17
Tokyo, Japan
June 19
Fumio Namaka had felt the chill fingers of fear caress his very soul the first time he saw Fitzduane, and ten minutes into the meeting in the luxuriously appointed conference room on the sixtieth floor of the NamakaTower, the grim feeling was still with him.
The gaijin had first come into their lives as a matter of obligation. At that time he had no substance, no reality. He was a name on a piece of paper, a photograph in a file.
Three failed assassination attempts later, and sitting across the table at the very heart of the Namaka empire, the gaijin was another matter entirely. This was a truly impressive man, confident and at ease with himself. He appeared relaxed and to be enjoying the discussion, and it was this very ease of manner, after he had been through so much, that convinced Fumio that his brother was right. Fitzduane was a fundamental threat and deserved to be taken most seriously, for it they failed to destroy him quickly, he would be their nemesis.
Looking across at Fitzduane, Fumio felt fear. Of course, there was always the chance that the gaijin actually knew nothing and would accept the story about Kitano being responsible for everything, but Fumio trusted his instincts. The gaijin was a bringer of death.
Kei Namaka, at his very best in the role of concerned, socially responsible captain of industry, was just expressing his shock at discovering the scheming of the Namaka security chief.
"It seems, Fitzduane-san," he said, "that we have all been victims of a cunning man who grossly abused his position. My brother and I were appalled to discover what our supposedly trusted employee was up to. Kitano-san has brought the respected name of Namaka Industries into disrepute, and my brother and I are extremely embarrassed by this. We apologize without reservation for what this renegade has done. You must let us make compensation, and of course we will do anything we can to make your trip here more interesting an enjoyable."
Fitzduane was struck by the contrast between the two brothers. Kei Namaka was truly a magnificent physical specimen, tall, broad-shouldered, and with the kind of confidence-inspiring good looks that would make him a natural for a business-magazine front cover. In contrast, Fumio, with his thin, disfigured body, was a decidedly puny-looking specimen unless you looked at him closely. There was a deep intelligence in those eyes. The physically unimpressive Fumio Namaka was, in Fitzduane's opinion, the one to watch.
"Namaka-san," said Fitzduane. "Your words are most gracious and are deeply appreciated, but you employ tens of thousands of people and cannot possibly be expected to be responsible for every one. All of us have suffered. I have had my life threatened, and you, I understand, have lost a great deal of money to this man. Well, let us think of ourselves as partners in our misfortune and hopefully partners in a future in happier affairs, and move on to more pleasant matters." He smiled.
Chifune, effectively invisible since she was a woman and her presence, strictly speaking, unnecessary — both Namakas spoke excellent English — was amused at Fitzduane's performance. Knowing what she did, she found the confrontation bizarre, but the Irishman was carrying off his role with aplomb. He was being quite charming, and she could see Kei Namaka responding.
Kei evidently saw himself as a leader and a man's man, and reacted well to having this self-image appreciated. In Chifune's opinion, he was a case of heart — or, more probably, impulse — over head. As for the sinister younger brother, he said almost nothing, but just sat there noting everything. He was a cold fish.
"You're most kind, Fitzduane-san," said Kei Namaka, "and you are right. Perhaps now it would be appropriate if we unwrapped our gifts. Thanks to Yoshokawa-san, I know we share an interest in medieval weaponry, so I hope you will enjoy the modest token we have selected for you."
Fitzduane unwrapped the long, rectangular package. Every aspect of the packaging was superb, both in quality and in execution, and yet again he could not but admire the Japanese attention to detail. With the paper removed, he found himself looking at a long, narrow, hand-made inlaid cedarwood box about four feet long and eight inches wide, itself a minor masterpiece of craftsmanship, but obviously the precursor to something more special.
He was enjoying this. Even under these dangerous circumstances, it was fun to receive a present, especially something that was obviously special. Of course, it could be lethal, but that was unlikely, he thought. The meeting had been arranged by Yoshokawa and was a public affair. No, whatever the Namakas had in mind, he was safe for the moment. He looked across at the Namakas and smiled in anticipation. Kei Namaka beamed back at him. The man was enjoying this as much as he was. Criminal though he might be, there was something rather likable about Kei. Fumio just sat there, stone-faced. It was hard to warm to Fumio.
"What superb workmanship!" he said, indicating the cedarwood box. "I cannot imagine what must be inside." He gently caressed the rich patina of the wood, taking his time. He could feel Kei's impatience. The man had childlike enthusiasm.
"You must open the box, Fitzduane-san," Kei said. "Press the chrysanthemum inlay in the middle and slide it to the left and it will open."
Fitzduane did as instructed. The chrysanthemum, he knew, was associated with the Japanese royal family, and he began to realize that what he had been given was very special indeed. He opened the box.
A magnificent Spanish cup-hilt rapier lay there, cushioned in padded crimson silk. The hilt was inlaid with scenes of hunting and warfare. The weapon was an antique, and extremely valuable. He removed it from the presentation box and it settled in his hand as if custom-made for him.
"Late seventeenth-century Spanish," he said. "The long, straight quillons and curved knuckle bow are typical of the designs of that time — but what a superb specimen. What perfect weight and balance, and what workmanship!"
Kei Namaka looked genuinely delighted at Fitzduane's obvious surprise and pleasure. "Fitzduane-san," he said, "we heard from Yoshokawa-san that you are a swordsman of some renown and a knowledgeable collector, so this small token seemed appropriate. Your weapon of choice is, I believe, the epee, the sporting evolution of the rapier, and it was that fact that motivated this particular selection."
Fitzduane smiled his appreciation. "I do fence a little, that is true, but I'm not sure I am in the same league as this fine weapon. Also, the swords I use have blunted points. Killing your opponent in this day and age is frowned upon."
Kei laughed heartily at this observation and Chifune tittered politely as she was expected to, her hand in front of her mouth. She found the convention ridiculous, but it was not considered polite for a well-brought-up young Japanese woman to give a full belly laugh or to laugh with her mouth uncovered. Kei was acting, Chifune thought, as if he were some medieval daimyo or clan lord in a good mood, posturing in front of his samurai.
Just as quickly, she recalled, the mood of such a man could swing the other way to violence. Of course, the brutal reality was that he was indeed the modern version of a powerful daimyo, only his holdings spanned the continents. The wealth of a modern keiretsu would make a medieval daimyo pale. Kei was not merely acting his role. He was strong and influential. This was the frightening truth.
"Namaka-san," said Fitzduane. "I am deeply honored by your gift. Now perhaps you would do me the honor of opening the simple token I have brought for you. It will not compare with your generosity, but you may find it interesting."
If Kei had been excited while watching Fitzduane open his present, then this time he was practically panting, although to a less well-trained eye than Chifune's, his superficial physical demeanor did not betray him. This was Japan, where control was important and excess was frowned upon. Nonetheless, his fingers worked a little too hard at the outer wrapping and his eyes gleamed just a little too brightly. The man acted as if it was Christmas. It was curious, this mixture of childlike vulnerability and brutality.
When the gleaming ax finally emerged, the blade double-headed and the handle inlaid with fine gold wire, Kei Namaka gave a gasp of admiration and then being unable to restrain himself any longer, gave a shout and stood up, ax in hand, and whirled it about his head.
Kei, despite his handmade shirt and silk tie and Savile Row suit, did not look in any way incongruous as he whirled the weapon. On the contrary, he looked magnificent — every inch the Eternal Warrior, in Chifune's opinion, or a spoiled child with yet another lethal toy. It depended on your particular point of view.
"I heard, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane, "that you had an unsurpassed collection of edged weapons, so I wanted to find something that you would not already possess. Unfortunately, Ireland's troubled history is such that almost all our early medieval weaponry has been destroyed, but what you have there is a precise reproduction of a thirteenth-century Irish fighting ax. It was a weapon used to great effect against the Norman invader because it could cleave through armor."
Kei whirled the ax once again, then brought it back and laid it on its leather carrying case on the table. It was then that he noticed the Namaka crest etched into the blade. He looked up at Fitzduane .
"You have gone to a great deal of trouble, Fitzduane-san," he said. "My brother and I deeply appreciate this gift. We must now make arrangements for you to visit the steel plant in which, through Yoshokawa-san, you have already expressed an interest. It is an awesome sight to see the hardest steels handled like putty. Also, I have a dojo there and most of my weapons collection. I think you'll find it fascinating."
Fumio found it hard to take his eyes off the ax. Kei and this gaijin were getting along like old friends, and yet he could not shake the feeling of dread that gripped him. The weapon on the table reminded him forcibly of an executioner's ax. It was an ingenious gift, and perfect for the effect it was intended to achieve, but the sight of it made Fumio feel ill.
He tore his eyes away from the ax and looked across at Fitzduane and then at Chifune. The woman was every inch the well-mannered interpreter, but there was something about her that gave him pause.
"Fitzduane-san," said Fumio, with a slight smile. "We greatly look forward to your visit to Namaka Steel, but you will now realize that since we both speak English, you will not need an interpreter during your visit. Tanabu-san's service will not be required."
Fitzduane played it very well, thought Chifune. He gave a dismissive gesture, as if to indicate that his interpreter was of no consequence, and the conversation moved on to other matters. The Namakas had taken the bait, but Chifune was now convinced they had every intention of keeping it. They had something in mind, she was sure of it, but what?
As Kei Namaka and Fitzduane joked and chatted in the relaxed and easy manner of old friends, united in their common interest in antique weapons, Chifune started to worry.
* * * * *
That evening, Fitzduane had dinner with Chifune, an enjoyable if sexually disturbing experience, and returned to the bows of the night porter near midnight feeling pleasantly mellow but sexually aroused — an quaint combination.
He endeavored to balance things out under a cold shower, a traditional remedy for such a conjunction, but his erection would not be subdued. Chifune had that kind of effect. Nothing explicit had either been said or done, but the sexual electricity had become strong enough, he felt, to make both of them glow in the dark like Russian sailors on the nuclear subs of the Northern fleet. It seemed a pity, he reflected, that for the balance of the night they would have to glow apart.
Women were damn confusing. There was Etan, whom he loved but who did not want to settle down just when he did. There was Kathleen, of whom he was becoming increasingly fond, who evidently did want to settle down, just when he was beginning to think perhaps he didn't. And there was Chifune, where the chemistry was just plain sexual and who had Adachi-san hidden in the wings, if he read the signs right. He liked Adachi, and anyway it really would not be a good idea to confuse business and pleasure. He needed, and was getting, Adachi's cooperation, so sleeping with the superintendent's woman would not be tactful. Still, life was rarely about being sensible.
Since the cold water did not seem to be having the desired effect, and he saw no point in giving the Namakas the satisfaction of dying of hypothermia, Fitzduane turned up the hot. He was endeavoring to have a pleasantly mindless soak when the phone rang. Evidently, his mind was not fooled. When he wrapped a towel around his waist, there remained a noticeable protrusion.
"I'm asleep," said Fitzduane, "more or less. The earth is round and Japan is a long way from where you are and it's after midnight around here. Nobody civilized calls that late."
"Well, ain't that nice," said Kilmara. "That leaves me in the clear. Listen, my good friend, this is a global village these days, and the ether has been hyperactive since you visited with Bergin. Somebody wants to talk to you to make sure you don't step into something you shouldn't. ‘There are things afoot we don't want to fuck up,’ he says. ‘We need our friends,’ he says."
"Who is the somebody?" said Fitzduane, who already knew.
"Our friend, the unlovable Paul Schwanberg," said Kilmara. "Head off to the New Otani tomorrow after breakfast if you have nothing doing, and ask for him at reception. He's got offices there. Something called the Japan-World Research Federation. Well, it's better than Acme Import-Export, but not much. Anyway, everyone knows who they are. It's just that it's more fun operating from a cover than out of the embassy, though they do that too. They have a proprietorial feeling about Japan. There is nothing like dropping a couple of nuclear bombs on a country to start a special relationship."
As if on cue, the room started to shake, not violently but steadily. After about ten seconds, the movement stopped. Kilmara was still talking, but Fitzduane had not been listening. It had been frightening.
"Hell," he said, "they really do have earthquakes here. It's scary."
"They are due a big one soon," said Kilmara, "or so I hear. Something to take your mind off all this blood and guts you seem to attract. Just remember to stay away from reinforced concrete buildings and stuff like that. They do you no good at all if they fall on you — especially at your age."
"I feel pretty young tonight," said Fitzduane, eyeing the obstinate bulge which had come unscathed through the earth tremor, "but unfortunately there is no one around to share this insight with."
"Yeah, hotel rooms are like that sometimes," said Kilmara. "But not always. I remember when you and I were in..."
Fitzduane laughed. He was asleep minutes later.
* * * * *
The New Otani, Tokyo, Japan
June 20
The New Otani complex was a fitting monument to the new superrich, self-confident Japan, and Fitzduane, having learned something about Japanese property prices, shuddered at what it might be worth.
It was part luxury hotel and part office complex, and doubtless there were expensive apartments hidden away there also. The atrium was spectacular and looked high enough to have its own microclimate. Certainly you could jump off one of the internal balconies and hang-glide inside it if you were so inclined — provided you were well-tailored and wore polished Gucci loafers. There was an implied dress code.
The soaring atrium was a truly magnificent waste of Tokyo real estate. Such impracticality cheered up Fitzduane immensely, and he was already in a good mood. His favorite waiter had brought cold milk for his tea that morning, and no one had taken a shot at him or tried to cut him into pieces when he had gone for a prebreakfast run with his convoy. Also, it had not been raining, which was a decided improvement.
It was soon clear that the loss the developers of the New Otani had taken with the atrium was being compensated for elsewhere. The offices of the Japan-World Research Federation were exquisitely finished, but tiny. It was the smallest suite of offices Fitzduane had ever seen, and everything — desks, cupboards, tables, chairs — seemed to be shrunk in proportion. Schwanberg was small, too, a not-quite-a-yuppie-anymore in his early fifties with thinning hair and a smooth, manufactured face. He wore a tie with a stickpin, and as he moved there was a flash of red suspenders. His jacket buttons were covered with the same material as his suit.
For a brief moment Fitzduane remembered that horrendous scene from decades earlier as, without explanation or warning, Schwanberg suddenly inserted the blade of his knife into that young Vietnamese girl's mouth. He could never forget the gush of red blood and the terrible animal noise she had made. It had been reported, but then the Tet Offensive had intervened, and when the fighting died down again the file had been lost and the affair glossed over.
Fitzduane despised the man. In his opinion, Schwanberg was vicious and cunning but absolutely without core values. He was also an extraordinarily colorless individual. Fitzduane had the feeling Schwanberg knew clamps were needed to climb the slippery bureaucratic pole, but otherwise he had been chose to match the furniture. Still, Kilmara had made the current introduction, and the game was not played by being overly concerned about personalities.
"Colonel Fitzduane," said Schwanberg, smiling broadly and taking Fitzduane's hand in both of his. "This is a genuine pleasure and a privilege. It's good to see an old war buddy. We've both come a long way since then."
Fitzduane extracted his hand, kept his face in neutral, and barely restrained himself from doing something painful and destructive to the little toad. The man's eyes were curiously dead, as if feelings and emotions were alien.
Schwanberg snapped his fingers. Fitzduane's umbrella was removed by a bowing office lady and he was shown into a miniature conference room.
Tea was brought in by another OL. Frankly, he could not see where they put all these people. The place was seriously small. They must rack up the staff in the filing cabinets. There did not seem enough space for a couple of real humans.
Schwanberg pressed some buttons on a console recessed into the conference table and the door slid shut and there was the sound of humming.
"We're now totally secure," said Schwanberg. "A bubble. A lot of dollars went into this place. Totally soundproof, totally bugproof. Nada gets out, Hugo, so we can speak quite freely."
Fitzduane smiled disarmingly. "Speak away, Schwanberg," he said, and sat back in his miniature chair expectantly. Schwanberg looked at him, as if expecting him to say something. Fitzduane just nodded reassuringly, but said nothing.
"You know, Colonel," said Schwanberg, "you've got one hell of an impressive track record. Most in the counterterrorism business just shuffle paper, send each other classified E-mail, and maneuver to get the most out of the public trough, but you and I and General Kilmara get right in there and get our hands bloody."
He grinned. "Forgive me. I've been a desk jockey too long. The fact is that, compared to most in this business, you two are right at the top in terms of hands-on experience. You guys are not the product of endless expensive training and computer war games. You people have actually done it. You've tracked down the bad guys and wasted them. You know what to do and how to do it and how to get others to do it. In fact, apart from maybe the Israelis, there are few people more experienced at the game."
Fitzduane drank his tea. He had absolutely no idea where Schwanberg was heading, except that he was being flattered for some, doubtless unpleasant, purpose.
"Schwanberg," he said, "what you say is probably true about General Kilmara, but if your records are accurate, they will show that apart from a stint in the Irish Army, I have spent most of my life, including my stint in Vietnam, as a war photographer. I became involved in counterterrorism by accident, by being on the receiving end, and I am here as a consequence of that accident. I am not the expert you imagine. My rank is a reserve title, nothing more."
"Colonel," said Schwanberg, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand repeated pinching the flesh on the back of his left in an irritating mannerism, "you're entitled to your story, but how you tracked down our friend the Hangman is a classic right up there with the Entebbe raid. You may have gotten into this business by accident, but you sure operate as a professional and you come highly recommended. And that's why we're talking. You're one of us. You're a member of the club, and, frankly, it's hard to get into, but it's even harder to leave."
It crossed Fitzduane's mind that even if he had not realized it, he had crossed the line between amateur and professional. What the unpleasant Schwanberg was saying was true. Circumstances had forced him into the bloody world of counterterrorism, and the reality was that he seemed to have a talent for it. But it was not a concept he enjoyed.
Violence might be necessary on occasion, but it was corrosive to the spirit. He thought of Boots. He wanted desperately to shelter his small son from that world. But the paradox was that, to shield him, he was prepared to do what had to be done. It was the endless spiral of destruction that seemed integral to the human condition.
"The club?" he said.
"The small group of us," said Schwanberg, "who do what is necessary so that Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen have nothing more serious to worry about than the IRS. The protectors of Western values, if you want to be pompous about it."
"That is being pompous about it," said Fitzduane. "I am really not overly keen on flag-waving. And to focus this discussion a little more, where does Japan fit into your Western values?"
Schwanberg flashed his organization man's professional grin. "That's the question that preoccupies us local boys," he said, "and right now it is a little delicate. Bergin will have told you some of it, but he's an old man now and out of the game, so he doesn't know much. I'll tell you what you need to know. It's a minefield out there, and we don't want a good friend and fellow club member treading on any of the mines. They are there for a purpose. We have specific targets in mind."
"Hodama and the Namakas," said Fitzduane. "Onetime allies who strayed a little and got too greedy and now have exceeded their shelf life. Time for a little stock rotation. It's something the CIA is pretty good at. Look at what is happening in Italy these days, to name just one other country."
Schwanberg was no longer smiling. He was looking at Fitzduane intently, s if weighing the issues, and as if one of those issues was the Irishman's continued existence. "You sound judgmental, Colonel," he said. "I would be disappointed to find that you are that naïve. Japan has notions of going its own way, but that is just tatemae. The honne is that Japan has always had a kuromaku, and since the end of World War Two that has been Uncle Sam's job. People like Hodama were the tools of power but not truly powerful in themselves — and circumstances change and tools wear out. That's the way life really is. People are organic. They degrade."
Fitzduane spoke coldly. "Spare me the lecture, Schwanberg, and get to cases. What do you want and what have you got to offer?"
"Hodama is gone, so that's history," said Schwanberg. "Now we want the Namakas permanently out of circulation. When they go, we can move another Japanese kuromaku into place who will be more amenable, and then engage in a little rearranging. The government has served us well, but the public is getting unhappy. We need an illusion of change."
"Katsuda," said Fitzduane, "with some politician on a reformist platform fronting for him."
"Jesus Christ!" said Schwanberg slowly. "You've only been here a couple of weeks. How the hell did you come up with that one?"
"People talk to me," said Fitzduane, "and some have long memories. Who had reason to want to kill Hodama in that gruesome way and who was filling the power vacuum? Means, motive, and opportunity — the classic criteria — and they end up pointing clearly at Katsuda. The method of Hodama's killing was a mistake. It was so obviously personal. It should have looked like a professional hit. No signature. Just a dead body."
"All the evidence is stacked against the Namakas," said Schwanberg, "and there is no way of tying this in to Katsuda. Believe me, I know. Katsuda may be guilty, but it will never be proved. A lot of care went into clearing up the loose ends. The Namakas will take the blame."
Fitzduane shook his head. "There is a good cop on the case, and I think your frame-up has been detected."
Schwanberg looked surprised. "We'd have been told."
"As I said," said Fitzduane, "the man is a good cop — and he's also smart. I think he knows you've got a mole in there, and maybe even who."
"Fuck this," said Schwanberg. "We're supposed to be on the same side on this. We both want the Namakas. Sure, they didn't kill Hodama, but so what. They certainly were behind the hits on you. So let's work together and nail the suckers. As to your cop friend Adachi, he's been showing signs of being difficult for some time, so there are arrangements in place. He's a natural for a domestic accident."
Fitzduane, his face masking his inner feelings, wanted to reach across and strangle the man facing him. The cynicism and callousness of this little shit appalled him. Here was this bureaucrat talking about the death of a fellow human being as if it were no more significance than ordering more photocopy paper.
He imagined the Namakas ordering his killing in the same indifferent way, and was extremely angry. His heart wanted him to rush out and somehow contact Adachi and prevent whatever was planned. His head advised caution. He must stay longer. There was more to come out of Schwanberg, and the man must not suspect the thoughts going through Fitzduane's brain.
"So what do you want me to do?" said Fitzduane.
"Help steer the whole Hodama business toward the Namakas and keep Katsuda in the clear," said Schwanberg, "and keep us informed." He was silent, but clearly he was working toward something of greater significance.
"One way or another, we'll get the Namakas," continued Schwanberg, "but they are only part of our mutual problem. There is also their tame terrorist organization — the people who shot you. Whatever you may think, these are a group we are not responsible for We didn't make the connection with the Namakas for some time, as so far we haven't been able to do anything about it. But we want Yaibo taken out. The Namakas are the right place to start, but putting them out of business will still leave a very lethal residue."
Fitzduane nodded. "I see the political logic and I agree with it, but I don't have to like it."
Schwanberg shrugged.
"One extra thing," said Fitzduane, "lay off Adachi. Let me worry about him."
Schwanberg looked uncomfortable. "We influence matters," he said, "but we don't necessarily run them."
"What the fuck does that mean?" said Fitzduane.
"The world about Adachi has been passed to Katsuda," said Schwanberg. "I think an operation is already in the pipeline and that it is going to happen soon. Of course, I don't actually know any of the details. And nor do I want to."
"How soon?" said Fitzduane.
"I don't know exactly," said Schwanberg, "but maybe today. Maybe it has already happened. Katsuda is the impatient type when let off the leash. Proactive on wet matters, you might say."
"Nothing personal, Schwanberg," said Fitzduane, "but if anything happens to Adachi, I'm going to break your scrawny little neck. Now open this bell jar and let me out of here."
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
June 20
Fumio Namaka came into his brother's office.
Kei was swinging the Irish ax he had been given by Fitzduane in much the same casual manner as another executive might fool around with a golf club. Kei was not keen on paperwork and detail bored him. But his interest in the world of martial arts rarely flagged. In his mind, he was a medieval samurai, and the twentieth century an unfortunate error in timing.
"Kei," said Fumio, "I'd like you to come into the corridor and tell me what you see."
"I'm busy," said Kei, as he whirled the long-handled ax around his head and then slashed it down in a scything diagonal blow. "I'm trying to get the hang of this thing. It's trickier than it seems. It builds up enormous momentum, but that very force makes it hard to control. If your blow doesn't hit, then the ax carries on and you're vulnerable. Still, I'm sure there is a technique that can compensate for that, If I can just work it out."
Effortlessly, he brought up the blade again, and Fumio felt both irritation and a rush of affection for his older brother. Kei could be maddening, but his enthusiasm was infectious.
"It concerns the disposal of this gaijin, Fitzduane-san," said Fumio. "I'm running a small experiment which I think you will find interesting."
Kei snorted but put the ax down. "Where do you want me to go?" he said.
"Open the door and look left and tell me what you see in the corridor," said Fumio patiently.
"Games!" said Kei disparagingly, and marched across to the door, opened it, and peered out. He was back instantly, his face pale.
"It's the gaijin," he said, "the Irishman. He's here, just standing there at the end of the corridor with his back to the window. What's he doing here? How did he get past security? What's he up to?"
"I have absolutely no idea," said Fumio. "Are you sure it's the gaijin?"
"Of course I'm sure," said Kei instantly, and then took in Fumio's expression. "What do you mean?" he said.
"The man in the corridor is not Fitzduane-san," said Fumio. "Same height, same build, same clothes, same haircut and color — but he is not the gaijin. His back was to the window so his face was in shadow, but if you look again more closely you will see the differences. But the important thing is that he fooled you the first time and you were not expecting to see him. People see what they expect to see."
Kei opened the door again, and this time went down the corridor a dozen paces until he was much closer to the figure. Now he could tell the difference quite easily, but it was still a good likeness.
"Remarkable, Fumio," he said to his brother, as he returned to his office and closed the door, "but what is the purpose of this proxy — this doppelgänger?"
Fumio told him.
* * * * *
At least once a week Adachi had reported to Prosecutor Sekine, and this time as he stood outside his mentor's door his heart was heavy.
Loyalties that he had taken for granted all his life were now in question. Like most Japanese, he had never held politicians or the political system in high esteem, but he had always had a great deal of faith in the basic administration of the country. Now he was beginning to think he had been naïve.
Political corruption must spill over into the civil administration. Vast sums of money were not paid over to politicians merely to perpetuate an ineffective political system. No, the money was handed over to get a very real return, and the only way that could be done was by involving senior civil servants. To accomplish anything at all, politicians had to work through them. The strings of the kuromakus led directly to these people.
The logic was unpalatable but inescapable. The cadre of elite civil servants who mainly came from his, Adachi's, social circle, must be tainted. To what extent, he did not know, but that the rot was there he was sure. And he was equally positive that he was already a victim.
He knocked a second time on the door. There was no reply so he turned the handle and entered. It was the accepted custom that he would wait for the prosecutor in his office.
Toshio Sekine, the much-respected and loved friend of the Adachi family, a civil servant widely renowned for his integrity, lay slumped back in his chair, his head back and tilted to the right, revealing the gaping second mouth of a slashed throat and severed jugular. Fresh blood matted his clothing from the neck down and stained the desk in front of him. Beside his right hand was the file Adachi had sent him and a blood-splashed, sealed envelope. Adachi looked at it. It was addressed to him. He slipped it into his inside pocket unread and moved to examine the body.
The carpet beneath the prosecutor's chair was also sodden with blood. The traditional folding razor he had used to cut his throat lay just below his right hand.
Adachi bent his head as a wave of grief swept over him, and stood there for several minutes in silent sorrow and tribute. Then he summoned help and did what he was trained to do. Whatever Sekine had done or thought he had done, there lay a fundamentally honorable man.
* * * * *
Fitzduane found half his convoy — two Tokyo MPD detectives, including the ever-reliable Sergeant Oga — waiting patiently in the corridor outside the miniature offices of the Japan-World Research Federation.
The other two were in the car below. It did not do much for spontaneity to be trailed around by four men all the time, but there were times when it had its advantages.
"Sergeant-san," he said urgently, "It is very important that I talk to Superintendent Adachi — now!"
Oga, a man of few words, blended a brief ‘Hai, Colonel-san,’ he said. Everyone is logged in or out of headquarters, and he is logged out. We checked the building anyway, but with no success. He was last reported at the prosecutor's office — there has been a death there — but apparently he left alone. The dead man was someone he was close to, and he was very upset."
Bloody hell! thought Fitzduane. The man could be anywhere — drowning his sorrows in any one of Tokyo's tens of thousands of bars or just walking to clear his head. But we are all creatures of habit. What I need is someone who knows his habits. No, fuck it! There isn't time.
"Domestic accident." Schwanberg's phrase came into his mind. Almost certainly, it had not been meant literally, but it was a logical angle. You don't kill a policeman at his place of work. You hit him when he is off duty and he is relaxing and his guard is down. A bar or a girlfriend's bedroom or the street would do fine, but who knows when a cop working the lunatic hours of Tokyo MPD would turn up in such a place, and a good, well-executed hit demands predictability. But almost everybody returns home sooner or later, and Adachi, he had gathered, lived alone.
"Sergeant-san," said Fitzduane. "Do you know where the superintendent lives?"
"Hai, Colonel-san," said Oga in affirmation. "It is quite near your hotel and no more than twenty minutes or so from here. A lot depends on the traffic."
"The I suggest we get the hell over there very bloody fast," said Fitzduane, and started to run down the corridor. Sergeant Oga spoke into his radio to alert the driver below to bring the car around to the entrance, and only then headed after Fitzduane. The gaijin was still waiting for an elevator. Oga restrained a smile.
"Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane, with a snarl, "you're a good man, but I think you should know I can read your mind. Now listen. When this turgid technology arrives and we get down to the street, I want the drive to break every rule in the book and get us to the superintendent's as fast as he can. Someone is trying to kill Adachi-san, and I think it would be a real good idea if we stopped it. What's your opinion?"
Oga's internal smile vanished. He swallowed and nodded. The elevator arrived.
* * * * *
Adachi stared unseeing into the still water of the Imperial moat.
He had switched both his radio and beeper off. He needed time to grieve alone and to think his situation through. A gray mood of depression gripped him. Everywhere he turned he seemed to be faced with corruption and betrayal. Even the best of men like the prosecutor was contaminated.
The bloody envelope had laid out the story. An indiscretion years earlier had made Sekine vulnerable. More recently, the marker had been called in and the prosecutor had been enrolled as part of the move by Katsuda against Hodama and the Namakas. He did not even have to do anything except keep Katsuda informed and push the prosecution forward in his normal, thorough way.
But then Adachi had upset the plan. Instead of taking the easy way out and working the case based upon the evidence against the Namakas so carefully prepared by Katsuda, he had played the masterful detective. His foolish cleverness had destroyed the case against the Namakas, who well deserved prosecution, and had placed the prosecutor in the position of having to make a choice between his obligations toward Katsuda and his affection for Adachi. And the resolution had been his life. Mistakes or not, he was an honorable man and his death was an honorable death. But what a waste, what a terrible waste.
There was not a scrap of evidence against Katsuda. Even Sekine's suicide not had avoided the man's actual name. The context was clear enough to Adachi, but the letter would be useless for legal purposes. No, Katsuda would end up as the new kuromaku and there was not a thing that Adachi could do about it.
The system was corrupt at the top and, subject to some window dressing, that would remain the situation. If he had any sense, he would bend like the proverbial bamboo or else someone was likely to break him.
The final betrayal was the confirmation that the informant inside his team was his ever-reliable Inspector Fujiwara. The man had been operating under orders of the prosecutor, so he may have thought he was doing the right thing, but his behavior hurt horribly.
Fujiwara had been implicated by name in the prosecutor's letter. Adachi had already guessed as much since the Sunday of the baseball match, but had pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Of course, it was unlike Fujiwara to by working on a Sunday when the rest of the team were glued to the TV, but that just might not have been significant.
Unfortunately, it was. Adachi's instincts had been right. The question now: Was Fujiwara merely working for the prosecutor or did the trail lead right back to Katsuda? Did the sergeant have yakuza connections? Adachi was not looking forward to finding out. Anyway, did it matter? He felt drained and bone-weary.
The gray sky was looking ominous. Adachi turned away from his contemplation of the moat as the first drops rippled into the water. Soon, the warm, oily drops were falling in sheets and every stitch of clothing on his body was soaked. The only dry thing left was the prosecutor's letter in his pocket, tucked bloody but safe into a plastic evidence bag.
Adachi knew he should call in or at least return to headquarters, but he could not do it. He could not face the pressure and the questions. The DSG would certainly want to talk to him about the prosecutor's death. What could Adachi say? Would the truth serve any useful purpose? Where did the DSG's loyalties lie? No he could not face this kind of thing for the moment. Today was one day he had to be alone.
He headed away from the grounds of the ImperialPalace and back toward Jinbocho and his apartment. The rain grew heavier.
* * * * *
Inspector Fujiwara had had a set of keys to the superintendent's apartment since he had been sent to pick up some things for his boss shortly after the start of the Hodama investigation.
It had been a simple matter to have an additional set cut, and since that time he had made periodic use of them. There was little risk. He normally knew where Adachi was, and the man lived alone. Even if Fujiwara had been caught, he had a story about arranging a surprise party for the superintendent. It would have been awkward, but it would have worked.
It was during one of these visits that he had first learned of Adachi's parallel investigation into the Hodama affair. Paradoxically, he had been annoyed at first. The man did not even trust his own men. Then the inconsistency of his reactions had hit him. The truth was that Adachi was a smart cop and an excellent man to work for. And as a smart cop, Adachi had smelled something wrong. But he had not suspected that Fujiwara was the mole. The sergeant was sure of that.
Fujiwara let himself into the superintendent's apartment and relocked the door. As a reflex he started to remove his shoes and then realized the ridiculousness of the action. Instead, he used his jacket to dry his wet shoes so they would leave no mark on the tatami mats and moved across the living room into the bedroom.
Inside, he unzipped the flight bag he had been given by his yakuza contact and removed the silenced machine gun. It was a British-made 9mm L34A1 Sterling, curved with a thirty-four-round box magazine inserted from the left side. This gave the weapon a low profile when firing from the prone position. The yakuza was a gun enthusiast and had spelled out the weapon's specification in detail.
The most important element, from Fujiwara's perspective, was the effectiveness of the silencer. He had been reassured on that point. The silencer, in this case, was integrated into the barrel and was so well-designed it could use standard high-velocity ammunition and still make no more noise than the sound of a person spitting. The seventy-two radial holes drilled into the bore bled off enough of the propellant gas to make the rounds emerge subsonic. This model had been issued to the British SAS.
Fujiwara had to wonder about the gun's history and how such a weapon had ended up in Japan. Internationalization, he thought. It is not always a good thing.
He inserted the magazine, cocked and locked the weapon, and settled himself on the bed. It was now just a matter of time. Then one long burst and a second close up to make sure, and he would vanish into the night. His long coat, hat, and glasses were a sufficient disguise if he met anyone on the stairs. Once in the nearby subway, he would be anonymous.
In the most unlikely event of the subsequent investigation including him among the suspects, he had a foolproof alibi arranged. It would almost certainly be unnecessary. It was more likely that he would be a key member of the team doing the investigation.
How did I get myself into this situation? he thought as he waited. Very few Tokyo MPD cops are on the take. Money, money, and more money. It was a simple answer, and one he found greatly satisfying. He enjoyed the rewards of his activities.
The general lack of police corruption had created its own opportunity. The price of inside information became higher, and then it was just a matter of initiative and displaying an entrepreneurial streak and knowing whom to connect with. Working in an anti-yakuza unit made the last part easy. The coming gang were the Katsuda-gumi, no question about it. Hard men, but they paid well. For this hit, the paid superbly. A double squeeze on the trigger would bring him enough money to retire. Well, it was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time and knowing what moves to make.
He could hear keys in the lock, and then the door opened.
* * * * *
Over the years, Fitzduane had developed an aversion to walking straight into places where something unpleasant might be waiting.
A planned ‘domestic accident’ certainly put Adachi's apartment into that category. God knows what the Katsuda-gumi might have planned. So far — though he was still learning — the Japanese seemed to favor direct action and edged weapons. Opening the front door and walking straight into a bunch of sword-wielding yakuza struck him as being not a good idea.
Granted, he could send his convoy of bodyguards in first, but it really did not seem like the decent thing, and explaining a diced quartet of Tokyo MPD detectives to the Deputy Superintendent-General would be embarrassing.
No, the indirect approach was required here, combined with reconnaissance. Your parents might have done their very best to bring you up direct, honest, and forthright, but there were times when there was a definite role in life for sneakiness. Kilmara was a strong advocate of guile in a combat situation, and Fitzduane had been an apt pupil.
Adachi's apartment was on the top floor of a six-story building and was reached through a locked front door that was squeezed between a martial-arts store and a bookshop. The locked door looked solid. That was another argument in favor of sneakiness. They did not have any keys, and Fitzduane did not want to alert anyone who might be inside by playing with the bells. Apart from the radio beeper, he had tried phoning Adachi at the apartment, but there had been no reply. A further check revealed that there was a fault on the line. This did not make Fitzduane feel good at all.
"Sergeant-san," he said. "Leave two men here and tell them to stop anyone entering or leaving — and in particular to stop Superintendent Adachi from entering. The rest of us will find a way up to the roof.."
The block consisted of some ten adjoining buildings. From the pavement looking up it was hard to tell, but the roof looked roughly flat, and getting across to Adachi a simple matter of crossing a few parapets.
It turned out to be more complicated. Having reached roof level from an entrance three houses away, after some badge-flashing and shouting by Sergeant Oga to a remarkably stubborn little old lady, they found themselves one level below the next building.
The rain continued to emulate a lukewarm power shower as Fitzduane assessed the situation. The adjoining roof was not just one floor higher, there was a parapet involved as well. They would have to climb about fourteen or fifteen feet, and the only way he could see to do it was to scale a drainpipe on the front of the building, with the street directly below.
"Sergeant Oga," he said. "Send your colleague for some rope. God knows what we'll find when we get to the top. Meanwhile, you and I are going to do some climbing."
Oga snapped out instructions and the detective rushed away. Then the sergeant ran toward the parapet and moved to reach out to the drainpipe. Fitzduane caught up with him and interposed an arm.
"Gaijins first," he said, "and besides, this was my thoroughly stupid idea." He started to climb. Six feet up, he noticed that whatever was true about Japanese craftsmanship, the drainage fixings had not been installed on one of their better days.
He paused to get his breath.
A crack sounded beneath him, and the pipe below him slowly broke away from the wall at the brace where his feet rested.
Fitzduane looked down. Sergeant Oga was shouting something, and far below he could see faces looking up. All his weight was now being suspended by his arms, and the pipe he was hanging on felt greasy. That was the least of his worries. If the brace above him was of the same standard as the one below, he was going to die in Japan, and in the rain at that.
Oga was pointing.
Fitzduane turned his head and looked where the sergeant was indicating. There was a metal protrusion a foot to one side and a couple of feet farther up from where his feet had been resting; it seemed to be doing something for a neon sign that flashed below.
He stretched out his left foot and found the piece of angle iron and slowly rested his weight on it and levered himself up. The iron held. He was now able to move his feet up to the next pipe brace, and soon after that got his hands over the parapet. He tensed himself for one more effort. As he pushed at the brace to gain the momentum to swing his legs over the top, the rest of the pipe gave way.
Fitzduane lay on the parapet for a few seconds to regain his strength. His head was on the edge and, looking down, he could see an excited crowd scurrying back after the impact of yet another section of pipe on the pavement.
This was one hell of a way to effect a covert entrance. He just had to hope that whoever was inside Adachi's apartment — if anybody — was not looking out through the window or, failing that, would not make an association with the chaos below. He was shaking with stress reaction, and he felt nauseous and he hoped the fallen pipe had not hit anybody. Given the population density in Tokyo, he was not sure the odds were in his favor. Still, he had more immediate concerns. He pulled himself together and carefully transferred his weight from the parapet to the roof.
Soon afterward, he was sprawled at the edge of Adachi's skylight, peering in cautiously at the scene underneath. On a bright day, he would have been silhouetted immediately against the sky. On this gloomy day, with the rain pounding down and smearing the glass, he would be less obtrusive.
It was some consolation for having to lie in a pool of dirty water. The drainage off Adachi's roof left a great deal to be desired. He was getting a whole new perspective on the Japanese economic miracle.
* * * * *
Adachi had arrived, scarcely a minute ahead of Fitzduane, wet, exhausted, shivering, and burdened with an overwhelming fatigue.
The prospect of climbing five floors was more than he could contemplate. He climbed the first flight and sat down and rested his head wearily against the wall and for a few minutes fell asleep. Rainwater from his sodden shoes dripped from him and formed a pool at his feet.
The crash of a closing door on the floor above woke him, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a peremptory shout, as his neighbor saw him and mistook his dripping, beaten-down figure for a beggar. Stumbling apologies followed as the man realized who Adachi was. Then he offered help, but Adachi brushed his concern aside.
"A touch of flu," he said, rising to his feet and bowing politely, "but nothing serious. Thank you, Samu-san, for your concern."
Samu-san bowed in acknowledgment, but still looked at Adachi as if wanting to help. The policeman was pale and shaking, and was clearly ill.
Adachi resolved the situation by commencing to climb the stairs again. As he passed Samu-san he smiled, and this reassured the neighbor. He clattered off down the stairs once more and Adachi was left in peace. He rested again for some further minutes, then climbed another flight.
In all, it took him nearly twenty minutes to get to the top, and he stumbled through his door, exhausted, and closed it behind him. He removed his shoes and socks and sodden jacket, and, barefoot, trembling with fatigue and cold, walked slowly into his living room. He wanted nothing more than warmth and the escape of sleep.
It was then that he saw Fujiwara.
The sergeant walked out of the bedroom with the weapon in his hands, its thick, silenced barrel pointing straight at Adachi. The silencer made his intentions obvious. To Adachi's surprise, he felt neither surprise nor fear. Instead, there was a bittersweet blend of betrayal, sadness, and surrender. He stood there in his wet clothes, still trembling but otherwise immobile, his hands at his sides.
Fujiwara had always liked Adachi and regretted having to kill him. But his considerable regard for his superintendent was outweighed by his regard for what he was being paid. His years on the streets had taught him that life was about compromise and tough decisions. Still, faced with this pathetic figure, he was reluctant to pull the trigger.
"So, Sergeant Fujiwara-san," said Adachi, giving a slight bow. "A friend is going to kill me. Under the circumstances, it is, I suppose, curiously appropriate."
Fujiwara bowed in return, but though his upper body moved, the Sterling remained pointed at Adachi. "You do not seem surprised, Superintendent-san."
"Nothing surprises me anymore," said Adachi. "I have suspected you for a little time — and then the prosecutor left a letter. So much betrayal, so much corruption."
"Please kneel down, Superintendent-san," said Fujiwara, "and place your hands behind your head. You will not suffer, I promise you."
Adachi sunk slowly to his knees and rested his clasped hands on his head. As he had lowered his body, he had felt he firm outline of his holstered pistol press into his back. From where Fujiwara stood, it could not be seen. But thoughts of using the weapon were futile. He was shaking with cold and fever, and the submachine gun would cut him in two before he could get the weapon out of his holster. Nonetheless, the thought was implanted in his mind and, irrationally, he found the weight of the weapon comforting.
"Who sent you, Sergeant-san?" he said. "Who has ordered my execution? I would like to know before I die. Was it the Spider?"
Fujiwara laughed. "The Deputy Superintendent is a model of probity as far as I know," he said.
"Katsuda?" said Adachi.
Fujiwara nodded appreciatively. "You always were a fine detective, Superintendent-san, unfortunately for you. A less talented investigator would not be in your present position. Yes, it is the Katsuda-gumi who have ordered your death. You should have kept the Namakas as suspects. That was the way it was supposed to work. It was never planned that you be killed."
"I am relieved to hear that," said Adachi with a faint smile. "So this whole business is part of a Katsuda power play — and the paying off of an old grudge. But who did the actual killing? Was it Katsuda himself?"
"Will it help you to know, Superintendent-san?" said Fujiwara. "Will it make any real difference?"
Adachi opened his hands in a shrug. "I'd like to know the end of the story before I die," he said. "Tell me, Fujiwara-san, for old times' sake. I would appreciate it."
"I was one of the assault group who killed Hodama," said Fujiwara. "The others were members of the Katsuda-gumi. As to who led the raid, well, he was masked. Was it Katsuda-san himself? Frankly, I think so, but I don't know."
"A rather uncertain note on which to die," said Adachi.
Fujiwara looked regretful. "Superintendent-san, I am sorry," he said, "But it's all I know." He leveled the weapon.
Glass splintered, and a concrete block crashed into the middle of the floor.
Fujiwara stepped back in surprise, and in reflex fired a burst from his weapon at the skylight, bringing down more shards of glass and ripping into the ceiling. The silenced weapon itself made so little noise that the mechanical sounds of the weapon could be heard.
Plaster dust, wood splinters, and other debris showered down, together with heavy rain from the now-open skylight.
Fujiwara moved his position and crouched down to try to see if anyone was at the skylight.
Adachi rolled, reached around to the small of his back for his revolver, and fired single-handed twice. His hand was still trembling, but the range was short and the second .38 round smashed into Fujiwara's cheekbone, cutting open the side of his face.
Fujiwara fell back from his crouched position at the shock of being hit, and the Sterling fell from his hand. Adachi looked at the wounded man, the revolver dipping in his hand. He knew he should fire again while he had the chance, but this was someone he was close to and had trusted, an intimate member of his own group, and he could not bring himself to do it.
Fujiwara, streaming blood, groped for his weapon and started to crawl back to the safety of the bedroom.
Three was the sound of a body hitting the floor hard, as Fitzduane jumped down from the skylight and did an immediate parachute-roll away from Adachi but facing the bedroom. He had the 10mm Calico in his hands, loaded with tracer multipurpose ammunition.
Fujiwara turned at the noise and started to bring his weapon around. Adachi also looked across, the revolver waving in his hand, anticipating a new threat. He was now completely exhausted and in a state of shock.
Fitzduane fired a five-round burst at Fujiwara. At such a short distance, there was scarcely time for the tracer to ignite, just pinprick flashes of red before they vanished into flesh and bone.
The tight group hit the sergeant as he was turning to his left to bring his weapon to bear on Fitzduane, tore open his rib cage on the left side, and smashed him back against the bedroom door. A split second later, a second burst aimed at Fujiwara's head, in case he was wearing body armor that the multipurpose could not penetrate, blew his throat and skull apart and he fell backwards into the bedroom.
Adachi brought his left hand up to steady his aim as he had been taught, and tried to point his weapon at Fitzduane. The image in front of his eyes was a blur, and he found it desperately difficult to align his sights.
"Superintendent-san!" The shout came from the ceiling, and the voice was familiar. "Superintendent-san, don't shoot. It's Fitzduane-san — the gaijin — a friend. He has come to help. You are safe now."
Oga — Sergeant Oga — that was the owner of the voice, said Adachi's mind. He lowered the revolver and he felt it removed from his hands. Finally, exhaustion and illness triumphed, and he slid gently to one side and into unconsciousness.
A rope dropped down from the skylight and Sergeant Oga, in his well-cut suit, slid down. The rain was so heavy through the aperture, it looked like the policeman was descending through a shower.
"Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane. "It is certainly nice to see you, but how the hell did you get up on the roof after the drainpipe fell away?"
"Colonel-san," said Oga, "it took us some time to find, but there is a metal stairs behind the water tank at the back of the roof. The drainpipe was not necessary."
"Terrific," said Fitzduane sourly.
Sergeant Oga smiled. "But without that drainpipe, I do not think the superintendent-san would be alive."