"As most of you know, our new seasonal exhibit is on the samurai. While the JANM has its own collection of weapons, armor, documents and other artifacts, we always try to borrow more exclusive items from some of our partner museums whenever we can. A week ago last Friday, I got a call from the Japanese consulate in Los Angeles. They've agreed, as part of the Prime Minister's program of encouraging interest in Japan's cultural heritage, to lend us two dozen of the Kokuho."
The museum curators, who were all fluent in Japanese, gasped, one of them covering her mouth in total shock. A lot of the rest of the staff looked surprised as well, so I felt like a total idiot raising my hand. Harry caught sight of my hand and pointed towards me. "Yes, Jordan? Question in the back?"
"Uh, Harry, sorry I don't know, but what's a Kokuho?"
There were a few smirks from some of the staff, but Harry's smile was more genuine. "Thanks for asking Jordan, since I know there are a few others out there who didn't know but didn't have the guts to ask. The Kokuho are national treasures of Japan, considered priceless by the government. They are by Japanese law not allowed to be sold or exported from Japan in any way, shape, or form. There are thousands in total, ranging from actual castles to scrolls and pieces of ancient literature, but for this exhibition, the most noted will be seven katana, along with three full sets of authentic samurai armor. It’s the largest collection of these artifacts to be allowed into the United States in three decades. The last time was at the Smithsonian in Washington, just to let you get a grasp on what we're talking about."
Harry continued on, describing some of the security features and procedures being put in place for the arrival of the artifacts. Most of it didn't involve me, except I noted there was a special cleaning procedure the janitorial staff would have to use if we were to clean the exhibit room. Security had the biggest role, with two armed officers to be on duty at all times while the exhibit was in place. Thankfully, the Japanese government was paying some of the cost for the security.
After the speech, I got on a JANM computer, checking on the total impact of what Harry had told me. The numbers I got shocked me. The Kokuho were literally priceless, a class of artifacts so rare and expensive that no insurance company in the world, even Lloyd's of London, were willing to put out a policy on them.
Especially valuable were the katana, the Japanese swords that had gained such a reputation that they'd transcended into the realm of almost the religious, even among non-Japanese.
The centerpiece of the Kokuho exhibit was the twin so-called "spirit blades," one by the legendary swordsmith Masamune, the other by what some considered his spiritual opposite, Muramasa. Both, in addition to being Kokuho, were registered as Juyobunkazai, or important relics to Japan's cultural heritage.
I shut down the computer and left the office, finding Harry overseeing the installation of the display cases in the special exhibit room. "Quite an accomplishment," I said, watching as the first case was carefully jockeyed into place. The case looked heavier than most of the ones the museum used, and I assumed that it was specially made to stronger standards. "You happy about this?"
"Yes and no," he said, grinning sheepishly. "Remember when I interviewed you and told you about the otaku?"
"Yeah, I'd looked the word up on the Internet when I got home that day," I said. "Some of the things that were seen cannot be unseen."
Harry grinned and nodded. "That's true. But I guess I've always been a bit of a katana otaku. It's what got me into doing what I'm doing, considering my great grandfather had a katana that he passed down through the generations, eventually to me when my grandfather died. He brought it over from Japan when he immigrated, and I even had it dated after he died. It's nowhere near as valuable as these of course, but it has a special place in my heart."
"I understand. Is there anything I can do to help you guys set up?"
Harry shook his head. "No, everything is being taken care of. The consulate will send some people over to check the security measures soon. Take off, I'll see you Thursday."
I had the next two days off, so when I came into work on Thursday evening, the exhibit was already fully in place, along with two very stern-looking guards dressed like the Men In Black standing outside the exhibit hall. I couldn't see them, but I was pretty sure both of them were carrying pistols in their jackets, a thing that I honestly didn't want to find out or not. I've always had a thing about guns, preferring that arguments be settled in the old-fashioned way, either verbally or through a good sound set of fisticuffs.
Going into the back to change my clothes and get ready for my cleaning shift out on the floor, I was surprised to find Harry Takahashi still at his desk. It was nearly seven o'clock, and he normally was out of the office by six at the latest. "Hey Harry, burning the midnight oil?"
He raised his head up and grinned, shaking his head. "No. But one of the things that I’m quite happy to not have inherited from my great grandfather's homeland is the penchant for working long hours doing busy work. Unfortunately for me, the Japanese consulate isn't quite as enamored with the idea of family time as I am, so they see nothing wrong with sending me another report to complete and present to them at nine tomorrow morning that they just happened to deliver via courier of all things at five this afternoon. I'll be here at least another two hours."
"Sounds like fun," I quipped. "Anything you want help with?"
"You don't want down this rabbit hole," Harry said with a laugh. "Oh, by the way, there's a box in the janitor's room for you. Someone noticed you've been having problems with the floor chemicals, so they got you a face mask with a filter for when you're running the buffer. It should help with the eyes and nose."
I was touched. I hadn't said anything, but he’d noticed, and I was sure that the mask was from him, most likely paid for out of his own pocket. He really was a good boss to work for. "Thanks. I'll get to that later, I think I'll tackle the Kokuho room first tonight. Hey, those MIB you have outside, they ever go home, or do you just recharge their batteries at the socket twice a day?" I asked, causing him to laugh again.
"No, they go home, but you'll still have one standing outside the room from eleven o'clock on. By the way, you want to make sure the room's all done by midnight, the guard has strict orders to lock the gate on it then and not open it up to anyone short of God himself until seven tomorrow morning. So unless you want to get possibly locked in there, I suggest getting done quickly."
Nodding, I left Harry alone and went to the locker room to change. I actually had two lockers, one for my tour guide clothes and another for my janitorial clothes, which were nothing more than an oversized set of faded blue coveralls with a JANM patch stitched over the left breast pocket. They were torn in two places and a bit smelly from the constant exposure to chemicals and cleaning solvents, but at least I could wear regular clothes underneath. Pulling the coveralls on over my jeans and sweatshirt, I shivered still. To save money, the JANM shut off the heat at closing time, except in certain exhibit rooms. Sure it was Los Angeles, but it still got chilly in winter once the sun went down.
I found the box on top of my locker, chuckling at the look of the device. It seriously looked like a gas mask, with a clear face shield that gave me pretty good vision while the mouth and nose were covered by a sealed section that had a filter at the front. I tried it on and found it not too uncomfortable, so I figured I'd give it a try. It couldn't be worse than breathing the chemicals. Besides, it was obviously not a cheap gadget, and it had to have at least some sort of positive effect on my sinuses.
I got to work, first taking my cart full of supplies over to the Kokuho exhibit. Things were delayed temporarily as one of the guards gave my cart a once-over, making sure my broom was actually a broom, I guess. It didn't take too long, and I soon was able to get to work.
After using my giant puff ball feather duster on the cases, it was eventually time to get the floor. I pushed the large dust mop around, working in first clockwise then counterclockwise laps to get every bit o
f dust from the floor. As I pushed, my eyes were drawn to the two famous katana, nestled in the same glass case on stands draped in contrasting silk. Masamune was nestled on the purest white silk to denote the nobility of the sword and its maker, while the supposedly demon-possessed Muramasa blade sat on blood red silk. They didn't have handles or blade guards, but were just the pure steel of their original designs. They were both beautiful, even to someone like me. The way the lights glimmered off the steel, which was marked with the wave-like design the Japanese called a hamon, the true sign of a great katana, left both absolutely breathtaking. I knew I'd get plenty of time to look at the blades over the following three months, but wanted to take this first opportunity before the exhibit opened to the public the next day to appreciate it before I was leading groups of junior high school kids and such through later on.
Getting back to my work, I left the Kokuho room and went back to the supply room, getting the floor buffer and chemicals that I hated. At the last minute, I remembered my mask and turned back, grabbing that before starting my work.
It's an unappreciated art, learning how to use an industrial floor buffer. If you don't know what you’re doing, even a strong man will end up exhausting himself as he tries to fight the inertia of the giant spinning disc underneath the machine. A woman my size could be whipped around in circles until she's flung off if she wasn't careful. I'd first learned doing a stint as a fast food worker two years prior on a different machine, but the principles were the same. I had gotten the hang of the JANM monster and could make progress, but still wasn't as much an expert as some of the others, I was sure.
With the face mask on, I also decided to put in some headphones, listening to a mix of music on an old iPod I’d bought when my finances were better. I'd have preferred to listen to Pantera live, but it was better than the monotonous burr of the buffer.
Every hundred feet or so, I had to stop the buffer to unplug it and change outlets, so I missed the initial attack on the Kokuho room. The guards had changed over perhaps fifteen minutes earlier when I saw mist coming from around the corner of the next corridor. Stopping my buffer, I approached the corner, more curious than anything else.
The mist was thicker around the corridor, nearly smoke, and I walked through it towards the Kokuho room, trying to figure out what was going on. I passed by a fire alarm and pulled it, sure that somehow a fire had started, maybe due to a short in the wiring or a light overheating. I kept going because I wanted to make sure the guard wasn't injured, and I didn't feel any heat yet.
The mist got thicker until I could barely see my hand in front of my face, so I was surprised and shocked when a man came out of the Kokuho exhibit room and bowled me over. He hadn’t been anticipating me, as he was knocked down too, both of us falling to the floor, him on top of me. As I fell, I saw him clearly, his mouth and nose covered in a mask similar to mine. My head hit the tile, and blackness dropped like a curtain over my vision.
Chapter 3
Jordan
I woke up in a bed, confused and disoriented. I blinked and realized I wasn't in a hospital, but in what looked like a log cabin of all things. Two of the walls were the sort of rounded log appearance that I associated with cabins at least, while the other two were thick-looking unfinished planks that looked like older wood. There were no windows, and the door was shut pretty solidly. The room was lit by a simple battery powered lantern that cast a slightly yellow LED shine around the room, not enough to really see, but enough to get the basics. I blinked again, wincing at the pain in the back of my head. I'd certainly hit my head rather solidly, that was for sure. "Hello?"
There was no answer, so I cleared my throat and tried again. "Hello?"
I heard movement outside the door, and the distinct sound of a latch being thrown back before the door opened and in walked a guy who looked like he was from an old poem, maybe something by Browning or Shelley. Thick, slightly wavy black hair capped a fine forehead which led to mysterious black eyes, like two obsidian orbs in the midst of a lightly tanned face. His lips and mouth were sensuous, the sort that made women wonder what they would feel like pressed against their skin. That is, when they didn’t wake up in a strange log cabin. His looks promised dark, forbidden pleasures that you didn't tell your friends about.
His face was just the beginning, though. He was kind of tall, maybe a shade over six feet, with an athletic physique that added allure to the promise of his hips and eyes. His shoulders were broad, capped with rounded muscle that went down to baseball-sized biceps and forearms thickly corded with muscle that rippled under a coat of black curls. His chest was just as impressive before darting down to an almost impossibly narrow waist before flaring out to strong legs, although he was wearing black cargo pants that hid most of what they looked like.
"Hello?" I repeated, feeling somewhat foolish. "Where am I?"
"I apologize for the strangeness, Miss Banks, but after my brother ran over you, we had to take you with us," he said. His voice was like pure melted butter it was so smooth, a mix of French, American, and something else that I couldn't put my finger on. Either way, it was a perfect match to his sensual body. "How is your head?"
"Hurts," I replied after a moment, blinking when I realized I'd been staring. I smiled, suddenly shy, only to feel my face flush when he smiled back. He had perfect teeth, something you don't see often when your nightlife is hanging around rock musicians. "Why am I not in a hospital?"
"Ah, well, that's the difficult thing," he said. "You see, you interrupted my brother and me in our work for the evening, and when my brother insisted you’d seen his face. So we couldn’t just let you go."
"What do you mean?" I asked, a thin line of chill penetrating the spell his voice and looks were weaving around me. "Why not?"
"This is new for me, but I guess you could say that you’re a guest for the time being, but one that isn’t free to leave. May I sit down? You're not tied up or anything, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
If he was a kidnapper, he was certainly the most polite kidnapper I'd ever heard of. I gestured with my hand, waving like I was saying, Of course, go ahead. I frequently discuss my involuntary detainment with gorgeously handsome men who take me to log cabins. The man smiled again and grabbed a chair by the door and sat down, making sure to keep himself between me and the door. “Your pulling the fire alarm ruined a very finely-tuned plan on our part. We only got a fraction of what we wanted, and didn't get either of our top two prizes."
"You're thieves," I replied, putting two and two together. "You were trying to steal the Muramasa and Masamune swords."
He nodded, not even wasting the effort to deny it. "Among others. But yes, the crown jewels were the Muramasa and Masamune blades. We had offers for over twenty million dollars each for them," he said. "As it is, we'll make our investment in equipment back on the seven blades we obtained, but not much else. C'est la vie, non?"
"And kidnapping me?" I asked, curious. "What role does that play?"
I couldn't help it, my mind casually flashed to a few fantasies I'd read in various novels, of the innocent maiden taken and taught the ways of the world by her handsome captor. The man laughed and looked at me with knowing eyes. I blushed, and pulled the blanket that was covering me up higher, almost all the way to my chin. "Don’t worry, Jordan. My brother and I aren’t that sort of violent men. We won’t hold you down and ravish you or anything. Unless you want us to, that is,” he said, grinning.
“Actually, it was my brother who insisted that you be taken with us. He says that when the two of you tumbled to the floor, you got a good look at his face. Now, we were wearing covers over our mouths and noses, but you never know, you may have gotten a good enough look to give the police a description. We can’t have that for at least the next few days."
"And after that?"
"Hopefully it won’t matter, Miss Banks. My brother and I intend on leaving the United States at that point, and where we’re going, well, disappearing is rather easy."
The man laughed and tapped his forehead. "I have mystic powers. Actually, it's because you were carrying your wallet in your jeans pocket. Your wallet, keys, and money are sitting on the dresser to your right. I was surprised, though, no cell phone? I thought everyone had them nowadays."
"It's in my locker at work," I said honestly. "The wallet was just because it's a habit."
He stood up, and again I was taken aback by just how smooth everything this man did was. Talking, sitting, standing, everything looked like it was just one harmonious never-ending dance. I swear he was the sort of man who'd make picking his nose look sexy. “Be careful. You never know when you might run into a criminal, after all. In the meantime, I suggest you rest, Miss Banks. It’s still early. When you wake up, we can talk about your freedom, and breakfast."
"Wait," I said as he reached the door. He paused, turning his head back towards me. "Uhm, I don't expect the real thing, but what can I call you? I don't want to keep yelling hey you or hello when I need something."
He nodded his head again, smiling softly. "You may call me Francois. And please, not Frank. Francois."
Chapter 4
Francois
I felt bad locking the door behind me. She hadn't chosen to come with us, and I’d be the first to admit that I was a rookie at kidnapping people. Our plan should have been perfect, designed to avoid the very problem that we encountered. Unfortunately for us, we hadn't planned on the janitorial staff being there. We certainly hadn't planned on any of the rest of the staff wearing gas masks. The mist we'd deployed was specifically designed to prevent that sort of problem, containing a fast-acting sleeping agent that would have incapacitated anyone breathing it in within five or six seconds.
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