Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

As the giant monster roared along the hall, two other giant monsters joined him, in the same black suits.

In seconds they were outside. Nobody had bothered to get her a coat or anything.

A sleek black car pulled up, and the giant monster shoved Miko into it and sat next to her, his bulk dominating.

“You,” he said. “No noise, no screaming, do what you are told, or it will be hard on you. Squat down so nobody can see you.”

He forced the child to the floor and threw a blanket over her as the car pulled away with a screech.

Exactly as Bob had planned, an ad keyed to The Nobility of Failure appeared in the Japan Times’ Personals section. The difference was that it was not sent from him to Kondo Isami but from Kondo to him. It deciphered neatly enough to “Yasukuni gate, 10 a.m. Tuesday.”

“They’ll kill you,” said Susan Okada.

“No. Not if I don’t have the sword. What he’ll do is set up a second meet. That’s when they’ll kill me.”

“Oh. That’s so much better. Look, we have to call the police.”

“No. You know that Kondo, or his boss, Miwa, have sources and influences in the police. If you tell them, in ten seconds Kondo knows. And what does that get? It gets Miko killed, it gets me killed. I will go to this meeting, I will set up the next meeting, the exchange, and we’ll go from there.”

“But he’s holding all the cards and he knows it. You can’t negotiate with someone who has an advantage. He will get you to some deserted place, kill you, take the sword, kill Miko, and go ahead with his plan. They’ll win.”

“Maybe I can-”

“No! You’ll get her killed. You’ll get yourself killed. Miwa will win. And then what?”

“Okada-san, I will go to this meeting and come back. And then we’ll see.”

“If something I did gets that child killed-”

“You did nothing but your duty. This is not about any failing of yours. It’s about guys who will do anything to get what they want. That’s what it’s always about. And you and I are lucky that we have the privilege to fight them. And we will fight them. And we will stop them. They think they’re samurai. They’re not. We’ll show them what samurai means.”

But Susan wasn’t convinced; Bob left her in a state of despair.

It had turned cold. The greenness of Japan had vanished. A cold wind blew, scattering dead leaves across the pavement of Yasukuni Shrine. On either side of the concrete esplanade, some trees stood tangled and severe; they looked like rusted barbed wire.

Bob stood under the steel gate. It towered above him, two steel shafts rising fifty feet to two steel crossbars, one mundane for stability, the other the great soaring wing that was the universal symbol of Japan, the torii gate with its architectural communication of the glory, the breadth, the scope, the power, the beauty, the immensity of Asia. Bob looked up into a blue sky at the top bar and saw immensity.

He shuddered. He was wearing a black suit and a raincoat, slightly underdressed for the weather. Outside the shrine parklands, Tokyo’s business hustled along its avenues, the honking and screeching of cars, the bustle of the endless parade of pedestrians. Here a few salarymen, a few tourists, a few visitors traversed the grounds in small knots, headed either to the shrine at the end of the walk or the samurai museum to the right of the grounds.

Bob checked his watch: 10:15 a.m. Of course, somewhere they were checking him out with binoculars, making certain he really was alone.

But then, from a knot of nondescript businessmen, one separated and ambled over to Bob.

Bob watched him approach. Was he expecting something special, someone whose demonic charisma seemed to carry its own internal light? He just saw a guy in a suit and a topcoat, with sunglasses, a broad but unimpressive face, dark hair cut into a bristly crew cut. As the figure approached, possibly he picked up vibrations of physical vitality, as if the man, under his dreary outerwear, possessed surprising strengths and agility. Or possibly it was his imagination.

“Greetings, I am the assassin Kondo Isami,” said the man in clear, accentless English, well polished, well schooled. “Who are you working for?”

Now that he faced him, Swagger felt a weird sense of familiarity. It was peculiar. What was so familiar? He spoke. “Philip Yano.”

“You’re not representing certain American adult-entertainment industry groups? You’re not a professional?”

“I would have nothing to do with that business. I don’t care for teacher-blowing-Johnny. But I’m professional enough to handle you.”

“You don’t represent government or any such official entity?”

“Nope. Did some work for ’em once, didn’t like it.”

“Who taught you the sword?”

“Toshiro Mifune.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Pal, I ain’t here to play twenty questions.”

“What was Philip Yano to you?”

“A good man with a good family who never deserved what he got.”

“He was nothing. There are more important things than one obscure family living on a government pension and investments.”

“I would say, He was everything. I would say, Cut the shit, let’s get cracking. The longer I stand here, the more I feel like breaking your neck.”

“I spent some time in America. You remind me of a football team captain who ended up a fireman. Stupid, loud, aggressive, but brave. He died on nine/eleven when the tower went down on him.”

“It makes me sick that a creep like you even knew him.”

“Yes, he was a hero, as you are. But in a different way. His was samurai’s courage, rash and emotional and caught up in the moment. That I understand. You’ve had weeks to think this over, to consider, to find reasons not to act. Yet you persevere. What drives you on this bizarre personal mission that can end in nothing but disaster for you? I suppose you’ve rationalized it elaborately. Really, I’m curious. Why? Why?”

“On,” said Bob.

“On,” scoffed the man. “You can know nothing of on. Obligation. It’s a Japanese concept, endlessly convoluted and twisted. It’s meaningless to any American.”

“I think I get it pretty well.”

“Impossible,” he said. “I went to an American high school. I had a year at an American university. I know America. No American could feel on.”

“Ask your pals at the polisher’s how serious I am. They’d know.”

“You had the advantage of complete surprise. So possibly the feat is less impressive than you imagine.”

“Sir, I really don’t give a fuck whether you’re impressed or not. I want the child.”

“I want the sword.”

“You can see that I don’t have it.”

“Where is it?”

“When I get the child in one hand, I’ll cut your head off with it with the other, and that’s when you’ll know where it is.”

Kondo reached in his pocket and pulled out a cellular phone.

“Two days from now, at five thirty a.m., you will receive a phone call on that phone. You will be given a route. You will proceed. I believe you have a motorcycle? I’d wait for the call near the Imperial Palace. That’s centrally located. At five forty a.m. you will get another call. It will direct you to turn. This will continue for a bit until you arrive at a certain destination at around six a.m., though you will have to run some stoplights. But you’d better run those stoplights. If you are late I will cut one of the child’s fingers off. Each minute, one finger. When I run out of fingers, toes. Then there’ll be nothing trivial to cut, so I’ll cut limbs. She’ll probably bleed to death before I get all four off, but if not, I’ll take out each eye, her nose, and her tongue. It means nothing to me. So you had better be on time.”