The emperor didn’t seem to hear. He continued, thinking aloud: “In this era of nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons, war is obsolete. It is no longer a viable political option. The nation that plunges headlong into war in the twenty-first century will, I fear, merely be committing national suicide. Death, sir, is most definitely not Japan’s destiny. Death is final and eternal, whether it comes slowly, from natural causes, or swiftly, in a spectacular blaze of glory. Life, sir, must be our business. Life is our concern.”
Before Abe could think of a polite reply, the emperor added softly, “You carry a very heavy burden, Prime Minister. You carry the hopes and dreams of every Japanese alive today and those of our honored ancestors. You literally carry Japan upon your back.”
“Your Excellency, I am aware of my responsibilities,” Atsuko Abe retorted, as politely as he could. He struggled to keep a grip on his temper. “Keenly aware,” he added through clenched teeth. “In your public speeches that I have read, sir, you speak as if Japan’s destiny were as obvious as the rising sun on a clear morning,” Emperor Naruhito said without rancor. “I suggest you consult the representatives of the people in the Diet before you make any major commitments.”
He could think of nothing else to say to this fool facing him … “Follow the law,” the emperor added. That was always excellent advice, but … “The Japanese are a great people,” the emperor told the prime minister, to fill the silence. “If you keep faith with them, they will have faith in you.”
Abe forced his head down in a gesture of respect. The skin on his head was tan, the hair cropped short. Naruhito could stand no more of this scoundrel. He rose stiffly, bowed, and walked from the room. That had been two days ago. Naruhito had forsaken his ceremonial, almost-mystical position as head of state to speak the truth as he believed it, for the good of the nation. He had never done that before, but Abe … advocating the unthinkable…, telling the emperor to his face what his duty was — never in his life had Naruhito been so insulted. The memory of Abe’s words still burned deeply. He had written a letter to the president of the United States, written it by hand because he did not wish to trust a secretary. The truth was bitter: He could not affect events. The children were singing now, led by Naruhito’s wife, Masako. A flush of warmth went through the emperor as he regarded her, his dearly beloved wife, his empress, singing softly, leading the children.
Truly, he loved life. Loved his wife, his people, his nation…, this Japanese nation. His life, the nation’s life, they were all bound up together, one and inseparable. A profound sense of loss swept over him. Time is running out … Captain Shunko Kato stood concealed by a curtain at a second-floor window in the Imperial Palace, watching the ceremony on the lawn below. Behind him stood the other three er/while telephone repairmen, his men, standing motionless, seemingly at perfect ease. They weren’t, Kato knew. He could feel the tension, tight as a violin string. Military discipline held them motionless, silent, each man in communion only with his thoughts.
The sunlight coming through the window made a lopsided rectangle on the floor. Kato looked at the sunlit floor, the great frame that held the window, the hedge, the lawn, the people, the bold, brazen sky above … He was seeing all this for the last time. Ah, but to dwell on his personal fate was unworthy. Kato brushed the thought away and concentrated on the figures before him on the lawn.
There was the emperor, shorter than the average Japanese male at five feet four, erect, carrying a tummy. Surrounding the group were security officers in civilian clothes — most of these men had their backs to the ceremony.
Kato retreated a few inches. He ensured he was concealed by the shadow of the drape, hidden from the observation of anyone on the lawn who might look at this window. Satisfied, he scanned the security guards quickly, taking in their state of alertness at a glance; then he turned his attention back to the royal party.
The emperor stood slightly in front of a group of officials, watching the empress and the children, seemingly caught up in the simple ritual. No doubt he was. He certainly had nothing else to worry about. The emperor, Kato was sure, was quite oblivious to the desperation that had ravaged so many lives since the bank collapse. How could it be otherwise?
The emperor certainly didn’t move in ordinary circles.
Yet the man must read newspapers, occasionally watch television. How could he miss the corruption of the politicians, the bribes, the influence peddling, the stench of scandal after scandal? Could he not see the misery of the common people, always loyal, always betrayed?
He never spoke out against corruption, avarice, greed. Never. And never condemning, he silently approved.
Kato felt his chest swelling with indignation. Oh, that they called such a man “Son of Heaven!” An extraordinary obscenity.
The empress was saying good-bye to the children. The ceremony was ending.
Kato turned, surveyed his men. Still wearing the blue jumpers and caps of the telephone company, they were as fit as professional athletes, lean, with ropy muscles and easy, fluid movements. Kato had trained them, hardened them, made them soldiers in the Bushido tradition. In truth, he was proud of them, and now that pride showed on his face. The men looked back at him with faces that were also unable to conceal their emotion.
“For Japan,” he said softly, just loudly enough for them to hear.
“For Japan.” Their lips moved soundlessly, for he had told them to make no sound. Still, the reply echoed in Kato’s ears.
“Banzai,” he mouthed.
“Banzai!” The silent reply lashed his soul.
The security guards escorted the emperor and empress toward the door of the Imperial Palace. One of them held it open for the emperor, who always preceded his wife by two paces. The security men did not enter the hallway; they remained outside. The entire palace was inside a security zone.
Inside the building, away from other eyes, the emperor paused to let Masako reach his side. She flashed him a grin, a very un-Japanese gesture, but then she had spent years in the United States attending college before their marriage. He dearly enjoyed seeing her grin, and he smiled his pleasure.
She took his arm and leaned forward, so that her lips brushed his cheek. His smile broadened.
Arm in arm, they walked down the hall to the end, then turned right.
Four men stood silently, waiting. They blocked the hallway.
The emperor stopped.
One of the men moved noiselessly to position himself behind the royal couple, but the others did not give way. Nor, the emperor noted with surprise, did they bow. Not even the tiniest bob.
Naruhito looked from face to face. Not one of the men broke eye contact. “Yes?” he said finally. “Your wife may leave, Your Excellency,” said one of the men. His voice was strong, even, yet not loud. “Who are you?” asked the emperor. “I am Captain Shunko Kato of the Japanese Self-Defense Force.”
Kato bowed deeply from the waist, but none of the other men moved a muscle. “These enlisted men are under my command.”
“By whose authority are you here?”
“By our own.”
Naruhito felt his wife’s hand tighten on his arm. He looked again from face to face, waiting for them to look away as a gesture of respect. None of them did. “Why are you here?” the emperor asked finally. He realized that time was on his side, not theirs, and he wished to draw this out as long as possible. Kato seemed to read his thoughts. “We are here for Japan,” Kato said crisply, then added, “The empress must leave now.”
Naruhito could read the inevitable in their faces. Although the thought did not occur to Captain Kato, Naruhito had as much courage as any man there. He turned toward the empress. “You must go, dear wife.”
She stared into his face, panic-stricken. Both her hands clutched his arm in a fierce grip. He leaned toward her and whispered, “We have no choice. Go, and know I love you.”
She tore her eyes from him and swept them around the group, looking directly into the eyes of each man. Three of them averted their gaze. Then she turned and walked back toward the lawn. From a decorative table nearby, Kato took a samurai sword, which the emperor had not previously noticed. With one swift motion, the officer withdrew the blade from the sheath. “For Japan,” he said, grasping the handle with both hands. The sword was very old, the emperor noticed. Hundreds of years old. His heart was audibly pounding in his ears. He looked again at each face. They were fanatics. Resigned, Emperor Naruhito sank to his knees. He would not let them see him afraid. Thank heavens his hands were not trembling. He closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts. Enough of these zealots. He thought of his wife and his son and daughter. The last thing he heard was the slick whisper of the blade whirring through the air.
