14


Tokyo, Japan



June 8


Fitzduane was glad that his first real contact with Japan had been at Kamakura.

As Yoshokawa's car drove into the vast sprawl of Tokyo itself, he became somewhat depressed at the seemingly endless vista of unlovely concrete-and-steel boxes, overhead cables snaking everywhere, and incessant neon. Most of the buildings gave the impression of having been roughed out on the back of an envelope and built in a hurry. Functionality alone seemed to have been the guideline, and frequently not even that. Many of the buildings were just plain shoddy.

Except for occasional touches — a roof upturned at its corners, the rich blue of a tile, a roadside shrine — there was almost no trace of the aesthetically satisfying blend of form and function which had been so evident in the temples of Kamakura. The visual sense of the Japanese seemed to have atrophied over the centuries, or perhaps had been one of the casualties of the war. However, it was not entirely dead, Fitzduane mused. The slick design of so much of Japanese electronic gadgetry was proof of that. Personally, Fitzduane thought it was a poor exchange.

Yoshokawa read his expression. "Fitzduane-san," he said, "don't read too much into what you see. The ugliness of so much of the buildings is superficial. Tokyo's character comes from its people and their energy. As to buildings, remember that the city was practically destroyed in the 1923 earthquake and no sooner rebuilt than it was virtually flattened by American bombers in the war. And we are due another earthquake! In this context, perhaps buildings are not so important." He smiled.

Fitzduane laughed out loud. "And for this kind of security, I hear you have the highest land and property prices in the world."

"This is true," said Yoshokawa. "Land is sacred to the Japanese because we are brought up to think we have so little of it. Also, property is used as security for so many financial transactions. Accordingly, our land prices have become insane. Based upon current paper value, merely by selling off Tokyo you could theoretically buy all of America. Just by selling the grounds of the ImperialPalace in the center of Tokyo, you could buy Canada!"

"The Namakas made much of their money through property, I gather," said Fitzduane.

"What was a worthless bomb site after the war was worth many millions or even billions of yen a generation later," replied Yoshokawa. "The Namakas specialized in persuading people to sell. An unwilling owner might find his child missing for a couple of days or have a car accident or simply vanish. It was all done with great subtlety. On several major projects, their opposition was conveniently attacked by right-wing terrorists — Yaibo — and there was no direct link at all. But conveniently, the Namakas benefitted."

"And Hodama?" said Fitzduane.

"Identified projects, made connections, and above all, provided political protection," said Yoshokawa, "but always secretly."

As they drove through what Yoshokawa assured him was metropolitan Tokyo, Fitzduane saw frequent patches of what looked like agricultural land. Some were in rice paddies. Others were planted with fruit or vegetables. "Given the scarcity of land for building," he said, "what are farms doing in the center of the city?"

Yoshokawa was amused. "More than five percent of Tokyo is still zoned for agriculture," said Yoshokawa. "The high price of land is not due merely to market forces. It is partially artificial. There are vested interests who want land prices driven up, even if it means the average sarariman can no longer afford to buy a house in the city and has to commute for three hours every day. There is a substantial political element in the land equation."

Fitzduane was silent. Most Japanese probably worked their guts out to achieve some extraordinary economic results, but much of the wealth which should accrue to the individual as a result was being siphoned off. He closed his eyes. He could almost see the web of politicians and organized crime feeding off the nation. It was a situation far from unique to Japan, but the scale of it in that country was frightening. And those who had access to such wealth and power would not give it up lightly.

He realized that the Namakas were not acting just on their own. They were part of a corrupt but extremely powerful structure — and most of it was invisible. Tatemae and honne, the public image and the private reality.

Chifune had explained it to him on the plane. "Loosely expressed," said Chifune, "tatemae is the public façade, the official position or party line. Honne, which literally means ‘honest voice,’ is the private reality. Tatemae and honne work together. Too much honne would create friction and could destroy the harmony of the group. Tatemae is the polite friction which smoothes the way. In Japan, if the truth is likely to be hurtful or destructive, tatemae will always be preferred. It is often thought by Westerners that tatemae is hypocrisy or dishonesty. It really is not. It is a social convention understood by all Japanese. It is a problem only for gaijin.

So who and what was he really up against? Whom could he really trust?

"Yoshokawa-san," he said, "do you really think Gamma can make a difference, or are the forces against you just too entrenched?"

Yoshokawa looked across and smiled somewhat wearily. "I have to believe we can," he said, "with a little help."


* * * * *


They approached the very center of Tokyo.

Fitzduane expected a high-rise hotel abutting on a crowded city-center street, but the Fairmont was a surprise. The architecture was unspectacular — it had a postwar utilitarian feel about it and had obviously been extended upward — but the location was superb. It was set well back from the road, with a park in front, and it was just outside the grounds of the ImperialPalace. Trees and flowers were everywhere. He caught a glimpse of water. It was the palace moat.

"The Americans did such a good job of bombing Tokyo," said Yoshokawa, "that there was a serious shortage of accommodation. The Fairmont was built and equipped not long after the war, primarily to house American officers — so the beds are the right size for you oversized gaijin." He smiled. "I think you'll like it. It has what you asked for — character. Whatever that is."

"It is something you have, Yoshokawa-san," said Fitzduane, taking his time with his words.

Yoshokawa smiled slightly and gave a slight bow in acknowledgment. Through his police connections, he had read the account of Fitzduane's adventures in Switzerland and was beginning to see why the man had been successful. The man had a sensitivity, a warmth. Unlike so many gaijin who were overly aggressive in tone and style, he understood the fundamental importance of ninjo — human feelings. He had a quick sense of humor and he was a good listener. Though he was a big man, he did not appear to be physically dangerous in any way, though the evidence said otherwise. If anything, his manner was gentle.

Yoshokawa was recognized instantly. Though his company was not as large as Sony, it had a similar profile and Yoshokawa was widely considered to be responsible for a great deal of its postwar success. He was a public figure and he regularly appeared in the media. For him to drive a guest personally to the hotel was an honor. There was much bowing and smiling. Fitzduane basked in the reflected glory. It was quite fun. He was whisked up to his room. Some packages had arrived for him by courier from the Irish Embassy and had been placed at the end of his bed.

They ran through the arrangements again in the privacy of Fitzduane's hotel room before Yoshokawa departed. They had considered having Fitzduane permanently based in Yoshokawa's home, but had decided it would not be appropriate. It was too far out and it could well restrict the Namakas if they were going to make a move. The Fairmont was, so to speak, neutral ground. And bait should be visible.

The following day, Yoshokawa would contact the Namakas and try to arrange a meeting. Meanwhile, Fitzduane would settle in, and later that afternoon meet Superintendent Adachi. He would be discreetly guarded at all times by two detectives — he nodded at two men who had just joined them — who would be stationed in a room next to his. Chifune would appear on Monday to act as interpreter. Fortunately, Adachi spoke excellent English.

"Will the detectives guarding me normally speak English?" said Fitzduane. There was a staccato burst of Japanese from Yoshokawa. The two men looked embarrassed, and so did Yoshokawa. There was a momentary silence, which Fitzduane broke.

"Yoshokawa-san," he said. "Could you tell these gentlemen that they should follow me, but not restrict my movements? And could you add that I am deeply sorry that I speak no Japanese, but I feel quite confident that I am in good hands? The reputation of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department is legendary."

One of the detectives, a Sergeant Oga, looked visibly pleased at these comments, and Fitzduane realized that whatever the case about speaking English, the man understood it. That was progress. Meanwhile Yoshokawa translated, and as he finished speaking, Sergeant Oga spoke and both men bowed deeply. Yoshokawa looked visibly relieved. Wa — harmony — had been restored.

"Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido," said Yoshokawa, "much appreciate your thoughtful words and say that it is an honor to serve you, Colonel Fitzduane-san. Sergeant Oga-san says that he does speak English but he is out of practice."

Yoshokawa left a few minutes later and Fitzduane returned to his room, poured himself a glass of sake from the mini-bar, and unpacked. Through his window he could see the tops of trees and the curved roof of the Nippon Budokan. It was hard to believe he was in the center of Tokyo. The gray sky looked just like Ireland, though it was not actually raining. In the distance, he could see an airship.

He turned to the parcels delivered from the Irish Embassy. They had traveled over in the diplomatic bag. One of the smaller packages held a cuff designed to be strapped around the forearm with built-in Velcro binding. Sewn into the semirigid cloth of the cuff were two sheathed throwing knives made out of a dense plastic which would not be picked up by a metal detector. The blades were weighted with inset ceramic pieces to give perfect throwing balance. Fitzduane had learned to throw a knife two decades earlier when a soldier in the Congo. The most important thing was the ability to gauge distance, though a certain knack did not hurt. Fitzduane had the knack.

He unpacked the other parcels. One of them was a surprise. It was a golf umbrella from Kilmara. Fitzduane swore. The sod must have known it was the rainy season and had said nothing. The umbrella came with instructions, which Fitzduane read. He then experimented. The thing was really quite ingenious.

The deal with the Japanese was that he should not carry a gun. That did not mean he had to be stupid.


* * * * *


The Oyabun of the Insuji-gumi tasked by the Namaka security chief with terminating this gaijin, Fitzduane, was something of an expert in the human-removal business.

Nonetheless, he had never before killed a foreigner, and he had never killed anyone at all under this time pressure. Normally, he would be given a name and an address and could determine a time and place of his own choosing. Further, he tended to be dealing with someone whose habits he was familiar with and whose behavior he could predict. In this case, he was going to have to improvise, and he would probably have to leave the body where it fell.

This was a pity. A disappearance — the Insuji-gumi had a meat-packing plant among their other interests, which contained all kinds of useful machinery — did not engender the same reaction from the police as a murdered corpse. Still, the Insuji-gumi were indebted to Kitano-san and obligations must be met. They were old-fashioned yakuza, with full-body tattoos for the initiated, and they prided themselves on their traditional values. Their code was rather like the bushido code of the samurai, and it was conceivable that it not be followed.

The oyabun had been supplied with a description and photograph of Fitzduane and the approximate time he would be checking in to the Fairmont Hotel. From then on, he would have to improvise.

Fortunately, the Fairmont was well set up for observation. A coffee shop with large windows to the left of the entrance was open all day, and the hotel itself was quite small. Any new arrival could easily be seen. From an appropriate table, it was also possible to overlook much of the lobby.

The oyabun, armed with an automatic for emergencies and with a short sword concealed in his raincoat, settled himself in the coffee shop to wait, with on kobun as company. The remaining four kobuns waited nearby in a Mazda van with tinted windows. Their swords were in a baseball bag. The overall boss of the Insuji-gumi was an avid baseball fan, so a display of enthusiasm for the sport and attendance at all major matches was virtually obligatory. There was not much place for the nonconformist in Japan, and none at all in the traditional yakuza.

The oyabun boss and his kobun were arguing about baseball scores and working their way through the fixed-price lunch menu and a beer or two, when Fitzduane arrived. The oyabun's first reaction was at the height of this foreigner. He was a good head taller than the Japanese around him and was built in proportion. It was going to be satisfying to cut him down to size. The oyabun was tempted to rush into the lobby and do the deed there and then, but he suddenly recognized Yoshokawa-san and blanched. To commit an assassination in front of one of Japan's leading industrialists, and possibly to harm him in the mêlée, would really be inviting an excessive police reaction. To kill the odd foreigner was one thing. To threaten Japan's industrial might would be an act of a different order of magnitude.

He looked out the window at the weather. Well, it was not actually raining and it was still early enough in the day. With a bit of luck, the gaijin would not hole up in his room but would do a little sight-seeing. The Yasukini Shrine was nearby. The Nippon Budokan, the concert hall where the Beatles and Bob Dylan had once played, was worth a look. The grounds of the ImperialPalace were only a stone's throw away.

He pressed the transmitter button on the radio clipped to his belt and held up his arm so that the microphone in his cuff would pick up his voice. "The gaijin has arrived," he said, "so stop playing with yourselves and stay alert. He has gone up to his room. When he comes down and leaves the hotel, we'll do the job."

Across the table, his companion looked relieved that he could finish his lunch, and went on slurping his bean curd soup. This kind of work made him hungry. In the van with the tinted windows, the four yakuza on standby opened more beer and played with their portable pachinko board for reasonably serious money. Pinball was a marvelously mindless way of killing time when you were on a stakeout.

Yoshokawa departed and the oyabun looked up at the heavens and thanked whoever was up there. The skies darkened and it started to pour, and he felt betrayed. After a further twenty minutes, the rain ceased and an uncertain sun peeked through the clouds. The oyabun felt his spirits lifting again. The gaijin, he presumed, had not come all those miles to sit in his room and watch CNN on the TV. He must have some spirit of adventure if Kitano-san wanted to have him killed.

His heart leaped. The American — well, all gaijins in his experience were American — had entered the lobby from the direction of the elevators. He was checking a map and, better yet, carrying an umbrella.

This was excellent. With his heart pounding, the oyabun watched as the target moved out of sight as he approached the main entrance. Seconds later, he reappeared on the pavement outside and turned left and headed down toward Yasukini-dori Avenue.

The oyabun barked into his microphone. At his command, the driver of the van with the tinted windows abandoned his pachinko game, leaped out of the side door, and jumped into his seat. In the confusion, the piles of yen notes on the table in the back were dislodged. Several notes drifted out the door when it was opened. The three yakuza scrabbled around the floor on their hands and knees and tried to recover the others. In the turmoil, although the foreigner was quickly identified, none of the yakuza paid any attention to the two Japanese who were following at a respectable distance behind Fitzduane. A connection might have been made under normal circumstances, despite the excitement and chaos of going in for the kill, but it was raining. Fitzduane and both of his bodyguards had put up their umbrellas. All eyes were fixed on the large golf umbrella in green, white, and gold — the colors of the Irish flag. It was easy to follow. Apart from its color scheme, it protruded a good foot higher than the Japanese umbrellas. Obviously, it was carried either by a freak or a foreigner.


* * * * *


Fitzduane, equipped with a map, had been well-briefed by the concierge at the Fairmont.

There was an obvious concern over the ability of a foreigner to find his way about Tokyo. Since he could not read a word of Japanese and most streets had no name, Fitzduane shared that concern in a mild way, but he formed the view that with Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido behind him, he should not get into serious trouble. Further, he had been advised that there were police boxes all over the place, so if he somehow lost his guardians he had a fallback. Of course, none of this should be necessary. In Tokyo, Fitzduane had been assured, he would be safe.

He actually felt safe as he strode through the rain. Tokyo was over six thousand miles from the bloodshed in Ireland. The memories of the shooting and Christian de Guevain's death faded temporarily from his mind. His injuries had healed. He was fit and greatly enjoying his new surroundings. Life is pleasant, he thought, as he quickened his pace and turned right onto Yasukini-dori. He was heading downhill to Jinbocho, the bookshop area, to do a little browsing.


* * * * *


Detective Superintendent Adachi had been enjoying Sunday lunch with his parents until the subject of his marriage came up.

Mostly, it came up directly, but this time his mother was talking about the royal family and looking at him in that particular way. Continuity, his mother stressed, was vital. It was essential, for example, that the Crown Prince marry sooner rather than later. The inference was clear. Adachi might not have the mystical well-being of one hundred and twenty-nine million Japanese resting on his shoulders, but he was the direct concern of his parents. If the Crown Prince could be pressured to marry — as he surely was, both by the Imperial Household Agency and the media — then the Adachi parents could certainly pressure their son.

Adachi fled rather sooner than planned and headed into headquarters to check on the team and reread the file on this Irishman. A murder investigation was distinctly more restful than his parents when they had the bit between their teeth.

He thought of Chifune and ached inside. He loved her and missed her, but even when he was with her he had the sense that he was losing her. If ever he had wanted to marry anyone, it was Chifune, but she was a New Japanese Woman and somehow marriage did not seem to be on her mind. Oh women, women! What a pleasure, what a pain, what a distraction. And these days, who know where they belonged? Certainly, they did not, not anymore.

He returned the salutes of the smartly uniformed riot police in their jump boots and took the elevator. In the squad room, on a Sunday afternoon, no fewer than eleven of his team were present. He felt proud to be Japanese. Of course, they were all watching a baseball game on television, but it was the principle that mattered. He joined the group and watched the rest of the game and drank a couple of beers.

Afterward, he wandered into his office to scan the gaijin's file and found Inspector Fujiwara hard at work there. He had not even broken off to watch the game. Given Fujiwara's fondness for baseball, this was true dedication. Adachi felt quite embarrassed.

He drank some tea with Fujiwara and headed off to the Fairmont. He sill had a little time since he was not due to meet Fitzduane until five, so he thought that instead of taking the subway direct to the nearest station, Kudanshita, he would get off a station early at Jinbocho, window-shop a little, and enjoy the walk up the hill. There was a police box just below Kudanshita, and he might drop in as he passed. Sergeant Akamatsu, the grizzled veteran who had trained Adachi in his first years on the street, was normally on duty there on Sundays, and Adachi visited when he could.

The sergeant's wife had died a few years earlier and his children had left home, so he found Sundays at home particularly hard. The police force was now his family. Adachi, he supposed, was a kind of surrogate son. Well, whatever he was, he was fond of the old man. Yes, he would drop in. Also, Akamatsu knew things from the old days. Perhaps the time had come to talk to him about this Hodama business. If anyone would, he would know something about the earlier years. And the old sergeant had wisdom and hat elusive commodity Adachi was chasing — perspective.

He thought of the Irishman he was about to meet and wondered whether he could really bring anything to the investigation. The superintendent doubted it, but he was curious. The DSG had originated the matter. Chifune, when she had phoned after returning from Ireland, had spoken highly of him. The man must have something.

Judging by his file, he also seemed to have a talent for violence. Well, that was something he would find scant use for in Tokyo. The city was extraordinarily peaceful by any standards, let alone by those of a Western capital. His request that he be allowed to carry a gun was ridiculous; Adachi thoroughly supported the DSG's decision. Threats — if any, which he doubted — would be taken care of by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

Adachi strolled through Jinbocho, browsed at a couple of stores, then headed up to the police box — actually a miniature police station of two stories — on Yasukini-dori. A young policeman, by the look of it only just out of the academy, was at the open entrance. His main business at this time of day was giving directions. He went pink, as a couple of very pretty OLs in their Sunday gear of jeans and T-shirts approached him with an inquiry. Adachi waited politely, and when the OLs had finished, showed his ID. The young policeman became flustered when he realized he had kept such a senior officer waiting.

Adachi suppressed a smile, removed his shoes, and went through to the back and up the tiny stairs to the tatami room above. It was not protocol to wear shoes in a private home of traditional building, and as a relaxation area, the tatami room came into that category. Besides, street shoes and police boots were unkind to the straw tatami mats, particularly in the rainy season.

Before reaching the top, he called ahead. He had studied under Sergeant Akamatsu, so he addressed him as if he, Superintendent Adachi, were still the pupil. It was the way in Japan. The initial relationship established the mode of address thereafter. There was no rush to first names in the Western sense. A growing friendship or close professional relationship did not need to be symbolized by such a superficial change as that. If it was there, it would be felt and understood without words.

"Sensei!" called Adachi.

A grizzled, lined face appeared at the top of the stairs. Sergeant Akamatsu looked as if he had either seen or experienced firsthand almost everything a Tokyo policeman could have over the last half century; and he had. He had joined the police force during the occupation, and had stayed on beyond retirement because he was an institution and could still do his job better than most rookies.

The sergeant's tie was loose and there was a glass of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He had removed his gun belt, the top two buttons of his trousers were undone, and he was wearing slippers. His initial expression suggested that he was not overly pleased at having his well-earned break disturbed, but his face broke into a broad grin when he recognized Adachi.

"Adachi-kun," he said, the kun appendage indicating that the superintendent had been his pupil, "this is a pleasure. Come up and have some tea."

Adachi finished climbing the stairs, sat down on the tatami floor, and accepted the tea gratefully. He was silent at first, thinking. He had worked in this very koban a decade earlier under Sergeant Akamatsu, and every time he returned he got an acute attack of nostalgia for the place. It was curious, given the cramped utilitarian nature of the miniature construction — a typical police box was little more than a booth — but he had been privileged to learn under a real master. Whatever problems he encountered on the streets, he had always known that Akamatsu would know the answer and he had never been disappointed. He had very warm feelings toward the sergeant. Coming back from patrol to the streetwise presence of Sergeant Akamatsu had been as reassuring in its way as coming home. It was a fortunate man who worked under a great teacher.

When Adachi visited Akamatsu, they tended to reminisce and talk about general gossip rather than specific cases, because the superintendent's responsibilities were now at a level much higher than the sergeant's and neither wanted to draw attention to the differences of their worlds. It was more companionable to discuss matters in common. This was not a cast-iron rule, because from time to time Adachi felt the need to pick his old mentor's brains, but he had not so far raised the Hodama investigation. It was politically sensitive and operated mostly on a need-to-know basis.

The time had now come to consult Akamatsu. He put down his cup and they talked baseball for a few minutes, as Adachi searched for the right opening approach.

There was a natural break in the conversation, and then Sergeant Akamatsu spoke. "The Hodama business, Adachi-kun?"

Adachi smiled. "Ever the mind-reader, sensei."

Akamatsu laughed. "The entire force knows you're running the investigation, and the word is that it's going nowhere. Then you come to my koban with that certain familiar look on your face. I don't need to be a detective to work out where to go from there. So let's talk about it."

Adachi nodded and started to speak. Akamatsu filled his pipe and listened.

What you need is a little history," said the sergeant when Adachi had finished. "Files aren't enough and computers are dumb beasts. You need flesh and blood to get closer to what happened. Those were hard days after the war when the Namakas were building their empire."

"Can you help, sensei?" said Adachi.

"I think so," said Akamatsu. He was about to say more when shouts could be heard from the street below, and then almost immediately there was the sound of metal clashing and of people screaming in agony.

Both men rose to their feet, and as they did so, there was the sound of gunfire very close at hand. Then came shots immediately below.

Adachi drew his revolver and made for the stairs, with Sergeant Akamatsu buckling on his gun belt immediately behind.


* * * * *


The oyabun of the Insuji-gumi had learned from experience that too many attackers in a street hit could be counterproductive.

Armed with guns, hyped on the adrenaline rush, they had a tendency to shoot each other and a disturbing number of the passing citizenry. Equipped with swords and working close in, the only way you can with a blade less than three feet long, it became hard to tell who was hacking at who in the mêlée — and the victim had a fair chance of escaping amid a welter of spraying blood and wrongly targeted severed limbs.

Nonetheless, numbers definitely had an advantage if properly deployed. A would-be hero, a policeman or passerby, might go up against one assailant, but few sane people would go head-to-head with half a dozen sword-wielding assailants shouting battle cries.

The oyabun favored a human variation of a formation which fighter pilots, he had heard, called the ‘lazy deuce.’ Divided into pairs, the lead fighter would bore in for the kill, while the second aircraft, the wingman, stayed back and to the right and kept an eye out for any surprises — particularly from the rear.

With the ‘lazy deuce’ in mind, the oyabun sent one pair in front of Fitzduane and put the second pair behind, with himself and his kobun bringing up the rear. All were linked by radio, using concealed microphones and hearing-aid earpieces. They were wearing sunglasses and surgical gloves and were dressed in long, light-gray disposable polyethylene raincoats — the kind you buy in a packet in a department store when you get caught short — and floppy rain hats of the same material.

These shapeless outfits not only served as effective disguises but would also shield their wearers from blood. A hit with swords almost always resulted in a kill, but tended to be extremely messy. You could not very well escape unnoticed through the subway, as the oyabun intended, if saturated with gore. Tokyo was so crowded there was a convention that you behaved as if no one else existed, but there was a limit. Dripping crimson on your neighbor's shoes as you strap-hung side by side in a subway car would be regarded as decidedly ostentatious.

The designated hitter, a seasoned yakuza in his late thirties called Mikami, moved into position about ten paces behind the gaijin. When the oyabun gave the word, he would remove the sword concealed beneath his coat, rush forward, and strike. He would use a downward diagonal blow which would hit his victim on the right side of the neck and then penetrate deep into the torso, severing the spine and many of the major organs, and if delivered by an expert with the right-quality blade, would actually cut the body in two.

In this case, severance was unlikely. Mikami was an experienced swordsman, but the katana being used were not of the traditional quality; they were merely mass-produced, modern utilitarian reproductions. They were razor-sharp and deadly, but they did not have quite the same cutting power as the extraordinary works of art handmade by the master craftsmen of old. Even so, they would kill.

Since the body to which he was attached had been perforated twice, thus providing some serious motivation, Fitzduane had given a great deal of thought to the appropriate response to the threat. The safest solution was to stay isolated in protected surroundings. That was unpalatable. It was like being in prison. The next-best thing was to be reasonably unpredictable and to cultivate a high level of threat awareness. That was the option he had chosen, and he had the advantage of being naturally observant and intuitive. But he had also studied — and trained, trained, trained.

The objective was never — but never — to let your guard down, and always, even if thinking about something entirely different, to have your subconscious hard at work on looking out for the unusual, the different, that small something that hinted at danger. He had become very good at anticipating the unexpected.

Since it was a Sunday afternoon and raining, the pavement was not crowded and Fitzduane was able to walk as he had trained — with no one in an immediate threat area either in front of him or behind him. The concept of a defensible space is programmed into us by centuries of having had to fight for survival. In Fitzduane's case, his awareness of that invisible cordon around him was very high. If anyone came any closer, his senses were alerted. If that proximity was linked to any other unusual element, his senses screamed.

Fitzduane was walking briskly, so he became immediately aware of two men in long raincoats who overtook him as if in a hurry and then slowed down, despite the heavy rain, when they were only ten yards or so in front of him. There was something not quite right about them that he could not place at first. Without making any obvious gesture, he moved immediately to his right, near the railings, so that one flank would be secured. At the same time, using his umbrella to remain unnoticed, he glanced behind him.

He felt an immediate rush. His two police minders were a discreet twenty yards behind him, but between them and himself were two men, dressed much the same as the two in front of him. It might mean nothing, he knew, because their clothing was entirely appropriate for the heavy rain, except for their dark glasses. Still, vanity did not necessarily mean danger.

Walking well behind, the oyabun watched with satisfaction as his two killing teams bracketed their victim. They were walking downhill, so Mikami would have momentum on his side as he rushed in for the kill. After one terrible blow, he would then discard his sword and his rain clothing and run into the subway station.

To ensure a kill — the Namaka security chief had been adamant about that — his fellow yakuza would then deliver another blow to the fallen victim to completely sever his head and would then follow Mikami's example. The team ahead of the gaijin were there to block his escape if something went wrong. Kudanshita station was up ahead. They would have to act before reaching the station, because there was a police box a little farther down. Fortunately, the police-box entrance faced away from the location of the proposed hit.

Sergeant Oga was an experienced policeman in his forties, who'd even had special training in personal-protection work a decade earlier. However, he had forgotten much of his protection training. Because Tokyo was a safe city, when he guarded some visiting VIP, he did not regard him as being at risk. In all his years, he had never known anyone under his guard to have been seriously threatened — if one discounted the occasional politician being jostled. And giving those corrupt bastards a hard time might be a good thing.

He had heard that this gaijin, Fitzduane-san, had been attacked in Ireland, but he associated that with the IRA. Everyone knew about the IRA and that Ireland was in a permanent state of civil war. He had seen enough coverage of the explosions and shootings on TV. It seemed to have been going on for the last twenty years — a crazy way to run a country. But Ireland was six thousand miles away and there were no IRA in Tokyo. Even the few Japanese terrorists were mostly in the Middle East, he had heard. The fact was that Japan was well and tightly policed, the population supportive and, except for the yakuza — who at least were fairly well-organized and kept in check — law-abiding. It was the way it should be. Who wanted everyone running around with guns, like in America! That was no quality of life.

The sergeant had not been too happy when Colonel Fitzduane had indicated that he was going for a walk, because it would have been easier and safer to guard the man in the Fairmont, but then he realized he was being unrealistic. There was no real risk, and no one could remain cooped up in a hotel room all day. A man needed to stretch his legs. Personally, the sergeant loved the streets and hated being confined in an office. Still, it was a pity that the weather was so terrible. The gaijin should have come in spring when the cherry blossoms were out and the weather warm and balmy. Whoever had advised him to come this time of year had to done him any favors. It was hot, wet, and muggy now, and it would get worse before it got better. He wondered how long the man was staying. He was agreeable for a gaijin and almost like a Japanese in his sensitivity. A nice man, really.

The sergeant watched in horror from under his umbrella as a figure in front of him suddenly drew a sword and in the same motion raised it high above his head and ran silently at Fitzduane. The action was so unexpected, indeed surreal, that it took him two or three seconds to react — and then it was too late. He glanced at Detective Reido, who was walking beside him, and it was clear that he, too, had been caught unawares. Both men looked at each other, shocked, and then as one drew their service revolvers. The sergeant realized that he was still holding his umbrella, and as he moved forward, he threw it behind him.

Fitzduane turned as his assailant made his rush and took the blow on his umbrella, at the same time drawing out the sword concealed in its handle. The thin blade was similar to an epee, which was his preferred weapon when fencing, though it was a little lighter and lacked a hand guard.

Mikami was taken aback by the gaijin's swift turn, but expected his blade to slice right through the thin cloth of the umbrella and into his victim. He was taken aback when the blade was deflected.

Fitzduane gave fleeting thanks to Du Point for inventing Kevlar and realized that he could now resolve a conundrum which had puzzled him for years. It was an opportunity he could have done without. He collected weapons and had had several very fine katana in his collection, and he had often questioned the merits of the magnificently made Japanese swords — designed primarily for cutting — as compared to the thin-bladed European weapons, which killed mainly on the thrust. He had often debated the matter with Christian de Guevain.

A cold anger gripped Fitzduane. His attacker's blade cut across in a second vicious slashing attack intended to brush aside the umbrella and cut into his victim's body.

Fitzduane stepped back down the hill, but still kept his back to the railings, as the second stroke came at him. At the same time, he dropped the umbrella.

Mikami, expecting that his blow would have to push the umbrella out of the way as well as kill Fitzduane, had slashed with all his force. At the last minute, there was no resistance and he lurched forward off-balance.

Fitzduane deflected the katana blade upward and away, and in the same movement slid his epee into Mikami's body. His attacker's eyes rolled and he stared in surprise as Fitzduane immediately withdrew his blade and blood spurted from his wound. A bloody froth burst from his lips, and he collapsed. Blood and rainwater cascaded down the pavement.

A second figure, holding a sword in two hands low, as if to thrust, ran at Fitzduane from the same direction as his first attacker. Fitzduane extended his sword, and this assailant came to a halt. Two other attackers, the men who had been in front of him, Fitzduane realized, also approached. All three now surrounded Fitzduane in a semicircle, as he stood on guard with his back to the railings.

Fitzduane feinted, parried, and thrust at the attacker on his right, knowing that the attacker on his left would be hindered by the man in the middle. His intended victim gave ground as the epee flickered at him, giving Fitzduane just enough time to remove a throwing knife from his wrist, but not enough time or space to throw it. He now faced his attackers with a blade in either hand. It was a style with which his ancestors in the sixteenth century would have been very familiar.

The man in the center gave a cry and ran forward in a slashing attack. Fitzduane stepped forward, seemingly into the blow, as he moved and deflected the glittering steel so that it crashed into the railings, drawing sparks. Shock, and then agonizing pain, ran through the yakuza and he slumped against the barrier with Fitzduane's knife protruding from his kidneys.

Fitzduane slashed at the yakuza on his left, and the man, appalled at the ferocity and skill of his intended victim, staggered back, his cheek laid open, slipped on the wet ground, and fell hard on his back, his sword clattering away from his hand. He turned on his side and reached for it as Fitzduane stepped forward swiftly, and without hesitation, thrust his sword into the man's throat and turned. The fallen yakuza made a gurgling sound as he died. Nearby, a pedestrian, too frozen with fear to move, screamed and kept on screaming.

The oyabun had been taken aback when he had seen what he had taken for two ordinary citizens draw weapons. He immediately made the connection and was furious with himself for not having anticipated bodyguards. Just as quickly, he had shouted at his kobun and the two yakuza had run at the policemen from behind.

The oyabun, mindful of the consequences of killing a policeman, had felled his victim with the blow of a gun barrel behind the ear. Unfortunately, his kobun had not been thinking, and Detective Reido lay on the wet pavement with his eyes glassy and his head split in two. His arm, still clutching his revolver, lay several paces away. He had turned as his attacker had run up, and his arm had taken the full force of the kobun's first blow.

The oyabun looked at the dead policeman for perhaps fifteen seconds, as if somehow he could piece the man together again. This was a terrible development. The Tokyo MPD were implacable when one of their own was killed. Life for the yakuza — for all yakuza — would be hell until the murderer and his associates were caught and punished. And it would mean the death penalty. The oyabun realized that he now had nothing to lose. If he was to have any negotiation power at all with the boss of the Insuji-gumi, he would have to complete his current mission successfully. He drew his gun. The gaijin was still standing, apparently unharmed.

Fitzduane glanced up the slope and was surprised to see both his guardians lying motionless. He was now facing three attackers alone. One was nearby and the remaining two were perhaps twenty yards away. The rain had increased in intensity and was now a wall of water. Through it, he could distinguish the oyabun's unmistakable movement as he drew his automatic. And this was a land where the criminals did not have guns. Fuck! He drew his remaining throwing knife and threw it hard at his nearest assailant. The blade missed, but the man skidded onto his knee as he jumped back to avoid it.

Fitzduane turned and ran for all he was worth to the police box some fifty yards downhill. There were two cracks, and splinters from the pavement jumped up in front of him. He ran on, ducking and weaving on the slippery pavement. Spray splashed in the air only to be beaten back again by the rain. The sky was black.

He skidded to a halt at the police box, and with his right hand on an upright, whirled around to face the policeman inside. The young man, immaculately uniformed, looked as if he had stepped straight out of a recruiting poster. A neatly holstered revolver was at his hip. Though he projected all the social concern of the Tokyo MPD, it was clear that there was no way he was going to react in time. The inexperience and lack of comprehension that shone from his face had an almost incandescent quality. He was going to do the right thing, and Fitzduane was going to die.

"Oh, shit!" said Fitzduane, who was imaging the consequences of what he was about to do even as he did it. He hit the policeman very hard in the stomach, then gave him a roundhouse to the jaw..

The policeman made an odd sound as he collapsed, and Fitzduane reached across and removed his revolver. He flicked open the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, then turned just in time to shoot the oyabun twice in the face at point-blank range. The man's nose and forehead vanished out through the back of his skull, and he shot backwards off the pavement and onto the road, to vanish five seconds later under the wheels of a tour bus.

The remaining two yakuza stood there frozen, with swords upraised, as Fitzduane pointed the revolver at them. He was just deciding which one to shoot first when a voice spoke behind him in American-accented English.

"Fitzduane-san, I presume? Please drop your weapon."

Fitzduane kept his gun on the yakuza. A uniformed sergeant with the look of someone who knew his way around came into his peripheral vision, his gun also pointed at the yakuza.

"There are two of your guys up the hill who need attention," said Fitzduane, "and I mean NOW! Get an ambulance. I'm going back up to see what I can do."

Adachi was speechless for a moment. Then he lowered his gun and picked up the telephone. Three minutes later, he found Fitzduane on his knees ministering to Sergeant Oga. The Irishman seemed to know exactly what to do.


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