O’Hara could see the fortress, way up in the cliffs on the side of the mountain, as they drove up the curving road from Tanabe. Its high stone walls seemed to grow out of needle pines and elm trees. Below it sprawled the islet-speckled Iyo-Nada Bay; beyond it, the island of Shikoku, and beyond that, to the west, Hiroshima. Far below, at the foot of the mountain, the pancake-shaped storage tanks of the Yumishawa Refinery glittered in the early- afternoon sun.
The castle above them had been built in the seventeenth century by the shogun Tukagawa Ieyasu as a warning to all who entertained the idea of invading Japan from the south. General Hooker had used his considerable influence to arrange a long-term lease between the Japanese government and AMRAN, turning Dragon’s Nest into the consortium’s international headquarters. The view was spectacular. Fishing boats and freighters speckled the blue water of the bay far below, and the drive leading up to the fortress was lined with rose bushes and azaleas. Twenty minutes up the grassy volcano brought the taxi to its main gate.
Getting into the place was not quite as pleasant.
A security guard appeared at a doorway in the massive wooden gate of the twenty-foot stone wall and demanded credentials, letters of introduction, then searched O’Hara. He was Japanese and built like a sumo wrestler. His uniform, a dark-green suit over a black turtleneck sweater, seemed about to explode its seams. The small patch on his right arm said simply: AMRAN SECURITY. He also wore an identification badge over his breast pocket. At first he appeared concerned that O’Hara had no briefcase, but finally he shrugged off his anxiety. His examination complete, he motioned O’Hara to follow him through the small door.
O’Hara had made arrangements for the taxi to wait and he followed the guard into the dai-dairi, the inner courtyard. It was half the size of a football field, cobblestoned, and devoid of trees, gardens or any other pleasantries. On the far side of the yard were three one-story structures. O’Hara recognized the classic layout: in the centre, the shishin-den, the ceremonial hail and main building of the compound; on its right, the seiryo-den, ‘the pure cool hail,’ usually the shogun’s living quarters; and on its left, the kaisho-den, or barracks. The buildings had low-sloping tile roofs, curved at the bottom and supported by thick wooden pillars painted bright-red. The classic beauty of the architecture had been perfectly preserved except for two things: enclosed walkways connected the three buildings, and all the doors were sealed except the main door into the shishin-den.
There were three satellite dishes located on the roof of the ceremonial hail, and several spotlights on top of the wall. Without seeming obvious, O’Hara studied the exterior as
walked across the courtyard. Several men and women in black smocks worked in the yard, mopping, raking; obviously AMRAN kept the place spit-polished. Then he sensed that someone was watching him and he turned his head casually. There was a man in the shadows under one of the sloping rooftops, a vague form except for one cruel eye that caught a reflection of sunlight. The man began to move away, but not before O’Hara noticed his other eye, black-patched, with a jagged scar that streaked from his hairline to his jaw. Then he was gone.
Was it just a casual observance or was it a deliberate watch? He had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he knew this man, but he couldn’t recall where or when they had met. A sense of elusiveness swept over him as they entered the main building. It was like trying to remember a dream. He shrugged and decided to forget it.
The sweeping entry hail had been turned into a reception room. Light came from windows in the eaves of its twenty-foot cantilevered ceiling. The oak beams were buffed and spotless. The walls were covered with ancient delicate paintings on silk screens. But the only object of furniture was a typically American stainless-steel desk. It sat in the middle of the room, and it was bare except for a guest log and a multi-button telephone. Small television cameras high in the beamed ceiling constantly scanned the room. There were also metal and electronic-chip detectors in the base of the walls, Nobody could get into any of the buildings without going through this room, and nobody could get through this room with any kind of metal or electronic device.
The man seated behind the desk wore the green suit and black turtleneck of the security force, with three stripes on his sleeve. He wore his holster Western style, with the muzzle hanging almost to his knee. He was broad-shouldered, thin at the waist, straight as a rifle barrel, hard as a diamond, and his leathery face was heavily tanned. Not an ounce of fat on him, and judging from the expression on his face, it would probably be painful for him to smile. O’Hara. knew the type. Probably an ex-career top kick or drill instructor.
He recognized the man beside the guard immediately from history books and old newsreels. lie had been gaunt then, wraithlike from three years in a prison camp, his hollow eyes reflecting a glazy kind of joy, his khakis hanging from a bony frame. He was heavier now, almost clapper with white hair and a white waxed moustache, its ends curling toward the ceiling. He snapped a swagger stick against starched khaki trouser and came toward O’Hara with his hand cut. General Jesse Garvey, the Martyr of Suchi Barracks.
Mr O’Hara?’
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome to Dragon’s Nest. I’ m General Garvey, exec vee-pee, and this is Sergeant Travors, Security.’
‘My pleasure,’ O’Hara said to Garvey. ‘I recognized you immediately, sir. It’s a real honour.’
Thank you.’
‘Looks like an Army post,’ O’ Hara said with a smile, looking back at Travors.
General Hooker runs it like the Army. Force of habit, s’ pose.
“I guess so.’
‘Well, he’s waiting. Come along.
As they walked across the big anteroom O’Hara heard muted sounds from behind the walls: electric typewriters, computers beeping, tape recorders rewinding. Somewhere in the enormous old building there was a lot going on.
Garvey ushered him into a room and pulled the door shut behind him. It was suddenly as quiet as a church at midnight.
The room was enormous, probably the audience chamber of the shogun, O’Hara thought, and very dark. No sunlight entered the room. Its windows were sealed with thatched bamboo screens, and the opposite wall had been converted into an enclosed greenhouse. Grow lights cast vague, purple shadows among the plants and ferns while ancient statues of temple dogs and guard lions stood silent sentinel in dim corners. His heels popped on the hardwood floors.
It was hot and humid and smelled vaguely of pipe tobacco.
