Tokyo Heist (20 page)

“Reika. Check this out.”

Reika snatches the pages from my hands, exclaiming over each picture I’ve circled in the kimono drawings and elsewhere.

“What’s up with all these cormorants?” I ask her.

“Ukai?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Why do you ask?”

“No,
ukai
. Cormorant fishing. It’s an ancient sport. Though now it’s really more of a tourist attraction on some of the rivers in Japan.”

“Where? Here in Tokyo?”

“In Gifu, and in Nagoya. Oh, and just outside Kyoto, I think. In Arashiyama.”

I almost drop my pages. I stare at her. “Hello? The Hiroshige print is called
Moon Crossing Bridge at Arashiyama
. When we were talking about Tomonori’s
ayu
, why didn’t we think about cormorant fishing? Cormorants and
ayu
go hand in hand. Or, uh, wing in fin.”

Reika groans. “I guess we were too focused on the small things to see the bigger picture.”

I’m also kicking myself for not having shared
Kimono Girl
with Reika. Ever. If I’d shown her my story so far, or even talked about it, she might have seen my sketches of cormorants and made that connection sooner.

“Maybe the painting is hidden in Arashiyama,” Reika suggests. “Maybe it’s in a boat!”

“I don’t think that would be good for the painting,” I say, thinking of water damage, humidity, and other problems. I’ve learned a lot about art conservation in just a few days working with Mitsue, and I’ve seen how art can be ravaged by the elements and by time. “I think Tomonori would have found a safer place for it. Like in this building we see the man standing by here, whatever it is. But I agree, that painting must be in Arashiyama.”

“Wait. I see something else.” Reika points to a cluster of lines and crosses near one of the embedded bird drawings. “This is the
kanji
character for
akatsuki.
Meaning ‘dawn.’” She turns the page and circles an identical mark. “Here’s another! And another! He’s written ‘dawn’ on almost every page. If this is a kind of treasure map, this word is like ‘X marks the spot.’”

“We have to show this to Kenji right away. Maybe the building the man walks into has something to do with
dawn
. Maybe Kenji will know what that means.”

Suddenly, a breeze blows a section of newspaper over to my chair. Bending to pick it up, I notice Yoshi is no longer in his lounge chair. His newspaper’s been abandoned.

I spot him a few yards away, talking with a blond couple wearing fanny packs and Mariners caps.

“I could be wrong, but those tourists don’t strike me as Japanese speakers,” I say to Reika. “Come on. I want to hear this.” We sneak behind a shrub and listen.

“Yes, I saw Ichiro play for Yomiuri Giants, three years ago, before Mariners bought him,” Yoshi says in perfectly clear English. He swings an imaginary bat. “He is quite an excellent hitter. Do you know his batting average?”

Reika and I, wide-eyed, look at each other. We’ve just found our leak.

2

5

B
ells chime a tinny melody as the doors to the bullet train close. Moments later, the train shoots out of Tokyo station. Our first-class car glows orange from the rising sun. The
shinkansen
is nothing like the Amtrak from Seattle to Portland. After the gentle announcements of stations, in Japanese and English, it’s almost completely silent. The train sways slightly; it never shudders or lurches. The ticket-taker bows and murmurs a soft greeting when he comes into our car. He bows again when he leaves. The sandwich-cart lady does the same thing.

The three Yamadas sit at the opposite end of the train car from my dad and me. They are studying the journal clues Reika and I showed them and a map of Arashiyama. Anyone might think they were ordinary travelers. But I know they’re refining their search strategy.

My dad reclines the seat in front of me and snaps on a sleep mask from the hotel. “I’m going to catch up on some z’s. Wake me when we get to Kyoto.”

I glare at his seat back. How can he sleep now, of all times? Kazuo Uchida and Shinobu Nishio, reported masters of disguise, may be back in Japan already. Their boss, Hiroshi Fujikawa, lurks somewhere in this country, ready to take off with the Yamadas’ favorite artist—my dad—if they don’t deliver the van Gogh painting one week from today. I’m sure Yoshi’s furious that Reika and I reported him as an informant and got him fired. What if he comes after us, too?

As the train glides into Shinagawa Station, where Reika is supposed to meet us, I scan the platform for her, my heart pounding. The platform’s not so crowded this early, heading out of the city, but I don’t see her anywhere. What if her aunt and uncle changed their minds about letting her travel with us? Or worse . . . what if Yoshi did something to her?

* * *

YESTERDAY, REIKA AND I figured out pretty quickly that Yoshi’s “Engrish” was just fine. He had been listening to us all along and almost certainly tipped off Fujikawa about the sting operation, just in time for Fujikawa to get his men out of the way. When we figured this out, we ran to the nearest ladies’ room in the hotel lobby and called Kenji on Reika’s phone. Within a half hour, both Kenji and Hideki appeared in the hotel lobby and quietly sent Yoshi packing. How creepy, to think a trusted security official had really been a
yakuza
informant, that he’d been listening to my every word. Even creepier: now we were walking around with no bodyguards, since Kenji didn’t trust any of his security staff anymore and let everyone go.

But mostly I felt sad. As Yoshi left the hotel lobby, our eyes met briefly. His face hardened. He hadn’t been a friend. All those gallant gestures? They were just part of his act.

When Reika and I showed Kenji and Hideki the embedded drawings, Kenji’s mouth dropped open. “I have spent hours poring over these drawings. They are the most subtle clues that Tomonori ever planted. And the
kanji
for
akatsuki
—I don’t even know how you picked those fine lines out of these crosshatch marks. Oh, to have young eyes again!”

Hideki, too, said we’d done well. He just couldn’t stop smiling, looking handsomer than ever. I thought he might even cry as he ran his hand over the journal pages. I just felt glowing, bursting with pride as he showered me with compliments. And I remembered the magical feeling of seeing my dad’s murals back at his house in Fremont. It felt like I was glimpsing who he really was in private: a sensitive dreamer with inspired visions, despite his poorly primed walls. I wondered if Hideki felt something like that, if he could sense Tomonori in his personal art.

Then Hideki asked us if there was any chance that Yoshi had heard us discussing the clues or seen the pages.

“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t,” Reika said, sidling up to Hideki and edging me out of the way. “I remember when we were talking about cormorant fishing, I looked up and noticed him talking to that couple. He wasn’t listening to us then.”

Hideki seemed satisfied with her answer and then arranged a meeting. We all went back to the Yamada Building and into a private conference room, with my dad and Mitsue, too.

Hideki sat at the head and explained the plan. “My uncle, my aunt, and I will travel to Arashiyama for a few days. We know of a historic
ryokan
there, called the Akatsuki Ryokan. Mitsue has traveled there before, with her family.”

“A
ryokan
is a traditional Japanese inn,” Mitsue quickly explained to my dad and me.

“The Akatsuki Ryokan is completely inaccessible by roads or public transportation,” Hideki continued. “It makes sense that my father would have hidden the van Gogh there, perhaps behind another painting as his pictures suggest.”

“Hang on. You can’t just leave us here,” my dad protested. “Waiting around for gangsters to demand why you guys skipped town? No way. Violet and I are coming with you.”

“Me too!” Reika piped up, shifting closer to Hideki and beaming at him.

Hideki leaned away from Reika. “I hardly think it’s necessary to interrupt Glenn from his work on the mural,” he said, twirling a pen in his fingers.

“The mural!” Kenji exclaimed. He turned to his nephew, eyes flashing. “The mural can wait a few days. Glenn is right. Everyone would be safer at this lodge. We will remain together. We will all look for the painting.” He gave his nephew a long look. “I think you forget I am your uncle. I am still your senior. And I am still head of this company for two more months. I have let you make many decisions, but this decision is mine.”

“Violet’s friend must come with us, too,” Mitsue added quickly. “Since she was involved in reporting Yoshi as an informant. We are safer in a group, in a secluded location.”

Kenji outlined a plan while Hideki, his face clouded over from his uncle’s rebuke, continued to twirl his pen. We’d have to leave first thing in the morning by train, traveling like regular tourists, to blend in and avoid being followed. We’d have to look for the painting discreetly; if we attracted attention from other guests, we might spark a scavenger hunt for the van Gogh, maybe even a media frenzy, and the painting could slip from our hands. Our cover? The Yamadas would be showing their foreign guests a relaxing time at a traditional Japanese inn. We’d inspect the property during times when the
ryokan
was quiet, and otherwise try to pass as regular tourists. My dad could paint. Reika and I could relax at the
onsen
, the spa and hot springs.

It all sounded like a pretty good time, if it weren’t for the fact that a gang boss was breathing down our necks, threatening my dad’s life for this painting.

But now there’s still no sign of Reika at Shinagawa Station. A series of soft bells in the train car sounds huge alarms in me. This train is going to take off any second. Without her! Yoshi’s on the loose. Reika has no bodyguards or security at her aunt and uncle’s house. What if he figured out where Reika lived, and kidnapped her as revenge for turning him in?

Suddenly, I see her running to the train, a Hello Kitty suitcase in tow. I bang on the window. Passengers stare. The old ladies sitting behind me frown. “Reika! Hurry!” I shout.

Seeing me, Reika picks up speed toward my car, her long, dark brown hair streaming behind her. As a conductor on the platform barks at her in Japanese, she sprints the final few yards and leaps into the train, two seconds before a melodic chime sounds and the automatic doors swiftly close.

The train glides out of the station.

Panting, Reika makes her way to my seat and shoves her suitcase in the overhead.

“I’m in shock,” I say when she sits. “I thought your aunt and uncle changed their mind.” I’m embarrassed to admit how worried I was that something far worse happened to her, and how scared I was that she was going to get stuck in the train doors.

“They’re why I’m late.” From her backpack, she takes out three paper bags filled with froths of tissue paper. “The Yamada name carries a lot of weight, and they weighed me down with all these gifts for them. They’re probably on the phone at this very moment, calling up all the relatives, telling them what a lucky niece they have to travel with these executives. Look at all the
omiyage
they packed. Stationary. Sake cups. A chopstick set—like the Yamadas don’t have a million of these things already. I could just die. Oh wait, what’s this?” From a gift basket, she extracts a box of colorfully wrapped pastries. “Cool.
Wagashi
!”

“Looks like breakfast to me! The sandwich I had was so tiny. Can we eat this?”

“Of course! This is an insane amount of food.” Reika’s aunt and uncle have packed up the most generous basket of dazzling, sugary confections, shaped like flowers and animals. There are tiny cakes galore—pink, green, and white, covered with a delicate film of powdered sugar. My favorite are the small sponge cakes shaped like
ayu
, filled with a red bean paste.

As we eat, I gaze out at the industrial outskirts of Tokyo, which soon gives way to countryside. We pass lush, green rice paddies and little houses with shiny blue shingles. Fields of tea. Farmers and field workers wearing pointed hats. It’s like traveling through a
ukiyo-e
print.

It’s almost perfect. Except Reika’s not the only one I was worried about.

“Hey, can I see your phone for a sec?”

Reika hands over her red, rhinestone-studded phone case. “Let me guess. Email? Edge?”

“I’m really worried. I still haven’t heard back from him. What if something happened?”

I pull up my email. And there it is. One new message. From Edge.

VIOLET! I’VE BEEN WANTING TO WRITE. THANKS FOR THE WARNING ABOUT THE YAKUZA. I HAVEN’T SEEN ANYONE SUSPICIOUS, BUT MOST DAYS I’M LOCKED UP IN THE STUDIO, EDITING. IT’S NOSE TO THE GRINDSTONE HERE, WORKSHOPS MORNING TILL NIGHT. ANYWAY, I’LL BE CAREFUL. THANKS FOR YOUR CONCERN.

ACTUALLY, I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. PLEASE BE EXTRA CAREFUL OVER THERE. STAY IN TOUCH, OKAY? YOUR PAL, EDGE.