"I will now give you back to General Kilmara. He has been conducting the investigation here and is best qualified to present our mutual findings. But before I do" — he bowed deeply to Fitzduane — "I would like to apologize on behalf of our countrymen for the injuries you have suffered, Fitzduane-san. Activities of this dissident minority are a source of great embarrassment to us. We are deeply sorry."
Fitzduane, sitting at the head of the table, acknowledged the bow and smiled. Privately, he was getting impatient. He already knew some of the pieces, but he wanted to know more. Above all he wanted content, not platitudes. He hoped his guests had flown twelve hours or more for more than a few elegantly delivered words of apology.
Kilmara stood up. "What I am about to say is a distillation of five month's work by my unit, with contributions from many different intelligence sources. And I should add that the most beneficial help has come from my friends in Japan. For reasons that will be obvious, this is a particularly sensitive investigation from their point of view. Not just security issues are involved, but also political matters at the highest level. It is therefore vital that confidentiality be maintained."
Kilmara turned toward Fitzduane.
"You know that the attack on you and Boots was by Yaibo, and that the second attack was also mounted by Yaibo, even though the actual assault team were members of IRAP. We have now ascertained a definite link between the Hangman and Yaibo going back over nearly a decade. In-depth interrogation of Sasada confirmed that your killing was to be a straightforward matter of revenge for the Hangman, and was expected to be achieved without difficulty.
"Sasada," continued Kilmara, "was not supposed to be directly involved with the hospital hit, but he exceeded his instructions. He was an overzealous company man. His conscientiousness may have been ill-advised, but it has proved fortunate for us. He has provided the first actual direct link between Yaibo and the Namaka keiretsu. The Namaka organization is headed by two brothers, Kei and Fumio. They have a security chief called Kitano. According to our friend Sasada, Kitano issued the actual order to have you killed, Hugo — but Kitano does nothing without the Namaka brothers' approval."
The Spider indicated that he wanted to contribute, so Kilmara gestured that he should proceed. The Japanese was fiercely proud, and he knew how difficult it was for them to discuss any of the internal workings of their system. Nevertheless, he could sense a growing climate of mutual trust in the room and he was delighted that the DSG was abandoning his formal posture.
The Spider explained the background of the Namakas and something about the Japanese political system and their influence within it. "For some time," he said, "we have suspected a link between the Namakas and Yaibo based upon an examination of who has benefitted from Yaibo killings. Nonetheless, all Yaibo activities did not directly benefit the Namakas and we never had any hard proof. Further, the Namakas had considerable political influence up to — and including — ministerial level. It was not, and still is not, possible to just pick them up and sweat the truth out of them. Though we have been tempted."
The DSG made no mention of the manner in which the Rangers' prisoner had been interrogated, which now made him unusable as a witness. He had been extremely angry when he had first heard, but he was a pragmatist. The interrogation had taken place within the context of an extreme situation. Sasada would undoubtedly have kept silent otherwise. As it was, though they had not evidence against the Namakas they could use in court, the Namaka link with Yaibo had moved beyond speculation.
Fitzduane was picking up a nuance. "The situation with Namaka has changed?" he said.
The DSG nodded. "Has changed and is changing," he said with a slight smile. "Specifically, Hodama, a kuromaku — and for decades the core of their political backing — has been murdered. Secondly, a change in public opinion is beginning. We have a sophisticated economy and we would like a political system to match. More and more ordinary Japanese are getting fed up with money politics and corruption. Groups are organizing and lobbying for change. It is becoming less easy for corrupt politicians and their allies to suppress investigations and operate with impunity."
"Who killed Hodama?" asked Fitzduane.
The DSG pursed his lips. "This is a confusing matter," he said. "The position of the Namakas has been weakened as a result of his death, but the evidence points to the Namakas themselves as having ordered his death. The theory is that Hodama was going to publicly abandon the Namakas because they may be in financial trouble — and he was killed as the lesser of two evils."
"You have conclusive evidence against the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"Unfortunately, we do not," said the DSG. "For some months, the case against them increased steadily, and then the investigation ground to a halt. Everything points toward the Namakas, but we can prove nothing. Our inquiries continue under an excellent man, but for all practical purposes we are..." He searched for the word:
"Stuck," offered Fitzduane.
"Quite so," said the DSG.
There was a long silence. Kilmara was tempted to speak, but he wanted to encourage the Japanese to continue if he would. It had been the devil of a job to win him over in the first place. Now he was anxious to get the Spider off the sidelines and operationally involved.
The next action would best be suggested by the Japanese. It must appear to be the Spider's idea. He would be committed to it better if he actually spoke the words. Of course, Fitzduane was going to go to Japan anyway, but politically things would go so much better if it appeared as a Japanese initiative. This was the strategy that Kilmara had sold to Fitzduane, and he and Yoshokawa had been working on from their respective ends for some time while Fitzduane got himself fully fit.
But would the Spider bite? Kilmara thought it likely, given that they had come this far, but there was the matter of human chemistry. If the Spider did not like the look of Fitzduane, all bets were off.
"Fitzduane-san," said the Spider cautiously, "when do you think you will be fully fit?"
Fitzduane laughed. "Pretty soon," he said. "I appreciate the concern, but why do you ask?"
The Spider looked at Kilmara and then at Yoshokawa. Kilmara smiled and Yoshokawa nodded.
The Spider drew himself up in his chair. "Fitzduane-san," he said, "we would like you to come to join our investigation in Japan. We would be deeply honored."
Bull's-eye! thought Kilmara. Then he nearly strangled Fitzduane. There was such a thing as playing too hard to get.
"I am equally honored by you invitation, Deputy Superintendent-General-san," said Fitzduane, "but I do not speak your language and I am not a trained investigator. I'm not sure I would be that much use to you." Internally, he had felt a rush of exhilaration as the Spider had spoken, because at last he would be taking the fight to the enemy, but Yoshokawa had advised that a certain modest reluctance would be in order.
Yoshokawa spoke. "The Deputy Superintendent-General knows your reputation," he said. "He knows what you did in Bern. He is familiar with the story of the Hangman. He knows how you saved the life of my son. He does not make this request lightly."
"The simple fact is," said Kilmara, "that despite all the precautions, we can't keep you safe here indefinitely. That being so, there is a lot to be said for seizing the initiative and taking the fight to the enemy. The DSG thinks your presence in Japan would force them to take some action which could open this whole thing up."
"Fitzduane-san," came a voice from the end of the table that had not been heard till now. "I hesitate to put this directly, but you have a choice. You can either remain a target or act as bait." Fitzduane looked at the speaker, Chifune Tanabu, with surprise and some amusement.
"Tanabu-san is, perhaps, a little blunt, but in essence she is quite correct," said the Spider. "You will be well-guarded, of course, by our best people. However, I should add that it will not be possible for you to carry a firearm. Even in the circumstances, that would be quite impermissible."
Fitzduane laughed so much, his leg s
tarted to hurt. He stood up to exercise and still could not stop laughing. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had not felt this good in months. The Spider looked uncomfortable at first, but soon everyone was laughing.
When he had calmed down, Fitzduane produced some drinks and the meeting took a break. He thanked God — or whoever ran things — for having a decided sense of humor. It looked like he would be going manhunting with little more for protection than his ability to talk his way out of trouble. And he had the feeling that verbal diplomacy, in this context, was not going to be enough.
Still, he and Kilmara had anticipated this problem.
Fitzduane would not be permitted to carry a gun, but he would to be entirely without weapons.
* * * * *
Paris, France
May 28
Since Yaibo had not been completely successful at eliminating the organ-grinder, Reiko Oshima had decided to even the score with a monkey — a monkey which would surely draw Fitzduane out of his little fortress of an island, she thought with satisfaction.
Reiko Oshima's reputation rivaled that of Carlos the Jackal.
It was based not only on the savagery of Yaibo's actions, but also on her appearance. Her gentle beauty was a startling contrast to the mayhem she caused. She was a natural for the media. The sobriquet ‘Lethal Angel’ had soon followed.
Oshima's file was high in the pile of every counterterrorist organization and her photo was prominent on every passport control of significance, but she still managed to crisscross the globe with apparent ease. She was not just a leader and a planner. She was an activist who thrived on risk. She liked to get blood on her hands. And she knew that the media impact of an incident in which she was seen to have participated would be much enhanced.
The secret of Oshima's ability to travel unhindered by the security services lay in her distinctive appearance.
The authorities were looking for a beautiful Japanese woman in her late thirties. They were quite uninterested in a plump, bucktoothed matron with graying hair in her early fifties who was touring Europe with a party of other schoolteachers. They were quite used to Japanese tourists. The hard currency was welcome, and they gave little trouble. The tourists had a fondness, which they could afford to indulge given the strength of the yen, for European luxury goods like those of Gucci and Cardin. Further, despite the steady publicity given to the Japanese Red Army, Yaibo, and various right-wing organizations, the Japanese were not readily associated with terrorism. The typical terrorist in Europe was profiled as being from the Middle East or possibly Irish. Japanese were generally perceived — quite reasonably, given the law-abiding nature of most — as not a threat.
Oshima, plumped out around the middle, in sensible, flat, lace-up leather shoes, gray suitably applied to her hair, bespectacled and with her cheeks padded and her dental plate in place over her real teeth, entered France with her fellow teachers in a rented minibus and headed toward Paris.
No one gave them a second glance. In her opinion, mainland Europe, with a dense population in which to hide and internal borders coming down, was child's play to move around. Certain other countries, like island Britain, were not so easy. Israel, no matter what the disguise, was a problem. The Israelis did not pay lip service to counterterrorism. They were permanently at the sharp end. They took the tracking down of terrorists very seriously indeed.
The greatest difficulties Oshima and there team encountered as they entered Paris were driving and parking. They stayed on the periphique, the multilane ring-road that circled Paris, for one full circumference before managing to find the right exit, and emerged shaken, convinced that French drivers were a special group of maniacs. This judgment was vindicated as they sped through narrow side streets, and were hooted at by impatient Parisians every time they attempted to slow down. It was confirmed when they tired to find a place to park.
As a safe haven, Libya had its merits, thought the Lethal Angel, but with its limited traffic and vast open spaces, it was poor training for the cut and thrust of congested mainland Europe.
The group consoled themselves with the prospect of a good French meal. Unfortunately, they arrived at that hour in the evening when every Parisian simultaneously decides to eat and will brook no interference from amateurs like foreigners. All the restaurants they tried were full. After the eighth indifferent shrug of rejection, they dined on Big Macs, fries, and chocolate milk shakes at McDonald's.
The food reminded them of Tokyo.
* * * * *
Paris, France
May 29
The salle d'armes had been established in the late sixteenth century — about the time that dueling with a thin blade had become a serious pastime in France — and had continued to be well-patronized, with only a few brief interruptions, since that time.
During the revolution, since skill with a sword was considered to be an aristocratic attribute, the building had temporarily become a brothel. During the Nazi occupation, it had been an officers' club. Those interludes apart, the salle had operated continuously for roughly four hundred years as a place where one human being learned to kill or defeat another human being with a long piece of pointed steel.
Christian de Guevain considered the salle a fine monument to the human condition.
The building was in the fashionable 16th Arrondissement, conveniently situated near the Bosi de Vincennes military barracks, and was no more than a few minutes from his bank, his mistress, his home, and his favorite restaurant, de Guevain could work, fence, sport, eat well, and be back in time to put the kids to bed and watch TV with his wife, if he was so inclined, without straining himself excessively. He had, he considered, a most civilized existence.
He had taken Fitzduane's cautionary words to heart, though without enthusiasm. His black Citroën was armored and was driven by an armed bodyguard. A second bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat. The windows were tinted to hinder recognition. He switched cars and routes regularly. He no longer fenced at a time when the salle was relatively open. Now he fenced outside normal hours with only one or two chosen opponents, and arrangements were made in advance under conditions of some secrecy.
Nonetheless, there were patterns in his life. Three or four times a week — although there was some variation as to day and time — de Guevain could be found in the salle. He was determined to hone his skill so that he could defeat Fitzduane. de Guevain had mastered the longbow and was already way superior to the Irishman. Now he was determined to do the same with the sword. He was fiercely competitive by nature. And besides, he enjoyed the sheer speed and elegance of the sport, and the exhilaration of the exercise.
The black Citroën entered the Rue Jarnac and stopped outside the fray cut-stone façade of the salle. The passenger bodyguard got out and punched a code into the digital lock. The double doors opened and the Citroën entered the courtyard inside. Behind them, the heavy doors locked shut. de Guevain felt a sense of reassurance. He was secure in familiar territory. Followed by his bodyguards, he bounded up the worn stone stairs to the salle at the top. The long room had a wood block floor and arched ceiling. The walls were lined with historic weapons and old engravings. The names of the masters were inscribed in a frieze that ran around the top of the paneling. To de Guevain, the room was the essence of his France: a sense of purpose, élan, glory, the strength of tradition, the reassurance of history, the continuity of privilege, a manifestation of power.
The huge room was empty. "Make yourself at home, boys," said de Guevain. "I'm going to change." He headed for the locker room where Chappuy would be suiting up. Pierre, one of the bodyguards, moved to check the locker room, but de Guevain waved him aside impatiently. Vincent, his partner, smiled and took a seat. He was less intrusive.
Sometimes this security business could get out of hand, thought de Guevain. He was of two minds whether to continue it at all. He did not particularly enjoy conducting all his affairs under close scrutiny. God alone knew what would turn up in some glossy magazine in the years
ahead. "The Private Life of a Paris Banker — by his bodyguard." He shuddered. France had privacy laws, but the rest of the continent was full of media that loved that kind of thing.
The locker room, a bright white-painted space divided into three aisles by rows of tall wooden lockers dating from an earlier century, had a tiled floor and a high beamed ceiling. He could hear the sound of dripping as he entered. Someone had obviously not turned a shower off. And yet the sound seemed closer.
He could smell something. His skin prickled. He would never forget that odor. He had first encountered it as a young man a quarter of a century earlier. It brought him back to Algeria, to the paratroops, to the broken bodies of the freshly dead. It reminded him of the slaughter on Fitzduane's island.
Blood. Death, Recent death.
Help was at hand, but his mouth was suddenly completely dry. Something caught his eye. He looked up. A thin braided climber's rope hung down from one of the beams. It was taut, as if something was suspended from it. He could not see what it was, because the rope terminated in the next aisle.
de Guevain licked his lips as best he could. As if compelled, he walked slowly down his aisle of lockers and turned into the aisle where the rope hung. He could hear a coughing sound from the salle, but his mind was focused on what he was about to see.
A huge irregular pool of blood stained the tiles and leached under the lockers. A bloody pile of human matter was at its center and snaked upward. de Guevain's eye followed it. The naked corpse of his fencing partner, Chappuy, was suspended upside down from the rope. The flesh was completely white, virtually drained of blood. The body had been cut open with one blow from the groin to the throat. Entrails hung to the ground.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 22
