Chapter 4: Tokyo

Tokyo, at least, was a city. Sam had grown up in New York, and small towns – or, hell, the open land - gave him the creeps.

He felt at home between ten storey buildings, surrounded by the daily noise of people, cars, and construction sites (as there always was construction going on in New York), and as far as he was concerned, parks offered enough green for a life time.

Tokyo was different though. Sure, there were no signs of the war to be seen any more; and there was definitely construction going on here, too. But even in the very center, buildings were lower than he was used to – a few 8, 10 storey buildings, the rest was 6 storeys maximum. Most parts of the town were like huge suburbs. It was like New York without Manhattan. And without the crazy traffic.

Sam looked out of the window, wondering where the cars were. Bycicles – he saw lots of bycicles. But compared to New York, traffic here was like on a Sunday at 8 in the morning.

„Traffic is light", he commented.

Simmons looked up, surprised Sam was talking at all.

„Yeah...they love their trains. It´s crazy at rush hour, I can tell you. Imagine living in one of the world´s biggest cities, and half of the population wants to mount a train within one hour in the morning. It´s horrible."

Well, it wasn´t much better in New York, Sam thought, but didn´t reply.

„We´re almost there", Simmons said. „You´re staying at this small hotel tonight. I´d recommend you go to the garden on foot, it´s a 30 minutes walk maximum. Afterwards, the boat will bring you to a train station where you can melt into the crowd."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

„Well, maybe not exactly melt into it", Simmons corrected. „But as we want you to be noticed, it´s perfect. From then on, you´re on your own."

Sam nodded. He wasn´t even used to this amount of involvement from his clients. Well, it was a special situation for sure.

The hotel was small and unobtrusive, situated in a calm side street. He filled in the forms at the counter – part of the „being noticed" game – and got the key to his room on the third floor. It was simply furnished, in a clear, reduced style. Sam liked it.

He went to the window and opened it to let in the fresh spring air. He could smell the sea...he had always loved the days in New York when the wind came in from the ocean, carrying a promise of sky and clouds and freedom. Sam reached for his cigarettes. The bluish smoke swirled in the breeze coming through the open window, writing transient messages in the air.

Sleep came late, and didn´t bring peace to his mind.

Sam watched the sky brighten and change it´s color from dark velvety blue to a greenish turquoise. Birds were singing in the cherry trees, their beautiful chant multiplying by the second while the rising sun, though not to be seen yet, sent its light into this part of the world.

In New York people are going to bed now...and the last blackbirds will sing their good bye, he thought. He felt an unknown melancholy grip his heart...a heart he had been sure to have buried in layers upon layers of iron...hidden and protected by an armor no enemy would ever be able to destroy. And he had been right...it was not the enemy who finally cracked it open.

The first beams of sunlight fingered through the trees. The birds´concert rose to a symphony, a wild and enthusiastic celebration of the new day, of life itself.

Sam looked at the enchanting scenery. The garden was following the gentle slopes of the landscape, the natural beauty enhanced by a few old cherry trees, breathtaking in full blossom; a water canal wove through the hills, mirroring the pink clouds and the now light blue sky above, the rays of sunlight glittering on the water´s surface. From the meadow where Sam was leaning against a tree´s rough bark, it was like looking at...perfection. Nature, shaped into Paradise...

Is that what Heaven looks like, Sam thought. Not that I´ll ever get to know...there´s a dungeon with my name on it down in the Pit for sure...

He looked up at the black branches above his head. They seemed painted with a fine brush on the light pink waves of blossoms, black ink on soft watercolors, densely woven and intricated lines where the trees met. A gush of wind rustled the trees; and a snowfall of blossoms surrounded Sam all of a sudden, a magic fairy tales world, like in the stories his mother used to read to them when they were little: Once upon a time...

Sam shivered. The early morning air was chilly, and his feet were getting damp from the dew. He buried his hands in the pockets of his coat. It was almost time.

The small party slowly strolled over the wooden bridge. Sam watched the ladies, most of them beautifully dressed in their kimonos. The men wore western clothes. It hit him how a deep and irreversible change was visible in things as unimportant to himself as clothes.

At the end of the bridge, the group seemed to discuss something. Then a tiny figure parted fom the rest, slowly coming up the path to the orchard-like place where Sam stood in hiding. He recognized Murakami´s graceful walk, steps short due to the weird sandals she wore, but not showing the usual mincing and toddling pace...it looked as if she was floating slightly above the ground, an ethereal fairy approaching her flower petal home.

Or, rather, the place where she was going to be murdered.

„I will be going to the shrine in the cherry orchard", Murakami had told him. „That´s our only chance, Sam. I will ask the others to stay back so I can pray in peace. The place is within eyeview of the bridge where they will be waiting for me. You will meet Yakuza´s request this way..."

She had gently touched his cheek, stroking a wayward strand of hair back behind his ear.

„It is a place of peace and beauty, Sam. Even if I had to die in a different way...an old woman, wrinkled and bowed down by a long life...I would choose a place like this."

He could still feel her fingers brushing over his lips, a butterfly´s wings...

Sam watched her through a curtain of falling blossoms. The ephemeral beauty of the scene was almost unreal...

„You will think of me every time you see a cherry tree in blossom", she had said, smiling up into his tense face.

„Cherry blossoms are a symbol of transient beauty, Sam...reminding us of how short human life is, and how we should relish the time we have...make it matter, and live it to the fullest. Promise me you´ll do that, Sam. Make our sacrifices matter. Live. Give you and your brother your lives back. And so many others..."

Murakami had reached the shrine. Sam could see the traces of her tiny feet in the grass, dark against the rest, where the morning sun was now glinting in millions of dewdrops bejewelling every blade of grass.

She bowed in front of the shrine, eyes closed.

Now.

Killing other human beings hadn´t been difficult for Sam. When he had shot someone for the first time, he had waited for something to happen inside him – remorse, pain, fear, satisfaction – but all he had felt was ...a kind of sad wonder. He had taken a life. Turned a breathing, moving, talking being into...nothing but a memory. It was so...easy.

He had crouched down, looking into the dead eyes of the man he´d shot – a member of the Old Italian branch of organized crime. He knew the man had a family, wife and a few kids, went to church, paid his taxes like a good citizen. And he was responsible for the death of more than ten members of a rivalling mob, plus a few of his own „family" who he´d used to mask his own little sidelines, which got them killed eventually.

Was it better for a child to have a criminal, a murderer as father, or grow up with no father at all? To live with the memory of a good man rather than to find out he was a thug and a thief later...

How had this life taken a course that made it end violently like this...where had the crossroads been, where had this man taken the wrong road?

Sam had never felt remorse for his murders. But then he had only killed criminals until now.

And he wondered...had he taken a wrong turn somewhere too...and had this one decision led him to this day, to this place, and to this murder he´d unwillingly commit?

Murakami straightened up. She looked in his direction, even if she couldn´t possibly see Sam. Her face was calm, composed. The hint of a smile played around her mouth. She gave a short nod, almost imperceptible.

Now. Or never.

Sam strode forward, was at her side with two large strides. God, she was so ...tiny. Fragile... like a child. He cupped the back of her head with his left hand, gently, and she leant into it, looking into his eyes. They were bright, and fearless. She smiled.

„Thank you, Sam", she whispered, and closed her eyes.

He gripped the knife tightly, and with one swift move, cut her throat.

With a sickening, wet rattle she went limp in his arm. Blood gushed out of the deep cut, soaking the embroidered flowers on her Kimono and Sam´s dark coat. He could hear shouts from the distance, and in the corner of his eye saw movement down at the bridge.

He crouched and let Murakami´s lifeless body carefully glide to the blossom-covered ground. Bowing down, he pressed one last kiss on her soft lips. They were still warm...He took in her immobile face, so calm and white against the light pink of the cherry blossoms, framed by the growing dark red pool of her own blood. He straightened up, looked at the people running in his direction, made himself visible, recognizable. Then he turned, and vanished between the cherry trees, leaving a snowfall of whirling blossoms behind.

The tiny boat waited under the wooden bridge, right where Simmons had told him. Sam was glad he had memorized the garden´s map, as parts of it were crowned with tall trees forming dark woods. It was hard to keep orientated.

He strode down to the canal, nodded to the driver, and jumped into the already moving boat. They drove down the narrow canal, found an opening in the stone walls, and took out into Tokyo Bay. The boat gained speed, and a few minutes later the driver was already approaching a landing zone within the harbor, well hidden by a huge crane and containers. Sam grabbed an iron pole, pulled himself up and stood on the harbor pier.

„Train station?", he asked the driver. The man gestured to Sam´s right, held up one hand with five fingers stretched wide, and manouvered the boat into the bay again.

So – five minutes to the station. Sam got rid of his coat – it was soaked in Murakami´s blood, and he couldn´t really take the smell any longer. He let it fall into the water and watched it go down slowly. Then he turned, walked to the right between metal and wooden containers, and reached the street leading directly to the station.

It was pretty crowded. Due to the early hour, not as bad as it would probably become later, but still the train seemed already crammed, and although many passengers left, the new ones had to elbow their way in.

Sam was taken notice of. There were enough Americans to be seen in town, sure; but Sam, with his 6´4, the long mane of hair, and his general air of suppressed danger, stood out. Most of the other passengers hardly reached his shoulders.

He found a place inside the first wagon, not without shoving two men aside (they didn´t even dare to look up). Well, he was sure they´d recognize him all the same.

From now on, it would be a 180 turn. From getting noticed to vanishing completely...he was used to the second part. Not in a foreign country and culture though. He´d trust his eccelent memory – he practically had a photographic memory when it came to maps – and his instincts. They´d never let him down so far.

There were rules to this game. One of them: If you use public transport, change as often as you can. Sam had perfected this method in New York; he knew every subway line, trains, bus stops, even a bunch of useful shortcuts for eventual chases by foot.

In Tokyo, all of this was a little more...complicated. He had to get off this train fast, or he´d be a sitting duck for anyone on his heels – be it police or Yakuza (and he was quite sure they´d try to get rid of him if he didn´t disappear soon).

As if in sync with his thoughts, two policemen entered the wagon at the next stop. Sam didn´t even try to hide...would have been useless anyway. The two had spotted him within a second, started shouting and gesturing, and made their way towards him.

The train was still relatively slow...Sam elbowed a man out of his way, was at the door the next moment, and took the handle. Then he pulled the emergency brake.

People fell against each other – it was too crowded for them to actually land on the floor -, screamed and grabbed for any hold they cold reach. Sam pulled at the door. He put all his weight into it...and it opened. Slowly. In the corner of his eye he saw one of the policemen come to his feet again. He gave one last pull, and the door fully opened. He jumped out, down on the rails, and ran.

The shrill sound of the policeman´s whistle followed him.

The problem was that leaving the train on track meant he was in the middle of urban nowhere. Sam ran for the next street, keen on seeking shelter between buildings. He could still see the station they´d left before, and decided to head there, when he noticed movement ahead – more policemen. How were they alerted that fast? Something wasn´t adding up here...Sam swore under his breath. He jumped over a metal fence, heard his trousers tear when they cought on the barbed wire crowning it. Not good.

He slipped into a narrow lane between two rows of lower buildings, running as fast as he could as long as he was out of sight. When he turned into the bigger street at the end of the lane though, he saw more policemen - it was as if they´d been summoned there on purpose. Well – they probably were.

Sam´s mind raced. Where to turn now! Inwardly, he fumed.

He had been set up.

The officers hadn´t noticed him yet – he could still make it to the end of the street, where he saw a market with stands, lots of customers crowding the area.

„Dammit", he whispered. This was so not his style.

He had made it about 30 meters when the whistling started.

Peoples startled, looking around, noticing the huge stranger running down the street with flapping trousers.

So much to disappearing.

He skidded to a halt when more policemen appeared out of nowhere right where the market began.

Sam acted on instinct. There was a door at his side. It opened easily, thank God, and he slipped in. It was a two storey building, for appartments obviously. No back door to be seen. Stairs. One could still leave a building through a window from the first floor, Sam knew it from personal experience. He took three steps at one stride, and reached the first floor, when he heard the entrance door snap open and crash against the wall. Left or right?

Houses in New York had a predictable construction plan, and Sam knew the different kinds. Here in Japan...he felt like a fish out of the water.

Left. There was light at the end of the corridor – possibly a window. Excited voices on the ground floor told him the policemen were spreading in the building – flat to flat search. Some things obviously were done the same way everywhere.

Sam ran down the dimly lit corridor...dammit, no window. Only light spilling out from under one of the doors. He turned to take the other direction when he heard the policemens´ boots on the stairs.

„Balls!", he whispered. He was trapped – of course he could try to overrun the policemen, they´d probably be too surprised to even react; but he knew damn well there were more police forces outside, and he wouldn´t be able to outrun all of them - or knock them all out.

Just when he decided to run, the door to his left opened. A hand grabbed him, and as Sam hadn´t expected it at all, pulled him off his feet easily – and the next moment, he found himself inside an apartment, a hand pressed on his mouth, and staring into the startingly blue eyes of a complete stranger.