Dale Furutani - The Toyotomi Blades

The Japanese had a look of skepticism cross his face that approached incredulity. He said something to the rest of the group and a lot of disgusted muttering in Japanese passed between the members of the tour. Then he said something and the group laughed.

He turned back to Leeuwenberg. “This is a famous museum?”

“Yes, it is,” Leeuwenberg lied.

“Ah,” the Japanese answered. “The Louvre!”

“No, not the Louvre. The Louvre is in Paris. This is the Hollandse Scheepvaart. The Dutch Shipping Museum.”

“But this is a famous museum?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, the British Museum!”

“No, it’s not the British Museum! It’s the Hollandse …” Leeuwenberg’s heated correction died as he noticed the twinkle in his questioner’s eye and the laughter from the rest of the group. So much for the inscrutable Japanese, Leeuwenberg thought, as he bustled past to lead the group out of the wind and into the museum. He was going to have a mutiny on his hands if he didn’t get this tour going right away.

Inside the museum, another Japanese face wasn’t so openly mirroring his thoughts. As the only Asian face in the sparsely populated museum, he knew he would be conspicuous. And he had built his career on not being conspicuous.

He knew that Japanese tour groups were taken through on a regular basis, so he had delayed his inspection until such a group showed up. The flock of Japanese businessmen headed by a bustling Leeuwenberg entered the museum, and the man studied the group carefully. He decided that it would do. In this group of tourists, he could disappear as surely as he could on a darkened night.

He approached the stragglers at the end of the group and asked if they would mind if he followed them through the museum. A few members of the group thought this request unusual and perhaps even a bit impolite, but they didn’t dream of refusing a fellow countryman.

As he walked through the museum with the group, the man loosened his tie and mimicked the reluctant shuffle of the businessmen, even though he was anxious to see something. Like a chameleon, he adapted to his surroundings and blended in so effectively that Leeuwenberg didn’t notice that his tour group had increased by one. The man showed patience as Leeuwenberg took them by dingy ship models and exhibits that celebrated Holland’s past as a major maritime power. The only thing that raised even a flicker of interest in him was a model of Henry Hudson’s ship, The Half Moon, which the guide said was used to discover the Hudson River. The man had been in New York only a few days before.

His patience was rewarded when the group went into a section of the museum devoted to the Dutch presence in Nagasaki. In the 1600s the Dutch had a monopoly on access to Japan through a community in the port of Nagasaki. The museum had maps and artifacts depicting this community, including a model of the tiny island to which the Dutch community was confined. The island, made artificially rectangular by stone sea walls, was linked to the mainland by a single bridge. There was a guard tower at the mainland side that made the Dutch enclave look like what it was designed to be: a prison that would keep the corrupting European influence away from the people. In the five minutes the group spent at the exhibit, the man absorbed every detail, committing the placement of doors, windows, and cabinets to memory.

When the tour group returned to the museum lobby, Leeuwenberg meticulously counted them. He had the exact number he started with, and he had no hint that he had hosted an additional member during the tour. A few of the Japanese near the back of the group noticed that the stranger was missing, but none knew exactly when he had disappeared. Any lingering curiosity about the man vanished when Leeuwenberg suggested, “Would you gentlemen care to delete two museums from today’s tour and visit some Rotterdam cabarets? You can drink Dutch beer.” A ragged cheer of enthusiasm rose as Leeuwenberg’s statement was translated into Japanese and passed on.

Two hours later, the museum went through its normal closing routine. Two guards walked through the various rooms asking a few lingering members of the public to leave. One of the guards walked into the men’s room, looking under the stall doorways to see if he could see any shoes. Seeing nothing, he turned off the light and exited the men’s room, continuing his rounds.

The man was crouched on top of the toilet seat in a back stall. A schoolboy’s trick, but sometimes the simplest strategies are the best. He waited.

A few hours later, the door of the restroom opened. The man carefully looked down the darkened hall. There was no evidence of life. During his tour of the museum, the man had carefully noted there were no key boxes, which indicated there was no night watchman, so he was fairly confident he would not be disturbed. He stepped into the hallway and made his way towards the Nagasaki exhibit.

The object he was looking for was in a glass case near the model of the Dutch settlement. He pulled out a collection of lock picks and inserted one pick into the cabinet lock to make an exploratory probe. It was a simple lock and he felt the tumblers turn under a little pressure from the face of the pick. He wiggled the pick around, twisted, and the lock snapped open. He lifted the top of the glass case, reached inside, and took his prize. Then he relocked the case.

He walked to a window he had previously chosen. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a scrap of wire. He carefully wrapped the ends of the bare wire around the contacts for the alarm sensor guarding the window, shorting out the sensor and making it possible for him to open the window without setting off the alarm.

He took out a small flashlight and risked shining the light for a few seconds to make sure the wire was connected to the proper contacts. Then, on a whim, he extracted a length of string from another pocket and securely tied it to the wire that was shorting out the alarm system. When he was satisfied with the connections, he unlocked and opened the window. The alarm stayed silent.

He climbed through the window into an alley running behind the museum. He ran the string tied to the shorting wire outside with him and closed the window until it was almost fully shut. Then he tugged at the string until the shorting wire was worked off the alarm contacts and pulled outside through the narrow opening of the window. He shut the window the last fraction of an inch and used a flat piece of metal to poke up between the two parts of the window and swing the lock back in place. The man allowed himself a grin as he put the metal, wire, and string in his pocket. When the authorities discovered the theft, the locked cabinet and untripped alarm would give them something to puzzle over.

Looking both ways, he put the stolen object in a long brown paper sack and stuck it under his arm like a loaf of French bread. Nonchalantly, he walked out of the alley towards his rented car parked a few blocks away. He whistled a little tune as he walked, happy as any tourist.

A few hours later another man was whistling, but this time it was literally half a world away, in Tokyo, Japan. His whistling was an absentminded habit when his thoughts were absorbed by a problem. He was a tall man, wearing a wrinkled gray suit over a white knit shirt that was yellowed from neglect. His hair was closely cropped to his head and his skin was pockmarked. He walked towards the California Orange bar with a long loping gait, much like a wolf.

The bar was in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, and when he entered, it took a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The bar catered to students, and at thirty-eight, he was easily the oldest person in the establishment. Even the bartender looked young.