The Grey Pilgrim by J.M. Hayes

the little man, but Kira’s did. At his mention the man transformed himself from a bored, impatient clerk into an obsequious instrument of their pleasure. Given the speed and efficiency with which his removal from the Chinese front had been carried out, Sasaki suspected Kira must be an important man. The clerk’s reaction confirmed it.
    “Allow me please, and I will inform Mr. Kira of your arrival,” he said. He bowed so deeply and frequently Sasaki was concerned he might begin banging his head on the desk. It was embarrassing, to see the man humiliate himself so. Under other circumstances, Sasaki might have forcibly stopped it.
    The clerk picked up a telephone and held a whispered conversation with the instrument while continuing to favor them with a reassuring smile, easily as genuine as his paper shuffling.
    In a remarkably short time a tall young man in a western-style business suit approached the reception desk, nodded at the servile clerk and the escorts, then offered a deep bow.
    “Captain Sasaki, I presume?” he inquired, extending his hand for a western handshake. Sasaki accepted without comment. The gesture might or might not be an insult.
    “I am Mr. Kira’s personal secretary. Mr Kira is anxious to meet you, but you may have some time to freshen up first.”
    Sasaki had been in his uniform for more than forty hours. It was soiled and wrinkled, quite out of place alongside the secretary’s neatly pressed garments. Sasaki liked the contrast. Warrior and bureaucrat, actor and audience. Besides, he was anxious to find out what this was about, to know how seriously his life was threatened by the Kempeitai’s interest. He brushed at his great coat and a little dried mud fell on the tiled floor at their feet.
    “No, let’s get on with it. The Emperor’s business cannot wait on niceties.”
    “Very well,” the man agreed. Sasaki was surprised to discover that, though the secretary was put off by his refusal, he lacked the nerve to insist. Perhaps Sasaki was not in as much danger as he had imagined.
    They took an elevator, then the secretary led the way down a long corridor. Sasaki’s boots, and those of his escort, echoed hollowly while the secretary’s shoes hardly whispered. Even the tiles seemed to recognize the difference in their status.
    Sasaki detected no signal, but the men who guarded him peeled off at the door to Mr. Kira’s office and flanked it, waiting. The door itself was unmarked. Behind it lay a large outer office, richly upholstered with furniture and carpets as western as this secretary’s suit and manners. Everything was spotless, immaculate. Sasaki shrugged out of his great coat and tossed it onto a plush couch. For a moment he thought the secretary might throw his body across the sofa to protect its brocade surface. The potential damage to his suit must have deterred him and he merely stood and stared. Sasaki enjoyed his reaction, enjoyed establishing control.
    “Mr. Kira?” Sasaki prompted.
    “Ah, yes,” the man agreed. He went to his desk and picked up the phone. He was returning it to its cradle when the door to an inner office opened. A short, thick man with a grey moustache and goatee advanced into the room like some miniature sumo wrestler.
    The newcomer bowed slightly, smiled, and took Sasaki’s arm. He led the way toward the inner office.
    “My dear Captain Sasaki,” he proclaimed. “I am so delighted you could manage to visit me. Come in, come in.” The voice sounded genuinely pleased, devoid of irony at Sasaki’s lack of choice in the matter. “Please, take a seat, anywhere, make yourself comfortable.” The offer was made with the generosity of a man who could delegate the necessity of cleaning up after to someone else.
    Kira’s office was considerably larger than his secretary’s. Its furnishings were likewise western, but less ostentatious. There was only one hint that they were in the heart of Japan. A portrait of Mr. Kira being warmly received by Emperor