“There’ll be more news soon.”

“I’m sure there will be.”

The officer included Michiko in his study. “You like Japanese women?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“And you like gaijin?”

“Yes,” Michiko said.

The officer told Harry, “Get on your knees.”

“My knees?”

“That’s right.”

Before Harry could move, the music in the loudspeakers died. Harry felt the street and all of Tokyo go quiet to take in the vigorous, raspy voice of General Tojo speaking from headquarters. Tojo was one of the Kempeitai’s own, and they came to attention for the general’s sharp, explosive Japanese. Well, give them credit, Harry thought. Less than a century before, they didn’t have a steamship, railroad or rifle to their name. They were a quaint little people who shuffled around in silk robes and sipped tea. “Monkey Island,” the Chinese called Japan, because it imitated China. Until the Japanese imitated the Prussian army and Royal Navy, humiliated China and sank the Russian fleet, and, now, with bright Yamato spirit, were taking on both the British and American empires in one go.

“I am resolved,” Tojo said, “to dedicate myself, body and soul, to the country, and to set at ease the august mind of our sovereign. And I believe that every one of you, my fellow countrymen, will not care for your life but gladly share in the honor to make of yourself His Majesty’s humble shield. The key to victory lies in a ‘faith in victory.’ For twenty-six hundred years since it was founded, our empire has never known defeat. This record alone is enough to produce a conviction in our ability to crush any enemy no matter how strong.”

An announcer followed with more news of annihilating blows delivered to the enemy and victories unprecedented in human history, the Battle of Trafalgar and Little Big Horn rolled up in one, but lacking details of how many battleships, cruisers or aircraft carriers were hit, let alone docks or depots.

The officer had not forgotten Harry. In fact, the speech had fired him with more pugnacity. “Get on your knees! Both get on your knees. You have soiled this sacred day.”

Harry said, “Excuse me, the lady-”

“She is not a lady, she is a whore. Your knees!”

“No,” Michiko said.

She was calmly going for the gun in her bag when the officer was interrupted and called to his car. He sat for a radio conversation that he contributed nothing to, and a minute later he returned with Harry’s papers and half his face red.

“You can go. Take the woman and leave.”

Harry said, “Thank you.”

The banker laughed. He had been watching the whole scene through an open car door. “It still works, I don’t believe it. The Niles luck.”

Harry and Michiko did as the Kempeitai officer suggested. Harry’s legs operated stiffly, while Michiko was smooth enough for two.

Harry said, “Connected and protected, even now.” All the same, he slipped on his germ mask. He didn’t feel quite that connected or protected. Shozo and Ishigami had let Harry walk, and now the Kempeitai?

When he was a kid working his way across California, Harry once worked at a slaughterhouse, prodding cattle with a long pole as they went through a chute toward the kill room. He had to keep the steers moving so they wouldn’t kick one another, get tangled on fence boards or otherwise make a fuss. Part of his job was to spot any animal that looked particularly diseased and move it into a side chute so that it could be killed separately. That was how Harry felt now. Not connected or protected but shunted aside.

WAR TRANSFORMED THE CITY. Flags grew like flowers. Shopgirls and office boys, lured by the din of loudspeakers, ran after a fire engine bringing a fireman to the station for military service. His engine mates carried poles with long fringes that they twirled like lion heads on pikes to the beat of clappers, while the draftee rode on top, cheeks red from sake and the honor. And the radios sang,

You and I are cherry blossoms,

Having bloomed, we’ve resolved to die

But we will meet again at Yasukuni,

Blooming on the same treetop.

Harry felt the thinness of his disguise. Michiko, on the other hand, took the low winter light and glowed. The beret lazed against her hair. Her stride made the loose cashmere slide along her legs. Despite the excitement of the fire engine, the clamor of the loudspeakers and the lines at the newspaper stands, people noticed Michiko and gave way. To make sure no one missed who was with her, she took possession of Harry’s arm. She seemed so radiant that he hated to point out how dangerous her run-in with the Kempeitai had almost been. Not just dangerous but suicidal.

“I suppose so,” she agreed.

“Well, it may be petty of me, but I still want to come out of this war alive.”

“Why? If we’re together, that’s what matters.”

“And being alive.”

She shrugged as if Harry were dwelling on nonessentials, and it finally occurred to him why she was so happy. Michiko had always admired lovers who sealed their lives together. There might be no romantic volcano or waterfall handy for a dive, but there were so many other means-Ishigami, Shozo, Kempeitai, the gun in her bag-that she was virtually skipping.

25

HARRY AND MICHIKO drove around the Ginza, cruising by the addresses of other Americans. Everywhere they saw the black sedans of the Kempeitai and went on circling while the needle in the gas gauge dropped. Once it touched bottom, that would be it, but Harry went on circling because he didn’t know where to take Michiko. Anywhere they stopped, there would be Kempeitai, Thought Police or Ishigami. They were all after Harry, not her, but Michiko was twice as brave as he was, and she wouldn’t have a chance.

News continued to come over the car radio. Japanese planes had bombed Singapore, inflicting heavy damage. Another wave had caught American bombers on the ground in the Philippines. When Tojo returned on the radio to speak for the emperor-a mortal speaking for Someone too exalted to be heard directly-Harry pulled into the shadow of a railroad viaduct, removed his mask and shared a smoke with Michiko.

“We, by grace of heaven…seated on the throne of a line unbroken for ages eternal, enjoin upon ye, our brave and loyal subjects…” And the people swallowed it, Harry thought. It was a royal horse pill, but people swallowed it every time, all over the world, from “England expects every man to do his duty” to “The Shores of Tripoli.” He found the beetle box in his jacket, released the prisoner from cotton batting and set it on the dash, where it raised its rhino horn and moved stiffly, like a rusty machine. “It has been truly unavoidable and far from our wishes that our empire has been brought to cross swords with the United States and Great Britain,” but Japan’s enemies had disturbed the peace of East Asia in their “inordinate ambition to dominate the Orient.” My country right or wrong, thought Harry. He closed the windshield vent to protect the beetle from its own curiosity. This was no stay-at-home insect, this was a bold explorer. “Our empire, for its existence and self-defense, has no other recourse but to appeal to arms.” Natch, thought Harry. Hitler invaded Poland in self-defense. “…in our confident expectation…that the sources of evil will be speedily eradicated and an enduring peace immutably established, raising and enhancing the glory of the Imperial Way within and without our homeland.” The beetle ventured out to the dashboard clock and stood as if surveying its domain while a million shouts of “Banzai!” broke out across the city. Five o’clock; the beetle seemed to point out the time.

“Maybe we should get married,” Harry said.

“Why?”

“Things being unsettled as they are, we could retire to a place in the country and live the simple life. You would have children and I would have my beetles. I would walk my beetles around the garden on strings of silk.”