16


Tokyo, Japan



June 19


The big man in the expensive black suit, handmade shirt, and club tie listened to the progress reports on the Namaka affair with interest, pleasure, and some concern, but his face displayed no emotion.

It could not.

Nearly four decades earlier, terrible burns had disfigured it. The whole of his face had been savaged by the flames, and the flesh on the left side had been almost completely seared away. His ear had been reduced to a piece of blackened gristle. The left side of his body was horribly scarred.

Plastic surgery was not possible at the time. The Korean gangs were being hunted, and a hospital would have meant his death. By the time he was able to have surgery, the medical team could do only so much. Thanks to grafts from his thigh and buttocks, he was made functional. He could eat again and make love to a woman if she could bear it. He could open and close his eyes. His nose was rebuilt, and he had what passed for an ear.

But he was still hideous, repulsive, with his scarred, seamed face, twisted features, and tight, artificial-looking skin. People looked at him and were afraid. He was a living reminder of the terrible things that can be done to the human body. And he looked exceedingly dangerous; a man who had already been embraced by death; a man with nothing to lose.

His own group had all been burned to death in the fire or cut to pieces as they tried to escape. They thought he was dead, too, that the small gang of Korean gangsters was completely destroyed. It was a deliberate object lesson in brutality. Japan was going to emerge again stronger than ever from the destruction of the war, and the power brokers did not want rivals. And they certainly did not want Koreans. The Koreans were a conquered people who had come to Japan as virtual forced labor before and during the Second World War, and then had used the U.S. occupation to try to break out of their servitude.

Japan was defeated. There was a power vacuum. The black market flourished. The gurentai, a new breed of more vicious gangster, emerged with little of the spirit of the traditional yakuza. The gurentai were ruthless and ran roughshod over the defeated Japanese. Many of the gurentai were Korean. It was an opportunity to hit back at the arrogance of the Japanese, to prey on their erstwhile masters. Their conquerors were now the defeated. The newly released Koreans were protected by the U.S Arm of occupation — at first.

For several exhilarating years in the immediate postwar period, Korean gangsters enjoyed unprecedented success in Japan. The occupation regime concentrated on demilitarization and changing Japan into a liberal democracy.

Then came a change in emphasis. The defeat of communism became the main priority. Anyone and everything that was opposed to communism, or purported to be opposed to communism, began to get active U.S. intelligence support.

Hodama was released from prison for just such a purpose. He was an organizer and a fixer, with unparalleled connections. He knew how to press the right buttons to win political support. He knew how to recruit gangs of young thugs — such as the Namakas — to enforce his will. An alliance of U.S. intelligence, right-wing politicians, and organized crime was created. This alliance set out to defeat communism and the burgeoning left-wing movement in Japan and to seize political power. This demanded cultivating popular support, and one of the quickest ways was to turn on the Korean criminal gangs. They were fiercely resented by the average Japanese and were a convenient focus of hate.

The man in the black silk suit was seventeen when the attack by Hodama's people came. The warehouse where his gang was based was surrounded by the Namakas and other members of Hodama's group and saturated with gasoline. Twenty-six Korean gang members had died in that holocaust, including the man in the black silk suit's mother, father, two brothers, and sister.

The one survivor had sworn revenge.

He lived only for retribution. But revenge would only be possible if he became strong. Hodama and the Namakas had the powerful backing of U.S. intelligence, and soon became even more powerful in their own right. The right time to exact appropriate retribution seemed never to come.

The decades passed. The man in the black silk suit worked his way up to become boss of one of the most powerful yakuza gangs in Japan, but still could not strike at Hodama and his supporters without excessive risk and terminal consequences. Hodama's base of support was too strong. He was needed. He could deliver the votes. He was a linchpin of the right wing, of the anti-communist alliance. He was the leading kuromaku behind the Liberal Democrat Party, and he was the CIA's man. He was protected.

Though some knew the story, the fire had removed most traces of the survivor's Korean background. He took the name Katsuda and initially passed himself off as Japanese, though eventually, as the Korean community in Japan prospered and searched for protection against the dominant Japanese, he reestablished his Korean links and traded upon them. Over time, as the Katsuda-gumi became ever stronger, he, too, established links wit the right wing and the LPD and the Americans. And he waited for the right opportunity.

Sooner or later Hodama would make a mistake. He would lose his protection and Katsuda could strike. It was a carefully planned operation refined again and again over the years, which would destroy not only Hodama but his whole base of support, starting with the Namakas. The Americans, referring to the spread of communism in Southeast Asia, called it ‘the Domino Theory.’ Katsuda thought the simple applicable to what he had in mind. Knock down the first tile and it falls on the second, which falls on the third...

When it was over, there would be a new kuromaku, Katsuda-sensei. Only very few people would know. Hodama had enjoyed his public reputation. He felt it increased his influence. Katsuda had no time for such vanities. He wanted power, but cloaked in secrecy. It was the way of a true kuromaku. Invisible but all-powerful.

While still a young man, Katsuda had been impatient for revenge. The image of the destruction of his enemies had influenced his every action. It made him faster, more ruthless, and more urgent in everything he did.

Yet as time went on, he learned to savor his motivation. Anticipation in itself, he found, was greatly pleasurable. The fact that Hodama and his followers were blithely unaware of their nemesis gave the enterprise and added piquancy.

Katsuda wanted Hodama to die without ever knowing. He wanted to deny him even this slight and fleeting satisfaction. Katsuda would be the bringer of death, and the way of death would be terrible. The thoughts of Hodama himself were of little concern. Only his fear and pain would be important. The man must die in fear and he must suffer. Katsuda had seen his family die in agony, and he could not forget. He did not wish to forget.

Patiently, Katsuda studied his intended victims and waited. And waited. Then, at last, the conjunction of several events created the opportunity.

The cold war came to an end, and gradually it began to be perceived that the strategic importance of Japan had changed. For forty years and more, Japan had been offered unrivaled access to U.S. markets in exchange for being an unswerving U.S. ally. This was no longer so important.

Japanese economic success had made the leading Japanese power brokers cocky. They no longer felt obligated to America. Japan was now the world's second-largest economic power, and, in the opinion of Hodama and some others, the time had come for Japan's international behavior to reflect its economic power. The time for automatically playing second fiddle to the U.S was over.

The third development was a sense by the political analysts and intelligence services of the world's lat remaining superpower that the time of the postwar politicians was over. They had become associated with ‘money politics’ and their greed had surfaced once too often. There had been too many public scandals. The old regime had run its course. It had served its purpose.

It was time for an illusion of change.

New blood would be brought in, to public acclaim. But, of course, Japan's real kuromaku, the U.S., would continue as normal. Tatemae and honne. The public image and the private reality. Japan might indeed be the world's second-largest economy — but the operative word was ‘second.’

In the final analysis, a country of one hundred and twenty-nine million people on the wrong side of the globe, living on a chain of a thousand islands without almost any natural resources, could never fundamentally change the world's true leader. And if it thought of so doing, it would not be allowed to. What was needed to be done, would be done. Every action that might prove necessary.

The last item that made it possible, even desirable, for Katsuda to initiate his move was an act of sheer hubris by the Hodama faction. With their confidence boosted by their economic success, they started dabbling in the arms trade and then moved to supplying enemies of the West. Rumors surfaced of the North Korean deal. This was impertinent and would not be tolerated.

Nothing was said directly to Katsuda, but suddenly the signs were there that Hodama and his faction were no longer protected. It was open season, if handled discreetly and with a certain sophistication.

Katsuda made his move.

He had personally led the assault group on Hodama and had taken the greatest pleasure in linking the killing to the Namakas. Month by month, he had tightened the noose. At the same time, he had set in motion his economic initiative. The Namaka's financial power base was being weakened. The elements in the plan were working and coming together.

Yet the Namakas endured. They had taken the heaviest pressure and were still in business. And there were now signs that they were rebounding stronger than ever. Evidently, Katsuda's actions had been too subtle.

Fortunately, the Namakas' own actions had thrown up an unlikely ally. This gaijin, Hugo Fitzduane, could make the necessary difference if the right circumstances were created. An Irishman, another islander like the Japanese. An interesting man, by all accounts.

Katsuda picked up the phone.


* * * * *


Fitzduane looked up from his Japan Times as Adachi made his way across the floor of the hotel restaurant.

The remains of his Western-style breakfast, except for his tea and toast, were cleared away as the policeman approached.

"Good morning, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, waving the policeman to a chair. "You have a look about you that suggests developments."

A waiter rushed up and brought Adachi some green tea. The service was excellent in Japan, Fitzduane had found, though the language barrier could be a problem. His waiter, for instance, was convinced that hot milk was what the Irish gaijin required with tea, and he would not be persuaded otherwise. Still, that slight eccentricity notwithstanding, Fitzduane felt he was in good hands.

"Would you ever think of trying Japanese food, Fitzduane-san?" said Adachi. He was used to gaijins demonstrating their skill with chopsticks and endeavoring, unsuccessfully, to be more Japanese than the Japanese when it came to food. Fitzduane, in contrast, asked for a knife and fork and did not seem to feel he had to prove anything. Sometimes he ordered Japanese dishes, but mostly he ordered Western. It was easy to do so in Tokyo. Practically every type of national cuisine was represented there. "Fish, rice, vegetables and seaweed," continued Adachi. "It is a very healthy diet."

"A vicar was once served a dubious egg for breakfast," said Fitzduane, "and was then asked if everything was satisfactory. He replied, ‘Good in parts.’ Well, that is pretty much my impression of Japanese food." He smiled. "Though it is all superbly presented — a feast for the eye. Unfortunately, my taste buds do not always agree. They have a weakness for French and Northern Italian cooking, with forays into Indian and Chinese and the occasional medium-rare steak. Doubtless, they need further education."

Adachi laughed. He had been skeptical of the DSG's initiative in bringing a foreigner into what, in his view, was a Tokyo MPD affair, but Fitzduane, for a gaijin — a fundamental qualification — was an agreeable surprise.

Despite their unfortunate introduction, Adachi found the Irishman easy to get along with. He had a generous, low-key personality that invited confidences and he was sensitive to nuance, to the unspoken word. Also, his style was intuitive. He could almost have been a Japanese in his respect and understanding for giri-ninjo, yet he was very much his own man.

Adachi was somewhat puzzled by his own reactions to the man. As a Tokyo policeman, profoundly opposed to violence, he could not forget the carnage the Irishman had wrought the day they had met, yet Adachi still found he greatly enjoyed the man's company. Here was a man whose personal code seemed to reflect the most human of values, yet who killed without hesitation and without visible remorse. Adachi had never met anyone quite like him before.

"The two yakuza of the Insuji-gumi who you captured, Fitzduane-san," said Adachi, "have confessed." He did not sound surprised. It had been over a week since the botched assassination attempt. Fitzduane tried to imagine what a week of Japan's famous draconian police-custody system would have been like, under these rather embarrassing circumstances for the Tokyo MPD, and decided he did not particularly want to find out, nor was he overly sympathetic. It was hard to feel much about people who tried to kill you.

Fitzduane nodded. Adachi was slightly taken aback at Fitzduane's lack of reaction. It was yet another example of the man's atypical behavior. In his experience, most gaijin were surprised and sometimes shocked at how consistently Japanese police were able to get criminals to confess. They would raise questions of civil rights and habeas corpus and all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo, as if the rights of the victims and ordinary citizens were not an issue also. In Adachi's view, the West were hypocrites and had their priorities backward.

"The two yakuza," continued Adachi, "made separate confessions and have now signed statements. The contract on you, Fitzduane-san, was initiated by Kitano-san, the security chief of the Namaka Corporation. He personally briefed the killing team."

Fitzduane raised his eyebrows. "You surprise me, Adachi-san. Why would he get involved personally? Isn't a cutout the normal procedure? Hell, this links the assassination attempt directly to the Namakas. It sounds too good to be true."

Adachi shook his head. "Unfortunately, Fitzduane-san," he said, "this development is not all to our advantage. Yesterday, just prior to the yakuza confessions, we also received a written complaint from the Namaka brothers about their security chief, reporting their suspicions that he had been using his division for his own private advantage and also accusing him of embezzling company funds. Early this morning, we attempted to arrest Kitano. We were not successful. Instead we found him and his wife dead and a brief suicide note. In the note he stated that he had disgraced his entirely innocent employers by carrying out criminal activities and associating with terrorists. Yaibo was specifically mentioned. Effectively, the trail ends with Kitano. The evidence, regarding the attempts on your life at least, no longer points to the Namakas — whatever we may suppose."

"How did Kitano and his wife die?" said Fitzduane. "Could the suicide have been faked?"

"We have already carried out an autopsy," aid Adachi, "and although the results of some tests still have to come in, the findings seem fairly conclusive. The woman was shot in the back of the neck at close range by a .45 U.S. Army Colt automatic as she knelt on the floor. Kitano then placed the barrel of the same weapon in his mouth and pulled the trigger. There are no signs of a struggle, and there is evidence that Kitano fired the weapon with his right hand. And though the note was typed on a word processor, it was signed and we have verified the signature. The evidence says suicide."

"Was the weapon his?" said Fitzduane.

Adachi smiled. "Fitzduane-san, you already know how hard it is to own a legally registered gun in this country. No, although Kitano-san was head of security, he was not licensed to carry a firearm. However, there is a black market in such weapons, and all too many are in circulation as a result of the U.S. force's presence and smuggling. Regrettably, the yakuza are tending to use firearms more frequently than they used to and their ownership is something of a criminal status symbol."

"Leaving evidence aside, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, "what do you think about the Namakas themselves? Were they behind the various assaults on me? Are they really responsible for the Hodama killing? Perhaps they are really the high-minded captains of industry they purport to be, and all of this is a smear caused by a renegade employee."

"I'm a policeman, Fitzduane-san," said Adachi, "and I have to go by the evidence. The fact is there is now no evidence at all linking the attacks on you with the Namakas. Instead we have a culprit, the late Kitano-san, with the means, motive, and opportunity — and a signed confession. As to Hodama, the evidence against the Namakas did appear strong, but on closer examination, I'm not so sure."

"You're still not saying what you think, Adachi-san," persevered Fitzduane, but gently. "Go-enryo-naku — please do not hold back."

Adachi smiled at Fitzduane's Japanese, but not at the thoughts he was expressing. The Irishman was touching on the amae element of a relationship — roughly translated as ‘childlike dependence’ — so important in Japan, which results in shinyo — absolute confidence in another person, confidence not only in his or her integrity but also that such a person will do whatever is expected, whatever the cost. Such a trust normally took years to develop in Japan, but curiously Adachi felt that he could have shinyo in Fitzduane.

"I think the Namakas are an evil pair who should be put out of business," said Adachi," and were certainly behind the attempts on your life and are involved with terrorism as a means to commercial gain. As to the Hodama business, here I do not feel they are guilty. Instead I believe that the Hodama killings are part of a power play, and that part of that scenario is the destruction of the Namakas. It's ironic. My investigation of the Hodama affair puts me, in a way, on the wrong side."

Fitzduane thought about what Adachi was saying. "The thought strikes me, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, "that unless we are both careful, we could end up as the filling in this particular political sandwich. Perhaps a little pooling of resources might be an idea."

Adachi thought of the suspected leak in Keishicho — or was it the prosecutor's office? — and the blunt fact that he no longer knew whom to trust except, irony of ironies, for the Irishman. He nodded.

"Let's go for a stroll," he said. "There is a place we can talk in private and someone I would like you to meet again, a Sergeant Akamatsu."

"The veteran in the police box," said Fitzduane. "The man with the all-knowing eyes. He wasn't too happy I messed up his pavement, but lead on."

As Fitzduane was about to leave the hotel, he took a call from Yoshokawa. The Namakas regretted the delay, but one of the brothers had been away and both would like to meet Fitzduane-san. An appointment had been arranged for that afternoon. A car would arrive after lunch to take Fitzduane-san to the NamakaTower.

"So they are sniffing the bait, Yoshokawa-san," said Fitzduane.

"Be careful all they do is sniff," said Yoshokawa. "These are very dangerous people."

"I'll hang garlic around my neck," said Fitzduane, "and maybe take a few other precautions. But, what the hell, it should be interesting."


* * * * *


Fitzduane returned from his lengthy discussion with Adachi and Sergeant Akamatsu just before lunch and opted to eat in his room.

It made his Tokyo MPD minders happier when he was not sitting exposed in a public place, and he wanted to do some thinking. In a couple of hours' time, he was going to meet and exchange pleasantries with two people, the Namaka brothers, who he had every reason to believe had tried repeatedly to kill him.

The anticipation gave him a strange feeling. Fear and anger were components, but there were also elements of uncertainty. The initiative was still in his enemies' hands, and although he had many reasons to believe that the Namakas were behind the assassination attempts, he still had no legal proof. They would have to make the fist move or he could do nothing; or he could cross a line he preferred not to cross.

He could not kill on mere suspicion. There had to be some core values to live by, even in this confusing and dangerous world. Kilmara had chastised him for a lack of ruthlessness on occasions in the past, but the simple fact that he could not change. He had been brought up to believe in some standards, and there it was. Even to protect his own life and that of his child, he could not exercise lethal force unprovoked.

He ordered a sandwich and a glass of white wine and ran a bath. The food arrived within minutes, but was actually delivered by a smiling Sergeant Oga. He was becoming quite good friends with the sergeant, and the minders were not overly keen on an assassin disguised as room service. As they learned Fitzduane's ways, they were getting very good at their job. Surveillance was comprehensive but unobtrusive. Nonetheless, it was a bloody nuisance. Fitzduane liked wandering around strange cities on his own, and being part of an armed convoy definitely took some of the spontaneity out of the whole business.

You could not really act the relaxed tourist when surrounded by a bunch of submachine-gun-toting cops, even if they did keep their weapons in shoulder bags. The submachine guns had been added after the Yasukini-dori business. If the yakuza wanted to play hardball, the Tokyo cops were not going to fuck around, and they were quick students.

Insofar as any gaijin ever could, Fitzduane reflected, he was now beginning to get a handle on how the various players such as Hodama, the Namakas, Yoshokawa, and the others fitted in. A fresh element in the Namaka equations was their possible involvement in supplying embargoed equipment to North Korea. Kilmara had explained briefly in an encrypted phone call to Fitzduane in the relatively secure environs of the Irish Embassy, but he had been rushed and the communication had been short on detail.

All Fitzduane had understood was that intelligence reports indicated that the Namakas and some of their personnel from Namaka Special Steels were having secret negotiations with the North Korean nuclear people, and it might well behoove Fitzduane to watch his ass, because the stakes could be even higher than originally thought. On the other hand, it could prove helpful if he kept his eyes open. No one knew exactly what was going on. The intelligence reports were a mixture of scant fact and liberal extrapolation. Disturbingly, the final conclusion of the analysis was that all of this could involve the production by the North Koreans of nuclear weapons.

Kilmara had finished the conversation by pointing out that Fitzduane's Japanese hosts might not be too enthusiastic about the Namakas' possible arms-trading coming to light.

"My guess," Kilmara had said, "is that the local fuzz—"

"Adachi — the Tokyo MPD," Fitzduane had interrupted.

"—won't know about the nuclear thing, but that their security people will want to keep it very quiet. The Japanese depend on international trade and the U.S. is their largest single customer, so the last thing they will want is for them to be found peddling nuclear-weapons manufacturing plants to Uncle Sam's enemies. We're talking serious vested interests here, so watch it."

"While watching my ass, what am I supposed to be looking for?" said Fitzduane. "They could show me a complete hydrogen-bomb plant and tell me it made chocolate bars and I would be none the wiser. A nuclear expert I am not."

"Look, I'm just passing on the ruminations of the spooks," said Kilmara. "Just keep your eyes open and remember Japan is not that big a place — and happy hunting."

The land mass of Japan, Fitzduane recalled, was actually just under a hundred and forty-six thousand square miles, or just over half the size of Texas. Sometimes Kilmara's comments could be unhelpful.

He ate his sandwich, then soaked in his bath and sipped his wine. The thought occurred to him that although Adachi, and indeed the DSG, might not be in the need-to-know loop, Koancho, the security service, almost certainly was. Which explained Chifune's presence and raised strong questions about her own personal agenda. The gaijin had been brought over to help break the impasse in the Hodama investigation, but supposing Fitzduane-san found out something which could embarrass Japanese interests?

He hopped out of the bath and toweled vigorously while singing an old Irish Army marching song, then dressed for the occasion. Lightweight dark-blue suit, pale-blue shirt, regimental tie, silk socks, highly polished loafers. He examined himself in the mirror and decided he looked the very model of a sarariman. All he was missing was the corporate pin.

He checked his throwing knives and the compact Calico automatic, and was just holstering the latter when his phone rang.

The limousine of the Namaka Corporation had arrived. He picked up the gift he had brought for the Namaka brothers and left. His interpreter, Chifune, was waiting for him in the lobby. She bowed, as any well-mannered interpreter would do, but when she rose he saw once again that enigmatic smile.

He was about to wave her through the door ahead of him, then remembered how the Japanese did such things. He grinned at Chifune, then walked out ahead and was ushered first into the waiting black limousine. The uniformed chauffeur wore white gloves and the seats had white head protectors like those in an airline. The Namaka corporate crest was discreetly painted on the limousine doors.

As they drove north toward Ikeburo and SunshineCity, Fitzduane reflected on the rise of the Namakas and tried to imagine what bombed-out postwar Tokyo must have been like for a pair of near-starving teenagers whose father had just been executed.

He almost felt sympathy for the Namakas, until he remembered the slicing of the bullet as it drew blood from his little son's head.

He as acutely conscious of Chifune's physical presence beside him on the rear seat, quiet and demure as befitted her interpreter role.


* * * * *


The NamakaTower

Sunshine City, Tokyo, Japan


Fumio Namaka leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands in thought.

The gaijin Fitzduane was due shortly, and he wanted to satisfy himself that he had considered and provided for all the issues involved.

The news from North Korea had been extremely encouraging. What had seemed like a wild card now looked like it was turning into a financial windfall, and just at the right time. It would tip the balance. Namaka Industries would survive. Fumio had been very much against the idea of supplying the North Koreans with nuclear plants, but Kei had argued strongly in favor and he had turned out to be right. Frankly, Kei's investment enthusiasms rarely worked out, but the North Korea nuclear project was proving to be a notable exception.

It was at last becoming clear who was behind the Hodama killings and the financial onslaught on the Namaka's empire. A vast counterintelligence exercise and the calling-in of favors at the highest government, civil service, and corporate levels had uncovered a trial that had led in the end to the Katsuda-gumi. It was a much-feared and respected organization, the second-largest yakuza gang in Japan, but as to why the Katsuda people were mounting such a vicious and deadly campaign against the Namakas was a complete mystery. Perhaps they were merely fronting for some other faction. It was hard to be certain. Attempts to make direct contact through a highly respected and neutral intermediary had been rebuffed.

Still, whether they were the principals or not, the Katsuda-gumi were certainly heavily involved and there was now a specific opponent to fight. This was hugely encouraging. The Namakas had been in such wars before and had always emerged triumphant. And recently, there were signs that the tide was beginning to turn in the Namaka's favor.

The Namaka share prices were starting to perform in line with the market again. Contacts who had been mysteriously unavailable were starting to return calls and pay their respects. Damage control to compensate for the loss of the Hodama patronage was working.

It had been a matter of rearranging certain key elements in the extensive Namaka network of influence, and that had taken time, but now the new arrangements were in place and the Namakas were on the offensive.

The Katsuda-gumi would soon learn the reality of true power. Shortly, a Yaibo killing team would commence a campaign of selective assassination against the Katsuda-gumi, and other initiatives would be implemented. Even their hideous leader, rarely seen by any outsider, would find himself vulnerable.

The Namaka brothers were old hands at fighting this kind of gang warfare. And they would have the tacit support of the police, once this Hodama business was put aside.

The police were rarely much concerned about the yakuza being cut down to size, providing ordinary citizens were not harmed. The yakuza were tolerated because some organization was needed — even in crime — but the police were still their enemies. In contrast, the Namakas headed a powerful industrial group and had friends in the highest places.

Kitano's abuse of authority had been extremely convenient. It was outrageous that he should have mounted an assassination attempt on this gaijin Fitzduane without getting permission, but fortunately all avenues led to and stopped at him. He was a perfect scapegoat, not just for the Fitzduane attacks, but also for whatever else the Namakas were suspected of — even Hodama. He had been found out to be a rogue element. A single corrupt employee had scant significance in the scheme of things.

The Namakas were, of course, above such behavior. Their bun — the rights pertaining to their station in life — made this clear by implication. A rank-and-file yakuza or a junior employee might be made subject to special police interrogation, but those at the level of the Namakas were, for all practical purposes, immune. Even the much-feared Tokyo Prosecutor's Office treated those at the highest level with respect. This was Japan, the supreme hierarchical society. Rank was everything.

Ironically, it did not matter whether anyone believed Kitano had acted independently or not. The important thing was that it was a story which could save face all round. The tatemae was what was important. Fumio was reminded of the American phrase ‘plausible deniability.’

The gaijin Fitzduane remained a loose end. Left to himself, Fumio was all for leaving him alone and concentrating on more important issues. Three failed assassination attempts suggested he was an unusually hard man to kill and, really, they had satisfied their obligation to their dead associate by severely wounding the gaijin. Enough was enough.

Unfortunately, Kei — who combined a limited intellect with mule-like stubbornness — did not see things this way. He had taken their failure personally and was being extremely bullheaded about it. His pride was hurt, and he took Fitzduane's continued survival as an ongoing affront. He argued that there was more to the Irishman than they knew and that he was certainly an agent sent to secure the Namakas' downfall. Frankly, some of Kei's comments were excessive, but the result was straightforward enough. Kei Namaka wanted the gaijin, Fitzduane-san, dead, and if the hired help were not competent to do the job, he would carry out the task himself.

Fumio had pointed out that surveillance and informers had confirmed that the gaijin was under around-the-clock police protection, but his big brother had been adamant. He was going to kill Fitzduane and he would not be stopped. It was now a matter of giri. Reluctantly, Fumio had agreed, and had then applied his considerable brain to devising a method which would allow Kei his way without fear of discovery.

He had come up with a good plan, he thought. The gaijin's own initiative — his desire to see the steel plant, as communicated by Yoshokawa-san, who had set up the meeting — would be turned against him. The plan had pleased Kei greatly. The gaijin would not just be killed, but he would literally evaporate.

Thrown inside a tempering oven set to its highest temperature, his body fluids — the bulk of a corpse — would soon boil away and the small residue would turn to gas. It was a scientific truth that matter could not be destroyed, but its substance could certainly be altered. A gaseous Fitzduane would not pose a problem, whatever it might do for global warming.

His telephone buzzed, and a respectful voice announced that the gaijin Fitzduane-san's party had arrived at the security desk at the base of the NamakaTower. The call reminded Fumio to clear his desk. The meeting was to be in the conference room, but one could never be too careful. All was secure. After a final glance, he limped to the meeting.


* * * * *


After Chifune had introduced her gaijin employer at the first-floor reception desk, a uniformed OL came forward and bowed deeply toward Fitzduane and more moderately at Chifune.

She then spoke, and Chifune translated near-simultaneously. In fact, Chifune was so good at translation that Fitzduane realized it must have been part of her Koancho training. He wondered how many trade delegates admiring their attractive interpreter realized that they were under observation by the security services. Well, doubtless the CIA and God knows who else were doing the same thing at the other end.

"SunshineCity, of which the NamakaTower is the centerpiece, is a multifunction complex that is a center for business and commerce," translated Chifune, her face a blank. "The Higashi Ikeburo ramp of the Metropolitan Expressway connects directly to the basement parking area of the complex, and there is parking there for 1,800 cars. SunshineCity includes, in addition to the NamakaTower, a hotel, a shopping mall, a branch of the Mitsukoshi department store, many offices, a convention center, and the world's highest aquarium."

Fitzduane blinked and tried hard to keep a straight face. The Japanese had built an aquarium on the site where their wartime leaders had been executed.

SunshineCity had been Sugamo Prison. This was making pragmatism into a high art. Well, maybe it was better to forget the past. The Irish never forgot the past and look what trouble the North was in. Still, an aquarium! He suppressed a desire to rush away and reread Alice in Wonderland.

"How high is the world's highest aquarium?" asked Fitzduane politely.

"It's on the tenth floor," translated Chifune, "forty meters above ground level. It has 20,000 fish covering 620 different species, and fresh seawater from HachichoIsland is supplied to them constantly so that their environment is entirely natural." Her mouth was beginning to twitch.

"If I was a fish," said Fitzduane, "I couldn't imagine anything less natural than being stuck in a tank ten floors up with 19,999 neighbors. It sounds more like the South Bronx, which certainly is not entirely natural. Still, to be fair, I am not a fish."

Since Sunshine City looked solidly rooted in northern Tokyo and the sea did not seem to be immediately available, he was dying to ask by what ingenious method seawater was constantly supplied from Hachicho Island, wherever that was, but then the elevator doors opened and their guide burst into action again. She had a cheerleader's energy and enthusiasm packed into her neat little body. Fitzduane half expected pom-poms to appear any second, but her body language was repressed and demure.

The doors closed and the elevator took off like a rocket. Fitzduane felt he had left his stomach somewhere about the level of the fish, and there were still fifty more floors to go.

"The NamakaTower, at 240 meters above ground level, is the tallest occupied building in Japan," translated Chifune, "and on a clear day you can see a hundred kilometers in any direction, and even Mount Fuji. You may also care to know that you are standing in the world's fastest elevator, which will make the entire journey in only thirty-five seconds.

Fitzduane's stomach had reappeared and was starting to go in the other direction as they decelerated. If the Namakas went through this rocket trip twice a day, it was clear that he was up against some fairly tough people.

"Doesn't this country have earthquakes?" said Fitzduane. "Is it really a good idea to be this high up when holes open up in the ground?"

There was no time for an answer. The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Facing him were two people who had casually arranged to have him killed, who had threatened the very core of his family.

He smiled and stepped forward, the gift he had brought with him in his left hand. It was a carefully packaged, handmade reproduction of a traditional Irish weapon, the Galloglass Axe, and with its blade and handle it was nearly the height of an average Western man. It towered over the smaller Japanese man, whom Fitzduane took to be the younger brother, Fumio. Set against the tall, broad-shouldered Kei Namaka, it looked to be a fair match.

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