The funeral pamphlet that Togusa got from Fujiko Nihei's son had a phone number in it for the company that had made the arrangements. From them, he got an address for Fujiko Nihei's son, Akio Nihei. He ran a background check through the net: Akio was fifty-four years old. He was a retired director who'd worked for a prestigious animation studio. His name was attached to some of the most famous shows of the past two decades. He'd lost his job when his company started outsourcing to mainland filmmakers who would work for cheaper.
That by itself wasn't remarkable. What struck Togusa was his picture: Graying hair, thick goatee, crows feet branching out from his smiling eyes.
This wasn't the same man he'd met at Fujiko's apartment.
Togusa double-checked and sure enough, this man was absolutely the son of the recently deceased Fujiko Nihei. And he had no other siblings. When he'd seen that, Togusa mouthed a silent What the hell.
Togusa showed up at his apartment building around 10, as dark clouds started congregating overhead. It was definitely a nicer pad than the one that his mother had lived in—it was in a much more upscale area, and the building had an art-deco vibe to it that teetered on the edge between quaint and tacky. Togusa went up to the fifth floor and knocked on the door.
"Just a second!" he heard a deep, rich voice call. A few moments later, the door opened. Akio Nihei stood in front of him, wearing a t-shirt and shorts. He looked Togusa up and down. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure, but I hope so." Togusa showed him his badge. "Togusa, Public Security." Akio's eyes widened in instinctual alarm. That tended to happen when you flashed your badge at someone. Togusa pocketed his badge. "I was hoping you could answer some questions for me, Mr. Nihei. Is it all right if I come in?"
"Oh, ah. Sure. Please." He ushered Togusa in. His living room was a miniature anime museum. Printouts of his work were plastered all over the walls, protected by glass panes fitted into mahogany frames. Not a single inch of plaster was visible. Some old-school animation cells hung from the ceiling. Towards a sliding glass window that led out to the balcony, a low table played host to some art materials. Togusa managed to get a quick glimpse of what looked like a desert plain before Akio Nihei quickly collected his supplied and set them neatly aside in a shallow rectangular box. "Tea?"
"Thank you, but I'll pass," Togusa said. They assumed opposite sides of the table. "Mister Nihei. Your mother had an apartment in the downtown warrens district, correct?"
Nihei flushed. "Yes. Though I'll have you know that I offered her to stay here with me many, many times." His face scrunched up in a mix of anger and sadness. "She said that she didn't want to be anywhere near those stupid cartoons."
Togusa squirmed uncomfortably. He wasn't interested in familial drama and cut it off before Nihei could go on: "I was over there two days ago, sir."
Akio started. "What? Why? Is there some kind of murder investigation?"
"No, I—"
"My mother wasn't murdered."
"I know, sir. My condolences, by the way. This isn't really about your mother. Not completely. There was a man at her apartment claiming to be her son. You don't have a brother, do you? Any half-brothers?"
Akio looked flabbergasted. "No. Not that I'm aware of. Why were you at her apartment? Who was this man? Why was he at her apartment?"
Togusa took a palm-sized photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. It was an image of the drunken man purporting to be Mr. Nihei at the late Fujiko Nihei's residence. Togusa hadn't thought to snap an image of him while he was there, which hadn't made the Major happy one bit. He'd had to go through a very invasive and painful process called 'Scouring', by which the Section Nine techs hooked him up to a computer that rooted through his cyberbrain to find the archived digital memories. It was an invasive, uncomfortable, and protracted experience. "Do you recognize this man?"
Nihei shook his head. "I've never seen him before in my life."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Ah." Disappointed, Togusa awkwardly stood up from the table and plucked the photo out of Akio's fingers. "That's all I needed to know then. I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nihei."
He left the stunned surviving Nihei there, ruminating on how much time he'd already wasted. He was halfway out the door when he heard a frantic, "Wait, wait!"
Togusa stopped. Nihei crossed the threshold of his living room and gestured for the photo, waving his fingers in front of his breast, where Togusa's inner pocket was on his own jacket. "May I…"
Togusa didn't see the harm, and Akio's sudden enthusiasm had him curious. He handed the photo back. Akio peered at it closely for a few seconds, then his eyes bulged. "Togusa, you said?"
"Yeah."
Akio traced a finger along the man's hairline, half-hidden by drunken bangs. "You see that? That sort of reverse widow's peak he has?"
"Uh huh. Is that important?"
"It might be, for whatever it is you're doing," Akio said. "You see, a couple years ago I was working on this show, The Clover Cavalier. You've probably heard of it." Togusa hadn't. "Irish girl goes to Boston and becomes a hitman for displaced members of the Italian mafia. Sort of my tribute to Gunsmith Cats with a twist of The Godfather. I directed episodes ten through—"
"The reverse widow's peak?" Togusa prompted.
"Yes, sorry, sorry. Well, that's not a natural hairline, see?" Akio traced it again. "That's a hairstyle that was popular in eastern Massachusetts, right before World War III broke out. It was a fad that went out of style during the war, then made this sort of comeback recently as a bit of a trend. New-new-age mod kinda thing."
Togusa drew his lips to a line. "So…you're saying this man…is American?"
"Yes. Well…that or a big fan of The Clover Cavalier." Akio winced. "But that's doubtful. We were canceled before we could even think about doing a second season."
###
"Major," Togusa said before he stepped out from beneath the awning to get into his car. It had started to rain.
"Got something?" the Major asked. Togusa could hear the hum of a requisitioned cargo plane in the background.
"Yeah," Togusa said as he climbed into the passenger seat. "One second." He shut the door, buckled himself in, started up the car, flicked the headlights on and pulled out onto the street. "I just got—" He snorted at the cheesiness of what he was about to say. "—A clue from the real son of Fujiko Nihei that the false Mr. Nihei was an American. And the reason why he knows this is because he did some research on New English hairstyles for an anime that came out some time ago. Don't ask."
The silence on the over end of the line was deafening. "Run that by me again? On second though, don't. American?"
"Yeah," Togusa said. "If that's really the case, that's bad. How many Americans speak perfect Japanese?"
"You mean the ones who don't hover around their hive in Langley, Virginia?" the Major said.
"And conveniently show up at the same place and time as our rogue Operator, victim-apparent of an American cyberinfiltration."
"Get on the line to Aramaki and tell him what you just told me. Look, I need to drop out for a bit. We're about to pass over Denver's blackout zone. Good work, Togusa. Give me an update in half an hour."
"Yes ma'am," Togusa said as the line clicked off. He buzzed the Chief, got put on hold—a good sign he was in a meeting—and got a bite five minutes later.
"Togusa. Sorry for the wait, I wanted to make sure that I was a decent enough distance from the American embassy."
"You heading out?"
"I've completed my meeting and am heading back to HQ. Have you found anything?"
"Well, the Major and I have reason to believe that the man in Fujiko Nihei's apartment could possibly have been an American operative. His hairstyle is congruent with some kind of hipster-whatever-the-hell fad that's apparently centralized to the Imperial east coast."
"Hurm," Aramaki huffed. "Well, as far as evidence goes, Togusa, that's rather tenuous. But if you and the Major came to this conclusion, I'll take your word for it."
Togusa tried not to be offended by the fact that he'd needed the Major's affirmation. "How were things on your end?"
"Not particularly productive," Aramaki said. "Naturally, being the experts at saying everything without saying anything that they are, I wasn't able to get much out of the Americans. But Ambassador Morssey did become noticeably twitchy when I mentioned some repelled security breaches at Section Nine. Again, nothing conclusive, but as I believe the expression goes, 'If it's got stripes, it's a zebra.'"
Togusa hadn't heard that one before, but didn't make note of it. "Do you think the Major could get access to a personnel database at Sandia to run a match on my guy's face?"
"I'd say the odds lean slightly in our favor. Though the risks would certainly outweigh the rewards by a considerable margin. Unless Major Kusanagi uncovers some sinister plot to undermine the security of Japan, or definitive proof that we were hit with an attack directly sanctioned by Washington, we might have to let this one lie. I've already briefed the Prime Minister and she's given us permission to prod the beast."
"But not to wake it?"
"Precisely."
Togusa tapped his fingers against the wheel as he maneuvered through traffic. "Chief. What if I went to Langley? Took a tour of CIA headquarters? I might have a decent chance of ID'ing this guy without having to actually hack anything. If they're still doing tours."
Aramki paused. "For the time being, let's table that. That'd be over our budget, and besides. He could just as easily identify you, and then this operation would be compromised. If the Major does find conclusive proof of an infiltration attempt, then, well, should Mr. Nihei decide to show his face here again, we can at least drag his carcass in front of a tribunal."
Togusa whistled. "That's some ruthless stuff, Chief."
"Mm. Once you're back at the office, Togusa, give Paz and Ishikawa a hand."
"Sure thing, Chief. Out." Togusa switched off Aramaki and carefully trailed behind a steady line of glowing red lights as he maintained a careful speed down the freeway.
###
"Major," said the Operator over mind-comms.
"Go ahead," the Major said, patching it through to the others. She sat strapped to an uncomfortable chair in the chilly compartment of a requisitioned cargo plane. Batou sat beside her, reading a dog-eared copy of The Eye of the World. Boma and Saito were on the opposite side of the plane, sitting across from each other on other sides of a table and playing chess. Saito was keeping his queen nestled comfortably behind a wall of three pawns that hadn't been moved from the start of the game. Boma had lost his own and was trying to try some kind of pincer maneuver to get his opponent's king.
Two Tachikomas and an enormous crate filled with guns were tied down with thick yellow ratchet straps. Officially—as far as officially could go, without seeing figurative daylight—these guns were being shipped so that the Empire could leak their existence to the press and scare the living hell out of the United States militias that had been needling their borders. In exchange, the Empire would provide the Japanese government with the location of a pair of its foreign intelligence agents who'd gone missing in the Middle East. Agents that had already been recovered in body bags months prior, unbeknownst to the world.
Unofficially, Section Nine planned on having the Tachikomas whisk the guns away to the Major's old safe-house before customs could check them in. And then before anyone could panic, word would come down that an identical crate of guns had accidentally been left on the tarmac back at New Tokyo International. There'd be photo and video evidence to back it up. All expertly fabricated.
It was the kind of scheme that could set off a major diplomatic incident if anyone partaking in it got caught. Which Section Nine didn't plan to.
"We're making our descent into Albuquerque," the Operator said. "We'll be on the ground in approximately ten minutes."
"Got it," the Major said, cutting the connection. She whistled at Boma and Saito. "Pack it in, guys. You don't want those falling all over the place."
As Saito and Boma started putting their pieces away, the Major nudged Batou. "How's the book?"
Batou huffed and slapped the softcover shut. It was tiny in his meaty hand. "Well, I could be wrong, but I think it's safe to say that the Chosen One is the adopted six-foot-six redhead who got the first chapter after the prologue, and not one of his asshole friends," Batou said, tossing the book into a bag strapped to the wall next to him. "Think I'll stick with Cussler."
When Saito and Boma started to get into conversation about chess maneuvers, the Major whistled for their attention. "So. We all agreed that Boma takes point on this one?"
Boma wasn't one for facial expressions, but the subtle shift in his posture gave away his surprise.
"You're the nuke guy. Only makes sense," said the Major, smiling slightly. "I can't hog all the spotlight."
"Well, all right," Boma said. "But you know, I think the Americans might take a little more kindly to you than to…well. Any of us, honestly."
"Because I'm a woman, or because I'm not a walking wall of muscle with any visible eye implants?" the Major said.
"Yes," said Boma.
The Major snorted. "Well then. Guess we'll just have to stick your cyberbrain into something more curvaceous."
"Thanks, I really needed that image in my head," Batou said with a light chortle. He cleared his throat. "Though now that you mention it, Boma, maybe it's best I hang back. Saito, you mind?"
"Who said walking into an Imperial weapons and cyberwarfare facility had to be a three-man job?" Saito asked with a hint of inoffensive sarcasm.
"Technically the Chief, but it does make you wish we had Togusa around, if the point is to not give the Americans a heart attack when they see us," Batou said. "Because let's face it, I don't think anyone here really screams anti-nuclear-micromachine safety inspector."
"But Togusa does?" Saito asked, sounding genuinely curious.
"Togusa's beige enough to be practically above any and all suspicion," Batou said. "Hell, I'm not entirely unconvinced that he doesn't wear some kind of therm-optic camo hairnet. When was the last time you ever heard somebody tell him that mullets died out in the nineties?"
The Major laughed, and stopped when a glint caught her eye. She peered outside the cargo plane's window at Albuquerque, New Mexico. Yellow farmland desperately clawed its way up along the receding waters of the Rio Grande, strangled by gray veins of highway that were used for the local PMCs that patrolled it. The downtown metro was squat and red, the color of fresh clay in the dying light. Hot air balloons soared over the Sandias, which were dotted with eggshell-shaped homes that clung to its smoothed face like barnacles, connected by high-speed rail-lines and elevators. The once-majestic mass of converging tectonic rock had been rendered into a monumental multiplex by developers desperate to house the fat-cat pharmaceutical and cyber-tech developers who'd fled from California.
The Major had done some catching up on the city's past on the flight over. It beat keeping her consciousness confined to the icy coffin that was the cargo hold. And from thinking about the various implications of why the American Empire would want one of their Operators. Because that definitely seemed to be the case, by all appearances.
She hoped she was wrong, but she still had Ishikawa's findings to think about. And when did Ishikawa ever make mistakes?
"Man, can practically smell the chiles from here," Saito said as he glanced sidelong through a window on his side of the plane.
"That and the cordite," Batou intoned, peeking the same way.
"Look alive, guys," the Major said as the plane thudded down, wheels screeching as the Operators applied the brakes. "From here on out, we're tiptoeing through a minefield."
"A minefield? Major, we're not equipped to tiptoe through enemy ordinance!" squeaked Tachikoma 1.
"I think that was something called a metaphor, meant to demonstrate the precariousness of the political situation that we're about to get into," said the deeper-voiced Tachikoma 2.
"Oh," said Tachikoma 1. "Well, I couldn't tell."
"You'll catch on," said Tachikoma 2. "Everything's dumbed down in America. Even metaphors!"