Kurt drove forward, teasing the car toward Joe’s side. He crossed the bridge slowly, as the boards creaked and groaned beneath them. The drawbridge was slightly wider and obviously sturdier than the rest of the structure, since its underside was armored. Kurt accelerated onto it and then into the large garage area that had once housed the castle’s horses.
A dozen other vehicles were parked around them, all meticulously restored machines from the fifties, sixties and seventies.
He parked in an open space next to a vintage Mini Cooper. Instead of the iconic Union Jack, it had the Rising Sun painted on the roof. “Quite a collection,” he said. “Dirk’s going to be jealous when he reads our report.”
Dirk was Dirk Pitt, NUMA’s Director. He’d been the head of Special Projects for years before ascending to the number one post in the agency. His adventures around the world were widely known. He had a strong affinity for antique and classic cars and had brought many examples back from his foreign travels, restoring and displaying them at an airplane hangar in Washington that doubled as his home.
“You might be right about that,” Joe said, “although Dirk usually goes for cars a generation or two older than these.”
Kurt turned off the car, pulled on the hand brake and climbed out.
A young man wearing a gray robe tied at the waist with a white sash came over and took the keys. A woman in a similar outfit took the keys from Akiko. Kurt noticed both of them carried long daggers in scabbards around their waists. Along the walls, he saw all manner of ancient weapons—swords, pikes and axes—as well as suits of pleated samurai armor.
It seemed an odd style of decoration for a garage filled with gleaming period cars, but then antique weapons could be collected for pleasure and value just as cars could.
“Welcome to my castle,” a booming voice called out.
Kurt looked up. On a balcony above the garage floor, he found the source of that voice: a man wearing a fitted black robe with shoulder boards and a white and red sash at the waist. He had no dagger but a curved samurai blade. His dark hair was pulled back in a topknot and his face was thinly bearded.
“I am Kenzo Fujihara,” he said. “I’m afraid we must search you before we allow you to enter the inner sanctum, but please rest assured, we are proud to receive you as guests.”
Another group of robed acolytes appeared to perform the search. “Is it me,” Joe whispered, “or have we entered Samurai Disneyland?”
Behind them, the drawbridge began to close. It slammed shut with a resounding bang, followed immediately by the grind of iron bars locking into place.
“No phone, no email, no way out,” Kurt mused. “Can’t imagine why they get accused of holding people against their will.”
7
KENZO’S CASTLE
EACH MEMBER of the NUMA team endured a search no worse than a vigorous TSA pat-down. The only real difference was the use of a bulky device held up by two of Kenzo’s followers and slowly passed up and down the front and back
of each guest’s body.
During his turn, Kurt felt nothing from it and saw no sign of it displaying anything in particular. But the heavy weight, thick wires and single red light on the device indicated its purpose. “Electromagnet?”
“Correct,” Kenzo said. “Battery-powered and manually operated. Strong enough to erase the programming and memory of any electronic device you may have concealed on, or within, your body.”
After his watch was subject to similar treatment and then handed back to him, Kurt slid it back on his wrist. “What makes you think we’re interested in recording you?”
“You work for the American government,” he said. “A close ally of the politicians in Tokyo. And they, through various agencies, have been persecuting my followers and me for years.”
“I assure you,” Kurt said, “that’s not why we’re here. In fact, why don’t I let American Paul explain?”
Paul moved forward. “We’re only interested in your study of the Z-waves and the earthquakes that no one else has found.”
“As your telegram said,” Kenzo replied. “But why? So far, my claims have been scoffed at. If the Z-waves can’t be detected by modern means, they must be irrelevant to modern discussion. Is that not correct?”
“We think they might be relevant to something else,” Paul said. “A rise in the nominal sea levels that began a year ago and recently accelerated.”
“I began detecting the Z-waves just over eleven months ago,” Kenzo said.
Gamay cut to the chase. “And how do you do that? I mean, if you don’t use technology . . .”
Kenzo stared at her. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? You do realize there are other ways to detect such things beyond the use of computers. Animals, for instance, are very sensitive to earth tremors. As for machines, as far back as the first century a Chinese scholar named Zhang Heng developed a seismograph.”
Paul knew this. “Yes,” he replied. “An ingenious device. As I understand it, it used a large brass drum with eight sculpted lizards arranged around the sides. Each lizard had a ball loosely held in its mouth. When an earthquake shook the palace, the balls tumbled out. Whichever ball tumbled out first indicated the direction of the earthquake.”