The Kodokan itself occupied two buildings in Tokyo’s Bunkyo ward, close to the Tokyo Dome and the city’s university. The smaller building, known confusingly as the Main Building, housed the administrative functions for what had become one of the most popular and widely spread sports in the world. The larger, eight-floor Kodokan International Judo Center lay next door, and comprised of an indoor parking lot, shops, a museum and library, conference facilities, a research center, lodging rooms for visitors, dressing rooms, spectator seating and six separate training halls, known as dojo. The main dojo was seven and a half thousand square feet, enough to house four full competition mat areas. It had been home to countless world and Olympic champions over the decades; and only the previous year, most of the world’s national teams had trained there in the lead-up to the Tokyo Olympic Games. As Cole passed through the entranceway, he couldn’t help but be impressed.
The attendant explained to Kadena that Nakamura Jirai – Inspector with the TMPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau – was training in the ‘special dojo’ on the fifth floor. A smaller, more private training space, it was reserved for special occasions; or, it seemed, special people.
As they walked up the stairs, the attendant leading the way, Kadena turned to Cole. ‘Remember,’ he whispered, ‘although you might see judo only as a sport, or possibly as a means of self-defense, to the Japanese it is so much more than this. It is . . . spiritual, yes?’
Cole nodded his head as he walked. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I understand. I will show the proper respect.’
And Cole did understand, certainly more so than Kadena would ever suspect. He had studied the martial arts for over thirty years, and as a boy had been introduced to boxing, wrestling, karate and judo. Back then he had never considered there to be any philosophical or spiritual aspect to the arts – they had simply improved his ability to fight, a facility of great value in the trailer parks and urban decay of Hamtramck where he’d grown up.
He’d performed well in the sporting aspect of those arts too, winning far more bouts than he lost with a mixture of athleticism and raw aggression. He’d been captain of his high school wrestling team, and considered his cross-training in judo as part of the reason for his success.
As he had aged over the years, he had concentrated more and more on technique, but spirituality had certainly eluded him. Coming as he did from a family of Polish Roman Catholics, Cole wasn’t encouraged to look elsewhere for spiritual growth – it came from God and Jesus Christ.
And Cole’s experience of the martial arts and combat sports was – after his youthful sporting success – purely practical. From working at dives as a teenage bouncer, to bar fights in the SEALs, to hands-on, lethal confrontations across the globe as a member of the secretive Systems Research Group, Cole had used his techniques for real on too many occasions to count. He was a black belt in Brazilian Jiujitsu and an expert in Krav Maga, and had been exposed to most major systems of military unarmed combat from around the world. And whatever he learnt, instinct and ability made it work.
It was only during his imprisonment in Pakistan, after a failed mission for Charles Hansard and the SRG, that his eyes were opened beyond the physical realm. His cell neighbor was an Indian man named Panickar Thilak, and he had taught Cole the most ancient of all martial arts, Kalaripayattu – ‘practice in the arts of the battlefield’. Connected to the Ayurvedic and Yogic practices of southern India, the holistic art was a window into a different world.
But the art had a hidden, secretive aspect to it as well, one which made it perhaps the deadliest of all. Known as marma adi, it consisted of nerve strikes to key areas on the human body. Results varied depending upon an array of factors such as the type of strike or touch used, the location targeted, whether single or multiple areas were struck, and even the time of day. A single, light manipulation might cause intense pain or loss of consciousness, while three separate strikes could lead to a person’s death, delayed for hours, days or even weeks.
It was this knowledge that – when Hansard had rescued him from jail, and Kowalski had agreed to become Cole, a ‘contract laborer’ for the US government – had made him such a lethal weapon. He could kill a target with just his hands, and be out of the country before the person even died. It was a unique skill in the world of covert operators, and had made Cole a legend as the ‘Asset’.
Prior to learning the art, Cole had always written off talk of ‘ki’, ‘chi’ or ‘prana’ – the Japanese, Chinese and Indian terms for ‘inner energy’ much debated in martial arts and health circles – as superstitious nonsense and parlor tricks. But the knowledge he had gained from Thilak – and the evidence he saw with his own eyes whenever he purposefully interrupted someone’s energy field with the marma adi strikes – had made him think again. If it worked, figured Cole, then it was probably true. And if it wasn’t true, the practical side of him said, it didn’t really matter anyway – it still worked.
But the bottom line was that he knew how martial artists thought, and he understood and respected the spiritual sanctity of the dojo; it was the place where the arts of living and dying were practiced, if one followed the attitude of Japan’s samurai tradition.
Eventually, the attendant brought them to the lobby outside the fifth floor’s special dojo and they both removed their footwear and stored it in the racks to the side of the wall. Even at peak times, there was no question that shoes would be stolen here; gang leaders may have their heads hacked from their bodies, but petty theft in Japan was nearly non-existent compared to the United States.
Through the wall, Cole could hear the sounds of rhythmic breathing, the grip and release of the thick cotton judo gi, a kiai – the spirit yell of maximum effort – followed by a body hitting the mats, a hand slapping the ground hard to take the force out of the fall. They were the sounds of judo, and for a moment Cole was fourteen again, working out on the cheap gym mats in the Detroit YMCA, sweat pouring from his body as he repeated technique after technique until they were ingrained in his body, impossible to do them wrong. He remembered the bus ride home to Hamtramck after every session, body pained and aching; but it was a good pain, the kind that came from pushing yourself, the kind that meant you were improving. He didn’t know who’d first said it, but one of the training staff at BUD/S – Cole’s initial SEAL training at Coronado – had probably said it the most often: ‘Pain is just weakness leaving the body.’ The man had been right, too.
The attendant bowed, leaving the men to their business. Kadena watched him retreat back down the stairs, popped a breath mint in his mouth and turned to Cole. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘this is how it will work. You wait outside, and I’ll speak to him. You don’t say a word. Okay?’
Cole nodded his head. ‘That’s fine.’
Kadena smiled, putting his hand to the door handle. ‘Thank you. Now wish me luck, okay?’
And with that, he opened the door and entered the dojo.
Kadena was back in the lobby just two minutes later, a sheepish look on his face. Cole wasn’t surprised; he’d heard the gruff sounds of an older man’s voice, stern and angry; heard also the apologetic whisperings of Kadena, at which stage he knew that Nakamura wasn’t going to agree to meet with him.
Well, fuck him.
Cole didn’t even allow Kadena time to explain – he merely slipped past the man, pushed open the door and walked through into the training hall. Kadena held out a hand to stop him, but Cole brushed him off. ‘You’ve had your chance,’ he said evenly. ‘Now it’s my turn. Wait here.’
Kadena meekly backed away, the door swinging shut behind the American.
Cole took in everything about the room in an instant. Despite its ‘private’ status, the matted floor was still pretty big – over a thousand square feet in Cole’s estimation. The walls were wood paneled, and he recognized a portrait of Kano Jigoro in an alcove. There were six men training, all of whom who had stopped what they were doing to stare in Cole’s direction, barely able to believe what they were
seeing.
The biggest man stepped forward, a huge barrel-chested monster who looked as hard as granite; but he was immediately restrained by his partner, who placed a hand gently across his massive chest.
This second man was shorter, but no less imposing; Cole could see the hardness in his eyes, the violent experience in every line of his face. More lightly built than his partner, he was nevertheless very solid, with every bit of his body tough and callused. He had a flattened nose and cauliflower ears, and everyone in the room seemed to defer to him.
‘Nakamura-san?’ Cole asked, bowing politely.
The man nodded his head in return. ‘Yes. And I know who you are too, and I told Masaaki I cannot see you. Goodbye.’
Cole didn’t move, and Nakamura’s eye twitched at the subtle challenge. ‘I am not here to talk to you,’ Cole said. ‘Not yet, at least. It’s been a long day, and my body is tired. I often find a workout is just what I need to get rid of the jetlag. Would you perhaps do me the honor of allowing me some randori?’
Randori was the judo term for free practice, where each partner tried to throw, pin, armlock or strangle the other.
Nakamura had just been challenged to a fight, and he knew it.
He held Cole’s gaze long and hard, but his face finally broke into a smile. ‘You know judo?’ he asked.
Cole smiled back. ‘I have practiced a little, yes.’
‘Well,’ Nakamura said, ‘then you are a friend. I would be pleased to honor your request.’ He looked to the clock on the dojo wall. ‘I will see you back here, dressed appropriately, at midnight.’
Cole nodded and bowed; he had ten minutes.
But he was halfway to getting what he wanted; a man like Nakamura was all about respect, and like predators in the wild, strength was all he respected. It was in his eyes, his bearing, his very being.
If Cole could match him, Nakamura would talk.
And then he would be one step closer to finding his daughter.
Cole – with the assistance of an amazed Kadena and the helpful attendant – was back in the dojo eight minutes later, clad in a heavy white judogi, a worn cotton white belt around his waist.
He held the rank of second degree black belt in the art, but without any proof, he was required to wear the beginner’s belt. His name would be on the Kodokan system’s computers, he was sure – he’d taken his first black belt at the age of sixteen, the earliest you could take the grade with the United States Judo Association, and all official black belt ranks were held at the Kodokan. But, he knew, it would be listed under the name Mark Kowalski, and he had no intention of anyone looking into that particular identity.
And so as he entered the special dojo at two minutes to midnight, he felt the eyes of the six black belts hard on him, trying to get a handle on him. How good was he? The white belt around his waist told them nothing.
Nakamura appraised him. ‘You are beginner?’ he asked in amusement.
‘I’m just a humble student,’ Cole replied.
‘We’ll see,’ Nakamura said softly. ‘We’ll see.’ He turned to one of the other men, gesturing for him to come forward. ‘Perhaps you will warm up first with Tadao?’
Cole was tempted to argue, but he knew that Nakamura held all the cards. The deal was that Cole would ‘practice’ with Nakamura, and in return the cop would allow Cole to ask his questions – if he could prove himself. But the proof required had suddenly increased, and Cole wondered if he would have to fight all the men in the room. It would be up to Nakamura either way.
Cole nodded his agreement, bowed, and moved onto the tatami mats. The other men moved to one side, and watched with keen eyes as Cole and Tadao bowed to one another.
Tadao looked surprisingly similar to Nakamura himself – shorter than Cole but solid muscle, old-school tough. Cole understood that Nakamura was using it as a test; he would watch Cole, observe his tactics against a man of his size, so that he could come up with a plan of counterattack when they finally met. For all Nakamura knew, ‘Richard Baxter’ could be one of the top judo men in America. The cop was clearly a strategist – for as Sun Tzu had written in his ancient treatise, The Art of War: ‘If you know your enemies and you know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles.’
‘You will practice with Tadao for five minutes,’ Nakamura explained. ‘And it goes without saying, that if we are to have our own randori, you will have to best him. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Cole said, already moving forward towards his opponent, cautious as the other man began to move too – legs wide and knees bent for a solid base, shoulders hunched, sliding along the tatami in a shuffling crouch.
Cole’s caution was well warranted – although he had spent his lifetime hurting people, since his teens there had been no rules; it was winner take all, the loser goes to the hospital or the funeral home. But this was a sport, and one he had not played properly in years. He had to be careful to stay within the rules, not give into his natural inclination to punch or kick, knee or head-butt, claw or eye-gouge; such tactics would be very badly received by all present.
They moved together simultaneously, each taking hold of the other’s judo jacket with the standard sleeve and lapel grip, and Cole felt his old skills returning, the very position flooding his body with physical memory, those tens of thousands of repetitions which had honed him into a lethal weapon as a young fighter.
He felt Tadao’s body tense through his jacket, knew the man was going to try and throw him immediately; knew also – without conscious assessment, but through an instinctive feel for the cop’s body dynamics and energy – that he was going to attack with tai otoshi, the body drop technique that required a one hundred and eighty degree turn of Tadao’s body into the same line as Cole’s and the stabbing across of the man’s right leg wide across his own; the throw would be completed by a powerful pull of the hands on Cole’s gi, along with a rapid straightening of the leg which would bounce Cole over the leg and onto the floor, flat onto his back.
Ippon – a full score, and what would be the end of a competition bout.
But Cole didn’t let the throw get that far, and as soon as the man turned and stabbed his leg across, Cole shifted his weight, stepped over the man’s leg and pulled his left leg through the gap.
In an instant, he inserted his left leg between Tadao’s legs and let it suddenly fly skywards, his hamstring making hard contact with the inside of the man’s right inner thigh; pulling and turning with his own hands, he flipped Tadao high into the air with his rising leg and drove him hard into the matted floor, flat on his back.
Ippon.
The first clash had happened so quickly that the gathered judoka could scarcely believe it – a technique and a counter, perfectly executed within the blink of an eye.
Tadao rolled to his knees and regained his feet, bowing to Cole in recognition of the throw’s success.
Cole returned the bow, silently lamenting the fact that he had reacted so quickly – it gave Nakamura too much information about his ability, would make it harder to sucker him in. He wanted the man to know he was good – a worthy opponent – but didn’t want him to be too guarded, either. He moved into the sleeve and lapel clinch with Tadao once more, knowing that he would have to show weaknesses in his game, get Nakamura to commit in the right direction when their time came.
The rest of the bout was a lot more even, Cole’s relaxed posture allowing Tadao plenty of opportunity to attack; the man even managed to throw him once, with a big outer leg sweep known as o soto gari. But Cole remained in the lead overall, with four clean throws to Tadao’s one. Not that randori was normally considered competitive; but in this situation, it clearly was.
Both men bowed to each other at the call of time, then Tadao came forward and shook Cole’s hand, clearly impressed with the American’s fighting ability.
Cole was pleased; he had won using pure judo, and had not even been tempted to use any underhand tactics. He knew classical technique impressed the Japanese, a
nd was glad that he had been able to demonstrate it.
At the same time, he saw Nakamura watching him closely, and wondered if the man knew he was holding back. But instead of talking, Nakamura instead just gestured for the next man to step forward.
Cole breathed out slowly, gathering himself. His initial fears had been proved true – he was to have to fight his way through all five men before he could meet Nakamura. A clever move on the cop’s part – by the time Cole got to fight him, Nakamura hoped he would be exhausted.
But, Cole told himself, he wasn’t in bad shape; he still ran forty miles a week, biked another hundred; he could bang out a set of two hundred pushups and still bench twice his body weight. He’d always been considered something of a machine physically, even in his earliest days at BUD/S – and though the years had made it harder, they had not yet dulled him sufficiently to make a difference.
And so it started, the big man first, Nakamura’s partner; and as Cole fought on and on, man after man, throw after throw, pin after pin, he was unaware of the passage of time, aware only of the sensation of his own body in space, the intimate contact with his opponents as he reacted to them, sensed their openings, attacked their weaknesses.
He was careful not to win too convincingly, allowing each man to have his chance, building up a repertoire of potential weak spots in his game that Nakamura would observe and then – hopefully – try and exploit.
But the time the fifth bout was over, Cole’s body was slick with sweat, his judogi twice as heavy as it had been when he’d put it on. When had that been? Cole’s eyes drifted to the clock, surprised to see that it was almost one o’clock; Nakamura had obviously not been timing the bouts very strictly, almost certainly in an effort to degrade Cole’s reserves further.
NEVER SAY DIE: Mark Cole Takes On the Yakuza in His Most Thrilling Adventure Yet! Page 9