Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

“I am really going to enjoy taking your head.”

“You bring the sword. I will release the child when I have the sword. The initiative is mine, I control the transaction. You may leave with the child. Later I’ll call you on the cellular and set up another appointment. We will settle our business.”

“It sucks, of course. You could have sixty men there with AKs.”

“I could. But if you don’t agree, I’ll start cutting the child right now. You doubt it? Look over there.” He indicated and Bob saw, fifty yards away, a large man with a bruised, bandaged face-Bob remembered clocking him hard, twice, at the polisher’s-and Bob saw Miko. The big man had his hands on her shoulders. She looked scared and wan. Her controller turned his hand, and the light caught the blade of a tanto held intimately against her delicate throat. There was also something about his hand, some sexual electricity. You could see he enjoyed the closeness, her smell, her helplessness.

“That boy will cut her in a second. He is true yakuza, living for obedience to his oyabun.”

The obscenity of the large, strong young man holding the bright blade against the terrified little girl and enjoying it so much filled Swagger with rage. But rage was not helpful.

“I’m impressed with how strong you are against little girls,” he said. “That’s quite a trick, but we’ll see how you do with someone with a sharper sword and faster reflexes. My guess is I’ll see fear in your eyes before I cut you down.”

“We’ll see you in a while, gaijin. Bring Beheader of Kira.”

“I’ll be there. And when I’m done with you, I’ll donate Beheader of Kondo to a museum.”

They drove back across Tokyo in a giant black car. Miko sat in the back-on the floor, actually-between the two giant monsters. The two men said nothing to each other or to her. She just sat there, feeling the start and stop of the car in traffic.

She had recognized the Tin Man, the man from the good memories even if she wasn’t sure what they were, what they meant. This time, he looked at her with such sadness in his eyes, and as she watched, the sadness flashed to rage, then went calm again. But she had caught it, that moment of rage, and somehow from that she took some hope. He knew, somehow. He was on her side. He would save her. But then the two giant monsters roughly returned her to the car, calling her only “Little Girl,” never her name, as if she was the unwanted stepchild. And she drove back to the house, the room.

The giant monster dragged her out of the vehicle. In a kind of courtyard, she caught a brief flash of fresh air. The courtyard was walled, somewhere in the city, and she could hear the sounds of traffic, see apartment buildings off in one direction. She had the impression of many men. They seemed to lounge everywhere, young men without women, all in black suits, all somehow tough or ready to fight. They scared her, as they gambled or joked or looked at magazines, or boisterously shoved each other around. She knew they were some kind of army.

The giant monster took her upstairs to a white room. She knew it well. It contained a bed and a television set. There were no toys or books or dolls. The windows were painted white. There was a bathroom attached. Three times a day, she was brought food, usually by one of the angry young men or by the giant monster with the swollen face who was her primary keeper. It was always takeout food, hamburger from McDonald’s or fish cakes, or pork cutlets wrapped in paper bags, or some such, a Coke in a cardboard cup. An hour later, wordlessly, someone would return, unlock the door, and take the garbage out. Meanwhile, she just sat and watched the television, or sat in the whiteness thinking and remembering, or sat in the whiteness crying.

“Little Girl,” said the Monster, “you know the rules. You stay here. You obey. If you do not obey, I will punish you. I believe in punishment. Your parents did not punish you hard enough. I will punish you severely. Do you understand?”

“How long-”

“Be quiet! Little Girl, ask no questions. You need to know nothing. Be a good little girl or we will have to punish you.”

Then he locked her in her room.

“Nii, come here,” said Kondo.

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“How’s the eye?”

“It’s fine.”

“What did you think of him this time?”

“Without a sword, he’s just another man, Oyabun.”

“He seemed calm. That impressed me. He had a moment when he saw the child and his eyes flared. He felt rage. But then he controlled it. He knew that if he tried anything, you would have cut the child’s throat.”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“Nii, you would have cut the child’s throat, right?”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“Sometimes I worry, Nii. Of them all, I trust you the most. These fellows are hard and tough and will obey and fight, even the new ones. But your job, Nii, that is the hardest. I cannot believe the gaijin won’t try something. And it may be that you will have to kill the child. You must be samurai. You must be Shinsengumi. You must be Eight-Nine-Three. You must be all will and no heart.”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“You can’t go sentimental on me in some appalling way. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“You are kobun. I am oyabun. You understand that. All things flow from that.”

“I stand ready.”

“I can’t imagine that it could happen, but if there’s an attack, you will proceed directly to the child and cut her throat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Oyabun. Why-why do you ask?”

“Because I am aware that you have some feelings for this child.”

“Oyabun, I-”

“No, I’ve seen you in her presence. You cannot tear your eyes away. You look back. On the drive over, you kept looking down at her. When you hold her, I see a certain passion in your limbs. You enjoy holding her.”

“Oyabun. It’s nothing. I swear to you, she is nothing, it-”

“I understand how comely the child is. I understand how her form can seduce you.”

“She is but an object.”

“Nii, don’t lie to me. I am your oyabun.”

Nii swallowed harshly, caught in his lie.

“Nii, listen to me. I must know that you can kill her. Because if I don’t know it, then they will also sense it. It will embolden them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“So listen to me. Before you kill her, fuck her. Once you are done with her, she is no longer a little princess. She is a whore, used by you for momentary pleasure and now defiled, tarnished, made dirty. She is nothing more than that Korean cow we slaughtered in Kabukicho. At that point, you can cut her and walk away.”

Nii saw the logic. He liked the logic.

“Do you hear me, Nii? Before you kill her, fuck her.”

“I hear, Oyabun.”

“Good kobun. Good student. I know I can count on you.”

“Here is our best option,” said Susan Okada glumly. They sat at a table at the Roppongi Starbucks, among software designers, clothing salesmen, mothers, teenage girls and boys with pins in their noses and lips. “I have thought this over and it could work. I go to the ambassador. I explain the situation, its urgency, the timing. He goes to the prime minister. They go to the minister of the Interior. We get some sort of dispensation, and we make guarantees. Of no, or at best minimal, collateral damage. If we get their okay-notice I’m bypassing the Tokyo police and the whole infrastructure in which Miwa and Kondo may have influence-we can move a SEAL team in from Okinawa. Most of the teams are in the Middle East, but Seven is in Okinawa and they’re very good. They’ve done stuff you wouldn’t believe in North Korea and on the Chinese coastline. So when you get that call at five thirty a.m., Seven is above you in a helo, they follow you to the location, and we air-insert fast. We have Japanese police cooperation to the point that we’ve got the park or whatever it is cordoned off, so no civilians will get shot. So SEAL Team Seven takes out Kondo and Miwa, if he’s there. Seven prevails. We get the little girl, you are not dead, Kondo and Miwa are dead or behind bars, Seven flies back to Okinawa, and we have our happy ending.”