by Barry Lancet
Sensing my presence, he turned, but I eased behind a row of lockers before he could catch a glimpse of me.
“Who’s there?”
Without a sound, I worked my way to the end of the row and slipped behind the endcap.
“Hello?”
The moment passed, he finished dressing, and left.
Once alone, I moved quickly through the room. Name cards were slotted into thin brass frames near the top of each locker. I found Yoji Miura’s unit two rows in, secured with a single-dial padlock through the handle. I memorized the location, flipped open the latch of a nearby window, then shifted over a can of air freshener on the sill to hide the open hardware.
Duty done, I headed for the dojo. Nakamura-sensei stood in the center of the far wall, a small but imposing figure with a gaunt face and silver hair. He was dressed in full kendo regalia, sans helmet, and radiated a quiet inner strength that came from decades practicing the Way of the Sword.
The next instant he barked a command in Japanese and the combatants pivoted, gave the ritual thirty-degree bow to him, then turned back to their opponents and offered a shallower bow, eyes locked and alert.
The fighters raised their bamboo swords—shinai—straight out in front of them with the tips pointing at their adversaries’ throats.
The sensei issued a second order and the bouts commenced.
The crisp smack of bamboo on bamboo echoed throughout the hall. Shaft tapped shaft. Swordsmen probed with staccato movements, seeking weakness and the slightest advantage. Once they found a hole in their rival’s defense, they issued a blood-curdling cry of attack and advanced, batting away their partner’s shinai and going for one of the four target areas—crown, abdomen, wrist, or throat.
One kendoka immediately made his presence felt. He glided over the floor, his movements fluid and ghostlike. With lightning speed he sluiced forward for the kill, crashing his sword down on the other fencer’s head with such force, the recipient staggered and fell.
A referee’s white flag went up, awarding a point.
The victor grinned, bowed, and turned his back on his victim.
The fallen combatant didn’t rise.
As concerned observers edged toward the prone figure, I heard a voice at my ear say, “That was an outside fighter challenging our dojo. The lesson he learned tonight is, never tangle with the Nakamura Kendo Club.”
I hadn’t noticed the speaker’s approach.
CHAPTER 16
I TURNED to find a suited fighter in my blind spot.
“Are you Mr. Brodie?” he asked in Japanese, his helmet tucked under his arm.
The defeated fencer had not stirred. Concerned looks spread. Nakamura-sensei went to attend the stricken man himself.
“Yes,” I said, removing my eyes reluctantly from the scene unfolding before me.
I’d called ahead and been granted permission to observe the extracurricular session. I’d hoped to be left alone, but suspected the Japanese sense of propriety would kick in.
“Sensei is busy, as you can see, so let me guide you to your seat.”
“Thank you.”
Kendo students not engaged in combat kneeled in formal positions at the edges of the dojo, legs tucked under them, blades at their sides. They lined two sides of the gym. A clutch of observers in street clothes sat along the third side, probably friends and family invited to watch the tournament. My guide led me to a spot between two other men dressed in full kendo regalia.
“This is Tanaka-sensei, seventh dan, one of our most dedicated kendoka, and Kiyama-san, fifth dan. Our head sensei achieved eighth dan three years ago.”
“Impressive,” I said.
Today the eighth rank is the highest attainable belt—and that is a nearly superhuman feat. Only the legendary Moriji Mochida, who even in his seventies penetrated the defense of challengers decades younger with inexplicable ease, had attained tenth dan.
Tanaka and Kiyama sat like everyone else, with their legs tucked under them. Each pivoted slightly and bowed formerly in my direction, palms flat on the wooden dojo floor in front of their knees. Not sure of the protocol in kendo, I contented myself with bowing deeply from a standing position, then took the indicated seat between them.
My guide left us and Tanaka-sensei said, “We’re to answer any questions you might have.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
“I was told you deal in Japanese art in the States. Is that true?”
To pave the way, I’d given my antiques and martial arts credentials, considering the last my passport to entry. Since Japanese police cadets train in either judo or kendo, if not both, judo is almost a kissing cousin to kendo. Yet Tanaka zeroed in on the art.
“Yes. I sell mostly Japanese, with a smattering of European and other Asian. Scroll paintings, ceramics, prints. Like that.”
“Do you carry Japanese swords?”
His eyes lit up as the words left his lips and I saw the familiar fervor of a collector on the prowl.
“Sorry, I only stock tsuba.”
Tsuba are the decorated sword guards that slide over the tang of the sword, separating the handle from the blade.
I mentioned three dealers I turned to when the rare request for Japanese steel came my way. Tanaka knew them all, and I glimpsed the same recognition in his companion’s look.
Which didn’t surprise me. Japanese sword collectors are a passionate lot, and the object of their enthusiasm is the strongest man-made blade on earth. The number of sword fanciers is legion. Outside Japan, they encompass businessmen, financiers, Hollywood moguls, martial arts practitioners, military enthusiasts, Japanophiles, anime fans, weapons collectors, policemen, soldiers, knife fanciers, gamers, IT pros, and more. But most worshippers have no interest in any art beyond their beacons of shiny metal. Which was why I didn’t carry them.
Tanaka-sensei mentioned a few pieces in his collection and I commented on their rarity.
“So you know swords?” he asked.
“Just enough to get me in trouble.”
Tanaka laughed appreciably. “A modest fellow. I like that. I forgot to ask you how you know Miura.”
My questioner was a tall, dark-skinned Japanese with narrow eyes and a nose so low as to look almost nonexistent from a distance. Kiyama’s skin was almond-colored, his face long and flat.
“Business,” I said vaguely.
Tanaka nodded, not wishing to pry. “Miura and the two of us go way back. We were in the same college kendo club. Miura was the same age as me and held a rank one under mine. Kiyama-kun here is three years younger, but is sadly struggling two ranks below, at the fifth dan.”
Kiyama reddened noticeably. Tanaka didn’t look at all sad about his protégé’s inability to rise to a higher position.
I said, “Thirty years of kendo? Did Miura keep it up?”
“We all did. Yoji was a busy man. Too busy, I always told him. But even with the work handicap, he managed to capture sixth dan.”
Tanaka-sensei’s eyes shifted briefly to Kiyama in another subtle dig.
An ambulance crew rushed though the doors of the dojo, toting a portable gurney. They swiftly examined the stricken fighter, shifted him to the emergency stretcher in one practiced movement, and whisked him away.
Neither Tanaka nor Kiyama paid any attention to the departing warrior.
* * *
Tanaka took the conversation in a different direction.
“Do you mind if we talk swords?”
He spoke softly so only the three of us could hear.
“Not at all.”
Kiyama smiled but said nothing, content to let his superior by rank and age speak for the both of them. A wallflower kendoka.
“You must run across some Japanese swords in America from time to time because, well, of the confiscation programs after the war. Many American soldiers took them home as souvenirs.”
“People bring them into my shop on occasion.”
Tanaka’s eyes brightened. “I thought so. I�
��ve given up on finding koto by Masamune or Muramasa, but I have most of the shinto, shin-shinto, gunto, and gendaito slots in my collection filled. My shin-shinto section could be stronger, though.”
Tanaka had just rattled off the full gamut of sword types, from oldest to newest. The names translate as “old swords,” “new swords,” “new-new swords,” “military swords,” and “contemporary swords.” Tanaka sought old swords from two of Japan’s most famous swordsmiths.
“I might be able to fill in a gap or two of the newer blades, if you’re patient,” I said.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a koto from Masamune or Muramasa in a back room, would you?”
Kiyama and I laughed. Tanaka was only asking about every sword collector’s Holy Grail.
“Believe me,” I said. “I wish I did.”
When peace took hold in the samurai world at the beginning of the 1600s, the koto gave way to the new sword. What was “new” was its shape, which became more elegant and a shade less practical, since the weapon inched toward ceremonial. However, as cutting tools they were still deadly, and they came back into use decades later when the shogun reinstated kendo to bolster his depleted fighting force. The new sword in turn fell to the new-new sword, many of the influential smiths inspired technically and spiritually by their koto predecessors.
“Is there even the slightest chance such a koto might come your way?”
“None whatsoever,” I said. “But if one did, is there any chance you could afford it?”
The price for a signed koto blade ranges from four thousand to three hundred thousand dollars, depending on the swordsmith, rarity, condition, and quality. Common specimens of a lower grade are available, but as soon as a collector reaches for anything with a cherished pedigree, the fees jump to fifty grand, a hundred, and beyond. For a weapon forged by either of the two Big Ms, the sky’s the limit, if and when they come on the market. That said, the bottom line was this: old blades fashioned before the seventeenth century are prized above all others.
“None whatsoever,” he replied in turn, and we all laughed again. “Perhaps I might impose on you to let me know the next time someone walks into your shop with anything significant.”
Trading in swords wasn’t my favorite endeavor but I still needed to put food on the table.
“I could do that,” I said.
The combatants returned to the dojo floor and took their positions for the second round.
Tanaka singled out a pair. “Keep your eyes on Arato and Motoyoshi. The two best fencers in the dojo. Motoyoshi’s sharp but doesn’t have the killer instinct. Arato’s got the reflexes of a cobra.” Tanaka leaned toward me with a grin. “And a wicked final stroke.”
I nodded. Arato was the dueler who had defeated the visiting swordsman.
Tanaka’s voice dropped another notch. “Speaking of battle, I have two swords with test-cutting inscriptions.” He gave me a knowing smile.
My breath caught in my throat. The implication was unsettling. To prove the sharpness of a blade, test cuttings were conducted. Which meant tameshigiri—the same technique of slicing up the human body that Graham had mentioned with great hesitation in relation to the Last Emperor and the Japanese army.
The testing involved human cadavers or criminals sentenced to death. Warriors with good connections could have their newly acquired blades tested by authorities in the field, while other samurai were forced to sneak out late at night and chop down an unsuspecting peasant or a townsman out carousing. When an official test cutting was performed, the result—perhaps “one body cut through the torso”—was inscribed on the haft, along with the name of the samurai who performed the test, say, a well-known fencing instructor or even an official executioner.
“You’re sure they’re actual test-cutting inscriptions and not forgeries?”
“Yes. You come across anything like that?”
Inwardly, I cringed. Living bones are soft, and a skilled swordsman could cut through them with little or no damage to his weapon. So well known was this fact that there’s a tale—true or not, it’s hard to tell—of a thief who remarked to his executioner that, had he known he would be put to death with a sword, he would have eaten some stones just to damage the blade.
“No, sorry,” I lied.
Actually, I had. But my policy was to politely refuse swords inscribed with test-cutting testimonials.
“Too bad. I have swords with proven two- and three-body cuts, but I need a four. I’d pay well.”
“You interested in test cutting too?” I asked Kiyama.
He shook his head. Good. Normalcy prevails in some quarters, I thought.
Out on the floor the second round of bouts began. Kendoka leapt into action. Arato and Motoyoshi exchanged sharp slaps of their shinai, advancing and retreating in equal measure. Motoyoshi resisted a head feint, then deflected a fresh charge from Arato and attacked in turn without success. Behind their grilled masks, the eyes of each fencer burned with determination.
For five minutes, strikes were given and parlayed, then I saw Motoyoshi’s stance weaken. He’d run out of steam. Arato sensed it in the same instant. Quick as a snake, he darted in, flicking Motoyoshi’s weapon aside with a fierce slap, then pressed in for a strike to the crown of the head. The referee awarded a point.
Tanaka said, “That’s the best scrimmage I’ve seen all year!”
There was a commotion on the floor and Kiyama leaned forward.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
Tanaka frowned. “The judges have gathered.”
Kendo has a philosophy. In seeking to perfect your fighting technique you are also seeking to perfect yourself, improving day by day, weeding out personal inadequacies and developing humility, courtesy, awareness, and largeness of spirit.
In addition, matches are often judged with an eye on the long game. Can you keep your composure under pressure? Are you able to stay aware, collected, dignified? The ideal state of readiness for the winning warrior of old, so the theory went, was a blend of spiritual detachment and attuned fighting skills. Many believed that if a warrior’s mental attitude was flawed, he would eventually be cut down in battle.
The judge raised his red flag, indicating a penalty for Arato and a default win for Motoyoshi.
Tanaka was disgusted. “You see that! They’re signaling Arato attacked with ‘improper spirit.’ He gave in to the quick temptation for a score. But you know what? In a real battle, the blade would have cleaved the skull in two and his opponent would be dead.”
Never tangle with the Nakamura Kendo Club.
Which, unfortunately, was what I was about to do.
CHAPTER 17
AS I watched the front of the dojo from my window seat in an aka-chochin across the street, my cell phone vibrated.
On the other end of the line, Brodie Security’s computer whiz said, “Found what I could.”
An aka-chochin is a classic “red lantern”–style Japanese pub-slash-eatery in which the after-work crowd can unwind. The menu usually offers yakitori, grilled fish, and other snacks, along with a wide range of alcoholic fortification.
“You get the birthday for the son?” I asked, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece so my voice wouldn’t disturb nearby customers.
“Everyone’s. You’ll have five in all. Plus anniversaries, home and office addresses, mobiles and landlines, national health insurance policies, credit cards, passports, cars, driver’s licenses.”
“It’ll take the whole night to run all those numbers.”
“I only hope it’s in there.”
My order arrived. Yakitori, a whole grilled Pacific saury, and a beer.
“Thanks, Mari. Anything easy to remember?”
“No. All random.”
“Why should we be so lucky? You have a guess?”
“I like any of the birthdays. Or his wedding anniversary.”
“I’ll try those first, then.”
Mari hesitated before she said, “Be careful, okay?”
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br /> * * *
Seconds after we disconnected, Mari’s text came through. On my cell I now had the most likely numbers in Yoji Miura’s life that he might tap for a locker combination. If I couldn’t find the sequence on Mari’s list, I wouldn’t get into the locker.
Which I desperately wanted to do.
Lockers are private out-of-the-way spaces. A poor man’s safety deposit box. People are known to put things in them they don’t want others to see. A spouse, child, or coworker cannot accidentally stumble on a secret in a school or gym locker.
I dug into the fish and had some beer. My phone buzzed a second time, and when I answered a voice with an English accent said, “This a bad time?”
“I have a minute. What’s up?”
“You’re whispering. Tell me there’s a pretty lass next to you in bed and you dearly wish not to wake her.”
“Not this time, Graham. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Then it’s the other, right?”
“The other?”
“One of your exploits. You have an admirable facility for attracting the unsavory. I live vicariously through your escapades, Brodie.”
My British dealer friend was a notorious wallflower. Like Kiyama, the quiet kendoka I’d just met. The guy hadn’t spoken a word the whole time I was in the dojo. Graham Whittinghill suffered from the same affliction. Suffocatingly modest, self-deprecating, and shy. At art gatherings he accomplished what needed doing, but outside of work he dropped the conversational ball every time. It was a wonder he’d found a wife.
“I promise to work on it. What’s up?”
“A shocker, I’m afraid. The Sengai’s been nicked.”
“What?”
A few patrons looked around and I bobbed my head in a half nod of apology, then lowered my voice. “Is this connected to the treasure?”
“Could be. I don’t know.”
“We still talking about the rogue dealer you mentioned?”
Graham sighed. “He’s an uncouth lad, our Jamie Kendricks.”
“It’s a shame. I wanted to see the piece.”