“France for our military, Germany for our constitutional assembly,” Inoue proclaimed. “Japan looks to the West for its models. If we had to begin from scratch, progress would take us many decades. For the natural sciences, Russia is our only choice. The experts all agree on this.”
“Then you only need to obtain a single copy of The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences?”
Inoue shook his head. “It is not the sort of work that can be obtained through a bookseller. Genpaku Sugita’s New Text on Anatomy—created from a translation of Anatomische Tabellen—was a simple enough matter. This would prove much more challenging.”
Ito sucked his teeth. “There are very few copies of the Complete Work in existence. Each is imprinted with a serial number, and access to all copies is carefully restricted. Only research facilities approved by the Ministry of State Property are allowed to view copies of the book. Reproduction is also forbidden. In truth, requesting a copy is similar to requesting state secrets.”
Sherlock shrugged lightly. “With conflict with Russia worsening, I imagine obtaining a copy should prove impossible for the immediate future.”
Inoue straightened up. “Regardless, the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce has the strongest connections to Russia. His department is more concerned with matters of peace, and he has many acquaintances in the Ministry of State Property.”
“This Minister Mutsu? What manner of Russians is he acquainted with, specifically?”
“One moment. Let me see my notes.” Inoue rose from the sofa and retrieved a pocketbook from the bookshelf. He began flipping through the pages. “There are only a few on the Russian side who are open to reason to begin with. Ah, here it is. The Ministry of State Property. Soslan Chekhov and… yes, Anna Luzhkova.”
Ito slumped his shoulders. “Those two again. Come to think of it, they did say that they were with the Ministry of State Property.”
Apparently discovering new contacts would prove more difficult than they had thought. “An earnest pair, and both naturally retiring. If we were to request a meeting with the Ministry, they would probably push it onto those two,” Sherlock said to Ito.
“I see why they were chosen as attendants.” Ito returned his attention to Inoue. “Isn’t there anyone else? Any Japanese person you know with a strong connection to Russia?”
“None.” Inoue returned his pocketbook to the bookshelf. “You know as well as I do that attempting to revise the unequal treaties is a very thorny path. Approaching a Great Power from our side gets us nowhere. Even on a personal level, it is nearly impossible to build friendships on equal terms.”
Sherlock and Ito gave each other perplexed looks.
A thought suddenly seemed to occur to Inoue. “Of course. How about those two?”
“Those two?” asked Ito.
“The rickshaw drivers,” said Inoue. “Jizaburo Mukohata and Ichitaro Kitagaichi. Seeing as they are receiving lifelong pensions from Russia, they must have contact information for whomever handles the payments.”
“Ah, them.” A look of disappointment crossed Ito’s face. “Whatever contacts they have, I’m sure our people are already aware of them.”
“But wait,” Sherlock said excitedly. “That may indeed be a capital idea. The rickshaw drivers have received medals from Nicholas, as well as a great sum of money. It follows that the Russians may have been less guarded in their presence, or even have taken a liking to them.”
Inoue smiled and nodded. “You may be on to something. When they were invited aboard the warship they were asked to come in their rickshaw uniforms rather than in formalwear. They were brought aboard just past noon but the medal ceremony didn’t occur until later that evening. There was some worry that they had been invited aboard only to be made fools of, but they apparently received a warm welcome from the ship’s crew.”
Sherlock’s confidence grew. “Russia may be willing to lower its guard if it’s the two rickshaw drivers who contact them. Perhaps we will even learn some information that would have been unattainable through government channels. More to the point, Nicholas is still aboard the Laskar. We may manage to meet with him directly.”
Ito was more dubious. “You think we should go ask the rickshaw drivers to spy for us?”
“Of course not. I will not be going. The rickshaw drivers will likely be found in some public house or establishment of ill repute. Even should the Russians be less guarded about two drivers, they may still be under watch. I would only draw unwelcome attention. And of course, I would be unable to communicate with them.”
“How then do you propose we…” Ito trailed off mid-sentence. He stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “No, you don’t mean…”
Inoue’s face lit up. “There are two of them. So there should be two of us.”
Ito cradled his head in both hands. “Tell me this is a nightmare,” he muttered.
19
The octagonal, red-brick tower of Ryounkaku floated above the landscape in the distance, indistinct against the clouded sky. Sprawling along the Sumida River, Asakusa, the entertainment district, already hummed with early afternoon activity, too impatient for sunset. The sukiyaki restaurants, even the public houses, overflowed with patrons. The scene here had changed little since the fall of the Bakufu, thought Ito. Groups of rough-looking men drank in front of open-faced storefronts with boiled octopus and wild poultry hanging from the eaves.
Unfortunately, Ito was currently in no position to look down his nose at the drunkards already boozed into stupor at this early hour. At the moment he would easily have passed for one of these men, himself.
He glanced at Inoue, who was walking next to him. Inoue wore a happi—a livery coat—as well as a workman’s apron, trousers and tabi. He looked the very image of a rickshaw driver, though one well past his physical prime. He also carried a cane. The overall effect was convincing: an old rickshaw man gone drinking for the day, in disgust, after his strength had given out.
Ito was less confident about his own appearance. “Is this really going to work?” he couldn’t stop himself from whispering.
Inoue glanced his way. “Relax, relax. This rickshaw disguise is perfect for you. A pathetic old man with no other profession to fall back on—you’ve got it down to a tee.”
“I doubt you’d find the leaders of any of the Great Powers pulling hijinks of this sort. If His Grace saw me now, I’d be lucky to escape with just a dressing down.”
“Japan is a peculiar case. Our statesmen are from the Satsuma and Choshu domains. We are men of battle, our spirits forged in blood. Adventure is not so strange for the likes of us.”
“Mr. Holmes likely realized as much when he asked us to carry out this mission.”
“Possibly. He did meet us first while we were young men, after all.”
Their destination was a public house. They passed through the straw curtain hung across the entrance. “Irasshai!” the proprietor shouted in welcome. The establishment was cramped, loud, and raucous, every table full. The air reeked of tobacco. The customers shouted rather than spoke.
Their information had been correct. Jizaburo Mukohata and Ichitaro Kitagaichi sat inside at a table in the corner. Rather than rickshaw uniforms, they were dressed in expensive-looking blazers. Mukohata was 37, of medium stature and build. Kitagaichi was 31, and larger in frame. With their professional clothing and ages, they might have passed off as respectably employed, but in all other aspects it was only too clear that they were a pair of slovenly drunks.