The Samurai Strategy Part 59

Kenji Asano turned to stare at me, his eyes gradually filling with an enormous realization.

You know, I used to have a hobby of reading biographies of the geniuses who'd come up with the truly original insights of modern times. How, I puzzled, did they manage it? I mean, did Newton really watch an apple fall and intuitively sense it was responding to some invisible force?

Maybe. Or how about Einstein's insight that matter and energy are really the same thing? Or that s.p.a.ce can be curved? Whatever happened, they made a connection that n.o.body else in history had ever come up with.

Who can explain how these breakthroughs happen? They're always the result of standing off and viewing reality in a wholly new way.

With apologies, I've invoked some heavy names. But the point is, there are transcendental moments when a given set of circ.u.mstances is suddenly seen to fit more than one paradigm of how the universe functions.

Standing there looking at the silver case, Kenji Asano saw the apple fall from the tree. And I was only seconds behind him.

New insight number one: Something very fishy was going on with the Imperial Sword, something which would not necessarily stand the light of day. (On that one I was actually several seconds ahead.)

Number two: If the truth came out, j.a.pan would be a laughingstock worldwide. Worse, His Imperial Majesty would have egg all over his Imperial face. As would Matsuo Noda. Hence the box, having served it's PR purpose, had to go.

Number three: The first two insights pointed to the very real possibility that Matsuo Noda had long since pa.s.sed around the bend, sanity-wise. But whether he had or not, one thing was clear--that silver case contained everything we needed to nail Dai Nippon.

Who knew for sure what was in it. But Ken and I both realized at that instant the contents had to be pure dynamite.

What happened next I probably wouldn't have believed if I hadn't been standing there to witness it with my very own eyes. Kenji Asano was calmly extracting a Peace cigarette from the packet in his left breast pocket and inserting it in his mouth. Then his right hand came up and out of his thumbnail flared one of those wooden matches he liked so much.

"_Asano-san, sumimasen_." The senior staff man stepped forward and blurted out, "No smoking, please."

"Sorry," replied Asano, and he flicked the still burning match toward the waste bin there at the end of the table-- which just happened to be piled high with the solvent pads they'd been using to scour the _tsuba_. A lab can be a dangerous place, and this one was no exception.

A microsecond thereafter the floor was carpeted in flame.

Later I theorized what must have occurred, remembering a long-ago personal disaster that almost got me kicked out of college. The heavy aromatic solvent they were using, probably a benzene compound, had vaporized off the cleaning pads, drifted down over the sides of the container, and was hovering as an invisible, heavier-than-air cloud just above the floor at

knee level. The exact same thing happened to me once in a Chem 201 lab-- during an after-hours endeavor wherein I was steaming out a twenty- gallon benzene container preparatory to an experiment on the propensity of brewer's yeast to convert grape sugar into potable ethanol. The sink happened to be situated next to a gas-fired hot-water heater--which suddenly kicked on. Next thing I knew, the heavy fumes around my ankles detonated. Along with the lab fire alarm.

That explosion, as this one, was actually minor, mostly noise, though it sounded like a bomb. The fumes flashed and it was over, leaving no damage other than to the nervous system of any bystanders. This time, however, there was an added ingredient. The waste container. It had become an instant inferno, billowing dark, toxic smoke into the room.

As yelling lab technicians began rus.h.i.+ng in with fire extinguishers, everybody else was bolting for the exits, including the security people. All in all, it seemed a reasonably propitious moment to make our own departure as well, since we'd been the cause of the ruckus. Ken fumbled around in the smoke now obscuring the workbench till he recovered his briefcase, and then we headed out.

At the door I caught sight of the Household official and bowed my thanks.

"_Domo arigato gozaimas.h.i.+ta_. I am deeply honored by this opportunity to view the Imperial Sword of Emperor Antoku." I bowed again. He nodded back and glared at Asano.

I'd planned to thank Noda too, but he was still in there with the confusion, undoubtedly standing personal guard over his Sacred Sword.

Let him stay. There was no real danger. The fire should be out in no time. It was mainly smoke anyway.

Ken was also bowing his farewells to one and all. Then, as though on cue, we both started edging toward the main hallway. By now security people were running down the corridors and the place was in pandemonium.

When we reached the lobby, I almost wanted to bolt for the outer door, but we managed to keep our exit dignified, businesslike. Finally as we cleared the last security checkpoint, I turned to him.

"You really should be more careful with your smokes, Ken." I lowered my voice. "Manage to grab it?"

"In my briefcase."

"Then let's get the h.e.l.l out of here. Noda's going to figure out what happened any second now and go totally bananas."

"I doubt he will be pleased."

"Tell you one thing, that silver case has got to disappear, fast. Or we're likely to vanish ourselves. We may anyway." I quickened my pace toward the parking lot. "You know, I've got a wild hunch what's in that box. But whatever it is, I do know for sure we'd better get the thing somewhere for safekeeping. Quick."

"Should we tell Tamara?" He glanced down at the smoke- smeared briefcase in his hands, as though holding a cobra.

"She's got to know everything. For her own safety."

"Matthew," he said, looking at me. "You're supposed to be an authority.

So tell me the truth. You were behaving strangely in there. It's a fake, isn't it?"

"Ken, during the Middle Ages about fifty different monasteries in Europe possessed the authentic, consecrated relic of Christ's circ.u.mcision. Who's to say? Remember Francis Bacon's 'What is truth?'

j.a.pan's emperor is now and forever. That's the only 'truth' that matters."

"What are you saying?"

"That sword belongs to the people of j.a.pan. Ask them if it's real."

"Well, you've learned enough about this country to be able to get your message across without actually spelling it out. Very j.a.panese." He stared at me. "You'll have to concede one thing, though. Matsuo Noda is an absolute genius. Think about it. He claimed to have a.n.a.lyzed the sword, then donated the data to the Imperial Household--knowing there would be only one place on earth where it could be right out in public and yet never actually examined. In a fancy silver case kept by a bunch of Household bureaucrats, not one of whom would have the presumption to open it. Or be able to understand anything if he did."

My own nagging thoughts at that moment were on a different track. Why had Noda offered to let me see my own piece? To flaunt the dimensions of his b.a.l.l.s? Or was he starting to believe his own trumped-up fantasy?

Had Matsuo Noda convinced himself he was G.o.d? That he could turn water into wine? Or a fifteenth-century metallurgical screw-up into . . . The more I thought about it, the scarier it got. Or maybe, just maybe, he thought I wouldn't recognize it with a different hilt. Could be he was right. But Ken and I had accidentally viewed it disa.s.sembled. That wasn't part of his little inside joke. For once Matsuo Noda had blown it.

"Ken, everything I've learned about Noda so far tells me he's going to do something totally unexpected the minute he realizes we took that."

"Let him. I want to know what's in it."

"Do the world a favor. No. Never, never open it."

He paused a second and looked down at his briefcase.

"Maybe you're right. It's better for everybody if it just disappears."

By then we'd fully cleared the outer doors. The day was turning gorgeous, sunny and brisk. The thin film of last night's snow was all but gone.

Abruptly he stopped. "Wait, Matthew. Think a minute. We have to at least make a copy of the contents. And it needs to be gotten out of j.a.pan."

"To protect ourselves?"

"Precisely."

"Okay, I'll buy that. Got any ideas?"

"Well, first let's go pick up Tam. Then I'd like to transmit digital facsimiles of whatever's in here to New York. She can set up a file in DNI's big NEC mainframe, and only the three of us will know the file name. It'll be your, and her, insurance policy."

"Can we do that from here?"

"In fifteen minutes. There's the Teleconferencing Center over next to Electrotechnical. They've got everything we'll need."