Aizawa straightened back up and glared at the three kempei. “If you try and take Nakajima, then I’ll throw you in jail with him.”
A heavy silence smothered the room. Ryusaki and Watanabe backed away in stunned silence. The three kempei didn’t speak, but behind his glasses, Major Hatsu’s eyes boiled in fury.
“Enough!” Superintendent Shimura roared, standing up. “Inspector Aizawa, I order you to cooperate with Major Hatsu. The Army and Metropolitan Police are brothers, serving the same father, our Imperial Majesty.”
“Thank you, Superintendent,” Major Hatsu said as the anger drained from his face. “I will give you the full report after we interrogate Lieutenant Nakajima.” He saluted and marched out, followed by the two sergeants, each one pausing to shoot Aizawa a hateful glare before leaving.
“Thank you, Superintendent,” Ryusaki said. “And I promise to help Inspector Aizawa in any way that I can.”
“Thank you, Ryusaki-san,” Shimura said. “You can go now.”
After quick bows, Ryusaki and Watanabe exited the room. Shimura sank back to his desk like a popped balloon. Was this even the man who had inspired him to become a detective? No, this was a shadow of a once honorable police officer.
“Inspector…”
“Three people are dead.”
“Inspector…”
Rage swept aside protocol. He pounded his fists against Shimura’s desk. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
The Superintendent lifted his gaze to meet Aizawa’s. “Inspector…”
“Murayama was one of us. How could you let his murderer go?”
“I didn’t order Sergeant Murayama to guard Baron Onishi. That was your doing.”
The shame of his failure hurt far worse than any physical pain he’d endured in the past few days. Like a bullet lodged deep in his gut, it burrowed deeper and deeper.
“Regardless,” Superintendent Shimura began again. “That moga just provided Masaru Ryusaki with a firm alibi.”
“Sir, we can still bring him to justice. If only…”
“If only what, Inspector?” Shimura asked with narrowing eyes.
“If only you would help me…like when we raided that yakuza gambling den last year…and countless times before.”
“Why should I help you now, Inspector?”
Aizawa steadied himself and said, “Because you were the man who taught me to take pride in the Metropolitan Police. Before we became partners, being a police officer was simply my job. You transformed it into my duty.”
“I never wanted these,” he said, gesturing to his rank epaulettes. “But after that raid, the Superintendent-General promoted me. It turns out that my predecessor had been forced to resign amidst rumors of corruption.
“That was not the worst of it,” Shimura continued. “After my promotion, Dietmen sent me presents and then asked me to send detectives to trail their opponents. I had to look the other way when some politician was mixed up in a criminal investigation. I never imagined that so much corruption festered within our government. So when you arrested Ryusaki back in March, I was touched by his sincere patriotism despite his breaking the law.”
Giri and ninjo, duty and emotion, the common curse among the Japanese. Aizawa almost sympathized but the parade of bloody ghosts haunted his mind.
Superintendent Shimura sighed. “But when Baron Onishi made that contemptible speech denouncing the Imperial Army’s actions in Manchuria…calling them ‘bandits in uniforms’…I couldn’t forgive that dishonor. His words dishonored my comrades who died during the war against Russia and the men fighting for our country as we speak! The Baron represented everything wrong with the government…which is why he needed to be punished.”
Aizawa felt his throat tighten.
“But all of that is inconsequential. The morning sun will soon bring the dawn of the New Japan. Tell me Inspector, will you be a part of it?”
Aizawa swallowed and gave the offer consideration. If General Sakamoto and Ryusaki became the leaders of a new government, wouldn’t his policeman’s duty oblige him to follow their orders? He shuddered at the thought.
“I don’t think Ryusaki would want me in the ‘New Japan’, sir.”
Shimura stood and placed a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder. For the first time in months, the Superintendent resembled his old partner.
“I want you there, Inspector…at my side like in the old days. We’ll be working together again, fighting for justice…”
That probably meant locking up anyone who disagreed with Ryusaki. Aizawa searched for an escape. Reporting Shimura’s actions to the Superintendent-General was unlikely, since disregarding the chain of command was almost unthinkable in the Metropolitan Police. Besides, Aizawa wasn’t sure if the top brass also sympathized with the Kusanagi Society.
“Perhaps if I…visited a shrine and prayed on it,” was all he could say.
Superintendent Shimura gave a warm smile and clapped Aizawa’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll come to the right conclusion. Dismissed.”
After a bow, Aizawa marched out the door, down the hall, and into the sanctuary of his office. With a deep sigh, he glanced over at the framed newspaper: “Inspectors Shimura and Aizawa Raid Yakuza Gambling Den!” He wanted to laugh but needed a smoke more. Aizawa fished the pack of Pall Malls out of his pocket and plucked the last one out. It was back to Golden Bats after this, but for now, he could enjoy this little luxury. He held the cigarette up before lighting it.
“For you, Baron.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lieutenant Nakajima’s and Major Hatsu’s footsteps echoed throughout the virtually empty Army Ministry. The pain from Aizawa’s punches still lingered on his sore face, but it beginning to dull. The two kempei sergeants had uncuffed him immediately after they left Police Headquarters, but Hatsu never broke his watchful stare on him, always keeping a hand near his saber. They halted in front of General Sakamoto’s office and Hatsu banged on the door.
“Major Hatsu and Lieutenant Nakajima!”
The words echoed through the halls like a reveille.
“Come in,” Sakamoto ordered.
They entered and presented the General with salutes. Major Hatsu approached Sakamoto’s desk and presented him with the Nambu pistol that Inspector Aizawa had confiscated earlier. General Sakamoto laid the weapon on his desk before dismissing Major Hatsu with a curt nod. Once alone, he examined Nakajima’s raw, pulpy face like a father whose son had been bullied.
“You look like you need a cigarette,” Sakamoto said.
“No thank you, sir.”
“That’s right, you don’t smoke. What’s the reason again?”
“Purity. My body must be clean if I am to be a polished sword for the Emperor.”
General Sakamoto chuckled and returned to his desk. “Did you tell them anything?”
“Aizawa already knew about the plot.”
“No matter. It’s too late. Baron Onishi is dead and Japan is forever in your debt.”
“Thank you, General,” Nakajima said with a bow. “I was only the human bullet that struck the Baron down. You and Ryusaki-zensei were the men who pulled the trigger.”
General Sakamoto smiled. “Yes, we owe a great deal to Ryusaki-san. If he hadn’t enlisted Superintendent Shimura’s help, you’d still be rotting in that dungeon.” He opened a drawer and removed a slip of paper. “And I wouldn’t be able to give you this.”
Nakajima took the paper and scanned the details.
Second Lieutenant Hajime Nakajima was to report to Tokyo Station at noon on December 14th, Showa 6 for immediate departure to the Manchurian front. He was hereby reassigned to the Kwantung Army’s Tenth Infantry Division as a platoon commander.
Ah, the ticket to godhood was now in his hands.
“Without any more weak-kneed politicians interfering, the Kwantung Army will be free to march on Chinchow and finish off that stinking wanton youth, Marshal Chang Hsüeh-liang,” Sakamoto said. “And you’ll make there just in time
to join them.”
“General…” Tears ran down Nakajima’s swollen cheeks. “I am honored.”
“You’ll need this,” General Sakamoto said, extending the Nambu automatic.
Lieutenant Nakajima tucked the pistol into his belt and dried his tears. In all probability he’d be dead by this time next year, and if not, he’d make sure to lead his platoon on a suicide mission. Hajime Nakajima would only be able to see the birth of the New Japan through the spirit world, enshrined forever at Yasukuni.
“General, when will it begin?”
Sakamoto appeared confused. “What?”
“The coup that will bring you to power.”
“Ah yes,” the General said. “Soon. Very soon. But you mustn’t concern yourself with that. Your duty in Tokyo is over, Lieutenant.” He smiled again. “Ryusaki-san is organizing a grand sokokai for you, the soldier who saved Japan from the poisonous reign of Baron Onishi.”
Ah, a sokokai...the celebratory send-off for all military men when they first enlisted or went off to battle. He remembered the one his family had thrown him before he departed for the Imperial Army Academy in Tokyo. The entire village turned out, partly to wish him well and partly because there was free food. Most villagers never left the Tohoku region, forever shackled to their rice paddies. At least the Nakajima family had another son. They could afford to lose one. Just like their daughter. No, he couldn’t think about that now. He’d have an eternity for that later.
Nakajima clicked his heels, snapped a salute, and said, “General, we will meet again. At Yasukuni.”
General Sakamoto returned the salute but said nothing.
*****
During the taxicab ride back to Asakusa, Reiko sat in silence, nodding and smiling while Masaru crowed in victory.
“Did you see the look on Aizawa’s face? Ah, I’ll savor that for the rest of my life,” he said with a laugh. “The humiliation must have been shattering. I hope he doesn’t kill himself before,” he cast a conspiratorial glance toward the driver, “the New Japan dawns. A more fitting punishment would be to throw him inside Sugamo Prison for the rest of his life, like an insect in a jar.” He lapsed into fits of malicious laughter.
“Yes,” was all she could say as she studied him. Cruelty and hatred distorted his handsome face into an ugly mask. She prayed it wasn’t permanent.
The taxicab halted as a procession of men paraded past. Made up of factory workers and university students, they carried red flags and banners that read “Down with the Minsei and Seiyukai! The Social People’s Party is the Future!” Like children picked last for a baseball game, the social democrats were now demanding their turn.
Shouting “Banzai to the Proletariat,” the Social People’s Party marched by, raising their fists into the air.
“There’s quite a lot of them,” Reiko said.
“The depression has given the social-democrats new life.” Masaru balled a fist. “We must act before they do. The other patriotic groups are divided and disorganized. I must recruit more men into the Kusanagi Society for the approaching…incident.”
“Maybe you could use them. It sounds like you both hate capitalism and want justice for the poor.”
Masaru scoffed. “I would except they’ve been infiltrated by Communists who want to remove our sacred Emperor from the throne! His divine rule is what sets us above the rest of the world. Their loyalties are with Russia, not Japan.”
Reiko gave a dumb nod and kept quiet. The last of the procession finally passed, allowing the taxicab to speed off.
“When my group is a respectable size, the others will follow my lead,” Masaru continued, slamming his fist into his palm. “Imagine it, Reiko. All the patriotic societies of Tokyo will be combined into one army under my command!”
She didn’t want to imagine it but nodded anyway. Was this to be her life in the New Japan? A nodding doll? Repulsed, she turned away and stared outside as the taxicab sped through Tokyo. Tofu vendors, magazine kiosks, and noodle shops flew by. A stream of salarymen headed home after a long day at the office, passing a group of scruffy, forlorn men who leaned against a wall.
For better or for worse, this was her home. What would it look like under Shogun Sakamoto’s rule? She doubted a return to the Tokugawa Era, but she’d seen footage of rallies and parades in Moscow and Rome. Most likely it would look like that.
But Reiko Watanabe wouldn’t march. Maybe it was best to skip town. Shanghai was a good choice, with its Japanese community and nightclubs. Then again, the newspapers were full of stories of anti-Japan boycotts there, along with reports of Chinese mobs attacking anyone who even looked Japanese. After Manchuria was finished, another incident might erupt there.
So Shanghai was out. What about San Francisco? No, the United States had banned all immigration from Asia. Maybe she should just stay in Japan. After all, she’d heard nice things about Osaka. But what would she do for work? How many rich Osakans needed a mistress in their lives?
However, the thought of leaving Tokyo filled her with a sadness that stretched out into infinity. But if she remained, Reiko Watanabe would be the mistress of one of the most powerful men in the Japanese Empire. Besides, how many other men would marry a woman like her? She was almost twenty-five, practically an old maid. Her virginity was long gone, auctioned off during her geisha training. Worse still, her family name was lower than dirt. Masaru Ryusaki was far better than she, or most women, could ever hope for.
What would his position be in the New Japan? Oh yes, General’s Sakamoto’s senior adviser. He could also double as the minister of executions with that sword of his.
Suddenly, the taxicab halted. They were back in Asakusa, right outside of her four-story Western-style apartment building. Relief bathed her. She needed to be alone with her thoughts.
“Reiko,” Masaru said. She turned to face him. “I must request your presence tomorrow night…at seven o’clock. We’re throwing a sokokai for Lieutenant Nakajima.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “I’m sure he’d prefer I not be there.”
Masaru held up a stifling hand. “Nakajima-san is…unfamiliar with women. Do not take it personally. But it is your duty as a geisha to entertain my men.”
She clutched her skirt, realizing that there was little choice in the matter. “Fine.”
“Good. Oh, and Reiko…” Masaru’s stern demeanor evaporated, replaced by a face of sweet sincerity. “Thank you. Without your help, Aizawa might have won.”
She had betrayed both men now. With agonizing difficulty, she forced another smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Aizawa awoke to the sound of knocking. He lifted his stiff neck from the desk and wondered how long he’d been asleep. A glance at his wristwatch said it was almost ten o’clock. Nobody could fault him for falling asleep at the office, not after the night he’d had. After a loud yawn, he lit up a Golden Bat to wake himself up. Despite being advertised as “sweet and mild,” the bitter tobacco stung his mouth, recently spoiled by Pall Malls. Still, there was something therapeutic about the Golden Bats, as if he could taste Japan with every puff. He felt like a tourist returning home at last.
The knocking began again, prompting Aizawa to open the door. A junsa stood at attention, clutching a manila folder.
“Sir, here is the Onishi report and photographs.”
Aizawa accepted the folder and dreaded what grotesque images lurked within.
“You also have a visitor, sir.”
“A visitor?”
He half-expected Reiko Watanabe to drop by with another clue. Instead, the yakuza from the other night, Demon, appeared behind the junsa and gave a supplicating bow.
“That will be all. Thank you,” Aizawa said.
The junsa saluted and walked off. Aizawa beckoned Demon into his office and tossed the manila folder on his desk. The hoodlum had sobered up and calmed down since they last met, and Demon entered with timid, halting steps. Once inside, Aizawa examined him for a few moments, enjoying a few
more drags on his Golden Bat before speaking. Several rolled up prints were underneath Demon’s arm, and although he had changed into a nicer kimono and hakama pants for the visit, he still clutched that threadbare flat cap in his left hand. Looking closer, Aizawa noticed that Demon’s hand was bandaged, partly concealing a missing pinky finger.
Cutting off one’s own finger was the sincerest of all yakuza apologies. Aizawa wondered what angered Demon’s boss more; trying to kill a police officer or not succeeding?
“I see you lost your pinky,” Aizawa said in between puffs.
Demon gave a smile of transparent insincerity. “Yes, as penance for my behavior the other night. Boss Okamura was very upset.”
“I’m sure he was,” Aizawa said, stubbing the Golden Bat out in the ashtray. “Tell him better luck next time.”
“Regardless, he wants no further trouble with you and has ordered me to cooperate fully.” Demon gave a deep, apologetic bow and unrolled the prints from under his arm. Laying them out on the desk revealed three pornographic woodblock prints. Painted in the old ukiyo-e style, the prints showed daimyo lords in bed with courtesans, Japanese soldiers screwing Red Cross nurses, and an octopus molesting a helpless damsel with slimy tentacles. Cheap thrills for those who couldn’t afford a real woman.
“A gesture of goodwill, Inspector. Straight from the Water Temple.”
Aizawa wanted to throw the prints back in Demon’s face, but he had enough enemies at the moment. Instead, he nodded his gratitude.
“Is that all?”
Demon maintained his fake smile as he presented a pamphlet from inside his flat cap. It showed an image of an armored samurai, taller than Mount Fuji, and ready to obliterate a pint-sized Diet with his enormous katana sword. The other side was filled with columns of Japanese characters.
“Purity and Patriotism are the foundation of the Kusanagi Society! Join our ranks to save Japan from corruption and evil. The esteemed patriot, Masaru Ryusaki, will speak today at 1:00 underneath the statue of Saigo in Ueno Park.”
Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1) Page 12