“The revered seascape artist,” said Kamatori, displaying a rare hint of excitement. “One of your favorites, Hideki.”
“You know I am a devotee of Shimzu?” Suma asked Enshu.
“A well-known fact in art circles that you collect his work, especially the paintings he made of our surrounding islands.”
Suma turned to Toshie. “How many of his pieces do I have in my collection?”
“You presently own eleven out of the thirteen island seascapes and four of his landscape paintings of the Hida Mountains.”
“And this new one would make twelve in the island set.”
“Yes.”
“What Shimzu island painting have you brought me?” Suma asked Enshu expectantly. “Ajima?”
“No, Kechi.”
Suma looked visibly disappointed. “I had hoped it might be Ajima.”
“I’m sorry.” Enshu held out his hands in a defeatist gesture. “The Ajima was sadly lost during the fall of Germany. It was last seen hanging in the office of the ambassador in our Berlin embassy in May of nineteen forty-five.”
“I will gladly pay you to keep up the search.”
“Thank you,” said Enshu, bowing. “I already have investigators in Europe and the United States trying to locate it.”
“Good, now let’s have the unveiling of Kechi Island.”
With a practiced flourish, Enshu undraped a lavish painting of a bird’s-eye view of an island in monochrome ink with an abundant use of brilliant colors and gold leaf.
“Breathtaking,” murmured Toshie in awe.
Enshu nodded in agreement. “The finest example of Shimzu’s work I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you think, Hideki?” asked Kamatori.
“A masterwork,” answered Suma, moved by the genius of the artist. “Incredible that he could paint an overhead view with such vivid detail in the early sixteen-hundreds. It’s almost as if he did it from a tethered balloon.”
“Legend says he painted from a kite,” said Toshie.
“Sketched from a kite is more probable,” corrected Enshu. “And painted the scene on the ground.”
“And why not?” Suma’s eyes never left the painting. “Our people were building and flying kites over a thousand years ago.” He turned finally and faced Enshu. “You have done well, Mr. Enshu. Where did you find it?”
“In a banker’s home in Hong Kong,” Enshu replied. “He was selling his assets and moving his operations to Malaysia before the Chinese take over. It took me nearly a year, but I finally persuaded him to sell over the telephone. I wasted no time and flew to Hong Kong to settle the transaction and return here with the painting. I came directly to your office from the airport.”
“How much?”
“A hundred and forty-five million yen.”
Suma rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “A very good price. Consider it sold.”
“Thank you, Mr. Suma. You are most gracious. I shall keep looking for the Ajima painting.”
They exchanged bows, and then Toshie escorted Enshu from the office.
Suma’s eyes returned to the painting. The shores were littered with black rock, and there was a small village with fishing boats at one end. The perspective was as precise as an aerial photo.
“How strange,” he said quietly. “The only painting of the island collection I don’t possess is the one I desire the most.”
“If it still exists, Enshu will find it,” Kamatori consoled him. “He strikes me as being tenacious.”
“I’ll pay him ten times the Kechi price for the Ajima.”
Kamatori sat in a chair and stretched out his legs. “Little did Shimzu know when he painted Ajima what the island would come to represent.”
Toshie returned and reminded Suma, “You have a meeting with Mr. Yoshishu in ten minutes.”
“The grand old thief and leader of the Gold Dragons.” Kamatori smiled mockingly. “Come to audit his share of your financial empire.”
Suma pointed through the huge curved windows overlooking the atrium. “None of this would have been possible without the organization Korori Yoshishu and my father built during and after the war.”
“The Gold Dragons and the other secret societies have no place in the future Nippon,” said Kamatori, using the traditional word, meaning “source of the sun.”
“They may seem quaint alongside our modern technology,” Suma admitted, “but they still share an important niche in our culture. My association with them through the years has proven most valuable to me.”
“Your power goes beyond the need for fanatical factions or personality cults or underworld syndicates,” Kamatori said earnestly. “You have the power to pull the strings of a government run by your personal puppets, and yet you are chained to corrupt underworld figures. If it ever leaked out that you are the number two dragon it will cost you dearly.”
“I am not chained to anyone,” said Suma in a patient explaining tone. “What the laws call criminal activity has been a tradition in my family for two centuries. I’ve honored the code by following in my ancestors’ footsteps and building an organization on their foundation that’s stronger than many nations of the world. I am not ashamed of underworld friends.”
“I’d be happier if you showed respect for the Emperor and followed the old moral ways.”
“I’m sorry, Moro. Though I pray at Yasukuni Shrine for the spirit of my father, I feel no urge to venerate the myth of a Godlike Emperor. Nor do I take part in tea ceremonies, meet with geishas, attend Kabuki plays, watch sumo wrestling, or believe in the superiority of our native culture. Nor do I subscribe to the new theory that we are superior in our customs, intelligence, emotions, language, and particularly the design of our brains to people in the West. I refuse to underestimate my competitors and indulge in national conformity and group thinking. I am my own god, and my faith is in money and power. Does that anger you?”
Kamatori looked down at his hands that lay open in his lap. He sat silent, a growing look of sadness in his eyes. Finally he said, “No, it saddens me. I bow to the Emperor and our traditional culture. I believe in his divine descent and that we and our islands are also of divine origin. And I believe in the blood purity and spiritual unity of our race. But I follow you too, Hideki, because we are old friends, and despite your sinister operations you have greatly contributed to Nippon’s new claim as the most powerful nation on earth.”
“Your loyalty is deeply appreciated, Moro,” said Suma honestly. “I’d expect no less from one who takes pride in his samurai ancestry and his prowess with the katana.
“The katana, more than a sword, but the living soul of the samurai,” Kamatori said with reverence. “To be expert in its use is divine. To wield it in defense of the Emperor is to ensure my soul’s rest in Yasukuni.”
“Yet you’ve drawn your blade for me when I’ve asked you.”
Kamatori stared at him. “I gladly kill in your name to honor the good you do for our people.”
Suma looked into the lifeless eyes of his hired killer, a living throwback to the times when samurai warriors murdered for whatever feudal lord offered them security and advancement. He was also aware that a samurai’s absolute loyalty could be reversed overnight. When he spoke, his voice was pleasantly firm.
“Some men hunt wild game with a bow and arrow, most use a firearm. You are the only one I know, Moro, who hunts human game with a sword.”
“You’re looking well, old friend,” said Suma as Korori Yoshishu was ushered into his office by Toshie. Yoshishu was accompanied by Ichiro Tsuboi, who had just arrived from the United States after his debate with the congressional select subcommittee.
The old man, a devout realist, smiled at Suma. “Not well but older. A few more passings of the moon and I’ll sleep with my esteemed ancestors.”
“You’ll see a hundred new moons.”