Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

By this time, the security people knew Bob and nodded him through. He took the elevator to the fourth floor.

“Is the doctor in?”

“Yes, yes,” said his secretary. “Dr. Otowa, Swagger-san is here.”

“Oh, do come in. I was just getting ready to leave. Do you think it will freeze?”

“Feels like it in the air.”

“Yes, nippy out. Bracing, I must say. You have some news? Please sit, my friend.”

Bob sat in the familiar chair and faced the old man in his room of swords.

“The good news is, I think this will be concluded very shortly, and if all goes well, I will be free to dispose of the sword as I want. What I want is for the museum to have the blade. You-all would know what to do with it. It shouldn’t be the possession of any one man but of your nation.”

“That is very thoughtful of you. I had hoped for as much.”

“It is my pleasure. But I actually came on another bit of business. I’m sorry to say, this news ain’t good.”

“I am prepared.”

“Are you sure?”

“Speak, please.”

“There’s a man calling himself Kondo Isami. Do you know the name?”

“Of course. Every Japanese does. Kondo Isami was the leader of Shinsengumi in Kyoto in eighteen sixty-seven. He led many raids, was in many fights. A hero or a villain, depending, but surely an extraordinary swordsman in the shogun’s cause. He was executed in eighteen sixty-eight by the emperor’s forces. He died well but dishonorably, by beheading. He was not permitted seppuku.”

“This new Kondo Isami is also an extraordinary swordsman. In his fashion, he works for the shogun, fighting against outside domination. He’s a yakuza contract killer, the very best. You can see by his name he has some kind of vanity for samurai history. He likes to think of himself as one of them old boys. But nothing stops him. He killed Philip Yano and family. The whole business with the sword has been his invention. Now we have the sword. I’m afraid to say he has kidnapped Miko Yano, and tonight, all that gets sorted out.”

“There will be blood?”

“A lot of it, I think.”

“Yours?”

“Possibly.”

“You will fight this Kondo Isami.”

“If I can find him.”

“You are very brave, Swagger-san.”

“No. I just don’t see no other way. He’s too good to fight the others; he’ll kill them quick. So I have to run him down and face him off. That’s what he wants. It’s what I want too. It’s why I came here.”

“I see. And from me you want?”

“I have gotten so much from you, but I must ask for one more thing. It’s the hardest thing and you can be forgiven for not wanting to give it. But I felt I must ask.”

“What?”

“Your blessing.”

“Why would that be such a hard thing?”

“Because this ‘Kondo Isami’ is your son.”

There was a pause.

“I am beseeching the father of a man I must kill for his permission,” Bob said. “I won’t have a chance unless you free me. I can’t see a son. I can only see an enemy.”

Dr. Otowa looked at him dully.

Then he said, “I have no son.”

“Then he is your brother’s son or your sister’s son.”

“I have no brother or sister.”

He met Swagger’s gaze steadily.

“It is said of the new Kondo,” Swagger said, “that some people he meets normally, that he goes clubbing, that he has a regular life. But sometimes he retreats into some kind of artifice. If he has to meet certain people he wears a mask. Or he designs some theatrical lighting setup so his face can’t be seen. What’s behind that? When I saw him, I knew. He can’t meet people who know you. He met me because he doesn’t know I’ve been in contact with you. But anyone who’s seen him and you would see in a second the extreme facial similarity. It’s all there: the eyes, the shape of the nose, the shape of the mouth, the texture and color of the skin, the width of the face, the hairline. It’s a face I had seen before, sir. I saw it in a photo at Doshu’s dojo in Kyoto. You, Doshu, and the boy, then possibly fourteen, and some big trophy.”

“My son died,” said Otowa.

Bob saw no point in adding a thing. In any case, he had nothing to add.

Finally, Dr. Otowa spoke.

“I suppose I always feared such a thing. No one can hurt a father like a son, and no revenge is sweeter than the son’s upon the father.”

“You should not blame yourself.”

“There is no one else to blame. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-seven when the boy was sixteen. He had just won the eighteen-under all-Japan kendo championship open division, under Doshu’s coaching. His life was set. He would win it at seventeen, and at eighteen; then he would enter the men’s division and win that for five years running. Then he would be a national hero, a celebrity. He could go anywhere and do anything. Japan would be before him. He could be a politician, a CEO, an admiral.”

“What happened?”

“An appointment came up. It was an extraordinary opportunity. I supposed it would turn me into a national hero, a celebrity. I chose myself over him. I took him to America with me for three years. He had two years of American education at Scarsdale High and a year at Columbia. I don’t think he ever really forgave me for taking him out of his competitive kendo for the three most important years of his life. But to this day I don’t know how I could have turned it down. In any event, America changed him in some basic ways. It confused him.”

“It’ll do that.”

“He came back in ’eighty at nineteen and we knew he was too far behind to score well in the eighteen-overs, that is, the national championship. But he competed valiantly. It was astonishing. He made it to the finals. He was so heroic. But he lost, a close match. So it goes. But then in a split second, he threw it all away. Samurai pride, samurai rage. The helmets were off, the two opponents bowed, and my son went berserk for one second. He struck the man in the neck with his shinai, hurt him quite badly. Broke his collarbone. I had not been father enough to save him from his greediest hungers. The scandal was shattering. There was no hope. His gi and slippers were found on the beach at Enoshima. He had walked into the sea. No body was ever found.”

“I’m very sorry,” Bob said.

“You have no need to apologize. The shame is mine to bear, and mine alone. I love what my son was, I hate myself for my agency in his corruption, and I loathe what he has become. I can see the psychology, though. He did become the best swordsman in Japan, though not in a surrogate format with bamboo weapons. As a calculated affront to me and to the elders of the kendo world, he became a champion in the real world of the gutter, where the blades are sharp and the blood is real.”

Bob said nothing.

“Come with me,” said the old man.

He led Bob to the blank dark wall of the vault, cranked the handle, and slid the massive door open. He ducked in, gesturing Bob to follow, and Bob found himself amid yet more swords, even more beautiful, more valuable.

“There are many great collections,” Otowa said, “but none so great as this.”

“I am privileged,” said Bob.

The doctor leaned and plucked one off the wall.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Bob.

Bob felt the electricity of the thing, the perfection of its balance, the hunger of its blade, the stunning artistry of its fabrication.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

Bob turned the blade upward and cleanly drew it from the saya. The koshirae-blood red sago of black sharkskin, a gold-tinted tsuba-were magnificent, but even that magnificence was diminished by the blade.

“That may be the most perfect blade in all Japan. It is certainly the sharpest, the strongest, the most deadly.”