The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  “Yoshida is the Yami Shogun of the Ryujin-kai. The dark master.”

  “Do you know where Yoshida is located?”

  “No, not exactly. No one does,” Abo said. “He is somewhere in the—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, there was the sound of a gunshot and Abo’s head jerked back violently. Blood splattered against a post behind him.

  Bond and Reiko instinctively ducked and turned to see Noburo Ichihara fifteen feet away, holding what appeared to be a Heckler &Koch VP70. He fired again and the bullets sliced the air over Bond’s head.

  Years of training prevented both Bond and Reiko from being killed. Reiko rolled to the side and took hold of the single front tyre on Abo’s truck. Using that for leverage, she performed a neat flip over to the other side of the vehicle. Bond spun the opposite way and positioned himself behind a thick concrete post. But by that time, Ichihara had run.

  Bond drew the Walther and shot in the assailant’s direction. The bullet missed, ricocheting off the back fender on a forklift. Ichihara ran straight into the vendor area of the fish market.

  Bond leapt to his feet and chased him, shouting for civilians to get out of the way. Reiko had to take a moment to catch her breath before she could get up. She thought that she might have twisted her body badly when she had performed that manoeuvre, for there was a burning pain in her side.

  There were too many people about for Bond to shoot again. It was just too risky. He managed to holster the gun as he ran, jumping over a dolly full of tuna.

  Ichihara turned and fired in Bond’s direction. A woman screamed from behind a food stall. Workers jumped back and tried to avoid the hoodlum, but he ran right into a big stallholder. The men collided with a crash and fell. Ichihara’s pistol slid across the concrete and under a table laden with shellfish. Bond ran and leaped to tackle Ichihara before he could get up. The two men crashed into the table, knocking the slippery raw fish to the floor. Ichihara grabbed a handful of sea scallops and thrust them into Bond’s face as they wrestled in front of stunned onlookers. Reiko caught up to the scene just as Ichihara kicked Bond off of him and got to his feet. The killer seized a hook from a frightened worker. He turned to Bond and swung it quickly, back and forth. The hook whistled as it cut through the space in front of him. Bond dodged it repeatedly in the confined space between rows of tables. Ichihara advanced, coming closer to Bond until Reiko picked up a ten-pound octopus and flung it at the attacker. The wet, slippery invertebrate slapped Ichihara in the face and chest, taking him by surprise. He ripped it off his body, threw it at Bond, and turned to run again.

  “Are you all right?” Reiko asked Bond, helping him pull off the slimy creature.

  “Yes!” Bond spat. He started to take off in pursuit again when he noticed the blood on Reiko’s blouse. She followed his eyes, looked down and saw that her side and stomach were soaked in blood.

  “Oh!” she gasped, completely unaware that she was injured. She panicked as she pulled up her blouse. Bond’s hands went to her abdomen, assessing the damage.

  “You’re not hit badly,” he said. “The bullet grazed your side.”

  “I didn’t feel it when it happened, James-san! Now it hurts like hell,” she gasped.

  “Stay here. You have your mobile?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call Tiger and he’ll get an ambulance faster than anyone. Do it now! I’m going to catch a fish.”

  Bond kissed her on the forehead, then gave chase.

  Outside the fish market, Ichihara ran onto busy Chuo Ichiba. Horns blared as several cars screeched to a halt to avoid hitting the thug. A taxicab barely stopped in time but still collided with him. Ichihara fell over the car’s bonnet and rolled over to the other side. He landed on his feet and continued running towards the Ginza with Bond not far behind.

  Ichihara sped onto Showa Dori Street, a boulevard full of highpriced shops and restaurants. The killer ran past a huge crowd of waiting theatregoers queuing in front of the Kabukiza Theatre and then disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Bond had no choice but to follow him.

  TEN

  KABUKI MATINEE

  BOND SPRINTED DOWN THE SIDE STREET AND SAW THAT ICHIHARA HAD ducked into the theatre’s employee entrance. He acknowledged this smart move with a muttered oath. No gaijin could simply walk into the stage door of Japan’s most famous kabuki theatre.

  He peered in the open doorway and saw a foyer lined with pigeonholes for storing shoes. Slots were designated for every theatre employee and most of them were full. An elderly man who sat on a chair beside the shoe shelves appeared agitated. Apparently his job was to help employees with their shoes as they came in, but it was obvious that the last person who had come through had upset him. The corridor went past the man through double doors and into the backstage areas of the building.

  Bond acted quickly. He walked in, kicked off his shoes and stepped up to the caretaker. The old man looked up at him, confused.

  “Konnichi wa,” Bond said as he put his feet in a pair of slippers that were sitting on the platform. Then he walked purposefully through the double doors before the aide could stop him.

  The corridor was empty. Bond moved forward into an area full of bulletin boards that displayed call sheets and other information for the employees. The administrative offices were here, apparently, so Bond walked quickly past them. The last thing he needed was someone authoritative to confront him.

  He went around a corner and found a door with a half curtain hanging over it. Bond carefully inched an edge of the curtain to the side and looked in.

  It was a costume room. Men sitting on tatami mats were working with the fabrics. Traditional kabuki costumes hung on racks behind them.

  Bond went on and into a corridor that contained the actors’ dressing rooms. Each of the star actors had his own room, with his name written on the curtain over the doorway. Bond peered into each one, finding some actors meditating in costume or in the act of dressing; some of the rooms were empty. No sign of Ichihara.

  Bond wasn’t very familiar with kabuki. He did know that it was a traditional form of Japanese theatre, like Noh and Kyogen. It was noted for its stylised acting, gorgeous period costumes, beautiful scenery and stories on an epic scale. He knew that the actors were all male, even the ones playing female roles, and that the famous ones were descendants of the original kabuki acting families. Best not to bother any of them.

  He left the dressing room area and moved along the main corridor until he came to a stairwell. He took the steps two at a time to the second floor, where he saw Ichihara creeping along and looking for a place to hide. Their eyes met. The killer froze in shock but after a second, he darted down the hall, which opened on to a metal fire escape. Bond dashed after him, kicking off the slippers as he went.

  Ichihara clambered up the fire escape and into the third-floor entrance. Bond looked down briefly and saw that the metal stairs hung over the stage door by which he had first come in at street level. He climbed the stairs and entered the building again.

  The hallway on the third floor was full of people—actors, stagehands and other staff. The dressing rooms for the supporting actors and musicians were up here, as well as other technical offices. One man shouted at Bond, commanding him to halt. Bond drew his Walther and ran past, ignoring him. His presence must have been imposing enough to quiet the man.

  Bond looked into a room and found more technicians sitting on tatami and making wigs. Ichihara was standing inside the archway and surprised Bond with a series of lightning-fast tsuki blows, which made Bond drop his weapon and retreat as Ichihara jumped into the hall, swinging and kicking with great speed. Bond fell back into a wheeled rack of costumes. Ichihara turned and ran.

  Bond looked frantically for his Walther, didn’t see it, and decided to continue the chase rather than waste time searching for it. He got up and pursued his prey down two flights of stairs back to the first floor. This stairway emptied into a quiet corridor wit
h a swinging door. Bond pushed through and found himself in the stage wings.

  The sound of a strange recitation flooded his ears. A shamisen’s strings were being plucked and the voice continued the eerie chanting that was typical of a kabuki performance.

  My God, the matinee had begun!

  Bond ignored the stagehands looking at him in confusion.

  Where had Ichihara gone?

  Bond swept around the black curtains at the side of the stage and sprinted behind the cyclorama that spread across the back of the scenery. He got a glimpse of the audience as he passed beside a small slit in the curtains. It was a full house. There were two actors on stage. One was the aragoto, the type of character known for the style of acting that expressed anger in a highly stylised manner. This character was usually tragically sent to the next world to become a supernatural being and returned to this world for revenge. His makeup was fierce and demonic.

  The other man was the oyama, the actor who played a woman. His appearance was totally convincing; his costume and makeup were elaborate and breathtakingly beautiful, which added to the illusion that he was a female.

  Both actors were seated on the stage and speaking in a slow, flowing language that Bond couldn’t understand at all.

  He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone moved between the curtains on the other side of the stage. Bond looked across the scenery from stage left to stage right and saw Ichihara. Bond turned to scan the area around him and found a prop table upon which sat a large odachi, a samurai broadsword more than two metres long. Bond took it and began to move behind the cyclorama again to the other side of the stage.

  Ichihara met him halfway. He was holding another type of samurai sword called a katana.

  Bond wondered if the stage props would be sharpened. Even if they weren’t, the tips could certainly pierce a body.

  Ichihara swung the sword in a long arc, slicing the air in front of Bond. Bond dodged, drew his own sword and dropped the sheath. The two men engaged in quiet, but deadly, combat while the kabuki play continued, the performers oblivious to what was happening behind the scenery.

  The bosozoku adopted a traditional and common Chudan no kamae stance, holding the sword at middle height, pointed forward, while all Bond cared about was simply defending himself. The weapons clashed, this time making some noise. The sound of scraping metal carried through the house, but neither the audience nor the actors knew what it was. The two men continued to spar and parry, inching their way back through a large opening that led to the scene shop. Carpenters and painters stopped what they were doing and stared in disbelief.

  The fight continued, now noisier than before. Ichihara shouted a kiai when he struck at Bond, a tactic used to frighten opponents and focus energy. The metal clanged. Several of the spectators implored them to stop. One said that he was calling the police.

  Bond went on the offensive, moved forward, and swung his sword back and forth. The blade was heavier than it looked, and Bond was merely adequate at the skill. He had taken two kendo classes and one basic training session in kenjutsu, but lacked the years of practice of a professional.

  Luckily, Ichihara was not much better. He, too, was an amateur who knew only a few moves. He was reckless and didn’t have the discipline or stamina to be effective. Instead, he swung the sword with abandon, hitting whatever objects were in his way.

  Bond backed him to a staircase that descended to the basement level. Ichihara lost his balance and fell, rolling down the steps as he went. Bond followed him down, but Ichihara got up and ran beneath the stage. Before Bond could stop him, the killer had jumped onto the seri, a platform that could be raised and lowered from below the stage to make actors appear and disappear. Ichihara flipped the switch and the platform began to rise. A trap door on the stage floor opened as the killer rose up into the unfolding drama on display in front of the audience.

  People gasped and shouted at Ichihara. The actors froze, not sure what they should do. Stagehands immediately ran out onto the stage to apprehend the intruder, but Ichihara jumped away and ran down the hanamichi, the ramp extending through the audience along the aisle from the stage to the rear of the theatre. Actors often used this area of the stage for intimate rapport with the spectators. Several women screamed as the killer hurried to the back of the house and theatre staff pursued him. Ichihara turned and swung the sword, holding them at bay. Then he burst through the auditorium doors and into the lobby.

  Police sirens were wailing in the distance. Bond was about to run to the stage as well, but several stagehands blocked his way. They were understandably angry and were shouting at him to drop the sword. He realised that there was no eloquent way out of this one, so he dropped the sword and tried to explain that he was a law enforcement officer.

  Ichihara, on the other hand, escaped out of the front doors of the theatre and disappeared into the throng of pedestrians.

  Reiko had alerted Tanaka when Bond left her. Tanaka had traced Bond to the theatre with the homing device in Bond’s mobile and was able to get through to the police and issue instructions before Bond was put through the humiliation of a ride to the police station. A police sergeant found Bond’s Walther PPK amidst the spilled costumes in one of the hallways, grilled him for three hours in the theatre administrative offices and finally released him as the sun was on its way down.

  Bond used his phone after he got to the street.

  Tiger’s voice came through loud and clear. “Bondo-san? Are you all right?”

  “Fine, but it’s been a bloody wasteful day,” Bond said. “How’s Reiko-san?”

  “She will be all right,” Tiger replied. “She had to have a few stitches. She has been released and ordered to rest for a day or two. She will be back on the job in no time.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. What’s the score with Noburo Ichihara?”

  “We are looking for him. We have tried all of his usual haunts but he seems to have disappeared. It’s not surprising. I suggest you go back to your hotel and call it a night. There is one other bit of news. The CureLab board of directors was in an emergency meeting all day today. Many of them left at the end of the day in disgust. I predict that some kind of announcement about the company will appear in the papers very soon.”

  “Have you tried calling Shinji Fujimoto and asking him what went on?”

  “Yes, but there was no answer.”

  “Then I will sign off, grab a bite to eat, and go back to the Imperial. Good night, Tiger.”

  “Good night, Bondo-san. I will contact you first thing in the morning.”

  Bond rang off and started walking through the Ginza towards the Imperial. The neon had already fired up and the area was a gridlock of traffic and pedestrians. Not surprising, since this was one of the more fashionable and expensive areas of the city. There were couples dressed up for the evening, walking quickly to make their dinner appointments; salarymen and office ladies on their way home or to the local bar; and at least a handful of ad hoc product give-away booths set up where pretty young girls dressed in short skirts handed out samples of the latest perfume, soap or deodorant. These were always accompanied by banners or placards displaying the company’s logo and mascot that was almost invariably a much-too-cute cartoon animal with large eyes.

  Bond stopped at a noodle shop and had a quick bowl of udon, then continued walking to the hotel.

  “Mister Bond?” a voice said in English.

  Speak of the devil … ! Bond turned to see Shinji Fujimoto sitting in the passenger side of a Toyota Celsior that had pulled over to the curb. A young man was in the driver’s seat.

  “Konban wa,” Bond said, bowing slightly.

  “Good evening to you, too. I thought I recognised you walking down the street. May I offer you a lift?”

  Bond’s internal radar flashed a warning. “Thank you, but it’s not much further. I prefer to walk.”

  “Actually, I’m glad I saw you. I have something I would like you to see. It concerns my
great niece, Mayumi.”

  Bond was wary, but he decided to hear what the man had to say.

  “What is it?”

  “It is at my office. It’s not far. Won’t you get in? You haven’t seen the CureLab headquarters yet, have you?”

  Why not? Bond thought. Now was as good a time as any. He opened the door to the back seat and got in.

  “I am hoping you can interpret the message I received. It is from Mayumi but I am not sure I understand what she says,” Fujimoto said.

  “Why would I?” Bond asked.

  “It’s written in English!”

  The car drove a few blocks into the Ginza as Fujimoto spoke rapidly into his mobile phone, then the driver stopped in front of a twenty-four-storey building. Fujimoto got out and issued some instructions to the driver.

  “This is it, Mister Bond,” Fujimoto said, opening the back door. Bond got out and stood on the pavement with him.

  “Our offices are on floors eighteen and nineteen. Come with me. I imagine the building is fairly quiet this time of night.”

  Bond followed him through the front door and into a lobby where a security guard acknowledged Fujimoto and greeted him.

  “He’s with me,” Fujimoto said, indicating Bond. The guard bowed.

  They got into a lift and Fujimoto pressed the button for floor 19.

  “I might as well see Peter McMahon’s office while I’m here,” Bond suggested.

  “Good idea,” Fujimoto replied.

  The lift arrived and Fujimoto gestured for Bond to exit. “Please, after you.”

  It was an ultra-modern building, very high tech and designed in a pseudo-futuristic decor that seemed to be popular with sophisticated Japanese corporations. The walls lining the corridor were a shiny stainless steel and the carpet was plush. There was an antiseptic quality to the place that reminded Bond of the infirmary at MI6.

  Closed steel double doors stood at the end of the hallway. An engraved sign read “CureLab Inc.” in both English and katakana. Fujimoto took a key card out of his pocket and swiped it through the slot in the wall. The doors slid open with a soft hum. They stepped into a thoroughly modern reception area with a space-age design scheme. Fujimoto swiped his card again and another set of doors slid open.