.

And instead . . .

Who? Why?

Questions without answers flew around inside her head, like panicked birds.

The headache grew sharper. With a groan, she turned over and threw up, mostly dry heaves because there was almost nothing in her stomach.

Dizzy, she lay back down on the gra.s.s. Just breathing was a terrible ch.o.r.e.

But her body kept on, and eventually she began to feel better.

She put the heels of her hands on the ground and levered herself up. Her legs were weak; she felt like an invalid. On her hands and knees, her head hanging down, she became aware that she must have blacked out again for an instant.

Now she began to feel frightened. What has happened to me? Judging by the angle of light slanting in through the treetops, it was late afternoon.

Apparently, she had been unconscious for a long time.

She remembered hearing Michael calling her name. Coming into the study. The flash of his katana. The clash of blades colliding. Over and over again . . .

And then?

Michael! Michael!

On the verge of tears, she stopped herself. She could hear her brother's voice admonishing her, That won't do any good. Pull yourself together, Aydee.

Drawing strength from his voice inside her head, she tried to do just that.

Which was when she saw Ude. She was aware of the ire-zumi, the tattoos covering his bare torso, first. Then his mas-siveness. She saw the bandages covering his left shoulder, the dark brown smear of dried blood.

The man was Oriental. j.a.panese or Chinese-she could not tell; Michael would be so angry with her.

"Who are you?" she asked. It seemed inordinately difficult to speak even those few words.

"Here," Ude said, pouring water into a plastic gla.s.s from a Thermos. "Drink this." When she began to gulp the water, and choke, he added, "Slowly."

Audrey felt dizzy; she sat down in the high gra.s.s. "Where am I?" she asked.

"Am I in Hawaii?" Her head felt as if it were made of lead. She rested it on her crossed forearms, but not for too long, because her swollen wrists also throbbed terribly.

"It doesn't matter where you are," Ude said. "Because you're not going to be here very long."

Audrey continued to drink slowly, even though her body was aching for its thirst to be slaked. Ude refilled her gla.s.s several times. She looked into the sunlight. "What's happening to me?"

"All right," Ude said. "That's enough." He took the gla.s.s put of her hand, pulled her to her feet. She almost collapsed into his arms, and he was obligedto half carry her back down a rock-strewn path. She got a glimpse of a house-the house in which she had been tied up?-and then she was bundled into a car.

The next few hours were a blur of inconstant images. Although she tried her best to remain alert, she repeatedly slipped into unconsciousness, only to start awake painfully, as if even a peaceful sleep was to be denied her.

She was aware that the going was slow, because the terrain turned out to be quite mountainous. Without having a direct view of it, she was nevertheless aware of the steepness of the ground. At times, the car was obliged to pull over and wait. She heard engines, as of other cars pa.s.sing in the opposite direction.

At length, the incline became less extreme, and finally it leveled out. Now the way was easier, and at last, exhausted beyond her endurance, she pa.s.sed into a deep slumber.

n.o.buo Yamamoto's palms were wet with sweat. For perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes, he wiped them on a linen handkerchief already gray with the grime of the city.

This was an unaccustomed symptom for a man of his rank and personality. In his chauffeur-driven car, he sat forward, his body tense, his nerves taut.

It had been many months since n.o.buo had slept well at night. When he did sleep, he dreamed. And his dreams were full of death. The terrible, flesh-searing death both quick and agonizingly slow that was the result of the flash. The flash is what n.o.buo chose to call it. Not detonation. The flash was a term he could live with-just about.

Because he was j.a.panese, n.o.buo knew the horrendous danger better than most.

There was a history here. In Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And the j.a.panese possessed a special abhorrence for anything nuclear, especially a weapon.

My G.o.d, he thought, how did I ever become involved in this? But of course he knew. It was because of Michiko. She bound him to the Takis body and soul.

That was how his father and Wataro Taki-n.o.buo had long since forgotten Wataro's original name, Zen G.o.do-had envisioned it when the two men had worked out this alliance. Two family businesses, wedded for all time, strengthening one another.

But now Wataro Taki was gone, and so was Hiroshi. Ma-sashi had gotten everything he ever wanted. Masashi became oyabun of the Taki-gumi, and Masashi was a madman. A madman to whom n.o.buo was now bound in a unique way. I am building him what he wants, n.o.buo thought, nauseated by the prospect of completion, but I am dragging my heels every step of the way. Still, the end is near; I have reached the limit of procrastination. I must complete the project. With my granddaughter's life in jeopardy, what else can I do?

Still, the nightmares persisted. Still, the walking dead, rotting flesh stinking, haunted his nights, turning them into an abattoir of guilt.

Nighttime Tokyo was emblazoned across the horizon limited by the width and height of his window onto it. The great neon signs and advertis.e.m.e.nt billboards coruscated off every shiny surface, every blackened window, every curved form, of which there were so many even within his limited range that they were impossible to count. Staring out at Tokyo was like gazing up at the star-filled sky. Standing, perhaps, as a symbol of j.a.pan's apparent contradictions, the commingling sense of endless clutter and of enormous s.p.a.ce was as dizzying as it was edifying. For it was an affirmation of the essence of the culture's ability to transform very little into magnificent excess.

"He's here, sir," n.o.buo's driver said.

Always late, n.o.buo said to himself. An unsubtle reminder of the nature of our relationship.

He watched Masashi emerge from the car, sweep into the theater's entrance.

Time to go, n.o.buo thought. Wiped his palms one last time, stuffed the limp handkerchief away.

Inside, the theater was stark, severe, minimal. There was an area for the audience, a stage, and that was all. Except, of course, for the monitors.

Banks of TV screens-now dark- studded both side walls. There must have beenmore than a hundred fifty in all, blank windows to nowhere. They increased the bleakness of the setting exponentially. One had the feeling of entering a section of s.p.a.ce where even the stars had died. Whatever reflections were hinted at here and there in the screens were from the audience itself, settling in.

Masashi, as was his custom, waited in the doorway until just before the performance was scheduled to begin. By this time, all the seats were filled save one. But more important, he had had a chance to scrutinize each entrant.

He took his seat. On his left was a young j.a.panese woman in oversize clothes, layered in so many shades of gray that the distinction between hues blurred.

Her cheeks were blushed with blue and purple. Her lipstick glittered. Her hair, short everywhere but in front, seemed as stiff as if she had brushed glue through it. On his right sat n.o.buo.

Without fanfare, or even warning, the performance began. The banks of monitors sprang to life all at once. A forest of phosphors darting and pulsing in electronic imagery.

At that moment, the dancers entered the stage. They were naked or seminaked, many of them smeared with white body paint. This was buto, a kind of primal modern dance form, created out of the urbanized, Westernized angst of the post-nuclear j.a.pan of the late fifties. It was both politically subversive and culturally reactionary, relying as it did on mythological archetypes. Buto was rigid and fluid at the same time, employing patterns that revealed it as both a physical and a mental experience.

Stage center, the sun G.o.ddess, from whom the Emperor was descended. Anguished by what she sees about her, she retreats into a cave and the world is plunged into darkness.

Only the hedonistic sounds of carousers, only the sight of wild, erotic dances being performed as primitive rites can induce her to emerge, bringing with her the eternal harbingers of spring, light and warmth.

As the dancers reenacted, in stylized fashion, this ancient agricultural myth, the video monitors projected what could only have been a dress rehearsal of the dance. It began just after the live one, so that the rcther startling effect was of a visual echo.

At intermission, Masashi rose and, without saying a word to anyone, went into the outer lobby. In a moment, he could make out n.o.buo coming toward him.

"Can you make head or tail of this filth?" Masashi said when n.o.buo had reached his side.

"I wasn't paying attention," n.o.buo said. "Were the dancers any good?"

"You mean those contortionists?" Masashi said. "They belong in the circus. If this is art, then creative talent is dead, and here is the murder weapon.

There is no grace, no silence, noyugen." This last, a concept from the time of the Tokugawa shogunate of the early iSoos, meant a kind of beauty so restrained in its outward manifestation that it allowed the inner side to show through.

n.o.buo knew enough not to fall into the trap of debating with Masashi; it was a pastime Masashi enjoyed because n.o.buo could not win.

"The parts' shipments are not arriving fast enough."

"This is the best I can do," n.o.buo said. "There is the manufacturing process to think of. We're not making cars, you know. Everything must be manufactured to the most demanding tolerances."

"Keep the advertising pitch for someone who will appreciate it," Masashi said contemptuously.

"It's the truth," n.o.buo said stiffly. "Do you know how much energy is released by a nuclear explosion?"

"I don't care what the difficulties are," Masashi said. "I have a schedule to keep. We must be finished in two days."

"d.a.m.n your schedule," n.o.buo said angrily. "I care only for my granddaughter."

"If you do," Masashi said, "then you will be ready when we meet at your factory in two days' time. It is imperative. The fate of j.a.pan hinges on your technical expertise, n.o.buo-san. The fate of the whole world, if truth beknown. What does the life of one little girl mean in the face of that?" n.o.buo blanched, and Masashi laughed. "Calm yourself, n.o.buo-san. I am not planning to harm Tori. I gave you my word."

"And what is that worth?"

Masashi's eyes glittered. "You had better hope that it's worth a great deal."

"I am in no position to offer an opinion," n.o.buo said curtly. "Consult the spirit of your dead father. Surely he knows."

"My father's death was karma, nehl"