“Yes,” Nakamura said. “If reactor number four collapses, the fate of Japan and the world will depend on this formula.”
Fate of the free world now had two meanings. Initially it suggested that if the wrong people got their hands on it, they could use it to gain an upper hand in a nuclear confrontation. Now it also referred to the imminent risk of an epic nuclear catastrophe in Japan, one that could destroy the world. With each passing moment, the formula’s importance was growing, just as surely as the people who came in contact with it were dying.
“Chornobyl and Fukushima,” Nakamura said. “Fukushima and Chornobyl. They are forever linked in history as the only level seven nuclear disasters the world has known. In Chornobyl, it was reactor number four that melted down and caused the first international catastrophe. In Fukushima, it is reactor four that poses the threat of becoming the first global catastrophe. You think this is a meaningless coincidence? The number four is the unluckiest number in Japanese culture.”
“It’s pronounced shi,” Johnny said.
Nakamura nodded somberly.
“So?” Nadia said.
“Shi,” Johnny said, “is also the Japanese word for death.”
CHAPTER 17
The neighborhood reminded Nadia of Hartford. The owners believed in paint, power washing, and curb appeal. The neatly groomed front yards beckoned for a child and a golden lab. But there was no living thing in sight.
Nakamura parked in front of a yellow ranch-style house. The shades were pulled. Johnny and Bobby carried boxes of food and supplies. Nakamura rang the doorbell. When no one answered, Nakamura opened the door and they went inside. He didn’t bother using a key. There was no need for door locks in a ghost town.
They took off their shoes in the foyer and followed Nakamura past a small living room and kitchen into a bedroom. A gray-haired woman lay propped up on pillows on a bed. She smiled at Nadia, Johnny, and Bobby. Said something in Japanese. Nakamura told them to come closer. Although she sounded weak, the woman seemed cheerful.
Nakamura introduced them in Japanese, and translated in English. The woman’s name was Yamamoto. Johnny bowed and said a few words in Japanese to her. The woman beamed. She replied in rapid-fire Japanese. Johnny seemed to understand what she said and answered, but got lost in the further exchange. Still, his attempts only increased the cheerfulness of her disposition, and the strangeness of the situation.
Nakamura asked the old woman a question. It started with a word that sounded like yoshi. After the woman answered, Nakamura smiled and nodded.
“Genesis II is in the house next door,” Nakamura said. “Mrs. Yamamoto owns both properties. Her husband was an airline executive and bought it as an investment many years ago. Mrs. Yamamoto uses it for storage. She accumulated many things during the years she travelled around the world with her husband. She asked Yoshi to go there to retrieve some photo albums for her.”
Johnny leaned into Nadia’s ear. “Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“Genesis II’s name is Yoshi. He’s Japanese.”
Thoughts swirled around Nadia’s head. Chornobyl and Fukushima. Fukushima and Chornobyl. As Nakamura had said, they were forever linked. And now, for reasons she couldn’t fathom yet, it appeared the formula shared a similar link. A boy from Ukraine, another from Japan. If that were true, it might confirm her theory that scientists from both countries had worked together to develop a radiation countermeasure. But that was just her own pet theory, she reminded herself. She had no evidence to back it up, and there were countless other explanations.
Nakamura studied the vials of prescription medicine on the nightstand beside a pitcher of water. A remote control with a red button rested beside the phone. It looked like a panic button a patient pressed if she needed immediate assistance. The other nightstand contained a collection of framed photos.
Johnny was studying one of the photos. It showed a pair of young teens holding surfboards, a wave preparing to crash on the shore behind them. When Nakamura finished his conversation with Mrs. Yamamoto, she turned to Johnny and said something.
Johnny smiled. He glanced at Nakamura uncertainly. “Did I hear the word for brother?”
“That is Mrs. Yamamoto and her brother. When they were children. Their grandparents were killed in the American bombing of Nagasaki in 1945. The nuclear disaster in Fukushima has brought back painful memories for the older generation. At least two hundred thousand people were killed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki from the explosions themselves. Sixty percent of the victims burned to death. Can you picture that? They burned to death. The long-term effects of radiation syndrome followed. Some of the emotional healing that took place is now coming unraveled. There is an unspoken fear that Japan may experience such suffering again.”
Johnny studied the picture again. Looked for something positive to say. “Please tell her she and her brother look like good athletes.”
Nakamura told her. He listened to her answers and translated. “Her brother was her inspiration until his death last year. He was one of the Fukushima Fifty.”
Nadia remembered the newscasts during the nuclear disaster. Fifty TEPCO employees volunteered to stay at the power plant to stop the leakage and prevent further disaster.
“We heard about these great men in America,” Johnny said. “I’m sure they did the entire world a great service. We all owe them a debt.”
Nakamura translated, and Mrs. Yamamato nodded her appreciation.
“He died from shame,” Nakamura said. “The Fukushima Fifty were among the men who stood by as the reactors melted down. They were not prepared for what happened. Some people consider them heroes, but others believe they’re to blame for the disaster. When the disaster was finally stopped, credit went to the Prime Minister. It is a very Japanese thing. To let credit rise to the top, and blame fall to the bottom. When the press took photos of the Fukushima Fifty, Yamamoto-san was one of the men who turned his back to the cameras. Out of shame. He died because he wouldn’t leave his apartment to go to the pharmacy to get his heart medication. In the end, it was not his illness but his shame that killed him.”
Someone screamed.
The sound came from outside the house. It was far enough away to sound muted, but loud enough that its meaning was unmistakable. Someone was in trouble.
Genesis II was in trouble, Nadia thought.
Nakamura and Johnny rushed toward the front door.
A second scream. This one was muffled, as though one person had silenced another.
Nakamura and Johnny burst out of the house. Nadia caught the screen door before it hit her in the face. She flung it open and stepped outside.
A young man struggled to free himself from two burly men. The young man had his back to Nadia. He had short black hair, long legs, and narrow hips.
It was the boy. It was Yoshi. It was Genesis II.
The beefy men wore leather jackets. They looked like the duo that had followed Bobby and her to the airport. The Slavs. They’d found Bobby and her in New York. Now they’d found Genesis II in Fukushima.
A large truck rumbled backward down the street. It stopped. The rear door rolled up. A third man reached out with his hands. The other two men lifted Genesis II off the ground. The third man grasped him by the lapels of his shirt and jacket. The men shouted at each other in Russian over the din of the truck’s idling engine. The two men holding Genesis II had their backs to the house. The third man didn’t look up until it was too late.
Nakamura lowered his shoulder and rammed one of the men in the chest. The man groaned. Released his grip of Genesis II and doubled over.