He sighed and stuffed the end of the BLT into his mouth before speaking. "All right. Here's how it goes: When I heard you was looking for a second-story man going under Eddie Cordero, Hugh Gerrish popped into my head right away. He's a major possibility."
"Possibility? So this is a guess? You don't know this guy uses that AK?"
Jack wasn't looking for guesses. Guesses could send him chasing ghosts.
"No. Don't know for sure, but dig: Gerrish is a second-story man who loves the ponies, especially the thoroughbreds. Take two of the greatest jockeys in history, mash their names together, and you come up with Eddie Cordero."
Jack leaned back, as much to avoid the Sledge-o-Matic effect from Bobblehead as to think. That was why the name had rung a bell. Jack had worked a racetrack scam in his younger days. Didn't care for the sport, but anyone who knew anything about the ponies knew the names Eddie Arcaro and Angel Cordero.
"Did he disappear for a while and come back with a tan?"
"No tan, but he disappears for a couple weeks and then he pops up again, and he's buying rounds, saying what a sweet job he pulled."
"No details?"
"He's smarter'n that."
Jack mulled this a bit. Definite possibilities here.
"Okay, he sounds worth a shot. Where's he live?"
He shrugged, setting his head to bobbling. "Don't know him well enough for that. We both just tend to end up at the Fifth Quarter down on St. Mark's. But you can find out easily enough."
"Yeah?"
"He's out at Belmont most every day during the season—'cept Mondays and Tuesdays when it's dark. And since this is the season, all you gotta do is find him and follow him home."
"Great. But I don't know what he looks like."
"He's forty-something, real skinny, brown hair—dollars to donuts he dyes the gray—and…"
His voice trailed off as he saw Jack's face. Must have reflected the disappointment and frustration he felt. Wasted time.
"You know how many guys at the track look like that? Next you'll tell me he wears a Yankees cap—"
"Naw-naw, he's a Mets fan."
"I need a Capone scar, I need an Aaron Neville mole. And if he hasn't got anything like that, I need a photo."
Jack slipped the Ben from beneath the salt shaker and began to slide it toward his side of the table.
"Hey, wait."
"Good story, Teddy. But no address? No picture? No deal."
Bobble grabbed his wrist. "Wait! Wait! I ran into him last Saturday during the Fifth Quarter's Preakness party, just a couple days after he showed up from his 'sweet job.' Bastard won big too."
"So?"
"So Suzy the bartender was taking pictures with her phone when we were celebrating. I think she got one of me with Gerrish and some other guy. If we're lucky, maybe she hasn't erased them."
Jack rose and shoved the hundred into his pocket.
"Looks like we're heading for the East Village."
5
It hadn't taken Hideo long to single out Kenji as the smartest of the yakuza assigned to him. And although he seemed the oldest of the three, he could not be much past twenty-seven or twenty-eight.
He was the only one to exhibit any signs of intellectual curiosity. His two fellow hoodlums, Goro and Ryo, seemed to have no interests beyond smoking, drinking, watching TV, and playing cards.
Hideo didn't understand the need for Kaze Group's alliance with various yakuza groups. More powerful than all of them combined, it could crush them in a matter of days if it so wished. Yet it maintained ties. Why? Because it required a buffer between it and certain activities?
He had noticed that once out of sight of his fellows, Kenji dropped his swagger and confrontational demeanor and became a sponge for any knowledge or information to be had.
"What do we do now, Takita-san?" he said in English.
Good for you, Hideo thought.
Of the three, Kenji spoke the best English, and was obviously trying to hone whatever fluency he had.
The taxi trail had led to a dead end. Hideo had gone to the cab company and paid off the dispatcher to let him check the fare records of the vehicle in question. Yes, it had picked up a passenger at Kennedy at shortly after four P.M. that day, but had dropped him off at Belmont raceway. Hideo doubted the mystery man lived at the racetrack, so he'd have to find another way.
Sitting at his workstation, he called up one of the close-ups he'd culled from the surveillance tapes.
"I'm going to run this through our latest facial recognition program, map the landmarks of his features, and create a mathematical faceprint."
As he started the programs, a series of dots of varying colors began to appear on the face, connected by multicolored lines. Then numbers popped up as calculations were completed.
Kenji pointed to the screen. "You can no longer see his face."
But Hideo's gaze was drawn from the screen to Kenji's hand. The tip of his left little finger was missing, cut off at the first joint. Hideo knew what this meant: yubitsume. Kenji must have made a mistake somewhere along the line and, by way of apology for his wrongdoing, cut off the tip and sent it to his kumicho, begging forgiveness.
Apparently he was forgiven, or he wouldn't be here. Hideo hadn't noticed it during the trip because he'd worn a fake fingertip to divert suspicion. Traveling yakuza often became targets of increased scrutiny.
Kenji's cuff had slipped back, revealing the lower end of an intricately patterned sleeve tattoo. Hideo had never seen these yakuza unclothed, but he would bet Kenji and Goro and Ryo were covered with them, head to toe. Yakuza tradition demanded it.
"Takita-san?"
Hideo snapped his attention back to the screen. What had Kenji said? Oh, about not seeing the face.
"Yes, but the computer will use that numeric formula to create a template to which it will match other faces."
"But where—?"
"One Police Plaza will be our first stop."
According to information on the flash drive, the sword had been stolen from the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum over fifty years ago.
"We can go to the police?"
"Not physically, but we can visit without leaving these seats. The man we are looking for was transporting a stolen object. He may not know the history of its original theft, but I believe he knows that what he carries was not legally obtained. That makes him a criminal. And most criminals at one time or another are arrested. And when they are arrested, they are photographed. And those photographs are stored…"
He paused to allow Kenji to finish for him.
"In their computer, of course." He smiled and nodded. "You very smart man."
The recognition program beeped, signaling it had finished.
"No, the very smart man here is the one who designed the software. I simply use the tools he has provided me."
Hideo didn't bother going into how the algorithms and templates would work in sequence through Police Plaza's database.
He entered the database—Kaze kept easy-open access to most of the city's major databases, mostly for tracking markets for advance warning on economic and currency trends. He set up the templates and let them loose.
"How long?" Kenji said.
"This could take very long. Why don't you check on Goro and Ryo and get some rest. I want to be able to move quickly should we get any hits."
Kenji gave a quick bow, and left. Hideo watched him go, thinking how that kid could go places—if he lived long enough.
When he was alone again, he popped another photo onto the screen: the ronin. It was only a three-quarter shot but often that was enough. He'd made positive IDs with less.
He started the recognition program and watched as dots and lines and numbers blotted out the stranger's face. Yoshio's notes had said he suspected the man he had dubbed "ronin" of being some sort of mercenary hired by Ronald Clayton's daughter for protection. If that was the case, then he too might have run afoul of the New York City authorities—weapons possession,
perhaps. And if so, then his photo would be in the database as well.
He stared at the jumble of colors and numbers.
I will find you, ronin. And when I do I will ask you questions. And you will answer. Kenji, Goro, and Ryo will see to that.
6
Dawn paced the penthouse's great room.
"I neeeeeed to go shopping again, Henry. Come on!"
Instead of easing her restlessness, her brief taste of freedom yesterday had left her totally wanting more. Despite the size of Mr. Osala's place, it seemed smaller than ever.
Henry shook his head. "I'm afraid I dare not, miss. It was a terrible risk allowing you out yesterday without the Master's permission. I don't wish to push my luck."
"Well, then, get his permission. Or better yet, let me talk to him. I'll get him to come around."
Fat chance of that. Mr. Osala didn't strike her as the type she could move with a crying jag. But she'd give it the good old college try.
"As I told you, he is not always accessible."
"But you know where he is, right?"
"I know he's in North Carolina, but that isn't exactly pinpointing his location."
"I thought you said he was out hunting Jerry."
"I'm sure he has other concerns besides you. He called earlier to ask how you were faring and happened to mention that he was heading for North Carolina."
"What's he doing there?"
"He does not offer details of his activities and I do not ask. All he told me was he is doing research and 'setting the stage' for an extended project beginning in September."
"You must have an emergency number you can call."
He nodded. "I do. But the operative term there is emergency. A shopping trip hardly qualifies as an emergency."
"It does to me! Totally!"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't risk it again."
Dawn fumed as she watched him turn and walk away. She so wanted to kill him right now. But she wasn't through yet. She'd find a way to get him to take her out again.
And this time she wouldn't come back.
7
"I have found the perfect shoten, sensei," Tadasu said.
Shiro Kobayashi knew that was not quite accurate. Shiro had found him. But he didn't begrudge Tadasu the credit. He had been the leader, and if they had failed, the shame would have fallen on him.
Besides, for years Tadasu had instructed him in the use of the tanto, the katana, the bo, and nunchaku. He had been stern but seemed to care only that Shiro learned well. And Shiro had. He was now almost as good as Tadasu.
Akechi-sensei nodded from where he stood by the classroom window, staring out at the day.
"Is he, as I instructed, in a weakened state?"
"Yes, sensei. We have him locked in an empty storeroom. Do you wish to see?"
Akechi-sensei turned and faced them. Only his eyes were visible through his silk mask, which puffed slightly as he spoke.
"I do indeed wish to see this fortunate soul who shall be privileged to serve the Hidden Face."
The Hidden Face… seeing it was the focus, the ultimate goal of every member of the Kakureta Kao. Yet to achieve that goal, one had to pass through the Inner Circles of the Order. That took dedication, resolve, will… and sacrifice. Eventually, the ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate reward.
Shiro greatly admired his teacher, and would sacrifice his life for the Order. But he was not so sure—at least not as sure as he had been in his younger days—that he wished to progress beyond the Fourth Circle. Because that was when the surgeries began: the flaps, the castration, losing limbs and senses one by one until…
Until all contact with the world except the air in the lungs was severed. Only then could one see the Hidden Face and, joining it in death, know everything.
Shiro yearned to see the Hidden Face at death, but was more than willing to wait before joining it in the Eternal Void. He had just recently passed his twenty-second birthday and was hoping to ascend from acolyte to temple guard.
If so, he intended to spend many years in loyal service at that post. Perhaps in his later years—much later years—he would ascend to the Inner Circles, but for now he wished to preserve all his senses and body parts.
He and Tadasu led their teacher to the storeroom. Along the way they passed one of Shiro's fellow acolytes wheeling a wooden cart holding a masked monk in a blue robe. He had no legs and no eyes. Shiro knew him as the Seer.
When they reached the storeroom, Shiro opened the door and the odor slapped him in the face. The man sprawled on the floor smelled as if he had not bathed since the Tokugawa Shogunate. They had brought him here from his cardboard house under a Brooklyn overpass. Although he had traveled in the trunk of one of the Order's cars, his presence had fouled the air of the passenger area. They had been forced to drive with the windows open.
The man was a bearded Caucasian of indeterminate age, but he was quite content where he was. Shiro and Tadasu had provided him with a large bottle of Jack Daniel's. He had already consumed half of it.
He studied Akechi-sensei with bleary eyes, then grinned, showing rotted teeth.
"Is it Halloween already? I dig the mask." He lifted the bottle in a mock toast. "Trick or treat!"
"We have done well, sensei?"
At least he said "we" this time.
Akechi-sensei nodded as Shiro gratefully closed the door. "He will make a good trial shoten. We want a small Kuroikaze for our test. He will not survive the strain for long."
The Kuroikaze… the Black Wind. Shiro had heard of it since childhood when his father had handed him over to the monks of the Kakureta Kao. But no one alive had actually seen one, so it remained a formless legend. A legend he knew by heart.
In the sixteenth century, the shoguns imprisoned the Emperor in Kyoto while they ruled as they wished. After Nobunaga took control he began killing off all who supported the Emperor. He made a special target of the Order, which had been agitating for restoration of the Imperial Line. According to legend, Susanoo, the Sword God, the direct ancestor of the Emperor, created the Kakureta Kao in the time of Jimmu, the first Emperor, and charged it with the mission of protecting the Son of Heaven, and preserving His power in the world.
Nobunaga's armies marched throughout Honshu, razing each of the Order's monasteries after slaughtering all the monks. Finally, only the oldest, largest, and best fortified monastery—in Nanao on Honshu's west coast—remained. Under siege, the remnants of the Kakureta Kao delved into the cache of ancient lore that was their legacy from the God of Swords, and found a means to defend themselves.
As the shogun's armies neared the gates of the monastery, a darkness descended and a mystical wind rose up around the temple. Some called it The-Wind-That-Bends-Not-the-Trees, some said it was another Kamikaze, or "Divine Wind" like the one that sank Kubla Khan's invading fleet at the end of the thirteenth century. But those in the Order knew it as the Kuroikaze—the "Black Wind." The legends didn't say exactly what happened, but when the Kuroikaze was done, half of the shogunate's army lay dead on the field, with the rest in retreat.
Nobunaga left the Kakureta Kao alone after that.
But the Order never fully recovered. It consolidated into a single temple in Tokyo not far from the Imperial Palace. During the Second World War it once again used the Black Wind against the Emperor's enemies, and might have changed the course of the war had it not made the fatal error of relocating to Hiroshima.
"Tomorrow night we shall test the ekisu. I have found the perfect place, right here on this island, almost within sight of our ultimate target."
Shiro asked, "Why New York City, sensei? Why not Washington?"
Recently he had explored the city in search of the compounds necessary for the ekisu. During his travels he had become enamored of Manhattan—so full of life and motion. He felt energized whenever he set foot there.
"Washington may be the seat of the American government, but New York City is its engine. It is the heart that pumps economic
life throughout the rest of the country, and even into the rest of the world. Kill New York City and not only do we drive this foul nation to its economic knees, but we deal a death blow to its spirit."
Shiro was not so sure about that, but who was he to doubt his sensei?
Tadasu said, "Pardon, sensei, but will we truly be able to level Manhattan using such a miserable excuse for a human being as a shoten?"
Shiro saw the skin around Akechi-sensei's eyes crinkle behind his mask holes, a sign he'd come to recognize as a smile. "We once thought the ekisu effective only when used with a child. We have since learned that any living human, no matter how miserable, can serve as a shoten. And as for Manhattan, we shall not level it. The Kuroikaze will do much worse. Tomorrow night you shall see."
8
From outside, the Fifth Quarter looked pretty much like every other Irish pub Jack had seen. Inside, two steps down from street level, it looked pretty much like every other sports bar he'd seen: oval bar in the center, a ring of wide-screen TVs above it, high pub tables and stools near the bar, regular tables and chairs farther out, booths along the walls. And more TV screens in every corner.
Each and every screen was running the Mets game—they were leading the Phillies four-zip. Jack had been a Phillies fan as a kid. Now it was Go Mets.
"There she is," Bobblehead said, pointing toward the twenty-something teased blonde behind the bar. "Thank God it's her shift."
He hurried ahead of Jack, demonstrating—in case anyone might have forgotten—the origin of his street name.
By the time Jack reached the bar, Suzy had her phone out and was doing a two-thumb tap dance on the keypad.
"I kept somma them," she said in a thick Nassau County accent. "Most was so blurry I ditched them right off."
Bobble glanced ceilingward with a please-please-please look.
"Hope you kept some of me," he said, turning back to Suzy. "My mother wants to see a recent picture, and I think the best kind to send her is one of me having fun with my friends. Hey, y'got one of me and Hughie? He was in rare form Saturday."
By the Sword rj-12 Page 9
