“Then you still believe in that crap?” Brook exclaimed.
“Mr. Brook.” Levashev sounded hurt, and Brook felt ashamed. But then Levashev smiled and waved his pipe. “This, as you Americans are fond of saying, is a free country, is it not? Of course I am still a Marxist. Your intelligence is well aware of my ideological loyalties. It is precisely because of them that I decided to oppose the present regime. I shall never see the results of what I am doing — not in my lifetime — but one must live with a purpose, and this is mine. To help destroy those who have betrayed us.”
“And you’re content to live here like a prisoner to do it?”
Levashev’s shrug was broad. “What do I need beyond the small comforts I find here? To have purpose is enough. If we had more time I would explain in detail, but I am sure it would bore you.”
“Let’s get back to Krylov,” said Brook, nodding at once.
“If you wish.” Levashev struck another match.
In the room at the motel Brook mixed a Scotch and soda for Benny Lopez and one for himself.
“Here’s to Tokyo,” said Lopez, raising his glass. “May it turn out better than Tangiers.”
“Now, Benny,” said Brook. “There won’t be much time for fleshpotting.”
“When is there ever? You know the reason I joined this damned outfit? I thought I’d see the world, with a girl in every port. But every place I go, I don’t have time. Maybe after this one I’ll quit. Open a law office. Santa Fe, maybe. Run for office.”
Brook smiled.
“Yeah.” Lopez drank sadly. “What am I kidding myself for, compadre? Nobody ever quits this racket.”
Brook looked at him. “You believe that rumor?”
“Rumor.” Lopez laughed. “In the last five years three FACE agents have quit. Only three. And they were all dead from ‘accidents’ within a year.” He twirled the glass. “You believe it?”
“I don’t know.”
“To hell with it,” said Lopez, and raised his glass again. “To Tokyo.”
“To Tokyo,” said Brook, and drank with him.
Chapter 4
Brook kept goggling about as he taxied from the railroad station to the complex along the shore known as the Katori Spa. There were farm women in their billowing trousers as they toted baskets of tangerines slung from shoulder poles; leathery fishermen mending nets; racks of tiny mackerel hanging in the sun. He acted nervous as the driver drove him too fast along the narrow streets that cobbled toward the shore. Brook had visited Japan many times in the military service and later on intelligence assignments; a seaside spa (there were dozens along the Izu Peninsula south of Tokyo) was hardly a novelty to him. But he rubbernecked as if he had never been closer to Japan than a picture postcard.
The taxi deposited him at a big central structure at seaside. It was a concrete box, out of place in this setting. The sign over the front door said: KATORI SPA RECREATION CENTER, in English — to indicate, Brook supposed, that most of its patrons belonged to the foreign community.
He registered for one of the Japanese-style individual cottages strung along the shore and let a muscular maid in a kimono pick up his bag and go off with it. He looked past the desk out the picture window. There was a terrace, beyond the terrace glittered the sea, and a mile offshore he could see the delicate sails of small boats in a lively race.
The moon-faced clerk at the desk noticed his interest. “You like sail boat, sir?”
“Very much.”
“Ah! Then you very like Katori. Is best sail place in Japan.”
“That’s what I’ve heard, all right.” Brook took a notebook from his pocket, opened to a page, and frowned at a name jotted there. “Is Mr. Stark in, by any chance?”
“Stark-san?” The clerk showed all his teeth. “He boss.”
“Boss? Oh, you mean manager. I’m hoping to see him. Could you give him my card?” Brook fumbled for a business card and found it.
“‘Mist’ P. Brook, Naval Architect.’” The clerk looked up. “You like I call Stark-san now?”
“Please.”
The clerk dialed an extension number — from the clicks, to Brook’s practiced ear, it was 347. The man spoke for a moment in Japanese, mentioning the name Brook, and handed the phone over.
“This is Peter Brook,” Brook said.
“Toby Stark here,” said a hearty voice with an Australian accent. “What’s all this about naval architects? That bloody idiot at the desk never gets anything straight.”
“Didn’t you get my letter about a week ago? That explained things.”
“Letter? Don’t recall a letter from anyone named Brook. Small wonder. Foreign mail is always fouled up in this bloody country.”
“Well, now that I’m here it doesn’t matter.” Brook had counted on the Japanese postal confusion to explain the failure of a letter he had not had time to write. “I’m here to look into the possibilities of boat-building in Japan, Mr. Stark. The company I’m with manufactures yachts. As I understand it you’ve dealt with a number of boatyards, so I thought I’d combine business with pleasure, visit your resort and talk to you at the same time.”
“Good show,” said Toby Stark’s voice. “You settled in yet?”
“On my way to my cottage.”
“Right. Well, then, soon as you wiggle out of your girdle, why not drop by the castle?”
“The castle?”
“That’s what they call where I live. Rich old farmer’s house, actually. The boys will take you here. Just ring that stuttering cobber at the desk when you’re ready.”
The cottage was done in the Japanese equivalent of Grand Rapids, and Brook pretended to admire it as he washed and changed into sports clothes. He killed a few more minutes reading a pamphlet about Katori Spa. The complex had been built on the site of a watering place that had been a favorite of court nobles in the old days. Here at Katori, the brochure said, the volcanic mountains come to the very sea and from them gush the health-giving waters in which many Emperors and Noble Visitors have bathed. In modern times Katori Spa, with its swimming, golfing, sailboating, and other delights has become a favorite of the respected foreign community as well as of discerning Japanese patrons.
Brook tossed the pamphlet aside and called the desk. A few moments later a houseboy in a white coat was leading him upslope and through a rocky garden to a large house perched on the hillside, overlooking the resort.
Toby Stark’s “castle” was surrounded by a thick high wall; Brook had to pass through a great torii gateway. To one side he saw a small pavilion in which hung a verdigrised bronze bell as tall as a man; suspended beside it was evidently its clapper. In another direction loomed a tallish structure with slits for windows that vaguely resembled a blockhouse. Brook thought he had seen something like it before; then he remembered. It was a grain-storage building. Through the pines he made out a small shrine and part of a pond in which carp and ducks were swimming.
As he came up to the front doors of the main building they slid apart and a big fat man in a black kimono grinned out at him. He was not Japanese. He had a Texas sort of complexion, oversized features, a blob of a nose, and bulging eyes that looked idiotic and missed nothing. The grin was bracketed by two obscene dimples.
“Brook? Stark. Come in, come in. What do you drink?” His handshake was warm and flabby.
The big living room was Japanese except for the chairs, which were Western; one was a great overstuffed affair in red Naugahyde, evidently reserved for Stark. In one corner there was a businesslike teakwood bar. Stark headed for it immediately, waving Brook to a chair. Just as the American was about to sit down a door at the other side of the room slid back and a woman came in. He straightened.