15
Tokyo, Japan
June 8
The Deputy Superintendent-General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police looked down at the open file on his desk and then up at Superintendent Adachi so many times before he spoke that Adachi, who was standing at attention in front of the DSG's desk, started to feel disoriented. He felt he was facing one of those nodding birds.
Between glances, the DSG flipped through the reports and stared at the photographs. In the time Adachi had known the Spider, nothing had caused the DSG to react to any perceptible extent, but the slaughter on Yasukini-dori made a decided impact.
The Spider's eyebrows seemed to have been raised permanently by half an inch, and his voice was up an octave. Occasionally, it squeaked. This reaction gave Adachi a certain inner satisfaction. After all, bringing this Irishman in on the Namaka case had been the Spider's idea, and, fortunately, everyone knew it.
"This is incredible," the DSG squeaked. "This man is here only three days and he turns Tokyo into Chicago. In thirty-five years on the force, I have never seen anything like it. Five dead, including a policeman, and one policeman injured. And all of this only yards from the ImperialPalace and the War Memorial. The press are going to eat this up. If this was fifty years earlier, I'd be committing seppuku, and as to you, Adachi-san, I hate to think. You'd probably be enlisted as a kamikaze pilot, if they were feeling generous. You were there, after all, and senior police officers are supposed to stop this kind of behavior."
He shook his head. "Incredible, incredible. And not just swords, but guns, too. Guns in my city. What is Tokyo coming to!"
The fruits of economic progress, Adachi felt like saying, but this was not a time for jokes. He also did not point out that the Emperor was not actually living in the ImperialPalace at the moment, since it was being repaired. He remained silent, as was appropriate, and waited for a signal to speak.
In truth, he was nearly as stunned as the DSG, perhaps more so. He had actually been there and seen the gaijin in action. He had not witnessed the sword-fighting, but he had glimpsed Fitzduane as he was checking the young policeman's revolver before turning and shooting the oyabun in the face.
It was his speed and the way he had acted without any hesitation that stuck in Adachi's mind. This was a truly dangerous man; but also decent. He also remembered seeing Fitzduane attend to the injured Sergeant Oga. The sergeant, lucky man, looked like he'd be coming out of the affair with nothing worse than surface lacerations on his scalp and a rather sore head.
The DSG seemed to realize for the first time that his subordinate was still standing at attention. He gestured toward a chair. "Oh, sit down, Superintendent-san. Thankfully, this is not a half a century ago."
Adachi sat down.
"To be factual about this," said the DSG in a more normal voice, "the core issue here is that the Tokyo MPD failed to protect an invited guest. But for his own initiative, Fitzduane-san would have been cut down only a short distance from his hotel. And to make matters worse, he was forbidden to carry a firearm, even though I knew he was at risk." He sighed. "Frankly, I underestimated the forces we are up against."
Adachi cleared his throat. The Spider now seemed almost human. He had displayed more emotion in the last ten minutes than over the previous decade. It was almost impossible to imagine the DSG as a normal person with a home life and a family.
The DSG looked directly at him. "You are not in any way to blame for this, Adachi-san," he said. You behaved entirely appropriately and your report is excellent. The fault is mine, but I would appreciate your input as to what we should do now. Our immediate priority is to make a statement to the press. Then we can consider our next move with this Irishman.
Adachi removed his notebook and consulted it. "Fitzduane-san has made a number of suggestions," he said.
The DSG nodded.
"He has said that he is aware that this incident may be embarrassing, but that he personally does not blame the MPD in any way, and indeed regrets — very deeply regrets — the inconvenience caused."
The DSG looked extremely interested. "Fitzduane-san suggests," Adachi continued, "that the whole business be dismissed in the press release as a clash between rival yakuza gangs which was stopped thanks to the prompt actions of the police. Further, he suggests that the hero of the hour be the young policeman he was forced to knock unconscious. The yakuza oyabun was shot with Policeman Teramura's revolver, so it would seem appropriate. Fitzduane-san also respectfully recommends that Teramura-san be given a medal."
The DSG exhaled, and in Adachi's opinion, took an unconscionably long time about it. The Spider was a positive genius at buying time in a discussion while also managing to appear entirely in control. Those around him tended to wait with bated breath for the oracle to speak. The Spider had raised hesitation to a high art.
The seconds passed. Adachi was frankly impressed at how much air the little man contained. He must really be fit. When did he exercise? There was not even a rumor of him in the police dojo. Perhaps he jogged in the dead of night around HibiyaPark.
The DSG eventually took a deep breath — to Adachi's relief — and then exploded in laughter. After an appropriate interval, Adachi joined in. The DSG practically rolled off his chair, but finally got control of himself.
"Let's do it," he said. "It's a perfect solution. But weren't there witnesses?"
"Most noticed only the initial yakuza attack, said Adachi, "and then they fled. The involvement of a gaijin was seen only by a couple, and the rain was heavy. I don't think we need to worry. We'll have a quiet word about the public interest."
"Our gaijin friend," said the DSG, "is a very clever man. The Irish must have some Japanese blood in them somewhere. But tell me, Superintendent-san, what does he want?"
Adachi smiled. "He would like to continue what has been agreed upon, and he respectfully suggests that he be allowed—"
The DSG groaned.
"—to carry a firearm."
* * * * *
The Village of Asumae North of Tokyo, Japan
June 10
The village was some sixty miles north of Tokyo, so Fitzduane's bodyguards — now increased to four — had not been overly keen on his making the trip.
Their protests had been so vigorous that Fitzduane, in his Toyota four-wheel drive with unmarked police cars front and rear, had half expected to have to fight his way through the suburbs like a stagecoach careering through hostile Indians. The reality was more prosaic. It was a long, boring trip through heavy rain and endless Tokyo suburbia, until suddenly there were paddy fields and rice growing and a line of pine-covered hills in the distance.
Fitzduane's heart lifted. The green of the forests was a different shade, but there were echoes or Ireland. He greatly missed his island and the beauty of the Irish countryside. He cursed it often for its miserable weather and its failures, but the pull of his tragic, rain-washed island was in his soul. And Japan was a land of islands. There was a bond.
The rain stopped as the little company drove into the village. Even as he watched, men and women come out of their houses with hoes and sickles and started cutting at the undergrowth at the perimeter. It was clear that civic pride was alive and well in the hamlet of Asumae.
A tall, heavyset figure in his early sixties leaned against a stone ishidoro lantern outside a modest wood-framed two-story house and grinned at Fitzduane, then bowed. It was something of a pastiche. With his height and jutting jaw and craggy features, he was a decidedly un-Asian figure.
A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and he was wearing an unpressed khaki shirt of military cut and baggy cotton trousers of similar origin.
Fitzduane had known Mike Bergin since the early days of Vietnam, and his dress sense had not improved.
"I thought you'd be working, Mike," said Fitzduane with a smile, indicating the villagers hacking and hoeing away.
Bergin removed the pipe from his mouth. His complexion — tanned, weather-beaten, and blotched with the patchwork of veins of a heavy drinker — hovered somewhere between unshaven and designer stubble. But there was a presence, a strong sense of human worth.
"Hugo, the Japanese believe that man is put on this earth to work, and that work, work, and more work is the solution to everything."
"But?" said Fitzduane.
Bergin laughed. "I ain't Japanese. Anyway, Hugo, you're a good excuse for me to revert to my decadent Western ways."
"You'd normally join in?" said Fitzduane. Mike, the old Asia hand and battle-hardened war correspondent, had once been something of a mentor to Fitzduane, and the Irishman was curious to see how Bergin had adapted to living in Japan. He had settled in Japan in the mid-seventies after Vietnam, with the comment that "the Pacific rim is where the action is going to be in the future." And he had been far from wrong, in Fitzduane's opinion.
"Sure," said Bergin. "It's important for us gaijins to show we aren't complete barbarians. Anyway, I rather like some of their values. Community spirit is still a big thing here. Money isn't the sum of all gods, like in the West."
"Hell, Mike, what do you know about the West?" said Fitzduane, grinning. "You spent the late forties here with MacArthur and then didn't get much further West than Singapore. The odd foray to London and New York doesn't count."
Bergin put his arm around Fitzduane's shoulder and ushered him into the house. "You've got a point, old son," he said, " but though my lips move as I do it, I can read. Anyway, it's real good to see you. And alive, at that. Given what you get up to, it's fucking amazing."
Privately, Fitzduane was beginning to think much the same, but he made no comment as they removed their shoes and padded in the slippers provided into the living room. Fitzduane's slippers fit. Either he was wearing a spare pair of Mike's, or Mike had regular gaijin visitors. All of which was in line with Bergin's less overt occupation.
Outside the house, the security team had safeguarded the front and rear entrances, and as Fitzduane glanced up, a liveried police car drove up. Belt and suspenders. Well, he could not blame them. He slid the shoji screen shut and went to sit across from Bergin at a battered pine table.
"Thanks for the trade goods," said Mike, looking up from the case of French wine Fitzduane had brought. "Sake is good stuff and it's cheap, but it's nice to be reminded of the fleshpots every now and then. I mean, rice is great, but sometimes I yearn for potatoes."
"Once a gaijin, always a gaijin," said Fitzduane.
"No truer word," said Bergin. He looked distracted for a moment, and Fitzduane remembered his wife had died. She had been Japanese and had provided something of a bridge to the local community. What must it be like now?
Fitzduane reached out across the table and put his hand on top of Bergin's for a moment. "It's good to see you, you old pirate," he said, with quiet emphasis. "You're a monument to the merits of hard living. You drink, you smoke, you've fucked your way through every skin shade in Asia, and you've been under fire more often than we get rained on in Ireland — and still you look terrific."
Bergin looked up, and there was real warmth in his eyes. "Goddamn liar," he growled. "I'll get a corkscrew."
The first bottle of wine was empty by the time Fitzduane had finished his story. He trusted Mike, so he related most of what had happened under strict off-the-record ground rules.
Bergin whistled quietly to himself as the narrative came to an end, then looked across at Fitzduane and grinned. "It might be a practical move to see that your life insurance is paid up."
"Thank you for your concern," said Fitzduane dryly, "but I am hoping that with the help of a few of my friends, including the odd battle-scarred veteran, I won't need it. I'm getting tired of being a target." He smiled, and added with some irony, "I'm thinking of becoming... pro-active."
Bergin raised his eyebrows. "I would say killing four yakuza and knocking a policeman unconscious is an auspicious start. Now, how can this particular battle-scarred veteran help?"
"I need information," said Fitzduane, "background, context, history, perspective. So far I have been fed what other people think I need to know. Well, I need more than that. I need a sense — almost a physical sense" — he rubbed his fingers and thumb together to emphasize the tactile point he was making — "of what I'm up against."
Bergin stretched. "Where do you want me to start?" he said.
"The Namakas," said Fitzduane. "What do you know that I don't?"
"Just as well you brought a case of wine," said Bergin. "This talk is going to run more than a couple of bottles."
"I worked for CIC — the Counter Intelligence Corps — during the occupation as a special agent before my conversion to the Fourth Estate. They used to say you had to be lily-white to get into CIC and turn coal-black to stay in. We did what had to be done and to hell with the rules. Interesting times. Long time ago. But some things linger, like our friend Hodama."
"And the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"The Namakas worked for Hodama in those days," said Bergin. "He picked them out of the gutter and used them for some of the rougher stuff. And, of course, all of them worked for us. All part of putting down communism and, like I said, to hell with the rules. Then time moved on and Hodama moved up the ladder and brought the Namakas with him. And they all started wearing silk suits. But inside, nothing changed. Nor did the old alliances. So there is no way the Namakas killed Hodama."
"So who did?" said Fitzduane.
"I'm not sure," said Bergin, "but I've got a few ideas. The one thing I can tell you is this game goes way back. I think there's your pointer."
Fitzduane looked at Bergin hard. "You know what happened," he said, "but you're not going to tell me. What the hell is this, Mike?"
"I guess you'd call it a conflict of interest," said Bergin. "I have added some ethics as I've gotten older. I'm not in so much of a hurry."
"If the Namakas did not kill Hodama," said Fitzduane, "and someone else did, then they've gone to a great deal of trouble to blame it on the Namakas. Which means they have it in for the Namakas — which means we have something in common. And thinking further about it, the timing of the killing has to be important. It's not just paying off an old grudge. It's more about rescheduling the pecking order."
Bergin nodded and chuckled. "That's my interpretation," he said, "but policemen have to go on the evidence. Frankly, it has been a neat operation so far and it does not look good for the Namakas. And the truth is not really very relevant. They've run their course. Now it's just a matter of time."
"You sound very sure," said Fitzduane. "I've read the Namaka file. They are redoubtable people."
"There are some forces you can't buck," said Bergin flatly.
Fitzduane thought about what Bergin had been saying. Half of what his friend was communicating was unspoken, yet the clues were there. Suddenly, Fitzduane understood.
"You said the old alliances hadn't changed," said Fitzduane.
"Different names, that's all," said Bergin, "but the same team is still pulling the strings, even if there is a problem with one of the team members. Overenthusiasm, say some. Something nastier, say others. But the trouble is, it's hard to get a rotten apple when it's at the top of this particular tree. Hard to do it without embarrassment."
"How rotten an apple?" said Fitzduane. "As a friend to a friend, Mike."
Bergin pursed his lips. "This particular apple has been rotten since Vietnam," said Bergin. "Terminal is the description I would use."
"Terminal?" said Fitzduane. "That's a rather strong word."
Bergin met his glance. "Carefully chosen," he said.
The conversation turned to reminiscing, and later they ate together. It was near midnight when Fitzduane left. As he was saying farewell, he asked a question that had been in the back of his mind for some time.
"How long have you been with the Company, Mike?"
Bergin blinked, but said nothing at first. Then he held out his hand. "Loose lips sink ships," he said. "How did you know?"
Fitzduane pointed at the row of guest slippers. "Too many size twelves," he said.
"You always were an intuitive bastard," said Bergin, smiling. "But someone has to watch the watchers. It's been good to see you, Hugo."
Fitzduane had a lot to think about as he drove back to Tokyo, bracketed by his escorts. In particular, he was thinking about a rotten apple called Schwanberg. As the Company's head of station in Tokyo, controlling the power brokers of Japanese society, he probably felt nearly invulnerable.
In his scruffy but comfortable house in the village of Asumae, Bergin finished the open bottle of Fitzduane's excellent wine, shook his head, and made a call.