27

Nick had it, or most of it. He sat in his kitchen under a bright lamp, looked at his notes, an outline, a time line, charts of consequences, phone numbers, the whole thing: amazing how it came together, how quickly.

The tattoo artist, Big Ozu, had told him of Nii’s bragging about easy street from now on, and how he could afford to have his back finished and the horrible, crude diamonds hidden in an abstract of classical Japanese shape and color and the kanji inscription, “Samurai forever.”

It took some doing and a mighty investment in the world’s best sake, but Nick finally got Ozu to reveal the darkest secret: the name of the man to whom Nii, through Kondo, was now pledged. It was as if Kondo’s clan had found a new daimyo, its connection to the ruling powers was now so much more powerful.

It was a name he already knew: Miwa.

Miwa, the shogun of Shogunate AV and head of AJVS, at that very moment stuck in a power struggle with Imperial to maintain command of Big Porn, trying to keep it Japanese against Imperial’s hunger to Americanize the industry and bring white women in.

Now, what could Kondo do for this man, and of what meaning would a sword, a special, important, historical sword be?

Nick could have left it there: the man just wanted the sword because he was a collector, this was the mother of all swords, to add it to his collection would be-

But then why didn’t he just buy it from Yano? And why were Yano and his family wiped out, why were certain suggestions given so that the unfortunate tragedy of the Yanos was not pursued with alacrity and instead allowed to drift? It hadn’t even been assigned to a senior investigator.

So Nick began to look at Miwa. It turned out there was quite a lot of data: Miwa’s career was storied, publicized, even self-publicized. It was the tale of a poor boy, going from nothing to something and conquering Japan in a way few men had since the shogun, an irony in itself. Miwa lived in luxury with houses everywhere in Japan, seven in Tokyo, two in Europe, one in Vail, one in Hollywood, one in New York. He traveled by private jet, he consorted with millionaires and movie stars, his amorous adventures were legendary.

How could such a man want one thing more?

And Nick realized that it wasn’t “one thing more”-it was simple survival. He saw now how a sword could help Miwa and establish his line forever.

Against that, the deaths of the Yanos was nothing. Really, what was it? A mother, a father, four children? You could cut them down and leave them. That, simply, was the eternal order of the universe. Who were they next to greatness? What were they? Compared to the fabulousness of Miwa and the scope of his ambitions, what did they weigh? Who cared for them? No samurai would rise to their defense. They must yield to the inevitability of it all, and cease to impede Miwa in his march to glory.

Nick needed a drink. He went to the refrigerator and got out a bottle of sake. He struggled with the plasticized cap and finally, in frustration, got out a small kitchen knife, sliced the plastic off, and poured himself a drink.

Ah. The taste of sake, so utterly Japanese. He set the knife down on the table and sat back. He allowed himself to take some pleasure.

Nick saw a golden life before him, where it would all go: his scoop would shock the world, an arrest would follow, Japan’s foundations would be shaken, the world’s journalists pouring in upon him as the scandal reached epidemic proportions, his own redemption.

He would be back after his various misadventures with Lady Kokain. It would be-

Nick heard something, a strange sound, he didn’t know what it was, then realized it was some heavy object being laid against his doorjamb, and in the next second he heard the crash of wood splintering, of the door giving, and the sound of footsteps.

Nick knew immediately.

He scooped his notes up and stuffed them in a manila envelope.

He had seconds.

He fought panic.

Then he saw where he could hide them.

He raced to that spot, rolled them up, and shoved them in.

Then he picked up his cell, punched Susan Okada’s number, worried about being tapped, tried to think of some unique way to reach her, a suggestion, a code even, that she and she alone would recognize.

“Susan,” he said when she answered, “I fed the dragon.”

Then he turned and saw his old friend Nii advancing on him with a pugnacious look and a wakizashi in his hand; behind him came Kondo, and Nick had the biggest scoop of his life.

Now he knew who Kondo was.

Now he knew why some people got to see Kondo and others didn’t.

He also realized they would torture him beyond description to learn what he knew and who he had told and who he was working with.

Nii raced to him but wasn’t in time.

Nick plunged the knife into his own carotid and bled out, smiling, in eight seconds.

28

They got there by midnight. The traffic in Nick’s neighborhood was normally nonexistent at this hour, but tonight it was terrible. Four blocks from Nick’s, the lanes froze into gridlock; nobody was going anywhere.

“There’s a cop up ahead, trying to get this sorted out,” Susan said.

“I’m going to slip out and see what I can see. If I don’t make it back in time, I’ll meet you at Nick’s.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Everybody will notice a gaijin. I’ll go. You scoot over and stay with the car.”

She got out; he moved behind the wheel and waited.

Ten minutes later the car hadn’t moved an inch, but Susan was back. As she approached, he could see, from the slowness of her movements and her downcast expression, that the news was very bad. She ducked into the seat.

“They burned it. Like the Yanos’. Burned it to a crisp. Burned the houses on both sides too.”

“Maybe he got out.”

“No,” she said from far away, “he didn’t. The cop said a man was dead. A suicide. He set his house on fire, then he cut his own throat. They carted him away to the morgue an hour ago.”

Swagger tried not to concentrate on Nick, poor Nick. He tried not to feel rage or pain or despair. He remembered Doshu: “Only now.” Only now. Yeah, right, but get me off this goddamned frozen star, the alien place where everybody I talk to gets whacked hard and ugly by men of shadow I have never even seen and the game is nothing I understand.

Only now. Only now. Think it through.

She didn’t say anything but just sat there for the longest time. Her almond eyes seemed unfocused; maybe she was seeing afar with a close-up eye and seeing close-up with a distant eye.

“Poor Nick,” she said at last. “I think he was finally in the clear.”

“Smart guy. Brave guy. The best.”

“Poor guy-”

“Look, I’m not the boss or nothing, but we have to think this through. If Nick cut his own throat, it means Kondo Isami found him and he knew he’d be tortured. He knew these boys. So he went out samurai.”

“I hate to think of that.”

“Well, ma’am, somebody has to think of that, so I guess I’ll go ahead and be the one.”

“You know, it makes me sick how good at all this you are.”

“I understand that. I make a lot of people sick. I’m a sergeant, it’s my job. We are in a war, people are dying, people are in danger, so let’s just figure out a next move.”

She was silent. Then she said, “I can’t think in this car. We’ll go to a coffee shop. I have to get out of this stupid traffic.”

The place was half-empty. They got coffee at the counter, then found a table at the back. Starbucks. It was like being in Iowa.