11
Connemara RegionalHospital
February 8
There was the sound of heavy breathing on the phone and then a giggle.
The custom was that Fitzduane would put the phone down last, and Boots played this to the hilt at bedtime. When Boots was not sleeping over in the hospital, Fitzduane and he talked every night before Boots was tucked in. Boots still had some way to go with his telephone technique, but he made up for it with sheer zest.
His gaiety made Fitzduane's heart sing. And there was the added reassurance of knowing his son was safe. Oona was looking after him, Christian de Guevain had flown over for a few weeks to lend a helping hand, and there was now a regular Ranger presence on the island.
"’Night and big hug for the fifth time, you little monster," said Fitzduane, laughing. "Now! GO TO BED!"
Boots burst into fits of giggles and then Fitzduane could hear Oona in the background and Boots's fading "’Night, ’night! Daddeee..." as he was carried to his bed. Whatever they were feeding him, Boots was in demon form.
"Hugo?" It was de Guevain's voice.
"Still here," said Fitzduane.
"All is well here, mon ami," said de Guevain, amused. "The only threat here is from Boots."
Fitzduane laughed. "I can hear that." His tone became more serious. "Christian, your keeping the home fires burning in much appreciated."
de Guevain made a dismissive noise, and Fitzduane smiled to himself. His friend had film-star good looks, a debonair manner, and a way with gestures and body language that put most other Parisians of Fitzduane's acquaintance to shame. An ex-paratrooper and now a Paris-based merchant banker, the Frenchman had originally met Fitzduane as a result of a shared social interest in medieval weaponry and fencing. The two were expert swordsmen. It was a rather impractical skill in the late twentieth century, but for both, something of a family tradition.
Their friendship had nearly come to an abrupt end during the Hangman's attack on the castle. It had been a grim business which had affected all the survivors, but also created a special bond between them. When de Guevain had heard from Kilmara about the attack on Fitzduane, he had come immediately. He was confident that his bank, wife, and mistress would prosper in his absence. They were all mature elements in his well-ordered social structure. He was equally confident, with good reason, that they would welcome him back with open arms. Christian de Guevain had that kind of charisma.
"And how goes it for you, Hugo?" continued de Guevain. "I'm on red." The slight drop in voice quality and change to a more impersonal, manufactured sound confirmed the switch to encryption.
"These people are not going to go away," said Fitzduane grimly, "and I'm not going to sit around waiting for their next play."
"Japan?" said de Guevain. "You've decided."
"Japan," confirmed Fitzduane. "The interrogation of Sasada has confirmed that the Namakas are directly involved. Sasada was briefed by the Namaka security chief, who is a member of the Namaka inner sanctum, and the word is that Kitano does nothing that does not come from the Namakas themselves."
"Is there any chance of getting the Namakas through the courts?" asked de Guevain, without any real hope of getting an affirmative response. "Using Sasada as a witness?"
"Not a snowball's chance in hell," said Fitzduane. "Kitano is the cutout, and there is the slight problem that Sasada did not come out of interrogation too well. Kilmara broke him, but there was a price."
"Merde," said de Guevain, but with understanding. As a young man, he had served his time as a parachute lieutenant in Algeria, fighting in a very dirty war, and there were some situations where the Geneva conventions did not apply. Few people liked it, but in counterterrorism, it was sometimes a matter of weighing unpalatable alternatives.
"Hugo," he went on, "if you go to Japan you are going to need friends. A foreigner alone won't get very far. The Japanese..."
"...are very Japanese, and different from us Western types," completed Fitzduane dryly. "Yeah, I've heard that. It's even rumored they have their own language and eat with wooden skewers."
de Guevain laughed. "It is clear that you are recovering, Hugo. But you know what I mean, and in Japan, friends in high places are particularly important. If you are going to go up against people as powerful as the Namakas, you need — must have — a player of equal or greater influence. Believe me, I know. We bank there."
"Point accepted," said Fitzduane. "Kilmara said much the same thing. He can make connections on the security side — the man has pipelines everywhere — but he says that's not enough. I'm going to need some extra weight over there." He paused before continuing. "Someone we are certain is not allied in any way to the Namakas."
de Guevain could see the problem. Japan was a pyramid. Its base was broad, but at the top of an extremely hierarchical society a small number of people and organizations constituted the main movers and shakers. And many of this ruling group were cross-connected. Some of the alliances were known, but many were not. Japan could not be considered an open society.
"Yoshokawa," said de Guevain. "He's the obvious choice."
"He's my only choice," said Fitzduane grimly. "I have a few other connections in Japan, but they are all expatriates. Yoshokawa-san is my only option, but whether he is connected to the Namakas or not, I don't know."
"I see the problem, Hugo," said de Guevain. "I'm going back to Paris in a couple of days, so I'll put out a few feelers. But my guess is that Yoshokawa is your man. He owes you. You saved his son's life."
"Yoshokawa would not betray me," said Fitzduane, with some force, "but there is the matter of conflicting loyalties. If he's already in bed with the Namakas , he's going to sit on the sidelines, which may be all very honorable but will be no use to me."
de Guevain laughed. "I'll check out a few sets of entrails," he said, "and talk to a few friends, but my guess is that Yoshokawa is your man."
The conversation came to an end, and Fitzduane replaced the phone handset and watched the red encryption light wink out.
He lay back against the pillows of his raised bed, closed his eyes, and thought of his baby son and his home and the comfort of good friends like Kilmara and de Guevain and the Bear. Life, one way and another, was a hard and random business, but all in all he considered he was a lucky man. Being shot, of course, was not so lucky, but overall he liked to believe things balanced out.
de Guevain had called from the Great Hall of Fitzduane's castle, and as he thought about his home and felt more than a few pangs of homesickness mixed with impatience to get out of the damned hospital, he recalled how he had met Yoshokawa-san.
The Japanese industrialist had made quite an entrance.
The core of Fitzduane's castle was a rectangular stone tower known as the Keep, built by the first Sir Hugo Fitzduane in the thirteenth century. Subsequently, among other improvements, the Keep had been extended by building out to one side where the site overlooked the sea.
Unfortunately, the entire extension, known as the Great House, had been gutted by fire during the Hangman's siege. At first Fitzduane had thought of restoring it very much as it had been originally. He had grown up in Duncleeve, and its physical fabric and traditions were important to him.
He was attached to age-blackened wooden beams, oak paneling, tapestries, family portraits, crossed weapons, and mounted animal trophies with glass eyes and mange, but he was blessed with an open mind. As his ideas developed, he decided to preserve the traditional look of the exterior of the Great House so that it harmonized with the Keep, the curtain wall and its outhouses, and the gatehouse, but inside to make the rooms light and airy and uncluttered.
The general tendency of his social class to live in dusty, wood-wormed cocoons of architectural tradition and dry rot was not necessarily to their advantage, he thought. His peers tended to ossify in harmony with their museumlike surroundings.
Above all, he wanted to open the Great Hall — the magnificent open space on the top floor and the center of social activity over the centuries — to overlook the sea. It was a vista Fitzduane found endlessly fascinating, given the unusual light in the West of Ireland, but it lost quite a lot of appeal when your main visual access was confined to arrow slits designed for five foot high Norman crossbowmen — and you were six foot two. But he was far from sure how to implement this vision.
He was sitting on the chilly bronze of a cannon in the courtyard pondering this dilemma, when Yoshokawa arrived. Yoshokawa-san was the chairman of Yoshokawa Electrical, the Japanese electronics and consumer-goods conglomerate founded by his grandfather.
Hideo Yoshokawa's son, Aki, had been one of those saved by Fitzduane in the Hangman episode, and though the father had already expressed his thanks, he now had arrived in person to pay his respects and to tour the battlefield.
Four weeks later, Yoshokawa-san's personal architect and a supporting team arrived to make a site assessment. Two months after that, Yoshokawa-san himself arrived with a scale model.
Ten months later, the specially-flown-in team of Japanese craftsmen had completed the work, gotten seriously drunk on Guinness and Irish whiskey at a special dinner in the new Great Hall, and had vanished — and Fitzduane was left to gaze with considerable pleasure and not a little awe at the result.
He would wait until Christian de Guevain reported back, but his instincts said that his friend was right.
Yoshokawa-san could be trusted.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
February 8
Sitting in his office in the NamakaTower, Fumio studied the discussion document prepared by Goto-san, the group's controller.
It was a masterly piece of work. The Namaka holdings were structured in the form of a keiretsu, the complex corporate structure favored by major Japanese groups. Goto had reduced the financial figures of scores of interlocking Namaka companies so that the bottom line reflected cash flow — and nothing else.
The figures reflected a simple truth. While showing paper profits, the Namaka keiretsu was hemorrhaging cash. A graph clearly demonstrated the moment of truth. The group would crash like a row of dominoes in less than a year unless there was a major cash injection.
Goto had been the first professionally qualified man that the Namaka brothers had hired. He had worked as controller of one of the major car manufacturers until a most ingenious fraud had come to light. To save face all around, he had resigned gracefully to live on his recently acquired riches, but then Fumio had tempted him out of his decidedly premature retirement. Goto had been recommended by Hodama. The kuromaku had a nose for talent.
The seriousness of the situation had been known for some time, but with Hodama alive Fumio had not been unduly worried. The kuromaku could always come up with a friendly bank. His influence with the Ministry of Finance was legendary. A word or two in the right ear, a little administrative guidance with a few remarks about the national interest...
It had been done before. It was how the system worked. It was why the climate of support that the Namaka keiretsu had enjoyed for so long seemed to have evaporated.
Nothing was said. Nothing specific that they were all aware of was done — and yet suddenly there was a chill everywhere. It was as if someone or some group of great power and influence was actively working against them. And yet every effort to determine who was responsible had come up with nothing.
In the past, they would automatically have turned to Hodama-sensei. Efforts to find a replacement had so far failed. A long and intimate relationship was the basis of working with a kuromaku. Difficult and complex things needed to be done. The law had to be treated ‘flexibly.’ Trust was essential if prosecution was to be avoided. It was not the sort of thing you could set up overnight. All the politicians were locked into their own particular factions by obligations generated over the years. And there were very few, if any, other people of Hodama-sensei's caliber.
Goto spoke with the freedom that came from a long and trusted association. Also, he and Fumio were close personal friends. Nonetheless, they still addressed each other with some formality.
"There is a certain irony to our situation, Namaka-san," said Goto. "Our illegal activities have remained consistently profitable. It is our entirely legal expansion that is creating these difficulties. First we invested in the dollar and that went through the floor; then we had a flyer on gold, and that, which had always gone up, now seems to be going nowhere; and finally, we bought and expanded Namaka Steel. It is the steel plant that really lies at the root of our problems. There is now overcapacity worldwide. And as to our investment in the Special Steels facility — that has been the last straw."
Fumio sighed. He adored his big brother, and Namaka Steel was Kei's passion. It made him feel like a proper industrialist. And as for the investment in the new Special Steels facility, that had been made as a result of a strategic decision by MITI, the supposedly infallible Ministry of International Trade and Industry. MITI had devised a plan to take over the international aerospace industry in the 1970s, and Namaka Special Steels had been a key element in that plan. The project had enjoyed massive prestige. Encouraging speeches had been made by a series of ministers and other politicians.
The plan had gone precisely nowhere. There had been some modest progress, but for all practical purposes, the Americans still owned the skies — with the Europeans, supposedly in decadent decline, in a healthy second place. It was frustrating for MITI, but it was disastrous for Namaka. A few defense contracts helped in the short term, but nothing would substitute for a major breakthrough.
That breakthrough was no longer possible in the time available through normal legal commercial trading. The only chance that either Fumio or Goto could see lay with the sale of some of the more esoteric products of Namaka Special Steels. Project Tsunami, the production of nuclear-weapons-plant equipment for the North Koreans, was illegal — absolutely against the laws of Japan — but it represented a vast amount of cash money.
With Hodama dead, the North Korean weapons project was now fundamental to the Namaka keiretsu's survival. It was that simple.
"I don't think we will trouble the chairman with these figures," said Fumio. "He had other things on his mind."
Goto nodded in agreement. An untroubled Kei Namaka was important. As chairman, his confident dynamism was of enormous help with the major institutions. It would not do to trouble him with unpleasant details. Anyway, Kei had enough trouble just reading martial arts manga, the adult comics. Balance sheets and cash flow forecasts were beyond him.
Goto had never been a traditional yakuza, so the issue of the full-body tattoo had not arisen. However, early on in his life he had discovered a simple truth which he had tattooed in Japanese characters — kanji — across his torso. The modest design was attractive, but it was designed for Goto's use principally; it could be read only in a mirror.
The elegant tattooed characters read: CASH IS KING.
* * * * *
The West of Ireland
February 17
Kilmara drove the Land-Rover slowly down the unpaved track toward the beach.
They reached a grassy area at the bottom and parked. Ahead of them, a short steep path wound its way through rocks to the sand and sea below. Against a backdrop of mountains, the beach seemed to curve endlessly.
They left the car. The day before, winds of up to eighty miles an hour had been blowing. Now the breeze off the Atlantic was down to a tenth of that and the waves were almost gentle.
The same was firm nearer the waterline and made for easy walking. From time to time they stopped to look at driftwood thrown up by the storm or an unusual stones or shells. Clouds scudded overhead and the sun darted in and out. The air, though chill, was invigorating.
Kilmara stopped and looked back. They had walked for perhaps half a mile in companionable silence, and their footsteps could be seen stretching back to the rocks below where the car was parked. Theirs were the only footsteps to be seen. He turned around, and ahead of them the beach was unmarked and empty.
"I've been to half the countries in the world," he said with feeling, "and I have seen amazing sights and the most beautiful scenery, but, somehow, nowhere compares to Ireland. This country gets into your soul and it touches you and that's it — you're hooked, you're marked for life. If you leave, there is always a bit of you that yearns to be back in Ireland. There is something in the fabric of this land that is unique. And the most beautiful part of this land is the West."
Kathleen looked at him, a little surprised. She had not expected Kilmara to have the soul of a romantic. In most of her dealings with him he had been an authority figure, dominating — a little frightening even — in his uniform and so often in the company of his armed Rangers.
Now, alone with her and in civilian clothes, he seemed more accessible, easier to talk to, and more like a normal person. There was less of the General and more of the man. He was someone, perhaps, who could be a friend.
"The romantic General," she said with a smile. "Another romantic we both know said something rather similar."
Kilmara laughed. "I'm a part-time romantic," he said. "Very part-time. My nature is to be practical, to see the world the way it is without the expectation that I can change it. Hugo is the real thing. Even worse, he is a romantic and an idealist. He believes things can and will get better, and in such notions as honor and duty and fidelity. That's what gets him into so much trouble. Yet I envy him his nature. He can be a lethal son of a bitch, but in essence, he is a good man."
"And you're not?" said Kathleen.
Kilmara took his time answering. He was thinking of Sasada, of drugs and sensory deprivation, of other terrible techniques; of what they had done to the man to make him talk.
The man now slobbered and grunted and could no longer control his bowels. He was permanently insane.
"No," he said heavily. "My world demands other qualities, and it appear that I may have them. But goodness is not high on the list."
Kathleen had the sense that he was referring to something specific, and she shuddered. His was a fearful world and he had spent a lifetime in it. Violence was a perversion of all civilized values. How could one be exposed to such a culture of destruction and remain unaffected? And yet she was being unfair. Violence was a reality, and the relative peace that most people enjoyed depended on such men as her companion. Without people such as the Bear and Kilmara, she reminded herself, she would now be dead.
She took his arm companionably. "You're a kind man," she said thoughtfully, "and a good friend to Hugo."
Kathleen had not seen Fitzduane since the carnage at the hospital. In view of the investigations after the incident, she had been sent to a hospital elsewhere and released after a week. Her physical injuries were not serious and were now almost healed. Then there had been her father's funeral and her mother to look after. And there was a sense of shock and violation that was taking a lot longer time to overcome; it might take years.
In truth, her feelings about Fitzduane were hard to clarify. Indirectly he was the cause of these terrible happenings. He was not responsible but he was directly associated. If she had never met the man, her father might yet be alive and her mother would not have had a nervous breakdown.
"How is he?" she said. She missed him as she spoke and had an overwhelming desire to be with him. She felt confused. Here was a man with a son by another woman, whose life was associated with a level of threat that any sane person, given a choice, would avoid like the plague.
He was also the most attractive and stimulating man she had ever met, and she could not stay away from him. Yet she was scared of being with him and the emotional pain that might ensue. And she was appalled by the latent physical danger. The memory of McGonigal and Sasada was still fresh in her mind. She had trouble sleeping and found it difficult to concentrate. Sometimes, for no specific reason, she felt herself shaking with terror and sweating.
"Grumpy," said Kilmara, in an amused voice, and then he became more serious. "For the last couple of years, Hugo has been focused on Boots and rebuilding Duncleeve and some work for the Rangers — but otherwise skating. He did not seem to be fully engaged. It was as if he needed to rest up for a little time before embarking on something new. He had hung up his wars and his cameras but hadn't found a replacement activity. He seemed to me to lack a purpose in life."
"Looking after a child and building a home is not a purpose?" said Kathleen, a little annoyed.
Kilmara laughed. "Touché!" he said.
Kathleen stopped and stared at some seaweed, kelp, the deep-brown rubbery kind with long stalks and little bubbles on the fronds that you could burst. She was reminded of summers at the seaside with her family and the reassuring feeling of her father's hand in hers, and she was gripped with a sense of loss and desolation. Tears welled from her eyes.
Kilmara looked across at her and saw the tears and put his arm around her, and they walked like that for some distance before either spoke again. The beach seemed endless and the headland in the distance was shrouded in mist. Kathleen imagined that they were walking on clouds. When she spoke again, she picked up the conversation where they had left off. "And his being shot," she said. "Are you implying that this has changed him?"
"Being shot, seriously injured, tends to concentrate the mind," said Kilmara grimly. "You'll have seen it for yourself. Some people fold and die and others draw on all their reserves and seem to get a renewed grip on life, as if they realize just how little time there is and the importance of making the most of what you've got."
"Well, Hugo is a fighter," said Kathleen forcibly.
"And there is the irony," said Kilmara. "He claws his way back into the land of the living, and insofar as it is humanly possible in such a condition, operates flat out..." He paused and laughed.
"And?" said Kathleen impatiently.
"And when something happens that he cannot remotely blame himself for — the attack on the hospital — he gets an acute attack of depression and just does nothing for five days," said Kilmara. He looked at Kathleen. "I think he misses you."
Kathleen did to reply at first. Her cheeks were tingling from the breeze off the sea and the salt spray. She felt defensive about Fitzduane and thought Kilmara was being a little cruel. "He feels responsible," she said slowly. "He was the target and others died. That would hurt him."
"Well, he is back on track now," Kilmara said, "and furious with himself for losing so much time. That is why he's grumpy."
Kathleen started to laugh, and it was infectious. Soon both of them were laughing as they walked arm in arm along the endless curve of the sand.
* * * * *
The most unpleasant initial aftereffect of his injuries, in Fitzduane's opinion — a judgment he felt most qualified to make, since it was his body, after all — was the external fixation the orthopedic team had used to repair his smashed thighbone. Fortunately, it had been a temporary expedient.
They had screwed four pins into the bone, two above and two below the fracture, which protruded through the skin. They had then joined the pins together externally with crossbars. When Fitzduane looked at his leg, the fixation reminded him of a scaffolding construction. He was part bionic. Frankly, he had preferred being all human.
The orthopedic surgeon had been proud of his handiwork. "The advantage of external over internal fixation is that it does not contaminate," he had said, looking at an X ray of Fitzduane's thigh with much the same enthusiasm that a normal male might reserve for a Playboy centerfold.
"Very nice," said Fitzduane, "but it makes me look like part of the EiffelTower. What's the downside?"
The surgeon had smiled reassuringly. "Just a little discomfort," he had said. "Nothing to be concerned about."
"Just a little discomfort," Fitzduane had soon learned, was a relative term. External fixation was extremely uncomfortable. There were four sites of entry in Fitzduane's leg for the pins, and despite regular dressing they were a constant source of pain and irritation. If he accidentally bashed the fixator, the skin tore. To help him sleep, a frame was put over his leg at night.
"You are able to walk almost immediately with external fixation," said the surgeon. "Exercise is very important."
Fitzduane, cursed with an imagination and his mind painting a graphic picture of shattered bone, could not at first even mentally consider walking, but he was given little choice in the matter.
On the fourth day after he had been shot, he had begun dynamic exercises.
On the fifty day, he had been eased out of bed, propped up with a zimmer frame — a walking support — and, to his amazement, made twenty yards. He had felt terrified at first and then ridiculous. He'd still had his chest drains in. He was told that what he was doing was called ‘shadow walking.’ Shadow or not, it was a start.
At the end of the first week, his chest drains had been removed. During the second week, he had been moved from the frame onto crutches. By the third week, he could do fifty yards at a stretch. Day by day after that, his stamina improved.
Not long after the attack on the hospital, he was assessed yet again by the surgeon. The sight of X rays seemed to bring out a certain manic cheeriness in the medic. "You are fortunate, Hugo," he had said, "that your assailant used a subsonic round. The damage to your femur was serious enough, but it could have been a lot worse. You leg is really in quite reasonable shape, all things considered. Boy, did we do a good job!"
"How the fuck do I know?" said Fitzduane in a reasonably good-humored voice. "I don't get shot regularly. I have no basis of comparison."
The surgeon was used to being addressed as some kind of supreme being by nursing staff and patients as he made his rounds, but he enjoyed Fitzduane.
"Ireland is an island behind an island," he had said, "and you were wounded on yet another, even more remote, island. Think yourself lucky you were not just painted with iodine and left to get on with it. Anyway, it's back to surgery for you. The blood flow in your leg is good and there is encouraging new bone in the area of the wound. I'm going to take off your scaffolding."
Three days later, Fitzduane returned to Duncleeve. His leg was now internally fixated. All the external protruding metal had been removed. In its place he wore a brace, both for support and to remind him to take it easy at first. He could now walk with the aid of only one crutch. Soon that would be discarded, and then the brace.
He grew fitter and stronger.
Kathleen came with him. She was not a physiotherapist, but she was a trained nurse and well-briefed by her colleagues. Further, she had a highly motivated patient who already had learned most of what he had to do in his own right. He would push himself slightly harder every day, training for an hour at a time twice, three times, and then four times a day.
His stamina increased and his slight limp faded.
Kathleen and he became very close, intimate friends. They ate together, talked together late into the night, exchanged confidences, walked arm in arm outside the castle. Yet their physical relationship did not evolve. Kathleen was still deeply affected by the assault on her home and the death of her father. Fitzduane was still recovering his health and was adjusting t his loss of Etan.
Meanwhile there was much to be done. Fitzduane's castle and his island were being transformed.
Relentlessly, Fitzduane, displaying the thoroughness and tactical professionalism of so many of his ancestors, was preparing to strike back.
* * * * *
The telephone rang. Fitzduane picked up the handset gingerly; Boots liked playing with phones, and it was covered with his porridge and honey. Still, it was a reminder that he was home again in Duncleeve.
"You sound distant," said de Guevain. He was back in Paris. Since he largely owned his private bank he was something of his own master, and he had an excellent Director-General, but even so he felt inclined to show the flag now and then.
Fitzduane was holding the instrument far enough away to avoid contact. There was raspberry jam on the damn thing as well. Boots had been hungry that morning. There were toast crumbs everywhere. He hunted around for tissues while he spoke.
"I am distant," he said. "You're in France, I'm in Ireland."
He found the tissues, wiped the phone as best he could, and moved the receiver closer to him. "How are things on your end?"
"The family are fine," said de Guevain, "and the bank is making money. Situation normal. I lead a predictable life. And I have heard from our foreign friends."
"This is an open line," reminded Fitzduane gently.
"I know, mon ami," said de Guevain. "All I want to say is that now I have ever reason to believe that you can rely on the builder we talked about. He is not associated with the competition. My friends are sure of it, and I am sure of them."
de Guevain's ‘friends’ could be traced back to his college, his regiment, and his banking connections. The foreign and intelligence services would feature. Apart from his aristocratic background, Christian was an enarques, which meant that he had gone to one of the small group of colleges from which the key rulers of France were selected. It was an intellectual club with excellent sources. It was the final check. Yoshokawa-san could be trusted.
"Take care of yourself, my friend," said Fitzduane. He felt suddenly concerned. It was a feeling, no more. "You were with me when the Hangman was killed. Get some security. Take some precautions."
de Guevain laughed. "I'm only in danger when I visit you, Hugo," he said. "But do you know anything?"
"No," said Fitzduane. "Nothing. But I just have a sense of unease."
"Two attempts on your life. You're entitled to some paranoia," said de Guevain. He hung up the phone and thought for a while.
Everything was fine except for the break-in at his apartment two nights earlier. Fortunately, nothing had been stolen. The security system was being upgraded, and he resolved to have a word with the bank's security people.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
March 2
Two months into the Hodama murder investigation, it was clear to Adachi that he was in for an endurance test.
Results were not coming either easily or quickly. Murder investigations typically developed strong leads in the first day or so, resulting in a quick arrest, or else turned into a matter of stamina.
After the first couple of weeks, he realized he faced the prospect of months or even years on the affair. He might be transferred off the case to let some new blood have a go, but, pending that, he was in for the duration. Hodama had been too big a fish for the case to be put quietly on the back burner. This was the killing of an insider, one of the most powerful members of the political establishment. If someone of Hodama's status could be killed and the assassins left undetected, then no one was safe.
A steady stream of government members, senior civil servants, and politicians expressed their decidedly personal concern about the progress of the investigation. There were regular calls from the Prime Minister's office. The Minister of Justice had asked for special briefings on two occasions. The brunt of the pressure was fielded by the senior prosecutor and the Deputy Superintendent-General, so Adachi was left relatively free to operate, but the extent of the concern was made well-known to him, together with regular statements of confidence in his abilities.
Adachi was not naïve. He was uncomfortable being supported in this way. It put him neatly in the firing line as the fall guy, if such was required. Secondly, it was his experience that public praise normally came before private termination. The best eulogies, now he thought about it, were delivered at weddings, retirements, firings, and funerals. It was a depressing observation about the human condition. And did weddings really belong in this group of essentially negative transitional occasions? He thought they probably did — although undoubtedly most participants regarded themselves as exceptions.
Inspector Fujiwara came into the squad room looking pleased with himself. Immediately behind him, two sweating detectives appeared, struggling with a very large, heavy object neatly wrapped in the material used by the Forensics Department. The parcel was labeled and sealed with an eye for presentation. Whoever had wrapped the damn thing had obviously aspired to the high aesthetic packaging standards of the Mitsukoshi Department Store. Adachi did not know whether to be proud of this Japanese obsession with doing everything correctly — even when it was not necessary — or to regard his fellow countrymen as being slightly nuts. It was heresy, but it was a thought worth taking further, he considered.
He glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and most of the desks were still manned or their occupants supposedly doing something policelike in the field. We are nuts, he decided. We Japanese are a completely nutty nation. We should be out enjoying ourselves instead of working ourselves even nuttier. I should be in bed with Chifune enjoying long slow sex — perhaps something slightly kinky — instead of being impaled on a swivel chair in my office with my eyes gritty and my clothing sweaty and rumpled, waiting for my Inspector-san to pull a huge rabbit — or maybe something more interesting — out of his parcel.
The parcel was rectangular and vaguely coffinlike in shape, though taller. "I assume, Inspector-san," said Adachi, "that there is a woman inside that container and that you will shortly cut her in half. You have that showman's look. Well, proceed: given the pace of progress around here, we are all in sore need of entertainment."
Inspector Fujiwara took the cue. He stretched his arms out like a magician winding up a crowd, then turned and tipped the wrapping material off the object. A nineteenth-century kurama nagamochi stood revealed. The heavy wooden chest, reinforced with iron corner pieces, was customarily used for storing bedding and kimono.
"Nice piece," said Adachi. "It has wheels, by the way — little round things at the bottom." He looked at the sweating detectives. "Why didn't you — Tokyo MPD's finest — push the bloody chest?"
"Forensics wrapped the wheels too, boss," said Fujiwara. "They do that kind of thing. They thought it would look neater. Anyway, we wanted to make it a surprise. You've been looking gloomy recently."
"Oh," said Adachi. He did not quite know whether to feel flattered or deflated. He did feel curious.
"Miwako Chiba," said Inspector Fujiwara. "A damned attractive woman in her early fifties. Slim figure, distinguished face, great eyes, lots of sex appeal. Looks great — could be twenty years younger."
"Is she in the box?" said Adachi. "Not that I want to pry."
"She lives out in Takanawa," said Fujiwara. "Nice house, two tatami rooms and the rest modern. Plenty of money there — not really big money, but comfortable. A settled look to the situation."
"Is there a Mr. Chiba?" said Adachi. He was beginning to understand.
"No," said Fujiwara.
"Little Chibas?" said Adachi.
"No," said Fujiwara. "None recorded and none that I noticed."
"Ah!" said Adachi. "What does she do?"
"Has a bar in Rippongi," said Fujiwara, "but someone else manages it. Chiba-san is a lady of leisure."
"Whose mistress or ex-mistress?" said Adachi. The pattern was predictable. A great deal of police work was about patterns.
"She is out of a job these days," said Fujiwara, "whatever their relationship."
"Hodama, the old goat," said Adachi. "Whatever he took, I'd like to have some. By all accounts, he was fucking someone or something steadily until he was broiled. Eighty-four years of age and still at it. He was a credit to our culture."
"Hodama," agreed Fujiwara.
Adachi had remembered how tired he was. He leaned forward. "Inspector-san," he said politely. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what is in that fucking box?"
"The kind of thing you would leave with someone you trusted," said Fujiwara, "if you were a prick like Hodama. Mementos of negotiations, secret conversations, and the like."
"Grrr..." said Adachi. "It's too late. I'm too tired. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tapes," said Fujiwara hastily. "Just like President Nixon. Tapes."
"Banzai!" said Adachi. A thought struck him. Magnetic evidence was prone to vanish into the ether. It was not nice and physical, like paper of bloodstains. One quick pass with a powerful magnet and tape recordings were history. "Have you checked them? Is there anything on them?"
"Relax, boss," said Fujiwara. "This is really something."
* * * * *
The Chief Prosecutor always dressed well but conservatively.
He favored the unostentatious gray look, reflected Adachi; the guise of the silver fox. The focus tended to be on his face and, in particular, on his eyes. Day in, day out, for decades, those eyes read the souls of men. When the prosecutor stared intently at you, you just knew that it was pointless to lie. You were aware you could not hide. You understood immediately that he did not really need to ask. It was not merely that he could read your mind: He knew.
Smoke and mirrors, thought Adachi. Did a trick of nature slant you in one particular direction because you looked the part, or did the look follow the occupation? Either way, the success of so much that you did was so often slanted toward how you looked when you did it.
That evening the prosecutor was dressed for a function. He looked different, less like a dedicated public servant and more like a public figure; perhaps a minister or a leading businessman. The dark-blue silk suit was of Italian cut. The white shirt gleamed like a soap-powder ad. The tie was a discreet hand-painted design. The tassled black shoes had a sheen reflecting dedication bordering on obsession.
Did Mrs. Prosecutor graft away with the polishing attachment on her Makita drill, or did Mr. Prosecutor burnish his own shoes? Somehow, Adachi regarded the latter scenario as unlikely. People's personal habits were interesting in what they revealed.
He found the way the prosecutor was dressed that evening unsettling. It did not seem to reflect the man he thought he knew. Well, he was tired. Notions tended to introduce themselves when blood sugar was low.
The tape came to an end. "There were over two hundred tapes in a fireproof safe inside Chiba-san's blanket chest," said Adachi, "all neatly labeled and cross-indexed. There are some prominent names mentioned on the tapes. The most interesting tape is the one you just played. The quality is not good, but the content is compelling."
"The two speakers are Hodama himself" said the prosecutor, "and Fumio Namaka."
Adachi nodded in agreement. "Both names are mentioned in the course of the conversation, and we have already obtained separate confirmation. Hodama's reedy voice is quite distinctive. Namaka's is also clear enough. No one else seemed to be present."
"So here we have Hodama saying he is withdrawing support for the Namakas," said the prosecutor, "and giving as his reasons the financial weakness of the Namaka keiretsu and their links with Yaibo. Hodama, despite their long association, cannot afford scandal and to go down with a sinking ship."
"That's how it sounds," said Adachi. "It is a thirty-five minute discussion. The go over the points several times, the way one does I that kind of conversation. The message is very clear. The Namakas are going to be ditched by their kuromaku — with deep regret and despite their long association."
"Are these tapes genuine?" asked the prosecutor.
"Our technical boys say they are," said Adachi slowly. "But that's a judgment, not certainty. Tape is tricky, but they have put twenty of the two hundred tapes through state-of-the-art equipment and the results indicate the genuine article. Also, they pointed out there is too much here to fake. It would be a massive job. So, best assessment is: the tapes are genuine."
Despite his words, Adachi was uneasy about the tapes. Tape was a reliable enough medium if you used it yourself and kept the evidence chain intact, but where a third party was involved he was cautious. There were all kinds of electronic tricks you could play these days. Also, the fact that some tapes were genuine did not mean all were. The sheer number of tapes would tend to suggest authenticity, but what better place, when you thought about it, to hide a couple of fakes. He resolved to check the tapes further with a speech analyst. But that would take time. Meanwhile, they would have to go with what they had.
The prosecutor closed his eyes, lost in thought. He was wearing a lapel pin, Adachi noticed: miniature crossed silver brooms; the sweeping out of corruption. It had become associated with some of those who were working to clean up Japanese politics. So far, wearers were in something of a select and extremely small minority. The average voter knew the system was deeply flawed but also knew the economic gains made by Japan and the steady progress of individual well-being. The system was imperfect, but it worked. So why change it? Power would always be a money game. That was human nature.
"Means, opportunity, and motive," said the prosecutor. "I find it hard to believe that the Namakas would turn on their kuromaku..."
"But," said Adachi, "There is the matter of the evidence."
"Quite so," said the prosecutor. "And the evidence is quite convincing."
"Bring them in?" said Adachi.
The prosecutor shook his head. "I think we should talk to the Namaka brothers fairly soon," he said, "but not quite yet. Let us see what we can turn up in the next couple of weeks. The indicators are clear, but a successful outcome will require more in the way of proof."
"We are working on it," said Adachi. Despite some unease, which he did his best to suppress, he could feel the case beginning to crack. The feeling was that of exhilaration, the lust of the hunter. It would give him the greatest pleasure to put the Namaka brothers behind bars.
"This is encouraging progress," said the prosecutor in dismissal. Adachi bowed respectfully. He felt tired but good.
* * * * *
Three days later, the Tokyo MPD forensic laboratory cracked the encryption code which had prevented Hodama's security video from being viewed.
The encryption technology was similar to that used to prevent unauthorized viewers from watching satellite TV without a decoder. The principle was easy to understand. Finding the key to the particular code used by Hodama was another matter. The permutations seemed to be endless. It was a problem for a supercomputer, it seemed, the kind of thing that the U.S.'s worldwide eavesdropping agency, the NSA, excelled at.
In the end, thinking laterally, old-fashioned police work rather than technology was brought into play. A detailed examination of Hodama's business connections revealed a shareholding in a company that manufactured decoders. From then on, it was just a matter of talking persuasively to the company president. At first he was unwilling to cooperate. A trip to police headquarters and a tour of some of the facilities for overnight guests worked wonders.
The lab sent over several unlocked copies of the tape which could be played on an ordinary video machine. Adachi had an initial viewing in the squad room, then took a copy back to his apartment to study at his leisure. Besides, he wanted Chifune's input; and he wanted Chifune.
Surprisingly, she was available. She tended to be elusive. She said that unpredictability stimulated ardor. Privately, Adachi thought his ardor for Chifune did not need any help. He only had to think of Tanabu-san for his desire to become well-nigh intolerable. Other women no longer interested him. He had tried a few times since he had started sleeping with Chifune, but the alternatives paled in comparison. It was a damn nuisance.
He was accustomed to a robust and uncomplicated sex life enjoyed in much the same physical way as a bout of kendo — and now his whole being was involved. It was a marvelous, awful, terrifying feeling; and a bloody nuisance. Running any murder investigation required absolute focus and concentration. And the Hodama business was not just any old slice of mayhem.
Hodama's security videos were linked to the cameras directly in front of the house and inside the main reception area. There were cameras elsewhere, but these were merely connected to monitors. The lab had intercut the tapes from the two cameras linked to recorders to give some chronological sense, but had edited out nothing.
The video had a grim documentary quality about it. There was no sound and the pictures were in black and white, but nonetheless they were compelling.
Unfortunately, they appeared to be of little help.
"Dark business suits and ski masks," said Adachi cheerfully, "and surgical gloves. These are not particularly helpful people. And note the license plates are covered with black cloth or something similar. Very professional and unfriendly."
His voice was relaxed. Chifune had no sooner entered his apartment than he had taken her on the tatami floor, or maybe she had taken him. It was hard to know with Chifune. She now sat naked beside him, the video controls in her hand. They were drinking chilled white wine and leaning back against beanbags.
It was a rather pleasant way, thought Adachi, to carry on an investigation. He was not naked. Almost everything had come off in the encounter, but he was still wearing his tie — his Tokyo MPD tie at that. He lifted the mangled thing off his head and threw it like a ring at the door handle. It hung perfectly on the first shot.
"We've got the make of the car, the number and build of the assailants, and the makes of several of the weapons for starters," said Chifune. "Don't be lazy. You can't expect them to wear name tags."
"Whiz it back," said Adachi. He was pleased with his VCR. Matsushita, he considered, had done him proud. It featured all the latest gadgetry, not the least of which was resolution enhancement, freeze frame, and variable-speed slow motion. If there was something to be seen, they would see it.
Chifune reran the video, and again, and again, and again. And then she noticed Adachi's revived tumescent condition and decided they both could do with some attention.
Afterward, they ran the video twice more. By now they were concentrating on the figure who seemed to be giving the orders. His face and neck were completely concealed; his suit gave off no clues, except to show that the wearer was a tall, powerful man.
The camera had caught his outstretched arms as he waved his people to surround the building. Here there was an interesting detail. Through the thin surgical glove on the left hand, the outline of a heavy ring could clearly be seen.
"Kei Namaka?" said Adachi. "The build is right, the body language is right, and he wears a ring something like that — I'll get the lab to do some photo enhancement. But hell, would he do a hit himself? He would be insane to. These people never do their own dirty work. They're insulated."
"Hodama didn't die any old way," said Chifune. "This was personal. And I think it may well be political — which is interesting."
"What do you mean?" said Adachi.
"A conventional killing gets harder to solve as time goes on," said Chifune. "A hit like Hodama brings the beneficiary out of the woodwork. I don't think we're looking closely enough at who benefits. Think about it. Power abhors a vacuum. Kill a kuromaku and who is likely to surface?"
"Another kuromaku," said Adachi slowly. "A puppetmaster — and his puppets."
"Killing Hodama may be about revenge," said Chifune, "but I think it was mostly about power. Look for a power shift."
Adachi stared at her. "What do you know?" he said.
"More than you," said Chifune, "but neither of us knows enough. I'm working on it."
"Politics!" said Adachi disgustedly.
"Not just politics," said Chifune. "There are linkages here." She stroked Adachi's cheek and then kissed him. "Powerful interests, corruption, a lot of history, and terrorism. This is a dangerous, bloody business, my love. So keep wearing your hardware."
"‘My love’?" said Adachi, looking very pleased and rather like a schoolboy.
Chifune ruffled his hair. "Figure of speech," she said. "Don't go getting ideas."
The rest of what Chifune had said slowly surfaced. "Terrorism?" he said. "What the hell is going on? What ever happened to old-fashioned murder?" He was quiet for a while. "You know," he added, "our killer may just have a sense of humor, and have made the most of the moment when he found Hodama about to have his bath, but I don't think so. I don't see this as a nice, clean political assassination. I think Hodama was meant to die in agony. The thing may be political — given who Hodama was, must be political — but I think the primary motive was revenge."
"Nonetheless," said Chifune, "look at the politics. Look at the realignments, the new alliances in the toy box. Look at where the strings lead."
Adachi whistled a few bars of an old Beatles song. The Beatles had been big in Japan and, when still only a kid, he had once gone to see them in the Nippon Budokan. A memorable evening. He was not sure that the present generation of much-hyped midadolescent pop stars could be defined as progress. Most Japanese singers had a short shelf life and seemed to be considered geriatric by the time they were twenty. He had a feeling they were assembled by robots somewhere and were simply replaced when they wore out. Flexible production: cars one day; pop singers the next; computer-controlled, using fuzzy logic. Your every need provided by half a dozen vast corporations and the state — or were business and the state one and the same? It was a frightening thought and not entirely fanciful. Japanese homogeneity was all very well, but like food needed salt, there was a lot to be said for a useful dash of individuality.
Speaking of which: He rolled over onto Chifune and, the weight of his upper body taken by his arms so he could look down at her, entered her. She drew up her knees to bring him deeper and returned his gaze steadily, scarcely moving. Then she reached up and stroked his face before pulling him down to her.
* * * * *
The meeting took place in the twenty-story Tokyo building of the electronics keiretsu. The head office of the group was officially in Osaka, but the chairman and direct descendant of the founder worked out of Tokyo, so the facilities there were lavish.
The first floor was a showroom displaying the latest electronic products. They ranged from voice-activated rice cookers to HDTV — high definition television. A constant stream of visitors came to gaze at this Aladdin's cave of desirable technology. In its way, the whole of the building was a showpiece for the scale and scope of the group.
The twentieth floor housed the chairman's office and other facilities for the board of directors. It was also used to demonstrate the group's expertise in state-of-the-art security products and was, therefore, totally electronically secure.
Twenty-one men sat at a V-shaped conference table. At the open end of the V, a multimedia wall brought data onto the giant screens on demand. A three-person secretariat from the confidential office of the chairman manipulated the computer controls as instructed and performed such other functions as were necessary. Minutes were kept in encrypted form then and there. No other record of the meeting was kept and no member could take notes or remove any records from the room.
The twenty-one men were the ruling council of the secret Gamma Society, which, scattered throughout Japan though heavily concentrated in the capital, was over five thousand strong in all. Members were drawn only from those in senior positions in the Japanese government, business, and academic establishment — and then only after personal recommendations and lengthy vetting.
Each of the twenty-one men in the guarded and sealed conference room wore two lapel pins, that of his work affiliation and that of the Gamma Society itself. The gamma pin was in the form of the Greek letter, and, in the few cases where it had been inadvertently worn outside a meeting, had been associated with Gaia — the environmental movement. The Gamma pin was actually an indirect way of referring to giri, ‘obligation.’ In this case their giri related to their obligations toward the well-being and health of Japanese society and in particular toward the body politic.
The Gamma Society had been set up by a small but influential group who had been concerned with the increasing power of the alliance of organized crime and corrupt politics, in what was otherwise a most successful society in many ways. The founders had initially considered combating the opposition publicly — for instance, by forming a new, clean political party and lobbying for change in some of the structures. They'd soon realized that the forces they were up against were too strongly entrenched. Head-on attacks would be fruitless and could indeed be counterproductive. Instead, they'd decided to work completely behind the scenes and, in the main, through others. It had proved to be a fruitful strategy.
Some of their more notable successes to date had come by applying the principles of martial arts — in particular, the principle of using the strength and momentum of an opponent to defeat himself. The technique's secret lay in applying a small amount of leverage at the right place and the right time.
The photograph of just such a lever was flashed up on the giant central screen. It was of a foreigner, a gaijin, a good-looking man with steel-gray hair worn en brosse, and gentle eyes in a strong, well-proportioned face. He looked to be in his early forties, perhaps younger.
The photo was captioned ‘Hugo Fitzduane.’
One of the gathering, using a laser pointer, commenced the briefing. The dossier was extensive.