The meeting here is ostensibly between Mako and the Younts, but the Reverend is accompanying them, and Makoto isn't alone either . . .
"Kyoto looks bigger than I thought, Reverend." said Mr. Yount.
"That's not Kyoto, Mr. Yount," said the Reverend. "Kyoto is about an hour and a half, two hour-drive, usually. What you see here is either Osaka or the towns around it. This is the closest airport you can fly into from the States."
James Lee Swainson had been to Japan before, but of course the Younts had not; they really knew nothing of this place. The husband peered out of his window down at the land below. The reverend could pick up that he was genuinely fascinated by this strange new place, even under all his apprehensions
.Mrs. Yount wasn't looking at anything. She was terrified of flying, and as the airliner tilted and pitched to and fro and ominous sounds emerged from its bounds as the aircraft spiraled down to the airport or a less inviting portion of ground. She was reciting psalms in her mind, eyes closed.
Fine was silent. He was ticking off details on his mental checklist, anticipating problems that might turn up. Customs? Probably little chance of trouble there. Media? Hino had assured him the government wanted to keep this meeting as quiet as they could. Still, there would probably be a freelancer or two at the airport, or just someone with a camera who would recognize Swainson . . .
Jimmy Lee Swainson turned his eyes and his mind away from Fine and the rest and looked down into the city, and beyond it. Somewhere down there was Mrs. Urawa. And more . . . something more.
The Reverend found himself licking his lips, dry-mouthed, wanting a drink.
"We are finished here, Mr. Fine. And one of our people has already seen to your client and his guests." The official thumbed through the sheaf of papers once more, shook and tapped them into neat stack, and set them down on his desk where Michael Fine could easily reach them. "Do you want to take custody of the luggage now? Or would you rather have it delivered directly?"
"I'd better take it myself. Our host is making private arrangements," said Michael Fine, wondering if the Custom's man knew more about those arrangements than he did.
The official used his interphone to bark out some brief orders, and then said, "I've summoned passenger assistants to handle the luggage. You must be anticipating a long stay."
"Possibly," said Fine.
The official nodded politely, and then swivelled to his workstation.
Customs had been reasonable; perhaps a bit longer wait than might have been warr
anted, but the officials were courteous. Had they been warned to expect them? He couldn't tell; perhaps they simply knew this must be an important man and his retinue, someone it would do to be especially correct with. Fine had had no occasion to meet the head of customs at Kansei airport on previous trip, but he doubted if this man was a plant. He'd seen enough of him to know he fit in with the rest.While the Reverend and the Younts waited out of sight in a private room, one of the possible amenities for the most exclusive customers of JAL, Michael Fine was seeing to the arrang
ements. This wasn't unfamiliar ground for him; before the Reverend had asked for his services, much of his experience as an attorney had been as a glorified gofer. Still, he didn't resent doing this chore . . . he didn't like it but he didn't resent it, because he knew that Swainson had him doing it because he didn't want to trust anyone else, even the NGC here.Ostensibly they were going to Kyoto because it would make Mrs. Urawa more co
mfortable; the children would still be in Tokyo, of course, living in the home of a Captain in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police. But Kyoto was where the Tenous lived, and the Reverend had a definite interest in them.<What is he really up to?> Michael Fine wondered once again. Coming with the Younts without publicity made little sense unless he was truly concerned with them, or was using them to cover something else. <Both, or neither . . . is that daughter of his crazy because she thinks she can read his thoughts, or because she can read his thoughts?>
A warble from the Interphone presently drew the attention of the Customs man. After a few more commands, he cheerfully announced that the skycaps had arrived and indicated the uniformed young woman who would take him to meet them at the luggage pickup.
Along with the two skycaps to shepherd the luggage carts, there was another, an attractive young woman who spoke an educated English. She said she was from airport administration, and was here to help him and his client's party. She did not mention the name of his client, or even his title.
As they made their way to the rendezvous point old Hino had mentioned, the woman bubbled, "Because we are on our own island, we can operate flights all night long without fear of disturbing people living near the airport. It was very challenging and expensive to build, but now our airport is now the busiest in all Japan."
<And you might still be battling in court if you had tried to build it on land; Japanese do not leave their homes or farms lightly.> "Tokyo's Narita Airport claims it has the most passengers."
"That is true, but each year, their margin narrows. Even without the proposed expansion, we believe we will soon surpass Narita in passengers as well as the number of flights and volume of air freight . . ." She went on and on as they proceeded. Whether or not she really was a real guide or "office lady" sent on this errand, she seemed genuinely proud of the airport and area around it.
<I'm thinking like Paterson,> he told himself, as they arrived at the rendezvous.
Mrs. Yount had stopped trying to save Michael Fine's soul because she was asleep, not having slept at all the night before or on the long, long flight. Mr. Yount lasted somewhat longer, but jet lag was a new experience to him, and after thirty minutes of fighting to stay awake and see whatever there was to see in the rapidly darkening landscape, he, too, slumped bonelessly.
"Think we look too conspicuous in this big ol' German car?" said the Reverend.
"I don't think so," said Fine. "The Japanese use Mercedes limos for the same reason everyone else does: they hold up. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Mitsubishi has a share of Diamler-Chrysler now. Though I understand if you want to really make a statement that you are chic, you use a Jaguar. At least this year."
"Nice lookin' cars, Jaguars. Great Grandpa drove one until he died. But he told me, don't ever get one unless you want to spend half your life under the hood. They all look good, but they just don't hold up."
Fine felt the Reverend wasn't really talking to him. They had left Osaka behind, and were proceeding through the mountains separating the coast from the inland plain where Kyoto stands, and stood long before Col
umbus found the Bahamas instead of Japan."He was a corker, wan't he, Mr. Fine?"
"I suppose." The Reverend sounded like he might actually be drunk, but he hadn't touched any liquor on the flight. <Did he get blasted while I was gone? In front of the Younts?>
"He really left his mark on this old world. There's damned few men you can say that about, Mr. Fine. Damned few." There was something odd about the way he said "damned." He wasn't cursing; he was saying it as reverently as in prayer—and not the showboat praying he did at the pulpit. It was sincere.
<Maybe.>
The driver was behind his own window, and it wasn't likely he could understand much even if he could hear—if he was really just a limo driver with a few words of English. Probably he was. He piloted the outsize vehicle too well not to have spent years driving cars like it. Fine wondered if he should remind the Reverend to watch what he said, and how to do it. But Jimmy Lee Swainson said no more, slipping off to sleep himself, leaving Fine alone with his thoughts.
<Is he getting as crazy as his daughter? Or is it something Paterson told him?>
To Fine, the meeting seemed an anticlimax when it finally began. Mrs. Urawa came into their conference room with her Japanese attorney, Mr. Hito, whom he'd met before. There was another woman, in a tasteful suit, perhaps another attorney? Had he seen her before? More people entered, but Fine had to turn his attention to Mrs. Urawa, who began to speak.
"This is Mr. Hito, who is representing me. I have also brought three friends. I trust their judgment very much. I think you will recognize Rei; she represented me earlier, but I have known her for many years. Usagi is also my friend of many years, and I have known Dr. Watanabe since she was in high school."
"Doctor Watanabe?" prompted Fine.
"Well, I have graduated medical school," said the young woman in smooth, very American English. "I haven't quite decided on a specialty yet."
"You wouldn't have a father practicing in California, would you?"
She hesitated, and so did Mrs. Urawa and her friends, though not Hito the lawyer. "My father died many years ago."
"Was he a Christian?" piped Mrs. Yount.
"Our family are mostly Methodists, Mrs. Yount."
This would have been a good time for the Reverend to intercede, but he seemed to be fascinated by something else . . . the girls assisting Mrs. Chiba and Ms. Hino. He couldn't quite make out what they or the Reverend were saying, because Mrs. Yount had begun to preach. <Could it be that "twins" thing?> One of them had to belong to Minako Jones, but she wasn't here . . . why? Where was she? The girls withdrew as soon as the two women in wheelchairs were settled in properly.
The Reverend seemed to recover soon, though, and he turned on his charm, gently reminding Mrs. Yount that they were here to talk about the children and their fate. It worked . . . for a little while.
The meeting went on, and on, and on. Mrs. Urawa tried to tell how the children were doing, doggedly, patiently, despairingly, between outbursts by Mrs. Yount. It wasn't hysteria; it was just that the woman would not quit. Mrs. Urawa was going to hell, and Mrs. Yount was sorry and wanted to help, but Mrs. Urawa had no right to keep her babies and certainly no right to drag her babies along with her down to Hell. She said it over, and over, and over. Every one of her replies, no matter how it began, ended with those premises. People came and went; nobody's bladder was that big or strong.
On break he decided to extend into a few sanity-restoring moments with coffee, he ran across Dr. Watanabe. He asked if he could join her in her booth, and she nodded. American voices and manners turned heads in the coffee shop, clearly not on the Foreign Tourist round.
He wasn't sure why he was there; maybe a simple pickup, maybe curiosity about why she looked familiar. "I'm sorry about that remark about your father . . . but I know someone with your name. You do look sort of like him."
"Maybe a distant cousin. There's a lot of Watanabes, even back in the States." She sipped her tea. "No harm. You couldn't have known."
He shrugged. "I lost a cousin of mine this year. She was a doctor like you."
"Yes, I know."
"You know?"
"Usagi-san told me."
"She did, did she?" He stirred in more cream, and took a long sip. "Then why do you think I'm here?"
"Maybe to meet a pretty girl. Maybe to negotiate where Mrs. Yount can't hear you . . . or the Reverend."
He shrugged again, and took another sip. "Maybe. You're a doctor, not a lawyer, though . . . are you thinking of going into psychiatry, by any chance?"
"Yes." She sipped her tea.
"So you must have something like a professional impression of Mrs. Yount."
"You might put it that way."
"Would you care to share it with me?"
She took another sip. "All right. Mrs. Yount should never be allowed authority over the children. She's dangerous."
"She's hard to take, but dangerous?"
Dr. Watanabe nodded firmly. "Right now, she seems annoying but harmless. But that is not a permanent condition. If you look at her case history as I have—and I think you've seen a lot of it—you'll see the pattern. She finds a new messiah every few years. She gives him total devotion, until he proves unsatisfactory, and then—"
"The Reverend isn't like the last one, or even the one before."
She snorted, and smiled in a rather frightening way. Then she sipped, and after another significant moment, said: "It doesn't matter. No real person can live up to her expectations forever. And when that happens, she's extremely dangerous to herself and anyone in her control." She sipped again. "I don't think there will be one after your Reverend, Mr. Michael Fine. If she doesn't have someone to worship in this world, she's going to do her damndest to get to the next one, and bring as much company along as she can manage." She sipped again. "And you believe it. And yet you are still helping the Reverend 'help' the Yount family."
Fine stirred out an imaginary clot in his coffee. "That's one diagnosis I've heard. But not the only one."
After a long silence, she said, "Makoto-san will allow them visiting rights. She will ask them to go to Christian Sunday school and services. She has all along, you know. But she will not give them to Mrs. Yount."
"What about Mr. Yount?"
"He's rather sweet and pathetic, and harmless on his own. But they are a package, aren't they?"
That was a real question. "Unfortunately, yes."
Fine could see no point in staying, but he did, long enough for the young woman to speak again. "I knew your cousin. Not that well, I'm afraid, but . . . well enough to know that she thought you were a pretty nice guy."
"Were?"
"You lie down with dogs, Mr. Michael Fine, you get up with fleas."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I wish you could get away from the Reverend Jimmy Lee." She sounded wistful.
"You aren't suggesting I betray my client, are you?"
"No, you won't do that," she said, her tones changing effortlessly indicate to absolute certainty. "Maybe we should be getting back?"
When he returned to the conference room, Michael Fine's prominent, proficient nose picked up a new odor. A sharp smell, still cutting through the other scents in the room, bringing for a moment images of leaden skies and the sting of wind-driven raindrops and hailstones. It was gone quickly, perhaps wafting out the door.
Makoto Urawa was engaged by Vera Yount, and, unsurprisingly, Vera Yount was doing the speaking, though she wasn't shouting. Hito, the attorney for Mrs. Urawa, had dozed off. Rei Hino, Mrs. Kumada, who had left the room before Fine, had not returned. Not surprising; what was surprising was that she was here in Japan at all, considering her medical problems.
But none of these things drew Michael Fine's attention as the other group in the room. Usagi Chiba was with the Reverend, far enough from Mrs. Urawa and the Younts for a separate conversation. There was someone else with her, someone who hadn't appeared before—Mrs. Umino, standing behind Mrs. Chiba's wheelchair. They had been talking when Fine entered, but they had stopped. Mrs. Umino took the handles and wheeled Mrs. Chiba away, stopping a moment for a word with Mrs. Urawa in Japanese, and then proceeding past Michael and Dr. Watanabe through the door. "It has been a long day. Perhaps tomorrow?" said Mrs. Chiba as she passed him.
Dr. Watanabe tried to detach Vera Yount from her prey, leaving Michael Fine to go to the Reverend Swainson, who hadn't moved from his spot when the two women left the room.
As Fine sat down next to the Reverend Jimmy Lee, Mrs. Urawa rose and began to leave the room. Vera Yount pursued her immediately; Alvin got up and began trailing a few paces behind, a behavior Michael had observed before. Mr. Yount neglected to shut the door. The reverend murmured, "See if they're really gone."
Fine went to the door and looked out in the hall, just in time to see Mr. Yount disappearing around a corner in a trot. That was also a behavior he remembered. Shaking his head, Fine went back inside, closing the door and pausing long enough to see that the "In Conference" light was still displayed. Obviously the Reverend had something to say.
"Anything happen while you and the young doctor were away?"
"Nothing good for our case. She's convinced Mrs. Yount is dangerous, and she's seen at least some of the diagnoses. If they have those in hand--"
"If, Michael. I don't suppose you thought she could be bluffing."
"She sounded too sure."
"She sounded sure . . . but she's not a lawyer, and she's not a real psychiatrist. She's not even a year out of medical school."
"She could convince a jury or a judge."
"If she testifies, which she won't."
<How can you be so sure of that?> But Fine left that thought unspoken.
"You look very tired, Mr. Fine," said the Reverend, rising from his chair. "Why don't you have some supper and then call it a night?"
Fine took a moment to respond properly. He was worn out, wanting to put the day behind, but no more so than on any other busy day. Then: "Won't you be needing me later?"
Swainson smiled down at him, professionally. "Not tonight, young fella. I have things I want to do on my lonesome."
<Things you don't want me to know about . . .> "What do you want me to tell Mrs. Yount if she asked?"
"I would tell her that the Reverend has some private matter to attend to. But you tell her whatever you think will settle her mind best."
"Who's that with him?" murmured Minako. Even in normal form, she could see well in any light at all.
"Mr. Paterson," said Usagi. "In a rather good disguise."
"You are reading him from here?" asked Ami, concerned.
"No, the holy man. He's like a powerful radio station. We should have expected that. He can reach large congregations. No strain at all to read him."
"No real training," remarked Stephanie Watanabe, sometimes known as Moon Angel Psi. "That's our only break. He doesn't really know how to shield his thoughts."
"He must think a lot of this Paterson to come here with only him," growled Haruka.
Ami said quickly, "Couldn't we have him arrested? Rei's father says he still doesn't have a visa. He shouldn't be in Japan."
"It would only annoy him," said Usagi. "And it wouldn't be honorable," she added for Haruka's benefit.
"Any surveillance you can find?" murmered Swainson, pausing to look around the moonlit grounds.
"There's no one else out here," he said. "But there could be all kinds of electronics. I don't have the stuff with to pick up everything, not even all the commercial stuff. You want to go on with this?"
"Yes, I do. Go back to the car."
"You sure?"
"There might be things said you wouldn't want to hear, my old friend. As you have told me many times, you don't have to worry about revealing what you don't know."
Paterson handed his flashlight to Swainson and left. When the Reverend was sure he was gone, he went up to the doors of the shrine. One swung open before he could knock. He went inside, into a room lit only by a fire burning in the center. The women were in kimono before him, except . . . Paterson turned about to see who had opened the door. "Mrs. Descartes? Whah on Earth would you be heah tonight?" he drawled.
"My family has sponsored this shrine for many generations," said Tenou's daughter. Her eyes had the look of a panther's in the dancing light—a predator restrained by some invisible leash. Just.
Swainson turned his back to her and walked to the others.
"Ya'll heah?" asked Swainson. "I mean, there won't be more? I kind of expected to meet one of the Tenou people, and Miz Jones, well, one of those little gals had to have been yours. Mah little gal told me about them. They do look so much alike . . . " He trailed off into silence; nothing but the soft roar of the fire broke it.
But he felt soft fingers inside his thoughts . . . different from Benicia, but there. He didn't try to read more than surface thoughts and emotions of the women. They had only him to focus on, and they had defenses. Still, not perfect defenses . . .
"Miz Mizuno? . . . come all the way from Africa just to see lil ol' me? Ah feel honored."
He turned and walked toward the fire a few steps. "But Miz Hino isn't around, is she? Seems a shame . . . she was some kind of altar girl at a place like this, wan't she? A place with a bit ol' fire that never stops burnin' . . ."
"Our friend is unwell," said a voice Swainson didn't recognize. "We insisted that she rest tonight."
"Yes . . . I was very surprised to find her here." He had dropped the down-home accent. "Very surprised." He turned to face them. "I know from my daughter of course. As unwell as she is, she still tells me what she can . . . which isn't much, now. I don't suppose you would tell me what you did to her?"
"If you care for your daughter so much, why did you send her into danger?" asked one of the blondes--Mrs. Jones.
"So you admit you did this to her?" Jones was not a reader, but she had experience with them--he could feel him in her mind, and knew what it was.
"If you are so concerned about Betty-san, why do you not visit her?"
Mrs. Chiba, the one bound to a wheelchair, was a reader. This Swainson knew--but still a shiver of fear went up his spine. Of course he had thought of the reason, and the reader picked up on it. <She knew> She had known before . . . This he had suspected, and he thought he was prepared, but seeing it for himself . . .
Cowardice was not one of the Reverend Johnny Lee's shortcomings, however. Discipline was one of his virtues, and the ability to think on his feet another. He scanned the others in the room. Mrs. Umino knew; the others didn't. That had to mean something . . . He returned to the attack. "I notice you aren't answering. So you did something to her, something that's close to putting her in the loony bin. Something you don't want me to know about so much you've hidden her from me." He'd scored; they all felt responsible, all had a measure of regret. That much he was sure of.
"You must be a brave man to face us alone if you believe that," said Mrs. Descartes, the Tenou daughter.
"But he has the special favor of his God," mocked Michiru in deadly sweet tones. "How can he fear with that behind him?"
Again, the wheelchair woman read him swiftly. But her friend had stepped onto his field now. "I have not made mean jokes about your faith, no matter how mistaken I know it is."
"I apologize for my bad manners," said the musician, suddenly acquiring an accent she hadn't had a trace of before.
She wasn't a reader, but her mind was armored, more difficult to read than Paterson, or anyone else he had ever encountered. He could read enough to tell whether she was lying, but little more. She was trying to provoke him, put him off balance. <Benny was right about this one, too; she's a leader, even if she doesn't look like one.>
Swainson slipped back into the role of a Good Ole Southern Boy. "Lessee heah . . . so many lovely ladies heah tonight a man can hardly keep count. Take Miz Watanabe heah. Another mind reader. In mah whole life afoh today, Ah met just two othahs with the gift, and today I meet three."
"Perhaps a strange attractor is involved," said Watanabe.
"Mebbe so, mebbe so," drawled Swainson. "You minor in nucleah physics, Darlin'?"
"No, I'm just well-read," said Watanabe. "Like you. You know many things, Reverend, many more than you advertise to your flock. Many things . . . and yet you came here."
"He is a very brave man," the Tenou daughter re-asserted. She could kill him . . . her mind had the taste of one who has killed. But . . .
The Reverend smiled genuinely. "One thing I know, Miz Watanabe, is that you have a syringe inside that big sash. Something to make me forget . . . maybe. Now you aren't so sure it will work."
He had surprised that one and most of the others, even the Tenou woman. But he hadn't surprised Mrs. Jones--she really had two minds, one steely-sharp, almost hidden under the sweet one. <Both are real . . .> He did his best to forget that, for now.
Johnny Lee turned up his performance mode. He shook his head in a fatherly way, as if to tut-tut naughty children for foolish mischief. "You are not going to win this. You know that, you all know that. the longer you fight, the worse it will be for you, and your friends, and your country."
"I am an American," insisted the wheelchair woman.
"For both your countries, Miz Chiba, Miz Jones. You know it, you believe it, your feel it right down to those beautiful bones of yours. The longer you fight, the worse for you, and the better I look to the people I want to reach." He shrugged elaborately. "I came here to help you. This is not a ploy. If this was just old Johnny Lee beatin' the drum for the New Gospel Church, why am I here tonight?" He adopted the pose and tones of the educated man he really was. "Persuade your friend to give the children to their parents. I will watch over them. Even if you think I have no decency, it is in my interest that the children thrive in the bosom of my church."
"Or seem to thrive," said Watanabe.
"In the long run, real substance is better than false appearances," said Swainson. "Usually easier to get and always cheaper to keep. And does anyone here think I don't see this thing in the long run?"
"What will you do about your daughter?"
The voice from behind startled the Reverend. He turned and found the not-so-formidable looking form of Mrs. Chiba's oldest daughter, dressed in a plain kimono, an infant in hand. How had he missed her?
"What do you mean, what will I do about her? What do you expect me to do?"
"Hide her away somewhere," said the girl "She knows too much. But now we know too, Holy Man."
"Yes, some of us do," said Watanabe. "And if Betty Beringer should vanish, say, into some private hospital . . . then perhaps others will come to know as well, Reverend. Perhaps many others."
Swainson paused to consider the situation. They were threatening him . . . not over the Yount children but over Benicia. Meanwhile Swainson felt fear and anger and indignity, all at once, all strongly. He refused to let any of these emotions speak for him. He waited the endless moments to be certain he was in control. Only then did he respond:
"Interesting. You really care about Benny, and after I sent her to snoop on you. In fact . . . you want to make her into one of you!"
For a moment, he read them all, understanding only that they were something together. The strangeness . . .
Mrs. Chiba, the one in the wheelchair, the alpha female, finally spoke again. Swainson turned back to face her. She had been speaking Japanese, and she continued to a moment or two more. But then she said to Swainson: "I will tell Mako-chan of your assurances.
"You'd best do more than tell her, Ma'am," said Swainson. "And as for my Benny . . . " He trailed off, inviting them to complete his thought. Tucking away these stolen bits of mind, he resumed. "As for my my Benny, I'll leave her where she is for now. But if she gets much worse I will put her in a hospital. Dr. Watanabe . . . My Dr. Watanabe--"<Mike Fine's right; there's a connection>--"wants to put her in observation for at least part of the Christmas break. Hasn't said it yet, but that's what he would like."
"My daughter has invited her to share our holiday," said Mrs. Umino. "That might do her more good than being locked up and pumped full of drugs."
"Mebbe so, mebbe so." Swainson made certain everyone noticed him checking his watch. "I should be going. My associate outside is liable to raise some kind of ruckus if I wait much longer. You think some more about what advice to give your friend, and I'll think some more about what I should do about my only daughter."
He turned to go, moving smoothly toward the massive doors. But something bothered him . . . <The girl.> The girl was gone. Her mind was so distinctive, Swainson was sure he could sense her for blocks . . . but her mind was not there.
He put that thought away as best he could. He couldn't be certain one of them couldn't read him.
Paterson did not surprise Swainson at all. "You need to get your girl out now.
"No."
"If she goes over--"
"She won't do anything that would really harm me," said Swainson patiently. "And even if she wanted to harm me . . . how could she, really? Who would believe her?"
"How about the President?"
"Perhaps," mused Swainson. "Perhaps. But the President can't admit she believes, can she? And if Benny goes to the press . . . well, she's a girl going through a difficult adolescence, and she has been under the care of a psychiatrist. She can do no permanent harm."
"I suppose so," said Paterson, conceding if not really agreeing. "But you can't be sure of the others. Especially--"
Swainson cut off Paterson, something he very seldom did. "Concentrate your efforts on Michiru for now."
"The fiddler?" Paterson snorted.
"The world-famous musician, my tin-eared friend. They all have secrets to hide, but she seems to have the biggest. She hides it, even from the others . . . What do we know of her? What do we think we know?"
"She's supposed to be someone's secret child. Some say Tenou's--which would make sense--some say the Emperor. Other contenders are one of the Yakuza bosses, the leader of that Pharoah cult, one or two dozen dead celebrities, and Michael Jackson, who is really a Japanese woman."
"Amusing. But tell me what you think you know, what you believe."
"I dug some, but I didn't get much. She's supposed to be from Kobe. However, the orphanage she was supposed to be at was wrecked by the last big quake. Records were lost, and it hasn't been rebuilt."
"Makes me think of what happened at that Professor Tomoe's school."
"That it does, that it does," said Paterson.
"See if you can find people who remember her from Kobe and from that school."
"That's work for a PI. There ain't a shortage of them here."
"I want you to look into all their backgrounds. Hire as many PIs as you think best. But I want you to look into Michiru's past personally. You, and just you, my friend."
Paterson said, "The Tenous--"
"Are important, but look at Michiru now."
Paterson shrugged. "It's your dime. Anything else?"
<How to put it?>
The Reverend found a way to guide Paterson to the proper path without being overly direct. In fact, such was the mind and conscience of the Reverend Johnny Lee that he could claim and even believe that he had not really meant to set in motion this latest extreme but unavoidable course of action.
Michael Fine woke to the room's phone. It had an especially loud chirp for wakeup calls. After checking for messages, he forced himself to stay awake long enough to shower and begin shaving. He considered returning to the Orthodoxy of his childhood, which would at least give him an excuse to avoid this daily torture (twice daily if he had plans for the evening) and let his beard grow out.
Fine's shave was interrupted by a knock at the door. He went to see who it was and found the Reverend, dressed as he'd been the day before and in need of a shave himself. "Sorry to bother you, son, but I've got a thing or two on my mind," he drawled.
"Sure." Fine didn't bother to ask what had gone on during the night. If Swainson wanted to tell him, he would in his own time. "Mind if I finish shaving?"
"Course not."
"So, what's on for today? Are you coming this time? Not much point in it the way I see it."
"Oh, I should stay for at least awhile. Let Mrs. Yount know I'm still here for her.
"Mmm." Michael couldn't move his jaw without risking a cut.
"That doesn't mean you aren't right, though. Miz Urawa won't surrender the children. As long as the Jap'nese gov'mint won't cooperate with us, we can't get them through the law."
"That's so."
"But Jap'nese gov'mints come and go from what Ah've heard. We're hurting them in their pocketbooks. That's more than any gov'mint that wants to stay the gov'mint can take for too blessed long."
"Yeah. That's what you'd think?"
"You mean, that's what a simple ol' Southern boy would think?"
"No, what almost anyone would think. Any American. But I think this is a 'face' issue now. No goverment here is going to want to be seen giving in to America over something that Japan thinks is its own business."
"Not in public . . . but they can still try to get Miz Urawa to end the trouble. You think this little ol' southern boy might have got that right?"
"Maybe." He wiped off his face. "Probably," he admitted.
"What do you recommend if we do get the children back to their parents?"
Fine splashed on some "soothing" lotion that made his face feel like it was on fire. "I recommend that someone keep a watch on Mrs. Yount. You could get her to get treatment, I think."
"Yes," said Swainson. "When this isn't such a big bug anymore."
Fine put on a knit shirt, suitable for an informal meal. "Believe it or not, this place serves an excellent English-style breakfast. You want to join me?"
"Breakfast sounds pretty good now . Don' spose they have grits, do they?"
<He's conning me, but dammit . . .> Fine was beginning to see how the Reverend could have held on to his grandfather for so long. <It's not all about the money . . .>