It's chilly out here tonight, Vincent thought, despite wearing a trench coat and a sweater underneath. He still had the security of his special-license Glock 17 pistol tucked into the holster of his Galco Miami Classic harness, three spare magazines, the body armor wrapped around his body, and his belt carrying a small can of Mace and a stun gun. Even though Japan still held some of the lowest crime rates in the world, and thus literally a demilitarized zone, Vincent saw no reason to leave him and his security team having next to nothing in case they have to deal with a nuisance more nasty than a punk-ass vandal.
Oh, well, shortly before she went back to her bedroom with her Lillian soeurs, Sachiko told him that Suguru Kashiwagi would be coming at any moment, just to check on her before going back home. Vincent then passed the word to the rest of his team, and they got the message.
Now Vincent needed something to keep himself going, so he stuck his hand into one the pockets of his coat, found his pack of cigarettes – Marlboros in the familiar red-and-white flip-top pack and with the standard printed health admonition against smoking – and a lighter. Using his other hand as a shield against the wind, he lit up a stick and inhaled, before expelling a cloud of smoke that was quickly blown away into the darkness.
One of his younger men came up to him and said, "Seems normal, sir."
"Yeah," Vincent agreed. "No surprises, Fujieda. Too damn quiet."
Fujieda pulled out his own cigarette and put it to his lips. "Uh, sir, you got a light? My lighter screwed up on me."
"Sure." Vincent obliged him with the lighter, before returning it to his pocket.
"Thanks, sir," Fujieda said, before he inhaled. "Now I know why Mizuno came to visit: must be the old man's last will and testament."
Vincent nodded. "Ah."
"Always happens just like that," Fujieda said, before he sucked onto his cigarette. "Just like anywhere in the world: lawyers coming in after the burial to present the will… Yet I'm also sure the Princess now has the whole works, no, I mean, her inheritance." Fujieda then blew out his own cloud of spent tobacco; as for the title "Princess" or Ojo-sama, it was the in-house security men's choice of nickname for Sachiko when, of course, she's not around them.
"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be getting our paychecks," Vincent said. "They're always generous."
"But I'm not quite sure as for those working in the stores, the ones with the smaller take-home pay," the younger man said. "I have a sister working in one of their supermarkets."
"What's her job?"
"A cashier on the checkout lane, instead of becoming an accountant like my old man once used to be, and she's one of the lucky ones. Several of my classmates aren't doing any better, however; they graduated from the best universities in the country, and yet even after ten damn years they still can't find a full-time job."
"And they're asking you for any vacancies?"
"Yeah, sir," Fujieda answered. "They're getting desperate, and one of them is spending too much time bunking in an Internet café, and another with her parents."
Vincent nodded. "I see… I'll ask Maezono in HRD tomorrow morning, as soon as I get back to HQ; I'll see what I could do, okay?"
Fujieda grinned. "Thanks, sir," he said before walking back to his assigned patrol.
Vincent returned to his musings, and he remembered that Japan was still suffering from its own economic setbacks, what with six prime ministers having taken office and then left within the space of six years, much to the chagrin of the average, politically-disillusioned citizen.
To be honest, local politics was nothing more than the 'old boys' club', with mostly men in their fifties and up, and interested only in power and maintaining the status quo, but having a few ideas on what was best for the country, especially when dealing with economic problems, which made local politicians no different from their counterparts elsewhere.
Worse, this 'club' locked out most of those really asking for genuine change, especially the younger generations who have become disenfranchised by the two political parties, somewhat clones of each other due to the large number of 'old boys' in the ranks.
Vincent sighed, and he thought, if only they could just lower the voting age, and then allow for younger, yet more dynamic candidates, then we could turn this country around.
But with that kind of sea change not yet happening, how long we could believe any further in those same-old-shit politicians, talking about change and then screwing themselves up till they resign? How long?
Vincent then took one last drag of his cigarette, before dropping it to the tarmac and crushing the butt with his heel. He looked up at the façade of the mansion, and noted the single window on the third floor still lighted up; that would be Sachiko, probably spending her waking time left before sleeping, probably reading a book, writing something or worrying or whatever ladies of her age were doing.
In any case, he hoped the Princess and her wards should get some fitful sleep tonight to face a new day, while at the same time he dimly remembered and then paraphrased the nice quote that he knew was mistakenly attributed to George Orwell, the author of Animal Farm: men are prepared to do violence on behalf of people sleeping in peace.
Now Vincent thought of going in and get himself some coffee, and then small talk with Sean Liston the butler.
MARIA-SAMA GA MITERU: NINETEEN
Chapter 4: HOME INVASION
Written by soulassassin547
9/5/2011 1:43 a9/p9
It was almost always like this, whenever she felt distressed or tired. True, she had some quarterly visits to the family doctor, who then pronounced her fit as fiddle but advised her not to exert herself psychologically.
But it became a habit for Sachiko to retreat back to her bedroom and shut the world out for a while. Considering today's burial and yesterday's funeral, she was really tired, physically and emotionally drained.
Right now and on her four-poster bed, her head was cushioned by pillows, and she tried to relax.
Six billion dollars, and very overwhelming for her mind to grasp compared to the weekly allowance she had. Sachiko then wondered if there were other people who wished for such a stupendous amount of money, and there were many, for a lot of reasons: for power, for turning hell into heaven, for the sake of helping others…
Or for revenge.
Why not?
It's not impossible that wealth can be used for the sake of revenge, for she dimly remembered watching a movie on satellite TV, a film adaptation of Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo.
But to whom she should make vengeance against? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, just like what the Old Testament said?
Nobody.
All Sachiko knew that their family had known no enemies; their business competitors were friendly adversaries but hardly cut-throat and mercenary in their dealings; within the strata of high society there were those noveau-riche families who sought to acquire even a hint of aristocratic status to equal and maybe exceed that of Sachiko's family, but never dared to go this far to resort to murder, an archaic, feudal-age measure best relegated to the history books, when power-hungry warlordssent soldiers to do battle against other houses, or ninjas to assassinate key figureheads.
Ah, it was too easy and convenient to blame terrorists for almost every violent incident, a faceless scapegoat and an excuse for lackadaisical state security, because most of the time they could get away with it, and they knew it. But as the Prime Minister told her, it looked odd that a terrorist group, based in troubled Afghanistan, should be interested in scaring the Japanese by blowing up a plane.
Sachiko shook her head. I don't know if my grandfather had any enemies in the past, for all I believe is that he and great-Grandfather was hardly involved in the war effort, or so he told me.
The young woman sighed. So it's the usual suspects; who did it and who ordered it, I don't know, because they always hide behind those rags, and the combination of their guns and anonymity are their sources of power.
She then closed her eyes and asked aloud, "Is he coming yet?"
Yumi and Touko, both reading her novels from the shelves of her private library, were interrupted. The latter went up to the window, parted the curtains and looked down at the driveway outside the mansion. "Not yet. He hasn't called either," she said, referring to the bedside telephone.
"I'm not surprised," Sachiko said. "Sometimes, he's like that, taking care of his business first."
"What business?" Yumi asked.
Sachiko made a rather unladylike face. "As always, you don't really want to know," she replied, knowing it would be distasteful should she tell the girls outright about Kashiwagi's personal affairs.
Yumi nodded. "Okay," she said, not wanting to stick her nose into her onee-sama's secrets either, being the holy of holies, lest Sachiko wished to divulge more.
Feeling a bit better than dizzy, Sachiko now propped herself to sit upright, and then noticed what the two girls were reading, while sitting cross-legged on the carpet: one book from Banana Yoshimoto, and another from Kazuo Ishiguro, both contemporary authors. The young woman also glanced at the little clock by the bedside, and told her it was past nine.
"Oh," she said. "Are you reading it for your assignment?"
Touko shook her head. "No," she replied, holding the copy of Never Let Me Go in both hands. "I really like this; it's almost like reading a book about Lillian, except this one's set in England."
'Thanks," Sachiko said, appreciating the compliment. "I'm glad that you're really enjoying it. I brought that a week ago."
Suddenly Touko snapped her fingers, eyes wide open. "I have an idea! I'll have this for my next book report!" she exclaimed.
"When?" Yumi asked, looking surprised by her soeur's outburst.
"Could be in a couple of weeks, I suppose."
"Ah."
"Onee-san, can I borrow this?" Touko asked.
Sachiko nodded. "Sure," she said, before she lay down, yawned and closed her eyes. "It's okay if you want to spend the rest of the night wide-awake, or go sleep alongside me," she added, and then smiled.
Meanwhile and on one of Tokyo's major elevated expressways, Suguru Kashiwagi was behind the wheel of his car, a fire-engine red Mercedes-Benz SLK 200 convertible, speeding on his way to the mansion. The superbly-styled car with its powerful engine was a welcome change to the otherwise straight-laced, conservative Maserati he had for three years, as he was getting used to the new coupe's comfortable charms.
Despite the tragedy that beset his relatives, he was otherwise happy and contented with his new status in life, doing his trade operating two clubs in Harajuku as a part-time part-owner, one for the usual crowd, and the other catering to homosexuals, both with great food and drink, great DJs and party music, and a wide variety of interesting customers (but please, no recreational drugs such as Ecstasy in the premises; he banned them, along with smuggled marijuana tokes, to maintain his clubs' spotless reputation, and in this city, reputation was considered priceless).
As such, he understood the dangers of his lifestyle, of course, necessitating careful checks on his would-be partner before he went in, and oh, he was very careful about his reputation in the eyes of the public, avoiding media scrutiny as much as possible.
Indeed, the greater danger, Suguru believed, came from the tabloid-style news programs and the scandal sheets; they were like sharks, going after anything that bled in the water, and then ripping the victim to shreds. He knew of one notorious example currently being paraded on those programs, the case of a famous (or shall we say, infamous) seiyuu-idol who, apart from her bikini top error in a gravure book, and then her bulimia tendencies, reportedly had a bunch of mobile phone camera shots, of her sexual affairs with a rock star, posted on the Internet.
Suguru shook his head. What an idiot, he reflected. Celebrities are supposed to use the media as a weapon, instead of letting the media use them the other way around. Knowing this, Suguru made it clear that it was company policy for his clubs to protect the identities of his clientele by barring those with the intent to take pictures, especially the damned paparazzi. Hence the big-name Western celebrities, visitors to Tokyo and knowing of his joints, had to be taken to the clubs through the back door, enjoy themselves for a few hours in a private booth or room, before leaving in the same way.
However, as much as he loved the lively world he now thrived in, there are things and people he could not leave or forget, and that includes Sachiko, now more of a friend than fiancée, and he avowed that there will be no misgivings should the young woman finds a man (or perhaps another woman?) of her choice.
For a moment, Suguru glanced at the rear-view mirror, and he thought he was being followed by a van… or perhaps even a queue of vans, before focusing back again on the road, and found the exit ramp.
He then turned left, heading to Musashino district, but he checked the mirror again, this time no one was tailing him, which prompted Suguru to sigh in relief.
Damn, I must be seeing things, he reflected sourly.
In the largest hangar in Sapporo International Airport, the wreckage of the ill-fated airliner was being reassembled, piece by piece on a huge metal scaffold, and every hour the Jietai CH-47 Chinook helicopters brought in the pieces, hanging from the fuselage with steel cables.
Under the glaring lights, teams of local forensics experts, aerospace engineers, as well as American NTSB and FBI agents went about cataloguing, recording and then affixing the fragments on the scaffold. It was a grim task, but necessary to understand how and why the plane was destroyed.
The man responsible for the overall task force was Toji Chiba, a highly-trained mechanical engineer who served in the Ministry of Transportation for almost two decades, and right now he had the Prime Minister on the phone, asking several questions.
Already Chiba told Murasaki that the MSDF submersible still haven't found the orange-colored black boxes, both of them known more precisely as the Flight Data Recorder and the Cockpit Voice Recorder, and searching them alone was maddening – the estimated debris field was several square kilometers in size, and the early winter conditions, along with the ocean currents and underwater visibility, were making their work difficult. But this was nothing compared to the inexplicable demise of an Air France jetliner which went off the radar as it left Brazil, and it took a couple of years for a submersible to locate the black boxes on the Atlantic Ocean floor.
Over the phone Chiba could hear the man's sigh of frustration, before speaking again.
"Whoever planned this must be a genius," Murasaki said. "How long do you think it's going to take to put that plane back together?"
"Could take us a month or three," Chiba said, mentally calculating his estimates. "The final report might take a year to complete, and at this moment we're questioning the witnesses."
"I see. Now, is there anything else of significance?"
"First, sir, we can rule out the weather: excellent visibility, no clouds for a hundred kilometers around the plane, no wind shear or turbulence or any other phenomena. Second, the pilots were in perfect health, are very competent and experienced, with no skeletons in their closets. Third, the plane's practically brand new, lots of post-9/11 safety features, with a few thousand hours logged in ever since it left the factory. Finally, there's no military aircraft or even long-range air-to-air missiles in the vicinity at the time of the explosion; the Jietai, the US military and civilian radar operators all told us that, barring the usual transport activity, there were no military operations or exercises on that day, and as a rule they do not carry any live missiles during practice.
"This, therefore, isn't TWA Flight 800," Chiba concluded. He was referring to the tragic destruction of the TWA airliner that exploded in mid-air several years ago, off Long Island, New York; it was attributed to a combination of an electrical spark from the faulty wiring and aviation fuel vapors, but conspiracy theorists vociferously claimed that a rogue anti-aircraft missile was responsible for the tragedy.
"And so, Mister Chiba, where should we be concentrating our efforts?"
"Good question, sir," Chiba said. "Right now, we got some of our men checking the on-the-ground personnel lists at Narita. There's the possibility that someone or a bunch of no-faces were on the inside, smuggling the bombs inside the premises and then loading them up on the plane."
"Sabotage," Murasaki said. "There's no doubt about it."
"But then, sir, there's something fishy about the Ten Rings' claim, and coming from me, you'll think it's a very long shot."
"What is it?"
"If they were really angry with us or dared even the world, they would've loaded every plane with bombs, and then blow all of them up in the sky. But… this is just one airliner, and except for the Ogasawaras, there's nobody else significant on that flight."
There was a pause for a minute, as if Murasaki was thinking.
"Sir, are you there?" Chiba said.
"I'm still here," the prime minister replied. "Now that there's a bunch of insiders responsible for this damned tragedy, I want you and your men to double-check the personnel rosters, question the ground crew, and if you find anything unusual or run into trouble or get entangled in red tape, call me."
Chiba nodded. "Will do, sir."
As her younger soeurs were reading their books on the rug, Sachiko's eyes were drawn to the elongated black nylon bag, leaning by the hat stand, which contained her traditional kyudo bow and a quiver of arrows; the asymmetrical bow was made of carbon fiber composite, custom-designed according to her needs, including draw weight (hers had a very light draw, an almost effortless 13.5 kilograms of pull) and size; it was a long way from the time when the wooden kyudo bow required the expertise of a true craftsman, who would shape, bend, smoothen and then treat the bow until it possessed the proper amount of flexibility and durability. Furthermore, even in its modern incarnation the 21st-century kyudo bow demanded her care and attention, as its maintenance and use were no joking matter; it was a delicate instrument in itself but never to be referred to as a military weapon.
She knew all this because, after graduating from high school and upon entering college, Sachiko took up traditional archery – kyudo – on Rei Hasekura's wise suggestion, who was concerned about the former's lack of interest in other sports or martial arts. It was also coincidental that, somewhere along the line in the past, a branch of the Ogasawara family was partly responsible for the creation and development of ceremonial kyudo, so in effect Sachiko was carrying on an age-old tradition, except she was really practicing the popular Honda School style, which combined the warrior (of the Heki School, the originators of kyujutsu military archery) and ceremonial elements.
Kyudo, being one of the oldest forms of traditional Japanese martial arts, heavily influenced by Zen, emphasizing spirit, purity and concentration, turned out to be more suited to her personality and lifestyle. There she could, after classes, come down to the dojo on the Lillian school grounds, warm up and then practice, thereby exercising her body and mind. In addition, kyudo practitioners need not to compete, at least in Rei's opinion and some experts, as it was less of a sport but more of a way of keeping in touch with the spirits of nature and being attuned to energies surrounding the archer.
Because kyudo sessions were done in an enclosed dojo, with the practice yard bounded by tall walls and well-shaded, there was little from the outside world to disturb or inhibit her practicing and concentration, further adding to the meditative properties of the martial art.
As Sachiko practiced, there was something very wonderful about the sensation of letting go of the world around her, and instead totally devoting all her energies into every step of posing, loading, aiming and firing (there are eight steps to go through), as if the martial art itself was an effective holy meditation in itself, demanding slow, fluid, careful and graceful movements while standing, almost much in the same way she used to practice ballet on her spare time when she was younger, but with much less strain on her toes.
Anyway, if she could make it through this week, Sachiko thought, she would then resume her sessions, as she recalled that last week in the dojo, her instructor noted her improving technique and remarkable progress for even a very short time.
Suddenly her reverie was broken with Kashiwagi honking as his car came to a stop on the driveway. Yumi and Touko got up on their feet and, looking through the window and recognizing the Mercedes right away, the former said, "It's Kashiwagi."
A moment later they were in the sitting room, sitting on couches. Sachiko was flanked on either side by Yumi and Touko, while Suguru was sitting on the opposite couch. Although their fresh cups of tea were on the coffee table, they were untouched.
"Sorry if I was a bit late," Suguru said. "Some last-minute hitch in my business."
Sachiko nodded. "I see. Have you eaten?"
"Yes, I had a little dinner before I left," he replied. "Anyhow, I'm surprised you're coping well."
"I have to," Sachiko replied. "But I'm not sure if I could get back to school."
"Why?"
The young woman looked wary. "I need time to recover… Yet for how long, I don't know. Maybe in a week, I guess."
What else I could say? Sachiko thought. Almost nothing except the burial, the reception thereafter, where we talked about them and how and why, reminiscing the past and wondered about the what-ifs and would-haves that were left unfulfilled.
"What are you going to do with your life, then?" Suguru asked.
"Now that's one question that I have to try to answer," Sachiko said. "Here I am, wondering what would happen on the first thing I wake up tomorrow. Maybe my old routine before all this happened, maybe not."
"I'm sure Attorney Mizuno has already told you about the inheritance, right?"
Sachiko blinked; the cat was now out of the bag.
"Y… Yes," Sachiko confirmed. "He recited the will to us an hour ago, and I know what to do with it: go tell the chief accountant to sort it out, tell me how to manage it because I'm not the kind who would waste this inheritance, and remind me where to make the most of it."
Suguru sighed. "I'm sorry, Sa-chan," he said, using the affectionate nickname he made for her ever since elementary school days. "I mentioned it to see if we could talk about it, but don't worry, I have my own sizeable fortune to worry about... and I'm not a man after your own because I'm happy and contented with what I have and what I'm earning from working on what I love."
Sachiko gave him a sad smile. "Good for you."
"How much you're worth right now?"
"Six billion American dollars," Sachiko replied, "more or less, depending on the exchange rate."
"And Munetaka's the CEO right now, correct?"
"Yes, I personally signed his papers last night, and at the moment he's running the whole company in my name, and he gave me assurances that he's willing to keep the status quo. Personally, he's a good man, very loyal and hardworking, or so his personal information tells me."
Suguru nodded. "I see," he said, but then concentrated his gaze at the younger girls. "What about you two?"
Both Touko and Yumi had a double-take, caught unawares.
"Uh… We're just reading books," Yumi said.
"Didn't have much to do," Touko added, "although we're really preparing for school tomorrow, and I'm writing up a book report."
Suguru checked his watch; tonight was Sunday, and come tomorrow would be the usual routine. He then smiled, picked up his still-warm cup of tea and took a sip. Not bad, he thought of the tea's flavor, which was surprisingly refreshing, and then remembered the last time he tasted it. Orange pekoe from Claridge's… That was London, about four years ago.
"Let's drink this while it's still hot," he cordially said. "It would be a waste if we let this tea go cold on us."
The rest of his companions followed suit, imbibing the tea, and the next few minutes they openly talked about school, the books they read, and the TV shows they watched. Sometimes they would discuss past, cheerful experiences, like the time they had a great time at Tokyo DisneySea, or the two intimate days at Hakone.
Meanwhile, in the spacious kitchen and over the counter, Vincent was having a lively conversation with Sean Liston, the British butler, both sitting on stools and drinking black coffee from mugs spiked with Sambuca; it was to the relief of the latter, him being a long way from Liverpool, that he was able to speak Queen's English freely with a Nisei who talks with a genuine Hawaiian Yank tongue; the former commando appreciated the excellent flavor of his java, and asked where the Brit sourced his coffee beans.
"Indonesia," Liston said. "The real deal. Quite potent after a hard day's night of boozing, and I swear it could even wake up the dead."
Vincent laughed. "Well, this could compare to the coffee I had once while assigned on the Kitty Hawk. I mean, out to sea, there was a different brand almost every day, shipped in by the cargo planes landing on the flight deck; one day we got Maxwell House, next day it was Folgers', and the day after that some weird brew sourced from a cache of a hundred-year-old beans found in the chest of a shipwreck, mixed in with rat turd."
This time both men laughed louder.
"Seriously, Vince," Liston said. "When would you be able to end your widower status?"
"Not sure," Vincent answered. "But I'm trying to get this lady ten years younger interested in me, and she's at the head office… Shit, I'm not really sure right now, what with some of my hair turning white and the hairline receding." He then made a face.
Liston nodded. "Happens to all of us."
"Yeah."
"Who's the girl?"
"Kobayakawa," Vince said. "First name Rieko. Nice figure. Cute face." He then sighed and added, "She's Munetaka's secretary. I checked her out on the sly, and so far, no skeletons in her closet."
Liston whistled. "C'mon, she sounds like great catch."
Vincent smiled. "I'll try, but I have other options just in case."
"Like who?"
"There's this teacher down at the naval base, you know, at Yokosuka. Been teaching to the kids at Niles Kinnick for ten years now, a Nisei like me but single, and she happens to be my next-door neighbor whenever I come down home there outside the fence."
"Oh. What does she look like?"
"She's basically nice," Vincent said, "about forty, a bit thin, down-to-earth, wearing those horn-rimmed geek eyeglasses just like Lisa Loeb, and sometimes we would trade whatever we cook up in the kitchen. One time she told me she was from San Francisco, a Stanford graduate with a master's degree in education." He then recalled scenes where he would cross paths with this woman and engage in some small talk: while shopping for American groceries (and Seiji's PX junk food, dirt-cheap but sinfully delicious by Japanese standards) at the Navy Exchange supermarket inside the base, using his retiree's privilege card; sometimes on the pathway leading to his home, or he would run into her at the local shopping district, just off the Honcho, some hundred meters away from the main gate.
"Name?"
Vincent chuckled. "Sheryl Nomura," he said. "Maybe after this, I'll try to see if I could just get her to a date, and then—"
But then Vincent felt a strange sensation in his chest, and he grimaced.
Liston blinked. "What's wrong?"
"Heartburn, I think," Vincent said as he put down his mug, but inwardly he sensed an omen of something unpleasant could happen tonight; he had that same thing during the times he was on active duty, in the darkness, his assault rifle on both hands. More precisely, he had a gut feel as if an ambush was about to be sprung on him and his squad, while diddly-bopping under the Iraqi night, trying to find Saddam and his minions through night-vision goggles.
"You got some antacids?"
Liston nodded. "Sure," he said. "I have them in the medicine cabinet. Tums, just like you Yanks use; I bought them at a supermarket for expats in downtown Shinjuku."
As the butler went to the medicine cabinet, affixed near the counter and placed where meats were usually cut up on the butcher's block, Vincent felt for his Glock, to see if it was there and ready, along with the magazines that came with it.
He could feel the bulge on his side. Good, he thought.
Just then Liston came back with the bottle of Tums. "Here," he said, and Vincent took two tablets and munched them.
"Thanks," Vincent said. "I have to check on the girls now."
Liston blinked. "Why?"
"Something's up tonight, and I don't like the feel of it," Vincent said ominously as he went out of the kitchen.
As she listened to her soeurs banter with Suguru, Sachiko had run out of ideas of what else she could broach over the coffee table. Instead she was deep in her thoughts, trying to figure out how to make the best of her new life.
Maybe Yumi could be right about the idea of moving over to her home, and then her parents would provide her a nice room, no, maybe bunk together with Yumi; as for this mansion, Sachiko entertained the idea of turning a part of it into an orphanage operated by some of the sisters from Lillian's convent.
Not bad, she thought. Perhaps it could work.
Sachiko then guessed it would not surprise her should the Lillian alumnus come up with the idea of renaming one of the school buildings after her mother, or that Hanadera would do the same for her father and grandfather. Just maybe.
But for now, well, the young woman figured that come next day, she have to get herself reacquainted with her home, and then learn every cranny and nook, remember the name of every servant who sometimes brought up her breakfast to bed, or washed her clothes, or fixed her bed.
Oh, she would ask Liston and the cooks to teach her how to cook and maybe bake, just like her mom once did by making some millefeuille; then ask one of the maids to tutor her on how to use the washing machine and the dryer, understand the mechanics and the subtleties of laundry. What she could learn from them might help her someday, when the day she makes the judgment call to start finding a suitable husband.
What, a husband?
Now that brought her to that question: whom she should marry? What kind of man she really wanted? No, she wasn't sure, and considering her close call with Kashiwagi, Sachiko felt she hardly had much of decision-making as far as men were concerned, for her previous understanding about the opposite sex was based on harsh experience, misconception and extreme prejudice, prior to her chance meeting with Yumi.
Maybe she would try to ask somebody, a woman who knew more and sensible enough to understand men, and could teach her a few tricks. Sure, there were a ton of self-help books on the subject, but experience and first-hand information could be better when seeking for the mythical Mister Right.
Sachiko sighed. She knew that almost anyone would call her a princess, an ojo-sama, imbued with some aristocratic blood, and surely those people would conjure the image of the damsel in distress, waiting for the prince who would rescue her, but she was not the kind of damsel, and she was no damsel; she was herself, flesh and blood, brains and heart, determined not to look helpless in the face of some calamity, determined to stand up for her own, and of course, avowed not to run away.
That meant for her to learn more about what it takes to grow up, to understand the world around her, or in Yoko's words, deal with harsh reality. For starters, book-keeping, boring and tedious it may look to most, would be a really useful subject to learn on how money is used, earned, spent, saved, and why it was necessary to keep track of every yen she held.
Now if she could manage her personal allowance, a humble sum by her standards, it would not be impossible to manage the six billion left for her in various forms. This leaves another factor: managing people.
In order to be an effective manager, one must have full knowledge of the people under his or her command, knowing each of their strengths and weaknesses, putting emphasis on the former while strengthening the latter; one must be able to communicate effectively as a leader and diplomat, using the right language and personality, applying the proper temperament on any occasion, the courage to lead, the ability to decide, and of course, possessing vision and foreknowledge while maintaining caution and common sense.
Now if she was able to lead the Yamayurikai successfully, then a household full of servants would be no different, before moving on later to corporate circles; she must put her right foot in the door, put on her best game face, and think on her feet.
So there, the subjects that Sachiko was studying diligently would soon be of practical use, combined with experience, and tempered with expertise… yet she would neither be the ice queen she once used to be, nor she would yield in exchange for a bon vivant personality; she will be herself, and then—
Wait, Sachiko was blinking, what's Mister Hayashida doing here, barging in without warning? With neurons firing away, her brain rapidly made up and arranged her words, then presenting a small list of interrogative sentences she would pick depending on the occasion or the mood, before she asked, "Is there a problem?"
Vincent stood before them, her other companions pausing for the moment in this tableau. "Yes," he answered.
Sachiko frowned. "What is it?" she questioned.
The next few seconds would soon alter the rest of her life, or for that matter, of the lives of everyone present in this sitting room.
Two of the security men were twitching in their last death spasms, after they were expertly shot in the forehead by masked men in black jackets and jeans; the two dozen invaders had already climbed up and jumped over the steel fence, but not before they were spotted by the hapless guards, who were all too late to respond, making them the receiving end of nine-millimeter subsonic bullets from a pair of suppressed Taurus pistols, well-crafted copies of the Beretta 92F guns.
The invaders moved on almost quietly, darting across the expanse of the well-manicured lawn, past and through the bushes and hedges, past under the trees and over the flower beds, and the occasional scaled-down reproductions of Venus de Milo, Three Graces or Winged Victory, mounted on Cararra marble columns.
Whatever opposition they encountered on their way, they did so by putting them out permanently with their knives to the ribcage or over the bared throat. The invaders had to make it quick enough before the occupants of the mansion could raise an alarm, and already at least four in their team cut away the telephone lines or electronically jammed the wireless cameras and sensors.
Earlier, while planning for their mission, they considered about using a stolen dump truck to ram the main gate leading to the Ogasawara estate for shock effect, but the idea was then vetoed, as the map of the neighborhood and the streets showed otherwise. Other fanciful ideas were floated around the table, such as trying to play pizza delivery boy with a misplaced order, or blowing off the gates, or landing in by helicopter.
But their leader shook his head, and instead brought out the pictures of their intended target and plastered them on the whiteboard. Shoot them down, their leader commanded; shoot down any witnesses and leave no one else alive; anyone who kills the heiress' companions will get a quarter-million, and a hundred thousand for every one of the lackeys, but Sachiko Ogasawara must be captured alive and unharmed.
Now they have surrounded the mansion, every exit point blocked, and they began sticking shaped charges to the window frames, preparing for the dynamic entry into the house.
While some of them held the command clackers wired to the detonators for the plastique, or toting flash-bang grenades to be thrown in, the other invaders checked their watches, synchronized to the last second. Then five, four, three, two, one—
Facing a cluster of video monitors, Hirohiko Saeba was manning the surveillance room just near the kitchen when he saw something unusual onscreen, on Camera 6: two of his comrades patrolling the perimeter paused for a moment, as if surprised, and then collapsed to the ground, before the screen turned to static, followed on with the remaining cameras going offline.
Alarmed, as though being administered an electrical shock, he then consulted the bank of indicators on his computer that were supposed to show a response from any of the one hundred or so motion sensors placed across the grounds... and they showed nothing!
The fuck is going on? Saeba raged.
Saeba then grabbed his handheld Icom radio on the desk, and pressed his thumb hard to the Talk button; he hoped they would hear him.
"WE HAVE AN INTRUDER!" he yelled, a second before he heard the singular, deafening explosion.
Fujieda was taking a leak in the toilet, the bathroom tucked away from the living room, when he heard the call on the radio. The young man promptly pressed his earpiece with his finger, and as he rushed out into the hallway, almost shutting back his pants' zipper, he demanded, "Where the hell are they?"
And before he could hear a reply, the window to his right was instantly demolished, peppering his arm and chest with shrapnel, and in that moment Fujieda was rendered deaf, a maddening ringing in his ears, and a searing pain. Almost staggering on his feet, completely incapacitated and bleeding, he turned around to find the source of the explosion and who set it off, but was too late as he came face-to-face with the ski-masked man crashing through the blasted window, who then stitched his chest with a dozen rounds from a Skorpion machine pistol.
Fujieda slammed sideways to the floor, and the final gaze he had was the carpet on his cheek, the coppery taste in his mouth, before the light in his eyes were snuffed out, the last sight being of the invader's boots stomping on the hand-made vintage Persian carpet.
Before his heart stopped, Fujieda's regret was not being able to come for his sister's wedding, due next week.
Liston still held his coffee mug, now a quarter full, waiting for Vincent to come back when the blast nearly knocked him off his perch, smashing his mug on the floor in the process.
"Bloody fucking hell," he cursed in English while getting up to his feet.
Instinctively he wondered where the shotgun was stowed, but then he realized there was none, as Japan wasn't England where he could have immediate access, say, to a specially-licensed 12-gauge over-and-under Benelli fowling piece and a boxful of double-naught Brenneke shells under the counter, just as one of his previous employers, the Duchess of York, once provided as a last-ditch security measure.
Instead, from the counter he picked up the next best weapon he could use: a stainless steel Zwingli kitchen knife in its scabbard, for use when quartering sirloin steak; he tucked the knife in the back of his pants.
"I'M COMING!" Liston then yelled in his native tongue, as he rushed out of the kitchen, to hunt down where the invaders have made a hostile beachhead on his current employer's cliffs of Dover; he could then get lucky and then be able to hold a real gun in his hands.
In the sitting room, all five of them were stunned by the loud blast, their ears ringing as if they were struck with a two-by-four piece of wood. But Vincent, accustomed to mortar explosions during his prime, his battlefield instincts quickly took over: he unholstered the Glock and then yelled, "GET DOWN!"
Almost like in the same way as they did when practicing the all-important earthquake drill, the rest dropped prone to the carpet, expecting for the worst.
As the sitting room was a chamber connected to the living room, the dining room, the library, and the grand staircase by doors, Tsutomo locked them one by one except for the last door leading to the staircase.
Then the door to the living room was being kicked, and Tsutomo had to find some way to delay the bastards; his eyes scanned for anything useful, but finding none, he pulled the pistol's slide, aimed and fired a two-shot burst through the door.
He was rewarded with a cry on the other side, but Vincent didn't want all of them to remain here for another minute like sitting ducks, or they could be overrun by who the hell they were.
"Go upstairs!" he commanded, "Third floor, and up there I think there's a fire exit at the end of the hallway!"
"Okay," Suguru said, and he pulled Sachiko by the wrist, before Yumi and Touko followed suit, getting up on their feet. The young man then kicked the door to the staircase, and all four of them ran through.
And Liston did: an unsuspecting masked attacker burst through the door, at the end of the hallway, not expecting Liston, and the Brit stabbed him right through the chest, causing the invader to drop the Ingram MAC-10 he was brandishing.
The bloody bastard was dead, sprawled all over the carpet; the Zwingli knife still stuck on the chest. Liston quickly frisked the dead man, found a Taurus pistol tucked behind, picked up both weapons and the magazine pouch the invader had around the neck, and ran towards the sitting room.
While on his way, he glanced at the Ingram; it was unlike anything else he had in his hands before, back when he was a lance corporal assigned to the red-beret Paras, dropped into Afghanistan by plane, and of course he'd made kills in his tour of duty, and often they confiscated a lot of loose Kalashnikovs.
The suppressed weapon was more of a drug dealers' piece suited to Miami Vice reruns, but movie piece or not, this thing in his hands will kill, and spotting the girls chased out of the sitting room, Liston shouted, "HEY, WAIT!"
Just then Vincent saw Liston running through the hallway, yelling at them, a submachine gun in his hands, and a magazine pouch dangling from his heck, and Vincent was almost close to shooting the Englishman when he recognized him right away; thank goodness for his close-quarters-battle and hostage-rescue training.
"Where the hell did you got that?" he demanded. "That's a MAC-10!"
Liston grinned like a duck hunter, quite proud of his trophy. "I bagged one!"
"C'mon, no time to linger here, or those sons of bitches could turn us to Swiss cheese," Vincent said, and they trailed their wards to cover their six.
This is unreal, Sachiko thought, her wrist pulled by Kashiwagi's grasp. This isn't happening… Impossible! Who are they? What do they want?
What's going on?
Her heart throbbing at twice the normal rate, and her eardrums still ringing, she couldn't understand why, her mind completely shocked by the swiftness of the attack, and in the nineteen years she had on this green earth never she had experienced anything else like it.
Is this a robbery, an act of thievery? Piracy? Is it those terrorists, those who killed her parents, those monsters now coming to kill her for last? Sachiko couldn't guess, and all they had to do was to run up the staircase, trying not to be caught by whatever those faceless ghouls coming to do harm against them.
She could hear the loud staccato of gunfire below, but her mind was focused on getting out of here, running for their lives.
"Wait!" Vincent barked as they were almost past her bedroom, and they stopped right there. "Get your belongings, your purse, wallet, phones, only bring anything important."
"Why?" Sachiko asked.
"We'll need them," Vincent said as they returned to the bedroom and without missing a beat, all three girls took their valuables as he and Liston peered out of the door. "You have a credit card?"
Holding her purse, Sachiko blinked. "Yes, but why?"
"As soon as we get to a nearby ATM, we'll have to clean out your bank account."
"What?" Sachiko exclaimed while Liston and Suguru led Yumi and Touko out of the room, heading to the fire exit.
"Who knows? If they're so sophisticated, they could find us by simply checking how much you spend with the credit card."
Sachiko nodded, and Vincent obliged her by running before him, hurrying out of the door and back into the hallway.
The configuration of the mansion consisted of the main house itself, with a pair of annex buildings connected to either side of the house by a corridor, and encircling a courtyard; the annexes were fifty meters long, built a decade after the mansion itself, the upper floors to accommodate dozens of guests wishing to stay overnight, and the ground floors intended for servants' quarters and for additional storage.
The invaders checked the ground floor. Nothing but three of the security men dead, with one of them gunned down as he exited the surveillance room. Determined, half of the invaders went upstairs to the second floor, and they threw flash bangs and sprayed every room, before they found nothing.
So they set themselves to go on to the third floor, where their quarry were supposed to be, but instead were greeted by the fusillade coming from Vincent and Liston, with one of the invaders catching a bullet or two in the chest before tumbling down the staircase.
The team leader then radioed his cohorts outside, to try blocking their quarry's escape.
They were now huddled near the fire exit, with Liston and Vincent crouched by the door, and Kashiwagi right in front of the girls; they were holding the precious purses to their chests.
"Do you know what those men want?" Suguru asked Vincent.
"I have no idea, sir," Vincent replied as he had his hands and pistol in the Weaver stance. "Until we have to find out ourselves, we still have to get the hell out of here first."
Vincent calculated just how far they were from the garage. About sixty meters, he guessed, and they'll have to sprint as fast they could. Between here and the garage there were trees and hedges to provide sufficient cover and shade.
"Sean, you'll have to cover the door," Vincent said. "We're going to dash our way to the garage."
"Got it," Liston said, nodding.
"What do we have there?"
"A 300C Chrysler, milady's Maserati, a Benz limo, that pair of Cadillac Escalades, and a pair of Bimmers."
"And I don't think my car's any useful right now, right?" Suguru chimed in.
Vincent turned to Suguru. "Yeah, and you'll have to lead them down, sir," he said.
"I'll do," the young man agreed, before he gingerly opened the door and peered outside for a second. "Nothing out here, I think."
"Okay, now ladies, you'll have to follow him," Vincent spoke.
Sachiko blinked. "But what about you?"
Vincent pointed at the door. "We'll follow to give you girls cover."
Liston nodded, and then he handed to Vincent the Ingram, before pulling out the Taurus pistol. "I'll use this instead," he said. "That MAC isn't my cup of tea compared to the SA-80 I once had."
"Okay, let's go!" Vincent said, and then Suguru led the way.
Once outside and standing on the platform, they clambered down the ladder, trying not to make too much noise, praying that none of the invaders have covered this escape route.
Now Vincent espied the garage, partially hidden behind the trees but Suguru tapped him on the shoulder.
"You go first," Suguru said.
This time the ex-commando was surprised. "Pardon me, sir?"
"Take them with you!" the young man clarified, but not too loud to draw attention.
Sachiko and the girls were blinking upon hearing of Suguru's decision. "Kashiwagi… You can't do this!"
"I know," Suguru replied. "You're the one and your soeurs that needed to be protected. My life isn't of my concern right now, so I'll have to distract them."
"But…" Sachiko trailed away.
"Onii-san!" Touko said, but Yumi was open-mouthed in shock.
"JUST GO!" Suguru exclaimed, and then Vincent and Liston had no choice but to let Suguru do his thing, hoping that somehow, against all odds, the scion of the Kashiwagis could hop into his own car and follow them out of the compound.
They parted, with the two men accosting the girls across the expanse, dashing in low and behind the hedges; Suguru went the other way around, and then from the ground he picked up a stray rock and threw it at the window.
With a loud bang, the shattering glass could be heard like a firecracker going off in all directions, and that drew the attention of the invaders.
The enemy completely distracted, Suguru ran all the way to his car, parked several meters away from the garage. He then started up the Mercedes, released the clutch and stepped on the gas, the tires unleashing a rooster-tail of gravel behind it.
Suguru intended to rouse them out of the house, as he drove the Mercedes around the mansion like mad.
Now he was drawing heavy fire from all sides, bullets dinging on the body of the car, punching holes into the steel.
Fuck the dents, I can buy myself a new one, he thought as his SLK's snout smashed into one of the stunned invaders trying to shoot him through the windshield.
Meanwhile at the garage, Vincent kicked the door open, went inside and turned on the lights; the garage had all the cars present. His mind thought of what they should be driving, but finally decided on one of the Escalade SUVs: big, powerful, and surely thick enough to take much damage; the other cars, fast and nimble as they were, might not be enough for their survival.
"We're taking the Caddy," Vincent said as Liston handed him the keys to the Escalade. The ex-commando pressed on the key fob, opening all doors, and without hesitation, Sachiko took the front seat, and Yumi and Touko the back seat, and Liston jumped into the rear cargo bay.
After dropping himself and the Ingram into the driver's seat and slamming the door, Vincent then slotted the key into the starter and twisted it to ignition, instantly bringing the aluminum-cast, fuel-injected V8 rumbling to life.
"STRAP IN AND HOLD ON!" Vincent declared as he fastened his seat belt, prompting the others to follow suit. Hearing all the confirming 'clicks' of the seat belt fasteners; he then mashed his right foot on the gas, even with the garage doors all closed.
Just as they were trying to stop Kashiwagi's rampage around the lawns, the invaders saw the Escalade spectacularly explode out of the garage, smashing through the garage door, with splinters and all, screeching and smoking the tires as the SUV made a sharp turn to the left, and then roared straight to the gate.
But before they could react any further, one of the invaders seemed to have gotten lucky, as Kashiwagi's Mercedes lost control and flipped to its side, tumbling over several times before crashing into the gazebo in the middle of the garden.
The team leader was enraged, and again he radioed, this time for aerial support in the form of helicopters. Now he ran towards the wrecked sports car and the gazebo, which was already surrounded by the rest of his men.
They found Suguru Kashiwagi, bloodied while suspended upside-down, restrained only by his seat belts. He was breathing shallowly, trying to keep himself alive. Blood was now gushing from a fatal wound somewhere around his lower extremities, possibly a gunshot punched through the steel-sheet door, and the cascade now stained his shirt, splotched with some dirt while tumbling sideways.
"For an aristocrat like you," the team leader said in Japanese, "I'm impressed by your initiative. Now where they're heading to?"
"Them?" Suguru said, and then he coughed. "I don't think you could find them. Fact is, you'll never get anything from me, neh? Even if you kill me right now, you'll never get anything from Sa-chan."
The team leader fumed.
"Whoever the hell you are, you bastards…" Suguru whispered, his breathing now became ragged. "You'll never touch… with even a dirty finger on her."
And in a final act of defiance, Suguru flipped the finger at them.
At the same moment Suguru expired, the Escalade went full throttle and demolished the reinforced steel gate, the collision nearly destroying the SUV's garish front end. The vehicle shrugged the halves of the gate off its wrinkled hood, and then turned to the right, before thundering away.
Inside the SUV, Sachiko was completely catatonic, unable to move any further. In the backseat, Yumi had Touko's head resting on her lap, with both girls trying not to cry; as for Liston, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"You okay?" Vincent asked, his eyes paying full attention to the road as he navigated his way out of the upper-crust neighborhood.
Sachiko couldn't say anything at first, but she then whispered, "Kashiwagi…"
"I'm sorry, milady," he said, momentarily gritting his teeth. "He did everything to protect you."
The young woman burst into tears, turned to Vincent and quickly exclaimed, "My God, WHY IT HAS TO BE THAT WAY?"
"Because, milady, you're too IMPORTANT!" the ex-commando shot back. "He'll fight and die for your sake! How much do you think you have?"
"My money doesn't have anything to do with this!" Sachiko argued.
"I know! Any ideas as to what those damned men are up to?"
Sachiko sniffed, using her forearm to wipe her tears away. "I don't know at all! I don't know! There's no way my family could possibly make a lot of enemies! It's just impossible! So what can we do right now?"
"We'll try to find out as to who the fuck is behind this," Vincent said, his hands rigidly gripping the steering wheel. "Oops, pardon my French, milady," he apologized.
But Sachiko was grieving too much to care for her bodyguard's curses as he muttered those imprecations loudly, or for that matter, his anger.
Once he saw Suguru's eyes close for the last time, the team leader turned to his men and said, "Let's go after them! Take even the dead; we'll dispose of them later."
As his men rushed to rejoin the vans that had delivered them earlier, the team leader then pulled out his mobile phone and dialed.
"Well?" the man on the other end of the line asked. He sounded like seventy years over, trying not to sound desperate.
"We only got most of their men dead, along with Kashiwagi," the team leader reported. "We've encountered surprisingly heavy resistance, got two of our men dead, and one wounded. We'll try to chase them this time."
"Do it," the man commanded. "I want her alive! Do whatever it takes!"
Author's Notes:
As I was staring on this fic a couple of years ago, and while playing the track "Air" from the Angels and Demons soundtrack, I envisioned this chapter as I listened.
Originally I was to give this fic either the titles The Ogasawara Supremacy (after I was thrilled by The Bourne trilogy) or Soeurs and Demons (of course, one of my favorite novels), but decided on Nineteen after remembering the movie Wasabi.
*sighs* There are some readers out here who were a bit disappointed after I decided on the girls' relationships, especially as far as pairings are concerned. Sure, I am in favor of a Sachiko X Yumi relationship, as well as a Yumi X Touko relationship, but to be honest, I really wanted to explore more of their characters and the possibilities in them yet untapped.
As I wrote, I asked myself some questions like, "Is there anything more to Sachiko than just the universe limited by her creator?" and "Do I need that this pairing to stay that way forever?" I am very much reminded of some K-on! fans who were against the idea of character development after hearing that their favorite girls have to grow up and go to college. Like people, fictional characters with a personality do have to grow, and therefore they have to move on to the next level. Of course, there will be times one will have to lay on a bed of roses, and there will be graver times when it's time to be brave to rest on a bed of nails.
Addendum: the correct version of the quote above (but once again attributed to Orwell but never his): "People sleep peacably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
So, hence, I apologize to anyone who thinks otherwise, and should there be graver grievances, it would be best that I should be informed via PM instead of leaving comments, and I'll try to provide a proper response. Otherwise, normal comments and criticisms are still welcome.
To Vega62a, thank you for your superb fic Fake; I appreciate your excellent exploration of Sachiko's personality while including some real-life locales.
Until then, I'm gearing up to write down a new chapter for my other fic called Angels and Witches. Thank you and good afternoon.