can be pretty damn stubborn when it wants to be. But she knew where Furukawa was headed. “You think it’s fate. You think only my sword can kill him.”
“I think that is one part of the truth. There are deeper secrets about Koji-san’s remarkable resilience, secrets I can share with you only if you join us. But what matters for the present is what Yamada believed. He trusted Shoji. That’s why he claimed the sword for his own: so none of our people would kill his friend’s only son.”
“Come on. Aren’t you supposed to be a ninja master? Why didn’t you do some ninja stuff? You could have stolen the sword, killed Joko Daishi, and returned the sword before anyone knew it was gone. Hell, you wouldn’t even have to be a ninja for that. You just have to be in a good heist movie.”
“Don’t think it didn’t occur to us.” Furukawa re-racked the balls as he spoke. “But Professor Yamada assured us that your heist movie antics weren’t necessary. He said he had a new protégé. He said you would do what he could not.”
“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it? He was a deadly swordsman. You are a deadly marksman. Both of you have had occasion to prove it. And both of you accept that killing one to save ten is undoubtedly the right thing to do.”
“It’s not—”
Mariko didn’t even know how to complete that sentence. She killed Fuchida to save her sister; that was one for one. Why not one for ten? It seemed simple. She killed Akahata to save herself and fifty-two others. Given the chance to do it again, the only thing she’d do differently would be to shoot sooner. It seemed simple, and yet it wasn’t. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She still had nightmares about it. So killing one to save ten? Maybe it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t undoubtedly so. It was still a hard choice.
There was one choice before her that wasn’t hard. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “So I’ll kill Joko Daishi for you? Well, guess what? I’m not doing it. Shoji’s my friend. Even if she weren’t . . .” Mariko threw up her hands. “I don’t even know how to get this through your head. I took an oath to uphold the constitution. You’re asking me to commit premeditated murder. Those two things don’t go together. End of story.”
“And yet you will kill him. Shoji-san has already seen it. The only question is how many must die between now and then.”
“No. You trained him. You deal with him. If you’re so convinced that I’m the only one who can kill him, here’s an idea: maybe you could try not assassinating him. Tase him, cuff him, and give him to us.”
“Oh? And then what? Watch your people let him slip away again?”
“I don’t know.” This conversation was giving her a headache. “What happened to your stupid magic phone calls? There is no evidence the Wind cannot fabricate, neh? Give us something solid enough to hold him without bail.”
“To what end, Detective Oshiro? So he can find another lawyer? Tie up the system in endless appeals? The Divine Wind will live on. You are the only one who can behead it.”
“No.” Mariko wanted to wring his scrawny neck. “You’re looking for a hit man. I’m a cop. That’s all there is to it.”
Furukawa sighed. “You’re worse than Dr. Yamada. I hadn’t expected such intransigence from you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She left without another word. Her headache lingered, but a surge of self-confidence put a spring in her step. She’d never been so proud to be Yamada-sensei’s student.
32
As she went to sleep in Shoji’s spare bedroom, wearing the camouflage Bape sweatpants Endo Naomoto had purchased for her, Mariko thought the best thing about being suspended was that she’d be able to sleep in as late as she wanted.
She awoke to a living nightmare.
A lance of sunlight poked through the gingko tree outside, angling deftly between the leaves to stab Mariko right in the eyes. This woke her up just enough to hear the low, soft sobs coming from the next room. It could only be Shoji. Mariko rousted herself out of bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and shuffled down the hall to knock on Shoji’s bedroom door.
The door was open. Shoji sat on the end of her big, Western-style bed. She wore a long, frumpy, comfortable-looking