“From who?”
“I’m not sure but she warned me someone intends to shoot you outside the Diet.”
Baron Onishi’s face remained placid. “I see. Today is the eleventh, correct?” he asked, rubbing his chin.
“Yes…but I don’t see how—”
“That makes three this month…”
“Three, Baron?”
“Death threats. I’ve received about fifty since September.”
“Did you report them?”
“I considered it, but there are so many nationalists in the Police these days,” Onishi said.
The Baron did have a point but such flippancy toward a police inspector took him aback.
“Baron, perhaps I’m not being clear. I’m here to offer my protection.”
The Baron scoffed. “After my speech about the Manchurian Incident, I’m surprised you’re not here to arrest me.”
Aizawa remembered the flurry of editorials denouncing Baron Onishi’s ‘unpatriotic criticism’ of the invasion of Manchuria. After all, the newspapers argued, Chinese soldiers had attacked a Japanese-owned railway without provocation and threatened to kick Japan out of the region entirely. The empire would collapse without the endless amount of raw materials from Manchuria. Faced with such a grave choice, the most elite unit of the Imperial Army, the vaunted Kwantung Army, took action and invaded while politicians bickered like children.
“Perhaps this is no idle threat, Baron. I suggest we take cautionary measures.”
“I shall do no such thing.” Baron Onishi gestured to the chattering mass at the bottom of the steps. “Those reporters down there will want to know what I have to say about the day’s events. Japan is seeking a new prime minister or perhaps you’ve been too busy chasing pickpockets to notice?”
Maybe the coming assassination wasn’t political at all. The thought of someone shooting this arrogant bastard on account of his personality made sense. The forces of giri and ninjo, of duty and emotion, tugged at Aizawa. If this pompous fool didn’t care for his own safety, then you shouldn’t either, ninjo argued. But emotion shouldn’t cloud the mind of a police officer, giri countered. As always, giri won, even though its resolve was waning.
“I understand your obligations, Baron,” Aizawa said. “But I feel it best to go back inside and—”
Baron Onishi drew his breath in just loud enough to make an irritated hiss. “Japan should see its political leaders standing without fear, not cowering behind bodyguards. I hope you understand, Inspector.”
With that, the Baron strode down the steps and the wall of junsas parted for him. Feeling like a whipped dog, Aizawa followed. At the foot of the stairs, Baron Onishi’s appearance electrified the sea of reporters, setting off a series of flashing camera bulbs. Shielding his eyes, Aizawa glimpsed the Baron striking a refined pose, like a kabuki actor about to deliver his finest performance.
Aizawa reviewed the crowd for anything suspicious, before considering that this assassin might be one of the junsas. A frightening thought, but like the Baron said, there were so many nationalists in the Metropolitan Police Department these days. He squeezed through the line of policemen and glanced back and forth, looking for short men with Charlie Chaplin mustaches. Nothing.
Aizawa shook his head. It was a police officer’s job to be suspicious, but the past few months seemed to have made him paranoid beyond his thirty years. Japan had changed too, from a nation of mostly law-abiding and content people, into a land of fear, assassination, and plots.
“Baron Onishi,” a reporter near the front called out. “Have you heard anything from the Emperor’s advisers?”
The Baron maintained his poise and answered, “No, but should His Majesty ask me to form a government, I will accept with great fortitude.”
“Baron, if you become prime minister, will you pull out of Manchuria?”
“I will present our case to the League of Nations,” Onishi replied.
“What will your economic policy be?” another reporter asked.
“There are no easy solutions regarding the depression. We cannot rely on international trade anymore, especially with the United States. Their so-called Smoot-Hawley Tariff has crippled our economy.”
A universal revulsion swept through the crowd. Because of America’s foolish protectionism, ships full of Japanese exports were anchored in Tokyo Bay, causing thousands of layoffs. As Baron Onishi continued to answer questions, off to the side, the NHK booth burst to life with commentary.
“Special bulletin! Special bulletin! This is the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation with important news regarding the nation! Prime Minister Wakatsuki resigned earlier today after one of his ministers, Kenzo Adachi, refused to attend cabinet meetings with him. Rumors abound that the next prime minister will be either Baron Onishi or Tsuyoshi Inukai, the president of the Seiyukai Party. Stay tuned as Japan’s future will be decided in the coming days.”
Aizawa surveyed the crowd again. Toward the back of the throng, a diminutive figure wearing a brown coat and flat cap cut across the courtyard and approached with rapid steps.
Aizawa pushed and elbowed his way through the reporters, who were too fixated on Onishi to protest. He soon emerged from the back of the crowd and could see the oncoming man more clearly. His face was grim and determined, his eyes were focused on Baron Onishi, and underneath a slender nose, was the mustache.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man kept coming, now only a few meters away. Aizawa reached for his Colt 1911 automatic pistol, secure in its shoulder holster. It was a good weapon, sturdy and reliable, but rarely used. Being a police officer in Japan was seldom dangerous, thanks to an inculcated respect for hierarchy. Shame was the foundation Japan was built on and that, not his gun, was Aizawa’s usual weapon.
Perhaps a show of authority was all he needed. Aizawa marched forward to intercept the man.
“Police! Stop right there!”
Aizawa grabbed the little man’s shoulder as he bolted past. Out of nowhere, a fist connected hard with Aizawa’s face and drove him down into the snowy ground. Dazed and numb from the cold, he released a deep groan. Pushing himself up, he looked around for his attacker. The little bastard had turned around and was heading toward the crowd again.
Aizawa reached for his pistol, but hesitated. There was no way he could get a clear shot now, unless he wanted to read “Insane Police Inspector Guns Down Reporters” in tomorrow’s newspapers. Aizawa hopped to his feet and a sudden energy launched him forward.
He grabbed the man’s collar and heaved him back. Losing his balance, the little man gripped Aizawa’s coat, pulling them both down. Slamming against the snow-covered ground, Aizawa gasped for breath and looked up. Somehow, the man had already righted himself and with one sharp thrust, slammed a foot against Aizawa’s cheek.
Aizawa’s face throbbed with pain. How did that little bastard get up so quickly? The man brought his foot up again, his mustache twitching in preparation for the final blow.
Instinct took control as Aizawa hooked his legs in a sweeping motion, sending his attacker crashing to the ground. Fueled by adrenaline, Aizawa lunged atop the man and drove a firm punch across his face. A burst of blood spewed out of the little bastard’s mouth, staining the snow red. Gathering the rest of his strength, Aizawa landed another punch and the little man crumpled onto the snowy ground. Noticing the commotion, a few reporters broke away from Baron Onishi and encircled them.
“Inspector, who is that man?”
“Was he trying to harm Baron Onishi?”
“Or former Prime Minister Wakatsuki?”
Aizawa paid no attention as he handcuffed the man. Sergeant Murayama and two junsas pushed their way through the throng and helped Aizawa to his feet.
“Are you all right, Inspector?” he asked. A nod was all Aizawa could give as he gasped for breath. Murayama hoisted the little man to his feet and examined his face. “Little too thin to be a Charlie Chaplin mustache.”
Taking deep gulps of air, A
izawa fumbled through the man’s clothing. Tucked in his waistband was the gun. Aizawa pulled it out and noticed it was a Nambu automatic, standard issue for the Imperial Army.
“Inspector, is that an Army pistol?” a reporter called out.
“Do you think the Imperial Army is involved in some way?” another followed.
The thought of military involvement knotted Aizawa’s gut. He tucked the Nambu into his coat before anyone could take a photograph. Guiding the prisoner into Murayama’s arms, he said, “Take him back to Headquarters, Sergeant. I’ll clean up here.”
Murayama and the junsas snapped salutes before dragging the little man through the courtyard, trailed by a group of noisy reporters. Aizawa turned back and shoved his way through the gauntlet. One reporter blocked his path and asked, “Inspector, the Asahi Shimbun has a duty to its readers. Who was that man?”
Aizawa couldn’t resist. “Don’t you recognize Charlie Chaplin?” He pushed the Asahi man aside and continued on. Several junsas led Baron Onishi back into the Diet, while the rest of the squad restrained the press from following. Aizawa ascended the stairs after them. Behind him, the reporters shouted questions that soon lost any individuality and melted into a singular, droning noise.
*****
Reiko clutched the bottle of chilled Kirin beer, stinging her fingers with cold. Ignoring the pain, she continued to rehearse a placating story in her mind. With all the parties being thrown for soldiers going to Manchuria, many stores had simply run out of alcohol. A believable excuse for being gone so long.
As she hurried through the streets of Asakusa, a man and woman strolled past like a pair of haunting memories. Extravagantly dressed, even for Asakusa, they were the epitome of the mobo and moga, the modern boy and modern girl. These were the flappers of Japan who wore skirts, smoked cigarettes, and indulged in everything modern, from jazz to premarital sex. The mobo in his double-breasted gray coat and fedora, and the moga in her fur-trimmed black dress and cloche hat could have been her and Masaru only months earlier. Reiko stared down at her black kimono, dotted with a pink cherry blossom design, and neatly tied obi belt.
An icy breeze cut through her, as if punishment for her treachery. Mistresses didn’t betray the men they loved. Those who did were poison women, the femme fatales of Japanese lore. Another gust of wind blew life into the Rising Sun flag mounted outside of Masaru’s machiya, a humble, two-story dwelling. Reiko sighed as she approached. Most buildings in Tokyo were either machiya townhouses or nagaya row houses. After two thousand years of natural disasters, the Japanese still built homes out of paper and wood.
Only eight years ago, Tokyo was utterly destroyed by the worst earthquake in its history, followed by a firestorm that turned what remained of the city into a burning hell. Recently, the newspapers detailed how the Manchurian city of Chinchow was bombed from the air and shelled with artillery. Reiko shuddered to think what would happen to these wooden machiyas under the same bombardment. Assassinations might give way to civil war and turn Tokyo into a charred wasteland again.
But there was no time to think about that now. With a deep breath, she shed Reiko Watanabe and donned the persona of the dutiful geisha, Harutora. Spring Tiger was a fine name during the cherry blossom season, but it seemed out of place in these months of ice and snow.
She slid the machiya’s door open and stepped inside the small genkan vestibule. After taking off her snow-crusted geta clogs, she entered the main room, hoping the gods were still with her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Welcome back, Harutora,” Masaru Ryusaki said as Reiko slid the door shut behind her.
Across the room, Masaru knelt with a sheathed katana sword at his side. The rest of him was less menacing. A dark blue kimono and gray hakama pants hung from his long, wiry frame and a thin nose held up horn-rimmed glasses. A clean shave and hair parted to the side gave him a fresh-faced, bookish appearance. When they’d first met back in March, Masaru had been the very image of a mobo playboy; educated, worldly, and modern. Although only thirty years old, he now looked like a samurai from the Tokugawa Era.
Reiko set the beer bottle down and bowed. “Forgive my latenesss, Masaru.”
Drawing herself up, she feigned a detached calmness, even though his sparsely furnished machiya had begun to resemble a prison. A typewriter nestled on a low-lying table where Masaru propagated his ideas. A mounted ‘god shelf’, where the Shinto deities were enshrined, watched over them both in a never-ending, all-seeing gaze.
She averted her eyes to the charcoal heater where they warmed themselves during this cold winter. A phonograph lay off to the side where only months before, they’d listened to jazz records together while dancing the fox-trot. Next to that was a tabletop Sharp radio where the melancholy tune of “Sake, Tears or Sighs?” seeped out.
“I thought you didn’t listen to jazz anymore, Masaru,” Reiko said, making her way over to the heater.
“I’m waiting on confirmation,” Masaru said.
“On whether or not Chaplin-san—”
“His name is Makoto Kuroki and he will soon be honored as one of our greatest patriots!”
“Ah yes. After he shoots Baron what’s-his-name, right?”
“Baron Onishi.” Masaru rubbed his chin. “It should have happened by now.”
Reiko laughed, warming her hands by the heater. “Hopefully he didn’t stop by a bar on his way to the Diet.”
“Kuroki-san isn’t a drunk.”
“Speaking of alcohol, most of the stores were cleaned out! Too many parties for boys going to Manchuria, I suppose.” Reiko shuffled back over to the bottle. “But I did manage to find something,” she said, presenting the beer to him. “It’s Kirin. Your favorite.”
Masaru took the bottle with a triumphant smile. “Tonight, we will toast the death of Baron Onishi!”
She knelt beside him and frowned. “Does it have to come to this?”
Masaru nodded. “The government has been corrupted and weakened by big business and democracy. Baron Onishi only cares for the rich. If he becomes prime minister, the poor will starve, millions more will lose their jobs, and Japan will be at the mercy of the League of Nations. That old fool will pull out of Manchuria and disgrace our soldiers. He doesn’t understand that Japan must fight more wars to survive…”
“Against who?”
“China…Russia…America…the whole world if necessary! Soon, we will have a leader who understands that.”
Reiko swallowed hard. “What happens after the Baron is…shot?”
Masaru’s smile broadened. “With Onishi dead, His Majesty will have no choice but to offer Tsuyoshi Inukai and his Seiyukai Party the government.”
Reiko gave a dry laugh. “I didn’t know you were still a Seiyukai member!”
“Minsei, Seiyukai. There’s no difference between them.”
“Same shit, different smell?”
Masaru’s handsome face shone with approval. “However, once Inukai becomes prime minister, he will appoint General Yori Sakamoto as the army minister. By the end of the week, General Sakamoto will declare martial law, abolish the Diet, and become the new shogun!”
“A return to the Tokugawa Era?” Reiko asked.
Masaru nodded. “Japan needs a strong leader who will rule on behalf of the Emperor, take control of the economy, and stand up to the League of Nations. The Kusanagi Society will be in charge of fomenting a riot that will justify martial law. Then, the New Japan will begin!”
Mention of Masaru’s patriotic group prickled Reiko’s skin. Small in numbers but bursting with limitless patriotism, the Kusanagi Society recruited downtrodden young men who blamed politicians, foreigners, and big business for everything wrong with the nation. She hated attending those gatherings with Masaru, singing patriotic songs and pouring drinks for men like Makoto Kuroki who constantly questioned when the government would be overthrown.
Reiko hid her concern and asked, “What will your position be in the New Japan?”
Masaru li
fted his head high. “I’ll serve as General Sakamoto’s senior adviser. He’ll need my guidance in building a pure and just society.”
The position sounded more like the shadow shoguns of the Tokugawa Era, government ministers and lords who ruled behind paper screens. Reiko asked, “Is Inukai-san aware of your plans?”
Masaru scoffed. “I would never trust a politician. But Inukai will become aware of them when our new shogun tears down the Diet Building and puts something more fitting in its place. Perhaps a landfill?”
“As long as you don’t touch Asakusa, I’ll be happy.”
“You’ll still have your tea houses and cinemas. But in five years, you won’t even recognize Japan.” Masaru released a satisfied sigh. “I have Lieutenant Nakajima to thank for this great victory. Without him, this would never have happened.” He set the bottle of beer down. “Let’s have a drink. To Hajime Nakajima!”
Reiko almost blanched but maintained a mask of composure. “I’d rather not. I don’t think the Lieutenant would return the toast.”
“He’s an Army man. They don’t appreciate women.”
“Like you?” Reiko leaned closer.
Masaru swallowed and ignored the question. “Thankfully, Nakajima-san steered me back to the path of purity and patriotism.”
Curses rang out in Reiko’s mind. That devil soldier had ruined everything. It was Nakajima who encouraged, begged, and subtly shamed Masaru into concocting this insane assassination plot. If he hadn’t appeared, then she’d still be in her world of movie theaters in Asakusa and afternoon shopping in Ginza.
The forlorn dirge of “Sake, Tears or Sighs?” cut off and was replaced by the crisp voice of a radio announcer.
“Special bulletin! Special bulletin! We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news from outside the Diet Building.”
Masaru leaped to his feet and leaned closer to the radio. Reiko clutched her kimono tighter.
“During a press conference given by Baron Fumio Onishi, a violent scuffle broke out in the Imperial Diet’s courtyard between an unidentified man and Police Inspector Kenji Aizawa.”
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