Ichiro leaned up against the desk. "And I don't think that Bolan had anything to do with the death of General Wentworth. I think it's all a part of this Operation Snowflake."
"And more speculation!" Kawabata said angrily. He slammed a hand down on the desktop. "This is ludicrous, Ichiro. Absolute fantasy. You used to be a good, solid professional, and now..." The man shook his head and put his glasses back on. "I'm sorry for you, Ichiro, and I'm most especially sorry for your family. But I can't have a man on my force who operates with the criminal element. Effective right now, you are suspended indefinitely. When the board of inquiry is held, I will vote that the suspension be made permanent." He pointed to the desktop. "You may leave your shield and weapon here."
Ichiro looked at the floor, humiliated. He unsnapped the holster from his belt and put his .38 service revolver on the desk. He took out his wallet, taking a last look at his lieutenant's badge before dropping it on top of the gun.
"Now that I'm a civilian," Ichiro said, "I can tell you exactly what I think of you."
He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
"Just a minute!" Kawabata called, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.
The knocking came again, more persistent.
"What is it!" the commissioner practically screamed.
The door burst open, and Natsume poked his head inside. His eyes went immediately to the desk, taking the whole scene in at a glance. His eyes jumped to Ichiro, then to Kawabata.
"The body of Dr. Lawrence Norwood has just been found," he said. "On the Nishi-Ginza, near Yokota Air Base."
Kawabata stood slowly, and Ichiro could almost see the gears turning inside his head. "What was the cause of death, Sergeant?" the commissioner asked.
"They're doing an autopsy now," the man answered. "But unofficially the cause of death is kidney failure due to acute radiation poisoning."
Kawabata looked at Ichiro, his face an unreadable mask. Ichiro decided to push his hand.
"I guess I'll be leaving now," he said. "Since I no longer work for the department, I suppose I'll be able to tell the newspapers the truth about my suspension."
"Wait!" Kawabata said to Ichiro's retreating back.
The lieutenant stopped walking and winked at Natsume.
"I'll wait outside," the sergeant said, moving out of the office and shutting the door behind him.
Ichiro turned to face the man. "Yes?"
Kawabata sat down, his lips twisting as if not wanting to say the words. "Perhaps I was... premature in suspending you," he said.
"Is that an apology?" Ichiro replied.
"For you it is another chance. I'll make a wager with you, Lieutenant. You're so sure that you're on to something that I'll give you the chance to prove it." He reached out and slid the gun and badge closer to Ichiro. "I'll wager you twenty-four more hours against your career. If you want, you have one more day to prove your theories, twenty-four hours to either make it or break it. If you have put all of this together by tomorrow midnight, you walk away clean, no hearings, no newspapers."
"That's not much of a wager," Ichiro said.
"It's all I'm offering today," Kawabata replied. "Take it or leave it."
It was no contest. Ichiro would have promised the moon to clear his name and honor. He picked up the badge and gun and moved toward the door, turning as he opened it. "I don't like you any more than you like me," he said. "I'm going to do my best to shove this case right down your throat."
With that he strode out of the office into the agitated clerical complex of the administration building. Natsume jumped up off a chair he'd been sitting on near Kawabata's door and walked with Ichiro.
"Looks like I was just in time," the sergeant said.
"Yeah, but what happens when he finds out you were just making it up?" Ichiro replied, snapping the holster back onto his belt.
"That's the incredible part," Natsume said. "I didn't make it up!"
Ichiro stopped walking and stared at the man. "This means Bolan's right about everything. And if he's right, it's all coming to a head soon."
"What do we do?" Natsume asked.
Ichiro put his shield back in his wallet. "First, I call my wife and tell her I won't be home. Second, we redouble our efforts to catch Bolan. I need him badly right now. Finally, we find the Sonnojoi. Isn't there a demonstration scheduled tonight?"
"Hai. At Tachikowa."
"Good. We'll arrest some, no matter what it takes. One thing I've learned from Mr. Bolan is that sometimes the law just gets in the way of what is right."
* * *
"Is it too noisy for you?" Junko yelled across the table to Bolan.
The big man smiled, shaking his head. The bar was mobbed, which made it easier to remain unseen. Between the people singing at the tables and the vocal group cheering on the sumo wrestlers on the television in the corner, Bolan felt more closed in than he felt on a New York subway at rush hour. He shouldn't have been out in public, sitting in one place, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to spend time with Junko, get to know her as something other than a fellow warrior. It was her who had recommended this place, a cross between Japanese and American culture, featuring the food of both countries and impromptu songfests.
He was at a loss about what to do next. For reasons beyond him, the phone lines to Yokota Air Base were cut off, as was the number General Wentworth had given him. Something was up, but he hadn't had a chance to find out what. Without Wentworth he wasn't sure how to proceed. Unless Hashi-san was able to help him find the organizational meeting places of the Sonnojoi, he could very well end up losing the ball in the last minutes of the game.
"You seem distant," Junko said. Tonight she was dressed as a Westerner in a summer skirt and blouse.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Guess I never get too far away from business."
She reached across the table and took his hands. "It's all right," she said. "This thing with the Sonnojoi has been a continual nightmare for me since my brother died. To you, it is the immediate danger. Perhaps my own senses have become dulled."
He took a small sip from the ochoko of sake that sat before him. "The Sonnojoi is, unfortunately, only a part of my problem. If I can't stop that shipment tomorrow night, tons of cocaine will flood American bases within a day. And for some reason the whole base seems to be sealed off."
A small stage was set off to one side. People in the bar took turns going up to the microphone and singing. It was part of the deal. An Australian soldier had climbed up on stage and had begun to sing "Waltzing Matilda" in a loud, off-key voice.
"I'm sorry to add to your troubles," Junko said, eyes downcast.
"What do you mean?"
"I heard my father this morning... pushing me at you."
He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "Nobody has to push us together,'1 he said. "I feel a kinship with you that runs deep, deeper than I knew I was still capable of."
"We understand one another," she replied simply.
"And accept."
She nodded, smiling. "I'm glad my father approves of you."
He sat back in his chair and stared at her, her physical perfection marred onlv slightly by the small bandage on her face from a glass cut of the night before. "So am I," he said, and for just a second he allowed himself to be something other than the Executioner.
Screams came from around the TV — someone had won a sumo match, and money was changing hands between the betters at the bar.
"Your father is a singular sort of human being," Bolan said. "His dedication to his cause is almost frightening."
"That's his Bushido code," she answered, drinking down a small cup of sake warmed to body temperature. "It controls every aspect of his life."
"Did the adherence to the code begin with the death of your brother?"
She shook her head. "He's practiced it for as long as I can remember. He simply applied it aggressively to his business before that."
"To what end?" Bolan asked, confused.
"To uphold family honor," she replied, then spoke again when she saw the question in his face. "I'm not sure of all this myself, but I think it goes back to the great war. My father's family came from Nagasaki. They were a proud and strong and powerful family, claiming ties all the way back to Asano and the forty-seven ronin. My father was rebellious and disregarded the family heritage. When the war came, he ran off to the mountains to live as a hermit rather than fight to uphold the honor of Japan and of the family...."
She looked at him, sighing loudly. "I'm probably boring you. I'm sorry."
"No, go on," Bolan said.
She shrugged. "There's not much more. Hashi-san came down out of the mountains to find that the city of his birth was no more, that his city, his family, his friends, all the things he had known and loved, had been vaporized in a instant by an atomic bomb."
"And he felt guilty," Bolan said.
She nodded. "Of all that had died, he felt that he was most deserving of death. He adopted the Bushido code then, diligently rebuilding his country to its former greatness."
"Does he hate Americans for it?"
"You see how he treats you," she said. "Does he hate you?"
"No," he said, then thought a minute. "A man once told me that there is a great deal of difference between honor and duty. I think I'm beginning to understand something of what he said."
The Aussie had completed his singing to raucous applause. He tried to walk but fell off the stage near Bolan's table. Bolan reached down to help him up.
"Thanks, mate," the man said, standing shakily to readjust his fatigues.
"Mack!" Junko called, laughing, and Bolan turned to see her being led, protesting, toward the stage. It was her turn.
People around him were clapping their approval, Bolan joining in the applause. "Go on!" he yelled.
She rolled her eyes, smiling wide, and allowed herself to be hoisted onto the stage as the spotlight picked her out. She began to sing, a small, sad song, her voice tentative at first, then gaining strength. Bolan wished he could understand the Japanese lyrics.
"Mind if I sit for a minute, mate?" the Aussie asked him, pointing to Junko's empty chair.
"Take a load off," Bolan said.
The man sank down. "Thanks. Lost me own place at the bar when I went to sing."
"A popular sport," Bolan said, referring to the sumo wrestling.
The Aussie nodded. "I always say you can tell a country by its sports."
"What do you mean?"
"Okay," he said, leaning forward. "America has football, mean and aggressive, but with a lot of laws and rules. In England it's cricket, civilized and boring. Latin countries have soccer to cool their hot blood. Australians play rugby. It's untamed and without rules, like the outback. In Japan it's sumo wrestling, a sport of ceremony, no action, internal."
"Explain," Bolan asked, fascinated.
"I've lived in the Orient for years," the man said, slurring his words slightly. "I've never seen anything as devious as this sport. Sumo wrestling is a mind game. It consists of a long, traditional ceremony that either opponent can halt by simply performing a part of the ceremony wrong. At that point the whole thing starts again. They will do this over and over, as each player tries to wear down the other's mental vigilance. If both players let the ceremony go to its natural conclusion, the contest is over in seconds. Physical strength is the given. The mental game is the whole thing."
"And you think this mirrors the Japanese mind?"
"Absolutely. Everything takes place under the surface. Face must be maintained, honor upheld. It ain't so much what you do but how you do it."
Bolan thought about that, his mind dwelling on the intricate puzzle that he was involved with. Perhaps he was concentrating too much on what was going on at the surface level. Perhaps the answers lay on a deeper, more internal plane.
"Let me ask you a question," Bolan said. "How come you're the only uniform I see out here so soon after payday?"
The man laughed. "You mean you haven't heard? Some American chap blew away the Yokota base commander and his secretary earlier today. They've put both Yokota and Tachi under red alert and canceled all off-base activities. I got out because I'm just here TDY and they really couldn't hold me. That's why I've had so much to drink. I'm drinking for all me mates tonight."
"Do they know who did it?"
"Sure. He didn't hide anything. The largest manhunt in Japanese history is being conducted to find him."
Damn. Jamison. He had no idea of the lengths that bastard would go to. The man was buying time, just trying to hold it together.
"The guy's probably halfway back to Russia or someplace by now," Bolan said, feeling the Aussie out.
The man shook his head. "The authorities think he's still in Japan. They been showing his picture on the telly all day. Fact is, mate, he looks... a lot... like... you."
With those words the Aussie's eyes got glassy, and he fell forward on the table, out cold. Bolan drew himself in. He shouldn't have allowed personal feelings to interfere while he was on a mission. Here he was, weapons in the car, out in the open in hostile territory. He'd have to get Junko and get out of there.
Just then the applause rose for Junko as she finished her song, laughing. Bolan stood to help her off the stage as people began pushing him up to take her place.
He turned to the crowd. "No, no," he said, waving his hands around, but Junko was pulling him up with her.
He feared resisting too much, not wanting to make a scene. How long could it take, a minute, two? He'd get it over with and get the hell out of there.
He climbed onto the stage to wild applause. The crowd was ready for anything at this point. He stood tentatively at the microphone, unable to remember a song. Then all at once the spotlight came on, blinding him.
As Bolan's eyes adjusted to the light, the front door opened, and uniformed police officers entered. The crowd was laughing and applauding, urging Bolan to begin.
The officers were moving through the bar, checking the patrons, getting closer to his position. "Everybody stand up!" Bolan called. "Let's all sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game.'"
The crowd was up, waving their hands in the air and singing the only American song that most baseball-happy Japanese knew.
Whistles were blowing as the cops charged the stage. Bolan glanced down to see Junko by his foot. He launched himself off the stage and with outstretched arms took out three of them at once.
He scrabbled to his feet, grabbed Junko's hand and charged toward the back of the place, knocking over tables as he ran. They hit the swinging kitchen door on a dead run, knocking over a waiter carrying a huge tray of sushi and hamburgers. Dishes flew everywhere, crashing loudly.
A small cook in a white T-shirt and apron began screaming at them. They hurried through the kitchen as he picked up a cleaver and came after them.
Out the back door a police cruiser was parked in the narrow alley with its lights flashing. Without slowing they jumped onto the hood of the car, then over the fence on the other side and down another winding street. Gunshots followed them.
The streets whirled crazily past them, and Bolan lost his bearings almost immediately. Everything was twisted, and Bolan knew the logic of it was internal, just like the sumo wrestling.
They turned, but police lights drove them back past rows of paper houses. Lights came on in many of the homes as sirens tore into the night. Another fork and more lights. They retraced their steps again, racing through rain and mud to another fork. This one led to a still, dark street.
"Can we make it back to the car?" Bolan called against the rain that was now falling quite heavily.
"Not from here!"
"You know this neighborhood?"
"Here!" She pointed down an alley that dead-ended at another tall fence. Whistles blew behind them. They took the alley. "My aunt lived in this area. She used to have a..."
Junko had stopped running and was moving slowly. Rain streamed down her face, and her clot
hes were wet and clinging. She had long since abandoned both shoes.
"She had a what?" Bolan asked.
The sirens seemed to be converging on their area. It would only be a matter of time if they didn't make a move soon.
"It's dark," she said. "It's been years, I..."
"She had a what?" Bolan asked again.
"There!" Junko said triumphantly, pointing up. "A tree house!"
"A tree house?" Bolan questioned.
* * *
Lieutenant Ichiro sat in the passenger's seat as Natsume drove toward the demonstration at Tachikowa Air Base. Demonstrations for the most part were civilized in Japan, with the protesters registering the times of their demonstrations with the police and scheduling them for everyone's convenience. Disruptions had only happened lately because of the Sonnojoi.
They pulled up to the fringe of the demonstration, just behind the barricades. Their headlights shone into the crowd of people, most of whom carried umbrellas. The dark, silent. Special Service vans were parked nearby.
"Have you talked to everybody?" Ichiro asked.
"They have all been sworn to secrecy," the sergeant replied.
"Nobody is to know about what I'm doing," Ichiro said. "I've got a few hours to wrap this up one way or the other, and nothing's going to hold me back or tie me down." He pulled his .38 out of its holster and checked the load.
"Kawabata is going to want reports on you, Kendo," Natsume said, watching the lieutenant reholster his weapon. "The secrecy is going to upset him."
"I'm done for, anyway. I'm not going to have him interfering with this." He opened his door. "Come on, let's go."
Natsume grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"
Ichiro looked at him hard. "What's the right thing?" he asked and pointed to his heart. "Down here, I'm doing the right thing. These animals have to be stopped. I'm going to stop them."
He moved out into the rain as Natsume called out the riot squad on the car radio. The crowds were chanting and shaking their umbrellas in the air, and Ichiro felt a rush of adrenaline. So much of police work was plodding and uneventful. Tonight he was taking to the street. Tonight he was going to deal out justice, and it felt good. It felt really good.
Code of Dishonor Page 12