Tokyo Kill

by Barry Lancet

  “Fine.”

  “I owe you a beer for the Japantown exclusive, but sounds like I’d better save it for a different night.”

  “Yep.”

  “I hear ya. Take a stroll in Golden Gai around witching hour. I’ll find you this time.”

  “Again? Are charades really necessary?”

  For our previous get-together we’d met in a public park in Ikebukuro, on the north end of central Tokyo. He came in disguise with a watcher at each point of the compass.

  Tommy snorted. “You joking? After the last meet I know to treat you like there’s explosives strapped to your backside.”

  “That was then.”

  “Can you say differently this time?”

  I considered the question. During our previous get-together, three guys with guns had tried to run me down, but Tomita’s cohorts had sounded a warning that allowed me to get away—but only by seconds. This time there was Yoji’s murder in Kabukicho, Hamada’s head delivered to our doorstep, and the rooftop showdown on the ferry.

  I caved. “Truthfully, no.”

  “Damn right you can’t. I have good friends who are telling me to stop taking your calls.”

  That was a new one. For all its size—thirteen million people in central Tokyo, thirty-four in the greater metropolitan area—Japan’s capital was a vast collective of overlapping networks. News traveled the grapevine with lightning speed and if it hit your network, you knew soon after.

  Still, I was pissed. “You can’t be serious.”

  He cackled like the hard-core scribe he was. “They are. But the way I look at it, you only live once.”

  “I don’t know how to take that.”

  The cackle rose a notch. “Simple. To some people you’re radioactive. To me you’re an old friend and a good source.”

  “Just what I’m saying. How about we meet at an out-of-the-way place I know?”

  Tomita snorted. “No, I’ll choose. I take risks but I’m not suicidal. If possible I’d like to live to the end of ‘once.’ ”

  CHAPTER 46

  SOMETHING new was in the air. It peeked from its hiding place during Tommy-gun’s call and pranced into view during my next conversation.

  “Japan is a nice country,” Kazuo Takahashi said. “We are a good people. Our government strays too much, though.”

  I’d rung my Kyoto art-dealer friend a couple days before to postpone my buying trip to the old capital, asking him at the same time to let me know if he heard anything about a new Sengai coming on the market. This time I’d called to confirm that the postponement was permanent for the foreseeable future.

  The murders I kept to myself.

  “Last night a Chinese elder told me the same thing about his country,” I said.

  “I imagine it is true.” Takahashi’s tone was subdued. “We Japanese have much to offer, even if we have our secrets.”

  Since Takahashi was intelligent enough to know he was preaching to the converted, I replied with a standard two-word rejoinder in Japanese—and waited.

  His tone turned morose. “We have culture, art, achievement. We have history. But in our past we also have a violent, militaristic side born of our samurai roots. You ran across remnants of that in Japantown. We took our medicine and cleaned up the mess. Now you’ve got another case, and it involves the war, does it not?”

  A vast collective of overlapping networks. “Yes. How’d you know?”

  His pause was long. “Certain circles in the Japanese art world now pay attention to your activities, and word trickles out.”

  “I see. Do any of those circles include you?”

  “No, but they like to keep me informed. It’s nothing insidious. If anything, it suggests your stature has risen. You’ve become ‘eminently watchable,’ as one colleague put it recently.”

  “I don’t know how to take that,” I said for the second time today.

  “Nor do I. But back to the main: Japan has her secrets, as you well know. Many are open secrets. We Japanese are aware of them, are ashamed of them, and don’t speak of them often, if ever. Our embarrassing moments remain, for the most part, confined to these shores. The language barrier and our shame constitute an effective blockade.”

  “Maybe it’s time to let those secrets out,” I said, “so the skeletons, or ghosts, can finally be put to rest.”

  “A very Western concept.”

  “A very human one.”

  The Japanese prefer to bury their shame rather than face it. Some of the younger generation were adopting a more open attitude, but the older generation still preferred deep-sixing a problem, mistake or not, and bearing the guilt. To them this was heroic. It epitomized the traditional spirit of gaman—forbearance. Made them feel admirable. Like martyrs. But to people caught in the middle—like Miura—holding their tongues led to a slow acidic burn of the soul.

  “Your suggestion is not without merit,” Takahashi said.

  Even given this last admission, no further progress was made.

  Maybe at another time, in another place.

  After all, the laments of Miura the ex–Japanese soldier, Wu the old Chinese activist, and Takahashi the traditional Kyoto art dealer carried a common thread.

  Something new was indeed in the air.

  And for me it had an unnerving edge.

  CHAPTER 47

  I WAS strolling through the Gai’s narrow streets a few minutes before midnight, an eye peeled for Tommy-gun Tomita, newshound.

  The Golden Gai is a cozy hive of some two hundred bars wedged into twenty thousand square feet. For decades, progress has chipped away at the edges of this ramshackle collection of watering holes, but the core remains. Some places are members-only. Others cater to groups: artists, writers, directors, or fans of this, that, and the next big thing. And, as with everything Tokyo, old shops fade away and new ones emerge.

  I wandered leisurely up and down the Gai’s lanes, letting myself be seen. There was a good chance I wouldn’t recognize Tommy-gun. He had the ability to transform himself—wigs, makeup, postures, gestures, the whole works. His personal form of job security.

  But this time he came undisguised. There were no embellishments on his wiry five-seven frame. He wore jeans, an olive-brown sport coat, and a pale-blue dress shirt, sans tie. Black glasses hovered desperately over a flat nose, the bottom of the frames resting on his cheeks. His dark hair was in fashionable disarray, his one concession to style.

  From twenty yards away, over the heads of a couple dozen revelers, I caught sight of him walking toward me. We locked eyes but he showed no sign of recognition.

  I knew what that meant.

  I walked on, ignoring his approach.

  Behind Tomita a watchful figure lingered. Tomita glanced at the screen of his smartphone, then looked over my shoulder, saw something, then his whole body relaxed and he smiled at me.

  When he was close, I said, “The man behind you in the gray suit and green tie yours too?”

  He nodded, the next instant latching on to my arm and steering me down a linking alleyway, then right into a passageway five feet wide, then into a crevice where our shoulders brushed the walls. After a last right, we made a quick dash through a slim wooden doorway and up a flight of dark-tiled stairs to a small room with a bar, five stools, and a solitary table by a window with tattered shoji, overlooking the last swatch through which we’d just threaded our way. We took the table. Tommy waved at the proprietor and called out our order, suggesting familiarity.

  “You’re at it again,” he said softly in Japanese.

  “At what?”

  “The dicey stuff.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Made some inquiries. Heard some rumors.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “First, because I’m good at what I do, and second, because after the Rikyu incident and Japantown, you draw notice. You’re a minor celeb on these shores. Surely someone’s told you by now?”

  I grimaced. “That kin
d of fame I don’t need.”

  “You dive into dicey, that’s what you get.”

  “I’m only carrying on where my father left off.”

  Tomita shook his head. “Closer to the edge.”

  “Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Well, yes, but I can only lose my job. You could lose your head.”

  The passing reference to Hamada sent a shock wave through my system. “You heard.”

  “Yes. Sorry. Didn’t know him personally but was told he was a good man, and good at what he did.”

  “Very true.”

  We were quiet for a spell, giving the man—the father of twins, longtime Brodie Security op—a moment of his own.

  My client’s son was bad enough, but Hamada was part of the collective family my father had gathered together. The loss hung over the entire office. The single consolation was the heavy life insurance my father had insisted on carrying for employees. When I stepped into the role as part-time bicoastal owner-operator, the advisory service the lawyers attached to the transitional phase urged me to quietly drop the policy. The savings would turn Brodie Security from a marginal enterprise into a hugely profitable business I could sell for a substantial gain if I “chose to divest.” The premium was that large. I refused—and divested myself of the advisory service instead.

  Eventually I said, “How informed are your sources?”

  “I know something about Triads. That’s why I’ve got ears and eyes at the front and back and across the street upstairs.” He placed a prepaid cell phone on the table. “You know the drill. One ring, we run. This time down the back steps, out the back door, to the right. Not the stairs we came up. The hidden ones behind the bar.”

  He pointed to an egress with a framed reproduction of the New York Times front-page announcing the attack on Pearl Harbor. I looked around for the first time. War memorabilia hung on wood-paneled walls. World War Two helmets, Japanese and German. Old rifles. Bayonets. A Japanese movie poster for Gone with the Wind.

  In some corners of Tokyo, stray copies of the film had circulated surreptitiously, screening endlessly in wartime bomb shelters to help the people pass the long hours underground. As the Japanese authorities fought the American government, Hollywood entertainment captured the hearts of the populace.

  I said, “Is this a right-wing bar?”

  Except for the movie poster, everything in sight was vintage war memorabilia. Was this my friend’s way of telling me he’d connected some dots?

  Tommy raised a hand. “I’m not done yet. Then first left, second right. Then into a taxi idling on the corner. The taxi will only wait thirty seconds after the first man arrives. For safety reasons. You need to remember that in case we get separated. Only thirty seconds. If you don’t make it, you’re on your own. Now I’m done.”

  An uneasy silence settled over our corner of the room. The last time we met his preparations for an on-site escape route had me convinced he was paranoid. I no longer thought that. His paranoia had saved my life.

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Tommy-gun searched my face for more answers. He wasn’t going to get them. The owner trotted over with two mugs of beer, a plate of dried squid, and a small cup of mixed nuts.

  After he left, I said, “What are we doing here?”

  “Did the owner a favor once.”

  The five barstools were filled with regulars. They huddled together, deep in a heated discussion involving General Yamamoto, the commander-in-chief of the Japanese fleet during World War II. They ignored us.

  “But right-wing?” I said in a low voice. “The customers might string you up.”

  Tommy shrugged. “The owner was going for vintage forties but he attracted a dash of the reactionary right. That’s why the pointed greeting. They see I’m a friend of the proprietor, they’ll tune us out. The real threat is out there. This is the last place anyone will look. So tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Bottom line, I need a spook. And not just any spook. A Chinese one.”

  “Did you check craigslist Tokyo?”

  I ignored the brush-off. “A source says I’ll find answers if I can plug in high enough up the food chain. Can you help?”

  Tommy frowned into his beer. “I tell you I can, you suddenly know a lot more about me than I want you to know, cowboy.”

  “ ‘Cowboy?’ ”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I don’t call you a samurai swashbuckler.”

  “And?”

  “A story dating back to the war.”

  “No thanks. What else you got?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Brodie, war stories are a dime a dozen. You know that. Even after old soldiers stopped coming out of South Pacific jungles.”

  I did know that. But I’d promised Wu. I hadn’t had the heart to tell the old doctor just how tough the uphill climb for publicity would be.

  “This one’s worth more,” I said.

  “Mine’s bigger than yours.”

  I eyed Tommy. I needed to avoid mentioning the home invasions. It would start him sniffing down my side of the tracks. Which could prove dangerous for both of us.

  “Can’t do it,” I said.

  “Can’t help you, then.”

  “Why you playing hardball?”

  “Because my connection’s top of the heap. Think kaiseki at Kitcho in Arashiyama. I don’t like to tap into this one except under extreme circumstances.”

  Kaiseki is Japanese haute cuisine, an epicurean extravaganza of the finest foods in season, served in a string of courses on elegant ceramic tableware and impeccably arranged as only the Japanese can manage. Kitcho is the birthplace of modern kaiseki, and Arashiyama a breathtakingly picturesque rural district on the outskirts of Kyoto. In short, as high-end as you could get. Tommy was saying that access to his source, just like a meal at Kitcho, was going to cost me.

  I studied my reporter friend. He was resourceful and trustworthy, but when he smelled a story, out came negotiation skills that would make a hardened salesman weep.

  “Connecting with him,” he added, “can be dangerous.”

  “All right. The war story and—only on my say-so when the time is right—one about the home invasions.”

  “I knew there was more.”

  “But you can’t jump early and you can’t go digging yourself. You’ll get us killed. I need a promise on that.”

  Tommy sat back, his eyes glazing over in lust. “Okay, I know a guy.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  The shine in his eyes gave way to dark pools. “I wasn’t joking. With this guy you’ll be stepping into an alternate universe.”

  “Don’t go melodramatic on me, Tommy.”

  My journalist friend put his hands on the table and stared at them for an extended moment. “We’ve known each other for a long time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to keep it that way. You’re absolutely sure you need to talk to a Chinese spy?”

  “It’s vital.”

  “Okay, then I need your word on two things. First, no matter what happens next time I call, you’ll be ready for anything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You see? You’ve got the wrong attitude. Can you be ready or not? Yes or no? If you can’t accept that condition without asking questions, we’d better stop right here.”

  Ah, we were going there. The mind-bending territory of Asian paradox. Accept what comes. Regardless. The Western mind always seeks answers. It needs to find a logical balance. The Japanese mind can suspend belief when necessary. It can hold on to conflicting truths—without judgment—until things need to be explained.

  If the day ever came.

  I could do it only because I grew up on these shores.

  “I’ll be ready,” I said. “And the second thing?”

  “No matter what happens, we stay friends. I am your friend and you say you need this, but my advice would be to back down unless
it’s do-or-die mandatory. Is it?”

  I thought about all that had happened in the last seven days. Miura, Hamada, the death of the third old trooper, the chase on the ferry, the Chinatown shuffle, Wu.

  I considered for a long moment. Then I said yes.

  Tommy-gun pursed his lips. “All right. Once I hit the start button, no matter what I say, no matter what they do, it’s not me. Okay?”

  Despite my resolve something went cold in my chest. “Okay. But why the table pounding, Tommy? You know me. You know what I’ve been through. What I can do. Why are you pushing this?”

  He shook his head, sadness washing over his features. “It’s a window onto a world I don’t think anyone should ever have to look through. But if you’ve got no choice, then step in knowing. Because it’s going to be like nothing you’ve ever encountered.”

  DAY 8

  THE NEW DEVIL

  CHAPTER 48

  TOMMY had reached his contact’s assistant, who said the man we wanted was in South Korea for two days, and unreachable.

  Unreachable.

  Sounded very spylike and promising. I swallowed my disappointment. The upside was that Tommy and I had time for that long-overdue beer—after I attended Hamada’s funeral in the early afternoon.

  The police had released his body, so three days after the decapitation, the funeral took place. Yoji’s body was still being held.

  Leaving a skeleton crew at Brodie Security, the rest of the employees trooped over to a Buddhist temple in Koiwa in the eastern suburbs to pay their respects to one of our own. On the off chance that the killers might turn up to inflict more damage, we posted men at the gate and in the upper stories of neighboring buildings.

  On the drive over to the temple, my mobile vibrated, and when I answered I was surprised to hear Tanaka-sensei from the kendo dojo on the other end.

  “Hi, I just heard about the run-in you had with some of our people.”

  “Just?”

  “I’ve been away on business, but let me apologize for what they did. We do have a rebel element in the dojo.”

  “Well, it was partially my fault.”