"Van Lustbader, Eric - Zero(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

To Stu, for flight command control.
I drew from factual elements and quotes used in an article by Richard Reeves of the Universal Press Syndicate, titled "Asia's Dreaded Superpower," printed in the Honolulu Advertiser, for the newspaper article that Lillian Doss reads in Book Four.
Very special thanks to Ronn Ronck for his invaluable assistance in opening the files of the Honolulu Advertiser on the Yakuza.
And to Kate for brainstorming and counseling above and beyond.

It is in changing
That things find purpose.
ЧHeraclitus
Goke no kimi tasogaregao no uchiwa kana
Her beauty clasped by twilight
the widow
gently wields her fan
ЧBuson

CONTENTS
BOOK I INKA: TO CATCH FIRE 1
BOOK II TENDO: THE WAY OF HEAVEN 95
BOOK III HA GAKURE: HIDDEN LEAVES 219
BOOK IV ZERO: THE ABIDING SPIRIT 325

SPRING, PRESENT
WEST MAUI,
HAWAII/TOKYO,
JAPAN
Not another night.
The man known as Civet opened his eyes. A gray-green gekko was staring at him. Immobile, the tiny lizard clung to a wallpaper anthurium blossom. Its head was twisted so that it could continue to stare at Civet.
Not another night.
Beyond the screened window-doors, coconut palms whispered as cooling winds coming off the West Maui Mountains brushed their long, sensuous fronds in a lover's caress. It was here, to this special spot in Hawaii, that Civet always came after an assignment. After an extraction. But this went beyond an extraction, beyond even death.
Civet wiped the sweat from his high forehead. He felt his fingers trembling as the animus of his nightmare stalked him. But the presence of a nightmare meant that at least he had slept.
Yes, another night.
He saw the pale gold light flooding the tips of the palms as the sun rose above the peaks to the east, and thought, I've gotten through another night.
It was always like this after he completed a directive. Yet this was different. So different that his very bones ached with the knowledge that he had carried out a directive of his own making. His mind boiled with the understanding that this was either the beginning of his lifeЧor the end.
Civet sat up in the huge bed. The sheets drifted around his waist as, wrapping his arms about them, he hugged his knees against his chest.
He glanced at the bedside table. On it was a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey and a water glass. Civet found himself reaching for the bottle and caught himself. Quite deliberately, he turned his head away.
And was confronted by the gekko's unblinking stare. The bastard looks so accusing, Civet thought. But it was his own conscience, he knew, that transformed the gekko's stare into something more than dull curiosity. It probably doesn't even know what I am, Civet thought. But Civet knew what he was. Only too well.
He was cold. Cold and sweating. With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the king-size bed. The expanse of bed covers behind him seemed endless. The empty space depressed him so that his memory brought back to him Mi-chiko's scent, a heady combination of perfume and the musk of her own skin.
He was dizzy. He put his head in his hands and thought, Ah God, but I miss her. Even after all these years, the wound is still fresh. It seems just yesterday that I lay with her.
Thinking of Michiko was like putting an ice pick in his heart. But, he thought bleakly, it was better than contemplating what he had done. Three days ago. So different. How could he have known how different it would be? An eternity of agony, because now there was no turning back. It did no good at all to know that it was different this time. It only served to remind him of what he had once been, to make him feel more like Sisyphus, putting his shoulder to the rock, rolling it up the hill yet again. It made no difference that he had been at it in the service of his country. There had been no glory in what he had beenЧonly medals engraved with his name locked in a sealed room, and blood on his hands. (Was that why he had gotten into the habit of burning his clothes after the completion of each directiveЧbecause of the blood?)
That, more than anything else, Civet decided, was the consequence of killing another human being: a descent into purgatory. The dark closing in each night like the accusatory finger of God. The river of life turned to dust in your hand, ashes that once God had animated with His breath. How much more terrifying then, to contemplate the death of millions.
Civet thought a lot about God these days. He felt now that with each assignment, with each life he expunged from the world, he was taking a step closer to his maker. At night, he trembled in the solar wind of His presence; he breathed in an energy beyond his comprehension. Yet it was a power that terrified rather than energized him.
Tracing it backЧlogic and connections were among his
strong suitsЧhe at length came to the realization that his terror stemmed not from the fact that he was repentant for his sins, but rather that he felt no remorse for the life he had chosen for himself. But not even he would have thought that his life would have led him down this particular path.
For the first time in decades, he was truly alone. Which, of course, was why thoughts of God blew persistently through his mind. Everything now had devolved onto him. And he was a fugitive, running for his life. Once, already, they had almost caught up with him. Everything gone up in smoke. Almost. But he had evaded them; he had come here.
How long? he wondered. How long did he have until they tracked him down here? Two days; three, at most. They were smart. And they had the organization. Christ, no one had to tell him that! He almost laughed at the bitter irony of it; he bit his Up instead.
And now, he thought, it all comes down to one hellish gamble. Hope may spring eternal, but it is such a fragile thing. I am gambling everythingЧmore even than my own life, oh, much more!Чon an instinct. I believe, truly, that I am right. But what if I am not?
All around him he felt the stirring of ordinary people for whom two kids, two cars and an hour's commute to work were the parameters of life. Civet shuddered at the thought of living his life in any mundane fashion.
Yet it puzzled him sometimes, this lack of contrition on his part. He felt like a monk who, having come so far in his ecclesiastical studies, nevertheless finds himself unable to take his final vows.
During his life, he had been in many places of worship. Once, twenty years ago, he had almost been killed in one and had, in turn, been forced to extract his assailant. Piety, he had come to learn, rarely coincided with purity of spirit. Civet knew many men in his profession who went to church every week. They seemed to be the ones who enjoyed killing the most.
Civet did not enjoy his work in the same visceral, oftentimes sexual manner these others did. But surely, he told himself time and again, one cannot be as good as I am at what I do without enjoying it.
It was the shadow world of secrets he inhabited that Civet really loved. It was like an Englishman's cup of tea, ever present and wanning. It made him feel apart, utterly independent, free. He was a fiercely painted kite riding the feral winds most people could not even imagine. He was made special; exalted, even.