19


Tokyo, Japan



June 28


There was the sound of a slap, then another.

A pause followed, and then another blow, and Fitzduane felt pain and realized that he might be directly involved with what was happening. He was not sure, though. His head was muzzy and his eyes were closed, and for a short while he thought he was back in the hospital in Ireland, recovering from an anesthetic after a surgical procedure. This business of being shot was a great deal of work. He wanted to go back to sleep.

There was yet another blow, this time even harder. "Kathleen," he murmured in protest. Why were they hitting him?

He could hear people speaking but could not understand what they were saying. That was odd. He felt suddenly cold and wet and started to splutter. There was water everywhere, cascading into his mouth and nose, and it kept on coming. It was like being under a waterfall and he was drowning. He could not breathe.

The waterfall stopped. He opened his eyes. They would not focus properly, but something wooden seemed to be suspended over him. He could see the lines where the boards joined, and he was reminded of a barrel — a rather small barrel. What was a barrel doing up there?

The image above him came reluctantly into focus. The next hard task was to link the sight with his brain. Suddenly, like a car that will not start that is being pushed and is gathering momentum, he felt a sputtering ignition. His brain cells started to do what they were designed to do, and almost immediately he wished they had not. They were coming up with the most unpleasant findings.

He was not in Ireland with a solicitous nurse bending over him. He was in Japan, and the person ministering to him, judging by the full-body tattoo that protruded from his kimono at his chest and arms, was a yakuza. And the barrel was not a barrel; it was a wooden bucket with a rope handle.

He was conscious and he could see, but he still felt sick and groggy. He gave himself a couple of minutes, and then when the yakuza's back was turned he tried to raise himself. As he did so, the yakuza turned and almost absentmindedly kicked Fitzduane in the stomach and sent him flat on his back again.

The bad news, thought Fitzduane, is that I now feel even shittier. The good news, to look on the bright side, is that I can now be reasonably sure the natives are not friendly. And knowledge supposedly is power.

It really did not seem worth the effort. He closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to restore some sort of equilibrium. Clearly he had been drugged in some way, but he had no idea how.

What had happened? Where was he? Who were his captors? It did not seem as if they were going to kill him immediately, else why had he been allowed to wake up — but what sort of plans had they for his longer-term well-being? On reflection, he was not at all sure he wanted to know. The yakuza were fond of edged weapons and making their victims disappear. Fitzduane contemplated without enthusiasm ending up as fish food in TokyoBay, or being sunk in the earthquake-proof foundations of one of the examples of Japan's building boom. Alternatively, if that was going to be his fate, he could do without advance warning. Anticipating a painful death was not the most pleasant way to pass the time.

He decided he had better find something more cheerful to think about. The subject of women came to mind, but that was not exactly pain-free. Instead, he thought of Ireland and his island and Boots's ridiculous antics and his laughter.

Fitzduane started to smile at the memories, and then a voice cut in. "Fitzduane-san, I am glad to see you are enjoying yourself. It is part of the samurai code, you must know, to make the best of adverse circumstances. In your case, your position somewhat exceeds adverse. Technically, you are dead. Dismembered. Blown to pieces. A tragic loss. It was a simple matter to arrange a double."

Kei Namaka! The confident booming voice was unmistakable. Fitzduane opened his eyes. Kei stood there in full traditional samurai regalia, down to the two swords tucked into his sash. He looked decidedly pleased with himself.

"And I'm in heaven, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane dryly. "I have to tell you it's a big disappointment."

Kei laughed and then translated what the gaijin had said. Other laughter could be heard. Fitzduane, bearing in mind what had happened the last time he had tried to rise, did not move or look around, but he estimated there were three or four others in the large room. He was lying on a hard wooden floor. Looking straight ahead past Kei, he could see antique weapons on the walls. That information, tied in with the Namaka chairman's costume, suggested he was in a dojo, the Japanese equivalent of a salle d'armes. Christian de Guevain had died in such a place, he remembered.

"You are a brave man," Kei said, "and I like you, so I had better explain." He talked for several minutes, describing with immense satisfaction the operation to snatch Fitzduane.

"So you blew up three of your own people to snatch me," said Fitzduane.

Kei made a dismissive gesture with something he was holding in his right hand. Fitzduane looked closer, and realized with incredulity that it was a folded fan. The man was really getting into his role.

"So what is on the agenda now, Namaka-san?" said Fitzduane. "You certainly get an A for effort for grabbing me, and I'm flattered, of course, but I imagine you have something more in mind — a bottom line to this exercise, if I may borrow some financial terminology."

Kei beamed expansively. "Fitzduane-san," he said. "I am looking forward to being your host without the constraints that have limited our relationship up to now. At last we can speak freely. Complications like the police are no longer something we have to worry about, and I can tell you everything you want to know. We shall enjoy each other's company, and I can promise you that you will be fascinated. We shall start with a tour of a place you expressed particular interest in, Namaka Special Steels."

"I tour factories better when I'm vertical," said Fitzduane. "Can I get up without someone kicking me in the balls?"

Kei barked an order and two yakuza rushed forward and helped Fitzduane to his feet. Then Kei spoke again and another man came forward. He also wore traditional samurai clothing, but somewhat awkwardly, as if slightly embarrassed.

"My name is Goto," he said. "I am the new security chief of the Namaka Corporation. The chairman has asked me to explain a few points. Unfortunately, there have to be some restrictions on your freedom."

Fitzduane felt his arms being seized, and seconds later his arms were handcuffed in front of him and secured to a chain around his waist. Leg restraints were then placed around his ankles.

Goto pointed to a corner of the dojo and Fitzduane saw his Calico and throwing knives on a small table, together with the other contents of his pockets. They had left him his shirt and trousers, but everything else, including his shoes, had been removed.

"Shortly after you were shot with the tranquilizer dart, we found a miniature transmitter attached to your belt, Fitzduane-san," said Goto. "It was immediately deactivated, so please do not expect any help from that source. You are outnumbered, physically constrained, and have no weapons, and your friends think you are dead. You would be wise to accept your fate and cause us no trouble. Frankly, you can do nothing."

Fitzduane shrugged, and his chains clanked. He had been brought up to look on the brighter side of things, but was having a hard time finding any positive element in his present situation. "Goto-san," he said, "it is not considered polite, in my part of the world at least, to belabor the obvious."

Goto blushed. Fitzduane grinned. "Let's go and see a steel mill," he said. Inside, he was fighting hard to keep control. There had to be something he could do, but he could not imagine what. Hope had taken a serious knock with the discovery of the belt transmitter.

"You should know, Fitzduane-san," said Goto, indicating three unfriendly-looking thugs glowering at Fitzduane, "that your yakuza guards are members of the Insuji-gumi — the very organization that you humiliated outside the Fairmont upon your arrival. They feel they have a score to settle."

"And is that on the agenda?" said Fitzduane.

"Oh, yes, Fitzduane-san," said Goto, smiling unpleasantly. Fitzduane stayed silent, but he made a mental note to remove Goto permanently from circulation if ever a suitable opportunity should arise. Unfortunately, it did not seem likely.


* * * * *


The dojo, Fitzduane judged, as he shuffled across the floor, legs hobbled between two yakuza guards, was about the size of a Western school gymnasium.

The décor was understated simplicity, but the room was quite magnificently finished and appointed. Japanese craftsmanship at its best was truly something to see. The floor, made of planks of some richly hued hardwood, was seamless, ever plank impeccably aligned. The roof was arched and paneled with the same wood. The walls were plastered and racked with an extraordinary selection of medieval pikes, swords and fighting knives from all over the world. Glancing across, Fitzduane noticed everything from Spanish rapiers to Malayan fighting knives.

Firearms were conspicuous by their absence. Kei Namaka's orientation was more toward fantasy than fact, though that did not make him any less dangerous.

The small procession made its way through two sets of double doors, donning shoes in the lobby in the middle. As they passed through the second set of doors, which were double-glazed and of heavy industrial quality, the noise level rose and Fitzduane could see the highly specialized equipment of a modern steel plant spread out ahead of them.

So the dojo was actually in the plant. Now he was beginning to understand things better. The NamakaTower was the symbol of the brothers' joint success. The steel plant was Kei's personal baby. Costing billions, it was a grown-up box of toys.

They were standing on a railed catwalk of perforated metal. The cat-walk, in turn, led to metal stairs which would bring them to the factory floor, but instead of continuing, Kei Namaka held up his hand to indicate they should halt and turned to Fitzduane.

"Steel, Fitzduane-san," he said, "is my passion and joy. It is at the same time so elemental and yet so extraordinarily sophisticated. It is a manifestation of man's superiority and the supreme link between man and nature. It is the very stuff of legend. It is the raw material of the sword, the very symbol of Japan. It is strong, beautiful, infinitely malleable, supremely versatile, and technologically elegant. It is the principal material of war and one of the major blocks of peace. Ships, aircraft, and all wheeled communication depends on it. Nations have been built with it. We cut our very food with it." He paused. "And the creation of steel products on the scale we operate at here is a process of unsurpassed excitement. It is physically exciting — indeed, sexually arousing in its power and drama and beauty."

After he had finished speaking, Kei Namaka stared at Fitzduane with an extraordinary intensity, as if he were trying to communicate his enthusiasm for steel telepathically.

The scene was quite bizarre. Kei, in the foreground in full samurai armor including an ornate horned helmet, looking like something out of the Middle Ages, and over his shoulder the vast machines, ovens. And other devices symbolic of advanced late-twentieth-century metals technology. Yet curiously, Kei did not really look out of place. The relationship of steel and the warrior was ever valid.

Steel, for so much of history, was indeed at the cutting edge of power.

Fitzduane held up his hands as far as the handcuffs and the restraining chain permitted. "I am bound by steel, Namaka-san," he said quietly. "It tempers my enthusiasm."

Kei's face flushed with rage, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to strike Fitzduane. Then he started to laugh. "‘Tempers my enthusiasm’ indeed, Fitzduane-san. A clever pun. You have a good sense of humor for a gaijin."

He gave an order, and one of the yakuza placed safety glasses on Fitzduane. The incongruity of following safety regulations while escorting their prisoner around in chains caused him to give a wry smile.

"We Japanese," said Kei, "achieved some of our earlier postwar successes with steel. While the West was working with old technology — too greedy to invest and lacking in vision — we built new modern steel plants and produced cheaper, higher-quality steel faster. This, in turn, provided the raw material at the right price for car production and for shipbuilding. It was the beginning of our economic recovery. Later, of course, we developed into electronics and other high-added-value products, but steel was our initial breakthrough."

Fitzduane nodded. The Japanese achievement was undeniable, but it had not occurred in a vacuum. Without U.S. military protection, Japan had stood a good chance of being grabbed by Soviet Russia at the end of the Second World War. Subsequently, Japan had benefitted enormously from U.S. expenditure in Japan and virtually unrestricted access to U.S. markets. Still, this was no time to get involved in a geopolitical debate.

"But Namaka Special Steels has little to do with cars and ships, I think," shouted Fitzduane.

The noise had increased as they had approached the center of operations. The primary sound was like a wave, loud and continuous. He had been around Vaybon's steel facilities in Switzerland and remembered that it came from burning flames of gas. It was the noise of the tempering ovens generating the awesome temperatures that steelmaking required.

There was something frightening about the sound, as if it represented a ferocity beyond the ability of mere humans to resist. In fact, almost all the machinery he could see was vastly larger than human scale. It looked like a workshop for giants. Humans might have conceived it, but now their very creation had surpassed them and seemed to have a life of their own.

In the center of the floor was an immense vertical construction of tubes and black metal and cylinders that looked like a cross between some insane scientist's vision of the ultimate destructive robot and a rocket complete with strapped-on boosters on a launching pad.

It was roughly the size of a six-story building, and Fitzduane felt dwarfed by it. It emphasized the scale of the facility they were in. The huge machine was in turn comfortably accommodated by its surroundings. The roof must be well over a hundred feet up. He looked, but his gaze was lost in darkness.

"Project Tsunami," shouted Kei into Fitzduane's ear. "This is what makes it all possible."

"What is Project Tsunami," Namaka-san?" said Fitzduane. "I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"Hah!" said Kei. "You know exactly what I am talking about, gaijin, and it is why we could not let you live, even if we did not have a past obligation to kill you."

The thought occurred briefly to Fitzduane that, in the interests of self-preservation, it might be a good idea not to get to know any more about Tsunami. Then he thought, What the hell! For one reason or another, Kei, quite obviously, had not intention of letting him live. He had not blown up three people just to have the pleasure of Fitzduane's company for a pleasant half hour or so.

"Indulge me, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane. "Let me put it as simply as I can. What the fuck is Project Tsunami?"

Namaka looked at him curiously. Perhaps the gaijin did not know. Perhaps he was not the threat he had appeared. That would be ironic. Well, it was too late to turn back now.

"Project Tsunami," said Kei, speaking into Fitzduane's ear to counteract the noise, "is the name we have given to our North Korean project. In defiance of the U.S. and, indeed, world embargoes, we are providing North Korea with the specialized plant and equipment necessary to manufacture nuclear weapons. It is an immensely profitable project and will restore the fortunes of Namaka Steel and indeed the keiretsu as a whole. And this machine — we call it Godzilla — is an important element. Godzilla allows us to forge the huge pressure chambers required for an essential part of the process. Few companies have the technology, and fewer still have the production plants of this scale. Look! They are just about to forge another chamber. You can see the whole process for yourself."

Fitzduane looked across to where Kei was pointing. A giant crablike machine running on tracks had scuttled up and extended two metal arms and was manipulating an enormous glowing cylinder. A darker material seemed to surround it, and as Fitzduane watched, the cylinder was beaten by what seemed to be a giant flail of chains.

"That is the ingot for one chamber," said Kei. "It weighs forty-two tons and it has just been heated to forging temperature by one of the ovens. The ingot oxidizes on the surface, so the impure surface layer — it is called scale — must be removed or it will hinder forging. Scale is peeled away partly by the chains and then by the initial forging."

For all the talk of high technology, beating a white-hot lump of metal with chains seemed to Fitzduane to be a crude process, but Kei certainly got some fun out of it. His face was glowing with enthusiasm and the ambient heat. Under his samurai helmet with its ornamental horns, he looked like some demonic goblin king.

"The ingot is now going through a series of preliminary deformation processes," said Kei. "The next stage is that it will be given a predetermined diameter by one of the smaller processes."

The crab moved the ingot away from the flail and placed it under a giant ram. The ram descended and deformed the ingot, making it shorter and wider. As this happened, the remaining scale fell from the shape and there remained only glowing, pulsating steel. It was as if this was new life emerging from a chrysalis, and it was a dramatic sight. Even Fitzduane, who felt he should be preoccupied with more important issues — like his imminent death — was impressed.

The crab next lifted the cylinder of pure steel and placed it under a 12,000 ton press. The cylinder, an approximate shape up to now, was placed in a mould and pressed to be dimensionally perfect. Then a further process pierced the cylinder to make it ready for the main extrusion.

"By doing the piercing process first," said Kei, "you cut down on the maximum amount of energy needed in Godzilla. It is like preparing a screw hole by drilling a small hole in advance. The total amount of energy used is the same, but it is spread and the peak is lower."

The crab now inserted the squat, pierced, forty-two ton cylinder at the base of Godzilla while Kei explained the procedure.

"That cylinder of steel now has a temperature of over 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit — or over twenty times body temperature. It is placed upon a pedestal, and then the FE punch, or mandril, determining its internal diameter — in this case, one meter — comes down, and the vertical press forces the steel up, compressing it and reducing the wall thickness, so that what emerges at the top of the press as the process reaches its conclusion is a longer, thinner cylinder with the same diameter. To achieve this result — to extrude white-hot steel like toothpaste — it exerts a force of up to 45,000 tons."

The background noise of the gas ovens and the hammering of the pumps providing the hydraulic pressure to Godzilla was now dominated in turn by a long, appallingly loud, high-pitched screeching sound, as white-hot steel was compressed and squeezed.

The sound receded, and like some huge pink erection, a long, thin, hot shape —compared to the original ingot — was withdrawn from the top of Godzilla by a crane in the roof.

Kei looked delighted as he exhaled. "Now, gaijin," he said. "That — THAT — is power. It is beautiful to watch, don't you think?"

Fitzduane took a flier. He was talking to an enthusiast, and enthusiasts were notoriously indiscreet. Also, who was he going to have time to tell? He decided he had better throw in some positive sounds. Kei clearly expected an appreciative audience.

"That is singularly impressive, Namaka-san," he said. "And part of Project Tsunami?"

"Oh, yes," said Kei. "You have just seen one pressure chamber made. There are two hundred required for one phase of the process alone. So far, we have shipped one complete chamber to our customer. That will be tested, and then Godzilla will be put seriously to work. As you have seen, a pressure-chamber section can be forged from ingot to tube in under ten minutes. Allowing for finishing, welding on flanges, polishing, and so on — the really time-consuming elements — we shall still be able to complete the shipment in one year."

Fitzduane felt very depressed at what he was hearing. So this was the world that Boots was entering. What he was seeing was illegal, but nonetheless, here was Japan, the one country that had demilitarized and dedicated itself to peace, involved in the wretched business of nuclear weapons as well. It was a grim note on which to die. An inner rage began to burn.

Kei shouted an order, and Fitzduane was roughly pulled away and propelled between two yakuza across the vast floor and back up the steps to the dojo. As he was pushed through the soundproof double doors, he could hear the screeching of Godzilla once again as another pressure-chamber length emerged.

Inside the dojo, the silence could almost be felt.

Fitzduane was pushed to his knees. Ahead of him, a magnificent if barbaric figure in his medieval samurai armor was Kei Namaka. Behind him and slightly to one side stood Goto, similarly attired. On either side of Fitzduane were his yakuza guards. Two more yakuza stood against the wall. All six were armed with swords. The yakuza also had submachine guns.

"It is time, gaijin," said Kei Namaka, "for you to die." He spoke rapidly, in Japanese, and Fitzduane felt his handcuffs and leg restraints being removed. He rose to his feet, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.

"The only issue here, Fitzduane-san," said Kei, "concerns the manner of your death."

Fitzduane smiled. "I would prefer, Namaka-san, if you don't mind, to debate the timing."


* * * * *


There were four passengers in the Koancho helicopter besides the pilot, and one of them was Sergeant Oga, who was not at all sure what he was getting into.

The only thing he was certain of was that anything involving the gaijin Fitzduane-san, even after he was dead, was sure to be trouble. He had much the same feeling about Tanabu-san as he sat across from her. Even had he not harbored a deep suspicion about the games the security service got into, the Howa Type 89 5.56mm assault rifle she held resting on her knees would have given him serious cause for concern.

The folding-stock weapon was fitted with laser sight, sound suppressor, under-barrel 40mm grenade launcher, and hundred-round C-Mag. The U.S.-made C-Mag was an extremely compact, spring-loaded, plastic double-drum that fed rounds from each drum alternatively and provided over three times the capacity of a conventional magazine.

The combination of elements added up to the most vicious personal weapon he had yet encountered, and it did not look like the kind of thing you would carry on a routine investigation.

He leaned across the tiny cabin and spoke to Tanabu-san. The intercom would have been an easier way of overcoming the engine noise, but the fewer people who heard their discussion the better.

"Shouldn't we do this through channels, Tanabu-san?" he said. "This is really a job for a large force of kidotai. My men are not really trained for this sort of thing."

Chifune bent forward to meet him halfway. Supremely feminine as she was, and dressed in a tan linen suit with skirt ending well above the knee-line, she should, thought Oga, have appeared slightly ridiculous with all this firepower; but that was not the case. She handled her weapons system as if nothing were more natural.

He could smell her perfume as she moved close. Her complexion was flawless, her deep-brown eyes, flecked with gold, compelling. She was going to be a hard woman to resist. In fact, she had already proved that she was a hard woman to resist, or he would not be in this helicopter.

"Oga-san," Chifune said, "time is critical, and we do not have the evidence to get a large raid approved without hacking through the bureaucracy. We're following a suspicion based upon my knowledge of how the Namakas work and the one slim fact that Fitzduane-san's beeper continued to function for five minutes after the explosion. Further, where we are going is a defense installation. To get approval to raid that would mean going right to the top, which would take forever and blow security. The Namakas, you must know, have friends in the highest places. At a certain level in the power structure, it is hard to know where loyalties lie. That is the reality of money politics in Japan today. There are those who will be very happy to see Fitzduane-san dead and the status quo preserved."

Oga gulped. The woman was making it worse. If this thing went wrong, he was risking not just his life but his career. He could imagine what his wife, a thoroughly practical woman, would say. Still, she was not here, and Tanabu-san very much was.

"As to your competence for this kind of operation, Sergeant-san," said Chifune, "I know you are very highly thought of and that you were in the paratroops, just like Adachi-san, before you joined the police."

Oga nodded.

"And as to your men," continued Chifune, "I have the greatest confidence in the Tokyo MPD and I have no doubt they will do their duty with distinction."

Oga sighed. He had no change against this woman. Without being aware of the transition, he mentally switched from his police role to his previous airborne training. They were going in and they would do what had to be done, and that was that. The pieces could be picked up afterward.

He turned to his two detectives. He had had to leave his other men behind because of space limitations in the helicopter, but the men he had kept, Detectives Renako and Sakado, were rock-solid.

"Check your weapons, lads," he said. "Where we're going may be hot."

The sprawling industrial mass that was the Namaka Steel empire showed up on the skyline, and Chifune spoke an instruction to the pilot. Seconds later, the helicopter was speeding along at only a few feet above wave-top height, and Sergeant Oga was totally back into airborne mode and wondering why he had ever left. He loved this kind of shit.

"AIRBORNE!" he shouted.

"AIRBORNE!" repeated his men. Neither had seen military service, but if it was appropriate for the redoubtable Sergeant Oga, it was appropriate for them. Group solidarity was all important. And somehow it sounded just right.

Chifune smiled and made a punching gesture with her right hand. "All the way," she said.


* * * * *


"Fitzduane-san," said Kei, "I must tell you I regret you have to die."

"You are a brave man and an honorable man — but you must understand that I have no choice. We have an obligation to kill you. It is a matter of giri. And now it is also a matter of self-preservation. You know too much."

Fitzduane looked at each man in turn. Two yakuza stood against the dojo wall near where his personal belongings, including the Calico, lay. The other two stood on either side of Kei Namaka. Goto stood several paces behind him.

Fitzduane was about to remark on the insanity of the whole ghastly business, but then realized the futility of saying anything. Kei was following a different agenda. From his and the yakuza's perspective, Fitzduane was an obstacle that must be cleared away. It was not personal; it was business. And so, if you accepted this warped logic, killing him in the most interesting and entertaining way also made sense.

"Fitzduane-san," said Kei. "You and I are both members of the Medieval Warrior's Society. We both share an interest in medieval weapons. We are both expert swordsmen. Accordingly, it seems appropriate to use this opportunity to resolve an old debate — the merits of the Japanese sword, the katana, against a Western equivalent. Katana versus rapier is what I have in mind, but I am open to suggestions."

Fitzduane went through the options. The obvious alternative to the rapier was the sabre, but that would be no contest. Katana and sabre were both primarily designed for cutting, but in this respect, in his opinion, the katana was incomparable. It was lighter, better balanced, could be manipulated faster, and had a vastly superior cutting edge.

No, any chance he had lay in the rapier. The rapier was designed to kill with the point. It was the type of weapon he had trained with. It was where he had the maximum advantage, and Kei must know this. The man was a murderer and a criminal, but he was not without some honor. Or perhaps honor was to the motivator but merely simple curiosity. Either way, it was academic. Motivation was no longer an issue. It was now down to the fundamentals: who would live, who would die.

"I also thought," said Kei, "that this would be an excellent opportunity to try out the ax you so kindly gave me. It is not an original medieval weapon, of course, but the workmanship is outstanding, so I am giving it honorary status."

He hefted the glittering weapon as he spoke and then swung it around in a circle. "If anyone is seriously wounded, they will be dispatched with this ax. If you kill my two champions, I shall fight you with the katana, but finish you with the ax. One way or another, this weapon will be blooded today. We shall field-test the quality of Irish workmanship."

In more ways than you know, if I have half a chance, thought Fitzduane. A great deal of effort by the Ranger Operations Research people had gone into preparing the presentation ax for Kei, but Fitzduane's own decapitation was not one of the results that Fitzduane had in mind. Instead, the objectives had been twofold: to intrigue Kei Namaka — and this had certainly succeeded — and to kill Kei, if an opportunity arose.

Under a thin coat of hardened steel, and lined with lead to resist X rays, in case Namaka security people were as routinely paranoid as most of their breed, the thick center of the double-edged ax head contained a pound of plastic explosive surrounded by five hundred miniature ball bearings. The device was totally sealed in and could not be detected by a chemical sniffer or even by removing the head from the shaft. The decorative wire binding the shaft made an excellent radio aerial. The effect when detonated would be roughly the same as two Claymore directional mines placed back-to-back.

Unfortunately, the radio detonator — Fitzduane's watch — had been removed from him and lay across the room with his other belongings, beside the two yakuza in the corner. Well, a British Army friend of his liked to say, plans had a habit of turning to ratshit. Like it or not, he was going to have to fight with a sword. Close to the end of the twentieth century, it seemed like a ridiculous weapon to have to use, but at close quarters it would kill just as surely as a firearm.

"Fitzduane-san," said Kei. "I do not wish to cause you unnecessary anguish by raising false hopes by not making your situation quite clear. You may be harboring thoughts of escaping from this dojo. Forget them. Your efforts would be futile. The door to the helicopter landing pad on the roof is locked, and outside is guarded by a special team of a dozen men loyal only to my clan. Frankly, your situation is hopeless. Your only recourse is to die with dignity. I am sure you will not disappoint me."

He bowed as he finished speaking. "The first, and I expect the last, man you will fight is Hitai-sensei. He is the instructor of the Insuji-gumi."

Fitzduane took his time replying. Hitai was a muscular yakuza of medium height with intelligent eyes and a peacock's-head tattoo showing at his throat. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His sword was still in its scabbard in his sash. The suffix sensei was not the best of news. This was not a thug with a blade, but a master with probably a quarter of a century's experience behind him. Experience with Japanese swords, though. European techniques were very different.

Fitzduane looked across to Kei and bowed back slightly. "Thank you for the morale-raising speech, Namaka-san," he said dryly. "I shall endeavor to meet my obligations in the appropriate way."

Another yakuza came forward and laid a rapier on the polished floor several yards in front of Fitzduane, then backed away hastily. Fitzduane moved forward almost casually, keeping his eye on Hitai, and dropped to one knee and picked it up. Hitai did not move. He just gazed impassively at this gaijin.

Fitzduane had learned not only to sword-fight from his father, but also something of the history of swordplay. It was Fitzduane Senior's belief that skill with a blade should be instinctive rather than consciously premeditated, so he used to talk to his young pupil while fighting, trying to both teach and distract. The result, after many years, was that Fitzduane, while fencing, fought almost entirely on instinct and by reflex, and before a major bout actually found it helpful to clear his mind and think of something other than the minutiae of tactics.

"The first recorded sword, as far as I know, Hugo," his father had said, "was an Egyptian weapon made of bronze from the nineteenth century B.C. called a khopesh, with a long grip and a sickle-shaped blade. Actually, it was more of a knife than a sword, but it was interesting metallurgically in that it was made from one piece.

"Around fifteen hundred B.C., longer bronze swords were produced, and these were narrow thrusting weapons up to three feet long and only half an inch wide. The thinking was right, but not the technology. Bronze is a soft metal and such a narrow length would bend, so eventually a shorter, leaf-shaped blade evolved."

Fitzduane, rapier in hand, slowly backed away from Hitai. The yakuza looked at Kei Namaka in surprise, then advanced toward the gaijin. Hitai's katana was still in its sheath.

"Slowly, around a thousand B.C., iron replaced bronze and the leaf shape became a little narrower and the short, broad-bladed weapon carried by the Roman legionaries, the Spanish sword, emerged. This was about two feet long and two inches wide, and it was state of the art at the time. It was designed primarily for thrusting. It was long enough to allow close-in work when carrying a shield, but no so long it bent or got in the way of your neighbor. It was worn on the right side for a quick draw unencumbered by the shield, and it was light, compact, and deadly. In contrast, the Gauls had long, slashing swords. Throughout the history of sword fighting, there has been a debate about whether the sword is primarily a thrusting or cutting weapon. Well, the Romans liked the point, and their empire lasted longer than most. They had a saying: Duas uncias in puncta mortalis est, which is worth remembering even today. ‘Two inches in the right spot is fatal.’ The thrust, in my opinion, expressed over two thousand years after the Romans came to the same conclusion, is still the most deadly technique for a sword."

The yakuza sensei was looking impatient. The gaijin had backed away slowly but continually, and he would soon be off the wooden floor and onto the tatami mats where visitors sat. Still, he could not retreat much longer. Two yakuza guards with slung Uzis and drawn katanas stood against the wall. They would soon prod this cowardly foreigner back into action.

There has been some mystery about what had happened during the abortive hit on Yasukini-dori outside the Fairmont and some talk about the gaijin's fighting prowess. It was now clear that the gaijin had had nothing to do with his escape. The police must have intervened unexpectedly and it was as simple as that.

"The Romans were primarily infantry," Fitzduane's father had said. "After they lost high ground, cavalry in the form of Attila the Hun and the Goths, for example, became the dominant arm for a while, and swords became longer and more used for cutting. You needed a long sword if you were going to fight from a horse, and using the point if you are a horseman is near impossible. From a horse, you slash. The point only comes into play with a spear or lance, and even then it is largely limited to one kill. A pointed weapon sticks in its victim, and if you are on a horse, either you let go or else you get thrown."

Kei Namaka stepped forward, his face red with anger. "Fitzduane-san, what you are doing is not permissible. You must not retreat over the tatami mats. It is not proper. Fighting must be confined to the wooden floor. If you do not follow the rules, I shall order my men to cut you down. Frankly, you are a great disappointment."

Fitzduane stopped retreating, as if unsure what to do next. His shoulders were bent and he was carrying his sword low. There was a decided aura of defeat about him. He looked around, and the two yakuza wall guards brandished their weapons and made it clear that if he retreated any more, he would be killed. It was an imminent threat. The guards were only a couple of paces behind him. He was barely out of sword range.

He remembered his father again. "From the end of the Roman Empire for about the next thousand years, Western swords tended to be long, straight, wide-bladed, and heavy — and used primarily for slashing. This was the case whether horsemen or infantry were involved. Either way, a long heavy weapon was favored. Disciplined fighting in shielded, mutually protecting lines, Roman-style, was no longer practiced, and a long heavy weapon was deemed necessary to cut through armor and had the added advantage of keeping your enemy a reasonable distance away.

"Armor," Fitzduane's father had continued, "became somewhat redundant when guns were introduced in the fourteenth century, and evolving technology, thanks in no small part to the Arabs, found a way of making swords thinner and lighter. And so, in the sixteenth century, the rapier emerged. It was a lighter, narrow, two-edge-bladed weapon with a primary emphasis on killing with the point."

Fitzduane looked up, first at Hitai and then at Kei Namaka. "Namaka-san," he said. "What we are doing is insane. All of this" — he made a gesture encompassing all in the dojo — "is unnecessary. The result can only be death and imprisonment. Why? Why? It's pointless. Even if you succeed in killing me, there are others who know what I know."

Kei Namaka's initial anger turned to a black, sullen rage. The gaijin's behavior was no longer merely inappropriate. It was embarrassing. It was causing him, the chairman of the Namaka Corporation, to lose face. It was an unendurable humiliation. He made a gesture of contempt. "Kill the gaijin," he said in Japanese, "and take your time about it."

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