Sakamoto handed the Nambu over and Nakajima accepted with both hands.
“Th-thank you, sir…”
The General laid a paternal hand on Nakajima’s shoulder. “If only I had your youth again, Lieutenant.”
Nakajima felt the formalities of rank bend slightly enough to ask a personal question.
“Sir…I must ready myself…for tonight and for service in Manchuria…what is it like to take a life?”
“First kills are like first lays,” the General said. “The more you think about it the worse it will be.”
That didn’t help. But Sakamoto must have seen confusion manifest in Nakajima’s face and elaborated.
“I was around your age when I killed my first man, a Russian officer during the Battle of Mukden. It felt…mechanical and detached. I pried a Nagant revolver from his hand as a trophy and…I wanted to hate him, but couldn’t.” General Sakamoto clapped his hand on Nakajima’s shoulder. “Do not hate your enemy. Hate the evil he represents. Baron Onishi is unimportant…what he represents, this corrupt political system, must die…tonight.”
Nakajima tucked the Nambu into his belt and snapped to attention. “General, I swear that either Baron Onishi dies tonight or I will!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Following the address on the meishi card, Aizawa took a taxicab over to Onishi’s estate and found the Baron in the middle of dinner. A gracious host, Onishi invited him to join. Not since before the depression had Aizawa eaten so much sashimi, grilled squid, eel, and rice. Did the Baron dine like this every night or was he just trying to impress this simple police inspector? Not that he needed to. His yashiki, the spacious manor inherited from his daimyo ancestors, was enough. Added to that was his wife, the Baroness Sachiko Onishi, who, despite her gray hair, retained a regal beauty in an elegant purple kimono. The Baron had also changed into an evening kimono and hakama pants, looking more like a daimyo lord than a British gentleman.
The meal concluded, Aizawa bowed his thanks as a horde of servants cleared the table and served tea.
“How do you like it, Inspector?” the Baroness asked.
Aizawa nodded. “It’s very good.”
Baron Onishi smiled. “It’s jade dew. The leaves are grown in the shade to accentuate the taste.”
Even the tea here was aristocratic. Or perhaps the Baron was fishing for compliments from his commoner guest. Many Tokyoites never entered the southwestern part of the city, let alone the affluent Azabu Ward. Even the Metropolitan Police rarely made visits here since the rich had a way of policing themselves.
“Your family yashiki is most impressive, Baron.”
“Thank you,” Onishi said, sipping his tea.
“It’s from the Tokugawa Era,” the Baroness elaborated. “The Shogunate ordered all the daimyo to construct homes in the city as a way of submission. The Onishi family is originally from out west, near Shimonoseki.”
“Despite this, our family’s true allegiance was always to the Imperial throne,” the Baron said, in case Aizawa had any doubts.
“Of course. Do you have any children, Baron?”
Onishi nodded. “A son, currently serving in the diplomatic corps. He’s at our embassy in Washington. Do you, Inspector?”
“I’m not married yet.”
“Siblings?”
“I had a younger sister.”
An awkward silence stifled the conversation, hinting that they should retreat back to the solid footing of guard and guarded.
“How was your meeting today?” the Baroness asked.
“A waste of time,” Baron Onishi scoffed. “It was mercifully cut short by Aizawa-san. What was that all about, Inspector?”
Aizawa set his tea cup aside. “I received another call…” He decided to leave out the chase with the shadowy Army officer. “I believe General Sakamoto is behind the plot to assassinate you, Baron.”
Onishi’s glacial face began to melt with concern, perhaps from realizing that he had more enemies than previously thought.
“The Army Ministry is a hive of intrigue,” the Baron said. “Sakamoto is an ambitious man who clearly wants to become prime minister himself one day.”
“He wouldn’t be the first general to scheme his way into office,” the Baroness said. “And they claim Dietmen are intriguers. Hypocrites!”
Baron Onishi laughed. “Unfortunately, our history is written by intrigue. Now I see what all that nonsense was about going off the gold standard.”
“Gold standard?” Aizawa asked.
“Takano brought it up today. His bank has been engaged in currency speculation, purchasing millions from American banks. They stand to make a fortune if we leave gold and convert their dollars back into yen.”
“And the bankers wonder why they’re hated,” the Baroness sneered.
“General Sakamoto is no better,” Baron Onishi continued. “Last week, he came to my office in the Diet, asking what my economic policy would be.”
“Last week?” Aizawa asked.
Onishi nodded. “Sakamoto claimed to have secret knowledge about Prime Minister Wakastuki’s impending resignation. It’s well-known that I’m being considered as his successor, so Sakamoto must have wanted to ingratiate himself into my cabinet as army minister. The General said that going off the gold standard would allow for a larger military budget. Fools! Don’t they remember the inflation that occurred in Germany?”
The Baroness laughed. “Imagine, financial advice from a military man! It’s like discussing religion with a stray dog!”
“Indeed. Which is why I flatly refused. Takano also suggested some ridiculous plan of reviving the economy through increased trade with America.” Onishi shook his head. “Don’t these fools understand that the United States is our greatest enemy?”
America again? Most Japanese seemed to have dual feelings toward the United States. Love for baseball, Hollywood, and jazz; resentment toward immigration laws, unequal treaties, and that dishonorable Smoot-Hawley Tariff. But for the Baron, America evoked only an icy contempt.
“Baron, if you become prime minister, what will your policy be toward America?” Aizawa asked, hoping the bait was good.
The Baroness laughed. “Oh, I should leave. I never like to be around my husband when his former mistress is discussed.” She rose and bowed her way out of the room, leaving Aizawa to wonder what scab he’d picked open.
Baron Onishi finished his tea before responding. “Come with me, Inspector.”
Aizawa followed the Baron down the hall and into a large room, furnished with leather chairs and a suit of red samurai armor mounted in the corner. Beside it was the daisho, the ceremonial swords of the Onishi Clan. The long katana and the short wakizashi looked so serene sheathed, but Aizawa wondered how many heads they’d lopped off and stomachs they’d opened over the centuries.
But what dominated the room was an enormous bookcase, crammed full of texts, mostly in Japanese, though on one shelf the books had exotic, foreign words on their spines. The Baron pulled one out and handed it to Aizawa.
The book was in English, and as Aizawa flipped through the pages, only a few words appeared familiar: Japan, America, and war.
“The Rising Tide of Color by Lothrop Stoddard. In it, the author argues that Japan will lead the peoples of Asia to war against the United States.” Onishi pointed to another book. “The Passing of the Great Race warns that if America allows too many Japanese immigrants, it will be poisoned from within. Foolish, but American lawmakers apparently read it because they restricted all Japanese immigration, similar to the shameful way they barred Chinese entrance into their country.”
The Baron gestured to another book. “This is my personal favorite. The Great Pacific War by Hector Bywater. Fiction, but many American military men wish it were fact. It details how a treacherous Japan destroys the Panama Canal and provokes America into a long naval war. They win, of course.”
Aizawa closed Stoddard’s book and handed it back. “I’m sure there are Japanese novels
where we win.”
Baron Onishi filed the book away and said, “The point is that they want war with us, Inspector. During our war with Russia, I served at the Japanese embassy in Washington. After Admiral Togo’s great victory at Tsushima, a group of American Navy officers extended their congratulations to us. However, they warned us that their fleet was far stronger than the Russians, and could blockade Japan so quickly that our empire would capitulate in a month.”
“I heard Americans were tactless,” Aizawa said.
“And gluttonous! They devoured California from Mexico, Hawaii from its natives, and the Philippines from Spain. If they can expand their territory, why can’t Japan? Although I opposed the Army’s invasion of Manchuria, I’m more appalled with the insubordination it showed toward the civilian government.” The Baron shook his head, looking like a disappointed father.
“Japan is now an international pariah,” Onishi began again. “And America will take advantage of our weakness. In 1923, they pressured the British to end their alliance with us. Now, our economy has been wrecked by their tariff. But when Manchuria is occupied, Japan can use the resources of that vast land and become completely self-sufficient, free of American imports.”
“Don’t we need American imports though?”
Baron Onishi’s face darkened. “We must show the Americans that our people can withstand any hardship. My first act as prime minister would be to reduce trade between America and Japan to a trickle.”
A tightness wrapped around Aizawa’s throat. “That might lead to war, Baron.”
“We are already at war, Inspector. But in this conflict, the weapons are tariffs and stocks.”
Suddenly, Aizawa felt like a firefighter working from inside a burning building.
“Inspector.” He heard the Baroness’s voice and turned around. “You have a call.”
Aizawa excused himself and followed the Baroness to a candlestick telephone around the hall.
“Aizawa here.”
“Inspector,” Superintendent Shimura’s sharp voice said. “I’m releasing Kuroki-san.”
“What! Why?”
“Return to Headquarters and I’ll explain. There is no further need to guard Baron Onishi.”
“But, sir, I must disagree—”
“Return to Headquarters, Inspector. That’s an order.”
After a harsh click, the line went dead. Aizawa hung up the receiver and considered what to do next. He couldn’t leave Onishi unguarded, even for a few hours. Any backup would have to be approved by Shimura, unless he called in a favor. He picked up the telephone and called Police Headquarters, then asked for Sergeant Murayama.
“Murayama here.”
“Aizawa here.”
“What can I help you with, Inspector? I’m almost off duty.”
“I need you to spend a few hours at Baron Onishi’s yashiki. At least until I can convince Superintendent Shimura to change his mind.”
“Doing what?”
“Walking around the premises and eating his food. There’s plenty here. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Grilled squid and eel.”
A few moments of silence went by. “You owe me for this, Inspector.”
Aizawa smiled and gave him the Baron’s address. He hung up and glanced at his watch. Almost nine o’clock. He returned to Onishi’s study and bowed his apologies.
“Unfortunately Baron, my superior has called me back to Headquarters. However, my replacement, Sergeant Murayama, will be here soon.”
Baron Onishi nodded and continued browsing his bookshelf. “How will you get back?”
Aizawa hadn’t thought about that. The least Shimura could have done was send a staff car. And he didn’t want to spend any more of his money on one-yen taxicabs.
“Inspector, can you operate a motor vehicle?”
“Yes, I drove supply trucks in Siberia.”
“Why don’t you drive my Rolls-Royce back?” Onishi asked, turning toward him.
Aizawa examined the Baron’s face for any expression of reluctance but couldn’t find a trace. Imagine, driving up to Police Headquarters in that. Even officers on the take would sneer. But it was either that, take a taxi, or walk.
“Are you sure, Baron?”
Onishi nodded. “Until this whole incident is over, it’s yours.”
First the Pall Malls, now this. “Thank you, Baron,” Aizawa said, bowing. “I’ll return it as soon as this case is closed.”
Baron Onishi gave a solemn nod. “I’m sure you will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The cold night air drilled into Lieutenant Nakajima’s face like needles as he crouched in the brush, surveying Onishi’s yashiki estate with binoculars. The homes in Azabu were spread out enough that each neighbor was at least a five-minute walk. Both he and the staff car that General Sakamoto loaned him were thoroughly camouflaged.
Scanning the yashiki courtyard, Nakajima saw a taxicab pull up. A large uniformed police officer jumped out and met Inspector Aizawa in the courtyard, momentarily illuminated by several paper lanterns. Damn it all. Ryusaki-sensei had said there would be no bodyguards tonight! It was too late now. He’d have to fight his way in, guard or no guard.
After exchanging salutes, the burly policeman disappeared into the yashiki while Aizawa hopped into a Rolls-Royce, parked next to a Mercedes Benz. Such ostentatious luxury! Meanwhile, his comrades faced Chinese bullets in Manchuria and his family slowly starved.
The Rolls-Royce roared to life and drove off into the night. Nakajima stood and fastened the chinstrap on his service cap. Although he’d already prayed before he followed General Sakamoto’s directions here, Lieutenant Nakajima closed his eyes and asked the gods for their guidance.
“Hajime-kun…”
He opened his eyes and twisted his head around.
“Kill him, Hajime-kun,” Chitose-oneesan said, the wind carrying her voice across time and worlds. “Kill the Baron.”
Nakajima nodded and turned back to the yashiki. Ah, how kind the gods were to reunite them before battle. He reviewed the field one last time and settled in on a chauffeur tending to that sleek Mercedes Benz. He set the binoculars aside and drew the Nambu pistol, entrusted to him by General Sakamoto.
Sprinting out from the brush, he crossed the driveway, coming up behind the Mercedes. Undetected by the chauffeur, who busied himself underneath the car’s hood, Nakajima pressed the pistol against the nape of the man’s neck. The chauffeur shivered, rattling the Nambu slightly.
“Be quiet,” he said. “Take me to the Baron or I shoot.”
Trembling, the chauffeur backed out from under the hood and nodded. Contempt swept over Nakajima. Servants should always die for their masters, even if they were villains. Still, it was unwise to shoot his best chance of finding Onishi.
They traipsed through the snowy courtyard and into the yashiki. Neither removed their boots, tracking watery footprints on the floor. The hallways were dark and empty, amplifying their footsteps. Nakajima divided his time looking backward and forward, seeing mostly darkness, and on occasion, Chitose-oneesan, staring at him with glassy eyes.
“Identify yourself!” a gruff voice cut through the darkness. Dim lighting revealed an enormous policeman striding toward him, reaching for his sidearm.
Nakajima slid the pistol from the chauffeur’s neck and answered. One shot in the gut slammed the policeman onto the floor, and another to the head ended his misery. His first kill. Just a man doing his duty. A wave of nausea welled within him until he felt a soothing hand press on his shoulder. Chitose-oneesan stood beside him, easing his sickness. What was it that Sakamoto had said? Do not hate your enemy. Hate the evil he represents. And now, his enemy’s blood oozed down the shoji sliding door he’d been protecting. The chauffeur fainted and joined the police officer on the floor. No matter. Chitose removed her hand from his shoulder and pointed the way.
Nakajima tore open the doors and surveyed the room. It was obviously a study, evidenced by the enormous bookcase and leather chai
rs. Onishi stood beside a magnificent daisho and suit of armor with such stoic poise, they may as well have been one. Lieutenant Nakajima eyed the Baron with a steely gaze. They had fought this battle before, in different times and different forms.
Purity versus corruption.
Patriotism versus treason.
Good versus evil.
*****
Baron Onishi looked him up and down, allowing only a sneer. Nakajima drew himself up for the words he’d prepared. After all, the Baron should know why he was going to die.
“Baron Onishi! In the name of the Emperor and the Japanese people, you are to receive tenchu, divine punishment!”
“So…Sakamoto sent his adjutant,” Onishi hissed.
“Do you know why you must die?” Lieutenant Nakajima held his head high. “Because—”
“I don’t care what foolish reason you have,” Onishi snapped. “Just shoot and hurry back to Sakamoto.”
Damn him. Nothing could shame this pompous aristocrat. Not the noble actions of the Army in Manchuria, or the masses of unemployed, or the Tohoku famine. A bullet was too easy. Nakajima holstered the Nambu pistol and drew his saber.
With a guttural shout, he rushed toward Onishi. A hideous crunch filled the study as the sword plunged straight into the Baron’s mid-section, cutting through muscles and organs. The charge slammed them both against the suit of armor, toppling it over with a loud clang. Onishi glared back with cold contempt, before looking down at the blade that now pierced his gut. Nakajima gave a sharp twist, contorting the Baron’s face with pain.
Hysterical shrieking diverted Nakajima’s attention to the entrance. A silver-haired woman rushed toward them, her face panicked and enraged. Nakajima slid the saber out from the Baron, dropping him to his knees. Blood washed over the pieces of armor, now strewn across the floor.
“Get away from him!” the woman cried, putting herself in between the Baron and himself. “If you’re going to kill my husband, then kill me first!”
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