by Ty Patterson
‘Good thinking on his part,’ Junior mused. He put on his shirt, buttoned it, and slipped on his trousers. He polished his shoes with a soft cloth and slid his feet into them.
‘He isn’t in any hotel in Tokyo. My men have checked.’ Shinoda watched Junior come together. The image that the public had of him. No one knows of the killer underneath that image.
‘I know where he’s going,’ Junior said unconcernedly as he adjusted his cuffs. ‘He’s coming to us.’
‘To Kobe.’
Shinoda smiled like a predator. A similar expression was on Junior’s face.
‘I will get my men to use the same tactics he used on us.’
* * *
The train stopped briefly at Shinagawa and Shin-Yokohama stations. Passengers alighted. More got on. Zeb didn’t stir. His eyes were unfocused. He was thinking. He had no one to disturb him in his row of seats. Him alone. Able to think freely.
If the perpetrators were in Kobe, then he had to be more cautious. The city was smaller than Tokyo and was more deeply penetrated by the yakuza. They might know I am on the train. Heading to Kobe.
Yokohama slid past and several tourists crowded around the train’s windows to snap pictures of the mountain in the distance. Mount Fuji.
The mountain disappeared. Rice fields came into view. Rolling hills. Country side. Villages. No large cities.
I hunted for the killers in bars and hotels in Tokyo. I should try something different in Kobe. I should ask in dojos. I can now flash not only the dead men’s photographs but also the watcher’s.
Asking in dojos would be harder. Practitioners in dojos were a close-knit group. The yakuza were even more tight-lipped. No dojo would advertise itself as a yakuza hangout.
I can ask him.
Him was Yoshisa Sakai, the son of Takashi Sakai Kokawa. Takashi Sakai Kokawa had been Zeb’s sensei.
Takashi Sakai’s forefathers had trained with Chiba Shusaku Narimasa, one of Japan’s greatest sword fighters and martial arts fighters in the early nineteenth century. Many historians rated Chiba Shusaku as a better swordsman than the more widely known Miyamoto Musashi.
Takashi Sakai had learned from his father. In his very young years, he had beaten two of the best swordsmen in the country in a tournament. He had taken down three great fighters in another event. Word spread about the young Takashi Sakai. His illustrious lineage was talked about. Pressure was put on his father to get young Sakai to exhibit his skills. Takashi Sakai displayed his talent with katana and shinai. With bokken and with bare hands, at an exhibition in Tokyo, when he turned eighteen. Thereafter, he spurned the limelight.
He never entered anymore tournaments, and when his father passed away, he didn’t open a training school. He didn’t teach sword fighting or martial arts. He refused to take students. Everyone around him said his knowledge would die with him. He didn’t budge. He didn’t mind his deadly knowledge disappearing after his passing away.
He took on his father’s role, of working in Ikuta shrine, one of the oldest in Japan. His family were among the original kambe, protectors of the shrine in Kobe, appointed by the Emperor to look after the shrine. The responsibility for its caretaking was passed down from generation to generation.
Takashi Sakai spent his entire day in the shrine, helping to keep it neat and tidy. He assisted tourists. Meditated in a corner. Many a time, people came to him with problems. He listened and gave advice.
There were usually people who hung around when he mediated. After all, he was a celebrity in his own right. He tolerated their presence. He didn’t spring up in the air and perform complicated moves.
There was just one occasion on which he had deployed his rare skill. A fight had broken out between five men. Takashi Sakai intervened and tried to break it up. He spoke softly and calmly and was hit in the face for it.
He didn’t retaliate. He blocked another attack with his body. It was only when two guns and a katana were drawn that he’d used his bamboo staff. What happened next was the stuff of legend. No one could describe it well enough. All the onlookers saw was a whirling bamboo staff and the blade and guns flying in the air.
Police came to the shrine and peace resumed. Takashi Sakai went to his corner and meditated as if nothing had happened, and those who had witnessed the incident bowed.
Zeb had been introduced to him by his Indonesian master. The Indonesian had warned Zeb that Takashi Sakai didn’t take students. Nevertheless, Zeb had approached Sakai at the shrine and bowed.
Zeb didn’t know what Takashi Sakai had seen in him, but he had broken his rule and taken on two students. Zeb and his son, Yoshisa Sakai.
He taught the various forms of kenjutsu. He made them learn ancient arts that were no longer practiced. He instructed them to use the wooden and bamboo swords, and fight with real blades. With one katana, and with two. Single-handed grip on one katana. Double-handed as well. He trained them to fight with staff and spears.
He gifted Zeb with his own katana once Zeb finished his training. It was forged in the eighteenth century and was said to be one of Chiba Shusaku’s swords. It hadn’t lost its shine in the years, testimony to the care Takashi Sakai bestowed on it. Neither had it lost its edge. So sharp that eyes hurt when they looked at it.
It now was in Zeb’s Jackson Heights apartment. In a leather scabbard, in a concealed closet, along with medals and awards that had been conferred on him.
Zeb found a small hotel in Sannomiya, the shopping district in Kobe, figuring that there would be many gaijin in the district. Hide in plain sight, in a crowd.
The Ikuta shrine was on the edge of Sannomiya, an oasis of calm and quiet from the bustle of the city. Zeb found Yoshisa Sakai easily. He was meditating on a bench near the duck pond.
Yoshisa Sakai was sixty years old, but the only signs of age were the wrinkles on his face and the steel-grey dusting in his hair. He was dressed in a simple robe, his feet bare, and sat cross-legged on the bench.
He didn’t open his eyes at Zeb’s approach.
‘It’s been a long time, Carter-san,’ he greeted Zeb in English.
In all these years, I’ve never worked out how he knows. His father was the same.
He rose, and both men bowed deeply and hugged. Zeb sat next to him on the bench and they reminisced about his father, who had died three years back. Yoshisa Sakai and Zeb were the only two men Takashi Sakai had taught.
‘You are not a tourist, Carter-san.’
His way of asking why I am visiting.
Zeb told him everything. If I can’t trust him, I might as well give up on life.
‘You know the two gangs in Kobe?’
‘Hai.’
‘Asking in dojos will be dangerous, Carter-san.’
‘I know. But at this point I don’t have many options.’
‘My father didn’t like the yakuza. They portray themselves as noble people, but they prey on the weak and vulnerable. That isn’t what our code is about.’
Our code. The samurai code.
Yoshisa Sakai might be a caretaker in a Japanese temple. He was also a man no one, not even Zeb, would want to go up against.
‘There are three dojos in Kobe. You could ask there. There could be more dojos, but if you don’t get any answers in those three dojos, you won’t get them anywhere.’
Zeb left the silent man to his meditation after memorizing the addresses. He looked back once. Shook his head in bemused disbelief when Yoshisa Sakai, eyes closed, waved a hand in farewell.
That evening, Meghan had more for him by way of progress.
A list of all companies TKWC had acquired or sold in the six months leading up to Shira Levin’s killing. The list was familiar to Zeb since they had studied that angle before. But this list was more extensive.
It wasn’t just companies the club had bought or disposed of. It also included all organizations the club had invested in.
The TKWC had been formed with a strong moral code, to help women’s causes, and in line with that, it had fu
nded several charities and women’s rights organizations around the world.
Zeb skimmed down the list of names, many of which were unfamiliar to him.
Charities and killings. Unlikely combination.
He went to the next part of her message. Another photograph. This came from a traveler’s blog, she commented. A traveler who was writing up his visit to Kobe.
The photograph was of Shin-Kobe station. In one corner was the watcher’s profile.
He was heading to a platform.
Chapter 34
The next day, Zeb went to Nada-ku, a neighborhood in Kobe, to check out the first dojo. He hung around on the outside, drinking tea in a café, observing the comings and goings in front of the dojo.
He had messaged Meghan the previous night to see if she could work out which platform the watcher had been heading to. When she’d replied, he had wished he hadn’t.
She had texted back, Grandma. Suck eggs. Remember?
After an hour of watching, Zeb went inside and approached a student, who directed him to the sensei. A bald man in a white robe. The man’s eyes flickered when Zeb spoke to him in the native language, but he showed no other expression.
He jutted his chin to a side office and walked away. Zeb followed.
The office was spartan. A metal desk that had seen much use. Bamboo chairs. A screen that separated it from the training place.
He thrust his hand out silently, and Zeb gave him the photographs.
He slid out a drawer and extracted a laptop. Plugged it in, and typed.
He turned it around to Zeb. ‘Carter-san, that’s our entire membership. Since the day we founded the dojo. Photographs. Names, addresses. You can stay here and go through all of them.’
He smiled faintly at Zeb’s expression. ‘Technology is another tool, Carter-san. Why wouldn’t we use it?’
‘You’re not asking me for identification?’
The sensei’s smile grew wider. ‘I saw you with Takashi Sakai once. Along with his son, in Ikuta Shrine.’
‘That was a long time back,’ Zeb replied, amazed.
‘I have a good memory, Carter-san. Any friend of Takashi-san is my friend. Look through that directory. I am sure your men didn’t train with us. But see for yourself.’
Zeb searched the directory when the sensei left to take his class. He sorted the names by age. No match. There were a few men who looked similar initially, but not after Zeb enlarged their images.
He downloaded the entire directory to a USB drive for Meghan to peruse later.
He bowed to the sensei as he left.
Next stop was Motomachi, in the heart of Kobo.
Before visiting the second dojo, he checked messages for the advertisement’s toll-free number. There were hundreds, but Werner had classified all of them. Crank calls. Each one of them.
He shrugged ruefully and searched for a dining place to refuel. He found an unassuming eating house. Wooden benches. Marble-topped tables. Yellow lights. Lot of men who looked like factory workers. A few women. Rice and boiled vegetables. One bite and Zeb closed his eyes and decided to frequent the place as often as possible.
Rice that was softer than snow, vegetables that had a curiously spicy taste. He didn’t pay attention to anything other than his food, when he heard the word killed.
Two women at the same table, on the other side. He couldn’t help listening. They seemed to be talking about a coworker.
He gathered that they worked for a nonprofit organization that worked with women. The coworker had been killed in Vietnam, as she was standing up to a gang that preyed on young girls.
Gang. Charities.
That rang a very faint bell in his memory.
He made space for himself on the table, food forgotten. His tablet came out and he searched feverishly.
No hits.
He changed the search criteria. Searched for women killed by gangs. Too many results.
He searched specifically for women who were suspected to be killed by gangs trafficking in women.
He exhaled inaudibly when he found what he was looking for on the third hit.
WAS, Women Against Slavery, was a unique organization, headquartered in Boston. It was a charity, a nonprofit organization, committed to ending the trafficking of women and young children. It operated in several countries in Asia, Latin America, and Africa.
Its staff worked with police forces and rehabilitated rescued women. In many Asian and Middle Eastern countries, they worked to eliminate child marriage. They went into gang-controlled regions, into small towns and villages, and educated men and women. They often interacted with gangs. They were threatened often. Harassed. But they persevered.
WAS also commissioned investigative journalism. It had intrepid reporters who went undercover and exposed the activities of criminal gangs.
It was the killing in Mexico. That was why I remembered it.
A WAS reporter had uncovered the nexus between the drug cartels and senior politicians in Mexico. Such a connection wasn’t uncommon or surprising. However, the WAS employee’s report had been so comprehensive and hard-hitting that it had resulted in the arrests of five senior cabinet ministers and two cartel heads.
She had joined the gang, currying favor with its members by prostituting herself. It gave her access, which she had used to conduct secret interviews with the kidnappees. She had photographs. Videos. One video showed a kidnapping as it happened. Several masked men, swooping on a schoolgirl as she was walking home alone. The reporter had been in the kidnap vehicle. Phone calls between the gang and the politicians that she had managed to record.
Her report was published in mainstream newspapers and had caused a global outcry.
The cartels had retaliated. They had killed the reporter in broad daylight. Gunned her down, several months after the furor had died down. The killers had yet to be apprehended.
The list that Meghan sent had WAS on it. Right at the top. TKWC was a major funder.
‘Sir? Sir?’
Zeb looked up at the server and found the restaurant was emptying. Closing time.
He paid, pocketed his tablet, and sent a message to Meghan.
Check out WAS. Are they investigating anything? Who are their current reporters?
* * *
The Motomachi dojo was an anonymous place with no signs on its doors; Zeb had to ask at several neighborhood stores before he found the place.
It looked like a school building from the outside. White concrete and glass. Big. On one side of the dojo was a boarded-up storefront. On another was the compound wall to what looked like a residential building.
The dojo was in a small alley that fed to a heavy traffic street. The alley itself didn’t see much vehicle traffic, and sound seemed to drop off when he entered it. It was getting dark, but there were enough streetlights to illuminate the area.
He entered wrought-iron gates and pushed through a swinging glass door. A lobby area. Unmanned. There was a CCTV camera mounted on a wall that swiveled in his direction on his entry.
He waited awhile, but no one came to greet him. From inside, he could hear shouts and wooden clubs striking each other. Evening practice, as men returned from work and came to the dojo to train and destress.
A man came in from outside, carrying a backpack, hurrying past Zeb. No eye contact. No acknowledgment of his presence.
Zeb waved at the camera and hung around a while longer. Still no reaction.
He swung open the door to the training area and was greeted by the sounds, smells, and sights of several men practicing.
Dojos were universal in their internal layout. Large wooden floors. High ceilings. Gear mounted on walls or on shelves to the sides. Every dojo had robed men. The robes could have different colors depending on the dojo, the country and the fighting style. In this particular Motomachi dojo, they were wearing black and training in kendo.
There were posters and photographs on the walls. Training dates. Competitions. Renowned members. A bench close to
him, to his left. A few shinai on it.
There were twenty men on the floor, paired off, their shinai clashing as they moved gracefully. A handful were lounging against the walls.
Some heads turned when he entered, however, no one came to him.
Weird.
He waited till the session ended, and then a sensei moved to the floor and raised a hand. All activity stopped. The kendoka removed their masks, and all twenty men turned to face him. As did the sensei. The men against the wall straightened.
He was close to the exit and had taken a few steps forward when they faced him. Fifteen feet separated him from the main body of men.
He schooled his face to show no emotion, but he tensed inwardly. He didn’t know what was happening, but he was ready.
All the men were staring at him impassively, until the sensei spoke.
‘Took you a long while to find us, gaijin.’
A shock raced through him. They know me. They were waiting for me.
A sound behind him. Two men entering, cutting off his escape route. Three more entered. Five men now behind him, more than twenty ahead of him.
‘You are thinking how we know? The whole of Kobe knows of you.’ The sensei inclined his head, gesturing at something beyond Zeb’s left shoulder.
On the wall was a large poster.
His.
Chapter 35
Five men split from the main body and walked towards him confidently. Arrogantly. They had him boxed in. They had sheer numbers on their side.
Zeb didn’t stop to think. He dashed to the bench, lifted it with both hands and hurled it with all his strength towards the approaching men.
The shinai fell to the floor with a clatter. He stooped and picked up two in one motion.
Whirled to face the men at the door.
He roared, a tremendous fighting yell from deep within his belly, and ran at them.
He fell to his knees when he was five feet away and slid on the polished floor. His arms slashed out and the bamboo swords got three men on their legs.
