Several moments passed in silence, full of anxiety and apprehension. Nakajima might have been through taking orders, but maybe he could be bribed.
Aizawa leaned over to the Major and with a low, firm voice said, “Offer him a pardon and a posting in Manchuria. Anything. Just get him out of that office.”
A look of shock swept over Major Hatsu’s face. Then, after a moment, he gave a conspiratorial nod and stepped forward to the barricaded doors.
“Lieutenant Nakajima…” Hatsu paused and took a deep breath. “If you surrender now, I guarantee you a full pardon and immediate transfer to Manchuria.”
A few more moments passed. Aizawa glanced at his wristwatch. Less than two minutes left. He could sense Nakajima’s apprehension, even from behind the doors. All he needed was a final push.
“Lieutenant, this is Inspector Aizawa. I give you my word of honor that I will not arrest you or block your transfer. As long as you surrender, you can leave Japan with full impunity!”
The words filled Aizawa’s mouth with the bile of shame. But personal feelings and honor were meaningless. Tokyo was the only thing that mattered now.
*****
“Empty promises,” Chitose-oneesan whispered into Nakajima’s ear. “The only thing that matters is to punish the evil inside of this building.”
Nakajima looked at his sister. The morning sun shone in through the windows and blurred with her white kimono and pale face. She was right. His duty was to the poor, the downtrodden, and the victimized. He remembered how pathetic she looked before she died; a diseased heap of flesh. The total destruction of the Maru-Biru would be retribution for her miserable fate.
Yet, a thirst for life parched his soul. Every war novel from childhood flooded back. His duty was in far-off Manchuria, alongside his freezing comrades. Perhaps Hatsu and Aizawa were telling the truth. The Inspector was a man of honor, after all. Maybe he really would be allowed to go to Manchuria and fight. Then, only after the laurels of battle were his, could he take his rightful place at the Yasukuni Shrine.
“Your Majesty,” he said, turning to the Emperor’s portrait. “Please…guide me.”
The picture did nothing but stare into unending space. But in its blank gaze, Lieutenant Nakajima felt the cold sting of disapproval and shame. He spun back toward his sister, but she was gone, replaced by the pale glow of the morning sunlight. A dangerous thought crept into his mind. Had she ever been there?
“Lieutenant, this is your last chance,” Inspector Aizawa called out from the other side. “Die like a coward in the luxury of Tokyo or join your men in Manchuria like a true soldier!”
Each taunt bit into his flesh like a wasp sting. Why did the gods make him so weak? Where were they now? Tears blotted his eyes. He couldn’t resist any longer. The shame was too great and numbed his body. Before he could think, he reached down and cut the main fuse.
*****
“I’m coming out!”
Major Hatsu nodded to his men who dislodged the overturned desk from the office entrance. The doors parted in a loud creak, revealing Lieutenant Nakajima, arms up in surrender. The leather visor on his service cap shadowed most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the tears that wetted his cheeks. The saber rattled beside him, his cape billowed slightly as he stepped forward, and his shoulder rank insignia gleamed in the electric lights. Every step he took made him look like a soldier marching toward the Manchurian front.
But his moment of gallantry was brief. Major Hatsu and his men slammed the Lieutenant against the wall and snapped handcuffs on him. There was no resistance as they led him from the lobby and down the stairs. But before disappearing, Nakajima cast a gaze that hit Aizawa hard.
It wasn’t hatred or fear but something more mysterious. It took Aizawa a few moments to decipher, but it was the same expression he must have given when giri and ninjo had merged into one; gratitude. Lieutenant Nakajima was thankful for having been reminded of his true duty.
After they left, a few salarymen trickled out into the lobby and viewed the corpses of Kuroki and Takano’s secretary with horrified gasps. Ignoring their incessant questioning, Aizawa walked over to the main window and stared out at the city. Tokyo, his home, stared back.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Aizawa rarely entered the fifth floor of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, where the top brass lurked. But today he’d been summoned to see the Superintendent-General himself to, as he put it, “discuss” certain matters in his report. As he stepped off the elevator and walked down the hallway, he caught his reflection in several glass doorframes. He cut an impressive figure in his peaked cap and dark tunic, pressed and starched like a suit of armor.
Inspectors hardly ever wore uniforms, but this past week he’d worn it for a number of funerals. And just like armor, it shielded him against the mournful sobs of the widow Murayama and her children. It deflected the hostile glares from Baron Onishi’s son, who had arrived by airplane from Washington DC, to attend both of his parents’ funerals. And it shielded him from sorrow engulfing him at the funeral of Superintendent Joji Shimura.
Aizawa needed whatever protection it could offer since he fully expected to be dismissed or at least demoted. How many deaths was he responsible for now? Sergeant Murayama, the Onishis, Takano’s two sumo bodyguards, and Takano’s secretary. Takano himself, that sly fox, was nowhere to be found.
Taking a deep breath and straightening his tunic, he stood before the Superintendent-General’s office and announced, “Inspector Kenji Aizawa, sir!”
“Enter,” a sharp voice commanded.
Aizawa opened the door and found his way into the spacious office, befitting the highest of ranks. Like Superintendent Shimura’s office, it had sparse décor; a bookshelf, plaques for awards, and of course, a portrait of the Emperor. Unlike Shimura’s office, several chairs clustered around the main desk. A hodgepodge of faces stared back at him. Behind the desk sat the Superintendent-General, head of the entire Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. He was magnificently attired with glittering epaulettes set against a dark uniform, the sight of which stiffened every police officer’s spine.
Major Hatsu sat across from his desk. That dark brown tunic of his made for an all too common sight these days. Aizawa averted his eyes to a junsa, standing stiffly next to a handcuffed Masaru Ryusaki. The sensei of the Kusanagi Society had seen better days, but despite half-repaired glasses and a face raw from beatings, he still wore an implacable grin of triumph.
Aizawa stepped forward and saluted.
“Welcome Inspector,” the Superintendent-General said, beckoning him in. “I’d like to go over some items here.” He tapped an open manila folder on the desk. “The press wants more information about what they’re calling the ‘Kusanagi Society Incident’. I would like to make sure we’re all in agreement on the details.”
That sounded cordial enough.
“For starters, your report makes mention of a,” the Superintendent-General squinted at the report, “Second Lieutenant Nakajima. But Major Hatsu has informed me that is impossible.”
Hatsu bolted upright and presented Aizawa with an official Army telegram. It read “Lieutenant Nakajima has taken command of his platoon and joined the Kwantung Army’s Tenth Infantry Division.” He looked at the date. December 16th, Showa 6.
“You see, Inspector?” Major Hatsu said, betraying no emotions. “Lieutenant Nakajima couldn’t have had anything to do with this regrettable incident because he was in route to Manchuria. His unit is now involved in the final advance on Chinchow.”
A lovely story. More likely he received an impromptu court martial in the cellars of the Army Ministry and was executed by a pistol shot to the head. Not surprising, since having one of their own so close to the “Kusanagi Society Incident” would prove embarrassing for the Imperial Army.
Or perhaps Nakajima really had been sent to Manchuria. The Army could use men like him, already experienced with killing. And what better way to dispose of a troublesome junior officer t
han by exiling him to that barren wilderness? If he didn’t die from Chinese bombs or bullets, those subzero winters would silence him eventually.
There was no reason to protest. Any piece of paper with the Army’s seal was far more convincing than a dozen eyewitnesses.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Excellent,” the Superintendent-General said, flipping through the report. “However, a man identified as Makoto Kuroki was found dead at the Maru-Biru, wearing the uniform of an Imperial Guard lieutenant. Ryusaki-san has confirmed that this man was responsible for the deaths of Sergeant Murayama, Baron Onishi, and the others. Isn’t that right?”
Ryusaki glanced over at Aizawa with knowing eyes. Ever since his arrest at the Dragonfly Tea House, he’d been held at Sugamo Prison, well out of Aizawa’s jurisdiction. Sympathetic guards probably fawned over the esteemed patriot and coached him on what to say.
“Yes,” Ryusaki mustered with obvious difficulty. “Kuroki-san is the man who assassinated Baron Onishi.”
“And General Sakamoto?” Aizawa interjected.
“The General’s death will be listed a suicide,” Hatsu said.
“And what about his involvement?”
A hush swept over the room until the Superintendent-General said, “Simply this. Ryusaki-san sent Makoto Kuroki, an intensely patriotic yet disturbed young man, to assassinate Baron Onishi, over his remarks about the Manchurian Incident. You thwarted his first attempt, but when Superintendent Shimura released him, Kuroki-san put on his brother’s old uniform and went to the Baron’s yashiki. This explains the servants’ description about an Army officer. Ryusaki-san has also confessed to sending Kuroki to assassinate General Sakamoto, who he also felt was corrupt. The General committed seppuku instead. Most regrettably, this Makoto Kuroki also killed Superintendent Shimura in his own home.”
“I see. There was also a junsa in Ueno Park, in league with Ryusaki.”
The Superintendent-General nodded. “A shame one of our own was involved. No doubt you acted in self-defense. Regardless, after ambushing you in the park, Ryusaki-san sent certain members of his Kusanagi Society to assassinate Isamu Takano and blow up the Maru-Biru as an act of protest. Isn’t that right, Ryusaki-san?”
A slight nod was Ryusaki’s only response. It was a simple version and easily digestible but it remained sensational enough to satiate the newspapers. At least, Reiko Watanabe’s name would be kept out of it, allowing her some life of peace. Still, one question remained.
“What happened to Isamu Takano?”
The Superintendent-General smiled. “Takano-san set sail for America with his Wall Street colleague on the morning of the attack. Prime Minister Inukai appointed him trade liaison to President Hoover. Something to do with getting that ridiculous Smoot-Hawley Tariff repealed.”
Surely the attempt on his life must have influenced his decision. Or maybe this was his plan all along. With the money he and the other zaibatsu cliques would make from the “Dollar-Buying Incident,” as the newspapers had titled it, bonds would be sold to the government and reinvested in the economy. That would help pay for the Manchurian Incident and future military adventures. But more importantly, if the trade barriers were lifted, cheap Japanese goods could flood the shores of the United States from sea to shining sea.
Aizawa sighed. There was no reason to fight. His mind had been decided for him.
“I understand,” he said.
“Good. So, then this is the final version, correct?” the Superintendent-General said.
Major Hatsu and Aizawa nodded. Although the Kusanagi Society Incident was over, custom dictated that someone should be sacrificed for all of the lives lost. Since it had been Aizawa’s case, his career would serve as atonement.
“Sir, in light of the deaths that have occurred, I hereby resign from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Depart—”
“Your resignation is not accepted,” the Superintendent-General said.
“Sir?”
“The Emperor himself has heard of your heroic deeds and extends his gratitude,” the Superintendent-General continued. “He has even awarded you this.”
The Superintendent-General reached into his desk and retrieved a small box, decorated with a sixteen leaf chrysanthemum; the official crest of the Imperial family. Aizawa took it with both hands and opened it with delicate fingers. Inside was a medal; a red jewel centered in a sea of white jutting rays.
“The Order of the Rising Sun, fourth class.” The Superintendent-General took the medal and pinned it on Aizawa’s chest, then snapped a salute.
Aizawa stiffened. Even after everything he’d been through, a medal from the Emperor was still humbling. This little trinket placed him in a long brotherhood of men who had given their all for Japan. Tears wetted his cheeks. Major Hatsu and the junsa gave respectful salutes. Ryusaki glared with contempt.
“I-I’m honored, sir,” Aizawa said, drying his eyes.
“You’re dismissed, Inspector,” the Superintendent-General said. “Take the rest of the week off. Return to duty by New Years.”
A hiss of disgust leaked out of Ryusaki’s swollen lips. Aizawa turned and snapped, “I hope you like Sugamo Prison, Ryusaki-san, because you’ll be there for the rest of your life.”
Ryusaki’s puffy face molded a smile. “That would be fine. The guards salute when they pass my cell. They’ve even given me a typewriter so I can respond to all the mail I’ve received.”
“The mail?” the Superintendent-General asked with nonchalant curiosity.
“Oh yes, over four hundred letters in the past week. All of which thanked me for killing that self-serving aristocrat and attempting to obliterate that dung heap in Marunouchi. One letter told me that sales for my book have doubled.” Ryusaki turned to Aizawa, his swollen smile growing more sinister. “You see Inspector? The final victory will be mine.”
Failure and arrest had somehow made Masaru Ryusaki even more popular. Not that he should be surprised, but the sheer volume of praise seemed almost unreal. Over four hundred in one week? At that rate, he’d receive a thousand by New Years. How many angry men were eager to become the next Ryusaki and start their own patriotic murder squad? 1931, the sixth year of the Showa Era, was almost over but a new dark age was dawning in Japan.
After a round of salutes, Aizawa turned and walked toward the door.
CHAPTER SIXTY
As the trancelike melody of “Mood Indigo” floated from the radio and filled her apartment, Reiko Watanabe scanned the main article that dominated today’s Asahi Shimbun; “Chinchow Offensive Begins!” The Kwantung Army was marching toward the Headquarters of Chang Hsüeh-liang to kick the bandit warlord out of Manchuria forever. By New Years, the Rising Sun flag would flutter over Chinchow’s walls. After that, Harbin would fall within a week or two. But what if the League of Nations didn’t approve? Then to hell with them, argued the Asahi. Japan didn’t need the world’s approval anymore.
It was a surprising read, considering the paper’s moderate history. But victory after victory in Manchuria had converted most people. Reiko wondered if the next war would be as easy. Below was a brief summary of the infamous ‘Kusanagi Society Incident’ that everyone had been talking about. Until the advance on Chinchow started, that is. It was a sanitized version, sparing many details, namely her involvement. A good thing too. If she became known as a geisha who couldn’t keep secrets, she’d be out of work forever.
A chill ran through Reiko at the thought of a future without a stable income. She reached over and turned the electric heater up. It was going to be long winter. But according to the Asahi, Japan’s economy would fully recover by this time next year, thanks to Finance Minister Takahashi and men like Isamu Takano.
A knock at the door interrupted further reading. Reiko set the Asahi Shimbun aside and hopped out of bed. Her apartment was a mess and she had barely left it in the past few days. Newspapers and old issues of Kinema Junpo lay scattered across the floor, but as long as the posters of Anna May Wong and Louise Bro
oks still hung, the little apartment retained some class. She stole a quick glance in the mirror. A dark blue sweater and skirt overshadowed the bruises on her face that grew fainter with each passing day. Luckily, she had a tough hide underneath such soft skin.
Reiko opened the door and reviewed the dark uniform that stood across from her. A peaked cap shadowed Inspector Aizawa’s warm face. Although her cheeks were still sore, she smiled. Aizawa had visited her every day for the past week, bringing hot miso soup and other soft foods. His white-gloved hands wrapped around a small purple box. After they exchanged bows, she led him inside and cleared away some clutter for a proper place to kneel.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better. I saw the doctor again yesterday. None of my teeth are broken and the swelling should be gone soon.”
Aizawa smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” He presented the box to her with both hands. “Something soft to eat while you recuperate.”
She opened the lid and found rows of mochi rice cakes, filling her with a childlike glee.
“A man after my heart,” she said before plopping a mochi cake into her mouth. After a few chews, she remembered her manners and offered one to the Inspector.
“They’re all for you,” he said, waving a gloved hand.
Despite the pain, Reiko gave another smile and looked him over. The only color in that dark uniform was a twinkling medal pinned on his breast.
“The Order of the Rising Sun? Congratulations, Inspector. It looks good on you.”
His head lowered. “You deserve it more than I do.”
“Too tacky for my taste. Besides, I prefer to remain anonymous.”
“But if it wasn’t for you, Ryusaki would still be free.”
“Speaking of him…”
“He’ll be going to trial soon. Just a formality, since he’s already confessed to everything. You won’t need to be called as a witness and I’ll see to it your name is kept out of the newspapers. With any luck, he’ll rot in Sugamo Prison for the rest of his days.”
Shadows of Tokyo Page 27