By the Sword rj-12 Page 6

  First, "alas" from Gary. Now, "consort." What gives?

  "What's this artist's name?"

  "Moki."

  "Never heard of him. How about his 'consort'? What's hers?"

  "I do not know. I never meet her. We speak only on phone. She give me your name and how to reach you. She call you a ronin and say I should not lie to you, that you are a good man who can be trusted but who can also be not nice at times."

  " 'Not nice'? She said that?"

  "Yes. Her exact words."

  Who the hell…?

  "You're taking her advice, of course."

  "All I am telling you is true."

  Jack put aside wondering about the mystery woman until later.

  "Good. So, your detective at least learned the identity of your thief."

  Naka further averted his gaze. "Unfortunately, we have since learned that he was traveling under false identity."

  "Which was?"

  "Eddie Cordero."

  Jack leaned back. Why did that name sound familiar? He was sure he'd never heard it, but something about it set off a chime.

  "So what did he steal?"

  "A sword. A katana. I must have it back."

  "And what's so special about this sword? What's it worth?"

  "That is puzzle. It is terribly damaged and of no use or value to anyone but my family."

  "And why's it valuable to you?"

  "One might call it heirloom. It belonged to dear friend of my father. He is deceased and sword was all my father had left of him. When my father died he made me promise to keep sword in family. I must keep promise to my father."

  Okay. Jack understood that. But odd the thief would take a worthless heirloom back to New York. Unless…

  "Maybe it's worth more than you think."

  Naka shook his head. "I think not." From an inside pocket in his suit jacket he pulled a pair of photos and handed them across the table. "See for yourself."

  The first showed a long, slim sword, its naked, curved blade lying atop a wooden stand, cutting edge facing up. The long, tapered tang was exposed—someone had removed the handle. The blade looked strangely mottled. The next photo was closer in and slightly blurred, revealing the mottling as a random pattern of irregular holes in the steel. The cutting edge was perfectly preserved, but the rest was Swiss-cheesed.

  "A samurai sword?"

  "Yes," Naka said. "A katana."

  "No offense, but it looks like a piece of junk."

  "In very real sense, it is. But to my family it is priceless. Therefore it make no sense for someone to steal unless they mean to ransom back to us."

  Jack looked again at the moth-eaten blade and agreed: no sense at all.

  "And you've received no demand?"

  "Nothing. And thief has fled islands."

  This didn't make a whole lot of sense. Jack felt some key element was missing—or being withheld.

  "Aren't some of these swords valuable?"

  Naka nodded. "Nihont fashioned by ancient swordsmiths such as Masamune and Muramasa—especially those signed by Masamune—are rare and of most extreme value."

  Most of what Jack had just heard was meaningless.

  "Nihont?"

  "Only swords forged in Japan can be called nihont. Foreign-made imitations cannot."

  "And I take it this blade isn't signed by Moonimalaya or whoever."

  "No one. Especially not Masamune." He pronounced the name with exaggerated clarity, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "A Masamune sword would never corrode as this one did."

  Jack squinted at the photo and spotted a tiny figure carved into the steel of the tang:

  He turned the photo toward Naka and pointed. "Someone's signed something there."

  Naka glanced at it and nodded. "Yes. The two characters separately mean 'outside' and 'person.' Together they mean 'foreigner.' "

  That tripped a memory.

  "Oh. Gaijin."

  Naka blinked. "You know this word?"

  "I know a few words. Arigato and all that."

  In truth he'd picked up "gaijin" reading Clavell's Shogun, but no need to let this guy know.

  Naka pointed to the engraving and looked at him directly for the first time. "Does this mean anything to you?"

  Jack shrugged. "Only that I'd be a gaijin in your country just as you are in mine."

  "Yes." Naka sounded relieved and averted his gaze again. "That is what it should mean."

  What's that all about? Jack wondered.

  He decided to push a little.

  "So if I want to get this sword back for you, all I have to do is go around asking about a rotted-out blade with gaijin written on the hasp."

  Naka's seat jump was almost comical.

  "No-no-no! You must not. Such inquiries could reach wrong ears."

  "So it is valuable."

  "No. It is not. As I tell you, original owner might hear. It would want back."

  "It?"

  "A museum in Japan."

  Good. He could handle a museum. Jack didn't want some kind of Zatichi coming after him.

  The food arrived then. The burger came open-face style. Jack assembled it and took a big chomp—heaven—while Naka started to poke at his salad.

  After a couple of bites, Jack forced himself to speak. He would much rather have wallowed in the ground sirloin until it was gone.

  "And why would this sword have been in a museum?"

  "Because it is old. It was but minor part of much larger collection, but if museum hear, it will want back."

  "Gotcha."

  Naka looked at him again, a plea in his eyes. "You can do this?"

  "I can only promise to try."

  "No. You must succeed! Moki's consort said—"

  "I don't know who this lady is, but if she said I could guarantee success, she's wrong. No guarantees in this business."

  Naka was silent a moment, then nodded. "That is fair, I suppose. I am glad you are being honest with me." Another pause, then, "What is your fee?"

  Jack was tempted to pull a Gary: Write down the dollar amount and hand it to him. But he didn't have cards, so he pulled out a pen and wrote it on the white butcher paper that served as a tablecloth here.

  Naka blinked. "That is very much money for no guarantee."

  Yeah, it was stiff. Jack had upped his price since the Dawn Pickering job. His intention was to cut back. One way to do that was to be very choosy about the fix-its he took on. The other was to price himself out of certain markets.

  This Naka guy owned a plantation on Maui. He could afford Jack's price, no sweat.

  "Didn't your artist friend Moki's 'consort' tell you that?"

  "I asked but she did not know."

  Not know? That meant she wasn't a former customer. A puzzlement.

  "Well, it's not as bad as it sounds. Half up front, and the rest when I deliver the goods."

  "And if you do not? What happen to first half?"

  "That stays with me."

  "But how am I to know you have not simply taken my money and done nothing?"

  Instead of answering, Jack took another bite of the burger and chewed at a slow, deliberate pace. Something about this guy bugged him. Maybe because he sensed Naka was giving him only part of the story. Then again, he couldn't expect full disclosure from someone who wanted him to steal back a stolen object.

  As for the job itself, it could prove relatively easy if the thief was trying to sell the sword, but damn near impossible if he intended to keep it for himself.

  Jack had set the photos on the table. He took another bite and studied the close-up of the ruined blade.

  Who'd pay for a piece of junk like that?

  Finally he swallowed and said, "It's called trust. You have a reference—granted, it's from a woman neither of us knows, but you trusted the source enough to get in touch with me."

  "Yes, but—"

  Jack held up a hand. "No buts. You either trust me or you don't. You know my price, so you either come across or you don't.
I don't bargain, haggle, dicker. Make up your mind."

  Naka sighed. "I do not see that I have much choice."

  "Of course you do. You're dealing with maybe the last vestige of the free market, which means you can walk out the door you came in with no hard feelings—at least on my part."

  Jack expected some lengthy rumination on Naka's part. Instead he surprised him by giving a curt nod and saying, "Yes, it shall be done. I shall pay you cash."

  "Yes, you will. Although we accept Krugerrands as well."

  "When can you start looking?"

  "As soon as I have the money."

  Jack had learned over the years that certain customers had to believe they were dealing with a no-nonsense, hard-ass mercenary. He sensed Naka-whatever Slater was one of those.

  "I shall make call and someone shall deliver it to you within hour. Where—?"

  "Right here will do fine."

  No sense in burning another meeting place.

  "One last thing," Jack added. "How did the break-in occur?"

  Naka frowned. "I do not understand."

  "Was a door pried open or its lock picked? Was an alarm system bypassed? How did he gain entry?"

  "Through bedroom window."

  "With you there?"

  "No. Out to dinner."

  "No alarm?"

  "Yes, for rest of house, but my wife like to sleep with open window. Our system bypass those windows."

  "No motion detectors?"

  "In rest of house, yes, but he turn off alarm system from bedroom. I do not know how."

  Jack did. Inside info: a cleaning girl, or maybe even someone at the alarm company.

  Good. This gave him an idea of the burglar's skill set, always useful in tracking someone.

  Naka rose and reached into his pocket. Jack waved him off.

  "On me. I'll be running a tab." He pointed to the photos. "Got anything better than these?"

  Naka shook his head. "Sorry. Those are best. My father never felt need of taking picture. He had sword in place of honor where he could see every day. Why take many picture?"

  Made sense.

  Naka put on his hat, bowed, and hustled out the door. Jack settled into finishing his burger, considering ordering another Hoegaarden and maybe even another burger, and thinking how this was the kind of fix-it Gia liked him to take.

  Retrieving a decrepit old sword… really… how risky could that be?

  7

  Toru Akechi was sitting with his favorite student, Shiro Kobayashi, the fourth son of a fisherman in the Ishikawa prefecture, in one of the few rooms in the Order's temple that had remained a classroom. Most others had been converted into dormitory-like quarters for the monks, acolytes, and guards. A few of the larger rooms had been renovated for Sightings and for surgery.

  Tadasu burst in. Toru sensed restrained excitement in the man as he bowed.

  "The mercenary has agreed to search for the katana, sensei."

  Toru regarded him through the eyeholes of his mask. Tadasu Fumihiro was forty-two, a former student. He had watched Tadasu grow since his teen years, mentoring him through the levels of the Kakureta Kao as it struggled back from extinction. He had earned the position of temple guard but showed promise of so much more, which was why Toru had selected him for a mission so critical to the future of the Order.

  "You must stay close to this. The Order is depending on you to guarantee its future. If this man finds it… you know what must be done."

  "I do, sensei. I shall not fail."

  "I have faith in you. And good news for you. Shiro has located the final ingredient for the ekisu."

  After regaining the sacred scrolls, Toru had sent out the Order's acolytes and any guards who could be spared—and who could show their faces—to scour the city for the ingredients to make the elixir that would create the Kuroikaze—the Black Wind.

  Tadasu grinned and bowed to the acolyte half his age. "Most excellent!"

  Shiro returned the bow. "I am honored to be of service."

  Tadasu's hair was longer than Shiro's, but the two were so similar they could have been father and son.

  Tadasu said, "This means that the Order can once again wield the Kuroikaze!"

  Toru hoped so. He knew of only one way to be sure.

  "Yes. Even as we speak, the ekisu is being prepared in accordance with the instructions in the scrolls. We must test it as soon as possible. For that we will need a shoten. The two of you go, search the city. Find someone sickly, someone with low vitality, and—most important of all—someone who will not be missed."

  He followed the pair out of the classroom and returned to his quarters. He locked the door and removed the embroidered red silk mask from the folds of skin the surgeons had created in the four corners of his face. This had been done when he'd entered the Fifth Circle of the Kakureta Kao and took the Vow of the Hidden Face. No one ever again would see his face.

  The Fifth Circle… where he had gained the folds and lost his testicles. A small price to pay, hardly a price at all, especially considering how long ago he had sworn off pleasures of the flesh.

  As a sensei, he would not be allowed to progress beyond the Fifth Circle for many years to come. He needed all of his senses to be an effective teacher.

  He stepped to the open window and let the breeze caress his face. Even though it carried a faint, sour tang of garbage, it felt refreshing. Yes, he'd made the vow, but sometimes he became weary of looking at the world through two eyeholes.

  He stared across the flat lowlands and highways to the huge mounds of the Fresh Kills landfill surrounding the Order's temple.

  Temple… a term used loosely in this case. Toru had seen photos of the beautiful five-story pagoda in the heart of Tokyo that served as home to the Kakureta Kao until the World War II fire bombings. People high and low had feared and venerated the Order. And then it had been destroyed.

  Even after all these years, the Order remained a mere shell of its former self. This old, boxy, two-story schoolhouse on condemned ground was all it could afford. The toxins supposedly had been cleared but still no one wanted to live here. But the Order cared naught about toxins, and the building's bargain price was all their depleted coffers could afford.

  How the mighty had fallen.

  But the Kakureta Kao would regain its former status. The Seers said so. And they said that New York City was where its resurgence would begin.

  Toru hated this barbaric country whose commercialism had reached across an ocean and tainted his homeland's culture. But he believed the Seers. As did the Elders. And so here the Order would stay.

  But the Seers had said the Kakureta Kao would not rise unless it regained the scrolls and the blade that had caused their downfall. The scrolls they had, but they must control the blade if they were ever to regain their ancient status.

  8

  Blume's.

  Dawn was in total heaven—six floors of paradise on Fifth Avenue. She'd spent the entire afternoon here. She'd never been able to afford Blume's on her allowance and what she'd earned at the diner.

  With Henry never far away, she'd touched, caressed, tried on, and bought—on Mr. Osala's dime, of course. She'd even gone to the designer floor, intending to see how far she could push this free ride—to find the limit of Mr. Osala's largesse. A sales clerk named Rolf had shown her around, but when she saw the prices, she'd lost her nerve.

  The things she'd ordered would be delivered.

  She also enjoyed the sidelong glances from the other shoppers at her pak chadar. Kind of cool, in a way, like playing hide and seek, or spying. She could see their expressions but they couldn't see hers. She'd totally stuck her tongue out at a couple of old biddies and they hadn't a clue.

  Better fun was raising a ton of eyebrows when she'd picked out a skimpy scarlet teddiette and taken it to a dressing room. Not like she'd had any intention of trying it on, let alone buying it; she'd just wanted to set tongues a-wagging. And she had. She'd heard the sales desk buzzing as she headed for th
e changing area.

  She dragged Henry up to Fifty-seventh for a late-afternoon snack—totally tricky with the veil.

  After that Henry informed her that it was time to go.

  Bummer.

  As they waited for the car—Henry had been adamant about using it instead of a cab for the short trip—Dawn saw a scruffy-looking man pasting a Day-Glo orange flyer on a nearby wall. The bold black letters caught her eye.

  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

  She stepped closer and saw someone was offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. It listed an 800 number.

  And then she saw the name: DAWN PICKERING.

  And then she saw the picture: hers.

  "Oh, my God!"

  The guy turned and gave her a quick up-and-down inspection. He had scraggly hair and needed a shave. He squinted at her, scowling. A button in his shirt read, ASK ME ABOUT THE KICKER EVOLUTION.

  "Yo. You mean, 'Oh, my Allah,' right?"

  Fighting waves of shock and nausea, Dawn pointed a trembling finger at the flyer. "Wh-who's looking for that girl?"

  The guy's eyes narrowed. "Why? You know her?"

  With no thought on her part, a reply leaped from her lips. "No. No, of course not. It's just…" Think, Dawn. "Was she… was she like kidnapped or something?"

  "Or something. All we know is she's gone. She's out there alone and afraid and we want to help her."

  That sounded memorized. "Who's 'we'?"

  "Why, the Kickers, of course." He held up the back of his hand to show her the little stick figure tattooed on the thumb web. "We're out here just doing our part."

  Dawn stifled a gasp. Jerry had had one of those.

  "What are you going to do when you find her?"

  "Return her to her home and protect her."

  "From what?"

  "From anything that wants to hurt her and her baby."

  Her baby…

  Dawn felt the sidewalk tilt under her. She swayed.

  The guy stared at her, his expression suspicious. "You okay?" He reached toward her veil. "Let's see what you look like under that."