Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Warrior Spirit

Warrior Spirit
Alex Archer
A priceless artifact could restore a family's honor–or destroy everything in its wake.While vacationing in Tokyo, archaeologist Annja Creed is approached by a man who desperately needs her help. Kennichi Ogawa, the last descendant of an ancient warrior family, is trying to locate a stolen artifact. Legend has it that the vajra was mystically endowed by a warrior's spirit to help the Yumegakure-ryu family forever be a source for good. But the vajra could help the forces of evil if it gets into the wrong hands. And now the bloodthirsty Yakuza and a group of hired ninja are after it. As Annja and Kennichi trek through the fog-enshrouded mountains of the Iga province to find the relic, they must also outsmart the vicious Yakuza and ninja who are dangerously close to uncovering the vajra first…and to destroying their competition.



Rogue Angel

Warrior Spirit
Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

Contents
Acknowledgment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39

Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Jon Merz for his contribution to this work.

1
The fist shot at her face much faster than she’d expected.
Annja Creed felt certain it would impact somewhere along the bridge of her nose, but at the very last second, her body seemed to take over and jerk her head out of the way. The fist sailed through empty air and as it went past, Annja saw the opening she needed. In the blink of an eye, she fired three punches into the attacker’s midsection, scoring solid hits with all three.
“Matte!” The referee’s voice barked out above the cacophony of the crowd’s cheers. Annja stopped, and sweat poured down her face and into the folds of her karate uniform. The gi was stained with the sweat, dust and exertion of the past three hours.
She turned to the judges and waited. Two white flags went into the air.
Annja beamed but contained her joy over winning the match. Instead she executed a formal bow from her waist to the judges. Then she walked to her opponent, a twenty-something punk rocker with tea-stained reddish-brown hair. He was still bent over, looking for the air Annja had knocked out of his lungs.
As she approached, he looked up and frowned. “How did you do that?”
Annja shrugged. “I thought you had me, Saru. But somehow my reflexes kicked in.”
“Good fight. I may never breathe again, though.” He tried to grin, but grimaced instead. His friends helped him off the traditional tatami mats.
Annja turned and went the other way toward the side where her gear awaited. One more match and she’d be done. But the last fight of the evening was looking to be nothing short of nearly impossible.
She gulped down water and waited for the next opponent to walk onto the mat.
When he did, Annja felt her stomach twist itself into knots. Nezuma Hidetaki was one of the most feared fighters that the Kyokushinkai had ever produced. A hard stylist, Nezuma liked to practice his punches against brick buildings. He’d split his knuckles so often that doctors had finally removed the remaining cartilage and simply sewn the knuckles together. Nezuma had calluses on top of his calluses and though short at only five feet six inches, his thighs were as big around as tree trunks.
He strode across the mat and stood in front of Annja with his arms folded across his barrel chest. “I will not be as easy as Saru was,” he stated.
I didn’t think Saru was easy, Annja thought.
She took another sip of water and then mopped her brow. The material of her gi top stuck to her skin. She flapped it, trying to get some air circulating so she’d be able to move without getting caught up in it.
Nezuma did some deep squats across the ring, warming up his body. As the reigning champion, he only had to fight one match—the last one.
Annja was already as warm as she was going to get. All that remained before her in this tournament being held in the Tokyo Budokan, was Nezuma. If she won this match, she’d be the lightweight champion in the Interdiscipline Budo Championship.
The judges looked at Annja and she nodded, then stepped onto the mat. Nezuma turned and bowed to the judges. Annja did the same.
Nezuma turned to Annja and gave her a curt bow. Annja bowed in the same style. If he’s going to be rude, so be it, she thought. I can play that game, as well.
The referee stepped in between them and held his hand horizontally. He looked at both of them again, but Annja already had her eyes locked on Nezuma’s.
“Hajime!”
Nezuma immediately stalked Annja, coming at her from the side, almost like a crab. Annja pivoted to her southpaw stance, bringing her guard higher than normal, aware that Nezuma preferred to attack with straight punches aimed at the head, trying to score immediate knockouts. He had successfully knocked out three of his previous opponents on his way to becoming the champion he was—the one Annja hoped to become.
Nezuma shot out a feint with his right leg, a flashing roundhouse kick aimed at her upper thigh. Annja stepped back out of range, letting the kick sail past her. Nezuma’s follow-up was a straight blast aimed at her head.
Annja ducked and deflected the blow away to the inside and punched at Nezuma’s exposed right chest. He brought his left hand in sharply and punched Annja’s arm out of the way. Annja dropped back and away, clutching her arm.
Well, that hurt, she thought. She took a breath and gritted her teeth. Let’s see how he likes this.
Against all her normal strategic thinking, Annja jumped and let a bloodcurdling shout erupt from her lungs as she folded her legs up and under her, aiming her left foot at Nezuma’s head.
The jumping side kick caught her stocky opponent by surprise, and he barely missed losing his head to Annja’s kick. Annja landed, aware that Nezuma was already punching at exactly the spot where she’d be landing. Instead of standing, Annja let the momentum drop her to the ground and then pivoted and swept Nezuma’s legs out from under him. He went down hard and the judges scored it one point for Annja.
Just two more to go, she thought as Nezuma hauled himself to a standing position again.
He glared at Annja.
No way is he going to fall for that again, Annja thought with a smile. Still, it was worth it seeing the look of surprise on his face. Especially since she knew that Nezuma was a notorious misogynist who thought women belonged either in bed or in the kitchen, preferably both.
The referee barked at them to begin again, and Annja and Nezuma squared off.
This time, Nezuma didn’t waste time by trying to find Annja’s weak points. He simply flew at her with punch after punch. Annja backed up again and again, blocking them as they came shooting at her.
Nezuma attacked with a ferocity Annja hadn’t experienced from her previous opponents. His punches came at her from different angles and levels. He punched high and low and right in the middle. Annja kept backing up, aware that the edge of the mat loomed closer.
Finally, Nezuma slipped one single punch past her and an instant later Annja felt it thunder into her lower abdomen and drive every last bit of breath from her lungs. Annja fell backward and landed hard on the edge of the mat.
She tried to flush her lungs but her diaphragm seemed to be spasming. Nezuma’s face came into view, hovering over her.
“That makes us even again at one point each, Miss Creed.” He smiled. “Now it really is anyone’s match.”
He helped her to her feet. “Just don’t mistake this for anything but what it is, a long overdue lesson for all women that they need to stay away from budo .”
“What a perfectly antiquated statement,” Annja said. She smiled at Nezuma. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure this doesn’t sting too much when I lay you out on your butt.”
Nezuma chuckled and walked back to his edge of the mat. The audience had hushed, aware that both fighters were even in points. One more score would decide the match. Annja could feel their eyes as they leaned in to watch.
She could hear the creaks of the old wooden folding chairs. The scent of sweat tinged the air, and Annja’s thoughts went to what had brought her there in the first place.
After her last adventure, she’d needed a vacation. More than that, she’d wanted to test herself. And the martial-arts newsgroup she sometimes frequented had posted news about the upcoming tournament. It seemed a perfect time to do something for herself, so she made her travel arrangements from her loft in Brooklyn. Within twelve hours, she was hopping a flight bound for Tokyo.
Fourteen hours later, she arrived and went straight to her hotel and fell asleep, trying to get her system in tune with the time-zone change.
And now, here she stood, awaiting Nezuma’s final attack.
Her nerves seemed poised at the edge of a very steep cliff, ready to jump at a moment’s notice. Even the sweat seemed to be still wherever it was on her body.
Nezuma’s eyes glistened like those of a ravenous tiger about to consume an antelope he’d pursued and had cornered. Annja’s stomach still ached, but her breathing had returned to normal.
For the last time the referee stepped between them. Once more, he looked at them both.
Annja nodded.
Nezuma grinned.
“Hajime!”
The crowd roared and hopped to its feet. Shouts and cheers echoed across the cavernous room as Annja circled Nezuma. The Kyokushinkai fighter smiled and then roared as he launched a high roundhouse kick toward Annja’s left temple. Annja stepped inside and started to drop to punch into Nezuma’s groin.
This’ll teach him, she thought.
But in that instant, Nezuma recoiled his kick and then shot his left arm out, clotheslining Annja across the throat in an aikido move known as irimi nage , the entering throw.
Annja felt the pressure on her throat and knew that if the throw finished, she’d be defeated.
Instead, she grabbed Nezuma’s arm and used it to vault herself over like a gymnast. As she spun over, she kicked out with both feet at Nezuma’s chest.
He sidestepped and shot a punch at Annja’s head.
Annja ducked out of the way and the two of them broke apart again.
Sweat poured down both of their faces. Annja blinked through the salt and kept her guard up. Her arms felt like lead weights, dragging her down, but she was all too aware of how prizefighters often tire. Once the guard started to drop, the other fighter usually had no problem finishing them off. Annja was determined to not let that happen. Especially since she’d spent enough time listening to her self-appointed trainer, Eddie, harp on her about keeping her hands up where they could protect her.
Nezuma’s guard had stayed perfectly in position throughout the entire fight. His arms looked like coils of tight sinew wrapped around steel girders. He still maneuvered on deeply bent legs, keeping his center of balance low and steady. Trying to unseat him would be almost impossible.
He screamed again and came at Annja with a series of stomping kicks aimed at her midsection. He looked as if he was taking giant steps across the mat, and Annja had to sidestep them again and again.
This is ridiculous, she thought. It’s time I went on the attack.
She turned and launched a single roundhouse kick at Nezuma’s head. He casually flicked it away and in that instant, Annja went low, driving her elbow toward Nezuma’s stomach.
He blocked that, as well. Annja came up, driving up with an uppercut aimed at the underside of his jaw. Nezuma pivoted out of the way and then dropped unexpectedly to the floor. She felt the crushing instep of Nezuma’s right foot sink into her stomach and then lift her up overhead. When it was fully extended, Nezuma retracted his right foot, but Annja kept sailing through the air, tumbling as she went like in some bad kung fu movie.
She crashed to the floor in a broken heap just as the judges raised their red flags.
Nezuma had won the match.
Annja got to her feet, determined not to lie there like a beaten fool. Even though her stomach ached as if someone had just used a spoon to scoop out her insides, she bowed to the judges and then to Nezuma.
“Next time,” she said through gritted teeth.
Nezuma smiled.
Annja hobbled over to her bag and drank down some of the last remaining water in her bottle. The crowd at the budokan was still cheering Nezuma and he soaked up the adoration. He bowed several times and then left the mat. The spectators left soon after, filing out in the same orderly way as they had come into the budokan .
Annja sat there for another few minutes, catching her breath. She sucked at the bottle and realized that she was out of the precious fluid.
“Here.”
She looked up and into the deepest, darkest eyes she’d seen on a man. He held out a fresh bottle of water and smiled.
Wow, Annja thought. “Thanks,” was all she could say.
“That was some fight. You held your own against him remarkably well.”
“Remarkably well? What’s that supposed to mean?”
He held up his hands. “Please, I meant no disrespect. I certainly do not share Nezuma’s viewpoint on the role of women in society.”
“You know what he thinks about women?” Annja asked.
He smirked. “Nezuma has made no secret of his views on women and the martial arts. You can read about them in any number of magazines.” He watched as the budokan emptied out. “Nezuma is an extremely adept opponent, however. But you made him work for that win. And that is something that doesn’t happen too often. You should be quite proud of how well you fared.”
Annja grimaced. “I’ll save that for when I’m feeling better. Right now, my guts feel like they want to stage a revolt in my stomach.”
He offered his hand. “My name is Kennichi Ogawa. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Creed.”
Annja stared at him. “Nice to meet you.”
“It’s not often that this tournament attracts someone of your…professional stature.”
Annja frowned. “You’ve heard of my work?”
“Certainly. You are, in fact, the reason why I am in attendance tonight.” He waved his hand. “This is not my usual scene, I’m afraid.”
“Not a martial-arts junkie?”
Kennichi shrugged. “There’s a difference between sport tournaments and real martial arts. Most people confuse the two, but there are profound differences.” He eyed her closely. “As I’m sure you know.”
“Rules. In the tournaments there are always rules, even if the venue claims that anything goes,” Annja said.
“Exactly.” Kennichi nodded. “But on the street…”
“Anything really does go. Eye gouging, groin shots, knee breaks. Whatever it takes to survive.”
He smiled. “You do know. And the mental perspective is also different. Fighting for survival can never be understood by those who have never struggled for their own life.”
Annja gathered her towel and bag. “So, you took time out of your schedule to come here and meet me?”
“Yes, I did.”
Annja mopped her brow. “Do you make it a habit to pick women up at martial-arts tournaments?”
Kennichi’s eyes widened. “Does this look like a pickup?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Annja slapped the towel over her shoulder. “I might need some time to think about it.”
“Perhaps I might be interested in you for professional reasons.”
Annja smiled. “Professional reasons.”
“To be perfectly blunt, I’d like you to find something for me. Something old and quite priceless. Are you interested?”
“Do you need it found just this minute?”
He grinned. “Not quite this moment. No.”
Annja nodded. “In that case, I’ll head for the showers now. And after that, you can take me out for dinner. Then we can discuss your professional reasons and I’ll decide then if I’m interested in your priceless artifact. Okay?”
“Uh…okay,” he said.
Annja turned and walked away, aware that Kennichi Ogawa was standing stock-still behind her, very much surprised by the conversation that had just transpired.

2
The Spartan showers at the Tokyo Budokan weren’t the kind of luxurious bath Annja would have preferred if she’d been home in New York City, but the scalding waters were good for relieving the tenderness of her sore muscles. She soaped herself up using the fragrance bar she carried with her, ridding herself of the body-odor stench that seemed a fixture in gyms all over the world.
Aside from her bruised ego and the purplish welts already covering parts of her battered body, Annja felt refreshed when she emerged from the changing area dressed in a gray turtleneck and black slacks.
Kennichi lounged by the front of the budokan , now almost entirely deserted except for the various ushers and cleaning crew. He seemed uninterested in the scenery around him. Annja could see his breathing was relaxed and deep, and every minute or so, his head scanned the immediate vicinity.
Despite his lackadaisical demeanor, Annja knew he was completely aware of everything happening around him. She’d seen the same relaxed attentiveness before in some of the intelligence operatives she’d met during her various adventures. Still, she didn’t figure Kennichi for a spy.
He looked up as she approached, his eyes giving her a lingering once-over. “You certainly clean up well.”
“Thanks. Are you always so blunt?”
Kennichi smiled, showing a mouth full of polished teeth. “Are you wondering why I tend to be at odds with the relative obliqueness that most of my countrymen embrace?”
“I would have said it differently, but yeah, something like that,” Annja said with a smile.
Kennichi led them outside, holding the door open for Annja. She felt the cool breeze wash over her and was glad she’d opted for the turtleneck. Kennichi guided her toward the parking lot.
“I was educated abroad. And personally, I’ve never really liked having to pry honesty out of people. I find it easier to simply say what I think or feel—within reason and tact, of course—and see where it leads.”
“Interesting,” Annja said. “Is that likely to catch on here?”
“I doubt it will ever be so. Japan’s ways are ingrained deep into her psyche. Change is a very difficult thing to produce here.” He pointed at the black Mercedes S550 parked alone under a street lamp. “This is me.”
Annja whistled. “Nice ride.”
Kennichi nodded. “I have a bit of a weakness for nice cars. As much as I try to wean myself, every year there seems to be something new that grabs my gut.”
Annja slid into the leather interior. “Any other weaknesses I should know about?” She couldn’t help but feel intrigued by this man.
Kennichi eyed her for just a moment. “Maybe later. Right now, let’s get something to eat. You must be famished after that grueling session you just logged.”
“I could definitely eat.” Annja rested her head back against the cushion. “It has been some kind of day.”
He slid the car into gear and they moved off into the traffic. At a traffic light, Kennichi turned and smiled again. “First things first. Please call me Ken. It’s easier than the mouthful that my name really is. And I’d hate for that to ever be a burden for someone.”
“Okay. Where are we going, Ken? Steak and lobster? McDonald’s?”
“There’s a coffee shop in Kanda we can hit. They’ve got a very diverse range of food. I’m not sure what you normally eat after you fight your way through a horde of foes, so I thought it might be best to give you a smorgasbord of options. That way you can best decide what will replace the nutrients you lost earlier.”
“Considerate of you,” Annja said. “I appreciate that. Why don’t you tell me about the object you’re trying to locate?”
Ken held up his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather we wait until we eat first. Your attention right now is somewhat diffused. I need you a bit more…concentrated.”
“I’m focused on you, Ken,” Annja said.
Ken grinned. “I don’t doubt it. But I think a meal in your stomach will do you some good before I unleash my family’s woes on you.”
“Family?” Annja frowned. “You’re married?”
“I meant family in the lineage sense. Ancestors, descendants, that kind of thing.” He glanced at her. “And no, I’m not married.”
God, that must have come out like a schoolgirl crush, Annja thought. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s no problem.” He pointed. “We’re here.”
Ken parked the Mercedes in the tiniest parking lot Annja had ever seen. They both got out of the car. The front of the coffee bar proclaimed that it served pizza, Buffalo wings, hamburgers and an assortment of other American food items, all written in English. Annja’s mouth watered at the thought of some wings. But she thought it might be better to stick to something a little less messy. Nothing said impressive on a first date than hot sauce smeared all over your face.
A line of Honda motorcycles that had been decked out with detailing and every latest gizmo available dominated the area immediately outside the coffee shop. At least ten of them vied for space in what should have only accommodated half their number.
Annja whistled. “Nice bikes.”
Ken looked at them and shook his head. “If only their owners were that quiet. But come on, let’s eat.”
The hostess inside greeted them with a bow, and as Annja looked the place over, she couldn’t help but marvel at how things in Japan could be so foreign and so familiar at the same time. Rock music blasted from the speakers, but not so loud you had to shout to be heard. Movie posters and surfboards were plastered on the walls. Diner-style booths with bright red naugahyde cushions and laminate tables reminded Annja of the 1950s-style joints she’d seen back home.
The hostess led them past a bunch of tables packed with Japanese teens adorned with body piercings and colorful spiked red hair. She felt their eyes roam over her body and now wished she’d worn something less clinging than what she had on.
More than the way they looked at her, though, she was alarmed by the way they checked Ken out. Several of them shifted in their seats, and Annja felt her own instincts buzz. Were they going to jump them? And if so, why?
“Annja.”
Ken’s voice brought her back to reality. He smiled at her and Annja smiled back. “Sorry.”
“Forget about them. They’re just teppo .”
Annja frowned. “I’ve heard that word before—”
Ken nodded. “It means ‘bullet’. It’s what they call the kids who have just joined a Yakuza gang. They’re low-level thugs who are used for intimidation. They extort money. Some of them run small-time prostitution rings or sell drugs on the side. And tragically, most of them are dead before they’re twenty years old.”
“That’s horrible,” Annja said. She’d seen enough of youth involved in crime to know the statistics could be devastatingly similar in the States, if not worse.
“Stupid, more likely,” Ken said. “None of these kids have come from the lower class. They’ve all been recruited from the middle class. They have all their options open to them, but they choose instead to forsake the sacrifices their parents made simply because they think it’s cool to be in a gang. It’s very different in America, where the economics of poverty breed new generations of criminals. Here, it’s a fad to be involved. And a stupid one at that.”
A waitress on roller skates glided up to their table. Annja cracked the menu and ordered a hamburger.
The waitress smiled. “Would you like corn on that?”
Annja blanched. “Excuse me?”
Ken chuckled. “We put corn on a lot of things. Pizza, too.”
Annja shook her head. “Just lots of cheese, lettuce, ketchup and mayonnaise. No corn. Oh, and I’d like a large glass of water.”
Ken ordered a plate of Buffalo wings and a beer. “I miss the States and come here for my wing fix. If I could get Sam Adams beer here, I’d be really happy.”
“Where did you go to school? That is why you were there, right?”
Ken nodded. “Georgetown for undergrad. Harvard for my master’s.”
“In what?”
“Partying, most likely. I was something of a nut in school.” He smiled but then corrected himself. “My degree is in languages. Sanskrit, Tibetan and Nepali.”
Annja leaned back. “Impressive.”
“I had an ulterior motive for it. One we’ll discuss shortly.”
Their food arrived faster than Annja would have thought. After carefully checking her cheeseburger for any sign of corn, she took a huge bite. Tasting the juices and melted cheese run into her mouth, she moaned. “This is incredible.”
“It’s better with the corn,” Ken said around a mouthful of wings.
“You’ve got sauce on your face, champ.” Annja washed down her bite with a long sip from her water.
Ken wiped his mouth. “So that’s what was stinging.” He took a healthy pull on his beer and then tore into the rest of his plate as if he hadn’t eaten in a long while.
Annja devoured her burger and found the fries just as tasty. She and Ken ate in relative silence for the next few minutes until at last, Annja leaned back, wiped her mouth and sighed. “That was a great meal.”
Ken finished his beer and gestured to the waitress. He glanced at Annja. “How about a beer?”
“Sure.” Annja normally didn’t drink alcohol after a fight, but she was full and relaxed and eating with a handsome man. One drink wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Ken held up two fingers and then turned back to Annja, with a serious expression. “My family line is very old. Over one thousand years in fact. I’m descended from a long line of warriors. One of my ancestors was presented with a relic far back in Japan’s history.”
Annja glanced around the restaurant. “How far are we talking here?”
“A.D. 560.”
Annja blinked. “You weren’t kidding about a long family line. I never knew the name Ogawa stretched back that far.”
“Ogawa is nothing so special. It’s more the lineage itself that is important. But martial-arts lineages aren’t normally named after people. They’re instead named after an idea, concept or even a geographical location.” He smiled. “Forgive me, I’m sure you know all of this already.”
“Actually, my knowledge of Japanese martial arts is fairly rudimentary.”
Ken nodded. “My family’s lineage is known as the Yumegakure-ryu. It means ‘hidden dream.’ We were employed by the Regent Prince Shotoku Taishi during his reign and by almost every ruler since then.”
Annja frowned. “That’s a lot longer than most historians would argue records have been kept.”
“Most historians are a bunch of academics who have little common sense about the very things they claim expertise in. They sit in dusty offices, using only books to make their sometimes ridiculous claims,” Ken said.
Annja grinned. She knew more than a few people who fit that description exactly. “I’m something of a historian myself, though. You think I fit the same mold as they do?”
The waitress brought their beer and Ken hoisted his in Annja’s direction. “I don’t know too many academics who would have the courage to fight for three hours in the budokan. Kempai .”
“Kempai,” Annja said.
They drank together and then Ken rested his glass on the tabletop and leaned forward. “Besides, you’re an archaeologist. And you do your best work in the field. That’s your real value to me. I need you to help me find something that was stolen from my family a long time ago.”
“What is it?” Annja asked, feeling the excitement that always accompanied a new challenge.
Ken leaned back. “My ancestors, for their service to Prince Shotoku, were awarded a very special relic known as a vajra. It means ‘thunderbolt’. Prince Shotoku had the small sceptre made specially for my ancestors, and legend has it that it was also endowed with certain, shall we say, mystical qualities.”
“What kind of mystical qualities?” Annja grinned as she thought about how just a few years ago she would have scoffed at the idea of mystical properties in relics. How times had changed.
Ken shrugged. “Probably nothing. After all, have you ever seen anything that defied rational thought in all your travels?”
Annja felt a twinge in her stomach. How would Ken react if she said, “Well, sure, I’ve got this magical sword that I can pull out of thin air if I get into trouble.”
Instead she only smiled. “Go on.”
“I suppose it might have been more a matter of what it represented—that it was given by a powerful ruler to my family so that we would continue to be a force for good and balanced thought against those who might use their power to prevail in an opposite direction. But its loss led to the eventual downfall of my family. Gradually, over many years, the Yumegakure-ryu began to die out. I am, in fact, the last descendant.”
“Only you? There’s no one else?” Annja asked.
“None. And now I have this incredible feat in front of me. I must find that which was stolen from my family and try to restore the Yumegakure-ryu to its former glory. It’s a daunting task, which is why I came to you seeking help. I believe you can help me locate the vajra .”
“But it could be anywhere,” Annja said.
Ken shook his head. “I think it’s still here in Japan. When it was stolen, Japan was still a very closed society. I doubt the thieves would have tried to escape the country with it.”
“But since that time, Japan has certainly opened up.” Annja shook her head. “It could be anywhere by now.”
Ken shrugged again and took another sip of his beer. “Call it a hunch, but I think it’s here.”
Annja sighed. “All right. I’ll help you.”
Ken hoisted his beer again. “Excellent!”
Annja took a sip of her beer and then put her glass down. “Tell me something. I don’t recall ever hearing the name of the Yumegakure-ryu in any of the various lineages that I do know about. If you were so well-known, shouldn’t there be more written about your lineage?”
Ken shook his head. “We were well-known. Respected even. But history is written only by those who hold power when it is written. And the nature of my lineage was such that historians felt we did not belong in the annals of history. That we were, by nature, not honorable enough to be included.”
“But other samurai lineages—even those that were less good than others—were included,” Annja pointed out.
Ken smiled. “We weren’t samurai, Annja.”
“You weren’t?” Annja frowned. “Then what—?”
“We were ninja.”

3
Annja leaned back in the booth, feeling the cushions on her back. “Ninja? You’re kidding, right?”
Ken’s eyes never blinked. “Not at all.”
“You were hired killers? Assassins? Those crazy dudes who wore black pajamas and disappeared in puffs of smoke?”
Ken simply grinned and took a swallow of his beer. “History has never been kind to ninjitsu . Hollywood has done even less for our reputation. We like to say we’ve suffered from a thousand years of bad press.”
Annja frowned. Getting mixed up with a cult of bloodthirsty murderers didn’t exactly thrill her. “So, you’re denying that ninja were assassins?”
“I’m not denying anything,” Ken said. “I’m merely asking you to reserve judgment until you know more about what ninjitsu truly entails. In this case, I’m asking you to not believe what history books say about my kind. Tough as that may be to discount.”
“I’ve got an open mind,” Annja said, although she didn’t necessarily feel particularly open-minded just then.
Ken eyed her for a moment and then spread his hands in front of her. “ Ninjitsu developed out of a need for specialists who understood unconventional warfare. The samurai code of honor—Bushido—explicitly forbade certain tactics for use in times of unrest. But the various warlords of feudal Japan also understood that these supposedly unorthodox techniques could help ensure their continued prosperity and success. So they would secretly employ ninja to help them achieve their aims.”
“And murder people,” Annja said.
Ken sighed. “Annja, the truth is there were certainly some ninja families who did hire themselves out to the highest bidder with little regard to the universal scheme of totality. In that case, yes, you could say they were thugs.”
Annja could tell she was beginning to annoy Ken. “But not other families?”
“No.” He glanced around for the waitress and caught her eyes. He spoke to her in Japanese.
The waitress bowed, a feat Annja admired considering she was on roller skates. I would fall on my butt if I tried that, she thought. She shook her head and refocused on Ken. “So tell me more.”
“ Ninjitsu is a fascinating system of martial arts. As you know, samurai who lost in battle were supposed to follow their daimyo—their lord—into death by committing seppuku, ritual suicide. Not all of them would do that. Some of them would wander on a self-imposed exile. They would set themselves up in small villages in the mountains of western Japan—Iga and Koga Provinces—and there they set about trying to live peacefully with the flow of nature.”
“They’d become hermits?”
“Well, somewhat. Inevitably, the policies of the neighboring regions would impact their existence. Many of these villages developed into ninja clans as a way of preserving their way of life. They would carefully attempt to influence events such that their own lifestyle and that of their children would remain as unscathed as possible.”
“Interesting.” Annja could certainly understand wanting to protect and provide for future generations.
“Let me ask you this,” Ken said. “If you could pinpoint one person whose death would save the lives of thousands of men, women and children, would you take the step and remove him or her?”
Annja frowned. “I don’t know that I would ever want to make that decision. It seems like playing God to me.” And yet, Annja was fully aware she had been forced to make such a decision many times since coming into possession of Joan of Arc’s mystical sword.
Ken nodded. “I don’t disagree with you. I would find it difficult to do, as well. But those were the types of decisions that ninja jonin —leaders of the clan—had to face if they were to survive.”
“So, they would assassinate someone if it meant saving others?” Annja was suddenly sympathetic.
“Certainly. More often than not, however, they would take elaborate pains to set up networks of intelligence operatives who would keep their ears attuned to news and information. The ultimate goal was to be able to influence events as far ahead of time as possible to avoid war and destruction. This meant ninja had to be highly skilled at infiltrating enemy provinces, setting themselves up as regular people, reporting intelligence and, if the situation warranted it, sabotaging or assassinating key troops.”
Annja leaned back, suddenly aware that the young thugs across the room had gone quiet. “Sounds like they might have been better than samurai to have on your side.”
“A lot of people would foam at the mouth if they heard me say this, but many ninja were, in fact, samurai. There are plenty of crossover techniques and warrior ryu that include elements of ninjitsu and counter ninjitsu . It’s quite fascinating.”
“Well, this has been nothing if not enlightening.” Annja leaned forward. “But I think we’ve attracted the attention of the young guns over there.”
Ken looked up as the waitress brought over two new glasses of beer. “You think so?”
Annja could see the huddled conversation. One of the teppo , as Ken had labeled them, seemed more intent than the others. Annja figured him for the leader judging by the elaborate piercings, tattoos and amount of hair dye. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Ken grinned. “In that case, I’d better drink my beer.”
Annja glanced at her own beer, but her stomach twinged. She’d already fought for three hours tonight. She wasn’t sure she was ready for another bout right at this instant. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”
Ken shrugged. “Fact of the matter is if we leave, they’ll follow us. If they’re determined to cause trouble, it doesn’t matter where we go.”
“But we’ll be outside.”
“Yes, but I’m much more comfortable sitting here drinking my beer.”
Annja shook her head. “You’re an interesting guy, Ken. Anyone ever tell you that before?”
“Just beautiful archaeologists.”
“You’ve known many?”
Ken finished his beer. “You’re the first.”
Annja smiled in spite of the rising tension in the room. She saw the waitress start to approach their table, but Ken glanced at her and barely lifted his index finger from the tabletop. The waitress immediately stopped and retreated.
“Well, before we begin, let me just say that you’ve been a most enjoyable companion for dinner this evening,” Ken said.
Annja frowned. “Begin?”
Ken smiled. “Everything in the universe unfolds itself at the appropriate time. This situation is no different.”
Annja wasn’t sure exactly which situation Ken referred to, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The thugs had finally made a decision and were sliding out of their booths, making their way toward Ken, who still seemed entirely unfazed by the thought of what might happen next.
The young man Annja had picked as the leader swaggered toward their booth. Ken kept his eyes on Annja and his hand on his beer glass.
The thug glanced at Annja and then at Ken. He barked out a quick sentence to Ken, who simply sighed. “My companion doesn’t speak Japanese. Why don’t you be polite and use English? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
The thug frowned and glanced at Annja again before looking back at Ken. “You don’t give me orders,” he said in English.
Annja almost chuckled. Despite the thug’s insistence he was in charge, he had already obeyed Ken without even realizing it.
Ken’s eyebrows waggled once at Annja. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You’re sitting in our booth,” the young man said.
“Really? That’s fascinating. How come you weren’t sitting in it when we walked in? After all, you’ve been here far longer than we have,” Ken replied.
“You’re in our booth.” The thug put both hands on the table and leaned over Ken. Annja could see his shirtsleeves inch up, exposing a twisting snake tattoo that wound its way from the edge of his wrist well up the forearm.
Ken glanced at the snake and then at the thug. “You didn’t use bamboo to get that tattoo, did you?”
“What?”
“Bamboo,” Ken said. “You see, in the old days, truly tough Yakuza would insist that their tattoos be applied using slivers of bamboo dipped in ink. It was an excruciating process, by which the Yakuza would prove themselves as impervious to pain and able to withstand anything in their loyalty to their oyabun .”
The thug sniffed. “Old days. Yeah, right.”
Ken nodded. “That, however, looks like it was done using an electric pen like the kind they use in cheap parlors down by Jimbocho.”
“What if it was?”
Ken shrugged. “Probably nothing at all, but it could mean that you have less tolerance for pain than you like to think. It could also mean that you’re not the tough guy you like to project. And furthermore, it might very well mean you aren’t Yakuza at all, but simply a poser.”
Annja’s eyes widened. If the tension hadn’t been palpable before, it was now at the point where she could have used her sword to cut through it. The thug backed up almost in total shock that Ken would say something like that to him in front of his group of followers. The loss of face was immense.
If we had a chance at walking out of here before, thought Annja, it’s gone now.
The thug recoiled just enough to draw his right arm back, reach into his pocket and draw a slim stiletto. He stabbed it straight at Ken’s heart.
Ken simply leaned back and let the knife go past him. Then he grabbed the thug’s wrist with his right hand and tugged him forward. It happened so quickly the thug stumbled and lost his balance. As his face came toward the tabletop, Ken lifted his left hand and slammed the beer glass into the thug’s face.
Glass shattered. Ken had slammed the glass bottom into the thug’s nose. Annja heard the cartilage break. Blood flowed, staining the air with the smell of copper.
Ken let the young tough slump to the floor, but as he did so, he tweaked the stiletto out of his hand.
There was a moment of stunned silence as the gang looked from Ken to the floor where their leader lay. Then one of them gave a mighty cry, and all hell broke loose.
Annja blinked and almost missed Ken kick at the next-closest target, catching the young gun in the crotch. Ken used the kick to cover his slide out of the booth. Annja wanted to help him, but was unsure about what she was getting herself into. The last thing she needed was to land on the wanted list of every Yakuza member in Tokyo.
Ken seemed to have no compunction about doing so, however. Annja watched as he deftly evaded every strike and kick aimed at him by the gang members. One moment they would seem locked on to him, and the next, their strikes would pass through empty air. Ken would have somehow managed to get behind them or to their side and simply apply a few key strikes to take them down.
Annja watched one of them sneak up from behind and try to stab Ken in the back. She was about to shout a warning but as the stab came in, Ken sidestepped and the blade passed through air where Ken’s kidneys had been a second before. Ken moved back and effected some sort of strange arm lock Annja had never seen before. In an instant, the thug was airborne, crashing into a group of other thugs, sending them sprawling across several booths and tables.
Ken had also somehow managed to contain the mayhem to their corner of the restaurant. Annja was aware that the rest of the crowd sat riveted by the action. In America, Annja theorized that the other eaters would have tried to get the hell out of there. Or at least recorded the entire fight on their cell phone cameras.
But in Japan, things were different.
Ken surveyed the scene. A quiet hush broken only by the low moans of the thugs he’d trashed fell over the restaurant. Ken stepped over to the thug leader he’d dispatched first and rolled back his sleeve some more. The supposedly elaborate snake tattoo ended halfway up the forearm.
Ken sniffed. “Just as I thought.”
He stood and looked at Annja. “Well, now I suppose we should leave. While I’m not at fault for this, I do so hate police interaction. Japanese cops tend to be nothing if not ensconced in paperwork and bureaucracy. I have little time to waste on either.”
Annja shook her head, trying to clear the images that had played out before her. “Are they dead?”
Ken chuckled. “Nope. But I imagine they’ll be sore for a good few weeks.”
The waitress skated up and presented Ken with a bill. He glanced at it and then frowned. “Fifty thousand yen for a table?” He sighed, but took out his wallet and removed a sheaf of paper notes. “Only here would the management take the time to calculate the cost of repairing all of this while the fight was going on so they could have the bill ready when it was done. Crazy.”
He handed the waitress the pile of money and then nodded toward the door. “I think I’m more concerned about another itemized bill than these clowns. We’d better get going before the owner decides to charge me double for the glasses.”
Annja took a breath and followed Ken outside. The cool air felt good on her skin. For some reason, she’d felt amazingly energized by watching the fight transpire. She’d wanted to join in but had held herself back out of fear of jeopardizing Ken. Somehow that sentiment seemed crazy now. Ken had handled himself unlike any fighter Annja had ever known.
“You’re awfully quiet, Annja. I hope that didn’t upset you too much. You seem somewhat accustomed to violence, though, so I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
Annja stopped short of Ken’s Mercedes. “Just who the hell are you exactly?”
Ken grinned. “Hop in and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. And probably plenty that you don’t.”

4
The interior of the Mercedes sat in darkness except for the lime-green luminescence of the dashboard lights. They cast a strange pallor over Annja’s skin. Ken glanced at her, trying his best to determine if he’d already scared her off or not.
“That was some fight,” she said finally.
Ken smiled. “I suppose so.”
She looked at him, her eyes full of suspicion. “I’ve been in a lot of bad situations. Had people shoot at me. Been almost run over a number of times. Mountain climbing near misses.”
“Perhaps I should be careful around you,” Ken said, grinning. “If you’re in the business of attracting danger, I mean.”
Annja seemed to ignore him. “I’ve never seen anyone handle themselves like you just did.”
“I’m nothing special,” Ken said.
He could feel Annja’s eyes on him, gauging and trying to determine if he was being falsely modest. The intense scrutiny lasted the better part of a minute. Ken felt himself shift under her gaze. She was certainly more intense than she had seemed on the television show he’d seen.
He finally took a second to look her deep in the eyes. “I’m not joking. My skills are nowhere near what they could be. I’ve been somewhat lazy in recent months.”
Annja shook her head. “They certainly seemed more than adequate to get you out of trouble back at the restaurant.”
He slid the Mercedes out in traffic. “Maybe. But I’d be a fool to grow complacent and believe they’d get me out of every situation.”
“Why is that?”
Ken shrugged. “I tend to think that’s what separates a true warrior from a wanna-be. A warrior will never stop learning. They’ll quest ever on in search of perfection of technique even while knowing that perfection can never be attained.”
“So it’s the pursuit of perfection that defines rather than the goal?”
“Exactly.” Ken braked at a traffic light. The night sky glowed with a thousand points of neon braced against the Tokyo superscrapers. Flashes of light, music and the sounds of traffic and people filled his ears.
“You’re a ninja,” Annja said quietly.
Ken shrugged. “I’d prefer to say I study ninjitsu . Ninja, you know it’s got that certain stigma attached to it.”
Annja shifted in her seat, adjusting the seat belt as she did so. “I’ve got a question. You told me that the Yumegakure-ryu was almost extinct.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, if you’re the last one left, how did you learn what you know—what I’m assuming is ninjitsu ?”
“It’s a fair question,” Ken said. “The truth is, there are other ninjitsu ryuha still in existence. Very few. But there are some. And the man I study with is the grandmaster of three of the only remaining systems to date.”
“He’s here in Tokyo?”
“No. Outside of Tokyo, actually. There’s a small industrial town to the northwest called Chiba-ken. He teaches there.”
Ken could feel Annja’s excitement rise a notch. It felt as if the car had filled with electricity. Annja looked at him, her eyes widening. Ken felt himself drawn into them, as if he could get lost in the secrets they contained. He shook himself slightly, trying to keep himself composed.
Annja touched him on the arm. “I’d like to meet this man.”
Ken had known she would. He had studied enough about Annja to know that she would never turn down the chance to learn something new or at least explore something that supposedly didn’t exist anymore.
“He teaches tomorrow night.” He smiled. “If you like, we can go to his class then.”
Annja leaned back in her seat and nodded. “So, I’ll meet the last grandmaster of ninjitsu . Cool.”
Ken chuckled. “Well, others claim they are, in fact, also grandmasters, but it’s mostly false.”
“How so?” Annja asked.
“The man you’ll meet tomorrow night is the only one recognized by the Japanese government as being legitimate. He’s been labeled a national living treasure, as well, since he helps maintain a piece of Japan’s past and its traditions—even one as controversial as ninjitsu .”
Annja grinned. “I’ve recovered a lot of treasures before. I don’t think I’ve ever met a living treasure, though.”
“He’ll like you.”
“How do you know?”
Ken looked at her. “Because you’re beautiful. And he happens to love beautiful women.”
Annja frowned. “Give me a break.”
The light finally changed and Ken pressed the accelerator. “I didn’t mean to upset you with that comment.”
Annja shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just I get tired of hearing that people either like or dislike based entirely on whether a person is attractive or not.”
“I meant it only as a compliment.”
“I know.” Annja ran a hand through her hair. “Sometimes I think I hear it too often.”
“Most people, they wouldn’t mind hearing that said about them,” Ken said.
Annja shook her head. “I don’t hear it said about me often. Mostly I hear it said about other women.”
Ken smiled. “That other anchor on Chasing History’s
Monsters . What was her name? The one with the sexy wardrobe malfunction.”
“Kristie Chatham.” Annja sighed. “She and I have differing views on how best to present a story to our audience.”
Ken made a left turn, checking his rearview mirror. He didn’t see anything there that concerned him. “In her defense, there’s nothing wrong with being beautiful.”
“But when it obscures the topic at hand, when the audience downloads a video to see a top pop off rather than the story, then that’s a problem. At least it is in my book. I think I’m in the minority of opinion, though,” Annja said.
Ken laughed. “Probably so. But I find your journalistic integrity refreshing.”
“Yeah?”
Ken nodded. “Yes. I can assure you there will be no time for the wearing of bikini tops on this trip to find the artifact. I think, therefore, you are reasonably safe.”
“Great.”
Ken wheeled the Mercedes down another side street. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” Annja glanced out the window. Ken could see she had no idea where they were. He knew trying to gauge location at night in a foreign city was a daunting task.
“Your hotel, of course.”
Annja frowned again. “You know where I’m staying?”
“Of course.”
She turned and Ken could see her hands bunched up, almost as if she thought he might attack her. He held up his hands for a brief moment, risking taking them off the steering wheel for effect.
“I’m not stalking you, Annja. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I might be.” She kept her hands bunched up.
“You’re cautious. I can certainly appreciate that. I try to be that way myself. Especially when I travel.”
“So you understand why I’m about two seconds away from getting out of this car and never seeing you again.”
Ken pulled over to the side of the road and unlocked the doors. “You’re more than welcome to leave. Although honestly, I hope you don’t.”
She looked at the door and then back at Ken. “Why do you know where I’m staying?”
“Because I’m careful about who I approach and entrust with confidential information.” He looked in the rearview mirror again. “I like making sure people are who they claim to be.”
“I don’t claim to be anyone but an archaeologist. That’s it.” Annja pursed her lips. “If you’ve heard otherwise, you were misled.”
Ken braced his hands on the steering wheel and stretched his back, relieving some of the tension he felt creeping into his muscles. “It’s a force of habit. I’ve been dealing with people throughout my entire life who were often not operating in my best interests. Ulterior motives are a nasty business.”
“Agreed,” Annja said. She seemed to relax slightly.
Ken tilted his head. “But you are without guile. I can talk to you about the nature of my family’s troubles. I can ask for your help and guidance and I feel quite comfortable doing so.”
Annja waggled her eyebrows. “You never know, Ken. I might just be a plant.”
Ken shook his head. “And there you have the reason I know where you are staying.”
Annja sniffed. “You’ve had me staked out since I landed?”
Ken took a breath. “If we’re being honest about things…it has actually been a bit longer than that.”
Annja frowned again. “Just how long have you been around?”
“Would you believe three months?” Ken hoped his smile was disarming enough to distract her from the length of time.
Annja’s eyes went wide. “Three months? You’ve been following me all over the world for the past twelve weeks?”
Ken smirked. “And you thought you were exhausted. I could do with a healthy spell of sleep myself.”
Annja crossed her arms. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. How could this Japanese dude actually follow me around the world without me noticing him? After all, I’m pretty aware. I can sense things to some extent.”
Annja whipped her head around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Had he just touched a nerve? Ken filed it away for the moment. “Only that you are, for the most part, an extremely aware woman. But even those who think they are aware usually have gaps in their defenses. Those gaps can be exploited. In this case, it enabled me to remain invisible despite your attentiveness.”
“How?”
Ken shrugged. “Let’s take your recent trip to Marrakech.”
“You were there, too?” Annja shook her head. “I don’t believe this.”
“You stopped at a stall in the market to buy a mango. Do you remember?”
He watched her eyes track to the lower left. He could see her recalling the moment in her head. Vaguely, she nodded.
“It was pretty hot that day. The sun blazed overhead like a blast furnace. I thought I might melt under my robes. But luckily, you didn’t stay that long and I was able to shed my garb and move inside to cooler environs.”
“But where were you?”
“Across the way. You bought the mango and some dates, if I recall. I was at the stall with the cheap necklaces.”
He saw recognition flash across her face. “That was you?”
“With makeup, but yes.”
“Those necklaces were awful knockoffs.”
“That was deliberate. I knew you would never waste any time looking at them. You’d be able to pick them out as bad forgeries from a mile away and therefore not waste any time on my stall. I could easily watch you without fear of you becoming suspicious about me. To you, I was simply another would-be con man trying to hawk some ridiculous goods to the naive.”
“And that, I suppose, was the gap in my defenses?” He saw her smile in spite of herself.
Ken nodded. “You see? I was in plain sight, but so apparently not a threat or of interest to you that you simply didn’t even catalog me except way, way back in the furthest reaches of your consciousness. True invisibility exists, but not the way that most people believe it would. By being obviously ridiculous without making a spectacle of myself, I faded from your mind.”
Annja nodded and Ken felt that she just might have some appreciation for the techniques he’d learned so many years ago.
“It’s actually pretty impressive,” she said.
Ken smiled. “If I had meant you any harm, Annja, please believe me when I tell you I could have easily done something to you much earlier than this. There’s absolutely no reason for me to make myself an obvious threat to you now. I’d be almost leveling the playing field by doing so.”
Annja’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Almost leveling?”
Ken smiled again. “You’re good. Don’t get me wrong.”
“But you’re better. Is that it?”
Ken held up his hands. “I will plead the fifth, as you Americans say.”
Annja smiled. “Yeah. Well, we’ll see. Why don’t you take me back to my hotel? I could use a good sleep.”
Ken pulled the car away from the curb, relieved to have seemingly defused any suspicion that Annja might feel toward him. In her place, Ken would have felt exactly the same way. He might have even reacted more aggressively, taking out the potential threat rather than allowing it to continue to exist even for another few hours.
But Annja Creed was not like him. And that was why Ken felt sure she would make the perfect aide in his quest to find the sacred Yumegakure-ryu vajra . Her knowledge and ability would keep them in good stead.
And Ken also appreciated how utterly beautiful she was. What he liked the most was how unaffected she was by her natural beauty. Briefly, he wondered if she might think him handsome. Just as quickly, he pushed the thought out of his mind. He needed to stay focused if he had any hope of recovering the artifact before the others did.
“Are you going to tell me why the Yakuza is so interested in you?” Annja said.
The question jolted him. Ken struggled to come up with a response and instead chuckled. “So much for a segue.”
Annja stared at him. Something had changed. Ken could see it in her eyes. There was a hard edge there, way back, but present nonetheless. “What happened at the restaurant, it was more than a chance encounter. Those thugs were waiting for you,” she said.
“Are you asking or saying?”
“I’m saying. It’s a fact,” Annja said.
“Maybe.”
“Were they waiting for me, too?”
“No.” Ken shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
They pulled up to the hotel and Ken put the car into Park. Annja sat facing him.
“Ken, you seem like a nice enough guy. But I need to know what I’m getting mixed up in here. I don’t like the thought of tangling with the Yakuza or even wanna-be Yakuza. If they’re interested in you and I’m around, that will make me a target of opportunity, as well.”
“You don’t strike me as being averse to danger. Some of your past adventures certainly contained far more danger than what I propose we undertake.”
She shrugged. “I’m not necessarily averse to much. But I’d be a fool if I took all of this at face value.” She placed one hand on the door handle. “You may not want to talk about it right now. That’s fine. It’s late and we’re both tired.”
“Thanks—”
She looked at him. “But we will talk about this. If you want my help finding this vajra , then you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on here. Otherwise, I will vanish and not even you will be able to find me again.”
She opened the door and strode off to the hotel entrance. Ken sat still in the car and then after another minute smiled slowly.
Annja Creed, he thought, you might just be my dream woman.

5
Annja hunched over her laptop and started composing a post for alt.archaeology.esoterica—the newsgroup she favored so much for its candid information on many of the more obscure topics relating to history and relics. She hesitated, trying best to make sure she didn’t come across sounding like a lunatic. After a moment, she sighed and typed:

Does anyone know anything about the Japanese martial art of Ninjitsu?
I’ve met someone claiming to be involved with this art and I’d like to know if they might be legit. Thanks!

She leaned back and crossed her arms. It could take hours before anyone would respond, giving Annja plenty of time to think over the night’s events.
She decided on a long, hot soak in the deep tub that sat in the corner of her small bathroom. Everything in Tokyo seemed as if someone had pressed the reduce button on a copy machine, but the tub looked large enough for her.
Annja padded into the bathroom and turned the spigot. A rush of hot water blossomed and streamed into the tub. In seconds, steam filled the air and Annja realized she was suddenly overdressed.
Outside in her room, she stripped down. With her pants and turtleneck off, she ran her eyes over her skin, doing a basic damage inspection from the tournament. Nezuma’s kicks had left some nasty welts. She could see purplish bruising above her ribs and on the backs of her legs. His punches had also left souvenirs. She frowned. Someday, she’d get him back. And the idea of him flat on his back while she stood over him as a proud victor definitely appealed to her.
She walked into the bathroom and stepped into the piping-hot tub. She knew the Japanese favored hot baths for their health benefits and the relaxation they provided. Annja gritted her teeth, wanting to enjoy the hot water but also aware that it felt as if she were burning the skin off her bones.
She withdrew her leg, emptied out some of the contents and then added cold water. After another minute, she tried getting in the tub again and this time found that she could stand the heat.
As she sank into the bath and let the water come up to her jaw, Annja closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, allowing the stress of the day to melt away. She was tired and the steamy heat made her feel even more so. As she replayed the day’s events, she found herself focusing on Ken and his strange past.
Certainly she hadn’t come to Tokyo to get involved in the hunt for some relic. Japan was supposed to be for herself only—away time from the stress and pace of her vigorous lifestyle. Not that fighting in a martial-arts tournament was the kind of prescription most vacation-bound folks would equate with rest and relaxation. But for Annja, it enabled her to play to some extent, without it being a matter of life and death. And since so much of her life lately had revolved around serious fighting, Annja also felt that any time spent practicing was time spent well.
“He is handsome, though.”
Annja’s eyes popped open. Had she just said that out loud? A smile flickered across her face. Apparently the hot water was doing its job by relaxing her to the point she felt comfortable speaking out loud. Annja sank deeper into the water and grinned just beneath the surface.
She tilted her head back and rested it on the edge of the tub, her eyes still closed as the heat enveloped her. The way Ken had moved in the restaurant earlier played across the screen of her mind. Annja slowed the reel down and tried to study how he had managed to thwart the gang without even appearing to break a sweat.
Marvelous, she concluded.
If Annja had even a small percentage of the same skill, Nezuma would be the one nursing not just bruises, but his wounded ego, as well.
If ninjitsu truly did exist still and Annja had a chance to see a class being taught, there was no way she’d turn down that opportunity. She didn’t feel any particular obligation to one form of martial arts over another. She was far too pragmatic to get lost in the politics of that silly debate. Annja needed what worked; it was as simple as that. And if adding some ninjitsu to her arsenal helped her stay alive, well, bring it on.
A cool breeze suddenly blew over the room, scattering the blanket of steam that had hung about the tub like mist over a swamp.
Annja’s eyes opened again.
Her stomach tensed.
Someone was in her room.
She could feel the air currents being disturbed. But she heard nothing. Whoever was inside the room, knew how to move in absolute silence. But movement—any movement—disturbed the air ever so slightly.
Annja wondered, could she move just as quietly and get out of the tub without them knowing?
She frowned. Not a chance.
The invaders must have known she was there. And depending on how long they’d been in the room, they might have even heard her say that line about Ken. It couldn’t be Ken, could it? That was enough, she decided.
It was time to get out of the tub.
Instead of doing it as quietly as she could, Annja engaged a different strategy. She started to whistle.
“That felt good,” she said as she stood and stepped out of the tub.
The door to the bathroom was closed almost all the way, except for a gap of about five inches. Annja braced herself behind the door in case they rushed the bathroom. But she didn’t think they would. If they’d meant her harm, they would have already come into the bathroom when she was far too vulnerable.
She felt for the towel hanging on the hook and then mopped at her hair and shoulders.
Still whistling, she tried to figure how best to wrap the towel so she could fight if necessary.
The hell with it, she thought, frowning. If someone wants to throw down right now, being naked might just help my cause and give me a split second to get the upper hand.
So much for modesty. She almost grinned. Too bad the cameras weren’t rolling now. This would earn her top ratings for Chasing History’s Monsters in a way that bimbo Kristie Chatham never could.
Annja took a deep breath and flushed her system with oxygen. Adrenaline flooded her body as it readied itself for a fight. She flexed her fists and steeled her will.
And then stepped out of the bathroom.
Her room was empty.
Annja noticed that her stomach was more relaxed now.
Were they gone?
She shivered in the cooler air of the room. She felt certain someone had been here. And she’d been getting reacquainted with her long-lost primal instincts enough to place some trust in them when they warned her of danger. Somewhat. Annja was the first to admit that she still had a lot of trouble having one hundred percent faith in her instincts. Especially when her logical mind seemed ready to always mount a good argument for why she shouldn’t.
Someone had been in the room.
But now they were gone.
Annja knelt and checked under the bed and at the base of the simple curtain framing her window. She carefully checked the closet, as well. Otherwise, there was no place to hide in the Spartan room.
She frowned again. A cursory glance around told her that they hadn’t taken anything. Her laptop still sat open on the desktop, although the screensaver was bouncing around from a lack of activity. Annja’s bags sat unopened next to her bed. And her cell phone and purse remained near the door.
Weird.
She padded back to the bathroom and toweled herself dry before pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then she walked around her room again before ending up at the window.
Annja’s room was on the fifteenth floor of the hotel. From her window she could see the Tokyo skyline outlined in the dazzling colors of the neon spectrum. The city shone so brightly that Annja could pick out very few stars in the sky.
Her window wasn’t locked.
I know I checked that lock earlier, she thought to herself. Being a native New Yorker, Annja was nothing if not security conscious. All doors and windows were always locked behind her whenever she was home. And that habit stayed with her no matter where she traveled.
But now, her window was unlocked.
She slid it back on the rails and found it could open wide enough to enable someone to get through it.
But who would be able to get through fifteen stories up from the ground?
Annja grinned and shook her head. She was being silly, imagining that someone would consider her such a prize that they would risk life and limb scaling the side of a high-rise just to get into her room.
Still…
She slid the window closed and locked it. The double latch clicked shut, and Annja let the curtain fall back into place. She wished she had a fingerprint kit so she could dust the sill.
Annja sat at the desktop and brought her laptop out of its sleep mode. Once she clicked Refresh, she clicked the mouse and waited for the newsgroup page to reload.
“Wow.” She already had one response to her query on the newsgroup.
Annja checked the name—Earl Sunday. He listed himself as a professor of Asian history at some college Annja had never heard of—probably some online institute that charged people a couple hundred bucks for a credit or two. Of course, that was no surprise. These days, anyone with some bucks could open a school and charge people money for a degree. And sometimes, they didn’t even bother with the school part.
Annja looked at the post.

There is no such thing as modern-day ninjitsu. Ninja were used in Japan’s past, but there is no evidence or verifiable records to suggest that so-called modern exponents of the art actually engage in authentic ninjitsu training. This, despite what many claim, is the truth. Furthermore, anyone claiming to be involved with ninjitsu should have their head examined. Ninja were nothing but cutthroat assassins who were only concerned about money. They had no honor and their historical significance is virtually nil. Japan would be far better off if there had never been such characters in her past.

Annja leaned back from her keyboard and shook her head. She guessed that being called wishy-washy wasn’t a problem for Sunday. She also decided that he must be an extraordinarily inflexible person to post something so utterly rigid and devoid of anything useful to her.
“I’ll bet he enjoys listening to himself talk.” She frowned. “Jerk.”
Annja hit the reply button and as the page refreshed, she saw four other people had posted responses.
Sammy23 in Baltimore posted this:

Ninjitsu does exist and if Sunday wasn’t such a complete bonehead impressed more with the words he writes than actual fact, he might do better research before displaying his idiocy to the world. The art still exists and is taught in Japan and in many countries around the world by students who have returned from training with the grandmaster. Ninjitsu is a complex system of martial arts, broadly encompassing every facet of personal protection and survival. If you have the opportunity to study it with someone who knows what they’re doing, I suggest you do so. Good luck!

Annja guessed Sunday had himself a bit of a reputation with ninjitsu enthusiasts judging by the similar tone of the other responses. In fact, by the time Annja was composing her thank-you note to those who had posted, ten more people had wandered over to blast Sunday. More so, they’d even reposted Annja’s query on a martial-arts newsgroup, opening the floodgates on Sunday. Most people called him an academic who never bothered to go to the source and find out what ninjitsu was truly about. Someone even went so far as to call him an utter coward who would never have the courage to take a class with the grandmaster and find out for himself why ninjitsu was such a great system.
Annja typed her thank-you note and posted it. Then she shut the computer down and climbed into her bed. The pillows cradled her head and she sighed, trying to relax herself enough to fade off to sleep. Her eyes, however, simply would not stay closed.
Someone had been in her room. She just knew it.
And even though she no longer felt that she was in danger, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her personal space had been invaded. It wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed, by any means.
She glanced at the light sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. She should turn it off and go to sleep. But at the same time, she wasn’t sure she wanted the room to be dark.
Annja closed her eyes and thought about the sword—her sword—and instantly it came to mind. She reached out for it and wrapped her hands around the hilt but didn’t draw it out.
It was there if she needed it.
But why hadn’t she thought about using it when she was in the tub? Why hadn’t she immediately pictured the sword, and then come running out of the bathroom ready to slice and dice whoever stood before her?
It didn’t make sense.
Unless she hadn’t been in danger after all.
More questions that Annja didn’t feel much like pondering. At least right then.
She turned out the light and settled back closing her eyes. Sleep was just what she needed.
The ringing phone sat her bolt upright as if someone had fired a gun in the room.
She clawed for the receiver and bounced it off its cradle.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Annja. I take it you’re not asleep just yet?”
The last person she’d expected to get a phone call from in the middle of the night was speaking to her from God knew where. Knowing him, he could be in Antarctica or at a Star-bucks coffee shop. Annja sighed.
“Hello, Garin,” she said.

6
“It does sound as though I woke you. My apologies,” Garin said.
Annja stretched out in the bed. Her toes touched the footboard. Still, she enjoyed the lengthening of her body. She exhaled in a rush and let herself go slack.
“It’s late. I was headed off to dreamland when you called. What can I do for you? How did you—?”
“Please, Annja, let’s not waste time on such trivialities. Technology being what it is today, and money always the most powerful enabler, it was no obstacle to uncover your whereabouts on your supposed vacation.”
“So much for anonymity.” Annja frowned. She was going to splurge and invest in a fake passport and credit cards one of these days.
“You feeling better after your competition?” Garin asked.
Annja sat up. “You know about that, too?”
“Certainly. Nice side kick, by the way.”
Annja glanced around her room. “You’re starting to annoy me now, Garin. I don’t like the thought of people poking into my personal affairs. In fact, if it keeps up, I’m liable to be pretty damned cranky the next time we meet. I don’t need to tell you what that would entail.”
“I can guess.” Garin chuckled on the phone. “Which brings me precisely to that very point. We need to meet.”
“Why? Last I heard you were on an extended journey to reclaim some degree of secrecy so Roux doesn’t track you down and kill you for trying to kill him while he was trying to kill you for…whatever. I don’t even know how you two keep score of that silliness.”
“Yes, well, certain matters preclude me from worrying about my personal safety at this point.” He paused. “It’s important that I see you.”
Annja shook her head. The darkness of the room embraced her. She felt a little cold and pulled the covers up higher. “I’m not leaving Japan yet. Possibly not for a while yet, in fact.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I’m involved in something here. Something that interests me a great deal. Not that such things are any of your business.”
“Something? Or is it someone , Annja?”
“Mind your own business, Garin. I won’t tell you again.”
“As I recall, you owe me your life. That’s not exactly the kind of grateful attitude I’d expect from someone like yourself.”
“This conversation is boring me. I’m in Japan. You want to meet up, come and find me. Otherwise don’t bother. I’m busy.”
Annja hung up the phone and then unplugged it from the jack in the wall. That would at least guarantee that she’d be able to sleep through the night without Garin ruining her rest.
Unless he called her cell phone, too.
Annja groaned and clambered out of bed, padded to the small stand by the door and shut off her cell phone. Now she was cut off. Completely.
Unless Garin happened to knock on her door.
Annja stopped. Was it possible that Garin was the one who’d been in her room earlier? Had he sneaked in when she was bathing? But she knew Garin was enough of a jerk that he would pick the perfect time to do whatever he wanted to do and still grab an eyeful of Annja soaking naked in the tub.
“Bastard.”
She climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers. In moments, she was fast asleep. And not once did she dream about Garin.

T HE FIRST THING SHE SAW in the morning was the folded slip of paper someone had slid under her door during the night. How had she not heard that?
She sighed and got out of bed. Perhaps her run-in with Nezuma yesterday had dampened her senses as much as it had her body.
Unfolding the slip of paper, she read:

“Come down for breakfast in the lobby. G.”

“So much for being halfway across the world from him,” Annja said. “Figures.”
Twenty minutes later she’d showered and applied the minimal makeup she normally wore. Dressed in jeans and a white blouse, she chose a pair of black flats rather than heels. Somehow, time spent with Garin always contained the potential for gunfire, car chases, explosions, bodies and lots of running.
Annja rode the elevator down to the lobby and when the doors parted, she could look right across into the restaurant. Garin was immediately noticeable. And not just because he stood a foot above anyone else in the area. Garin was damned good-looking. As she entered the eatery, he looked up and smiled.
He stood as she approached and kissed her on the cheek. “How is my favorite historical descendant?”
“Is that what you’re calling me now?” Annja sat and ordered a cup of black coffee. “I would have thought you had other names for me.”
Garin shrugged. “There are some, but I wouldn’t use them in mixed company. You know, I’m nothing but a complete gentleman.”
“How nice.” Annja sat back and crossed her arms. “You look good for dodging Roux’s repeated attempts on your life.”
Garin waved his hands. “That gets rather mundane after all the time I’ve been alive. We’ve been after each other for so long it almost gets routine. Then we have our cease-fires and our détentes, and then something happens and we go at it again. Blah, blah, blah. Silliness.”
“Yeah, those bullets are really overrated.”
Garin leaned forward. “And not at all the reason I wanted to see you, my dear.”
The waitress brought coffee and Annja ordered two eggs, toast, orange juice and melon slices. Garin ordered an aged Scotch whisky.
Annja grinned. “That’s some breakfast you’re getting.”
He shrugged. “I’m on another time zone. And where I’m at, it’s perfectly acceptable to have a drink to take the edge off.”
“You just got in, then,” Annja said.
“Something like that.” He spread his arms. “Besides, I’m in phenomenal shape. For five hundred years old? You wish you’d look this good when it happens to you.”
“I have no desire to live that long.”
Garin frowned. “I said the same thing. Funny how fate just flips you the bird any time she feels like it.”
“Such talk. Where were you before this?” Annja asked.
“I’m a man of many places and locales. I don’t distinguish between them if I can help it.”
Annja took a sip of her coffee. “I love the fact that my conversations with you usually entail a great deal of frustration on my part because you don’t ever give me anything concrete to go on. You answer questions with questions and never confirm or deny anything. You’re like a politician without an office.”
Garin bowed his head. “Thank you for the compliment.”
Annja laughed.
“The man you met last night.” Garin smiled at her. “What is his name—Kennichi?”
Here we go, Annja thought. No middle ground, just right into it. “What about him?”
“Do you know who he is?”
“No, I liked the idea that he was a complete stranger. It made the unsafe sex all the better.” She shook her head. “He told me his story.”
“And you believe him.”
Annja sighed. “I haven’t really known him long enough to say one way or the other, Garin. We met, had dinner, he beat the crap out of some gangsters and that was it.”
“Let’s not forget what he asked you to help him do.”
Annja narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”
Garin laughed. “You’re not going to sit there and lie to me. Really now, after all we’ve been through, you’re not going to feign ignorance to that question, are you?”
“My ignorance, as you put it, is genuine,” Annja said, immediately regretting the poor choice of words.
Garin sniffed as if he’d caught wind of a skunk. “Your ability to lie convincingly needs much improvement, Annja. But if that’s how you want to play this, fine. I’ll do the talking and you can sit there and listen.”
“That would be a refreshing change,” she replied sarcastically. Annja leaned back and crossed her arms, waiting for Garin to begin.
His whisky arrived and he took it with a word of thanks in Japanese to the waitress who stared at him in awe. Garin waved her away as if she were a pesky fly, but Annja could already see that the waitress was enthralled. If the big man knew it, he showed no signs of being interested.
Garin sipped from the glass and seemed to savor it for just a moment before swallowing, and then looked right at Annja. “Ninja are very very dangerous people, my dear.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it. Yes, there are still families in existence. Anyone telling you different is a moron. But along with the overt families who teach the system to anyone who shows an interest, there are also more covert families who still engage in many shady things.”
“Like what?”
“Remnants from the ultranationalistic groups like the Black Dragon Society that dominated the political scene in the latter part of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Their subtle and terrifying manipulation of government affairs earned them lethal reputations that were well-deserved.”
Annja cocked an eyebrow. “And they employed ninja?”
“Absolutely. Not the do-gooders that you read about today, but mercenaries who hired themselves out to the highest bidder. In this case, some of the ninja families had goals in line with their employers. The result was a marriage of sorts that cemented relationships and expanded empires. Much of what occurred in the last twenty years in Japan is due to the groundwork laid by these families immediately after World War II.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Annja asked.
Garin took another sip of his whisky. “You may be inadvertently helping the wrong side regain that artifact. If you’re not completely certain of this man’s identity, then by helping him, you could be undermining the rightful owner.”
Annja looked up as her food arrived. She bit into the eggs and drank down some of the juice. “So, you’re saying Ken may not be who he says he is.”
“So, it’s ‘Ken’ now, is it?”
Annja smiled. “Jealous?”
Garin ignored her. “I’m suggesting you make sure he is the rightful heir before you engage your rather impressive abilities toward helping him, possibly doing more harm than good.”
Annja leaned back again. “What does this have to do with you, anyway? I mean, why are you even concerned about this? Aren’t you the guy who likes to let chaos unfold wherever it may be?”
Garin set his glass down and leveled a hard stare at Annja. “Don’t ever simplify my personal philosophies like that, Annja. They aren’t nearly as neatly labeled as you’d make them out to be.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Garin finished his Scotch and the waitress immediately appeared with a fresh one. If she’d hoped to impress Garin, she was disappointed. Garin took notice of the fresh drink as if he had expected it all along.
He’s so pompous, Annja thought around a mouthful of egg and toast. Still, she had to admit that what he suggested at least made some degree of sense.
“Why would anyone care about the relic anyway? It’s just an antique.”
Garin frowned. “With supposed magical abilities.”
“ Supposed being the key word,” Annja said.
Garin smiled. “You don’t believe it.”
“I don’t know what to believe. I mean, magic? Come on.” Annja shrugged. “I just don’t know if I can buy into that.”
Garin shook his head. “Annja, there are times when that mind of yours truly does amaze me. Equally so, and regrettable even, are the times when your obstinacy nearly numbs me cold.”
Annja set her fork down. “If you’re going to insult me, I’ll ask you to sit elsewhere.”
“It’s my table.” Garin grinned.
Annja stood. “Fine, then I’ll move.”
Garin sighed. “Sit down, Annja.” He paused. “Please.”
Annja sat and resumed eating. If nothing else, she’d take pleasure in stiffing Garin for the bill. Not that he’d even blink. He had more money than he knew what to do with.
“I know the subject of magic is a touchy one. But honestly, the sword—”
“Is not connected to this at all and I’d appreciate you leaving it out of the conversation,” Annja snapped and then stared at Garin. “Please.”
“Very well. But you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.” Garin took a deep breath. “It’s a part of who you are now.”
“I don’t pretend anything. But neither do I believe everything people say. You and Ken think this thing is magic. Fine. That’s got no bearing on the fact that it’s missing. I also don’t expect it will matter when I locate it. Magic or not, the thing is lost and needs to be found.”
“It does need to be found.” Garin nodded. “As long as it’s found by the right people.”
“So you said.”
Garin finished his second drink. The waitress reappeared. Now Garin looked her over. He spoke a few words to her and she blushed immediately.
Good lord, Annja thought. Tell me I’m not witnessing a seduction here.
Garin stood. “Be careful, Annja. That’s all I’m saying.” He strode out of the restaurant toward the elevator bank. The waitress dutifully followed behind him.
Annja gulped down the rest of her orange juice and then looked down at the table at the tiny slip of paper that had somehow materialized when she wasn’t looking.
Garin hadn’t paid the bill.

7
Annja spent the rest of the day exploring the small shops that surrounded the hotel. While the majority of Tokyo seemed encased in steel and glass, Annja was glad to see that there were still some small stores that carried all sorts of gifts ranging from handmade wooden combs to antique books and scrolls and everything in between. The toughest part of the day was trying to make use of the little bit of the language she knew to make herself understood. As it was, she still came away from her excursion laden with several bags full of unusual souvenirs.
As she jostled the bags and tried to maneuver the crowded streets, Annja couldn’t help feeling that someone was watching her. Twice, she felt the feeling strongly enough to actually turn around and search the crowd for a familiar face. But doing so proved futile. The sea of faces that greeted her held no one she recognized.
“It’s probably Garin,” she told herself. Once he’d finished with the waitress, he’d probably decided it might be amusing to stalk Annja for a while.
Annja frowned and continued her journey.
She grabbed a quick lunch at a noodle stand located by the train station. She’d heard that these small four-seat eateries could serve some of the best buckwheat-noodle soups in Japan and she wasn’t disappointed. Fortunately, she had no trouble explaining what she wanted because the proprietor had taken the time to have an illustrated menu printed up. Annja merely pointed at the appropriate pictures and said thank-you when she was done. The piping-hot soup was served with a cold Asahi beer, which complimented the dish wonderfully.
When she arrived back at the hotel, the ever polite desk clerk bowed and then informed her that she had a message. Annja expected a piece of paper but was instead directed to a small phone in the lobby and told to press several buttons. Ken’s voice purred in her ear.
“Please be in the lobby at six o’clock. Bring your training clothes.”
Annja saw the large clock on the wall behind the reception desk read 5:40. She hung up the phone, raced upstairs and got changed. She hoped that Ken was taking her to see some authentic ninjitsu training.
At 5:58 she strolled off the elevator with her small carry bag. The hotel laundry had cleaned Annja’s sweaty gear. Annja reminded herself to leave a decent tip for the maid service.
Ken leaned against one side of the lobby doors when she exited the elevator. He was dressed simply in jeans and a thin black nylon windbreaker with a T-shirt underneath. He smiled when Annja approached. “Good evening.”
Annja smiled. “Hi.”
“I trust you’ve had a nice day?”
Annja’s eyes narrowed. Had Ken been the one following her? Was that what she’d felt? It would have been relatively easy for him to do so, especially in light of what he’d told her last night.
“Very nice,” she said. No sense confronting him early on and ruining her chance to see the ninjitsu training. She noticed Ken’s small bag at his feet and pointed. “Is that your stuff?”
He glanced down. “Hmm? Oh, yes. It will come in handy for where we’re going.”
Annja grinned. “Which is where?”
His eyes bounced back to hers. “Exactly where you think we’re going. Please follow me.”
He led her outside the hotel. The evening commute was still in full effect. Office workers streamed past while schoolgirls in uniforms that seemed to include microminiskirts hiked too far north to be anything but obscene giggled into cell phones and tossed their dyed hair in the direction of anyone who might notice.
Ken seemed to melt into the flow of people and Annja felt him take her hand, pulling her through the turbulent sea. His hand felt smooth but hard, like polished cool white marble, she decided. When they finally reached the train station, Ken let her hand go and Annja found herself wishing that he had held on to it.
Ken stood in front of the ticket machine and plunked several coins into it. The machine spit out two tickets and he handed one to Annja. “Come with me. Our train is downstairs and should be leaving soon.”
They descended the stairs, passing more people. Ken led them onto an almost deserted train car. Two boys in their school uniforms and hair tousled into rat’s nests slept in their seats.
Ken nodded at them. “They’ve been in school for many more hours than in America. After regular classes, they go to special after classes that are designed to help them get into college. Maybe they’ve been going for the better part of sixteen hours.”
Annja frowned. “That must take a toll on them.”
“It’s all about getting into college over here. High school is the real grind. Once they get into college, they can relax somewhat. College is for making contacts that will help them the rest of their lives. But the competition to get in is fierce. Some kids, they don’t make it. Every year there are a few suicides over it.”
“Suicide?”
Ken shrugged. “It’s not as bad as when I was growing up, but it can still get pretty crazy.”
Annja shook her head. “But I saw schoolgirls earlier who looked like they didn’t have a care in the world.”
Ken smiled. “You saw some schoolgirls. There are plenty who stress just like these guys. But there are also plenty of other schoolgirls who don’t. Some are actually prostitutes—some just don’t care. Even the ones who graduate high school, if they’ve got the looks, can go get jobs with the airlines or marry a rich guy.”
“Nice bit of equality over here.” Annja frowned at the thought of wasting her life like that.
“Japan doesn’t claim to be equal. Japan just is. That’s what screws up so many foreigners who come here. They think they know what Japan is, what the society defines itself as. They take great steps to try to become Japanese, but it can never be.”
“Why not?” Annja asked.
“Because Japan simply doesn’t care. Our society is such that it take no pains to explain itself. It’s as if the culture is one massive ball of who-cares-what-other-people-think. Japan couldn’t care less if foreigners understand what makes us tick. We are enigmas unto ourselves. And Japan hides its true nature even from itself. The best way to survive in such a place is not to try to figure it out, but to simply accept. And if possible, manipulate that acceptance so you prosper.”
“Manipulate it?” Annja shook her head trying to imagine how that might even be possible. “How?”
But Ken only smiled some more. “Well, that takes a bit of practice. But if you look at how we emerged from the ashes of World War II saddled with the strict regulations imposed by the Allies, and rose to become an economic powerhouse, that’s one glimpse into how our leaders were able to do it.”
“I thought Japan’s economy was in trouble,” Annja said.
“It is,” Ken replied. “I think someone tried to figure us out and ruined what we had. But I’m not concerned. Something will happen to bring us around again.”
The train chimed twice and the doors slid shut. Annja looked at Ken. “Where are we headed?”
“Out of the city. We’re going to a small town about twenty minutes outside of Kashiwa.”
The train streamed out of the station, and Annja marveled at the smoothness of the ride. She felt a curious sensation; her buttocks were warm. She shifted once and then looked at Ken who smiled.
“They heat the seat here,” he said.
Annja raised her eyebrows. “No wonder those guys are asleep.”
Ken nodded. “It does seem to promote that, doesn’t it?”
“I might fall asleep myself if I’m not careful.”
“I’ll wake you if you do. Don’t worry.”
But Annja had no intention of falling asleep. The city disappeared and an urbanized sort of suburb followed. Open fields clogged with rusted bits of farm machinery shot past her window. Smaller wooden homes replaced the high-rise apartment buildings.
Eventually, Ken nudged Annja, who jolted. “Huh?”
“You started to doze. Come on, this is our stop.”
Annja followed Ken off the train, and her nostrils were immediately assaulted by a strange scent that seemed somehow familiar. “What is this smell?”
“Soy sauce. There’s a big factory—one of the world’s biggest companies—just on the other side of town. The air here is forever stained by it. You get used to it pretty quick, but I’ve been kind of turned off to soy sauce ever since I started coming here.”
They ducked out of the station and turned left. Ken crossed the train tracks they just rode across and then turned left again. Annja saw a sea of bicycles parked in neat lines.
“Is this common?”
“Sure. People park them here all the time and ride the train into Tokyo proper.”
Annja pointed. “But none of them are locked up.”
Ken shook his head. “No one’s going to steal them. There’s no point to it.”
Ken threaded his way through the small passage between the bike wheels and Annja twisted to do the same. She spotted some pimped-out bicycles and couldn’t help but think that in America, these would have been stolen in no time flat.
They cleared the bicycle labyrinth and walked on. Ken smiled at Annja. “Tonight is likely to be very busy.”
“Busy?”
“The dojo is small. Real estate prices being what they are, it was almost impossible for the grandmaster to find anything affordable that would still serve well as a dojo. Some of his senior students pitched in to help him buy this place. But it’s still small by Western standards. Ordinarily, the size wouldn’t be an issue but people journey here from all over the world. Numbers add up.”
An open field that had recently been mowed sat on their left. Ken nodded at it. “This used to be full of tall reeds. We had a saying that we’d dump the bodies of annoying Americans into the swamp and let them rot there.”
Annja didn’t know if he was serious or not. “Did you ever really do that?”
“Of course not.” Ken chuckled but then stopped. “Well, actually, there was this obnoxious fool named Pritchard Magoof. For him, we made an exception. He came over here as the student of a very accomplished teacher in America. And of course, he promptly let his ego explode and became rank hungry without having one ounce of technical skill. Now he mostly hangs around the dojo looking like a little puppy dog. We humor him, but he’ll never amount to anything.”
“Sounds like a real prize.”
Ken’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe if he’s there tonight we’ll let you train with him.” He laughed. “Now that’d be entertaining.”
Annja shook her head. “I’m not here to be anyone’s entertainment.”
“True, true. We have more important things to do than beat Magoof into smithereens. He’ll do that himself anyway. Rumor is it’s only a matter of time before he gets thrown out for being such an idiot.”
They passed a ramshackle hotel. Ken pointed it out. “This is where the rowdy foreigners stay when they’re over here making asses of themselves.”
Annja frowned. “Forgive me for saying so, but it seems like you don’t think too much of the non-Japanese who train with you.”
Ken shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t. Most of the people who come here to learn this art are too full of themselves to ever become truly good at it. There are exceptions and certain dojos that produce decent people. They are, unfortunately, the rarity rather than the norm.”
“Is it really that bad?” Annja wasn’t sure she was going to fit in with this crowd.
“Worse, actually. There are hotels in Tokyo that refuse to host foreigners associated with this dojo because in the past, those who stayed there trashed their rooms and partied and destroyed furniture. Maybe they’d never been away from home before—maybe they’re simply immature fools. But whatever the case, they have marred the reputation of the school.”
“And the grandmaster? What does he do about it?” Annja had images of this wizened old man beating the snot out of people who disgraced his name and style.
Ken smiled. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Ken stopped. “Annja, you have to realize that this art is ninjitsu . Ninjitsu is something entirely Japanese but at the same time it is something wholly un-Japanese. By virtue of its very nature, the art can seem to contradict itself constantly. What is expected is what never occurs. And the unexpected is routine. Only by accepting that you’ll never know what to expect will you be able to glimpse what the art can truly accomplish.”
“Expect the unexpected, then. Is that it?”
“Maybe. But it’s more like don’t expect anything. Because there’s no rhyme or reason to any of what happens inside the dojo. Or for that matter, outside of it, either.”
“That’s a terribly confusing way to go through life,” Annja said.
Ken nodded. “Remember, this is a martial art. Ninjitsu teaches you to be prepared for warfare. And there’s nothing sacred in war. The moment you think you’ve got it figured out or that you know what’s coming, a good enemy will use that against you and kill you.”
“Good point.”
“The grandmaster believes that it’s his responsibility to convey that as best he can to those who wish to study with him. So he deliberately does things that seem completely bizarre. For those who get it, the lessons are priceless. For those who don’t…well, who really cares about them?”
Annja smiled. “You’re going to tell me that most of these people don’t get it, right?”
“Yes. For the majority, this is just a fun way to show off. What they don’t realize is they are showing off exactly how little they truly know.”
“And the grandmaster’s not concerned about them leaving with this information?”
“Nope. He knows that when he’s gone, these fools will fade away. They’ve got no real skill to fall back on. The few who do sincerely study will know how to carry on. That’s it,” Ken said.
“It all seems rather Darwin.”
“It is. Because it has to be. Ninjitsu has survived for so long, much of that time in secret, solely because it was carried on by the sincere. The idiots were disposed of long before they ever got close to being a threat.”
“Buried in the swamp reeds, I suppose,” Annja said.
Ken’s smile twitched and he chuckled. “Exactly. Now come on, let’s introduce you to the real art of ninjitsu .”

8
The outer shoji rice-paper screen slid back smoothly on its runners. Annja could hear the raucous sound of laughter spill out from within the dojo about the same time as two bodies fell back on the small stoop and nearly crashed into her.
“As I said.” Ken glanced at her. “Looks like it’s busy.”
They had to push their way into the dojo proper. Students of almost every ethnicity jockeyed for training spots on the tatami mat floor. Ken pointed to the right side to a small doorway.
“You can get changed in the bathroom.”
Annja noticed that many of the students simply dropped their trousers wherever they stood, unconcerned about displaying their underwear or lack thereof. She frowned and found such displays tasteless and crude.
The bathroom itself was small, but spacious enough to get changed into her black training pants and top. When she emerged, Ken had already changed. He wore a heavy gi , and around his waist he wore a black belt that was fraying almost white in many areas.
“That looks like you’ve been wearing it for years,” Annja said.
Ken smiled. “I have been.” He nodded to the main floor. “Let’s try to find a spot to train.”
They stepped over the outstretched legs and arms of students engaged in limbering themselves up before class. At the far end of the dojo on a shelf looking down over the entire expanse, Annja could see a small temple.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The kamidana . It’s the spiritual seat of power for the dojo. Special items are placed up there for the benefit of all students. Those are pictures of past grandmasters, special rice and plantings to help bless the environment.”
Annja looked around some more. On the walls were racks with various weapons, mostly padded for training. “I’ve never even seen some of these weapons before.”
Ken nodded. “We have an assortment of strange tools, taken not just from ninjitsu but from all Japanese martial arts. The grandmaster also likes to borrow the weapons from other cultures and apply the ninjitsu skills to their use. Makes for an interesting class. Painful, but always fascinating.”
Annja looked at the students. “And all of these people are here to see him?”
“Well, some are here to train. Some are here to be seen. And some are here for grade.”
“Grade?”
“Testing at the end of the class. For the fifth degree black belt—the godan —test. It’s a very special test, or at least, it once was before every Tom, Dick and Harry came waltzing through on a whim.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see the test at the end of the class and maybe later when we get something to eat, I’ll explain it a little bit more.” Ken nodded toward the door. “ Sensei ’s here now, so class will start soon.”
Annja turned, possibly expecting to see some powerhouse of a figure striding into the dojo. Instead, she saw a diminutive man perhaps five feet tall, with a bit of a potbelly. His smile was huge, though, and he certainly seemed to be jolly. From what Ken had told her about ninjitsu , however, Annja suspected this was merely for show for those who needed a smile to reassure them.
The grandmaster walked past Ken, who bowed low and said something in Japanese. The grandmaster patted him on the arm and kept walking toward the kamidana shelf.
Ken nudged Annja toward the back of the room. Someone clapped and instantly, all talk ceased. All the students lined up. Annja got several frowns from some of the black belts who were forced to bow in to her left. She had no idea whether she’d just violated some unspoken rule or not, but tried her best to blend in.
In front of the huddled crowd that knelt on the floor, the grandmaster wove his fingers together and muttered something low and unintelligible. Then his voice barked out nine syllables and everyone around Annja shouted the same. The grandmaster and all the students clapped twice, bowed low, clapped again, bowed once more and then the grandmaster turned to face everyone.
From her right, someone said, “ Sensei ni rei .” Annja knew that meant bow to the teacher.
Everyone bowed and said “ Onegai shimasu .”
The grandmaster sprang to his feet and instantly started demonstrating techniques using a small knife. As he taught, someone with an Australian accent translated from one corner of the room for the benefit of the non-Japanese speakers like Annja. On the other side, someone else was translating into Spanish, of which there seemed a fairly large contingent in attendance this evening.
“Let’s go,” Ken said. He led her toward the front of the room and produced a small training knife from his gi pocket. His eyes twinkled. “Ready?”
Annja nodded and Ken came at her with the knife. Annja tried to remember what the little man had done to evade the attack and disarm his attacker. Ken’s knife stabbed her in the stomach.
“Not quite,” Ken said. “Try it again. But sink your hips first.”
Annja did as he instructed and when he attacked again, Annja found the movement easier to perform. The knife stabbed past where her midsection had been seconds before.
“Now bring your hands up to guard against the back slash. My tendency will be to cut back in a real situation, so you need to be prepared for it.”
Annja brought her hands up and saw how much easier it was to effect a disarm when they were properly positioned. After a few more tries, she and Ken switched roles with Ken assuming the defense and Annja attacking.
As she slashed in, Ken deftly evaded her attack and Annja found her knife had vanished, followed by her legs being swept out from under her. Unlike the other martial arts she’d experimented with in the past, this time when she hit the floor, there was no time to regain her breath. Ken quickly used her arm to rotate her around from her back onto her stomach, effectively pinning her before she could react.
“ Do gaeshi . It means body reversal. Pretty cool, huh?”
Annja smiled. She could see how devastating it could be if applied with full force. “You could have broken my arm.”
Ken nodded. “And once you were on your stomach, I would have broken your shoulder girdle, as well. Nasty stuff, but fun.”
Annja handed him the knife. “I’m ready to try again.”

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