knew what I was feeling—haragei. It’s the weird sixth sense the Japanese believe is a hallmark of the advanced martial artist. They say with haragei, you can sense the skill of an opponent just by being in close proximity to him. I realized Ito had this skill. Some people think I have it too. I’m not so sure about that, but Yamashita’s a master of haragei and I’ve felt his force washing over me enough to know I was being “read” by Ito.
Ito’s eyes shifted as if he were coming to some new realization about me. “Yes, a pity, Dr. Burke. It would be most instructive …” his voice tapered off for a moment. “But please excuse me. I am sent to inquire as to whether you would do me the honor of meeting my superiors.”
“I’m sorry, Ito-san,” I told him, “but Yamashita Sensei is not available and will not be returning for several weeks.”
This was always how it started. The quietly contained men in the dark suits. The invitation to a meeting. Yamashita’s past was largely a mystery to me, but it seemed as if these people had a hold on him. I wasn’t sure why, but it was something that could not be denied.
But my teacher is aging now. I feared another summons would be more than he could stand. I wanted to protect him from that, like a man shielding an ember, fearful it will burn itself out without protection. I was ready to dig in my heels on this one. But Ito took me off guard.
“Just so,” he answered, smiling. His teeth were even and very white. “But excuse me, perhaps I have been unclear. My principals,” and here he nodded significantly at the business card in my hand, “wish to speak with you.”
I looked at the card without saying anything, trying to regain my mental balance.
Ito took a step closer, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. “With the greatest respect, Dr. Burke, this is a matter of some urgency. We wonder if you would be willing to come with me. Now.”
He was trying to flatter me. And I was curious. But mostly, I thought I should go simply to ensure that they wouldn’t come back at a later date for Yamashita. Because if they did, he’d go with them, no matter what crazy plot they were hatching. That was the kind of hold they had on him. I knew he didn’t need that. I also knew it was my job to protect him.
These people were dangerous. I’d seen them in action before. They operate in a world of obligation and honor, where it is assumed that some people command and some people serve. And all who serve are expendable. It’s dressed up in mythology and ritual that’s thousands of years old. And no matter what they say, it exerts a powerful hold on the Japanese, even today.
But not me. I was going into this with my eyes wide open. Or so I thought. I looked at Ito’s meishi and the embossed golden chrysanthemum on the card. He was a messenger from the Imperial House of Japan, the longest line of serving monarchs in the world and the descendants of the sun goddess herself. He didn’t impress me.
But I went anyway.
Chapter 2
We rode in a limousine. I always feel uncomfortable lounging in the back of one of those cars. My formative years had been spent ranged along the bench-like seats of a series of overloaded station wagons with my brothers and sisters. Those vehicles rocked and swayed on shock absorbers that were almost as exhausted as my parents. The cars were white or green or blue, depending on the year, filthy and mottled with rust. They all burned oil in the same way and were the type of lumbering gas-guzzlers preferred by the Burke clan.
Ito’s limo was night black and shone from meticulous attendance. I leaned back in the leather seats and watched the traffic. It was cold on the streets; my breath fogged the window for a brief second until the cabin heater wiped it away with luxurious efficiency. We were hermetically sealed, protected from the winter cold. The tinted windows prevented the riffraff from looking in at us. The ride was quiet and smooth and distinctly unreal. Ito stretched out in an opposite corner of the car, comfortable in this environment, and watched me.
I looked over and nodded at his thick hands. “Kyokushinkai?” It’s a karate school renowned for its devotion to breaking techniques.
He smiled and corrected me. “Shotokan.” His voice had a self-satisfied tone, as if the idea that he’d study the Kyokushinkai style was beneath him. It figured. Shotokan was a much more mainstream karate style, and Kyokushinkai’s founder had, after all, been a Korean. They’re big for pedigree in the service of the Imperial House, even down to the details of work out partners. Shotokan was the right choice for someone like Ito. And someone like Ito had probably made the right step every day of his life—going to the right school, developing the right connections. He was cultivated for a life of service in the vast governmental bureaucracy of Japan. If I had thought about it, I would have realized there was no way he was going to spoil his prospects by studying with a renegade group of Kyokushinkai board breakers, no matter how much he might have wished he could. It wasn’t particularly surprising. Duty trumps desire almost every time in Japan.
I wondered whether someone like Ito even felt any struggle between duty and desire anymore. Think of a bonsai tree, bound into a shape not of its own choosing. Does the tree dream of another, wilder form? Probably not. The gardener dreams. The tree simply bends to his will.
I sometimes yearn for that type of surrender, the placid numbness of unquestioning obedience. But it’s just not in me. One of the great ironies of my life is that I’m always trying to avoid being controlled, and yet I have yoked myself to studying an art that demands total surrender. I like to think it’s my choice and I can break free whenever I wish. But I’m not so sure anymore. After all, there I was. I had no real interest in getting involved with these people. I’d dealt with them before, and they always seemed to get what they wanted and then faded back into the shadows while the rest of us were left to clean up the pieces and nurse our wounds. This wasn’t going to end well. But even as it chafed, the yoke compelled me. I had a duty of sorts to perform. I needed to protect Yamashita. From them.
That two-word conversation about karate styles was it for Ito and me. We were both comfortable with silence and it’s not a long trip from Red Hook to Gotham anyway. I sniffed the leather upholstery appreciatively, listened to the tires hum along the road surface, and watched as we popped up out of the Battery Tunnel and arrived in Manhattan. I tried not to speculate too much about what was going to happen. It’s a waste of energy. But deep down, I must have been anticipating certain things and so I felt a spurt of surprise when we slipped past 299 Park Avenue. I hadn’t been consciously aware of it, but I suppose I had thought Ito was taking me to the Japanese Consulate. Instead, we continued down Park Ave. and across East Forty-Ninth to the Waldorf Astoria hotel. I nodded to myself in appreciation. Conveniently close. Yet nicely separate. They think of everything.
We took an elevator and, in the foyer of an elegant hotel suite, another flat-eyed, fit young man in a dark suit frisked me before letting me in. I wondered if the Japanese were simply cloning them. “Tell him I left my throwing stars at home,” I said. Ito smiled in apology, but the pat down proceeded. It struck me then: They think I’m dangerous. This was not something I usually gave a great deal of thought to. I do what I do, and the rarefied little world Yamashita has created has grown familiar and unexceptional to me. But looking at it from the outside, my teacher and I must have seemed like strange beasts. And with that realization, another thought came to me: Dangerous? Well, I suppose I am.
The suite had a conference area: a highly polished wooden table and well-padded chairs. A credenza along one wall featured a silver coffee service and some fruit. An old man, his face blotchy with age spots, was in a wheelchair to my left at the far end of a table. He had a narrow, pointed jaw and a broad forehead. Sparse strands of iron grey hair were plastered over his pate. The pronounced skin of his epicanthic fold made his eyes appear sleepy, but a closer look showed
