“He’ll be charged with murder and attempted murder.”
“This office is part of the extraterritoriality agreement,” Jamison said. “It’s American territory. Even if Trey were formally charged as a suspect, we would still need to question him first. That’s how it’s been for sixty years.”
Sakaguchi stood back, pulled out his cellphone and dialed the chief.
“He’s a military employee? What’s his status?” Hiroshi demanded.
Jamison turned to Trey, exasperated, “What is it this time around, Gladius?”
“I work for IARPA under the ODNI,” Trey said.
“A string of letters?” Hiroshi asked.
“IARPA is Intelligence Advanced Research Projects Activity. And ODNI is the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Senior Specialist in the East Asian division,” Trey explained.
“As an operative, you killed those men on orders, or you did it on your own?” Hiroshi demanded.
Jamison sighed and shook his head. “The agreements clearly state, any American service member accused of a crime must be handed over to United States jurisdiction, and shall remain in that jurisdiction, until charged. Gladius goes with me. He’s translating in Korea at nineteen hundred hours.”
Jamison looked directly at Hiroshi, who hadn’t budged, and continued, “Article nine, section two says: Members of the United States Armed Forces shall be exempt from Japanese passport and visa laws and regulations.”
The two Japanese officers in dull blue suits who’d come in earlier with Takamatsu and Ueno, nodded at the swords and went to inspect them. Trey jumped towards his luggage. “Whoa, hold up there. Those are my bags.”
“Customs office,” the two men said simply as they started inventorying what Trey had planned to carry out of the country. One of the officers pulled out a confiscation order from his breast pocket and tossed it at Trey. Hiroshi was glad to see the customs officers, knowing they had received an anonymous tip about national treasures being smuggled out of the country.
Trey tried to block the officers, but Jamison yelled at him. “Gladius, back off! Your swords are the least of it. Our Air Mobility Command Flight leaves in three quarters of an hour and it takes that much time to get to the gate.”
The two customs inspectors wrapped up the swords. Hiroshi nodded at Trey’s leather jacket. The officers pulled out the short sword tucked in its lining and placed it next to the others.
Jamison turned towards the door. “We have a flight. North Korea’s starting something. We need to be in Seoul ASAP.”
Sakaguchi put away his cellphone and shook his head no at Hiroshi. “The chief says if he’s military, we can’t hold him unless you have evidence in hand.”
Trey stuffed his clothes, and what he could of the scuba gear, into the bag, and slung it over his shoulder. With the heavy bag weighing him down, Trey never saw the roundhouse punch coming. Hiroshi socked Trey so hard his head rebounded off the wall and his knees buckled. He slouched down on one knee, clutching his head, stunned.
Hiroshi pulled back for a second punch, but Takamatsu and Sakaguchi were there in an instant, holding Hiroshi back by both arms.
“You done now?” Jamison asked. “Gladius, you are more trouble than you’re worth.”
Trey stood up and spit a bloody wad of thick saliva into what was left of the potted plant and followed Jamison and the other officer out the door.
Hiroshi watched them go.
Takamatsu lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, patting Hiroshi on the back. “You know, maybe you can teach street smarts.”
Chapter 44
Hiroshi met Suzuki in front of the shinkansen ticket counter inside Tokyo Station. They both tucked the heavy black bags they carried behind them and bowed to each other in the middle of the congested passageway, commuters politely sidestepping the most fundamental Japanese ritual. Amid the gleaming tiles and chrome pillars of the station, the pressed suits and bright overcoats, Suzuki’s hakama and sandals looked straight out of old Edo.
“I couldn’t be in two places,” Suzuki said. “So, it was better to leave her on the train. I called the transit police as soon as I could.”
Hiroshi set his bag down with an understanding nod. “The police called from Fukuoka.”
Suzuki handed the hardshell backpack to Hiroshi. “That little computer thing is in there, too. No swords, though.”
“My miscalculation.” Hiroshi swung the black duffel bag of swords confiscated from Trey onto the floor in front of them.
Suzuki lifted the bag, gauging its weight. “Six swords.”
“Five. We took the tanto as evidence.”
Suzuki pulled the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’ll buff these up. Then we can decide where to send them.”
“You were right about not being Japanese until you use a sword,” Hiroshi said.
“Did you use one?”
Hiroshi looked away. He pictured himself using the sword on Trey’s neck, the body crumpling on the ground, split open with the vital life pumping out until the corpse was dry and cold and unmoving.
Suzuki smoothed his ponytail. “Miyamoto Musashi said the ultimate aim of martial arts should be not using them. Mastery over the self is harder than mastery over the sword.”
Hiroshi thought that over, knowing it was true.
“How did you know the girl would go to the Diet office?” Suzuki asked.
“Lucky guess. All my other guesses were wrong.”
“One is all you need sometimes.”
Hiroshi waited for a smile or some change on Suzuki’s face, but none came. Suzuki said, “Stop by the shop after I refurbish these. We can try them out.”
“I will,” Hiroshi assured him, and promised himself he would this time.
Suzuki settled the duffel bag over his shoulder, turned neatly and walked off into the stream of commuters. They swept around him, parting and rejoining until Hiroshi could no longer see his black hakama and grey ponytail in the endless human flow of the station.
At the shinkansen gate, Hiroshi showed his badge to the conductor. On the platform, he watched the long white train glide into the station as if floating on air. It was one of the new models, with a scoop-nosed design that was even sleeker and leaner. He walked along the platform looking at the numbers of the cars. The cleaners rushed onto the train wiping and straightening the interior in a flurry of sprays, rags and mini vacuum cleaners, readying it for its return journey.
And then, at the far end of the platform, her hair tangled, eyes swollen, arm in a splint, she was there. She moved so stiffly, like a ghost in an old woodblock print, that he wasn’t sure for a moment if she really was there. But she was. Limping and unsteady, but there. Hiroshi had to make an effort not to look away. She set down the bag the police had lent her and stretched her neck.
Hiroshi walked towards Jamie. She had not seen him yet. When she saw him at last, she moved towards him and embraced him. With hesitant motions, he wrapped his arms around her. Her body felt frail and light, and she shook slightly. He held her for a moment, wondering why no police officer had escorted her. Jamie gathered herself and pulled her head back to look in his eyes, stalled for words. Her face, covered in bruises, looked like a purple-green-yellow version of herself. In one eye, the white had hemorrhaged to a dark red.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” Hiroshi held her shoulders and looked in her eyes, unbalanced by the blood in one, and tried to understand what was going on inside her. Was she as beat up inside as she was outside? Hiroshi hugged her again.
Jamie looked away. “I wanted to get to New York, but I didn’t even get to Osaka.”
“Why didn’t you let me know? What were you going to do?”
Jamie looked up at him, her eyes searching for a way to explain.
“You just left?” Hiroshi sounded angrier than he meant to.
Jamie shook her head no. “I didn’t just leave.”
“Was it Trey?”
“It was the USB. With the ma
nuscript. His speech. I lost it all.”
Hiroshi slung around the backpack Suzuki had just handed him and held it out towards her.
Jamie looked up at him, and whimpered with relief, pain and gratitude, leaning forward hands outstretched for the backpack. Hiroshi set it down on the platform in front of her. She zipped open the top and ruffled through it. She pulled out the scroll from her father, clutched it to her chest and rocked back and forth.
Hiroshi looked at the scroll. “What is that?”
“It’s my father.”
Around them the platform was quickly filling up with passengers for the next train lining up inside the boarding marks painted on the platform.
Hiroshi took her arm, delicately, his own body hurting as much as hers. He slipped the backpack over his shoulder and started slowly walking her towards the brick exit of the old station. Halfway there, she stopped.
“It’s in the pack,” Hiroshi said, gently pressing her to keep moving towards the exit. “I sent someone to change the locks and install a security system at your father’s house. Before I take you there, we need to make one stop.”
They got in a taxi and rode in silence, each looking out the windows on their side. Hiroshi had the odd feeling they were stuck in one place and the city was rushing by. He was too exhausted to tell what was moving and what not. Tokyo looked different, felt different, but whipped by outside as if it would never change.
When the cab pulled up in the circular drive, Jamie looked confused. “I don’t need to go to the hospital. I need to go home.”
“Just come inside,” Hiroshi said, helping her out.
Hiroshi led Jamie along the antiseptic hallways until they got to the room. He stopped at the door and steered Jamie inside.
In the bed, Shibata opened his eyes and, seeing Jamie, smiled. “You okay!” His round head, swathed in bandages, bobbed with relief. One of his arms was in a cast and the other had an IV held by white strips of tape. Tugging against the tape, he held both arms out as wide as he could.
Jamie hobbled over to give him a careful hug. “I went by the club. I thought—”
“Little misunderstand,” Shibata said, fiddling with the bed adjustment button. “Your father got in big fight one night after war. I try help. My arm got broke. Your father sneak me in army hospital. Save me. Second time broke arm. You not hurt?”
Tears started as she spoke. “They hurt you looking for me, right? I should have—”
“Always bad people. That is life.”
Jamie held Shibata’s hand and turned to Hiroshi. “I don’t know why I tried to do it alone. I wanted to do something, for once, by myself.”
Jamie turned back to Shibata and leaned over him, her tears falling.
“You getting my bandage wet,” Shibata laughed.
“Where’s Ken?” Jamie asked, wiping her nose with her hand.
Shibata looked away.
“Where is he?” Jamie said, stricken.
“He lose two fingers. Sword.” Shibata wiggled his fingers in the air.
“In the fight? Because of me?” Jamie asked.
“His family rich, take him to hospital, Sendai, hometown.” Shibata patted Jamie’s arm with his one good hand, consoling her over his loss.
Jamie looked at him, still crying, and then slipped to the floor. Hiroshi dropped the backpack and caught her before her head hit anything. Barely able to bend over himself, he struggled to pull her up, but maneuvered her into the bedside chair. Her body went slack, tears coursing down her face. He started to call a nurse when one entered from the hall. Jamie could no longer answer. “Keep talking to her,” the nurse said and went to get a doctor.
“Just relax. You better get checked out. And you need to sleep. You’re safe now. Your father’s stuff is here,” Hiroshi murmured to her, softly, soothingly.
The nurse returned with a doctor and another nurse and a wheelchair. They slid Jamie into the wheelchair and wheeled her to a room at the end of the corridor. Hiroshi followed, standing aside as they checked her vitals and scrutinized the bruises on her head. The nurse gave Hiroshi forms to fill out, but he did not know many of her personal details. The doctor said Jamie needed an MRI and Hiroshi nodded okay.
The two nurses put an IV in her and pulled the curtain to get her out of her clothes and into a gown. When they wheeled her out, Hiroshi took her hand.
She rubbed Hiroshi’s hand with her thumb, slurring her words. “You know Setsuko kept Mattson as her name? Never changed it back…even though my mother did…she wouldn’t stay…but I am. Call Setsuko?” Her monologue sputtered out and her eyes shut, her head sinking into the pillow. She looked even more beautiful than the last time he watched her sleep. He tucked her hand under the sheets, kissed the less bruised side of her forehead and watched her wheeled off for the MRI.
In the hallway, he called Osaki and Sugamo to send additional police to guard the hospital rooms. Then he returned to Shibata’s room where he set the backpack against Shibata’s bedside table.
“Take a look.” Shibata’s voice was a dry croak.
Hiroshi pulled out the scroll.
Shibata said, “You should read that.”
“It’s private.”
“Don’t leave it here. Keep it at the station.”
Hiroshi pulled out a bundle of cash and a wood box. When he opened it, the broken pieces of the tea bowl rattled around like splotches of color from three separate bowls, matte yellow, pale orange, reddish pink.
“You can get that fixed. Keep the money safe. Take the USB to the Endos to publish. You’re the only one who can walk.” Shibata patted Hiroshi’s arm and reached for his morphine drip.
“I never imagined the past could be so dangerous,” Hiroshi said, putting everything back in the backpack.
“Nothing more dangerous,” said Shibata, pressing the morphine drip again.
Chapter 45
When Akiko got to the office the next morning, Hiroshi was asleep on the futon chair with Jamie’s scroll unspooled across his chest, one side rolled open all the way to the wall. Sighing in exasperation, Akiko started rolling up the scroll and Hiroshi spluttered awake.
“You were reading all night?” she asked.
“I dozed off at some point.” He sat up wincing and groaning, his body stiffer and sorer than he ever remembered it being. He wondered if he’d ever be in so much physical pain working at Interpol.
“Did you find Jamie?”
“Hospital. With Shibata. MRI was fine. There’s a lot of money in the bag. USB is in there too. We have work to do,” Hiroshi said.
“I’m not sure those are all connected.” Akiko opened the wood box and cringed at the broken pieces of the bowl inside.
“Can that be fixed?” Can I? Hiroshi wondered.
“Kintsugi,” she said. “Traditional repair method. I’ll take care of it. What was on the scroll?” Akiko closed the box gently and set it on her desk.
“Politics, profit, corruption, contamination, a short history of Japan. Mattson knew everything.”
“So, what do we do about…everything?” Akiko stared at Hiroshi.
Hiroshi tugged at his sweaty, half-buttoned shirt. His bandages needing changing. He could feel them sticking. He started to stretch, but it hurt too much. “We start by getting copies of the manuscript to the Endo brothers,” Hiroshi said. “Make backup copies for us. It’s too late for the conference, but at least they’ll have it. The speech should be on the USB.”
Akiko wrote down what he said.
“Katsumura Transport. We need to raid their offices for their records.”
“Chief’s not going to like that,” Akiko held her pen poised over her notebook.
“The bureaucrats above him are going to like it even less. That’s why we have to make the proposal airtight.”
“I love going on those raids. Pushing aside company security, carrying out the files, the employees’ indignation.” Akiko chuckled.
“We can’t get onto the American bases, but
we can take the evidence right up to the gate. Past there, it’s politics, not police work.” He paused. “And then we get Trey Gladius on every watch list in the world.”
Akiko sat down at her desk and got to work.
Hiroshi took a towel, toothbrush and clean clothes down the hall to the shower room. He thought of how Mattson must have been horrified as the research for his autobiography led him to stumble on corruption on a vast scale. Or maybe he knew all along? Denying the noble defeat of his life’s work. Hard to be clear-eyed at the end. Hard to change course. That took courage.
In the shower, Hiroshi washed off the crusted blood and dried sweat, being careful to avoid scrubbing where it hurt, which was pretty much everywhere. As he redressed his scrapes and cuts with bandages and put on the first clean clothes for days, he thought about how to ensure Gladius was brought in. Street smarts were one thing, but office smarts were another.
Akiko was waiting for him in the office, ready. “I sent the files to the Endo brothers.”
“Call them later to be sure they got them. Did you print out the speech he was going to deliver?”
“The speech was nowhere I could find.”
“Check again. Next is Katsumura. We need to trace the last verifiable point of the trucks. For that, I need outside help.”
“You’re sounding like Takamatsu.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Hiroshi said, holding up his hand as he called Iino—the long-haired blogger from Okinawa who’d been Higa’s protégé.
Sounding pleased to talk, Iino said, “Thank you for putting me in touch with Chief Hirano in Yokosuka. His detectives helped us out, as did that journalist.”
“Do you have routes for the trucks?” Hiroshi asked.
“Trucks carried supplies to Fukushima, picked up debris, trash and soil from there, and then carried everything to a truck stop where the loads were attached to other rigs. After the switch, the newly loaded trucks headed south. Some went into bases nearby. Others went into bases farther south. Some all the way to Okinawa.” Iino’s voice was a youthful mix of outrage and overconfidence.
The Moving Blade Page 27