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office, huh?”
    â€œWell, if you have enough missiles…”
    â€œThere are never enough.”
    â€œHow many Zeros are there?”
    â€œAbout a hundred. The number is classified and no one mentions it. I have been trying to count nosewheels, so to speak.”
    After a bit, the American colonel asked, “So where is the Japanese government planning on using these things?”
    â€œRussia, I think. But no one had confirmed that.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œSoon. Very soon.”
    â€œAbe is very nationalistic, advocates a larger role for the military in Japanese life. What do the folks in uniform think of all this?”
    â€œMost of them like Abe, like what he is saying. The officers seem to be with him almost to a man.” Jiro paused to gather his thoughts. “The Japanese have much more respect for authority than Americans. They like being part of a large, organized society. It fits them somehow. The American concept of individual freedom…” He shook his head negatively and shrugged.
    â€œWhat about the Mishima disciples?” These ultra-right-wing nationalists were back in the news again, claiming converts in the military and civil service.
    â€œMishima was a fanatic zealot, a fossil, a relic of a bygone age. Everybody knows that. But he preached a return to the noble-warrior concept, the samurai spirit, and that still fascinates a lot of Japanese.”
    Bob Cassidy rubbed his face hard, then said, “I guess I have trouble taking Mishima, Abe, this samurai warrior shit—I have trouble taking any of that seriously. All that testosterone ranting and posturing…man, that crap went out everywhere else when gunpowder came in.There is no such thing as a noble death in the nuclear age. The very term is an oxymoron. Didn’t Hiroshima and Nagasaki teach the Japanese that?”
    A grimace crossed Jiro’s face. “Bob, you’re talking to the converted,” he said. “My morals were corrupted in Colorado Springs years ago. I’m just trying to explain.”
    â€œThe only noble death is from old age,” Cassidy continued, “but you gotta get there to get it, amigo. That’s getting harder and harder to do these days.”
    Shizuko came out of the kitchen carrying a large dish.
    â€œThanks, Jiro.”
    â€œI wish Shizuko and I were back in Colorado Springs, Bob, sitting on your patio with Sweet Sabrina.”
    â€œWe can’t ever go back,” Cassidy told him. “When the song is over, it’s over. I know. I wanted to go back so badly, I almost died.”
    In the middle of dinner, Jiro said, “The United States is going to have to take a stand, Bob. Atsuko Abe and his friends are crazy, but I don’t think they are crazy enough to strap on the United States.”
    â€œI hope to God you’re right.”
    Shizuko acted as if she didn’t understand the English words.
    â€œWhat if you aren’t?” Cassidy asked in a small voice.
    Jiro pretended he hadn’t heard.
    Bob Cassidy’s thoughts went to Sweet Sabrina. It was good, he thought, to be with someone who remembered her fondly.
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    The U.S. ambassador to Japan was Stanley P. Hanratty, who owned a string of automobile dealerships around Cleveland and Akron. He was balding, overweight, and smart. His middle initial stood for Philip, a name he hated, yet he thought his name looked too informal without a middle name or initial or something, so he used the P .
    Stanley P. had spent twenty-seven years of his life getting to Japan. He started out selling used cars, mortgaged his house and soul to acquire a used-car sales lot, and then a second, and a third, finally a new car dealership, then another and another and another.
    He was arranging the financing on the second dealership when he made his first big political contribution. Occasionally men from humble backgrounds have large ambitions, and Hanratty did: he wanted someday to be an