He looked out the window at the weather. Well, it was not actually raining and it was still early enough in the day. With a bit of luck, the gaijin would not hole up in his room but would do a little sight-seeing. The Yasukini Shrine was nearby. The Nippon Budokan, the concert hall where the Beatles and Bob Dylan had once played, was worth a look. The grounds of the ImperialPalace were only a stone's throw away.
He pressed the transmitter button on the radio clipped to his belt and held up his arm so that the microphone in his cuff would pick up his voice. "The gaijin has arrived," he said, "so stop playing with yourselves and stay alert. He has gone up to his room. When he comes down and leaves the hotel, we'll do the job."
Across the table, his companion looked relieved that he could finish his lunch, and went on slurping his bean curd soup. This kind of work made him hungry. In the van with the tinted windows, the four yakuza on standby opened more beer and played with their portable pachinko board for reasonably serious money. Pinball was a marvelously mindless way of killing time when you were on a stakeout.
Yoshokawa departed and the oyabun looked up at the heavens and thanked whoever was up there. The skies darkened and it started to pour, and he felt betrayed. After a further twenty minutes, the rain ceased and an uncertain sun peeked through the clouds. The oyabun felt his spirits lifting again. The gaijin, he presumed, had not come all those miles to sit in his room and watch CNN on the TV. He must have some spirit of adventure if Kitano-san wanted to have him killed.
His heart leaped. The American — well, all gaijins in his experience were American — had entered the lobby from the direction of the elevators. He was checking a map and, better yet, carrying an umbrella.
This was excellent. With his heart pounding, the oyabun watched as the target moved out of sight as he approached the main entrance. Seconds later, he reappeared on the pavement outside and turned left and headed down toward
Yasukini-dori Avenue
.
The oyabun barked into his microphone. At his command, the driver of the van with the tinted windows abandoned his pachinko game, leaped out of the side door, and jumped into his seat. In the confusion, the piles of yen notes on the table in the back were dislodged. Several notes drifted out the door when it was opened. The three yakuza scrabbled around the floor on their hands and knees and tried to recover the others. In the turmoil, although the foreigner was quickly identified, none of the yakuza paid any attention to the two Japanese who were following at a respectable distance behind Fitzduane. A connection might have been made under normal circumstances, despite the excitement and chaos of going in for the kill, but it was raining. Fitzduane and both of his bodyguards had put up their umbrellas. All eyes were fixed on the large golf umbrella in green, white, and gold — the colors of the Irish flag. It was easy to follow. Apart from its color scheme, it protruded a good foot higher than the Japanese umbrellas. Obviously, it was carried either by a freak or a foreigner.
* * * * *
Fitzduane, equipped with a map, had been well-briefed by the concierge at the Fairmont.
There was an obvious concern over the ability of a foreigner to find his way about Tokyo. Since he could not read a word of Japanese and most streets had no name, Fitzduane shared that concern in a mild way, but he formed the view that with Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido behind him, he should not get into serious trouble. Further, he had been advised that there were police boxes all over the place, so if he somehow lost his guardians he had a fallback. Of course, none of this should be necessary. In Tokyo, Fitzduane had been assured, he would be safe.
He actually felt safe as he strode through the rain. Tokyo was over six thousand miles from the bloodshed in Ireland. The memories of the shooting and Christian de Guevain's death faded temporarily from his mind. His injuries had healed. He was fit and greatly enjoying his new surroundings. Life is pleasant, he thought, as he quickened his pace and turned right onto Yasukini-dori. He was heading downhill to Jinbocho, the bookshop area, to do a little browsing.
* * * * *
Detective Superintendent Adachi had been enjoying Sunday lunch with his parents until the subject of his marriage came up.
Mostly, it came up directly, but this time his mother was talking about the royal family and looking at him in that particular way. Continuity, his mother stressed, was vital. It was essential, for example, that the Crown Prince marry sooner rather than later. The inference was clear. Adachi might not have the mystical well-being of one hundred and twenty-nine million Japanese resting on his shoulders, but he was the direct concern of his parents. If the Crown Prince could be pressured to marry — as he surely was, both by the Imperial Household Agency and the media — then the Adachi parents could certainly pressure their son.
Adachi fled rather sooner than planned and headed into headquarters to check on the team and reread the file on this Irishman. A murder investigation was distinctly more restful than his parents when they had the bit between their teeth.
He thought of Chifune and ached inside. He loved her and missed her, but even when he was with her he had the sense that he was losing her. If ever he had wanted to marry anyone, it was Chifune, but she was a New Japanese Woman and somehow marriage did not seem to be on her mind. Oh women, women! What a pleasure, what a pain, what a distraction. And these days, who know where they belonged? Certainly, they did not, not anymore.
He returned the salutes of the smartly uniformed riot police in their jump boots and took the elevator. In the squad room, on a Sunday afternoon, no fewer than eleven of his team were present. He felt proud to be Japanese. Of course, they were all watching a baseball game on television, but it was the principle that mattered. He joined the group and watched the rest of the game and drank a couple of beers.
Afterward, he wandered into his office to scan the gaijin's file and found Inspector Fujiwara hard at work there. He had not even broken off to watch the game. Given Fujiwara's fondness for baseball, this was true dedication. Adachi felt quite embarrassed.
He drank some tea with Fujiwara and headed off to the Fairmont. He sill had a little time since he was not due to meet Fitzduane until five, so he thought that instead of taking the subway direct to the nearest station, Kudanshita, he would get off a station early at Jinbocho, window-shop a little, and enjoy the walk up the hill. There was a police box just below Kudanshita, and he might drop in as he passed. Sergeant Akamatsu, the grizzled veteran who had trained Adachi in his first years on the street, was normally on duty there on Sundays, and Adachi visited when he could.
The sergeant's wife had died a few years earlier and his children had left home, so he found Sundays at home particularly hard. The police force was now his family. Adachi, he supposed, was a kind of surrogate son. Well, whatever he was, he was fond of the old man. Yes, he would drop in. Also, Akamatsu knew things from the old days. Perhaps the time had come to talk to him about this Hodama business. If anyone would, he would know something about the earlier years. And the old sergeant had wisdom and hat elusive commodity Adachi was chasing — perspective.
He thought of the Irishman he was about to meet and wondered whether he could really bring anything to the investigation. The superintendent doubted it, but he was curious. The DSG had originated the matter. Chifune, when she had phoned after returning from Ireland, had spoken highly of him. The man must have something.
Judging by his file, he also seemed to have a talent for violence. Well, that was something he would find scant use for in Tokyo. The city was extraordinarily peaceful by any standards, let alone by those of a Western capital. His request that he be allowed to carry a gun was ridiculous; Adachi thoroughly supported the DSG's decision. Threats — if any, which he doubted — would be taken care of by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
Adachi strolled through Jinbocho, browsed at a couple of stores, then headed up to the police box — actually a miniature police station of two stories — on Yasukini-dori. A young policeman, by the look of it only just
out of the academy, was at the open entrance. His main business at this time of day was giving directions. He went pink, as a couple of very pretty OLs in their Sunday gear of jeans and T-shirts approached him with an inquiry. Adachi waited politely, and when the OLs had finished, showed his ID. The young policeman became flustered when he realized he had kept such a senior officer waiting.
Adachi suppressed a smile, removed his shoes, and went through to the back and up the tiny stairs to the tatami room above. It was not protocol to wear shoes in a private home of traditional building, and as a relaxation area, the tatami room came into that category. Besides, street shoes and police boots were unkind to the straw tatami mats, particularly in the rainy season.
Before reaching the top, he called ahead. He had studied under Sergeant Akamatsu, so he addressed him as if he, Superintendent Adachi, were still the pupil. It was the way in Japan. The initial relationship established the mode of address thereafter. There was no rush to first names in the Western sense. A growing friendship or close professional relationship did not need to be symbolized by such a superficial change as that. If it was there, it would be felt and understood without words.
"Sensei!" called Adachi.
A grizzled, lined face appeared at the top of the stairs. Sergeant Akamatsu looked as if he had either seen or experienced firsthand almost everything a Tokyo policeman could have over the last half century; and he had. He had joined the police force during the occupation, and had stayed on beyond retirement because he was an institution and could still do his job better than most rookies.
The sergeant's tie was loose and there was a glass of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He had removed his gun belt, the top two buttons of his trousers were undone, and he was wearing slippers. His initial expression suggested that he was not overly pleased at having his well-earned break disturbed, but his face broke into a broad grin when he recognized Adachi.
"Adachi-kun," he said, the kun appendage indicating that the superintendent had been his pupil, "this is a pleasure. Come up and have some tea."
Adachi finished climbing the stairs, sat down on the tatami floor, and accepted the tea gratefully. He was silent at first, thinking. He had worked in this very koban a decade earlier under Sergeant Akamatsu, and every time he returned he got an acute attack of nostalgia for the place. It was curious, given the cramped utilitarian nature of the miniature construction — a typical police box was little more than a booth — but he had been privileged to learn under a real master. Whatever problems he encountered on the streets, he had always known that Akamatsu would know the answer and he had never been disappointed. He had very warm feelings toward the sergeant. Coming back from patrol to the streetwise presence of Sergeant Akamatsu had been as reassuring in its way as coming home. It was a fortunate man who worked under a great teacher.
When Adachi visited Akamatsu, they tended to reminisce and talk about general gossip rather than specific cases, because the superintendent's responsibilities were now at a level much higher than the sergeant's and neither wanted to draw attention to the differences of their worlds. It was more companionable to discuss matters in common. This was not a cast-iron rule, because from time to time Adachi felt the need to pick his old mentor's brains, but he had not so far raised the Hodama investigation. It was politically sensitive and operated mostly on a need-to-know basis.
The time had now come to consult Akamatsu. He put down his cup and they talked baseball for a few minutes, as Adachi searched for the right opening approach.
There was a natural break in the conversation, and then Sergeant Akamatsu spoke. "The Hodama business, Adachi-kun?"
Adachi smiled. "Ever the mind-reader, sensei."
Akamatsu laughed. "The entire force knows you're running the investigation, and the word is that it's going nowhere. Then you come to my koban with that certain familiar look on your face. I don't need to be a detective to work out where to go from there. So let's talk about it."
Adachi nodded and started to speak. Akamatsu filled his pipe and listened.
What you need is a little history," said the sergeant when Adachi had finished. "Files aren't enough and computers are dumb beasts. You need flesh and blood to get closer to what happened. Those were hard days after the war when the Namakas were building their empire."
"Can you help, sensei?" said Adachi.
"I think so," said Akamatsu. He was about to say more when shouts could be heard from the street below, and then almost immediately there was the sound of metal clashing and of people screaming in agony.
Both men rose to their feet, and as they did so, there was the sound of gunfire very close at hand. Then came shots immediately below.
Adachi drew his revolver and made for the stairs, with Sergeant Akamatsu buckling on his gun belt immediately behind.
* * * * *
The oyabun of the Insuji-gumi had learned from experience that too many attackers in a street hit could be counterproductive.
Armed with guns, hyped on the adrenaline rush, they had a tendency to shoot each other and a disturbing number of the passing citizenry. Equipped with swords and working close in, the only way you can with a blade less than three feet long, it became hard to tell who was hacking at who in the mêlée — and the victim had a fair chance of escaping amid a welter of spraying blood and wrongly targeted severed limbs.
Nonetheless, numbers definitely had an advantage if properly deployed. A would-be hero, a policeman or passerby, might go up against one assailant, but few sane people would go head-to-head with half a dozen sword-wielding assailants shouting battle cries.
The oyabun favored a human variation of a formation which fighter pilots, he had heard, called the ‘lazy deuce.’ Divided into pairs, the lead fighter would bore in for the kill, while the second aircraft, the wingman, stayed back and to the right and kept an eye out for any surprises — particularly from the rear.
With the ‘lazy deuce’ in mind, the oyabun sent one pair in front of Fitzduane and put the second pair behind, with himself and his kobun bringing up the rear. All were linked by radio, using concealed microphones and hearing-aid earpieces. They were wearing sunglasses and surgical gloves and were dressed in long, light-gray disposable polyethylene raincoats — the kind you buy in a packet in a department store when you get caught short — and floppy rain hats of the same material.
These shapeless outfits not only served as effective disguises but would also shield their wearers from blood. A hit with swords almost always resulted in a kill, but tended to be extremely messy. You could not very well escape unnoticed through the subway, as the oyabun intended, if saturated with gore. Tokyo was so crowded there was a convention that you behaved as if no one else existed, but there was a limit. Dripping crimson on your neighbor's shoes as you strap-hung side by side in a subway car would be regarded as decidedly ostentatious.
The designated hitter, a seasoned yakuza in his late thirties called Mikami, moved into position about ten paces behind the gaijin. When the oyabun gave the word, he would remove the sword concealed beneath his coat, rush forward, and strike. He would use a downward diagonal blow which would hit his victim on the right side of the neck and then penetrate deep into the torso, severing the spine and many of the major organs, and if delivered by an expert with the right-quality blade, would actually cut the body in two.
In this case, severance was unlikely. Mikami was an experienced swordsman, but the katana being used were not of the traditional quality; they were merely mass-produced, modern utilitarian reproductions. They were razor-sharp and deadly, but they did not have quite the same cutting power as the extraordinary works of art handmade by the master craftsmen of old. Even so, they would kill.
Since the body to which he was attached had been perforated twice, thus providing some serious motivation, Fitzduane had given a great deal of thought to the appropriate response to the threat. The safest solution was to stay isolated in protected surroundings. That was unpalatable. It was like be
ing in prison. The next-best thing was to be reasonably unpredictable and to cultivate a high level of threat awareness. That was the option he had chosen, and he had the advantage of being naturally observant and intuitive. But he had also studied — and trained, trained, trained.
The objective was never — but never — to let your guard down, and always, even if thinking about something entirely different, to have your subconscious hard at work on looking out for the unusual, the different, that small something that hinted at danger. He had become very good at anticipating the unexpected.
Since it was a Sunday afternoon and raining, the pavement was not crowded and Fitzduane was able to walk as he had trained — with no one in an immediate threat area either in front of him or behind him. The concept of a defensible space is programmed into us by centuries of having had to fight for survival. In Fitzduane's case, his awareness of that invisible cordon around him was very high. If anyone came any closer, his senses were alerted. If that proximity was linked to any other unusual element, his senses screamed.
Fitzduane was walking briskly, so he became immediately aware of two men in long raincoats who overtook him as if in a hurry and then slowed down, despite the heavy rain, when they were only ten yards or so in front of him. There was something not quite right about them that he could not place at first. Without making any obvious gesture, he moved immediately to his right, near the railings, so that one flank would be secured. At the same time, using his umbrella to remain unnoticed, he glanced behind him.
He felt an immediate rush. His two police minders were a discreet twenty yards behind him, but between them and himself were two men, dressed much the same as the two in front of him. It might mean nothing, he knew, because their clothing was entirely appropriate for the heavy rain, except for their dark glasses. Still, vanity did not necessarily mean danger.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 26
