The rain stopped as the little company drove into the village. Even as he watched, men and women come out of their houses with hoes and sickles and started cutting at the undergrowth at the perimeter. It was clear that civic pride was alive and well in the hamlet of Asumae.
A tall, heavyset figure in his early sixties leaned against a stone ishidoro lantern outside a modest wood-framed two-story house and grinned at Fitzduane, then bowed. It was something of a pastiche. With his height and jutting jaw and craggy features, he was a decidedly un-Asian figure.
A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and he was wearing an unpressed khaki shirt of military cut and baggy cotton trousers of similar origin.
Fitzduane had known Mike Bergin since the early days of Vietnam, and his dress sense had not improved.
"I thought you'd be working, Mike," said Fitzduane with a smile, indicating the villagers hacking and hoeing away.
Bergin removed the pipe from his mouth. His complexion — tanned, weather-beaten, and blotched with the patchwork of veins of a heavy drinker — hovered somewhere between unshaven and designer stubble. But there was a presence, a strong sense of human worth.
"Hugo, the Japanese believe that man is put on this earth to work, and that work, work, and more work is the solution to everything."
"But?" said Fitzduane.
Bergin laughed. "I ain't Japanese. Anyway, Hugo, you're a good excuse for me to revert to my decadent Western ways."
"You'd normally join in?" said Fitzduane. Mike, the old Asia hand and battle-hardened war correspondent, had once been something of a mentor to Fitzduane, and the Irishman was curious to see how Bergin had adapted to living in Japan. He had settled in Japan in the mid-seventies after Vietnam, with the comment that "the Pacific rim is where the action is going to be in the future." And he had been far from wrong, in Fitzduane's opinion.
"Sure," said Bergin. "It's important for us gaijins to show we aren't complete barbarians. Anyway, I rather like some of their values. Community spirit is still a big thing here. Money isn't the sum of all gods, like in the West."
"Hell, Mike, what do you know about the West?" said Fitzduane, grinning. "You spent the late forties here with MacArthur and then didn't get much further West than Singapore. The odd foray to London and New York doesn't count."
Bergin put his arm around Fitzduane's shoulder and ushered him into the house. "You've got a point, old son," he said, " but though my lips move as I do it, I can read. Anyway, it's real good to see you. And alive, at that. Given what you get up to, it's fucking amazing."
Privately, Fitzduane was beginning to think much the same, but he made no comment as they removed their shoes and padded in the slippers provided into the living room. Fitzduane's slippers fit. Either he was wearing a spare pair of Mike's, or Mike had regular gaijin visitors. All of which was in line with Bergin's less overt occupation.
Outside the house, the security team had safeguarded the front and rear entrances, and as Fitzduane glanced up, a liveried police car drove up. Belt and suspenders. Well, he could not blame them. He slid the shoji screen shut and went to sit across from Bergin at a battered pine table.
"Thanks for the trade goods," said Mike, looking up from the case of French wine Fitzduane had brought. "Sake is good stuff and it's cheap, but it's nice to be reminded of the fleshpots every now and then. I mean, rice is great, but sometimes I yearn for potatoes."
"Once a gaijin, always a gaijin," said Fitzduane.
"No truer word," said Bergin. He looked distracted for a moment, and Fitzduane remembered his wife had died. She had been Japanese and had provided something of a bridge to the local community. What must it be like now?
Fitzduane reached out across the table and put his hand on top of Bergin's for a moment. "It's good to see you, you old pirate," he said, with quiet emphasis. "You're a monument to the merits of hard living. You drink, you smoke, you've fucked your way through every skin shade in Asia, and you've been under fire more often than we get rained on in Ireland — and still you look terrific."
Bergin looked up, and there was real warmth in his eyes. "Goddamn liar," he growled. "I'll get a corkscrew."
The first bottle of wine was empty by the time Fitzduane had finished his story. He trusted Mike, so he related most of what had happened under strict off-the-record ground rules.
Bergin whistled quietly to himself as the narrative came to an end, then looked across at Fitzduane and grinned. "It might be a practical move to see that your life insurance is paid up."
"Thank you for your concern," said Fitzduane dryly, "but I am hoping that with the help of a few of my friends, including the odd battle-scarred veteran, I won't need it. I'm getting tired of being a target." He smiled, and added with some irony, "I'm thinking of becoming... pro-active."
Bergin raised his eyebrows. "I would say killing four yakuza and knocking a policeman unconscious is an auspicious start. Now, how can this particular battle-scarred veteran help?"
"I need information," said Fitzduane, "background, context, history, perspective. So far I have been fed what other people think I need to know. Well, I need more than that. I need a sense — almost a physical sense" — he rubbed his fingers and thumb together to emphasize the tactile point he was making — "of what I'm up against."
Bergin stretched. "Where do you want me to start?" he said.
"The Namakas," said Fitzduane. "What do you know that I don't?"
"Just as well you brought a case of wine," said Bergin. "This talk is going to run more than a couple of bottles."
"I worked for CIC — the Counter Intelligence Corps — during the occupation as a special agent before my conversion to the Fourth Estate. They used to say you had to be lily-white to get into CIC and turn coal-black to stay in. We did what had to be done and to hell with the rules. Interesting times. Long time ago. But some things linger, like our friend Hodama."
"And the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"The Namakas worked for Hodama in those days," said Bergin. "He picked them out of the gutter and used them for some of the rougher stuff. And, of course, all of them worked for us. All part of putting down communism and, like I said, to hell with the rules. Then time moved on and Hodama moved up the ladder and brought the Namakas with him. And they all started wearing silk suits. But inside, nothing changed. Nor did the old alliances. So there is no way the Namakas killed Hodama."
"So who did?" said Fitzduane.
"I'm not sure," said Bergin, "but I've got a few ideas. The one thing I can tell you is this game goes way back. I think there's your pointer."
Fitzduane looked at Bergin hard. "You know what happened," he said, "but you're not going to tell me. What the hell is this, Mike?"
"I guess you'd call it a conflict of interest," said Bergin. "I have added some ethics as I've gotten older. I'm not in so much of a hurry."
"If the Namakas did not kill Hodama," said Fitzduane, "and someone else did, then they've gone to a great deal of trouble to blame it on the Namakas. Which means they have it in for the Namakas — which means we have something in common. And thinking further about it, the timing of the killing has to be important. It's not just paying off an old grudge. It's more about rescheduling the pecking order."
Bergin nodded and chuckled. "That's my interpretation," he said, "but policemen have to go on the evidence. Frankly, it has been a neat operation so far and it does not look good for the Namakas. And the truth is not really very relevant. They've run their course. Now it's just a matter of time."
"You sound very sure," said Fitzduane. "I've read the Namaka file. They are redoubtable people."
"There are some forces you can't buck," said Bergin flatly.
Fitzduane thought about what Bergin had been saying. Half of what his friend was communicating was unspoken, yet the clues were there. Suddenly, Fitzduane understood.
"You said the old alliances hadn't changed," said Fitzduane.
"Different names, that's all," said Bergin, "but the same team is st
ill pulling the strings, even if there is a problem with one of the team members. Overenthusiasm, say some. Something nastier, say others. But the trouble is, it's hard to get a rotten apple when it's at the top of this particular tree. Hard to do it without embarrassment."
"How rotten an apple?" said Fitzduane. "As a friend to a friend, Mike."
Bergin pursed his lips. "This particular apple has been rotten since Vietnam," said Bergin. "Terminal is the description I would use."
"Terminal?" said Fitzduane. "That's a rather strong word."
Bergin met his glance. "Carefully chosen," he said.
The conversation turned to reminiscing, and later they ate together. It was near midnight when Fitzduane left. As he was saying farewell, he asked a question that had been in the back of his mind for some time.
"How long have you been with the Company, Mike?"
Bergin blinked, but said nothing at first. Then he held out his hand. "Loose lips sink ships," he said. "How did you know?"
Fitzduane pointed at the row of guest slippers. "Too many size twelves," he said.
"You always were an intuitive bastard," said Bergin, smiling. "But someone has to watch the watchers. It's been good to see you, Hugo."
Fitzduane had a lot to think about as he drove back to Tokyo, bracketed by his escorts. In particular, he was thinking about a rotten apple called Schwanberg. As the Company's head of station in Tokyo, controlling the power brokers of Japanese society, he probably felt nearly invulnerable.
In his scruffy but comfortable house in the village of Asumae, Bergin finished the open bottle of Fitzduane's excellent wine, shook his head, and made a call.
16
Tokyo, Japan
June 19
The big man in the expensive black suit, handmade shirt, and club tie listened to the progress reports on the Namaka affair with interest, pleasure, and some concern, but his face displayed no emotion.
It could not.
Nearly four decades earlier, terrible burns had disfigured it. The whole of his face had been savaged by the flames, and the flesh on the left side had been almost completely seared away. His ear had been reduced to a piece of blackened gristle. The left side of his body was horribly scarred.
Plastic surgery was not possible at the time. The Korean gangs were being hunted, and a hospital would have meant his death. By the time he was able to have surgery, the medical team could do only so much. Thanks to grafts from his thigh and buttocks, he was made functional. He could eat again and make love to a woman if she could bear it. He could open and close his eyes. His nose was rebuilt, and he had what passed for an ear.
But he was still hideous, repulsive, with his scarred, seamed face, twisted features, and tight, artificial-looking skin. People looked at him and were afraid. He was a living reminder of the terrible things that can be done to the human body. And he looked exceedingly dangerous; a man who had already been embraced by death; a man with nothing to lose.
His own group had all been burned to death in the fire or cut to pieces as they tried to escape. They thought he was dead, too, that the small gang of Korean gangsters was completely destroyed. It was a deliberate object lesson in brutality. Japan was going to emerge again stronger than ever from the destruction of the war, and the power brokers did not want rivals. And they certainly did not want Koreans. The Koreans were a conquered people who had come to Japan as virtual forced labor before and during the Second World War, and then had used the U.S. occupation to try to break out of their servitude.
Japan was defeated. There was a power vacuum. The black market flourished. The gurentai, a new breed of more vicious gangster, emerged with little of the spirit of the traditional yakuza. The gurentai were ruthless and ran roughshod over the defeated Japanese. Many of the gurentai were Korean. It was an opportunity to hit back at the arrogance of the Japanese, to prey on their erstwhile masters. Their conquerors were now the defeated. The newly released Koreans were protected by the U.S Arm of occupation — at first.
For several exhilarating years in the immediate postwar period, Korean gangsters enjoyed unprecedented success in Japan. The occupation regime concentrated on demilitarization and changing Japan into a liberal democracy.
Then came a change in emphasis. The defeat of communism became the main priority. Anyone and everything that was opposed to communism, or purported to be opposed to communism, began to get active U.S. intelligence support.
Hodama was released from prison for just such a purpose. He was an organizer and a fixer, with unparalleled connections. He knew how to press the right buttons to win political support. He knew how to recruit gangs of young thugs — such as the Namakas — to enforce his will. An alliance of U.S. intelligence, right-wing politicians, and organized crime was created. This alliance set out to defeat communism and the burgeoning left-wing movement in Japan and to seize political power. This demanded cultivating popular support, and one of the quickest ways was to turn on the Korean criminal gangs. They were fiercely resented by the average Japanese and were a convenient focus of hate.
The man in the black silk suit was seventeen when the attack by Hodama's people came. The warehouse where his gang was based was surrounded by the Namakas and other members of Hodama's group and saturated with gasoline. Twenty-six Korean gang members had died in that holocaust, including the man in the black silk suit's mother, father, two brothers, and sister.
The one survivor had sworn revenge.
He lived only for retribution. But revenge would only be possible if he became strong. Hodama and the Namakas had the powerful backing of U.S. intelligence, and soon became even more powerful in their own right. The right time to exact appropriate retribution seemed never to come.
The decades passed. The man in the black silk suit worked his way up to become boss of one of the most powerful yakuza gangs in Japan, but still could not strike at Hodama and his supporters without excessive risk and terminal consequences. Hodama's base of support was too strong. He was needed. He could deliver the votes. He was a linchpin of the right wing, of the anti-communist alliance. He was the leading kuromaku behind the Liberal Democrat Party, and he was the CIA's man. He was protected.
Though some knew the story, the fire had removed most traces of the survivor's Korean background. He took the name Katsuda and initially passed himself off as Japanese, though eventually, as the Korean community in Japan prospered and searched for protection against the dominant Japanese, he reestablished his Korean links and traded upon them. Over time, as the Katsuda-gumi became ever stronger, he, too, established links wit the right wing and the LPD and the Americans. And he waited for the right opportunity.
Sooner or later Hodama would make a mistake. He would lose his protection and Katsuda could strike. It was a carefully planned operation refined again and again over the years, which would destroy not only Hodama but his whole base of support, starting with the Namakas. The Americans, referring to the spread of communism in Southeast Asia, called it ‘the Domino Theory.’ Katsuda thought the simple applicable to what he had in mind. Knock down the first tile and it falls on the second, which falls on the third...
When it was over, there would be a new kuromaku, Katsuda-sensei. Only very few people would know. Hodama had enjoyed his public reputation. He felt it increased his influence. Katsuda had no time for such vanities. He wanted power, but cloaked in secrecy. It was the way of a true kuromaku. Invisible but all-powerful.
While still a young man, Katsuda had been impatient for revenge. The image of the destruction of his enemies had influenced his every action. It made him faster, more ruthless, and more urgent in everything he did.
Yet as time went on, he learned to savor his motivation. Anticipation in itself, he found, was greatly pleasurable. The fact that Hodama and his followers were blithely unaware of their nemesis gave the enterprise and added piquancy.
Katsuda wanted Hodama to die without ever knowing. He wanted to deny him even this slight and fleeting satisfaction. Katsuda wou
ld be the bringer of death, and the way of death would be terrible. The thoughts of Hodama himself were of little concern. Only his fear and pain would be important. The man must die in fear and he must suffer. Katsuda had seen his family die in agony, and he could not forget. He did not wish to forget.
Patiently, Katsuda studied his intended victims and waited. And waited. Then, at last, the conjunction of several events created the opportunity.
The cold war came to an end, and gradually it began to be perceived that the strategic importance of Japan had changed. For forty years and more, Japan had been offered unrivaled access to U.S. markets in exchange for being an unswerving U.S. ally. This was no longer so important.
Japanese economic success had made the leading Japanese power brokers cocky. They no longer felt obligated to America. Japan was now the world's second-largest economic power, and, in the opinion of Hodama and some others, the time had come for Japan's international behavior to reflect its economic power. The time for automatically playing second fiddle to the U.S was over.
The third development was a sense by the political analysts and intelligence services of the world's lat remaining superpower that the time of the postwar politicians was over. They had become associated with ‘money politics’ and their greed had surfaced once too often. There had been too many public scandals. The old regime had run its course. It had served its purpose.
It was time for an illusion of change.
New blood would be brought in, to public acclaim. But, of course, Japan's real kuromaku, the U.S., would continue as normal. Tatemae and honne. The public image and the private reality. Japan might indeed be the world's second-largest economy — but the operative word was ‘second.’
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 28
