F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

He gave them a lead of half a block or better, then followed. Cautiously. They were crossing the lower end of Murray Hill and he didn't see many places to hide. Whenever the car stopped—and that was often—he did the same and found a doorway or used an unloading van as a screen.

When they finally reached Fifth Avenue, Jack saw the problem: mini gridlock. On the far side of Fifth, the street opened up, but the avenue itself was backed up. Could be an accident, or construction, or simply the daily perversities and vicissitudes of Manhattan traffic. Didn't matter. Once their car crossed Fifth, they'd be gone.

But wonder of wonders, the left-turn blinker came on. Hope sparked. This might work out after all.

Staying out of sight on Fifth was easy—more lanes of traffic, more pedestrians. The Town Car stayed in the center fire lane as it made its downtown crawl, which told Jack that it wasn't intending to turn for a while.

After more than twenty slow blocks, they came to Washington Square Park. The car seemed aimed to pass through the famous arch when it flowed right onto Waverly Place. The car stopped before a massive, granite-fronted townhouse where the four got out and hurried up the front steps through a columned portico. They entered as if they owned the place.

He had a feeling they didn't, but maybe their employer did. He wondered who that might be. Some sort of Japanese crime organization? How else to explain the yakuza? Seemed that someone in that deep-pocketed organization—had to have elbow-deep pockets to afford a place like the one on Waverly—was a katana collector as well, and had somehow learned that Gerrish had stolen the Gaijin Masamune.

Jack was sure Abe could learn who owned it. He'd ask him to find out.

Just for curiosity's sake.

Because Jack had no intention of seeing any of that crew again. He'd contact Naka Slater ASAP, hand over the sword, collect his fee, and then it would be arigato, sayonara, and good riddance to the cursed thing.

Darryl's eyes burned in the bright midday sunlight but he kept constant watch on the comings and goings at the Milford entrance.

Even though his shift didn't start again till midnight, and he needed some shut-eye real bad, he couldn't stay away from the hotel.

With good reason: He had a big investment here.

Hank had set up two twelve-hour shifts of three guys each in a side-door panel truck, noon to midnight, and midnight to noon. They'd found a parking space across from the front entrance and camped there. The plan was to spot her and follow her and one way or another pull her into the van without being seen. In the event they were spotted and reported, the van had been fitted with stolen license plates.

Darryl had taken the first red-eye shift with two other Kickers. Hank had told them that Dawn would probably dye her hair, so give every chick in her age group—not just the blondes—a close look.

And just to make sure she was really registered, he'd called the hotel and asked for Dawn Pickering. Darryl had figured she'd register under a phony name but Hank had said no way. Maybe before 9/11, but not since. The hotel wouldn't tell him the room number but had put him through to Dawn Pickering's phone. He'd hung up just as it started to ring.

Yeah, she was there, all right.

Smart guy, that Hank.

He scratched his left shin. Been itching him since last night. Had something bit him?

He pulled up his pants leg for a look and saw a purplish blotch on his skin. He tried to rub it off but it was in his skin. Weird. And ugly. Must have bumped it in the truck. He'd spent twelve hours straight in that thing watching the entrance with no sign of Dawn. And even though he'd been relieved a couple of hours ago, he couldn't seem to let go.

He didn't know the guys on the noon shift, didn't know how sharp an eye they'd keep out for the girl. After all, what did they care. Yeah, Hank said she was important to the future of the Kicker Evolution, but what did that mean in everyday terms? Not much.

If she slipped by them they'd be like, Oh well, fucked up, we'll get her next time.

Different for Darryl. That babe meant five grand in his pocket. He wasn't about to let her slip away.

Hideo was having no luck. He wanted to grab his keyboard and bat it against the desk until it shattered into a thousand pieces, but he resisted that dubious pleasure. He must appear to be in control of himself and the situation—the rapidly deteriorating situation.

Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to find a traffic cam with a view of the Bladeville doorway. He also had searched the Manhattan Webcam sites available on the Internet but still no luck.

So he decided to go to the source: Check police records on the Hawaiian Islands for a report of a stolen sword. That would lead to the owner and give Hideo a starting point.

But no such report existed on any of the islands. The possibility of a thief like Gerrish buying it seemed too remote to consider. Which left Hideo with a number of unpleasant prospects: The owner was either dead, or did not know the sword was missing, or did not legally own it.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. What was he going to do? He had to report back to Sasaki-san's office within the next twelve hours. What was he going to say? Certainly not that he had hit a dead end. Certainly not that he had run into a man who matched one of the pictures his brother had sent back—that would only remind them of Yoshio's failure and perhaps wonder if this brother might not be headed along the same path.

No, he must sound optimistic: Through his diligence he had already had two near encounters with the katana. Perhaps add that he had missed it by scant minutes each time and hint at how he wished he had been assigned this mission sooner. Had he arrived in New York even half a day earlier, he would have the katana by now and be flying it home. He believed this to be true, and hoped it might mitigate any ire in the home office about his lack of success to this point.

What he dared not say was that he had run out of leads. The two men he had connected to the blade were dead. His encounter with Yoshio's ronin had been a one-in-a-million chance coincidence. He could not count on another.

All he could do was ask his ancestors for help and guidance, and pray that they or fate would drop something in his lap.

Until that happened, he must appear to be in control and homing in on the katana. The only course open to him at the moment was to find the previous owner—the one from whom Gerrish had most likely stolen it.

That meant tracing Gerrish's movements from the time he landed on the Hawaiian Islands until the time he boarded Northwest flight 804 out of Maui.

At least then he would have a goal. He could look busy, be busy, all the while knowing he'd set himself a nearly impossible goal.

And then two seemingly unrelated facts collided and clung: If the previous owner of the katana had no legal claim to it, might he not have followed the blade to New York and hired a local to find it? Yoshio had termed the mystery man a ronin —and ronin had been known to sell their services.

He straightened in his seat. Here was another avenue of inquiry—a daunting task but one he must pursue: Seek out someone in this city who hired out to solve problems that needed to remain hidden from the authorities.

An urban ronin .

Delivery was scheduled for ten o'clock tonight. Naka Slater did not want to take possession of the katana in a public place. Said he needed to examine the blade before he forked over the rest of Jack's fee.