“I survive only to serve. When no longer needed, I will express my shame and try to get my honor back with the tanto.”

“Yes, yes, if that’s what you want. You could also go off and get laid, and maybe that would be enough for you. Anyhow, Nii, listen to me. I am going to get a police artist. I want you to describe this gaijin to him very carefully. We will spread a net to catch this fresh fellow and get our sword back. We have to get him before the night of the exchange because if he controls the exchange, we’re at a great disadvantage. We don’t know who he represents, what his goal is. I can’t believe it’s simple kataki-uchi. Westerners don’t understand the concept of vendetta. Maybe Sicilians, but no others, not really. He’s playing an angle, and he could have snipers on the roofs, a team of fellow professionals. It’s too big a risk to run. I’d hate to go into that blindly.”

Nii nodded solemnly. He tried to remember details, to assemble them in his mind so that he could assist, but he was aware that something wasn’t adding up. Then he saw what it was.

“Oyabun?”

“Yes, Nii,” said Kondo, who was already striding out to make his arrangements, even as he debated whether to tell the Shogun of this disturbing yet provocative development.

“I’m sorry. I regret. I did not recognize.”

“What?”

“I realize now: I know who this gaijin is.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Oyabun. I regret that I did not recognize him at the shop, but it was so out of context that I-”

“Stick to the message, Nii.”

“Yes, Oyabun. I once sat two seats behind him on the JR Narita express. I followed him from the Yanos’ to Narita the night we-”

“That gaijin?”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“That would be the gaijin who brought the sword in.”

“Yes.”

“He was with the Yanos.”

“He stayed at their house for several days.”

“He was close to them?”

“Yes, now I recall. I watched from just across the street that last night. He hugged them all. I followed him to Narita and watched him check into the flight. I watched him pass security. That’s when I left to join you and we went to the Yanos’. With Kamiizumi, Johnny Hanzo, Kashima, and the others.”

“He knew the Yanos,” Kondo said again, deliciously. “Then it is kataki-uchi! Oh, splendid.”

“I suppose we could contact the inspector. He would know the name.”

“We don’t need the name. Now I know how to catch the gaijin. I’ll reel him in and cut him down.”

“And when it’s over, I can have my seppuku?”

“Nii, you shouldn’t be so selfish. Think of your oyabun, not yourself. Find dignity and worth in service. Then, if you’ve been good, I’ll let you kill yourself. But as a treat, Nii, first I’m going to get you a nice little girl.”

33

With your typical order of yakitori, you got four edible, even delicious skewers of meat and one so repugnant it was almost kind of funny. The smell of chicken cooked on an open fire filled the place. No Popeye’s ever smelled so good. At other tables men and women were lustily gobbling their food. Bob had eaten the hearts, he’d eaten the meat, he’d eaten the gizzards, he’d eaten the other strange things, but he was left with the knees.

Well, maybe they weren’t knees. Maybe they were elbows. Whatever, they were twisted little chunks of glistening sinew. Even the flames of Mama-san’s blazing fire behind the bar hadn’t blackened them. In truth, in the curves and folds of each there seemed to be some gobbet of protein, and maybe a truly hungry man would scrape it out and go to town, but he just didn’t have the heart. Instead, he looked across the smoky space, across the rude tables and floor, half-expecting Toshiro to come blasting in and start cutting people at any damn time, until he caught Mama-san’s eye, pointed to his empty plate, and somehow communicated the idea, Bring me another order, touched his empty Coke can to request more of that too. She nodded. He could have been in the fourteenth century, except for the Coke. He went back to the puzzle before him.

He almost had it. He’d been scouting Tokyo by bike for a nice private place for his meet with Kondo and finally found just what the doctor ordered: he’d have the man travel to Asakusa and walk the street outside the shrine, where all the stalls were. For some reason, that zone closed early and went largely unpatrolled. He’d meet him there, in the street, and he wouldn’t jump until he was satisfied the man was alone, not trailing a crew of goons. He didn’t want to fight six again, or more likely thirty, for Kondo would travel with his specially chosen group.

Now he worked on his code, primitive as it was, finding the right words in The Nobility of Failure, marking page number, paragraph, sentence, and word so that the message was shaping up to read “Dear Yuki, 233-2-4- 3,” denoting page 233, second paragraph, fourth sentence, third word. It went on and on, gibberish if you didn’t know the key. Decoded, it would read “Asakusa, Temple Street, midnight tonight, alone.”

He felt her before he saw her. She strode in manfully, as per her style, and sat down. He didn’t look up for the longest time.

“I’m almost done with this. I think I’ve got it set up just right.”

It was several minutes before he finished, and when he came out of his zone of concentration there was another interruption, as Mama-san brought the plate of skewered chicken parts and another Coke, asked Susan what she wanted, and received only a drink order, then scurried away.

“You shouldn’t be anywhere near us tomorrow night, in case it goes bad. But I wanted you to see what I was doing; I told you I’d keep you in the loop.”

Then, finally, he looked at her and knew instantly that something was wrong.

“All right,” he said, “what’s up? You haven’t said a thing.”

“You remember I once told you I wasn’t a bullshitter?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to start now. I’ll be honest and blunt, all right. So no matter what, you can never say, She misled me.”

“Oh, Christ, Susan. I don’t like where this is going.”

“I’m closing you down, Swagger. It’s over. It’s finished. Time to go home.”

He didn’t feel anger or rage or betrayal. She had never exactly pretended to be his pal in this and had always told him she’d do what was best by the rules of her duty, not her feelings. And she’d never quite bought into it, the whole warrior thing. On the way back from the fight at the polisher’s, with the blood soaking his pants and spattered on his face, she’d said nothing except:

“Did you hurt anybody?”

“No, but I killed five men.”

“Oh, god.”

“It wasn’t no movie. It was like a pie fight in a sausage factory. I didn’t like one goddamn thing about it, but they would have cut me deep as I cut them, so I did what I had to. The old man is fine and has left. I have the sword, so that’s fine. The yaks will clean up, once they find out, because they don’t want no cops nosing into their business. It’ll be fine, no mess.”

She had only said, “No mess this time.”

Now she said, “This can go one of three ways. I hope you see that it is best if it goes the first way.”

“And that would be?”

“You give me your false passport. You go out with me to a government van and you are driven to a U.S. Air Force base not far from here. I have arranged, or rather with some dickering and string pulling the ambassador has arranged, for you to be flown home, gratis, by the United States Air Force, outside all channels. You will be landed in California, escorted to the gate, and permitted to exit. That’s the end of your involvement. What has happened over the past few weeks here in Japan ceases to exist. There was no-I can’t even remember what your passport says.”

“Thomas Lee.”