"Someone must have tapped my phone. That's the only way."

    "He wanted the sword. Why?"

    "It killed a lot of Kakureta Kao members."

    "The memoir says so?"

    Slater nodded. "Yeah. If they're back, they may want it as some kind of totem. Or to destroy it."

    "Good luck. If Little Boy couldn't turn it into a Dalí clock, I don't see how they… " A thought occurred to him. "Wait. If they're looking for it, that means they didn't steal it. Which leaves us with the question of who hired Gerrish."

    "Gerrish?"

    "The name of the thief. A pro—a very dead pro."

    "Dead?" Slater's eyes narrowed. "You?"

    "No. But he's not the only one. Two others have gone to their greater reward because of that thing." Jack decided not to mention how O'Day had passed. "Almost like it's cursed."

    "Maybe it is." He sighed. "My father told me he'd handled the sword a number of times before the bomb and said it felt different afterward… changed."

    "Well, it took one helluva beating."

    "He didn't mean physically. He meant spiritually. Like it had lost its soul."

    "Yeah, right." Jack tried to imagine that happening with one of his guns.

    Slater shrugged. "You either get it or you don't. How'd you feel when you held it?"

    Jack remembered the dark elation while swinging it around in his apartment. And the urge to keep it instead of give it up.

    "Let's get back to this Kaka-Kookoo group. If they didn't hire Gerrish, who did?"

    Slater shook his head. "Oh, they hired him. The scrolls that disappeared with the katana once belonged to Kakureta Kao. Matsuo Okumo gave them to my father for safekeeping."

    "Then why—?"

    "Would they hire you to find it? Maybe something went wrong with the plan. Maybe they tried to kill the thief like they did you, and he escaped and ran back here. Or maybe he thought he could get a better price for it elsewhere."

    Or maybe decided to keep it, Jack thought, remembering his own vacillations.

    "Well, it is, after all, the Gaijin Masamune."

    Slater looked baffled. "What's that? I was told it was a Masamune blade, but 'Gaijin'…?"

    "Apparently it's a fabled and much sought after collector's item."

    "Sought after enough to kill for?"

    Jack nodded. "You betcha. Three corpses will attest to that. And I could have been the fourth." As Slater shook his head in dismay, Jack added, "Something else you should know."

    "I'm almost afraid to hear."

    "There's another player on the field." He raised a hand as Slater opened his mouth. "Don't ask who because I don't know. I do know they're Japanese—underworld types, from the look of them—and ready to kill to get the katana."

    Slater leaned back, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. "Man. Who'd have dreamed? I'm almost willing to forget the whole thing, except…"

    "Yeah?"

    "It meant so much to my father."

    "He stole it from the museum?"

    Slater jerked upright. "How the hell did you—?" Then he relaxed. "Oh, yeah. My alter ego must have told you."

    "Only that it belonged to the Hiroshima Peace Museum."

    The burgers arrived then. Jack and Naka assembled them in silence, then bit in.

    Slater let out a groan. "This is amazing. Why can't we get beef like this on the islands?"

    They worked on their burgers a little more, then Jack quaffed some Hoegaarden to wash down a big bite.

    "So how did the blade get from the museum to your dad's place?"

    "The Peace Museum opened in fifty-five, ten years to the day after the bomb. My father was with the Occupation. When he saw the blade he knew it was Matsuo's and figured he had more claim to it than the museum. He too had been an intelligence officer and was owed more than a few favors. He collected on some by persuading a few commandos to sneak in and snatch it for him."

    "That's why you can't go to the police."

    He shrugged. "I doubt anyone connected with the museum would remember it now, even if they heard about it, but why take the chance?" He leaned forward. "I need that katana back. Both my parents revered Matsuo's memory. It was all they had left of him. My father made me promise to keep it in the family. So I don't see how I have much choice."

    Jack spread his hands. "And I don't see how you have much hope."

    "That bad, huh?" His expression was bleak. "You've got no idea at all where it could be?"

    "No, but I know where to find the guy I gave it to. He didn't have time to hand it off before he was hit, but maybe one of his Hidden Face buddies was waiting out there and snagged it after our friend and the truck got intimate."

    "You've got to make him tell you."

    "If he's crazy enough to be in that cult, I seriously doubt he'll be the sharing type. And there's something else you have to consider."

    "Your tone says more bad news."

    "Maybe he didn't have anyone waiting. Maybe some passerby found it and took off with it. It could be anywhere—even in a Dumpster."

    He looked crushed. "Then what do I do?"

    "If by some miracle I can squeeze anything useful out of this guy, I'll let you know. But if I come up empty, as I suspect I will, all you can do is advertise—put out flyers and offer a reward. That might bring somebody out of the woodwork."

    He banged the table again. "Ai Kae!"

    The place had gained a few patrons since their arrival and people were giving them curious and concerned looks.

    "Another Hawaiian term of endearment?"

    "What? Yeah. I can stay here only a day or two. You think you could make up the flyers and—?"

    Jack was shaking his head. "Not my kind of work. If I come up empty at the hospital, you do it. Start a voice mail account and put that number on the flyers. Get them spread around. Check the voice mail often. If anything promising comes through, call me and I'll see what I can do."

    Jack would be delighted if nothing came through. That sword had nearly killed him twice. Damned if he was about to give it another try.

    "Jesus, God!"

    Jack looked up and saw that Slater's face had gone white. He was staring at the cover of the Post on the next table.

    "What?"

    "The Black Wind! What happened in Staten Island—it never hit me till now. The Kakureta Kao has brought back the Black Wind!"

    Despite Slater's ominous tone, it didn't sound particularly threatening to Jack—like something that might occur after a frijoles negro burrito.

    "And that's bad?"

    "Very. I didn't make the connection because I thought they were extinct. But now that you've seen someone with their tattoo, it's all coming together. What happened on Staten Island is exactly the effect of the Black Wind as described by my father. If they're planning to use it on the city…"

    "But nobody mentioned a wind or wind damage."

    "It's been called the Wind-That-Bends-Not-the-Trees."

    "Oooookay." Maybe the Jack Daniel's was hitting him.

    "I've got to tell someone. But who?"

    "Um, try Homeland Security. But don't mention me, okay? Meanwhile, I'm going to check out this Hidden Face guy in the hospital."

    He grabbed Jack's arm. "Ask him about the Black Wind. You've got to find out."

    The Wind-That-Bends-Not-the-Trees, Jack thought as he reentered Roosevelt Hospital. Where do people come up with this stuff?

    He was relieved to find the same clerk at the ER admitting desk. Her name tag read KAESHA and she once might have been called Rubenesque, but she'd moved beyond that. The glazed Krispy Kreme donut sitting next to her keyboard hinted at the how and why.