of the body leads to clarity of the mind. He’d have reminded her that it was only when her arms were so tired she could hardly hold her sword that she learned her best technique. This was no coincidence; it was because she couldn’t use physical strength that her technique had to be perfect.
Similarly, it was because she’d been working her ass off for fourteen hours straight that she could now sit in a Zen-like state of calm. Six o’clock in the morning, she thought. On a Wednesday. The bomb went off on a Tuesday afternoon, and notably not on a Sunday, the busiest flying day of the week. This attack wasn’t meant to run up a body count; it was meant to deliver a message.
Akahata’s attempt at bombing the subway was supposed to send the same message. And Mariko realized that if Kusama buried the Divine Wind’s involvement in the Haneda bombing the same way he covered up their connection to Akahata, he’d be playing right into Joko Daishi’s hands. Mariko couldn’t stand aside and let that happen.
“Han, have you seen Captain Kusama?”
“Hell, everyone’s seen him. He made himself the media point man on this thing.”
“Damn.”
“Don’t write him off. He’s doing a good job. You should hear him play those reporters. For hours he had all of them saying ‘explosion,’ not ‘bombing’—”
“Because explosions aren’t necessarily attacks,” Mariko said. “They can be accidental.”
“Smart, neh? Controlling public perception from the get-go. Now he’s saying ‘bombing’ and so are they.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet you ten thousand yen he’s not telling the whole truth. Has he mentioned Joko Daishi by name?”
“No. But we’ve got a lot of evidence to collect before we jump to that conclusion.”
Mariko gave him a stern look. “Come on. You’re sure too.”
“Yeah. I guess I am.” One hand scratched his cheek where his sideburn used to be. “But I don’t get how he could have ordered this from prison.”
“He didn’t have to. We let him go this morning.” She told him all about her meeting with Captain Kusama, and about Joko Daishi’s release along with his mask. “Han, I think I know how he picked his targets. I need to talk to the captain—and I could use your help in explaining things to him. Every time I open my mouth around him, I just piss him off.”
“You? Piss off a CO? No way.”
He chuckled and offered her a hand. She didn’t mind letting him help her to her feet; she was more tired than she’d ever been. So much the better, she thought. If she didn’t have the emotional energy to explode at Kusama, she couldn’t get herself suspended.
5
Finding Captain Kusama was easy; they just had to look for the reporters. Mariko spotted CNN and BBC in the herd now, and Deutsche Welle, and a host of other gaijin correspondents as well. They and their Japanese counterparts formed a tight semicircle around Kusama, out on the sidewalk just outside what used to be the main entrance to Terminal 2—Ground Zero, everyone was calling it now. There really wasn’t a better name for it. Kusama had chosen his backdrop well, and not because the dramatic background would emphasize his own importance. The floodlights from the cameras killed all the shadows and made everything around him seem unnaturally white. There would be no lurid, high-contrast images of Ground Zero beaming back to all those foreign news networks. Even under attack, Japan would appear neat and orderly.
Mariko found Lieutenant Sakakibara not far from where she found Kusama, and though he and the captain had arrived in the same car, they looked like they’d come from different planets. Kusama was energetic in front of the cameras. Somehow he’d even kept his uniform immaculate. Sakakibara was as pale as a ghost, dusted head to toe just like Han and Mariko. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and red teardrops stood out all up and down his forearms. Mariko didn’t ask how he’d spent the night, but whatever he’d been up to, he’d sustained dozens of tiny lacerations doing it.
He sat in the lee of a disaster management truck the National Police Agency had parked where the terminal doors used to be, a giant Mercedes Unimog painted in stripes of blue and white. Sakakibara sat on one of the big, knobby tires, elbows on his knees, his head and hands dangling toward the floor like heavy fruit from thin branches. “A little pick-me-up, sir?” Han said. He proffered a little bottle of vodka he’d stowed in