Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two by John Meaney Read Free Book Online Page A

not belong to the darkness
.
    In his dreams, he thought that the occurrence of warfare mattered more to that pseudo-imaginary power than any particular victory; still, he felt that it preferred the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to suffer defeat, meaning he had a choice: which of his masters to betray.
    ‘I tell you what,’ said Sergei. ‘Since you’re busy with that thinking stuff, I’ll make breakfast for both of us. All right?’
    ‘Huh.’
    Because this piece of intelligence was crucial: he was sure of it. So he had three choices: take credit with Moscow, as Sergei suggested; allow Torginov and his contacts to investigate further and perhaps make their own report; or shut the whole thing down, killing Torginov and burying the news of Japanese plans to strike eastward.
    He felt the expression grow on his face: the Trickster smile, the harsh-humoured grin of Loki, both a god and betrayer of Asgarth. Ever since Dmitri learned the meaning of the word ‘Russia’ and associated it with the natural redness of his hair, he had felt kinship with those Old Norse beings, a resonance that spanned the centuries, and never mind that the Nazis did the same.
    A choice between evils
.
    What could be better?
    Hideo Kanazawa had wept in his sleep: something that should not be possible, surely; yet it brought back his first days at Naval School, and the bullying he had received as a sissy-boy who missed his parents. Now, he stood in his thin yukata kimono, cold despite the sunlight outside, and stared at the smart, serviceable kanji he had inked in what had been a blank, virgin book.
    The written words spoke of pincer attacks and the importance of intelligence; and they mocked him just as the bullies had, because they were not his thoughts: they were words strained from thickened idea-stuff forced through him like grains from cooked rice. It was turgid, the language of von Clausewitz, but not enough to hide the psychotic brilliance of that military mind. Kanazawa picked up the volume he was trying to translate, and pictured himself hurling it across the room to rip through a
shoji
screen; then he replaced the book with exquisite gentleness, and let out a silent breath.
    What did I say last night?
    Drunkenness was necessary and even encouraged, from time to time; but with fellow officers, not gaijin. Shame filled him like tea inside a cup. Yet what should embarrass him? Letting down his guard with the wrong people … or immersing himself in the group insanity that swelled all around?
    I befriended the gaijin because of Kano-san
.
    One of the two foreigners trained at the dojo of Dr Kano, the brilliant educationalist who – as a spare-time activity – created judo from the brutality of old jujitsu schools, forming moral fighters who defeated the best that the thuggish older styles could throw at them. His creation was modern, western-influenced (which few understood), yet a recreation of purity from ancient times, one that deserved to spread worldwide.
    Dr Kano was a friend of Kanazawa’s uncle, hence the visit which resulted in meeting the gaijin. He and the great man had spent long hours decrying the militarism which was rising tsunami-like to engulf Japan – all that, despite the uniform that Kanazawa wore. On one occasion with his new western friends, he took down Sun Tzu’s
Art of War
– required reading at all military schools – and related what he knew of the author.
    ‘One day the Chinese emperor commanded Sun Tzu to appear,’ Kanazawa said, ‘knowing the man’s reputation, and needing someone to lead the imperial army. Sun Tzu had declared he could instil discipline in any group – even the emperor’s wives.’
    At that, the foreigners had made ribald jokes – like last night, much saké had passed through their lips – before Kanazawa finished his story.
    ‘After extracting an imperial promise that he, Sun Tzu, was to have total command, he ordered the women to line up and march. The result was giggling