It was difficult to read Shiori’s face. Impossible to tell whether she accepted the apology until she at last spoke.
“Naoko, I believe you. We can talk about the past later. Tell me about the escape. Who’s helping you, and where are they taking you?”
“It’s the guy I was dating before Tatsuyama and I met. He’s a policeman, so you can trust him.”
Shiori’s eyes remained fixed on Naoko’s. “Forgive me for being overly cautious. But I don’t have a lot of confidence in the policemen who’ve gotten involved with your family.”
Naoko flashed back to the handcuffing of Tatsuyama at the concert and the tears she had shed for what had happened to him. The objection was fair, but there truly was no time to explain that she had been set up as surely as Tatsuyama had.
Hiroko said, “It’s already three forty-seven.”
“We have to go,” Naoko said. “Come with me. Please.”
A breeze stirred the bamboo.
Shiori glanced over her shoulder toward the back corner of the garden and then back toward the house. “OK. Show me the way.”
At the wall that bordered the property on the east about twenty-five feet from the waters of Tokyo Bay, two pines rose and leaned back over the Yamada lawn. Between the two trees, the women found a rope draped over the wall. The rope was knotted at one-foot intervals. Shiori peered right and left along the wall. She ran to the rope and tugged it. It was anchored to something or someone on the other side. She motioned for Naoko and Hiroko.
Shiori whispered to Hiroko, “You go first. We’ll help you.”
Hiroko suddenly looked panic-stricken. She pushed away. “Naoko, I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m truly sorry, but I can’t…”
Without further warning, she spun and sprinted into the bamboo grove.
Naoko started to call after her, but didn’t. She didn’t give chase either. Hiroko disappeared into the thicket.
“I can’t stay,” Naoko said, shaking her head. She took the rope in hand. Her pulse quickened. “I’ll find a way to contact her.” She pulled the rope tight and walked herself to the top of the wall. Sitting astride the tiles at the top, she spotted Hideo across the narrow street below. Hope began to seep into her soul again.
He ran to the base of the wall and called softly, “Hurry, Naoko.”
Naoko waved for Shiori to follow and then clambered down the other side. Within seconds, Shiori appeared at the top of the wall.
“Come on, Shiori,” Naoko said.
As soon as Shiori reached the street outside the wall, Hideo coiled the rope. He shouldered the coil and motioned toward a small, plain, white van parked across the street. “Follow me,” he said, already at a trot.
Naoko worked hard to restrain her feelings of hope. She had been hopeful at Kitanomaru Park, only to have those hopes dashed.
Once at the van, Hideo swung open the back doors. “Back here,” he said, waving them into the cargo compartment.
Naoko eyed him quizzically.
“If we should drive past any of your father’s people, we don’t want them to see you,” he said. He winked at her.
She smiled then and said, “Arigatou, Hideo…for taking this big risk.” Crawling into the back of the van, she leaned against the side panel. The cargo compartment was factory clean, but there were no seats.
Shiori looked around before following Naoko into the van. “Arigatou,” she said. “Where are you taking us?”
“To a friend’s place,” he said. “It’ll be safe. We just need to leave here quickly now.” He smiled at her.
Shiori climbed in and sat next to Naoko. Hideo closed the back doors.
The only light in the cargo area came from a small window with a view into the cab. Naoko saw Hideo toss the rope onto the passenger’s seat. He got in and started the vehicle. The reflection of his face in the rearview mirror revealed furrowed brows as he motored slowly through the narrow back streets of the neighborhood. Naoko understood his concern. What he had done for her could very well cost him his life. And they weren’t away free yet. Not by any means.
The van stopped and started through two or three blocks of narrow residential streets before rolling more smoothly along wider surface avenues. Within minutes the stops, starts, and turns of surface streets gave way to the steady rhythm and feel of the freeway.
An hour and a quarter later, Shiori felt the van descending from the freeway onto surface streets again. Soon it slowed to a longer stop. She heard the clank of metal on metal. A peek through the one small window revealed a man in coveralls holding a padlock and chain, motioning the vehicle into a small industrial yard surrounded by a chain link fence. Hideo steered past a smaller corrugated metal building toward a warehouse. Above the loading docks, the lettering on the building read HANSHIN HEAVY INDUSTRIES.
Shiori’s heart began to pound. I remember that business name. Tatsuyama wrote it down in Kyoto.
Hideo made a U-turn and backed the van slowly into the dimly lit building. The rolling metal warehouse door came down, leaving the van in twilight.
As Hideo cut the engine, the back doors of the van were already opening.
“Welcome. Come on in, Naoko…Shiori,” said the wrinkled man wearing the business suit.
Naoko’s jaw dropped. Drawing her knees to her chest, she breathed, “Ota-san!”
42
Bob Thomas leaned toward his cameraman and murmured, “I could be covering either the NBA or NHL playoffs back home right now. You know what, though? I am thoroughly enjoying this assignment. It was practically a vacation at the beginning, and now…we may be covering the most unique story we’ve done since the last Olympics.”
“I have to agree with you, sir. Looks like we’ll be going home with something way bigger than those short human-interest segments for Overtime Sports.”
“I think so.” Bob checked a document on his iPhone and then returned his attention to his crewman. “So that little camera’s going to be adequate for the job, huh?”
“More than adequate.”
“And how’s your line of sight? Do you have a good angle here?”
“Perfect. We’ve got no obstructions. We’ve got the entrance hallway, an absolutely beautiful angle on the dohyo itself, plus all the stars of the show.”
“Well, arigatou to you, Assistant Coach Junichiro-san, for making my day.”
The Japanese-English interpreter sitting directly behind Bob leaned forward and said softly, “I’ll be speaking into your left ear, Mr. Thomas. It will be picked up simultaneously by the recorder your sound man is holding, sir. You’ll get a full interpretation of every word that is spoken, whether it comes from the arena floor or through the arena’s sound system.”
“Arigatou, Tamura-san,” Bob said.
“Looks like show time, sir,” the cameraman said. “Here comes the yokozuna, now.”
As the clacking wood blocks sounded, announcing the entrance of the yokozuna Hashimaru, Bob leaned forward a little in his seat. His fists tightened. Here’s hoping they see the quarterback and overlook the offensive lineman.
Forty-eight hours earlier, Tatsuyama would hardly have dared imagine himself on the dohyo in the great Kokugikan during the May Grand Sumo Tournament. Yet here he was, wearing the mawashi and ceremonial apron. In the curtained hallway that led to the arena floor, he stood alert, ready to go. He welcomed the clack of the yobidashi’s wood blocks. No more waiting.
Kimura Shonosuke, with a regal stride, fell in behind the yobidashi. The tate-gyoji’s purple silk robes rustled faintly.
Just like at the public baths, Tatsuyama thought, seeing, but not seeing.
He’d have been lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. But he was determined. This was all or nothing. Nerves be damned.
Masaru—serving as Hashimaru’s dew sweeper—followed Kimura Shonosuke. The yokozuna Hashimaru stepped out right behind Masaru. No turning back now. That was OK—he didn’t want to turn back.
Tatsuyama came last in the procession. He he
ld the yokozuna Hashimaru’s ceremonial katana upright by the scabbard, the handle high above. The ritual cloth used to hold the sword was close to his face. It wasn’t much, but anything to obscure his identity was helpful.
Tate-gyoji Kimura ascended the dohyo and solemnly made his way to his position on the left. According to the plan, this placed him facing Bob Thomas and his cameraman—and facing Yamada on the floor at ringside. Holding his signal fan horizontally, Kimura struck the customary squatting pose to await the yokozuna.
Tatsuyama reached his mark and faced the dohyo. From behind the sword-bearer’s cloth, he spied Yamada, Haruta, and Yamashita, their eyes on the tate-gyoji. Don’t turn those eyes to me…not till mine are staring you in the face.
He, Hashimaru, and Masaru paused. Everyone’s gaze, including Yamada’s, drifted to Hashimaru. Time to ascend the doyho. At the top, Tatsuyama and Masaru squatted, one on either side of the Mongolian yokozuna. The curve of the wrestling circle meant Yamada would have only a profile view of Tatsuyama at best. Only seconds more now.
A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone was fixed on Hashimaru. The Mongolian took his stance at the edge of the ring and slowly and dramatically raised his arms for the first ceremonial handclap.
The clap resounded in Tatsuyama’s ears—the starting signal for the match of a lifetime.
Tate-gyoji Kimura dropped his wooden signal fan to the clay dohyo surface. It seemed to fall in slow motion. From his waist sash, he drew a blade. Not the nine-inch tanto that should have been there. Instead a matching wakizashi, a samurai short sword. Twenty-one inches of cold steel that had been hidden within his loose-fitting ceremonial garment. The referee—spritely and fit for his age—charged Haruta.
Simultaneously, Tatsuyama unsheathed Hashimaru’s katana. He raced for Yamada.
Gripping the sword with both hands, Tatsuyama leapt off the platform toward his enemy.
The mob boss’s jaw gaped. His arms impulsively shot upward to slow Tatsuyama’s momentum.
Tatsuyama anticipated Yamada’s reaction. For an instant, discipline and disdain did battle within him. A fleeting mental image—Coach Ikeda on the asphalt beside the stab victim. The temptation to slash with the sword was strong.
Iie, not yet, if at all.
He landed with the full weight of his shin across Yamada’s sprawling torso.
Snatching up the yakuza’s right hand, Tatsuyama glanced side to side.
By the time Yamashita had pulled himself from sitting cross-legged on his cushion onto all fours, Masaru had sprinted, sprung, and tackled the ex-sumotori.
The tate-gyoji loomed over Haruta with the razor-sharp wakizashi a mere inch from the mob lieutenant’s jugular.
Clenching Yamada’s right hand in his powerful grip, Tatsuyama glared into the crime boss’s eyes and spat out, “How much do you love kyudo?”
Yamada grimaced from the pain of Tatsuyama’s grip, but didn’t answer.
Tatsuyama drew back the katana. “Tell me immediately where Shiori and Naoko are, Yamada. Or you’ll never again draw a bowstring.”
Yamada’s gaze darted from Tatsuyama’s eyes to the blade above him.
Haruta sneered, even as the tip of Kimura’s wakizashi remained a whisker from his throat, “What do think you’ll gain from this, Tatsuyama? You’re already waiting to stand before the court on assault charges. Now they’ll add attempted murder. And you’ve committed your crime in front of thousands, not to mention all the viewers on NHK. You’re a fool, Tatsuyama!”
Tatsuyama didn’t relish violence. He had never fought outside the ring until Yamada’s goons had struck the first blow.
Glowering at the pinned yakuza boss, he said, “Speak to me, Yamada. Where are Shiori and Naoko?”
Pride does not die easily. Yamada stuck out his chin and answered, “Haruta is right. You are a fool, and you will pay for this. You lose, former yokozuna.”
The katana blade glinted through the air. Tatsuyama reversed his grip on the weapon. Now grasping the sword like a dagger, he drove the blade into the palm of Yamada’s hand, pinning it to the floor.
This wasn’t the response of a wounded ego. Nor was it motivated by revenge. Lives were in danger.
A pale Yamada stared in disbelief.
“The girls, Yamada,” Tatsuyama demanded.
“At my home,” he breathed.
Tatsuyama leaned close to the mobster’s face. “They’d better be there, and you’d better pray they’re well, Yamada…-san.”
With his hand pinned to the floor, Yamada held himself rigid. Suddenly, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I’ve been attacked! Where are the police?”
Tatsuyama looked up. The entire audience at the Kokugikan was in an uproar, but people weren’t leaving. Cameras flashed all around the venue. People recorded video on their cell phones. When I told Shiori that Yamada had to be taken down publicly, he thought, this was not what I had in mind.
He turned back to Yamada. “I look forward to the arrival of the police.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Because you’re not only going to see to it that Shiori and Naoko are free. You’re also going to tell the police what really happened to Coach Ikeda.”
“That won’t happen,” Yamada panted. “You have nothing to use against me. Nothing!”
“I think I do have something…” Tatsuyama noticed his own side bleeding again now. He must have popped some of the knife wound’s stitches.
Junichiro stepped up to take the bloody katana from him. He refused. “Yamada’s still wavering, Junichiro.”
Tatsuyama met Yamada’s gaze again and pointed toward Bob Thomas. “First of all, there is a man from America sitting in the stands up there. He works for ASPN Sports. Several of us have given him statements regarding your activity. He has prepared a document that, if you do not cooperate with us, he will e-mail to his network with one push of a button. That American gentleman can’t be bought by you like the Japanese broadcasters you have bullied and bribed. Yes, NHK is recording every moment of this drama, even as we speak. But the sports journalist from America has a crew member sitting right next to him who is also recording this, free from any spin or commentary that your paid or bribed reporters may add in an effort to persuade the public or the courts. We’ll bring world opinion against you, Yamada. Through the Internet and social media, we’ll bring proud, uncorrupted Japanese in our homeland, in Hawaii, in Brazil, and everywhere else against you.”
Beads of perspiration had formed on Yamada’s forehead. His breathing came in puffs. Still holding out, he said, “Hai, hai, hai, but your Internet followers and your American journalists don’t sit in robes in Japanese courtrooms. You are the one who will go to jail, Tatsuyama.”
“I’m not finished, Yamada-san.”
By this point, police officers arrived in massive numbers. They worked their way from every access point through the mass of patrons toward the doyho. As they reached the scene of the drama, several began shouting, “Drop the swords! Drop them now!”
Yamada managed a smile. “You see?” he said. “The girls and Ikeda will remain where they are, and you, Tatsuyama, are going to jail. You’re finished.”
Tatsuyama glanced at the policemen closing in on him. Had his plan indeed run its course? Was it about to disintegrate into a grand failure?
He was prepared to go to jail—if his incarceration would free Shiori, Naoko, and his coach. He was willing to serve time in prison—if sumo in its purer cultural form could continue uncontaminated by yakuza interests.
Time’s almost up. He looked down at Yamada once again. “Remember,” he said to the mob boss. “One word is all that’s necessary for ASPN to receive this story from our perspective. It will go global.”
Yamada looked away.
The police now had Tatsuyama’s arm
He then played his last card.
He rose to his feet, drew a deep breath, and yelled, “Kobayashi-san!”
He knew the plan, and if all went according to that
plan, Bob Thomas had just hit the SEND button on his smart phone. The text of his story had just traveled at the speed of light to executives waiting at ASPN.
There was a disturbance at the ramp to the dohyo floor.
Tatsuyama pivoted to see Detective Kobayashi pressing his way in. With one hand held high, he displayed his badge and ID to the surrounding police officers. With the other hand, he pushed forward a handcuffed and dejected Uesugi—the defector from Coach Ikeda’s stable.
Kobayashi led Uesugi to a spot directly in front of Yamada.
Yamada scowled at the handcuffed sumotori as though threatening him by eye contact alone to keep silent.
Uesugi mumbled to Kobayashi, “I don’t believe I have anything to say, after all.”
Kobayashi yanked Uesugi’s handcuffs and whispered several sentences into the sumotori’s ear. Uesugi’s eyes widened. He struggled to turn and look Kobayashi eye to eye. Kobayashi nodded sharply.
Uesugi licked his lips. His body tensed visibly. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Yamada.
With NHK cameras running, he turned to the police superintendent. His words flowed barely above a whisper. “I need your protection, sir. Yamashita Kenzo and I beat up Coach Ikeda. Wednesday night. When we dropped him behind the Kokugikan, Haruta-san was already here. The knife victim was already on the ground. Coach Ikeda was framed.”
The police superintendent frowned at Haruta and then Yamashita. He turned to his lieutenant and ordered, “Arrest Yamada Hideyoshi and his two associates.”
He waved two paramedics over. “See to that bleeding, but don’t feel like you have to get friendly with him.”
Finally, he faced Tatsuyama. He noted his bleeding side.
“Sliced by one of Haruta’s men yesterday, sir,” Tatsuyama said.
“Hmm,” the superintendent said. “There’s a lot you’ll need to answer for. We’ll get some treatment for you while you wait. Don’t go away.”
Kobayashi regained the police superintendent’s attention and informed him urgently, “At that Kitanomaru Park incident yesterday—I’m sure you heard about it—Haruta and a group of Yamada’s gangsters kidnapped two young women. Yamada just admitted they’re being held at his house.”
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 20