Masako walked slowly toward the door where just seconds ago she and her husband had entered the palace. Every step was torture, agony … The men were assassins. Masako, in her horror, had sensed it the moment she saw them. They had no respect; their faces registered extraordinary tension — not like loyal subjects meeting their emperor and his wife, but like assassins. She knew her nation’s history, of course, knew how assassins had plagued rulers and politicians in times of turmoil, how they always murdered for Japan — as if their passionate patriotism could excuse the blood, could excuse slashing the life from men who had little or no control over the events that fired the murderers — then atoned for their crimes in orgies of ritual suicide. The bloody melodrama was terrible theater, yet most Japanese loved it, reveled in it, were inspired by it. Ancient racial memories were renewed with flowing fresh red blood. New sacrifices propitiated savage urges…, and mesmerized the audience. Patriotic murder was sadistic, Masako thought, an obscene perversion that surfaced when the world pressed relentlessly in upon the Japanese, as it had in the 1930’s, as it had in December 1941, as it apparently was…
Now?
She could scarcely place one foot in front of another. Oh, Naruhito, beloved husband, that we should have to face this…, and I should not be at your side … She turned and hurried back toward her husband. Toward the evil that awaited them both. She ran, the length of her stride constrained by her skirt. Just before she reached the corner, she heard the singing of the sword and then the sickening thunk as it bit into flesh. She turned the corner in time to see her husband’s head rolling along the floor and his upright torso toppling forward. She saw no more. Despite her pain — or perhaps because of it — she passed out, collapsed in a heap.
Shunko Kato did not look again at the emperor’s corpse. There was little time, and staring at the body of a man who had failed Japan would be wasting it. He arranged a letter on the table where the sword had rested. The letter was written in blood, the blood of each man there, and they had all signed it. For Japan. Kato knelt and drew his knife. He looked at his chief NCO, who was standing beside him, his pistol in his hand. “Banzai,” he said. “Banzai.”
Kato stabbed the knife to the hilt in his own stomach. The sergeant raised his pistol and shot Kato in the back of the head. Blood and brains flew from the captain’s head. The sound of the shot made a stupendous thunderclap in the hallway. In the silence that followed, he could hear the tinny sound of the spent cartridge skittering across the floor. Air escaping from the captain’s body made an audible sound, but the sergeant was paying no attention. He looked at his comrades. They, too, had their pistols out. Brave men, doing what had to be done. The sergeant took a deep breath, then raised the barrel of his pistol to his own head. The others did the same. The sergeant inadvertently squeezed his eyes shut just before he pulled the trigger.
2
“Captain Kato and his men were all dead when the security men got there,” Takeo Yahiro told the prime minister, Atsuko Abe. “Apparently they committed suicide after they beheaded the emperor. The empress was the only person alive — she was passed out on the floor.”
Abe’s astonishment showed on his face. “The emperor was beheaded in the presence of his wife?”
“It would seem so, sir. She was lying on the floor in a faint when the security officers came upon the scene.”
Abe shook his head, trying to make the nightmare easier to endure. To assassinate a powerful official for political reasons was certainly not unheard of in Japan, but to do so in the presence of his wife…, the empress? He had never heard of such a thing. What would the public think?
“Captain Kato left a letter under the sword scabbard, sir, a letter written in blood. It gave the reasons for his actions.”
The prime minister was still fixated upon the presence of the empress at the murder scene. With his eyes closed, he asked, “Did the assassins touch the empress?”
“I do not know, sir. Perhaps the doctors—“
“Has the press gotten this detail?”
Takeo Yahiro spoke softly, yet with assurance. “No, sir. I took the liberty of refusing to allow any press release until senior officials were notified.”
Abe breathed deeply through his nose, considering, before he finally opened his eyes. He nodded almost imperceptibly, a mere fraction of an inch. “Very well, Yahiro. Inflaming the public will not accomplish anything. A tragedy, a horrible tragedy …”
“There was a letter, sir. The assassins were disciples of Mishima.”
“Ahh …” said the prime minister, then fell silent, thinking. Yukio Mishima had been an ultranationalist, a zealot. Unfortunately he had also been a writer, a novelist, one with a flaming passion for the brutal, bloody gesture. Thirty-eight years ago he and four followers stormed into Japan’s military headquarters in downtown Tokyo, barricaded themselves in the office of the commanding general, and called for the military to take over the nation. That didn’t happen, of course, but Mishima was not to be denied. He removed his tunic and plunged a sword into his belly; then one of his disciples lopped off his head before killing himself, as well. The whole thing was neatly and tidily done in the grand samurai tradition. Mishima seared a bold political statement into the national conscience in a way impossible to ignore. And, incidentally, there was no one left alive for the authorities to punish — except for a few people on a minor trespass charge. In the years since Mishima had become a cult figure. His ultranationalistic, militarist message was winning new converts every day, people who were finally coming to understand that they had an absolute duty to fulfill the nation’s destiny, to uphold its honor. “Public dissemination of the fact that the empress was a witness to her husband’s assassination would accomplish nothing,” Abe said. “The empress may mention it, sir.”
“She never speaks to the press without clearing her remarks with the Imperial Household Agency. She has suffered a terrible shock. When she recovers, she will understand that to speak of her presence at the murder scene would not be in the national interest.”
“Yes, sir. I will call the agency immediately.”
The prime minister merely nodded — Yahiro was quite reliable — then moved on. “Prince Hirohito must be placed on the throne. In a matter of hours. Ensure that the ancient ceremony is scrupulously observed — the nation’s honor demands it. He must receive the imperial and state seals and the replicas of the Amaterasu treasures.” The actual treasures — a mirror, a sword, and a crescent-shaped jewel — could be traced back to the Shinto sun goddess, Amaterasu, from whom the imperial family was descended, so they were too precious to be removed from their vault. “Arrange it, please, Yahiro.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. By all means.”
“The senior ministers will all attend. The empress may attend if the doctors think she is strong enough.”
The prime minister was almost overcome by the historic overtones of the moment and was briefly unable to speak. The emperor was dead. A new emperor was waiting to be enthroned. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. So much to be done “Clear my calendar and send for a speechwriter,” the prime minister told the aide. “And the protocol officer. We must declare a period of national mourning, notify the foreign embassies — all of that — then set up a state funeral. Heads of government from all over the world will undoubtedly attend, so there is much planning to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ensure that a copy of Captain Kato’s letter is given to the press. The public is entitled to know the reason for this great calamity.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We are on the cusp of history, Yahiro. We must strive to measure up to the va/s of our responsibilities. Future generations will judge us critically.”
Yahiro pondered that remark as he went out of the office, but only for a few seconds. He was a busy man. Prime Minister Abe waited until the door closed on Yahiro; then he opened the door to the conference room that adjoined his office and went in. Two men in uniform were sitting at the large table. Small teacups sat on the table before them. One of the men was chief of the Japanese Self-Defense Force. The other was his deputy. The two soldiers looked expectantly at Abe’s face. “It is done.”
The soldiers straightened in their chairs, looked at one another. “His wife was with him … She saw it.”
