Lieutenant Nakajima nodded to Kuroki, who forced them back into their offices, brandishing his Nagant like a farmer herding livestock. Nakajima drew his saber and summoned the other two patriots closer. They hobbled forth, carrying the box of dynamite. Kuroki returned and snapped a salute.
“Your orders, sir?”
“Blow those doors apart,” Lieutenant Nakajima roared, pointing with his sword. Kuroki and the patriots nodded and went to work like true sappers. A single stick of dynamite was placed against the double oak doors and lit. With a heavy strain, Nakajima overturned the secretary’s desk, converting into a makeshift bunker. The patriots took refuge beside him; Kuroki clutching his Nagant with a steady grip while the other two drew their wakizashi swords.
For a moment, they weren’t in Marunouchi, Tokyo, or even Japan. They were in far away Manchuria, where icy winds howled alongside screaming mortars. These weren’t just ragged men from the Kusanagi Society, but comrades in arms fighting a foreign foe. And he would be decorated by the Emperor himself before returning back to the front to die a beautiful death, like a cherry blossom on the last day of spring. Ah, if only…
An explosion ripped through the air and shook the floor like a small earthquake. Nakajima stood and thrust his saber toward the smoldering pair of doors, now splintered in half.
“Forward!”
They sprinted over the desk and charged into Takano’s office. Smoke hovered around the entrance, obscuring his vision. But across the room, from behind another fortified desk, two enormous figures were visible, taking aim with pistols.
A crackle of shots filled the office. Instincts learned from years of drilling pulled Lieutenant Nakajima to the ground and forced him into a low crawl. The other two patriots stormed ahead, wakizashi blades raised above their heads and shouting “Tenchu!” Halfway across the room, gunfire ripped through their bodies. The patriots shook with violent convulsions before hitting the floor, already stained red with their blood.
Nakajima stared in horror, unable to move. Already he’d lost two of his men. But Chitose-oneesan returned and reminded him that to die in combat was the highest achievement for a soldier. He nodded and turned to Kuroki, who low-crawled beside him with a determined expression.
“Hajime-kun, there’s your opening!” Chitose-oneesan said.
Nakajima peered through the stinging smoke and found the two sumo bodyguards reloading their pistols. A new fighting spirit burned inside and propelled him to his feet. Like a good soldier, Kuroki followed his commanding officer as he took aim and opened fire.
Another volley of gunfire cut through the office. The desk exploded in a violent maelstrom of splinters and bullets. The thick frames of the two sumo bodyguards twitched and collapsed with heavy thuds. It was over. Lieutenant Nakajima sheathed his saber and took in a deep breath. The acrid smell of smoke burned his lungs but it didn’t matter. Now he understood the thrill of combat and what it meant to conquer an enemy. But the battle was not over. Not yet. Where was that money-hungry devil, Isamu Takano?
Nakajima started toward the fortified oak desk, now riddled with holes. A stationary globe was smashed into pieces and to the left, a stock ticker groaned after its glass had been cracked by a stray bullet. He looked up. Luckily, the portrait of His Majesty was unharmed, another good omen.
His gaze swept across the office but Takano was nowhere to be found. At least Baron Onishi was man enough to stand his ground. A pained moan drifted up from behind the splintered desk. Nakajima inspected and found one of the sumo staring upward with an empty gaze. The back of his head had been blown wide open, splattering gore just below the Emperor’s portrait.
But the other sumo, lying next to him, sputtered and coughed up a mouth full of blood. Beside him, just out of reach was his pistol, an American 1911 Colt automatic. Even the weapons here were foreign. Nakajima reached over and grabbed his lapel, putting the muzzle of the Nambu underneath his pudgy chin.
“Where’s Takano?”
The sumo chuckled, spitting droplets of blood onto Lieutenant Nakajima’s tunic. “Gone,” he said.
Nakajima’s finger tightened around the trigger. “Where?”
“Fool,” he wheezed. “He’s…not even in Tokyo.”
No, it couldn’t be true. “You’re lying! Where is he?”
The sumo gave another fit of bloody coughs. “Left for America this morning…with his friend from Wall Street.”
They were too late. That scheming banker had outsmarted them again. No. It couldn’t end like this. Nakajima looked up at the Emperor, who stared back with a sullen, disappointed gaze.
Nakajima wanted to cry but his eyes only blinked in surprise. His grip loosened around the sumo’s lapel and the man slammed back onto the floor. After another fit of coughing, the sumo’s eyes slid shut with a grim finality.
“Kill them, Hajime-kun,” Chitose-oneesan said, appearing beside him. “Kill them all.”
She was right. As long as the Maru-Biru was blown to rubble, his mission would be accomplished. But a queer melancholy stabbed his heart and invigorated a desire to live. Ah, if only he could stay alive to fight again. However, one look at Chitose-oneesan’s wispy face quelled that rebellion.
Nakajima stood up and turned to Kuroki, standing at attention with the Nagant attentively at his side. What a fine soldier he would have made.
“Your orders, Lieutenant?”
“Follow me.”
Nakajima stepped around the desk and walked back into the lobby. The salarymen were still held up in their offices, evidenced by audible conversations from behind the closed doors. Leave it to the Japanese to obey orders from a superior, even if it meant their own deaths.
“They’re calling the Police,” Kuroki said.
“Then we don’t have much time. Stand guard here. Shoot anyone who tries to enter or exit.”
Kuroki saluted and assumed a sentry position with his Nagant. Lieutenant Nakajima returned to the box and opened it. The dynamite was arranged neatly in bundles of seven. Thankfully, he’d learned enough about explosives from his education at the Imperial Army Academy. Thankfully, he’d learned enough about explosives from his education at the Imperial Army Academy. With an explosion of this magnitude so close to the foundation, the entire building would come crashing down on itself. Ah, divine punishment for the corruption and greed that festered here! But the Metropolitan Police would be closing in soon. He begged the gods for just a few minutes more.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Although it sputtered and shook with each passing meter, Aizawa pushed the Rolls-Royce faster and faster. He swerved around street vendors, cut off rickshaws, and almost sideswiped an electric tramcar. But he was almost there. Tokyo Station was around the corner, the gateway to the financial district.
But his heart sank when he turned the car. A mass of civilians and soldiers swarmed around the station, as if put there by the cruelest of gods. Aizawa slammed his fists against the steering wheel. He’d have to walk the rest of the way. There was no time for any more delays. The Kusanagi Society had enough dynamite to level a city block, including all of Tokyo Station.
Aizawa cut the engine and hopped out of the Rolls-Royce. Rising Sun flags fluttered everywhere while the brass band banged out martial music. The crowd was thick and delirious. He shoved, elbowed, and pushed his way through the banzai-ing crowds. At last he emerged on the other side with the Marunouchi Building now in clear sight. He dashed down the street, only to find another crowd gathering. Reporters and curious salarymen ringed the Maru-Biru, held back by a few junsas.
After clearing another path for himself, Aizawa called out to the most senior officer.
“Inspector Aizawa? Is that you?”
Aizawa nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin. That, combined with the lack of sleep and the recent beatings he’d endured, must have given him the look of a wild man.
“Has the Maru-Biru been evacuated?” he asked.
The junsa shook his head. “No sir. Each entrance
is guarded by those soshi. We heard gunfire, so the suspects must be armed. Whoever they came to assassinate must be dead by now, but we can’t even get in there...not with these…” the junsa said, resting a hand on his short sword. Aizawa shook his head. The Metropolitan Police wasn’t prepared for this level of insanity.
“This area needs to be cleared,” Aizawa said. “They plan on blowing the entire building up.”
The junsa’s eyes bulged. “Y-yes sir. The Army should be here any minute.”
“The Army?”
“Yes sir. We requested their assistance. They’re better equipped to handle this situation.”
That may have been true, but Lieutenant Nakajima’s words haunted him. Perhaps the approaching soldiers were also members of the Kusanagi Society. No reason to wait around and find out. Drawing his pistol, Aizawa leaned over to the junsa and said, “Make sure the area is clear. I’m going in.”
As he passed by, the junsas saluted him with a certain reverence he’d seen at award ceremonies and funerals. His odds of survival were low, but that didn’t matter. The fighting spirit he saw in Reiko Watanabe proved contagious.
Aizawa entered the Maru-Biru and kept the Colt close to his face. Shutting the door behind him, a grim-faced soshi in a flat cap and ratty overcoat advanced with rapid steps. He held a wakizashi short sword that glinted in the hallway’s electric lights and aimed it directly at Aizawa’s chest. With one mechanical motion, Aizawa brought the pistol into position and fired.
The soshi groaned and slammed face first into the floor, still clutching the sword. An impressive shot, but there was no time for pride or pity for the dead. He focused on the situation. There were four main entrances to the Maru-Biru and each one probably had its one guard. The gunshot would probably attract attention so he needed to move quickly. The offices of Takano Bank were on the third floor, which now lay wide open. Chances were that’s where Lieutenant Nakajima would still be. The elevator looked out of order, so he’d have to walk.
Stepping over the fallen soshi, Aizawa made a beeline for the stairs and dashed up to the third floor. He threw open the door and there, in the lobby, stood Makoto Kuroki in his little brown uniform. Rushing to a nearby hallway for cover, he fired a few shots from the Nagant revolver. Aizawa ducked as bullets tore into the lobby’s plaster walls, sprinkling him with white powder.
Aizawa was about to return fire when a woman’s corpse, Takano’s secretary, strewn out on the floor, jarred him. Her desk had been moved and was now propped up against Takano’s office door as a makeshift barricade. Kuroki reappeared from behind the corner and renewed his fire. But the shot went wide, allowing Aizawa time to retreat into the stairs to gain cover.
“That bullet came nowhere near me. Good thing they never let you into the Army,” Aizawa called out.
A few more shots erupted, missing him again.
“I’m surprised Ryusaki sent you to kill Baron Onishi. What would your brother say about such terrible shooting?”
“Shut up! Don’t talk about my brother!” Kuroki snapped.
Aizawa kept his gun steady and close. A few more taunts would rattle Kuroki enough and leave him wide open.
“No wonder he killed himself. If I was related to such a pathetic imp, I’d have put a gun to my head too.”
Kuroki rushed from behind his cover, charging head-on with the Nagant outstretched. A shot whizzed by Aizawa, puncturing the stairwell behind him, but was followed by only an empty clicking sound. Out of ammunition! Instincts and training took control of Aizawa. He turned the corner and took aim. Kuroki tossed the revolver aside and leaped toward him, just as Aizawa pulled the trigger.
Kuroki’s small frame slammed into Aizawa, knocking the Colt away. They toppled backward and Kuroki’s fingers wrapped around Aizawa’s throat. Each moment pressed more air out of Aizawa’s lungs. Blood rushed to his face and his vision began to dim.
But each squeeze soon weakened as a red spot on Kuroki’s tunic grew. The grip loosened, allowing Aizawa to throw him off with one heavy push. Kuroki rolled to the side and gazed upward with a grotesque facsimile of a smile.
“B-banzai …to…the…” Kuroki tried to finish the slogan, but a pool of blood collected in his mouth, choking any final words. Instead, he released a loud gurgle as his eyes glazed over. It was like death in Siberia; inglorious and anticlimactic. But this unemployed cannery worker had finally gotten his wish; to die for the Emperor in uniform. Aizawa almost felt sorry for the little bastard, but another glance at the dead woman discouraged that thought.
Aizawa shook his head and caught his breath. He snatched up his automatic and sprinted over to the barricaded doors of Takano’s office. The desk would take precious time and strength to remove. And the doors, while heavily damaged, were still thick enough to catch his bullets.
Regardless, he drew himself up and shouted, “This is Inspector Kenji Aizawa of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department! Lieutenant Nakajima, you’re under arrest!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
There was no answer for several moments. Had the Lieutenant committed seppuku already? Aizawa hopped on the desk and gave a sharp kick to the doors, releasing a light crunching sound. He kicked again, again, and again.
“I’m disappointed in you, Inspector,” Nakajima called out from the other side. “Have you come to defend your zaibatsu masters?”
Aizawa replied with another kick. The doors groaned but didn’t budge.
“Don’t bother doing that, Inspector. The dynamite has already been set. Four minutes left. You’ll never get through in time.”
Aizawa took in deep breaths and focused on his next move. Lieutenant Nakajima was insane but honest. Brute strength wouldn’t work. Aizawa considered emptying his weapon into the door on the off chance he might actually hit this madman. But more likely, if his shots managed to get past the door, he’d end up striking the dynamite and send the Maru-Biru up in fireworks anyway. He slammed his fist against the door.
Had it really come to this? Blown to bits alongside hundreds of salarymen, bankers, and Masaru Ryusaki’s protégé? There’d be other Ryusakis too, inspired to carry out his mission, and he wouldn’t be there to stop them. The thought of Tokyo becoming a city of bombings and assassinations burned shame into his soul.
That was it! It was his last weapon, but if used right, it was far more potent than his Colt automatic. He’d use shame to deliver the final blow.
“Don’t you understand, Lieutenant? This explosion won’t just kill people in the Maru-Biru. Didn’t you see that crowd at Tokyo Station?”
“A small price to pay for the decimation of this snake pit,” Nakajima said.
“Fool! Half of Tokyo is made of paper and wood! A fire started here can spread! Hundreds more could die! Innocent men, women, and children!”
Several moments passed by in agonized silence. Lives apparently didn’t matter anymore to Lieutenant Nakajima. Better to change strategies. But how could he shame a murderer? Aizawa searched his memory and focused on the majestic portrait of His Imperial Majesty, hanging above Takano’s desk.
“The Emperor!” he shouted, banging his fists against the door. “The Emperor’s picture is in there!”
There had been suicides over accidentally dropping the Emperor’s photograph or from handling it uncovered. Blowing it to pieces would be unforgivable. Perhaps shame would force Nakajima to stop the timer just long enough to remove it and give Aizawa the opening he needed.
“Chitose-oneesan tells me the Emperor will forgive such an offense, so long as my motives are pure.”
Aizawa groaned. How could he counteract a ghost? Chances are this “Chitose” was only Nakajima’s ninjo in disguise. Emotion and desire had hypnotized another victim. But if “Chitose” was his ninjo, then what was Lieutenant Nakajima’s giri? What was his duty?
A symphony of gunshots rang out, punctuated by shrieks and groans. So much for the other three soshi guarding the entrances. A percussive drumbeat of heavy boots thundered throughout th
e stairwell, growing louder until a dozen soldiers in dark brown uniforms burst into the office lobby.
Most were enlisted men but their commanding officer stood out; Major Takumi Hatsu of the Kempeitai. Like a flustered mole, he scanned the room, squinting from behind his thick glasses. The other kempei exuded a more impressive appearance. With their rifles at the ready and the chin straps on their service caps tightly fastened, they looked as if they’d just returned from the Manchurian front. The image recalled the Lieutenant’s words from earlier.
“I’m envious, Inspector. My only regret is that I was not able to join my comrades in Manchuria and fight for the Emperor there…like a true soldier.”
For all that self-righteous talk about purity and patriotism, Hajime Nakajima was still a little boy who wanted to play war. Not that Aizawa could blame him. After all, every soldier knew the highest honor was to fight for the Emperor on the field of battle.
“Why do you insist on suicide, Lieutenant? Do you fear the battlefield? Are you scared of the enemy? Or maybe you can’t take the harsh life of the campaign?”
A brief hiss shot through the doors from the other side, but there was still no clear response.
“Inspector,” Major Hatsu said, marching toward him. “Stand aside! We’re going to open fire.”
Aizawa hopped off the desk and said, “There’s no time! He’s rigged the building to explode in a few minutes!”
Hatsu’s eyes widened behind his glasses but more in rage than surprise.
“Such impudence!”
“Did you hear that, Lieutenant?” Aizawa called out. “Even Major Hatsu thinks that you’ve neglected your duty. Is the Manchurian winter too much for your delicate skin? My fallen comrades in Siberia would sneer at such a coward wearing the Army uniform!”
Hatsu pushed him aside and roared, “This is Major Hatsu of the Kempeitai! Lieutenant Nakajima, I order you to open the door and surrender!”
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