The Seventh Samurai

by Doug Walker

  "It does make sense. I am equipped for the job. But why me at this time? Did that cross your mind?"

  The leathery-faced old man shrugged. "Of course it did. Somebody very well placed in Tokyo could be trying to get you out of the way. And if they are, it's working. Frankly, I argued against it. But I had no effective argument. We aren't investigating anything concrete. You are suited for the job in Kyushu. There is a need. I can assign somebody else to what you are doing."

  Watanabe stared at his shoes. "And how would you instruct them?"

  "What orders would I give them? Excellent question. Obviously, the investigation is over. But there comes a time when we must follow orders."

  "But I can't," Watanabe said emphatically.

  "Refuse to follow orders?" The old man frowned.

  "I returned to Japan with my wife, Harriet, from Boston to be with my aging parents. They demanded that I do my duty and come home and be with them in their fading years. I did my duty as a Japanese should. It broke up my marriage, but I have hung on. Even though my wife, with whom I'm still married, has Japanese ancestry, the culture here got to her. She simply couldn't stay. But I did my duty," Watanabe stressed.

  If there is anything seared into the Japanese mind it is to obey the father and do one's duty to parents. There was a time when duty to the Emperor and hence the country would have come first, but that time passed after the Emperor renounced his divine status. "Now you are asking me to desert my parents. I can't do it."

  "I see," Shibata nodded. "You have an excellent point, but place me in an awkward situation. The Japanese police do not bend their orders to solve family problems. You know that."

  "I know it very well. I would like a six-month leave of absence. I do not have money problems. My parents have provided very well for their old age and beyond."

  "It's interesting to have you work for me, Watanabe. I'll say that. I won't stand in your way. I'll put the papers in and notify Tokyo of your reasons. But a word of care, we may be playing with a situation that could blow up in our faces. Since you will remain in the Osaka area I hope that we can have lunch together now and then during the six-month period."

  "I would like nothing better," Watanabe smiled. "There will be many things to talk over."

  So Watanabe was on his own, and any plan he concocted he would have to carry out on his own.

  CHAPTER 14: Passage to Japan

  The rust-splotched, clanking freighter, Pride of Dakar, breasted gray-backed rollers in the Indian Ocean. Her decks awash with green water, the ancient vessel plowed her bow deep into the storm-swept water and seemed to tremble forever before her creaking plates once more heaved up for air. Then it was down again, rolling and pitching until her master feared the cargo might shift. The Pride of Dakar carried Liberian registry, but the crew was totally Israeli, unusual for one of the most ill-fitted rust buckets to ply the seas.

  The mate and a young crewmen burst through the bridge hatchway, then both threw their weight against it to get it closed against the howling sea. "Captain, there's no problem in the hold," the mate reported. "One crate had gotten loose, but Sam and I got it lashed down. Everything else is secure." He cast a hard glance toward the young seaman named Sam.

  Actually, Sam was not a seaman at all, but a college student out for a vacation lark. His father, who was a member of parliament, had pulled strings to get him on the vessel just hours before it departed from Tel Aviv-Yafo. The young man seemed highly excited.

  "Very good," Captain Silverman said, almost shouting over the gale creaking and twisting the Pride of Dakar. "Why don't you get some coffee?"

  "There's something else, Captain," Sam said almost breathlessly.

  "Yes," Meir Jacobson, the mate, put in. "Young Sam here thought he saw something down below."

  The captain was suddenly alert. He glanced at the helmsman, who had his eyes riveted on the swirling storm, then fixed Sam with a steady gaze. "What is it?"

  "It's not farm equipment and refrigerators," the young man blurted out. "There's some sort of military hardware in the cargo that's not on the manifest! My father told me exactly what the ship was carrying before we left Tel Aviv. We may be carrying contraband." The young man was beaming with excitement. He had discovered some sort of mystery at sea on his very first trip. Up until this time the trip had been a colossal bore to him.

  The captain felt his heart sink. The youthful Sam was the only one on board not in on the secret of the cargo. He was the only one not a member of the small assortment of right-wing individuals who had joined forces to take desperate action to expand Israeli territory, rebuild the third temple as a spin off, and insure Israel's position as a world leader. Long ago a few of these men had entered into a pact with a small group of Japanese fanatics still smarting from the defeat in WWII. The Japanese had sought them out as natural allies in a scheme to marry the technologies of the two nations while taking advantage of the devious and secret ways of Japan's political structure.

  Captain Silverman attempted to stall. "How can you be sure of this?"

  "A crate was broken. I put my flashlight inside. Military hardware. Military markings, I think nuclear. Not refrigerators and certainly not farm equipment. We should radio at once and ask for orders!"

  The captain forced a smile. How could the mate have permitted the boy among the crates? One small glitch and now this smart-ass kid wants to radio for help. "I am the captain and I will take appropriate action," he assured the boy.

  "But, Sir," Sam sputtered, "I'm telling you what I saw, what I know. Someone has smuggled something aboard, something that could be very dangerous. Who's it for?"

  "What you say is correct," the captain continued. "But there is time. When the storm subsides in a few hours I'll go into the hold myself and check the cargo. Then if something is awry, I'll make a full report. We're all Israeli here. We're all loyal to our government. But naturally, what you've seen must be carefully verified. Then we'll use the radio."

  "Of course," Sam agreed. "I am a little excited. The entire crew is Israeli, isn't it? There's not a foreigner among us. Except maybe Maury Bennett. I think he's an American."

  "There are many American Israelis. Take the prime minister," Meir said.

  The captain nodded and smiled, which caused the mate to smile. Both men had been upset when they had been forced to take the boy on board. To turn down a simple request from a member of parliament would have aroused suspicion.

  "Why don't you try to get some sleep, Sam," the mate said. "We'll wake you when the storm's over. You'll want to show the captain what you found." The boy grinned happily and went off to his bunk.

  When he was gone, Meir Jacobsen said, "I'm sorry, Captain. He followed me into the hold. He was curious."

  "Curiosity killed the cat," the captain said into the mate's ear. He had little fear of being overheard by the helmsman. The entire crew would agree the boy had to die. Oddly enough it had been almost a foregone conclusion. Sooner or later the boy would have learned of their mission and he would either be converted, or executed. Then it was not like the old days when the ship's radio was the only method of communication. Now there were other ways in the hands of the many.

  The captain made his way to the radio room where he told the operator. "A problem, Sparks, no messages from anyone until I give the orders."

  Sam, holding to bulkheads and railings on the heaving ship, made his way to the crew quarters. He touched the hand of his bunkmate, Nat Lowe, and said in a hoarse whisper over the noise of the vessel, "I may have found someone's secret. Something really big. The ship may be carrying contraband."

  Nat came fully awake and sat bolt upright. "Did you tell anybody?" The question carried an intensity that surprised Sam. Nat was generally totally kicked back.

  "Yes, silly. I told the captain. And Meir Jacobson was with me when I found these crates in the hold. One was broken open."

  "Oh," Nat said, suddenly depressed. The light was too dim for Sam to see the scowl on his lover's
face.

  Sam removed his outer clothing and clambered into his bunk. The trip was becoming more interesting. He had resisted when his father first mentioned signing on a merchant ship. His father had tried every way he knew to get the boy away from his computer and out into God's own sunshine. But then there had been a change. Sam had insisted on signing on the Pride of Dakar, an aging vessel that carried a mixed cargo for the Orient. Sam smiled with delighted satisfaction as he drifted off to sleep. Here he was living an adventure on the high seas. And more than that, anytime he wanted he could reach out and touch his lover and no one would be the wiser.

  CHAPTER 15: Watanabe Takes a Trip

  To find out what was happening at the Tsugaru Strait, Watanabe decided to visit the Strait. He drove alone. Nana was busy with schoolwork. After two days in a matchbox-sized hotel room in Aomori, a cheerless city with the usual noodle shops, sushi restaurants, and the occasional Kentucky Fried Chicken or McDonald's, he drove into the countryside and decided to spend time at the typical Japanese inn, a ryokan, with its usually talkative landlord.

  During the day he visited temples and shrines as a tourist might. The temples were Buddhist and the shrines Shinto, the native religion. With Japanese pragmatism about mixing religion, the temples often included a Shinto shrine, frequently dedicated to the fox god.

  Sometimes Watanabe would walk along the shore, at every opportunity attempting to draw the natives into conversation about the Seikan tunnel. The undersea tunnel seemed the logical place to start. It was the only point of activity on the otherwise farming-fishing-timber area that bordered the Strait. It had been the only thing to disrupt the sleepy humdrum of Japanese life in the area.

  The Seikan tunnel had cost billions upon billions of yen. The official cost was pegged at 700 billion yen, but many believed that was a low figure. A geological survey was done in 1946; work actually started in 1964. Grand opening for the tunnel, which links the large island of Honshu with the northern island of Hokkaido, was March 13, 1988. Its length, 33.1 miles, made it the longest railroad tunnel in Japan, excluding subways.

  The tunnel was meant to replace regular ferry service that dated from 1908 between the two islands. It replaced the service, but by the time it opened, air travel had become so popular that there were suggestions that the tunnel be sealed off, or used for a giant mushroom farm. There were those within government who fought a winning battle for its preservation. A penalty in human life was made to construct the tunnel. Officially, thirty-three workers died, but there were persistent rumors that the toll was substantially higher.

  The old shopworn stories about the tunnel that had sprouted over its years of construction were rehashed for Watanabe. What surprised him was the fact that some of the people who should know quite a lot about the tunnel seemed close-mouthed. They seemed more eager to talk about anything else when the subject of the tunnel was brought up. The detective felt there was something there, but he couldn't get a grip on it.

  Frustrated, Watanabe packed his small bag and walked into the kitchen of the ryokan to settle his bill. He was wearing comfortable sandals, cotton trousers and a blue and green sports shirt, befitting a tourist. There were only two guest rooms in the small inn that commanded a fine view of the strait. "This is a peaceful place," Watanabe said to the innkeeper-housewife, who hurried to serve him green tea.

  "Thank you," Watanabe-san. "It is peaceful on this day, but it is not always so. The waters of the strait are dangerous."

  "Yes, I suppose. I read where some scuba divers drowned not long ago."

  "Death is no stranger to these waters. Our only son was one of the victims. It was a blow to both of us, of course. But my husband has never really been the same since. The boy was the gem of his life."

  Watanabe sipped his tea and wondered how long ago the boy had drowned. The woman was not young. "He fell into the water as a child?" Watanabe questioned.

  "No, nothing like that. He was an adult, almost thirty and soon to be married. Jiro was a skilled engineer."

  "I'm sorry," Watanabe said. "Was he drowned?"

  "No. Not drowned. Few of the men who died were drowned. We don't know exactly how Jiro was killed. Some puzzling things happened in the tunnel. We were well compensated for his death. They were not stingy."

  "But weren't you anxious to learn the details of where and when he died? And how?"

  "I was," the woman said seriously. "But my husband told me not to ask foolish questions. Jiro is gone and there's an end to it. But there wasn't an end to it for my husband. He took to the sake cup and is seldom sober. Before that accident my husband was a hard worker."

  "I've been here two days. I don't believe I've seen your husband," Watanabe said.

  "He's been visiting his sister in the next village. But he'll be back this afternoon." The women shook her head in sadness. "And if you are here, you'll see him. He asks everyone who stops to drink with him. But I suppose you'll be going."

  "No," Watanabe said quickly. "My doctor told me to rest and this is a fine place for it. I will stay at least another day."

  "Huh," the woman said cheerfully. "You look young and healthy to me. Why should one so young need rest?"

  "Big city life is fast paced. And one must listen to a doctor. They are trained to protect us."

  "Perhaps. And I notice you are wearing sandals. Jiro was about your age when he died and I would scold him for the same lapse."

  Watanabe looked at his feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't wear these on tatami."

  "Let's hope your feet were bare in your tatami room. And you know we provide slippers for our guests."

  "I'm sorry, Mother."

  She beamed and said, "There is miso and rice for breakfast."

  During the morning Watanabe found a pay phone and called Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata. He asked the old battler to find out the details of the death of Jiro Ikeda who died during the construction of the Seikan tunnel. He said he would call back for the information by late afternoon. After that he visited a sake shop and bought a liter of first class sake. Tonight would be party time at the ryokan.

  Returning to the ryokan after making his second call to his boss, Watanabe had no difficulty befriending Ikeda-san. It was just after five and the innkeeper had already had a drink or two judging by his breath. "My wife tells me you are here for your health, Watanabe-san."

  "My doctor has told me to rest. This is a very peaceful place. You can't imagine how crowded and noisy Osaka can be."

  "A drop of sake will help relax you. Come in and have a drink with me."

  "It would be a pleasure," Watanabe said, then followed the man into the house, expecting to go to the kitchen. Instead he was led to a small tatami room that contained only a low table and a wooden cabinet.

  Ikeda got sake cups and a bottle from the cabinet and placed them on the table. "This room is off limits to my wife," the man chuckled. "She is not one for drinking, but she is a good wife. An obedient wife." He filled the cups and they said "Kampai," then downed the liquid, the only true Japanese drink. Watanabe savored the aromatic taste. It crossed his mind that he could become very fond, too fond, of this evening ritual.

  They talked of fishing, about vacations at the shore, about the higher meaning of Mount Fuji, about anything that came up except the Seikan tunnel. He must get the older man talking about the tunnel while the older man was still able to talk.

  After more than an hour the detective went to his room and returned with the fresh bottle of sake. "My turn to treat," he laughed. The innkeeper was tomato faced, and Watanabe could feel his own face growing warm. He poured them each some sake and said it was remarkable that the Japanese people had been able to construct something like the Seikan tunnel, the longest in the world! And it was not just one tunnel, but there were auxiliary tunnels for escape and other purposes.

  He had picked the right moment. Ikeda went through the entire story of the tunnel. He had lived in this house since he was a child and remembered the first geologica
l survey team who visited the area during the difficult times after the war. Finally, he talked about his son, Jiro, and the immense loss he felt, and still felt. And what great work Jiro had been involved in and what a great future Jiro would have had if he had lived. Then he fell silent.

  Watanabe refilled their cups. The second phone call to Shibata had brought him the information that there was no record of Jiro Ikeda having been a fatality while working on the tunnel. He urged more sake on the older man. Watanabe picked his words carefully. "Your son was more than just a tunnel engineer, wasn't he?"

  Ikeda nodded assent, then asked, "How did you know?"

  "I have friends who worked on the tunnel. I know that some things are not as they seem."

  "It's good to talk to someone who knows," Ikeda said. "My wife suspected something. I had to order her silence. She doesn't know, no one could guess, how the wrong word to the wrong person could destroy the plan." The elder Ikeda had to fight back tears when he said, "No one knows what a great hero my son really was. They think he was just another victim of some sort of construction accident. But he was with them, he was with the Fuurin Kazan. And you know what that is. You are the first one who has dropped such a hint. Did you know my son?"

  "No, but I have been told that he was a brave man." Watanabe poured more sake and tried to think what to say next. He did know Fuurin Kazan. He had not missed that much of Japanese history. The four kanji, or ideograms - the symbols the Chinese use for writing that have been used by the Japanese for many years - had been joined by a Chinese tactician named Sonshi who was thought to have been born in the fifth century B.C. In the mid fifteen hundreds, also called Japan's warlike age, a Japanese warlord, Shingen Takeda, revived the four kanji on his battle flag.

  The ideograms, or kanji, that compose Fuurin Kazan mean, wind, forest, fire and mountain. Soldiers under that banner were said to have been swift as the wind, as silent as the forest, fierce in their attack as fire, and could stand like a mountain against their enemies.