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That said, Joe wasn’t wrong. The building was a work of art, the interior a high-tech wonderland. Every surface was polished and gleaming; even the rack of weapons they’d passed as they neared Nagano’s office had been lit like a display case at an upscale gun show.
“Your foyer was interesting,” Kurt said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to have a receptionist or a duty officer?”
“Easier, perhaps,” Nagano said, “but a waste of manpower. As you probably know, Japan’s population is shrinking. By automating the arrival phase, we avoid wasting an officer’s time that can be better spent elsewhere.”
“What about the ritsuban?”
Nagano shrugged at the contradiction. “That falls under the category of crime prevention,” he said, “though many stations are looking to end the practice or replace the guard with an automated mannequin.”
“And the world will be all the poorer for it,” Kurt said.
“At least your automated receptionist spoke different languages,” Joe said, still trying to be complimentary.
“A necessity,” the superintendent replied. “As everyone knows, most of the crime in Japan is caused by foreigners.”
Kurt noticed the slightest hint of a smile on Nagano’s face. An inside joke, most likely.
Joe didn’t have an answer for that. “Anyway,” he said finally, “it’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Thank you,” Nagano replied. “Now I must ask you to leave immediately.”
“Excuse me?” Kurt replied.
“You must leave Japan on the first flight out,” Nagano insisted. “We will escort you and your friends to the airport.”
“Are you deporting us?” Kurt asked.
“It’s for your own safety,” Nagano said. “We’ve identified the men who attacked your group last night. They were once Yakuza hit men. Heavies and assassins.”
After hearing Joe’s description of the man who’d been mauled by the dragon, Kurt was not surprised. He knew the Yakuza favored wild tattoos. But he posed the obvious question. “Why would the Yakuza be interested in the research of an eccentric scientist?”
“Former Yakuza,” Nagano reiterated. “A breakaway group.”
“In other words,” Kurt said, “hired guns.”
Nagano nodded. “Once, in our past there were ronin. That is the name for a Samurai without a lord. They lived as nomads. As warriors for hire. These men are similar. They are killers without a master, working for whom they please. They were once bonded to particular Yakuza organizations, but years ago we managed to break up many of the criminal networks. The leaders were sent to prison or killed, but the lower-level members were only scattered and left to their own devices. Now they answer to no one but themselves. In many ways, they’re more dangerous now than before.”
“Any idea who they’re working for?”
Nagano shook his head.
“No doubt, they were hired for a rather large fee; their number and the brazen method of attack suggest that much. But who paid them and why . . . we haven’t the slightest lead.”
Kurt knew it had something to do with the East China Sea and the disturbance that Kenzo had detected there, but without more information, guessing was pointless.
“The fact of the matter is,” Nagano continued, “you and your friends thwarted the attack. Retribution can be expected.”
“From whoever paid these ronin,” Joe said.
“Or from the hit men themselves,” Nagano said. “You’ve embarrassed them. Shamed them. They will want to save face.”
“So much for foreigners committing all the crimes in Japan,” Kurt said.
“Sadly, yes.”
Nagano pushed a file folder toward Joe. “You’re the only person who got a close look at any of them. It would help us if you could look at these pictures.”
Joe took the file folder and opened it up. Instead of mug shots or surveillance photos, he saw colorful designs drawn on the outline of a man’s back and shoulders.
