An express train from Narita took him on the one-hour ride to yet another airport in downtown Tokyo, where he stood with his ticket long enough a half dozen people came up to offer him help. He came to the conclusion that navigating in Japan wasn’t that difficult if you didn’t mind standing around a few minutes looking hopelessly lost.
Roughly twenty-four hours after he’d left his home in Alexandria and three hours after touching down in Japan, Bowen walked through the exit gates at Fukuoka-Hakata Airport. He’d never seen a photograph of the man he was supposed to meet but recognized him instantly by the unwavering look of challenge, common to those who carried a badge for a living. I’m a cop, the look said. And you’re not.
“Agent Bowen?” the Japanese policeman said, cocking his head to one side. He wore dark slacks, a white shirt and tie, and a light tan golf jacket. His hair was cut in a longish flattop, as if Bowen had commandeered him on his normal day to go to the barber.
“Deputy Bowen,” he said, remembering to bow like Geoff Barker had taught him. “U.S. Marshals, Eastern District of Virginia.”
“I am Hase,” the man said. He pronounced it Hah-say.
“Pleased to meet you,” Bowen said. Barker had tried to teach him some phrases, but languages had never been his thing so he didn’t hazard a try. He’d been told there were long drawn-out meeting rituals in Japan. If that was the case, Detective Hase must have taken pity on him.
“You have no other bags?”
Bowen held the daypack aloft. “Nope,” he said. “This is it.”
Detective Hase gave another deep bow, then extended a hand toward the door. “Very good. I understand you want to speak with Shimizu Ayako.”
“I do,” Bowen said, stifling a yawn.
Hase looked at the Seiko dive watch on his wrist. “It is five past nine. It will be somewhat difficult to check into your hotel this early, but if you would like to stop by—”
Just then, a woman shoved her way past, marching toward the automatic doors. She looked to be in her late twenties and wore tight, stylish jeans, a flimsy chiffon blouse that hung off one shoulder, and black stiletto heels. A crying boy who looked no older than six tromped along behind her, tears streaming down a pudgy face. He wore little blue short pants and a white polo shirt. A black leather school pack, weighed down with books, hung over his back.
Bowen had no idea what she was saying, but the woman, presumably the kid’s mother, berated him at every step. She flung her arms for effect, oblivious to the embarrassed looks and sidelong glances of everyone else in the terminal at such un-Japanese behavior.
The boy tried to make his case through his tears. Whatever he said infuriated his mother, causing her to turn on him like an angry bear. She marched back to where he stood, jabbing him in the heaving chest with a manicured finger.
Bowen’s chest tightened. “What’s her problem?”
“I do not know.” Hase shook his head. “She is a very rude woman.”
“What is she saying?” Bowen’s eyes locked on to her. So far, she’d not noticed.
“The boy missed his train for school, making her late to meet someone here,” Hase said. “He says it wasn’t his fault but she doesn’t believe him. I’d like to intervene, but she has not struck the child so my superiors would not approve…”
Bowen stepped deliberately between the ranting woman and the boy while Hase was still talking, stooping to rub away the tears with his thumb. The kid’s eyes flew wide at the sight of a big American with a goatee. His lips trembled until Bowen handed him a little silver lapel pin shaped like a Marshal badge.
“Tell him I’m a policeman from the United States,” Bowen said.
Hase translated, obviously happy to do something to stop the woman’s tirade.
The little boy spoke through his sniffles.
“He says thank you,” Hase translated.
“You tell him that his mother will probably whip him because we stepped in,” Bowen said. “But he will always know that there were two people here today who knew the way she was treating him was wrong.” He looked up at Hase. “Can you translate that exactly?”
The detective grinned. “If she complains to my bosses, I’m blaming this on the crazy marshal, you know.”
“Fine by me,” Bowen said. “Just tell him.”
By now a crowd of Japanese women had gathered to publicly chastise the woman. Hase spoke to her for some time, even raising his own voice before sending her on her way. The boy turned to wave at Bowen as he walked out the terminal doors. He had already pinned the little badge to the collar of his shirt.
“That is the most fun I have had in some time,” Detective Hase said, following the woman with a hard gaze. “I think I like you, Deputy Marshal August Bowen. Are you this way at all times?”
“Pretty much.” Bowen shrugged. “It’s a problem I have.”
“How do you ever get anything done if you stop to help everyone you see?”
“Like I said,” Bowen said with a sigh, “it’s a problem.”
“It is a good problem, I think,” Hase said. “So, we were speaking of your hotel.”
“I’m fine,” Bowen said. “My brain’s just not sure what time it is. If you know where Shimizu is right now, I’d rather go see her. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even gotten reservations at a hotel yet.”
“I can assist you with that.” Detective Hase smiled. “Please.” He bowed again, looking at Bowen as if he was still trying to figure the deputy out. “My car is outside. Ayako Shimizu’s apartment is nearby.”
CHAPTER 51
Quinn was off the bike and running moments after the side stand hit the ground, the H&K pistol in one hand, the guitar case containing the short sword in the other. Ayako followed close behind, bounding up the wide gravel path.
Rising on square terraces of rough-hewn timber filled with gravel that were spaced just far enough apart to keep them from reaching a full sprint, the path ran from the small parking lot through the Shinto torii gates that resembled a red wooden pi symbol with two horizontals, then wound through the thick cypress woods and bamboo forests that protected the temple itself from the hubbub of the nearby city.
Ground fog flowed like bony fingers between moss-covered logs and boulders the size of small cars, reaching out from the tumbledown forest. Rain dripped from every tree and bush. Engraved stone monoliths, some over fifteen feet tall, rose on either side of the path, shining in the wet air as if polished. Pungent smoke from burning incense hung in a hazy layer among the trees.
Quinn had always thought Japan took on an ancient look when wet with rain. It was a surreal and beautiful place, but thankfully, the weather was inclement enough that the grounds were deserted.
Quinn sent Ayako with the pistol to stand at the edge of the bamboo thicket twenty feet away from where he would make his stand. She assured him that she knew how to shoot, so he took her at her word. It calmed him some when she grabbed the slide and press-checked the chamber, assuring herself a round was in the tube. Finger alongside the trigger guard, she trotted away toward the bamboo holding the pistol as if she’d been born with it in her hand.
Quinn leaned the unzipped guitar case against the monolith and positioned the short sword so it would be easy to retrieve, then took a position with his back to the flat surface. The weatherworn inscription on the smooth stone was fitting.
Duty is heavy as a mountain — death, light as a feather.
Tanaka Isanagi arrived three and a half minutes later.
The yakuza boss didn’t so much walk up the gravel path as he materialized through the swirling fog and incense smoke. Well into his sixties, he was slender with a long face and wild, untrimmed black eyebrows that stood in stark contrast to the gleaming skin of his bald head. He’d removed his suit coat, demonstrating to Quinn that he was unarmed — and unafraid.