Despite similarities in appearance, this group seemed different from the men in the pickup truck. She had been trained to observe human action and note the subtle nuance of things like body language as clues to the mystery of human behavior. And, battered as she was, it was a comfort to resort to the familiar mind-set of the observer.
These men spoke less frequently but Hatsue quickly discerned the hierarchy among them. The two taller men, clearly not Filipinos, spoke to the others quietly, but they were obeyed. There was no small talk. No smoking. And, as she watched the men around her out of the corners of her eyes, Hatsue did not see the surreptitious glances at her or have to endure the casual bumping and rubbing she had experienced in the truck. It was a relief, but a small one. For the efficiency with which they moved farther into the bush and higher into the hills, sweeping her away from any succor, had a colder, more profoundly dangerous feel.
They were dressed in jungle camouflage and each wore a web harness with various pouches hanging off it. All the men had black headbands and moved with a quick efficiency that struck Hatsue as vaguely military. They moved in formation, with a scout out ahead and someone lagging behind for security. Their weapons were clean and well oiled.
She staggered along the trails, propelled by the harsh urgency of the men. At a stop, they sat her down and one of them let her drink from a canteen. Her lips were puffy from being struck and it hurt to drink, but the lukewarm water was welcome. She looked at the man holding the container. One of the foreigners. She watched his face for any sign of compassion, of a willingness to connect with his captive. His eyes were brown and he looked at her with clinical dispassion. They rested for a few minutes, then he called to the others and they began again.
Eventually, they reached a camp high up in the mountain forest. They were greeted by sentries who emerged, wraithlike, from among the trees. A hillside clearing, perhaps thirty meters square, was bounded by huts and tents of various types. They brought her across the open ground and into the shade. She was shoved into a chair and made to hold a newspaper in front of her chest. A man took her picture, muttered unintelligibly when the flash failed to go off, then took two more for good measure. He said nothing to her and left as soon as he was done.
Once again she was dragged across the camp. They led her to a well-constructed hut that, unlike the other tents and lean-tos she saw, was raised off the ground. Also, unlike the other shelters, this hut had a sentry who stood at the bottom step. When she was brought to him, the sentry went up the two steps to the veranda and called respectfully into the hut. Hatsue noticed all the men standing straighter, and looking toward the door with expectant tension. Captive and captors alike waited on whatever was inside.
He emerged and she blinked wildly in confusion. He was so unlike what she had expected, another assault on her sense of reality, that she was struck with a desire to shut out the chaos of the world around her.
He was a short Japanese dressed in a dark gray kimono, and he held a large old-fashioned fan like the ones Hatsue had seen in formal posed photographs from her grandparents’ day. She tried to remember what they were called, but couldn’t. His feet were encased in spotlessly white
tabi
, the split-toed socks of old Japan. He glanced at them cursorily, then looked down to slip his feet into straw sandals before stepping out onto the veranda.
One of the non-Filipinos who had brought her to the camp approached the Japanese man. He bowed to him—Hatsue would have smiled in amusement in another life—and spoke quietly and deferentially. She couldn’t hear what was said. The old man nodded and approached the edge of the steps. He looked down at her. His face was round and his high cheeks were flushed and ruddy. A long, bent nose ran down to a small mouth. When he spoke, she could glimpse his teeth, small and jagged like those of an animal. The old man looked at her, but said nothing. His glance made her conscious of her filth, the thin material of her T-shirt sweaty and clinging to her chest.
“Who are you?” she finally whispered. She said it in English.
He cackled at that, and answered in Japanese. “So. You have set even the language of your ancestors behind you? Like an animal . . . I wonder if you even understand me.”
“Wakarimasu,” Hatsue replied. I understand. The old man smiled at that, his pointy teeth showing.
“I doubt that you do . . . ” he said. “But you will. In time.”
“Please . . . ” she began.
The old man waved his fan to silence her. “Who I am is not important for now.” His eyes narrowed and he folded the fan and pointed it in her direction, his movements imperious, like the gestures of samurai commanders from the old days. “What is important is who you are.”
“You know me?” she asked.
He nodded. “I know of you. It is enough.”
“But why? What have I done?” she pleaded.
He cocked his head as if hearing a distant sound. “Done? Why nothing. It is enough, Abe Hatsue, that you are who you are.”
She looked at him, speechless with confusion, waiting for an answer. He watched her clinically for a moment then smiled. It was a gesture that held no comfort.
“You are,” he said, “ . . . a means to an end.”
He gestured with the fan and they dragged her away to her cage.
The jet settled to earth with a rumbling squeal of tires and we staggered down the covered connector into the terminal. We knew that someone would be waiting for us. I had expected a contact from the Japanese Embassy. What we got were the cops.
It was all polite enough—the elliptical courtesy of Asia couched in careful language—but you needed a machete to cut through the wall of resentment. Micky and Art had pulled some serious strings with the NYPD and had a friend at headquarters fax a personal request for professional consideration to the Manila police. The Japanese had told us that they could set things up, but wanted to stay in the background. I thought even at that time that that was odd. On the other hand, the Filipinos are working closely with the U.S. on anti-terror issues, so Micky figured they might be cooperative. But first impressions made me think that the locals were not real crazy about our presence.
Chief Inspector Tomas Reyes—“call me Tommy”—ushered us down through the Customs concourse after introductions. The airport was a busy place, with wiry Asian travelers churning in all directions, shoving themselves along personal pathways invisible to the casual observer. Fuzzy loudspeaker announcements in multiple languages added to the intensity. I picked up a young, fit, well-dressed Asian man, trailing along behind us, just out of the periphery of vision. Yamashita had taught me that little trick of staying in a target’s blind spot and I knew enough to scan any area for just this sort of thing. I didn’t say anything to the local cops about the man I spotted.
My mind had been churning since we boarded the plane in New York. I was left with two insights: The attempt to save my
sensei
was, at best, a long shot and if I was going to succeed, I needed everything I had ever learned from my teacher. Primary among his many lessons was the need to contain emotion, to focus, and not to give too much away to your opponent. I would wait and watch to see where—and with whom—danger lay.
The processed air of the terminal was barely cool. You looked out the plate glass windows, beyond cement landing strips striped with rubber from countless landings, to where a flat gray sky met the distant trees, and got the sense of moisture and heat barely kept at bay. Reyes looked like he was feeling it. He was wearing one of those tropical shirts that spilled out over his pant waist. It didn’t flatter his hips. And when he reached a plate glass door set off from the concourse and opened it to invite us in, you could see dark half-moons of sweat staining the underarms of his shirt.
He was a prosperous-looking guy. Fiftyish, with jet black hair swept back into place and given luster by heroic amounts of hair cream. The Inspector had multiple chins; it looked like the fat from his thick neck was trying to push up into his jawline and finding it a tough go. The effect was completed with an aftershave that smelled like lime. But he was a cop. He had the look.
We filed past him into the room. As he brushed by me, Art said very quietly, “Book ’em, Dan-o.”
The conference room was hushed and the air whooshed around in a cooling flow. Inspector Reyes sat down gratefully. He had two other guys with him, but they got to wait outside. The room was in one of those swank club areas they have in airports for rich people who travel a lot—the Ambassador Club, or the Captain of Industry Club, something like that. It was not Burke clan territory—we fly infrequently on low budget carriers that herd you like cattle. For the Irish, all travel is a form of pilgrimage, and so should entail some degree of suffering. But I had to admit, the Club lounge was nice. The lighting was soft and the chairs were comfortable. The table was highly polished dark wood. There were soft drinks arranged on a tray, cans pearled with moisture, some glasses, and an ice bucket waiting for us.
“May I offer you something to drink, gentlemen?” Reyes asked. We shook our heads, no. He shrugged and grabbed a can of Coke. He held it to his forehead, his eyes closing briefly in relief at its coolness. Then he sat up straight in his chair, popped the top, and poured himself a drink. You could see the effervescence dance in the air above the glass and hear the hiss of the gas as it dissipated.
Reyes observed the fizzing for a while, regarding the drink with calm dispassion. That’s how you knew he was a cop. He knew how to wait and watch. Then he carefully placed some ice in the glass, took a cautious sip, and set the drink back down on the tabletop, looking content. There was a folder that he had placed flat on the table. He ignored it, even though he knew we wondered what it held. Reyes gave every appearance of being fascinated by the unique fizzing qualities of a glass of Coke, a large man engaged in the small and simple things of life.
We all waited. I was surprised that Micky went along with the whole thing. Then I looked from my brother to Art and then to Reyes. All three sat there, impassive. Alert but calm. Watching each other. And, in an unexpected way, for all their differences, they seemed very much alike
There is a time before the fight is joined in the
dojo
when the world cools down to a very still place, where only you and your opponent exist, waiting and watching each other. In India, wrestlers sometimes say that “the body becomes all eyes.” The Japanese call the experience
haragei
—a subtle process of intuitive knowledge or non-verbal communication. I’ve trained with Japanese masters who possessed the impressive abilities of
haragei
and as I watched the three policemen surrounding me, I got the sense that I was witnessing three such masters at work.
The Inspector took another sip of his Coke and sighed appreciatively. He held the glass and, looking at the faint ring of moisture it left on the table, set the glass down slowly, exactly in the same spot, covering the ring. His hands were swollen looking, but they handled the movements with great delicacy. Then he looked up at us and smiled.
“The communication from New York expressed interest in a case we are pursuing here. May I ask what is your interest?”
My brother sat forward. “We received notification that a U.S. resident had been kidnapped.”
“Indeed. In fact, two have been kidnapped. But I had thought they were Japanese. You say a resident?” the Filipino cop commented. “Not a citizen?”
“We’re talking about Mr. Yamashita. A resident alien, but a long-time resident of New York,” Art explained.
The Inspector held his two hands out, palms up. “How generous of your police department to show such concern . . . ”
“Yamashita is very well connected in New York,” my brother said. It was a great lie in that is was partly true and totally misleading at the same time. My teacher is well known and respected by the small community of elite martial arts
sensei
in Manhattan and elsewhere. He runs a school that isn’t listed in the Yellow Pages. It’s difficult to get him to even let you apply for admission. He looms large in my imagination, but to the rest of the world, Yamashita’s almost invisible.
“He must be quite the celebrity,” Reyes said. “To merit the attention of two detectives.” He swiveled in his chair to face me more directly. “And what is your role in this little trip?”
“He’s my
sensei
,” I said.
“
Sensei
?” the Inspector asked.
“My teacher,” I explained.
Reyes’ eyes narrowed. “I am familiar with the term. In years past, my country had quite an exposure to Japanese culture.”
The tone in his voice was bitterly ironic. I had worried about this. The memories of Japanese Imperialism, the savage excesses of the Emperor’s armies, were things still vivid in many parts of Asia. How a people like the Japanese could be responsible for so much that is beautiful and refined, and yet have been the authors of so much brutality, is a continuing sadness to me. Unfortunately, it’s not a mystery. Westerners tend to idealize the exotic East, but all cultures are similar in this: They’re attempts at keeping the beast at bay, and more often than not they fail. The miracle is that we continue to try at all.
I had thought about this on the flight over. The men from the Japanese Embassy were correct; the plight of a kidnapped Japanese expatriate was not going to generate much sympathy from the Filipinos. I looked at the Inspector. He was a professional and would certainly do what was required. But I knew from working with my brother that on any given day a cop has about a million things demanding his attention. When push came to shove, would Inspector Reyes pay more attention to a case involving a Filipino or a Japanese visitor? It wasn’t hard to figure. But maybe they’d cooperate with a few Americans.
“Inspector,” I said, taking a breath, “I know that there are lots of things demanding your time and we appreciate your meeting us. We’re really here to find out what we can about my teacher’s disappearance and perhaps to help in any way we can . . . ”