Shibumi

guards, who was bewildered and uncomfortable with the tone of this conversation. Suddenly, with a shout, the Russian 'guard' leapt forward.

He was too late.

* * *

For six hours Nicholai sat in the windowless interrogation room after surrendering himself without struggle or explanation to the stunned, confused, and therefore violent guards. In his first fury the American MP sergeant had hit him twice with his truncheon, once on the point of the shoulder, once across the face, splitting his eyebrow against the sharp bone behind it. There was little pain, but the eyebrow bled profusely, and Nicholai suffered from the messy indignity of it.

Frightened by anticipation of repercussions for allowing their prisoner to be killed under their eyes, the guards screamed threats at Nicholai as they raised the alarm and summoned the prison doctor. When he arrived, there was nothing the fussy, uncertain Japanese doctor could do for the General, who had been nerve-dead seconds after Nicholai's strike, and body-dead within a minute. Shaking his head and sucking breaths between his teeth, as though admonishing a mischievous child, the doctor attended to Nicholai's split eyebrow, relieved to have something to do within the scope of his competence.

While two fresh Japanese guards watched over Nicholai, the others reported to their superiors, giving versions of the event that showed them to be blameless, while their opposite numbers were revealed to be something between incompetent and perfidious.

When the MP sergeant returned, he was accompanied by three others of his nationality; no Russians, no Japanese. Dealing with Nicholai was to be an American show.

In grim silence, Nicholai was searched and stripped, dressed in the same coarse 'suicide-proof' uniform the General had worn, and brought down the hall to be left, barefoot and with his wrists handcuffed behind his back, in the stark interrogation room, where he sat in silence on a metal chair bolted to the floor.

To subdue his imagination, Nicholai focused his mind on the middle stages of a famous contest between Go masters of the major schools, a game he had memorized as a part of his training under Otake-san. He reviewed the placements, switching by turns from one point of view to the other, examining the implications of each. The considerable effort of memory and concentration was sufficient to close out the alien and chaotic world around him.

There were voices beyond the door, then the sound of keys and bolts, and three men entered. One was the MP sergeant who had been industriously picking his teeth when Kishikawa-san died. The second was a burly man in civilian dress whose porcine eyes had that nervous look of superficial intelligence thinned by materialistic insensitivity one sees in politicians, film producers, and automobile salesmen. The third, the leaves of a major on his shoulders, was a taut, intense man with large bloodless lips and drooping lower eyelids. It was this third who occupied the chair opposite Nicholai, while the burly civilian stood behind Nicholai's chair, and the sergeant stationed himself near the door.

'I am Major Diamond.' The officer smiled, but there was a flat tone to his accent, that metallic mandibular sound that blends the energies of the garment district with overlays of acquired refinement—the kind of voice one associates with female newscasters in the United States.

At the moment of their arrival, Nicholai had been puzzling over a move in the recalled master game that had the fragrance of a tenuki, but which was in fact a subtle reaction to the opponent's preceding play. Before looking up, he concentrated on the board, freezing its patterns in his memory so he could return to it later. Only then did he lift his expressionless bottle-green eyes to the Major's face.

'What did you say?'

'I am Major Diamond, CID.'

'Oh?' Nicholai's indifference was not feigned.

The Major opened his attache case and drew out three typed sheets stapled together. 'If you will just sign this confession, we can get on with it.'

Nicholai glanced at the paper. 'I don't think I want to sign anything.'

Diamond's lips tightened with irritation. 'You're denying murdering General Kishikawa?'

'I am not denying anything. I helped my friend to his escape from...' Nicholai broke off. What was the point of explaining to this man something his mercantile culture could not possibly comprehend? 'Major, I don't see any value in continuing this conversation.'

Major Diamond glanced toward the burly civilian behind Nicholai, who leaned over and said, 'Listen. You might as well sign the confession. We know all about your activities on behalf of the Reds''

Nicholai did not bother to look toward the man.

'You're not going to tell us you haven't been in contact with a certain Colonel Gorbatov?' the civilian persisted.

Nicholai took a long breath and did not answer. It was too complicated to explain; and it didn't matter if they understood or not.

The civilian gripped Nicholai's shoulder. 'You're in maximum trouble, boy! Now, you'd better sign this paper, or—'

Major Diamond frowned and shook his head curtly, and the civilian released his grip. The Major put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, looking into Nicholai's eyes with worried compassion. 'Let me try to explain all this to you. You're confused right now, and that's perfectly understandable. We know the Russians are behind this murder of General Kishikawa. I'll admit to you that we don't know why. That's one of the things we want you to help us with. Let me be open and frank with you. We know you've been working for the Russians for some time. We know you infiltrated a most sensitive area in Sphinx/FE with forged papers. A Russian identity card was found on you, together with an American one. We also know that your mother was a communist and your father a Nazi; that you were in Japan during the war; and that your contacts included militarist elements of the Japanese government. One of these contacts was with this Kishikawa.' Major Diamond shook his head and sat back. 'So you see, we know rather a lot about you. And I'm afraid it's all pretty damning. That's what my associate means when he says that you're in great trouble. It's possible that I may be able to help you... if you are willing to cooperate with us. What do you say?'

Nicholai was overwhelmed by the irrelevance of all this. Kishikawa-san was dead; he had done what a son must do; he was ready to face punishment; the rest didn't matter.

'Are you denying what I have said?' the Major asked.

'You have a handful of facts, Major, and from them you have made ridiculous conclusions.'

Diamond's lips tightened. 'Our information came from Colonel Gorbatov himself.'

'I see.' So Gorbatov was going to punish him for snatching away his propaganda prey by giving the Americans certain half-truths and allowing them to do his dirty work. How Slavic in its duplicity, in its involute obliquity.

'Of course,' Diamond continued, 'we don't take everything the Russians tell us at face value. That's why we want to give you a chance to tell us your side of the story.'

'There is no story.'

The civilian touched his shoulder again. 'You deny that you knew General Kishikawa during the war?'

'No.'

'You deny that he was a part of the Japanese military/industrial machine?'

'He was a soldier.' The more accurate response would have been that he was a warrior, but that distinction would have meant nothing to these Americans with their mercantile mentalities.

'Do you deny being close to him?' the civilian pursued.

'No.'

Major Diamond took up the questioning, his lone and expression indicating that he was honestly uncertain and sought to understand. 'Your papers were forged, weren't they, Nicholai?'

'Yes.'

'Who helped you obtain forged papers?'

Nicholai was silent.

The Major nodded and smiled. 'I understand. You don't want to implicate a friend. I understand that. Your mother was Russian, wasn't she?'

'Her nationality was Russian. There was no Slavic blood in her.'