Red Shark

He was an ordinary-looking Japanese with a slight build and short haircut typical of sararimen. He had a folded black raincoat on his lap and was reading a magazine. The blank expression on his face didn’t change when Scott lurched down the aisle past his seat.

When Scott returned a few minutes later, the man had nodded off. Scott decided it was unlikely that he had an interest in Fumiko, but he knew that in Japan things were not always what they appeared to be. He decided he’d try to keep an eye on him.

From the train station in the village west of Tokyo, Fumiko led Scott down a lane bordered on both sides by small, ramshackle houses. Charcoal smoke and the sharp odor of cooking oil filled the air. At the end of the lane she stopped in front of a house, where a black-and-white cat eyed them from its perch atop a bamboo fence. She rang a small brass bell, slid the door open, and ushered her guest inside.

Fumiko’s father greeted them with a deep bow. “Zenjiro Kida at your service. I am deeply honored to meet you, Mr. Scott,” he added in excellent English.

Dr. Kida, short, slightly disheveled, wore gold-rimmed glasses and a cardigan. Academics, Scott decided, looked the same the world over, but this one looked younger than his sixty years. Mrs. Kida, a tiny woman dressed in gray kimono, white tabi, and zoris, bowed deeply, then knelt and saw to the formalities of lining up her guest’s shoes with the toes facing the lane. Still kneeling, she slid open a shoji screen and showed Fumiko and Scott into the tatami room, where a charcoal fire glowed in a kotatsu. Scott saw an old woman peering into the room from around a screen.

“My grandmother,” Fumiko said.

Mrs. Kida set out a meal. Fumiko waited a decent interval for Scott and her father to get acquainted, then said, “Father, please forgive my rude manners, but as I explained when I called, we don’t have much time and need your help.”

Dr. Kida said, “Mr. Scott, my daughter said you wanted information about someone — Iseda Tokugawa, I believe.”

“I know you teach political science at Tokyo University. Fumiko said that in addition you’re involved in issues of nuclear nonproliferation and that you’d have information about Tokugawa that might be useful.”

“Useful?” Kida said guardedly. “Useful in what way?”

“We’re interested in hearing what you know about his involvement in a plan to build nuclear weapons for Japan.”

Kida bristled. “You are mistaken, Mr. Scott, Japan is forbidden by law from building nuclear weapons.”

“True.” Scott’s gaze flicked to Fumiko, then back to Kida. “But I’ve heard that Tokugawa is close to the prime minster and supports his proposal to strengthen Japan’s armed forces, which includes building nuclear weapons.”

Kida shook his head. “That is preposterous.”

“Father, you know it’s true,” Fumiko snapped.

“No, it is a fabrication, and I will not discuss that which has no basis in fact.”

“You’re being rude. Don’t embarrass me in front of our guest.”

Kida, unaccustomed to being scolded by his daughter, to losing face in front of a stranger, recoiled. He gave Scott a sour look. “My daughter doesn’t discuss her work with me, has adopted Western ways, shows disrespect, but doesn’t hesitate to come to me for help when it is convenient.”

Fumiko brushed this aside and said, “I’m not looking for help, Father, we need information, information that only you can provide.”

“You flatter me, daughter. I don’t know anything about Tokugawa and this plan you speak of to build nuclear weapons in Japan. What you have heard are rumors that started because Tokugawa is one of the most reclusive men in Japan. No one knows anything about him, nor has anyone ever breached the barrier of secrecy he has erected around himself.”

“I was able to breach it, Father,” she said with an air of triumph. “Yes, I did.”

Kida looked at his daughter, then at Scott, his eyes wide, full of doubt, and also fear. “Impossible.”