“Baron Onishi possibly becoming prime minister. He was unacceptable to many parties…my New York colleague for instance, since most of our raw materials come from the United States. Onishi’s foolish embargo on American goods would have made the depression even worse. He had some ridiculous plan to appeal to the League of Nations and negotiate fairer trade agreements.” Takano shook his head in disgust. “America isn’t even part of the League! Onishi didn’t realize that organization is a fantasy. Our invasion of Manchuria proved what a farce it is.”
A valid point. Baron Onishi’s faith in the League seemed borderline religious.
“But if the tariff is lifted, then the door will be opened for further exports,” Takano continued. “It’s only a matter of time. President Hoover is despised by his own people…he’ll be out of power soon.”
“What does this have to do with Japan?”
Takano gave a proud, knowing smile. “Simply this. We, the hated bankers of Japan, will use the money we’ve made speculating in American dollars to purchase government bonds. These will not only pay for the occupation of Manchuria, they will also be reinvested in Japanese industry and subsidize exports. Our unemployed masses will go back to work making consumer goods, cheaper and quicker than any other nation. A struggling American family won’t care if their textiles, spark plugs, toothbrushes, toys, or teacups have the words ‘Made in Japan’ on them. And even if the tariff remains, we’ll just label our products ‘Made in the USA’.”
Aizawa let the words sink in. “In order to get out of the depression, we’ll flood American markets with cheap Japanese-made trinkets?”
Takano’s face turned downward, almost in a pout. “Not just America, but all of Europe and Asia will buy Japanese goods. Who cares what we’re producing, so long as our people get back to work? Have you heard the expression, ‘if goods don’t cross borders then armies will’? The only real antidote to war is open trade.”
“It didn’t stop the Manchurian Incident.”
Takano scoffed. “The only reason we’re in Manchuria is because of trade. We’ve been in that region for decades, building railroads, farms, and factories. But the Army was fearful that the Chinese might kick us out, or even worse, the Russians might take it over. They were so afraid that our own soldiers faked an attack on the South Manchurian Railway and invaded…the fools.”
For some reason, Aizawa never considered that the Imperial Army had lied about its reasons for invading Manchuria. Odd, since he knew of its complicity in the March Incident, its ties to patriotic societies, and, from his own service in the Siberian Expedition, its willingness to exaggerate body counts to impress the press back home. And still, like most Japanese, he couldn’t see through the paper screen of war songs and news reports. Some detective he was.
Takano gave a taunting smile. “As you can see, Inspector, my motives were entirely patriotic,” he said reaching for the phone. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
No, it couldn’t end like this. Not with all the blood that had stained Tokyo. Proper punishment needed to be meted out. Aizawa’s fingers slid inside his coat and curled around the Colt pistol. It was a good gun, sturdy and reliable. Now, he’d need it one more time.
Aizawa took aim and said, “Isamu Takano, you’re under arrest!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
An oppressive silence filled the office, interrupted only by the chirping stock ticker. Takano backed away from the phone and stared at the pistol with blank eyes. There was no fear in his expression, just cold calculation of the risk in front of him.
“You have no proof,” the banker said, reviewing him up and down. “Just the words of a dead man.”
Aizawa steadied the pistol. “I can go to your puppets…General Sakamoto and Prime Minister Inukai.”
Takano scoffed and leaned forward. “General Sakamoto is indebted to me. A week ago, he came to me wanting to turn some patriotic society that he was secretly funding—”
“The Kusanagi Society?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He wanted to turn it into a legitimate political party. It was led by some former Dietman—”
“Masaru Ryusaki.”
“Ah yes. This Ryusaki could draw in more members, mostly unemployed riff-raff but all eligible voters. Instead, I offered General Sakamoto a top position in the Seiyukai. After Inukai, the General would become the next prime minister…providing he gave us an assassin from his Kusanagi Society.”
“Makoto Kuroki.”
“Whatever his name was, when Ryusaki had chosen him, I arranged the fall of the Wakatsuki cabinet. Someone as vainglorious as Baron Onishi would bask in press conferences, making him an easy target.”
“Sorry I spoiled your plans,” Aizawa hissed, hoping his contempt showed.
“You were only doing your duty,” Takano said. “Regardless, General Sakamoto had the clever idea to bring the Baron to my office while his adjutant waited across the street. Had Baron Onishi agreed to abandon the gold standard, I would have called the assassination off. But as I suspected, he remained firm in his archaic beliefs. Yet somehow, you managed to sneak him out safely. But in the end, everything worked out.”
Such aloof arrogance galled Aizawa more than any soshi nationalist or yakuza hoodlum. General Sakamoto was a dead end, even if he was still alive.
“And Prime Minister Inukai?”
Takano leaned back in his chair. “You inferred that he takes my orders. Regardless, he’s been kept ignorant of much of these machinations.”
Aizawa’s arm began to ache but he kept the gun level. “I could go to the press.”
“You could but one word from the Prime Minister’s office and whatever editor printed the story would be picked up by the Police. Then he’ll cheerfully retract it with sincere apologies.”
Aizawa pictured a long line of prime ministers, bought and sold by the zaibatsu.
“I don’t care if you own the government. It’s my duty to the Emperor to uphold the law,” Aizawa said, digging into his coat for his handcuffs.
Takano gave a sly smile. “Inspector…who do you think ordered this?”
Aizawa stopped digging. “What do you mean?”
“It was the Emperor who gave his approval to…remove Baron Onishi from the political stage.”
“The Baron seemed to think the Emperor wanted him to become prime minister,” Aizawa said.
“I’m sure he did,” Takano said, rising from his seat. “His Majesty can hold two differing opinions at once. Regardless, I was recently summoned to the Imperial Palace and had an audience with the Emperor himself about financial matters. I told him that Japan could only stand another year of this depression or else there might be a revolution…either from the Left or the Right. He agreed that something drastic needed to be done in order to save the nation.”
Aizawa scanned Takano’s face for any hint of deceit but found only a proud sincerity. The banker had fulfilled his own duty to the Emperor, just like the patriot he claimed to be. A sudden tightness took hold of Aizawa’s chest. Events and clues aligned with frightening clarity. No wonder Takano had been so casual with his confession. His accomplice sat atop the Chrysanthemum Throne.
The pistol began to lower as Aizawa spat out, “The Emperor…ordered the assassination…”
Takano’s face was solemn and stoic. “Not in words since most of his advisers favored appointing Baron Onishi as prime minister. He was an aristocrat and his criticism of the Army gave the impression he could control further military adventures. Choosing Inukai instead might cause a loss of face in front of his advisers. But the Emperor knew my empire cannot weather this depression much longer. He told me to bring about our economic plan…no matter what.” Takano lifted his head high and said, “Do you see now, Inspector? We both serve the Emperor…in our own way.”
Could the Emperor have predicted all of this bloodshed when he gave his implicit order? Instead of a military dictator, Ryusaki’s assassins had installed a shadow shogun who ruled through finance instead o
f steel. Numbly, Aizawa looked up at the portrait. His Imperial Majesty, the Son of Heaven, was no longer there. He’d been replaced by a bespectacled little man wearing a garish uniform.
A sense of shame overwhelmed Aizawa. Such dangerous thinking was illegal. But he couldn’t have been the first police officer to see who was really sitting upon the Chrysanthemum Throne. Giri, his duty, had been revealed as a paper screen behind which the real criminals hid. Ninjo stepped in and demanded surrender. He looked down. The automatic hung limply at his side, impotent and harmless.
“Guards!” Takano cried.
Aizawa spun around. The bodyguards burst into the office and took massive strides toward him. Aizawa raised the gun but one of the sumo slapped it away with a heavy swat. The other closed in from behind and imprisoned him with a suffocating bear hug. The sumo swung him back to face the banker.
“I admire your fighting spirit, Inspector,” Takano said. “But the nation needs me. I will have to be more cautious in case these foolish soshi try again. Like the old saying goes, ‘In a moment of victory, tighten your helmet straps.’”
Aizawa squirmed but it was no use. Unlike with the assassin from earlier, the sumo had a firm grip this time. Each breath grew shorter and stabbed like a dagger.
“Perhaps you’d be interested in becoming a bodyguard? I’ll need more security in the future.” A sly smile curled Takano’s thin lips. “Do you need time to consider?”
Aizawa strained against the sumo’s hold but it was no use. His fingers grew numb and breaths became weak gasps.
Takano’s mouth came alive again but there was no sound. He couldn’t hear anymore or feel anything. He glanced down. His arms hung like limp jellyfish tentacles. The office grew fuzzy. Darkness closed in and turned out the lights.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
As always, Asakusa vibrated with life. The hawking merchants, the tattooed yakuza, and clattering rickshaws were out in full force today. A line of men stretched out the door of an employment agency, all of whom glared at Reiko and Masaru as they walked past. But Reiko barely noticed any of them. Instead, she focused on how to warn Aizawa. The most probable way was to excuse herself after the first bottle of booze ran out and then call Aizawa from the nearest phone booth. After all, it had worked before.
“Is something wrong?” Masaru asked.
Reiko looked over at him, still in his mobo outfit.
“I’m just tired,” she said.
Thankfully, he’d helped her don her geisha regalia once again. With tender fingers, he repainted her face, tied her obi belt, and adjusted her shimada wig. He was the old Masaru again, kind-hearted and attentive. The poor fool. He didn’t suspect that his loyal mistress was a poison woman pointing a dagger at his throat.
As they walked, Reiko stayed three steps behind as tradition dictated. Months before, they flouted convention even further by walking around Ginza arm and arm and even stole an occasional kiss in public. She shook her head. Better not to remember those days. It would make what she had to do all the more painful.
The Dragonfly Tea House came into view and they paused in front of the entrance.
“Reiko, is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said with a smile. “I promise.”
Masaru’s face twisted into a cruel, accusing mask. “Reiko, this is your last chance to tell me. Is there something wrong?”
No. He couldn’t know anything. Or could he? She tried to speak but no words came. She wanted to run but knew she couldn’t get very far in this kimono. Was this why he made her play geisha again? Masaru slid the door open and shoved her into the tea house with a forceful push. A horrible stench clawed at her nose. She gagged and covered her mouth. It was even worse than the carts of night soil that carried the shit of Tokyo far away. She’d smelled that same stench for days after the Great Earthquake. Rotting flesh.
Masaru’s hands seized her shoulders and guided her into the main room. There were others in there, but all she could focus on was a headless body that lay on the floor. A brown stain of dried blood collected underneath the severed head of General Sakamoto, mouth agape in an eternal scream.
Reiko soon found herself on the floor beside the body, supported by her hands and knees. Despite the cold, sweat oozed down her neck. She wanted to scream but her throat was dry. Still reeling, she managed to lift her gaze upward to take in the rest of the room. Kneeling in front of the Mount Fuji wall scroll, were some of the patriots she’d entertained last night, including Makoto Kuroki. And there, kneeling in the center, like a nightmare in daylight, was Lieutenant Nakajima.
She turned back to Masaru, now blocking the exit. His angry stare seemed to drill into her skull and left her mind hollow.
“What do you have to report?” Masaru asked, shifting his attention to his men.
One of the patriots slid a newspaper in front of Reiko. It was a special morning edition of the Asahi Shimbun with the headline: “Madman Gunned Down In Marunouchi!” Each breath she took grew tighter than the last.
“Just hit the newsstands,” the soshi said with a sneer.
Masaru snatched up the newspaper and scanned it.
“Interesting, don’t you think, Reiko?” He asked, tucking the newspaper under his arm. “Inspector Aizawa was there just in time to protect Takano. He also prevented Baron Onishi’s assassination...twice! And he discovered where I lived. How strange. I suppose he must have an informant in our group.” His lips curled into a sadistic smirk. “Who do you think it is?”
A pitiful whimper escaped her throat. “Masaru…”
“I really didn’t know who to believe,” he said as his smirk turned into a bitter snarl. “Lieutenant Nakajima suggested that you might be the traitor but I had to be sure. So we hatched a little trap. I made you aware of Kuroki’s orders to kill Takano to see if the information would get back to Aizawa. But unknown to you, I sent another assassin, just in case.”
Reiko swallowed. That explained why Nakajima had to talk to Masaru in private last night. She cursed herself for being so naïve.
“Masaru…please…”
“But Aizawa still ruined everything. Just like before.” He sank to his knees and gripped her shoulders. “I didn’t want to believe it was you. I prayed the whole way over here that Takano would be dead and you really would entertain my men. Then…we could have been married.” His eyes flickered with warmth before icing back over. “Just tell me one thing. Did Aizawa pay you?”
“No...”
Masaru took a deep breath and stood. “If you did it for money, your betrayal would be unforgivable. At least your motives were sincere.”
“Masaru…please, I just wanted our old life back. Before,” she spun and pointed at that devil soldier, “before he came along and ruined everything!”
She turned back to Masaru for help but he paid her no attention.
“Patriots of the Kusanagi Society! The war against corruption and evil has begun,” Masaru said. “We will need weapons for coming battles. My family’s estate in Roppongi has the weapons we will need for the battle ahead.”
The patriots filtered by, who each shot her brief, hateful glares as they exited the tea house. But Hajime Nakajima stayed put, clutching his saber. Masaru turned to follow his men but Reiko’s arms flailed out and locked around his leg.
“Please, Masaru! Have mercy! If you love me don’t leave me here with him!”
Her moans filled the tea house like a wounded animal. Masaru knelt down and took her by the shoulders, steadying her shaking frame.
“Darling,” he said in English with a mournful look. “It’s because I love you that I’m leaving you here with Lieutenant Nakajima. Only he can rehabilitate you.”
The bastard. His proposal, the ‘I love you’, and the romantic dance; all a charade to dope her up so she’d be too numb to see the dagger pointed right at her throat. Masaru stood and without a second glance, walked out.
Reiko placed a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries and steeled
herself for what was coming. If she really was going to die, she’d deny Nakajima the pleasure of slaughtering a whimpering child. He’d have to stick his saber through the belly of a poison woman.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Still on her knees, Reiko turned around to face him. Kneeling with erect military posture, Lieutenant Nakajima stared back with transparent contempt.
“Take a good look, Watanabe-zan,” he said, gesturing to the headless corpse that once was General Sakamoto. “The General’s death was with honor. He saved face through seppuku. How will you die?”
“You tell me.”
He curled his upper lip. “That depends on you. I promised Ryusaki-zensei to rehabilitate you through purity and patriotism. The Police sometimes turn Communists into honorable men through this method, so perhaps there is hope for you, Watanabe-zan. Tell me, how old are you?”
Bastard. He was just toying with her now. “I’m twenty-four, Nakajima-san. And you?”
“Twenty-two. That means you’re old enough to remember the Rice Riots of 1918…”
“Around that time I was just learning how to use a thread and needle.”
“Then let me remind you. The war in Europe was almost over. Britain, France, America, and Japan all dispatched troops to Ziberia in an effort to strangle the Bolshevik Revolution in its cradle. However, thanks to unscrupulous stock traders in Marunouchi, rice prices rose to obscene amounts.”
“Yes, I remember people marching in the streets while I went to bed hungry.”
His fingers clutched the saber handle. “A pampered city girl complains of hunger? You know nothing of it! Famine plagues my family and the entire Tohoku region as we speak! Hunger is a constant pain, like a dagger slowly cutting into your stomach. It is the torture of having to plant, harvest, and stare dumbly at rice you are unable to eat since it will hurt profits. Did you ever eat bark from trees or gorge yourself on dried crickets?”
The nerve of that bastard. Did he actually expect sympathy from her? No, she wouldn’t let herself be shamed by him.
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