by Barry Lancet
“Give me.”
Mitsue Bando, one of the rare nineteenth-century female Kabuki actors, had worn the costume. While women were forbidden to take the public stage, only women could perform for the wives and daughters of the ruling shogun and daimyo lords, not to mention the official concubines. Since the wife and concubines lived in the same area of the palace under guard, the all-female cast went to them. No man other than the lord was allowed to visit the women in their quarters. The robe had seen use in a play most likely produced in the early 1800s for the harem of the eleventh shogun in Edo Castle, Edo being the previous name for Tokyo.
“Incredible,” Kregg said. “The piece is a true rarity. Don’t forget us.”
“I won’t. Got to go.”
During my talk with Kregg, Rie had texted me with an urgent message about meeting her PSIA contact. It was a go but with strings attached. Ibata would see me provided I showed up within the next ninety minutes because he was leaving tonight for “vacation,” most likely a euphemism for a covert assignment. In a postscript, Rie reminded me about taking Noda.
I passed my phone to the chief detective. He scowled at the message. “Can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“My PSIA guy hears, he’ll skewer me. Take Mari.”
“She can’t cover my back.”
“She’s a second pair of eyes. That’s all you need today.”
“Meaning if they come after us, it won’t be on their territory?”
Noda grunted in assent, then stood without warning, his bulldog frame tense. “Time for you to take the ‘Kasumigaseki stroll.’ ”
* * *
Tokyo’s Kasumigaseki district plays home to a cluster of Japan’s all-powerful ministries, the true seats of power.
Which is why, back in the nineties, the radical religious group Aum Shinrikyo targeted the area with its poisonous sarin gas attacks.
I met Mari in front of the old Ministry of Justice building, a stately redbrick edifice erected in the 1890s as Japan was shedding its feudal past. Colonnades fronted the two main entrances, and rows of picturesque white-framed windows ran the full length of its elegant block-long façade. Leaning against the short wall encircling the site, I watched Mari hop from an Uber cab and dash the last fifty feet.
“Hi, Brodie,” she said, breathless, her face flushed with the sprint. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Sorry about the short notice.”
“I feel so stupid. I’m, like, what is the PSIA?”
Brodie Security’s latest detective-in-training arrived in a navy-blue pantsuit. No vampire decorations. No colored extensions in her hair.
“Not your fault. Most Japanese have never heard of the PSIA, and I’m guessing that’s the way the agency likes it.”
Mari nodded. “I dug into some online ghost files. The agency keeps a low profile. Creepy low.”
I pointed to the new Ministry of Justice tower coming into full view as we circled the block. “They’re buried in there somewhere, along with the MOJ and Japan’s public prosecutors’ office.”
The ministry had relocated to a double-winged ferroconcrete-and-glass tower directly behind the redbrick original, which now housed a training institute, library, and museum.
“I know, right? Did you notice that the text message from this Ibata-san just said ‘Government Building 6A’? What kind of address is that?” As she spoke, a shiver overtook her.
We turned the final corner and headed toward the tower. A pair of signs warned arrivals against riding a bicycle and wielding a camera beyond this point. On a public street.
Mari took it all in. “Do you notice how shushy it is around here?”
“I think people avoid this street if they can.”
There were cameras nestled high overhead on utility poles, in the trees, and on the walls of the building.
Mari glanced around uneasily. “At least the planners put in some nice landscaping.”
“If you can call siege architecture disguised as contemporary urban planning ‘nice.’ ”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look again. The landscaping you like is camouflaged security.”
She did. To our left, decorative waist-high posts studded the curb at three-foot intervals. At the right was a double tier of stone planters. Tall shrubbery filled them. Narrow, short stacks of stairs allowed passage at carefully controlled intervals, with gates and guards.
Mari said, “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s three layers of defense. The decorative stone posts are the first and only obvious line.”
“You mean, like, maybe, to stop a suicide bomber in a car?”
“Just like that. Or any angry protester wanting to ram the building.”
“We don’t have either of those in Japan.”
“But you could. You do have domestic protests.”
“You said three. There’s the watchmen, so that’s two.”
“I didn’t count them. Any serious attack would plow right through them.”
Mari looked startled. “Really?”
“Really. Half of them are in their fifties and sixties.”
“Then what else?”
“Two sets of stone steps no more than four feet wide, separated by a landing, is about crowd control. Funneling people through narrow passages. The tiered levels retard attacks. The two rows of large granite planters with the tall bushes keep out prying eyes and give the watchers inside more time to gauge a potential threat. They’ll also stop buses or large trucks.”
“But it all looks so ordinary.”
“How about that.”
“So, like, none of this is normal?”
“Not even close.”
* * *
After a uniformed guard handed us a pair of color-coded badges, we followed a tight-lipped blue-suited agent into an elevator, exiting sixty seconds later into a long hallway with oyster-gray walls and a row of unmarked doors on each side.
There was no directory on the wall. No signs or arrows.
We turned right.
New corridors branched off to both sides with more doors, all of them identical. None were numbered or labeled or supported descriptive plaques alongside. It was a modern version of the old samurai castle approach with a maze of passages invaders could not navigate before alerted troops took them down with a swarm of arrows from above.
Another turn. More doors. A third turn. We entered a room. Lidded porcelain cups of the obligatory green tea awaited our arrival and dictated our positions at a conference table for eight.
Our guide motioned us to sit and disappeared through a second door, which reopened a moment later to silently emit another blue-suited PSIA agent. He was polished, proper, and perfect. We exchanged bows and names, all in Japanese. Ibata didn’t offer his card or a full name. Unusual but not unexpected. This was, after all, the PSIA.
“Please sit,” he said.
Ibata had sculpted cheekbones, dimples, and wide, Western-style eyes that could have come down through the family gene pool, though my money was on the knowing flick of a surgeon’s scalpel. Plus a few extra swipes to upgrade the dimples and nose, both of which verged on movie-star perfect. His suit and haircut towered leagues above the norm, meaning family money, not a PSIA salary. As Ibata displayed these last two perks openly, in complete disregard for the jealousy they would engender in his colleagues, I assumed he had unassailable backing higher up the line.
“I have heard about you, Brodie-san, and been wanting to meet you.”
“Have you?”
There was a lot of oil in his hair.
“Yes.” Hooded eyes glided over my face and person, then raked over Mari in open admiration. “I have heard less about your attractive companion, though.” He turned to Mari. “At a more opportune time I would enjoy hearing about how you contribute to Brodie Security, Kawasaki-san. The PSIA is always looking for new talent.”
He gave Mari a slick smile suggestive of a job far removed from
PSIA’s standard assignments. Her eyes dove into her lap.
“She’s a valued colleague,” I said.
The slickness slid my way. “I bet she is. Your activities in Japan are well-known to us, Brodie. Like your father’s before you.”
His voice had turned dismissive. I bristled at the tone until a vision of Zhou brought me to my senses. Could this be more spycraft? The manipulative measures of his kind? Draw a reaction and see what rises to the surface? Only one way to find out.
“Our work does make headlines from time to time,” I said, shifting into neutral.
His eyes became small black beads. “And how do you know Rie Hoshino?”
“We worked on a case together involving the Tokyo home invasion murders a few months back. She was assigned to a senior detective by the name of Kato.”
He nodded. “Shin’ichi Kato. Promoted sideways and considered deadweight.”
“Actually, he’s one of the best detectives the Tokyo PD has. Just doesn’t play the political game well.”
What little light remained in the black beads dissolved inward. “How would you know that?”
“Because the powers that be keep him close. Otherwise he’d be finishing out his days in some backwater.”
Ibata sucked in his lower lip. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Brodie?”
The royal we had surfaced. The meeting was spiraling downward at a bewildering rate.
“Well, as we’re all in law enforcement, I was hoping we could exchange information about the Sharon Tanaka case.”
Since Rie would have informed him of my needs, I kept my reply open-ended, allowing him several avenues he could explore without compromising himself or the agency. He chose one I hadn’t considered.
“And this is because Ms. Hoshino’s father and my father both served in law enforcement together?”
The back door was closing.
“That’s one way to put it. Of course, we would reciprocate.”
His eyebrows arched. “How very kind of you to think of us. Do you and your companion have something to offer?”
“Not at the moment, but I expect we will.”
Ibata tapped his lips with the index finger of his right hand. “Hoshino-san comes from a highly respected law enforcement family, and she did request I assist you. But she may have taken a wrong turn by recommending you to us.”
I felt my face freeze. More tactics or something else? “Maybe she’s expanding her horizons. Brodie Security deals domestically and internationally.”
Ibata’s surgically enhanced features hardened. “I understand you two are dating.”
The meeting had veered officially off the rails.
“Did she tell you that?”
I knew she hadn’t, and wouldn’t.
“I follow her career.”
“I see. I’m not sure her personal life is part of—”
His palm shot up abruptly. “Hoshino-san wondered if we might not be able to help you. Unfortunately, the way I see it, there is no helping you. We’re done here.”
He rose with a stiff formality and swept from the room without another word, leaving us alone with two steaming cups of untouched green tea, a host of new questions, and not a single answer.
CHAPTER 39
WAS that a threat?” Mari asked once we were well away from Government Building 6A and any ears it might have.
“Yes. Veiled, with deniability.”
“Super-creepy.”
I nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“If he wasn’t going to help, why did he agree to a meeting?”
“Two reasons, I’d guess.”
“He totally has a thing for your lady friend. What’s the other one?”
“He wanted a good look at us.”
Mari cleared her throat. “Um, you’re, like, being polite by including me, aren’t you? What you really mean is you, right?”
“Yes, to both questions,” I said.
* * *
It was time to visit the Tanakas.
This was the hardest part of my father’s calling: interviewing members of a victim’s family, who are usually devastated and suffering from unimaginable shock. This time they faced murder, kidnapping, and a brutal beating.
Noda, Mari, and I headed west to the upscale Setagaya enclave of Sakura, west of central Tokyo. The area had once been the wooded hunting ground of the shogun, where he practiced falconry, a popular status-affirming sport of the ruling samurai class. Animals roamed the forest. Birds glided in for a rest on the waterways. From the gloved arm of an elite samurai, a trained hawk would soar high into the sky, then sharp claws would swoop down on an unsuspecting duck or goose or swan.
Not unlike the way the gang had swooped down on Anna Tanaka.
* * *
The home was firmly upper-middle-class: tasteful beige tiling across the façade, a wrought iron fence around the property, and entry through an iron gate with sculptured peach blossoms.
Soon after we rang the bell, Sharon’s husband opened the door. He hadn’t shaved. His hair was uncombed. Worst of all, the gentle brown eyes I’d remembered from our one brief meeting were muddy and unfocused.
“Welcome,” he said. “Please come in.”
He led us into a Western-style sitting room with a long couch, overstuffed chairs, and a central table set down between them. In an adjoining tatami room I caught sight of a scroll painting, a short-legged table, and an L-shaped legless chair. A ninety-year-old woman dozed in the chair. She shared Sharon’s facial structure. Her mother. I couldn’t begin to imagine what the matriarch of the Tanaka clan must be going through as she watched her family being assailed from all sides.
“Who else will be joining us?” I asked.
“My apologies,” Mr. Tanaka said, waving us to the couch. “I’m on my own today, so please give me a minute.”
Translation: we would not be interviewing the entire family.
Joan Slater had parted the gate, but not by much.
Tanaka shuffled off into the back of the house, returning a long moment later with a pot of steeping green tea. Sliding into one of the facing chairs, he poured a cup for each of us, then beckoned us to drink.
“Joan Slater says I should talk to you,” he said, pausing to sip his tea, “so I will, out of respect for her. But I think this is a hopeless exercise. I’ve told the authorities everything I know two dozen times. So the sooner we can get this over with, the better. My family prefers its privacy. I hope you understand.”
“More than you know.”
Tanaka’s hand trembled as he set down his cup. Swollen half-moons underscored eyes brimming over with exhaustion.
I said, “Would you mind bringing us up to date?” I kept my voice low and gentle. “Have you received any ransom demands?”
“Not yet.”
“Any contact at all?”
“None. What do you think that means? The authorities would not share their thoughts.”
“I’m not sure. The kidnappers may want money or they may want leverage. Or it could be something else altogether.”
“Leverage?”
“Your family seems to know a lot of highly placed people. If Anna or someone else in your family is, say, close to an elite government figure or a VIP, like your wife was to the first lady, the kidnappers might be able to use your daughter’s abduction to extract a favor.”
I was playing a long shot from Zhou’s dubious playbook.
“No, no. That was Sayuri’s territory.”
Sharon’s Japanese name.
“What does Anna’s husband do?”
“Oh, there’s nothing there either. He’s a professor. He frequents dusty libraries, not halls of power.”
“Teaching what?”
“Folklore. That’s how they met. Our Anna loves folklore.”
I queried Noda and Mari with a look. They had nothing, so I took the leap.
“Mr. Tanaka, why did your daughter come to the funeral in disguise?”
His eyes darted away. “Let me get you some more tea.”
He swept up the teapot with one brisk move—suddenly and inexplicably energized—then vanished down the hall to the kitchen before I could stop him.
CHAPTER 40
MR. Tanaka refreshed our cups, then retook his seat. “I’m sorry. I needed time to think. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“The first lady, she’s, uh, cleared for top secret stuff, right?”
“I’m sure she has a security clearance. Not as high as the president’s, though, or others working for him. Why do you ask?”
“How about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
A puzzling turn. There were dots to be connected. But which ones?
“This has to do with your daughter?”
“I don’t want to get her in trouble.” His eyes skipped away again.
The first lady’s security clearance . . . mine . . . I had it. “You’re protecting Anna. No, not her. Her job. Right? She’s got some sort of job with a security clearance?”
He didn’t answer, which I took as a yes.
I said, “Maybe a secure status you don’t want to compromise?”
“I am her father,” he said, which served as another yes.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I do not have any official government security clearance but I am working for the White House. And whoever took Anna is working for the other guys. Isn’t that enough?”
Tanaka frowned. He dropped folded hands into his lap, his gaze settling on the nest of intertwined fingers.
“Listen,” I said. “We are on your side. You lost your wife and I lost two friends. The first lady herself asked me to look into this over and above Homeland and the DC police because I’m one of the few people who knows both the U.S. and Japan. And mostly because she really cares about Sharon and knows I do too.”
He shifted uneasily in his chair, confused.
In a softer voice I said, “I know this must be unbearable for you, but Anna is still out there. She is in hostile hands but she’s alive. Yes, the Japanese police and other authorities are working on it, but why not let Brodie Security help too? We’ve been around for forty years. Joan Slater wants us involved. I want to be involved. Other than the first lady, no one else has a personal stake in this.”
