And so she’d moved to France, where she’d finally found work at a small café and started to live a normal life, for the first time in years.
And then, along the Rue Monge, she had seen him – Mark Cole, alive and well; and the safe, normal life that she’d just begun was immediately cast aside as her primary mission in life was reignited.
Find Cole – confront him – kill him.
But now she was right back where she’d started, in Tokyo working for the Omoto-gumi – and now with entirely less freedom than she’d had when she’d left two years ago. Now – if, she thought bitterly, it had ever been any different – they just wanted her for the money she could bring in. In fact, it turned out that they had been so desperate to bring her back that Chomo had ordered dozens of Omoto-gumi soldiers to scour the globe trying to find her. She could only imagine the delight her uncle would have felt when she’d been delivered by the American authorities right onto his doorstep.
Mitsuya had demanded her immediate execution – punishment for leaving the family, a betrayal that could indeed merit such a penalty. Her adoptive father now finally had his chance, but Chomo had vetoed the motion immediately. He tried to tell her that it was because he loved her, but by this time, Michiko knew better – it was simply that she was worth a lot more to the Omoto-gumi alive than she was dead.
But the smile now worn by Mitsuya, the man who had adopted her seven years before, the man who had been married to her mother, worried her. He clearly knew something that she didn’t.
‘What news?’ she asked finally.
‘Ah, my sweet Michiko. The head of the Yamaguchi-gumi, the revered Yamamoto-sama, is dead. The role of kumicho for the entire clan is now wide open, and your uncle and some of his key advisors have left today for Kobe.’ His smile widened. ‘I am now in charge of Omoto-gumi operations here in Tokyo while my brother is away. So I have come here to offer some fatherly advice – please be careful. It is entirely possible that an unfortunate accident might befall you before my brother’s return.’
He nodded his head once, the smile still wide on his face, closed the door and was gone.
Alone again, Michiko put her face into her hands and wept; her worst nightmare had just come true.
6
By the time Cole had managed to get a hold of Kadena, he’d been in Tokyo for several hours – time enough to have checked into his hotel, showered, changed, and headed off into the city on foot for his first evening of recon.
Kadena had answered the phone tired and harassed, but apologetic nevertheless. And after a heavy day, he was still willing to meet Cole that evening for drinks and a bite to eat.
But he’d clearly had enough of Nagata-cho and the surrounding area, and arranged to meet Cole at a casual café bar some distance southwest, in the Hiroo district.
A stranger to the city and wanting to familiarize himself with it as quickly as he could, Cole decided to walk to the café, and soon found himself strolling around the labyrinthine streets of Tokyo, mentally mapping each area as he went. Shops, cafes, takeaways, businesses, transport links, signposts, he absorbed everything he saw; you never knew when you might need something, and it was a habit that had been ingrained in Cole’s psyche years before.
It was also a spontaneous, natural reaction to constantly monitor his surroundings for any hint of enemy activity, whatever it might be. Not that there was any clear-cut enemy out there – not that he’d yet identified, at any rate – but the battlefield mindset was one that had ensured his safety for decades of active service. Just because he didn’t know who to watch out for yet didn’t mean that other people weren’t watching out for him. As a result, he was in constant counter-surveillance mode – going back on himself, crisscrossing roads, checking reflections in the shop windows he passed, taking odd turnings, doubling back on himself – in order to pick up on anyone who might be monitoring him.
Not that he expected that anyone would be; his identity was clear, and nobody knew anything about him.
Or did they? As Richard Baxter, he’d been in contact with many police officers over the past few weeks, and it was entirely conceivable that some of them might have learnt that he was visiting the city. And it was also quite easy to believe that some of those officers might have links to yakuza groups, who might in turn have an interest in the subject of his journalistic research – namely human trafficking, the ostensible reason for his investigation into Michiko.
It certainly wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that one gang or another – if they thought he was onto something – might arrange a ‘meeting’ with him in order to dissuade him from pushing his investigation further.
Of course, it might never happen – but the fact that Cole considered such possibilities, and then acted upon them, helped to mitigate the risk considerably.
As it happened, his stroll southwest through Tokyo revealed no surveillance at all; which meant either that nobody so far had any interest in him, or else that whoever was following him was working in a professional, well trained team.
Either way, he stayed switched on, so that if something did happen, it wouldn’t come ‘out of the blue’ – his awareness would give him those precious few moments that so often made the difference between life and death.
The other possibility was that Kadena himself had links to certain groups; there was therefore no need to follow him, as they would know where he would be, and at what time, and the café would be the stage for an ambush.
Cole had already passed through the expensive streets of Roppongi, with its embassies and its high-end nightclubs, cut through the park, strolled around the streets of Azabu, and reached the Hiroo district an hour before his meeting with Kadena.
Instinct had told him to wait until later, contact the man and request a change of meeting place, somewhere chosen by Cole and one which afforded the least chance of an ambush. But, he told himself, that was perhaps too unlikely a behavior for a freelance journalist; a suspicious man – as Kadena undoubtedly was – would immediately wonder if Richard Baxter was indeed who he said he was, or was in fact some sort of undercover agent.
And so, on reflection, Cole decided it was best to just go along with Kadena’s suggestion. It was unlikely that – even if thugs did come down to scare him off – they would do anything too drastic; the yakuza weren’t known for killing American journalists.
But that didn’t stop him getting to the venue early in order to scope it out, and as Bondi Café appeared before him in the looming dusk, he instinctively liked what he saw.
It was on a back street behind Hiroo Station, which allowed for a quick escape if it came to that, and seemed to be a surf-themed café; it was almost as if the hand of a supernatural deity had plucked the place off the beaches of Koh Samui and dropped it into the center of metropolitan Tokyo.
There were seats outside on a wooden veranda which offered a good view of the surrounding streets, and inside was just as the name implied – a definite surf vibe, with a collection of surfboard fins on the wall, chunky wooden tables and comfortable sofas covered with Mexican blankets, surf videos playing on the screens, and chilled out music playing softly on the sound system.
Not a great place for an ambush, and Cole began to suspect that this was the very reason Kadena had selected it; a thought which made him look on the assistant inspector more favorably.
Cole monitored the venue from a distance for a time but – when he’d failed to notice anything the least bit suspicious – moved inside, ordering a drink from the bar and waiting for one of the outdoor tables to become available; he liked to be able to see trouble coming.
Half an hour later a table came up, and he moved from the bar outside, carrying across his second matcha green tea latte.
He’d only just seated himself when he saw a man rounding the corner; from his posture and movement, Cole instantly pegged him as law enforcement. He was early, too; just not as early as Cole.
The man, too, seemed to make his own supposition
s about Cole’s Caucasian features, and smiled as he approached.
‘Mr. Baxter?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.
Cole stood, bowing slightly at the waist in greeting. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Assistant Inspector Kadena, I presume?’
Cole held out his business card – an item of great importance in Japan, known as the meishi – with both hands, as a mark of respect to the man before him. As an assistant inspector in the TMPD from whom Cole wished to get information, the nature of their relationship put Kadena as the senior man. Knowledge of such social hierarchy was of crucial importance, and Cole knew he had to play the game as carefully as he could.
‘Yes,’ Kadena replied, taking the card and spending a considerable time studying the information printed on it. There wasn’t anything there that Kadena wouldn’t already know, but it was again a mark of respect to give the meishi its due consideration.
Eventually, Kadena carefully pocketed Cole’s card and presented his own, which Cole took and studied in a reverse of the ritual.
Finally, Cole too put the card away, and he gestured to the low blanket-covered sofa next to him for Kadena to sit.
The police inspector smiled and sat, Cole following soon after. Both men were close, but both understood that voices were much less likely to be heard this way, which suited them just fine.
‘A good choice of spot,’ Kadena acknowledged.
‘It’s a nice evening,’ Cole replied. ‘It’s been a bit chilly back in DC, so I want to make the most of it.’
Kadena nodded thoughtfully, and Cole wondered if he was choosing to believe Cole’s given reason or not.
In the end, Kadena smiled again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is a nice evening. And I’ve been on the go all day, it’s nice to get some fresh air without running around.’ He gestured to Cole’s green tea latte. ‘Good?’ he asked.
Cole nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it’s lovely.’
‘I agree,’ Kadena said, gesturing at one of the waitresses inside, ‘but if you’ll forgive me, I’ll have something a bit stronger. It’s been one hell of a day.’ The waitress came, asked what he wanted. ‘Scotch,’ he said, ‘Macallan if you have it.’ He looked at Cole. ‘Will you join me?’
‘Why not?’ Cole replied. ‘I’ve had a bit of a tiring day myself.’
Kadena turned back to the waitress. ‘Bring us the bottle,’ he said, ‘and two glasses.’ The man watched the waitress walk to the bar, then turned back to Cole. ‘We’ll need it,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
Half of the bottle was gone by the time Cole and Kadena got down to business properly; it was considered ill-mannered to put business before courtesy, and Cole had prepared for his trip to Japan by learning all about the country’s unique customs. In light of what he’d learned about such social interaction, he’d also therefore learned as much as he possibly could about the real life of Richard Baxter. Anything he said to Kadena in passing – even over a bottle of whisky – could later be remembered, and checked.
But eventually, talk turned in the direction Cole wanted. Kadena – a keen smoker, like many Japanese – stubbed out a cigarette into the bowl on the wooden table, poured another drink for them both, and turned to Cole.
‘So,’ he began cagily, ‘you are working on a story for the Washington Post?’
Cole nodded his head, marveling at how clear it was; he hadn’t been affected by the scotch at all, and he wondered for a moment what that said about his current lifestyle. But he ignored the intrusive voice, and continued. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although I’m freelance, editors at the Post have expressed an interest in publishing – if I can make the story work.’
‘And what do you need to make it work?’
Cole took a sip of the amber liquor before replying. ‘There’s been a lot written about human trafficking lately, but most of it is pretty cold, objective, you know. I want to make it a human interest piece – concentrate on one person, follow their journey, so the American public can see what it’s really like.’
Kadena nodded his head slowly. ‘And you think this girl, Aoki Michiko, can give this to you?’
Cole shrugged expressively. ‘I don’t know. I hope so. I mean, from what my contacts at the Tucson Herald told me, the girl was at the ranch as a sex worker. But other than that, she was all but ignored by the media. But when I heard about it, I started asking questions. How did she get there? I mean, she’s a Japanese national, and she’s working at a ranch full of Aryan brotherhood types. What’s her story? Is there some sort of new supply route between Japanese gangs and Aryan groups in the United States? And if so, what kind of scale are we talking about here?’
The story Cole had spun for Kadena was made up, but based on enough of the truth to hopefully pass muster. Michiko had been in America to track down Cole – Aryan Ultra had seen her at San Quentin prison, poised to visit him, and had kidnapped her. Her presence at the ranch was nothing at all to do with the sex industry. But how many people would know the real reason? Cole found it hard to believe she’d be willing to talk about it. And so what would they think instead? Given the cynical minds of most law enforcement officers, the logical answer would be the sex trade. The yakuza was into it in a big way, and American criminal groups were always looking at new ways of making money.
Kadena lit up another cigarette, puffed the smoke out into the cooling night air. ‘Those are dangerous questions,’ he said finally. ‘You might risk upsetting some important people, neh?’
Cole bowed his head. ‘And I understand that you might be putting yourself at some risk by helping to answer my questions. But rest assured, I have the resources to make it well worth your while.’ This was as far as Cole could push the issue of money with Kadena – it would be rude to talk about clear amounts so early in their relationship; the promise of significant reward was enough for now.
Kadena shook his head with a smile. ‘Danger is the business of a policeman,’ he said casually. ‘And I for one would like some more attention paid to this particular area. To a large extent though, our hands are tied; our protocols come from the NPA, and you don’t get big in that organization without protection from somebody or other, know what I mean?’
Cole knew exactly what the inspector meant; corruption and graft were so much a part of the Japanese culture that it was regarded as normal, an expected part of life, the oil that greased the wheels of society. The police was in bed with organized crime, which was in bed with big business, which was in bed with the political establishment. Everyone scratched each other’s backs, and the result was – perversely – a fairly stable society.
Another result, however, was that those citizens living on the fringe were left unprotected, fair game for the predators to pick on.
‘The yakuza,’ Kadena continued, loosened by the scotch, ‘are entirely different from the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra. Hell, they’re different from any other organized criminal group. The only one that comes close is the Chinese Triads, but even they’re not really that similar.’
‘Different how?’ Cole asked. He was aware of the subject from his research, but wanted to get the direct opinion of a member of the TMPD; it might well prove useful.
‘The yakuza, we call them boryokudan – violent groups – see themselves as Japan’s version of Robin Hood. Ethical gangsters, you know? They call themselves the ninkyo dantai, or ‘chivalrous groups’, and that really does seem to be how they see themselves, or at least how they present themselves. Did you know the Yamaguchi-gumi has its own newsletter? Sure, there’s an editorial by the godfather, has notes on ritual and tradition, even has a poetry section, can you believe it? And they’ve got a website too – Banish Drugs and Purify the Nation League. Catchy, neh? It makes me laugh, it really does – it claims the Yamaguchi hate the drug trade, have nothing to do with it, don’t want their people dealing or using the stuff. But how much of that family’s eighty billion dollar annual income is the result of drugs? More than half, I’ll tell you that now. But they’re
crafty, you see – the main family membership steers clear, while its associate members can do as they like, as long as they pay tribute to the boss. So the associates deal drugs, and the Yamaguchi-gumi pretend they’re clean.
‘And you know what the funny thing about it all is? The Japanese people just accept it all, they lap it up. Yakuza films are big business here, mega blockbusters. And then there are TV shows, novels, manga, you name it. People love them.
‘Some of it stems from their origins, and I’m not talking about those initial divisions of labor into tekiya and bakuto – peddlers and gamblers – but even earlier than that. The yakuza sees itself as stemming from the tradition of machi-yakko, ‘servants of the town’, who set up as early as the seventeenth century to protect towns from attack. Law enforcement wasn’t what it is today, and sometimes the young people took matters into their own hands.’
Kadena was chain-smoking as he spoke, barely getting in enough air for each sentence, and the air was hazy around him. He waved the smoke away with his spare hand and continued.
‘The ironic thing, of course, is that the people they were protecting their towns from – the kabuki-mono and the hatamoto-yakko, which loosely translates into the ‘crazy ones’, and the ‘servants of the shogun’ – are much more likely to have been the actual forerunners of the yakuza. They terrorized defenseless townspeople, dressed in garish clothes, their hair cut into weird and wonderful patterns. They were the legendary gangs of our medieval past. Dishonorable, vicious, and greedy, exactly as the yakuza are today. But does the public see that?’ Kadena shook his head sadly. ‘They only see what the yakuza wants them to see, helping people who can’t be helped in any other way. They’re ingrained into our society in a way that would be unthinkable in the United States. They are accepted to such a degree that crime lords sometimes run for public office, and even get elected.’
NEVER SAY DIE: Mark Cole Takes On the Yakuza in His Most Thrilling Adventure Yet! Page 7
