Tokyo Kill

by Barry Lancet

  He grunted and dropped back.

  The ricochet blowback had inflicted a measure of pain, but as an experienced jouster Kiyama absorbed the discomfort with no more than a twitch.

  He zeroed in on the trident again. I backed away. My eight-foot weapon had been whittled down to five. He advanced. I jabbed the air with my truncated pole to retard his latest push and lost another segment. He retreated quickly as the trident curled around and missed his abdomen by inches. I stormed in, plowing the end of the rod into his stomach. He doubled over, soaking up the blow and bringing the sword up from below and halving what remained of my weapon.

  I was left holding a two-foot length of what amounted to soft pipe.

  Kiyama straightened stiffly. “It’s over,” he said.

  I didn’t argue.

  CHAPTER 80

  FOR a second time I considered a dash through the long hall. But Kiyama would be on me the moment I reached for the doorknob at this end.

  There was nothing to do but face him down, or die trying.

  The once impressive trident was now a two-foot length of malleable metal. I could wave the fragment about but it was only a threat if I could get close enough to bash a part of Kiyama’s anatomy before he could take a swipe at me with his four-foot weapon.

  So I did the unthinkable. When his sword came around in a long looping overhead swing yet again, I rushed him, eyes glued to the arm wielding the blade. The trident clattered at our feet.

  The trick was in the timing.

  As the koto neared its zenith, I surged forward and pinned Kiyama’s forearm up with one hand, his wrist with the other. The downward arc of his stroke ground to a halt. I raised my knee and smashed my heel into the meaty part of his thigh.

  He began to topple backward, but my double grip on his arm kept him upright. A miscalculation on my part. By the time I released him and eased off to avoid the downward course of the saber, he’d regained his balance and hobbled away, favoring his injured leg. His look darkened.

  He began to run some new strategies.

  I was now weaponless, and Kiyama had learned the hard way not to raise his sword too high.

  Was I a one-trick pony?

  Kiyama thought so. He unleashed another drive. I scooted out of range, barely avoiding the tip of his blade.

  He was limping noticeably. Moving slower. His loss of speed had allowed me to evade his last sweep. I wasn’t so lucky with the follow-up. I escaped the core of his offensive, but in the return stroke the steel tip raked my right side. A streak of red darkened my shirt.

  Then Kiyama doubled back without warning and the koto grazed my upper thigh. I winced and a pulsing pain rocketed through my nervous system.

  Kiyama was taking me apart piece by piece. Attack and retreat. A nick of the blade here, a flick there. Even with his hampered ability, he only had to wear me down as he’d done with Inoki. I could steer clear of him for a while, but time favored his new strategy. I was weaponless. The hall door was closed, as was the front entrance. I couldn’t get through either exit before he could strike. So I could only circle. Until I ran out of steam. All he needed to do was drain my energy reserve. Slow my reflexes.

  Before I could regroup, he released a fourth assault. I scrambled away—and slipped in a pool of Inoki’s blood. My feet went out from under me and I skewed across the floor on my belly, colliding with Inoki’s corpse.

  The old soldier’s sword lay right before my eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed it earlier? I swept up the haft with my right hand and rolled over.

  Kiyama corrected his course and darted in for the kill.

  Coming out of the roll, I straightened my arm and the sword bounded upward of its own accord. I was horrified to see the severed hand still clinging to the hilt. Kiyama’s glance went automatically to the bloody appendage, and in that second of distraction he took his eyes off the killing part of my weapon and ran right into my rising blade.

  It pierced his stomach. He screamed and collapsed onto the sword. The emperor’s koto flew from his hand and banged harmlessly against a French window. His body slumped on top of me, then tipped sideways as I released the haft.

  The kendoka’s eyes found mine. He said my name, and I could see he wanted to say more but he never got the chance.

  CHAPTER 81

  IT was the voices that woke me.

  I must have blacked out.

  My head throbbed. I’d banged it in the fall but only now felt the pain. Kiyama’s arm was draped across my chest. I brushed it aside and struggled to my feet. I was weak and drained. My wounds stung. I’d lost blood. The room spun.

  I shot a look at my would-be executioner. He didn’t stir. He was dead.

  I surveyed the scene. Inoki and Kiyama lay at my feet, in a widening pool of fresh blood. Yoji was sprawled near the kitchen.

  In taking out Yoji and Kiyama, I’d avenged Hamada’s death. It wouldn’t bring him back. It wouldn’t comfort his wife or the twins. But it soothed something strident and primal inside me and complicit in the makeup of all those who worked at Brodie Security. Gladiators on the field occasionally fall, but those left standing take care of their own. Then the loud voices on the beach startled me again. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, drawing closer.

  Everyone else has got blood on his hands.

  I dove for cover.

  * * *

  Quickly, I did the calculations.

  The team had numbered seven to start. Dropped to six after Doi’s death. Five after Kiyama had slain his longtime kendo pal Tanaka. Three after Yoji and Kiyama had fallen.

  The trio of voices was boisterous and inebriated. They were laughing. Talking among themselves. Sloppy footfalls pattered across the patio. The door flew open. I heard the sound of people crossing the threshold—then a stunned silence.

  “What happened?” one of them said.

  “They’re all dead.”

  “There’s blood everywhere.”

  “Police?”

  “Can’t be. Otherwise—”

  “—they’d be here, waiting,” I said.

  I rose from behind Kiyama’s prone body, my clothes slathered in blood.

  The horror in their eyes reflected a primordial fear well beyond mere surprise. In my blood-drenched clothing, I must have looked like a phantom rising.

  Except for one hard fact. I’d dug out the gun from the dead swordsman’s pocket.

  The first man to see it reached for his own weapon.

  “Don’t do it,” I said.

  He did anyway and I shot him.

  The others turned and fled into the night—and ran right into Noda, Kato, and Rie climbing the steps. Brodie Security’s chief detective cold-cocked the first one out the door and Rie curtailed the progress of the second with a serviceable kick to the unmentionables.

  “It’s about time,” I said.

  “Noda called Durgan in Miami and got the number of your Barbados contacts,” Rie said. “They led us here.”

  “Where’s the watchdog?”

  “Indisposed,” Inspector Kato said. “Your buddy here accidentally bumped into him going down the police station steps.”

  Noda ignored the comment, instead glancing at my garb, the bodies, then frowning. “Too bad we missed the festivities.”

  Rie’s takedown groaned.

  “Not all of them,” she said.

  EPILOGUE

  I WAS due back in Tokyo to clear up the matter of the kendo club, but after the Barbados incident Inspector Kato assured me it would be only a formality.

  With the pressure off, I pushed my return flight to the Japanese capital back a few days to spend time with my daughter. I walked through the front door of my San Francisco apartment with a basket of coconut-filled chocolates from Miami under my arm, and a stuffed baby iguana as backup. Jenny swooped in on me, then on the gifts, after which I listened to a euphoric retelling of her soccer achievements. Last came the revelation she’d been saving.

  “It worked,” Jenny said, hopping up and do
wn in a childlike jig, pigtails flapping. “Just like Ms. Deacon told us.”

  “What worked?”

  “She said swimming was for fun and emergencies. The fun part was playing in the water with friends and stuff. Emergencies were for safety. She said a surprise might come and if it did we should be ready to do whatever the surprise wanted us to do. That’s what lifeguards do, and they’re the best swimmers ever. My surprise came on the ferryboat. Something was wrong, wasn’t it?”

  Jenny had never laid eyes on the men who attacked me.

  “Yes, but it’s all finished now. No need to worry.”

  “I’m not worried. The world keeps spinning. Did you forget?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Your work is exciting, Daddy. Like a soccer game. I decided there can be good and bad and exciting when the world is spinning. Three things, not two. That’s what I wanted to tell you before, but I had to get it right in my thinking.”

  This sudden reversal—from trepidation over the danger inherent in my work at Brodie Security to its embrace—what did it mean? Was it normal? Was it healthy?

  Jenny continued her energized bouncing. The pigtails rose and fell. “I think the ferry and the river were exciting. Maybe that’s why Grandpa gave you his company.”

  “You might have something there,” I said cautiously.

  My daughter beamed up at me with a smile full of discovery and joy and no trace of the anxiety for which I was always on alert. In the ongoing trauma of her mother’s death, this could be a favorable step forward.

  “Can I do what you and Rie do, Daddy?”

  That stopped me. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the fighting stuff.”

  “You’re big enough to start with aikido, I suppose.”

  Aikido was about self-defense and deflecting an attack.

  “But you do judo and karate and tae whatchamacallit. Kids do those, too.”

  “Tae kwon do. How about judo like Officer Hoshino?”

  “Yeah!” she said, and threw her arms around me.

  I was puzzled by the shift in my daughter’s attitude. I had not the slightest clue as to whether it was good or bad, but at least for the moment balance had been restored.

  * * *

  The day after I arrived back in Tokyo, I received a call from unexpected quarters.

  “Do you know who this is?” Zhou said when I answered.

  I was unlikely to ever forget the spy or his rooftop sniper.

  “Yes.”

  “I see you used what I gave you.”

  “I did.”

  “You are talented. Perhaps dangerous.”

  “Not to you,” I said.

  “Good to get a confirmation. You have accomplished what you wished. I don’t suppose you care to tell me where I can find the old man?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll leave the offer open for a year. Think about it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Didn’t think so, but had to try.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said.

  * * *

  I met Rie at her favorite java hideaway, Chatei Hatou. The coffee maestro was as precise in his pour-over as ever. We took the same table at the back of the shop. No one was within earshot.

  Rie had made a clean escape. As a woman officer in the Tokyo Police Department, not only did she have to work twice as hard but she also had to be twice as careful. I was aware of the first but had never considered the second. Miraculously, there had been no fallout over the ferry incident. No one had heard of her involvement, or if they had, they kept it to themselves.

  Rie took a sip of her Venetian coffee and sighed with satisfaction. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t actually say that.”

  “Speaking of pretending, shouldn’t we finish our argument?”

  “I took enough of a beating in Barbados.”

  “You look perfectly fine to me. Before we begin, I want to thank you for suggesting me for the Sengai auction.”

  “You didn’t disappoint.”

  “Inspector Kato was kind enough to credit me with the arrest.”

  “You did slap on the cuffs.”

  “You didn’t have to ask for me.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Rie cleared her throat. “I’m willing to accept that you did what you thought was correct on the ferry if you agree that it could have cost me my job.”

  “I could do that.”

  A furrow darkened her brow. “But it was more than that, of course.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  It was also about equal footing. How far she had come. Pride of job. Face. I mentioned all of those and more.

  The furrow went away. “Then it’s finished.”

  “May it rest in peace and never rise.”

  “Coincidentally, I’ve wrapped up my biggest case.” Her smile was faint.

  I prefer one distraction at a time.

  “I know a good French restaurant in Kamakura,” I said. “But it’ll have to be soon. I fly out the day after tomorrow.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “What do you think?” She bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “I have a confession. The reason I never mentioned my judo was because I wanted to retain some of my feminine allure.”

  “It was never in question.”

  “You are a gentleman, but I’ve seen the effects it has when I mention both kendo and judo on a date. When added to my occupation, men run away.”

  “I saw your takedown at the auction. Even with that, I’m still here.”

  She leaned over and we kissed. No cheek this time. It was light and lingering but not too long. This was, after all, Japan. Public displays of affection were frowned upon.

  When we broke, I said, “But I reserve the right to toss you in the water again should the situation warrant.”

  She punched me. Playfully but hard. And damn if it wasn’t a judo move.

  * * *

  The last call I made about the case was to Tommy-gun Tomita.

  “What are you ringing me about now, Brodie? You already gave me the home invasion story.”

  “Like I said, that was only the appetizer. You ready for the main course?”

  I figured the sensational solution to the Tokyo murders would pave the way for a release of larger scale.

  “I’m always ready. If there’s an update on the Last Emperor’s treasure, I’d be happy to run it.”

  The authorities were fighting over the haul. The Barbadian government had impounded the stolen valuables until they could “complete their investigation,” the end of which remained indefinite. The Japanese government had laid claim to the whole lot as “historic artifacts.” When Tommy-gun’s story broke, the Chinese chimed in by insisting their “national treasures” be returned to them, which in their definition included the Japanese items. Not to be left out, an ever-watchful contingent within Brodie Security had filed for a finder’s fee, which all three countries universally dismissed, despite our role in bringing the treasure to the public notice.

  “Forget that,” I said. “What I have is even better. It’s about people killed in the night in the middle of a war. People the world has forgotten.”

  “Old war stories are like ten-year-old dried fish, Brodie. Still around but inedible.”

  “This one is about innocent men, women, and children killed by a joint Japanese-Chinese expedition. There is only one eyewitness left.”

  “Name?”

  “He lives in hiding. He is under constant threat. I can introduce you. The rest you’ll have to clear through his people. You’re also going to have to jump through security hoops.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Only if you’re a real journalist.”

  “Talk to me.”

  So I gave him the remaining details and the contact information. At the end, I told him I needed it done big.

  “Maybe this isn
’t dried fish. If it pans out, I’ll get it on the wire services worldwide. It’ll rattle cages. Thanks.”

  “No need to thank me. It’s a promise I made.”

  I thought about my excursion to Chinatown with Rie. I thought about all the precautions. The poisoned tea. The evasive maneuvers. The showdown in the cemetery. I thought about Wu’s heart-wrenching story, his guilt, and his dedication to bettering conditions for future generations, while keeping a promise to past ones.

  “Brodie? You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Only this: He’s waiting.”

  “Who?”

  “Close enough.”

  ABOUT AUTHENTICITY

  Part of the fun of writing a novel of this nature is weaving factual gems about Japanese culture into the plot. This time around, some Chinese background seeped in as well.

  Here’s what’s true. Everything about the Buddhist monk Sengai (1750–1837) and his art is accurate. By all accounts he led a stimulating and fruitful life. At the age of forty, he became the 123rd abbot—you read that number correctly—of Shofukuji, the first Zen temple in Japan, and retired in 1811 at sixty-one. The happy-go-lucky monk eventually became known for his receptivity to visitors and for dashing off an ink painting whenever a guest asked. They were pieces to inspire and enlighten, or at least point the way. Sengai’s masterwork Circle, Triangle, and Square (sometimes called The Universe) is perhaps his most famous painting. It is housed in the Idemitsu Museum of Arts in Tokyo, which owns the largest collection of the artist’s efforts. The drawing at the core of this story is fictional but conceived in the spirit of the painter-monk’s oeuvre.