The Toyotomi Blades (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 2)

  THE

  TOYOTOMI

  BLADES

  A KEN TANAKA MYSTERY

  Dale Furutani

  ©1997, 2011 Dale Furutani Flanagan. All rights reserved.

  To Rose,

  a second mother

  and an unfailing supporter

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Shigeki and Eiko Miyamoto and my many friends at Nissan Japan for enjoyable and enlightening trips. Thanks to my Nihonjin friends at Nissan U.S.A., Ken Love and the helpful people on the CompuServe Japan Forum who refreshed my memory on obscure details about Japan, Mike Ross for the Torayama shikona, Kayko Matsumoto Sonoda and Justice Morio Fukuto for their help, and Marion Spencer for triumphing over my dictation tapes. Finally, I am grateful to Shawn Coyne for buying this series and to Keith Kahla for his editing talents and sage advice.

  My footprints on a

  Black sand beach. A rising tide

  Erases the past.

  THE

  TOYOTOMI

  BLADES

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  1

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  Yeah, yeah, I know the phrase comes from Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who has the dubious distinction of having a bad writing contest named after him. I also know that’s how Snoopy starts his one-page novels that never seem to get finished. But darn it, it was a dark and stormy night: one of those terrible New York City storms that drives even the muggers and dope dealers off the streets, and at two in the morning it was as dark as a Hollywood producer’s heart.

  I wasn’t there, but he challenged me to figure things out and I’ve thought about what must have happened countless times. I imagine he started the night by sitting behind the building’s parapet, waiting for time to pass and clearing his mind of thoughts of death.

  It’s a Zen exercise to sit under an icy waterfall and meditate. As you do this, your whole body is transmogrified from shivering flesh to ethereal numbness. Tiny bullets of water impel their way into your consciousness, forcing you to drive into your inner self to remain focused and concentrated. Sitting in the storm that night must have been close to this.

  The fierce wind at the top of a fifty-five-story skyscraper would add extra sting to the ice-cold raindrops that assaulted his face and hands. The rest of his body would be clad in garments of tight-fitting black wool that would buffer him from the sting. He knew the rain and the night would make it harder for him to be seen, but it also made the task ahead of him more exacting and much more dangerous.

  He must have thought of postponing his task one more night, but the storm had raged for two days, and there was no guarantee that it would clear up soon. He had plane tickets for Europe the next morning and probably he decided not to let the weather deter him or force him to postpone his flight.

  From out of the bag he carried to the roof, he took a black woolen hood. He pulled it down over his head, leaving only his eyes and the bridge of his nose exposed. Then he reached into the bag for the rest of his apparatus. It was time to begin.

  He strapped a harness onto each foot. The harness held a steel clip that projected downward from the toe. He tied the rest of his gear to one thigh, making sure it wouldn’t flop about or make noise, then he picked up the two spring steel tools for his hands. He needed the tools to crawl down the sheer face of the building. He stood up to meet the fury of the storm.

  He quickly swung over the top of the parapet and let his legs hang down the front face of the building, dangling high above the surface of the rain-slick street. Below, the street was a black ribbon, with only the blurry headlights of an occasional car visible though the rain. He moved his legs carefully, his toes seeking the thin aluminum frame which marked the separation of the glass panels that formed the front facade of the building. He found it and shoved downwards, wedging the thin steel blades into the rubber stripping that held the glass in the frame.

  He stood up, putting his weight on his legs instead of dangling downwards from his arms, then he squatted down, pressing against the glass face of the building. Reaching to the left and to the right with the hand tools, he let the tools bite into the vertical bars holding the glass panels. Pulling inward to support his weight, he lifted one foot, then the other, and hung downwards with his toes searching for the next horizontal strip. When he found it, he released the tension on the vertical frame, shifted his weight to his feet again, and repeated the process. Squatting, hanging by his arms, and extending, slowly making his way down the building like some giant inchworm.

  He carefully avoided the windows. The hour was late and most of the residents of the building were asleep, but he still made the necessary detours. He had a long way to go, and he didn’t want to be discovered through simple carelessness. His target was eleven stories down, a condominium apartment on the forty-fourth floor.

  As he made his way, he didn’t feel the rain or the oppressive darkness. Such considerations he held in low regard. His focus was on his mission. After all, he was trained in Ninjitsu, the way of the Ninja.

  When he started his training in Ninjitsu, he was told that a Ninja, if his heart was pure and his technique was perfect, could become invisible if he wanted to; that he could leap thirty-foot castle walls unaided; or, in an echo of the Christian Christ, walk across water. Although he tried earnestly to believe this, he just couldn’t surrender doubt about the truth of these claims. Although he was Japanese, his heart held the cynicism of the modern age.

  However, he knew from personal experience that, with will and training, a man could do things which others might consider impossible. With the flick of his hand, he could break a glass bottle that was free-standing on a table, shattering the glass without sustaining a cut. In a bitterly cold winter sea, he could hold his breath and glide underwater for impossibly long distances. And, through the use of the cunningly shaped pieces of steel, he could make his way down the blank face of a building.

  As he approached his target, he saw a series of brightly lit panels, indicating that the occupant of the apartment was still awake. He stopped right above the lighted rectangles, waiting patiently until it was once again time to act. Just inches below his feet was an apartment window. George LaRusse was standing at this window, looking out into the rain.

  The storm is getting worse, LaRusse thought as he took a last drag on his cigarette and crushed it in a full ashtray. In the morning the cleaners would be let into the apartment to put things in order. The poker players had been sent home, some vowing that they would win their money back the next time, and the girls that LaRusse had called to keep them company had also been dismissed.

  There was a time when LaRusse would have asked one or even two of them to stay and spend the night with him, but now he was at an age where sex could be handled in twenty minutes of
efficient activity in one of the bedrooms, leaving him more time for the card game and the thrill of winning. Since protection for prostitutes was one of the many businesses he engaged in, LaRusse had become quite jaded about women.

  LaRusse walked across the apartment looking at the ashtrays and the dirty drink glasses. The apartment had been decorated for him with modern furniture acting as a counterpoint to the Asian antiques hanging on the walls. The antiques were groups of ancient weapons, samurai swords, a small Chinese shield, and a Chinese spear made of pounded brass, as well as a magnificent gold lacquer screen that covered almost an entire wall of the apartment. The screen was painted with purple iris and green leaves and showed a tranquil pond. LaRusse never felt at home with the decor but wasn’t engaged enough to change it. What did interest him was that in the apartment he felt safe.

  Due to an unfortunate dispute over territorial rights in a section of Harlem, LaRusse found himself increasingly isolated, wrapped in a glass and steel cocoon and surrounded by bodyguards and tight security. It was beginning to feel like an ornate jail. He walked to a panel on the wall in the hallway and pushed a button. A small TV screen in the panel started to glow, and LaRusse saw a picture of the hallway and elevator outside the front door of his apartment. There, sitting at a desk, was a muscular young man in a conservative business suit.

  “Are you going to bed now, Mr. LaRusse?” the man said, speaking into a panel on his desk, where a blue light was glowing.

  “Yeah, Fred, it’s time for the sack. I’ll probably sleep in tomorrow so I won’t talk to you before you go off your shift. See you tomorrow night. Good night.”

  “G’night, Mr. LaRusse,” the voice echoed from the wall panel.

  LaRusse released his finger from the button and started walking towards his bedroom. On the buffet next to the coffee table he noticed a dish of leftover lasagna.

  The lasagna seemed especially good to him tonight. It was sent from his favorite Italian restaurant, Cacciotti’s, along with the rest of the food for the poker game. He thought of finishing it off, but he was gaining weight at an alarming rate and had been making half-hearted attempts at dieting. LaRusse decided that he would heat some up in the morning for brunch.

  He picked up the dish, took it into the kitchen, and put it in the refrigerator. He thought about pulling out a beer for a nightcap, but decided against it. Making his way to the bedroom, he turned out the lights behind him.

  Outside LaRusse’s apartment, still clinging to the front of the building, the Ninja saw the lights go out. The man had finally gone to bed. Although it was late, the Ninja knew there were at least four hours of darkness left so he was in no special hurry to go about his business. He would give the man an hour or two to fall asleep before he moved from his position and set about his task.

  A couple of hours later, LaRusse awoke groggy and sleepy-eyed. He had to go to the bathroom. He climbed his way out of sleep and into consciousness, and just as he reached the state that balanced between being asleep and being awake, he heard a small sound. He couldn’t tell if he actually heard it or dreamed it, but he reached under his pillow and placed his hand on the gun he kept there. He operated on instinct, and instinct had kept him alive in many tight situations. He stayed still, fighting his way to full alertness, listening.

  The sound puzzled him. It was the noise of wind, but too loud to be coming from outside his apartment. The location of the sound also puzzled him. It came from his living room, and sounds of people breaking in should come from the hall. Keeping one hand on the gun, he reached with his other hand to the intercom by his bed.

  “Fred?” LaRusse’s voice was a hoarse whisper as he called the guard’s name.

  “Yes, sir?” The intercom’s volume was turned low, but the puzzled surprise in the guard’s voice still came through.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Quiet night. Nothin’ going on. Is something the matter?”

  “No,” LaRusse said after a pause. “Just thought I’d check to make sure you were awake. Good night.”

  “G’night, sir.”

  LaRusse clicked off the intercom. He lay in bed puzzling out the mystery of the sound. He was forty-four stories above the street and there was only one door to the apartment. He felt the stir of a cool draft and he decided that the sound must be from the heating system. It was always acting up. He took his hand off the gun and threw back the covers, finally getting up to go to the bathroom.

  On the way back to bed, he thought about the dish of lasagna; he could taste the aromatic tomato sauce, firm noodles, seasoned meat, and the creamy cheese. To hell with his diet. He was hungry and he wanted that lasagna. He padded back out of the bedroom and down the hall.

  The apartment definitely felt colder than normal, and when he entered the living room on his way to the kitchen, he was astounded to smell rain and to feel the chill of the storm. Before him, an entire panel of glass was removed and lying on the living room floor. The wind and rain were beating in through the windowless opening, causing a widening stain on the expensive carpet.

  His first thought was that the storm must have somehow worked the glass free, popping it out of its frame. He walked over to investigate and noticed that there was some kind of suction cup clamped to the face of the glass. The suction cup had been used to remove the glass.

  LaRusse turned immediately to retrieve his gun, but before his turn was complete, a knife flew across the room with power and authority. It penetrated the flesh just below his right jaw. The suddenness of the attack and the massive drop in blood pressure from the severing of an artery muted the pain and fear, leaving him confused more than anything else. As he tried to pull the knife from his flesh, he staggered, stepped on the slippery wet pane of glass, and fell backwards through the opening.

  As he started the long tumble to the street, the confusion cleared and the cold ratiocination that he had depended on for his livelihood and life returned. His senses became acutely aware of everything that was happening. He felt the warm gush of blood on his hands as he continued to try to remove the knife. He felt the sharp sting of the blade as he tugged at it. He felt the lesser sting of the drops of cold water hitting him on the face, hands, and bare feet. He saw the blur of glass panels passing him as he tumbled towards the earth, and he noted with detachment that he continued to pick up speed.

  Perversely, his last thoughts were of the hunger he still felt and how the lasagna in his refrigerator was so much better than his mother’s.

  The Ninja hesitated only long enough to make sure the man wasn’t going to be a threat. The need to press his attack was eliminated when the man fell through the window opening. He was surprised at how little time it took to actually kill a man. It was his first.

  He had wanted to avoid a confrontation with the owner of the apartment, but hadn’t shrunk from the necessity of acting. It was just like his practice. Over and over, endless repetitions of throwing a knife. That repetition was how he had acquired the skills that made up his gei, or art. To him it was an art, and the death of the man was the natural extension of that art, an extension that turned his years of rather esoteric training into a practical craft. The craft of killing.

  He turned his attention back to the wall of the living room where the real target of his efforts was hanging.

  2

  Two days later, the cold wind of Rotterdam was dancing around the cars on Oude Binnenweg as the silver-and-white tourist bus pulled to the curb and shuddered to a halt.

  “Gentlemen, we come to the next stop.” Wouter Leeuwenberg’s English was slightly accented but his meaning was clear. There were groans and considerable conversation when the group saw they were parked in front of another museum. Since the conversation was in Japanese and Leeuwenberg spoke no Japanese, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But he could guess.

  The common language between Leeuwenberg and the Japanese tour group was English so he felt safe speaking to the bus driver in Dutch. “Oh-oh, the nat
ives are getting restless.”

  “What are you going to do?” the driver asked.

  “What can I do? That horse’s ass Hans scheduled us for six museums today. Six! This is the fourth and even I’m getting sick of it. These guys have already seen the palaces of London, the art of Paris, and the sex shops of Copenhagen. Then I get them.” He groaned. “I’ll show them Rotterdam, but why does Hans put together an itinerary that starts with six museums on the first day?”

  The last of the tourists filed out of the bus and Leeuwenberg started after them. “I think Hans hates me,” he called over his shoulder to the bus driver as he stepped out after them.

  One of the Japanese tourists approached him. He had chubby cheeks and a smooth face that made him look like he was twelve years old. “Excuse me, but what is this museum?” he asked.

  Leeuwenberg smiled his best tour guide smile and said, “This is the Hollandse Scheepvaart. Very famous! Major attraction!”

  The Japanese had a look of skepticism cross his face that approached incredulity. He said something to the rest of the group and a lot of disgusted muttering in Japanese passed between the members of the tour. Then he said something and the group laughed.

  He turned back to Leeuwenberg. “This is a famous museum?”

  “Yes, it is,” Leeuwenberg lied.

  “Ah,” the Japanese answered. “The Louvre!”

  “No, not the Louvre. The Louvre is in Paris. This is the Hollandse Scheepvaart. The Dutch Shipping Museum.”

  “But this is a famous museum?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, the British Museum!”

  “No, it’s not the British Museum! It’s the Hollandse …” Leeuwenberg’s heated correction died as he noticed the twinkle in his questioner’s eye and the laughter from the rest of the group. So much for the inscrutable Japanese, Leeuwenberg thought, as he bustled past to lead the group out of the wind and into the museum. He was going to have a mutiny on his hands if he didn’t get this tour going right away.