“Ito invited me to join the investigation,” Eri continued. “There were two others involved as well. They worked in secret.”
“What do you mean, in secret?”
“Without the authorization of the agency. Ito suspected corruption at the highest level.”
“Was he right?”
Eri nodded. “We worked to build a case for months. We were getting close. Fujimoto was tapping the communications of several of the Restoration Party leaders. But then last week, something unexpected happened. One of Ito’s closest advisors mentioned the attack on the Chinese Embassy.”
“What’s strange about that? It was the biggest news story in the world.”
“They were talking about it the day before it happened.”
Carver felt his arms break out in gooseflesh. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this why we’re heading to Kyoto? Is Fujimoto there? Does he have the recording?”
“No. Fujimoto is dead. Disemboweled. They made it look like a suicide.”
Carver saw the fatigue in her eyes. She looked as if she had been awake for days on end. She grazed the fingertips of her right hand across the top of his shirt. The familiar intimacy of the gesture threatened to burst the dam of memories Carver had spent so many years locking away. “I’m so sorry.”
“They got to the others, too. When I discovered that they had hacked my phone and email, I realized I had called and emailed you. I feared they might assume you were involved. That’s when I reached out on Age of the Undead Ninjas.”
“You were right. It didn’t take them long to come for me.”
Her throat was suddenly full of emotion. “Did they hurt you?”
Carver pulled his beanie off and pointed to the notch in his left ear. Eri ran her fingertips over the wound. Now Eri was crying. She buried her head into Carver’s shoulder. He petted her hair. In the highlight reel of his mind it was twelve years earlier, June 6th, 10:13 pm. He was holding Eri on a beach blanket as a bonfire raged before them, and she tried s’mores for the first time. July 28, 7:12 a.m., kissing her goodbye before work, relishing the scent of the perfume she had worn the night before. Three days later, taking in a matinee horror film at a decaying downtown theater, uttering, “I love you” during the movie’s most terrifying scene, as if it was some trial run for an actual declaration, knowing his words would not be heard over the film’s bombastic soundtrack. And 19 minutes later, heading home in a rainstorm, fighting about something petty. By the time the night was over, he would be called to board a military transport headed for a covert JSOC operation in Islamabad, and things would never be the same again.
The White House
Speers was summoned to the president’s personal fitness center, where he found the commander-in-chief running on a treadmill. She was a wellness fanatic. She had banished vending machines from the building, replacing them with refrigerators and shelves stocked with organic snacks.
The staff had appreciated the gesture, but the act had merely driven their junk food cravings underground. Reese's Peanut Butter Bars were still devoured by the truckload, only now they were snuck in like contraband, eaten behind closed doors, all remaining evidence packed out each night.
The president slowed the machine to a walking pace, and then wiped the sweat from her neck with a towel emblazoned with the presidential seal. “Thanks for coming,” she said before switching on the television, where she had a recording queued up. “This aired 20 minutes ago.”
Network pundit Veronica Dutton appeared onscreen. With the backdrop of the D.C. skyline behind her, she looked across her desk at a pear-shaped man in a dark navy suit.
DUTTON: How will the breaking news out of Tokyo affect the United States? My guest is Gavin Riley, an expert on U.S.-Asian relations from Stanford University.
RILEY: It’s a pleasure to be here, Veronica.
DUTTON: For those that don’t know, Japan’s government is a constitutional monarchy. The sitting emperor is the country’s 125th in an uninterrupted line that dates back to 600 B.C. As I understand it, Japan’s parliament decided today to actually return limited power to the Japanese Emperor.
RILEY: Yes, the move was unprecedented, Veronica. The Japanese National Diet met in a closed session that lasted nearly 11 hours. When they emerged, the emperor had been granted limited involvement in government affairs for the first time since World War II.
DUTTON: Fascinating. How is this news being received in Japan?
RILEY: Given the immense popularity of the royal family in Japan, I’d say the reception is a mix of thrill and shock. No one saw this coming. On the flip side, analysts are saying that Prime Minister Ito must have been quietly planning this for some time, since nothing happens quickly when it comes to Japanese parliamentary procedure. Legal analysts are scrambling to make sense of whether this move was even constitutional.
DUTTON: How much power has the emperor actually been granted?
RILEY: Quite a bit, relatively speaking. As a basis for comparison, the Danish constitutional monarchy gives the throne, and I quote, “the right to be consulted, the right to advise and the right to warn.” That might not sound like much, but the Japanese model now does all this and more. The emperor will now be a de facto part of the prime minister’s cabinet, and will be expected to participate in periodic meetings. Also, the emperor will now have what they are calling ‘reserve powers.’ And that is a big deal, since it means he can unilaterally make executive decisions in extreme circumstances, such as if the prime minister wasn’t available during a national crisis.
DUTTON: At the risk of sounding insensitive, the emperor is a very old man. Why do this now?
RILEY: My guess? To shore up Ito’s own popularity. Realize that Ito was not directly elected, so the public has mixed feelings about having a right-wing nationalist leading the country.
DUTTON: Tell our American viewers how that is even possible.
RILEY: In the Japanese election system, Ito first had to win a seat in the National Diet, the country’s parliament. Then his party surprised everyone by quickly gaining a majority, which was a shock. As president of the Restoration Party, he was then appointed head of government. So while Ito’s supporters love his efforts to protect Japanese culture, his call to aggressively build a large military has been met with sizable public opposition and protests. So if you want to restore a sense of patriotism and nationalism, aligning yourself with the royal family is one way to do it.
DUTTON: But does this move really align the emperor with the prime minister politically?
RILEY: So far, the answer seems to be yes. The emperor delivered a speech saying that the country faced imminent threats, that he had full confidence in Prime Minister Ito, and that the Japanese people should do everything in their power to support his efforts to quickly scale a military.
DUTTON: I’d like to ask you about a specific part of that speech. He said the country had been, quote, “sleepwalking in a state of false security for so long, that it should behave as if it is already under attack.” Was he referencing Chinese aggression on the oceans?
RILEY: That would be my interpretation. Understand that China has pursued a very aggressive foreign policy, in some cases claiming disputed Japanese territories. Critics of the White House, including many in Japan and in our own Congress, say that we have done absolutely nothing to counter that aggression. I think Ito may be using this strategy as a way to get America to step up to the plate.
The president switched off the television and stepped off the treadmill. “How did we not see this coming?”
Speers took a towel from the stack and wiped the sweat from his own forehead. “Didn’t we? I relayed Ambassador Nakamura’s intelligence brief. His view is that we are the sworn protectorate of Japan, and it’s our responsibility to push the Chinese back from their sovereign territory.”
The president sank into a chair. “So you did.”
“My guess is that Ito saw no t
angible response from us, so he forced our hand.”
“He succeeded. This makes us look weak, and that’s one thing we can’t afford right now.” The president picked up a black handset. Moments later, she had Secretary of Defense Dex Jackson on speakerphone. “Dex. How’s the China Playbook coming?”
“My team is still refining it. The fact that our drone fleet is grounded doesn’t make reworking these scenarios easy.”
“I want a full briefing with options within 24 hours. We’re going to need a major show of force in the Pacific.”
Gion District
Kyoto, Japan
The narrow street was lit with paper lanterns. Wooden-fronted shops lined both sides and the sweet scent of grilled eel filled the air. Up ahead, a Geisha flitted out of one of the ancient establishments, shielding her customer from the drizzle with a red bamboo-and-paper umbrella.
Carver and Eri walked through the rain with purpose, turning down a side street that was little more than a cobblestone path. Kyoto’s Gion District had been built during the Middle Ages to serve travelers visiting Yasaka Shrine. Even tonight, in the face of a cold wind and even colder rain, the area was undeniably magical.
A scooter suddenly blazed out from behind them, handlebars barely clearing the lanterns on either side of the street. Carver pulled Eri into the doorway of an izakaya to let it pass. He held Eri’s arm a moment longer than was wise, taking in her scent, which had always reminded him of citrus.
A little further up, she pointed at a ramshackle wooden structure. The sign bore no letters – just a blue-colored monk carved in the style made popular in the Edo Period.
Eri slid the wooden door on its track until it was fully open. The tiny restaurant was candlelit and featured just a handful of seats clustered in a half-circle around the kitchen. The restaurant’s proprietor stood behind the counter, a muscular figure sharpening an enormous cleaver. John Coltrane’s brooding jazz classic, Equinox, oozed over the sound system like simmering lava.
“Irrashaimase,” the proprietor said as Eri and Carver stepped in out of the rain.
A party of nine had just settled their tab. Reeking of sake, they helped each other to their feet, laughing drunkenly as they stumbled out into the night. The proprietor followed them out. He locked the flimsy outer door and then pulled down a secondary barrier that reminded Carver of the steel doors at American drive-up storage units.
Then he embraced Eri. The hug was warm and familiar. Carver felt a pang of envy, sharp enough to hurt. Eri broke away and gestured to Carver. “This is Blake Carver, the American I told you about. Blake, meet Shoichi Kimura.”
“Hi Shoichi.”
“You can call me Sho. I hope you are hungry.”
Carver took off his jacket and sat on a stool next to Eri. He gestured to a mounted deer head on the near wall with a truly massive rack of antlers. “Is that a red stag?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-two points. Impressive. Did you take him down yourself?”
Sho nodded. “Deep in the woods in Bulgaria. Very difficult to pack out. But my customers enjoyed him for many weeks.”
“You actually kill your own venison?”
Sho looked to Eri, then back to Carver, grinning. “I see that Eri did not tell you anything about me. She is good at keeping secrets. That is why we are still friends. Now, if you will excuse me. Tonight the main course will be wild boar from the Nagano prefecture.”
As their host disappeared into the cramped kitchen, Carver caught a glimpse of a second person. A junior chef, perhaps.
He turned to Eri. “You’re a little too good at keeping secrets for my taste. Why are we here?”
“Like I said on the train. I will tell this story my way.” She pointed at the wall filled with recent culinary awards. “Sho normally serves just one meal each night. A very expensive meal. It takes months to get a reservation here. Everything Sho cooks is caught, killed and cooked by him or his brother. He is a true shokunin.”
Carver had not heard this word, shokunin, for years. There was no single-word equivalent in English. It described an artisan that single-mindedly dedicated his life to improving his craft. It seemed to also imply a social and spiritual obligation to do so.
Sho dashed out from the kitchen, reached over the counter, and set before them a blue-and-white dish filled with what looked glazed nuts. “For an appetizer, candied grasshoppers.”
Up close, the candied grasshoppers did not look anything like glazed nuts. They looked more like cockroaches. Carver decided he’d rather talk than eat them. “Sho, what’s the name of this place?”
“The Blue Monk.”
“Oh. Named after the Thelonious Monk song?”
Sho grinned broadly. “So you are a jazz man. I think we will get along fine, Carver-san. Itadakimasu!” He then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Eri rolled her eyes. “You don’t even like jazz. Little does he know how full of useless trivia you are.”
She was right, of course. He really hated jazz. But he could, if needed, replay Monk’s 10 most famous tracks at will in his head. He had found that knowing a little bit about everything made it exponentially easier to chat people up. That led to bonding. Bonding led to trust. And trust led to actionable intelligence.
“Speaking of the arts,” Carver asked Eri, “Are you painting?”
He could tell by the look on her face that he had touched a nerve. “I have not picked up a brush since I left D.C.”
“That’s a shame. You were good.”
She waved her hand as if clearing smoke. “All in the past.” She nudged the bowl of grasshoppers toward him. “After you.”
“No thanks.”
He watched as she put one of the crusty insects into her mouth as casually as if it were a potato chip. “See? Not so bad.”
“For me, insects fall into the category of survival food, not gourmet cuisine.”
On the opposite wall hung several fierce-looking photos of Sho in competitive ski gear. His jersey from the 2010 winter Olympics was encircled in a wooden frame. “So your boyfriend is a gourmet cook and an Olympic skier? Wow. You really traded up.”
She shot him a look. “He is not my boyfriend. He was Fujimoto’s informant. Now he’s mine.”
“I stand corrected.”
“But yes, Sho was in the Olympics. I can’t think of the word for the event. That one where they ski, and then do some target shooting, and then ski some more?”
“The biathlon.”
“Yes. That one.”
Carver grunted dismissively. “Well the Japanese have never medaled in biathlon. In fact, the only non-European nations to medal in biathlon are Kazakhstan and Canada.”
“Stop it.”
“Hey, does Sho still have his shooting license?”
She nodded. “He is one of the few licensed hunters left in the entire country.”
Then maybe he can hook me up, Carver thought. He would have felt naked without his trusty SIG under any circumstances, but especially after what he had been through the past two days.
The kitchen door swung open again. Sho set three pint glasses on the counter. “I sent my little brother home. Food is cooking. We can talk freely now.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words,” Eri said. “Go ahead. Show it to him.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Please. He needs to know.”
The chef stood and untied his apron, revealing a black V-neck t-shirt stretched over an impressively muscled torso. He pulled the shirt up several inches and turned around so that Carver could see the brand. A fleshy orb of scar tissue with thick bands emanating from its center. The Rising Sun. Just like the three before him.
Carver felt a tiny ray of light break through. Here, standing before him, was a living and breathing connection to the person who had ordered his own assassination.
“What does it mean? “ he said. “Who did it to you?”
The chef sucked his teeth as if the question itself was painful. Then
he sat on the stool next to Carver’s. He cracked open a gigantic bottle of Asahi lager and began pouring it into one of the pint glasses.
“I will tell you what you want to know,” Sho said. Then he took a car key out of his pocket and slid it across the bar to Eri. “But you drive me home tonight. By the time my story is finished, I will be very drunk.”
NINE MONTHS EARLIER
The Blue Monk
Kyoto
The night the Rising Sun had been burned into Shoichi Kimura’s back had started like virtually any other. As usual, Sho stood behind the counter of the tiny restaurant he had inherited from his father. He was an athletic figure with long hair tied up in a ponytail, carving up venison with an enormous cleaver.
Miles Davis’s trumpet blurted epic melodies over the room speakers. Sho whistled along as best he could, fantasizing about the day he would retire and learn to play jazz for real.
Several taxidermied stag heads adorned the south wall. Below them, a large photograph of Sho in the 2010 winter Olympics, where he had competed for the Japanese National Team in the Biathlon. He had no medal to show for it, but the memories of that magic year and the red-hot patriotism that had fueled him stayed with him always. He was a man who had always loved his country.
The opposite wall was filled with culinary awards. He had framed several reviews and certificates from two magazines that had named the restaurant to their list of top Kyoto restaurants. A blank space was reserved for the Michelin Star he hoped to earn one day.
The tiny space where the restaurant stood had been in his family for nearly three centuries, and had gone by many names, but it had never been as successful as it was now. But how could he take advantage of it? Franchising the field-to-table menu he had created would prove impossible. Nor could he translate the Blue Monk experience to a bigger location without losing its intimacy.
Rogue Empire Page 20