The Moving Blade

by Michael Pronko

  The fire escape zigzagged down to an alley empty in both directions save for dumpsters. They didn’t bother wasting their time climbing down. The ladder stopped at the second story, from where it was a long drop to the concrete. Hiroshi felt the fire escape swaying and tightened his grip on the rail.

  “What now?” Sugamo asked. After looking up at the higher floor where the grate stopped, Sugamo stepped back towards the wall, sending a rattling shiver through the fire escape.

  “We send Takamatsu to deliver a sword,” Hiroshi said, edging back inside, unsure if it was strong enough to keep holding them. “And I’ll talk to my contact at Interpol.”

  “That’s all we have? A sword for Takamatsu?” Sugamo asked. “And an Interpol contact?”

  Hiroshi put his hand on Sugamo’s back to prod him inside.

  Sakaguchi shifted his weight to the floor inside the mahjong parlor, and the entire landing jolted and clunked against the brick wall.

  “We’ll try the sword and Interpol,” Sakaguchi said. “Unless you want to keep running around the city like this?”

  Chapter 25

  The walls and storefronts of the street abutting the Yamanote Line tracks in Shin-Okubo were jammed with signs in Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese and Korean. The smell of spices from different cuisines floated in the cold night air. Video soundtracks in different languages and the four-beat precision of Korean pop blasted out of knockoff stores, their racks protruding into the lane with a jumble of clothes, kitchenware and used video games. Faded arrows pointed up the dingy stairwells of the narrow buildings to more and more of the same. Most of the teen-oriented food stalls had closed, leaving only the smell of sizzling beef soaring out of tin exhaust hoods.

  The detectives circled together at a V-split in the lanes. Sakaguchi slapped his hands together to warm them. “Get in and out as quickly as you can.”

  “These things have their own pace,” Takamatsu said, readjusting the sword secreted inside a leather golf club bag over his shoulder.

  Sakaguchi checked his cellphone. “Sugamo and Osaki are by the window to the left. If you need them.”

  Takamatsu shifted the sword to his other arm and adjusted the belt of his camelhair overcoat. “If nothing else, I’ll make a few bucks and the guys will get a good meal.”

  “And if that guy finds the GPS in the case?” Hiroshi asked without looking up from his cellphone. He was still calling and texting Jamie, but got no answer, and none from Ueno.

  Takamatsu smiled. “I have a hunch he’ll find it eventually.”

  “Your last hunch ended you up in the hospital,” Hiroshi reminded him.

  “No, that was because I didn’t follow my hunch.” Takamatsu slung the sword bag to the crook of his arm to light a cigarette.

  Sakaguchi stood in front of a large poster of a ten-girl Korean pop group taped to the wall, their super-cute dimples and big child-like eyes frozen in place, thin bodies trapped in a robotic dance pose.

  Hiroshi tried again to call Jamie and Setsuko. Getting no answer, he slipped his cellphone back in his pocket.

  Sakaguchi stretched his legs back and forth across from the restaurant. Red, blue and gold carvings climbed up the front pillars. Long strings of Korean flags fluttered from the second floor down to a row of small lion statues. Takamatsu ground out his cigarette and walked into the restaurant. Hiroshi and Sakaguchi huddled against the cold and watched him go.

  Inside, Sugamo and Osaki kept their heads down, eyeing Takamatsu as if he were a stranger. Around them diners picked the flesh from crabs split and boiled in spicy, sour tofu-cabbage broth. The smoky scent of marbled beef slapped onto smoky grills mingled with shoju liquor and cigarette smoke.

  When Takamatsu told him who he was, the headwaiter in a dark blue vest spoke into his cellphone ear bud. He led Takamatsu through the swinging doors into a kitchen crowded with silver racks and tall pots, stacks of cabbage and tubs of pepper paste. Square choppers rested on blocks made from whole tree trunks beside where cooks worked, washed and cooked in oily white uniforms.

  The headwaiter beelined through the kitchen to a door at the back. It opened into a plush, carpeted hallway lit by dark blue lights. Takamatsu blinked to adjust his eyes. From a door at the end of the hallway, a short man in a bright red vest stepped into the dark. His gourd-shaped head was shaved to the scalp and one ear pierced with a run of silver rings. He held up his hands, indicating he would pat Takamatsu down. Tattoos ran to his knuckles.

  Takamatsu held his hands up while the gourd-headed guy ran his hands inside Takamatsu’s overcoat and jacket and down both pant legs. When he gestured for Takamatsu to hand over his overcoat and the sword in the golf club bag, Takamatsu stared him in the eye for a couple seconds, and then handed them over.

  “That’s camelhair.” Takamatsu nodded at his coat.

  Without another word, Takamatsu and the gourd-headed bodyguard stepped into a room with high walls of textured concrete ringed with soft downlighting. In the middle of the opposite wall, a huge black lacquer cabinet—embossed with a stylized character for long life and thick brass fixtures—stretched floor to ceiling.

  Behind two large computer screens on the leather-lined desk stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with backswept hair and a glowing tan. He wore a white, multi-pleated tuxedo shirt and tight black pants. He smiled at Takamatsu, looking too young and handsome to be in charge of a restaurant, club or anything else. The bodyguard set the sword on the long black lacquer desk in front of him.

  “Thank you for bringing this to me. It’s hard to find anyone to trust. I’m Kim Dae Hyun,” the man with broad shoulders and backswept hair said, letting his pleasant face open up as he came around the desk.

  “I’m Takamatsu.” Straightening his cuffs, he offered a short, curt bow.

  “Mind if I take a look while you’re still here?” Kim smiled and unzipped the tie on the golf club carry bag and set it on the desk. He unwound the silk cord and slid off the cloth. Pulling the sword from the scabbard, he held it with one hand on the handle and the other around a soft cloth to protect the steel.

  “Gorgeous. It’s Korean. Taken during the occupation.” Kim surveyed it from all angles under the spot lamps over his desk.

  “Occupation?” Takamatsu asked.

  “Japanese occupation of Korea.” He stood behind the desk circling the sword gently right and left, marking a sideways eight in the air. With each soft move, the intricate collar and tsuba hand guard, tempered in gold, caught the downlight in glints and flashes that lingered in the air. The fluid silver gleam of the blade made the cavernous room feel small and close.

  Kim examined the sword, speaking in a quiet, focused voice. “What amazes me is that in both Korea and Japan, we revere an object which must nearly be destroyed before it can find its proper shape. Heated, beaten, cooled, pounded, folded, and heated again.”

  Takamatsu listened without saying a word.

  “From its weakest moment, the layers of steel are built back to a strength, an energy, that no other weapon, no other object, ever achieves.” Kim set down the sword beside its scabbard on his desk, shook off its spell and turned his attention to Takamatsu. “You probably want to be on your way. I don’t know how to pay anyone anymore, much less cops.” Kim said something to the bodyguard in Korean who went back behind the smoked glass wall.

  “Actually, you could pay me with a piece of information,” Takamatsu said, using the humblest of phrases while keeping his eyes straight on Kim’s without a hint of humility.

  “There’s the cop in you.” Kim walked to the side of his desk and leaned against it. “I thought you were retired.”

  “Probation.”

  “Did you do something bad?”

  “Nothing that didn’t need doing. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Information is the currency you prefer, is it?”

  “I could take both.”

  Kim smiled. “First, some information for me. Are those big guys in the front room colleagues of yours?”
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  Takamatsu nodded yes.

  “I don’t want them hanging around here. It’s bad for business.”

  “It takes time to feed someone their size.”

  Kim nodded in amused agreement. “They can finish their meal. In fact, it’s on me. But don’t bring them next time. It disturbs my customers.”

  The bodyguard came back with a thick envelope of cash, which he handed to Takamatsu. Without looking at it, Takamatsu tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

  “Could you let me know if you know this guy?” Takamatsu pulled out his cellphone and found the photo of the broken-legged thief who snatched the bag from Jamie and Hiroshi in front of the archives.

  Takamatsu took a step forward, but the bodyguard held up his hand and took the cellphone from Takamatsu and walked over to Kim.

  After a quick glance at it, Kim shrugged. “There are so many Koreans in Japan.”

  “He was North Korean.”

  “There are so many North Koreans.”

  The bodyguard spoke to Kim in Korean. Kim said, “He looks like a guy who cut crabs for us last year.”

  “Any contact address?”

  Kim smiled. “We sell so many crabs.”

  “And have so many crab-cutters.” Takamatsu finished his sentence for him. “He’s still in your employ?”

  The bodyguard shook his head no and handed the cellphone back.

  “Actually, he’s now in jail, which is sometimes a risky place for people with a lot of information,” Takamatsu said.

  “Information must be handled correctly.” Kim nodded.

  “He’s connected to a ring that breaks into houses. I want to know who knows him.” Takamatsu used polite phrasing, with the same haughty glare as before.

  “The wealthy homes of Japanese turn a profit no doubt. Good, clean work.”

  “Except when people get killed.”

  Kim looked suddenly serious. He raised his eyes up to the camera positioned in the corner of the room, which Takamatsu had not noticed. With a gesture from Kim, two tall men, lanky and buffed in dark suits and shirts and ties, immediately came out from behind the smoked glass door.

  Takamatsu glanced at the entrance where he came in, gauging its distance and waiting to see where the men would position themselves.

  Kim came around the desk with a sweeping gesture. “Maybe we can talk again next time. There are several other swords I’m looking at in Tokyo that need delivery.”

  “I need to know about the burglaries. Not all of them. Just the ones where people got killed.”

  “The people involved need to take responsibility, is what you’re saying? Crime never pays and so on?” Kim folded his arms over his chest.

  “They got overzealous with the wrong person.”

  Kim walked behind his desk. “I prefer a calm approach in all business activities. This kind of thing just muddies the waters.” Kim thought quietly for a minute and then smiled at Takamatsu, shrugged and nodded at the tall men. “Give them the photo and the dates and places. I’ll have them look into it.”

  Chapter 26

  Outside the Korean restaurant, Hiroshi kept dialing Jamie. Where was she? Did her cellphone and Setsuko’s both need recharging? He called the coffee shop, but the shift had changed and the staff had no idea. Sakaguchi insisted—over all his protests—that Hiroshi back up Takamatsu in Shin-Okubo, so he had come. Hiroshi wanted to go look for the two women. Ueno wouldn’t answer his cell either.

  Hiroshi’s fingers felt stiff from the cold and he needed a new winter coat. The last one he bought was years ago, and since he’d been inside all winter, he didn’t even know where his sweaters were—probably in a storage box somewhere. He kept moving around the small lane while Takamatsu took his time inside. Sakaguchi fingered through a bin of video games, looking up from time to time at the diners stumbling out red-faced, slowed and sated from eating and drinking. Until Jamie answered, all Hiroshi could do was wait.

  He dialed Jim Washington at Interpol in hopes he found something. Washington didn’t want to talk by phone, so they set up a time and place to talk.

  “I’ve got to go,” Hiroshi said to Sakaguchi, his breath clouding in the winter air.

  “This is about you or the girl or what?” Sakaguchi glanced impatiently at the Korean restaurant.

  “I still can’t get a hold of her…”

  Sakaguchi took out his cellphone, but Ueno came walking up, surprising them both. He shook his head no.

  Hiroshi started to say something to Ueno, but Sakaguchi waved his hand to quiet him, speaking to Ueno. “Take Hiroshi wherever he needs to go and stay on the phone in case we need you back here. And don’t let Hiroshi disappear all night again.”

  “Now you’re tracking me?” Hiroshi walked away from Sakaguchi and the Korean restaurant to where Ueno parked the car at end of the tangle of alleyways and small lanes in Okubo. Ueno followed with a sigh.

  In the car, Hiroshi called Jamie again as they drove across Tokyo. Ueno pulled up and stopped where Hiroshi told him, in Ginza in front of a broad, open plaza that bisected a department store, closed but still lighted from outside. The last trains had left, leaving people to hunt for a taxi or hotel or all-night coffee shop.

  “I’ll pull around the block and wait on the other side where I can watch you,” Ueno said.

  “Don’t worry. This guy works for Interpol.”

  “It’s better if I stay close,” Ueno said. “In case we need to go.”

  “You don’t answer me all day, why stay in touch now?”

  Ueno looked away.

  “He’s got it backwards. He lets Jamie wander free and keeps an eye on me?” Hiroshi slammed the door shut, walking off and leaving Ueno shaking his head.

  Jim Washington, the one pushing him to take the position opening at Interpol, waited by a huge movie poster for the latest high school baseball drama. Washington was tall and fit, with a patient stance and calm eyes. His small beer belly and big grey mustache rode easily on his lanky basketball player frame. Washington said, “Let’s walk. It’ll warm us up.”

  Hiroshi fell in step with Jim as they headed towards the smart boutiques, pricey clubs and trendy restaurants of Ginza, most closed for the night.

  “Thanks for getting back to me,” Hiroshi said.

  “I don’t sleep much anyway. Calls from headquarters in Lyon all night,” Washington said, picking up the pace.

  “That’s why you get so much done.”

  “Wish that were true. I nap when I can.”

  “I’ve come to prefer napping.”

  “Dangerous when you get to that point.” Washington laughed, keeping the quick pace through Ginza’s latticework streets. He stopped in front of a wine bar, its front window lined with bottles top to bottom.

  “Are you a wine drinker?” Hiroshi asked.

  “I’ve come to love sake after being posted here,” Washington said. “Such nuance and complexity. Without something, I wouldn’t sleep at all.”

  “I know a good sake place near here. It’s closed now, but let me take you there sometime.”

  “Maybe after your interview next week. You all set for that? The Asian bureau chief will be here. He’s interested.” Washington looked at Hiroshi.

  “I’m ready,” Hiroshi said.

  “Interpol is a different kind of workplace.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for.”

  Hiroshi had come to trust Washington most among all the people he interfaced with, after collaborating on several cases, and because they were both up all night for overseas calls and because he had to trust someone. The two men turned onto a small cross street with new trees, still wrapped in cloth, dropped into the earth along a new stretch of sidewalk, their branches bare and sparse like fingers reaching up to the sky.

  Washington looked over at Hiroshi. “Did you inform your boss, or HR, at the station? I don’t know all the complexities of the Japanese workplace, but—”

  “Not yet.” Hiroshi quickened his pace a little.r />
  Washington stopped for a step. “I hesitated to make the move, too. You’re a shoo-in for this spot.”

  “I’m falling a bit behind with our reports. I got dragged into another case that keeps escalating.”

  “At Interpol, we like to get cases completed before they escalate. Otherwise, you start thinking it’s all connected, which it is, so you never finish anything.”

  Hiroshi sighed, knowing that was true.

  Washington turned at the next block, looked back and asked, “That’s your colleague back there, isn’t it?”

  Hiroshi turned his head and saw Ueno in the car behind them.

  “If he gets a call, I’ll have to rush back.”

  “Well, onto business then,” Washington said. “The guy you were asking about, Trey Gladius, is presently in country, right?”

  “Very much so.”

  “There’s no info about him on our database.”

  Hiroshi stopped in place. “Maybe there’s a computer glitch?”

  “His name isn’t on any database that he can keep it off.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means he works for an agency that doesn’t like its people noticed.”

  “Because?”

  Washington took a breath, and then looked at Hiroshi without slowing down. “Tell me why you want to know and maybe I can tell you more.”

  “What do you know about Bernard Mattson?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Japan specialist. Influential. Respected. Killed in a robbery at his home.”

  “Only it wasn’t a robbery. The thieves wanted something he had.”

  “Something more than money or valuables.” Washington hummed. “Any idea what?”

  “A few.”

  They walked to the end of the block, crossed an empty main street and turned down a side street with only a few people, walking alone.

  “What I’m wondering is why would Gladius show up at Mattson’s place not long after his murder?” Hiroshi asked.

  “How do you know Gladius isn’t working parallel to you?” Washington asked. “Happens all the time.”

  “From the American side?”