Shadows of Tokyo

by Matthew Legare

  “Dynamiting the Marunouchi Building will kill a lot more people than just Takano,” Aizawa said.

  “Casualties are to be expected in war,” Ryusaki said, slamming his hand on the tatami flooring. “But the people are with us. They scream for us to crush that nest of wasps! Japan cannot begin to heal until the poisonous stingers of capitalism, corruption, and liberalism are torn out of our national flesh!”

  “And what will you do while your men are blowing up the Maru-Biru, Ryusaki-san? Write your second book?”

  Ryusaki frowned and Nakajima answered for him.

  “Ryusaki-zensei is too important to our movement to die. He’ll go underground and recruit more followers to the cause.”

  Aizawa’s throat and frame tightened at the thought. Blowing up the Maru-Biru was just the beginning. Tokyo was about to enter an era of violence that would make the Meiji Restoration look tame. Even more ominous was Lieutenant Nakajima’s threat of enlisting his fellow Army officers to turn the Imperial capital into a war zone.

  “I spoke to Takano-san yesterday,” Aizawa said. “He claims his motives were entirely patriotic.”

  Ryusaki scoffed. “Men like him only salute money, not our sacred flag.”

  “Maybe, but he says he’ll use his money to rebuild the economy and make Japan strong again.”

  “And you believed that?” Ryusaki snapped.

  “He claimed to have some powerful backers,” Aizawa said.

  “Who?”

  “His Imperial Majesty.”

  The soshi widened their eyes and shifted nervous glances to their sensei.

  Ryusaki gave a harsh laugh, like a croaking frog. “The Emperor is misled by his corrupt advisers. Men who are in the pocket of Takano and the other zaibatsu.” His face darkened. “Men like you, Inspector.”

  Lieutenant Nakajima leaned over and said, “Inspector, the Kusanagi Society and the Metropolitan Police should not be enemies. We both serve the Emperor in different ways. If we unite, the dark clouds that swirl over our nation will be driven away by the sunlight of purity and patriotism!”

  The Lieutenant’s soft face glowed with an eager naiveté in stark contrast to Ryusaki, who frowned with narrowed eyes. Despite Nakajima’s assurance of safety, to outright refuse this offer might be enough of an excuse for Ryusaki to draw his katana.

  “Let me think about it,” Aizawa said.

  Lieutenant Nakajima gave a placated nod.

  “I’m sure the Inspector will make the right decision in time,” Ryusaki said. “But until then, restrain him.”

  Kuroki jumped up and dug through Aizawa’s coat before finding his handcuffs. His hands were pulled behind him and shackled into place. Kuroki resumed his search until discovering a pair of keys, and presented them to Ryusaki.

  Aizawa gave a few sharp strains against the cuffs, searching for any looseness to exploit. But the metal dug deep into his wrists, payback for Kuroki’s earlier treatment. Whatever chance of escape he had was gone now.

  Like an animated puppet, Reiko-Harutora shuffled through and passed out cups. She then poured ritual sake; a ceremony that all Japanese men enjoyed before battle, be they samurai, soldiers, or soshi. Ryusaki gave a triumphant smile and raised his glass.

  “To the New Japan. Banzai.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Lieutenant Nakajima peered out the back of the cab’s rear window as Asakusa faded from view. Kuroki sat next to him, stern-faced and stiff in his dark brown uniform, as if he’d just graduated from the Imperial Army Academy. Another patriot sat in the front passenger seat, tight-lipped and staring straight ahead. Behind them trailed another one-yen taxi, crammed with the five other patriots. Not as glorious as leading a platoon across Manchuria, but it would have to suffice.

  With a sigh, he glanced out the side window. Ueno Park appeared in the distance, cold and gray in the early morning light. Somehow Inspector Aizawa had escaped from there last night, despite the best efforts of Ryusaki-sensei. Such a miraculous escape was evidence that the gods had intervened on his behalf, and demanded his enlistment into the Kusanagi Society. Since the Inspector was a man of honor, patriotism would convert him into a useful ally in the coming war. It was, after all, the will of the gods.

  Tokyo passed by, its features melting together into one drab blur. How he hated this city. Here was the epicenter of greed and corruption, like a diseased heart pumping out poisoned blood. The Kusanagi Society would try to remove the virus through assassination, but if that didn’t work, a mercy killing might be best for Tokyo. The capital of the New Japan would be erected on its ashes.

  A loud screech jarred Nakajima from his thoughts as the car braked hard. Tires squealed behind them as the other one-yen taxi skidded to a halt behind them, nudging the car’s bumper with a firm push. He gave a relieved sigh. A faster speed would have surely detonated the box of dynamite they had stored in the cab’s trunk. Yet another sign the gods supervised their mission.

  “Be more careful,” Nakajima said, clutching his saber for added emphasis.

  “Sorry about that,” the driver replied, offering a slight bow. “I hope your box didn’t break. What do you have in there anyway?”

  Nakajima traded a glance with Kuroki and said, “We are not at liberty to discuss that.”

  The driver nodded with understanding. “Sorry about the rough stop. I guess there’s some soldiers shipping out today.”

  Nakajima peered out the window at Tokyo Station in front of them. Not only was it the largest railway terminal in the empire, patriots had also struck down two treacherous prime ministers there. Ah, another good omen for their mission. The Marunouchi Building was now just blocks away.

  However, an enormous throng clustered around the station’s entrance and slowed their advance to a crawl. Most were civilians waving Rising Sun flags, but a line of brown-uniformed soldiers streamed past them to endless chants of “banzai!” while a brass band played “If Ten Thousand Enemies Should Come.”

  A twinge of jealousy stabbed at Lieutenant Nakajima’s heart. He briefly pictured himself shipping out with them but shook his head. No time for self-pity. Such selfishness was exactly what they were fighting against. He’d have to meet his death here and take as many of the enemy with him.

  *****

  “It’s over, Inspector. I’ve won,” Ryusaki said before downing another cup of sake. Aizawa kept quiet and continued to strain against the handcuffs. Each tug bit the metal deeper into his skin.

  Reiko-Harutora sat beside Ryusaki and refilled the cup of sake. Aizawa scanned for any hints of rebellion, a wink or a nod to escape. But her glassy eyes shone only a submissive defeat. Ryusaki sat his cup down and dug into his kimono and slid out the Colt pistol, missing since last night.

  “Careful, that’s not a toy,” Aizawa said.

  “Such arrogance from a man who lost a weapon entrusted to him by the Emperor,” Ryusaki said, shaking his head. “But I expect nothing less from you, Aizawa-san. I’ll make sure to put this to good use and shoot a few politicians with it.”

  “And what do you plan on doing with her?” Aizawa asked, nodding in Reiko-Harutora’s direction. She made no movement.

  Ryusaki plunged the Colt back into his kimono before returning full attention to his katana. “My Reiko was led astray and corrupted. I should have suspected her sooner. Betrayal comes more naturally for women. But now she is coming to grips with the crimes that she’s committed. A few more rehabilitation sessions will beat out any treachery left in her. Then, she’ll make a fine wife for me!” He smiled. “All Japan must undergo rehabilitation to be saved.” Ryusaki gripped the sword and slammed its hilt under Aizawa’s chin. “Except you, Inspector.”

  “Me?”

  “Rehabilitation won’t work on you. Lieutenant Nakajima might be fooled, but I see what you really are.”

  Aizawa gave a hard swallow. “And that is?”

  “Our greatest enemy. Not the zaibatsu or the politicians, but you. We would have succeeded months ago…if only
you hadn’t interfered.”

  “I have a way of doing that.”

  “Yes, you do.” Each breath grew tighter as the hilt pressed deeper into Aizawa’s throat. “But why? Why do you risk your life to defend this corrupt government? Can’t you see that we are the selfless patriots who serve the Emperor? Why do you resist?”

  Everyone had the best of intentions. Baron Onishi was content to let the masses wallow in unemployment to save face. Isamu Takano and the Emperor wanted to save the economy by assassinating Onishi. Even Ryusaki wanted to reform the nation, though there might not be much of Japan left standing afterward. No matter how patriotic or selfless the motives were, there would always be innocents who would suffer.

  Reiko-Harutora’s chewed-up face summoned ninjo back to life. A lot more would end up like her if he did nothing. Reiko’s simple words from the other night haunted him.

  “I saw what Masaru was planning…I couldn’t let this beautiful city of ours become drenched in blood.”

  Not only ninjo, but giri had returned and presented both his duty and desire with sudden clarity.

  “Tokyo,” Aizawa said.

  Confusion clouded Ryusaki’s face as he pulled the katana back. "For this city?” he said. “For a heap of paper houses, tea houses, and electric trams?”

  Why couldn’t Aizawa see it earlier? It had always been Tokyo. His duty was not to any man or to the government, but to his home. His purpose in life was to protect the Imperial capital and its inhabitants, from Reiko Watanabe to the Emperor of Japan. For that, he had no qualms. Giri and ninjo had merged into one.

  “Yes, for Tokyo,” he said.

  Ryusaki gave an empty, vapid expression before anger twisted his face into a violent mask.

  “Is that so? Well, I’ll make sure to burn it to the ground then. Too bad you won’t live to see it,” Ryusaki said. Standing up, he unsheathed the katana like a metallic snake, slithering out of its nest.

  “Lieutenant Nakajima gave me his word that I wouldn’t be harmed.”

  “I’m not that rice farmer who you made a deal with. I am Masaru Ryusaki, the descendant of twenty generations of samurai. I will not allow my family name to be disgraced by some peasant detective.”

  Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “I always knew you to be the type of a man who would forsake honor for vanity.”

  A wicked smile curled Ryusaki’s face. “Oh, but this is a matter of honor, Inspector. Can you imagine the loss of face I suffered when you arrested me? Or when you saved Baron Onishi? And when you,” he choked back a sob, “when you turned the woman I love against me?”

  “She did that on her own.”

  The blade began to tremble in Ryusaki’s hands.

  “Damn you! It’s your head I want most of all. Only then will my honor be avenged.”

  Aizawa balled his fists and tensed his muscles. Ryusaki would have to hack through a maze of sinew and bone before claiming his head.

  “Make sure to raise the sword high above your head. After all, you’ve never actually killed a man with your bare hands before, have you?”

  Ryusaki sneered. “You have the honor of being my first, Inspector. But not the last. Soon, Tokyo will become a mass grave before I turn it into a funeral pyre.”

  Aizawa cast a pitiful, helpless glance at the geisha-moga. A pained expression cracked her catatonic gaze. Ryusaki grabbed Aizawa by his hair and forced his head downward. A practice swing released a whoosh of air that bristled against his neck. The next one would be real. He bit his lip and prayed to the gods for strength.

  The screech of cracking glass filled the tea house. Aizawa snapped up and twisted around. Reiko-Harutora stood with the shattered sake bottle, crumpling in her hand like melting ice. Ryusaki, head soaked with a mixture of blood and booze, stumbled backward with large, panicked eyes behind his cracked and broken glasses.

  “I…I can’t see!” he said, regaining his balance.

  Ryusaki slashed the open air with his sword awkwardly and blindly, like a cornered animal. Cursing, he squinted, trying in vain to focus in on his attacker. Despite the tight kimono, Reiko-Harutora dodged each lethal slash with such elegant grace, she may as well have been dancing.

  She crouched down and launched herself like a coiled spring, slamming them both onto the floor. The katana rose again in a desperate defense, but Reiko-Harutora dug her hands into Ryusaki’s kimono and removed the Colt. Instead of firing, she held it by the muzzle and brought it down like a hammer. After another crackle of glass, she slammed it again and again, until the katana dropped from Ryusaki’s hand and rattled harmlessly on the tatami mats.

  Reiko-Harutora’s dainty frame grew and shrank in enormous heaves of breath. After searching through Ryusaki’s kimono, she stood and turned toward Aizawa, holding the handcuff key. Ryusaki’s face was visible now; bloodied pulp framed by a pair of shattered glasses.

  “Is he…?”

  “No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I want him in locked away in Sugamo Prison for the rest of his life.”

  Reiko-Harutora uncuffed him and handed the Colt over. Her swollen face was aflame with a fighting spirit he’d never seen in a woman, or even in a man. Well, there was the reason why she took the name Spring Tiger. With rapid shuffles, she returned to Ryusaki and cuffed his hands together. With his bondage came her freedom.

  “Reiko-san…I…I…,” Aizawa stammered, holstering the pistol. Her stern, bruised face tightened his throat and left him speechless. Instead, he bowed an apology.

  “Don’t apologize,” she spat out, teeth still locked. “Do your duty.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Free of the throngs that choked Tokyo Station, the Marunouchi Building, the Maru-Biru, finally came into full view like some overgrown termite mound. It was here, in one explosive act of purity and patriotism, where Second Lieutenant Hajime Nakajima, the humble son of rice farmers, would attain godhood.

  But why couldn’t he shake this feeling of regret? He was about to slay one of the nation’s greatest villains and yet, he felt inadequate. The battle would be little more than blowing up a building full of bankers and salarymen. Meanwhile, his comrades in Manchuria faced Chinese bombs and bullets. It was in that distant land where he could attain true glory and honor. If only he had accepted that transfer. If only he could see the New Japan dawn. If only he had experienced a woman before he died. If only things had turned out differently. Ah, if only…

  But there was no time for sentimental drivel.

  “Stop here,” he ordered.

  The taxi came to a halt and Nakajima handed over a yen coin.

  “Sorry Lieutenant,” the driver said. “But since yesterday we’ve had to raise our price. It’s one yen and five sen now.”

  Nakajima grumbled. Growing inflation was yet another reason to send Takano and his ilk straight to hell. He handed over a five sen coin and hopped out. The workday had already started, clearing the streets of curious onlookers. Nakajima opened the trunk, revealing the box containing over thirty sticks of dynamite. More than enough firepower to demolish the entire building. The other patriots filed out of their taxi and gathered around. Two of them removed the box and waited for instructions.

  Between the gaps of the financial towers and office buildings, the Imperial Palace stood in the distance, shimmering in the morning sun. Such an omen made it clear they had His Majesty’s support! Nakajima turned back to the patriots and pulled out his Nambu. On cue, they reached into their kimonos and overcoats and drew their wakizashi short swords for the fight ahead.

  Kuroki brandished the Nagant revolver, recaptured from Aizawa in last night’s battle. They would be the only two with firearms, but it didn’t matter. With the gods behind them, they could kill a thousand capitalists if needed. Nakajima fastened the chinstrap on his peaked cap, signaled for the men to follow, and then dashed into the Maru-Biru as if it were an enemy fort. No opposition greeted them in the lobby, so he ordered four men to guard each entrance.

  “Only let the women out.
If someone wearing an expensive suit or Rolex watch tries to escape, kill them on the spot.”

  They nodded and marched off, swords drawn and faces grim. Lieutenant Nakajima entered a nearby elevator, followed by Kuroki and the remaining two patriots, straining with the box of explosives. A female operator stared at them with wide, fearful eyes.

  “The Takano Bank Office, please,” Nakajima said. Trembling, the elevator girl pulled the lever, depositing them on the third floor. Before they exited, Nakajima said to her, “Go to the ground floor and get out. This is no place for a woman.”

  The elevator operator nodded and slid the gate shut. Nakajima ordered the dynamite handlers to stay put and gestured for Kuroki to follow. Their footsteps smacked against the tile and echoed throughout the lobby like artillery shells. He was Takamori Saigo fighting in the Southwestern War. He was Admiral Togo sinking the Russian fleet at Tsushima. He was Peach Boy Taro storming the island of oni devils with his animal friends.

  A dumbfounded secretary greeted them in the lobby with a horrified stare.

  “Be quiet and leave,” Nakajima said, pointing to the stairs with his pistol.

  Instead, she released a shrill scream and bolted out from behind her desk, as if trying to warn Takano.

  Kuroki raised his Nagant and fired. The secretary crumpled to the floor, letting out a choked gurgle. A nauseated unease settled in Nakajima’s gut. Women were utterly blameless for the evil that went on here. However, Chitose-oneesan appeared over the body and gave a firm nod, reassuring him. In war, there would always be innocents who suffered. Nakajima refocused his attention to the target.

  To his right held another hallway with more offices, including a set of heavy oak doors with the words “Isamu Takano, President”, written in English and Japanese on a golden plaque.

  The thick doors creaked open, allowing a head to pop out. It wasn’t the banker, but one of his massive sumo bodyguards. Kuroki fired again, missing the sumo who retreated back behind the doors. A few salarymen filed out of their offices and inspected the commotion with horrified expressions.