From the Fatherland, with Love, page 42
*
Everyone in the Living learned first-hand what it was like to watch someone slowly bleed to death. A certain quantity of blood was necessary to maintain life, and when the gauge went below that level, you expired. It was almost like a car running out of gas, Mori thought. They decided to wait until after midnight to take the body away and dispose of it. They’d have to wrap it up in the meantime. A jumbo garbage bag was brought out, but they could see immediately that the corpse wouldn’t fit inside. “Shall we cut him in half?” Ishihara suggested. It was impossible to tell if he was joking or serious. Either way, Mori was shocked, but Orihara displayed his brown teeth and said, “Good idea!” Ando shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “Without an electric saw, it’d take for ever.” Most of the group were in a state of shock and weren’t thinking clearly, but Ando was calm and collected. They decided to wrap Takei like a mummy in a whole roll of garbage bags and secure the bundle with rope. Ando took charge of the operation and was soon telling everyone to hurry up: rigor mortis was setting in and making the body harder to manipulate.
They had to strip off Takei’s clothes first, to make it more difficult to trace his identity if the body was found. Ando had his team strip down to their shorts as well, so as to avoid getting blood on their clothing. “Hey, Ando, were you in your undies when you chopped up your classmate too?” Ishihara asked from his rocking chair. Mori wondered why he had to ask a question like that at a time like this. But Ando, with no change of expression, just said, “Yes, I was.” Takei’s arms and legs were already rigid, and Ando had to slice through his clothing with a knife, tearing it away section by section. The trousers and boxers were surprisingly easy to remove, but the GSG-9 uniform jacket was a challenge. The blood it was soaked in was coagulating, and the material clung to the wounds in his chest and back. The gore-covered fragments of material Ando removed from the exit wound also contained hard little white specks and a pale, net-like membrane. “What’s that white stuff?” Takeguchi asked. “Fragments of ribs,” said Ando. “And lung tissue.”
Three of them lifted Takei up while another three spread the big black garbage bags on the floor underneath. They stuffed the holes in his back and chest with wadded-up toilet paper, then turned him face up before laying him down on the plastic. “Maybe we should say a prayer or something,” somebody suggested, but Ando said, “Later.” Apparently they had to finish wrapping Takei quickly or he’d begin to decay. Ando explained that all the parasites and germs inside him had already begun an exodus of the body. “Well, I never!” said Ishihara to the dead man. “Takei! You’ve got a hard-on!” Mori decided not to look. Seeing the dead always connected him directly to the memory of his parents. “He really looks at peace, though, doesn’t he?” said Ishihara, and Shinohara said, “Maybe it was a dream come true for a weapons geek like him to go out like that.” At peace? Mori decided against his better judgment to take a peek. Takei’s skin had turned the ochre color of curried rice, his lips and mouth were twisted grotesquely, and his eyeballs seemed to be drooping out from beneath the lids. He remembered his parents’ dead faces and ran to the toilet, gagging.
As time went by, they all gradually regained some composure. Under Ando’s direction, they constructed a stretcher from two long iron pipes and reams of duct tape. Fukuda went to borrow a Speed Tribe friend’s minivan, and Miyazaki went with him. Ando and Fukuda were the only licensed drivers in the group. Orihara began folding little “spirit guide vessels” from sheets of newspaper. This was a custom he’d been initiated into as a little boy when his family visited Nagasaki, his mother’s hometown, for a funeral. Mori joined in to help make the palm-size boats, along with Yamada and Toyohara and Orihara’s fellow Satanists Kondo, Sato, Miyazaki, and Shibata. They reinforced the floors of the vessels with cardboard and coated the bottoms and sides with wax. Doing delicate work like this with their hands helped to calm them down. “I killed Takei-san, didn’t I?” Toyohara said again, as if to confirm his worst suspicions. Sato shook his head. “It was an accident,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault,” Yamada said, and Toyohara gazed at his bandaged hand and muttered, “It felt unbelievable, though.” According to Orihara, they needed candles and flowers and fruit for the spirit guides, so Shibata set out for a convenience store.
Kaneshiro’s strange excitement hadn’t diminished. Ishihara took him aside and spoke to him about madness. “Madness isn’t something you can suppress,” he began, “but you can’t give it free rein either. You’ve spent your life dreaming of murder and mayhem, and now that this has happened right before your eyes you’re getting all excited, and there’s nothing abnormal about that in itself, but what happened didn’t happen because of anything you did or anything under your control. It’s only natural if it makes you go a bit mental, but just remember that if you try to suppress madness, it condenses into a little ball, and one day the ball will explode. Normal and mad aren’t really that clearly distinguishable. And ‘normal’ has nothing to do with the missionary position. Madness lies within, but what we might call the essence of fellowship—the something that symbolizes normality—is always floating around somewhere outside. I and I made this happy discovery after a solid century of research and experience.”
“But you’re not even fifty yet, are you?” Kaneshiro said, and Ishihara slapped him on the forehead and said, “Shut up and listen.” Kaneshiro said, “Ouch,” and sulked a bit, but his eyes were a little less weird now. “As I and I was saying, the essence of fellowship that’s floating around somewhere is a fragile thing, hard to pin down, very elusive and ephemeral. The sense of being connected with others, or being needed by others—that’s something that requires faith, because it can never be proven. Just look,” he said, taking Kaneshiro’s pointed chin in his hand and pushing his head up and down and to either side. “Can you see the essence of fellowship floating there?” he said. “All I see is the ceiling and the walls and the floor,” Kaneshiro mumbled, and Ishihara burst out laughing. “Exactly,” he said. “You only get to actually see it maybe two or three times in a lifetime.”
Mori was walking with Yamada and Toyohara through the residential section of Atagohama. If the group had all gone together, they’d have drawn attention to themselves, so they were heading for their destination—the breakwater at the north-eastern edge of Atagohama—in twos and threes. They had carried Takei’s vinyl-wrapped corpse to the van on the makeshift stretcher and slid it into the back, along with some concrete blocks, chains, ropes, and Orihara’s spirit guide vessels. After Ishihara told them to wear black since it was a funeral of sorts, Mori and Yamada had gone back to Building H to change into black shirts and jackets. Neither of them had black trousers, so Mori put on a pair of midnight-blue sweatpants and Yamada made do with gray jeans. Toyohara was wearing a navy-blue, skintight running shirt and a pair of dark-green shorts. On the back of the running shirt was the distinctive M of the University of Michigan.
“I couldn’t believe how much blood there was,” Toyohara said as they walked along. It had taken a long time to clean it all up. Takeguchi had fetched some chlorine from his bomb lab to use on the concrete floor, but a dark stain still remained. Mori turned to Toyohara and asked if his hand didn’t hurt. Since no one in the group had a certificate of residence, they naturally had no health insurance either, which complicated things if they got sick or hurt. When Shibata developed appendicitis about six months ago, Ishihara had managed to arrange an appendectomy for him through an acquaintance at the Junior Chamber of Commerce. For stomachaches and colds they bought over-the-counter medicines and rested, and for serious cuts or infections they sometimes used dubious extracts that Shinohara had harvested from his frogs and centipedes. Toyohara said he didn’t know why but it didn’t hurt much at all. Maybe he was still numb with shock. “I really feel bad about Takei-san, though… When I was a kid and cut down that guy on the bullet train, I was amazed how easy it is to kill a person if you have a good weapon, and I feel the same way now. Most people don’t think they’d die that easy. It’s a huge thing to realize.”
The road through the residential area was dotted with potholes filled with gravel that crunched beneath their shoes. The typhoon several years before had done a lot of damage here. Many homes had been gutted, but people had patched the roofs and walls of others and were still living in them. When the hundred and twenty thousand reinforcements arrived, they’d be staying right near here. It was one in the morning, but they could hear the earth-movers and generators still running at the danchi. It seemed the Koryos were going to work twenty-four hours a day.
The Koryos hadn’t heard the gunshots or shown up at Building C after all; Mori had been mistaken when he thought he saw the soldier staring back at him. The noise they were making at the construction site must have drowned out the gunshots. Mori’s relief was tinged with a certain sense of powerlessness; it was as if they were beneath the Koryos’ notice. They had decided to fight, but no one had any idea how to go about it. They had weapons, but the weapons were all of different types and nobody had any experience operating them. Before they’d inflicted so much as a scratch on the enemy, one of their own was already dead because of a boneheaded accident. And the enemy still didn’t even know they existed.
A cold onshore wind was blowing. The sky was cloudy, with no moon or stars. A baby cried somewhere in the distance but soon stopped. Where the residential district ended, they came to a wide street, and when they had crossed it, sea smells rose to meet them. The dark expanse of the bay was to their right. To their left, in silhouette, was a row of abandoned, half-built condominium towers; and in the distance, beyond these skeletons, they could make out the Dome and the Sea Hawk Hotel.
The minivan had already arrived at the breakwater. Matsuyama, Ando, and Felix were in the back of the van, attaching the concrete blocks to Takei’s body with the ropes and chains. The breakwater stuck out into the bay in the shape of an F. Near the middle it dipped down to nearly water level, and the van was parked in that depression. Ando and the others had pulled the stretcher partway out of the van, so that one end rested on the breakwater’s edge. They were going to slide Takei down it and into the water. Shibata lit up the operation with a hooded flashlight. Four of them crouched on the breakwater, holding the stretcher tight, while six others each lifted a concrete block. Inside the van, Miyazaki held the head of the bundle that was Takei while Ando, standing outside, took the feet. “Here we go,” Ando said quietly and pulled hard while Miyazaki pushed. As Takei began to slide over the edge, Matsuyama and the others hurled their concrete blocks. They splashed into the water in rapid succession and disappeared, followed immediately by Takei’s body.
They concealed the minivan amid the condo ruins, then each of them put some candles, flowers, and fruit in their pockets and carried two of the spirit guide vessels—one in either hand—down the steps on the sheltered side of the breakwater. There were only the gentlest of rolling waves here. No one spoke. They gathered around Orihara, who showed them how to prepare the little boats. He peeled a tangerine and placed half of the peel in each of his two vessels. Everyone else did the same, and the scent of sweet citrus wafted in the air. Orihara then placed several small, daisylike flowers in each boat, dripped wax from a lit candle onto the cardboard floor, and set the candle in it like a mast. He climbed carefully across the rocks at the water’s edge and launched his two vessels. Everyone then proceeded to do the same. Ever so slowly, the tide pulled the little boats out toward the open sea. They squatted on the rocks and silently watched as the candles gradually spread out, the flames reflecting off the dark water like stars in a morphing constellation. With each gust of wind, the fragile flames flickered and threatened to go out, and as soon as the boats left the protection of the breakwater they’d undoubtedly tip right over. They were the feeblest, most unreliable lights Mori had ever seen. But they were also the most beautiful. He was surprised to find that tears were rolling down his cheeks. Not wanting anyone to see, he quickly wiped them away and bowed his head. But when he glanced up, Yamada too was wiping his eyes. Mori looked around him. Tateno and Matsuyama and Sato and Shinohara, Felix and Fukuda and Takeguchi—all were wiping away tears as they watched the spirit guides float away. We’re all sad—the moment he realized that, he remembered what Ishihara had said to Kaneshiro: The essence of fellowship is floating around somewhere. It was something very frail, very fragile, very indistinct. Like those spirit guide vessels, maybe. Mori experienced a mysterious sensation of warmth radiating out from his core. The sense of fellowship was a quiet thing, he thought. It wasn’t about believing that they were inseparable, or about acting in concert or joining hands. It was about gazing together at those weak, indistinct, and soon-to-be-extinguished flames.
“But, I mean, what was that geezer’s life all about?” Ishihara wondered aloud. They were back up on the breakwater, and he was staring down at the spot where Takei had sunk. “He gets downsized at his job, fails to kill himself, heads off to Yemen or wherever, gets downsized there too, swears off alcohol and massage parlors, and puts all his money into accumulating weapons, and dies on the day he finally unveils his prized collection.” There were no traces left of Takei on the breakwater or in the water below. He’d been so well sealed in the vinyl that not a drop of blood had escaped. There was nothing to see but the gray concrete and the dark sea. They began plodding back to the warehouse. “On the other hand,” Shinohara said, “today, with the show, may have been the high point of his life.” Ando muttered, “Everybody has to die when their time comes.” Ishihara raised his head and looked at the Sea Hawk Hotel in the distance. This high-rise building was meant to be shaped like a ship, but from here it looked more like a knife. It pierced the low-lying layer of clouds, the red light at its tip winking on and off. That light was the exact opposite of the now-vanished lights of the spirit guides. It seemed to be mocking them all as they straggled homeward. And it seemed to symbolize, and flaunt, the power of the Koryos. Everyone must have been feeling it—they all kept their heads turned away from the winking red light as they walked along.
Except Ishihara, that is. He continued to gaze at it. “The Koryos have their camp next to that hotel,” he said, and laughed with a clucking ku-ku-ku sound. Mori stopped in his tracks. Please don’t start with that laugh at a time like this, he thought. But Ishihara had already started—now doubling over, now bending over backwards as he cackled. His performance didn’t have the same edge it normally had, however—it was a desperate, fuck-it-all sort of laugh. “If we could just knock down that hotel,” he gurgled, “we could kill ’em all!” Nobody laughed along with him. Why make such stupid cracks, Mori wondered, when everyone was feeling so crushed and hopeless? But now Takeguchi drew to a halt. “What did you just say, Ishihara-san?” Ishihara stopped laughing abruptly and scowled. “Takeguchi, don’t make us say the same crappy joke twice. This isn’t pleasant for anybody. What I and I said was, if we could just knock down that hotel, we could kill all the Koryos.”
“Hang on a minute,” Takeguchi said, with a serious frown, and glanced at Fukuda. The two of them exchanged a few words in undertones and nodded back and forth. Mori heard fragments here and there—“RDX,” “cookie,” “LSC.” Finally Takeguchi turned back to Ishihara, then ran his eyes over the rest of the group and pointed at the Sea Hawk Hotel.
“It wouldn’t be easy to bring down a building like that,” he said. “But it’s not impossible.”
6
NIGHT IN TOKYO
April 7, 2011
KAI TOMONORI, known in the Home Affairs Ministry as “Tom,” at last finished writing up his report on the leak of the resident codes in Fukuoka. He had spent the past four days and nights working on it after being specifically instructed not to delegate the task to anyone else, presumably to ensure that the media didn’t get their hands on it. This was the first time he’d ever had to write a ministry report without any assistance. It was exhausting work, and essentially meaningless, simply about covering his own ass. By the time he left the office, passing a dozen or so armed SDF soldiers standing outside, it was already past eleven at night. It would soon be April 8. Over four hundred ships were in ports along the east coast of North Korea, apparently due to set sail in the afternoon of April 9. Four ports had been cited—Rajin, Chongjin, Kimchaek, and Wonsan—but according to information from US military satellites, more ships appeared to be gathering at Tanchon, Ranam, Kyongsong, Riwon, Sinpo, Rason, and Sinhung. If what the terrorists calling themselves the Koryo Expeditionary Force had said was true, these ships would be on their way within the next thirty-odd hours. The fleet included converted fishing boats that were small and slow, and skirting South Korean territorial waters would further slow them down, but they were likely to arrive some forty or so hours after leaving port. It was a major crisis, and all the government buildings were brightly lit up as politicians and civil servants alike worked around the clock. While one team was planning rescue operations in the event of a biological or chemical weapons attack in Fukuoka, another was examining ways to secure the communications networks in all the principal cities.
