He crawled to the computer, rose up on his knees, booted up the anonymous browser, and logged into his personal email. Spooky. A new message from Eri Sato was waiting in his inbox. The subject line: Age of the Undead Ninjas
He knew what he would find next before he even opened the message. It was the coded emergency message they had created way back when they were living together in D.C. Carver had received his first assignment abroad that year, and they had created the system as a way to communicate if everything went to hell in a handbasket.
Everything that is, is not. Everything is, yet at the same time, nothing is. I myself am the emptiest of all. XOXO, Eri
A quote from the Japanese artist and philosopher, Kawai Kanjiro. The quote itself was meaningless misdirection. The subject line was what really mattered. Age of the Undead Ninjas was an old first-person shooting game featuring zombie ninjas. He and Eri had created a profile within the game called “Fluffy,” and the real message would be hidden within that profile.
Suddenly, Duke woke with a start. He growled, low and menacing. Headlights shot across the room. A vehicle had pulled into the drive.
Carver recognized the sound of his sister’s old gas-guzzler.
Oh God. They’re home early.
He could just imagine the look on her face as he quickly spun some completely improbable explanation for his presence in the house. He had to finish up and get out.
First, he slipped Duke’s leash on and anchored it under his chair. He made the dog sit. “Shhh.”
Returning to the keyboard, he frantically pounded out the URL for Age of the Undead Ninjas. Meanwhile in the background, he heard the car door open. Squeaky door hinges penetrated the otherwise blissful night. One of the boys was crying. Maybe he had gotten seasick. Or sunburned. Whatever the reason, Carver was out of time.
Duke whined. Carver tried to focus. He located the Fluffy profile. Sure enough, it had been updated just 58 minutes earlier. The new text in the character description section: You are not safe. Meet me at Naked Fish. Tuesday Night. 1930 Hours.
Two car doors slammed. Duke let out a startled woof. Again, Carver signaled for him to be quiet. He re-read Eri’s message. You are not safe. Meet me at Naked Fish. Tuesday Night. 1930 Hours.
Well she was right about one thing. He wasn’t safe. But how would she know that? Did that mean she had known the brand brothers were coming for him? And then there was the name, Naked Fish. It wasn’t even the name of a real place. It was an inside joke that only they shared.
What they called Naked Fish was really a restaurant called Sushify, located in Tokyo’s Shibuya ward. It had been a small, exclusive place located on the second floor of an otherwise nondescript building. It had but one item on the menu – the Chef’s Special. Carver recalled watching in both horror and fascination as the chef plucked a fish straight out of a massive aquarium behind him, held the squirming fish on a cutting board, and using one of the sharpest knives he’d ever seen, expertly stripped the sashimi from the fish’s side. He served it to them immediately. The fish’s head, spine and tail were still on the plate too. The odd experience of tasting the still-twitching flesh while the “naked fish” peered up at him had been disturbing, to say the least.
Carver heard the metallic grinding of keys in the front door. He stood, re-reading the message one last time. Meet me at Naked Fish.
Eri was the opposite of a frivolous person. She had been, in fact, a little too practical and moody for Carver’s liking. Eri wouldn’t ask him to come to Japan unless it was a matter of life or death. Unless a face-to-face meeting was the only way to safely communicate about something of the utmost importance.
But there was the task force to think of. Two days from now. FBI headquarters. Can I count on you to show up? He had promised, but there was no way to be in both Tokyo and Washington at the same time.
He heard the front door open. Both nephews were crying now. Every part of him wanted to go embrace them.
Duke whined, but the kids were far too loud for him to be heard. Working at a furious pace, Carver clicked to edit the Age of the Undead Shoguns character description. He erased Eri’s message, and replaced it with one word: Banzai.
His sister’s voice, which had no doubt been soothing and supportive earlier, was shrill. “Go to your room and take off your clothes! It’s time for your bath!”
Carver powered the computer down. He took Duke up into his arms and carried the dog out the back door. Hopeful that his nephews’ wails would mask the sound, he locked the deadbolt behind him.
There was no moon tonight. Despite the full dark, he managed to replace the spare key in the hide-a-key rock from Wal-Mart. Then he put Duke on the leash. They fled into the forest just as the kitchen lights came on behind them. Carver treaded carefully, taking care not to sprain an ankle while traversing the woods back to the truck.
As they walked slowly, he calculated his options. Julian’s words fully inhabited his thoughts. Can I count on you to meet with the task force? Think about your answer carefully.
It was what Julian didn’t say that was more telling. Don’t make me send someone to take you into custody.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the task force would be a kangaroo court. Hadn’t Julian said as much? Go visit your parents. While you still can. In his most paranoid moments, he reckoned the president was fanning the flames because he had refused the National Security Advisor role. And if her task force didn’t nail him, then the intelligence committee would. It was just a matter of time.
That settled it. He would not be boarding a plane to Washington tomorrow. For better or worse, he was going to meet Eri.
She wanted to meet at 7:30 p.m. local time. The time difference between Arizona and Tokyo was sixteen hours. The closest airport offering nonstop service? Los Angeles International. And that was six and a half hours by car, or three hours flying a shuttle between Flagstaff and Phoenix. Either way, once he got to L.A., he was looking at 10 more hours in flight time over the Pacific.
He would also need to drop Duke off at the ranch. And somehow find time to eat and hydrate. It was an insane schedule, to be sure. But if he left now, and pushed the speed limit, he might just make it.
PART IV
Tokyo Imperial Palace
The black Lexus carrying Prime Minister Akira Ito stopped over the moat at Sakashita Gate, just outside the imperial palace walls. The handsome PM, who was famous for conveying a contagious sense of confidence, sat pensively. His lips moved as he silently practiced the talking points he would use during his meeting with the emperor.
The palace guards surrounded the car and swept its undercarriage for bombs. Ito’s left hand fondled the long, thin package containing the ancient sword that he would present to the old monarch as a gift. One that was sure to make a lasting impression.
A white-gloved guard on horseback escorted the vehicle to a circular driveway, where the emperor's chief of staff was waiting. Ito stepped out of the car and the two men bowed simultaneously. When he straightened, the chief of staff’s eyes lingered on the exquisitely wrapped gift. “I assume that is for his majesty?”
“Just so.”
“Excuse me, Prime Minister. May I please inspect it?”
“I think your men have kept his majesty waiting long enough, don’t you?”
The chief of staff hesitated before relenting. “Very well. Please follow me.”
He led Ito through the palace grounds, which offered a delicious taste of nature in the midst of the world’s largest city. Gold and crimson maple leaves glistened in the breeze. The palace was a far cry from the PM’s official residence across town – a shimmering, glass-covered cube in Tokyo’s government district. The monstrosity had been built in 2002 on the site of the former PM residence, which although small, had featured a pleasing blend of Eastern and Western architectural styles heavily influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright.
Ito’s wife hated the official residence even more than he did. Over di
nner at an expensive eel restaurant in Ginza, she had informed him that the grounds were haunted by Tsuyoshi Inukai, the prime minister who had been assassinated on the property in 1932. The security guards that guarded the place had confirmed the rumors, she said, before informing him that she would not be moving in. What was the point, she had asked in a tone that was more pragmatic than cynical. After all, the average time in office for a Japanese PM was just 18 months.
She did not realize that her husband had no intention of leaving office. Not in 18 months. Not ever.
Ito looked no further than Vladimir Putin as a 21st century example of a democratically elected official who had managed to hold onto power long past the confines of his official term. And of course there had been many others. Muammar Gaddafi had held on for 41 years in Libya. Then there was Fidel Castro, who had served as Prime Minister for 17 years before switching to the title of President for several more decades.
But Ito had resisted the temptation to share this plan with his wife. His Restoration Party had survived largely due to their extraordinary ability to keep secrets. There was no sense in adding additional risk just to impress his spouse.
Now the imperial chief of staff led him to a small garden with brightly colored koi swimming in a reflecting pool. The chief of staff gestured toward a pair of brightly colored fabric slippers. “His majesty has tea overlooking the garden every day at this time. You may join him now.”
Ito swapped his loafers for the slippers and ascended the short staircase. He found the white-haired emperor in an elevated, open-air tatami-mat room. He sat on his knees, straight-backed, wearing a practiced stoic expression. He wore gray wool pants and black tuxedo tails that were splayed neatly behind him. His skin was textured with age, as if it had been painted with an oil brush.
Ito stood before him and bowed. The emperor bowed in return, but did not stand. He then gestured to a pillow on the floor on the other side of a 14-inch dark wood table.
“Your Majesty,” Ito said, “thank you for seeing me. I apologize for any inconvenience my request for a meeting has caused.”
The irony of Ito’s humility was not lost on either man. As prime minister, Ito now had what the emperor did not — real power. And yet social etiquette demanded that he show the throne the same level of ceremonial respect that had been maintained for over two thousand years.
The emperor’s father had in fact been Japan’s last true imperial ruler. These days, while the royal family remained extremely popular, and talk of royal weddings and babies dominated the tabloids, the office was, in fact, largely ceremonial.
Ito knelt before the table, holding the oblong present in his outstretched hands. The emperor thanked him, took it wordlessly, and passed it to his white-gloved butler.
“Your Majesty,” Ito said. “If you please, may I have the pleasure of seeing you open my gift?”
An audacious and unusual request to be sure. The emperor considered it for a moment. Then he turned to the butler and asked him to unwrap the gift on his behalf. The act of peeling away the expensive rice paper was done with excruciating slowness and delicacy. Eventually, he revealed an exotic-looking sword that, despite its graceful curve, reached 70 inches in length.
“An odachi,” the emperor said in genuine surprise. He touched the blade and found that it was sharp. “Very generous, Prime Minister. A remarkable replica.”
“It is no replica,” Ito said with pride, for it was indeed authentic. Although popular in feudal times, such massive swords had been outlawed by shogunate decree in 1617. “Your Majesty, this rare blade actually has an interesting story to tell.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The blade once belonged to your father.”
The remark clearly confounded the old monarch. “My father held this in his personal collection?”
“Just so. I understand it was one of his favorites.”
“Well, I must confess, I am sure you are right, but my memories of this particular blade are vague.”
“Understandable. You were just a boy when the sword was last seen here at the palace. But it so happens that during the last days of the war, when Tokyo was under American bombardment, your father took it with him into his private bunker.”
The emperor took the sword into his own hands now, lifting it gingerly up and down, as if guessing its weight. “But tell me, Prime Minister, how do you know all this? How did it come into your possession?”
“The explanation is quite simple. During the war, my grandmother was a servant here at the palace.”
The old monarch’s face relaxed. “Ah. Now I know you must be joking. I read that your bloodline is traced to a feudal aristocracy.”
“True, my grandmother was a distant cousin to the royal family. But when her father was disgraced, she was cast out of the aristocracy and groomed for service.”
The emperor grunted sympathetically. He handed the sword to the butler, who backed out of the room, bowing as he disappeared from sight. The emperor waited to speak again until he was sure they were alone. “Forgive me, for I am very old. I still do not understand how the sword came into your possession. Surely your grandmother did not…”
“Steal it? Certainly not, your Majesty. During the American occupation at the end of the Second World War, the sword was confiscated by American General Douglas MacArthur, along with your father’s other personal weapons.”
“Ah, yes. I was just a boy, but I can still recall the general’s visit to the palace. Very difficult.” His mind wandered for several seconds. Then he refocused on Ito. “You were saying?”
“On that day, my grandmother was overheard speaking English to the soldiers. General MacArthur needed a translator, and she was taken to his new headquarters, where she worked under him.”
“Ah, yes. The Americans employed several of our best, including the dear nanny who had raised me!”
Ito clucked his tongue. “The sadness you must have felt!”
“Indeed.”
“Well, as for my grandmother. Years later, when MacArthur was ultimately summoned home to the United States, her employment was of course, terminated. But as a parting gift, the general presented your father’s sword to her. You can imagine her predicament. How could she possibly accept something that did not belong to her?”
“Indeed! An impossible situation!”
“She decided to accept the sword in hopes of returning it to the palace. But by then, the new palace guards did not know her. Three times she came to the palace, and three times she was sent away.”
The emperor grunted approvingly. “I admire her steadfastness and sense of honor. Well. Thankfully, those dark times are behind us. And now the sword has found its way back to the palace. It is truly an amazing story. If you don’t mind, Mister Prime Minister, I am hosting a small dinner tonight, and I would like to tell my guests the story of your grandmother and the sword. I think they would find it highly inspirational.”
“By all means.”
The butler returned to pour tea into two earthen cups, then left the room again without turning his back to them.
The emperor sipped his tea before speaking again. “I was surprised to receive your request to see me. In the past 25 years alone, I have inducted 14 new prime ministers. You are the first to return to the palace for a social visit.”
“Surely they did not wish to bother you while you were busy conducting state affairs.”
The emperor nodded approvingly, but in fact, it was rumored that, apart from light ceremonial duties and occasional meetings with foreign ambassadors, the emperor spent most of his time writing poetry, bird watching on the palace grounds, and practicing Shinto.
Ito had practiced what he was about to say carefully, as the topic would be extremely delicate. The emperor had been just a small boy during World War II when his father, Hirohito, refused surrender despite the total destruction of his navy, a firebombing campaign that destroyed 67 Japanese cities, and the prospect of an imminent ground invasion of the mainlan
d by both American and Soviet forces. Surrender came only after the second nuclear bomb destroyed Nagasaki. In the ensuing months, under pressure from the Americans, Hirohito declared that he was not a living deity, was stripped of power, and was reduced to that of a ceremonial figurehead. In addition, the country had been forced to renounce its right to war forever, and accept a constitution dedicated to pacifism.
Ito set his tea on the table. “Well then, I’ll get to the point of my visit. Have you been following the protests on television?”
He referred to the large crowds protesting Ito’s push for a strong Japanese military and an amendment to the country’s pacifist constitution.
The emperor sighed. “I have little choice but to follow the news. My guests expect intelligent conversation about the issues of the day.”
“As you know,” Ito said, “the Restoration Party is no longer content to be dependent on the Americans for security. We propose amending the constitution to allow for the creation of a proper military.”
“I am aware. A somewhat unpopular point of view, from what I understand.”
“The masses fear what they do not understand. And what is your opinion on the matter? Do you agree with the opposition?”
The old monarch rose to his knees. “Come. Let me show you something.”
The two men exchanged their slippers for loafers and set out on a garden path. They stopped on the other side of a koi pond. The emperor pointed to a three-story castle keep. “That is called Fujimi-yagura. It is one of the few buildings that remain from the original citadel. There were many others like it when I was a boy. What fire did not take over the centuries, the American bombers destroyed.”
“The original palace must have been beautiful.”
“Yes. But during the bombing, I went underground for a long period, living with my family and the servants like well-fed rats. When the attack ceased, and I was at last allowed to see the sun, my nanny told me not to look at the smoking ruins all around us. She told me to instead focus on Fujimi-yagura, which was miraculously untouched. And that is what I did. For days, weeks even, I acted as if I wore blinders.”
Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series) Page 17