The Seventh Samurai

by Doug Walker

  Watanabe bowed and gave his name and position. The men rose, bowed slightly to indicate the smallest degree of respect and introduced themselves as Yamada-san and Nawata-san, both special agents from the finance minister's office in Tokyo.

  "We are sorry to sweep down upon you with such haste, Watanabe-san, but we have learned of your press conference on a matter of, did you say, 'national scandal?'"

  "I did, Yamada-san, but only possible. The fact is, I myself am searching for information. I simply want to bring some facts to light for public consideration. Possibly someone will come forward, someone who knows more than I do."

  "Of course," Yamada replied. "And this package that you carry, these are the press releases?"

  "Yes, I plan to go from here to the Nikko Hotel."

  "If I may cite higher authority, Watanabe-san. The finance minister's office is deeply concerned over this announcement. So many matters of national scandal involve money. Is it not true?" Yamada was polite to the point of oiliness.

  "Of course. My information is available to all. That's the point."

  "But improperly released information, rumors if you will, could harm Japan's national posture. Our recent history is not as clean as we might like it. To add a shovel of needless dirt is something I'm certain all responsible citizens would hope to avoid."

  "Of course, Yamada-san, I'm acting in what I see to be the best interest of Japan. I always have and always will." Watanabe sensed these men were here to block him, but in what way he did not know. They were nose to nose and out in the open and they did seem to speak with the authority of the finance minister, certainly a national power broker. "What is it you want?"

  "We would like you to come to Tokyo and speak with the finance minister. Then, if it seems suitable, your announcement can be made from there. It would only delay the announcement a few hours. Our helicopter is waiting. We go to the airport, we fly to Tokyo, another helicopter, then have you back here in time for dinner. We in Tokyo know how you Osakans love food," the man joked. "Isn't it said that you would bankrupt yourself for a good meal?"

  "That's the old saying," Watanabe agreed. He could have added the companion piece: Fights and fires are the flower of Tokyo.

  Shibata beamed from behind his desk. He was enjoying the entire confrontation. "But I have already invited the press to the Osaka Nikko at 2 p.m. There is little time."

  "We have taken the initiative and cancelled the conference at the finance minister's request. If anyone misses the new notice we will have a person at the Nikko to explain." He then turned to Shibata. "Superintendent Supervisor, I hope you won't object to coming to Tokyo with us also?"

  "I wouldn't miss it for the world," the old man said, rising from behind his desk. Watanabe felt the two had little choice. He suspected that both of the special agents were armed and suspected that there might be others nearby. This was no casual invitation.

  True to their word, the quartet arrived in Tokyo by mid-afternoon, although Watanabe suspected they wouldn't be back in Osaka for dinner, hungry enough for bankruptcy or not.

  They were escorted immediately to the offices of the finance minister himself, Akira Yoshimoto. Only one special agent, the spokesman Hiroaki Yamada accompanied Watanabe and Shibata into the grand office. Introductions were made all around, and a lovely young lady served green tea and small sweets on exquisite porcelain plates, then withdrew without a word.

  There was silence as they sipped, waiting for Yoshimoto to begin the conversation. Finally, he addressed Watanabe directly. "Detective Watanabe, please tell me what you have uncovered that might lead our small island nation into yet another national scandal?"

  Watanabe went over the case point by point as well as passing one of the press releases to the minister. Yoshimoto was about to say something when there was a sharp rap on the door, quickly followed by the door opening.

  A well-dressed older woman stepped into the room, bowed slightly, too slightly for a woman, and took a seat. "This is my cousin and sometime advisor, Suzuki-san. She is a long-time government executive and highly regarded. She asked to sit in and I saw no reason to bar her." All the visitors made a slight bow in her direction.

  Kyoko Suzuki made a quick study of the faces of Watanabe and Shibata, then cast a disturbing look at Yoshimoto. "Where is the woman?"

  "The western woman?" Yoshimoto said flippantly. "Who cares?" His polite air dwindled.

  "I care," Suzuki snapped. "Where is she?" she demanded of special agent Yamada.

  He attempted to force a smile. "Probably you are speaking of Watanabe-san's girlfriend, a gaijin woman. I'm sure she's in Osaka, or that area. He communicated with her when we reached the airport. She is only a girlfriend, Suzuki-san."

  Suzuki, her face fierce with anger, almost rose from her seat. "He communicated? In what way?" she demanded.

  Yoshimoto, behind his desk, looked plainly troubled. One of the fish had escaped the net and it was his lack of emphasis that was to blame.

  Watanabe was certain now he had made the right decision in wrangling the call to Nana. These people, these high government officials, had no intention of letting him, or his boss, return to Osaka. But how? And why? Watanabe listened in fascination. He glanced at Shibata. The old man had instantly grasped the situation and his face was serene, but his eyes danced with glee. Everyone in the room was a player in a high-stakes game.

  "Watanabe-san simply said he had a dinner date in Osaka and would make a call and cancel it," Yamada said quietly.

  "And you let him?" Suzuki burned.

  "Of course. It seemed only polite."

  "Tell me about the call. You overheard it, of course."

  "I did. I was standing next to him. He used a credit card and a pre-dial card, one of those newer phones. I was surprised he lacked a cell phone. Of course I couldn't see the number."

  "What did he say, Yamada-san?" The woman was becoming impatient.

  "Unfortunately, he spoke rapid-fire English. Full speed, or faster." He glanced at Watanabe. "He speaks like a native."

  "But you speak English. You spent years in the States."

  "Yes, but not as good as he. I did tape the conversation and slow it down while we were waiting for an elevator. He said, "I've been detained, let 'em go."

  "That was all?"

  "Yes, yes, except he started by stating his name. I've been detained merely means he's been held up, or delayed. Just as he said."

  Suzuki had spent years studying English and attempting to build up a vocabulary. One of her interests had been the fine meanings of words that made up the language she had studied, but had difficulty speaking. "Can't detained mean something similar to arrested?" she asked.

  "Uh," Yamada stammered, "it's possible. Police do detain criminals. But it's common the other way, too."

  The angry woman turned to Watanabe. "And what does detained mean to you, Watanabe-san?"

  "Delayed. I'm sorry if the call upset you."

  "I am not upset. I just like a clear view of things. What did the 'let 'em go' part of the conversation mean?"

  "Well, first," Watanabe began, "I'd like you to know that I'm acting as a private citizen. I'm on leave of absence. So this has nothing to do with the Superintendent Supervisor, or the department. I did gather certain information and, on reflection, in flying here from Osaka with your two persuasive special agents - let me say they are most polite - I decided to release the press releases to the press. They should be in the hands of the press at this moment."

  Suzuki assumed an aloof look. "In what way have they been released?"

  "Fax, telex, the internet and Fed Ex for the foreign press not stationed in Japan."

  "You've released this information internationally?" Yoshimoto shouted.

  "I'm certain it will harm no one, but merely bring us additional clues," Watanabe replied. A nerve had been struck.

  Yoshimoto was about to retort angrily when Suzuki walked to his desk in a calming manner. "Just what information does Watanabe-san's pres
s release contain?" she asked.

  "Well," Yoshimoto regained composure. It looks childish on the surface. Something about some club, or organization called the Fuurin Kazan supposedly headed by some idiot who calls himself the Seventh Samurai. It's nothing to get excited about."

  "I see that now," Suzuki said, holding the press release. "I'm afraid we made a mistake. We got the twisted report that you two, plus the girlfriend, might be doing something to harm the government. You know how rumors get mixed up from mouth to mouth. You'll excuse my intemperate outburst. But when the government of Japan is in peril, I'm a patriot."

  "Yes, as I am," Watanabe said, pretending to buy her lame excuse. It had been an awkward moment. "I'm sorry if we caused you any trouble."

  "There was no trouble," Yoshimoto assured the two, diffusing the tension with an upbeat smile. "In fact, my office will personally take this matter under investigation, although I doubt that much will come of it. As I've said before, much of the recent scandal in Japan is linked to money, which happens to fall into my domain. But this first disclosure of such an organization and such a man, without substantiation, would only seem a barroom story. But we will get to the bottom of it."

  Shibata, who had remained silent, couldn't resist putting in a word. "Many years ago, Yoshimoto-san, I heard of this organization and of this Seventh Samurai. I was told by a high-ranking member of my department that it indeed might exist, but if it did, it existed for patriotic purposes that were above suspicion. I followed his advice and kept my mouth shut at that time. Now we are not certain what purpose, or course, this organization might take, but there is a suspicion of murder. Murder is against the law and falls into my domain. What I hadn't revealed before is this. At the same time I also heard that there was a woman also involved at the top of Fuurin Kazan. That this woman wielded some power, but was more in the background than the Seventh Samurai. This woman was known only as the Geisha. Perhaps that will aid in your investigation." Shibata watched the two with the calm eyes of a jungle cat.

  Yoshimoto seemed at a loss for words. Suzuki swallowed hard, but did not lose her composure. She froze, a smile on her lips, and said, "The stories our agents heard might parallel yours. That's why we had you come here, you see. This woman, the Geisha, could easily be Watanabe-san's girlfriend. It all seems to fit."

  "I doubt that," Shibata smiled. There was a saying for what Suzuki was doing: Pissing on one leg and wiping it off with the other. "Judging by the time I heard the story that would place her more in your age group, Suzuki-san." The old man was clearly enjoying himself. To trifle with power at this level was a heady business.

  "Come, let us not wear away the pleasant afternoon with dry talk of suspects and clues," Yoshimoto said, rising from his desk and becoming the political bon vivant. "There is beer, sake and whisky to drink. Followed by dinner. We will show you Kansai people that a good time can be had in Tokyo. Yes, we will detain the two of you for dinner and a few smiles! And perhaps the youthful Watanabe-san, away from home, can seek out a much more flesh-and-blood geisha than the one mentioned earlier."

  CHAPTER 20: The Raft

  The first two days on the raft were like a dream. The weather was fine and they hoisted the sail and moved slowly northward in search of a landfall that Nat knew was well over two-hundred miles distant, possibly more. The skies were clear and there were stormy petrels and frigate birds. Whence they came was a puzzle, but Nat knew they must steer north rather than dart off searching hither and yon. Large blue fish that neither could identify seemed determined to follow the raft, sometimes bumping the bottom, as well as the occasional shark, circling darkly underneath, sometimes rising to within inches of the surface searching for some protrusion that might offer a bite.

  They came across a large sea turtle and managed to haul it into the raft, its flippers flailing wildly, beak snapping the air. Nat finished it with a knife slit through the tough throat muscles, then spent hours butchering it and cutting the meat into strips to be dried. The flesh tasted good. But there was no problem of food and water at that time. Nat had stowed enough extra in the raft, which was large enough for several more men. He had even thought to bring a bottle of brandy, which they sipped in the pleasant evenings. The sun was hot by day, and they rigged a cover for the small vessel. At night the stars were brilliant, often accompanied by a fresh and balmy breeze, punctuated by a random splash of a breaching fish.

  Nat knew hard times were on the way. They might tire to the point of exhaustion, or delirium. He took advantage of these early hours to talk earnestly with his young lover.

  "What we are doing, we are doing for Israel," he asserted. "I don't want you to join us, Sam, although you can if you want. What I want is your absolute assurance that you wont interfere."

  "Nat, what you're doing is wrong, but you're away from it now. My father will take care of you. You'll be rewarded. This is no time for Israel to start trouble in the world. We've already got bad press. We've been shooting Arabs in the occupied territories like it was a sport - like they're rabbits on the run."

  "It's not like that, Sam. Israel needs land, and nothing can stand in its way. I mean it's now or never. But we can't afford to take land crowded with Arabs. They outbreed us and they will continue to outbreed us until they're a majority in Israel itself. Time is not our friend. So, it's now or never. The Jews are victims and they always will be victims unless we do something and do it now. You see our allies are getting soft. The cold war ended long ago, the Iraqi thing is a mess, but it's only a diversion, there's a clamor for peace, American politicians want to use their money at home. We're going to be ignored and isolated and swallowed in an Arab sea. We must strike and strike now, don't you see!"

  "Well, we can't expect the Yanks to fund us forever. Why should we?"

  "That's just it. That's why we have to establish ourselves. For years American Jews have poured millions into political campaigns for congressmen, senators, the President and so forth. They say America has the best Congress money can buy. But the problem is, it won't stay bought. We've paid for it ten times over, and still men retire, new men come along, the Arabs make gains, people talk brotherhood. It just isn't a long-term solution. We are very few, our group, but we can make a difference, we can change the world now."

  "I'd like to know just what the plan is, Nat?" Sam asked this many times.

  Nat shook his head in the negative. "You know I won't tell you unless you pledge silence. I will say right-wing Christians in America, many of them celebrities, are staunch friends of Israel, and a few very wealthy ones have contributed to our group."

  "These people, they must be the ones called Christian Fascists, they know the details of the plan?" San questioned.

  Nat stifled a chuckle. "Not hardly. They know we are extremists, but they aren't in on our plans. Our plans do not make provisions for their welfare, although it might. There might be a few individuals we would try to protect. You see, only a very select group, myself not included, know all the provisions of our plan." Nat paused and looked at the sky. Clouds had formed to the south and west, the wind was freshening. Soon they would have to take in sail. "You realize, Sam, that Jewish immigration to Israel has fallen off while the number of Palestinians between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean is increasing. That's the reason for the pullout from Gaza. Breeding. You wouldn't remember our army invading Lebanon in the early 80s. Useless wheel-spinning."

  "But now we are on the path of peace. I have friends who want nothing more than peace and a good life."

  Nat sighed in exasperation. "My words mean little to you. We are lovers and I was hoping for some kind of lasting arrangement, something more permanent. You know how I feel about you."

  Sam was tiring of talk that he equated with some sort of marriage. "I'm twenty years younger than you, Nat," he almost whined. "I have things to do, places to visit, people to meet. I could even follow my father into the Knesset. I could be a power in Israel. It's unfair to ask me to tie myself down. But, don't
you see? My father will protect you. You can distance yourself from all this trouble, from that awful ship. We can have a good time together and still be fine friends. Hey, let's have some more brandy."

  So the conversation strayed back and forth, with Sam supporting the intifada and deploring Palestinian deaths, preaching peace and brotherhood, and Nat, the most hard-core of right-wingers, a member of the most hawkish secret militant group in Israel, backing a bold military move in partnership with an equally nationalistic, militant minority in Japan. Nat wondered if he should just shoot Sam and have it over with. Yet his emotions ran deep and he loved the boy. Through his early life he had been a loner, a dreary isolated existence. He continued to search for a solution.

  At dawn of the fourth day, cirrostratus clouds moved in and there was a sea change. They were due for a storm. Nat readied the raft as best he could, instructing Sam, then rigged a sea anchor.

  "Our job is survival and to reach land," the older man lectured. "The last thing we should expect is rescue. If we get to the shipping lanes, a ship could pass within three miles of us and never see us."

  "We have flares," Sam protested.

  "Doesn't matter," Nat went on. "This kind of survival is like playing golf, or tennis. The stroke is what counts, hitting the ball is just incidental to the stroke. Our stroke is to sail north to land. If during that time we are spotted and picked up, so be it. But we must plan for the long haul, to learn to survive on the surface of the sea in a small boat, to learn to survive like the petrels and the turtles and the fish under the sea, to exist in a new environment."

  "I want to be rescued," Sam said.

  "Another thing," Nat continued. "If we hit the shipping lanes, these large vessels, container ships, tankers, they don't keep much of a lookout. We could easily be run down. Maybe they travel 20 knots an hour. We can see from this low raft at the most seven nautical miles to the horizon. Let's just say that after a ship comes into our line of vision it would be upon us in 20 minutes. That would mean we would need to be constantly alert to avoid being run down."