As he approached his father’s study, Oroshi could not fully suppress a sense of apprehension. He had done his best to track Kaori so far, and made decent progress at that. Nothing had gone wrong, for now. Nothing definitive, at least, but he could not deny that finding and disposing of Kaori was proving far more difficult than he had assumed, and with every extra day, so grew the risks Kaori could reappear from parts unknown and destroy all he had worked so hard to build these last few years.

  That she hadn’t was more luck than skill.

  His father had very little tolerance for people who couldn’t get things done. Masamune valued control and predictability, and would undoubtedly see Oroshi’s failure to dispose of Kaori for what it was.

  A failure.

  A naked woman, possibly injured, had managed to escape capture for nearly a week when he wielded the full powers of the police, the yakuza and virtually endless resources? He could scarcely believe he was this incompetent, but as long as Kaori did not surface with accusations, his situation remained somewhat safe. Now that he knew the identity of the foreigner, however, he felt confident it was only a matter of time.

  Two guards waited in front of the study. They bowed and pulled the sliding door aside. The room was of average size, about fifteen tatami mats, and opened on one side over a decorated Zen garden and a small pond. The circular sand grooves surrounding the pond formed seemingly simple yet intricate patterns, and their effect was oddly soothing. The walls were covered with translucent shoji paper and backlit to replicate the feel of traditional Japanese architecture, but he knew this was only an appearance. Behind the paper was solid layer of armored concrete and a fine mesh of metal and fiber, turning the wall into a sound-proof, radiation-proof and bullet-proof shield, a necessary concession to the needs of a man in Masamune’s position. It was, in itself, a perfect metaphor for his way of life.

  On one end of the room, the tokonoma contained a large calligraphy made of a single character: Honor. A simple concept, yet different to every reader.

  To a guard, honor was merely to die for one’s master. For Masamune, the word was steeped in centuries-old traditions and reflected his duties and rights as a leader. It was rather self-serving, given his position. For Oroshi, it was but a mean of control. People often did stupid things in the name of honor and he was determined to take advantage of them without ever allowing honor to dictate his own behavior. In a sense, he felt honor-bound to have no honor. He controlled men, never the other way around, not if he could help it.

  At the far end of the room was a wooden desk and bookshelf, the center of which had been removed to accommodate a katana kake, an ornate wooden stand supporting a full-size katana and a shorter sword, the wakizashi. They were not ornamental, they had spilled more than their share of blood in Masamune’s younger years, and he liked to watch them as a reminder of his power.

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  Honor to one side of the room, power to the other, a perfect balance.

  Masamune was nothing if not a traditionalist. As Oroshi entered, he was standing at the edge of the room, looking into the garden. He did not turn around to address him.

  “Do you know why I like this garden, Oroshi? Everything is exactly as it should be.” Masamune declared in an even voice. “What news do you bring?”

  Oroshi had expected the question, but his answer was no better now than it was a few minutes ago.

  “The police investigation is completely under control, and my men run the crisis coordination office. We are monitoring every communication with the media and the authorities. The foreigner helping Kaori has been identified. It’s a man called Allaire Ma?l, a westerner who came to Japan to train Judo. As far as I can tell, he was at the Chinzanso by accident. We have tracked Kaori all the way down to Enoshima and I think she might have stolen a sailing ship, which is why no one has seen any trace of her anywhere. My men are searching the harbor as we speak. I apologize for my incompetence.” Oroshi declared. He kept his voice neutral. Emotion would not serve him here.

  Masamune turned around and gestured for him to take a seat at the desk. He was calm, perhaps serene even. Oroshi complied. Masamune stepped to the other side and observed him in silence.

  “Not too bad. You are getting close. A bit slow, but at least you did find the right trail, and it wasn’t as easy as one could have expected.” Masamune declared reaching for his drawer.

  “Mashiro Kaori escaped on board of her friend’s ship in Enoshima, the Asahi, and sailed south. Fortunately for you, she sailed directly into the path of the typhoon. Her ship’s AIS transmissions stopped right then.” He placed a broken bokken on the desk, in front of Oroshi. Engraved in the handle were two kanji characters:

  佳織. Beautiful Weave. Kaori.

  “It was found floating not far the mainsail of the Asahi. She is dead. Congratulations.”

  Oroshi looked at his father, dumbfounded. How did he do it? He had every resource, but his father was still two steps ahead of him. Would he ever surpass the old man? It was both infuriating and inspiring.

  “As expected of you, father!”

  He meant it. This changed everything! With Kaori truly out of the way, his plans could now proceed smoothly.

  “We will need a body for poor Tomo-kun to find. I think Chiyoko is about the right size, don’t you think?” Masamune stated. His tone was neutral but Oroshi felt as if Masamune had driven his sword deep into his belly and twisted.

  He knows. He knows everything! Oroshi’s mind screamed in terrified rage. He had done it all on his own. Every step of the way, corrupting Tomohisa with some of his sex slaves, gathering blackmail, pushing him always further into depravity, getting rid of the former police chief, promoting him, cultivating and taming Chiyoko…

  It was all him. Him. HIM!

  And Masamune knew everything anyway.