Enzan. John Donohue
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skills. So there had to be something more to the situation. Something that made them reluctant to go to the authorities.
“So,” I offered. “Let me guess. Drugs?”
Ito nodded solemnly. “In part. What you call party drugs. Ecstasy. Crystal meth.”
“Some party.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “And there is more.” He fished around in his files and spread out a series of black and white surveillance shots: Chie with an Asian man in wraparound sunglasses and spiky hair. Another picture of the same man without the shades, lighting a cigarette outside a bar. “Lim Ki-whan,” Ito said. “Her boyfriend.” He tried to be dispassionate, but I could hear the note of disdain creeping into his voice. The name was Korean, and even today there is a deep chauvinism among some Japanese regarding the Koreans. For a family like the Miyazaki, it would have been bad enough to have a daughter wander off the reservation in America. To do it with a Korean would be beyond the pale.
“He’s her drug connection as well, I suppose?” Ito nodded in response. “Love is a wonderful thing,” I told him.
He didn’t think I was funny. He was probably right.
“There is more, Dr. Burke. Chie has a troubled psychological profile … issues with behavior. Issues with authority.” Don’t we all. He rustled through some papers, dense with text. “And sex.” He paused for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.
This was curious. Japanese attitudes regarding sexual matters are considerably different than traditional Western ones. The same culture that has elevated tea making to an art form is also the largest producer of pornographic comics in the world. So I waited for Ito to say more. He sat there, arranging and rearranging the order of the folders in front of him. Finally, he simply slipped one folder across the table in front of me. He shrugged. “There. Please take a look.”
There were a great many photos of Miyazaki Chie with a variety of men. The pictures seemed to have been carefully posed to be both sexually graphic and to ensure she could be clearly identified. Many times, she was looking right at the camera, her eyes slightly unfocused, and I assumed that was from the drugs. But you clearly got the sense that she knew she was being photographed. That she knew someone was going to be looking at her in these photos. And that she liked it. I shuffled through the collection quickly and wondered once more at the human capacity for making something potentially good so deeply creepy.
Ito watched me, waiting for a comment.
“I see she’s gotten some tattoos as well,” I offered.
“She is a nymphomaniac,” he said curtly. “And a drug user.” His voice took on heat and speed as he continued. “She is the daughter of one of the most respected families in Japan and she is being exploited by this Korean thug.”
There are lots of ways you could exploit someone, so I pressed for more information. “Has he turned her out?” I said.
Ito cocked his head, taking a moment to make a mental translation of the phrase. “Ah, has he made her a prostitute? No, Dr. Burke.” He reached over and took possession of the photos, sliding the folder beneath the others.
I nodded. “At least there’s that.” But Ito didn’t seem comforted.
“She is with him, we believe. But we do not know where. We want her back, Dr. Burke.”
“I can understand that, Ito-san, but I don’t see why you need me to help.”
Ito rubbed his hands together as if he were thinking about using them to mangle Chie’s boyfriend. It seemed to calm him. He peered up at me. “You have resources that could help us find him.”
“True.” My brother had been a cop for twenty years before he retired to set up a security consulting firm. He’s widely connected, deeply cranky, and very busy. But he could probably find Chie in about twenty-four hours if I asked for his help. “But there are many people in New York who could help you do this,” I told him.
Ito nodded. “Just so. But as we have stated, there are complicating factors. The drugs. The prominence of the family. We would insist on the utmost discretion.”
I thought of the pictures I had just seen. “That would be refreshing.”
“We know of your past service to the Kunaicho,” he told me. The Kunaicho, the Imperial Household Agency, was deeply involved in matters relating to the Japanese royal family. At one time, in another life, Yamashita had been instrumental in training its security personnel. It was a complicated history, filled with good things and bad. Some of them had almost gotten us both killed.
I didn’t respond to his comment and Ito took a sipping breath. “We would be honored if you would help us, Dr. Burke.”
“I think,” I said as I stood up, “that you are not telling me everything, Ito-san. I think you’re looking for someone who can find her, sure, but you also know she’s not going to want to come home, and whoever finds her is going to have to knock some heads together.” He started to respond but I held up a hand to silence him. “And it wouldn’t look good to have some Japanese government agents involved in what would essentially be a kidnapping. So you figured I could do the scut work for you and take the heat. You know, for old times’ sake. Am I right?”
His eyes never wavered. “We will pay you generously.”
“Great. I can buy extra cigarettes in prison,” I told him. I headed toward the door.
“Wait,” Ito called. His partner, who had remained in the background during our discussion, moved to block my way out of the suite.
“Get out of my way,” I told him. But he didn’t move.
“Please, Dr. Burke,” Ito continued. “It is an extremely delicate situation. And extremely complicated.”
I turned my head back toward Ito. “Not half as complicated as your friend’s life is going to be if he doesn’t get out of my way.” I felt the early tremble of an adrenalin dump start to work its way through my muscles. Ito must have sensed it as well. He made a quick motion and the man by the door stood aside.
“Did I tell you how we got those pictures?” Ito called as I headed out into the hall. I kept moving, but his voice followed me.
“Chie sends them to her father.”
Chapter 3
The training hall is called a dojo—a place of the Way. The name has all the exotic allure of the Mystic East: the promise of hidden wisdom and esoteric powers. But step inside a training hall and stay awhile. Venture out onto the floor with us. There are no wizened sages popping out cryptic advice. Instead there is the bark of commands and the hard, relentless gaze of your sensei. There is sweat in the eyes, the burn of muscle, and the constant presence of fear, surprise, pain, and frustration. Yet occasionally, as your hand slides in to grip the hard wooden shaft of the training sword, in the steamy pause between bouts when your heart is hammering in your ears and your breath scrapes in and out, something wells up inside you. It touches you like a phantom hand: the sense of connection, of potential, and the overwhelmingly clear beauty of the moment. Then it’s gone.
So if there’s a way we pursue in the dojo, it’s a way back to that sensation, as intense and fleeting as a flash of light at midnight. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
I’ve been chasing the spark for almost thirty years. I’ve spent close to twenty of them with Yamashita, practicing the brutally elegant system he teaches. It encompasses sword and staff arts, unarmed combat, and more. If modern systems like judo or karate specialize on one segment of the fighting spectrum, the Yamashita-ha Itto Ryu blends as many of these segments as possible into an integrated whole. My teacher uses sword and staff as the main vehicles for his teaching, but insists they are merely means to an end. He trains warriors, and uses whatever is on hand to do so.
He once showed us a tanto, a short knife. Yamashita held it comfortably in his thick hand, moving the blade so the light played dully along its