“An unbecoming statement from a former prime minister. Mr. Ito, I realized something as I rode that train to Aomori. It is you who is to thank for changing Japan. Its future, likewise, relies on you.”
“That is why I wish to settle this in person.”
“Please. I understand your sentiments but I do not wish to fight with you again. Our first round was at Baker Street when I was 29, our second was our tussle in the garden at your home. I have already learned my lesson. I hope to never see round three of Sherlock Holmes versus Hirobumi Ito.”
“Then give in,” Ito urged. “You were only ten when I returned to Choshu. I would have stood in front of the gun barrel myself if it would have stopped those first shots of war. But I was too late. I failed. But if I can prevent war with Russia now, I do not care what should happen thereafter. I will stake my life on this!”
What could Sherlock say? Speechless, he stared at Ito. The chairman returned his gaze, equally silent.
Sherlock recalled what he had told his dearest friend by the banks of Lake Daubensee. I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain. If my record were closed tonight I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial state of society is responsible. Your memoirs will draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.
From the moment Sherlock had discovered the existence of that foul villain Moriarty, he knew life was meaningless unless he defeated the man. The achievement of his entire career lay in accomplishing that single feat, or so he had believed. The evil that had beset London must be scourged from the roots. And so Sherlock had found a clear purpose in life.
Undoubtedly, Ito now felt the same. It was a seductive emotion. What use was there in living only at the whims of fate? And yet…
Sherlock sighed. “Ito,” he said quietly. “Promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“You will return home when this is through. Do you swear?”
“Return… home?”
“Japan finds itself in the gravest of dangers. You may believe that to surmount this current predicament is all that matters. So long as there are countries, however, there shall be crises. Who will avert the next, if you are lost? You must return home when this is through, and you must return alive.”
He could see the streets of London in his mind: the soft light of the gas lamps in the mist, their reflections in the wet cobblestones. Moriarty might be gone, but even now his brother worked to restore his name. His remaining men still prepared to act. London would never see a day when crime was no more. Perhaps even now, lost souls continued to visit Baker Street, unaware of Sherlock’s death. What cases weighed upon their shoulders? What anxieties troubled them?
Sherlock shrugged himself free of his reverie to find Ito looking at him oddly. With a faint smile, the detective said, “Now is not the time for reminiscing.”
Ito returned the expression. “I promise we will return. You and I, both.”
An ear-splitting explosion filled the air. Water rained down on them, even though they stood as far as the hill. The sky was lit a crimson red. The Timur, in the northeastern corner, was now engulfed in flames. Balls of fire rolled across the deck before erupting into columns of flame. Their light was reflected in the sea below, where sailors treaded water, shouting for help. The rescue boats of the police and the fishermen drew closer to them.
“Let us go, Mr. Ito. The hour is afoot.”
“Indeed it is.”
Inoue called out, “Take this with you, Ito!”
It was his cane, the one with the hidden blade inside. The two Japanese men looked into each other’s eyes. Ito gripped it solidly, as if he were receiving a samurai’s sword.
Now the ocean wind that blew from the sea carried the heat of the flames. Sherlock and Ito began running. As they descended the hill, a flurry of emotions swept through the detective’s mind. In the past he had disparaged Watson’s writing. Now, he swore he would write his own memoirs someday. But before one could write his life, one must live it. Life was in the living, not its results.
35
The small Russian steamboat was aerodynamic, shaped like an oversized canoe. Lt. Colonel Kanevsky and four other sailors were aboard. Sherlock and Ito huddled into the back. The boat was larger than the Aurora, the steam launch Sherlock had once chased down the Thames, but it was also much faster. They dashed over the black waters as if gliding over pools of ink. The boat’s incandescent bulbs illuminated their immediate vicinity, but did not penetrate far beyond that, with the mist and smoke from the multiple explosions. The boat pitched and lurched each time they struck a piece of floating debris.
Another column of water shot into the sky. Flames erupted from the ship to the Laskar‘s starboard side. The mast tipped over and began to burn.
Kanevsky shouted over his shoulder. “They have got the Kliment!”
“Now we finally know where all the ships were located,” Ito whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
“Indeed. There are only two left now. The Arsen, which is behind the Laskar, and the Walery, to its starboard.” Sherlock leaned forward and shouted. “Lt. Colonel Kanevsky, are you sure the explosives are being detonated by pulling wires?”
“Absolutely certain. I spotted a wire stretched beneath the water.”
“They must be very long.”
Kanevsky nodded. “They are being pulled from the deck of the Laskar.”
“The crew wouldn’t notice if they pulled the wires from the deck?”
“No. If the wires are wound around the balustrades, Chekhov or Denikin could loiter on the deck, and would only need to slightly lean over the edge to give the wires a tug. After the first explosion there would be chaos, and no one would be paying them very much attention. Besides, with it so dark, how would anyone see the wires in the first place?”
“The Arsen and the Walery haven’t sunk yet. The wires must be stretched between them and the Laskar. You should warn all the boats not to travel between th—”
Another flash lit up the sky. An explosion rang out, and then a huge wave rolled their way. The steamboat tilted hard. Sherlock grabbed the mast. The steamboat nearly capsized before suddenly and violently righting itself. The shaking almost tossed all of them into the water.
Kanevsky peered through his binoculars. “That was the Arsen. Only the Walery left.”
“And the Laskar. So long as any other ships are still there Tsarevich Nicholas will remain aboard. It must seem more dangerous to disembark than to stay. The captain of the Laskar is likely waiting to see whether or not the Walery, too, will fall.”
“So their evacuations will begin as soon as the Walery sinks.”
“Yes. We must close the distance to the Laskar before then.”
“The crane to lower the lifeboats is on the starboard side.”
“Then we should get there posthaste.”
Kanevsky shouted at the sailors in Russian. The sailors grew more frantic. They scooped shovelfuls of coal into the stokehold, over and over again. The headwind grew stronger as their steamboat accelerated. Laskar’s forward port grew steadily near.