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“Then how?”
“You said yourself there were survivors.”
Oni’s face turned a new shade. Anger and sickness mixed.
Han continued. “If you want to live out your days in anything but wretched poverty and constant hiding, you’ll need more than just a modicum of wealth. You’ll need a new life, a new identity and enough money to last an eternity.”
From his pocket, Han pulled a folded sheet of paper. Holding it between two fingers, he offered it to Oni, who hesitated and then snatched it away.
Oni unfolded the paper to see an incredibly accurate drawing of his face, right down to the fishhook-shaped scar on his lip. Below the drawing was a diagram of his tattoos. It was also surprisingly accurate.
Boiling with rage, he ripped the paper into shreds and threw it back at Han in a swirl of confetti.
Han shrugged. “I’m sure the police have duplicates.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You know it does,” Han snapped. “It means your time is up. Your reign as the Demon who comes in the night is over. To make matters worse, you have no friends left. No one to help you. That is the life of a ronin—in the end, you die alone. I’m offering a way out, if you’re up to it, but it requires you to bring something to me.”
“And what might that be? Another head on a platter?”
“That you’ll do for free,” Han said. “What I need now is information about a missing sword.”
“Sword?”
“I assume you’ve heard of the Honjo Masamune?”
“Of course I have,” Oni said. “It’s only the most famous sword in Japan. So what? It’s been missing since the end of World War Two. Either the Americans took it or—”
“Yes, the official story,” Han said. “I know it well. At the end of the war, the American forces demanded that all weapons, including ceremonial swords, be surrendered. Many of the wealthy were angered by this and fought to keep their swords, but Iemasa Tokagawa believed working with the Americans was the only way to ensure a future for Japan. He turned his collection over; fourteen priceless swords, including the Honjo Masamune. They were delivered to a Tokyo police station, where they were later picked up by an American sergeant named Coldy Bimore. They vanished, never to be seen again. An open-and-shut case, except American records show no evidence of the swords being inventoried and no record of any soldier, sailor or airman with that name being stationed in Japan during the entire time of occupation.”
“Obviously, a lie,” Oni said.
“Of course it’s a lie,” Han said. “But whose? I have information suggesting something other than American duplicity.”
Oni narrowed his gaze.
The hook had been baited; now Han needed to reel his catch in. Oni wanted to believe. He wanted to see and touch the legendary weapon. To hold it and even wield it. And why shouldn’t he want that? Every artist longed to see the works of the masters. Painters wished to see the brushstrokes of a Picasso or Van Gogh; sculptors wished to see the David, to touch the marble, though it was off-limits. Ushi-Oni had made a life out of weapons and cold steel. To hold the Masamune would be transcendent.
“What information?”
“Records from the Tokagawa family and a secret communiqué issued to a member of the House of Peers, where Iemasa Tokagawa served at the end of World War Two. They tell a different story.”
“Go on.”
“Iemasa Tokagawa did indeed wish to work with the American forces, but others in his family felt differently. They had forgeries made and attempted to replace the priceless swords with the cheap re-creations. Tokagawa discovered this at the last minute and a fight ensued. Several members of his family died struggling against one another. He realized that the swords were not only a point of pride for the family but a symbol around which Japanese resistance and the idea of a greater Japan might rise again. According to a letter he wrote, Tokagawa both feared and hoped for this, but he’d seen enough death during the long war and in its aftermath to tip the scales to dread. He decided the swords should be hidden somewhere so they wouldn’t become a catalyst for an uprising. He sent word to a member of the House of Peers and the swords were intercepted. Replicas were handed over in their place, but they didn’t fool anyone, and so the story of the American sergeant with the odd-sounding name was fabricated.”
“What happened to the swords?” Oni asked.
“Tokagawa’s letter requests that they be given to a Shinto priest and hidden in one of their sanctuaries.”
Oni looked disgusted. “A weapon of war in the hands of a priest.”
“So it seems.”
“Which shrine? Where? There are thousands of them.”
Han took a deep breath. “No mention of the particular shrine was ever made,” he admitted. “But other letters from the period indicate that the Tokagawa family supported a particular shrine in the footsteps of Mount Fuji, all the way back to a time long prior to the war. A rather obscure sanctuary at that. But if you wanted to hide something priceless, to entrust a national treasure to someone other than yourself, it’s only logical to assume you would give it to someone you knew and had a prior existing relationship with.”
