He decided to go upmarket. His first step was to make the restaurant far more exclusive. He did so by cutting back to just one dinner sitting per night, with a lone item on the menu — the Chef’s Special. The fixed menu gave him the absolute culinary control he had always desired.
But, of course, he needed some way to recoup the money he would lose by serving just nine customers per night. He therefore set his price at 30,000 yen per person, or about $300 USD.
His little brother said he was out of his mind. Was the price exorbitant? Yes, of course. Such a premium was far out of reach for most people. And yet it had been the smartest business decision he had ever made. The limited seating, plus the high price, made Japan’s elite want to get in more than ever. He had not had a vacant seat since.
And so Sho had been at the height of his game that night when the wooden door to the street slid open. Three men in dark suits appeared in the doorway. The one in the middle, perhaps in his early 60s, wore expensive brown eyeglass frames and had the mouth of an eel, with large lips and narrow, pointed front teeth. The Eel walked in front, clearly the boss. Sho sensed that the two that followed him, despite their fine clothing, were just punks in their late 20s.
“Irrashaimase,” Sho shouted as they ducked into the dark restaurant. He gestured to the seats before him. “Dozo. When will the rest of your party be joining?”
“It’s just the three of us,” the one in the middle said.
Strange. Sho double-checked the reservation book. The name was Yamada Taro, for nine guests. An obviously fake name sometimes used by celebrity diners who desired discretion.
“And name on the reservation is…” Sho hesitated.
The middle-aged man crackled his knuckles. “Yamada Toro,” the Eel said.
“I see. There must be some misunderstanding. The reservation was for nine guests.”
“No misunderstanding.” The Eel gestured to the man beside him, who removed 270,000 Yen from his pocket – enough for nine diners – and laid it on the counter. “We wish to have the place to ourselves.”
There was something off about this trio. They didn’t exactly look like Yakuza per se, but something about them made his blood run cold. Still, who was he to complain if his guests wanted the entire place to themselves? Sho thanked them graciously and poured them drinks. Then he went into the kitchen, working with his 21-year-old little brother to prepare the venison and side dishes.
Some 20 minutes later, dinner was served, and the trio ate heartily. The Eel grunted his enthusiasm as he chewed. The venison was from a buck Sho had taken just two weeks earlier in Nagano. After a story about the restaurant had come out in the Japan Times newspaper, he had been inundated with requests from farms to come shoot the pests that were eating their crops. In a country with so few gun owners, demand for his services had remained high. The free meat was also excellent for his profit margins.
At one point during the meal, the Eel held his hand before his face and snapped his fingers. His colleagues stopped eating immediately. Sho also felt compelled to pay attention. “I do not like jazz,” the Eel said.
Sho bowed slightly and promptly lowered the volume on the song — an extended jam by a young American prodigy named Kamasi Washington — before stopping it altogether. For the duration of the meal, the only sound in the restaurant was the three men cutting and chewing and swallowing.
When the Eel had had his fill, he put his napkin on the table. The others had not yet finished, but they followed suit, and put their napkins on the table as well.
“I was skeptical about this place,” the Eel said. “But it’s true what they say. Your venison is even better than your father’s.”
The complement hit Sho like ice water. There had been a six-year gap between the time of his father’s disappearance and the time that Sho had reopened the restaurant under the new name. For the most part, the old clientele had been left behind. The few old-timers that had come back had been repulsed by Sho’s high prices.
Still, Sho’s curiosity was piqued. “Did you know my father?”
The Eel flashed a grin of yellow, crooked teeth, with gold caps. “He was one of Japan’s true unsung heroes.”
The unsettling feeling that had come over him was suddenly stronger. A part of him wanted to run out the back door. “I better go put the finishing touches on your second course.”
“No. The time for eating is over. I wish to talk.”
“To tell the truth, I’m not much of a talker.”
“Sit down,” the Eel said. “I insist.”
Sho’s mouth was suddenly dry. His tunic was dripped with sweat. But in his experience, you had to stand up to bullies the first time, or they would run over you for a lifetime. His hands shook as he pulled the 270,000 yen they had given him out of the leather pouch underneath the bar and offered it back to the Eel. “The geisha houses here in Gion are full of lovely ladies who specialize in conversation. Take your money and go.”
In response, the Eel’s right-hand man set a .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun on the counter. Even to someone like Sho, who was one of Japan’s few licensed hunters, the sight of the veritable pocket cannon in his restaurant was nothing less than shocking.
“Let your little brother go home early, Kimura-san. You will live to see him tomorrow. I promise.”
Sho called back to his brother. “Go home.”
“Honto?” came the disbelieving reply from the kitchen. He was, after all, not nearly done cleaning up.
“My treat. Now get lost.”
Moments later, he heard the back door open and slam shut.
The Eel removed a gold-plated cigarette case from his jacket pocket and plucked a cigarette from it. “Do you have a light?”
Sho removed a lighter from the drawer and leaned over the counter. His hands were shaking as he drew near the cigarette.
His face was suddenly filled with a clear mist. The room got hazy. He lost his balance, but the Eel’s friends caught him before he fell to the ground.
Twelve hours later, Shoichi Kimura woke to the sound of rushing water. Tree-filtered sunlight warmed his skin. Somewhere up above him, a flock of geese honked.
He was lying on his stomach. He raised his head, fingers pulling the pine needles from his face and hair. As he raised up, he realized the hotness in his lower back.
The smell of incense and burning flesh was still fresh within his mind. He reached behind him, probing gently, raising the hem of his shirt. A large bandage was taped to his lower back.
And his back wasn’t the only thing that was hurting. His head was pounding. The worst imaginable whiskey hangover. Only he had not been drinking.
A note was taped to the hairless skin of his chest:
Do not see a doctor. Do not discuss our meeting with anyone. Do not discuss the ceremony with anyone. We will be in touch.
Ceremony? He had no recollection of any such ceremony. But something did jiggle loose in the recesses of his mind. He had been at Blue Monk. A trio of men, acting strangely. The Eel had sprayed something in his face. Then they had taken him. He knew that much. All other memories were still beyond reach.
He got to his feet and opened his eyes fully for the first time. He was in a pine forest. Twenty paces to the left was a river. He hobbled to it, walking slowly so as to minimize the soreness.
A pair of does spooked as he found the tree line. Judging by the position of the sun, which was behind the hills east of him, it was no later than 7 a.m.
Up in the distance, he recognized the shape of Mount Sajikigatake. He had skied there many times. That meant that Kyoto was due south. And the brook before him was the Kamo River. At least he had his bearings. To get back to the city, he needed only to follow it, keeping the mountain to his back.
Sho began following the river as it twisted its way south. His mind flashed snatches of distorted sound and visions, a jumble of unreliable recollections that seemed to come and go in quick bursts, like flash photography. Still, there was very little to
hold on to. A few fleeting glimpses. A burst of extreme heat and pain. Nothing more.
Eventually he came to a road. The sound of a diesel engine disrupted the otherwise soundless morning. He turned, watching the old fruit truck round the corner. Fear gripped him as it slowed beside him, fragrant with the scent of oil, and stopped. The passenger side window receded into the vehicle.
The driver looked to be a farmer. “Are you alright?” He said. Sho nodded without speaking, but the driver did not appear satisfied. “Headed to town?”
“Kyoto.”
“Me too. Get in.”
“Thank you.”
Sho stepped up on the running board and entered the vehicle. When he leaned back against the seat, pressing the bandage against the wound on his lower back, pain coursed through him.
“What day is it?” Sho said.
“Monday.”
Good. The restaurant was closed on Mondays.
The truck bounced over a pothole, and the pain jogged his memory further. A patchwork of memories from the previous night that made little sense. He had been in some sort of vehicle. Blindfolded. He recalled the sensation of driving up hilly terrain, the road suddenly rough, the vehicle swaying a bit from side to side as they cornered.
The hinges of a heavy, mechanical gate. Someone shouting orders. He had been led out into the night. It had been much colder there. The air was damp and smelled of freshwater fish. Perhaps in one of the villages surrounding Lake Biwa, he thought, imagining the massive lake east of Kyoto.
The blindfold was removed at the entrance to a massive shrine that was bordered by hundreds of paper lanterns that glowed yellow in the night. “Bow your head,” a voice had commanded, and with his eyes downcast he was pushed forward, made to walk through immense torii gates.
“Leave your shoes.” And so he had stepped onto the heels of his sneakers, feeling the frosty cedar planks beneath his feet.
He had been led barefoot up a stone stairway that had been worn smooth over the centuries. He climbed higher, the outside air growing colder with each succeeding set of stairs. Fox statuary, guardians of the shrine, sat on either side of the stairway. The wind blew, fluttering omikuji - folded strips of paper tied to the limbs of cherry trees. On each omikuji was written a bad omen that had been left behind by a believer. Better that bad luck waits by the tree than attach itself to the bearer.
“Disrobe,” the voice had commanded. And so he had stepped out of his jeans and underpants and pulled the t-shirt and sweater over his head. The garments were snatched away as quickly as they hit the floor.
At the top of the next landing they came before a stone basin filled with water. A Shinto priest blessed it.
“Purify,” the voice commanded. He had knelt before the basin, filled the immense wooden dipper and doused it over his head, neck and shoulders.
Now the driver’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “Excuse me.” Sho realized that the vehicle was stopped. The driver was looking at him. They were already in the city. “Are you okay?”
Sho regarded the intersection. He knew this place. The Blue Monk was just a few blocks away.
He peeled a 10,000 yen note out of the front pocket of his pants and handed it to the driver. He declined, of course, but Sho left it on the dashboard as he stepped out.
He walked the rest of the way. When he reached the Blue Monk, he immediately drank two bottles of water, followed by three shots of his strongest whiskey. Then he went to the bathroom and removed his shirt.
Sho peeled the bandage from his lower back. The stinging he felt was nothing short of sensational. But he could not look at what they had done to him. He dared not look. Not like this.
He went out to the bar and drank three more shots of whiskey. Then he staggered back to the bathroom as the alcohol went to his head. Then he turned, peering over his shoulder to see his reflection in the mirror. He gasped when he saw it, looking away, steadying himself against the wall until he caught his breath.
The mark on his lower back was ugly. It was already scabbing over. But even now there was no mistaking what it would look like when it healed. The Rising Sun.
He had seen this before. It was the brand his father had worn all his life.
Shoichi Kimura Residence
Shoichi Kimura’s secluded country home was situated within a heavily forested draw in the hills just outside the city. The structure, built in the style of a European ski lodge, was surrounded by a meticulously groomed garden, which was in turn encircled by a perimeter of bamboo and fir trees that shielded it from the road.
Carver woke out of habit more than will, groggy and jet-lagged, reaching for his SIG, wanting the cold comfort its grip provided. He soon realized that he was an ocean away from his beloved sidearm.
In the upstairs guest bedroom where Carver had slept, the pink light of dawn illuminated the edges of the shutters. How strange life was. Just a few days ago, he had been in Tripoli, seemingly on the verge of eliminating the Butcher of Bahrain. Eri Sato had been the furthest thing from his mind. Yet now they were in Japan together, sleeping under the same roof.
And he was in exile. Or as Speers had put it, on administrative leave. Carver permitted himself to say it – “administrative leave” — out loud for the first time. He knew that the term was supposed to indicate a sort of temporary purgatory, but it sounded more like a career death sentence.
He rose carefully, standing to the side of the window, peering through the gaps in the shutters, careful not to rustle them. Sho’s Land Rover did not look as if it had been moved since Carver had parked it last night. He had taken on the responsibility of being the designated driver as Sho and Eri drank their way into what would surely be a memorable hangover.
His focus fell briefly upon the window frame, where he noted the triple-layered polycarbonate glass. Bullet-resistant. A home security feature that had but three types of buyers: celebrities, politicians and criminals. Sho may not have started out as a criminal, but he had adopted the lifestyle rather quickly.
Sho called this place the Green Ghost, and not only because the surrounding shrubbery camouflaged the home within the hilly landscape so effectively. The property, which had been in his family’s possession for nearly as long as the restaurant, had literally been ghosted. After his father’s death, the transfer of ownership papers had somehow been lost in the clerical shuffle. In subsequent years, Sho had never once received a bill for property taxes. Nor had he ever been billed for utilities, as the home was self-sustaining, with its own private well and sewage. Camouflaged solar power panels were discreetly mounted on the rooftop.
And yet the seclusion the Green Ghost offered gave Carver little peace. His mind was reeling with all he had learned last night. For starters, Eri was convinced that members of Japan’s Restoration Party had advanced knowledge of the drone attack on the Chinese embassy. Unfortunately, she had no evidence to back it up, nor did she have any motive. Fujimoto’s rogue operation was both off the books and quite possibly illegal. Whatever evidence he had gathered had surely gone with him to the grave.
Then there was the small matter of the Rising Sun brand on Sho Kimura’s back. “We are called the Kuromaku,” he had said, which Eri translated as the Black Curtain.
As Sho explained it, the Kuromaku were said to be as old as the Japanese empire itself. A secret society that had purportedly controlled the course of the nation from behind the scenes.
Carver wasn’t quite ready to buy into the mythology of the Kuromaku, but he had no trouble believing they were a militant force. That explained why the clan had recruited Sho in the first place. In a country with no standing army apart from a tiny self-defense force, and the lowest gun ownership rates in the world, a man with Sho’s marksman skills was highly valuable. He would no doubt be a far better shot than the imbeciles who had tried to kill him in Arizona.
He had, of course, wanted to find all this out last night. But by the time Sho had finished telling the story of how the Kuromaku had abducted h
im from his restaurant, and imprinted their mark on his skin like some common cow, he had been blitzed out of his mind.
Now some movement out front caught his eye. Someone was moving out by the bamboo. Carver’s pulse quickened. Had the Kuromaku found them already? Or had Sho turned on them? He pulled back from the window, bracing for attack.
Julian Speers’ Residence
Arlington, Virginia
Speers woke to the sound of his driver’s voice. “Mister Director? You’re home, sir.” He sat upright in the back seat of the SUV, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The vehicle slowed before the four-bedroom colonial that he and his family had called home for a little more than a year. The car turned cautiously as the iron gate to the driveway opened. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop behind another armored SUV.
He recognized FBI Director Chad Fordham’s security detail standing in the driveway. Oh, that was just great. Just when he got a chance to leave the office, the office came home to him. He had wanted nothing more than to kiss his sleeping kids on the cheek — assuming they were actually sleeping — and crawl into bed for a couple hours with his wife.
Speers unbuckled his seatbelt, slid out of the vehicle and waved at the guards as he went to the front door. Inside, the house still smelled like the pork loin his wife had made for dinner hours earlier. The house was dark except for the reading light next to the leather easy chair where Chad Fordham now sat.
“Ever heard of a telephone?” Speers said. He sat on the stool in the foyer and untied his brown wing tip shoes. His socks smelled sour and the balls of his feet were crying out for a pair of slippers.
“This is a conversation better had in person. Your wife was kind enough to let me in. Well, maybe kind isn’t the word. She was, let’s say, tolerant of my presence.”
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 21
