regimented lifestyle as if all others were a waste to be pitied.
The uncohesive melting pot of the United States could not be conceived, nor would it be tolerated in Japan, a country with the toughest immigration laws to be found in the world.
The train stopped at the Tawaramachi subway station, and he stepped off and joined the crowd that rose to the busy street of Kappabashi. He hailed a cab and rode past the restaurant wholesale supply stores that sold the plastic food replicas seen in eatery windows. He directed the driver to a several-square-block section crowded with craftsmen’s shops, ancient temples, and old houses.
He got out and paid the driver at an intersection, and then walked down a narrow flower-lined lane until he came to a Japanese inn known as a ryokan.
Although rustic and worn on the outside, the ryokan was quite neat and attractive inside. Showalter was met at the door by one of the staff, who bowed and said, “Welcome to the Ritz.”
“I thought this was the Asakusa Dude Ranch,” Showalter replied.
Without another word, the muscular doorman with arms and legs like railroad ties showed him over the smooth flattened river stones of the entry. They stepped onto the polished oak floor of the reception area, where Showalter was politely asked to remove his shoes and put on a pair of plastic slippers.
Unlike most slippers that are too small for large Anglo feet, Showalter’s fit like they were custom-ordered, which indeed they were, since the ryokan was secretly owned and operated by an American intelligence agency that specialized in covert and safe retreats.
Showalter’s room had a sliding shoji paper door that opened onto a small veranda overlooking a formal garden with water trickling restfully onto rocks through bamboo tubes. The floor was covered by the traditional tatami straw matting. He had to take off the slippers and walk in his socks while on the fragile mats.
There were no chairs or furniture, only cushions on the floor, and a bed made up of many pillows and heavy cushions the Japanese called “futons.” A small fire pit sat in the center of the guest room with warm glowing coals.
Showalter undressed and donned a light cotton yukata, a short robe. Then a maid in a kimono led him to the inn’s communal bathing facilities. He left the yukata and his wristwatch in a wicker basket, and shielded by only a washcloth-size towel, he entered the steamy bath area. He stepped around the low stools and wooden pails and stood under a simple faucet. He lathered up and rinsed off. Only then was he ready to sink slowly into the hot water of a huge wooden pool-like tub.
A shadowy figure was already sitting chest deep in the water. Showalter greeted him.
“The Honda Team, I presume.”
“Only half of it,” answered Roy Orita. “Jim Hanamura should be along any time. Like a saki?”
“Against orders to drink during an operation,” said Showalter, easing into the steaming water. “But what the hell. I’m colder than ice cream. Pour me a double.”
Orita filled a small ceramic cup out of a bottle sitting on the edge of the pool. “How’s life at the embassy?”
“The usual dung one would expect from the State Department.” Showalter took a long sip of the saki and let it settle into his stomach. “How goes the investigation? Any information on the leads we received from Team Lincoln?”
“I checked out the company management of Murmoto. I can’t uncover a direct link between the corporate executive officers and the warheads. My own opinion is they’re clean. They haven’t the slightest idea of what is going on beneath their noses.”
“Some of them must know.”
Orita grinned. “Only two assembly line workers have to be in on it.”
“Why only two?”
“All that are required. The assembly line worker who oversees the installation of the air conditioners. He’s in a position to select specific cars to get the warheads. And the inspector who checks out the units to make sure they work before the cars are shipped to the dealers. He okays the phony units that don’t operate.”
“There has to be a third man,” disagreed Showalter. “An agent in the factory’s computerized shipping department who erases all trace of the bomb cars, except on the bill of lading which is required to satisfy foreign customs officials.”
“Have you followed the thread from factory to air conditioner supplier to nuke plant?”
“To the supplier, yes. Then the trail vanishes. I hope to pick up a scent and follow it to the source in the next few days.”
Orita’s voice became silent as a man came from the dressing room and walked toward the heated pool. He was short with silver hair and mustache and held the small wash towel in front of his groin.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Showalter, alarmed that a stranger had broken the security of the ryokan.
“My name is Ashikaga Enshu.”
“Who?”
The man stood there without answering for several seconds. Showalter began frantically looking around, wondering why no security sentries were present.
Then Orita began laughing. “Great disguise, Jim. You fooled hell out of both of us.”
James Hanamura removed the silver-haired wig and pulled off the eyebrows and mustache. “Not bad if I do say so. I faked out Hideki Suma and his secretary as well.”
Showalter exhaled a great breath and sank in the water up to his chin. “Jesus, you gave me a scare. For all I knew you had penetrated the security rings and were about to dispatch Orita and me.”
“That saki looks good. Any left?”
Orita poured him a cup. “There’s a whole case of it in the kitchen.” Then suddenly a surprised expression swept his face. “What was that you just said?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Hideki Suma.”
“My half of the operation. I traced ownership of the Murmoto Automotive and Aircraft Corporation and the Sushimo Steamship Company through a string of phony business fronts to Hideki Suma, the recluse tycoon. Murmoto and Sushimo are only a drop in the bucket. This guy has more assets than the entire State of California, with Nevada and Arizona thrown in.”
“Didn’t the ship that blew up, the
“Yes indeed. A neat package, wouldn’t you say? It looks to me like Hideki Suma is up to his ears in this mess.”
“Suma is a very powerful man,” said Showalter. “He prospers in strange and devious ways. They say that if he commands Prime Minister Junshiro and his cabinet ministers to flap their arms and fly, they’d fight over who jumps out the window first.”
“You actually got in to see Suma?” Orita asked in amazement.
“Nothing to it. You should see his office and secretary. Both very choice.”
“Why the disguise?”
“Team Lincoln’s idea. Suma collects paintings by a sixteenth century Japanese artist named Masaki Shimzu. Jordan hired an expert forger to paint what is called in art circles an undiscovered Shimzu, one it was known Suma didn’t have in his collection. Then, as the reputable finder of lost art, Ashikaga Enshu, I sold it to him.”
Showalter nodded. “Clever, clever. You must have studied your Japanese art.”
“A crash course.” Hanamura laughed. “Suma elaborated on how Shimzu painted islands from a balloon. He’d have ordered me drawn and quartered if he knew he was laying out a hundred and forty-five million yen for a fake painted from a satellite photo.”
“For what purpose?” asked Orita, his face oddly taut.
“To plant bugs in his office, naturally.”
“How come I wasn’t in on this?”
“I thought it best you two didn’t know what the other was doing,” Showalter answered Orita, “so you couldn’t reveal anything of importance if either of you were compromised.”
“Where did you set the bugs?” Orita asked Hanamura.
