Kaze.
Not satisfied with Japan alone, Kaze Group had branched out, extending its reach in all directions. Although it produced nothing itself, it had a hand in the manufacture of everything of importance produced around the globe.
"Takita-san?"
Hideo whirled and saw that the slight, business-suited receptionist had returned and was standing behind the desk. Hideo tried to look relaxed and confident as he approached.
"Sasaki-san will see me now?"
The receptionist's lips twisted. Hideo realized with a spike of embarrassment that he was suppressing a laugh.
"You will not be seeing the chairman today."
Hideo imagined him adding, nor any other day.
The receptionist handed Hideo a thumb-size flash drive.
"On this you will find scans of a shipping tube taken at Kahului Airport on Maui. In that tube you will see the image of a damaged katana. The item was checked through to Kennedy International in New York. The passenger's name was listed as Eddie Cordero. That, however, is an alias. The chairman wishes you to go to New York and find that katana." The receptionist gave him a knowing look. "If you deliver this katana to him, he will be most grateful."
Hideo knew what that meant. But…
"The chairman wants me to find a damaged sword?"
"You question the chairman's desire?"
"No, of course not. I did not mean that. I meant, why me? I have no special skills."
"The chairman thinks you do, and the chairman is wise." The receptionist paused, as if embarrassed, then added, "The chairman knows it is a difficult task. But he believes you will be especially diligent and expend extra effort because success will go a long way toward restoring your brother's honor."
Hideo hung his head. Yoshio, what happened to you? Who killed you? He looked up and nodded to the receptionist.
"I will go. I will find the chairman's katana."
"It is not the chairman's, but he wishes it to be. However, it may not be the katana he wants. It must meet certain criteria, all of which will be explained on the drive." The receptionist glanced at his watch. "Your flight leaves in two hours. You had better hurry."
Hideo made a quick bow and started toward the door.
"Oh, and one more thing," the receptionist said, "you will not be traveling alone."
Hideo eyed him. "Oh? Who—?"
"Your three travel companions will meet you at the airport. They will be along to aid you should you need their sort of help. The chairman doesn't want you to end up like your brother."
Hideo shuddered. Neither did he.
"Well, what do you think?" Gia said.
Jack stared at the little wooden sculpture—although why it wasn't called a carving, he had no idea. But nomenclature aside, he liked it. A lot.
"It's beautiful."
He looked at Gia. For a while she'd let her blond hair grow out, but last week she'd shown up with it cut short again. He liked it short, with its little unruly wings curving into the air.
She'd dragged him down to this SoHo art gallery, saying he just had to see the latest Sylvia. Jack had no idea what a Sylvia was, but he'd come along. And was glad he had.
According to the brochure, some artist who signed her work simply as "Sylvia" was famous for her faux bonsai trees, laser sculpted from a model of the real thing. And Jack could see why. Her latest was a mix of bonsai and topiary—a boxwood with a curved trunk, its roots snaking over a rock and into the soil of its pot. But the rock wasn't a rock, the soil wasn't soil, and the tray wasn't clay. The whole thing was a solid block of laminated oak. Interesting enough, but the tiny boxwood leaves had been teased and coaxed and trimmed into the shape of a skyscraper. Jack knew that shape: the tapering spire, the scalloped crown, the eagle heads jutting from the uppermost setback. Of course their size didn't allow the details of a bird's head, but Jack knew what those tiny protruding branches represented.
Gia fixed him with her clear blue eyes. Her smile was dazzling. "Knowing how you love the Chrysler building, I figured this should be added to your must-see list."
Jack walked around its pedestal, leaning over the velvet ropes that kept him from getting too close. Someone—Sylvia?—had hand-painted it, mimicking its natural colors. The leaves and moss were green, the tray and clasped stone different shades of gray, the trunk left the natural shade of the original oak.
Jack stepped back. "From a distance it looks alive."
"Isn't it just fabulous?" said a soft male voice behind him.
Jack turned and saw a slim, middle-aged guy wearing a sailor shirt and white duck pants. His little name tag said GARY and his black hair was perfect.
"Fleet Week's not quite here yet," Jack said.
Gary grinned. "I know. I can't wait. But as I said"—he gestured to the tree—"isn't it fabulous?"
"Yeah. Fabulous." A word misused and overused, but here it fit.
"And it doesn't just look alive, it's so very much alive in the way all true art lives. And best of all, it requires no pruning, no wiring, no watering, and yet it remains perfect. Forever."
"I like the low-maintenance idea. Always wanted a bonsai, but I have a brown thumb."
"Maintenance is not an issue. This is a work of art, and so much more than a bonsai. This is a subtle melding of the man-made and the natural, a brilliant use of the latest in modern technology to preserve an ancient art form."
Seemed like Gary had memorized the brochure.
"How much do you want for it?"
"It's not a matter of how much I want," he said, reaching into a pocket. "If I had my way it would stay on display here forever." He pulled out a card and pen and scribbled. "But alas, that won't pay the rent."
Alas?
He handed Jack the card. He'd written a number on it.
Jack couldn't help laughing. "Twenty thousand dollars?"
Gary cooled. "Each of Sylvia's trees are fashioned in strictly limited editions of one hundred, signed and numbered by the artist herself."
"And people actually pay twenty K apiece?"
"Each edition sells out almost immediately. Our gallery was consigned only one. We put it out this morning. It will be sold by closing."