Chapter 3: Osaka
After the long weeks on the open sea, it was weird feeling solid ground under his feet again. Sam, who hadn´t been nauseous once on the boat, experienced an unpleasant queasyness in his stomach when he walked down one of Osaka´s main streets. He was surprised to find a city of low buildings – two storeys top, nothing like Manhattan. It looked rather like any small American Midwest town, only spread much wider, and showing a very different architectural style.
Sam frowned at the signs. Japanese, of course. No way he´d have found the tea house he was looking for hadn´t the captain drawn a sketch for him on their last evening on board. Their farewell dinner had been overcast by a slightly subdued mood, in spite of the champagne the captain was offering in generous amounts. The ladies did their best to get a last bit of Sam´s special hotness, letting their feet run wild under the table; the captain talked a little less than usual, mentioning several times he would miss their company (he had admitted to Sam one evening, the thought of spending more than two weeks on solid ground with his wife and son made him nervous. „Fish out of the water", was how he had put it. „I truly can´t breathe when I´m off my boat. Call it professional side effects...").
Third street to the right, walk down for about 300m. Turn left, second building. Sam looked at the sketch, then at the unspectacular building in front of him. No sign at all, not even in Japanese. People seemed to keep their businesses a secret here.
The locations were probably passed on person to person.
His last night with Murakami...Sam kicked at a stone in frustration. She had been adamant about the plan they had, on her insisting, concocted together. Sam had tried everything to find a way to pull the whole operation without having to kill Murakami...but he came up with nothing. Nothing that would be as effective, that is. It annoyed Sam beyond any measure – he wasn´t used to feeling helpless. Not any more: he had worked hard to avoid exactly that kind of situation. Truth is, `annoyed´ didn´t really cut it. Sam was ...hurting. Looking into Murakami´s determined face, reading the deep sadness in her dark eyes...it brought back everything he´d been so keen on burying as deep inside himself as he could.
„You can do this, Sam Winchester", she had said, cupping his cheek with her tiny hand. „For me. For Shinichi. And for your brother." He had taken her face in his own hands, so large and clumsy against her fragile features. Tears had welled in her eyes, and he had gently wiped them away with his thumbs, caressing her cheekbones.
„Save your brother", she had whispered. „Promise me you´ll survive and find him. Be a family again."
Then her voice had changed, her whole body had seemed to strengthen up, filled with fierce energy.
„And bring them down. Every single one of them. Let them bleed, Sam. Spill their blood...for me. For your mother...your family. For my danna. For all the other innocent people they slaughtered. Do it! And don´t show mercy. None of them deserves it."
„Mr. Thomas Simmons, business consultant. US-Japanese commercial relations comittee".
The card he had got together with his job information was expensive-looking, gold fonts on heavy paper. Mr. Simmons seemed to do quite well in his `business´.
No surprise there, Sam thought. The bastard was on Yakuza´s pay list. One more tiny wheel greasing the gigantic machine that was organized crime.
He went up the wooden stairs and was immediately welcomed by a tiny woman in Kimono who bowed – God, she hardly reached his chest when she straightened up again – and gestured to his feet. Ah, the shoes. The Captain had warned him to take `the shoe thing´ seriously. „They´re particular that way", he had put it. „Huge lack of courtesy not to take them off."
Sam slipped out of his boots. He had read about customs like this one in advance of course, and decided to bring non-tie shoes only – he didn´t want to find himself kneeling on the floor tying his shoe laces while one of the world´s most dangerous mafia organisations was on his heels. Doing his job in socks wasn´t an alternative either.
The woman nodded, opened the sliding door, and waved Sam in. He followed her, feeling strangely naked without his boots. The woman seemed to know about his meeting – not that it was hard to guess, Sam thought, given the scarce number of Americans residing in Osaka. She led him to a separate room, opened another sliding door – it was, he noticed, not one of the bamboo and paper walls, but solid wood - , and bowed again. Sam nodded his thanks, and entered. Well, even Japanese Tea Houses needed their protected back rooms for the shadier kind of clientele, he mused.
A man rose from the floor, a little clumsily so. Sam took in his appearance with one swift glance. If he had had to describe the man with one single word, it would probably have been: homely. Or harmless.
Gold rimmed glasses, rather thick ones; a grey flannel suit, best quality and tailoring, but in an unobtrusive style; neatly combed mouse colored hair, already thinning at the temples. A face so common no one would remember it. Middle aged. Medium height, medium weight. He was the personification of mediocrity.
He´s the perfect man for his job – his jobs, Sam thought, keeping his face blank.
„Mr. Simmons", he said, ignoring the outstretched hand in front of him.
Simmons seemed uncomfortable, a little intimidated by Sam´s height maybe, as he was several inches smaller. Or, Sam thought with grim pleasure, it was the fact Simmons knew what Sam was doing for a living. Simmons obviously was the bookie type, to be found in every criminal organisation; not shy of sending others to death (or worse) by providing information or establishing contacts; but never dirtying his own hands with their blood. It was the kind of person Sam hated most – even more than the actual killers. They at least did their jobs without disguise. Hands on.
„Mr...Smith?"
The tone was an insult. Interesting, Sam thought. He must feel quite safe and protected. Well, he´ll soon learn about his mistake.
„Let´s take a seat", the shorter man said, and lowered himself to the floor. Sam glided down too, much more elegantly, his movements those of a cat ready to jump and strike out at any time.
„I hope you don´t mind, but I cancelled the traditional tea ceremony. I thought we´d be more...private that way."
Sam didn´t like the man´s voice. It was...oily. Too smooth...well schooled, probably Ivy League, he pondered.
Sam nodded. His silence seemed to irritate Simmons. With a nervous chuckle, he said,
„So...you seem to be the quiet type, huh! The mysterious killer, the stealthily working, lonesome murderer carrying a dark secret deep down in his soul. It´s a bit of a cliche, don´t you-"
He stopped dead when he felt Sam´s knife directly on his crown jewels. The velocity with which Sam had reached out under the low table, hardly showing any change in his facial expression, had completely taken him by surprise.
What a fool, Sam thought. Playing with the Big Bad Boys...getting all puffed up. While he´s only alive as long as he´s useful to them...
„Let´s skip the niceties", he growled, staring the other man down. Simmons´ pale face showed a fine layer of perspiration now. After a second, he lowered his eyes.
„As you wish, Mr. Smith."
Sam withdrew the knife, not without gracing the other man´s crotch doing so. Simmons shivered. Sam was pleased to see beads of sweat running down his temples. It was probably not the best decision to make an enemy here – but the man simply disgusted him, and as far as Sam could see, he was unimportant enough not to become a real threat.
The business consultant recovered fast enough. He put on an `all business´ face, just as if they were discussing new product lines or possible tax evasion tactics.
„You already got your target´s name, I suppose?" It was a rhetorical question, and Sam didn´t bother to show any reaction. His stomach wasn´t as impassive, though. He felt the familiar fiery ball grow inside. Good. He´d need all the anger he could muster for this...job.
„Good..." Simmons seemed a little nervous now.
„Your target..."
He took an envelope out of his briefcase, handing it over to Sam with a slightly trembling hand. Sam opened it, not leaving Simmons´ face with his eyes. He took out the two photos it contained and threw a quick glance at them.
Murakami...in full geisha garment; and in Western clothes. She wasn´t smiling. Sam stared at her dark, serious eyes for a moment.
Seeing her picture was like getting punched in his stomach.
„The ...task... has to be carried out next Saturday, during Cherry Blossom Festival. Your target will spend the weekend at a villa situated in the Hama Rikuye Gardens – it´s an old Shogun family´s home, very romantic. A lovely place, actually." Sam stared at the man, mercilessly impassive. Simmons cleared his throat.
„Yes. Well. It is crucial that you are seen while carrying out the – act. The target will be part of a small party of guests going for an early morning walk to admire the rising sun on the trees. She will..er.. be separated by that company for a short time. This is when you have to strike. I repeat, er...you must be watched by her companions. Don´t worry, you have nothing to fear, er...my...company will take care of you."
Sam still showed no reaction at all. It filled him with cruel pleasure seeing Simmons sweat and stammer under his cold stare.
„So...you see...your time frame is narrow. After you are done, run to the Japanese bridge at the small tea house facing the Tokyo Bay. A boat will be waiting for you."
„Why", Sam asked calmly.
Simmons looked confused.
„Excuse me?"
„Why do I have to be watched killing my target." Sam´s voice was completely bare of any emotion.
„It´s ..er..I´m not really supposed to tell you this..."
Sam raised an eybrow. Simmons shrank visibly.
„It has to do with the current US-Japanese trade agreements. Let´s just say an American citizen murdering a Japanese geisha right in the open will be very... useful for my company´s role within US-Japanese trade relations. I can assure you you will be magnanimously rewarded, Mr. Smith. My...company...tends to show generosity if their requests are fullfilled satisfactorially."
The oily voice again. Sam stared him down for another long moment, then he nodded almost imperceptibly. He would bring this son of a bitch down with the rest of them. And he would enjoy himself hugely doing so.
„Anything else?"
He was already at his feet. Simmons stared up at him sheepishly.
„Er...no, I ...no." He scrambled to his feet, too, but by the time he had straightened up, Sam was already gone.
Although Mrs. Wessex had tried hard to get Sam to join them on their travel to Tokyo, Sam had declined, much to her husband´s obvious relief; they´d take the first plane the following morning, and would also have Murakami with them, which would complicate things in a way Sam had to avoid at any costs. The captain and his family would stay in the south part of Japan, so Sam would finally be able to take on the role again he´d played so well for the last years...the efficient, untraceable killer who didn´t ask questions. This time it would be different though. Because this role didn´t fit him any more, not as it used to. He had changed. Or – rather - he had been changed. Enchanted by a pair of slanted eyes.
Simmons had given him the address of a small private airport. His plane would start early too. Sam did not look forward to spending the whole flight with his despicable fellow American.
He never really got used to people like Simmons...maybe he hadn´t been as cold and ruthless as he had made himself and the world believe. The mask had fit – he had seen to that. But it was still a mask, he had realized as much during the last weeks on board. A mask he would dearly need for the coming task.
As the captain had invited them all to stay in their rooms for another night, Sam spent the hours pacing the small cabin. He felt restless. When he finally lay down long after midnight, still in his clothes, he kept drifting in and out of dark and twisted dreams. He was glad to see dawn creep over the misty sky eventually.
Sam got up, took his ready packed duffle bag, and left the huge boat without looking back.
Simmons hadn´t exaggerated when he´d called the airport small. It was in fact almost hidden between a gentle slope and a wooded area. The perfect place to come and go without being seen...
Sam huffed.
The Yakuza were good at that..they had only started to grow during WWII, and already had their tentacles in every major business branch inside Japan, and were expanding fast overseas...weapons and chemical industries mostly. Their organizational skills were impressive, and the centuries old Japanese code of honor and loyalty fit perfectly into their tight hierarchical structure.
„They took all the good and honorful traditions of this culture and turned them into something twisted and evil..."
Murakami´s voice had been angry, with a layer of true sadness. „The Samurai was a holy warrior, equally trained in martial arts techniques and ethical standards...the Yakuza took the parts of the moral code that fit their needs, like loyalty and obedience...and they skipped the ethical and benevolent elements."
She followed the ornate embroidering on her Kimono with her finger.
„They did the same to us geishas...we are turning into simple whores wearing traditional clothes and painted faces. A voyeuristic display that destroys the „traditional" codes it puts into the window pane for everyone to stare at..."
It had made Sam infinitely sad to see her like this...a forlorn child who´d lost family, and home, and had even been ripped of the comfort of tradition and culture.
„Murakami...why do you have to go back to japan? Why didnßt you just stay in the Us, hide somewhere?"
She smiled sadly. „Let´s say I got an invitation I couldn´t decline... and I´m tired, Sam. I want it to end. And with you being with me... I know it will be a good ending. In its own way..."
„Ah...Mr. Smith..."
Sam turned to see Simmons approach him, wrapped tightly into a long black coat.
„The plane is still in the hangar, but we´ll start on time...30 minutes maximum. Coffee?"
Sam slipped easily into his professional self again. He gave Simmons a lazy stare and a nod; time to lull the man into a wrong sense of safety. He´d use the unwanted time with Simmons to milk him for as much information as possible...Sam was good at that: Seemingly meaningless and non-committal conversation that led the others to reveal bits and parts of secrets they´d possibly not have spit out under torture...
The first part of the flight was unspectacular. Simmons was leafing through stacks of papers most of the time, scribbling numbers and comments on the sides; Sam stared out of the tiny window at clouds and occasional glimpses of green fields and a more mountainous region.
They went down once to refill on gasoline, and had lunch at a landing area similarily remote to the one in Osaka. When they were up in the air again, Sam noticed a certain nervousness in Simmons. They were nearing the Dragon´s cave...it was time to get Simmons talking.
It took some time until Sam had the man spilling information. Simmons was intimidated enough to be cautious...but Sam was good at his job. They smoked, and drank – well, Simmons drank, Sam pretended to – and talked about everything from baseball to horse racing to the US-Japanese trade agreements. Once Simmons was on track on the superitority of American culture over the Asian in general, it was easy. Without even noticing, Simmons gave Sam useful details on the parts of Yakuza he hadn´t found in Shinichi´s journal: the infiltration of US delegations.
They were nearing Tokyo when Simmons unvoluntarily let a bomb blow up.
„We had already built up a pretty tight network of US and Japanese businessmen working for us...and then this idiot almost blew it. Fell in love with a geisha. Can you believe it? The bitch brought him to smuggle her out of the country."
He chuckled in a smug way. It cost Sam a lot of self control not to strangle Simmons right away.
„They honestly thought they´d be safe in America! And they thought Shinichi was a smart guy...there you have it. Once the dick takes over, your brain goes down he drain. Old wisdom, my friend."
Simmons took a long swig from his drink.
„Of course we took care of them. The beautiful thing was that he came to ME. Shinichi...the Japanese traitor? He came to ME for help! Thought I was his friend...he didn´t know I was Yakuza too...and had already been ordered to take care of him by one of the bosses." Simmons barked an unpleasant laugh. Sam´s fists tightened. He seemed calm and relaxed, but inside he was taught, ready to strike...
„Hahaha...he asked me to save his love...the geisha! Said he´d sacrifice himself to make her survive...idiot! It was hilarious!"
Sam was glad as hell when they finally reached Tokyo. Another private airport – larger this time, and showing some activity, too.
Simmons hurried across the runway to the hangar, holding his hat. Sam ducked under the plane´s low wing, gave a mock salute to the pilot – he didn´t even blink – and followed the American to the office box at the hangar´s side.
Simmons, although slightly tipsy, was back to professional business style again. He waited for Sam before opening the door. „Let me do the talking", he said, an undertone of arrogance in his voice. The guy just couldn´t hide it – he was a douchebag directly out of the Jerks´ Yearbook.
They entered, and Sam was surprised to find a well lit, perfectly equipped office inside the rather decrepit building. The young woman at the first of three desks looked up and nodded a welcome.
„Mr. Simmons", she said, her pronounciation almost flawless.
„Yuka", he answered, approaching her desk.
„What do you have for me today?"
She looked at Sam, curiosity ...and appreciation - showing on her face for a moment only, then turned back to Simmons.
„The car is waiting behind the hangar. This" – she handed him a brown manila folder – „is for you. The other one..." she bent down and took a small envelope out of a drawer – „Is for...him."
Simmons took both the items, glancing at the envelope. He seemed surprised. Sam just stared at him, eyes cold. Simmons awkwardly shuffled his feet and handed him the envelope, a little reluctantly.
„Very well", he said, a bit strained. „Let´s get going then. Good bye, Yuka!"
„Mr. Simmons", she said again, but looked at Sam. He nodded briefly, turned, and they left the building.