Still, she found it hard to view the developments in the Hodama affair with equanimity. The assault on Adachi had left her deeply shocked, all the more so because it was unexpected. Senior police in Japan were virtually never attacked.
Then there was the gaijin Fitzduane. Despite her strong feelings for Adachi, this was a man who, against all common sense and other loyalties, her body, and maybe her heart, wanted.
One of these days she was going to have to make some decisions. She was a modern woman, she hoped, but she had some traditional needs. She shook her head, annoyed at this undermining of her will by biological instinct. It was maddening. Men were not so encumbered in this way, or, at least, not so physically restricted. Meanwhile, there was an operation to be run. She worked her way through the file and checked that they had covered every foreseeable contingency.
Her conclusion was depressing. The gaijin had good basic security cover, it was true, but if anything untoward happened, he was on his own. Full cover made the operation impossible. The whole enterprise was predicated on a degree of risk.
What might the Namakas do? She dug into the files and looked at their resources. What did they like to do? What could they do?
Koancho's records were not restricted by police regulations and were buoyed by extensive covert surveillance. In addition to facts, they contained extensive analysis and speculation — some low-key and some provocative. She listened to tapes, watched surveillance videos, and read on into the night. Brawn and brains — every avenue led to the natures of the two brothers. The specifics could not be forecast, but there were patterns of behavior.
In the early hours of the morning, she began to develop a feeling about the Namaka's next move. She had also worked out how the problem of Fitzduane's police surveillance might be overcome. Unfortunately, an appropriate countermove was harder to define. The bottom line was a constant. Fitzduane-san was vulnerable. Whatever the pretense of security, he had to be left vulnerable if the Namakas were to be enticed to make a move.
* * * * *
Fitzduane had dinner in his room at the Fairmont and then worked late into the night on his notes.
As he closed his eyes, he thought of his father and how much he had loved him and how terribly he missed him. John Fitzduane had been killed in a skydiving accident when Fitzduane was fifteen. It still hurt Fitzduane when he remembered.
Few Fitzduanes died in there beds. Violent death was something of a Fitzduane tradition.
I don't want Boots to be alone, he thought. I'm taking enough risks as it is.
He slept.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
June 28
"Good morning, Sergeant-san," said Fitzduane cheerfully to Sergeant Oga.
After his late-night work, he had slept briefly but well. He was going back to Ireland in a couple of days and would see Boots and Kathleen very soon. He missed them. but he must go shopping first. Boots had been conditioned by a fond father to expect a present every time he returned, and Kathleen deserved something special.
Fitzduane was feeling very domestic that morning. The visit to Namaka Steel was not in the forefront of his mind. The sun was shining for a change and the humidity was bearable, and he felt good. And, the peculiarities of his visit aside, he was enjoying the limited amount he was seeing of Japan and, more to the point, he was interested in the Japanese. True, you needed a pickax and a miner's lamp to break through the wall they put up, but inside there were rewards. Sergeant Oga was a case in point.
Oga and the day shift bowed. "Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane, "I'm going to miss you. I'm getting used to spending every day with four of Tokyo MPD's finest, and I just want you to know I appreciate what you're doing. But for you, I might well not be alive. Of course, I would not know if I wasn't, but I'm grateful to you that I am."
Sergeant Oga blushed. He did not understand exactly what the gaijin was saying — especially the last part — but the sentiments were clear. He explained briefly the gist of what Fitzduane-san had said to the other three detectives, and they all bowed in unison.
Fitzduane bowed back, then go on with the briefing. He had discovered that bowing could go on almost indefinitely unless you had a breakaway technique — an elevator arriving, or a cab you had to get into — anything to break the cycle.
"A Namaka limousine is coming at nine-thirty to take me to the NamakaTower," said Fitzduane. "From there, I'm driving with the brothers to their steel plant. I'll be there most of the day."
"The Namakas do not make me feel comfortable, Fitzduane-san," said Oga. "They are dangerous and devious people."
"They are why I am here," said Fitzduane.
Sergeant Oga nodded. "I don't like it, Fitzduane-san," he said.
"I'm trying to rattle their cage without being eaten," said Fitzduane with a smile. "Think of yourself as a keeper."
Oga was not amused. He knew perfectly well the limitations of police protection under such circumstances. "Are you armed, Fitzduane-san?" he said. "And wearing your bullet-proof vest?"
"You're like my mother when I was small, Sergeant-san," said Fitzduane, "but yes to both."
"I would like to put two of my men in the Namaka limousine with you, Fitzduane-san," said Oga. "Following behind is not adequate, nor is one escort car. Strictly speaking, we should have at least two."
Fitzduane laughed. "Sergeant-san, I am neither the President of the United States nor an anti-mafia judge in Italy. One car behind me with the four of you inside as normal will be fine — unless, of course, you have fresh information?"
Oga shook his head.
"Look, Sergeant-san," said Fitzduane. "We're trying to strike a balance here between reasonable precautions and moving the Namakas into play. If I'm too crowded, there will be no freedom to maneuver and then we will have accomplished nothing. There has to be an element of calculated risk. It's a high-risk world out there."
"Hai, Colonel-san," said Oga, his face impassive. Orders were orders. Nonetheless, he had a bad feeling, and his concern for the gaijin was not purely professional. But he would be relieved when Fitzduane left Oga's jurisdiction alive and in one piece.
* * * * *
Chifune, sitting in the back of what looked like a standard Mitsubishi delivery truck, but which was actually a Koancho high-tech surveillance vehicle, watched the Namaka limousine pull up in front of the Fairmont and a white-gloved, uniformed driver jump out and open the door.
Something about the action struck her, then she realized that the man had left the front passenger seat on the left and not the driver's seat on the right. She turned up the video camera's magnification. The limo had tinted windows, but the camera had been developed specifically to cope with this kind of problem, and using the thermal mode, she could make out the shape of the driver inside. A driver and a codriver, and there had been only one driver last time. Interesting.
The limousine pulled away, drove down the narrow access road, and paused by
Yasukini-dori Avenue
before pulling into the traffic. Close behind was Sergeant Oga's unmarked escort car. Farther behind was the Koancho vehicle. Chifune did not need to maintain such a close tail. There was a small transmitter concealed on Fitzduane that showed up his position at all times on an electronic map. Japanese technology was not just about Hondas and VCRs.
Sergeant Oga felt easier when they left the dense city-center traffic and moved onto the expressway. Traffic lights and intersections and two-way traffic offered too many opportunities for a hit. Cruising along the two-lane expressway on the inside lane, with traffic going the same way and no sidewalks, was considerably safer.
"There's a job for the traffic boys coming up," said the detective, who was driving, glancing in his mirror. Sergeant Oga, sitting in the passenger seat, also had a mirror, but when he looked, the vehicle behind was so close he could not make out any details except that it was a large truck and it was tailgating them.
He began to turn for a closer look. There was a roar,
and the car shook in the wash, as an unmarked high-sided Hino container truck painted a deep brown shot past, pulled in front of the police car, and then proceeded to slow down.
"Stupid bastard," said the detective, braking to match the vehicle's speed. "Why don't you take the prick's number and radio it to traffic? That would be careless driving in a car. It's positively lethal in a truck."
"Forget the truck," said Oga. "Overtake it — we're losing the gaijin."
The driver began to pull out, just as a second Hino pounded up and started to pass. There was a shriek of metal as the two vehicles touched briefly, and sparks flew, and then the driver wrenched the wheel and pulled back into his lane. The second Hino pulled ahead until it was running parallel with the first truck. The escort car was now completely blocked off from the limousine.
"Fuck!" said Sergeant Oga, who rarely swore. He hit the concealed siren. If the Hino blocking the overtaking lane did not move, it was a hit for sure. He made a precautionary radio call to central control, read out the two Hino plate numbers for a vehicle check, and kept the channel open, his thumb poised to transmit further.
As soon as the siren sounded, the blocking Hino started to accelerate to clear the lane. At this speed, the huge vehicle's acceleration was not good, but still not much more than a minute had passed before it pulled in ahead of the other truck and left the way clear for Oga's vehicle to pass.
Siren still screaming, the detective driver dropped a gear and put his foot on the floor and shot out into the passing lane.
Several hundred yards ahead was what looked like the gaijin's limousine, but it was too far away to read the plate. The police car closed the distance rapidly until the plate could be identified. It was the Namaka limo.
Oga realized that his heart was pounding and his body was flushed with adrenaline. He switched the siren off and tried to calm himself down.
"I thought we were going to see some action," said the driver. "Looks like we were flapping for nothing, Sergeant-san. There is our target in absolutely pristine condition.
There was a searing yellow silent flash and the gaijin's limousine and its contents exploded into jagged metal, splinters of glass, burning upholstery, and severed limbs.
A split second later came the thunderous roar and blast of the explosion, and the police car, already decelerating as the driver instinctively braked, was hurled against the parapet. It spun several times laterally but did not overturn, and finally the much-dented vehicle came to a halt of its own volition in the middle of the debris.
Sergeant Oga tried to get out, but the door pillar on his side had been smashed in and neither door on his side would open. The driver was unconscious, slumped in his safety belt, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead where flying glass had struck. The two detectives in the back were badly shaken but otherwise uninjured. They got out of the one backseat door that would open, and Oga squeezed between the front seats to the back and followed them.
Leaving the two detectives to look after the driver, he walked the short distance to where the still-smoking remains of the Namaka limousine lay, and looked inside.
He felt his mind separate as he looked. The interior reeked of explosive residue and cooked flesh and was plastered within the blackened bloody fragments of human remains, and he wanted to be sick. Another part of his mind, that of the trained detective, noted that the bottom pan was still intact, though bowed outward. Clearly, the device had been placed inside the car or was a projectile like a rocket which had penetrated from the outside and then exploded. There was no entry hole in the metal frame that he could see, but it could easily have come through one of the windows.
Repulsive though the task was, he tried to work out how many bodies could be made up from the pieces in the limousine, and whether he could recognize the gaijin.
After several minutes, he reeled away, nauseated, and with all hope destroyed. The corpse in the rear of the car was the right size, weight, and build of Fitzduane-san and was definitely Caucasian. The clothing, insofaras he could tell, was Fitzduane's. He could just make out a watch similar to the military Rolex that Fitzduane normally wore.
There was no doubt. The gaijin was dead. Deeply shocked and depressed, Sergeant Oga went back to the battered unmarked police car and tried the radio. To his surprise, it was still working.
He began to make his initial report. When he finished, he found Tanabu-san examining the wreckage. He was not particularly surprised. Koancho made their own rules, and Chifune Tanabu certainly had her own agenda; and a special, though discreetly displayed, interest, he had noticed, in the gaijin.
"Sergeant-san," said Chifune, "did you see what happened?"
Oga noticed that she looked more puzzled than saddened, and he was surprised. Granted, Koancho agents were a hardened lot, but he had expected a more human reaction in this particular case. He explained briefly.
Tanabu-san stood in thought for about half a minute when he had finished. Then she turned to him. "Sergeant Oga-san, I think we can help each other. Come with me."
19
Tokyo, Japan
June 28
There was the sound of a slap, then another.
A pause followed, and then another blow, and Fitzduane felt pain and realized that he might be directly involved with what was happening. He was not sure, though. His head was muzzy and his eyes were closed, and for a short while he thought he was back in the hospital in Ireland, recovering from an anesthetic after a surgical procedure. This business of being shot was a great deal of work. He wanted to go back to sleep.
There was yet another blow, this time even harder. "Kathleen," he murmured in protest. Why were they hitting him?
He could hear people speaking but could not understand what they were saying. That was odd. He felt suddenly cold and wet and started to splutter. There was water everywhere, cascading into his mouth and nose, and it kept on coming. It was like being under a waterfall and he was drowning. He could not breathe.
The waterfall stopped. He opened his eyes. They would not focus properly, but something wooden seemed to be suspended over him. He could see the lines where the boards joined, and he was reminded of a barrel — a rather small barrel. What was a barrel doing up there?
The image above him came reluctantly into focus. The next hard task was to link the sight with his brain. Suddenly, like a car that will not start that is being pushed and is gathering momentum, he felt a sputtering ignition. His brain cells started to do what they were designed to do, and almost immediately he wished they had not. They were coming up with the most unpleasant findings.
He was not in Ireland with a solicitous nurse bending over him. He was in Japan, and the person ministering to him, judging by the full-body tattoo that protruded from his kimono at his chest and arms, was a yakuza. And the barrel was not a barrel; it was a wooden bucket with a rope handle.
He was conscious and he could see, but he still felt sick and groggy. He gave himself a couple of minutes, and then when the yakuza's back was turned he tried to raise himself. As he did so, the yakuza turned and almost absentmindedly kicked Fitzduane in the stomach and sent him flat on his back again.
The bad news, thought Fitzduane, is that I now feel even shittier. The good news, to look on the bright side, is that I can now be reasonably sure the natives are not friendly. And knowledge supposedly is power.
It really did not seem worth the effort. He closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to restore some sort of equilibrium. Clearly he had been drugged in some way, but he had no idea how.
What had happened? Where was he? Who were his captors? It did not seem as if they were going to kill him immediately, else why had he been allowed to wake up — but what sort of plans had they for his longer-term well-being? On reflection, he was not at all sure he wanted to know. The yakuza were fond of edged weapons and making their victims disappear. Fitzduane contemplated without enthusiasm ending up as fish food in TokyoBay, or being sunk in the earthquake-proof foundations of
one of the examples of Japan's building boom. Alternatively, if that was going to be his fate, he could do without advance warning. Anticipating a painful death was not the most pleasant way to pass the time.
He decided he had better find something more cheerful to think about. The subject of women came to mind, but that was not exactly pain-free. Instead, he thought of Ireland and his island and Boots's ridiculous antics and his laughter.
Fitzduane started to smile at the memories, and then a voice cut in. "Fitzduane-san, I am glad to see you are enjoying yourself. It is part of the samurai code, you must know, to make the best of adverse circumstances. In your case, your position somewhat exceeds adverse. Technically, you are dead. Dismembered. Blown to pieces. A tragic loss. It was a simple matter to arrange a double."
Kei Namaka! The confident booming voice was unmistakable. Fitzduane opened his eyes. Kei stood there in full traditional samurai regalia, down to the two swords tucked into his sash. He looked decidedly pleased with himself.
"And I'm in heaven, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane dryly. "I have to tell you it's a big disappointment."
Kei laughed and then translated what the gaijin had said. Other laughter could be heard. Fitzduane, bearing in mind what had happened the last time he had tried to rise, did not move or look around, but he estimated there were three or four others in the large room. He was lying on a hard wooden floor. Looking straight ahead past Kei, he could see antique weapons on the walls. That information, tied in with the Namaka chairman's costume, suggested he was in a dojo, the Japanese equivalent of a salle d'armes. Christian de Guevain had died in such a place, he remembered.
"You are a brave man," Kei said, "and I like you, so I had better explain." He talked for several minutes, describing with immense satisfaction the operation to snatch Fitzduane.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 34
