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p ocher and sienna。 It gleamed； so Ushiba knew it had been periodically waxed in order to keep it from being brittle。
〃This；〃 Ken said； holding the artifact aloft； 〃is the skull of Masamoto Musashi； whom I consider the finest swordsman in the history of Japan。〃 Musashi had gained worldwide notoriety for writing The Book of Five Rings； a seventeenth…century text on kenjutsu； the technique of swordsmanship and strategy。
Ken's nimble fingers turned the skull around。 〃Do you know that it was Musashi's closest friend who stripped his head of flesh and viscera and sold the skull？ It was all he had to keep himself alive。〃 Around the skull rotated； revealing in turn each noble view。 〃Was he a villain； Musashi's friend； or merely a victim of expediency？ Or； again； did he do Musashi the ultimate service by seeing to it that his memory would not be buried with him； but would remain alive and revered centuries later？〃
Ken brought the skull down； delivering it into Ushiba's hands。 〃Hold it； Daijin。 Feel Musashi's power undiminished by either death or time。 Is this not the meaning of immortality？〃
The skull weighed more than Ushiba had imagined； its density perhaps due to its aura of power and influence。 Ken was right。 In its contours； indentations； and ridges Ushiba could visualize the plex electrical patterns that had made Musashi's brain unique； and for this moment； he was without the pain of his cancer or the certain knowledge of his imminent death。 Here was； as Ken had said； existence beyond death。 And if it was not existence precisely as humans knew it； perhaps it was something more； beyond the mind's imagining。
〃It has moved you； Daijin。〃 Ken made no attempt to take back the skull。 〃You feel what I feel。 This close to Musashi there is no suffering。〃
〃No。〃 Ushiba was transfixed。 〃There is no pain； no death； no time。〃
〃Daijin；〃 Ken said quietly； 〃you must punish Akira Chosa for his crime。〃
For a moment； Ushiba； dazed by the aura pushed out by Musashi's skull； did not believe what he had heard。 Then he raised his gaze to Ken's face and knew there had been no mistake。
〃How did you know？〃
〃Intuition fed by fact。 Chosa was here not too long ago to see my mother。 I believe she might have killed him had I not intervened。 She thinks he ordered Mikio Okami killed。〃
〃Perhaps she knows something I do not。〃 The skull was abruptly too heavy for him； and he transferred it back to Ken's waiting hand。 〃Too many people are eager to claim responsibility for an act that remains unfulfilled。〃
〃And yet the Kaisho no longer sits in the seat of power。 He has been banished。 Isn't that enough to gain stature from the act？〃
Ushiba nodded。 〃In our less…than…perfect world I imagine it is。〃 He looked searchingly at Ken。 〃Why did Chosa e to see Kisoko？〃
〃To ask her what she knew about Okami's relationship with Col。 Denis Linnear。。。 and what she knew about Koei。〃
〃Koei？ Why would he want。。。 ？〃
〃Punish him。〃 Ken was staring at the skull of Musashi。 〃Who better than you to devise the fitting penance。〃
〃I told you； my mind is blank。〃
〃Then may I suggest a path。〃 Ken's soft eyes swung from contemplation of the skull to appreciation of the Daijin's beautiful face。 〃It is sitting right in front of you； Daijin； like Musashi's skull。 If you see it； you will recognize the path。〃
〃What。。。 ？〃
〃Your friend； the Tokyo prosecutor。 Tanaka Gin。〃
Being in London at this time of the year was like living inside a cloud bank。 Mist rose from the Thames； obscuring the office buildings of the City and putting the enormous ravens of the Tower into a pet。 There had been a bombing in the City that morning； and Harrods had been cleared by IRA threats of another。 As it was； the streets around the blast site were cordoned off while work crews labored to sweep the debris away and forensic specialists bed the twisted girders of the bank to discover the methodology of the terrorists。
The perpetual mist sometimes lifted to reveal the scraggly tops of bare trees in Hyde Park and St。 James's； sometimes occluded into a rain so invariable it seemed to have no beginning； no end。 Through it all； indefatigable Londoners plowed through the slick streets and stalled traffic； their black umbrellas as crisp and neat as public school uniforms。 Rising and falling like a tide from the underground； they performed their chores with the stoic precision of a drill team。
For all that； parts of London seemed to have taken on a decidedly American look。 Whereas once Piccadilly Circus had been both tacky and quintessentially English； it now sported enough American stores hawking their wares at a frenetic pace to make a fair stand…in for New York。 It had gone beyond the pale； from garish to a kind of queasy forgery； and like all counterfeits it had taken on a frightening life of its own。
Once again； Vesper had surprised Croaker。 He had expected her to go straight from Heathrow to Hammersmith； where Malory Enterprises was located。 Instead； he had followed her into Belgravia； where she got out of her taxi on the King's Road； then walked southwest to Eaton Square。 The town house she entered had an excellent view of the spires of Holy Trinity Church just north of Sloane Square。
He had almost missed her at Heathrow。 On the way to baggage claim she had stopped in the ladies' room； and the only thing that had tipped him off was the square carry…on that swung from one hand。 Ten minutes later； she had reappeared in a shoulder…length blunt…cut red wig。 She had ditched the doe brown contacts and her amazing cornflower blue eyes blazed in her heart…shaped face。 Her makeup was decidedly grunge： aubergine lipstick and heavy black kohl on her lids and lashes。 Though the red jade choker was still around her throat； she had replaced her shoes with a pair of shiny black plastic boots that came up over her knees； her jeans and shirt with a clingy black rayon dress that ended where her thighs began。 When she bent over to retrieve her luggage； any man behind her would have an instant heart attack。
The problem with London was that his federal badge was useless here； worse； flashing it might actually get him into trouble with the local constabulary； who； he knew from experience； could bee testy about Yanks poaching on their turf。 He almost regretted turning down Bad Clams's offer of help here。 On the other hand； he had made the acquaintance of a chief inspector in New Scotland Yard when the chief inspector's quarry had split to New York； where Croaker had tracked him down and had expedited extradition with the federals。
The chief inspector's name was Tom Major； though behind his back Croaker had not been able to resist referring to him as Major Tom。 Major was a ruddy…plexioned man in his late forties with the closed； hard face of a Yorkshire…man； a handlebar mustache； and the kind of mien one found only in retired boxers； which as it turned out he had been during his stint in the army。 He had a ready smile and a willingness to consume ale in quantities even Croaker had found astonishing。 He also had an inexplicable fondness for overstaffed pastrami sandwiches。
Major was not at New Scotland Yard； but when Croaker identified himself； Major's sergeant directed