He rode in utter silence for about an hour. Then the doors opened but didn’t reveal the bright light of outdoors. His “friend” leaned in.

“This way, Mr. Swagger.”

Then he heard a strange sound. It was a hollow, vibrating thunk or clank. It was a wood sound and he figured after a bit that people were banging sticks together, sometimes quite rapidly, in dizzying patterns.

He was in a vast interior space under a vaulted, curving roof, and saw that it was a hangar of some sort. As his eyes adjusted, he quickly made out that it had been converted into a gigantic dojo. Everywhere, young men whacked at each other with katana, wooden of course, exhibiting a great deal of elegance and power. Most wore the hakama pants and shinshaga jacket of kendo, and the armor and masks of that game, but a few, either brave or fools, either too nimble to be held back by the armor padding or in punishment for an infraction, went at it with unprotected faces and bodies. They were really good.

He turned and saw his “friend” had joined two men wearing uniforms that had to belong to Japan’s Self-Defense Force.

“What is this, gym class?” he asked.

“Not exactly, Mr. Swagger,” said the leader of the group.

“Don’t know where you get your information. My name is Lee,” he said. “Thomas Lee. I have papers to prove it.”

“That’s not what Lieutenant Yoshida said.”

Oh, great, thought Bob.

He walked over, joined the officer, and the four of them walked between mats until they reached a conference room. They all took seats around a large table.

“Yoshida didn’t betray you,” the officer in charge said. “He was helping you. Yoshida informed us because he knew that you and I shared the same objective. I knew about your impending arrival before you even got the tickets.”

“All right. Who are you?”

“I, Major Albert Fujikawa, Commanding Officer, Third Battalion, First Airborne Brigade, Eastern Army, Japanese Self-Defense Forces, ground division, welcome you to Japan. The young man in civilian clothes is my executive officer, Captain Tanada, commanding officer of my Recon Company. As you might imagine, the bigger fellow is a sergeant, Master Sergeant Kanda. We welcome a retired gunnery sergeant, United States Marine Corps.”

“Well, aren’t you well informed? You even know my old rank. Al Ino tells Yoshida, who tells you; you make inquiries and get all my bona fides.”

“Something like that.”

“But now I get it,” said Bob. “You’re Philip Yano’s guys.”

“We were with Colonel Yano for many years. In Samawah, I was the one the colonel pulled from a burning Bradley vehicle. I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

“He was a very fine man.”

“He was indeed.”

“He and the kids and his wife deserved better than they got,” said Bob.

“Nobody deserved what the Yanos got. And that is why you’re here.”

“No one seems to be doing a goddamned thing about it!” Bob said in frustration. “That don’t sit right with me.”

“Mr. Swagger, your anger, your loyalty, your fury, your drive, all that is indeed commendable. However, it is time to face some realities. You have almost no knowledge of Japan. You don’t speak Japanese, you don’t understand our values, our traditions, the way our society is put together.”

“I’ve seen a lot of samurai movies,” said Bob.

“Oh, excellent,” said the major. “Did you see the one where the fellow outran the horse?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Or the one where the samurai defeated three hundred men in a village?”

“Yeah, I saw that one too. I also saw the one where the gal cuts the guy’s head off, but he don’t notice until he turns around and his head stays in place. But I also saw a lot of stories about lone men doing what they had to do and getting the job done, even if it cost them their lives. That was the lesson I took.”

“You know nothing of our politics, our corporations, our sexual tendencies, our strange relationship with the samurai past. Can you name a single city in Japan besides Tokyo, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki?”

“I think there’s one called Kyoto. Oh, also the one where they held the Winter Olympics that time.”

“Do you know if you are allowed to have sexual relations with a geisha?”

“I have always wondered about that one.”

“Do you know how to tie an obi?”

“No.”

“What is the Diet? What is the name of the emperor? What is the name of the majority party? Do you know what a prefecture is? What is the difference between a shogun and an emperor? What is the family name of the great shogunate clan? Can you name a famous film director who did not make a single samurai movie? Do you know how many people we lost in World War Two? Do you know how many people were burned to death in a single night in Tokyo?”

“No. I don’t know any of that.”

“Do you know our justice system? Do you understand the structure of the yakuza, their traditions, identification marks, tendencies, and traditions? Do you understand the difference between our National Police and the Prefectural police and how they interrelate?”

“No. I take the point. I am ill equipped for this job. I will get in the way. I will fuck things up. Is that what you brought me here to tell me?”

“Actually…no. All those reasons are, in fact, why you are the one man in Japan who might succeed at this job.”

Bob’s mouth fell open. Had he heard right?

“I don’t-”

“You see, we have a tight little island here. Rules, boundaries, traditions everywhere. Do you want to understand the Japanese, Mr. Swagger? Look at a kimono or a hakama and see how it is a galaxy of knots, all different, all perfect, all strategically placed. That is why the swords never fall out of the sashes in the movies. No westerner could tie any of those knots; every Japanese could tie all of them blindfolded. So we are caught up in our own knots, Mr. Swagger. We need a westerner who can cut through knots. Fuck the kimono, fuck the obi, fuck the way saya fits in the obi, fuck all that shit. Cut through it. Find out who killed Philip Yano and why.”

“So you want to…help me?”

“By law, those of us in what passes for a military are forbidden from taking part in domestic affairs. The penalties are extreme; we are watched constantly. We represent a Japanese tradition that many Japanese have been taught to be ashamed of and cannot face. So they hammer us into insignificance. But you, Mr. Swagger, are uninformed, undisciplined, unaware. You can go anywhere and ask anything. You are true ronin. Masterless samurai, owing nothing to nobody. You really are Toshiro Mifune.”

“Don’t know about that, but I will try my damndest.”

“I believe you. All right then, you’ll have a number. We will staff that phone twenty-four hours a day. If you get in trouble, if you need help, if you need logistics support, intelligence, we will provide it for you. In the meantime, we’ll go our separate ways, seem to lose ourselves in the minutiae of meaningless existence as we have since Philip Yano and his clan were slain. I’ll even divorce my wife and move into a brothel. Well, no, I won’t.”

“Believe it or not, I catch the meaning. Otowa mentioned that story.”

“He would have, yes. Our retainer has been murdered, our clan destroyed. We will settle that account, Mr. Swagger.”

“But there’s a bargain that must be made. I will be part of that fight. That’s the bargain I’m making with honorable men, right?”

“All right, Mr. Swagger,” said Major Fujikawa, “you have your bargain.”

“Now,” said Bob, “let’s see if you’re as good as you say you are.”

“Go ahead,” said the major.

“At Narita, there’s a cop who’s the station’s sword expert. Someone they call to deal with sword matters, importation, exportation, ignorant gaijin who bring stuff in or out without doing the necessary paperwork, that sort of thing.”