The detectives filed out one by one, Ueno, the only one who bowed, going last.
Chapter 42
Leaning up from the floor of the shinkansen toilet, Jamie cocked her arm and shot a stream of pepper spray straight at the short Korean. The bright orange goo slathered across his face like a poisonous orange snake. Startled, he wiped it downward—fatefully spreading it—and looked down at the orange resin cupped in his hand. In the second before it kicked in, he dropped Jamie’s stuff and looked at her. Jamie flexed against the duct tape and splattered another thick orange ribbon right across his eyes.
He dropped the backpack, the initial surprise over. He clawed at his face. His eyes and nose erupted in tears and mucus. He doubled over hacking and spewing and flailing his arms for a sink, for a towel, for toilet paper, but his hands found only useless air in the small compartment. As on all Shinkansen bullet trains, the sink, with its flow of water, was located in a separate area outside.
Jamie watched him struggling before managing to pull the corner of her father’s jacket over her face in protection. She coughed and spit as she pushed her hand to her mouth to pull the tape off far enough to breathe through her mouth. The pepper spray spread through the air of the small cabin.
The short Korean finally found a T-shirt from Jamie’s bag to wipe his face, but that only worked the swelling, choking, burning deeper. He tossed it down, completely blinded, twisting and banging against the walls of the toilet, cursing in Korean, fumbling for the door handle. He kicked her hand by accident, and the spray can rolled out of reach.
Jamie heard the other Korean outside in the passageway, so she tried desperately to prepare for him. When he squeezed himself in and yanked the door shut, Jamie sighted as carefully as she could through the glaze of tears, coiled herself and aimed a kick at his balls. Her tight-taped legs sprung and connected but only reached his thigh.
Before she could try again, a straight-on punch ricocheted her head against the wall. She felt the pain deep inside her skull, felt him straddling her body. Her head felt distant, spinning and throbbing. She heard the crack of something opening and felt air roar in from some outside vent, making it easier to breathe. When she got her eyes to refocus, she saw the shorter guy’s face knotted into one tight, red, wet glob.
The taller Korean pulled the door open, looked both ways into the hall and—careful not to touch him—led the shorter man to the small curtained-off sink in the corridor. He pushed the faucet to start the water flowing. Back inside the toilet, he tied a handkerchief over his face, careful not to touch any of the vicious orange goo and tossed clothes over Jamie’s head.
Jamie’s ears stopped ringing and her head started to clear. She heard the empty can of pepper spray rolling back and forth with the rhythm of the train, and twisted her wrists in the manacle of tape, loosening them, but not enough to free her arm. She heard the taller Korean moving the scrolls from her bag, the wood rods clacking. She listened, helplessly, as he pulled out the stacks of tight-wrapped cash and tucked them into his hard-shell backpack, going through her stuff right beside her.
Outside, a train conductor passed by. Hearing spluttering and sniveling, he peered behind the curtain of the sink area to find a short guy rinsing his face and washing his hands over and over. The conductor sniffed the strange smell in the air, and let the curtain fall back. He checked his watch. Ten minutes to Osaka. The conductor reset his cap, ignoring the guy who was no doubt still drunk from the night before.
Inside the toilet, Jamie kept her eyes on the tall Korean going through her things. She felt like she was underwater and out of breath, her body soaked with sweat. She blinked back the stream of tears and stared at him furiously. When he knelt down and pinched her jaw, she spit in his face.
He reeled back and she coiled and tried to knee his stomach, but he dodged and she felt the punches on her head again and again until her body flopped out motionless. The sound of the train, of the man, of the air rushing in, fell to a distant hush. Her body started rocking gently with the sway of the train.
***
The tall Korean thief tied her tightly against the handrails and dropped a shirt over her head. He went through her pockets and patted her down, finding nothing.
The announcement for Osaka came over the speakers: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will arrive at Osaka Shinkansen terminal in a few minutes. Those passengers transferring to local Osaka train lines should please detrain here. After a brief stop, the train will continue, making stops at Kobe, Okayama, Hiroshima, and Kokura before the final stop, Hakata. Please do not forget your belongings.”
He looked at his watch, two minutes to Osaka, and went through her pockets again. He then unbuttoned her pants and dug around inside her underwear, looking for what he had been tasked to find. He pushed up her sweatshirt, unbuttoned her shirt, pulled up her T-shirt, and there, tucked inside the full, round swell of her bra was what he wanted—the USB drive.
He snatched it, admiring her for a moment, but the pepper spray was catching up with him. He tucked the USB into his front pocket and reached up to a small cabinet by the ceiling, pried it open with the pliers, removed the “Out of Order” sign. In the passageway, he slid the sign onto the handle and twisted the outside lock to “Occupied” with the pliers. He tossed the pliers and handkerchief in the trash by the door and pulled the backpack over his shoulder.
The few passengers getting off in Osaka were already lining up at the doors as the train slowed from three hundred kilometers an hour to zero. The short Korean had his cap pulled low over his face and his jacket collar up. He zipped up his leather jacket to hide his shirtfront drenched with tea, tears and snot. As the train came to a halt, the short Korean, unable to see, rested his hand on the shoulder of the tall Korean and followed with mincing steps.
They rode the escalator down and crossed the open lobby of the station. But before they could get onto the escalator back up to the Tokyo-bound platform, a sturdy bonsai of a man dressed in Japanese hakama stuck the sharp point of a small sword into the back of the taller one, far enough to let him know there was a lot more blade, not so deep as to make him cry out. The loose, low-hanging sleeves of the traditional jacket kept the sword well hidden from view, but a shake of the arm would ready it for a full swing.
“Over to the toilet,” commanded Suzuki, the Shinjuku sword-dealer. “Slowly and carefully.”
Driven by the sharp pain of the metal in his flesh, the taller thief moved forward with the shorter following in dainty, uncertain steps, doing what he was told, what the blade ensured.
When the taller Korean entered the bathroom, he lunged forward to get the tip of the sword out of his back, but Suzuki reeled back and drove the butt of his sword into the back of his skull, midway between ear and spine.
The quick, sure blow sent him sprawling. His head careened off the toilet bowl as he thumped face down on the floor of the stall. Two quick follow-up strikes rendered him immobile.
Suzuki watched the tall man slide into unconsciousness and then turned to the shorter Korean, blindly swaying in front of the stall. Suzuki stepped back and stabbed the meat of his shoulder to guide him into the stall. He stumbled on his partner’s feet and put his hands out to steady himself. A single pop with the sword handle on the back of his head dropped him like a tameshigiri practice mat on top of his partner.
Slipping his sword back inside his Japanese overcoat, Suzuki reset himself and smoothed down his neat-cut ponytail before looking through their pockets. In the last pocket of the taller guy he found the USB drive. He put it inside the sleek hardshell backpack, an odd contrast with his crisp-pressed pleats, black jacket and zori sandals.
At the sink, he rinsed off the remains of the pepper spray from the pack, wiped it down with paper towels, and walked out of the toilet into the human tumult of morning rush hour, the other commuters around him beelining to their destinations inside the indifferent orbits of their own day’s business.
Chapter 43
Hiroshi slapp
ed the retractable baton in his palm all the way to Narita Airport. Ueno slowed the car and eased around the hotel buses, shuttles, private cars and taxis unloading suitcases and passengers. Hiroshi thought back to his kendo at college, and then stopped thinking about it. He had to act, not think.
Sakaguchi finished his cellphone call and turned to the others. “Chief Hirano said Trey slipped out on a military shuttle. They caught sight of him on a camera at the tollbooth for the Tokyo Bay Aqua Line. He must be here already. Airport security’s supposed to meet us.”
Out of the trunk, they pulled handcuffs, batons, kevlar gloves and jutte sword catchers. Takamatsu and Ueno went with airport security guards to the check-in counters while Hiroshi and Sakaguchi headed downstairs to the military liaison office.
In the second basement, a small square sign, “DOD L.O.,” pointed down a deserted hallway with plate glass windows covered in paper. At a T-intersection, a new sign pointed to the only office along a vacated hallway that smelled of fresh paint.
Hiroshi pushed open the doors with Sakaguchi right behind.
Trey was leaning on a counter with a cup of coffee in hand. Behind the counter, three American officers in uniforms and buzz cuts stood up straight from their desks when the detectives slammed in. The officer nearest the counter asked, “Can we help you? This is a restricted area.”
Hiroshi ignored him, staring at Trey. “Three murders, two assaults, stolen goods and illegal exports.”
Sakaguchi stepped towards three large vinyl duffel bags on a cheap black couch beside a water cooler. Across the bags was Trey’s long black leather coat.
Hiroshi walked up to Trey. Under the harsh gleam of lights, Trey’s dimples looked shallow and worn, his light blue eyes filmy and distant.
Hiroshi said, “You’re coming with us to the station.”
The officers cleared their throats and looked from Hiroshi to Trey. One of them picked up the phone to call for orders while Trey closed his eyes and slowly opened them into a glare. “You Japanese just don’t get it, do you?”
Hiroshi pulled out his handcuffs. “Turn around!”
Trey didn’t move. Sakaguchi stepped forward as Hiroshi reached for Trey’s arm.
“Sir, this is a restricted area belonging to the US Military—” one of the officers behind the counter said, as Hiroshi grabbed for Trey’s arm. Before Hiroshi could even touch him, Trey spun his body and caught Hiroshi hard in the nose with his elbow. Hiroshi reeled, the pain reigniting the other lingering pains.
Hiroshi wiped his eyes and saw Trey leap towards his coat. Hiroshi grabbed Trey by the shoulders and pulled him backwards over the coffee table, scattering copies of Stars and Stripes, Guns and Ammo, and USA Today. Hiroshi fell over the duffle bags on the couch. Beneath him, Hiroshi could tell the odd, long, shifting shapes inside the bags were swords.
Sakaguchi shoved his arm into Trey’s chest, unbalancing him, and repeated tsukidashi arm thrusts until Trey was backed against the wall. In the blur of the attack, neither Trey nor Sakaguchi saw the sword come out. Hiroshi held the gleaming silver blade straight at Trey’s throat and everyone froze.
“Like being on the other end of a sword?” Hiroshi said.
Trey sneered. “Don’t pull a sword unless you’re ready to use it. First principle.”
“What’s the second?”
“Hiroshi,” Sakaguchi said, his hand out towards Hiroshi’s arm.
“Sir,” one of the officers said as they stood on either side of Sakaguchi. Hiroshi held the sword steady on Trey’s neck. Hiroshi felt ready—very ready—to accept the consequences of his actions. His rage flowing into the blade, Hiroshi held Trey transfixed.
Trey’s eyes moved from the tip of the blade to Hiroshi’s stomach, hands and head, searching for the slightest inattention that might let him dodge away. The sword stayed a wrist-flick away from Trey’s jugular vein and carotid artery.
“You killed them, didn’t you?” Hiroshi said.
“Them?”
“Mattson—”
“I didn’t, no.”
“So, you ordered him killed.”
Trey looked at Hiroshi. “Treason is a crime. Releasing classified documents.”
“Mattson was researching the bases, opening their secrets.”
Trey swallowed. “If he released what he planned to release, he would have scuttled SOFA and jeopardized the bases. Mattson knew better.”
Hiroshi held the sword without a quiver. “And the thief in the alley? The writer Higa?”
Trey kept his head steady, trying to control his breathing. “Higa’s work? Paranoid anarchist rants. And the thief? You’d have put him in prison.”
Hiroshi pressed the blade onto the flesh of Trey’s neck.
Trey looked in Hiroshi’s eyes. “You won’t use the sword. I know your kind.”
“Sakaguchi, open his bags and get Mattson’s stuff out,” Hiroshi commanded.
From inside the first duffel bag, Sakaguchi pulled out five swords wrapped in silk. He set them on the coffee table.
His eyes still locked on Hiroshi’s, Trey held his body stock-still except for the strange smile spreading across his face. Sakaguchi dug inside the other bags. The first held clothing, the second, scuba diving equipment.
Sakaguchi turned the clothing inside out and then did the same with the masks, fins, snorkel, and wet suit. Out of the corner of his eye, Hiroshi could see Sakaguchi’s empty hands.
“Where are they?” Hiroshi demanded, the tip of the blade against the skin of Trey’s throat. “The computers, the documents, everything you stole?”
Trey looked at Hiroshi, without moving.
“You thought you could keep it all secret,” Hiroshi said, resetting his feet. “But you can’t hide radiation.”
“No one cares about that. They only care about being told the right bedtime story. Everyone’s slept well so far.”
“They won’t any longer.”
Trey turned his head and looked at Sakaguchi, and in the flicker of an instant Hiroshi’s eyes followed. Trey high-kicked Hiroshi in the ribs and dodged sideways.
As Hiroshi swung, Trey shoved the water cooler forward and the sword plunged into the large plastic jug, sending water cascading over the bags and across the floor.
Hiroshi swung again as Trey lunged for one of the swords on the table. Before he could get one, Hiroshi swung straight down, barely missing Trey’s arm. Trey pulled back against the wall and Hiroshi reset the tip of the blade against his neck. His body stock-still, Trey’s face tensed.
“You killed them, didn’t you?” Hiroshi said, louder. “Mattson, the thief and Higa.”
Trey looked Hiroshi in the eye.
Sakaguchi said, “Hiroshi, put down the sword.”
Hiroshi held Trey where he was, unflinching in his control, soothed by the surety of the sword, the sharp finality of its edge, its ease of use.
“Hiroshi,” Sakaguchi said in a low, even voice. “The documents aren’t here. Put the sword down.”
The outside door swung open. In the doorway was a tall American officer with the angry look of someone used to commanding situations. His epaulettes and gold buttons glinted as he raked the cap off his head. Another American officer stood behind him. Everyone looked his way except Hiroshi, who kept his eyes on Trey.
“What’s going on here?” the officer shouted, his tours of duty written in the lines on his face, his rank in the colored pins on his chest.
No one moved.
“Gladius! What is this?” the officer shouted at Trey. “Every time I work with you something goes wrong.”
Sakaguchi said, “Hiroshi, put it down.”
Hiroshi kept the sword against Trey’s flesh.
Jamison barked at Hiroshi. “I’m Major Jamison, ranking officer here, military intelligence, and I’m telling you to put that sword down. Now. This is a secure area.”
Sakaguchi said again, “Put it down.”
Takamatsu, Ueno and two Japanese officers in dark blue suits burst into
the room.
Hiroshi didn’t waver. He could sense Takamatsu taking a step towards him, one hand up, but Takamatsu, for once, stayed silent.
Hiroshi stood there in a space that was in Japan, but not of Japan, wavering between languages, societies, times, codes of justice—oppositions poised on the sharp edge of the blade in his hand. His mind raced between what he felt and what he knew, what he knew and what he could prove. All he really knew was that the sword caught the light from the harsh overhead bulbs and measured the distance between him and another man, between another man’s life and his blood-soaked death.
And then, Hiroshi lowered the sword, slowly, in one hand, everyone in the room watching it descend until the point rested on the linoleum below.
As soon as the sword touched the floor, the American soldiers lunged at Hiroshi. Sakaguchi and Takamatsu leapt at the soldiers, everyone slipping on the water spilled from the cooler across the floor. Ueno picked up one of the soldiers by the arm and shoved him aside. The soldier slipped, scrambled and leapt onto Ueno’s back. Takamatsu fumbled for his baton but a too-quick punch knocked it from his hands and he started swinging with his fists for all he was worth. The Kevlar gloves and defensive tools stayed uselessly in the pockets of the detectives. Everyone pulled, grabbed, shoved and punched each other in one great mass in the middle of the room, shouting—“Stop,” “Yamero,” “Bastard,” “Ii kagen ni shiro,” “Enough,” “Yurusene”—in a dense tangle of limbs and languages that careened in one direction and then the other.
Finally, Sakaguchi rose up from the middle of the pack, spinning his arms and elbows in a circle to separate them all. The Japanese detectives and American soldiers stood back separated, breathing heavy, hands at the ready, facing each other.
Major Jamison shouted. “All right, all right.”
“This man is not going to leave the country,” Hiroshi said, panting for breath.
“Our policy is to cooperate with the police in all matters, but to question him you need to file an application,” the major said.
The Moving Blade Page 26
