He paused to allow Kenji to finish for him.
“In their computer, of course.” He smiled and nodded. “You very smart man.”
The recognition program beeped, signaling it had finished.
“No, the very smart man here is the one who designed the software. I simply use the tools he has provided me.”
Hideo didn’t bother going into how the algorithms and templates would work in sequence through Police Plaza’s database.
He entered the database—Kaze kept easy-open access to most of the city’s major databases, mostly for tracking markets for advance warning on economic and currency trends. He set up the templates and let them loose.
“How long?” Kenji said.
“This could take very long. Why don’t you check on Goro and Ryo and get some rest. I want to be able to move quickly should we get any hits.”
Kenji gave a quick bow, and left. Hideo watched him go, thinking how that kid could go places—if he lived long enough.
When he was alone again, he popped another photo onto the screen: the ronin. It was only a three-quarter shot but often that was enough. He’d made positive IDs with less.
He started the recognition program and watched as dots and lines and numbers blotted out the stranger’s face. Yoshio’s notes had said he suspected the man he had dubbed “ronin” of being some sort of mercenary hired by Ronald Clayton’s daughter for protection. If that was the case, then he too might have run afoul of the New York City authorities—weapons possession, perhaps. And if so, then his photo would be in the database as well.
He stared at the jumble of colors and numbers.
I will find you, ronin. And when I do I will ask you questions. And you will answer. Kenji, Goro, and Ryo will see to that.
6
Dawn paced the penthouse’s great room.
“I neeeeeed to go shopping again, Henry. Come on!”
Instead of easing her restlessness, her brief taste of freedom yesterday had left her totally wanting more. Despite the size of Mr. Osala’s place, it seemed smaller than ever.
Henry shook his head. “I’m afraid I dare not, miss. It was a terrible risk allowing you out yesterday without the Master’s permission. I don’t wish to push my luck.”
“Well, then, get his permission. Or better yet, let me talk to him. I’ll get him to come around.”
Fat chance of that. Mr. Osala didn’t strike her as the type she could move with a crying jag. But she’d give it the good old college try.
“As I told you, he is not always accessible.”
“But you know where he is, right?”
“I know he’s in North Carolina, but that isn’t exactly pinpointing his location.”
“I thought you said he was out hunting Jerry.”
“I’m sure he has other concerns besides you. He called earlier to ask how you were faring and happened to mention that he was heading for North Carolina.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“He does not offer details of his activities and I do not ask. All he told me was he is doing research and ‘setting the stage’ for an extended project beginning in September.”
“You must have an emergency number you can call.”
He nodded. “I do. But the operative term there is emergency. A shopping trip hardly qualifies as an emergency.”
“It does to me! Totally!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t risk it again.”
Dawn fumed as she watched him turn and walk away. She so wanted to kill him right now. But she wasn’t through yet. She’d find a way to get him to take her out again.
And this time she wouldn’t come back.
7
“I have found the perfect shoten, sensei,” Tadasu said.
Shiro Kobayashi knew that was not quite accurate. Shiro had found him. But he didn’t begrudge Tadasu the credit. He had been the leader, and if they had failed, the shame would have fallen on him.
Besides, for years Tadasu had instructed him in the use of the tanto, the katana, the bo, and nunchaku. He had been stern but seemed to care only that Shiro learned well. And Shiro had. He was now almost as good as Tadasu.
Akechi-sensei nodded from where he stood by the classroom window, staring out at the day.
“Is he, as I instructed, in a weakened state?”
“Yes, sensei. We have him locked in an empty storeroom. Do you wish to see?”
Akechi-sensei turned and faced them. Only his eyes were visible through his silk mask, which puffed slightly as he spoke.
“I do indeed wish to see this fortunate soul who shall be privileged to serve the Hidden Face.”
The Hidden Face…seeing it was the focus, the ultimate goal of every member of the Kakureta Kao. Yet to achieve that goal, one had to pass through the Inner Circles of the Order. That took dedication, resolve, will…and sacrifice. Eventually, the ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate reward.
Shiro greatly admired his teacher, and would sacrifice his life for the Order. But he was not so sure—at least not as sure as he had been in his younger days—that he wished to progress beyond the Fourth Circle. Because that was when the surgeries began: the flaps, the castration, losing limbs and senses one by one until…
Until all contact with the world except the air in the lungs was severed. Only then could one see the Hidden Face and, joining it in death, know everything.
Shiro yearned to see the Hidden Face at death, but was more than willing to wait before joining it in the Eternal Void. He had just recently passed his twenty-second birthday and was hoping to ascend from acolyte to temple guard.
If so, he intended to spend many years in loyal service at that post. Perhaps in his later years—much later years—he would ascend to the Inner Circles, but for now he wished to preserve all his senses and body parts.
He and Tadasu led their teacher to the storeroom. Along the way they passed one of Shiro’s fellow acolytes wheeling a wooden cart holding a masked monk in a blue robe. He had no legs and no eyes. Shiro knew him as the Seer.
When they reached the storeroom, Shiro opened the door and the odor slapped him in the face. The man sprawled on the floor smelled as if he had not bathed since the Tokugawa Shogunate. They had brought him here from his cardboard house under a Brooklyn overpass. Although he had traveled in the trunk of one of the Order’s cars, his presence had fouled the air of the passenger area. They had been forced to drive with the windows open.
The man was a bearded Caucasian of indeterminate age, but he was quite content where he was. Shiro and Tadasu had provided him with a large bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He had already consumed half of it.
He studied Akechi-sensei with bleary eyes, then grinned, showing rotted teeth.
“Is it Halloween already? I dig the mask.” He lifted the bottle in a mock toast. “Trick or treat!”
“We have done well, sensei?”
At least he said “we” this time.
Akechi-sensei nodded as Shiro gratefully closed the door. “He will make a good trial shoten. We want a small Kuroikaze for our test. He will not survive the strain for long.”
The Kuroikaze…the Black Wind. Shiro had heard of it since childhood when his father had handed him over to the monks of the Kakureta Kao. But no one alive had actually seen one, so it remained a formless legend. A legend he knew by heart.
In the sixteenth century, the shoguns imprisoned the Emperor in Kyoto while they ruled as they wished. After Nobunaga took control he began killing off all who supported the Emperor. He made a special target of the Order, which had been agitating for restoration of the Imperial Line. According to legend, Susanoo, the Sword God, the direct ancestor of the Emperor, created the Kakureta Kao in the time of Jimmu, the first Emperor, and charged it with the mission of protecting the Son of Heaven, and preserving His power in the world.
Nobunaga’s armies marched throughout Honshu, razing each of the Order’s monasteries after slaughtering all the monks. Finally, only the oldest,
largest, and best fortified monastery—in Nanao on Honshu’s west coast—remained. Under siege, the remnants of the Kakureta Kao delved into the cache of ancient lore that was their legacy from the God of Swords, and found a means to defend themselves.
As the shogun’s armies neared the gates of the monastery, a darkness descended and a mystical wind rose up around the temple. Some called it The-Wind-That-Bends-Not-the-Trees, some said it was another Kamikaze, or “Divine Wind” like the one that sank Kubla Khan’s invading fleet at the end of the thirteenth century. But those in the Order knew it as the Kuroikaze—the “Black Wind.” The legends didn’t say exactly what happened, but when the Kuroikaze was done, half of the shogunate’s army lay dead on the field, with the rest in retreat.
Nobunaga left the Kakureta Kao alone after that.
But the Order never fully recovered. It consolidated into a single temple in Tokyo not far from the Imperial Palace. During the Second World War it once again used the Black Wind against the Emperor’s enemies, and might have changed the course of the war had it not made the fatal error of relocating to Hiroshima.
“Tomorrow night we shall test the ekisu. I have found the perfect place, right here on this island, almost within sight of our ultimate target.”
Shiro asked, “Why New York City, sensei? Why not Washington?”
Recently he had explored the city in search of the compounds necessary for the ekisu. During his travels he had become enamored of Manhattan—so full of life and motion. He felt energized whenever he set foot there.
“Washington may be the seat of the American government, but New York City is its engine. It is the heart that pumps economic life throughout the rest of the country, and even into the rest of the world. Kill New York City and not only do we drive this foul nation to its economic knees, but we deal a death blow to its spirit.”
Shiro was not so sure about that, but who was he to doubt his sensei?
Tadasu said, “Pardon, sensei, but will we truly be able to level Manhattan using such a miserable excuse for a human being as a shoten?”
Shiro saw the skin around Akechi-sensei’s eyes crinkle behind his mask holes, a sign he’d come to recognize as a smile. “We once thought the ekisu effective only when used with a child. We have since learned that any living human, no matter how miserable, can serve as a shoten. And as for Manhattan, we shall not level it. The Kuroikaze will do much worse. Tomorrow night you shall see.”
8
From outside, the Fifth Quarter looked pretty much like every other Irish pub Jack had seen. Inside, two steps down from street level, it looked pretty much like every other sports bar he’d seen: oval bar in the center, a ring of wide-screen TVs above it, high pub tables and stools near the bar, regular tables and chairs farther out, booths along the walls. And more TV screens in every corner.
Each and every screen was running the Mets game—they were leading the Phillies four-zip. Jack had been a Phillies fan as a kid. Now it was Go Mets.
“There she is,” Bobblehead said, pointing toward the twenty-something teased blonde behind the bar. “Thank God it’s her shift.”
He hurried ahead of Jack, demonstrating—in case anyone might have forgotten—the origin of his street name.
By the time Jack reached the bar, Suzy had her phone out and was doing a two-thumb tap dance on the keypad.
“I kept somma them,” she said in a thick Nassau County accent. “Most was so blurry I ditched them right off.”
Bobble glanced ceilingward with a please-please-please look.
“Hope you kept some of me,” he said, turning back to Suzy. “My mother wants to see a recent picture, and I think the best kind to send her is one of me having fun with my friends. Hey, y’got one of me and Hughie? He was in rare form Saturday.”
Suzy grinned. “Should’ve been. He picked the winner.” More button pressing. “Let’s see here. Hey, here’s you and Artie.”
“Nah. Where’s the one with me and Hughie?”
“Here’s you with Joey from Ohio.”
“You must be one photogenic guy,” Jack said. “Everyone wants a picture with you.”
“Yeah, I’m a photo ho. Look, Suze—”
“Here’s the last one of you—with Laurie this time.”
Bobble glanced at it with a disappointed expression, started to look away, then grabbed the phone for a closer look.
“Hey!” Suzy said.
He handed it back. “Sorry. Any way I can get a copy of that?”
“I can send it to your cell phone.”
“Ain’t got a cell phone.”
She looked at him as if a third eye had just appeared in his forehead. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wish I were.” He turned to Jack. “You?”
“Yeah, but you sure you want a picture of you and this Laurie?”
“Oh, yeah.” He lowered his voice. “And so do you.”
“Great,” Suzy said. “I’ll zap it to you now.”
Jack pulled out one of his trusty old TracFones. “Never done that. How’s it work?”
Suzy launched into a wire-head word salad about texting and attaching the photo file to a text message, then sending the message to Jack’s phone, blah-blah-blah. It left him feeling like he was standing on a platform watching the technology train pull out of the station.
He held up his phone. “All I do with this is make calls.”
She took it, looked it over, grimaced as if she’d just picked up a handful of spoiled meat, then quickly handed it back.
“That’s about all you can do with that dinosaur. You need an emergency upgrade.” To Bobble: “I’ll have to e-mail it to your computer instead.” She stopped. “You do have a computer, don’t you?”
Bobble shook his head and turned to Jack again. “You?”
“Yeah. Send it to: r-p-r-m-n-j-c-k at yahoo.”
Suzy gave a wry smile as she tapped it into her phone. “Not only a computer but an e-mail address too. Wow. I’ll upload it to the photo site and forward it to you later.” Her tone made it sound as if she’d been asked to use a rotary phone.
Bet I can whip your butt in DNA Wars.
“You can’t do it now?” Bobble said.
“Need to get to a computer for that.”
Jack nudged Bobble. “I’ll print it out so you can send it to your mother.”
Actually, he’d have to have Russ print it out since Jack had never bothered to buy a printer. What for?
“Or if you want, I can send it straight to your mom.”
“Thanks but she, um, doesn’t have a computer either.”
Suzy rolled her eyes. “Where’s she live?”
“Um, Toronto.”
Jack could tell he’d pulled that one out of the air.
She laughed. “Toronto! I’ve been there! I love Toronto! It’s like another country.”
A few heartbeats of silence, then Bobble said, “Oooooookay. We’ll be going now, Suze. Don’t forget to send that picture to my man, here.”
“Right. See you here for the Belmont party? Or are you going out to the track?”
“I’m here, Suze.”
She gave him a thumbs-up.
“Wow,” Bobble said as they hit the street. “Another country? She knows all that techie stuff but doesn’t know Toronto’s in Michigan? I mean, people are so stupid these days.”
Jack let it go.
“So why do we want a photo of you and this gal Laurie?”
Bobble grinned. “Because guess who’s in the background, staring straight at the camera?”
“Our man Hughie?”
“None other.”
Things were looking up.
“Neat,” Jack said. “Old Hughie got Zaprudered.”
Bobble said, “Zapwha?”
“Never mind.”
9
Hideo knocked on the door a third time. It needed painting. In fact, the whole apartment building needed a makeover. He shook off the thought. His need for orderliness sometimes distrac
ted him from the matter at hand.
And what mattered here was getting past this door.
He heard movement on the other side. The three yakuza flanked the doorframe, out of range of the peephole. Though dressed in suits and ties, they looked anything but respectable. Yakuza…the word meant “good for nothing,” and that quality shone through. Each might as well have had another tattoo on the forehead announcing “hoodlum.”
But Hideo had no idea what he’d run into on the far side of the door, and so was glad to have them along.
The facial recognition software had done its job half well. In the NYPD database it had found mug shots of a brown-haired man named Hugh Gerrish, arrested for breaking and entering two years ago. They matched perfectly the face on the security cam. Gerrish had pleaded out to an illegal-trespass charge and been given probation with no jail time. The file listed this apartment in Brooklyn’s Greenpoint area as his address.
The software had not, however, found the ronin. Rather, it had found too many of them. One hundred twenty-seven hits, each of them resembling the ronin. Either his features were very common, or the only existing photo was not detailed enough for an accurate search. Perhaps both. Hideo would have to work on a way to narrow the selection.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said an old woman’s voice from within. Her accent was Spanish. A few seconds later the peephole darkened and he heard: “Who are you?”
Gerrish’s mother, perhaps? Hideo was prepared for this.
“Police, ma’am,” he said, holding a gold NYPD detective’s badge up to the peephole. “We need to speak to you about your son.”
“Madre de Dios!”
A chain rattled, the knob turned, and the door opened. A wizened, gray-haired old woman in a stained housedress looked up at him with frightened eyes.
“Mi Julio! What has happened?”
Hideo had a sudden bad feeling about this. Hugh Gerrish hadn’t looked the least bit Hispanic. He pushed open the door and motioned the yakuza inside. The old woman backed up a step and opened her mouth to scream but Hideo pressed a finger firmly against her lips.
By the Sword Page 10
