“It does sound Japanese. It actually sounds like a Japanese word, very common, kamado. Kamado simply means stove or oven. It’s an inverted ceramic bowl or something. In the old days, most Japanese homes had one. It’s a grill, I suppose. You grill fish in it. Usually small, it’s-”

They both let it lie there, on the table.

A few minutes passed. Then Bob said, “Nobody would see the correspondence between the word Komodo, the name of the lizard, and the word kamado, meaning grill, unless they spoke both English and Japanese well. That would be you. And nobody else would have a Komodo in his background except you. Now, the next question: would Nick have had a kamado?”

“He shouldn’t have. They all have microwaves now. But he did have one. Don’t you remember how his house smelled the night you were over? He had just eaten and he’d grilled some meat. He grilled his meat in a kamado.”

“Now, Nick’s sitting there, somehow he knows he’s about to get hit. It’s over. But he doesn’t panic, not Nick, he’s a cool hand, he’s samurai all the way. He knows he can’t get out, but he tries to preserve what he’s got, which is some documents, that’s how he beats his killers. Where’s he put them? He slides them into the kamado. Maybe there’s a liner and he puts them under that, in the bowl. Then he calls you and he’s afraid the phone is tapped and the only thing he can think of is that little anecdote from your first meeting and the correspondence between kamado and Komodo, that only you would see.”

“He was good at puns. He said he loved to write his headlines in his rag because he liked the puns, the more outrageous the better.”

“I think,” said Bob, “tonight I’m going to pay a visit to the ruins of Nick’s house. You tell me what I’m looking for and where it’ll be. I’ll find it if it’s there.”

29

It was one of his favorite spots: the secluded cemetery at Sengakuji, the Shrine of the 47 Ronin behind its gate and its imposing statue of Oishi. Here lay the remains of the 47 who’d forged through the walls at Kira’s, slaughtered his bodyguard in furious battle, then beheaded the old man. It was as sacred a spot to the Japanese imagination as was possible, and when the Shogun visited, he always called ahead, made certain that the place was “closed for maintenance” so that he would have it to himself and that the usual clouds of incense smoke from the hundreds of joss sticks lit by supplicants would have cleared away.

Here was naked bushido. It expressed itself on many levels. The bodies themselves, after the mass seppuku, were buried at the highest level, in Buddhist fashion, a thicket of vertical grave markers and ceremonial wooden stakes weathering in the rain and snow. One could-and many did-buy a bundle of joss sticks to lay in tribute to the 47 or their lord Asano, who was here also, which was why a low, smoky vapor lingered among the headstones. Below was a museum, for tourists; a courtyard, wide and gravelly, the shrine itself, the typical Buddhist structure of timbers and white plaster of a pattern spread widely across the whole of Asia, under a tile roof with tilted corners, an archetype that on a thousand Chinese restaurants had become a cliché. Here also-between the courtyard on one level and the cemetery on another-was the stream in which the men had washed the head that night so long ago. Here was the vengeance and the loyalty of the retainers. Here were men who’d die before they’d live with dishonor. Their headstones lay alongside the paths, under the shade of trees. Here is where they presented Kira’s head and got a receipt-preserved and displayed in the museum-from the priests:

Noted:

Item: One head

Item: One paper parcel

The above articles are acknowledged

to have been duly received.

Here is where they waited to be arrested; here, months later, after they’d been ordered to commit seppuku, here is where their bodies had been taken.

The skylines of Shinjuku or central Tokyo were far away. Fall was upon them, a chill bit the air, soon winter would arrive. The leaves, russet, red, gold-brown, orange, fell to earth in riots of color. He drew his muffler tighter against his neck, pulled his cashmere overcoat tighter, looked and saw bodyguards with receivers in their ears all around.

“You’re sure?” the Shogun asked Kondo.

“Not totally, no. But I’m sure that he had nothing set in type, as we found no page proofs. I’m sure he had made no attempts to talk to police sources because we’ve canvassed. As far as I can tell he spoke only to a few sources: the tattooist and several, uh, ‘experts’ in Eight-Nine-Three affairs. All have been spoken to, all have owned up, all have been remonstrated against. They will not betray us again. For Yamamoto, I’m sure he had nothing except the possible suspicion that you and I had made an alliance.”

“Still, it’s disturbing. At this time, particularly, when things are so delicate and hanging in the balance.”

“Most likely, sheer coincidence. Someone saw something, and maybe this reporter had a hunch. He was well versed in the ways of our brotherhood, he knew who to ask, and he made some slight penetration into our business. Alas, his hair was blond like Charlize Theron’s and someone noted him and sold him to us. We dealt with him. That is the order of business. As for any information he may have learned, it almost certainly died with him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, Lord, of course there is no ‘sure.’ I’m as ‘sure’ as I can be. But I can only talk in probabilities. We never had a conversation with him. His actions precluded that. He knew the conversation would have been unpleasant. But there’s no evidence at all he was working for someone and no reason to believe he was. He had as yet assembled no product: we examined his house seriously before lighting it. No notes, no story, no time line. He had nothing but suspicions and they died with him. That is the highest probability.”

“But what were the probabilities that Spruance’s Dauntlesses would catch our fellows on their decks refueling? Why would they come in at just that precise moment? The probabilities were infinitely tiny, yet the Americans fell out of the sky, and in five minutes we lost three carriers, three hundred of our best pilots, and the war. I think about that moment often, Kondo-san. That moment. Not one minute before, not one minute after. The carriers were turned into the wind, their decks laden with refueling planes. It was Japan’s moment of maximum vulnerability during the war, and in that moment the Americans struck.”

“The Americans cheated. They had the codes.”

“I hate the Americans. They always cheat. They are stupid and blundering and it doesn’t matter because they cheat.”

“I cannot protect you from God’s apparent enthusiasm for the Americans, Lord. He makes the unexpected happen, as Midway proves for all time. I cannot protect you from it, just as no one could have protected Nagumo from Spruance’s Dauntlesses. No one can protect you from Buddha’s whimsy, God’s will, the indifference of Shinto, or the sheer random drift of chaos in the universe. It sticks its ugly little head in at the most inopportune time. But we have done everything rational to protect you and to make this thing work and to get you what you so richly deserve. The only thing we can’t protect against is bad luck.”

“The Americans always have good luck,” said the Shogun bitterly. “Now they think they can take over my business, that I am vulnerable, that my planes are on the decks refueling. They are cheating by spreading millions around. It’s so unfair.”

“Lord, it will not happen.”

“That’s what Kusaka, Nagumo’s chief of staff, said too,” said the Shogun glumly.

“I understand. Therefore I have sent my best men to the polisher’s, and the security at that point is perfect. These are the boys who visited Yano-san and his family with me-all sworn, all bloodied, all who have cut before. There isn’t a man in Japan or even the world who could force the issue at the polisher’s. It would be one against six, and six of the best. Nii leads them and he will willingly give his life. He is true samurai. Your head is safe. And so is mine.”