The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  He could still hear her singing and the sound of the water running as he went into the other room, opened the fridge and removed the bottle of Ginjo sake that they had opened earlier in the day. He grabbed two glasses, turned and started to head back towards the bathroom when he noticed that the door to the suite was ajar.

  Bond’s senses became alive, activated to full alert.

  The front room of the suite was empty. The cupboards were closed. How and when did the door get opened?

  He set the bottle and glasses on the counter and crept to the door. When he peered into the corridor, he saw that the guard that had been posted outside was lying on the carpet in a pool of blood. From the severity of the wound on the man’s neck, Bond could see that whoever had done this had attempted to behead his victim.

  Bond shut the door, locked it, whirled around, and scanned the room again. Mayumi was still singing in the bathroom. Should he use the telephone on the desk? His mobile was in the bedroom.

  He had moved four steps into the room when the voice halted him.

  “Forget the telephone, Mister Bond. It cannot save you.”

  Goro Yoshida was standing in the open doorway of the large walkin wardrobe, the door of which had been closed earlier when Bond passed through the room. Yoshida was dressed in a kimono that included the montsuki hakama half-coat emblazoned with the wearer’s family crest of a dragon and a hakama, a culotte-like garment worn over the kimono. The edges of the hot red tattoo on his skin threatened to leap out of his clothing. He wore a magnificent katana sword at his side, along with the shorter, dagger-like wakizashi.

  Yoshida stepped into the room, followed by Yasutake Tsukamoto, who had been standing behind his friend and master. Tsukamoto was wearing ordinary clothes, which created a skewed contrast to the Yami Shogun, and he was pointing a Glock at Bond.

  Bond said, “Yoshida-san, I was wondering if you would turn up. Konban wa, Tsukamoto-san, it’s good to see you again.” Bond bowed, keeping his eyes glued to Yoshida’s.

  “Shall I get the girl?” Tsukamoto asked Yoshida.

  “Not yet,” Yoshida said. “By the time she is aware of our presence it will be too late. You can deal with her next.” He stepped forward and addressed Bond. “We are both men of action, Mister Bond. The great writer Yukio Mishima once said that ‘a man of action is destined to endure a long period of strain and concentration until the last moment when he completes his life by his final action: death.’ That moment has come for you, Mister Bond. I have risked my safety coming into the country like this and had it not been for the efforts of the Ryujin-kai I would not be here to personally see you destroyed.”

  He drew the sword and assumed a Gedan no kamae, the stance of holding the katana at middle height but with the tip dipped down, inviting the opponent to attack.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Yoshida, I don’t have my sword with me,” Bond said. He started to walk casually to the desk on the other side of the room, where he had left the gift Nakayama had given him.

  Keep calm! he willed himself. He concentrated on keeping levity in the situation to throw them off guard. “I was just about to pour some sake,” he said. “Would you like some?”

  “Stop where you are!” Yoshida lunged with a perfectly executed Morote uchi, a two-handed cut intended to slice deeply into a man’s trunk, but Bond’s agility saved him. He leaped forward and performed a forward roll on the floor. The sword nearly struck the carpet. As a trained swordsman, Yoshida did not allow the blade to swing past the intended point.

  Once he was on his feet, Bond’s momentum catapulted him to the desk. He grasped the scabbard and pulled it toward him as he fell to the floor.

  The sword came at him again with a swish! Bond rolled to the side and pushed himself to a standing position. Bond unsheathed his katana and tossed the scabbard behind him. He, too, smoothly adopted the more traditional stance, the Chudan no kamae.

  Yoshida pulled back and froze in a Haso no kamae, a stance in which the sword was held vertically, with the hands by the right shoulder. At first his face revealed surprise that Bond could arm himself so quickly but he slowly smiled and projected a powerful selfconfidence.

  “Very well,” Yoshida said with a glint in his eye. “You have shown your resourcefulness. Tsukamoto, put away the gun. Mister Bond and I shall fight honourably.”

  “No, Yoshida,” Tsukamoto said, lowering the gun but keeping it in his hand. “I will shoot him if I have to.”

  “You will not have to,” Yoshida said.

  What had he got himself into? Bond suddenly thought. Just as he had thought when he had faced Ichihara backstage at the kabuki theatre, Bond was not sure if he could best his opponent. He had gone through a short, inadequate course in kenjutsu during his general training. He knew a few basic moves but he was no match for Goro Yoshida, an experienced kenjutsu disciple. Bond feared that he didn’t stand a chance.

  The two men silently faced each other for an eternity. Yoshida stood like a statue, the smile never wavering. He exuded a calmness that was frightening. Bond could easily see how the man’s charisma had seduced an entire yakuza gang.

  Behind him, Tsukamoto sweated heavily.

  Yoshida was waiting. Bond remembered a maxim of Japanese swordfighting: that whoever attacked first, lost. The better swordsman almost never attacked first. Frantically, Bond attempted to recall everything his instructor had taught him, but there wasn’t much to draw upon. Bond did remember a technique called enzen no metsuke, or “gaze at the far mountains.” This was a way to watch an opponent so that you saw all of him simultaneously. It was not wise to concentrate on one part to the exclusion of another. This helped to avoid falling for a feint or move meant to distract or mislead.

  Bond reminded himself about breath control. That was one thing the instructor had drilled into them. One’s kokyu, the ability to manage one’s breath, was vital to maintaining control. By breathing deeply and slowly, a good swordsman fought against the body’s natural tendency to become agitated under the stress of combat.

  And then there was the most important concept of swordsmanship: zanshin. Awareness. Watchfulness. A “lingering heart.” Without zanshin, a swordsman could never hope to vanquish an opponent.

  It was Bond’s zanshin that saved his life. Keeping his eyes locked with Yoshida’s, Bond foresaw the attack. Yoshida’s eyes betrayed him: his pupils dilated the split second before he acted.

  Yoshida jumped forward and attempted a kesa giri, a diagonal cut that could open the victim from his upper left to lower right. It was called this because it followed the same line of a Buddhist monk’s kesa, the sash hanging from the left shoulder to the right hip. Bond, however, flashed the katana in front of him just in time, warding off the strike. The metal blades clashed with a harshness that reverberated throughout the suite. Once the swords were swinging, they didn’t stop. Yoshida and Bond slashed at each other repeatedly.

  Yoshida was toying with him, Bond thought. He had reached his limit and Yoshida was blocking his blows effortlessly.

  When the terrorist went on the offensive, all Bond could do was back away and keep his sword in front of him, warding off the powerful swipes. He collided with the sofa and fell back onto it; the worst thing that could possibly happen. Yoshida raised the sword above his head and brought it down hard, hoping for a kiri kudashi, the finishing cut. But Bond rolled and crashed onto the table, shattering the glass top. The sword stopped short of chopping through the sofa cushions, giving Bond time to get up. His own sword had never left his hand, so he took the opportunity to swing it backhanded at Yoshida. The blade struck the terrorist’s left arm, embedding into his flesh.

  Yoshida cried out and recoiled. He let go of his sword and fell on the floor. Tsukamoto pointed his pistol at Bond but Yoshida shouted, “No!” Clutching his bleeding arm, Yoshida got to his feet, retrieved his sword and assumed the Gedan no kamae stance. Bond, much of his body cut and scraped by the broken glass, stepped back and resumed his own po
sition.

  The staring contest resumed. No one noticed that the sounds coming from the bathroom in the back of the suite had ceased. The only thing that could be heard was the breathing of the two men.

  Then, the blades flashed once again, striking each other in a firestorm of metal and sparks.

  Bond concentrated on the basic moves. Give and take. Receive and deflect. The two men executed these manoeuvres repeatedly as they danced around the room, smashing into furniture, stamping on glass and creating a shambles.

  Blood gushed out of Yoshida’s arm. Bond had severely damaged a major artery and part of a muscle, but the madman kept attacking as if it had been a mere flesh wound. He swung the sword with the speed of a demon, keeping Bond on the edge of disaster. Bond parlayed the blows, creating a clish-clash, clish-clash clamour that made Tsukamoto flinch.

  When Bond saw the glint of metal spark off of his own sword and felt a sting on his neck, he knew that he’d been hit but not badly. Yoshida’s blade had touched his skin but Bond had deflected the cut just in time to prevent serious damage. The conflict halted momentarily as Bond stepped back and resumed his stance. He slowly put his hand to his neck and felt the blood.

  The staring recommenced. Again, the lunge of metal and the ferocious colliding of blades. Again, they waltzed around the room in a macabre ballet, each man intent on ending the life of his opponent.

  Bond shouted a kiai then lunged with a gyaku kesa giri, a diagonal upward cut. Unfortunately, Yoshida had somehow anticipated the manoeuvre and blocked Bond’s katana hard with a downward strike. Bond’s sword flew out of his hand and slid across the room. He was defenceless.

  Yoshida stopped, held the sword pointed forward in Chudan no kamae, and prepared to pierce Bond’s chest. He lunged quickly, forcing Bond to propel himself backward onto the floor to avoid being stabbed. The Yami Shogun stepped over Bond and raised the sword high above his head, ready to bring it down on his victim.

  A shot rang out. Yoshida froze with the sword in the air. Everyone in the room turned their heads to see Mayumi, standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She was wearing a yukata and she was holding her Browning. She had fired it at Yoshida and now swung it toward Tsukamoto.

  “Drop it,” she commanded. “Next time I won’t miss.”

  Tsukamoto tossed the Glock away. Mayumi then trained the gun on Yoshida.

  “I called the Koan-Chosa-Cho and they have alerted the police,” she said. “Drop the sword and give up.”

  Sirens could be heard on the streets below, but it would take the authorities several minutes before they could make it up the tower to the thirtieth floor.

  Yoshida smiled, then slowly lowered the katana. He dropped it on the floor and turned to Bond. “Mister Bond, I could have killed you just now, but I suppose she would have shot me.”

  “I certainly would have,” Mayumi said. “One of the things I’ve learned in the last few days is to keep a gun in the bedroom.” She moved next to Bond.

  Yoshida looked at Tsukamoto and said, “Did I not tell you that our actions tonight might result in our deaths? This is not the way I want to die. It would not be honourable.” From the inner folds of his kimono, he produced a jar that looked frighteningly familiar to Bond.

  It was a container full of mosquitoes just like the one Kappa had on the train.

  The madman said, “All I have to do is release the top and dozens of hungry, infected mosquitoes will fly out into this room, into the ventilation ducts, and all over the hotel.”

  Bond took the gun from Mayumi and pointed it at Yoshida. “Come on, Yoshida, you don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not? It would vanquish you, my enemy, and I would die like the kamikaze, honourably, and with courage.”

  “Your death would be futile.”

  “Futile? No death can be called futile,” he said. “Mishima-san said, ‘If we value so highly the dignity of life, how can we not also value the dignity of death?’ ” He turned to his compatriot and said, “Tsukamoto, prepare for the ritual. It is time.” He handed the katana to the head of the Ryujin-kai, who had a look of abject terror on his face.

  “Yoshida, please, do not do this,” he whispered.

  “Do you want to go to prison?” Yoshida asked. “You know as well as I that in a few minutes there will be no escape from this hotel except through death. You should follow me after you have performed your duty as my second.” He looked at Bond and Mayumi. “You two, stand back,” he said. “Or I will unleash the insects. Mister Bond, you can put away your gun. If you stand back and do not interfere, I will give you the jar unopened. I am no longer a threat to you.”

  Bond suddenly realised what Yoshida intended to do. He felt himself to be in a situation that defied the normal laws of sense and selfpreservation, a world where rules of conduct and a notion of honour had been laid down centuries before. Slowly, Bond lowered the gun.

  Yoshida knelt on the floor. He reached up to the collar of his montsuki hakama and tore it off his shoulders. He then pulled it down so that he was bare to the waist. His entire chest, arms and back were covered in the blinding crimson tattoos and the deep wound Bond had inflicted upon his left arm was bleeding heavily.

  While holding the insect jar in one hand, Yoshida pulled the wakizashi from his belt. He put the scabbard between his teeth and unsheathed the blade, then dropped the scabbard.

  The sound of voices and running feet outside the suite grew louder. The authorities had arrived.

  “Are you ready, Tsukamoto?” Yoshida asked as he turned the point of the dagger toward himself, resting the tip gently against his exposed abdomen.

  Tsukamoto was shaking. “Goro. Sensei. Can I at last call you sensei? You have always been a sensei to me. Please, do not do this.”

  Yoshida replied, “Yasutake, you have always been my friend. I thank you for your loyalty. Now perform your duty.”

  Tsukamoto paused a moment and quietly said, “Yes, sensei.” He took a position behind Yoshida and raised the sword high.

  Yoshida whispered a brief, silent prayer, then he carefully placed the insect container on the floor beside him.

  The police banged on the door and called out. In a few seconds they would bash it down.

  The man with the red tattoo glared at Bond and then thrust the wakazashi deeply into his flesh. Yoshida’s eyes bulged and watered, but he was determined to go through with the seppuku. He tugged on the blade until it moved along his trunk horizontally, splitting his gut. As the entrails began to gush out of the open red crevasse, Tsukamoto brought the sword down quickly and cleanly.

  Goro Yoshida’s head flew off his torso, hit the floor, and rolled to where Bond was standing. Mayumi screamed and hid her face in Bond’s arms.

  The door burst open and in seconds the place was swarming with armed officers. Yoshi Nakayama entered, took one look at the room and then ordered that Tsukamoto be arrested. The officers immediately relieved the Ryujin-kai’s oyabun of his sword and handcuffed him.

  Bond reached for the mosquito container and carefully picked it up. He gingerly handed it to one of the men, who promptly placed it in a reinforced container made for transporting bombs.

  As they started to take him out of the room, Tsukamoto said, “Wait.” The escorts stopped, allowing Tsukamoto to turn to Bond and say, “The Yami Shogun died the way he wanted, as Mishima did. He sacrificed his life in an honourable way rather than go through the humiliation of the courts. As for me, well, we shall see what my lawyers can do. If they are unsuccessful in freeing me, then my destiny is sealed. I have been aware of this for some time now and I am ready. I did not always approve of what the Yami Shogun wanted to do but I must take responsibility for my part in it. Instead of shame, I feel pride. As for you, Bond-san: your victory is empty. Goro Yoshida robbed you of the finishing blow, the kiri kudashi. This was his victory.”

  Bond stared at the man coldly and said, “You know something, Tsukamoto? I don’t give a damn. He’s bloody dead, and that’s all I care about
.”

  Tsukamoto’s eyes flared but the men pushed him out of the room before he could say anything else.

  It seemed like hours later, but in fact Nakayama and his men finished with them in forty-five minutes. Bond and Mayumi were moved to a different suite. The minor cuts Bond had suffered were treated. The couple answered questions and signed statements and then they were alone again.

  For a while, they sat together in silence. Neither of them could forget what they had witnessed. Mayumi knew that it was something that would haunt her forever.

  “I’m going to sell my shares,” she said, breaking the stillness. “And I am going to start something new. Something I like. I don’t know what that is yet, but it will be something with a future.”

  Bond squeezed her arm in encouragement. “You have strength, ingenuity and courage. You should be all right. Beauty helps, of course.”

  “James-san, I think that’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me. But I suppose it is safe to say such things when you are flying back to London tomorrow.”

  “Have you heard my flight has been delayed? I have some unfinished business here. Rather more than I thought.”

  She broke into a smile. “James-san, you really are most diligent.”

  Bond allowed himself a slight bow. Mayumi laughed, then stretched out sensuously on the bed. Bond marvelled again at her beauty. He moved down beside her and gazed admiringly along the length of her body at her soft translucent skin. He murmured softly into her neck, “My researches into some of the—finer—details of this case are incomplete. Perhaps you might be able to help.”

  “Co-operate with your inquiries?” she suggested with a wicked smile.

  “I hoped you might understand,” he whispered as he began to lay the ghosts of the past to rest once more.