Tanaka’s nerves burned. Something was terribly wrong. Somehow, Five Songs had nullified crucial—but not critical—elements of the defensive system. With the cover of the rain, and the confusion caused by the sauropods, and the sudden failure of the communications and security systems, it would take perhaps seven minutes to get everything under control. Seven minutes—but he wasn’t certain that he had that much time.
The Four had failed. Go had died in the Central African Republic, and somehow in the process, the assassin had escaped.
Hadn’t he?
He didn’t like any of this. And in fact, he knew where he belonged.
He had to get to the throne room, protect Swarna. Whatever else happened, the primary must survive.
He grabbed a pulse rifle from the rack in his office, and then stopped, staring at the object in the glass case. His great-grandfather’s sword. He suddenly had the sensation that it was calling to him.
That this was the last night of his life.
He smashed the case with his elbow, and reverently removed the blade and scabbard.
His African blood had isolated him from the Japanese society he craved, but no one could deny him his great-grandfather’s sword. Another explosion shook Caernarvon. He strapped the scabbard to his waist. So be it. If he was to play out the last act of the comic tragedy that was his life, he would do it as a man, as a samurai.
And by all that was holy, he would die before one hair on that monkey dictator’s head was harmed.