The Way of the Traitor Read online

  Before leaving Edo, Sano had postponed his wedding again, angering his prospective in-laws and jeopardizing the match. He’d left his detective corps behind to serve the shogun in his absence, but knew it couldn’t substitute for his personal attention; he might not have a post when he got home. He seethed with anger at the regime that rewarded his accomplishments with virtual exile. Surely Chamberlain Yanagisawa was sending the governor of Nagasaki instructions to ruin him.

  But now Sano’s relief at surviving the journey inspired a burst of optimism. As he neared Nagasaki, his interest stirred. He’d never been this far from home. What unknown challenges awaited him in this land of troubled history and exotic foreign influences?

  The ship moved down a wide, convoluted channel in the Kyūshū coastline. Coves adorned the shores; woodlands topped high cliffs. Terraced rice fields ascended gentler inclines. Over small islands, seabirds soared and shrieked. Fishing boats dotted the calm water. In the distance, the city of Nagasaki cascaded down the lower slopes of steep hills.

  “Look!” Returning, Hirata pointed to a glint of light on a clifftop. “And there’s another. What are they?”

  “The sun reflecting off spyglasses,” Sano answered. “They’re used by guards who watch for foreign ships and warn of any threat to national security.”

  Nagasaki, the center of overseas trade, received merchants from many nations—some with hopes of military conquest as well as financial gain.

  The ship passed a large island that rose like a mountain in the channel. “Takayama,” Sano said. “During the Christian persecutions a hundred years ago, foreign priests were thrown off it and drowned. And that smaller island must be the Burning Place, where hostile ships are set on fire.”

  Remembering these facts, Sano felt the resurgence of a buried passion. While a young pupil at the Zōjō Temple school, he’d sneaked into a forbidden section of the library. There he’d discovered scrolls documenting Japanese foreign relations over the past two hundred years, and read with fascination of the white barbarians … until the abbot caught him. Sano’s back still ached when he recalled the beating he’d received. But his curiosity about the barbarians had persisted, despite much discouragement. Laws barred everyone except the most trusted individuals from contact with Europeans, whom the bakufu feared would incite rebellion, as they had in the past, and ultimately conquer Japan. Foreign books, and books about foreigners, were banned. Now Sano saw an advantage in his status and his unwanted trip to Nagasaki. At last he would see the legendary barbarians with golden hair, eyes the color of the sky, and bizarre customs. And hidden under his sash was a document that would bridge the language barrier between them.

  Sano’s closest friend was Dr. Ito Genboku, a physician sentenced to lifetime custodianship of Edo Morgue as punishment for practicing forbidden foreign science. Dr. Ito had assisted Sano with murder investigations and continued his studies, using foreign books obtained through illicit channels from Dutch traders in Nagasaki. Sano, kept under house arrest by Yanagisawa’s men during his last hours in Edo, had sent Hirata to convey his farewells to Dr. Ito. Hirata had returned with this message:

  Sano-san,

  It was with great regret that I learned of your imminent departure. To make your stay in Nagasaki more interesting, here is a letter of introduction to Dr. Nicolaes Huygens, my trusted, confidential source of information about foreign science. I believe you will enjoy his company as I have his correspondence. I hope that fate will soon allow your safe return to Edo.

  Ito Genboku

  Folded inside this letter was a paper inked with scrawls that Sano assumed to be Dutch writing. Yet any encounter with foreigners could provoke accusations of treason.

  “I wonder what’s going on up there,” Hirata said, breaking Sano’s line of thought.

  Following his retainer’s gaze, Sano saw running figures atop the cliffs, shouting to one another in inexplicable frenzy. Toward the ship sped a long barge, rowed by teams of oarsmen and crammed with samurai.

  “Ah, the harbor patrol. At last.” The captain called out to the barge: “The shogun’s envoys wish an official escort into harbor. Wait, where are you going? Stop!”

  The barge raced past. Two more followed; none stopped. The faces of the crews reflected the urgency of men on some strange life-or-death mission.

  “Something’s wrong here,” the captain declared.

  The ship neared Nagasaki, which formed an irregular crescent around the harbor. A jumble of tiled and thatched rooftops climbed the hills; crooked streets ran between them. Three rivers flowed through the city to the sea. The red pagodas of temples studded higher slopes, with the towers of watch stations above. On the water-front, more patrol barges circled anchored ships and herded fishing boats toward shore. Sano could see no reason for the commotion. Was this some peculiar military exercise, or preparation for an unknown natural disaster? Another barge rowed straight for Sano’s ship and drew up alongside.

  “It’s about time,” the captain huffed.

  The barge’s chief officer called, “Our apologies for the tardy welcome, but we’ve got big trouble. The Dutch East India Company’s director of trade has disappeared.”

  Sano, joining the captain and crew on deck, heard their mutters of consternation. Beside him, Hirata whispered, “Why is one man’s disappearance such a problem?”

  “Because any security breach in Nagasaki means death for everyone responsible,” Sano whispered back, understanding the reason for the mysterious panic he’d witnessed. “The missing barbarian might foment dissension and war, or spread Christianity throughout Japan.”

  The second threat went hand in hand with the first. Christianity had come to Kyūshū about a hundred and fifty years earlier, with Jesuit missionaries who traveled on Portuguese merchant ships. For a time, it had spread unchecked across Japan, welcomed by poor peasants who embraced this doctrine that promised salvation, and by daimyo—samurai warlords—who converted in hopes of luring the lucrative Portuguese trade to their domains. Fifty years after its arrival, Christianity had boasted some three hundred thousand followers.

  But the foreign religion had later posed serious problems. Peasant converts destroyed Shinto and Buddhist temples, creating civil unrest. Missionaries supplied arms to Christian daimyo and conspired with them to overthrow the government. From overseas came news of Christian crusades against the Muslims; of Portuguese and Spanish conquests in the East Indies and the New World; of the pope’s plans to seize the lands of non-Christian rulers. Finally Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa shogun, issued an edict banning Christianity and deporting the missionaries. During the seventy-five years since, the bakufu had rigorously suppressed the dangerous foreign creed. Now the escape of a single Dutchman had revived the threat to national peace and independence.

  “Follow us, and we’ll see you safely ashore,” the harbor patrol officer told the captain.

  The ship sailed after the barge, into increasing chaos. From patrol barges, soldiers boarded Chinese junks with many-battened sails like insect wings and smaller ships manned by dark-skinned sailors, searching for the lost Dutchman amid loud protests in foreign languages. More troops swarmed the white stretch of beach and the docks and piers outside warehouses. From the starboard deck, Sano watched the activity with a mixture of excitement and fear, for a sudden thought had taken hold in his mind.

  “Stop here, or you’ll run aground,” the harbor patrol officer called when they reached a point some distance from the city.

  The crew dropped anchor. From the beach, small ferryboats rowed out to carry passengers and baggage ashore. Sano moved astern, where the sailors raised and turned the rudder so it formed a gangplank. He was not only the shogun’s sōsakan-sama, but also Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s designated Nagasaki inspector. Despite the ignominious circumstances of his arrival, didn’t he have a tacit charge to locate the missing trader? Sano experienced a not unpleasant thrill of danger. As he climbed over the railing and walked down the wet, slanting rudder, the ol
d fascination tugged. He looked toward the middle of Nagasaki’s crescent, and saw the subject of many of the scrolls he’d eagerly perused as a boy.

  “Deshima,” he said to Hirata as they settled into a ferry.

  Deshima: the fan-shaped island, some three hundred paces long, whose inner curve faced the Nagasaki shore; where the Dutch East India Company officials lived like prisoners in a heavily guarded compound. From the water surrounding the island’s rocky foundation rose tall poles bearing placards that read, ABSOLUTELY NO BOATS PAST THIS POINT! A high wooden fence, topped with sharp spikes, enclosed the compound. Sano craned his neck, but saw only thatched roofs and pine trees within. He could see nothing of the barbarians who had captured his youthful imagination, but his disillusionment with his own country only intensified his desire to know about the outside world.

  The ferry bobbed over the waves, then glided up on the beach. Sano climbed out and saw troops fanning toward the city and hills in search parties. Commanders barked orders. One, arms waving wildly, berated a group of kneeling samurai.

  Behind Sano, the captain laughed nastily. “The Deshima guards. They should be executed for letting the barbarian escape.”

  One guard, apparently wanting to avoid this fate, drew his sword. With a blood-chilling yell, he plunged it into his belly. Hirata gasped. Sano looked away, shaken.

  “Welcome!” Through the crowd, a black-robed official hurried toward them. Porters, guards, and palanquins followed. Bowing deeply, he said, “A thousand pardons for this inconvenience. We’ll take you to the governor now.”

  Through the windows of his palanquin, Sano watched the sights of Nagasaki move past. He rode like a visiting dignitary, with Hirata and the captain in palanquins behind him, while their Nagasaki escorts walked ahead to clear the way. Sano might almost believe he wasn’t a prisoner of the captain, who would soon transfer him to the governor’s custody and deliver Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders concerning him.

  The palanquin tilted as the bearers ascended Nagasaki’s narrow, crowded streets. Crammed closely together, the shops and houses of the merchant district clung precariously to the hillside. Stone staircases were built alongside the steepest roads. People scurried up and down these, and through the mud from a heavy rain last night. Merchants and peddlers hawked sake, food, and housewares; children gathered around a juggler; an old woman told fortunes. A fishy tang laced the bright morning air. And through the normal everyday bustle, Sano saw news of the Dutchman’s disappearance spread.

  Mounted samurai in full armor barked questions and orders at pedestrians: “Has a foreign barbarian passed this way? Report any sightings at once!”

  Footsoldiers ransacked houses and shops, shouting, “Anyone caught harboring or aiding the barbarian will die!”

  Sano feared they might begin slaughtering innocent townspeople if the missing trader wasn’t found soon. Trapped in his cushioned vehicle, he longed to run off and join the search. But the captain would kill him if he did, then probably collect a reward from Chamberlain Yanagisawa. And without the governor’s sanction, Sano had no right to interfere. Clenching his teeth in frustration, he forced himself to sit still for the ride.

  The palanquin crossed a wooden bridge over a river that flowed between high stone embankments. Here, above the merchant district, the streets were wider, less crowded, and populated mostly by samurai. Tile-roofed mansions, enclosed by long barracks with barred windows, lined the streets. Sano saw the crests of Kyūshū daimyo on guarded gates. Troops streamed through these, searching for the Dutch barbarian. Finally the procession stopped before an ornate portal with a double tile roof. From beyond the barracks came men’s angry shouts, and the stomp and neigh of horses.

  “I’ve brought the shogun’s envoys to Governor Nagai,” Sano heard the Nagasaki official announce.

  Guards admitted them into a courtyard jammed with men. Mounted troops and footsoldiers marched past Sano as he stepped out of the palanquin. A commander issued orders to his squadron: “Search the hills. If you find him, capture him alive. We don’t want an international incident.”

  In a stall by the gate, guards checked men in and out, hanging a wooden name plate on a board to indicate someone’s entry, or taking one down when someone else left.

  “If you will please come this way?” Sano’s escort led him, Hirata, and the captain into the rambling, two-story mansion with half-timbered walls and latticed windows. They left their shoes and swords in the entryway and walked down a corridor past chambers where officials argued loudly as they pored over maps and secretaries drafted reports about the disaster. At the corridor’s end, by the open door to a garden, stood two men.

  One was perhaps fifty years of age. Broad across the shoulders and chest, he exuded an air of elegance even as he paced in agitation. Two ornate swords hung at his waist. His rust-colored silk kimono, patterned with gold ginkgo leaves, emphasized his ruddy complexion. The graying hair drawn back from his shaved crown was glossy with oil.

  “It will be very bad for us if we don’t find him at once,” he fumed. Despite his anger, his voice had a mellow, melodious tone—like that of an actor feigning emotion in a Kabuki drama. He wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve. “What a fiasco!”

  The other man was a spare, plainly dressed samurai with ashen hair and a stiff posture. Sano, approaching with his party, heard him mutter, “… never would have happened if …”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” The first man’s smooth voice tightened. “You—” Then he spied his visitors.

  “Governor Nagai, may I present the shogun’s envoys.” Deftly the escort managed the introductions.

  “I’m here to perform an inspection of Nagasaki, Honorable Governor,” Sano said when his turn came.

  Shrugging off his agitation like a discarded robe, Nagai bowed in a relaxed, courteous manner. The lines of his face smoothed into a pleasant expression. His coarse features—broad, porous nose, thick lips, and fleshy jowls—had an agile mobility that lent him a semblance of handsomeness.

  “Welcome to Nagasaki. You had a pleasant journey, I hope? Yes. Well.” The words issued from Governor Nagai in a honeyed flow. “I apologize for the temporary state of confusion. But everything is under control.”

  Sano had heard Nagai mentioned in Edo. His admirers praised the administrative skills that had raised him from lowly provincial inspector to commissioner of finance, then won him Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s favor and a prestigious Nagasaki governorship. His detractors said he abused his power to enrich himself, and got away with it because of his talent for pleasing the right people.

  Governor Nagai gestured to his companion. “This is Ohira Yonemon, chief officer of Deshima. He was just leaving to make sure no more barbarians disappear.”

  Ohira wordlessly bowed his farewells. On him would rest the major blame for any problem on Deshima, Sano knew. His square jaws were clenched, his pale lips compressed, and he looked physically ill. His skin had a blanched pallor, with purplish pouches under the eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. As he walked away, his rigid shoulders trembled.

  The captain stepped forward. “The Honorable Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders,” he said, handing Governor Nagai a scroll case.

  Governor Nagai read the enclosed document with a neutral expression, and his geniality didn’t waver when he addressed Sano again. “Yes. Well. Come, let’s go to my private office and discuss your plans for the inspection,” he said.

  After ordering an assistant to give the captain quarters in the barracks, he ushered Sano and Hirata upstairs to a bright, spacious room. Sliding doors opened onto a balcony, below which the city’s rooftops spilled down the hill in a picturesque clutter. In the distance, sky and sea were azure; the harbor looked deceptively peaceful. Faint street noises drifted in on the warm breeze. Governor Nagai knelt behind the desk, his back to shelves filled with ledgers. Sano and Hirata knelt opposite on silk cushions. The room held the usual cabinets and chests found in any official’s chamb
ers, but one curious feature caught Sano’s attention.

  In the alcove stood a table with long, spindly legs. On this sat a peculiar wooden box the size of a man’s head, with a white enamel circle on its upright face. Twelve strange symbols, inlaid in gold, rimmed the circle, from whose center extended slender gold pointers. The box emitted loud, rhythmic clicks.

  “I see you’ve noticed my European clock.” Governor Nagai regarded the object fondly. He offered refreshments, ordering them from a servant who appeared at the door. “It and the table were gifts from the Dutch barbarian who has disappeared: East India Company Trade Director Jan Spaen.”

  “Remarkable,” Sano said. He recalled Chamberlain Yanagisawa mentioning the wealth that a Nagasaki official could reap from the overseas commerce. Apparently it came from both Japanese merchants as taxes, and from foreign merchants as presents intended to facilitate trade relations. But more intriguing than the possibility of riches was the thought of meeting the men whose culture produced such wonders as a mechanical timekeeping device.

  “Your reputation precedes you, sōsakan-sama,” Governor Nagai said. “The last time I was in Edo, I heard about your capture of the Bundori Killer.”

  To ensure that no individual commanded too much power over the international port, Nagasaki actually had three governors, who took turns ruling the city. While one was in Edo, reporting to the shogun—and visiting his family held hostage to his good behavior—the others served alternate shifts. Fate had saddled Governor Nagai with the Dutchman’s unfortunate disappearance. But he’d surely benefited from his trips to the capital, testing the political climate there. Sano guessed that the courteous treatment he was receiving meant Governor Nagai knew he enjoyed the shogun’s albeit unreliable favor. Yet the governor, though subject to Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, also had Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders, and would know of his animosity toward Sano. However, perhaps Sano could use Nagai’s conflicting loyalties to his advantage.