Blood and Chrysanthemums by Nancy Baker Page A

his.
    “Since you have told me a story, please permit me to tell you one,” he said, after a long moment. “About six months ago, an ambitious young man—let us call him Yamagata—saw a snuff film. No doubt, very few people believed what they saw in the film was anything but an elaborate act. Or, if the death was real, the manner of it was falsified in some way, for it was like something from a horror film. But Mr. Yamagata knew enough to suspect it was real. He tracked the film back to its makers, who were employed by a multinational firm that was both partner and competitor to the man’s own criminal organization. When rumours reached him that this company was buying or coercing scientists into service, he found his way in. The daughter of a man who owed his organization for its help was a leading researcher. It took careful planning but he manoeuvred her into the service of the company. He heard nothing from her for several months. Then after one night of violence, she reappeared, the sole survivor of the fire that destroyed Havendale and all its secrets. And when he questioned her, even threatened her, she claimed that she knew nothing. So now he waits, trying to decide if the snuff film lied . . . or she did. And what he is prepared to risk in a foreign country to make her tell the truth.”
    “And where do you fit into the story?”
    “Ah. A good question. The young man believes that the head of his organization does not know what he has been doing. This, of course, is not so. The
oyabun
knows what . . . and suspects why. The
oyabun
acknowledges some . . . responsibility . . . for what his lieutenant has done. And,” the man smiled suddenly, sharply, “the
oyabun
now knows that it is the woman who lies.”
    Lisa felt something deep in her stomach turn over sickeningly. Her spin dissolved into water and she pressed herself hard against the back of the booth, her hands flat on the table in front of her. She couldn’t panic, not now, not when her thoughts had to be clear and precise. “Why would I lie?” she asked at last.
    “Because you fear you will be disbelieved. Because you fear you will be believed. Or perhaps because you fear something else more than you fear the
yakuza
.”
    “And if I have been lying, why should I tell you the truth?”
    “Because my interest is . . . unique. Tell me, Dr. Takara, do you believe in vampires?”
    The question almost took her breath away, threatening to snatch sense with it. Not even Yamagata had said the word. She took shaky command over herself again. It’s just one more lie . . . and if you do it properly it isn’t a lie at all, she told herself firmly. “Vampires? You mean European counts in black capes who turn into bats? I’m a scientist, Mr. Fujiwara. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
    He laughed suddenly, a soft chuckle of genuine amusement. “Very clever, Dr. Takara. No, I do not mean ‘European counts in black capes who turn into bats.’ I mean vampires.”
    “I don’t believe in fairy tales,” Lisa repeated. “Do you?”
    “Yes. And so does Mr. Yamagata. And that is why you should tell the truth.”
    “You can believe anything you want. I don’t understand why that has anything to do with me.”
    He smiled indulgently. “I also believe that you are a clever woman. Althea Dale was certainly insane . . . but Mr. Yamagata and I are not. Sooner or later you will think to ask yourself why such sober businessmen would believe in ‘fairy tales.’”
    A thread of terrible suspicion wove its icy way into Lisa’s mind. “Why then,” she asked, “why do you believe in vampires?”
    His answer was a brief rattle of impenetrable words that sounded like Japanese but somehow were not. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

    In the autumn sky
    The moon floats above the water
    Searching the still lake:
    But a ripple from the shore
    Obscures her own reflection.
    he quoted, then frowned. “That did not translate very