were incidental; what mattered was what they symbolized.
Meeting grounds were symbolic too. Thirteen minutes was enough time for every last cop in the building to hear who was in the interrogation room on the eleventh floor. It would be a madhouse down there. Kusama didn’t like to raise his voice and he certainly didn’t care to elbow his way through a boisterous mob. There would be a lot of high-fiving going on down there; this was a major coup. So instead of joining the circus, he called Junko and ordered the suspect to be brought upstairs.
“In your office?”
“He’s a lone man, not an elephant stampede. I’m sure we’ll survive the experience. Oh, and call the press corps next. I’ll issue a statement in thirty minutes.”
Half an hour wasn’t a lot of time, but Captain Kusama was eager to announce the capture of the nation’s most dangerous felon. Two hours later he would give an update. Every two hours after that, either he or one of his delegates would return to the pressroom. It was de rigueur; Kusama had groomed the reporters to expect this pattern, and through it he controlled the headlines.
In fact it was not a stampede of elephants who entered his office, but neither was it a lone man. First came Lieutenant Sakakibara, striding in on long legs and looking as stern as ever. Then came the suspect’s lawyer, Hamaya Jiro, whose right arm was in a sling for some reason. Next came two SWAT officers. One had his M4 rifle in hand; the other had his pistol in one hand and the suspect’s handcuff chain in the other. And of course there was the man of the hour, Japan’s Osama bin Laden.
Koji Makoto, Kusama recalled. Dredging that name up from his memory took some doing. He and everyone else had taken to calling the suspect only by his self-appointed religious appellation, Joko Daishi. Great Teacher of the Purging Fire. Now that was an ominous title if ever there was one.
Great Teacher or not, someone had beaten the hell out of him. A bruise as dark as an eggplant dominated the left side of his forehead, fading progressively to blood red as it spread across his face. Kusama had seen tire irons leave less dramatic marks. The perp’s clothes were bloodstained, too—only a little bit, but it was fresh blood, as if he’d torn some scabs loose on his chest and the wounds were slowly saturating the fabric. He wore white pants and an airy shirt of simple white linen. Over these he wore a long, sleeveless white robe in a style Captain Kusama wouldn’t have found out of place if this was a 1970s chop-socky movie instead of his office.
“You’ve got a limp,” Kusama said. “I’d heard that about you.”
“I was marked from childhood.” There was a hint of pride in his voice. “My mother is the future and my father is the past. The child of destiny comes into this world marked, so that others might know his coming.”
Kusama shot a startled glance in Sakakibara’s direction. The lieutenant only responded by rolling his eyes. Kusama could appreciate the sarcasm, but he didn’t share it. This Joko Daishi was more unbalanced than anyone had led him to believe. He’d assumed Detective Oshiro’s reports were fanciful—premenstrual hysterics at best—but now he saw she hadn’t exaggerated one bit.
“Well, do have a seat, Koji-san.”
The SWAT cop forcibly compressed the cult leader into one of the leather chairs facing Kusama’s polished teak desk. “Officer, have a care,” Kusama told him. “If not for your suspect, then at least for my office furniture. I’ll thank you not to bloody it.”
The cop mumbled his apologies. For his part, Joko Daishi looked down at his own chest. It was hard to notice, given the sheer volume of his wiry black beard and mustache, but Kusama could just make out that the man was smiling. He seemed pleasantly surprised, as if he hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding. “My newest stigmata,” he said. “They weep for you.”
“Oh? How very compassionate of you.”
“Compassionate. Yes. Even in your cynicism you unwittingly speak the truth. I came here to speak to the woman, and when I came, my wounds were not weeping. I did not come for you, but here we are. I have seen you on the television, spouting false prophecies and distracting the people from my revelation.”
“Your revelation. Right.”
Joko Daishi gave him a sad, pitying smile. “You understand nothing of the Haneda sermon. You understand nothing