Bob looked again at the weapon.

“Could it somehow have ended up shortened, remounted in ’thirty-nine shin-gunto furniture, and carried in World War Two?”

“There’s no reason at all why it couldn’t have. It was lost. It could be anywhere, it could be nowhere.”

“What would verify it?”

“The shape of the blade and the structure of the ridges and the nature of the hamon would place it in the right time frame; then if enough was left on the tang, the presence of Norinaga’s name and the Asano crest would complete the triangulation. None of the other Ronin had swords by Norinaga. Oishi had Asano’s wakizashi and katana, with a white cord around the koshirae. Only Oishi carried Norinaga.”

“And if you had that sword-what would you do with it?”

“Possession of Beheader of Kira would be a totem of samurai purity that would propel its owner to instant fame. Its recovery would electrify Japan. I’d donate it to my own museum and display it to the people of Japan. It would be a gift to the nation. The nation would rejoice. Or most of it, anyhow.”

“What would the man who wiped out the Yanos do with it?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Swagger. I don’t know. But he certainly wouldn’t give it up easily. Mr. Swagger, do you understand what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I have a lead. A policeman, said to be an expert, examined the sword I brought into the country at the airport. He was the only one who saw it. He had enough time to make an impression of the tang. When I examined the sword in America the mekugi was cemented in place. Yet when I watched Yano examine the sword, that pin popped right out. So someone had disassembled the sword; it could only have been that policeman, who had it in his custody for three hours. That was the only time it was out of my sight. He won’t want to talk with me, but that’s too bad. I will learn of a next step from him. I will pursue that next step. In the end, I will find who stole the blade and I will retrieve it, no matter what.”

“These people will come for you.”

“I have been at risk before.”

“Yes, I realize. In the military.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is different. It’s not war, it’s more intimate. Are you armed?”

“No. I’m sure I could get a gun.”

“Yes, but if you were caught here without a passport and with an illegal gun…I hate to think of the consequences. Possibly you should hire a bodyguard.”

“He’d just get in the way.”

“Do you have any martial arts skills?”

“I know a trick or two. I was in the Marine Corps for fifteen years and took a few unarmed combat courses there. I’m not afraid of violence.”

“Fear has nothing to do with it. The bravest untrained man facing the most cowardly trained swordsman would die in a tenth of a second. Do you know the sword?”

“No.”

“If a skilled man came at you with a sword, what would you do?”

“Well, I suppose I’d go into the OODA loop: observe, orient, decide, and act. That’s the core of-”

“You would die, Mr. Swagger. That’s all you would do. Look, I’m sure you’re a very brave man. But get some instruction. Learn some fundamentals, at least, if you’re determined to explore these dark Japanese alleys. They are unkind places for the uninitiated.”

“I hear you.”

“There’s no way you could pick up what some have studied for a lifetime. But at least you’d have some sort of a chance if assaulted.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Here,” he said. “Here’s the number of a fellow in Kyoto. I will call him and tell him of the gaijin who thinks he’s Toshiro Mifune. He and I will have a good laugh. We were kendo competitors many, many years ago. We pelted each other bloody over the decades. He trained my son. He’ll see you, as a favor to me, even if only to be amused. You should spend a week with him and listen to what he has to say. Or you should go home. Those are your only choices. ‘Steel cuts flesh / steel cuts bone / steel does not cut steel,’ as Musashi said. Become steel or get cut, that’s the world you’re entering.”

20

Bob left the august building and headed through the parklands where dozens of brightly colored stalls, selling books and DVDs and yakitori, had been set up. He saw a cop car and thought, Do they know who I am? Am I being watched?

The trip in had been easy enough. Al Ino, through his intelligence contacts, was able to come up with a passport for Bob; soon enough, that led to a whole new identity, complete with driver’s license, Social Security number, and fake pictures in his wallet; he sold some bonds and put $100,000 in a fund in the name of a Mr. Thomas Lee, of Oakland, California, traveling money accessible anywhere in the world with credit card and PIN number. It went without a hitch; Bob Lee Swagger didn’t exist anymore.

Now that he’d done the first thing, he had to figure out how to locate the cop at the airport, how to approach him, how to secure his cooperation.

Yet already he was exhausted. Where had his energy gone? Was he too old for this? And a week of sword lessons: what could be learned in a week? What was the point?

He looked about for a western-style restaurant. He walked for a bit, leaving the somber, grand building and its parklands, and entered the crazed utopia of modern Tokyo. In time he found a Starbucks and went in and bought a seven-dollar cup of black joe.

Gradually, the Starbucks began to fill up. The coffee was hot and strong, and he began to-

And that’s when he noticed. The restaurant had filled up quickly enough, but with the same man. He was about twenty-five, all twenty-five of him. He wore his hair in a crew cut with a butch wax front fence; he was muscular, alert, oblivious, and yet at the same time aware. He wore square black-framed sunglasses, chinos, and a white polo shirt. They didn’t pay any attention to the lanky, older gaijin sitting there, but very quietly and skillfully surrounded him. Then Bob noticed they’d each ordered a single cup of coffee.

Oh, shit, thought Bob. I don’t like this at all.

One of them seemed to amble by, then, with a certain nonchalance, slid across from Bob. Not a word was said, not for a while. Finally the young man looked over and smiled and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Bob. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you. Thomas Lee, isn’t it?”

“What is this?”

The young man took a sip of his coffee.

“This Starbucks, really good, huh?”

“It’s okay. What is this? Who are you?”

“A friend, I guess.”

“I don’t have any friends. I’m a mean old bastard.”

“Not that kind of friend. The other kind. As in, we have the same enemies, so we should be friends.”

“Are you a cop? You look like a college tennis player.”

“Relax, Mr. Lee. Enjoy your coffee. I just think that when you finish, you should come with us.”

“Why would I want to do such a thing?”

“Because, as I say, we’re friends.”

“You say. I get in a car with you and the nine-millimeters come out and it’s all over for me.”

“Guns are illegal in Japan. Let’s put it this way: we can help you. We have the same goal.”

“Prove it.”

“All right. Your name isn’t Lee. It’s Swagger. You’re an ex-marine, a war hero, known in some circles as quite capable, something of an operator. If you get caught here on that bad passport, you are in deep trouble. We know all that. If we wanted to take you down, we could do it with a single call. Yet we do not. We are nice to you. We like you. Look, let’s do it this way. I’ll leave, all the men here will leave. You come out when you’re ready. Satisfy yourself that no one’s around, no one’s coercing you, that it’s entirely up to you. Then cross the street and you’ll see a tan van. I’ll be sitting next to the driver. Come over, get in. We’ll drive you to an interesting place and you’ll meet some interesting friends.”