"Sir," de Gier said. "You are just in time. We can have a cup of sake before eating. Dorin and I were waiting for you. One cup won't hurt."
The commissaris drank, and felt guilty about the other two cups he had drunk on his own.
Dorin was showing him the two scrolls and the tea bowls brought in by the priest, just before they had left the inn in Kyoto. The one scroll showed a landscape, steep mountains rising from a rough sea. The other scroll was a portrait of a priest, a Chinese Zen master, according to Dorin. The face was aristocratic, with a finely curved nose and a thin mustache, and the eyes looked both calm and intelligent under the high forehead and the bald skull. The man was sitting in the meditation posture, and his long hands held a stick made out of some kind of hardwood. Dorin explained that the stick was used to guide monks as they faltered along, trying to gain insight. Zen monks meet with their master in private at least once a day during their training periods. They present their views, and are hit if they show signs of going astray.
"A very valuable painting," Dorin said. "It's dated 1238 and must be one of Daidharmaji's most treasured possessions. It's amazing they are giving us the use of it, for it must be worth an absolute fortune. The tea bowls are also of value."
He held them up, one by one. "They are Raku pots, sixteenth century, made of very soft clay, as you can see, and feel."
The commissaris felt the first pot, reverently, admiring the irregular shape and the tender pink and red stripes baked into the glaze. "Formed by hand," Dorin said. "It was never turned on a wheel. These bowls were specially made for the tea ceremony. Together they form a set of four. One of them is made for a woman's hands. Three important men and one highly trained geisha."
"So what do we have here?" de Gier asked. "A hundred thousand dollars?" Dorin shook his head. "More?"
"Much more. The paintings can be compared to your Rembrandts. And the bowls are priceless too. This belongs to the best the East can offer."
He rolled the scrolls and put them back in their boxes and wrapped the bowls in cloth, placing them on top of the boxes in the far corner of the room.
There was a sound behind the sliding doors. The maid who had been broiling the fish as the commissaris came in had left, and he expected her to come back. The door opened, but only a few inches. The double-barreled end of a sawed-off shotgun peeked in. Then the doors were slid back completely, and three squat men dressed in Western-style dark-colored suits looked at them gloomily, bowing stiffly. They stepped into the room simultaneously, the two at the far ends closing the doors behind them. Only the man in the middle was armed with a shotgun; the other two held heavy-caliber pistols.
"Konnichiwa," the man in the middle said slowly. "Good day."
Dorin's face was frozen as he turned around to observe his visitors, but de Gier was grinning pleasantly. "Konnichiwa," he said softly. "Irasshai. You are welcome, gentlemen, what can we do for you?"
The man in the middle nodded at the fish, which had begun to burn, and the commissaris reached over, turning the spit. The commissaris was smiling too. Thoughtful and polite men, the yakusa. He made an inviting gesture, and the two men with the pistols knelt down in the opposite corners of the room, while the man in the middle, the heaviest and oldest of the three, and clearly the highest in rank, remained standing.
The commissaris, as he watched his guests, was reminded of a photograph out of the Second World War. The surrender of the Japanese forces on an American warship. There had been several Japanese generals and admirals and one or two civilians, ministers most probably, lined up in front of a table, all stiffly at attention, listening to General MacArthur. This man's attitude expressed the same polite passivity, but there was the shotgun to reverse his position. His twin barrels were oiled and shone with a bluish light, both cocks had been pulled back and the man's thick index finger rested near the double trigger.
"Must dispense with courtesies," the man said sadly. His voice was deep and slightly gritty and he was frowning with concentration, trying to remember the correct words. "You received warning but ignored same. You bought art." His eyes looked briefly at the little pile of boxes and cloth-wrapped bowls in the corner of the room. "Eastern art, property of Japan. We buy this art, not Westerners." The frown became deeper. "Orandajin. Dutchmen. Not for Dutchmen. Business is ours. Please get out of trade and return home. We take art." He nodded at the men on his left side, and the yakusa jumped forward, gathering the boxes and bowls and wrapping them in a large piece of square black cotton which he had taken from under his jacket. He had left his pistol on the floor, but the other gangster moved his, so that it pointed at the commissaris, then at de Gier, then at Dorin.
The bundle was placed near the sliding doors and the man knelt down in his original position.
"You lose much money now, but that is not enough," the deep voice said. "Also painful lesson to be learned."
He shifted the shotgun to his left hand and reached out with his right. The man on the left took out a long knife and placed it in the chief's hand. The shotgun was placed on the floormat and the chief came forward. He swept the sake jug and the three cups off the low table and, with a quick movement, made the knife's blade penetrate the wood so that it stood trembling.
"You," he said, looking at the commissaris. "Take knife and stick through left hand."
The commissaris was still smiling. "Knife?" he asked politely.
"Take a knife," the chief said.
The two yakusa in the corners brought up their pistols so that they were both aimed at the commissaris' chest. De Gier had moved back a little; he was on his knees, having changed his position as the chief spoke. Dorin had also moved. The pistols pointed at them for a brief moment, then moved back to the commissaris.
The commissaris took the knife by the handle and pulled it out of the table.
"This knife?"
"Yes. Now stick it through your left hand."
The commissaris was waving the knife about awkwardly. "Sorry," he said gently. "Not understand. Like this?" He pretended to stick the knife into his left hand, which he held up in the air.
The chief clicked his tongue in irritation and shuffled forward on his knees. "Like this," he said, and put his left hand on the table, stabbing at it with an imaginary knife.
"Ah," the commissaris said gaily, and brought the knife down with all the force he could muster. A spurt of blood welled from the chief's hand, which had been nailed securely to the tabletop. The commissaris' body was still moving; he had jumped over the table and grabbed the shotgun, aiming at the yakusa closest to Dorin. The yakusa had been watching his chief and the new development caught him unaware. Dorin had vaulted forward as the commissaris made his move and the side of his hand hit the yakusa opposite him full on the wrist. The man dropped his pistol and Dorin held the powerless wrist and twisted it so that the yakusa was forced on his side, grinning with pain. De Gier's opponent was also stretched out. The sergeant had grabbed his wrist with his left hand and hit him simultaneously in the neck with his right. As the sergeant's yakusa fell, his foot upset the charcoal brazier underneath the spitted turning fish, and the coals began to ignite the tatamis.