“Aye, to be sure, the sainted Eamon De Valera, a much too trusting lad to be dealing with the English scum and the likes of Lloyd George. It cost us our country and years more of bloody struggle. We will win in the end though. Aye, you can be sure of it.”

  The reference to the partitioning of Ireland brought about by the perceived double-crossing tactics of one Michael Collins. Sent to England to bring back a proposed treaty to Ireland for debate in the Irish Parliament, Collins, for reasons still not quite clear, signed the treaty himself. The treaty gave the south of Ireland independence but kept the north a part of the United Kingdom. Thousands had died since then, and the mention of the name of Michael Collins in the south of Ireland could still be guaranteed to start a pub uprising. For his part, De Valera, the patriot and first Prime Minister of the free Ireland never forgave Collins.

  Grogan taking a liberal swallow of the Guinness before draining the dram of whiskey. Guinness used as chaser here, unlike the “Colonies” where it was consumed on its own more often than not.

  The Stags Head located here in Dublin away from the normal tourist haunts. If one took the daily ferry from Liverpool and debarked at the East Docks, the curious traveler would more than likely walk right past the place. The nondescript location one of the reasons that this pub was the central meeting place for the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

  “The business at hand now, my friend.”

  Shamus, the captain moving effortlessly to operational mode. No time to waste. The schedule not to be altered.

  The four other men in the pub involved in their own conversation. In any case, all the regulars here struck deaf and dumb whenever they happened to be interrogated by the local police who, though they made regular sweeps through the pub, never came away with any information other than the price of a drink or perhaps a good horse in the Galway Races. Mutterings of connections between the Provs and the budding Al Qaeda network in Saudi Arabia. NSA picking up higher traffic levels than usual in their intercepts in Europe, the Middle East and curiously, Asia. Specifically Japan. Something in the works.

  Shamus Burlie and Rafferty Grogan had been involved with the IRA since they were both teenagers. Shamus brought in after his father was shot right in their living room during Gaelic football viewing one Saturday afternoon. His mother and brother in the kitchen but Shamus there to see it all as the Orangemen broke the door down and put a pistol in his beloved Dad’s mouth before sending him to oblivion. The hate fueling his dedication to the struggle early on but now things considerably different. The IRA just another part of global terrorism. Shamus knew this though he would never verbalize it. Not even after a fifth of Jameson. No, the murder of his father was enough for him. No matter that the IRA was now motivated more by money and politics than by any kind of idealism. Those days were gone forever. The sainted Eamon De Valera would never recognize the current bastardized version of what he had helped to create so many years ago. These the thoughts of Shamus Burlie as he prepared to brief his comrade on his role in the upcoming Event in Asia.

  “The Jap will be landing at Shannon within the hour. He’ll take a taxi here. The transfer will be made over a few pints. The coppers won’t know what the hell to make of it. He’ll be here under the cover of the Dublin Scientific Symposium on Water Purification. Aye, the irony of it all. Joyce himself would have been proud.”

  “Can we trust the boy bugger though? That is my question.”

  “Aye, the bastard gives me the shivers every time we even talk of him.”

  Grogan’s reference to Peter O’Mara, not lost on Burlie. Part of the game. In order to play it, one had to get dirty. This scum, O’Mara, part of the price paid to avenge Burlie’s father’s death. He could rationalize anything at this point. A bit worried about Grogan though. Still a bit of humanity in the man. Something long since gone from Shamus Burlie.

  “A necessary evil my friend. You may want to keep your voice down a wee bit. No worries here, but still one never knows.”

  A quick sweep of the surroundings by the Bomb-Maker. No problems here. The normal three or four regulars minding their own business. Lost in the bottom of the glass. One could never be too careful though, thought Shamus. The Italian in a few weeks back now coming to mind. In two nights in a row. Kept to himself. Watched the football on the telly. Of course he had been Interpol. When would they learn, thought Shamus as he drained his glass. The poor bastard never knew what hit him. One of the regulars luring him out back with some bullshit information. One shot to the base of his skull. In the back. Favorite method of the Chinese. Body sent down to the local meat packing plant. The coppers may well be having some Italian food with their tea Shamus had thought. A slight grin on his face as he thought about it. Work to be done now though.

  12

  Dan and Benny were at the Sanno Bar when Art arrived. Yoko was behind the bar. The crowd was light. Three or four people besides the regulars. Sumo had ended a couple hours before. Tomorrow was Monday. Most of the sailors and marines were heading back to Yokosuka on the last red train, a weekend of ecstasy with a local Japanese girl at an end.

  Yoko was about thirty, Art would have guessed. He remembered that she had been a good friend to Keiko when Adam and Keiko were still together. She had always spoken with Keiko when she came in, especially after Adam had poured down a few Jack Daniels and dug in with Art and Dan and Benny and whatever inebriated soul was around to solve the problems of the world.

  Yoko felt sorry for Keiko. She had felt that way from the start. She saw Keiko as a tragically flawed soul even when things were at their best between her and Adam. There were rumors of an American boyfriend in Yoko’s past, but she never spoke of him. He’d returned to the States in any case. Now she just tended bar here at the Sanno and took care of her ailing mother. A good kid, Art thought as he walked to the bar. Unusual, thought Art. Benny normally left after the sumo ended. Some sailor or jarhead must have plied him with a few Courvoisier. Benny the affable, gregarious drunk. Everybody’s friend. Dying of cancer. It was in his throat now. Art knew his doctor at the Naval Hospital. Six months at the most. Benny had refused to have the surgery that might save his life. The trade-off just too much. Surgery would have meant the loss of his voice.

  “I might have known I’d see you two characters here. Art, how are you my son?” Dan Bronsan into his “Father Dan” persona now. Still a little of the catholic school education in him. His religion fueled by the gin rather than any higher power now though.

  “White wine, Art San?” Yoko had glided over.

  “Yea, you twisted my arm, lovely lady. Just one and then I’m on my way down the road.”

  Art stared at the television set. Not really listening to the banter between Dan and Benny. Something about that crazy Aum Cult was on the news. The Aum or something. They’d just shown some file footage. He couldn’t hear anything. A picture of the leader flashed on the screen. Art trying to remember his name but couldn’t think of it.

  The Aum Cult had been making some noise lately. Demonstrations that were mostly peaceful, though. Most Japanese didn’t really pay any attention. Art Chambers, Lt., USN, (Retired) knew better. He still had some friends on active duty at Yokosuka Naval Base. Intel types. Spooks. The ones who said, “I’d have to kill you if I told you,” in response to any question about their job. Mostly boring stuff but interesting on occasion. One of Art’s old shipmates, a crypto type, had hinted that some threats had been made by Aum against U. S. Navy interests. Threats that were being taken seriously. A few years earlier, one of the group had gotten a hold of some sarin. It was in powdered form and raw. Nowhere near weapons grade as it was called behind closed doors at the Pentagon. This guy had actually climbed halfway up the Tokyo Tower and dumped a whole bag of the stuff on an unsuspecting lunchtime crowd. Thankfully the only damage done was some ruined suits and skirts. The wacko was eventually taken into custody. The public never really told that it was sarin, a chemical agent that if refined could have killed everyone walking below the Tokyo Tower that summer’s day. Art knew this though, and so he gestured for Dan to keep his voice down while he watched the rest of the report. Art, with over 20 years in the Navy, knew that many threats were just bullshit but, in any case, still had to be taken seriously. “Remember Pearl Harbor” and all that.

  Here was this Aum clown now. Very sedate looking. Shoko Asahara his name. Art remembered it from the informal briefing he had received. A distant look. Like he was on drugs or hypnotized. More likely the former, thought Art. In the same picture with Ghaddafi. Not a good thing. Art made a mental note to ask his buddy about this the next time he visited the base. Maybe he’d ask Adam to do some snooping also. Adam the ex-Cryptologic Technician washed up now due to the sauce. Funny how the Navy had pulled his clearance and then made him a missile tech. In charge of operating multi-million dollar shipboard weapons systems. Art smiled as he swallowed the drink and put it back on the bar unfinished. “Permission to go ashore, Ma’am,” he bellowed as he snapped a salute Yoko’s way in his customary ritual of leaving for the night. Yoko laughed and Art left amid a smattering of drunken salutations from Benny and Dan.

  13

  It is evening. An ordinary storage room wreaking of Suntory Whiskey. Located above the Gas Panic bar. What better place to hide a book but in a library, Keiko had thought when she first came here. An idiom Adam had taught her. Seemed like light-years ago. She forced herself to block the visual and succeeded. Becoming adept at this sort of thing of late. The One himself present. Holding forth to his minions. Keiko Watanabe was here at least physically. She stared at Shoko Asahara with a look reminiscent of a long ago day in Jonestown just before the Kool-Aid was to be served. Asahara stands alone in the front of the room. A silk robe with nothing under it. The protrusion at the groin area a testament to this. Asahara obviously excited. Keiko taking note of the erection with no sense of revulsion. It did not matter what her feelings were these days. Just biding time till the end.

  The Test would take place soon, The One explained to them. Keiko here along with Asahara’s confidante, Goro Atashi. The One rarely without him at these gatherings of the faithful. Scientists who had been recruited from the Ministry of Technology in attendance. All hanging on the Madman’s every word. Asahara speaking softly, forcing the others to listen. A practiced technique although The One did not have to rely on it. His was indeed a captive audience, spiritually, physically and emotionally. He owned them.

  Everything was in place, Asahara continued in the drone-like mantra. Everyone knew their role. The deadly capsules had been acquired, and there would be complete surprise. The American knowing something was in the air, and oh yes, something indeed would be in the air. Not where they guessed though. A soft target as they called it these days. Like when the IRA blows up post offices or schools. Soft targets. Not heavily fortified but enabling one to kill the enemy none the less. Of course there would be “collateral damage” as the women, children and other innocent civilians were referred to these days by The One. A suicide mission. The member who delivered the deadly sarin gas would have to die as well. This bit of information not conveyed to his enraptured audience this night however. No reason to spoil the moment. In any case, all the Cult members were expected to die at a moment’s notice for the cause. Indeed part of the recruiting process involved the candidates very desire to be released from an existence he or she found unbearable for various reasons. A small price to pay for a quick and deadly thrust leveled at the evil West. The perpetrator would be guaranteed immortality. A hero almost as exalted as The One himself.

  The meeting adjourned. Keiko aware that the drone had stopped although she had not really heard it. Aware that the noise had ceased. Asahara was in front of her now. The room empty but for her and The One. A faint sense of alarm began to overcome her but then ended. Behind her a voice. Familiar and foreboding all at once.

  “Keiko San, so nice to see you again. You are looking well, my lass. Yes, you always were a beauty. That drunken sot of a boyfriend…Adam? Was that his name?” The name of the man who had once been her salvation. The love of her life momentarily bringing her back to life. She turned around and without looking, kicked Peter O’Mara, Irish Ambassador to Tokyo directly in the balls. He went down like the sack of spoiled potatoes that she knew he was. The tormentor of her Adam. All coming back. Too late. Asahara on her now. A pin prick in her arm. Vaguely aware of the angry screams from the Irishman. Asahara whispering over the din.

  “Let go, my Cherry Blossom.”

  The rancid smell of the Irishman here. On her as well. Pushes her gently to the floor. He enters her and then, mercifully-only darkness.

  14

  “Moored. Shift colors.”

  Back in port. Yokosuka. Thank God. Fire Controlman First Class Welsh rushed to his rack to change. He had the weekend off. No duty. As long as the Mormon Bastard, the hypocritical SOB, did not come up with a reason for him to stay, Adam would be free. Free to drink and fuck. The two things that killed the pain.

  He was dressed and ready to leave. The shower could be taken at the Sanno. The Sanno Hotel in Tokyo. The refuge where Adam Welsh could drink and talk to the expats and be a civilian, at least in his own mind. A brief respite from the torture he endured as a First Class Petty Officer in the United States Navy. A mere enlisted man who was smarter than most on the boat. He lived a lie on the McClusky and would live a lie at the Sanno, but this deceit was easier to take by far. Art, Rose, Benny, all of his confidantes would be there. The warmth of the Jack Daniels would envelope him, and he would be released from the agony of reality. The price he would have to pay on Monday inevitable but denied at least for now.

  It had not always been this way. Waiting for Liberty Call, Adam began to space out, to daydream. One of the ways to fight the pain. This was not quite as effective as the booze but a good substitute nonetheless.

  Thoughts of Massapequa Park, New York. Small town in the suburbs. Dad, a war hero. A marine on Guadalcanal during WWII, the Big One. None of this police action shit like these long-haired, drug-addicted Vietnam vets were in. Davey Welsh never missed a chance to get on the young Nam vets at the V.A. in Northport. Adam with him. Another pre-operation checkup. Davey still paying the price for the lost lung and still smoking two packs of Kool Menthols a day. Dad saw no problem though. The one lung was growing and was just as good as two, he reasoned.

  Adam Welsh could see his father as clear as day now. Davey Welsh holding court at the kitchen table. Adam and his brother and sister leaning on every word. Their father talking about how he lost the lung now.

  The yellow bastard Jap sniper. In the back. Bullet holes through his chest. The bazooka buried in the mud. Sullivan, the poor bastard, his loader, running terrified. Not remembering much. Lt. Lando running across the open field like John Wayne spraying the BAR rounds. The Jap sniper cut in half. Hanging out of the tree. Davey Welsh saying, “And I woke up from a coma and there was Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America’ on the pier! Gave me Last Rites five times but here I am! Takes a lot more than some Jap bastard to kill your old man. Not a TV dad though. Never will be.”

  Adam finding out that it was all a lie only later. “Friendly Fire” the cause. Dad more Don Knotts than John Wayne. What was the depth of the pain that his father endured that he had to make up such a story?

  Adam thinking about poor Lucy Welsh. His sister sitting right next to their father as he smoked and smoked. Lucy, maybe seven. How she didn’t have the cancer from the secondhand smoke was a miracle, he mused. Shit, it was first hand when it comes billowing down directly into your little mouth and nostrils. Lucy survived though. Mentally and physically. Good job in Los Angeles now. Married with a normal life. What was normal? Adam never really wanted normal. Drama at the Welsh house. Everyday something new. Dad always planning. Things were always going to be better.

  “Dad’s not like those losers.” The losers being the neighbors who took the train to work every day and provided for their family.

  “Liberty call. Liberty call.”

  Adam back to reality. How ironic life in this world could be. The old man’s life destroyed in a war against the Japanese and here was the son, defending Japan. Leaving the boat now. No sign of his Chief, AKA, “Mormon Asshole.”

  The run to the train station. Boarding. The large beer for the ride. Bliss. Temporary but bliss in any case. The red train. Just in time. Always. Not as fast as the green but would do. Less crowded. The beer, Asahi safely encased in the paper bag. For an instant, Adam saw his reflection in the train window. A sense of revulsion came but then mercifully went. A quick blast and then the glow. He could always count on the booze until he couldn’t.

  Sitting on the train, hurtling towards Shinagawa Station. No subway from there. He’d pay the taxi. Adam needed to get to his habitat. The place he flourished. Sometimes he wondered what the staff at the Sanno Hotel really thought of him. This tall, thin gaijin who shook violently at times but shrugged it off.

  “Too much coffee,” Adam would explain, and they would laugh with him albeit uncomfortably. Just paranoia. You know what they say, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean someone is not out to get you.”

  Cute little Japanese girl on the train. Across from Adam. Maybe five years old sitting with her mother. Adam loved to play little games with the children he came across. He loved Japanese children. Especially little girls. A faint twinge now. It was something about what Keiko had said when she was pregnant. “It’s going to be a girl, Adam. We’re going to have a beautiful little daughter.” What had he said to her? Mercifully, the answer not forthcoming, at least for now.