‘Would they lie?’
O’Hara took out a slip of paper. It was the print-out from Izzy of the CIA report on Chameleon:
—Chameleon. N/O/I. Head of special Japanese training unit for intelligence agents. On list of war criminals, 1945-1950. Believed killed at Hiroshima, 8.6.45. Declared legally dead, 2.12.50.
‘Perhaps someone wanted to protect him. Why did it take the US Army Intelligence five years to verify his death?’
‘That you will have to ask Army Intelligence. But I don’t think they were at fault. They would have declared him dead long before that, except for one man.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Your General Hooker. He was passionate in his desire to find Chameleon.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I would rather not guess.’
‘How could a man in the military service conceal his identity from so many people?’
‘Perhaps that was one of his many colours. Perhaps he was not in the service. It is possible he was a civilian serving the Emperor. There were many like that.’
‘In which case the people who served under him would certainly know who he is.’
‘That is of no consequence, Kazuo. The records for that section were destroyed just before the war ended. They were kept with the unit at all times. I never saw them. I saw only the final report, closing an empty file.’
‘Did the section have a name?’
‘Yes — Chameleon. That is all, just Chameleon. They had their own headquarters in the south.’
‘Where?’
‘At Dragon’s Nest, a fortress in the mountains.’
‘And that’s all there is to know about Chameleon?’ The old man nodded slowly as he mulled the tobacco in his cheek. ‘There is nothing more to know. He was a chameleon and he died,’
Hadashi looked at O’Hara and shrugged. ‘Thank you, Kami-sama, you have been a great help.’
‘It was nothing. Next time ask me something difficult. I have little left to do but show off.’
On their way out of the building Hadashi remarked, ‘It’s probably a strange coincidence, but this Dragon’s Nest the old man was talking about. ..‘
Yeah?’
‘It’s in Tanabe. It is now AMRAN’ s corporate headquarters. And Hooker is head of AMRAN.’
He hurried through lunch and left Hadashi with a fast ‘Thank you,’ anxious to meet Lizzie and the Magician and exchange information. But something else was gnawing at his brain, an insistent thought that had been bothering him ever since they arrived in Tokyo. He was thinking about what Kami-sama had said, feeding it into his memory bank for future reference, and it merely bolstered his ideas.
If Chameleon had died at Hiroshima, why had it taken Army Intelligence five years to officially declare him dead?
Taking shortcuts through alleys and side streets, he hurried across the city toward the hotel. He was three blocks from it when he first sensed that he was being followed. He stopped at a street corner and casually looked around but it was hopeless to try to single Out anyone in the crowds. He slowed his pace, began zigzagging through more isolated byways, hoping to confirm his paranoia. O’ Hara did not like surprises, and the intuition was undeniable. So he altered his course, working in a tightening spiral toward an enclosed alley that connected two of the most crowded boulevards in the Ginza, Showa-dori and Chuo-dori.
The walkway was dark and forbidding, coursing through a building that had been condemned several months earlier. It was rarely travelled because it was dim and the building was unsafe. Only two overhanging lights illuminated the block-long passage. O’Hara entered it and started toward Showa-dori.
In its dying years, before the building had been scheduled for demolition, the passageway had become a seedy shopping mall, its cheap antique shops and trinket parlours now deserted. Some were boarded up, windows had been smashed out of several of them, others were exactly as they had been left when the building was closed. Doors stood open, sale signs still dangled in dusty show windows, trash tittered the vacant stores. If he was being followed, O’Hara felt sure he’d be able to confirm it here.
Was he simply being followed? Or was he marked?
Walking down the alley, he listened to each step crinkling in the glass underfoot. The sounds of traffic faded away, and then he heard the telltale echo of his own footsteps. One. And a moment later another echo behind hint Two.
The third man was in front of him in one of the deserted stores, betrayed by a rustle of cotton, an errant breath. O’Hara exhaled slowly through his mouth, slowing down his own keen senses, listening, judging distances. The two behind were ten or so yards back. The other, the one in the store, was closer.
They were good, moving swiftly on feet of air. The alleyway was alive with energy. Ions swirled about O’Hara
