* * * * *
The most unpleasant initial aftereffect of his injuries, in Fitzduane's opinion — a judgment he felt most qualified to make, since it was his body, after all — was the external fixation the orthopedic team had used to repair his smashed thighbone. Fortunately, it had been a temporary expedient.
They had screwed four pins into the bone, two above and two below the fracture, which protruded through the skin. They had then joined the pins together externally with crossbars. When Fitzduane looked at his leg, the fixation reminded him of a scaffolding construction. He was part bionic. Frankly, he had preferred being all human.
The orthopedic surgeon had been proud of his handiwork. "The advantage of external over internal fixation is that it does not contaminate," he had said, looking at an X ray of Fitzduane's thigh with much the same enthusiasm that a normal male might reserve for a Playboy centerfold.
"Very nice," said Fitzduane, "but it makes me look like part of the EiffelTower. What's the downside?"
The surgeon had smiled reassuringly. "Just a little discomfort," he had said. "Nothing to be concerned about."
"Just a little discomfort," Fitzduane had soon learned, was a relative term. External fixation was extremely uncomfortable. There were four sites of entry in Fitzduane's leg for the pins, and despite regular dressing they were a constant source of pain and irritation. If he accidentally bashed the fixator, the skin tore. To help him sleep, a frame was put over his leg at night.
"You are able to walk almost immediately with external fixation," said the surgeon. "Exercise is very important."
Fitzduane, cursed with an imagination and his mind painting a graphic picture of shattered bone, could not at first even mentally consider walking, but he was given little choice in the matter.
On the fourth day after he had been shot, he had begun dynamic exercises.
On the fifty day, he had been eased out of bed, propped up with a zimmer frame — a walking support — and, to his amazement, made twenty yards. He had felt terrified at first and then ridiculous. He'd still had his chest drains in. He was told that what he was doing was called ‘shadow walking.’ Shadow or not, it was a start.
At the end of the first week, his chest drains had been removed. During the second week, he had been moved from the frame onto crutches. By the third week, he could do fifty yards at a stretch. Day by day after that, his stamina improved.
Not long after the attack on the hospital, he was assessed yet again by the surgeon. The sight of X rays seemed to bring out a certain manic cheeriness in the medic. "You are fortunate, Hugo," he had said, "that your assailant used a subsonic round. The damage to your femur was serious enough, but it could have been a lot worse. You leg is really in quite reasonable shape, all things considered. Boy, did we do a good job!"
"How the fuck do I know?" said Fitzduane in a reasonably good-humored voice. "I don't get shot regularly. I have no basis of comparison."
The surgeon was used to being addressed as some kind of supreme being by nursing staff and patients as he made his rounds, but he enjoyed Fitzduane.
"Ireland is an island behind an island," he had said, "and you were wounded on yet another, even more remote, island. Think yourself lucky you were not just painted with iodine and left to get on with it. Anyway, it's back to surgery for you. The blood flow in your leg is good and there is encouraging new bone in the area of the wound. I'm going to take off your scaffolding."
Three days later, Fitzduane returned to Duncleeve. His leg was now internally fixated. All the external protruding metal had been removed. In its place he wore a brace, both for support and to remind him to take it easy at first. He could now walk with the aid of only one crutch. Soon that would be discarded, and then the brace.
He grew fitter and stronger.
Kathleen came with him. She was not a physiotherapist, but she was a trained nurse and well-briefed by her colleagues. Further, she had a highly motivated patient who already had learned most of what he had to do in his own right. He would push himself slightly harder every day, training for an hour at a time twice, three times, and then four times a day.
His stamina increased and his slight limp faded.
Kathleen and he became very close, intimate friends. They ate together, talked together late into the night, exchanged confidences, walked arm in arm outside the castle. Yet their physical relationship did not evolve. Kathleen was still deeply affected by the assault on her home and the death of her father. Fitzduane was still recovering his health and was adjusting t his loss of Etan.
Meanwhile there was much to be done. Fitzduane's castle and his island were being transformed.
Relentlessly, Fitzduane, displaying the thoroughness and tactical professionalism of so many of his ancestors, was preparing to strike back.
* * * * *
The telephone rang. Fitzduane picked up the handset gingerly; Boots liked playing with phones, and it was covered with his porridge and honey. Still, it was a reminder that he was home again in Duncleeve.
"You sound distant," said de Guevain. He was back in Paris. Since he largely owned his private bank he was something of his own master, and he had an excellent Director-General, but even so he felt inclined to show the flag now and then.
Fitzduane was holding the instrument far enough away to avoid contact. There was raspberry jam on the damn thing as well. Boots had been hungry that morning. There were toast crumbs everywhere. He hunted around for tissues while he spoke.
"I am distant," he said. "You're in France, I'm in Ireland."
He found the tissues, wiped the phone as best he could, and moved the receiver closer to him. "How are things on your end?"
"The family are fine," said de Guevain, "and the bank is making money. Situation normal. I lead a predictable life. And I have heard from our foreign friends."
"This is an open line," reminded Fitzduane gently.
"I know, mon ami," said de Guevain. "All I want to say is that now I have ever reason to believe that you can rely on the builder we talked about. He is not associated with the competition. My friends are sure of it, and I am sure of them."
de Guevain's ‘friends’ could be traced back to his college, his regiment, and his banking connections. The foreign and intelligence services would feature. Apart from his aristocratic background, Christian was an enarques, which meant that he had gone to one of the small group of colleges from which the key rulers of France were selected. It was an intellectual club with excellent sources. It was the final check. Yoshokawa-san could be trusted.
"Take care of yourself, my friend," said Fitzduane. He felt suddenly concerned. It was a feeling, no more. "You were with me when the Hangman was killed. Get some security. Take some precautions."
de Guevain laughed. "I'm only in danger when I visit you, Hugo," he said. "But do you know anything?"
"No," said Fitzduane. "Nothing. But I just have a sense of unease."
"Two attempts on your life. You're entitled to some paranoia," said de Guevain. He hung up the phone and thought for a while.
Everything was fine except for the break-in at his apartment two nights earlier. Fortunately, nothing had been stolen. The security system was being upgraded, and he resolved to have a word with the bank's security people.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
March 2
Two months into the Hodama murder investigation, it was clear to Adachi that he was in for an endurance test.
Results were not coming either easily or quickly. Murder investigations typically developed strong leads in the first day or so, resulting in a quick arrest, or else turned into a matter of stamina.
After the first couple of weeks, he realized he faced the prospect of months or even years on the affair. He might be transferred off the case to let some new blood have a go, but, pending that, he was in for the duration. Hodama had been too big a fish for the case to be put quietly on the back burner. This was the killing of an insider, one of the most powerf
ul members of the political establishment. If someone of Hodama's status could be killed and the assassins left undetected, then no one was safe.
A steady stream of government members, senior civil servants, and politicians expressed their decidedly personal concern about the progress of the investigation. There were regular calls from the Prime Minister's office. The Minister of Justice had asked for special briefings on two occasions. The brunt of the pressure was fielded by the senior prosecutor and the Deputy Superintendent-General, so Adachi was left relatively free to operate, but the extent of the concern was made well-known to him, together with regular statements of confidence in his abilities.
Adachi was not naïve. He was uncomfortable being supported in this way. It put him neatly in the firing line as the fall guy, if such was required. Secondly, it was his experience that public praise normally came before private termination. The best eulogies, now he thought about it, were delivered at weddings, retirements, firings, and funerals. It was a depressing observation about the human condition. And did weddings really belong in this group of essentially negative transitional occasions? He thought they probably did — although undoubtedly most participants regarded themselves as exceptions.
Inspector Fujiwara came into the squad room looking pleased with himself. Immediately behind him, two sweating detectives appeared, struggling with a very large, heavy object neatly wrapped in the material used by the Forensics Department. The parcel was labeled and sealed with an eye for presentation. Whoever had wrapped the damn thing had obviously aspired to the high aesthetic packaging standards of the Mitsukoshi Department Store. Adachi did not know whether to be proud of this Japanese obsession with doing everything correctly — even when it was not necessary — or to regard his fellow countrymen as being slightly nuts. It was heresy, but it was a thought worth taking further, he considered.
He glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and most of the desks were still manned or their occupants supposedly doing something policelike in the field. We are nuts, he decided. We Japanese are a completely nutty nation. We should be out enjoying ourselves instead of working ourselves even nuttier. I should be in bed with Chifune enjoying long slow sex — perhaps something slightly kinky — instead of being impaled on a swivel chair in my office with my eyes gritty and my clothing sweaty and rumpled, waiting for my Inspector-san to pull a huge rabbit — or maybe something more interesting — out of his parcel.
The parcel was rectangular and vaguely coffinlike in shape, though taller. "I assume, Inspector-san," said Adachi, "that there is a woman inside that container and that you will shortly cut her in half. You have that showman's look. Well, proceed: given the pace of progress around here, we are all in sore need of entertainment."
Inspector Fujiwara took the cue. He stretched his arms out like a magician winding up a crowd, then turned and tipped the wrapping material off the object. A nineteenth-century kurama nagamochi stood revealed. The heavy wooden chest, reinforced with iron corner pieces, was customarily used for storing bedding and kimono.
"Nice piece," said Adachi. "It has wheels, by the way — little round things at the bottom." He looked at the sweating detectives. "Why didn't you — Tokyo MPD's finest — push the bloody chest?"
"Forensics wrapped the wheels too, boss," said Fujiwara. "They do that kind of thing. They thought it would look neater. Anyway, we wanted to make it a surprise. You've been looking gloomy recently."
"Oh," said Adachi. He did not quite know whether to feel flattered or deflated. He did feel curious.
"Miwako Chiba," said Inspector Fujiwara. "A damned attractive woman in her early fifties. Slim figure, distinguished face, great eyes, lots of sex appeal. Looks great — could be twenty years younger."
"Is she in the box?" said Adachi. "Not that I want to pry."
"She lives out in Takanawa," said Fujiwara. "Nice house, two tatami rooms and the rest modern. Plenty of money there — not really big money, but comfortable. A settled look to the situation."
"Is there a Mr. Chiba?" said Adachi. He was beginning to understand.
"No," said Fujiwara.
"Little Chibas?" said Adachi.
"No," said Fujiwara. "None recorded and none that I noticed."
"Ah!" said Adachi. "What does she do?"
"Has a bar in Rippongi," said Fujiwara, "but someone else manages it. Chiba-san is a lady of leisure."
"Whose mistress or ex-mistress?" said Adachi. The pattern was predictable. A great deal of police work was about patterns.
"She is out of a job these days," said Fujiwara, "whatever their relationship."
"Hodama, the old goat," said Adachi. "Whatever he took, I'd like to have some. By all accounts, he was fucking someone or something steadily until he was broiled. Eighty-four years of age and still at it. He was a credit to our culture."
"Hodama," agreed Fujiwara.
Adachi had remembered how tired he was. He leaned forward. "Inspector-san," he said politely. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what is in that fucking box?"
"The kind of thing you would leave with someone you trusted," said Fujiwara, "if you were a prick like Hodama. Mementos of negotiations, secret conversations, and the like."
"Grrr..." said Adachi. "It's too late. I'm too tired. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tapes," said Fujiwara hastily. "Just like President Nixon. Tapes."
"Banzai!" said Adachi. A thought struck him. Magnetic evidence was prone to vanish into the ether. It was not nice and physical, like paper of bloodstains. One quick pass with a powerful magnet and tape recordings were history. "Have you checked them? Is there anything on them?"
"Relax, boss," said Fujiwara. "This is really something."
* * * * *
The Chief Prosecutor always dressed well but conservatively.
He favored the unostentatious gray look, reflected Adachi; the guise of the silver fox. The focus tended to be on his face and, in particular, on his eyes. Day in, day out, for decades, those eyes read the souls of men. When the prosecutor stared intently at you, you just knew that it was pointless to lie. You were aware you could not hide. You understood immediately that he did not really need to ask. It was not merely that he could read your mind: He knew.
Smoke and mirrors, thought Adachi. Did a trick of nature slant you in one particular direction because you looked the part, or did the look follow the occupation? Either way, the success of so much that you did was so often slanted toward how you looked when you did it.
That evening the prosecutor was dressed for a function. He looked different, less like a dedicated public servant and more like a public figure; perhaps a minister or a leading businessman. The dark-blue silk suit was of Italian cut. The white shirt gleamed like a soap-powder ad. The tie was a discreet hand-painted design. The tassled black shoes had a sheen reflecting dedication bordering on obsession.
Did Mrs. Prosecutor graft away with the polishing attachment on her Makita drill, or did Mr. Prosecutor burnish his own shoes? Somehow, Adachi regarded the latter scenario as unlikely. People's personal habits were interesting in what they revealed.
He found the way the prosecutor was dressed that evening unsettling. It did not seem to reflect the man he thought he knew. Well, he was tired. Notions tended to introduce themselves when blood sugar was low.
The tape came to an end. "There were over two hundred tapes in a fireproof safe inside Chiba-san's blanket chest," said Adachi, "all neatly labeled and cross-indexed. There are some prominent names mentioned on the tapes. The most interesting tape is the one you just played. The quality is not good, but the content is compelling."
"The two speakers are Hodama himself" said the prosecutor, "and Fumio Namaka."
Adachi nodded in agreement. "Both names are mentioned in the course of the conversation, and we have already obtained separate confirmation. Hodama's reedy voice is quite distinctive. Namaka's is also clear enough. No one else seemed to be present."
"So her
e we have Hodama saying he is withdrawing support for the Namakas," said the prosecutor, "and giving as his reasons the financial weakness of the Namaka keiretsu and their links with Yaibo. Hodama, despite their long association, cannot afford scandal and to go down with a sinking ship."
"That's how it sounds," said Adachi. "It is a thirty-five minute discussion. The go over the points several times, the way one does I that kind of conversation. The message is very clear. The Namakas are going to be ditched by their kuromaku — with deep regret and despite their long association."
"Are these tapes genuine?" asked the prosecutor.
"Our technical boys say they are," said Adachi slowly. "But that's a judgment, not certainty. Tape is tricky, but they have put twenty of the two hundred tapes through state-of-the-art equipment and the results indicate the genuine article. Also, they pointed out there is too much here to fake. It would be a massive job. So, best assessment is: the tapes are genuine."
Despite his words, Adachi was uneasy about the tapes. Tape was a reliable enough medium if you used it yourself and kept the evidence chain intact, but where a third party was involved he was cautious. There were all kinds of electronic tricks you could play these days. Also, the fact that some tapes were genuine did not mean all were. The sheer number of tapes would tend to suggest authenticity, but what better place, when you thought about it, to hide a couple of fakes. He resolved to check the tapes further with a speech analyst. But that would take time. Meanwhile, they would have to go with what they had.
The prosecutor closed his eyes, lost in thought. He was wearing a lapel pin, Adachi noticed: miniature crossed silver brooms; the sweeping out of corruption. It had become associated with some of those who were working to clean up Japanese politics. So far, wearers were in something of a select and extremely small minority. The average voter knew the system was deeply flawed but also knew the economic gains made by Japan and the steady progress of individual well-being. The system was imperfect, but it worked. So why change it? Power would always be a money game. That was human nature.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 20
