Fiends of the Rising Sun (8 page)

"I guess so."

"Then pick your partner and let's get started!" Maeda jumped on top of the nearest table and dived straight into the middle of the carnage, taking several men down with him in the process. Within moments he was gone, swallowed by the chaos, another body battling for supremacy in the middle of the mayhem and madness.

Walton was about to follow Maeda's example when a strong hand clasped his arm. "I wouldn't if I was you," a deep voice whispered in his ear. The young marine twisted around to see three men leaning against the wall nearby, all dressed in naval pilot's uniforms, content to watch the brawl without getting dragged into it.

"But my buddies are in there," Walton said, gesturing at the mass of flying fists and bruised flesh, "somewhere."

"Trust me, the MPs will be here any minute. Once that happens, you don't want to be in the middle of that mess," the nearest pilot advised. His jaw line was so chiselled and his eyes so blue that he looked like he'd stepped off a navy recruiting poster. The pilot offered to shake Walton's hand. "My name's Richards, by the way, Lieutenant Charles Richards, but everyone calls me Chuck."

"Err, Walton," the marine mumbled, "David Walton. Everybody calls me... David Walton, I guess, except for Paxton, he keeps calling me Flinch." Another body went flying past, startling Walton.

"I can see where you got that nickname," Richards laughed, before jerking a thumb at his fellow pilots. "This is Ensign Ramon Marquez and Lieutenant Peter Taylor, but we call 'em Skid and Bravo. We're all off the
Enterprise
."

"How come you're not fighting?" Walton wondered.

"Captain's orders," Marquez replied. He had a drooping moustache, black hair slicked back, and a pock marked face. "We get caught fighting again and we're grounded, no flying for a week."

"I'm not losing my privileges for anyone," Taylor sneered. He had dark hair, brooding eyes.

"Bravo is our team player," Marquez quipped.

Before Walton could reply, a cacophony of harsh, penetrating whistles cut through the chaos, bringing a halt to the bar brawl. Everyone inside Tokyo Joe's stopped hitting each other and turned to look for the source of the ear-piercing sound. A phalanx of grim faced military policemen were standing at both entrances to the bar, a dozen blocking the way out to the street and another dozen cutting off any escape to the beach. One of the MPs stepped forward, his face cherry red with anger. "This is over! Each and every one of you is under arrest! You've brought disgrace on our units, disgrace on your country and disgrace on yourselves. You've got thirty seconds to-"

He never finished the sentence. A bamboo stool, thrown by unseen hands, smacked into the side of his head. That brought a roar of approval from the heart of the brawl. Within moments the fighting resumed, but now the unruly warriors had a new target: the MPs. All those who had been busy beating each other senseless joined together to attack their common enemy. If such a thing was possible, the first brawl had been almost benign, the chance to let off some steam. This fight was serious. The MPs waded into battle, using their truncheons to bludgeon a way through those nearest to them. In less than a minute, the floor was awash with blood and teeth, as skulls were cracked and bones broken.

Walton saw his friend Maeda knocked senseless by a military policeman with sergeant's stripes. But the MP kept beating Maeda even after the marine was out cold.

"Hey, you can't do that!" Walton shouted.

The sergeant grinned at the young marine. "You want some too?"

Richards stepped between them, putting one hand on Walton's chest to hold the youth back. "This guy's innocent, sergeant. I've been in here since before the brawl started and he hasn't thrown a single punch, okay?"

"If you were in here before the fighting started, why didn't you stop it?"

The pilot laughed. "Are you serious?"

The MP advanced on Richards, slapping his bloody truncheon in the palm of one hand. "You bet I'm serious, flyboy. It was your duty to stop this."

"Yeah, right!" Richards looked over his shoulder at Marquez and Taylor. "Can you believe this goon? He actually believes-" The rest of his words were cut off by the MP's truncheon smacking across his face. By the time Richards hit the floor, Walton and Marquez were laying into the sergeant, raining blows down on him. The last thing the young marine could recall was hearing a high-pitched whistle behind him. When he turned to see the source of it, a fist flew into his face. After that there was only pain and darkness.

Father Kelly was lost. Since leaving the cathedral he'd been wandering around downtown Honolulu, failing to find a way back to the docks. It was embarrassing, getting lost in a city so small compared with his native Chicago. In truth, he wasn't trying that hard, as his mind was still replaying the conversation with Bishop Sweeney. The priest was so deep in thought he came close to being run down by a convoy of jeeps transporting MPs. Father Kelly realised his jeopardy at the last moment and threw himself out of harm's way as the vehicles sped past. The men inside them looked grim faced and ready for war, making the priest grateful he was not their target.

A thought occurred to him, sending a shudder up his spine. Private Martinez was out on the town with Wierzbowski and that disreputable slob Buntz. Those two could start a fight in an empty field, and Father Kelly had little doubt that Martinez's feelings of loyalty to the regiment would drag the young soldier into the melee. He strode off in the direction the jeeps had taken, though they were long gone by now, swallowed by the press of traffic and pedestrians. Fortunately, the MPs did not go much further before abandoning their vehicles and racing into a bar and grill near the beach.

The priest found the jeeps a few minutes later, outside a ramshackle building bearing the name TOKYO JOE'S. He didn't bother going inside to see what was happening, it was all too evident from the sound of fists on flesh and the cries of men being hurt. Father Kelly made the sign of the cross and offered a silent prayer heavenwards that Martinez had the good sense not to get involved with senseless brawling. Moments later Martinez appeared in front of him, having been thrown out of a grease smeared window, on to the street. The private scrambled to his feet, brushed himself down and made as if to go back inside.

"Oh no you don't!" the priest insisted, grabbing the young soldier's arm.

"Father? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, my son."

"Buntz and Wierzbowski are still in there. They need my help!"

"I see, and how many MPs did you see enter that bar?"

Martinez shrugged. "I don't know, ten, maybe a dozen?"

"I counted at least twenty, if not more."

"Then Buntz and Wierzbowski definitely need my help."

"They'll be fine without you. One man more or less won't make any difference. Besides, even I know fighting MPs is fighting a losing battle."

"You can say that again!" Martinez agreed. "Those guys fight dirty."

"They have right as well as might on their side, Juan. You go back in there and you'll find yourself under arrest. Do you want to spend the rest of the voyage to the Philippines confined to your cabin or stuck in the brig?"

"No, but I-"

"No buts, you're staying here, with me."

A surly MP emerged from the bar, a bloody truncheon in his right fist. He saw glass from the broken window in front of Martinez and marched straight towards the private. "You! You're the one I threw out of that window!"

Father Kelly raised a hand in protest. "Actually, I believe you may be mistaken about that, my son."

The MP glared at the priest, his snarl softening a little when he saw the ecclesiastical collar. "Stay out of this, father; it's between me and the boy."

"You're not suggesting I'm lying, are you, my son?"

"Well, no, but I saw-"

"You called me father before. That tells me you were raised a Catholic."

"Yes, but that's-"

"So you must know a priest would never lie, would he?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"So I must be telling the truth, mustn't I?"

The MP's mouth flapped soundlessly, unable to formulate an answer.

"Therefore, this young man cannot be the soldier you threw out of the window, can he?" Father Kelly gave Martinez a sly wink, unseen by the MP.

"But he's got glass in his hair."

"I beg your pardon?" the priest stammered.

The MP walked across to Martinez and pulled two fragments of broken glass from the private's curls. "See? How could he have glass in his hair unless he was the person I threw through that window?"

"I was sitting under the window when another soldier came through it," Martinez volunteered when Father Kelly had no answer to the question. "Some of the glass must have fallen on me, but I didn't notice because-"

"Because another soldier had just been thrown out of the window above you," the priest said, completing the sentence. "I did see somebody in uniform running off before. Sadly, I didn't get a good look at his face."

The MP rested his fists on his hips, glaring first at Martinez and then at Father Kelly. "That's the story you're sticking to, is it?"

"It's not a story, it's the truth," Martinez replied. "You wouldn't call our company chaplain a liar, would you?"

More MPs emerged from Tokyo Joe's, shoving semi-conscious prisoners ahead of them. The sounds of fighting in the bar had subsided and the mopping up was underway. One of the military policemen called for help from the MP standing staring at a priest and a private. That was enough for their accuser, who admitted defeat. "I'll be watching you," he warned Martinez.

"And the good Lord will be watching over you," Father Kelly replied.

The MP stomped away, muttering obscenities under his breath.

"Thanks, father, you're a lifesaver," Martinez whispered.

"I wish that were true," the priest said. "Still, I hope you'll take a lesson from this. Buntz and Wierzbowski may be older and more experienced than you, but that doesn't automatically make them any the wiser. Right now they're probably under arrest and no doubt nursing a few bruises."

As if to prove Father Kelly's point, another MP came out of the bar and grill, pushing a battered Buntz ahead of him. Moments later four burly MPs burst out into the street, each of them holding on to one of Wierzbowski's flailing limbs. He was still fighting, still raging against them. It took the intervention of two more military policemen to bring him down, clubbing the soldier over and over with their truncheons until he crumpled on the sidewalk.

"I see what you mean, father," Martinez said. "But won't lying to that MP get you in trouble with the big guy upstairs?"

"Having to confess twice in one day won't kill me," the priest sighed.

Constanta made Hitori wait until nightfall before allowing him to surrender his soul. "Go outside, walk in the daylight, be among your people," the vampyr advised. "All being well, you will remember this day for a long, long time to come. Savour your humanity while you still have it. Most vampyrs have their souls torn from them by hungry predators. Few are given the choice about whether or not they wish to embrace immortality. Consider yourself fortunate."

Hitori did as he was told, walking out from the Ministry of War's building into Tokyo, letting himself mingle with the throngs of ordinary people, all of them hurrying to complete the rituals and minutiae of their daily lives. He found a square set aside as parkland and lay down on the moist grass, savouring the autumn sun on his skin and the soft, gentle breeze that wafted through the air. Last but not least, he found a small stationery store and bought paper, pen and ink to write a letter to his beloved wife. Hitori could not conceive ever forgetting how much he adored her, how much she meant to him, but nor could he imagine what effect sacrificing his soul to a vampyr would have upon that love. He wanted to express all the feelings in his heart but could not find the words, the eloquence to say them. Let no hint of my sadness, my loss creep into my words, Hitori decided. Let her have this last, happy letter to treasure, and leave it at that.

He returned to the park and wrote four pages, his hand hurried by the knowledge that the sun was sinking towards the horizon and his last moments of humanity were accompanying it into the darkness. As people in apartments overlooking the square of park lit lanterns for the evening ahead, he walked back to the ministry building, his feet trudging every step of the way. Suzuki was waiting at the door to let him in, the other workers having already gone home for the evening. "Zenji, what is it? What's going on? The general told me to wait down here for you, but has forbidden me to ask any questions."

Hitori could not help smiling, despite the hollow numbness he felt deep inside his chest. "The general forbade you, and still you ask your questions."

Suzuki shrugged. "You know me; I've always been the curious one."

"Be careful it does not get you killed one day." He handed his oldest friend the envelope, addressed to Aiko. "This has to be sent to my wife from Manchuria, she has to believe I died there. Can you do that for me, Shiro?"

"Of course, but-"

"No more questions, please." Hitori pushed past his friend into the building, but Suzuki followed him inside.

"Okay, okay, I won't ask you any more questions."

"Good."

"But that doesn't mean I can't speculate. If I guess right, I'll see the truth in your face. You always were a terrible liar when we were young, and even worse at bluffing." Hitori walked on, doing his best to ignore Suzuki. "Obviously, this has something to do with that Rumanian. If your wife has to believe you died in Manchuria, it means you're going on some kind of covert operation, and you're not expected to make it back alive. Am I right?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask any more questions?"

"Hmm, good point." Suzuki peered at Hitori's face as they walked along a corridor towards Tojo's private office. "I am right! But what kind of suicide mission would the general send you to undertake that involved a Rumanian officer? I mean, I screen all the intelligence reports that come in and the only mentions I've seen made about a Rumanian are those wild stories about-" Suzuki stopped, realisation and horror competing for dominion over his face. "Constanta, he's one of those creatures, isn't he? Red Army troops on the eastern front have been telling Moscow for weeks about a cadre of bloodsucking fiends fighting alongside the Wehrmacht. Lord Constanta, he's one of them, isn't he?" Suzuki's mind was racing, putting together the pieces far faster than Hitori had done. "The general's ordered you to form an alliance with this monster."