F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

Which means I wear the face of a killer.

Hideo shook his head. He could never kill anyone. Yes, he worked in the espionage wing of Kaze Group's corporate intelligence, where he spied on companies, traced money trails, hacked systems and intranets. But the only things he killed were worms and viruses and trojans.

Killing a human? Unthinkable. He hesitated killing a fly unless it became especially bothersome.

Sasaki-san obviously knew of his lack of aggression, why else would he have assigned three hoodlums as Hideo's traveling companions? Why then had he chosen Hideo of all people to chase down this ruined katana? Was it because of his computer skills? Or his language skills? He'd begun learning English as a child. He could say "Lulu loves lollipops" as well as any American.

Futile questions.

He again accessed the flash drive and stared at the scan: a cardboard shipping tube packed with foam popcorn and a bubble-wrapped katana, stark white against the surrounding grayness, measuring ninety centimeters from the tip of its blade to the butt of its naked tang. But a ruined katana, its blade filigreed with perhaps one hundred small holes of varying sizes and configurations.

He had heard that Sasaki-san collected katana. But why would the chairman, who could afford the finest blade ever made by Masamune—could probably resurrect Masamune-san himself and force him to make a new, custom blade—want this unsigned piece of junk?

And the inscription:

Gaijin … what was the significance of that?

Questions, questions. Maybe he'd learn the answers. But more importantly, he prayed a Takita would not let down the chairman again.

He returned to the photo of the ronin .

I will be looking for you, he thought.

He glanced at the yakuza dozing beside him, and then at the two others seated ahead of him. If he found the ronin and established that he had killed Yoshio, he personally would do nothing. But he foresaw no problem in convincing his travel companions to take decisive action. They'd no doubt enjoy it.

Bladeville lived up to its name.

Jack stood on a Madison Avenue sidewalk and stared at the display on the far side of the front window. Claymores, cutlasses, krisses, kukri, katanas, cleavers, and carvers; sabers, scimitars, and survival knives; paring, chopping, and filetting knives; daggers and dirks, Bowies and broadswords, rapiers and axes and on and on.

And swinging back and forth over them all, a model of the blade from Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum .

The steel security shutter had been rolled up, lights were on inside, and Jack caught glimpses of someone moving about, but the front door remained locked. The sign in the lower right corner of the window said it opened daily at ten. Almost that now.

Jack wanted to be the first customer of the day.

Finally, the snap of a latch and the squeak of an opening door.

"Coming in?"

Jack had been expecting someone who looked like Abe. This guy couldn't have been more opposite. Very tall, lean, sixties maybe, with gray in his brown hair and a bent lamp—his blue eyes didn't line up. He wore a dark blue Izod and khakis. Jack stepped forward, extending his hand.

"Tom O'Day?"

O'Day had long arms and a firm grip. "Who wants to know?"

"Name's Jack. Abe Grossman said you might be able to give me a little help with something I'm looking for."

His smile broadened. "Oh, yeah. He called. How is he? Trim as ever?"

"Trimmer."

"What are you looking for?"

O'Day's right eye kept looking over Jack's shoulder; he had to stop himself from turning to see what was so interesting.

"A katana."

"Well, you've come to the right place." He motioned Jack through the doorway. "I got a million of 'em."

At the threshold Jack did a quick scan of the walls and ceiling and spotted a security camera in the far, upper right corner. He'd worn a Yankees cap today—just for variety—and so he adjusted the beak lower over his face. A bell chimed as they stepped through.

The rest of Bladeville was like the front window, only more so. A knife-filled glass display case ran the length of the store; every kind of edged weapon imaginable festooned the wall behind it.

Bladeville. No kidding.

He motioned Jack to follow and led him through a door at the rear marked NO ADMITTANCE. He flipped a switch and the lights came on, illuminating row upon row of Japanese swords—long, short, medium—all racked on the wall in scabbards.

Jack glanced up and around. No security cam in here. A quick look over his shoulder showed no second cam in the retail area.

"My collection—Masamune, Murasama, Chogi, Kanemitsu, whoever. You name a classic swordsmith, I've probably got one."

"This is a special katana, Mister O'Day."

"Call me Tom."

"Okay, Tom. This katana was stolen recently and I'm trying to get it back for the owner."

O'Day's eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"

"Would Abe send a cop? I'm private. Just wondering if anyone's tried to sell you a damaged katana recently."

O'Day flipped off the light and they returned to the store section. He stepped behind the counter and began Windexing the glass top. Jack positioned himself with his back to the cam.

"Can't imagine anyone buying damaged when you can get them in pristine shape. Unless it's a signed Masamune or Murasama."

"Not signed by anyone, I'm afraid. And it's sort of moth eaten."

His hand paused—just a second—in mid-wipe, then continued polishing.

Jack wondered if O'Day had seen it or been offered it. If so, a good bet he might know who had it. But he said nothing. Better to approach from an angle.

"You mean rusted out in spots?"

"The owner says it's not rust, just defects."

Now the polishing stopped as O'Day looked at him. "You wouldn't happen to have a picture of this katana."

"Sure do." Jack pulled the photos out of the breast pocket of his shirt and slid them across the counter. "Not great quality, but they give you an idea."

O'Day looked, froze, then snatched them up. His hands shook. Without taking his eyes off the photos he reached behind him, found a four-legged stool, and dropped onto it.

He let out a barely audible, "Oh, shit!"

"What's wrong? You've seen it?"

"The Gaijin," he said to himself. "The fucking Gaijin."

Interesting…

"Yeah. That's what I'm told those doodles mean, but what's the big deal?"

He glanced up at Jack. "The fucking Gaijin Masamune, my man. This is the fucking Gaijin Masamune!"

"Is 'fucking' really part of its name?"

"This sword is legendary. And it all makes sense now. It all makes sense…"

"Well, that makes one of us. Has anyone approached you about—?"

"The story goes that early in the fourteenth century a wandering gaijin warrior commissioned Masamune to refashion his heavy dirk into a kodachi —a kind of short sword. He said the metal in the dirk had fallen from the sky in a blaze of light and he wanted it transformed into something more graceful. He left, saying he would be back. When Masamune began to work with the metal, he found it the strongest steel he'd ever encountered. He made a kodachi with an edge like no other."

Jack didn't care about where it had been in the past; he wanted to know where it was now.

"Yeah, but—"

O'Day went on like he hadn't heard Jack. Maybe he hadn't. Jack had a feeling the only way he could shut him up was blunt-force trauma.

"Masamune waited years for the gaijin to return but he never did. Thinking him dead, Masamune melted down the kodachi and added more steel—his finest steel—but the two metals never fully mixed. The katana that resulted had a mottled finish. Though its blade was beautifully resilient, and took an edge like no katana he had ever seen, its finish embarrassed him."