by Barry Lancet
Kiyama’s jaw line hardened. He bowed his head. As always, his response was submissive. Except for his stiffening features. I felt a coldness I couldn’t explain sweep through me.
Yoji remained oblivious. “Everyone thinks that Tanaka is the better fighter because he has the higher kendo rank and was given the title of sensei. The man has an ego bigger than the Tokyo Dome, so we indulge him. Kiyama, kind soul, has always deferred to his sempai. Accepted a lower rank, no title. Even though his sword work is superior. This is the Japanese way, right, Kiyama?” Yoji grinned with the pride of an older brother.
Sempai is the higher position in a vital Japanese relationship known as sempai-kohai. Literally, it means senior-junior but in its fullest form the concept involves a mentor-novice attachment that lasts a lifetime. Often the senior member paves the way for his young follower, who, in turn, assumes a host of chores at the behest of his senior. The arrangement works well as long as neither member abuses his position.
I faced the new entrant. “I’m surprised to see you here. I expected Tanaka but not you.”
Kiyama finally spoke. “Tanaka was part of our group.”
It was the first time I’d heard his voice. It was low and firm and even, in a supremely confident way. There was nothing of a deferential “younger brother” in his tone now.
“Was?” Yoji said, his cheerfulness slipping a notch.
Kiyama shrugged. “There’s only one sword with the emperor’s inscription.”
“But the other two are by Masamune. A swordsmith with a higher rep doesn’t exist.”
“But the emperor’s sword tops them, and Tanaka tried to pull rank.”
“Then you get the other two.”
A frown crawled across Kiyama’s features. “And listen to him boast about having the best sword until the end of my days? I don’t think so. I’ve put up with his obnoxious ways long enough.”
The mask is coming off, I thought.
“But two Masamune koto,” Yoji said. “That’s nearly as good.”
“With Tanaka, nearly means nothing. You know that. So we fought for it.”
Yoji was confused. “But how? Where would you find bamboo swords on this island?”
“We made do with what was at hand.” Kiyama rattled the weapons in his right hand.
Yoji laughed nervously and looked toward the door, expecting Tanaka to walk through it at any second. “You’re kidding, of course. Tanaka would never agree to fight his little buddy.”
“I insisted.”
“But you’re . . .” Yoji paused, confused. “He doesn’t know that . . . he . . . we are all friends.”
“Were,” Kiyama said simply, without any change of tone or expression.
I looked at the two weapons the younger man held at his side and didn’t need to ask about the outcome of the duel.
CHAPTER 77
YOJI continued to look expectantly at the door.
“Tanaka-san, get in here,” he called. “I know you’re out there.”
I looked over at the treasure stacked neatly in the corner. The grip of only a single sword protruded. The kohai held the two missing weapons.
Kiyama said, “He’s not coming back.”
Yoji shook his head stubbornly. “The others wouldn’t allow it.”
“After they trailed Brodie here, I told them to go into town and celebrate. Tanaka and I had just returned from taking care of the dentist. Once they left, we fought. Now it’s just you and me. Plus Brodie and the old man.”
“The joke’s stale, Kiyama.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Now finish your work. You have to deal with Brodie. Everyone else has got blood on his hands.”
I moved into the opening. “You don’t have to kill anymore. You’ve won. Just take the treasure and go.”
Yoji turned to Kiyama. “He’s right. What can he do?”
Kiyama scoffed. “You’re listening to him?”
“We can tie him up or something.”
“He’s got a whole fleet of detectives working for him. Kill him, then we’ll feed him to the sharks and walk away rich.”
“He did look after my father.”
“We have all committed. You’re the last. Think about it while I take care of old business.”
I grew still. The balance of power had changed from Yoji to Kiyama. Kiyama’s was a quietly forceful presence. Cool and calculating. Still not a big talker. But armed with the world’s deadliest steel.
Kiyama marched over to Inoki and dropped one of the swords at his feet. “Let’s see if you still have your stuff.”
“What?” Inoki said.
“Stand and fight, or die where you sit.”
Inoki studied Kiyama. The old soldier gauged his opponent’s resolution in a manner he’d probably done a hundred times before—but usually from a superior position, with a superior weapon, and superior backup.
Inoki rose reluctantly. He unsheathed the classic blade as Kiyama pulled his. They faced off with a pair of sabers pounded out by some of the best swordsmiths in Japanese history.
Under direct threat, Inoki came alive. After the first parry, it became apparent that Inoki’s fencing ability would not fare well against the younger man’s aggression. Kiyama set to toying with him, but it was a risky game. From Wu’s story, I knew Inoki was a crafty fighter, and as I watched the match unfold I saw the old fox’s eyes narrow as he sought a break in his adversary’s defense.
But Kiyama was too good. He wove in and out of Inoki’s advances with ease, pressing the ancient combatant back into a corner when he chose but not moving in for the kill. Kiyama wore Inoki down. Occasionally he nicked him and withdrew. Kiyama grew so confident that he countered many blows with the spine side of the blade with ease.
The kendoist was focused and intent. His eyes burned. He, too, had come alive. I recalled Inoki’s words about his time in China: The war in Manchuria was the ultimate playground. I took anything I wanted. Life, women, gold.
But that was then. Now, in a new country, in a new century, this was Kiyama’s moment.
The younger duelist pounced.
Japanese swords are made of hammered steel, refolded and pounded over and over again. They are dense and heavy. With the faceoff easing into its fourth minute, the octogenarian was having trouble keeping the tip up and in Kiyama’s face. His breathing grew ragged. His guard dropped and gaping holes in his defense opened up.
What happened next is the grist of nightmares.
In a full-tilt frontal attack, Kiyama sliced off his opponent’s sword hand. The appendage fell to the floor with a dull thud, still gripping the weapon. Blood spewed from the end of Inoki’s arm. His other hand went automatically to the wound. He staggered but remained upright.
Kiyama rocked back on his rear foot, appraising his work with a connoisseur’s eye, then his blade flashed—and in one smooth, well-placed stroke he took off Inoki’s head. The severed body part rose to accommodate the passing steel, then resettled on the stump, misaligned by maybe half an inch.
Inoki blinked. His eyes found mine. His mouth opened and closed like one of Wu’s ghost-spirits. Then the life-force dissipated and his remains tumbled over.
My heart stuttered in my chest. Was that how Hamada had lived his last moment? Was this what the sword-wielding kendoka had in mind for me?
CHAPTER 78
FORTUNATELY, I’d made my move before Kiyama began his butchering. When the triumphant swordsman turned to face us, blood spatter streaking his clothing like a proud warrior’s ceremonial sash, a surprise awaited him.
Kiyama cast the same appraising look over the new arrangement. His eyes narrowed. Then his gaze grew calculating rather than flustered, and I knew my escape plan would fail.
The fencer’s voice was tinged with a fatalistic regret. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
Yoji said, “This is different.”
“But it isn’t. If you could do it, you would have pulled the trigger as soon as he came at you.”
&
nbsp; Under normal circumstances, Kiyama’s take would have merit, but a real-life sword fight to the death unfolding before your eyes was a riveting event—and about as far away from normal as you could get.
“Isn’t it enough that I uncovered the treasure and got it here?”
“You need blood on your hands.”
Once the swordplay had begun, I’d inched toward Yoji. When the third parry drew Yoji’s full attention, I moved inside his defenses and twisted his gun arm up and away before he knew what was happening, plucking the pistol from splayed fingers.
The playboy businessman grimaced. I raised the barrel to his head, stepped behind him, and snaked my free hand under his arm and across his chest, tugging him against me as a human shield, from which position we both watched Inoki come apart. It was at times like this that my speed served me well.
Kiyama eyed me closely. “Did Yoji tell you how Hamada died?”
“No,” I said.
“Just like that,” he said, tossing his head cavalierly at Inoki’s motionless form. “Except Hamada didn’t have a weapon. Five of us cornered him.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “It wasn’t a clean cut.”
Kiyama’s grin was brutish. “Oh, the first cut was clean. We went back with a cleaver to make it look like Triads. Hamada was my first tameshigiri. This was my third.”
Meaning his former friend Tanaka was his second.
Yoji squirmed in my grasp, trying to break loose, but my martial arts training allowed me to hold him in place, despite his workouts at the kendo club.
“Why don’t you let him go, Brodie?”
“Not likely,” I said.
“You will in the end. You’ve got nowhere to run.”
I said nothing, preferring to watch his weapon.
“Do you know what I discovered today?” Kiyama said pleasantly. “What they say about the best koto blades is absolutely true. For Hamada I used a gendaito. Modern swords do an adequate job, but when you cut with a koto it’s like passing your hand through water.”
He flicked the weapon so it caught the light. “A graceful shape, too.”
I listened but held my tongue. I wondered if I could put him down before he came for me. The Japanese saber is long and deadly and razor-sharp. If my shot went wide or I didn’t knock the fight out of him with the first bullet, he could still charge. He only needed to connect once with his finely honed steel to maim or kill. Problem was, you could pump a handful of 9mm slugs in a charging adult male and not slow him immediately. Even fatally wounded, Kiyama could get in a few strokes—and one was all he needed to inflict serious damage, if not kill me outright.
So it was a standoff and he knew it.
“Give it up, Brodie. Inoki didn’t suffer. The mind goes into shock. There’s no pain. Just a realization of death, and death.”
I edged away. If I could circle around, I could reach the hall leading to the bedrooms, then scramble backward with Yoji as a shield, away from the patio, toward the rear of the villa. The problem was that Yoji had shut the door and both my hands were occupied. The second I moved to open it, I’d lose control of my captive and Kiyama would rush in. I’d be cut down before I could get through the door.
Kiyama read my glance and sneered. “Not enough time to make it out that way. The only path is through me.”
Then the sneer faded. Kiyama grew quiet. His body firmed the way a martial artist readies for action. He raised the sword.
I knew instantly—as one fighter sizing up another—that Kiyama didn’t see this as a standoff. He saw only a challenge. Another victory to be gained. And his rapid-fire glance gave away his strategy.
He is planning to cut off my arm.
With decades of kendo under his belt, his control would be superb. Especially at his level. He could probably sever the arm and still pull up millimeters short of his friend’s chest.
Then a series of new calculations flickered across his features. He was amending his plan—and the revision was worse than I could have imagined.
* * *
In any martial art, the years of practice are all about teaching the muscles to move faster than the mind can think. My training served the same end. Which is why I could predict Kiyama’s next move.
First, I saw naked ambition. At his feet was all the money in the world. So what was left for a supremely confident fighter? He was computing the ultimate angle for the ultimate strike.
One for the history books.
A double tameshigiri.
He planned to hack off my arm on his way to slicing all the way through Yoji’s torso.
In the sword-fighting journals of old, there are records of multiple tameshigiri. Double- and triple-body cuttings with one stroke. The record is supposedly seven, though some experts say the claim is dubious. But whatever the numbers, the settings were always staged. The moves prearranged. The dregs of society were bound and gagged and staked into position for the amusement of a handful of bloodthirsty samurai. Otherwise, the chance to cleave multiple bodies with one stroke never surfaced. Not even on the battlefield.
But right here, right now, cornered as I was, with my arm wrapped snugly around Yoji’s chest, Kiyama saw the opportunity of a lifetime—with the sword of the millennium.
All this I understood in a blink of an eye as his feverish glance gauged angles and distance.
I pointed the gun at Kiyama and pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
CHAPTER 79
KIYAMA’S sneer grew colder. “Yoji chases skirts and he’s a hell of a strategist. That’s why he was able to extract the treasure from China. But he doesn’t have the stomach to kill. The box of ammunition in his bedroom is full.”
I took another step back, dragging Yoji with me.
Kiyama cocked his wrists. His sword inched higher. His stance shifted and firmed. He tracked my arm obliquely, making final calculations in his head.
I feigned a move to the right.
The sword was in motion—and coming. It would catch me in its swing no matter which direction I took.
The arm was all but gone.
Then my training kicked in. I shoved Yoji hard in the small of the back with my other hand. He stumbled forward and into the descending weapon. One of the world’s sharpest blades met his skull before the weapon could complete its sweep and take my limb. The steel wedge cleaved the head down to the jaw line, then its momentum stalled.
Kiyama tugged at his weapon, but it wouldn’t budge. I flung the empty gun at him. The weapon clipped him in the chin and he grunted in pain. The sword sprang loose.
Kiyama grinned. He took a moment to wipe the bloodstained steel on the flap of his shirt.
I jumped onto the couch and lifted one of the tridents from its perch on the wall. I pointed the three-pronged pike at him.
“Smart,” Kiyama said. “Won’t do you any good, though.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
The trident was eight feet long.
I looked down at Yoji. “Too bad you had to kill him.”
“Don’t be naive. I was going to do it anyway. I just wanted to see if he had it in him to finish you. Thirty years of kendo, but couldn’t pull the trigger. Worthless.”
There it was. Kiyama had played the modest companion for decades without aim or purpose. A closet sociopath with nowhere to go. Then the treasure came to light and gave him purpose. The repressed personality emerged from hiding and began spinning its web.
I firmed my grip on the trident. I jabbed it in his direction. Kiyama glided away, both hands on the hilt of his sword. The good news was, he didn’t attack. The bad was, he was analyzing the problem like a professional. Not as a threat, but as an intriguing obstacle to overcome.
Won’t do you any good, though.
In my heart, I knew he was right. But I needed something, and an eight-foot spear was an agreeable option. My only option. The problem was that the sword was far more lethal. I couldn’t let Kiyama connect. Which
meant I couldn’t let him control the action.
I needed a defense and a counterattack, or it would be a massacre.
Not a massacre like the one in the locker room, where I’d taken a collection of blows before I collapsed. No. This time one blow would kill me outright, or damage me in a way too gruesome to contemplate.
I attacked with the trident. Straight away he halted my forward thrust by sliding his weapon between two prongs. Metal clashed. A sharp ping on his end, a dull reverberation on mine.
Kiyama’s ears perked up at the sound.
Then he backed off and circled.
I looped around the other way. Then I lunged. Kiyama rolled sideways. He brought the Japanese cutlass over and down on the neck of the trident and lopped off its head.
Just like that the forked end clattered to the tile floor and lay still.
I fell back, stunned.
Kiyama nodded to himself.
His weapon had glided through the trident’s soft iron body. I’m not sure it even slowed down. I should have guessed. The perfectly sharpened edge of the Japanese sword has been forged in high temperatures, folded and pounded and refolded, two layers becoming four, four becoming eight, eight to sixteen, and on and on until dozens of microthin layers were stacked on one another, each time pounded flat before refolding. Reinforcing the steel. Building strength and an invincible cutting wedge.
I recalled a videotaped demonstration where a Japanese blade had been clamped vertically in place, then a .22 was set up ten yards back. A bullet flew straight at the upright sword. The round was halved.
And that was steel on steel.
I held a decorative instrument forged of low-grade iron. Probably with more impurities than a fallen angel. That’s what Kiyama had heard when he’d tapped the koto against the trident. That’s why he’d countered with such assurance.
I was in trouble.
Won’t do you any good, though.
My position of strength was an illusion. And I faced a shrinking time frame. In a couple of moves Kiyama would figure out how to penetrate my weakened defense.
We continued to circle. He watched for an opening. I jabbed the air between us with my truncated pole. Once, twice, three times. He took the bait with the fourth, attacking with the same overhead looping maneuver and chopping off another foot. The momentum of his strike carried the rod down and away. I gave my weapon free rein, rotating my wrists back toward me. The end of the trident skidded off the tile floor then carved a sideways U in the air and slammed into Kiyama’s ribs before he realized what I was doing.
