His mind in something of a jumble of emotions, Fitzduane made his way to his first-class seat in the front of the aircraft. There was a beautifully wrapped package on the seat, but he ignored it until he had put his belongings away, assuming it belonged to another passenger. Then he saw that the package was addressed to him.
He smelled her perfume and the scent of her body before she spoke, and a sharp feeling of both longing and loss went through him. He turned around. And there she was: luscious black hair, perfect skin, huge eyes, breasts he could feel against his lips, the body of a lover. A beautiful and extraordinary woman. And an enigma.
'It's for Boots,' she said. 'A soft toy, a cuddly sumo wrestler. I think he will like him.' Chifune hesitated. 'Or is he too big for such things?'
Fitzduane thought of Boots and what he felt like in his arms and suddenly was impatient to be home again. 'No,' he said, with a smile, 'he's not too big for cuddly toys. He's only three. He's still a very cuddly boy.'
Chifune was silent at first, and Fitzduane was acutely conscious of all that was unsaid that was passing between them. There were tears in her eyes, and as he watched, one trickled down her cheek.
'That's what I remembered,' she said.
A newly boarded passenger pushed by with an apology, and Chifune winced.
'How is the arm?' he said. It had not been a serious wound, but being shot was never much fun.
'Healing,' she said with a slight smile, 'but still a little tender.'
Fitzduane was forcibly reminded that the aircraft was leaving shortly. He asked the obvious question, already knowing the answer.
'Chifune,' he said. 'Are you traveling, too?'
Chifune shook her head. 'I wanted to see you alone, Hugo,' she said. She smiled again amid the tears. 'With Koancho, such things as boarding a departing aircraft can be arranged. But I have to go now.'
'Or they'll make you work your passage,' said Fitzduane, with a smile he had to force. He felt a terrible sense of loss, but also knew somehow that this was not the time to say anything.
He moved forward and held out his arms to embrace her but Chifune stepped back. 'No, Fitzduane- san,' she sobbed. And then she bowed deeply and was gone.
And then Fitzduane saw Adachi, which was impossible for he was dead, and he smiled and felt tears come to his cheeks. Then Adachi reached out his hand and Fitzduane took it and his grip was firm and warm. 'My friends call me Aki,' he said, and then Adachi too vanished.
Fitzduane was deeply moved. He put Boots's present on the seat beside him and fought to get a grip on his emotions. He thought of Christian de Guevain and Mike Bergin and Aki Adachi and other comrades-in-arms and how honored he had been to fight beside them and how irreplaceable they were. He thought of Etan and Chifune and the other women he had known and loved. And he thought of those who were still living and of Kilmara's words:
“I have no answers, but much to do.”
He slept and dreamed extraordinary dreams, and when he woke the hostess was leaning over him to remind him about his seat belt and they were approaching London. One more plane flight and he would be in Dublin. And then he would board the Islander and fly to the West and he would be home.
Dublin Airport, Ireland
July 16
As he flew the London-Dublin leg of the journey Fitzduane reflected on the chain of events that had culminated in Japan.
The origins went back about seventy years, arguably even longer. World politics, seemingly so remote, had impacted directly in this case. And individual actions had had terrible and unforeseen consequences.
Who would have thought that fate would eventually catch up with Hodama the kuromaku. He had survived so much only to be struck down at the height of his power as a consequence of a routine bit of thuggery decades earlier.
If the Namakas had not had their father executed and been left alone and starving in postwar Tokyo would they ever have become criminals? Today, they would probably have graduated with distinction from Todai and be model citizens.
As for Katsuda, his criminal imperative could be traced directly back to the Japanese occupation of Korea and the appalling treatment in the past of so many Koreans in Japan, including the killing of his own family. He was a man motivated by hate. Given his background, it was easy to understand.
Fitzduane did not know what distortions in his upbringing had caused Schwanberg to go bad. Frankly, he did not care. Certainly Vietnam had not helped. Many brave men and women had fought in it, but it had not been the best of wars.
In the final analysis, the origins did not matter. You dealt with the situation as it existed now and you did what was necessary as well as you could and accepted the consequences. And that was the end of it.
When the aircraft landed in Dublin, Fitzduane thought at first he must have taken the wrong flight. The weather was near perfect, the sky a rich blue, and the temperature downright balmy. It was like landing in the South of France. For a moment he expected to see the vivid scarlet of bougainvillea and to smell the perfume of oleander and hibiscus and to be surrounded by tanned bodies. He was soon disabused. The patrons of DublinAirport looked as pale and sun-starved and as cheerful as ever. The Irish, he conceded, were an odd lot, in truth. They loved their rain and windswept land.
He smiled to himself. The day was a false promise, a temporary illusion, but Kathleen and Boots running toward him were very real.
He swept Boots into his arms and kissed and hugged him, and son Kathleen was in his arms, too, and as he felt her body against him and her lips against his, he had a feeling of returning to normality, to values that were important and worth building on.
Boots, jumping up and down with happiness and impatience, immediately opened Chifune's gift to him, and his face shone as he beheld the cuddly sumo doll inside. It was love at first sight.
'It's a sumo, Boots,' said Fitzduane. 'A Japanese wrestler.'
'Zoomie! Zoomie! Zoomie!' shrieked Boots, and shot around in circles, alternately hugging his new friend and then throwing him in the air.
Kathleen, alone with Fitzduane for a few seconds, put her arms around his neck and looked up at him. She had forgotten what a big man he was. He looked pale and tired and pleased to be back, and, she thought, rather magnificent. Her lover looked what he truly was, every inch the warrior.
'So, my love,' she said quizzically, 'how was Japan? Cherry blossoms and geisha girls?'
A thousand images flashed through Fitzduane's mind too fast to comprehend, and then they were gone and only Kathleen in his arms was real.
He laughed. It rained a lot,' he said. 'It was surprisingly bloody wet. I felt quite at home.'
