Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

“Mr. Swagger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The best sword polisher in Japan is in London, restoring blades for the Victoria and Albert Museum. The second best is in San Francisco, giving a seminar for your countrymen. But the third-”

“The third.”

“The third used to be the best. Only time eroded something of his skill. He is eighty-four. His name is Tatsuya Omote. I have his address.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re on to something. I fear that three weeks ago, he abruptly canceled an appearance at a conference in Osaka. He’s missed the deadline on a commission he undertook for a shrine in Hiroshima. His shop doesn’t answer and he no longer responds to e-mail. This is very troubling to his friends, but he did send one e-mail several weeks ago telling them not to worry, he was fine, he simply had an all-consuming project.”

Bob looked at his watch. It had taken seven minutes.

“What now?” the doctor asked. “Should we call the police?”

“I think that’s likely to tip people off rather than set anyone free. I think I’ll drop by and see what’s going on.”

“That could be dangerous. Are you armed?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“Come with me.”

The doctor led him to the vault and spun the dial of the combination lock. He pulled the door back, and Bob had the sense of a great weight shifting on ball bearings.

Bob didn’t enter because he wasn’t invited. But the doctor emerged in a few seconds with a white weapon.

“Gendaito wakizashi. Modern short sword. It was forged in nineteen forty-three by one of the leading showa smiths at the height of his powers. It was meant for the smith’s son, who was then an officer on an island called Tarawa. Obviously, the son never came back. After the war, the smith remounted the blade in the civilian furniture you see now, which is why the saya, the tsuba, the same, the saego are all white. White is our black. It reflects grief.”

The doctor held the sword before him, cutting edge up, and with his left hand removed the white-lacquered saya. The naked blade gleamed in the light, beautiful and hungry.

“The old man told me, when the museum acquired his collection, that this was the sharpest, strongest blade he ever made. It was made with love to protect his son. But his son never got to carry it. The old man gave it to me with the idea that I would give it to my son, to protect him, but my son never got to carry it. He died early also. So I give it to you, because you are a son too. I give it to you in hopes that it can protect you with its magic ingredient of a father’s love. So this is really a gift to your father, from me. I hope he was a good man.”

“He was a very good man,” said Bob.

“Good. I’m praying that you don’t have to use it, but if you do, I know this: it will cut swift and fast and true.”

They drove through the suburbs, then farther into the farmlands surrounding Tokyo, the famed Kanto plain. Mountains loomed on the edge of vision, including the great one, Fuji, gigantically big, the clear fall day revealing it vividly. It looked like an advertisement for a Japan that only existed in the minds of western tourists.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I have the bike. I could have found the place on my own.”

“Suppose you get cut. Suppose you’re bleeding and you can’t work the bike. Suppose someone calls the cops and you have to run away and have no place to run. You’re just a big gaijin and they’d pick you up in thirty seconds. No, Swagger, I do have to do this. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“And that’s why you’re carrying something under your jacket? Something about the length of a sword.”

“Otowa gave it to me, just in case.”

“Swagger, you are going to be so dead or so locked up and my career is going to be so over.”

“I can handle this.”

“Yeah, the white guy with a week of training. Uh-huh.”

“Don’t forget, I beat a little girl.”

At last they found it, on a nondescript street in a nondescript town, a nondescript commercial building with a few ground-floor shops, one of them clearly closed, its curtains drawn. The others in the line sold noodles, sushi, sex movies, liquor, and software games. But the sign over the closed shop simply read Nihonto.

“That’s it. That’s Tadaaki Omoto’s place. God, it looks like a place where they sell cheeseburgers.”

“Tatsuya Omote. Can’t you get the name right?”

“You’re very edgy, Ms. Okada. I know what you need. How about some shopping? It’s time to go shopping.”

“What?”

“Sure, that always settles folks down. Let’s go buy some stuff.”

He got out of the car and strode across the lot. A few steps behind, she followed. He went straight to the liquor store. By the time she’d caught up to him, he had bought a pint of Jack Daniel’s.

“This is a very fine drinking whiskey,” he said. “Would you like some?”

“Swagger, I-”

He paid, about 3,600 yen. He held the bottle out to her, but she shook her head no.

“Okay, in a few minutes. Now, what about a nice cup of noodles?”

“Mr. Swagger, have you had a breakdown? Really, I-”

“No, ma’am, I am fit as a fiddle. I do think we should have some noodles.”

“You are-”

“We should watch for a while before I go into my Toshiro imitation. Come on.”

So the samurai and his companion went into Solo’s noodle-rama and had a nice cup of noodles each, and a diet Coke. It was actually pretty good. They sat near the window.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“Well, I see a large Mercedes S-Class, black, very shiny, parked in the lot. Your standard yakmobile.”

“You have no idea how many of them are in there. We should call the police.”

“Yes, and what do they find? An old man polishing a sword in the presence of several thugs in suits. Where would the crime be? Would the old man say, ‘These guys have terrorized me into polishing this stolen sword’? He would not, because he fears retaliation, and rightfully so. The cops would say, ‘How is this sword stolen? Has it been reported stolen?’ And of course we’d have to answer, ‘We have no proof except for the crazy accusations of Slim Whitman here who claims it’s a sword he brought into the country a few months ago.’ Then the yaks would say, ‘And here’s the license for the sword,’ which they got from Yano-san. So the sword goes back to the yaks, we’re booted out of town, and Mr. Tatsuya-”

“Mr. Omote, dammit. Can’t you get anything right?”

“Mr. Omote gets back to polishing. Meanwhile, the cops discover my passport ain’t no good and I’m arrested. That don’t sound too good to me.”

“Come on.”

She led him back to the car.

“Get in.”

She opened her purse, a rather large green leather bag, and handed it to him. He looked inside and saw the grip of a small pistol.

“It’s a sterile Chinese Makarov. I got it from a couple of the Agency clowns on the fourth floor. It’s loaded with some magic candy called three-eighty hollowpoints, whatever that means, it had the boys all giggly. Take it.”

“No.”

“Swagger, you can’t go in there with just-”

“Yes, I can. This game is called swords. It’s their game. I beat them at it and that makes me the winner. And throw that thing into Tokyo Bay. It’ll get you sent to Japanese women’s prison for the next fourteen years and they don’t have no Kate Spade bags there.”

“I hope you survive long enough to tell me how a bumpkin from Utah who sounds like Johnny Cash before the cure can identify a Kate Spade.”

“I’m from Idaho out of Arkansas. My daughter made me buy her one. I also bought one for my wife. You must do okay. They ain’t cheap. Sure you won’t have a drink?”