James Clavell - Gai-Jin

Hiraga had already decided the same. He tore at the kimonos covering their swords.

"Akimoto, we kill him."

"Wait! Here!" Urgently Tyrer handed Hiraga a large envelope that contained letters of introduction to his father and uncle, also a solicitor, and to the dean of his university. "I was going to explain them on the cutter," he said hurriedly, "no time now, Jamie, you do it for me." He looked at Hiraga deeply a last time and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, I'll always be your friend, come back safely." He felt the strong grip, saw for an instant a smile, then turned and in a cold sweat went to meet the enemy.

The captain had already covered half the jetty when Tyrer planted himself in the middle of the planks and bowed with great formality. A grunt, the man hesitated, his hand on his long sword, then bowed back. When he tried to pass Tyrer bowed again and said in his best Japanese, deliberately ponderous, "Ah Sir Officer, I want say you how samurai men good fight fire.

Remembering from Yedo, yes? Please excuse me, on behalf my Master, Head Gai-jin in Nippon, accept great thank for help save all houses ours."

"Yes, thank you, now I want to see th--"

"See? Look there, Sir Officer!" Tyrer pointed at the town and all around, his Japanese dissolving more and more into gibberish as each time the man tried to walk around him he moved into his path.

"See what fire h--"

"Out of the way!" the samurai said angrily, his breath heavy with the stench of daikon, horseradish. "Move!"

But Tyrer pretended not to understand and flailed his arms to block him, trying to make it appear unintentional and careful not to touch him, saying how awful the devastation was and how well the samurai had performed--Jamie and the others were behind him so he had no way of judging how much time he had, then the officer snarled, "Baka!" he saw his face twist with rage and readied for the blow but at that second he heard Jamie call out, "Cast off, for Christ's sake!" and he was roughly shoved aside as the man ran for the boat.

Panting, Tyrer picked himself up and, wet with relief, saw the cutter swerving off at full throttle, the other three ducking into the cabin, bosun in the wheelhouse, seaman at the prow, the cabin lights doused the instant the samurai reached the jetty's head, his bellowing shout, calling them back, drowned by the engine. The moment before the lights went out and Hiraga and Akimoto turned their backs, Tyrer thought he saw their faces clearly--if he did the officer must have done.

"Imagination," Phillip gasped, already hurrying away in the fastest walk possible. He raised his hat to the samurai around the fire who acknowledged him perfunctorily, and by the time he heard the Japanese shout of "You, come here," he was swallowed in the crowd. When it was safe he broke into a trot, and did not begin to breathe until he was safe in the Legation.

"Good gracious, Phillip," Bertram said, popeyed, "you poor dear, what on earth's the matter?"

"Oh fuck off," Tyrer said, not over the close call.

"Why should he do that?" Sir William asked from his office doorway, his face taut and voice harsh.

"Oh, oh sorry sir, it was... just a pleasantry."

An irritable grunt greeted that.

"Phillip, your brains are addled!

Where the devil have you been? There's a note from the Bakufu marked urgent on your desk to translate, a dispatch for Sir Percy to copy that must go with Atlanta Belle tonight, four insurance claims to stamp--I've already signed and approved them. When you've done that come and find me. I'll either be here or at the jetty seeing the passengers off--well don't just stand there!

Hurry up!"

Sir William went back into his office and closed his door and leaned against it. Inexorably his eyes went to Andr`e's file neatly centered on his desk. Sadness welled up again.

When Angelique had left he had hardly moved for an hour or more, trying to decide, desperate to be correct, for truly this was a life and death issue. His mind had wandered into the byways of his own experience: to his boyhood in England, to the Paris Desk, to St.

Petersburg, his house there and the garden and laughing with Vertinskya in spring and summer and autumn and winter, loving her; then back to England again, to missions in the battlefields of the Crimea, and into swirling, smoky dark passages that frightened him.

He was glad that Phillip's voice had drawn him back to normality. Again his eyes wandered over the room and the fire and to the file, passed that to the lovely young face in the miniature smiling at him. His heart broke as it always did and then repaired itself. A little less each time.

He went over and picked the miniature up and studied it, every brush stroke already etched on his mind. If I didn't have her portrait, would I have forgotten her face as Angelique and her Malcolm? "No answer to that one, Vertinskya, my darling," he said sadly, near tears, setting it down again. "Maybe I would--your face--but never you, never never never you."

And much as he tried to go back to live again the time he had been most alive, Andr`e's file was an iron door between them.

God damn him!

Never mind that, make the decision. No more shillyshallying, he ordered himself. Back to work, deal with this problem so you can go on to more important matters like Yoshi and the coming war against Satsuma-- you are Her Britannic Majesty's Minister.

Act like one!

The correct and only proper way to deal with Andr`e's file is to seal it, to write a private report that relates what occurred and when, what was said and by whom, then to seal that and send it all to London and let them decide. Lots of secrets in their vaults and archives. If they want it to be secret, that's up to them.

Good, that's the correct, right and only course.

Confident he was making the right decision, he gathered the pages and, one by one, fed them to the fire, humming to himself, watching them curl and blacken and burn. This isn't ill-advised.

They're not positive proof and anyway the poor girl was a victim, Andr`e was a dangerous and active undercover agent for an enemy power and if half the evils listed in his secret dossier are correct, he deserved to go over the moon a dozen times. Truth or lies, in this instance dust is going to dust.

When it was done he raised his glass to the miniature, feeling very good. "For you, my darling," he said.

It was getting towards midnight when Tyrer finally hurried out of the Legation and headed for the Struan jetty. His head ached like never before, he had had no time for supper, no time to think about Hiraga or Fujiko, no time to do anything but work. He carried an official H.m.

Government dispatch satchel and in his pocket was the translation that he had done last and wished he had done first. His pace quickened.

The jetty was thronged. A few people were there seeing off the last of the passengers, but most of the men noisily surrounded the Belle's Purser who was accepting last-minute mail for Hong Kong and Shanghai Head Offices--insurance agents, suppliers, shippers, banks--anyone and everyone who needed to know about the fire and damage. He saw Angelique chatting with Gornt. On the other side of the crowd Pallidar was talking to some officers who were boarding as passengers, and near the head of the jetty he spotted Sir William in conversation with Maureen Ross. Seeing her immediately reminded him of Jamie and Hiraga, and of his promise to Jamie to clear the "students" with his superior. He eased through the crowd.

"Evening, Miss Maureen, excuse me Sir William, but you might want to see this."

He handed him the translation. "I'll make sure the dispatches get safe aboard." Quickly he turned away for the Purser, not wanting to stay close at hand for the inevitable explosion. The Purser was a short, dyspeptic man and the haphazard queue of men jostling for position around him was still long. Tyrer pushed his way to the head, disregarding the "Wait your bloody turn," saying, "Sorry, Sir William's orders, H.m.'s business. A receipt, please."