Japantown (29 page)

Azuma burst out in unrestrained laughter. “Thank you, Mr. Taya, for this—ah—precious opportunity. But be honest with me for a moment, won’t you? Don’t you think you might be overreacting just a trifle?”

“Fool!
Listen to me!
Do I get anything out of this? Publicity? Money?”

“No.”

“So what’s my motive? What’s the bigger picture here, Azuma?”

“I represent the bigger picture.”

Taya pounded the table. “You can’t see the bigger picture. But a day
or two should tell. By week’s end, if I’m still alive, then I’ll know you stand a chance against them.”

“Cheer up, Mr. Taya. I assure you that the Ministry of Defense is a formidable adversary.”

“I hope they’re not all as thick-headed as you, Mr. Azuma. Use what I have given you quickly. Waste no time. If not for my sake, for your own.”

The recording ended.

CHAPTER 47

T
EJIMA
broke the charged silence that followed.

“Until the interview you’ve just heard, we had been unable to confirm even the existence of this group. We logged only rumors and vague reports. Every few years a kanji like the one found in Japantown would surface with a killing, but such an appearance only fueled the rumors, elevating fear levels and creating a sort of myth.”

Kozawa fidgeted. “The kanji resonates with older generations. There are stories.”

“What kind of stories?” I asked.

“Stories of suicides. Of prominent men dying in their sleep.”

“Accidents that may not have been accidents?”

“Yes.”

I turned to Tejima. “You’re a member of the committee mentioned on the tape?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t the committee send anyone down to Soga-jujo?”

“Of course. They conducted inquiries, but it’s an isolated community. Where the villagers weren’t closemouthed, they were evasive.”

Noda and I had received the same reception. “So you have a file full of dead ends?”

“Yes. All investigated by the book and—”

“—signed off on?”

Tejima dropped his eyes. “Embarrassing to admit, but yes. On paper, all is well.”

A gloom descended as we considered the impotency of the whole
of the Ministry of Defense, not to mention the Japanese government.

Hesitantly, Tejima sought my eye. “Let me ask you something, Brodie-san. What was your impression of the conversation you just heard?”

“Taya was informed, decisive, and convincing. Your Mr. Azuma comes off as dense, to say the least.”

As had happened earlier, Tejima’s hands began to quiver. This time he put his palms against the edge of the table and pushed, stretching muscle and ligament. He inhaled with deliberation, then let out the air in a measured manner, repeating the procedure until his hands steadied.

Once our host had tamed the trembling he said, “Six months ago, my boss assigned me to assist Azuma-san. That was three days before the interview. As a latecomer I was not yet directly involved in committee proceedings. I was expected to familiarize myself with the material in a method of my choosing. So I copied files and memos to review on my own time, and late one night, directly after the interview, I copied the recording. I never discussed my activities in this regard, and that single non-act probably saved my life. The original recording was gone from Azuma-san’s machine the next morning. He worried that he had accidently erased it. I knew better but held my peace.”

Tejima scrutinized his hands. “I practice the breathing routine you just saw every night before I go to bed and every morning when I rise. I also find it necessary to repeat it several times during the course of my workday, always in private. I do not sleep well because of nightmares. My appetite has dropped to almost nothing. Every morning I wake up relieved to be alive, then dread the day ahead because I wonder if I will live until evening. I went to a top university, Brodie-san, and joined the Ministry of Defense to serve my country. Much of my job involves shuffling papers. Important papers, but merely papers. We sit behind desks. We are not soldiers or spies. Fortunately, when I went to Kozawa-sensei for advice, I found him receptive. I am frightened, but don’t get me wrong. I am determined to see this to a successful conclusion as I believe it vital to my country. Can you understand that?”

In spite of his occupation and our earlier run-in, I was beginning to like this man. “I think I can.”

“You might be surprised to learn that I now share the informant’s
view that there are high-placed people in all the ministries on Soga’s payroll. I think they are in the Ministry of Defense as well.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Why is that?”

“Before the meeting, Azuma-san maintained the utmost secrecy. He enlisted the services of an unmarked car. He made arrangements from untraceable prepaid cell phones. There were no intermediaries, no lapses on our part, or on the informant’s, as far as we can tell. Taya-san’s sister was not briefed on his decision to come forward, nor was anyone else. Azuma-san kept his report to our superiors verbal—to only five men.”

“But?”

“Early the next morning he was called away to handle a sudden emergency in Sendai. He hung himself that evening in his hotel room. A note in his own hand said he was despondent over his slovenly work.”

They don’t kill in Tokyo.

I said, “Suicide doesn’t sound like the action of the man I heard.”

“No,” Tejima said. “It doesn’t.”

“What about the informant?”

Tejima’s face crumbled. “Despite the fact that he went into hiding immediately after the interview, he was dead within forty-eight hours.”

CHAPTER 48

W
ITH
Tejima’s final revelation, a wave of cold fear rolled through me. Day by day, Soga grew more invincible. I’m sure Jake faced tests of his own in the early days of Brodie Security, but I doubted they reached the degree of treachery we’d encountered in the village.

To hash things out, Noda, George, and I sought privacy away from the office and finally settled on Kongo’s, a discreet saké bar in the narrow back alleys of Ochanomizu, a maze only the initiated could navigate. Even taxi drivers became hopelessly lost in this part of town.

Kongo’s was a Japanese-style drinking place, an
izakaya
run by a former construction worker who had, three decades ago in his youth, saved his meager wages and slept in roach-infested boardinghouses until he scraped together enough money to buy a shack with clay walls in his old neighborhood. Now he slept above the shop with his wife and two sons; who were going to be anything but construction workers, Heizo Nishikawa told anyone who would listen. Where the walls of Kongo’s had begun to wear thin, labels from vintage saké had been pasted like patches on worn jeans. There were five rickety tables, a counter that seated eight shoulder to shoulder, and a sixth table on raised tatami in a secluded nook at the back. We staked out the nook.

“Do you know how explosive this is?” I asked, tossing down my second cup of warm saké in one swallow.

We now had an unadulterated portrait of the beast—and we were shell-shocked. The reasons were plentiful, but foremost among them was the fact that we were under attack from a covert enterprise launched by a renegade samurai general three centuries ago.

Noda was glum. “Bigger than I thought.”

“How much bigger?” George asked.

Tonight, Kongo’s inaccessibility provided us with a desperately needed margin of safety. With the chief detective’s last words, I felt a measure of that safety slip away.

Noda shrugged. “Big. We got too close.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“We know too much.”

I sensed a new gravity in the detective’s tone. “More than your brother and his friends?”

Noda downed his third cup of
daiginjo,
a refined saké made with rice polished to fifty percent of its original size. “They knew nothing.”

George’s eyes widened. “Nothing?”

“Well, almost nothing.”

George turned pale. “And
nothing
got them killed?”

“Pretty much.”

His Ivy League gloss slipping, George shot me a wild-eyed look. The rosy glow the saké had lent him vanished. A platter of scallop and yellowtail sashimi lay before us, untouched. George tossed down his saké, refilled our cups and his, and siphoned off that one too. The daiginjo was a much-sought-after brew from a saké maker on the outskirts of Kanazawa, though the liquor’s appeal tonight was not due to its rarity or taste.

“Then what took them to Soga?” I asked.

“A guess.”

“So they went down there on a hunch and were wiped out?”

Noda nodded grimly. “Brodie, we need to get you a gun.”

Japan had enacted some of the world’s toughest antifirearms laws. It was illegal to pack small arms, concealed or open. If caught, the penalties were severe, so only the stray yakuza risked carrying. Noda’s admission meant that the danger we faced outweighed the severity of imprisonment.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I got the shop Beretta.”

Twenty-five years ago, Jake had pulled a lot of strings to obtain a gun permit. For a single gun. We still had it, but it was a testament to
the effectiveness of the country’s gun control laws that it would be the only one we’d ever get.

“There’s a nine-millimeter automatic locked in the back room,” Noda added.

“Illegal?”

The chief detective’s brow buckled in irritation. “Of course. You’ll use it?”

“Don’t have much choice.”

George said, “What about me?”

“You didn’t set foot in the village.”

George looked relieved, then guilty.

We polished off the rest of the saké and ordered more. The saké cups were in the Oribe style—splashes of green and black glaze on white clay.

Noda said, “One more thing. Best not to go back to your hotel tonight.”

“That bad?”

He nodded. “Every night we stay in a different place.”

“We?”

“Yeah. I’ll get someone to bring our stuff to the office.”

“Jesus,” said George, falling back on the English word for emphasis.

“I undershot this one,” Noda said. “Sorry.
Dai shippai da
.”

Big mistake.

DAY 6

BLACK MARILYN

CHAPTER 49

G
EORGE
caught a taxi home, and Noda and I checked into adjoining rooms at a trucker’s dive near Kongo’s after stopping at an all-night convenience store for supplies. I bathed, brushed my teeth, and crawled into a musty futon, plunging into a long-overdue slumber. My dreams were filled with Asian men in dark suits and overcoats. Leaning against lampposts, they read Japanese newspapers from Soga-jujo, and as young schoolgirls walked by, large kanji sprang from the headlines like tarantulas and went for the jugular.

When one girl morphed into Jenny, I woke with a start, my chest thumping, my thoughts straying to my daughter and her new guards.
They work in teams of four.
Sleep didn’t return, so around 6 a.m. I slipped a note under Noda’s door and waited in a local coffee shop, sipping a Colombian blend and thinking about Jenny. I missed her. I longed to see her freckled face and pigtails. And I needed to call her. I’d promised to ring often, but events and gremlins in the line of communications between the SFPD and the FBI had conspired against us. Again and again, my thoughts returned to the effect my extended absence might be having on Jenny.

Noda joined me an hour later for a light breakfast, then we took separate taxis in opposite directions. I headed for Brodie Security, mindful that I also needed to contact Renna. He’d tough it out until he heard from me, but by now he must be sweating the pressure. Even on this side of the Pacific, I could feel the strain mounting. I knew my friend wouldn’t be able to hold out forever without concrete facts. Not
that I had anything solid to offer, but I was willing to wager I’d dug up more than his people.

At the office, the day staff was trickling in. George had yet to show, but others had arrived. Amid the budding activity, Toru and Mari pounded the keyboards, while a silenced television overhead flashed CNN news images from a terrorist bombing in a Pakistani marketplace. I spied my suitcase in the corner.

“How’s it going?” I said.

Toru glanced up from his screen. “Our black hatter came out to play last night and we were on him like code on a program.”

“He know?” I asked.

“Don’t insult. You making any progress?”

“Bits and pieces, all explosive. Soon as you get something solid—address, site, anything—we need to know. Badly.”

Toru studied me for a few seconds before his eyes drifted back to his terminal. “Sure thing.”

I said thanks and headed for my office. On my desk was the weapon Noda had promised me. I slipped the 9mm into the side pocket of my windbreaker. As an active owner of Brodie Security, I’d been required to take a government-sponsored firearms course and had passed with flying colors, the instructor telling me I was a natural. Of course, none of that would matter if I were caught with an unregistered weapon.

Narazaki knocked and cracked open the door. “Kei-kun called just before you arrived.” His eyes shifted uneasily to the spot on the desk where the piece had rested a moment ago. “You found the gun, I see.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“I’m sorry, Brodie. I never expected this to blow up as it has.”

“Jake must have tackled his share of trouble.”

“Trouble, yes. Like this, no. Just stay off the streets. Noda will watch your back.” He nodded once and eased the door shut.

On my desk were three messages from Renna and one from Abers. I dialed Renna’s office number and my call went to voice mail. Three messages and now unreachable. That couldn’t be good.

Abers’s message was less than an hour old. It said he’d talked to Jenny. I dialed the shop.

“Brodie Antiques. Bill Abers speaking.”

I said, “Where’s that delinquent boss of yours?”

“Question of the hour, my lad. Everyone’s asking for you—Lieutenant Renna, Jenny, and a reporter from ABC. The reporter’s a cherry. Blond hair and blue-green peepers. Favor blondes myself, heh?”