[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black (17 page)

Bobu bowed again, deeper this time. “
Hai
!”

“Now, is the plane on time?”

Bobu checked the watch that bulged against his massive wrist. “Yes, it should have landed twenty minutes ago.”

Kusaka nodded. He finished his whisky, then poured himself another glass. He held up the gun, letting the polished black barrel glint in the light. The pistol was long and sleek, with a slim, tapered barrel. The oval-shaped butt was fitted with grooved mahogany grips. “Have you ever seen a gun like this, Bobu?”

“Not in person. It’s a Nambu, yes?”

“Mmmm,” the older man grunted. “Nambu Type 14. Officer’s pistol in World War II. It fires an 8mm, .320 bullet. Look at it … beautiful. Reliable. Accurate. Adopted for military use in 1925, which is how it got its name … 1925 was the fourteenth year of the Taisho Emperor’s reign.”

Bobu gave a thin smile. “Before my time.”

“Yes, but a patriot like yourself should be familiar with our glorious history. At any rate, this pistol was my father’s. He bought it himself, when he was promoted to officer.”

“Then you must be honored to carry it.”

Kusaka sipped his whisky and stared at the gun. He did not look at Bobu.

“I was born after my father returned home from the war. He was young, entered the army at sixteen years old. When the war ended, he returned to Osaka, opened a shipping company, and took a wife. She was a local girl, pretty, but not beautiful. We lived in a small house outside the city.

“Our life was comfortable. But even as a young child, I knew something was wrong with my father. There was an invisible barrier between him and myself, a wall I could not even understand, let alone break down. He always seemed to be looking in the distance at something I could not see. Something I was afraid to see, based on the look in his eyes.

“One day, my father and I were alone in the yard. My mother had gone into town to do the shopping. Believe it or not, I even remember what she was planning to cook that night. Nikujaga stew.” Kusaka shook his head. “I can’t remember half the women I’ve slept with in this life, but I remember what my mother was planning to make for dinner that night, decades ago.”

Bobu sat in silence. Kusaka continued.

“At any rate, I was playing with a ball. Kicking it around, pretending I was playing football. My father was sitting in a chair under our cherry tree, sipping cold barley tea. I kicked the ball under his chair and pretended I had scored a goal. Cheering my own victory, I ran over to him. I was desperate for his attention, desperate to break through that awful, cold wall of what I took to be indifference. ‘Father, did you see my goal?’ I asked.

“He turned and looked at me—or, rather, looked through me. I saw no love in his face. No affection or anger. No joy or hatred. His face was that of a dead man. A sleepwalker. ‘I watched men play soccer once before,’ he said. ‘During the second Shanghai incident in 1937. That’s what the politicians called the battle. An incident.’

“He looked down at my little red ball, next to his feet. He was just sitting there, but he was shaking, ever so slightly. I was afraid then. I knew something was wrong, but he continued speaking, in this flat, empty voice.

“‘I was captured with my squad,’ he said. ‘One by one, they led each soldier to a bamboo cage. When they locked the cage, the man inside could not move. He was trapped, stuck sitting on a wooden stool, with his head sticking out. Just from the neck up.’ My father paused, then looked up at me. ‘Then, they took a sword. A huge, curved sword. And then….’

“My father drew his finger across his throat. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t making a joke. He was telling me, his eight-year-old son, about watching men being beheaded by Chinese soldiers. The story went on….

“‘And do you know what they did then?’ he asked me. ‘They watched the heads topple down from the men’s necks. They watched them roll across the ground. Then the children ran up, laughing, singing. They kicked them. They kicked the heads. They used the heads for footballs. They played football. They kicked them in the dirt streets until the faces wore away….’ I remember his voice trailed off then. He said something else, but I could not hear his words.

“And with that, he stood up and kicked my red ball across the yard. Then he walked into the house. I didn’t chase the ball. I didn’t follow him. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. I thought ,if I said a word, if I made a sound, something terrible would happen. Then, I heard a noise. Like an explosion, but softer. Something between a car backfiring and a champagne cork popping. You see, at that age, I didn’t know what a gunshot sounds like. It doesn’t sound like it does in the movies.”

Bobu shifted in his chair. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

“I ran into the house. As I walked through the kitchen, I heard two more explosions. I was crying, shivering with fear as I stumbled into the bedroom. And there he was. My father, laying face up on a tatami mat. A pistol in his hand. He had fired two shots into his gut, but they hadn’t killed him. So the third shot, he fired into his mouth. The blood … that’s the only image I remember after I found him. The blood was everywhere. I could smell it. It smelled like burning copper.”

Kusaka hefted the pistol in his hand, contemplating it. “Such a strange way to kill oneself, don’t you think? Almost like a modern version of seppuku. An honorable suicide. This pistol. My father’s pistol. This is the gun he used to take his life. I’ve kept it all these years. As a reminder.”

“Of the brutalities of war?” Bobu asked.

“No,” Kusaka answered. “The price of inaction. I could have stopped my father. I could have run into the house. I could have embraced him. I could have done anything. Instead, I just stood there, trembling, while my father, a soldier, a patriot, suffered … and finally took his own life. The only honorable way out that he could see.”

Kusaka picked up his drink. His face was taut, grim, but as he sipped the warm amber liquid, his features softened.

“Japan has lost much over the years. We both know it. We are each patriots, in our own way. Our country grows weaker every day, while China, and others, prosper. We cannot wait for help from the West. My allies there have become weak-willed, fearful.  If Japan is to become strong, to once again be the dominant power in the East, then we must not give in to fear. We must act.”

Bobu stood and bowed again. “
Hai
. It will be done.”

Kusaka nodded. “A war is won a single victory at a time. Find Hitomi. Return my property. Then the plan will move forward.”

Bobu turned to leave. Kusaka swiveled his chair. He stared out at the beautiful purple light of the Skytree. “And Bobu?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I am quite certain you will once again cross paths with the
gaijin
, Mr. Waters. I am also quite sure that is not his real name. Whoever he is, I believe this is destiny. You have an opportunity to take action and correct your previous failure.”

He did not turn around, but he could sense Bobu’s bow. “When we meet again … he will die.”

Bobu turned and left. As the elevator closed, Kusaka picked up the Nambu pistol and aimed it at the tower on the other side of the glass. He lined up the top of the tower’s observation platform, positioning it between the notched sites at the rear of the pistol. He pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked. It was empty.

He pulled the trigger two more times. Once for each bullet his father had fired into his body.

The small green taxi waited to turn into the massive Tokyo Dome complex. The sprawling entertainment center was only a short distance from Ikebukuro, but traffic clogged the expressway. Caine stared out the taxi’s window. He watched a Ferris wheel across the way spin in a lazy circle, lifting its passengers high into the night sky. The lights of a roller coaster streaked past, circling around the Ferris wheel as it rumbled along its track.

“Is there another route we can take?” Caine asked in Japanese.

The driver shook his head. “Sorry … big concert at the dome tonight. Masuka Ongaku. Traffic is worse than usual, and that’s bad, if you know what I mean.” The driver chuckled to himself.

Caine handed a wad of yen to the driver. “Here. Just let me off at the station up here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” The driver maneuvered the cab over to the side of the road. Caine got out and followed the signs directing pedestrians towards the dome.

The driver rolled down his window. “Sir, wait! This is too much!”

“Sorry, I don’t have time for change!” Caine pushed his way past a crowd of teenage girls with bright, dyed hair. They clutched small, colorful stuffed animals, and anime characters adorned their t-shirts and bags. Caine paused to look at the huge posters lining the walking route he’d chosen. They were advertising for the evening’s concert, and the picture looked familiar. He pulled out Naka’s cellphone and flipped through the text messages.

He located the conversation with Hitomi. Her avatar was an anime character’s face. Big eyes, neon green hair, black leather clothes. It was the same design as the posters. Masuka Ongaku. “Looks like I’m in the right place,” he muttered as the crowd swept him along.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the dome. The massive structure arching up into the sky was nicknamed “The Big Egg” for its curved, oval shape. Rows of colored lights ran up the side of the building, gleaming lines of purple, green, and yellow. An enormous circle of white neon rimmed the top, and just below, huge glowing blue English letters spelled out “Tokyo Dome.”

Caine could hear the distant thumping of music: the concert had begun. Throngs of eager concert-goers gathered around the dome’s entrances. They poured into the narrow doorways like bright colored sand spilling through an hourglass. As he approached, Caine noted the rectangular metal detectors and the security personnel. They were checking bags and purses for drugs, alcohol, and weapons. He scanned the crowd, but saw no sign of dark suits or scars.

Caine peeled off from the crowds and headed for the back of the dome. He knew the men he had chased in Ikebukuro had probably reported in before he’d caught up with them. If Tokyo Black was hunting this girl, too, they would be here as well, or at least on their way.

What was so important about this girl? he wondered. What did this group want with her? Was it a kidnapping plot? It didn’t feel right. Everything about this girl was a mystery.  Yet the CIA had sent him, at no small expense, to find her. And this Tokyo Black group had proven itself willing to kill, and die, to track her down. Caine knew he was missing a vital piece of the puzzle.

But Hitomi was not the only one whose life hung in the balance. Rebecca had been digging at his past, uncovering secrets Bernatto had killed to keep hidden. If he caught wind of her investigation, if he was on to her….

 
Enough
, Caine told himself. The best way to protect Rebecca was to find what Bernatto wanted before someone else did. He had to focus.

As he circled the building, the crowd thinned out. The pounding bass from inside grew louder. The thumping tones echoed from the open doors of a cargo dock, where workers were busy wheeling in food supplies on metal carts.

Koichi stood to the side of the huge, open doorway, illuminated by the harsh glow of a work light. He was smoking a cigarette, watching the workers go about their business with an air of bemusement.

“All this work for fake concert. What a waste,” he said as Caine approached. He flicked his cigarette to the pavement and ground it out beneath his heel.

Caine surveyed the workers, looking for signs of burns or scars. “What do you mean fake? Sounds pretty real to me.”

“You never heard of Masuka Ongaku?”

Caine shook his head. Koichi shrugged. “Come on,” he said. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”

Caine followed him into the loading dock. “Did you drop off Kenji?”

“Yes, he is with his father. Safe. He did ask about his car, however.”

Caine’s jaw clenched in a tense smile, but he kept his eyes focused on the hallway ahead. “Right. About that….”

As they approached the door to a service corridor, a pair of security guards flanking the entrance intercepted them. Koichi gave them a harsh glare, and they stepped aside. “Please enjoy the concert, Mr. Ogawa,” one of them said, shouting to be heard over the music. The two guards bowed. Koichi opened the door, and they made their way into the dome.

“What was that about?”

“The Yoshizawa family has ties to the construction company that built this place. And they own the company that staffs the security here. Naturally, as a sign of respect, the dome lets us attend whatever concerts we wish.”

“Naturally,” Caine smirked. “Here, take a look at this.” Caine handed Koichi Naka’s cellphone, showing him the text conversation with Hitomi. “These numbers here … that’s where Naka and the girl are supposed to meet right?”

The old yakuza nodded. “
Hai
. Box seats, upper level. Follow me.”

Koichi threw open a set of double doors at the end of a sloped corridor. He and Caine stepped into the interior of the Tokyo Dome. It was like being born into a world of exploding lights and sound. The music was deafening, a high-pitched, electronic pop song. The singer’s vocals were warped, cartoonish squeaks. She sounded like a cross between a digital synthesizer and an opera singer, a musical instrument from the future.

Looking down from the mezzanine level, Caine saw the crowd beneath them sway to the music. The dark figures surged up and down to the frantic beat. A sea of neon green glow sticks waved in the air, a synchronous pulse of light rippling through the crowd. Caine’s focus drifted through the chaos of light and sound, settling on the stage.

He had never seen anything like it. Masuka Ongaku looked like her pictures. Literally, exactly like her pictures. She appeared to be a glowing anime character. Her backup band was hidden away in the shadows on the stage. Caine could see they were real people, hunched over keyboards, pounding on drums, jamming on electric guitars.

But Masuka herself was something else … she was a living, dancing, anime cartoon come to life, with giant blinking eyes, a tiny mouth, and an impossibly pert figure. As she danced and performed, her glowing green hair shimmered in slow motion, like a serpentine dragon snaking through the hazy air.