Japantown (27 page)

“Darkness suits me,” the old man said without any outward sign of uneasiness.

Strolling in through the back door, George asked, “You okay?”

My old friend was in top form today in a chic blue blazer and collarless black silk shirt buttoned to the neck.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Good. Noda figured this to be a milk run. Kept his promise down in Soga and let me tackle the two thugs on the back door. Strapped on the plasti-cuffs.” To the powerbroker, George offered a harsh censure.
“You need to learn how to make appointments, sir. We don’t tolerate people strong-arming one of our own.”

My host grinned. “I am pleased to see that. You don’t know how pleased.”

George shot him a dismissive glance, then turned to Noda. “Who is this clown who doesn’t know how to pick up a phone?”

“Kozawa,” Noda said.

Despite what I’d already surmised about the withered powerbroker, my pulse jumped.
Jesus.
How had I missed the signs? Goro Kozawa had an ego larger than the Imperial Palace. People walked away from a summons one of four ways: richer, poorer, their career boosted or destroyed. Make that five ways. Sometimes they left pummeled.

Goro Kozawa was the patriarch of powerbrokers. Believed to have hooks in the ruling party and the opposition, as well as backdoor ties to yakuza from Hokkaido to Okinawa, the ruthless industrialist-turned-shadow-shogun had built his fortune from a small trading company importing oil, minerals, and luxury goods before expanding into construction, railroads, and retail. His companies held many monopolistic import licenses, and since he had more politicians in his pocket than crocodiles had teeth, his interests remained monopolistic. After erecting his power base, Kozawa had delegated the top positions in his enterprises to the shrewdest of his loyal underlings and slipped underground. He attended VIP functions, yet was never photographed. If he showed up unannounced at a major gala, rumors circulated but were never confirmed. He was as much of a ghost as Soga.

George raised an eyebrow. “
You’re
Goro Kozawa? We’ve heard about you.”

“And I of Brodie Security. A treasure of a crew, if ever there was one.” He glanced at Noda. “You . . . distracted all four of my men?”

Noda’s nod was brief, his expression neutral. There was no sneer, no smirk. No sign of smugness or self-satisfaction.

“Excellent.”

George raised an eyebrow. “No doubt your people will have a dissenting opinion when they come around.”

“As they should. I warned them to expect a visit.” He gazed at a
fallen guard before zeroing in on me. “I think you’re overexposed, Brodie-san. Your chances of living out the month are less than those of a Kabukicho whore walking through San’yo without being accosted. But assuming you somehow manage to stay alive, perhaps we can work together. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

George snorted. “With an attitude like that, why should we?”

“Young man, whoever you are, let me enlighten you. In my more naive past, I dispatched two of my bodyguards to Soga-jujo to dispose of what I thought a minor nuisance.”

“And?”

With hard, dark eyes he stared at George, then me. “Mr. Brodie, if you and your people are to survive Soga, you must be better informed.” To George, he said, “In answer to your question, young man, I am here. We are conversing.”

I bit my lip and dropped my gaze to the scarlet carpet, but George snapped up the bait: “The men you sent, how good are they?”

“Were,”
Kozawa corrected, “
were.
They failed. They are dead. At least I presume they are dead. They never returned.”

Annoyed, I stepped in. “That’s a touching tale, Kozawa-san, but how do we know we can trust you?”

“They are old enemies. They have nipped at me in many ways over the years.”

Noda said, “Still doesn’t answer the question.”

Kozawa considered us for a long moment before making his next revelation. “Three years ago, my adopted son—the man I’d handpicked to carry on after my retirement—was found dead on the streets of Karuizawa, his neck sliced clean to the spine. Garroted. The police wrote off the attack as a casualty of a Chinese triad flare-up in the area, but I knew better. The man who hired Soga has paid for his arrogance, but I have a long memory and have made it my business to learn everything I can about them. But it’s not easy. Even for me.”

I didn’t like what I heard between the lines. “You come with too many strings. Why should we help you?”

“I believe you know Inspector Kato of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police?”

“You know I do.”

Last fall, Kato had saved me from a fifty-four-story plunge off the top of the Sumitomo Bank Building in West Shinjuku. Between Inspector Kato and myself was a bond stronger than anything Kozawa could summon up to break it.

“Will he do?”

I nodded and the powerbroker retrieved a sealed envelope from his jacket. I made the long trip around the immense table and took the proffered letter, from which I extracted a single sheet of paper.

To Brodie-sama,

This letter will introduce you to Mr. Goro Kozawa. While his name registers in very few foreign circles, I am certain it will mean something to you. In the matter of a certain village—and only that matter—you may accept my assurances of his reliability and eagerness to achieve the same ends you seek.

Respectfully,

Shin’ichi Kato

Inspector, Tokyo Metropolitan Police, Shibuya Station

Kato would not write a recommendation lightly, nor would he submit to any pressure of the kind Kozawa could apply. I passed the note to Noda, who read it and handed it to George. Neither of them voiced an objection.

Kozawa said, “Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go for a ride. There is someone I want you to meet.”

“Who?” Noda asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Were I to tell you certain things, would you believe me?”

“No blind trust,” Noda said flatly.

“Then understand this, Noda Kunio-san. I reached my position not by pleasing men but by knowing them. To my mind, your answer was a given. You need more information, so I’ll take you to where the big fish swim.”

A note of alarm chimed in my head. Neither George nor I had referred to Noda by his full name, yet the powerbroker had used it. He
knew exactly who our chief detective was and wanted us to know it.

“Time to go, gentleman,” Kozawa said, indicating the front door while the chimes of a sonorous clock in a back room struck eight times.

Late-night machinations.

The way of Japan.

CHAPTER 45

T
HE
old man led us to an exclusive
ryotei,
the favored haunt of people in power where the decisions of the ruling elite were finalized. Sometimes, in a single night, the course of the whole country’s policy in a certain business or political sector might be settled on, with the cost for a single session’s libation running into thousands of dollars.

Four kimono-clad women swooped down on our two-car entourage with beguiling smiles and bows of welcome. Once we were off the street, a suited man in his thirties stepped from the shadows and Kozawa said, “Let me introduce Akira Tejima, one of the brightest young stars in the Boeisho firmament.”

His words sent a tremor of anticipation through me. We were about to receive rarefied information of the highest order. The Boeisho was the Ministry of Defense. They wielded tremendous power in their sector, as did all the other ministries in their spheres of influence. The agency’s umbrella covered any program or institution involved in defending Japan’s borders, including the national defense budget, the training academies, and all three branches of the Japan Self-Defense Forces—air, ground, and maritime.

Tejima gave me the standard Japanese greeting followed by a slip of a bow that ungraciously put me in my place as a low-level guest. He would not expect a Caucasian guest to know the difference.

I was predisposed to dislike Tejima, and first impressions only reinforced what I already knew from previous dealings with Japanese bureaucrats. Most of the fast-track civil servants were arrogant and full of themselves. They were handpicked from the best universities and
brandished the country’s power with smarmy self-confidence, keeping every aspect of the people’s daily lives under a tightly reined legal stranglehold. And if new hires weren’t overbearing by nature, it was instilled in them as a matter of policy. Except for the eyes, Tejima oozed the same sort of bloated self-importance, but it was tempered, at least tonight, by a haunted look.

We followed two kimonoed women down a string of dimly lit corridors, then through a darkened courtyard garden. Frail bamboo lamps set at ground level illuminated the stone footpath we trod but left faces in the shadows, our procession tasteful and discreet in the inimitable Japanese manner.

The women drew up at the entrance to a secluded cottage in the farthest corner of the garden and bowed us in. A large, low table laden with liquid refreshment and an overflowing buffet of fresh seafood and choice meats awaited us.

Kozawa’s bodyguard nudged the powerbroker’s wheelchair up an access ramp, while two female attendants delicately pressed damp towels against the backs of the rotating wheels so any dirt, seen or unseen, would not be tracked into the twelve-mat tatami room, an intimate yet suitably spacious dining area by Japanese standards. After propelling the kingmaker to the table, the watchdog hit an unseen lever that started a built-in mechanism and lowered the wheelchair seat to floor level.

I sat on the indicated throw cushion and immediately a woman in a powder-blue kimono knelt and offered me a hot hand towel for my face and hands. Declining seats, George and Noda took up positions in the corners of the room, where they could watch the proceedings and the front door at the same time. On the way over in our own car, Noda suggested I continue to “be the face” of the investigation since Kozawa had reached out to me. As soon as the powerbroker was comfortable, his watcher settled in a third corner, crossing his arms and frowning at Noda and George.

The attendants pressed drinks into our hands, then rose, bowed, and departed. Noda and I exchanged glances and my heart kicked up a beat. Normally, the room would be bathed in alcohol and the liquid laughter of the hostesses until parties bonded. Tonight, though, the customary ritual had been suspended.

“This evening,” Goro Kozawa began, lifting his drink for a toast, “in deference to our American guest, let frankness and informality rule.”

We raised our glasses and drank. On the table, abalone sashimi, spiny lobster, and Russian caviar spilled from porcelain platters.

“Kozawa-sensei requests frankness, and I approve,” Tejima said. “Should our goals be the same, circumstances would dictate full cooperation. I would like, first, to have some indication that we are indeed discussing the, uh, same party. What can you tell me?”

I had no desire to reveal any of our hard-won secrets to this man. We had so little and I knew nothing of Tejima’s reputation, nor did I have any inkling of who was looking over his shoulder.

While I debated the issue, Noda stepped forward and produced a photograph of the digital interceptor Toru had discovered at Brodie Security.

With an eagerness that clashed with his aloofness, Tejima reached for the snapshot. His fingers were pink and plump and trembled slightly. After a moment’s examination, he passed the photograph back to Noda with a nod of satisfaction. “We are pursuing the same course. There can be no doubt.”

I studied the bureaucrat coolly before saying, “And why is that?”

With the habitual condescension of his breed, Tejima expounded for our benefit. “What you’ve uncovered is of Dutch manufacture by the Skoss Corporation out of Amsterdam, a high-tech firm with an exclusive clientele. Their product is very rare, made to order, and extremely expensive.”

I said, “So you know
who
we’re after, then?”

“Three years ago, two of these bugging devices were found in the possession of a Japanese national in the middle of the Sahara Desert. He was killed while trying to cross tribal land. Fifteen poison arrows took him down, but not before he had killed
seven
tribal warriors. We have reason to believe he assassinated a local chieftain with large land holdings who refused to lease oil rights to certain powers.”

“Western or Asian?”

“I am not at liberty to say, but I can tell you this. When the body was repatriated, we discovered it belonged to a man who went abroad
twenty years ago as a teenager and never returned. The grandson of a special officer who had disappeared in Manchuria near the end of World War Two.”

“ ‘Special’?”

Eyes darting to the one empty corner of the room, Tejima grew evasive. “A military officer.”

I stood without preamble. “Kozawa-sensei, time is short, we are in danger, and your friend is playing the slippery games of his breed. Thanks for the offer of help, but I think we’ll go elsewhere.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Brodie-san. It is quite natural for Tejima-kun to guard his secrets. That is the nature of his job.”

I felt my face redden. “If we’re going to have to fight for every scrap of information, we have better uses for our time.”

A hand twitched under Kozawa’s scarlet lap cloth. “Tejima-kun, he does have a point. I wonder if you would mind—”

“But . . .”

Kozawa’s brow darkened. “You will answer Brodie-san’s questions without holding anything in reserve.”

“But my superior—”

“Your superior presents no barrier. He will accept everything without knowledge or question. Momentum is building. This is the closest I—or your committee—have come in decades. If we lose this opportunity because you did not provide us with all the essential information in your possession, I will hold you personally responsible.
Wakatta ka?
” Do I make myself clear?

His complexion paling to the shade of the porcelain platters before us, Tejima bowed deeply and mumbled, “As you wish.”