The Rising Sea Page 12

  While it was technically a hotel, lodging was offered only on the upper level. Farther down, one could find the darker parts of the operation: gambling, prostitution and drugs. At the bottom lay the combat arena that acted as the main attraction, visible through glass walls from everywhere else in the building.

  The Bentley slowed as they approached the entry door. A valet walked up to them, but Nagano waved him off and parked just beyond the entry.

  “Wish us good luck,” Kurt said.

  “You have the coins for that,” Nagano replied, as he opened the door.

  Kurt stepped from the car, buttoned his jacket and waited for Joe. As Nagano got back in the car and drove off, they walked up the steps and into a lobby as elegant as that in any five-star hotel.

  Marble floors, crystal chandeliers and modern furniture were arranged in the open space that curved around in both directions. A pianist, with a violinist accompanying him, played quietly in one section of the lobby, while tall women in daring dresses moved here and there carrying silver trays covered with champagne flutes.

  “Nice place,” Kurt said. “Can’t believe you’re my date this evening.”

  Joe adjusted his cuffs. “How do you think I feel?”

  They were ushered through security, where their phones were confiscated and placed in small lockers. Each of them was given a key.

  A body scan came next, using a wand similar to those at the airport. It beeped repeatedly at Kurt’s side. He pulled out the transmitters, holding them out for the security guard to see.

  The man grinned. The five-yen coin, with its distinctive yellowish tint and small hole in the center, was considered good luck all across Japan. The guard had seen these coins before; many gamblers carried them.

  “For luck,” Kurt said, offering one to the guard. The man refused and the coins went back into Kurt’s pocket.

  Finished with the security check, Kurt made a straight line to the nearest hostess. He took a champagne glass from the tray, smiled at the woman and glanced around.

  Joe met him a moment later. “Pretty good crowd.”

  “I heard the Colosseum used to pack them in, too.”

  “Split up?”

  Kurt nodded. “I’ll go this way,” he said, pointing. “Let’s make a few laps and check out the levels. Look for exits in case we need them. If we don’t bump into each other in an hour, let’s meet back here by the piano. Feel free to blow through some of that money. The faster we go into debt, the quicker we’ll get front-row seats to the fight.”

  Joe scanned the crowd. “I think I’ll mingle as I toss the cash around. These look like the type of women who appreciate a large expense account.”

  Kurt tipped his glass to Joe and let him wander. After a final scan of the lobby, he turned in the other direction. Kurt moved slowly, without any sign of haste, one hand holding the champagne flute, the other in his pocket, fingers on the lucky coins.

  * * *

  • • •

  JOE WANDERED the ring-shaped building, studying the faces that passed while he pretended to look at the art on the walls. Though he’d given Kurt the best description he could, Joe was the only one who’d seen Ushi-Oni up close and that meant Joe was far more likely to spot the man they were looking for than Kurt.

  He made a circuit of the upper level, moved to the inner wall and gazed through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Down below, at least four stories beneath him, lay the combat arena. Circular instead of square, it was partially obscured by a bank of floodlights suspended from a metal rigging secured to the walls by guide wires and a catwalk.

  The lights were off at the moment and the arena was empty—as were the seats around it. For the time being, he’d have to look elsewhere for Ushi-Oni.

  * * *

  • • •

  KURT WAS on his second glass of champagne by the time he reached the casino level. He’d yet to spot anything resembling a feverish hit man nor had he spent a single yen of the money given to him by the Japanese Federal Police. It was time to change that.

  He passed several high-stakes blackjack tables, looked in on a craps game, where the players were stacked three deep, and then wandered through an aisle packed with old-fashioned machines that were clanking and clunking as heavy silver balls bounced around inside them and neon flashed and flickered in pulsating frenzy.

  Patrons stared at the machines as if the mysteries of the universe would be found within, taking no notice of Kurt as he examined their faces.

  “Pachinko?” a voice suggested.

  Kurt turned. A seductively dressed hostess was motioning toward an open machine.

  “Arigato,” Kurt said. “Not right now.”

  He passed through the pachinko hall and took a seat at one of the pai gow poker tables. Passing over his million yen, he was given a stack of clear chips and slid most of them into place right off the bat. The cards came out with incredible speed.

  “Nine,” the dealer said, looking at Kurt. A few more cards were dealt and she pushed a stack of chips next to his.

  Kurt smiled, left all the chips on the table and waited for the next hand. He received another natural 9. The highest and unbeatable score. The dealer had an 8 and lost by one. The stack of chips doubled again.

  Feeling he was on a hot streak—despite the plan to lose money fast—he moved his bet, placing all of it on the dealer instead. Essentially, he was betting against himself. This time, he ended up with a 4 and the dealer had 7. Technically, the dealer won, but Kurt got paid.

  The huge stacks of chips were doubled again and then pushed back toward him. “Table limit,” the dealer said. In three hands, he’d grown his stack to eight million yen.

  Kurt looked at the winnings. This would never happen if it was my own money.

  He decided to bet lower amounts until his luck changed for the worse, tipped the dealer handsomely and pushed a few chips into place. As the next set of cards came out, he felt someone slide up behind him. A hand with perfectly manicured fingernails slid softly onto his shoulder. He turned to see the attendant from the pachinko lounge. She’d followed him to the table.

  “You are lucky,” she said.

  Kurt grinned. He must have been doing well if the shills were already gathering. “So far,” he replied.

  He didn’t shoo the woman away. Her presence would help him blend in and her beauty would draw eyes toward her instead of him. It would make looking around the room easier and less dangerous.

  The next hand was a loser, something Kurt was thankful for, but he’d made a small fortune already and would have to lose a lot more before he could ask for credit.

  He bet again and continued scanning the room for any sign of Ushi-Oni. At first, nothing caught his eye. Then, at a table across from him, partially blocked by the pit boss, he noticed a familiar face. He focused through the smoke, squinting just to be sure.

  “You win again, sir,” the dealer said.

  “Damn,” Kurt whispered, reacting not to the latest unwanted victory but to a face he hadn’t expected to see. Sitting at the table across the pit was Master Kenzo’s missing acolyte, Akiko.

  She was dressed elegantly, heavily made up and smoking a long, thin cigarette, while her gaze flicked from the cards in front of her to every corner of the casino floor.

  Kurt could imagine several reasons she might have chosen to be here and none of them were good.

  16

  THE SENTO

  WALTER HAN stood in a private suite on the upper level of the Sento. He gazed briefly out through the floor-to-ceiling glass. From this vantage point, he could see the lower levels of the circular building. The crowd was gathering, and even he wanted to see the combat, but business took precedence.

  He turned his attention back to the guest in his suite, Ushi-Oni. The Demon didn’t quite look himself. “Are you all right, my friend? Or is this a
ll part of your disguise.”

  “Recovering from my wounds,” Oni replied. “All the more reason for the payment to be quick.”

  As Oni spoke, a twitch ran across his face. It looked like he was snarling. With the facial tics, a yellowish tint discoloring his eyes and a gloss of moisture on his skin, Oni was beginning to look like his namesake.

  “You will be paid,” Han said. “But first, I give you a choice. Payment for the job you’ve completed. Or ten times that amount for an easier but more important task.”

  “I’ve had enough of your jobs,” the Demon said. “The last easy task nearly got me killed. Now pay me so I can leave.”

  “Leaving won’t help you this time,” Han said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Federal Police have your description at long last,” Han said. “They know what you look like. And they will find you soon enough. When they do, they’ll hang plenty of crimes on you, most of which you’re actually guilty of.”

  “You . . . You gave them my—”

  “Why would I do that if I still want your help?”

  “Then how?”

  “You said yourself there were survivors.”

  Oni’s face turned a new shade. Anger and sickness mixed.

  Han continued. “If you want to live out your days in anything but wretched poverty and constant hiding, you’ll need more than just a modicum of wealth. You’ll need a new life, a new identity and enough money to last an eternity.”

  From his pocket, Han pulled a folded sheet of paper. Holding it between two fingers, he offered it to Oni, who hesitated and then snatched it away.

  Oni unfolded the paper to see an incredibly accurate drawing of his face, right down to the fishhook-shaped scar on his lip. Below the drawing was a diagram of his tattoos. It was also surprisingly accurate.

  Boiling with rage, he ripped the paper into shreds and threw it back at Han in a swirl of confetti.

  Han shrugged. “I’m sure the police have duplicates.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You know it does,” Han snapped. “It means your time is up. Your reign as the Demon who comes in the night is over. To make matters worse, you have no friends left. No one to help you. That is the life of a ronin—in the end, you die alone. I’m offering a way out, if you’re up to it, but it requires you to bring something to me.”

  “And what might that be? Another head on a platter?”

  “That you’ll do for free,” Han said. “What I need now is information about a missing sword.”

  “Sword?”

  “I assume you’ve heard of the Honjo Masamune?”

  “Of course I have,” Oni said. “It’s only the most famous sword in Japan. So what? It’s been missing since the end of World War Two. Either the Americans took it or—”

  “Yes, the official story,” Han said. “I know it well. At the end of the war, the American forces demanded that all weapons, including ceremonial swords, be surrendered. Many of the wealthy were angered by this and fought to keep their swords, but Iemasa Tokagawa believed working with the Americans was the only way to ensure a future for Japan. He turned his collection over; fourteen priceless swords, including the Honjo Masamune. They were delivered to a Tokyo police station, where they were later picked up by an American sergeant named Coldy Bimore. They vanished, never to be seen again. An open-and-shut case, except American records show no evidence of the swords being inventoried and no record of any soldier, sailor or airman with that name being stationed in Japan during the entire time of occupation.”

  “Obviously, a lie,” Oni said.

  “Of course it’s a lie,” Han said. “But whose? I have information suggesting something other than American duplicity.”

  Oni narrowed his gaze.

  The hook had been baited; now Han needed to reel his catch in. Oni wanted to believe. He wanted to see and touch the legendary weapon. To hold it and even wield it. And why shouldn’t he want that? Every artist longed to see the works of the masters. Painters wished to see the brushstrokes of a Picasso or Van Gogh; sculptors wished to see the David, to touch the marble, though it was off-limits. Ushi-Oni had made a life out of weapons and cold steel. To hold the Masamune would be transcendent.

  “What information?”

  “Records from the Tokagawa family and a secret communiqué issued to a member of the House of Peers, where Iemasa Tokagawa served at the end of World War Two. They tell a different story.”

  “Go on.”

  “Iemasa Tokagawa did indeed wish to work with the American forces, but others in his family felt differently. They had forgeries made and attempted to replace the priceless swords with the cheap re-creations. Tokagawa discovered this at the last minute and a fight ensued. Several members of his family died struggling against one another. He realized that the swords were not only a point of pride for the family but a symbol around which Japanese resistance and the idea of a greater Japan might rise again. According to a letter he wrote, Tokagawa both feared and hoped for this, but he’d seen enough death during the long war and in its aftermath to tip the scales to dread. He decided the swords should be hidden somewhere so they wouldn’t become a catalyst for an uprising. He sent word to a member of the House of Peers and the swords were intercepted. Replicas were handed over in their place, but they didn’t fool anyone, and so the story of the American sergeant with the odd-sounding name was fabricated.”

  “What happened to the swords?” Oni asked.

  “Tokagawa’s letter requests that they be given to a Shinto priest and hidden in one of their sanctuaries.”

  Oni looked disgusted. “A weapon of war in the hands of a priest.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Which shrine? Where? There are thousands of them.”

  Han took a deep breath. “No mention of the particular shrine was ever made,” he admitted. “But other letters from the period indicate that the Tokagawa family supported a particular shrine in the footsteps of Mount Fuji, all the way back to a time long prior to the war. A rather obscure sanctuary at that. But if you wanted to hide something priceless, to entrust a national treasure to someone other than yourself, it’s only logical to assume you would give it to someone you knew and had a prior existing relationship with.”

  Oni nodded, but there was an aura of distrust about him that never quite left. “How is it no one else has uncovered this information? Treasure hunters have been looking for the Honjo Masamune since the day it went missing.”

  “I have access to records they cannot see,” Han said. “Government records. You should know that Japanese investigators speculated on this exact possibility as early as 1955, but by then Japan had become utterly dependent on America.”

  He picked up a glass of champagne. “Loans from Washington were allowing the country to rebuild. Exports to the United States were growing rapidly, creating a new class of wealthy businessmen, while American ships, planes and soldiers protected the country from the Russian Bear and the Chinese Dragon. Considering the situation, those in power decided that nothing would be allowed to damage that relationship, least of all the sudden reappearance of a sword that was linked to Japanese nationalism, the Shoguns of old and the ruling families who’d pushed Japan into war. Nor could they explain its disappearance without implicating the Tokagawa family. So they did what all good politicians do: they buried the information in bureaucratic piles of paper that would reach to the moon, making certain the leads were never investigated and the truth went dormant.”

  “Are you certain of these facts?” Oni asked.

  “It’s not possible to be certain,” Han said. “But if the swords are not with the monks, then they are lost forever. But, there is also the matter of the journal. Believed to belong to Masamune and his descendants. It reveals his secrets. His methods for crafting such masterworks.”

  O
ni seemed to accept that, but he remained on guard. “You’ve never shown any interest in collecting. Why would you start now?”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions,” Han said. “But let’s just say, I have a sudden interest in the independence of my mother’s country. And if you do as I tell you, not only will I grant you wealth but a new life and a full pardon for your crimes.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” Oni said. “I think I’ll just take what you owe me and go.”

  Han shrugged. He was done with the hard sell. He pulled a small disk from his pocket. It was larger than a normal casino chip, made of brass and octagonal in shape. It weighed heavy in the hand and had a number engraved on one side and the face of a dragon on the other.

  “This marker will cover the balance of payments on your existing contract,” he said. “Take it to any table, they’ll give you high-denomination chips to play with. Or if you wish, take it directly to the cage. They will pay you in American or European currency, since those bills have larger denominations and are easier to carry. If you change your mind, hold on to the marker and call me, we’ll discuss the new deal when you’re ready.”

  Han placed the chip on the table beside the window. Oni stepped forward and picked up the golden disk. He felt its heft in his hand as he weighed the options in front of him.

  He glanced at Han once and then looked out through the glass to the activity below. His feverish eyes widened. “No,” he whispered.

  “The choice is yours.”

  But Oni was neither listening nor addressing the question of the new contract. He was staring at a figure on the walkway one level below. “No, it can’t be.”

  He palmed the coin, turned and stormed toward the door.

  Han was tempted to grab him but he knew better than to lay hands on the Demon.

  Oni brushed past, grabbing a wineglass as he went, shattering the bulb against the wall and then storming out into the hall.