by Ty Patterson
His foot slipped on the polished floor when Nishikawa surged forward, and that was all that the police chief needed. He tapped Zeb’s mask lightly with his sword and stepped back. Applause rang out in the hall, and when Zeb bowed and removed his mask, Nishikawa was grinning widely.
They changed, and when they were in the elevator, the Superintendent General bowed in its privacy. ‘Thank you, Carter-san, but that wasn’t necessary,’ he said softly in his native language.
Zeb bowed in return, suppressing a smile. He knows I didn’t slip. It wouldn’t look good if the police chief couldn’t beat a foreigner. Not in front of his men. Honor. ‘It was a worthy win, Nishikawa-san.’
In his office, Nishikawa poured tea for both of them and they sipped, comfortable in each other’s silence. Zeb had met the police chief in Malaysia when Nishikawa had been a young officer. The two had been on a multiagency mission to take down a slavery ring.
Their intel had turned out to be bad and the strike force had found itself on the receiving end of attacking fire from gunmen. They were pinned down in a dead end, with incoming fire from surrounding buildings.
The Japanese police officer had been struck in the thigh, and as he lay behind a car wreck, two gangsters ran at him to finish him.
Nishikawa’s vision was blurring, but he could still remember the figure that rose like a wraith, came from behind the gangsters, and wiped them out. That person turned out to be Zeb, a man who had played a key role in his ascendancy in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.
‘Carter-san.’ He placed their cups aside and patted his lips. ‘Those photographs Meghan-san sent. None of them are in our database. Why are you so sure they are yakuza?’
Zeb went through all the events again, even though the police chief knew them. ‘I’m not sure, Nishikawa-san. But given their looks, that number four, and that fingertip, it’s worth pursuing.’
‘You shouldn’t have come alone, Carter-san.’ Nishikawa was grim.
‘If they are yakuza indeed, they are enemies of the worst kind.’
Chapter 26
Nishikawa gave an overview of the yakuza scene over a second cup of tea, this time served by an assistant, who bowed deeply at Zeb and couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. News of his boss beating the gaijin, easily, had spread.
The police chief was half a foot shorter than Zeb, lean, his dark hair thick on his head. His face had few lines on it, and his eyes were bright and piercing. He smiled fully, which he didn’t do often.
He placed his cup to the side and went to a stand on which was a flip board, explaining as he searched for a marker.
The gangs were across the country but concentrated in cities like Tokyo and Kobe. The Hashimoto-kai was the largest yakuza gang, with thirty thousand members, headed by Kitaru Hashimoto. Next was the Hayagawa-gumi, with twenty-eight thousand, ruled by Masaaki Hayagawa. Two more smaller gangs, Takayama-kai, twenty thousand members, Outa Takayama its boss, and lastly, Iitsuka-kai, with Daiki Iitsuka leading fifteen thousand yakuza members.
He wrote the details on the chart, using the Kanji script since Zeb could read in the native language. He listed the major cities the gangs were active in, and lastly, he wrote down their activities.
On another sheet, he wrote the countries where the gangs were active. USA, Southeast Asian countries, United Kingdom, Brazil.
‘They may not be large gangs in numbers, Carter-san. But they have reach. And enormous financial clout. All those gangs are worth billions of dollars. Each.
‘All the leaders’—he tapped the names of the heads—‘are in their seventies. Usually their sons take over on their death. Hashimoto has one son. Succession plan is clear. All the rest have two sons. Succession plan less clear.’
Nishikawa raised a finger in a schoolteacher manner. ‘The problem we will have, Carter-san, is none of them will talk. And even if they do, these relationships are so complicated. These gangs come together sometimes and do something that benefits them all. That California snuff film, the ring you people busted. Every yakuza gang had a hand. They distributed profits. They all lost people when you took them down.’
‘Any of those leaders in prison?’ Zeb finished his tea and rose to join Nishikawa at the flip chart.
‘No. Hayagawa and Hashimoto came out a few years back. Both of them served time for killing. Hayagawa with a sword, Hashimoto with a gun. Takayama was released just a few months back. For possessing a gun.’
‘You have relationships with some of these gangs, don’t you?’
Nishikawa nodded. ‘Yes, Carter-san. I plan to call some of them. Today. They will come. Not the leaders. But the some of the senior people.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t expect much, Carter-san. We want to end these gangs. But it won’t be by asking them.
‘You want to sit in on those meetings, Carter-san?’
‘Nope. They’ll clam up even more if they know I’m listening or watching.’
‘Very wise, Carter-san. What will you be doing?’
‘I’ll go to some of their hangouts. Bars. Baths. I’ll ask nicely. Ask them to stop. Request information.’
Nishikawa peered at him for a while to see if Zeb was joking. Zeb wasn’t.
They shook hands, and as Zeb prepared to leave, Nishikawa stopped him.
‘Carter-san.’ His face was grave, but his eyes were twinkling. ‘This is Japan, Carter-san. We don’t like gunfights.’
* * *
‘He’s here.’ Senior was disheveled, anxiety dripping off him thickly.
Junior leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his arms behind his head as he regarded his elder brother, who had rushed into his office.
He hadn’t seen Senior this agitated. Not in a long time.
‘I know,’ he replied coolly, keeping the distaste out of his voice. Senior can’t lead. I’m sure Papa too knows that. Why is Papa continuing with those tests?
‘How do you know?’ Senior’s voice rose. He bit his lip at once, shut the door to Junior’s office and leaned against it. He was calmer when he spoke again. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve been watching Carter for a long time. Ever since he discovered our killers in New York.’ Junior fiddled with a pen, watching Senior closely. Watching for signs of anger.
Senior surprised him with a chuckle. ‘You’re a fox, aren’t you, Junior? You knew I wouldn’t like it. But it was a good move on your part.’
Levity fled him as he straightened. ‘What do we do?’
‘Nothing. I know where he’s staying.’ Junior flicked back his cuff to reveal an expensive wristwatch. ‘Right now, he’s with Nishikawa. We’ll see what he does. What Nishikawa does.’
‘We might have to take him out.’ Senior’s lips thinned and some of his anxiety returned. ‘He might already know too much.’
‘He doesn’t. He would be here if he did. When the time is right, we will take him out.’
Junior smiled slowly, a feral grin spreading across his face. ‘This is our country. I will take him out our way. The old way.’
‘Junior, we shouldn’t—’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he cut Senior off authoritatively. ‘There is nothing to worry about. You can go back to organizing the big one.’
‘Junior, we shouldn’t go ahead with that one. It’s too dangerous. Too violent. There’s too much killing. Carter’s already here. Don’t you and Papa realize that?’
‘We realize that we have to protect our interests, Senior. You seem to be getting scared. Not the hallmark of a leader.’
Senior stiffened. He opened the door and offered a sickly smile. ‘We work well together, Junior. I hope Papa sees it that way.’
I hope he doesn’t. Junior shut the door and pulled out his cell. I certainly don’t see it that way.
The assassin, Noriya Shinoda, took Junior’s call and listened silently. He was in a taxi outside the Keishicho building. He wore a baseball cap and dark shades, with a droopy mustache, and a matchstick between his teeth. Disguise. He had men at the
other entrances.
Between them, they would spot Carter as he exited and would follow him. He would keep rotating men and vehicles.
‘Don’t kill him. Not yet. We need to know what he knows. Where he goes.’
‘Hai,’ Shinoda agreed.
‘Don’t bug his room. He might detect it. He has proved to be a worthy competitor,’ Junior warned.
‘Hai.’ Shinoda had to admit he was impressed by Carter. The way he had taken out Shinoda’s men in his apartment. That trick with the water and explosions. He felt a thrill run through him and knew Junior felt the same.
This man was like a tiger. Except that he was now in Japan. And no tigers lived in Japan.
* * *
Zeb went back to his hotel and collected a parcel that was waiting for him at the desk. He carried it to his room and slit it open to take out his Glock, mags, Winkler knife and other tools of his trade. He went to his carry bag and removed several pieces of clothing and placed them in a wardrobe.
Most of them were shirts, long-sleeved, solid colors. The kind he wore only when he was formally dressed. These were different from his usual wear. Their fabric had layers, and yet they were light. There were a few pairs of jeans and chinos, which too were layered. Broker had explained their purpose to him while Zeb had listened dubiously.
‘You’re sure they’ll work?’
‘They work in the lab,’ Broker replied cheerfully.
‘The lab? You haven’t tested them on a person?’
‘Why do you think I’ve sent them to you,’ Broker exclaimed irritably.
Zeb fingered a blue shirt and decided to wear it. In Japan, formality never hurts.
Shirt over chinos. Holster over the shirt. Glock in holster. Knife over thigh and dark shoes. With Vibram soles.
He took the killers’ photographs and set out.
It was time to ask questions. Someone would listen. That someone would react.
He went to Kasumigaseki subway station and waited at the platform for the Hibiya line train. The platform was neat, salarymen and women on their phones, those that worked in corporate jobs. White-collar workers. Little eye contact. Not much conversation.
The train was similarly quiet as it accelerated smoothly away from the station. Most travelers had their heads bent to their phones, listened to music, or read newspapers.
He got off at the Ginza district, which was the upscale shopping and entertainment district in Tokyo. It wasn’t the best place to start asking questions, but he wanted to start there first. When night fell, he would go to the seedier districts.
He visited several bars and games houses in the district. He talked in the native language to the servers and managers. They were taken aback at his fluency, and that helped open them up. However, none of them knew the men in the photographs.
He handed out several copies of the photographs, which several bars tacked to notice boards.
‘What are they to you?’ one server shouted above the throbbing of beats.
‘Their brothers have something I want.’
The way he said it cut off any further queries. He knew he would get nothing out of them, but it would achieve one important objective.
The yakuza had eyes and ears everywhere. They would know he was asking questions. They would either ignore him, or come for him.
He was okay with the latter.
If it was the former…well, he would just keep asking.
Assuming that those killers were yakuza in the first place. Time will tell.
His next stop was in Shinjuku as the sun set and the lights came on. Signs and billboards plastered on buildings. Bright neon and flashing lights. New York’s Times Square didn’t come close to the way Shinjuku was lit at night.
Hustlers approached him. Women of the night surrounded him. He shrugged them off politely and continued his quest. Shinjuku was another large entertainment and shopping district and was most crowded around the station.
He walked towards Kabukicho, the city’s red-light district, and in a couple of bars he was met with stony faces and hard stares.
Now we’re in yakuza land.
No tattoos were obvious, and neither were any severed pinky fingers. But those faces observed him silently as he tossed the photographs on the counter and walked out.
* * *
‘Send him to the bath,’ Shinoda said into his cell after getting an update from his men. ‘I’ve spoken to the others. Arrangements have been made.’
* * *
The hustler was persistent as he promised Zeb a night he would never forget. He ran behind Zeb, jumping in front of him and pulling out leaflets. ‘The best girls in Tokyo,’ he crowed. ‘The best girls in the world,’ he corrected himself.
‘Not interested,’ Zeb told him.
‘You want men?’
No, Zeb didn’t want men.
‘You want a specific person? You are looking for someone?’
Zeb stopped. The hustler’s bonhomie had disappeared. His eyes were crafty.
‘I know where you can ask questions.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘This is Tokyo. The safest city in the world. The police’—he jabbed a leaflet in the direction of a policeman on a bicycle—‘are always here.’
What do I have to lose?
Zeb followed the hustler, who led him away from the main thoroughfares, through dimly lit backstreets, finally pointing at a large building, solitary, detached from the rest on the street by side alleys.
‘In there’—the hustler pointed—‘there will be people who can answer your questions.’
Zeb looked around. No one on the street in the immediate vicinity. A few drunk men were being shouldered by their friends. A woman was walking alone.
If she can be alone, so can I. But I can take some precautions.
He grabbed the hustler by the collar and snapped several pictures of his face.
‘If anything happens to me, I will find you.’ He saw the fear in the man’s eyes and knew he was taken seriously.
He went to the large doors of the building and pushed. They gave way easily. He looked back. The hustler had fled.
He went inside a narrow passage that opened. He smelled the moistness in the air first and immediately knew what the building was.
It was a public bath.
The bath was a large rectangle of water. Warm. Greenish blue. Behind the rectangle were several stalls with stools. Men could sit on the stools and bathe themselves. Further beyond seemed to be a garden, but it was too dark to make out.
There were a bunch of men in the bath. None of them speaking. All of them staring at him. He looked at them and knew he had come to the right place.
Or the wrong one, if I don’t make it out alive.
They were all heavily tattooed. Body suits. All of them had close-cropped hair. Narrow eyes. Watchful. Heavy builds. No fat. No anger on their faces. No expression. Just those flat, hard eyes, watching him.
He had entered a yakuza bath.
Chapter 27
There were thirty of them in the bath. No sentries at the door. No cameras. Why need guards when everyone probably knows this is a yakuza bath? A no-go area for civilians. Which gang do they belong to?
He tried to read the intricate ink on the yakuza closest to him, but the shine on the man’s skin made it impossible. Plus, it was rude to stare in Japan.
I have two options. I can leave quietly. Turn my back right now and slink away. All of them are in the water. None of them can reach me in time. Or I can go forward and ask them questions. Which they are highly unlikely to answer. And they might kill me. Which, however, will prove that I’m on the right track. But I’ll be dead.
Zeb removed his shoes. Sixty eyes watched him. Water sloshed softly as some of the yakuza moved, to scratch a back, to ease a muscle. But those eyes didn’t waver.
He removed his socks, folded them and thrust them deep in his shoes.
He removed his jacket. Placed it over his shoes. His tu
rned to face them, showing them his holster and his Glock. He gripped the gun and drew it smoothly. None of them tensed. Black eyes didn’t blink.
These are the elite. The toughest. They know if I started shooting, they would still get me. No fear in them.
He dropped the gun on his jacket and removed his holster. It followed the gun. He unsheathed his knife. It caught and reflected the light on water. The blade fell on fabric. Jeans followed, the layered shirt as well.
Last to come off was his watch. He tossed it on the clothing, its face towards the bath. He had pressed a button before removing it. That had started it recording. Its computer would reach out in the sky and connect with a satellite. The recording would be relayed to Werner.
He felt eyes on him, but no one spoke. He wasn’t tattooed. Not a single bit of ink on his body. But it was marked. There were angry puckerings of flesh. Bullet wounds. Scars. Knife injuries that hadn’t healed. There were markings that no one could decipher. Only he knew their story. They came from when he was tortured in front of his family.
Zeb padded silently to a stall, drew a mug of water from bucket and ceremoniously poured it over himself. He applied soap from a thick, solid bar and drew a thick lather. A few more mugs of water to wash away the soap and he was ready.
At least I’ll be clean if I die. The gatekeepers of Hell will be happy, he thought wryly. Hell, not Heaven. He was sure of that.
He went to the front of the bath, bent over his jacket and took copies of the photographs.
He took the first step inside. Meeting their eyes. Unflinching. A second step and he was knee-deep. Those close to him stepped back to make room. Not welcoming. Just to make sure their personal space didn’t get crowded.
He was in the center of the bath by the time he was chest-deep. Those around him moved to circle him. Surrounded by thirty killers. From outside came the faint sounds of revelry in Kabukicho. Inside, there was just the gurgling of water as it flowed in a hidden drain.
