The Nicholas Linnear Novels (193 page)

“‘He will be victorious against the tanjian?’ I asked him

“‘That I cannot say,’ So-Peng told me. ‘It is not for human beings to know such outcomes in advance, even human beings such as we.’”

Her words had terrified Nicholas. “Why are you telling me this, Mother?” he had cried.

Seeing the look of fright on his face, she had pulled him close to her breast, rocking him back and forth. He could hear the beating of her heart, feel her warmth seeping into him, dislodging terror’s grip upon him. “To prepare you, my darling,” Cheong had said, “for the coming storm. I want you to have every advantage I can give you.”

All this Nicholas remembered as he stared at Kyoki’s corpse. He could not pull himself away from the grisly sight. A bad sign, he knew, a further disintegration, slipping deeper into
Shim Ninja.
Nicholas had had the crazy notion that if he stayed close to Kyoki, somehow, even in death, the tanjian could find a way to save him.

Madness.

Nicholas knew it was madness, yet he still clung to the insane hope of resurrection and salvation by proximity. Then, as if in a dream, he caught a glimpse of himself kneeling like a penitent beside the flayed corpse with its fastidiously arranged, sickening banners of skin. It was such a demented tableau that he knew he was truly lost.

He bent over until his forehead touched his thighs. His mind could not encompass the wretchedness of his situation. Without
Getsumei no michi
to guide him, he was directionless. It brought up another memory inside him, of Kansatsu-san, his first
ninjutsu sensei.

Nicholas had been pitted against his cousin Saigo in a match at the
dojo,
Kansatsu’s ninja school. The first time they had met, Nicholas had defeated his cousin. Because Saigo had been at the
dojo
longer, was more advanced, that defeat had caused him to lose face not only with his fellow students, which was bad enough, but with Kansatsu as well.

This affront Saigo could never forgive. And, forever afterward, he was scheming to humiliate Nicholas. Then Nicholas’s father, Colonel Linnear, had murdered Saigo’s father, and the generations of revenge had been sealed in blood. So much time spent toward one end.

Like the dark side of the
Go Rin No Sho,
the Book of Five Rings, Miyamoto Musashi’s ancient guide to martial arts that Kansatsu had Nicholas study when he had first come to the
dojo.
When Kansatsu had asked what he thought of the philosophy, Nicholas had said, “There is a dichotomy. On the one hand, it is clear that its purity is its ultimate purpose and its ultimate strength. On the other hand, the philosophy has about it the air of a monomania. And there is something intrinsically dangerous in that.”

Nicholas did not know it then, but he could have been talking about Saigo.

Kansatsu-san, his short, bristly hair already white, though he could not have been more than forty, taught Nicholas
haragei,
the forerunner to
Getsumei no michi.

There was a bond between them, but it was no doubt an odd one. Nicholas had been bested by Saigo in a demonstration of the lesson of
Uteki,
the Raindrop, a particularly nasty method of disabling an opponent from a prone position in such small increments that he is not aware of its effects until its accumulation disables him.

Afterward, the
dojo
otherwise empty, Nicholas had been summoned to Kansatsu’s study. He had expected a
sensei
sympathetic to his feelings not only of loss, but of humiliation at being defeated by his cousin, who openly mocked him.

Nicholas could still taste like ashes the bitterness he had felt when Kansatsu had exhibited no sign of being aware of Nicholas’s bruised emotional state.

Instead the
sensei
had embarked on a philosophical discourse that, at the time, Nicholas felt had no relation to what he had just gone through.

The darkness and the light,
Kansatsu told him,
are not, as everyone would have you believe, two sides of the same coin. The darkness and the light are two separate spheres. They are akin to parallel rungs of a pair of ladders that have come very close to one another. At a point in time it becomes extremely easy to move from one to the other. What makes the darkness and the light different is that they are governed by different laws. And it seems to be that only those who cling to the darkness, who have learned how to manipulate it—and are thus manipulated by it—understand that.

Kansatsu, in the darkness, like a kite in a field or a bat in the rafters.
You see, Nicholas, those in the light are not without flaws. Many believe that their virtues hide their flaws. Others are prideful of their mastery of the light, absolutely certain of their place in the world above those in the dark. That is their sin. Pride is the downfall of all heroes, Nicholas. If you retain nothing else of what I teach you, make sure it is this.

Now Nicholas knew that much of his despair was rooted in his pride. Despite Kansatsu’s lesson, he had fallen into the trap of the prideful. Thinking himself a hero, he had gradually become like an addict, dependent on that concept. Now that he had been stripped of his powers, he could no longer be a hero. With that crutch gone, he had been plunged into the abyss. Falling through the vapor. Falling, endlessly falling…

Nicholas raised his head and, with a concerted effort, moved away from the final remains of Kyoki, the tanjian. He turned his gaze away and began a thorough search of the rooms.

He had no idea what he was looking for. Perhaps he was, after all, still clinging to the absurd notion that Kyoki could be of help even in death. Whatever the motivation, he was determined not to leave the castle without having explored every avenue. Tanjian were said to be clannish in the extreme. If Kyoki had any friends—or family—surely they would be tanjian, too. And possibly there would be some evidence of them in this, Kyoki’s private chambers.

He went through Kyoki’s desk, through another
tansu
in this part of the chamber. Above it was a hanging scroll of fine calligraphy that said, “Thunder/On a clear day/Brings thoughts of homecoming.”

An eighteenth century lacquer writing box lay atop the
tansu.
Nicholas opened it, took it apart. He was not admiring the exquisite workmanship, but examining each component. A ceramic vase, devoid of flowers, nothing inside when he turned it upside down save a tiny dried leaf. Still, he lit one of the candles he found inside the
tansu
so that he could examine the inside of the vase. It was innocent.

Nicholas placed the candle in a stone holder atop the
tansu,
bent to examine the chest’s interior for any sign of a false bottom or compartment wall. There was nothing.

With a deep sigh he shifted his gaze. Above the
tansu
the calligraphy scroll seemed to float on the stone wall. But now something had caught his eye. Was it a discoloration in the scroll? But surely it had not been there moments before.

Nicholas studied it more carefully, bringing the candle closer to the paper. And, with mounting excitement, saw that the heat from the flame had caused a chemical reaction to occur. Lettering hitherto invisible was appearing, superimposed upon
kisho,
the ideogram for homecoming.

Nicholas read, “Genshi, my brother. The Black Gendarme. The Hodaka.”

And he thought, Dear God, not the Gendarme. But, of course, it had to be. The Black Gendarme was where at the age of fourteen Nicholas Linnear had died.

“Before I allow you to interrogate me,” Tomi said to Nangi, “I want you to understand that I don’t believe a word you’ve told me regarding your interest in the murderer of Dr. Hanami.” She raised her hands. “That’s all right; I don’t suppose I have to know. But I know enough about Nicholas Linnear to know that he has the kind of mind that would remember as much if not more than I do about the attack.”

Nangi nodded. “I apologize for that, but what I said concerning Linnear-san’s shock is the truth. I’m sure he remembers in detail his encounter with the tanjian. But he is currently in no shape to be of use to me.”

Recalling Senjin’s order about finding out Linnear’s whereabouts, Tomi said, “Are you currently in contact with Mr. Linnear?”

“No,” Nangi said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

Tomi looked skeptical. “Nangi-san, I must tell you that there is still a good deal of concern for him inside the department because of this Red Army threat.”

“Forget the Red Army threat,” Nangi said. “That was just a ruse used by the tanjian to direct our attention away from the true threat.”

“My boss did not think it a ruse. The threat came directly from an intercepted, decoded Red Army communiqué.”

“I have no doubt that it appeared genuine,” Nangi said. “Nevertheless, I believe that your superior—what is his name…?”

“Captain Senjin Omukae, Commander, Homicide Division.”

“Well, I believe that in this case Captain Omukae has been misled. There is no reason for the Red Army to want to assassinate Nicholas Linnear.”

Tomi thought a moment. “Tell me, Nangi-san, assuming you know where Nicholas Linnear is now, would you tell me?”

“My dear Detective Yazawa,” Nangi said, “I thought you had agreed to tell me what you can about the tanjian.”

Tomi shook her head. “I would very much like to come to some kind of accommodation.” She smiled sadly. “You must understand that I am running an investigation. If you have any information pertinent to this investigation and I think you’re withholding it, I can cite you, designate you a material witness, even declare you a suspect. In which case, I guarantee that you would be spending a good deal more time answering questions in this building than you would care to do.”

“Besides anything else,” Nangi said, unperturbed, “I am in negotiations with Kusunda Ikusa. I don’t think Nami would care for my incarceration, your investigation notwithstanding.”

They stared frostily at one another for some moments. At length Tomi said, “Okay, we’ve crossed our swords and where has it gotten us? Obviously, we each have something that the other wants.”

Nangi nodded. “That is clear enough.” This was a difficult moment for him. It would be a mistake, he knew, to let her know just how crucial it was for him to gather information on the tanjian. On the other hand, he suspected that he would lose her—and whatever knowledge she could provide him with—unless he made it clear to her that he was not going to withhold information.

“What I know is this,” Nangi said. “The tanjian may have some connection to Nicholas Linnear, who, as I am certain your computers have told you, is a ninja. The tanjian are ninja of a sort—a very specialized and dangerous sort. Their arts are at once more primitive and more powerful even than a ninja’s. A tanjian is a more dangerous foe than one can imagine.”

Nangi paused to allow Tomi to come to terms with the reality he was presenting before turning that reality subjective. He said, “I suspect—but do not know for certain—that this tanjian is someone from Linnear-san’s past. If this is so, you can see the urgency in my discovering his identity. Revenge is not so easily accomplished. The death of Linnear-san is obviously not the tanjian’s immediate objective, though I believe it to be his ultimate goal. If I can learn his identity, I have a chance to figure out what his strategy is and how best to counter it.”

Tomi digested all this. “If I had not encountered this tanjian myself,” she said, “if I had not heard what he said to Mr. Linnear, I would find your story too fantastic to be credible.” She watched Nangi as she would a rival in a sharpshooting contest. “All right, I think we have a treaty of sorts,” she said. “And I’ll take what you’ve told me about the tanjian’s ruse under advisement. I already have too many dead ends on my calendar to add another one, especially one that concerns the Red Army. That’s really Commander Omukae’s specialty.” She settled herself more comfortably behind her desk. “More tea? No? Then, what can I tell you about the attack that Mr. Linnear hasn’t already told you?”

“Did you see the tanjian’s face?” Nangi said.

“No.”

“Was he a man or a woman?”

“Man.”

“Is that a guess, an impression, or a fact?”

Tomi thought a moment. “I first became aware of him as a shadow. He came through the window as if he were shot from a bow. He must have been hanging on just outside, and the way he levered himself up and in—that kind of power—he was a man, no doubt about it.”

“What happened then?”

“I pulled my gun—or tried to. He slammed into me so fast, so incredibly fast! I hit the wall, I was groggy, but I saw that it wasn’t me he was after, it was Mr. Linnear.”

“Is it your impression that he could have killed Linnear-san?” Nangi asked.

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No.”

“Have you any idea why?”

“He seemed—I don’t know, not to want to, is the best way to put it—as if it were too easy, as if he didn’t want it to be over so quickly.”

“Again, is that an impression or did something specific happen?”

“Well, I was unconscious for a time. But I remember opening my eyes for a moment, seeing him drag Mr. Linnear back from the open window. He said, ‘If you die now, if you die too easily, you will never understand.’”

Nangi sat completely still. “Are you certain of what you heard?” he said at last.

Tomi nodded. “I remember because there was more he said, but that’s an impression. I was trying to get at my gun and I think I was slipping back under. I could hear a sound, like a buzzing or muffled laughter. By then I was putting all my energy into trying to get the gun. But the pain came back, and then I don’t remember anything else until I woke up in the hospital emergency room.” She was trying to read Nangi’s face. “Do you know what the tanjian meant?”

Nangi did not, at least not in any specific way. But the evidence was mounting. The possibility that the tanjian had a long-range strategy was now a probability. And the strategy made chilling sense.

How Nangi missed Nicholas’s expertise in strategy. Without Nicholas, the threat of the Sphynx computer-chip
kobun
became far more acute. The fate of the entire Sato International organization was in jeopardy. Nangi needed Nicholas’s agile mind in this crisis. But Nicholas had been neatly put out of the way. He wasn’t dead; but he was worse than dead: he was alive but powerless and unreachable. It could not be coincidence, surely.