The Rising Sea

11

The note from Superintendent Nagano requested Kurt and Joe take an odd route to the police station. After riding two different trains, hailing a taxi and taking a short walk, they stood outside the prefecture building.

“Not exactly the Twelfth Precinct,” Joe said.

The structure was nothing like the typical American police station. The outer walls were painted in a rainbow of pastel colors, while an officer in full-dress uniform and white gloves stood at attention near the main entrance. He held a polished wooden staff firmly in his right hand and neither blinked nor seemed to breathe as people walked past.

“Ritsuban,” Kurt said. “Standing guard. Letting the public know that the eyes of the police are always watching.”

“That’s reassuring,” Joe said.

“Apparently, not to Master Kenzo.”

They entered the building and found themselves in a diamond-shaped room with two doors leading in and two leading back out to the street. Expecting a duty officer, Kurt and Joe found only screens and a computer voice talking in Japanese.

Kurt stepped up to one of the flat-screens. It reminded him of the arrivals and departures monitors in the airport except everything was in Japanese. “Can’t read a thing.”

Joe tapped a spot on the screen and was rewarded with the option to change languages. Two versions of English were listed. American and UK.

Joe tapped on the American flag icon.

“Welcome to the Yamana Police Station,” the computer voice said in English. “Please state your reason for arrival.”

“We have a two o’clock meeting with Superintendent Nagano,” Kurt said.

“Please state your name and nationality while looking at the camera.”

“Kurt Austin, American.”

“Joe Zavala, American.”

Silence followed.

“Hiram would love this,” Joe whispered. “He and Max could double-date out here.”

Hiram Yaeger was NUMA’s resident computer genius. He’d designed some of the most advanced computer systems the world had ever seen. Max was his finest creation. Built on the fastest processors and operated by special programming Hiram had created himself, Max was a unique machine with true artificial intelligence, an active mind and even a sense of humor.

A pleasant chime sounded and the door to the right of them opened. “Assistant Superintendent Nagano has confirmed your appointment. Please enter.”

Kurt and Joe walked up three steps and found themselves in a bustling room filled with men and women watching screens and tapping away at computer consoles. The design was open and modern. Stainless steel accents and pinpoint lighting had been used to great effect. Kurt saw no dirt or grime, no tattered mug books, grimy fingerprint stations or crowded holding cells. Nor did he see any criminals. Which wasn’t a surprise, since Japan’s crime rate was the lowest in the industrialized world. Partly because the nation was so wealthy, partly due to effective policing, but mostly because the collective Japanese sense of order remained a pervasive influence.

Aside from a few glances, the staff ignored them until a Japanese man wearing black slacks, a crisp white shirt and a thin gray tie came over to meet them.

Tall, a highly trained triathlete, the man had a wide face, with a distinct line around his mouth and a cleft in his chin. His hair was short, thick and black.

“I’m Superintendent Nagano,” the man said.

Kurt bowed slightly, but Nagano shook his hand instead. His grip was solid steel.

“It is an honor to meet both of you,” Nagano replied. “Please, follow me.”

He led them back to a small office that was modern to a fault. At his urging, Kurt and Joe sat down.

“This is easily the finest police station I’ve ever been in,” Joe said.

“No, no,” Nagano replied. “It requires much work to bring it up to standards. But we’re doing the best we can.”

Joe looked around, searching for a flaw. Kurt would explain later that the Japanese sense of humility required they not take a compliment unless they had achieved perfection.

That said, Joe wasn’t wrong. The building was a work of art, the interior a high-tech wonderland. Every surface was polished and gleaming; even the rack of weapons they’d passed as they neared Nagano’s office had been lit like a display case at an upscale gun show.

“Your foyer was interesting,” Kurt said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to have a receptionist or a duty officer?”

“Easier, perhaps,” Nagano said, “but a waste of manpower. As you probably know, Japan’s population is shrinking. By automating the arrival phase, we avoid wasting an officer’s time that can be better spent elsewhere.”

“What about the ritsuban?”

Nagano shrugged at the contradiction. “That falls under the category of crime prevention,” he said, “though many stations are looking to end the practice or replace the guard with an automated mannequin.”

“And the world will be all the poorer for it,” Kurt said.

“At least your automated receptionist spoke different languages,” Joe said, still trying to be complimentary.

“A necessity,” the superintendent replied. “As everyone knows, most of the crime in Japan is caused by foreigners.”

Kurt noticed the slightest hint of a smile on Nagano’s face. An inside joke, most likely.

Joe didn’t have an answer for that. “Anyway,” he said finally, “it’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Thank you,” Nagano replied. “Now I must ask you to leave immediately.”

“Excuse me?” Kurt replied.

“You must leave Japan on the first flight out,” Nagano insisted. “We will escort you and your friends to the airport.”

“Are you deporting us?” Kurt asked.

“It’s for your own safety,” Nagano said. “We’ve identified the men who attacked your group last night. They were once Yakuza hit men. Heavies and assassins.”

After hearing Joe’s description of the man who’d been mauled by the dragon, Kurt was not surprised. He knew the Yakuza favored wild tattoos. But he posed the obvious question. “Why would the Yakuza be interested in the research of an eccentric scientist?”

“Former Yakuza,” Nagano reiterated. “A breakaway group.”

“In other words,” Kurt said, “hired guns.”

Nagano nodded. “Once, in our past there were ronin. That is the name for a Samurai without a lord. They lived as nomads. As warriors for hire. These men are similar. They are killers without a master, working for whom they please. They were once bonded to particular Yakuza organizations, but years ago we managed to break up many of the criminal networks. The leaders were sent to prison or killed, but the lower-level members were only scattered and left to their own devices. Now they answer to no one but themselves. In many ways, they’re more dangerous now than before.”

“Any idea who they’re working for?”

Nagano shook his head. “No doubt, they were hired for a rather large fee; their number and the brazen method of attack suggest that much. But who paid them and why… we haven’t the slightest lead.”

Kurt knew it had something to do with the East China Sea and the disturbance that Kenzo had detected there, but without more information, guessing was pointless.

“The fact of the matter is,” Nagano continued, “you and your friends thwarted the attack. Retribution can be expected.”

“From whoever paid these ronin,” Joe said.

“Or from the hit men themselves,” Nagano said. “You’ve embarrassed them. Shamed them. They will want to save face.”

“So much for foreigners committing all the crimes in Japan,” Kurt said.

“Sadly, yes.”

Nagano pushed a file folder toward Joe. “You’re the only person who got a close look at any of them. It would help us if you could look at these pictures.”

Joe took the file folder and opened it up. Instead of mug shots or surveillance photos, he saw colorful designs drawn on the outline of a man’s back and shoulders.

“Yakuza are known for extensively inking their skin,” Nagano said. “Certain groups use specific designs like a brand. Do you recognize any of these?”

Kurt looked over Joe’s shoulder at the designs. Each tattoo was intricate and different. Some had wings and dragons, others fire and skulls. One was kaleidoscopes of color and bladed weapons.

“Not this one,” Joe said, discarding the first sheet of paper. “Or these.”

He leafed through several additional pages and then stopped. “This is the pattern,” he said. “A perfect match for the guy who escaped the dragon pit. Minus a good chunk of skin now.”

Nagano took the paper. “As I thought,” he said. “Ushi-Oni: the Demon.”

“The Demon?” Joe asked.

“His real name is unknown,” Nagano said. “In our mythology, the word oni means demon. An Ushi-Oni is a particular monster with the head of a bull and fearsome horns. When he first began killing for hire, this man would draw a symbol representing that particular monster using the victim’s blood. Unlike most in the syndicates, he actually takes pleasure in killing. Pleasure and large sums of cash.”

“Fantastic,” Kurt said. “Now that you know who he is, you can go round him up and we won’t have to leave.”

Nagano put the drawing aside. “I wish it were that simple. These men are whispers on the wind. Impossible to track, let alone capture. We have been chasing Ushi-Oni for years.”

“Komodo dragons are poisonous,” Joe said. “Considering the bite this guy took, I’d say a hospital or the morgue would be his next stop.”

“The Komodo is poisonous,” Nagano agreed, “but we spoke to an expert this morning. We’ve been told the lizard does not inject its venom with every bite. A slashing attack as you saw would not likely be fatal.”

“What about the Komodo dragon’s reputation for bad oral hygiene?” Kurt said. “As I recall, they have countless strains of bacteria on their teeth.”

“Yes,” Nagano said, “and most likely Ushi-Oni is battling infection and fever. But given high doses of antibiotics, he would probably survive. Which means you and your friends remain in danger, as I explained to begin with.”

Kurt sat back. The issue had an obvious solution. One Nagano probably had in mind or he wouldn’t have asked them to come down to the station. “The danger would be eliminated if we helped you put him away.”

Nagano did not immediately reply.

“That’s why you had us take such an odd route to the station,” Kurt said. “To make sure we weren’t followed.”

The superintendent offered a slight bow. “You’re very astute. And, fortunately, you weren’t. At least not by anyone but my most trusted officers.”

“So let us help you,” Kurt said.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

It was obvious to Kurt. “As you pointed out, this was a big operation. Several boats. A least a dozen men and plenty of weapons, including incendiary grenades. A job like this would cost a small fortune. And despite the saying there’s no such thing as honor among thieves, criminals don’t trust criminals. Which means no one gets paid till the job is done. At least not the full price.”

Nagano’s face tightened in thought, the line around his mouth deepened. “You’re suggesting we look for a payoff.”

Kurt leaned back in his chair. “Something I’m sure you’ve already considered.”

“Of course we have,” Nagano said, his mind obviously running the scenario. “But how are you able to help?”

“Move Kenzo and the other survivors to a safe house. Announce to the media that he’s died from his injuries. You could mention that two or three of the Americans have also died and that the others are in critical condition. No need to give out names. The numbers will suffice.”

“And then?”

“I can’t say for certain,” Kurt insisted, “but if I was a former Yakuza hit man, nursing a Komodo dragon bite and pumping high-powered antibiotics into my arm every four hours, I’d demand the rest of my payment.”

Nagano finished the thought. “And with the balance of payments due, the Demon will have to come out of hiding to collect.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said.

“What if they pay by check,” Joe suggested, only half joking, “or electronically?”

“Too large a sum,” Nagano said. “They would never risk a government clearinghouse intercepting their money and tracing it. These types of things are done in person. It will happen somewhere very public to ensure that neither side commits an act of violence. That is the way.”

Kurt finished the idea. “If you can find out where that transfer will happen, we’d be glad to show up, point out the Demon and leave the rest to you.”

Nagano looked to Joe. He was the one who’d seen him up close.

“Absolutely,” Joe said. “It would be a pleasure.”

Nagano weighed the offer silently. Finally, he nodded. “Reputations for bravery precede you both. Your actions last night live up to them.”

“Not bravery,” Kurt said. “Just doing what anyone would, given the situation.”

“You deflect a compliment well,” Nagano replied. “How very Japanese. Nevertheless, despite your bravery, I struggle to find a reason you would deliberately put yourselves at risk this way. I hope it’s more than just bravado.”

“For starters, we don’t take kindly to being attacked,” Kurt began. “There’s also the possibility that our arrival triggered this. You want the Demon for your reasons. We want to know who paid him and why.”

“You mean your government wants to know.”

“That, too.”

Nagano was an old hand. He took the measure of people quickly. He understood Kurt and Joe. He felt they were cut from the same cloth as he. Tireless government servants who preferred to get things done rather than wait for the bureaucracy to grind to life.

The superintendent straightened some papers on his desk. “Agreed,” he said. “But I must inform you it won’t be all falsehoods. Unfortunately, Kenzo Fujihara died this morning without ever regaining consciousness. His lungs were burned beyond repair.”

Kurt set his jaw. He’d been expecting that.

“Damn,” Joe whispered.

Kurt looked from Joe to Nagano. “Can you put the rest of his people somewhere safe in case this Demon of yours decides he hasn’t finished the job?”

“I already have,” Nagano said. “There is one fly in the ointment, as you Americans like to say.”

“What’s that?”

“Kenzo’s man-at-arms. Or, more precisely, his woman-at-arms.”

“Akiko,” Joe said, perking up. “I was hoping we’d see her again. Is she here?”

“That’s just it,” Nagano explained. “She’s vanished. She was at Kenzo’s bedside when he passed away. She seemed particularly grief-stricken, but she left before we could get a statement. That seemed suspicious, so we took her fingerprints off of the weapon she carried. And, as it turns out, Akiko has a long criminal record, several outstanding warrants and links to the Yakuza in Tokyo.”

“And she seemed like such a nice girl,” Joe said. “Do you think she was involved?”

“We can’t rule it out,” Nagano said.

“I can rule it out,” Kurt said. “Not the way she fought for Kenzo. She took two bullets that would have killed her if she wasn’t wearing a vest.”

“I can only tell you what the record shows,” Nagano explained. “She’s something of a ghost herself. She grew up orphaned. A street urchin who learned to survive by breaking the rules. Unfortunately, that type of life often leads to the criminal underworld.”

“Or to a new life for the strong.”

“Perhaps,” Nagano said, then added sternly, “If she contacts you, I expect to be told.”

“She won’t contact us,” Kurt said. “She wouldn’t have disappeared if she were going to do that. But if I’m wrong and she does reach out, you’ll hear about it. You have my word.”

“Very well,” Nagano said. “I’ll put the word out to my informants. If fortune is with us, something will turn up and we’ll both get what we’re after.”