At first, when she’d said it was a ninja who’d attacked them, the interviewers had exchanged doubting looks. But then, some time into the process, an expert had whispered something to the officer in charge, and Nikki had overheard. Yes, the expert had said, the victim had been killed by a katana — not a common weapon among street gangs and robbers in Japan, regardless of what bad American movies showed.
Finally, hours later as dawn was touching the sky, they’d driven her home and escorted her upstairs to her apartment. With — seemingly sincere — wishes for her well-being, they’d left her alone.
And she’d stayed alone since. There was no way she could have gone in to work, not the way she was feeling. The ideas of trying to concentrate on anything, of talking to anyone, had been too overwhelming. She’d notified her department that she wouldn’t be in — using electronic mail rather than the phone, so she wouldn’t even have to talk to a receptionist—and then she’d just sunk into apathy.
A V/STOL buzzed by her window; she could hear it but not see it. Probably on its way to one of the landing flats atop many of the corporate headquarters downtown. She sighed, and forced herself to sit up.
Why? The question struck her again, as it had struck her repeatedly throughout the day. Why would anyone want Toshikazu dead? And why send a ninja to do it? She’d frequently heard rumors that some corporations hired
, contract ninjas” to serve as “expediters,” to perform industrial espionage, and to eliminate rivals — all “unattributably,” of course. She hadn’t really believed them, thinking them just sensationalistic “urban myths.” But now she knew they were true; ninjas did exist, and they did kill people. Why would anyone send a professional killer after Toshikazu? she asked herself again.
And was Toshikazu the only target? That question was even more chilling. Toshikazu himself hadn’t seemed to think so. “We’ll both be dead,” he’d told her when she’d refused to run. And then he’d given his own life to protect her. Was he right? Why would someone want me dead? It just didn’t make any sense.
It didn’t make much more sense that Toshikazu was the victim. He was just a researcher. But…
She paused. There had been a couple of mysteries surrounding her friend, she had to admit. His family and his background, for one. He’d never talked about either — except when he claimed Suganama was an “old family friend,” she reminded herself. And then, when they left the Kirin, she’d remarked on that, and he’d acted strangely. As if he didn’t remember what he’d told me, she thought, as if he didn’t remember his lies.
Plus, there was the skill he’d showed when fighting the ninja. Most people would have run from a man with a sword. Toshikazu had turned to fight. And he was able to fight, she reminded herself, that’s even stranger. With a shudder, she remembered his attack on the ninja. First he’d thrown something, some weapon he was carrying concealed — maybe a shuriken? — and then he’d charged, ducking under and inside the ninja’s sword. That move had been his only possible option, unarmed against a trained swordsman. But he’d performed it perfectly, as though he’d been trained. Anybody else who’d tried it — somebody who’d seen it in a movie, for example — would have been cut in two.
Who the hell was Toshikazu Kasigi…?
No, she told herself firmly, shaking her head. That’s paranoia again. There was nothing mysterious. Unusual, yes, but not mysterious. So he’d seemed to forget what he’d said about Suganama. So what? We’d both been drinking — a lot — and I never saw Toshikazu drink at all before. What was so mysterious about somebody getting a little confused, stumbling over their words, when they were a little drunk?
And his martial arts skills? A hobby, that was all. Not unusual, particularly in this part of the world — the origin of martial arts. Just because he’d learned to fight didn’t mean that Toshikazu ever expected to fight. Nikki herself had taken tai chi at one time, but had dropped it when she couldn’t make enough time in her busy schedule. She’d been interested to learn that tai chi — that slow, relaxing, dance-like routine — was actually based on a lethal style of unarmed combat.
She sighed, forced herself to relax. There was nothing — no individual event or fact — that she could point to and say, “That’s unusual, that’s not right.” It was only when she took them all together that the overall feel was out of the ordinary. And wasn’t combining ordinary parts into an extraordinary whole something that paranoids did? Or neurotics, or worse? She shook her head again, pushed the thoughts from her mind.
Her computer beeped, making her jump. She smiled a little guiltily at her reaction. The beep meant that an electronic mail message had arrived. She glanced at her watch: 10:35. The only people who had her e-mail “address” were colleagues and superiors at work. Who would be working this late? Curious, she forced herself to her feet, walked over to the machine and sat down. She hit the keys to display the incoming message.
The electronic note was from someone called Sanzo Isobe. She was puzzled for a moment, not recognizing the name. Then the originating mail “address” caught her eye: Nagara Security. That made the connection. Isobe was Yamato’s one-time deputy, now “Acting Security Chief” — the fellow who was busily moving his things into Yamato’s office. She grimaced. Thinking about Nagara Security still left a bad taste in her mouth. But she had to admit she’d heard nothing but praise for Isobe’s competence, dedication and total incorruptibility. She quickly scanned the message.
Carlson-san, it began, first allow me to offer my sincere condolences over your loss. It was known to all that you and Kasigi-san were friends. Furthermore, accept my commiserations for the traumatic events of last night. (Nikki had to smile at the convoluted politeness.) You will understand, the message continued, that Nagara Corporation is cooperating closely with the police in investigating this tragic event. We have promised the police to make our best efforts in discovering why the death of Kasigi-san was considered such a necessity as to warrant the use of a ninja. Again, you will understand that we wish to discuss with you everything that you may know about our lamented colleague. At your earliest convenience, I would like to speak with you at length. I am in your debt for your cooperation.
Nikki sat back. Another interview with Nagara Security, and another five or six repetitions of what happened, fust great.
Of course, it was reassuring that Nagara was interested in investigating. That’s part of the deal in Japan, she reminded herself. You sell your soul to the corporation, and in return they take care of you, they make you feel safe. She chuckled grimly. She couldn’t think of many things more disruptive to a feeling of safety than knowing that a friend and colleague got cut down on the street by a goddamn ninja.
She skimmed the electronic note once more. She didn’t want to talk to Isobe, or to anyone in corporate security. But it was a reasonable request. And who knew? Maybe they’d find out something the police had missed. She’d speak to Isobe when she went back
to work the next morning.
*
“Stay, Nikki,” Toshikazu laughed. His face was twisted in a smile of joy, almost feral in its intensity. His white poplin jacket—soaked in blood—was wrapped round his left hand. “Stay with me,” he repeated. “Die with me.” His teeth were red with blood.
Horror convulsed her stomach. She shied back from him. For the first time she saw where she was. Not the narrow alleyways of Shinjuku as she’d expected. They were in the halls of the Nagara Building’s executive floors. Soft carpet was underfoot, and the walls were hung with expensive works of art, but piles of garbage filled the corners. In the shifting half-light, she saw the red eyes of a rat watching her.
“Die with me, Nikki,” Toshikazu said again. He had something in his right hand, a gleaming disk of metal. There was a figure behind him, a figure wearing black. A figure holding a katana. She tried to turn, to run, but her legs were numb, paralyzed.
The figure stepped forward, reached up and removed the black cloth that covered its face. It was Yama
to, smiling at her. He raised the sword, took another step toward her. She tried to cry out.
Toshikazu raised his arm to block the figure’s advance. Nikki blinked. Now it was Eichiro holding the sword. He smiled coldly at her. He side-stepped Toshikazu’s arm and came toward her.
There were tears rolling down Toshikazu’s face now, tears of blood. He touched the gleaming disk he held to the back of Eichiro’s neck. With a look of surprise, the manager crumbled to dust. Toshikazu deftly grabbed the katana from the air, before it could
fall. He smiled at Nikki again with his bloody teeth.
“Die with me, Nikki.”
Like smoke swept away by a sudden breeze, her fear was gone. She smiled at him, calmly and peacefully. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes.”
Toshikazu drew the sword back. It’s blade looked already wet with blood. She closed her eyes as he began his swing. The katana blade sang as it cut through the air …
*
Nikki bolted upright in bed, gasping. Her heartbeat was a wild tattoo in her ears, her lungs and throat were on fire. Oh, my God …
Instinctively, she looked around. Her bedroom was … well, it was her bedroom. The early morning light leaking through the blinds showed nothing was displaced, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Of course not! With an effort she slowed her breathing, forced the knotted muscles in her shoulders and stomach to relax. A dream …
Of course it was a dream, she told herself sharply. A nightmare. She’d had enough of those over the last few nights, but this was by far the worst.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Just past six in the morning. The alarm would be going off in less than an hour anyway. Why not get up now? (That way there’ll he no more dreams, part of her mind added.) She’d have enough time to make a pot of coffee, even cook herself a real breakfast, and still be at work before eight. Her body needed more rest, she knew—her limbs still felt heavy and her muscles weak — but her mind told her she couldn’t go back to sleep. Or if I do, I’ll dream again, she knew. With a sigh, she forced herself out of bed.
*
The lab was a strange mixture of familiar and unusual. In a way, it was reassuring to immerse herself again in the normal, to know that life really did go on. but the fact that a major factor was missing—Toshikazu — made it seem alien. She couldn’t remember a day when Toshikazu had called in sick, when he hadn’t been there to reassure her, to laugh with her. And now he’d never be there again. (Such a facile thing to think, she rebuked herself. But that’s exactly how she felt.) There was nothing left in the lab that belonged to Toshikazu; she checked as soon as she entered the cold room. His personal locker had been cleared out, his customary place on one of the workbenches had been rearranged so it looked as though he’d never been there. Now Bojo and Matsukara shared the space that had been his. Even the equipment had been moved so there was no hint there’d been anyone else there, ever. She could understand, intellectually, why: so there’d be nothing to remind the survivors of the tragedy, to prolong the pain. But emotionally it just didn’t seem right — to sweep away all evidence of Toshikazu as though he’d never been.
Her co-workers carefully kept their heads down and their eyes averted — the polite response, avoiding any intrusion on her grief. Again, her mind understood it and appreciated it. But her emotions wanted more, if only a friendly good morning.
At least the interview with Acting Security Chief lsobe hadn’t taken long. He’d met with her alone — no assistants barking questions at her this time—and had seemed very concerned about her feelings. His questions had all been to the point, but couched in the most polite, most gentle language possible. And at times when it seemed like her emotions would get the better of her, he’d waited patiently, eyes carefully averted, until she’d got herself back under control. Predictably, it had still been painful describing what had happened — intensely so — but at least Isobe hadn’t added to the discomfort.
When he’d asked all his questions, Isobe had quickly outlined the efforts the corporation would be going to in order to track Toshikazu’s killer. Rewards ranging up to one million yen — about $10,000 — for anyone who could provide important evidence. Discreet messages sent to all the boardrooms of the city, hinting that Nagara would be deeply grateful for any help that the other major corporations could provide. Staggering amounts of money spread around the Tokyo underworld to acquire “cooperation” from those who might know how to hire freelance ninjas. Nikki was impressed.
So now she found herself back in her lab, back in her own cubicle. She felt a knot of pain in her chest. She’d had no idea it would be this difficult, returning to familiar places — places that she automatically associated with Toshikazu — and knowing that he wouldn’t be there. He’s stdl here, she thought as she sat down at her computer. In a way he’s still here. I can feel him. She felt a faint tingle on the back of her neck, as though somebody were watching her. For an instant, she imagined that if she turned round, she’d see Toshikazu watching her from the entrance to her cubicle, a gentle smile on his lips. It was almost reassuring, in its own sad way. He’s not really gone, she told herself. As long as I remember him, he still exists.
She powered up the computer, logged on. There was an electronic message in her in-box — a general announcement that Nagara would be holding a brief memorial service for Toshikazu Kasigi at eleven the next morning.
What about his family? she suddenly thought. They’d probably be holding their own memorial service, for relatives and close friends — something more private than an impersonal corporate event. The desire to be at such a service was overwhelming. Maybe she’d be invited — she was Toshikazu’s close friend.
But would his parents know that? She recalled how closed-mouthed Toshikazu had been about his family and his background. Was he any less reserved about the rest of his life when he was talking to his family? The odds were good that his parents didn’t even know he had a friend called Nikki Carlson. And if they didn’t know she existed, how could they invite her to the service, or even tell her when and where it would take place?
Suddenly, the thought that she’d miss this last chance to say goodbye to Toshikazu, to honor his memory in her own way, became intolerable. She couldn’t miss the memorial service, it would be a crime against her friend. Logically, she realized that she couldn’t hold herself responsible for missing something that she knew nothing about. But emotionally, she felt as though missing the rite—whatever form it might take in Japan — would be a betrayal, a turning away from someone who’d meant so much to her.
So she had to get in touch with the Kasigi family. But how?
Nagara’s personnel department would have to have the information she needed. She remembered the long, excruciatingly detailed forms she’d had to fill out when she joined the corporation. Parents’ names — even the ubiquitous mother’s maiden name — addresses and phone numbers of next of kin. If they had that on file for her, they had to have similar data for Toshikazu. She reached for the phone.
And stopped. That wasn’t going to work. The personnel department was legendary for being uncommunicative. It would never divulge any of the information it collected on Nagara employees, not to someone low on the corporate totem pole like Nikki. From cafeteria gossip, she’d heard that even executives like MIS chief Hiroyo Suganama had to fill out complex forms — probably in triplicate — explaining just why they wanted personal data on employees. And those reasons, of course, had to make sense from a corporate — not a personal — point of view. A personal reason, like, “I want to speak to my dead friend’s parents,” would certainly be refused out of hand.
For a moment she considered calling direct to the Vice President of Human Resources, the head of personnel. Aburakoji — if he had a given name, she’d never heard it — an old curmudgeon of a man almost as old as Suganama-san. He was reputed to remember everything about every one of Nagara’s thousands of employees. An “urban myth,” of course — nobody could remembe
r details on so many — but he just might be able to help her. If she approached him personally, explaining why it was so emotionally necessary for her to find Toshikazu’s family, maybe he ‘d help her out as a favor.
But no. Firstly, she’d learned early on that, in Japanese corporate life, emotional needs weren’t considered needs at all. If it didn’t serve the corporation, a request was simply disregarded. Approaching Aburakoji on such a level would be useless. Worse. It would shame her, and — indirectly — him as well.
And secondly, she remembered how Toshikazu had described Aburakoji: “Mind like a steel trap,” her friend had told her, laughing. “You have to pry it open to get anything out of it.”
So that avenue was closed. What other options were there?
Why not the police? Yes, that made a lot more sense. They’d have to have found out about Toshikazu’s family, if only to notify them of his death. And one of the detectives who’d interviewed her — what was his name, Yui? No, Yuhi, that was it — had seemed sympathetic, sharing her grief. He’d understood her emotions, and would understand her request. Maybe he’d even grant it.
Quickly, she looked up the phone number for the Shinjuku police station and placed the call.
A male voice answered at once. “Konichi-wa. Is this an emergency call?”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, then hurried on before she could be put on hold. “I need to speak to Detective Yuhi. I’m afraid I don’t know his first name.”
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