Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt

by O'Reilly-Victor

  Walking well behind, the oyabun watched with satisfaction as his two killing teams bracketed their victim. They were walking downhill, so Mikami would have momentum on his side as he rushed in for the kill. After one terrible blow, he would then discard his sword and his rain clothing and run into the subway station.

  To ensure a kill — the Namaka security chief had been adamant about that — his fellow yakuza would then deliver another blow to the fallen victim to completely sever his head and would then follow Mikami's example. The team ahead of the gaijin were there to block his escape if something went wrong. Kudanshita station was up ahead. They would have to act before reaching the station, because there was a police box a little farther down. Fortunately, the police-box entrance faced away from the location of the proposed hit.

  Sergeant Oga was an experienced policeman in his forties, who'd even had special training in personal-protection work a decade earlier. However, he had forgotten much of his protection training. Because Tokyo was a safe city, when he guarded some visiting VIP, he did not regard him as being at risk. In all his years, he had never known anyone under his guard to have been seriously threatened — if one discounted the occasional politician being jostled. And giving those corrupt bastards a hard time might be a good thing.

  He had heard that this gaijin, Fitzduane-san, had been attacked in Ireland, but he associated that with the IRA. Everyone knew about the IRA and that Ireland was in a permanent state of civil war. He had seen enough coverage of the explosions and shootings on TV. It seemed to have been going on for the last twenty years — a crazy way to run a country. But Ireland was six thousand miles away and there were no IRA in Tokyo. Even the few Japanese terrorists were mostly in the Middle East, he had heard. The fact was that Japan was well and tightly policed, the population supportive and, except for the yakuza — who at least were fairly well-organized and kept in check — law-abiding. It was the way it should be. Who wanted everyone running around with guns, like in America! That was no quality of life.

  The sergeant had not been too happy when Colonel Fitzduane had indicated that he was going for a walk, because it would have been easier and safer to guard the man in the Fairmont, but then he realized he was being unrealistic. There was no real risk, and no one could remain cooped up in a hotel room all day. A man needed to stretch his legs. Personally, the sergeant loved the streets and hated being confined in an office. Still, it was a pity that the weather was so terrible. The gaijin should have come in spring when the cherry blossoms were out and the weather warm and balmy. Whoever had advised him to come this time of year had to done him any favors. It was hot, wet, and muggy now, and it would get worse before it got better. He wondered how long the man was staying. He was agreeable for a gaijin and almost like a Japanese in his sensitivity. A nice man, really.

  The sergeant watched in horror from under his umbrella as a figure in front of him suddenly drew a sword and in the same motion raised it high above his head and ran silently at Fitzduane. The action was so unexpected, indeed surreal, that it took him two or three seconds to react — and then it was too late. He glanced at Detective Reido, who was walking beside him, and it was clear that he, too, had been caught unawares. Both men looked at each other, shocked, and then as one drew their service revolvers. The sergeant realized that he was still holding his umbrella, and as he moved forward, he threw it behind him.

  Fitzduane turned as his assailant made his rush and took the blow on his umbrella, at the same time drawing out the sword concealed in its handle. The thin blade was similar to an epee, which was his preferred weapon when fencing, though it was a little lighter and lacked a hand guard.

  Mikami was taken aback by the gaijin's swift turn, but expected his blade to slice right through the thin cloth of the umbrella and into his victim. He was taken aback when the blade was deflected.

  Fitzduane gave fleeting thanks to Du Point for inventing Kevlar and realized that he could now resolve a conundrum which had puzzled him for years. It was an opportunity he could have done without. He collected weapons and had had several very fine katana in his collection, and he had often questioned the merits of the magnificently made Japanese swords — designed primarily for cutting — as compared to the thin-bladed European weapons, which killed mainly on the thrust. He had often debated the matter with Christian de Guevain.

  A cold anger gripped Fitzduane. His attacker's blade cut across in a second vicious slashing attack intended to brush aside the umbrella and cut into his victim's body.

  Fitzduane stepped back down the hill, but still kept his back to the railings, as the second stroke came at him. At the same time, he dropped the umbrella.

  Mikami, expecting that his blow would have to push the umbrella out of the way as well as kill Fitzduane, had slashed with all his force. At the last minute, there was no resistance and he lurched forward off-balance.

  Fitzduane deflected the katana blade upward and away, and in the same movement slid his epee into Mikami's body. His attacker's eyes rolled and he stared in surprise as Fitzduane immediately withdrew his blade and blood spurted from his wound. A bloody froth burst from his lips, and he collapsed. Blood and rainwater cascaded down the pavement.

  A second figure, holding a sword in two hands low, as if to thrust, ran at Fitzduane from the same direction as his first attacker. Fitzduane extended his sword, and this assailant came to a halt. Two other attackers, the men who had been in front of him, Fitzduane realized, also approached. All three now surrounded Fitzduane in a semicircle, as he stood on guard with his back to the railings.

  Fitzduane feinted, parried, and thrust at the attacker on his right, knowing that the attacker on his left would be hindered by the man in the middle. His intended victim gave ground as the epee flickered at him, giving Fitzduane just enough time to remove a throwing knife from his wrist, but not enough time or space to throw it. He now faced his attackers with a blade in either hand. It was a style with which his ancestors in the sixteenth century would have been very familiar.

  The man in the center gave a cry and ran forward in a slashing attack. Fitzduane stepped forward, seemingly into the blow, as he moved and deflected the glittering steel so that it crashed into the railings, drawing sparks. Shock, and then agonizing pain, ran through the yakuza and he slumped against the barrier with Fitzduane's knife protruding from his kidneys.

  Fitzduane slashed at the yakuza on his left, and the man, appalled at the ferocity and skill of his intended victim, staggered back, his cheek laid open, slipped on the wet ground, and fell hard on his back, his sword clattering away from his hand. He turned on his side and reached for it as Fitzduane stepped forward swiftly, and without hesitation, thrust his sword into the man's throat and turned. The fallen yakuza made a gurgling sound as he died. Nearby, a pedestrian, too frozen with fear to move, screamed and kept on screaming.

  The oyabun had been taken aback when he had seen what he had taken for two ordinary citizens draw weapons. He immediately made the connection and was furious with himself for not having anticipated bodyguards. Just as quickly, he had shouted at his kobun and the two yakuza had run at the policemen from behind.

  The oyabun, mindful of the consequences of killing a policeman, had felled his victim with the blow of a gun barrel behind the ear. Unfortunately, his kobun had not been thinking, and Detective Reido lay on the wet pavement with his eyes glassy and his head split in two. His arm, still clutching his revolver, lay several paces away. He had turned as his attacker had run up, and his arm had taken the full force of the kobun's first blow.

  The oyabun looked at the dead policeman for perhaps fifteen seconds, as if somehow he could piece the man together again. This was a terrible development. The Tokyo MPD were implacable when one of their own was killed. Life for the yakuza — for all yakuza — would be hell until the murderer and his associates were caught and punished. And it would mean the death penalty. The oyabun realized that he now had nothing to lose. If he was to have any negotiation power at
all with the boss of the Insuji-gumi, he would have to complete his current mission successfully. He drew his gun. The gaijin was still standing, apparently unharmed.

  Fitzduane glanced up the slope and was surprised to see both his guardians lying motionless. He was now facing three attackers alone. One was nearby and the remaining two were perhaps twenty yards away. The rain had increased in intensity and was now a wall of water. Through it, he could distinguish the oyabun's unmistakable movement as he drew his automatic. And this was a land where the criminals did not have guns. Fuck! He drew his remaining throwing knife and threw it hard at his nearest assailant. The blade missed, but the man skidded onto his knee as he jumped back to avoid it.

  Fitzduane turned and ran for all he was worth to the police box some fifty yards downhill. There were two cracks, and splinters from the pavement jumped up in front of him. He ran on, ducking and weaving on the slippery pavement. Spray splashed in the air only to be beaten back again by the rain. The sky was black.

  He skidded to a halt at the police box, and with his right hand on an upright, whirled around to face the policeman inside. The young man, immaculately uniformed, looked as if he had stepped straight out of a recruiting poster. A neatly holstered revolver was at his hip. Though he projected all the social concern of the Tokyo MPD, it was clear that there was no way he was going to react in time. The inexperience and lack of comprehension that shone from his face had an almost incandescent quality. He was going to do the right thing, and Fitzduane was going to die.

  "Oh, shit!" said Fitzduane, who was imaging the consequences of what he was about to do even as he did it. He hit the policeman very hard in the stomach, then gave him a roundhouse to the jaw..

  The policeman made an odd sound as he collapsed, and Fitzduane reached across and removed his revolver. He flicked open the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, then turned just in time to shoot the oyabun twice in the face at point-blank range. The man's nose and forehead vanished out through the back of his skull, and he shot backwards off the pavement and onto the road, to vanish five seconds later under the wheels of a tour bus.

  The remaining two yakuza stood there frozen, with swords upraised, as Fitzduane pointed the revolver at them. He was just deciding which one to shoot first when a voice spoke behind him in American-accented English.

  "Fitzduane-san, I presume? Please drop your weapon."

  Fitzduane kept his gun on the yakuza. A uniformed sergeant with the look of someone who knew his way around came into his peripheral vision, his gun also pointed at the yakuza.

  "There are two of your guys up the hill who need attention," said Fitzduane, "and I mean NOW! Get an ambulance. I'm going back up to see what I can do."

  Adachi was speechless for a moment. Then he lowered his gun and picked up the telephone. Three minutes later, he found Fitzduane on his knees ministering to Sergeant Oga. The Irishman seemed to know exactly what to do.

  15

  Tokyo, Japan

  June 8

  The Deputy Superintendent-General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police looked down at the open file on his desk and then up at Superintendent Adachi so many times before he spoke that Adachi, who was standing at attention in front of the DSG's desk, started to feel disoriented. He felt he was facing one of those nodding birds.

  Between glances, the DSG flipped through the reports and stared at the photographs. In the time Adachi had known the Spider, nothing had caused the DSG to react to any perceptible extent, but the slaughter on Yasukini-dori made a decided impact.

  The Spider's eyebrows seemed to have been raised permanently by half an inch, and his voice was up an octave. Occasionally, it squeaked. This reaction gave Adachi a certain inner satisfaction. After all, bringing this Irishman in on the Namaka case had been the Spider's idea, and, fortunately, everyone knew it.

  "This is incredible," the DSG squeaked. "This man is here only three days and he turns Tokyo into Chicago. In thirty-five years on the force, I have never seen anything like it. Five dead, including a policeman, and one policeman injured. And all of this only yards from the ImperialPalace and the War Memorial. The press are going to eat this up. If this was fifty years earlier, I'd be committing seppuku, and as to you, Adachi-san, I hate to think. You'd probably be enlisted as a kamikaze pilot, if they were feeling generous. You were there, after all, and senior police officers are supposed to stop this kind of behavior."

  He shook his head. "Incredible, incredible. And not just swords, but guns, too. Guns in my city. What is Tokyo coming to!"

  The fruits of economic progress, Adachi felt like saying, but this was not a time for jokes. He also did not point out that the Emperor was not actually living in the ImperialPalace at the moment, since it was being repaired. He remained silent, as was appropriate, and waited for a signal to speak.

  In truth, he was nearly as stunned as the DSG, perhaps more so. He had actually been there and seen the gaijin in action. He had not witnessed the sword-fighting, but he had glimpsed Fitzduane as he was checking the young policeman's revolver before turning and shooting the oyabun in the face.

  It was his speed and the way he had acted without any hesitation that stuck in Adachi's mind. This was a truly dangerous man; but also decent. He also remembered seeing Fitzduane attend to the injured Sergeant Oga. The sergeant, lucky man, looked like he'd be coming out of the affair with nothing worse than surface lacerations on his scalp and a rather sore head.

  The DSG seemed to realize for the first time that his subordinate was still standing at attention. He gestured toward a chair. "Oh, sit down, Superintendent-san. Thankfully, this is not a half a century ago."

  Adachi sat down.

  "To be factual about this," said the DSG in a more normal voice, "the core issue here is that the Tokyo MPD failed to protect an invited guest. But for his own initiative, Fitzduane-san would have been cut down only a short distance from his hotel. And to make matters worse, he was forbidden to carry a firearm, even though I knew he was at risk." He sighed. "Frankly, I underestimated the forces we are up against."

  Adachi cleared his throat. The Spider now seemed almost human. He had displayed more emotion in the last ten minutes than over the previous decade. It was almost impossible to imagine the DSG as a normal person with a home life and a family.

  The DSG looked directly at him. "You are not in any way to blame for this, Adachi-san," he said. You behaved entirely appropriately and your report is excellent. The fault is mine, but I would appreciate your input as to what we should do now. Our immediate priority is to make a statement to the press. Then we can consider our next move with this Irishman.

  Adachi removed his notebook and consulted it. "Fitzduane-san has made a number of suggestions," he said.

  The DSG nodded.

  "He has said that he is aware that this incident may be embarrassing, but that he personally does not blame the MPD in any way, and indeed regrets — very deeply regrets — the inconvenience caused."

  The DSG looked extremely interested. "Fitzduane-san suggests," Adachi continued, "that the whole business be dismissed in the press release as a clash between rival yakuza gangs which was stopped thanks to the prompt actions of the police. Further, he suggests that the hero of the hour be the young policeman he was forced to knock unconscious. The yakuza oyabun was shot with Policeman Teramura's revolver, so it would seem appropriate. Fitzduane-san also respectfully recommends that Teramura-san be given a medal."

  The DSG exhaled, and in Adachi's opinion, took an unconscionably long time about it. The Spider was a positive genius at buying time in a discussion while also managing to appear entirely in control. Those around him tended to wait with bated breath for the oracle to speak. The Spider had raised hesitation to a high art.

  The seconds passed. Adachi was frankly impressed at how much air the little man contained. He must really be fit. When did he exercise? There was not even a rumor of him in the police dojo. Perhaps he jogged in the dead of night around HibiyaPark.

 
The DSG eventually took a deep breath — to Adachi's relief — and then exploded in laughter. After an appropriate interval, Adachi joined in. The DSG practically rolled off his chair, but finally got control of himself.

  "Let's do it," he said. "It's a perfect solution. But weren't there witnesses?"

  "Most noticed only the initial yakuza attack, said Adachi, "and then they fled. The involvement of a gaijin was seen only by a couple, and the rain was heavy. I don't think we need to worry. We'll have a quiet word about the public interest."

  "Our gaijin friend," said the DSG, "is a very clever man. The Irish must have some Japanese blood in them somewhere. But tell me, Superintendent-san, what does he want?"

  Adachi smiled. "He would like to continue what has been agreed upon, and he respectfully suggests that he be allowed—"

  The DSG groaned.

  "—to carry a firearm."

  * * * * *

  The Village of Asumae North of Tokyo, Japan

  June 10

  The village was some sixty miles north of Tokyo, so Fitzduane's bodyguards — now increased to four — had not been overly keen on his making the trip.

  Their protests had been so vigorous that Fitzduane, in his Toyota four-wheel drive with unmarked police cars front and rear, had half expected to have to fight his way through the suburbs like a stagecoach careering through hostile Indians. The reality was more prosaic. It was a long, boring trip through heavy rain and endless Tokyo suburbia, until suddenly there were paddy fields and rice growing and a line of pine-covered hills in the distance.

  Fitzduane's heart lifted. The green of the forests was a different shade, but there were echoes or Ireland. He greatly missed his island and the beauty of the Irish countryside. He cursed it often for its miserable weather and its failures, but the pull of his tragic, rain-washed island was in his soul. And Japan was a land of islands. There was a bond.