“But what does that tell us?”
“It means it plays off something you know. ‘I fed the dragon.’ No, no, ‘Susan, I fed the dragon.’ Not dragons in general, not dragons in history, not dragons in no poetry or movies or songs, but a dragon that Susan knows. So what we have to do is find a point where three things touch: Susan, Nick, and a dragon. What does Susan know about dragons?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you ever discuss dragons with him?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention them to you?”
“No. Never. The first time I heard the word ‘dragon’ from his mouth was last night.”
“What was the first thing you thought when he said ‘I fed the dragon.’”
“Oh, this is helpful. I thought, What the fuck is he talking about?”
“Are there any dragons in your past?”
“I dated a couple, that’s all. I was married briefly to one.”
“Think of what a dragon could be or relate to. A team name? Your high school football team—I’m betting you were a cheerleader—was it the Dragons?”
“I was the head cheerleader. It was the Panthers.”
“Ever study, uh, what’s it, dinosaurs?”
“Paleontology, archaeology, geology. No, never. Russian and Japanese literature.”
“Oh, that’s helpful. You can make a lot of dough off that.”
“Swagger, I gave you sarcasm warning number one. One more violation and you’re on your way to Arkansas.”
“Idaho. Let me say some dragon things to you. You react. Maybe it’ll jog a memory.”
“Fire away.”
“Flying dragons.”
“Nothing.”
“Sleeping Beauty.”
“Nah.”
“Prince Charming?”
“No such thing.”
“Reptiles.”
“Are dragons reptiles?”
“Well, they’re green and scaly. They’re like dinosaurs or big alligators.”
“Do they have two-chambered hearts? Are they cold-blooded?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either.”
“Chinese dragons?”
“No.”
“Dragons in parades? You know, people under a long dragon thing?”
“Wouldn’t that be a Chinese dragon?”
“Dragon bones? Dragon wings? Dragon tracks? Dragon breath?”
“No, no, no, no.”
“Flying Dragons.”
“You said that.”
“A gang called the Dragons?”
“No.”
“A triad called the Dragons?”
“No.”
“A flying dragon kick from karate?”
“No.”
“The sleeping dragon? That’s a kendo move, low to high.”
“I know what it is. No, not that.”
“A Chinese restaurant called the Dragon.”
“No.”
“Saint George?”
“No.”
“Saint Andrew?”
“No.”
“Prince Charming.”
“You did that one already. This isn’t working.”
“Well, I’m pretty much out of dragon stuff. Could it be a picture, a movie, a book, a poem, an article, a paper, a—”
“Hmmm,” she said.
He saw something in her eyes. It was that faraway look: seeing the mountain as if it’s close at hand.
“Article?”
“Paper. If dragons are reptiles, does that make them lizards?”
“There are no dragons, so can’t they be anything?”
“Well, as you said, green and scaly. That makes them reptiles. So wouldn’t they be lizards?”
“I suppose. Why?”
“It’s just that—oh, it’s nothing.”
“Try it. What the hell?”
“Lizards. I have something in my life dealing with lizards. I may have mentioned it to Nick.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“Swagger, nobody can remember everything they’ve said to a casual acquaintance over a five-year period.”
“Of course. Sorry. But you said a paper. School paper. Lizards.”
“Yeah, it’s a story I’ve told a few times in embassies and at the department, at parties and dinners, that sort of thing. Did I tell it to Nick? It’s possible. I met him at a party at the Japanese ambassador’s residence on Nebraska in D.C. about five years ago. It was low-key professional: I was supposed to chat him up, he was supposed to chat me up. There was some drinking. I may have told him.”
“Tell me.”
“I had a petty good-girl’s ambition to graduate from high school with a four-point-oh average. I had to be perfect, and for three years, I was perfect. But my senior year, I dropped a couple of points in advanced-placement biology. I had to somehow make it up, or I’d get a B, and there would go the four-oh. So I went to the teacher and I said, you know, I can’t quite make it up on the remaining tests. If I ace them, I still just get an average of three-nine-nine in here. Is there any extra credit thing I could do? He was a good guy. He said, ‘Well, Susan, if you wrote me a paper and it was really good on an original subject, I don’t see how I could keep from giving you the A that you need so badly.’ The joke is, I have no feeling for biology. I just learned it by rote. I had no gift at all and there was nothing I was capable of writing an A paper on. I had no inspiration, no anything. So I went to the National Geographic bound volumes in the library and just paged through them. I was looking for something that might stimulate my imagination.”
“And you found something?”
“A lizard. A big, ugly lizard. God, it was ugly. It was about ten feet long, green, carnivorous, with a forked tongue. It was limited to seven islands in the West Pacific near Java. The biggest island was called Komodo, and so the lizard was called a Komodo lizard. So I became an overnight expert on the Komodo lizard—this is before the Internet, I should add—and I did a paper on its prospects in an environmentally diminishing world. I got the A, I was valedictorian, my parents weren’t disappointed, and I went on with my life as planned, except of course I didn’t marry Jack McBride, but that’s another story. The funny thing is, that lizard really helped me by being so interesting. So the joke is, now and then if I’m happy and I’ve had a few drinks and people are toasting, I toast. My toast is ‘Here’s to the lizard.’ And they all laugh, because it’s so unlike little Susan Okada, the Asian grind with the four-oh average who never makes a mistake. I may have told that to Nick, after toasting the lizard. I think a bunch of us, some Japanese journalists and some State people, I think we went to a sushi place in Georgetown. That may be where I did it.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yeah. But see, here’s the thing. That creature is also sometimes called a Komodo dragon. Maybe I toasted the dragon and that’s what Nick was thinking of.”
“Komodo? Is that a Japanese word? It sounds Japanese.”
“No, it’s Indonesian, I think.”
“It sounds Japanese. Os, lots of syllables. It could be Japanese.”
“It does sound Japanese. It actually sounds like a Japanese word, very common, kamado. Kamado simply means stove or oven. It’s an inverted ceramic bowl or something. In the old days, most Japanese homes had one. It’s a grill, I suppose. You grill fish in it. Usually small, it’s—”
They both let it lie there, on the table.
A few minutes passed. Then Bob said, “Nobody would see the correspondence between the word Komodo, the name of the lizard, and the word kamado, meaning grill, unless they spoke both English and Japanese well. That would be you. And nobody else would have a Komodo in his background except you. Now, the next question: would Nick have had a kamado?”
“He shouldn’t have. They all have microwaves now. But he did have one. Don’t you remember how his house smelled the night you were over? He had just eaten and he’d grilled some meat. He grilled his meat
in a kamado.”
“Now, Nick’s sitting there, somehow he knows he’s about to get hit. It’s over. But he doesn’t panic, not Nick, he’s a cool hand, he’s samurai all the way. He knows he can’t get out, but he tries to preserve what he’s got, which is some documents, that’s how he beats his killers. Where’s he put them? He slides them into the kamado. Maybe there’s a liner and he puts them under that, in the bowl. Then he calls you and he’s afraid the phone is tapped and the only thing he can think of is that little anecdote from your first meeting and the correspondence between kamado and Komodo, that only you would see.”
“He was good at puns. He said he loved to write his headlines in his rag because he liked the puns, the more outrageous the better.”
“I think,” said Bob, “tonight I’m going to pay a visit to the ruins of Nick’s house. You tell me what I’m looking for and where it’ll be. I’ll find it if it’s there.”
29
THE SHRINE
It was one of his favorite spots: the secluded cemetery at Sengakuji, the Shrine of the 47 Ronin behind its gate and its imposing statue of Oishi. Here lay the remains of the 47 who’d forged through the walls at Kira’s, slaughtered his bodyguard in furious battle, then beheaded the old man. It was as sacred a spot to the Japanese imagination as was possible, and when the Shogun visited, he always called ahead, made certain that the place was “closed for maintenance” so that he would have it to himself and that the usual clouds of incense smoke from the hundreds of joss sticks lit by supplicants would have cleared away.
Here was naked bushido. It expressed itself on many levels. The bodies themselves, after the mass seppuku, were buried at the highest level, in Buddhist fashion, a thicket of vertical grave markers and ceremonial wooden stakes weathering in the rain and snow. One could—and many did—buy a bundle of joss sticks to lay in tribute to the 47 or their lord Asano, who was here also, which was why a low, smoky vapor lingered among the headstones. Below was a museum, for tourists; a courtyard, wide and gravelly, the shrine itself, the typical Buddhist structure of timbers and white plaster of a pattern spread widely across the whole of Asia, under a tile roof with tilted corners, an archetype that on a thousand Chinese restaurants had become a cliché. Here also—between the courtyard on one level and the cemetery on another—was the stream in which the men had washed the head that night so long ago. Here was the vengeance and the loyalty of the retainers. Here were men who’d die before they’d live with dishonor. Their headstones lay alongside the paths, under the shade of trees. Here is where they presented Kira’s head and got a receipt—preserved and displayed in the museum—from the priests:
Noted:
Item: One head
Item: One paper parcel
The above articles are acknowledged
to have been duly received.
Here is where they waited to be arrested; here, months later, after they’d been ordered to commit seppuku, here is where their bodies had been taken.
The skylines of Shinjuku or central Tokyo were far away. Fall was upon them, a chill bit the air, soon winter would arrive. The leaves, russet, red, gold-brown, orange, fell to earth in riots of color. He drew his muffler tighter against his neck, pulled his cashmere overcoat tighter, looked and saw bodyguards with receivers in their ears all around.
“You’re sure?” the Shogun asked Kondo.
“Not totally, no. But I’m sure that he had nothing set in type, as we found no page proofs. I’m sure he had made no attempts to talk to police sources because we’ve canvassed. As far as I can tell he spoke only to a few sources: the tattooist and several, uh, ‘experts’ in Eight-Nine-Three affairs. All have been spoken to, all have owned up, all have been remonstrated against. They will not betray us again. For Yamamoto, I’m sure he had nothing except the possible suspicion that you and I had made an alliance.”
“Still, it’s disturbing. At this time, particularly, when things are so delicate and hanging in the balance.”
“Most likely, sheer coincidence. Someone saw something, and maybe this reporter had a hunch. He was well versed in the ways of our brotherhood, he knew who to ask, and he made some slight penetration into our business. Alas, his hair was blond like Charlize Theron’s and someone noted him and sold him to us. We dealt with him. That is the order of business. As for any information he may have learned, it almost certainly died with him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, Lord, of course there is no ‘sure.’ I’m as ‘sure’ as I can be. But I can only talk in probabilities. We never had a conversation with him. His actions precluded that. He knew the conversation would have been unpleasant. But there’s no evidence at all he was working for someone and no reason to believe he was. He had as yet assembled no product: we examined his house seriously before lighting it. No notes, no story, no time line. He had nothing but suspicions and they died with him. That is the highest probability.”
“But what were the probabilities that Spruance’s Dauntlesses would catch our fellows on their decks refueling? Why would they come in at just that precise moment? The probabilities were infinitely tiny, yet the Americans fell out of the sky, and in five minutes we lost three carriers, three hundred of our best pilots, and the war. I think about that moment often, Kondo-san. That moment. Not one minute before, not one minute after. The carriers were turned into the wind, their decks laden with refueling planes. It was Japan’s moment of maximum vulnerability during the war, and in that moment the Americans struck.”
“The Americans cheated. They had the codes.”
“I hate the Americans. They always cheat. They are stupid and blundering and it doesn’t matter because they cheat.”
“I cannot protect you from God’s apparent enthusiasm for the Americans, Lord. He makes the unexpected happen, as Midway proves for all time. I cannot protect you from it, just as no one could have protected Nagumo from Spruance’s Dauntlesses. No one can protect you from Buddha’s whimsy, God’s will, the indifference of Shinto, or the sheer random drift of chaos in the universe. It sticks its ugly little head in at the most inopportune time. But we have done everything rational to protect you and to make this thing work and to get you what you so richly deserve. The only thing we can’t protect against is bad luck.”
“The Americans always have good luck,” said the Shogun bitterly. “Now they think they can take over my business, that I am vulnerable, that my planes are on the decks refueling. They are cheating by spreading millions around. It’s so unfair.”
“Lord, it will not happen.”
“That’s what Kusaka, Nagumo’s chief of staff, said too,” said the Shogun glumly.
“I understand. Therefore I have sent my best men to the polisher’s, and the security at that point is perfect. These are the boys who visited Yano-san and his family with me—all sworn, all bloodied, all who have cut before. There isn’t a man in Japan or even the world who could force the issue at the polisher’s. It would be one against six, and six of the best. Nii leads them and he will willingly give his life. He is true samurai. Your head is safe. And so is mine.”
30
SWORD OF LIFE
It was the next evening, past midnight, at the same Roppongi Starbucks.
He put it before her. It was slightly scorched, but he gently opened the manila envelope and one by one spread the documents out onto the table of the coffeehouse. He could see Nick’s handwriting in kanji running up and down the pages of vertically lined genko yoshi.
“And no one saw you?” Susan asked.
“I done some crawling in my time. I got in close as I could, then crawled past the other houses till I reached the ruin. I didn’t even have to go inside; I found the kamado buried under some fallen timber close to the first-floor patio in the backyard. Half the bowl remained intact and the envelope was in the lining between the charcoal chamber and the outer wall. It slid right out. I got my ass gone fast. Total time on-site, less than five minutes. Just in case anyone was watching, I double
d back three or four times. Nobody could have stayed on me, way I ride. I’m in the clear.”
Susan applied the full force of her intelligence to the pieces of paper, now and then shuffling them, now and then righting them, trying to make them assemble into coherence. Bob sat quietly, aware that he no longer existed.
Finally, fifteen minutes and another cup of coffee later, she said, “Okay.”
“He had it?”
“Most of it.”
“Does it make any sense?”
“Yeah. In fact, it’s simple. It’s just business.”
“The guy we’re after, he’s a businessman?”
“Is he ever. His name is Yuichi Miwa, called ‘the Shogun.’ His fortune is based on pornography: he is the founder of Shogunate AV. Miwa got into DVD early and onto the Internet early; thus he made millions, which, reinvested in newspapers, television, software, games, and so forth, became billions. But now he may lose it.”
“Someone’s coming after him.”
“Someone is. It’s an up-and-coming AV company called Imperial. Imperial, evidently, has American money behind it; they want to take over the Japanese market, import American women, blondes mostly, to perform in Japanese-style porn. The government has forbidden that for many years, but if Imperial can get it done, their profits would go through the roof. Miwa happens to be president of something called AJVS, the All Japan Video Society, the industry rep group, I guess a kind of MPAA for dirty movies. AJVS works with the government and controls the regulations of the business; under the Shogun, the government has kept American product out of Japan. Miwa’s term is almost up and there’s an election. He’s won unopposed for sixteen consecutive years, but now he’s opposed. Imperial is spending a lot of money and is running a slate. There’s dozens of smaller porn studios, and they’re either going to follow the Shogun or the usurpers from Imperial. See, it’s like a lot of industries and regulatory agencies. If you control the industry association, you really control the regulators, in this case something called the Administrative Commission of Motion Picture Codes and Ethics. Really, as it functions, AJVS controls the commission. It is the commission.”
The 47th Samurai Page 23
