The samurai cipher 8, p.1
The Samurai Cipher 8, page 1
THE SAMURAI CIPHER
ERNEST DEMPSEY
COPYRIGHT 2016
ERNESTDEMPSEY.NET
Prologue
Tokyo, Japan
Shibuya Ward
1946
Iemasa heard the knock on the door. The sudden harsh noise interrupted his meditation. He knew the sound was coming soon, just not that soon.
They must be in a hurry, he thought. Always rushing, the West.
Things were much simpler when he was younger. But the Industrial Revolution had changed all that. The world was speeding up at an incredible pace. The old ways were a thing of the past. Soon, they would be all but forgotten.
He smoothed out his ceremonial robe and floated over to the door. Iemasa drew in a deep breath, straightened the glasses on his nose, and twisted the doorknob. He greeted the men in the atrium with a stoic nod. Everything he did for the rest of the day would stand on tradition and ceremony. There would be no display of emotion, no actions that would cause trouble.
The American officer gave a polite but short nod. Two other US soldiers and a representative of the Japanese military escorted him. The latter, a man named Reiko, Iemasa knew well. He’d served as a personal escort of Iemasa on several occasions. Not that he felt he needed an escort. Being part of the Tokugawa Clan brought a certain respectability with it. They were the remnant of a golden age in the country’s history. Being part of that group had its privileges, though being called a prince was something that Iemasa felt a little heavy for his tastes. He’d worked hard his entire life, going to university to study law and moving up through the ranks of Japanese government with the idea of creating a better world.
Then the war happened and everything changed. He’d served his emperor loyally, never questioning the decisions that were made or the actions taken. In the end, Japan lost. The toll had been severe, in both lives and resources. And now, the final price was being being paid.
The disarmament of Japan was part of a master plan put together by the Allied generals, with Douglas MacArthur leading the way. All Japanese citizens and military personnel were to hand over all weapons, even antiques, items of historical significance, and worst of all, family heirlooms.
Many Japanese protested the extremes of the disarmament protocols. Giving up ancestral swords or bow and arrows in a world where wars were fought with tanks, planes, and automatic weapons seemed beyond excessive. What harm would those weapons bring? Some had suggested that taking away items with personal or historic value was the Americans’ way of totally breaking their spirit. That had mostly happened when the two atomic bombs had dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Iemasa was still hearing the horror stories from those two areas.
But this? This was ridiculous and unnecessary, yet there was nothing he could do to stop it. The law was clear and could not be broken.
Of course, there was the other possibility behind the detailed disarmament procedures. The Allies wanted trophies. A sick and primitive way to end the war; taking trophies of their victory was not only a slap in the face, it was an atrocity against historical and familial preservation. But what could be done? The only exception to the rule was that religious institutions were off limits to Allied troops.
“Tokugawa Iemasa?” the American officer asked to make sure he was speaking to the right person.
Iemasa nodded, leaving his thoughts to the ether.
“You ready to go?”
Iemasa nodded again. “Yes, I was just finishing my morning meditation. But the required items are ready for transport.”
“Good. That’s good. These two boys will be accompanying us to the collection facility. I figured we’d need a few extra hands seein’ that you have quite a few weapons to turn in.”
The thought sent a needle through Iemasa’s heart, but he wouldn’t let them see any anger or sadness. To them, he would remain strong. For his family and for his people.
“Right this way,” he stepped aside, motioning with his right hand for the men to enter.
With a show of disrespect, the Americans stomped their way inside without bothering to take their boots off. Their Japanese escort didn’t make the same mistake. Out of a lifetime of habit, he removed his boots carefully at the door.
The officer turned and looked around the elegant, minimalistic home, its plain white walls separated by cherry wood beams. The room was like most other traditional Japanese interiors he had seen during his short time there, and he was unimpressed by the lack of what he considered to be modern amenities. But he wasn’t there to judge the décor. He was there to do a job.
“Right this way, gentlemen,” Iemasa said, pointing to a sliding paper and wood door on the other side of the room.
Once the visitors were inside, the host closed the door and stepped around in front of them, leading the way down a narrow corridor. The walls were decorated with pictures of family and framed Japanese characters the American’s couldn’t read. Light poured through the windows of the rooms they passed, doing more to illuminate the hallway than the dim lights above.
At the end of the corridor, Iemasa turned left and led the group into a massive room. In the center of the far right wall, an ornate set of armor stood on a stand. Its black, gold, and red accents were exquisite. Even without a body inside it, the Samurai armor was imposing.
“That all of it?” The American officer pointed at a collection of open boxes on the floor.
At least a dozen sheathed katana swords, three sets of bows and arrows, and a few spears were stacked neatly inside. Despair filled Iemasa’s eyes as he gazed upon the collection. His ancestors would be disappointed. Some of those weapons had been handed down through half a dozen generations. One or two pieces were even older.
The officer motioned to his two subordinates, and they immediately started sifting through the boxes, tossing the weapons aside like they would pieces of trash. Iemasa winced with each object thrown onto the floor.
When they were done, the men put the weapons back in the boxes, not nearly as neatly as they’d originally been packed, and stood by waiting for further orders. The officer stared at a box that was separate from the others. There was only one sword in it, which was odd.
“Why is that one packed by itself?” the officer asked.
The Japanese escort started to respond, but Iemasa cut him off. “It is a weapon that has been in the Tokugawa family for centuries. It’s older than all the others and is our most prized possession. That blade must be kept separate because it is different. It deserves that honor.”
The officer snorted. “Honor? Were your people thinking about honor when they pulled that sneak attack on Pearl Harbor and killed men while they slept? You all sure do talk a lot about honor, but I don’t see a lot of it in the way you fight. I guess you won’t be doing much fightin’ for a while, though.” He waved his hand at the boxes. “Get this crap out of here, boys. We have several other stops to make today after we get these to the collection depot.”
The other men started hefting boxes off the floor and headed for the exit. The officer noticed the two Japanese men were still standing there and raised his eyebrows. “That means you two need to help too.”
The men nodded respectfully, stepped over to the remaining boxes, and gently picked them up with the greatest of care.
Iemasa followed the Japanese escort out of the room and down the hall. They heard the front door open, signaling that the two soldiers had stepped out. Satisfied the Americans were out of earshot, he spoke in a whisper to Iemasa.
“You cannot do this. You cannot let them have it.”
When Iemasa responded, there was a distant sadness in his voice. “It is the law.”
“Whose law? The Americans’? It isn’t right.”
“It is done, my friend. Perhaps someday it will return to its rightful owners.”
The escort shook his head in disgust as they passed through the door. “I’ve heard they have been melting down the old weapons. If this happens, it will be lost forever.”
Iemasa’s jaw set firm. “They will not destroy it. I am certain of this.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Just before they arrived at the military truck on the street where the two soldiers were sliding the boxes into the back, Iemasa answered in a way that gave Reiko pause. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
1
Tokyo
Monday
Shinji stared out the empty wall frame of the newly built high-rise. The lower floors had already received walls but this one – at the top level – had yet to be protected from the elements. Shinji had never been bothered by heights, and he wasn’t now, even though he knew he was about to die.
Wind plowed through the fortieth-story construction platform, blowing his hair around like leaves in a cyclone. He winced as debris and dust washed over his face. But Shinji remained calm. Internally, his mind retreated to a meditative state, just as he’d learned to do so long ago when he was a child. He ignored the external elements—the wind, the sounds and smells of the city—and stood silent against their request. The men wanted information—, information he would never give them.
He’d been taken from his home in the middle of the night, his house torn apart in their search for something he knew they wouldn’t find. Not there, anyway. Shinji was cleverer than that. He knew what the man standing behind him wanted. There was no way Shinji was going to let him have it. Death didn’t frighten him. His only concern was for his niece. If these men believed she knew something about w hat he was working on, they might go after her. Once he was dead, Shinji could no longer protect her.
“This is the last time I’m going to ask you, old man. Where is it?” The voice came from behind Shinji. It was younger, though only by a decade or so. His name was Taka, and his reputation darker than most in the city’s sprawling criminal underworld.
Shinji allowed himself to laugh, which was rewarded with a swift chop to his kidneys. The laughing turned to coughs as he dropped to his knees, catching himself with his right hand on the dirty concrete floor. He winced but picked himself up quickly.
“Not so funny now, is it old man?”
Shinji nodded a few times, still coughing under his breath. “How do you know? You don’t even realize what I’m laughing at, young man.”
“Perhaps you could enlighten me; all of us.” Taka waved his hand to encompass the other four men in the construction zone. They all wore black button-up shirts. Of course, the top two or three buttons were undone to reveal the tops of their gang’s signature tattoos. The ink was standard issue for anyone who swore allegiance. While there were variations in the designs, the overarching pattern remained similar. The only thing Shinji could liken it to was a zip-up suit that remained unzipped at the top like a pair of open tattooed wings. It was one way people could identify them, and stay out of their path. That, or do whatever they said.
Taka had risen to power quickly within the Yakuza. He controlled a vast segment of the city. And no one defied him. To do so was to be at the wrong end of a horrible death. Shinji knew all of that. In his mind, it didn’t change a thing.
When he spoke, Shinji did so with staunch resolve. He would never bend to these animals, no matter what the threat. “Even if you had the cipher, you wouldn’t be able to understand it. Someone who spent their life trying to cheat, steal, and murder their way to success only looks for the easy path. It is not the path of the Samurai and, therefore, will never be yours to walk.”
Taka pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re not wrong, old man. I’ve done all those things. I wasn’t born into a life of privilege like you. But I’ve built something for myself the best way I could.”
“And once you have the cipher, then what? You’ll have everything you have always wanted? You’ll repent of your sins and become a good person?” He chortled. “I don’t think so.”
“Repent? No, I have no intention of repenting. I have loftier goals. Once I have the cipher, I will find the treasure it leads to. And when that happens, I will be the unquestioned leader of all Yakuza. No one will stand in my way. I will be an emperor. And my reach will be limitless.”
Shinji frowned at the younger man, and he cast a disapproving gaze as he would to a child trying to steal another cookie from the jar. “Do you really believe it will bring you such power?”
“Of course it will. Why wouldn’t it? It is a symbol of our national heritage. It will command respect from all.”
“No,” Shinji shook his head. “It will make you a target. And those who seek the cipher’s treasure must possess honor. When I look at you, I see no honor. You are a coward and a fool, bent on material gain and whatever pleasures life can offer you. The treasure will not be yours. It can only be found by a hero, not a villain.”
Taka listened to his captive’s rant, but he would hear no more. He held up a finger for silence. Looking down at the ground for a moment, he sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. When he looked up, the frustration was gone. His eyes were filled with a terrible resolution.
“You’re really not going to tell us what we want to know, are you, Shinji?”
The old man drew in a long, deep breath and tilted his chin back. He said nothing, which was all Taka needed to hear.
“That’s fine. We’ll find the cipher without you. Even if we have to tear your ancestral home apart, we will find it. We will scour the earth for every person you know. And when we are done, we will have the cipher. You have my word on that.”
Shinji stared out across the bright lights of the big city. It cast a pale glow into the darkness above, drowning out all but the brightest stars. “The word of a coward is no better than the word of a pig,” he said.
Taka grabbed his prisoner by the back of the shirt and shoved him over to the edge. The wind picked up and blew across their faces. Taka’s wavy black hair whipped around with each gust. He held Shinji’s upper body over the edge, leaning him over so he could see the sidewalk and street below. A few cars rolled by, but most of the sidewalks were clear, save for the random late partygoers. Shinji’s eyes widened. Even he wasn’t totally immune to fear.
“Last chance, old man. Tell me where the cipher is, and I will let you go.”
Shinji couldn’t help but notice the odd choice of words the younger man used. Either way, he was a dead man. Whether he told Taka the location of the cipher or not, he was going to end up on the pavement below. There was no stopping that now. The only thing he could do was slow them down and hope.
He turned his head to face his captor and looked him in the eyes. “The blade doesn’t belong to you, Taka. And it never will.”
Taka’s right eye twitched. He took in a short, angry breath. “Very well.”
His fingers let loose of Shinji’s shirt, and gravity did the rest, pulling the old man down, slowly at first. By the time he’d passed the floor three stories down, he was speeding toward the street.
To Taka’s surprise, Shinji screamed, the piercing sound quickly absorbed by the sounds of the city. Taka watched the man’s entire fall until it came to a silent end on the asphalt forty stories below. His nostrils flared as he stared at the body. He stepped back from the edge and addressed one of his men.
“Hideo, take your men, and search his house again.” Before Hideo could protest, Taka raised his hand. “I know you searched it thoroughly before. Perhaps there is something we missed the first time.”
Hideo nodded. He was obedient, a good soldier. Always quick to do Taka’s bidding and extremely persistent, Hideo had ridden Taka’s coattails into the stratosphere of the criminal underworld. The two had joined the organization at almost the same time. The main difference between the two, other than Hideo’s shaved head and stout physique, was that Taka possessed great ambition. Hideo preferred to stay in the shadows, taking care of business from behind the scenes.
“Go,” Taka ordered. “And let me know what you find.”
The men scurried away, disappearing down the unfinished stairwell. Taka looked out over the city: his city. The old man had hidden the cipher somewhere. It would be found. Perhaps there was a place he hadn’t checked, someone he hadn’t spoken to yet. No stone could be left unturned. Nothing could stand in his way of his goal of becoming a new kind of emperor, a Yakuza emperor. It all hinged on finding that cipher. If he failed, his life could hang in the balance.
2
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Tuesday
Sean couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The room still hadn’t come into total focus. His mind was groggy, numbed by something. Was it lack of sleep or something more sinister? He shook his head to try to clear the cobwebs.
The scene cleared, and with that clarity a terrible feeling crept into his stomach.
He was standing in the kitchen of his Southside condo. A burning, acrid smell filled the air and seeped into his nostrils, causing him to wrinkle his nose. Dark liquid pooled on the floor at his feet. He’d not realized it at first because of his flip-flops, but he was standing in a small puddle.
The liquid oozed off the counter and dripped freely down to the floor. Sean tried to remember if, in all his years, he’d ever seen anything like this. Nothing came to mind, and as he exhausted his memories the heavy reality set in.
Questions riddled his mind like bullets from a machine gun. How did this happen? Why did it happen? What did I do to deserve this? How am I going to clean this up?
Anger boiled up inside him, but he pushed it away, forcing it back down into the depths whence it came. Getting angry wouldn’t solve anything. Right now, he had to clean up the mess. There would be plenty of time to work through emotions later.
He lifted a foot out of the pool of liquid and stepped over to the counter. There it sat, staring at him with an uncaring and innocent glow. Something was missing. And he knew what it was.
