23


Tokyo, Japan



July 11


"Who?" shouted Fumio Namaka into the phone.

He was completely taken aback and then felt sudden anger at this incompetent private-switchboard operator who had undoubtedly misunderstood her caller. "You must be mistaken, woman. That gaijin would never call direct. It's impossible. Quite impossible."

There was a silence at the end of the line, as the operator tried to figure out what to do. She knew she had not misunderstood, yet Namaka-san, normally a quiet-spoken man, sounded ready to strangle her.

She was tempted to cut the connection to the incoming caller, but then decided to have one more try. "I am very, very sorry, Namaka-san," she said quietly, the respect evident in her voice, "but the gaijin insists that he is Fitzduane-san and that he must speak to you as a matter of urgency."

Fumio saw his hands were shaking from shock and a rush of near-uncontrollable hate. This was the man who had killed his brother, the only person in the world that he had ever really loved. This was the man that, at the very moment the call had come in, he was plotting to destroy. And he had the nerve to call Fumio directly.

It was outrageous. What did this assassin want? Yet again, could this call be turned to advantage? The gaijin had proved to be a hard man to kill, but perhaps he could be maneuvered into a situation where he could be taken.

Since the death of Kei, nothing was more important to Fumio than seeing his brother revenged. Nothing.

Fumio regained his self-control. "Put the gaijin through," he said abruptly.

The conversation lasted less than three minutes. After he replaced the receiver, Fumio could feel his heart pounding. He could see Fitzduane's face as he was being killed, smell his fear, hear his cries. He could taste vengeance, and the gaijin was going to deliver himself to his executioners.

This time there would be no mistakes. He would use the most lethal killers he had under his control. This was definitely a task tailor-made for Oshima-san and Yaibo. Reiko Oshima was definitely one of the deadlier of her species.

Fumio thought of the job she had done on the Frenchman, Christian de Guevain, and for the first time since Kei's death, he smiled.


* * * * *


The room was in near-darkness.

Schwanberg was used to Katsuda's eccentricities, and, frankly, the yakuza chief was not a pretty sight in normal lighting, but on this occasion the CIA man required some illumination.

He had brought with him a plan of the building and, more important, its surrounding garden. He wanted to talk it through, but that was impossible if no one could see the fucking thing.

Katsuda took the point and gave a clipped instruction, and a directional light shone on a table. Katsuda himself, as always, remained in the darkness.

Schwanberg had known Katsuda too long to spend any time on the social niceties. In his opinion, the yakuza leader, however powerful in his own milieu, was bought and paid for way back and could be treated accordingly. There was always another hotshot in a hurry. If push came to shove, Katsuda was replaceable.

For his part, Katsuda despised his backer for his crudeness and lack of manners and hated him for his arrogance. But he endured him because it had been, in the past, a mutually beneficial relationship.

Recently, he was beginning to have doubts. The Hodama killings were supposed to have had a domino effect which would have swept away the Namakas and instituted Katsuda as the new kuromaku. But it had not happened, and despite losing their chairman, Kei Namaka, the Namaka empire, though perhaps somewhat bloodied, looked set to endure. Which was profoundly disturbing and did not reflect well on Schwanberg's judgment and influence. Schwanberg had initiated the Hodama business with the promise that he had enough political muscle to carry it through, but manifestly he had not delivered.

Katsuda wondered if this was just this thoroughly unpleasant man himself or symptomatic of an overall decline in U.S. influence in the Pacific rim. On balance, he rather thought the former. He had substantial investments in the U.S., and over the last few quarters they had been showing healthy signs of life. But a reviving U.S. economy did not solve the Schwanberg problem.

Schwanberg spread the plan on the table and weighed it down with several jade ornaments and a small bronze Buddha. Katsuda shuddered. The value of the ornaments came to several times more than Schwanberg's official salary for a year. The man was an uncouth barbarian.

Schwanberg tapped the plan. "Just as I figured," he said, "that fucking Irishman has played right into our hands."

The plan looked disconcertingly familiar to Katsuda. Typically, given Schwanberg's consistent thoughtlessness, it was upside down when viewed from the yakuza's direction, but it still looked very much like the drawing of the Hodama house they had used to plan the hit.

Katsuda was normally courteous, but years of dealing with Schwanberg had taught him that here was a man on whom politeness was wasted. The man had the sensitivity of a bucket of night soil.

"Schwanberg-san," said Katsuda with some asperity, "I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about."

The CIA man was practically chortling. "Fitzduane, the naïve prick, has set up Fumio Namaka for us. And with that gimpy fuck out of the way, we're home and dry as planned."

"A little detail would not go amiss," Schwanberg-san," said Katsuda dryly.

"Fitzduane came to see me," said Schwanberg. "He doesn't like me, but he thinks we're allies on this one. He wants Fumio out of the way and he knows we do too, so he has set it up that we — or, to be more precise, you — can finish the job. And the punch line is that the Irishman thinks Fumio was responsible for Adachi's death. Putting the bodies in the aquarium was a neat move. It was near enough the NamakaTower to be too much of a coincidence, in Fitzduane's opinion. It's beautiful."

Katsuda was feeling profoundly irritated with this uncouth idiot. He was beginning to have a glimmering of understanding, but he really could not see where the plan of Hodama's house came into the equation.

"Schwanberg-san," he said, "Since we moved on Hodama-san, I have had a team of people trying to get near the Namakas with absolutely no success. Fortunately, Kei Namaka is now dead, but since that happened, the security surrounding Fumio has tripled. He cannot be got at, and I fail to see how Fitzduane-san's involvement changes the situation."

Schwanberg leaned over the table toward the yakuza leader to emphasize his words. Katsuda stood in the shadows perhaps four feet away, but he still imagined he could feel Schwanberg's breath, and certainly the man's spittle as he spoke excitedly was no illusion. Katsuda stepped back in disgust.

"Let me make it simple, Katsuda," said Schwanberg. "What do you think Fumio wants most in the world right now? What does he have wet dreams about?"

Katsuda thought for a moment. It was not a difficult question to answer. He had studied Hodama and the Namakas in detail before making his move. "The Irishman has killed his brother," he said. "He wants Fitzduane-san's head on a plate." Katsuda smiled slightly. "After that, he probably wants mine."

Schwanberg beamed. "You're business, Katsuda. Fitzduane is personal. You're not even close."

"So Fitzduane is the bait," said Katsuda slowly. "He is the one reason Fumio will show himself."

Schwanberg nodded. "Very smart," he said. "What has actually happened is that Fitzduane approached Fumio directly and suggested a meet. His spiel is that there must be an end to the feud between them, now that Fitzduane has nearly been killed and lost his best friend and Fumio has lost his brother. And Fumio agreed to the meet, not with any peaceful intent but because he wants Fitzduane carved up so badly he can taste it."

"And where is this meeting?" said Katsuda.

"That's the elegant part of it," said Schwanberg. "Fitzduane came up with the great idea of using Hodama's place. He wanted some location that was private, convenient, and secure, and Hodama's walled garden was his suggestion. The premises are sealed off right now, but Fitzduane has been working with the cops and can gain access. It is just locked up these days. It's no longer guarded."

Katsuda pondered this for a few seconds. The idea of using Hodama's place was a clever idea. It met all the criteria for a meeting and it also was where the whole business had started. It would be fitting to end it there.

"I would assume that Fumio will take precautions," said Katsuda, "so how do you propose we do this, Schwanberg-san?" He will probably involve Yaibo, and they are no idle threat."

Schwanberg's hand came down flat on the table with a resounding crack, and the two sixth-century jade ornaments fell to the ground and shattered.

Katsuda felt ill. He valued his jade ornaments considerably more than he did most people. He wondered if Schwanberg had any idea how near death he was. If he was not so dependent on the man's backing, he would have Schwanberg killed painfully here and now. Well, even if Katsuda could not implement the thought for the time being, it was a soothing prospect to anticipate.

Schwanberg was so pleased with his cleverness that he had forgotten he had not followed up his triumphant table-pounding with words. He was just staring at Katsuda with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Well, Schwanberg-san?" said Katsuda.

"You'll have the edge, Katsuda-san," said Schwanberg. "It will be arranged that you and your people will be at the meet instead of Fitzduane, and we will run interference over the whole operation from on high. We'll have the whole thing covered. Night-vision equipment, sniper rifles, heavy firepower. That fuck Fumio won't have a chance."

Katsuda tried to imagine having a discreet meeting with Namaka while a swarm of armed helicopters clattered overhead, and came to the conclusion that Schwanberg must have been out in the sun in Vietnam too long.

"Helicopters are not entirely discreet," he said politely.

This time Schwanberg actually jumped up and down with excitement. "Not helicopters, Katsuda-san, we're going to use the airship. That giant, motherfucking inflated condom is part of the scenery in this city. If floats around and no one pays it the slightest bit of attention. We'll fuck Fumio from a height. It's brilliant."

Katsuda contemplated Schwanberg with surprise. Clearly there was more to this unpleasant man that he had thought. It really was a clever idea. Inspired, even. Then it dawned on him where the idea had probably come from.

"And the gaijin Fitzduane? Where will he be while I am disposing of Fumio Namaka?"

"Oh, he'll be in the airship," said Schwanberg. "As I'll explain, we need him to bait the trap. But when Fumio is terminated, Fitzduane-san will have an accident. Frankly, it will be a pleasure."

"So no witnesses?" said Katsuda.

Schwanberg had every intention of getting the killing of Fumio by Katsuda on video in close-up. The more strings he had to control his new kuromaku, the better. "No witnesses," he replied.

Katsuda smiled to himself in the darkness. Schwanberg's devious mind was not hard to read. He was already thinking of appropriate action. Perhaps the time had come for the renegade to have an accident. Have a crash, indeed, or fall from a height. The man's plan had interesting implications.

"Your proposal has great merit, Schwanberg-san," he said. "Let us now talk about the details."

"Fucking A," said Schwanberg, and as he leaned forward over the blueprint of Hodama's premises, his feet crunched on the shattered pieces of the ornaments.

Katsuda hissed.

Schwanberg, as normal for him where human sensitivities were involved, noticed nothing.


* * * * *


Bergin had gone to some lengths to arrive at Fitzduane's room in the Fairmont undetected.

The blond wig and moustache made him look ten years younger, and he was wearing an expensive double-breasted business suit and Guccis, but his principal coup de théâtre was the platinum-and-gold Rolex inset with diamonds and the matching identity bracelet on the other wrist.

The combination was so ostentatious you scarcely noticed the wearer. Bergin's shirt cuffs were tailored short to optimize the impact.

Fitzduane eyed his visitor.

"Mike," he said dryly, "clothes really do make the man. You are unrecognizable. You look like you run a small Southern bank and wash drug money for the Medellín cartel. You're probably on your third wife and she'd thirty years younger than you are. Alternatively, you produce pornographic movies."

Begin spread his hands in a mock gesture of modesty and his wrists glinted in the light. Fitzduane poured him a drink and the two men sat in armchairs on either side of a low table. The blinds were drawn and the room had been electronically swept.

"Everything ready, Hugo?" said Bergin.

"Pretty much," said Fitzduane. "The hunt is going to take place as scheduled, with a full attendance as planned. It's now a matter of finalizing the rules. I don't want the CIA too unhappy. Kilmara and I work with you people too often for that to be neighborly."

Bergin took off his blond wig and scratched his head. "Horrible things," he said.

"Lice love them," said Fitzduane helpfully.

"Which brings us back to Schwanberg," said Bergin. He drank some wine and then looked directly at Fitzduane. "We've been finalizing his case. It's a rough estimate, but it looks like he and his cronies have lifted, one way or another, the best part of a hundred and twenty million dollars."

"And who says the U.S. can't succeed in the Japanese market?" said Fitzduane. "So now you're going to arrest him and bring him to trial."

Bergin looked pained. "Really, Hugo," he said. "You can't be serious."

Fitzduane smiled grimly. "Schwanberg had Adachi killed," he said. "That is not something I am likely to forgive or forget. But how it's done is the issue. He's your operative."

"The director feels it would be more appropriate if it's handled in-house," said Bergin. "Caught in the cross-fire, killed in the line of duty, something of that nature. So I'd like to hitch a ride and take care of matters personally. I'm rather fond of balloons, you know."

Fitzduane looked at his friend thoughtfully. "You know, Mike, I never saw you as a practitioner of extreme prejudice."

"That was the general idea, Hugo," said Bergin with a regretful smile, "and mostly I'm not. But every so often there is a requirement and, really, Schwanberg has been running around long enough."

"Too long," said Fitzduane quietly. "Not a personal criticism, Mike. More a truth we share. Isn't that so?"

Bergin nodded his agreement. He felt uncomfortable, perhaps even ashamed. The simple truth was that Schwanberg had been under suspicion for some time and only the reflex bureaucratic desire to prevent scandal had prevented action. And meanwhile people had died.

Cover-ups were not confined to Watergate. In the real world of big government and big business, they were the norm. Exposure was the exception. The price was just a cost of doing business.

Fitzduane emptied the bottle into their glasses. "Drink up and listen, Mike. If you're going to be flying with us, there a few extra angles you should know. Preparation for the unexpected. What the training manuals call ‘making an appreciation of the situation.’"

He ran through what was necessary, and as he spoke Bergin's eyes widened. Bergin wasn't altogether displeased. At his age he had not been sure they could do that anymore.


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