Free Linnear 02 - The Miko by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

They haven’t picked Kusunoki’s successor yet, have they?”
    “There are meetings going on to which I am not privy. As yet there have been no announcements. But tension is high all through the dojo.”
    “Good. Now is the time to burrow in. Get as close as you dare. Strike in the midst of this confusion; our tactics are more efficient in this atmosphere.”
    “Kusunoki’s death has turned them into alarmists; they see hostiles in the movement of the shadows.”
    “Then be especially bold.”
    “The danger has increased.”
    “And has your dedication to the goals of the Motherland therefore decreased?”
    “I will not waver from the cause; you know that.”
    “Good. Then this conversation is at an end.”
    A light went on atop the scarred metal desk, dim and buzzing, coldly fluorescent, emanating from an ancient khaki gooseneck lamp that had been functionally ugly when new and now was light-years away from that.
    This fitful pale mauve illumination revealed a face no more unusual than an accountant’s or a professor’s. Black eyes above sloped Slavic cheekbones were penetratingly intelligent, to be sure, but his fine, tufted hair, the liver spots high on his domed forehead, and the rather weak chin all combined to paint a portrait of a bland, unremarkable man. Nothing could be further from the truth.
    His slender-fingered hand came away from the phone; already his mind was racing. He did not like the sudden murder of the sensei; he knew well Kusunoki’s power and was astonished that the sensei had been overpowered at all. Still, he was trained to use any and all unforeseen circumstance to his benefit, and striking swiftly and surely during times of confusion was standard procedure.
    Contrary to what his brethren back home espoused, he enjoyed working with these locals. While he would never invite one to marry his daughterif he had onehe could admire their expertise, their dogged persistence, and, above all, their rabid fanaticism. This fascinated him; it was also his secret weapon against political assassination back home.
    While his position, among all his brethren, was most secure simply because he fed them a steady diet of fear and secrecy, two elements which never failed to catch their attentionstill one found it good practice to keep shuffling the cards, keeping options open, finding the soft spots in one’s superiors’ private lives that would turn the key in the lock of one’s future. That was a lesson he had learned well and hard.
    He turned away from the phone, activating the portable but very powerful 512K computer terminal, rechecking the myriad random elements he had thrown at the original program. Still it was holding up.
    His grunt in the otherwise silent room told of his satisfaction. With an effort, he rose and lumbered to the door as thick and impenetrable as a bank vault. Dialing the combination, he let himself out.
    Nicholas left the dazzling glitter of the enormous hotel behind him, a city within a city, and took the immaculate, silent subway into the Asakusa district. The blank-faced jostling throng who rode along with him with their fashionable clothes and French-style makeup were outwardly very different from the members of the war generation. Yet Nicholas could not forget what happened hereas it did throughout all of Tokyoon March 9, 1945. The firebombing by American warplanes.
    Here in the Asakusa district, people sought the sanctuary of the great and beloved Buddhist temple of Kannon, the goddess of Pity. Built in the seventeenth century, this was thought safe because it had survived all the great fires of Tokyo as well as the most infamous earthquake of 1923. But as hundreds crowded inside, the long, arching timbers, so lovingly wrought by artisans of the fabled past, caught fire. The gray slat roof which had been such a staunch landmark for hundreds of years collapsed inward, crushing the already burning throng. Outside, the ancient stately gingko trees of the surrounding gardens