December, 2000.

The otherworldly voice whispered in her ears, giving Trinity chills despite its familiar nature. "There's a war on, and you expect me to baby-sit an angel and his little drummer boy?"

Zodiac heard the voice also, although he was unimpressed by its subtle reverberations. He was also unimpressed by The Outsider's reasoning. "The war is not only in Ireland. There is significant evidence that the incidents in New Orleans are also linked to the Royal Elite. The patterns fit admirably."

The Outsider closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sights he had witnessed in Ireland. They were worse than ... before.

Two of the Trinity watched his face from different directions. The Outsider never seemed to talk about his past, although all of the Protectorate knew more about each other than they would have cared to admit. She wondered if he was thinking about Viet Nam, or possibly Tienamen Square.

Every war they seemed to lose people they loved. Even that weird alien war. The Outsider had given up loving long ago, or at least that was what he pretended.

After a shared glance at herself, one of her turned away to begin preparing her kit. The other Trinity continued to watch his face, until the silence passed and he started his own preparations.

September, 1942.

Several senior officers sat muttering around the huge mahogany table, most talking about the intriguing message they had received. The time was almost here.

Suddenly the shadows coalesced behind the Admiral, assuming the form of a mid-sized human wearing a fedora, trenchcoat and a bandanna half-mask, the color of twilight.

"Reporting for Duty, Admiral," said the intruder, saluting sarcastically.

Admiral Nimitz startled, then swung to face the intruder. Nimitz's eyes glowed ominously, but then so did the intruder's. "I don't deal with demons."

Several officers shifted nervously. This could get deadly fast.

"No problem. I ain't one."

"Then how do you explain your fancy entrance?"

"Can't. And wouldn't," he laughed. "Doesn't matter anyway, I'm not here to give physics lessons."

This wasn't going right. Nimitz wasn't used to insubordination, let alone defiance. "You will damn well identify and explain yourself!"

"If you don't want my help, I'll head across the hall to General MacArthur." The intruder watched the Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet, momentarily considering how much the middle-aged Admiral looked like that young actor Spencer Tracey.

Nimitz swore colorfully. "Give me one reason I shouldn't have you arrested right now."

"One -- I haven't done anything illegal. Two -- You're not stupid enough to try. Three -- You need me. Four -- You couldn't. That enough?"

The old man stared at the intruder for a long time. "Prove it."

"Someone give me something personal. Something I couldn't have faked."

The staff looked at each other. Finally the admiral gestured to a Lieutenant JG. He tenderly opened his wallet and removed a sepia-toned photograph: his wife and daughter in a studio pose. It had cost him several dollars. "You couldn't fake this."

The intruder glanced at it, then turned it over in front of Nimitz and handed him a pen. The Admiral initialed it, ignoring the wince from the Lieutenant. The intruder scribbled something underneath it, then stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

Muttering began among the staff, then cut short as the intruder returned. "That should be enough."

"What should?" demanded Nimitz.

"Call the president. Tell him to look under his wheelchair."

Among the hubbub, a call was made. Several minutes later, the phone was brought to the admiral. The nasally voice on the other end was unmistakable. "Okay, Nimitz, what the hell is this about?" began President Roosevelt. "Who are these people, and what do you mean, 'This is a bomb?'"

Nimitz stared at the phone in stunned silence. Then, gradually, he began to smile.

Things had been going badly for the American fleet in the Pacific -- not that the Atlantic had been doing much better, with the German and Argentine U-boats and all. The prospects had looked so great, especially after Midway, but then the fight at Guadalcanal had gone ass over teakettle and the Americans were gradually being peeled back again.

However, a few well-placed assassinations, and the war would be over.

The problem, of course, would be insertion.

October, 1942.

The submarine ride wasn't comfortable, but then, the Drake wasn't supposed to be. The discomfort only got worse when the Japanese destroyer Michishio arrived.

A thunder roared through the walls, and water started spraying into the bridge. The Outsider felt above them, sifting the shadows while the next explosions rocked the boat and drew sparks from the bridge equipment.

"Blow all ballast, prepare to abandon ship," came the command over the intercom.

"Way ahead of you," said the Outsider as he stepped onto Michishio. It was one of the 1937 Asashio-class destroyers, which generally traveled in pairs or packs of four, in this case Japanese Destroyer Division 8. The Outsider knew this ship owed the Americans a debt -- it had been part of the Japanese fleet at Guadalcanal that had cleaned the Allies' clocks. They had sunk Enterprise and Hornet off Santa Cruz, then polished off Admiral Callaghan's fleet in a night action, and finally successfully bombarded the planes that had taken refuge at Henderson field. She had a big debt to pay, and he was the debt collector.

The utility closet he was in was safe for the moment. He could not say the same for his allies on the Drake. He quickly reached out to find the other destroyers. Only one, the Arashio. Good enough. He scouted a dozen hiding places on the two ships. Then he was ready. The under-deck storage for torpedoes and other munitions was swarming with crew. However, there were weapons lockers on several decks for small arms. Several pistols and a flare gun would be sufficient.

The Outsider shot the Commodore of the Arashio in the back of his head, then launched a flare into the breach of a 610-mm gun being loaded. The powder charges exploded, igniting the other munitions and blowing the entire emplacement off the ship. Pandemonium reigned on the Arashio bridge as the flames swept the deck. For good measure, he tossed a couple of 60-caliber shells into each stack, generating further chaos and several dozen more casualties.

Commodore Watanabe of the Michishio began issuing orders in a Japanese too fast for the Outsider to follow. It didn't matter -- what mattered was that they were no longer targeting the Drake. The Outsider had to make a quick decision -- save the Drake crew or begin his insertion. He scowled. They had been a good crew, but there was a war to win.

On the Arashio, a Japanese Lieutenant was starting to get the chaos under control, so the Outsider shot him too. A couple of randomly placed shots below decks kept things nicely stirred up while the flames licked towards the other munitions storage. He heard a satisfying crump as the Arashio went up. It took her only a few minutes to go under, taking all hands.

On the Michishio bridge, Commodore Watanabe watched his sister ship go down. Apparently a torpedo had hit it right amidships, and set off the munitions storage. With the one American submarine surrendering, and nothing else showing on the new scopes that had located the Drake, that meant another boat down there somewhere, one invisible to the new Japanese sonar. With no survivors on the Arashio, it was most appropriate to bring this information to high command expeditiously. He ordered a turn to bring the destroyer perpendicular to the line he thought the torpedo had come in on, then set a torpedo watch and began a full speed retreat.

The Outsider grinned sourly as the Mae Wests and inflatable rafts of the Drake crew began to fade in the distance. Saving them was up to the flyboys now. He had other raw fish to fry.

February, 1943.

Commodore Shiro Watanabe wrinkled his nose at the smell in his cabin. For weeks his private head had smelled increasingly like sewage and raw bilge water. Just like his career. Ever since he had reported the alleged new American stealth submarine, his reputation had suffered a near-fatal blow. In addition, his ship was now considered unlucky -- nearly two dozen ships had suffered unexplained problems either shortly before or shortly after meeting the Michishio, eight requiring repairs and six actually sinking. There was nothing but rumour to link it to his ship, but rumour was enough.

If he were smart, he would just commit seppuku and get it over with. Unfortunately, he really would prefer to survive the war. This also, perhaps, was why his career was floundering.

He sighed.

This latest assignment would test his resolve in both ways. What was left of Destroyer Division 8 was joining a task force for a renewed attack on Midway Island. The Americans were expecting the assault, so there would be a major defensive battle, and perhaps a third of the Japanese fleet could expect to die with the half of the Americans they would kill, the other half escaping and fleeing from the superior invading force. It would be a good strategic move for the Admiralty, regardless of the loss of young lives. To serve the emperor was a good way to die.

He sighed again.

April, 1943.

The debacle at Midway had left the Japanese fleet in disarray. Not only were there more American dive bombers than expected, but several of the Japanese capital ships had suffered unexplained catastrophic failures. Only a valiant effort by the destroyer fleet had allowed a few major ships and one carrier to escape. Suffering only minor hits, the Michishio was ordered to port. It was now official policy -- she was cursed.

That was not the only Japanese debacle of the month. Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto had been shot down over the Solomon Islands and was presumed dead, and the Americans were quite effectively assaulting Guadalcanal again.

Looking at his knives, Shiro Watanabe considered the situation. He must do the only thing he knew to do.

Several of the Japanese sailors made quiet comments as the woman came on board. A woman, on the ship? How cursed must this ship be? And more closely seeing her robes, it became a sort of awe. How strange things were becoming!

The private audience between the Commodore and the woman lasted a long time. Long enough, thought some, envisioning the supple body under the robes. They had been at sea a long time. But those robes

"Of course, Shiro-san. But are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, Miko-sensei. This bilge-demon must be forced out."

"And if it is not a demon?"

"Even still."

"Hai." Miko Watanabe paused. "I can eliminate all darkness from this vessel. But, in war there is always darkness. Do you accept the responsibility for what you ask?"

His eyes met hers, holding steady for a long time. It was a deep question. He knew enough of Shinto, and of war, that he knew the question had no good answer.

"Hai."

"It will be so."

The Outsider listened intently to the conversation. After several months on board this and other ships, even his dreams were in Japanese now. Bilge-demon, indeed. It was an apt enough name, considering where he had to hide when they began searching the ship regularly. But this woman, he couldn't quite determine what she was really talking about. In typical Japanese fashion, they had referred to things obliquely, things to which the Outsider was not privy. All he could make out was that she was to do some kind of ceremony, and it would evict any "demons" from the ship.

Good thing he wasn't a demon.

Commodore Watanabe watched as the hand-pulled cart arrived with the objects from the shrine. A bell, hundreds of years old, would chime the cadence of the prayer. As he watched, several of the sailors bowed to his sister as she and her assistant dragged the cart up the gangway, waving off all offers of aid. In the cart were sacred objects, and many of the sailors responded with the reverence Watanabe knew was proper. In addition, he had given the order that, for this day, for these four hours, her wishes were to be treated as orders from him. On pain of bilge demon.

The sailors of course obeyed.

Miko began the ceremony, to bring light and banish darkness from the vessel. It was an old prayer, but known to have been effective. The bell was rung, the incantation begun. Gestures linked to a thousand years of nature worship invoked the great forces to attend to this vessel. Smoke from a blend of herbs wafted to the four winds.

The Outsider grinned at the pomp and ritual. Now he knew another synonym for "blowing smoke." As the afternoon wore on, he began developing cramps, and switched viewing places several times as the sunlight reached the ones he was using. It took him over an hour to realize that every time it had been farther from the lady priest. Now he was looking down from the aft stack, and he could see a shadow not twenty yards from the Shinto priestess. But he couldn't feel it. It was as though even the shadows were charged with a strange kind of light, not visible but light nonetheless.

He quickly checked below decks. The light had taken half his hiding places, and was encroaching on the rest. It was too late to prevent the priestess from completing the spell, and also too late to recover the supplies he had left below decks in his favorite haunt. He swore, and he could swear she turned to look at the smokestack before continuing her gestures and chanting.

He stepped under the docks, then felt around for an empty house. From there, he moved to an orchard on a hill, whereby he could watch the progress of the cart as it returned from the ship. She was a danger, and she must be dealt with.

Miko completed the blessing of the Michishio, knowing as she did so that the demon was already gone. Not a demon, probably. The darkness had been that of a man, and an exceptional man. She would need to complete a blessing of herself soon, to sluice off the darkness that she had absorbed in the ritual. Some sailors were such animals! After returning home to the temple and making preparations, she would send the acolyte away. He would be a bother, and a temptation. She decided would begin with a tea ceremony, to cool and calm her heart.

The Outsider watched the cart's progress up the small lane to the temple atop the small hill, overlooking a picturesque lake. It was a beautiful scene, one that made him at once happy and discontent. After a long time of listening to the birds and insects, and staring at the reflections on the water, he turned back to the task at hand.

The Outsider prowled the shadows around the shrine. There were no people there besides the woman priest. He watched her preparing a tea ceremony over a small fire, barely more than a candle. The place was set for a second person, but no one was nearby, and he could smell that the tea was almost ready.

Miko Watanabe-sensei started the conversation in beautifully accented English. "I had wondered when you would come."

The Outsider didn't know what to say, so he remained silent.

"It is good that you are here. There is much you should know." She turned from the candle and looked directly at the shadow that he watched her from. "There is an old story. An old lady once dealt with five merchants, whom she always paid on time and in full. One day, the five merchants got together and all decided to increase their prices. The old lady then could not afford to eat, and she starved."

The Outsider looked at her, eyes shining in the moonlight, and at the candlelight dancing on her hair and the earthen tea set in front of her. "And the rest of the story?"

"There is no more."

The Outsider continued to look at her, as the crickets made noise all around. So this was how the Japanese perceived the war. This was what excused their savagery. Well, there was something that she should know, also.

"There is always more," he said in Japanese.

"Let me tell you another story. There was a boy. Not yet a man, although he thought he was. He was fascinated by other cultures. He believed in his God, who wanted him to be friends with everyone, and he thought he could actually make that happen. As I said, he was very young."

Miko-sensei nodded. And tipped her head toward the empty place setting. The Outsider moved to sit there, as he continued, "He went on a long journey, to an exotic place called China. Unfortunately, while he was there, a war began. People from across the sea came and killed his friends, and captured him. Then they sent him to a place called by a number, 731, a place where evil commanded. Evil by the name of Shiro Ishii."

There was a brief reaction to the odd number, and then Miko turned from the tea to watch the man directly. As she had surmised on board the ship, he was not a demon, regardless of the smell. He was fully a man. She could feel the sensations rising.

"He was exposed to a deadly disease, just to see what would happen. Then a doctor, a medical doctor from this place across the sea, cut him open, to see what the disease had done. Cut him open without anesthesia." He used the English word, not knowing the Japanese. "Then eventually they killed him. After all, to them he was only a 'log.'"

Miko poured the tea for the dark stranger, her calm gently easing the tsunami of emotion washing over him. But within her, something was resonating. He was such a... such a man. "And this was the beginning of your story?"

The Outsider scowled. "The start of this chapter."

"And do you know how it ends?"

He considered. "If I'm lucky, with the death of a doctor."

"Forgive me, but perhaps your concept of luck is incorrect." Miko handed him the cup, and he couldn't help noticing the way her robe fell slightly open. It caught his breath. She noticed his attention and adjusted herself slightly, dipping her head in modesty. Nonetheless, her pulse quickened at the attention. "The robes of a Shinto priest are not designed for honorable women."

"No kidding." English this time. As he appreciated her femininity, he also became aware of his own smell -- the smell of months spent hiding onboard cramped ships, much with no sanitation at all. The tea was strong, but did not cover the stench of his vocation.

"Would you like to bathe?" she asked, reading his face, if not even his mind.

"If you will not bring others."

"You have the word of this humble one."

The Outsider bit back his first response. Her station in life was obviously not humble, but whatever else this beautiful young woman might be, she was probably not a liar. In a male-dominated honor-bound society, a woman does not become a high priest without extreme ability and a powerful sense of honor. Nonetheless, he would watch her actions as he bathed.

It turned out that that was not a problem. She led him to a room with a sunken stone tub, beautiful in its simplicity and decorated in ancient fashion. The tub would have accommodated a dozen people, and probably had at one time or another. It was already filled with warm water, scented with flowers and herbal oils. She lit several dozen candles as he disrobed and entered the tub.

Miko glanced over her shoulder at the lean and powerful body of the dark gaijin, and felt the longing emptiness within her. Hesitant steps took her to the edge, then her robe dropped and she entered the tub. The feelings belonged as much to the sailors as they did to her, but they swept up and over her, bringing her crashing to her knees in the water, then completely submerging her.

The Outsider watched her collapse, feeling alarm as she slid beneath the warm water. He boosted her above the surface, watched her snort out liquid then breathe, her small breasts rising against him. He felt her body, collapsed trembling against his, and struggled with himself. He wanted to take her. But even if she was the enemy, even if she was a danger, this was not his way. Someday, perhaps, but not today.

Her head came up, her lips meeting his. "Please?" she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion. Mixed emotions, he felt the struggle within her rather than heard it.

"Of course," he answered, lifting her to the edge of the stone tub and setting her gently down. She made a small negative noise even as she nodded. Her eyes opened and looked at him, wet with the water and a glistening all her own. Her breathing was deep and ragged. "I want..."

Before she could say it he turned away and submerged himself, drowning the rest of her sentence and trying to drown the desire rising in him. He shook the water out of his now-too-long hair, then used a handy pumice stone on his skin, trying to clean off the grime of the previous months. The scratching gave him a momentary distraction from his internal heat.

Miko Watanabe felt her head fall; she began to let out a small moan. It sounded both painful and pitiful, as though it was coming from a trapped animal, far away. The feelings and sensations were still rising within her. It was a storm, with mad lightning and thunder, and she merely a tree on the mountaintop. Then she was the clouds, and he the tree.

The Outsider turned to look at her, the candles throwing shadows on the walls as well as their faces. The sheen of water on her face now looked like sweat. She looked as if she were going to launch herself at him, either to scratch his eyes out or to rape him. It was purely sexual, but more frightening than provocative. He could see in her eyes that the priestess was trapped inside the body of a cat in heat. And he was responding in kind.

"What is happening?" he asked, his breath becoming ragged as he watched her breasts rise and fall. His skin felt clean for the first time in months, but something was not clean about the need he felt. The need, like the pile of his clothes, still reeked the smell of the bilge-spaces where he had hidden so often.

"Like meets like, opposite meets opposite." He followed the Japanese easily. Miko launched herself into the stone tub, her arms clawing through the water towards him. He backpedaled across the tub and vaulted up to stand on the tile floor. She screamed frustration and need, then whirled to slap a pattern inset into the tub wall.

"This!" It was an ancient Chinese symbol -- a circle, half white and half black, separated by a sinuous line, and each side with an eye of the other color.

"What is it?" he felt for the comforting shadows, and they were there. His strength grew, but the animal urge did not lessen. He wanted to howl at the moon.

Miko's words tumbled out in a rush. "Everything yin has within it a core of yang. Everything yang has a core of yin. Otherwise they could not recognize each other. Otherwise they could not fight each other. Otherwise they could not exist, together or separate." She took a breath. "We must unite, now!"

"I'm not much for uniting on command." The Outsider's sense of humor finally reasserted itself. There was something uniquely humorous about being chased around a Shinto shrine by an amorous female priest. Unfortunately, while he was busy laughing, she caught his leg and pulled him back into the scented water. His head hit the edge of the tub, but even a nose full of water didn't stop him from laughing.

As Miko pushed her passion upon him, wrestling in the water, he continued to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Two people, from nations at war, running naked around an old temple because of other people's sexual urges. She rubbed her supple body against his, and he responded. But gradually her eyes cleared, until she too was laughing and splashing.

The water felt wonderful...

December, 2000.

The Outsider looked at Jacob, feeling something subliminal but not certain what it might be. Condescension, he finally decided. The angel seemed to believe that he had vanquished Vamp. According to the witnesses, it had taken him only a single strike.

"I've fought with forces of nature before, son. Hell, I've fought Moonchild. They generally ain't that easy to kill."

Jacob looked at the Outsider, both personalities struggling to control the communication. After he finally won, Jacob decided to let the silence lie. Whatever the Outsider knew, he wasn't telling. That would have to be enough.

The Outsider watched him go. Extraction from a war zone was always a difficult process. You usually left some part of yourself behind, and brought with you things you'd rather not keep.

September, 1943.

The plane was high above him, angling off to the south. It was an American Navy Kingfisher. He was tired, and it was at the limit of his range, but it was time to go home.

His visit to China had told him nothing. Doctor Shiro Ishii was gone from Unit 731, away visiting Japan just at the moment the Outsider had arrived to dispense justice. Freeing the prisoners had given him no pleasure, since many of them would die of the diseases they held anyway. However, he took some small solace by assuring that all the doctors and guards were exposed to the same diseases too, at least those that he wasn't forced to kill outright.

The Imperial palace had been worse, protected by spells and exotic guards and those damn "ninjas." He sighed.

Weeks of dodging these "Night Wind" assassins was starting to wear on him -- several were now stationed on each capital ship and usually one or more on each destroyer he had visited in the last month. They were quickly tracking his movements, and killing them was getting harder each time. It was time to go home.

He stepped into the shadows of the munitions bay and hefted a huge shell. A moment or two to drop it into the cruiser's stack, then he would be off.

A quick pain shot through his arm even as he heard two metallic pings against the live shell. He glanced down and saw blood.

"Stop, Demon," ordered the ninja. The Outsider stepped back to a different deck, another throwing star ripping through his leg to ping against a bulkhead. He had overstayed his welcome, obviously.

He pushed the shell into the stack and then fell, splashing into the water a half mile from the cruiser. He heard a crumping sound as the shell exploded far away, wrecking the stack and spreading flames across the cruiser's aft decks. His leg was throbbing, whether from the salt water or some poison he couldn't tell.

With blood in the water, there would soon be sharks.

The plane was still there, heading to the south but starting to turn to survey the flaming cruiser. It was far past his range now, even as the cold water was starting to give him cramps. He felt for the cruiser to steal a lifejacket, but that too was now beyond his range.

He controlled his breathing, keeping his lungs full and his face barely above the waves. Every few minutes he would feel for comforting shadows, but he was beginning to lose the feeling even in his body.

The Kingfisher passed far overhead. He could feel it in a vague sort of way, like a distant echo, or an amputated hand.

He pushed, and the shadows opened.

Pilot Jack P. Robinson, known to his friends as "Rob," had just finished reporting the location of the apparently wounded Japanese Cruiser, when he heard a splashing sound in the back compartment. Sparks began cursing up a storm.

"What the hell was that? Sparks, you losing it?"

"No, finding it. In my lap!"

"What?" It was hard to hear over the thrumming of the engine. Of course, it didn't help that Sparks wasn't making any sense either.

"Body, wet as hell. Face looks American. "

"What?"

"Not a Jap, anyway."

"Don't make me come back there!"

Sparks laughed. "No, really, Rob. We got an American pickup. Smells like he's been in the water a looong time."

"Breathing?"

"Yeah."

"And he just popped in?"

"Yeah."

The Outsider heard the conversation from far away. Part of him was feeling the shadows sweeping up to meet him. But he wasn't ready to join them. Not yet. Not while Ishii lived.

"The Hell you say!" Rob yelled to the back.

"What?"

"The Hell you say!"

"Well, he smells like Hell anyway." The Outsider heard the wry grin in the navigator's voice. These two bantering flyboys were beginning to annoy him.

"Oh, man, what are they going to say on the North Carolina?"

"What?"

"The North Carolina. What'll they say."

"Ummm, don't pick up hitchhikers?"

"Damn straight."

"Unless they're American hitchhikers!"

"Will you two knock it off?" came the hoarse whisper, somehow filling the cabin. Definitely an American voice, but a voice from American nightmares. "I'm trying to sleep."

For some reason, they stayed quiet all the way home.

August, 1946.

"What do you mean, he was pardoned?" The Outsider's voice never grew above a whisper, but it carried enough poison to kill a regiment.

Nimitz looked at the Outsider, considering whether he needed to activate his countermeasures. He hoped it would never come to that, but he kept one hand in his pocket. "The knowledge that these Japs gathered is invaluable. We need it. Hell, in Germany we're giving away the store to get rocket scientists ready just in case we have to fight Uncle Joe."

The Outsider fought down bile. Stalin was every bit as bad as Hitler, but "Uncle Joe" had been a partner of convenience for the Allies. If Patton had gotten his way, the world would be that much safer. He felt like screaming at the nonsense of it all.

"And this information will save lives. The progress of various diseases was tracked through their entire course. Who knows how many people will benefit?" Nimitz almost sounded convinced.

"Who knows how many lives were wasted on this? How many people murdered? How many tortured?" The Outsider remembered their faces, their rotting bodies.

"Do you want it to be for nothing?" Nimitz let the question hang in the air like a lynched nigger.

The Outsider waited in the silence, feeling sick and trying not to think about it. Eventually he was forced to reconsider. Too much pain and death had happened to let this knowledge also die. Still, he couldn't keep the venom out of his voice. "If you need this crap, how long will it take you to pump him for it?"

The Outsider's eyes fairly glowed with anger. Nimitz hesitated. "How should I know? Three, four years and we'll have most of it."

"Four years, then," said the Outsider, stepping into the shadows. He was gone.

Admiral Nimitz let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He pulled the activation button out of his pocket and stared at the empty shadows for a long time, until finally an aide touched him on the sleeve.

"Son of a Bitch," Nimitz said, in a combination of anger and admiration. "Glad the son of a bitch was on our side."

June, 1950.

The Asahi Shimbun reported today that the respected Doctor Shiro Ishii has disappeared without a trace. The daily newspaper reported, with glowing words, the doctor's many contributions to humanity.

Unit 731 was not mentioned.

[Historical Note: "Night Wind" may have been a bad translation on The Outsider's part, or there may be/have been such an organization. The Japanese word would be "Yokazi" -- Night Wind -- which appears to be a phonic mistake for "Yakuza." This is especially likely since the Japanese word for "Wind" by itself is Ya rather than Yo. It is also possible that the current association of the word Yakuza to drugs may derive from the pre-WWII Yokazi organization's new orientation after the American occupation of Japan. We defer to the judgement of our Japanese readers.]
 

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