Anger flickered behind Masaru’s glasses.
“Details are unclear but the man was taken into custody. Baron Onishi was safely escorted back into the Imperial Diet. Police have not released any further information.”
Masaru clicked radio knob off. Blood drained from his face, leaving him pale and trembling. Did he suspect anything? She searched his numb expression for any sense of betrayal but there was no emotion. Suddenly, it ignited in rage.
“Aizawa! Him again? Damn him, damn him, damn him!” He grabbed the Kirin beer and hurled it onto the floor, shattering the bottle into pieces. “Why must he hound me when my only crime is patriotism?”
Reiko kept quiet but gave a sympathetic nod.
“No, he won’t win this time,” Masaru said, grabbing the katana tightly in his hand. “Aizawa will soon learn that his loyalty to those villains in the Diet will cost him dearly!”
The sword rattled louder in Masaru’s grip and Reiko feared what was coming. Smashing bottles was bad enough, but he might go lopping off a few heads with that thing.
“Masaru, please control yourself!”
Masaru’s fury melted away as he set the sword down.
“You’re right. I must be calm. Then I can think…and plan.”
He dropped to his knees. An innocent vulnerability shone behind his glasses, the kind she hadn’t seen in months.
“Masaru, please…it’s over. Forget about Nakajima…forget about the Baron…forget about all of them…”
“Harutora…Reiko…sing me a song.”
“How about ‘Cherry Blossoms, Cherry Blossoms’?”
He closed his eyes. “Jazz.”
Now it made sense. He didn’t want the geisha Harutora, he wanted the moga, Reiko Watanabe. Her suspicions were correct. Underneath that samurai shell, there was still a mobo inside Masaru Ryusaki. Perhaps with a little jazz, she could bring him out and put an end to this madness.
She sang the opening bars of “The Japanese Sandman” from memory. Masaru quivered and nestled his head on her lap. Fitting, since it had been the song playing when they first met, so many months ago. Before that bastard Nakajima ruined everything.
She stopped and said, “I’ve always loved the lyrics to that song.”
Masaru kept his eyes closed. “They’re just nonsense.”
Reiko sighed. “Those are the best kind.”
CHAPTER SIX
Pacing back and forth, Second Lieutenant Hajime Nakajima’s footsteps echoed throughout the empty halls of the Imperial Diet Building. According to the wall clock hanging above a nearby conference room, it had been over ten minutes since the Diet session ended. Baron Onishi must be dead by now!
Lieutenant Nakajima smiled and gripped the heavy saber at his side. He’d use it soon enough during the revolution that would save Japan from the claws of evil. But for now, he continued to pace and wait for the conference room to open.
Some of the most powerful men in the government were behind those doors; chief among them was Nakajima’s superior officer, the Vice-Army Minister, General Yori Sakamoto. The General was scheduled to be in meetings all day with these lesser creatures, scheming politicians from the Seiyukai Party and its president, Tsuyoshi Inukai.
Disbelief swept over Lieutenant Nakajima as he once again realized his proximity to these men. This lowly son of rice farmers was in the halls of the Imperial Diet, nerve center of the Japanese Empire.
Not that it would be around for much longer. Soon, his sensei, his teacher, Masaru Ryusaki and the Kusanagi Society would dynamite buildings and cause riots throughout Tokyo, spreading panic and chaos. Nakajima would play an important role too, storming the Diet with a platoon of soldiers and declaring martial law. A new era would dawn when General Sakamoto was declared shogun and began cleansing Japan of impurities.
Lieutenant Nakajima imagined scores of unpatriotic Dietmen standing before a firing squad, including Tsuyoshi Inukai, discarded like a useless puppet. Then, with his mission in the home islands accomplished, Nakajima could transfer to Manchuria and die a beautiful death for the Emperor, like a cherry blossom fluttering to the ground on the last day of spring. Only then would this lowly son of rice farmers attain godhood.
Suddenly, a parade of dark uniforms turned the corner and forced Nakajima off to the side. Police officers clustered around a tall, stern-faced man and escorted him down the hall. A glimpse of a silver mustache was enough to identify Baron Fumio Onishi.
Kuroki had failed! But perhaps there was still time to draw his saber and strike the villain down…but he dismissed the idea. Ryusaki-sensei would have another plan. He always did.
Another man in a black suit, fedora, and overcoat trailed behind the squad of policemen. Lieutenant Nakajima studied his squared face with thick eyebrows that highlighted a pair of dark, focused eyes. Even thicker sideburns lined the face while a bright red mark spotted his cheek. His mouth was turned downward, out of which a lit cigarette hung.
It had to be Inspector Aizawa…the man Ryusaki-sensei hated with such fury. With their backs turned to him, there were so many opportunities to strike them both down, but again, Nakajima suppressed the urge. Time was needed to correct today’s failure.
After Aizawa and the other police officers disappeared around a corner, Lieutenant Nakajima turned back toward the conference room, its doors now wide open. Amid pleasant chatter, Tsuyoshi Inukai and General Sakamoto exited first, followed by a pair of grinning Seiyukai Party bureaucrats. Inukai was dressed in an elegant dark suit that clashed with his white hair and goatee; his wrinkled, sunken face with taut skin resembled a mummy with fur. But this frail little man was president of the conservative Seiyukai, the second largest political party in Japan.
Towering over him was General Sakamoto, whose own finely trimmed gray goatee surrounded a confident smile. His dark brown uniform was identical to Lieutenant Nakajima’s, although Sakamoto’s was ornamented with awards. Service medals from the Russo-Japanese War, a campaign badge for the Siberian Expedition, and the most prestigious, the Order of the Golden Kite dangling at his throat, were like Shinto charms in this den of devils.
A well-built man in a three-piece suit with neatly combed gray hair and a strong jaw exited last. The glittering Rolex around his wrist was more than enough evidence that the man belonged to the zaibatsu, Japan’s capitalist cliques.
The man’s loathsome face was constantly in the newspapers these days; Isamu Takano, the banker. Though less insufferable than the liberal Minsei Party, the conservative Seiyukai was known for its connections to the zaibatsu.
Contempt swept over Lieutenant Nakajima. To strut around with a Rolex while unemployment numbers soared higher every day was almost unforgivable. Heartbreaking letters from his mother flashed in his mind, all detailing how his childhood village and many others like it were ravaged by famine. But nobody in the capital seemed to care much about poor rice farmers. His thoughts drifted back home, back to the northeastern Tohoku region. He was a boy again, watching an entire summer’s rice harvest packed up and shipped south to Tokyo. After the rice his sister, Chitose Nakajima, went too.
Loud chattering returned Nakajima to the present and he snapped to attention. General Sakamoto acknowledged him with a nod but Takano and the politicians walked past without even a glance.
“Farwell, General,” Inukai said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure you will, Inukai-san,” General Sakamoto said with a gracious smile.
After exchanging bows, the Seiyukai politicians and Takano walked down the hallway. Only after they were out of earshot did Sakamoto speak.
“Anything to report, Lieutenant?”
Nakajima’s jaw tightened. “Kuroki has failed, sir.”
Sakamoto’s smile vanished. “No, your sensei has failed, Lieutenant.”
Shame wrapped around Nakajima’s throat but he managed to choke out, “General Zakamoto…I…” before trailing off.
Damn it all. Even in Tokyo, at the side of one of the most powerful
men in the Imperial Army, he still felt like a callow rice farmer. He never learned how to completely control his Tohoku accent, turning ‘s’s’ into ‘z’s’. But there was no time for self-pity. Not while Japan slid toward the abyss of corruption and decadence.
“I apologize, General…”
General Sakamoto’s smile returned, more subdued but still confident. “Lieutenant, when you finally see combat, you’ll realize that there is no shame in withdrawing from the battlefield when the enemy is too strong. It only means you must alter your strategy. Tell Ryusaki-san I wish to meet with him. Tonight.”
Lieutenant Nakajima bit his lip and nodded. Ah, how kind the gods were to let him serve under men like this.
“But first,” Sakamoto added. “We must attend to His Excellency, Baron Onishi.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
At Baron Onishi’s request, they retreated back to his personal office. Aizawa posted two junsas to stand guard outside before ordering the rest of the squad to disperse the crowds outside and search the perimeter, just in case there were any other assassins out today.
The office was furnished with a portrait of the Emperor hanging above a polished desk, decorated with a candlestick telephone, files, and an ashtray. Aizawa stubbed out his smoke but still needed another to settle his nerves. He pulled out a green-and-yellow pack of Golden Bat cigarettes, humbly offering one to the Baron first.
“No thank you, Inspector. I do not smoke Japanese cigarettes.” Onishi reached into his coat and presented a pack of Pall Malls to sample. “Shameful as it is, I must admit that American tobacco is superior to ours.”
A valid point. Golden Bats left a bitter aftertaste and were rumored to be cut with tobacco dust. Still, they remained the most popular brand in Japan, if only because of their low price. Still, the lure of a foreign tobacco proved too great and Aizawa accepted the pack of Pall Malls. Lighting up further dulled the remaining pain from his cheek. He couldn’t fault the Baron for his taste.
“What you did out there,” Onishi said, turning his head, “was very brave.”
“I was merely doing my duty,” Aizawa said.
Despite his top hat and Pall Malls, the Baron was still Japanese and had to sympathize with that. Aizawa took a drag on his Pall Mall and handed the pack over.
“Keep it,” Onishi insisted. Aizawa slid the cigarettes into his coat pocket, unable to tell if the Baron was being generous or thought the pack was now contaminated.
*****
Lieutenant Nakajima walked down the deserted halls of the Diet, keeping an eye out for Baron Onishi. Where had that wrinkled villain slithered off to? He couldn’t let the Baron leave until General Sakamoto spoke to him first. Time was not on their side. Any minute now, Onishi could be offered the government and all of their carefully laid plans would be ruined.
He turned a corner and almost collided with a police officer.
“My apologies, sir.”
Nakajima nodded and said, “Pardon me, but was that Baron Onishi you escorted in here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My superior, General Sakamoto, wishes to have a word with the Baron.”
Although there were traces of hesitation on the policeman’s face, the mention of General Sakamoto had its intended impact.
“Follow me, Lieutenant,” he said, as they started down the hall.
*****
Aizawa smoked in silence for several minutes before the office door opened. A junsa presented himself with a salute.
“Sir, the area has been secured,” he announced
Aizawa said, “Good work. Baron, would you please accompany me back to Headquarters and give a statement?”
Before Onishi could answer, the junsa added, “Also, there is an Army officer who wishes to speak with the Baron.”
Aizawa nodded but kept his hand near his pistol, just in case. Stubbing out his cigarette, Aizawa followed the junsa and Onishi into the hallway. A young officer approached. Cloaked in a dark brown uniform and with an emotionless mask for a face, he looked like a toy soldier come to life. Yellow aiguillettes looped around his right shoulder marked him as a staff officer attached to the Army Ministry. Without acknowledging Aizawa’s presence, he strode up to Onishi and bowed.
“Lieutenant Nakajima, Your Excellency,” he said.
The Baron returned the bow.
“Excellency, my superior, Vice-Army Minister Zakamoto, requests an audience with you.”
The Lieutenant’s accent was folksy and rural, probably from the Tohoku region, famous for its endless rice farms. These days, the Army and Navy were filled with young men eager to escape the grinding poverty and famine of the northeast.
Other than that, the Lieutenant was practically a photographic print of the officers he’d served under while in the Army, during the ill-fated Siberian Expedition to crush the Bolshevik Revolution some ten years ago. Cold and aloof, officers were like a species above their men. Even now, Aizawa fought a reflex to stand at attention.
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Baron Onishi said before turning to Aizawa. “I shall visit your Headquarters and give my statement afterward, Inspector.”
“Perhaps I should accompany you, Baron.”
Onishi waved his hand. “That won’t be necessary. I know General Sakamoto personally.” He turned to the Army officer. “Please lead the way.”
Lieutenant Nakajima spun around on his heel and led the Baron down the hall, his heavy saber clanking against his left boot. Police officers weren’t used to being snubbed, but in the pyramid of Japanese society, the Military and aristocrats were both a tier higher, making the slight more acceptable. Aizawa leaned over to the two junsas.
“Follow him and be on your guard. As soon as he’s done, escort him back to my office. Even if I’m not there, send him to my office. Understood?” The junsas saluted and trotted off after the Baron. If Onishi had business to attend to, then so did he.
Aizawa headed back toward the Baron’s office, called Police Headquarters, and asked for Murayama.
“Sergeant Murayama here.”
“Is Chaplin-san awake yet?”
“Not yet. You really nailed him. The junsas are calling you KO Kenji.”
“Please tell me there’s more,” Aizawa said.
“His name is Makoto Kuroki and he already has a record with us. A month ago, he stole a bag of rice and spent a week in jail. When he got out, Kuroki pickpocketed some salaryman on the subway. The salaryman trailed him to a brothel in Yoshiwara and called the Police. But listen to this. Kuroki-san apologized and explained that since he was laid off from his job at the cannery, he can’t afford to see his favorite whore anymore. The salaryman was so sympathetic to Kuroki situation that he dropped the charges.”
“What was the name of the brothel he was arrested at?” Aizawa asked.
“The Water Temple,” Murayama said before adding, “A yakuza joint. Owned by the Okamura Gang to be specific.”
Aizawa tensed at the name and remembered raiding their gambling den a year ago. He was sure that the Okamura Gang hadn’t forgotten either. Was the underworld also involved with this assassination? Regardless, he needed to get over there fast.
“Good work, Sergeant. I’ll pay a little visit to the Water Temple. In the meantime—”
“I’ll begin questioning our guest,” Murayama said with a soft chuckle. The Sergeant’s interrogation methods always left Aizawa with a bad taste, but a spasm of pain in his cheek discouraged any pity this time.
Aizawa hung up and reviewed the facts. Makoto Kuroki, unemployed and destitute, had robbed a man and spent the money on prostitutes instead of food. Such a man might not want a last meal, but chances were he’d want a last lay.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aizawa looked out the taxicab window as the Diet Building shrank behind him. Traveling northward, they were soon out of the government district of Nagatacho with its modern, cement buildings and bending around the elaborate moat that ringed the Imperial Palace. A leftover from the Tokugawa Sho
gunate, the structure radiated such heavenly authority that Aizawa turned his unworthy gaze eastward to the steel-and-brick towers of Marunouchi.
Aside from the Diet, few places were more despised these days than Tokyo’s financial district. Newspaper editorials ranted against the greedy men who schemed and swindled while common people lost more and more each day. For the past year, the Metropolitan Police had been bombarded with letters demanding the arrest of Japan’s real criminals; the zaibatsu capitalists.
Continuing northward, the taxicab drove through his home neighborhood, the working class Ueno district, and passed by the largest park in Tokyo. Although it was shrouded in darkness, Ueno Park filled Aizawa with childhood memories; playing baseball with friends, viewing the cherry blossoms with his parents, and taking his little sister to the zoo.
He sighed. Tokyo was a city of duality, made up of Marunouchis and Ueno Parks, the old and the new, the living and the dead. He’d seen the city die before, during the Great Kanto Earthquake, only to be resurrected like some vengeful spirit. Whatever Tokyo was now, Kenji Aizawa’s duty was to maintain law and order in it.
Several minutes later, the taxicab ground to a halt. Outside, the walled district of Yoshiwara stood like a relic lost in time. Created some three centuries ago in the Tokugawa Era, it had withstood revolutions and disease but had nearly succumbed to the Great Earthquake. Somehow Yoshiwara had survived, although it now looked mortally wounded. Gone was the splendor of old Japan with its poetry-emblazoned gate and garishly dressed courtesans. Now, Yoshiwara had devolved into just another vice district, like an old whore whose syphilis had finally caught up with her.
The driver turned around and said, “Sorry sir, but this is as far as I can go. That’ll be one yen please.”
“Stay here. I won’t be long,” Aizawa said, handing a one-yen coin over.
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