“What about Ryusaki-zensei?” Nakajima asked.
“What about him? The man is an unstable, vainglorious madman,” General Sakamoto said, like discussing a dog about to be put down.
“So you bribed Kuroki-zan to assassinate him?”
“I offered Kuroki a chance to join the Army and serve the Emperor on the battlefield. I’ve given you the same opportunity. Or have you forgotten?”
Lieutenant Nakajima lowered the Nagant and considered his future. Fight for the Emperor in Manchuria, or fight for him here? He begged the gods for clarity. To attain glory on a foreign battlefield was the realization of a lifelong dream. But Sakamoto had issued his transfer, and since the General had been rotted by corruption that meant all of his commands were now suspect. Though it pained him to entertain the thought, battlefield glory might not be what the gods had planned for Hajime Nakajima.
“I will fight for His Majesty here in Tokyo, by punishing villains wherever they hide…even if it’s behind the uniform of an Army general.” Nakajima pointed to the General’s sheathed saber, laying in the corner of the tea house. “Because you were once an honorable man, I will grant you the dignity of ritual suicide.”
A deep somberness carved itself onto Sakamoto’s “Seppuku?”
Nakajima nodded. Ritual suicides were traditionally done with wakizashi short swords but a regulation military saber would have to suffice.
“And…if I refuse?”
“Then your name will be forever cursed as a man who murdered and schemed his way to power before being shot by the very weapon he tried to silence a true patriot with.” Nakajima raised the Nagant again. “But if you choose seppuku then your honor will be restored.”
General Sakamoto panicked eyes darted back and forth between the revolver and his sheathed saber. What an inglorious end for a man who had come so close to leading the Great Japanese Empire! Perhaps he lamented not ordering Lieutenant Nakajima to Manchuria sooner? Or maybe he wondered how he had fallen into such corrupt depths? Face and honor were like food and water to most Japanese, especially military men. How could Yori Sakamoto face his ancestors in the afterlife without them? If anything, the General should thank him for this one last chance at redemption.
“You may write a death poem if you wish, General.”
A deep sigh preceded Sakamoto’s answer. “No need…”
Unusual, since death poems were one of the most treasured parts of seppuku. Perhaps the General wasn’t the poetic type? No matter. Sakamoto walked over to the corner and grabbed his sheathed saber. Drawing the blade, he eyed Nakajima for a moment, perhaps planning his escape. But the General soon sank to his knees, a defeated man. Lieutenant Nakajima tucked the Nagant back into his belt and drew his own saber.
“I will act as your second, General.”
Sakamoto nodded and unbuttoned his uniform. A surge of confidence animated the General’s face, a man determined to prove his bravery by tearing out his own guts. Setting his tunic off to the side, he uttered a prayer. Moments passed until he raised the saber with both hands and with one guttural shout, disemboweled himself.
The blade dug deep into Sakamoto’s stomach, releasing a wave of blood onto the floor. The General sawed through his flesh, contorting his face into an agonized sneer. Nakajima stared, stunned by the sheer beauty. Seppuku was like a canvas painting with gore as the oils.
After moments of hell, the General looked up with a plea to end his suffering. Because of its long length, the saber wobbled up and down in Sakamoto’s gut, as if trying to shake him off. Lieutenant Nakajima snapped out of his awe and raised his sword. It was time to add the finishing strokes to this work of art. With a shout, he brought the saber down, sending General Sakamoto’s head rolling across the floor. Across the room, Chitose-oneesan appeared with a pleased smile.
“Well done, Hajime-kun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Every ward and neighborhood in Tokyo had at least one koban, a police box, and Asakusa was no exception. As Aizawa approached the koban, confidence surged through him. Tonight, this private war ended. A few junsas would be more than enough backup to deal with Ryusaki and his soshi. Uniforms often doubled as bulletproof vests in Japan, since very few would dare assault the Metropolitan Police. However, Sergeant Murayama’s dead body flashed into his mind. Army brown must have trumped Police blue.
Aizawa entered and found that this koban was larger than it appeared from the outside. It contained a holding cell and a spacious desk where a gray-haired officer sat, sipping a steaming cup of tea. A dark blue uniform hung off his lanky body and a pair of epaulettes framed the tunic. He was a sergeant and not the callow junsa Aizawa had expected. Although he outranked him, Aizawa offered a bow and his meishi card as a token of subordination to age.
“Ah, and what brings you out here, Inspector?” the Sergeant asked, handing the meishi back.
“Sergeant, I require assistance in making an arrest.”
“Who?”
“Masaru Ryusaki.”
The Sergeant took another sip of his tea before responding. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Inspector. My orders are to remain at my desk...in case there’s a citizen nearby who needs me. I hope you understand.”
“Do you have any junsas to spare?”
“I’m sorry but they’re out on patrol. You’re welcome to use my phone to call your own superior for backup.”
Aizawa clenched his jaw. Would the Sergeant make a call to Ryusaki after he left, warning him that he was closing in? What was it Baron Onishi had said? There are so many nationalists in the Police these days. Then again, maybe the Sergeant was simply obeying the duty that bound him to his desk. Neither was what Aizawa wanted to hear. Best to retreat and save what little face remained.
“Thank you for your time, Sergeant.”
Aizawa bowed and walked out. Asakusa was still teeming with humanity that swept him along down Kototoi Street. Passing a crowded stall selling yakitori chicken skewers, he considered the only option left, which was to go it alone. The odds were bad, but it was either act now or risk losing that slippery eel into the open sea of Tokyo’s back alleys and safe houses forever.
Up ahead, a Rising Sun flag fluttered in the chilly breeze, marking Ryusaki’s machiya. Aizawa ducked behind an alleyway and drew his Colt automatic, inching his way around. Just as Watanabe-san had promised, a side door led him into the main room. Electric light illuminated a silhouetted, shadowy figure. It was Ryusaki, hunched over a clacking typewriter. What was he writing? Most likely a hit list.
Whatever it was demanded his full attention, allowing Aizawa to creep deeper into the machiya behind him. He stepped over and around the empty beer bottles scattered across the floor and closed in. A clear shot soon presented itself, and he aimed the pistol straight at the back of Ryusaki’s head.
The gun trembled as Aizawa’s finger curled around the trigger. The clacking typewriter keys were soon drowned out by giri and ninjo, duty and emotion. Ninjo demanded that he shoot the murdering dog while giri loudly protested that revenge had no part in a police officer’s duty.
Suddenly, a heavy blow slammed against Aizawa’s head, driving him to the floor. The room was a messy haze for several moments until everything slowly realigned into view. Makoto Kuroki stood over him. The little bastard’s face was still swollen from beatings but somehow glowed in triumph. Aizawa struggled to raise the pistol, but Kuroki’s foot was planted over his wrist, while the other pinned down his shoulder.
“Ah, Inspector Aizawa,” Ryusaki hissed, finally moving away from the typewriter. “I’m surprised you found out where I live. But I suppose even the lowest order of dog can track a scent. It’s a pity that I sent my other patriots away already. They’d be delighted to see your final humiliation.”
“Some detective you are,” Kuroki said, grinning. “Didn’t even see me at that yakitori stand just now. But I saw you and followed you right back here! Ready for round two, Inspector?” Kuroki didn’t wait for an answer and cont
inued, “That pet gorilla of yours, Sergeant Murayama, nearly knocked my front teeth out. I think I’ll remove yours….through your nose.”
With his head throbbing, Aizawa wriggled like a giant silkworm, trying to shake Kuroki off, but he only managed to inch closer toward a discarded beer bottle.
“Wait Kuroki-san…it’ll be easier if I hack it off so you can dig through the hole,” Ryusaki said as he rose with the katana blade at his side. He bent down and scooped the Colt automatic out of Aizawa’s hand and into his kimono. “During the reign of the Tokugawa shoguns, my ancestors would slice ears and noses off impudent peasants. I think it’s time to revive the practice.”
Aizawa continued to squirm closer and closer to the bottle. With a sudden flash, the katana was unsheathed and Ryusaki angled for position. Kuroki grinned wider, dividing his attention between Aizawa’s struggles and Ryusaki’s glinting sword. The sword ran along Aizawa’s neck, gliding across his jugular, before settling atop his cheek. His death would have all the dignity of a butchered pig if he didn’t do something quick.
With an enormous heave, Aizawa wrested one hand loose and snatched the empty beer bottle. In one motion, he hurled it with a pitch that would have made Babe Ruth proud. An explosion of glass engulfed Kuroki’s head, sending him toppling backward. Aizawa rolled out from under the katana, its tip scraping across his cheek. It took a few moments for Ryusaki to readjust himself and steady his blade, but by then Aizawa was on his feet again, ready to pounce.
Eyes bulging behind his glasses, Ryusaki lifted the sword for the killing blow. Aizawa sprang forward, slamming his shoulder into Ryusaki’s gut and sent them both through the paper door of the machiya. They toppled out into the street, against the sidewalk. Releasing a heavy groan, Aizawa pushed himself up and there, in front of him on the ground, was the pistol. He looked around for Ryusaki, who struggled to upright himself on his katana while his face twisted in pain.
More and more people came into view, all frozen and gawking at them like a pair of zoo animals who had escaped their cages. A woman screamed, while a man grabbed the pistol and yelled for the Police. The fall had knocked the wind out of Aizawa, making lengthy explanations impossible. Instead, he turned and threw himself onto Ryusaki, unleashing a fury that had been building since March. One firm punch drove Ryusaki back down into the thin snow.
“S-stop!”
Aizawa looked up. The man now aimed the Colt pistol at him with shaking hands. Most Japanese had never touched a gun, let alone fired one, which meant there was a good chance that it could go off by accident. What could be more shameful than a police officer dying by from his own weapon?
“Fool,” Aizawa spat out between gasps. “I’m…I’m a police inspector.”
The man lowered the gun and bowed for his gross error in judgment. Very few Japanese would ever involve themselves in other’s affairs, but Aizawa couldn’t help but admire his bravery.
“Don’t apologize!” Aizawa ordered. “Go to the koban and get help! Now!”
Several members of the crowd broke away and dashed off, while even more bystanders drew closer to gawk at the scene. Aizawa tried to stand but a peripheral glance caught an oncoming figure. He rolled backward and glimpsed Kuroki slashing at the space where he’d just been. The little bastard’s hand grasped a broken beer bottle, stretching out like a shimmering dagger. With blood streaming down his face, Kuroki repositioned himself charged again.
Aizawa fell back and slammed against the snow, using every ounce of muscle to hold Kuroki and his makeshift knife at bay. His back grew stiff against the cold ground as the bottle slowly edged nearer to his throat. He looked at the concerned citizen, still holding the pistol but now wearing a dumbfounded look, as if waiting for a command. Sometimes, the Japanese could be a little too obedient…
A melee of whistles cut through the air, distracting Kuroki enough for Aizawa to take advantage of the opening. With one sharp kick, he sent the little bastard tumbling backward next to his sensei. Ryusaki released a weary groan and steadied himself on his katana. He hoisted Kuroki up by his collar and they dashed off and disappeared into the thick crowd, which had grown to almost fifty or so onlookers.
Hopping to his feet, Aizawa snatched his Colt automatic back from the citizen, who bowed some more apologies.
The whistles grew louder as the Sergeant, followed by two junsas, parted the crowd and ran toward him.
“Masaru Ryusaki,” Aizawa gasped, pointing down the street, “went that way.”
The Sergeant nodded. Blowing their whistles again, the junsas started off and disappeared back into the crowd.
“What happened here, Inspector? Even in Asakusa, we never have this type of disturbance.”
Aizawa shot him a glare more frigid than the temperature. Saying nothing in response, he stormed past the Sergeant and back into the machiya. Although his head still ached, he zeroed in on the typewriter, where a single piece of paper jutted out. He bent down and examined it. Not a new book or even a hit list. A political manifesto.
Purity and Patriotism
By Masaru Ryusaki
In my book, ‘The New Japan’, I called for a modern-day shogun to overthrow the government and reform our nation from above. Ever since the Meiji Era, the apex of Japanese society has been rotting from weakness and greed, so much so that even those who are driven by pure motives are corrupted once they take power. Can nothing be done to free our nation from this poison?
Japan is one body and its 80 million citizens make up the cells and organs. In this national body, the Kusanagi Society will act as the immune system against the poison of corruption! Evil will be purged from our bloodstream with bullets and steel. From now on, every politician, military officer, zaibatsu capitalist, newspaper publisher, court adviser, and government official will be under constant threat of assassination.
No matter who they are, a bullet, bomb, or blade from the Kusanagi Society waits for them should they stray from the path of purity and patriotism. But too many innocent people have already suffered because of a few greedy cliques. For retribution, the Kusanagi Society will choose a hundred evil men to die in the coming months, and another hundred if need be. The morning sun is rising over the New Japan!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Surrender now, villain,” the benshi said in his best samurai voice. Onscreen, the bandit chief backed up in terror. Reiko couldn’t help but smile. It was all over now. Against all odds, the samurai had escaped captivity and saved the maiden before the villain could decapitate her. They’d fled into the woods where he’d taken out the bandits one by one, until only their chief remained.
“No…no…please spare me!” the benshi said as the bandit leader laid his sword down.
The samurai approached to accept his surrender, but a close-up revealed a dagger in the villain’s hand.
“Watch out,” the benshi said in a feminine voice, as the maiden came rushing up.
Before the bandit chief could strike, the samurai slashed his katana upwards, ending the villain once and for all. The hero sheathed his sword and accepted the maiden’s embrace.
“Whenever the sword of justice is drawn,” the benshi proclaimed, “the wicked shall always be punished!”
Their adventure concluded, the samurai and maiden hopped on a horse and rode off into the distance.
“Watanabe-san?”
Reiko turned and found a haggard Inspector Aizawa leaning over her.
“Inspector? What happened?”
He gestured for her to follow and they made their way toward the exit. The paltry audience clapped and the benshi bowed in gratitude. Out in the lobby, Reiko examined his face more closely. A spot of dried blood dotted his cheek, while a few bruises clung around his jaw. Battered? Maybe, but that squared face was still illuminated by a fighting spirit that even the coldest night couldn’t extinguish.
“What happened?”
The Inspector shifted his eyes away. “He escaped. Do you know where else he’d go?”
Reiko searched her memory but Masaru had lived in that machiya ever since she’d first met him. His family’s estate in the Roppongi neighborhood had been abandoned shortly after he’d been arrested in March, and now housed a collection of dusty samurai swords and battle armor. He’d probably hide out somewhere closer, but not in Asakusa.
“He won’t go back to my apartment, not now anyway. He’s feeling vulnerable now, so that means he’ll want protection from his men, not his mistress. I’d say he’s over at Hajime Nakajima’s right now.”
“Where’s that?”
“I have no idea. Not in Asakusa, I’m sure of that. The Lieutenant hates this place.”
“In the barracks?”
“No…Nakajima rents a room in one of those lodging houses for soldiers.”
“There are hundreds of those in Tokyo,” the Inspector said, turning to face the Sword of Justice’s lobby card. The yawning audience exited the theater and streamed past like a parade of sleepwalkers. A pair of middle-aged women in muted kimonos and traditional hairstyles examined Reiko’s outfit with transparent contempt before shuffling along. During these hard times, such extravagance was frowned upon, even in Asakusa. Last to exit was the benshi, who walked out of the theater with an enormous yawn.
“Great show,” Reiko said. “Loved the voices.”
The benshi gave a thankful nod and continued on. An usher in a red jacket and pillbox hat walked up to them and said, “I’m sorry, but the Denkikan will be closing now.”
The Inspector turned back around. Forlornness and despair were etched into his face between the bruises. Maybe that fighting spirit from earlier was only temporarily extinguished?
“All right, we’ll leave,” Aizawa finally said. They walked out of the theater and into the chilly night. Reiko tucked her cloche hat tighter over her ears for warmth and rubbed her gloved hands together. She fumbled for a pack of cigarettes, but the Inspector offered her a lit Golden Bat.
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