The Moving Blade

by Michael Pronko

  Kim clicked off his laptop and slowly walked around his desk, trailing his fingers along its edge until he was right beside his bodyguards and the headwaiter. He leaned quizzically to the side, ignoring the bigger detectives, and spoke to the one person he knew. “Detective Takamatsu, all this melodrama isn’t really needed, is it?”

  Takamatsu, behind the huge detectives, shrugged. “Apparently it is.”

  “No sword today?” Kim flipped his long hair back like a teenager and smiled boyishly.

  “No sword today.” Takamatsu fiddled in his pocket for his cigarettes but left them in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce your colleagues?” Kim asked, his voice echoing in the large concrete-walled room.

  “I assume you know who they are,” Takamatsu said.

  Kim smiled. “I do, more or less.”

  Sakaguchi stepped forward and the bodyguards coiled. Sakaguchi had calmed himself enough to speak. “Is he here?”

  “Is who here?” Kim asked back.

  “How did you get him out?” Sakaguchi demanded.

  “Get who out?” Kim’s voice dropped, impatient.

  “Who do you know on the inside?”

  “Inside?” Kim snorted, then chuckled. “Wish I did. Detective Takamatsu and I just met the other day. Other than that—”

  Sakaguchi took another step forward. The bodyguards reset their stance. Ueno, Sugamo, and Osaki tried to conceal their confusion. Hiroshi wondered what Sakaguchi was doing.

  Kim put his hands up. “Does it matter? He’s out of your way.”

  “Ah,” Takamatsu said, and chuckled. “You sprang the motorcycle thief? That was quick. You are good.”

  Hiroshi tried to figure how many hours—not even days—the thief had been inside. He could have been held for twenty-three days without bail, so to get out in under two was unheard of. Judging by their anger, neither Sakaguchi or Takamatsu had heard of it happening before, either.

  Sakaguchi, insistent, stood where he was. “Where is he?”

  “By now, I’d guess Shenyang, Liaoning, somewhere in north China. On his way to North Korea? Who knows?” Kim shrugged and smiled amiably.

  “How did you work it?” Sakaguchi demanded.

  “Here’s the big secret—lawyers.” Kim wiggled his head with mock surprise. “There are so few of them in Japan, they always make a big impression. Look, could we sit down? You’re Detective Sakaguchi, right?” He waved everyone towards a Korean-style tea table.

  Sakaguchi made no move to sit.

  “And you’re Detective Shimizu?” Kim looked around Osaki and Sugamo to make eye contact with Hiroshi.

  Hiroshi didn’t respond, still wondering how Kim managed to get the thief out. He imagined the guy would be there three full weeks, minimum, so they’d have plenty of time for another go at him. Hiroshi’s legs had not even stopped hurting from the chase and the thief was already out of the country.

  Kim did not seem perturbed at their refusing his offer to sit down. Instead, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling cabinet. He reached in his pocket for an electronic key. A green light flashed and the heavy floor-to-ceiling panels swung open as overhead spots clicked on.

  Inside the case were three dozen swords of various sizes. Behind the swords was a background of yellow silk on which a red-blue-green dragon with thick, scale-covered legs and sharp, spread claws stared menacingly. On tiptoe, Kim reached to take down a sword with an ornate handle.

  In a single, nimble motion, Kim slid off the scabbard and sighted down the bare blade. “Here’s the one you brought me the other day. Only two hundred years old, but the detail is fantastic. Strong kissaki point. Elegant sori curvature. Exceptional hamon. The best qualities of humanity—inner resilience and outer strength—also make the best swords.”

  Kim swung the sword in a sweeping arc which lingered silvery-white in midair before an abrupt standstill straight out from his chest. “It’s seen battle. That’s why it’s so alive.”

  Kim set out a felt cloth and rested the sword on the desk in front of him, the handle close by his right hand. “As you said last time, Detective Takamatsu, information is more valuable than anything. I couldn’t agree more. To get information, though, you need other information.”

  Sakaguchi stepped towards Kim. The bodyguards tensed. Sugamo and Osaki reached forward to hold Sakaguchi back.

  Kim paused, deciding something, it seemed. “I do have something for you.” Kim bent behind his desk and pulled a large shopping bag onto the desktop. “We Koreans love giving gifts, just like you Japanese.”

  Hiroshi walked towards the bag and Kim nodded to his bodyguards to let him through. Hiroshi dug into the bag, pulled out a notebook, flipped through the pages. They were Mattson’s. Hiroshi was as relieved as he was curious. Hiroshi turned to Sakaguchi and Takamatsu. “This is what they took from me outside the archives. It’s not all of it, but most of it.”

  Kim pulled a fake sad look on his face. “No gift is ever perfect.”

  “Where did you get this?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Someone left that on my doorstep,” Kim said. “I have to work with a lot of people. I can’t always be choosy.”

  Hiroshi spoke slowly. “If you’re involved—”

  “I’m not,” Kim quickly cut in. “But after Takamatsu showed me those photos, it reminded me that I had been pushed out of a very appealing business deal.”

  “Legal or illegal?”

  “Taxed or untaxed, you mean?”

  “You said ‘business deal’?” Hiroshi asked.

  Kim nodded. “Before I diversified into this restaurant and club, I ran a small waste management business. We had good contracts and a nice profit for years. But after the Tohoku earthquake, things changed. So much to dispose of and nowhere to put it. Emergency work, emergency budgets.”

  “A windfall for you.”

  “So I thought. Unfortunately, American companies tried to snatch up all the contracts. That pushed the Japanese government, always so nationalistic, to award the contracts to Japanese companies. A poor Korean like myself couldn’t compete.” His hand drifted to the handle of the sword.

  “That’s business, isn’t it?” Hiroshi said.

  “I didn’t even try for storage contracts, where the real money is. It would have been a lifetime of work transporting debris and storing it. Whoever got those contracts would make a fortune.”

  “But how does that—?” Hiroshi stopped mid-sentence. His mind raced back to the file folders in the archives. He could not figure out why Mattson had so many files from so many different areas—safety, transportation, warehousing, environmental law. He thought Mattson was researching his own history with SOFA. But maybe Mattson was looking into a lot more.

  “No one wants radioactive water, soil and debris nearby, but it has to be in someone’s backyard. And for a very long time.” Kim paused, thinking. “So, when I heard the stolen papers were Mattson’s, I remembered he was the one who set up most of the deals.”

  Hiroshi wasn’t sure if he believed Kim, but he’d check into it as soon as they got out of there. If what he said was true, he’d missed where they should have been investigating from the start. Moving fast in a half wrong direction is much worse than moving slow in the right one, Professor Eto had often told students.

  Kim smiled at the detectives. “I decided early retirement from the hazardous waste business would be wise. There’s always a time to sheathe the sword.” His hand moved to the sword on the desk in front of him. “Perhaps I’m destined to be a subcontractor all my life.”

  Hiroshi’s mind raced to remember what else was in Mattson’s files. He’d have to go back. Pamela at the American Embassy said she worked with American companies bidding for contracts. He’d have to call her.

  Kim spread his arms wide, the swords and the dragon gleaming behind him. “I do have one more thing that might interest you.”

  He gave a nod and the gourd-headed bodyguard carried an old, flip-top cellphone over to the three
detectives. He clicked through several pages and held it out towards them.

  Hiroshi leaned down to look at the small screen. On it was a photo of Trey Gladius, with phone number and contact email.

  “Why do you have this?” Hiroshi passed the cellphone to Sakaguchi.

  “Whenever we do business, we find out about our competitors. He spoke good Korean, they told me. I’m always impressed by people who speak several languages, aren’t you? Especially Americans.”

  Hiroshi frowned, thinking. “So, Trey Gladius contacts your North Koreans when he needs something special done?”

  Kim smiled. “You got it backwards, detective. They contact him when they need something special done.”

  Chapter 31

  Outside the Korean restaurant, Hiroshi fumbled through the name cards in his wallet and found Pamela Carica from the American Embassy. He called her, his hands reddening in the cold night air as he followed the other detectives down the small lane towards the cars. Pamela picked up, though it was after midnight.

  “This is detective Hiroshi Shimizu. I met you at the home of Bernard Mattson.”

  “Yes, I remember. How is Jamie doing?” Pamela’s voice was husky and deep, unlike most Japanese women’s, but there was an insistent impatience to it that was purely American.

  Hiroshi cleared his throat. “She’s fine. Recovering. Listen, would you be able to meet me to answer a few questions?”

  “Right now? I’m still at the embassy. No one is allowed in at this time of night except for employees,” Pamela said.

  “Working so late must be the Japanese influence?”

  “With the conference coming up, we’ve been working overtime.”

  “You said you often met Bernard Mattson?”

  “He was here a lot after the earthquake, but I never talked with him.”

  “He was helping businesspeople?”

  “That’s all we do at the embassy, assist American businesses, military contractors. I’m supposed to be the NGO liaison. I was stuck with the American Chamber of Commerce the entire year after the earthquake.”

  “Did American companies get many contracts after the earthquake and meltdown?”

  “American companies have a lot of expertise in nuclear waste.”

  “Japanese companies didn’t outbid them, or block them out?”

  “The American Chamber of Commerce handles the final stages. We just help smooth the introductions.”

  “Are there records of those introductions?”

  “Not really.”

  “Hazardous waste was not exactly Mattson’s specialty.” Hiroshi stopped in the middle of the small lane, the other detectives waiting for him by the cars. He held his hand up for them to wait.

  “He was the only consultant who knew about the bases.”

  “Some of the contractors are military?”

  “Or both military and civilian.”

  “Do you know the names of the companies?”

  Pamela hesitated.

  “Can you send me a list?”

  “I’d have to check on that.”

  “It’d help Jamie and help us find who killed her father.”

  “I’m not sure the list can be shared.”

  “I can get it through the Japanese ministries, but you’d speed things up for me considerably if you could share it.”

  Pamela paused. “I’ll check.”

  Hiroshi wondered if he really could get the list through the ministries but knew it would take forever even if he could. He waited for Pamela to say something more. Maybe he was shutting her up. Another tack might be better. “Do you know who Trey Gladius worked for?”

  “I never saw him before the clean-up contracts. And never saw him after. Until a few days ago.”

  “He said he knew Mattson from way back.”

  “I never saw them talk,” Pamela said, speaking slowly. “We have people like Gladius foisted on us all the time. Wish they were all like Mattson.”

  “So do I,” Hiroshi said. “If you could send me that list, it would be very helpful.”

  At the end of the lane, Sakaguchi told Hiroshi Trey’s photo would be in every police box in Tokyo, Kanagawa, Saitama and Chiba by eight a.m. Hiroshi got in the car with Ueno and asked to be dropped off at his office. He called Akiko.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” she complained.

  “I really need your help in the office. I’ll make it up—”

  Akiko growled and hung up without saying no.

  Hiroshi got out at his office and sent the other detectives home. He needed time alone, and then Akiko’s help, to figure out the connections between Mattson’s research and the companies. The middle of the night was always the most productive time. The daytime background buzz quieted, allowing him to think more clearly, more connectedly.

  Hiroshi was on his second espresso when Akiko arrived. She hung up her coat on the rack and in a crabby voice, asked “What’s so important to drag me in—”

  “I know this is early.”

  “It’s not even early. It’s late,” Akiko huffed.

  Hiroshi waved his hands at the files on his desk and computer screen. “I can’t find the files from the bankruptcy last year, the waste management company, you remember?” He got up to make her an espresso.

  “Those files are in the main building.” Akiko flopped into her chair and yawned.

  “Could you go get those?” The espresso started trickling out, filling the room with the wake-up tang of fresh coffee.

  “Now or after my coffee?”

  Hiroshi handed her the cup with two hands.

  Akiko took gulps of espresso, growled and hurried to the main building. Before she returned, Hiroshi’s inbox pinged with the email list of the companies from Pamela. He felt sure she wouldn’t help, but she also maybe didn’t care for Trey, or the jobs she had been assigned. Hiroshi recognized a few of the names but started looking up the ones he didn’t. It would take time to find them all, even longer to know whether they were connected or not.

  When Akiko returned, she dropped the file on Hiroshi’s desk and went to make another espresso, letting the coffee bean grinder resound a little longer than necessary.

  They worked in silence for hours in the early morning calm of the annex building, trying to see which companies finagled contracts, which cooperated with Japanese companies, which subcontracted, and which gave up.

  Akiko hummed. “Many of the Japanese ones seem to be cement companies. They use the debris as fuel.” She got up to stretch. “I don’t get it, cement?”

  “I wonder if they mix radioactive debris into the cement?”

  “I hope not. Listen, I need a break. You should take one too.”

  “The archives will be a break. Most of these American companies work through the military bases. None of that makes sense, though. The archive doesn’t open until 9:15, so we’ve got a few more hours.”

  “You’re not going to sleep?”

  “I want to get this done, get to the archives and then—”

  “Go find Jamie.”

  Hiroshi looked at Akiko, grateful she always understood, never judged, and only complained about things so small they both knew they didn’t matter. He’d have to tell her how much she helped, how much he relied on her and trusted her, show her in some way. “Can you get the scanned documents onto one file? To take with us. And leave a backup here.”

  “Already done. Get an hour or two of sleep. Helps bring things together.”

  Hiroshi rubbed his eyes and pushed his hair back, knowing she was right. He pulled the foldout futon chair to the side of the office and flopped down. Akiko made a face when she sniffed the lap blanket he kept on the sideboard—it needed a good cleaning—but she threw it over him anyway. Hiroshi snorted and breathed in and out, his body quickly finding sleep.

  ***

  At 9:15 sharp, Ayana met them at the front door of the archives. She walked them upstairs, twisting and rolling the key chain coiled around her wrist like a set
of prayer beads.

  Akiko whispered to Hiroshi, “I see why you wanted to come back!”

  Hiroshi ignored her comment. Stealing glances at Ayana, he was not sure of all the reasons he was there, but he’d wanted to call Ayana to talk, even in the middle of everything else. There’d just been no time.

  Ayana said, “Yesterday, one of the librarians found a memory stick, USB, whatever you call it, in an archive box. Mattson must have forgotten it when he sent the box back to be reshelved.” Ayana walked them towards the elevator to the floor for Mattson’s room. “We also found what you asked for last time—the record of all his requested materials.”

  “It must have been a lot of trouble. He’d been researching for years.” Hiroshi looked at her as they waited for the elevator. She looked refreshed and cheery, younger than she really was. He knew he must look older. He felt older.

  “Actually, it couldn’t have been easier. Mattson kept a list in one of his notebooks. He wrote it by hand.”

  “Why didn’t we see that before?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Because he forgot it in the same archive box with the lost USB,” Ayana laughed. “He didn’t seem absent-minded to me, but I guess everyone—”

  “He left it there on purpose, for safekeeping,” Hiroshi explained, walking out of the elevator. The two women paused before following him.

  “He was here almost every day for the past two years, and was always careful with everything,” Ayana said.

  “Was there any request that seemed out of the ordinary?”

  Ayana cocked her head and plucked at the springy key chain. “He said he was writing an article about the tsunami and earthquake in Fukushima. He requested things so recent the other archivist had to check document after document to approve them for release.”

  Akiko groaned. “Fukushima! Three core meltdowns and still not under control. People lost homes, family members. Entire communities gone. What a mess.”