Fiends of the Rising Sun Page 3

  "Well, that depends. Who are your guides?"

  "Buntz and Wierzbowski," the young soldier said, pointing at a pair of impatient soldiers waiting for him. One was overweight, with thinning hair and a cheesy moustache. Father Kelly had no trouble recognising the surly, self-serving slob, even at this distance. The other man was tall, sinewy and lean of face, with a stance that suggested he was itching for a fight. The priest had yet to encounter Wierzbowski, but it was only a matter of time. With a name like that he had to be of Polish descent and almost certainly a Catholic. Lapsed or otherwise, Wierzbowski would soon be in need of Father Kelly's services. Martinez waved to them before bidding the priest farewell. "I'll see you at mass tomorrow, father."

  "Juan, the letter to your sister?"

  Martinez blushed and handed over the envelope. "Selma will kill me if I don't write. Thanks for posting it, father."

  The priest nodded, muttering a prayer under his breath for the safe return of Private Juan Martinez as the young soldier ran to join his brothers in arms. Father Kelly had heard Oahu was a vibrant and exciting island, with all manner of temptations on offer to unwary visitors. With Buntz and Wierzbowski as his guides, Martinez was going to need all the help he could get to make it back on board ship in time for tomorrow's sailing to the Philippines.

  Hitori couldn't believe it when he stepped from the plane in Tokyo and found his oldest friend in the world waiting on the tarmac.

  "Shiro? What on earth are you doing here?"

  Suzuki's face split into a smile, softening his hooded eyes and cruel mouth. "Waiting for you, of course!" The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back and laughing at being reunited. They had grown up in the same neighbourhood, attended the same military academy and been given their postings to Manchuria on the same day. Their lives had diverged thereafter, Hitori becoming a rising star in the imperial army while Suzuki worked his way more steadily up through the ranks. Perhaps it was Hitori's samurai ancestry that made him stand out, drawing the attention of powerful men like General Tojo.

  Whatever the reason, Hitori had found himself making less of an effort to keep in touch with his old friend as the years went by. He had no wish to make Suzuki lose face by flaunting his promotions at the lower ranked officer. Now they were together again, Hitori realised how much he had missed his friend. Life in the army was tough enough, without forsaking those who'd been close to you and experienced the same horrors of the battlefield.

  "It's good to see you," Hitori said, and he meant it.

  "You too," Suzuki agreed.

  "So, what are you doing here?"

  "Waiting for you. I'm to deliver you to the general as a matter of urgency."

  Hitori smiled. "Are you his new adjutant?"

  "There was an opening after you got transferred back to Manchuria. Tojo went through half a dozen candidates in as many months before settling on me. Apparently my name was on a list left behind by one of my predecessors." Suzuki grinned. "I'm guessing I have you to thank for that."

  "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Well, thank you. It's the easiest job I've had since graduating from the academy, and my mother is much happier now that I'm no longer on the frontline." Suzuki gestured towards a staff car waiting nearby, a chauffeur stood obediently holding the passenger door open. "Your carriage awaits, Zenji!"

  The two old friends got in the back of the sleek black vehicle. "Don't worry about your bags," Suzuki said. "I'm having them transferred directly to your new quarters at the Ministry of War."

  "So my new posting is at the ministry?"

  "Your orders didn't specify?"

  Hitori shook his head. "Report back to Tokyo and await instructions."

  "Typical! The sooner Tojo is prime minister, the better," Suzuki spat. He noticed the alarm on Hitori's face and laughed. "Don't worry; the driver is loyal to Tojo, so you need not fear anything he might tell others about our conversation."

  "Fine, then what can you tell me about this new posting?"

  "Not much," the new adjutant admitted. "It's top secret, but beyond that the general's been playing his cards very close to his chest. I did overhear something yesterday that made me wonder, though. Does the name Constanta mean anything to you?"

  "Yes, it does. I met him once, at the Tripartite Pact signing in Berlin."

  "I know your new posting involves him somehow. I believe Tojo wants you to head up a new covert operations unit, and Constanta has some involvement."

  Hitori gazed out of the window at the cherry trees lining the boulevard. How he wished it was spring and the blossoms were out; they brought a delicate beauty to the ugliest of landscapes. But it was September and autumn was close.

  "Who is this Constanta?" Suzuki asked. "His official file is all but empty, beyond stating his place of birth as Sighisoara in Rumania, the fact that he is considered part of the local aristocracy in a region called Transylvania, and that he's been sighted on numerous occasions along the battlefields of the Eastern Front."

  "If you know all that, then you know more than I do," Hitori said. "All I can remember is how much his presence disturbed me in Berlin; that, and the fact that he could speak fluent Japanese, despite never having set foot in this country."

  "Well, he's set foot in it now. Constanta's here in Tokyo!"

  Buntz led the way into Honolulu, having been to the city once before with his family ten years earlier. His father was a commercial traveller, the sort of man who boasted he could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. A decade ago he'd won salesman of the year and the prize was a week's vacation for the whole family in Hawaii. Every night, fat fifteen-year-old Arnie watched his mother drink herself into a stupor, and his father sneak out of the hotel room. On their last night, Arnie had followed his father to a succession of nightclubs, bars and dives, each one rougher than the last. Eventually Buntz senior had retired for the night with a Japanese woman called Mai Ling. Arnie waited outside their room for an hour before he heard what sounded like a struggle. Worried the slant-eyed witch was trying to hurt his pop, Arnie had burst in and found the two of them having sex. Of course, Arnie had never told his mom about what he'd seen, but his pop became extra generous to fat little Arnie after that. Oh yeah, he'd all kinds of memories of his last time in Honolulu, and tonight he was going to see where they led him.

  "We're starting at the pineapple factory," he announced as they strolled through the streets of Honolulu.

  "The what factory?" Martinez asked, his dark brown eyes full of wonder at the exotic sights all around them.

  "Pineapple, it's a kind of fruit," Buntz replied, "grows on trees here."

  "I ain't had no pineapple before."

  "Trust me, Juan, before this shore leave is over you'll experience a lot of things you've never had before. We'll be calling you Don Juan before tomorrow comes, ain't that right, Wierzbowski?"

  The third member of the trio kept his own counsel, as usual. Some of the men had thought taking Wierzbowski out on the town might loosen his tongue, but there was scant evidence to confirm that theory so far. His staring, glaring eyes had frightened away three women and turned a passing military policeman a whiter shade of pale. Buntz was coming to the conclusion that bringing Wierzbowski with him and Martinez had been an error of judgement. He gave up trying to engage the monosyllabic soldier in conversation and focused his attentions back on the wide-eyed Martinez.

  "After you've made yourself sick on pineapple juice, we move on to the Squeeze Inn. That's a bar and grill I once went to, where they serve the best octopus on Oahu, fresh off the boat, seared over a blazing fire and sprinkled with lemon juice, salt and pepper. I tell you, Juan, that's some good eating."

  "Octopus?"

  "Yeah, mainly the tentacles."

  "Tentacles?"

  Buntz laughed as the young soldier's face shaded to green. "All that time on board and you never threw up. Now I get you on dry land and mention eating some tentacles, you look like you're gonna lose your lunch, Juan." />
  Martinez swallowed hard. "No, really, I'm fine."

  "I mean, it's not like the tentacles are still squirming around!"

  That did the trick. The raw recruit from New Mexico stumbled to the nearest gutter and emptied his stomach into a storm drain, retching violently, again and again. Buntz had managed to wipe the smile off his face by the time Martinez had straightened back up. "Feeling better?"

  The youngest of the trio wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, cleaning away the final flecks of vomit. "Much better, thanks."

  Buntz wrapped an arm around Martinez's shoulder. "That's what friends are for, Juan. That's what friends are for. Now, if my memory serves me correctly, the pineapple factory should be just around the next corner."

  General Tojo stood by a tall window in his office at the Ministry of War in Tokyo, staring out at the city beyond the rectangular panes of glass. How long until that fool of a prime minister bowed to the inevitable and resigned? How long until the Japanese Empire attacked the Americans, those self-important adventurers who dared to impose a trade embargo on Japan's ability to import oil and other crucial resources? How long until the westerners realised they had a tiger by the tail when they tried to blockade ports to Japanese vessels and froze Japanese assets overseas? Did Roosevelt and his lackeys in Washington believe they could hold back the coming storm with their ill-chosen words and idle threats?

  The general's face twisted into a scowl at the Americans' arrogance. Soon they would discover the folly of their presumptions. Soon they would learn to fear the power of the Japanese Empire. Soon they would know the true meaning of fear. It was not fear itself they should be afraid of, but those wielding it as a samurai wields his sword, with precision and economy and utter ruthlessness. When the killing blow came, the Americans would not know what hit them. They would be rocked back on their heels, shaken to the very core by the audacity and skill with which their forces had been undone. Then and only then would it be time for negotiations and diplomats, once the imperial navy and army had done their duty and all of south-east Asia was under Japanese control.

  Tojo removed his wire framed glasses and used a cloth from his pocket to clean the small, circular lenses. All of that was still in the future. For now, he needed to secure a vital new weapon for the coming war, a thunderbolt to cast into the storm of battle, a dagger of stealth to strike terror into the hearts of the Americans and their allies in the Pacific. Putting his glasses back on, the general returned to his desk and opened the plain manila folder. Inside were reports from observers along the Eastern Front, the Ostfront as the Germans liked to call it. Each made mention of three words: vampyr, terrifying, powerful. In each case, Lord Constanta or one of his acolytes had been assisting the Wehrmacht, driving fear into the hearts of Red Army units.

  The effect had been devastating. Combined with the blitzkrieg tactics that had served Germany so well in other parts of Europe, the Wehrmacht and its Rumanian allies had smashed through the Russian defences and penetrated deep into the Soviet interior. At the current rate of progress, Hitler's forces would be inside the Kremlin by December. When Moscow fell, Russian capitulation would be all but inevitable. The observation reports stressed the fact that Constanta and his vampyr forces were a small part of that success, but they had been a powerful insurgency force in key battles. Used well and used wisely, the same weapon could be even more effective in the battle for control of the Pacific.

  Tojo stroked a hand across his bald pate, subconsciously enjoying the sensation of skin upon skin, the sensuality of it. Very well, we shall make selective use of this weapon of terror, he decided. But the Imperial Japanese Army did not need outsiders to fight battles for it. If we Japanese are to embrace what Constanta has to offer, it must be done on our terms, Tojo determined, not for the benefit of this inscrutable Rumanian. The general prided himself on being a good judge of character, able to read those around him, and instinctively know their thoughts, fears and feelings, but Constanta was a closed book, impenetrable to insight or interrogation. It did not matter, Tojo was certain of that, but he was still disquieted by it.

  A knocking at his office door focused the general's thoughts. He closed the file and slid it in a desk drawer, turning an ornate brass key in the lock.

  "Enter!"

  His adjutant Suzuki opened the door and came in, nodding to Tojo before stepping aside to allow another figure in a crisp military uniform to enter. The general smiled at the arrival of Hitori, one of the most decorated soldiers in the interminable quest for supremacy in Manchuria. "It is good to see you again," the war minister said. "Come in and sit down."

  Hitori nodded and followed Tojo to the far end of the office where a baroque table and chairs waited in front of a fireplace, a delicate display of orchids standing in a Ming vase on the table. The general glanced at Suzuki, who remained waiting at the door. "Bring us green tea and warm sake," he ordered. The adjutant snapped his heels together and bowed to acknowledge the command, before withdrawing from the office, closing the door after him. Tojo sat in the chair with a clear view of the doorway, an old habit borne of too many years spent in dangerous situations where it was hard to know your friends well.

  Hitori sat down opposite the general, easing himself into the padded chair. The general knew his former adjutant was only twenty-seven, but Hitori looked older than his years. Too long spent on foreign shores, fighting brutal battles in service of the emperor had left their marks on the young officer. Hitori bore no visible scars on his face or hands, but his eyes carried the haunted look of a man who had seen damnation done in this life and been responsible for much of it. His cool, calculating eyes and emotionless face made him almost as difficult to read as Constanta. Hitori gave the impression of being effortlessly able to lead others into certain death while remaining totally self-sufficient and contained. Admirable qualities in a warrior, Tojo thought, qualities he would need if all went according to plan. "There is much we have to catch up on, my boy."

  Father Kelly stood outside the imposing white building in downtown Honolulu for the longest time, summoning the courage to go inside. People bustled by on foot, or drove past in their cars. A few tipped their hats or beeped their horns to acknowledge the priest's presence, but most were too busy going about their lives to pay him much heed. Besides, what was more natural than a man of god standing outside the Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace? The coral stone church was one of the city's oldest buildings and a local landmark.

  The priest took off his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He hadn't expected Hawaii to be so humid, the air so close. It felt like a sauna. Father Kelly replaced his hat and took a deep breath. Enough was enough, he decided. I came here for a reason. The priest crossed the boulevard and strode into the cathedral. As soon as he stepped inside the air was cooler, the atmosphere calmer. The hubbub of the street outside was replaced by the gentle murmur of prayers from the faithful, sitting in pews or kneeling before burning candles. Father Kelly gave his eyes a moment to adjust, letting them get used to the gently lit interior.

  By comparison to most cathedrals he'd been in, this was simple, almost stark. There was no gaudy gold leaf or elaborate trappings here. The walls were white, while a stark wooden altar stood at the far end of the church. Woven matting lined the aisle, soft underfoot. Even the pews were plain wood, roughly hewn, with no sign of the ornate carvings and curlicues commonly found in cathedrals stateside. The simplicity of the place pleased the priest. He had long felt uncomfortable preaching how difficult it was for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven, while serving communion wine from a solid gold chalice; and asking poor parishioners to give generously while living rent free in a rich house seemed hypocritical, at best.

  "Hello? Can I help you?" a young voice asked. The priest turned to find a Hawaiian child in the garb of an altar boy looking up at him. "Sorry, father, I didn't realise... I couldn't see your collar before."

  Father Kelly smiled. "That's all right, my son, you weren't
to know. I was looking for the confessional, actually."

  The altar boy pointed to a corner of the cathedral, where three tall wooden cubicles stood side by side, red velvet curtains drawn across each entrance to shield the occupants from view.

  "I was hoping there'd be someone to hear mine."

  "Priests have to go to confession too?"

  "None of us are perfect, my son, except the Holy Father in Rome."

  The boy nodded. "You can wait in one of the pews. When a curtain is open, it means that confessional is available." He laughed and clapped a hand over his blushing face. "Sorry, father, you probably already knew that."

  The priest shrugged. "Each place of worship has its own ways. Thank you for explaining to me what happens here." Father Kelly walked over to the pew nearest the cubicles, but didn't sit down. He waited for a few moments, biting his bottom lip. The priest was about to leave when one of the curtains was pulled aside and an old woman emerged, her head bowed. Once she had moved away, Father Kelly took her place inside the booth and pulled the curtain closed. He knelt down in front of a small wooden grill that masked a window between his booth and the centre cubicle. After a few moments, a ruddy face peered at him through the grill, while whisky soaked lips whispered the ritual greeting.

  "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," Father Kelly replied, making the sign of the cross before clasping his hands back together in prayer. "It has been three months since my last confession."

  "Why so long, my son?"

  "I was on board a troop ship that came here from San Francisco."

  "Could you not have taken confession with your unit's chaplain?"

  "I am the unit's chaplain."

  "Ah, I see, difficult." The other priest considered these facts. "But the voyage from San Francisco doesn't take three months, does it?"

  "No, father, it's..." Father Kelly didn't know how to continue. He had come this far, and now his courage was failing him, but to lie in the confessional was a sin, and he already had enough of those on his conscience.