Debt of Honor

thoroughly corrupted as any on earth. Or perhaps 'corrupt' was the wrong term, the PM told himself. Subservient, perhaps. The ordinary citizens of the country were often enraged by what they saw, by what a few courageous journalists proclaimed, mostly in terms that, despite appearing to Westerners to be rather weak and fawning, in local context were as damning as anything Emile Zola had ever broad-sheeted across Paris. But the ordinary citizens didn't have the effective power that the zaibatsu did, and every attempt to reform the political system had fallen short. As a result, the government of one of the world's most powerful economies had become little more than the official arm of businessmen elected by no one, scarcely even beholden to their own stockholders. They had arranged his own accession to the Prime Ministership, he knew now…perhaps a bone thrown to the common people? he wondered. Had he been supposed to fail? Was that the destiny that had been constructed for him? To fail so that a return to normal could then be accepted by the citizens who'd placed their hopes in his hands? That fear had pushed him into taking positions with America that he knew to be dangerous. And now even that was not enough, was it?

'Many would say that,' Goto allowed with the most perfect manners. 'And I salute you for your courage. Alas, objective conditions have hurt our country. For example, the relative change of dollar and yen has had devastating effects on our investments abroad, and these could only have been the result of deliberate policy on the part of our esteemed trading partners.'

There was something about his delivery, the Prime Minister thought. His words sounded scripted. Scripted by whom? Well, that was obvious enough. The PM wondered if Goto knew that he was in even a poorer position than the man he sought to replace. Probably not, but that was scant consolation. If Goto achieved his post, he would be even more in the pawn of his masters, pushed into implementing policies that might or might not be well considered. And unlike himself, Goto might be fool enough to believe that he was actually pursuing policies that were both wise and his own. How long would that illusion last?

It was dangerous to do this so often, Christopher Cook knew. Often? Well, every month or so. Was that often? Cook was a Deputy Assistant Secretary of State, not an intelligence officer, and hadn't read that manual, assuming there was one.

The hospitality was as impressive as ever, the good food and wine and the exquisite setting, the slow procession through topics of conversation, beginning with the polite and entirely pro forma inquiries as to the state of his family, and his golf game, and his opinion on this or that current social topic. Yes, the weather was unusually pleasant for this time of year—a perennial remark on Seiji's part; fairly enough, since fall and spring in Washington were tolerably pleasant, but the summers were hot and muggy and the winters wet and dank. It was tedious, even to the professional diplomat well versed in meaningless chitchat. Nagumo had been in Washington long enough to run out of original observations to make, and over the past few months had grown repetitive. Well, why should he be different from any other diplomat in the world? Cook asked himself, about to be surprised.

'I understand that you have reached an important agreement with the Russians,' Seiji Nagumo observed as the dinner dishes were cleared away.

'What do you mean?' Cook asked, thinking it a continuation of the chitchat.

'We've heard that you are accelerating the elimination of ICBMs,' the man went on, sipping his wine.

'You are well informed,' Cook observed, impressed, so much so that he missed a signal he'd never received before. 'Thai's a rather sensitive subject.'

'Undoubtedly so, but also a wonderful development, is it not?' He raised his glass in a friendly toast. Cook, pleased, did the same.

'It most certainly is,' the State Department official agreed. 'As you know, it has been a goal of American foreign policy since the late 1940's back to Bernard Baruch, if memory serves—to eliminate weapons of mass destruction and their attendant danger to the human race. As you well know—'

Nagumo, surprisingly, cut him off. 'I know better than you might imagine, Christopher. My grandfather lived in Nagasaki. He was a machinist for the naval base that was once there. He survived the bomb—his wife did not, I regret to tell you—but he was badly burned in the ensuing fire, and I can well remember his scars. The experience hastened his death, I am sorry to say.' It was a card skillfully played, all the more so that it was a lie.

'I didn't know, Seiji. I'm sorry,' Cook added, meaning it. The purpose of diplomacy, after all, was to prevent war whenever possible, or, failing that, to conclude them as bloodlessly as possible.

'So, as you might imagine, I am quite interested in the final elimination of those horrible things.' Nagumo topped off Cook's glass. It was an excellent chardonnay that had gone well with the main course.

'Well, your information is pretty accurate. I'm not briefed in on that stuff, you understand, but I've caught a few things at the lunch room,' Cook added, to let his friend know that he dined on the seventh floor of the State Department building, not in the more plebeian cafeteria.

'My interest, I admit, is personal. On the day the last one is destroyed, I plan to have a personal celebration, and to offer prayers to grandfather's spirit, to assure him that he didn't die in vain. Do you have any idea when that day will be, Christopher?'

'Not exactly, no. It's being kept quiet.'

'Why is that?' Nagumo asked. 'I don't understand.'

'Well, I suppose the President wants to make a big deal about it. Every so often Roger likes to spring one on the media, especially with the election year on the horizon.'

Seiji nodded. 'Ah, yes, I can see that. So it is not really a matter of national security, is it?' he inquired offhandedly.

Cook thought about it for a second before replying. 'Well, no, I don't suppose it is, really. True, it makes us more secure, but the manner in which that takes place is…well, pretty benign, I guess.'

'In that case, could I ask a favor?'

'What's that?' Cook asked, lubricated by the wine and the company and the fact that he'd been feeding trade information to Nagumo for months.

'Just as a personal favor, could you find out for me the exact date on which the last missile will be destroyed? You see,' he explained, 'the ceremony I will undertake will be quite special, and it requires preparation.'

Cook almost said, Sorry, Seiji, but that is technically speaking a national-security matter, and I never agreed to give anyone that sort of information. The hesitation on his face, and the surprise that caused it, overpowered his normal diplomat's poker face. His mind raced, or tried to in the presence of his friend. Okay, sure, for three and a half years he'd talked over trade issues wilh Nagumo, occasionally getting information that was useful, stuff he'd used, earning him a promotion to DASS rank, and occasionally, he'd given over information, because…because why? Because part of him was bored wilh the State Department grind and federal salary caps, and once upon a time a former colleague had remarked to him that with all the skills he'd acquired in fifteen years of government service, he really could escape into private industry, become a consultant or lobbyist, and hell, it wasn't as though he were spying on his country or anything, was it? Hell, no, it was just business, man.

Was this spying? Cook asked himself. Was it really? The missiles weren't aimed at Japan and never had been. In fact, if the papers were right, they weren't aimed at anything except the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and the net effect of their destruction was exactly zero on everyone. Nobody hurt. Nobody really helped, except in budgetary terms, and that was pretty marginal for all concerned. So, no, there wasn't a national-security element to this, was there? No. So, he could pass that information along, couldn't he?

'Okay, Seiji. I guess this once, yeah, I can see what I can find out.'

'Thank you, Christopher.' Nagumo smiled. 'My ancestors will thank you. It will be a great day for the entire world, my friend, and it deserves proper celebration.' In many sports it was called follow-through. There was no term for it in espionage.

'You know, I think it does, too,' Cook said after a further moment's contemplation. It never occurred to him to be amazed that the first step over the invisible line that he had himself constructed was as easy as this.

'I am honored,' Yamata said with a great show of humility. 'It is a fortunate man who has such wise and thoughtful friends.'

'It is you who honor us,' one of the bankers insisted politely.

'Are we not colleagues? Do we not all serve our country, our people, our culture, with equal devotion? You,