Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt

by O'Reilly-Victor

  It turned out to be more complicated. Having reached roof level from an entrance three houses away, after some badge-flashing and shouting by Sergeant Oga to a remarkably stubborn little old lady, they found themselves one level below the next building.

  The rain continued to emulate a lukewarm power shower as Fitzduane assessed the situation. The adjoining roof was not just one floor higher, there was a parapet involved as well. They would have to climb about fourteen or fifteen feet, and the only way he could see to do it was to scale a drainpipe on the front of the building, with the street directly below.

  "Sergeant Oga," he said. "Send your colleague for some rope. God knows what we'll find when we get to the top. Meanwhile, you and I are going to do some climbing."

  Oga snapped out instructions and the detective rushed away. Then the sergeant ran toward the parapet and moved to reach out to the drainpipe. Fitzduane caught up with him and interposed an arm.

  "Gaijins first," he said, "and besides, this was my thoroughly stupid idea." He started to climb. Six feet up, he noticed that whatever was true about Japanese craftsmanship, the drainage fixings had not been installed on one of their better days.

  He paused to get his breath.

  A crack sounded beneath him, and the pipe below him slowly broke away from the wall at the brace where his feet rested.

  Fitzduane looked down. Sergeant Oga was shouting something, and far below he could see faces looking up. All his weight was now being suspended by his arms, and the pipe he was hanging on felt greasy. That was the least of his worries. If the brace above him was of the same standard as the one below, he was going to die in Japan, and in the rain at that.

  Oga was pointing.

  Fitzduane turned his head and looked where the sergeant was indicating. There was a metal protrusion a foot to one side and a couple of feet farther up from where his feet had been resting; it seemed to be doing something for a neon sign that flashed below.

  He stretched out his left foot and found the piece of angle iron and slowly rested his weight on it and levered himself up. The iron held. He was now able to move his feet up to the next pipe brace, and soon after that got his hands over the parapet. He tensed himself for one more effort. As he pushed at the brace to gain the momentum to swing his legs over the top, the rest of the pipe gave way.

  Fitzduane lay on the parapet for a few seconds to regain his strength. His head was on the edge and, looking down, he could see an excited crowd scurrying back after the impact of yet another section of pipe on the pavement.

  This was one hell of a way to effect a covert entrance. He just had to hope that whoever was inside Adachi's apartment — if anybody — was not looking out through the window or, failing that, would not make an association with the chaos below. He was shaking with stress reaction, and he felt nauseous and he hoped the fallen pipe had not hit anybody. Given the population density in Tokyo, he was not sure the odds were in his favor. Still, he had more immediate concerns. He pulled himself together and carefully transferred his weight from the parapet to the roof.

  Soon afterward, he was sprawled at the edge of Adachi's skylight, peering in cautiously at the scene underneath. On a bright day, he would have been silhouetted immediately against the sky. On this gloomy day, with the rain pounding down and smearing the glass, he would be less obtrusive.

  It was some consolation for having to lie in a pool of dirty water. The drainage off Adachi's roof left a great deal to be desired. He was getting a whole new perspective on the Japanese economic miracle.

  * * * * *

  Adachi had arrived, scarcely a minute ahead of Fitzduane, wet, exhausted, shivering, and burdened with an overwhelming fatigue.

  The prospect of climbing five floors was more than he could contemplate. He climbed the first flight and sat down and rested his head wearily against the wall and for a few minutes fell asleep. Rainwater from his sodden shoes dripped from him and formed a pool at his feet.

  The crash of a closing door on the floor above woke him, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a peremptory shout, as his neighbor saw him and mistook his dripping, beaten-down figure for a beggar. Stumbling apologies followed as the man realized who Adachi was. Then he offered help, but Adachi brushed his concern aside.

  "A touch of flu," he said, rising to his feet and bowing politely, "but nothing serious. Thank you, Samu-san, for your concern."

  Samu-san bowed in acknowledgment, but still looked at Adachi as if wanting to help. The policeman was pale and shaking, and was clearly ill.

  Adachi resolved the situation by commencing to climb the stairs again. As he passed Samu-san he smiled, and this reassured the neighbor. He clattered off down the stairs once more and Adachi was left in peace. He rested again for some further minutes, then climbed another flight.

  In all, it took him nearly twenty minutes to get to the top, and he stumbled through his door, exhausted, and closed it behind him. He removed his shoes and socks and sodden jacket, and, barefoot, trembling with fatigue and cold, walked slowly into his living room. He wanted nothing more than warmth and the escape of sleep.

  It was then that he saw Fujiwara.

  The sergeant walked out of the bedroom with the weapon in his hands, its thick, silenced barrel pointing straight at Adachi. The silencer made his intentions obvious. To Adachi's surprise, he felt neither surprise nor fear. Instead, there was a bittersweet blend of betrayal, sadness, and surrender. He stood there in his wet clothes, still trembling but otherwise immobile, his hands at his sides.

  Fujiwara had always liked Adachi and regretted having to kill him. But his considerable regard for his superintendent was outweighed by his regard for what he was being paid. His years on the streets had taught him that life was about compromise and tough decisions. Still, faced with this pathetic figure, he was reluctant to pull the trigger.

  "So, Sergeant Fujiwara-san," said Adachi, giving a slight bow. "A friend is going to kill me. Under the circumstances, it is, I suppose, curiously appropriate."

  Fujiwara bowed in return, but though his upper body moved, the Sterling remained pointed at Adachi. "You do not seem surprised, Superintendent-san."

  "Nothing surprises me anymore," said Adachi. "I have suspected you for a little time — and then the prosecutor left a letter. So much betrayal, so much corruption."

  "Please kneel down, Superintendent-san," said Fujiwara, "and place your hands behind your head. You will not suffer, I promise you."

  Adachi sunk slowly to his knees and rested his clasped hands on his head. As he had lowered his body, he had felt he firm outline of his holstered pistol press into his back. From where Fujiwara stood, it could not be seen. But thoughts of using the weapon were futile. He was shaking with cold and fever, and the submachine gun would cut him in two before he could get the weapon out of his holster. Nonetheless, the thought was implanted in his mind and, irrationally, he found the weight of the weapon comforting.

  "Who sent you, Sergeant-san?" he said. "Who has ordered my execution? I would like to know before I die. Was it the Spider?"

  Fujiwara laughed. "The Deputy Superintendent is a model of probity as far as I know," he said.

  "Katsuda?" said Adachi.

  Fujiwara nodded appreciatively. "You always were a fine detective, Superintendent-san, unfortunately for you. A less talented investigator would not be in your present position. Yes, it is the Katsuda-gumi who have ordered your death. You should have kept the Namakas as suspects. That was the way it was supposed to work. It was never planned that you be killed."

  "I am relieved to hear that," said Adachi with a faint smile. "So this whole business is part of a Katsuda power play — and the paying off of an old grudge. But who did the actual killing? Was it Katsuda himself?"

  "Will it help you to know, Superintendent-san?" said Fujiwara. "Will it make any real difference?"

  Adachi opened his hands in a shrug. "I'd like to know the end of the story before I die," he said. "Tell me, Fujiwara-s
an, for old times' sake. I would appreciate it."

  "I was one of the assault group who killed Hodama," said Fujiwara. "The others were members of the Katsuda-gumi. As to who led the raid, well, he was masked. Was it Katsuda-san himself? Frankly, I think so, but I don't know."

  "A rather uncertain note on which to die," said Adachi.

  Fujiwara looked regretful. "Superintendent-san, I am sorry," he said, "But it's all I know." He leveled the weapon.

  Glass splintered, and a concrete block crashed into the middle of the floor.

  Fujiwara stepped back in surprise, and in reflex fired a burst from his weapon at the skylight, bringing down more shards of glass and ripping into the ceiling. The silenced weapon itself made so little noise that the mechanical sounds of the weapon could be heard.

  Plaster dust, wood splinters, and other debris showered down, together with heavy rain from the now-open skylight.

  Fujiwara moved his position and crouched down to try to see if anyone was at the skylight.

  Adachi rolled, reached around to the small of his back for his revolver, and fired single-handed twice. His hand was still trembling, but the range was short and the second .38 round smashed into Fujiwara's cheekbone, cutting open the side of his face.

  Fujiwara fell back from his crouched position at the shock of being hit, and the Sterling fell from his hand. Adachi looked at the wounded man, the revolver dipping in his hand. He knew he should fire again while he had the chance, but this was someone he was close to and had trusted, an intimate member of his own group, and he could not bring himself to do it.

  Fujiwara, streaming blood, groped for his weapon and started to crawl back to the safety of the bedroom.

  Three was the sound of a body hitting the floor hard, as Fitzduane jumped down from the skylight and did an immediate parachute-roll away from Adachi but facing the bedroom. He had the 10mm Calico in his hands, loaded with tracer multipurpose ammunition.

  Fujiwara turned at the noise and started to bring his weapon around. Adachi also looked across, the revolver waving in his hand, anticipating a new threat. He was now completely exhausted and in a state of shock.

  Fitzduane fired a five-round burst at Fujiwara. At such a short distance, there was scarcely time for the tracer to ignite, just pinprick flashes of red before they vanished into flesh and bone.

  The tight group hit the sergeant as he was turning to his left to bring his weapon to bear on Fitzduane, tore open his rib cage on the left side, and smashed him back against the bedroom door. A split second later, a second burst aimed at Fujiwara's head, in case he was wearing body armor that the multipurpose could not penetrate, blew his throat and skull apart and he fell backwards into the bedroom.

  Adachi brought his left hand up to steady his aim as he had been taught, and tried to point his weapon at Fitzduane. The image in front of his eyes was a blur, and he found it desperately difficult to align his sights.

  "Superintendent-san!" The shout came from the ceiling, and the voice was familiar. "Superintendent-san, don't shoot. It's Fitzduane-san — the gaijin — a friend. He has come to help. You are safe now."

  Oga — Sergeant Oga — that was the owner of the voice, said Adachi's mind. He lowered the revolver and he felt it removed from his hands. Finally, exhaustion and illness triumphed, and he slid gently to one side and into unconsciousness.

  A rope dropped down from the skylight and Sergeant Oga, in his well-cut suit, slid down. The rain was so heavy through the aperture, it looked like the policeman was descending through a shower.

  "Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane. "It is certainly nice to see you, but how the hell did you get up on the roof after the drainpipe fell away?"

  "Colonel-san," said Oga, "it took us some time to find, but there is a metal stairs behind the water tank at the back of the roof. The drainpipe was not necessary."

  "Terrific," said Fitzduane sourly.

  Sergeant Oga smiled. "But without that drainpipe, I do not think the superintendent-san would be alive."

  18

  Kamakura, Japan

  June 27

  Fitzduane and Yoshokawa were walking along the beach in Kamakura.

  "I have news of Superintendent Adachi-san," said Yoshokawa. "His father called just before we left. The fever has broken and he has been released from the hospital and is resting at his parents' home. He hopes to be back at his desk again in a week or so. He is deeply appreciative of what you have done."

  "Adachi is a good man," said Fitzduane, "but the Hodama affair is a cesspool of an investigation. It must have been grim for him to be so betrayed. Still, better to discover what is going on than to leave it fester."

  "Fitzduane-san," said Yoshokawa, "you should know that Adachi-san feels under an obligation towards you. It is difficult for him, because you will be leaving soon and he does not know what to do, nor how to express what he feels."

  Fitzduane laughed. "Between you and me, and the gatepost, Yoshokawa-san, it is a moot point as to who should be more obligated to whom. If he, dizzy with fever, had not put a round through Fujiwara as I was coming through the skylight, we wouldn't be enjoying this sea air together and I could advise you from direct experience of the afterlife which shrine to keep in your living room. Hell, tell him to forget it."

  Yoshokawa smiled, but then turned serious. "Adachi-san is from an old and distinguished Japanese family," he said, "and takes his obligations very seriously. You must understand that he cannot and will not forget. It is not in his nature. It is not possible."

  Fitzduane was imagining Kamakura in its medieval heyday when it was the capital of Japan. He and Yoshokawa were nobles — well, who would want to be a peasant in those days? — at the military court. They would be wearing full samurai regalia as they walked the beach enjoying the sea air. Guards and followers would be standing at a discreet distance, banners flying in the breeze. The two nobles would be discussing strategy and tactics, preparing for the power struggle ahead.

  "Yoshokawa-san," he said. "Nothing ever changes. I was thinking of us as two daimyo from six centuries ago; and their concerns would have been similar. There were kuromaku then as there are kuromaku now. There was intrigue and betrayal then, and there is intrigue and betrayal now." He looked across at his bodyguards in their neat gray suits. "But their clothing would have been a lot more colorful."

  "And the technology marginally less refined," said Yoshokawa, "and since you are a gaijin, we'd have chopped your head off."

  Fitzduane laughed out loud. "You're giving it a good try as it is," he said, "and there is still time — I haven't left yet. I have the Namakas to see again. They are giving me that tour of their steel plant tomorrow, though I doubt anything will come of it. They don't seem to be rising to the bait. Being able to blame Kitano has given them room to maneuver. It’s a pity, but that looks like an account that will have to be settled some other time, because I have to get home. I don't like being away from Ireland too long these days. I miss Boots. He is growing up so fast. A month is a long time at that age."

  Yoshokawa nodded. "My group is grateful for what you have done. The Namakas are still there, but some corruption has been exposed and we do, at least, know who was behind the Hodama killings. Modest progress, but progress all the same. That is what is important. We have always known that reforming our structures will not be easy."

  "Not easy is putting it mildly," said Fitzduane. "The Namakas sail on and there is not a scrap of evidence against Katsuda. We have displaced a few pawns, but the main players remain untouched."

  "We shall see," said Yoshokawa. "Personally, I am optimistic. But I fear you, Fitzduane-san, will return to Ireland with a jaundiced view of my country."

  Fitzduane grinned. "Relax, Yoshokawa-san. A handful of rotten apples haven't turned me off the whole barrel. No, if someone were to ask me tomorrow about the Japanese, I'd say you are a hard people to get to know, but well worth the effort. People of caliber, guardians of some special qualities we can use on my side of the world. Su
re, there are changes you must make, but mostly you have reason to be proud."

  Yoshokawa was deeply touched by Fitzduane's words. Then Fitzduane spoke again. "One of the best things about coming here, Yoshokawa-san, is that I will never think of ‘the Japanese’ again. I'll think of individuals — you, your family, Adachi-san, the DSG, Sergeant Oga, the people of our plant I met yesterday, so many others with all your special individual qualities. That's the way I think it should be."

  "And those like the Namakas and Yaibo who have tried to kill you?" said Yoshokawa.

  "It is neither here nor there that they are Japanese," said Fitzduane. "They are just people that, in all our mutual interests, I hope we can consign on a one-way trip to hell. So far, I haven't been too successful, but the game is not over."

  "And what is this game called?" said Yoshokawa. "This matter of obligation?"

  "Vengeance," said Fitzduane, with a grim smile.

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  June 27

  Chifune sat at her desk at Koancho headquarters and again went through the arrangements she had made.

  The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department had the primary job of both running and protecting Fitzduane, but Koancho had its own interest and made its own preparations. When she had first joined the security force, she had been taken aback at the service's reluctance to share information, but as time had gone on she had seen the merits of this approach.

  Security issues tended to be very sensitive, and organizations such as the police, whatever their merits, were far from leakproof. Also, there were often advantages in having parallel operations, the overt and the covert. If the overt operation failed, the other was already in place, but set up in such a way that it was complementary and unlikely to have the same weaknesses. And, of course, if the secret operation ran into trouble, by definition nobody knew. Sometimes, both operations were unsuccessful. Well, she had been taught to accept a casualty rate. That was the reality of the dangerous world in which she operated.