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TWO
TOKYO/MOSCOW
No one knew in advance that Kunio Michita's nakodo…his go…between…was going to mit ritual suicide； save Honno Kansei。 Honno worked for Kunio Michita。 As personal secretary to Tokyo's most prominent businessman； Honno was privy to many secrets： impending deals； mergers； acquisitions。 She could easily have put this knowledge to work on the Tokyo stock market； but she didn't。 Honno was adept at keeping secrets。 She had made herself that way out of necessity。 She carried a secret buried deep inside her： the horrific knowledge that she had been born during the year of hinoeuma。 It had been a mistake； of course。 Her father had never forgiven her mother； believing； of course； that the pregnancy was her fault。 If he had e to love Honno； he had never showed it。 He always made her feel soto； an outsider in her own family。
Why？ According to the ancient Chinese zodiac； hinoeuma was a year of the horse that appeared every sixty years。 Legend had it that women born in hinoeuma became husband killers。 Consequently； there were far fewer births in Japan in the year of hinoeuma than during any other year。
Because of her keen intuition and empathetic powers； Honno was almost destroyed by superstition。 Leaving her family had both strengthened and weakened her。 The constant proximity to their fear and anguish had been like a knife cutting through her belly； and she had believed her sensitivity to be a curse。 But years later it had also inadvertently exposed her to many more deeply buried secrets。
Such as the impending death of Kakuei Sakata； Kunio Michita's go…between。
Sakata； too； had been privy to many secrets。 He had borne this burden； if not easily； then well； for the past four years。 What had changed now to cause him to snap？ If he had been a member of a different； more Western culture； Sakata would simply have resigned his position in the face of a scandal cracked open。 He would have turned state's evidence against his boss； acquiring immunity； as well as vast wealth from the best…selling book he would then write about the affair。 A film or television miniseries would merely be the icing on the cake。
But Sakata was Japanese； living in Japan； where the worth of a personal relationship created one's definition of what it meant to be a human being。 His death； like Yukio Mishima's years before； was a means of munication； a statement； a symbol even of his own personal beliefs which would now be stamped for all time upon the collective consciousness of the nation。
All these ramifications； like ripples upon a pond； were on Honno's mind when she heard Sakata tell his assistant； 〃Your time has e。 I wish you luck； though I doubt that in the ing maelstrom it will matter。〃
What maelstrom？
As she looked upon Sakata's calm face； Honno wondered what must be in his mind。 What were the secrets that would unleash the maelstrom？ Had he just unearthed them or had they at last bee too difficult to bear？
He had e to Sengakuji to the； Honno was certain of it。 This was the place one came to honor the memory of the forty…seven ronin who； in feudal times； had avenged themselves upon those who had wrongly put to death their lord。 They had died in that pursuit； nobly； honorably； so that their deaths were as meaningful as their lives had been。
This； too； was Sakata's purpose。 He could no longer live with what he knew or had done； yet he could not divulge these secrets。 A betrayal of his lifelong friendship with Kunio Michita was unthinkable； the shame would be unbearable not only for him； but for the family he was leaving behind。 Ritual suicide was the only honorable way out for him。 Honno knew this and； therefore； did nothing to interfere。 It would not have occurred to her to mit so dishonorable and disrespectful an act。
She had always revered this man who handled the fund…raising from Tokyo's plex bureaucratic and political arenas that backed Michita； but never more so than now。
On this very warm spring day the graves of the forty…seven ronin were covered in flowers。 Incense rose in the still air。 The bination of heady scents was almost overpowering； and for the rest of her life； Honno would equate this particular amalgam of odors…sweet and musky…with death。
What were the secrets Kakuei Sakata could no longer live with？ As far as Honno knew； there was not even a breath of scandal。 Connected as she was with Tokyo District's feared Tokuso…the Special Prosecutor's Office…surely she would have heard if an investigation file had been opened on Michita or Sakata。
It was a long road from Kasumigaseki； the district in central Tokyo where Sakata and Honno worked； to the ancient graves at Sengakuji。 Sakata had chosen a time late in the day when the shrine was deserted。
He was dressed in white； the color of death。 Honno saw him limned in the setting sun against the field of flowers covering the graves。 A wind whipped his baggy cotton trousers about his legs。 The contrast between the vivid color of the blossoms and the purity of the white material was striking； another memory that Honno would not forget。
She watched as Sakata knelt with his back to her。 He withdrew from his waist a ceremonial knife。 The blade； slightly curved； shot the sun's rays into Honno's eyes； so that for a moment she saw nothing。 Then the glare was gone and Honno saw Sakata hunched over。 She could see the acute angles his arms made； and knew that his hands； grasped around the knife's hilt； were already thrust against his lower abdomen。
All at once his head shot up。 She could see his shoulders trembling as he sought to bring the blade； buried deep inside him； from left to right； in the ritual samurai's disemboweling cut。
Sakata's spirit was being purified； disentangled from the sins he had mitted during the course of his duty。 But even the strongest hand could falter。 The mind's determination did not fail； but the body in trauma could betray the spirit； and this was what was happening now to Sakata。
Honno could see that； on the verge of death； his body lacked the strength to finish the cut。 He tried again； but to no avail。
Honno could watch no longer。 She stepped from behind the huge cryptomeria tree that had hidden her from Sakata and； hurriedly； she knelt by his side。
The lower half of his clothes were stained crimson。 The veins at the sides of his neck were standing out like ropes； and his eyes seemed to be bugging out of his head with the massive effort。
Honno leaned over him and； placing her hands over his on the silk…wrapped hilt of his ceremonial knife； added her strength to his。 She heard a terrible ripping sound like thunder as the blade crossed fully from left to right。
Sakata's red…rimmed eyes rolled toward her； locking on her。 For one split instant his face registered gratitude。 Then he toppled face first into the bed of fragrant flowers； placed there to honor the sacred memory of the dead。
Irina Viktorovna Ponomareva awoke not knowing where she was： Mars's large； dark apartment in Vosstaniya Square or Valeri's brighter but more spartan one in Kirov Street。 She sat up in bed； looked out the window。 There was narrow Telegraph Street behind the Ministry of Education； where she worked； and there was the Church of the Archangel Gabriel。 Irina's coworkers referred to it as Menshikov Tower； but she could not； at least to herself。
But then again； Irina had nothing in mon with anyone at the Ministry of Education。 She had returned from an extended trip to the United States filled to overflowing with innovative ideas based on the American educational system。
She had spent the subsequent weeks painstakingly writing； revising； and annotating a lengthy treatise on how the Soviet educational process could be streamlined and improved。 The paper had been duly passed around the ministry without so much as a ripple of ment。
At last Irina had sought an interview with the minister； who had spent twenty minutes circling around the fact that all the points she had made in her paper had been rejected。 He had been so condescending that Irina had no difficulty in divining his message： stick to your puter models； to your statistical research。 Use the American methodology to reform the ministry's medieval archival retrieval system…that was； after all； why she had been sent to the United States in the first place； the minister reminded her…but leave the important reform to the experts； the men。
Well； at least I don't have to worry about being stuck in that dead…end job anymore； Irina thought as she stared at the familiar landmark of the Church of the Archangel Gabriel。 She knew where she was。 She was in Kirov Street： Valeri's place。
Irina felt her pulse still racing。 Thoughts of her job； the quotidian tasks of her life； had failed to calm her。
She had awakened from the same nightmare。 In it； she is drowning at the dinner table。 She jumps up； goes to the window； but there is blood on the streets； and when she looks up in horror； bars across the moon。 She knows she must get out into the streets； something important is happening there； something that will otherwise leave her behind forever。 But she cannot move and； looking down； she sees with a kind of sickening despair that she is shackled to the floor。 。 。
Irina cl