Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt

by O'Reilly-Victor

  Chifune shrugged unhappily. "We thought they were contained," she said. "We had driven them out of Japan and believed they were safely isolated in Libya."

  Fitzduane looked at her. "You have someone on the inside of Yaibo," he said. "Hell, that's why you let them play. These people are almost impossible to penetrate, and you've done it. So now you think it's better to keep them on a long leash than have them break up into a number of cells you know nothing about. But," he snarled, pointing at his scarred chest, "the one flaw is that even if they are not running around much in Japan, they've been plenty busy in my part of the world."

  Chifune put her arms around him and stroked him. He could feel her breasts pressed against him and the heat of her sex as she wrapped her legs around him. "We didn't know. It made sense at the time."

  Fitzduane felt himself become erect and slip inside her. Still inside her, and his arm around her, he lay back so that he could look at her.

  "Chifune," he said, emphasizing every syllable. "You are the most beautiful and desirable woman and you have the most heartrendingly beautiful name and you touch my heart. But why do you tell me all this? I'm an outsider, a barbarian, a gaijin. This is not my battle."

  "Don't move, Hugo," she said, and she put one arm down between her legs and took him in her fingers and wrapped the other around his lower body and did things to him and kissed him and did not speak again until they came together.

  "It's because I love you," she said, "and I want to give to you and I want to help you in every way I can."

  Fitzduane put his arms around her and caressed her and held her close. "Chifune," he said, and soon they slept.

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  June 30

  Looking down from the Koancho helicopter at the seemingly unending urban sprawl that surrounded and then became Tokyo, Fitzduane tried, at first, to put his feelings about the women in his life into some sort of order.

  After Anne-Marie had been killed in the Congo only a few short weeks after their marriage, he had been involved with, and had enjoyed, many women, but had been reluctant or unable to commit. The pain of Anne-Marie's death had take a long time to fade, and the nature of his job, traveling from one war to another, did little to encourage lasting involvements. Then came Etan and a strong desire to settle down and build a life with this woman whom he loved and the sheer continuing joy of his first child.

  But life did not work merely because you wanted it to. Fate, in Fitzduane's opinion, was heavily laced with black humor. And in this vein, Etan departed because she wanted her own freedom, just when he wanted to give up his. The next stage should have been simple enough, but it was not because he continued to love her, and she was the mother of his child, so she could never just fade into the past. Still, they had never married and they had parted and they lived separately, so their relationship was the most clearcut.

  When he thought of Kathleen, Fitzduane felt a surge of emotion and love, together with feathers of uncertainty. Kathleen was a marvelous, tender, beautiful woman, physically desirable and a natural homemaker, yet she had come into his life almost too conveniently when he had been at his most vulnerable, and he was far from sure about his own feelings. Also, he was concerned about her ability to live under the permanent state of threat in which he now found himself. Kathleen was a gentle and caring soul, and she deserved a normal way of life. Yet clearly she loved him and Boots adored her, and she had settled into Duncleeve as if born for the role.

  Unfortunately, Fitzduane thought, for no reason that made logical sense to him, he seemed to like a hint of danger in his women. It was an immature trait and troublesome, but its reality could not be denied. Etan had it and Chifune had it in spades, but it was the one element missing in Kathleen. Still, that was more his weakness than Kathleen's.

  Chifune was an impossible situation in just about every way and should just be put down to a magnificent sexual conflagration, and yet the thirty-six hours they had spent together had affected Fitzduane deeply. Although he had been as promiscuous as any highly sexed young male in the past, as he grew older Fitzduane found it hard to sleep with a woman without his emotions being engaged, and Chifune, giving herself physically without any restraint and confiding in him both the confidences of her trade and her feelings, had won a place in his heart.

  It was also true that there was an affinity between them that was not merely sexual. Both he and Chifune needed the stimulus of danger and were at their absolute best when living at the edge. But this was a recipe for eventual destruction, and if Fitzduane wanted nothing else, he wanted a stable and happy home for Boots t be an only child. Children should have other children to play with.

  Fitzduane found no solutions as the helicopter flew on. He reflected that life was more than about choices than answers — and then living with the consequences.

  * * * * *

  The staff at the Fairmont — who had heard he was dead, and were not entirely surprised; and then had heard he was alive, and were not entirely sure they were relieved — still greeted him s if nothing untoward had happened.

  Their bows were deep and friendly. How exactly you could tell a bow was friendly, Fitzduane was not quite sure, but there was a difference.

  Fitzduane liked the staff at the Fairmont and found their behavior reassuring. He reflected that when the world is going to hell, it is nice to find that some standards are maintained. It was not an academic thought. The hotel was going to be his home for a little longer.

  His killing of Kei Namaka had accomplished part of his objective, but it had upped the stakes. He, Fitzduane, and, almost certainly, Boots and Kathleen, were now in even greater danger. Faced with the loss of his beloved elder brother, Fumio Namaka would be like a man possessed. Something serious was going to have to be done about him and Yaibo before Fitzduane could return to Ireland with any degree of equanimity.

  It had come down to an elemental reality: Destroy or be destroyed.

  21

  Tokyo, Japan

  July 1

  "Let's kick this thing around," said Schwanberg.

  He was sitting in the secure bubble in the offices of the Japan – World Research Federation at the New Otani, together with the two other members of what he thought of as his ‘private team.’ The private team were paid, as was Schwanberg, by the CIA, but their motivation was profit and their loyalty was only to their boss.

  That loyalty had nothing to do with Schwanberg's personality. It was based upon mutual self-interest. Their charmless superior had used the CIA as his personal profit center since Vietnam, and had made all three men extremely rich.

  The best pickings of all had come in Japan. The scale of corruption in the second-most-powerful economy in the world was, for the three men, beautiful to behold. And what better cover for their operations than the CIA, with its obsession with secrecy.

  As station chief, Schwanberg had brought ‘need to know’ and compartmentalization to such a high art that not only did few people know what the others in the station were doing, but Langley counterintelligence had even praised him for his operational security. They were right. Schwanberg attached great importance to operational security, even if it had little to do with the well-being of the United States. And operational security meant leaving no loose ends.

  "We've lost the North Korean thing," said Palmer, a thickset, hard-faced man in his mid-forties who was the muscle of the private team. "Your pal Fitzduane and that Koancho chick have fucked us. Namaka Special Steels is now crawling with cops."

  Schwanberg shrugged. Hodama's refusal to pay more was what had precipitated the move against him and his supporters, and their involvement in supplying North Korea had always been difficult to handle. The private team could not be seen to be overtly involved in the enterprise. That would have given Hodama and the Namakas too much leverage. Skimming was one thing. Direct involvement in supplying a hostile foreign power was something else.

  Instead, Schwanberg had tried to squeeze som
e of the nuclear profits from Hodama and the Namakas without letting on that they knew about the North Korean deal, and the effort had backfired. They had not realized that the Namakas were in such a financial mess and could not pay more even if they had wanted to. But once they discovered that, there was only one logical move. Destroy Hodama and the Namakas and bring in a new, financially stronger kuromaku. Enter Katsuda, who had his own reasons to do the actual work. It was perfect.

  "The Namakas were a lost cause anyway," said Schwanberg, "and now Kei is dead and that's one less person who knows about us. Also, look on the bright side. The North Koreans are now going to be screaming for product, which is going to raise the price. And there are other plants around. Relax, we'll work something out. We'll channel it through Katsuda."

  "I've got two concerns," said Spencer Green, the third member of the private team, "the cop, Adachi, and Bergin." Green was tall, thin, balding, and looked like the bookkeeper that he was. He handled the paperwork for the group's operations. He was something of an administrative genius, but he was a worrier. "Adachi is now back on duty and he is pursuing the Hodama investigation with a vengeance. And Hodama was our main connection. Just suppose Adachi turns up something. A link with us. Hell, we know he kept audio- and videotapes. Suppose we missed something."

  "Why do you think I went along on the Hodama hit?" said Schwanberg, irritated, "except to sanitize the place? I missed fucking nothing. Unless, of course, one of the hit team displayed some private initiative." He thought for a moment. "Like that bent cop, Fujiwara. Anyway, if Adachi turns up something, we should be the first to know. The guy is bugged to his eyeballs, and we've still got friends on the inside."

  "So what's this about Bergin, Spence?" said Palmer. "The guy's retired. He's practically senile."

  Green shook his head. "I dunno," he said, "he's been talking to people. I think he's up to something. In my opinion, if he doesn't know, he at least suspects. The guy may be old, but he's no fool, and my gut tells me he's still a player."

  Schwanberg was silent, thinking about what had been said. There was some merit in being concerned about Adachi, he thought, but he really could not see Bergin posing any threat. Of course the guy had lunch with his old friends every now and then. He must go nuts rotting out in that little Jap village.

  He looked across at Green. "So, Spence, what does your gut tell you about Fitzduane?"

  Green smiled. "Namaka Special Steels apart," he said, "Fitzduane's no problem. On the contrary, we're on the same side. There is still one Namaka brother to go, and it looks like he's going to do the job for us. Now, what could be neater?"

  "It's nice to see you smile, Spence," said Schwanberg thinly. "You should smile more and worry less." He nodded at Palmer. "Chuck, let's talk some more about Adachi-san. We were unlucky last time. Let's have no mistakes the second time around. And after Adachi, let's put something terminal in the pipeline for Fitzduane. He is going to be useful in the short term, but I don't trust the fucker."

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane's Island, Ireland

  July 1

  General Kilmara donned earmuffs and peered through the thirty-power spotting telescope. It was matched to the telescopic sight the sniper was using.

  A target eighteen hundred meters away looked as if it was within sixty meters, easy hailing distance. Alternatively, every body tremor or movement was magnified thirty times. The latter was the downside of long-range shooting. The very business of staying alive, of your heart pumping, your nervous system reacting to its surrounds, of doing something as utterly normal as breathing, worked against you. The issue was leverage. The more accurate your rifle, the more the slightest movement — if your point of aim was initially correct — would send the round off target. And that was just the beginning.

  Other factors entered the equation. Wind and weather were the major ones, but there were many others.

  Was the propellant blended properly? Were the grooves in the barrel perfectly machined? Was there wear? Had a shade too much oil been applied with the pull-through?

  Kilmara had watched the finest of shooters at their art and afterward had spoken to many of them. He was not a religious man, but eventually he had come to the conclusion that with those at the pinnacle of perfection, it was more than a matter of science. It was almost something mystical.

  The figure lying prone twenty meters away was oblivious to him. He lay there as if in a trance until the three random targets popped up.

  There was a pause of about half a second as the shooter absorbed the visual information and mentally programmed ahead the three-shot firing sequence, and then the huge .50-caliber semiautomatic Barrett gave its distinctive, deep, repetitive crack. The muzzle brake absorbed most of the shock, and dust rose in the air from the deflected blast.

  Three hits. All were within the kill zone, though one was near the edge. Given the lethality of the multipurpose armor-piercing explosive ammunition all hits would have been instantly fatal, but the sniper shook his head disgustedly. Since the shooting of Fitzduane, he had become obsessive and practiced at every conceivable opportunity.

  That day, he should have been faster. The image of the consequences of being slower than his aspirational optimum stayed with him. A little boy, whose back of the head had been laid open in a crimson line. Fitzduane lying there, soaked in blood as if he had been bathed in it, the light fading from his eyes.

  It was not good enough. Deep inside, he knew it. He could — he really could — do better.

  Kilmara left the spotting telescope and walked over to the shooter. The man had risen to his feet and was engaged in the routine rituals of range safety management. There was the final check that his weapon was safe and his magazine clear, and only then did Kilmara speak.

  "Remember Colonel Fitzduane, Al?"

  Lonsdale did not salute. In the Rangers, saluting was reserved for the parade ground. But he smiled, a little ruefully. "I'm scarcely likely to forget him, General," he said. "I saw him shot and I visited him afterwards in the hospital a few times. I wish I could have been quicker."

  Kilmara had little patience for what might have been. "Colonel Fitzduane has asked for you, Al," he said. "How do you feel about shooting accurately from a slow, moving platform a thousand feet up?"

  "How slow?" said Lonsdale.

  "Thirty to fifty clicks an hour," said Kilmara. "Maybe slower. And one extra detail..."

  He paused.

  "It will be at night."

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  July 10

  Adachi had recovered from the virus that had laid him low, but the sense of alienation and betrayal which had gripped him after the prosecutor's suicide and Fujiwara's attempt on his life was harder to shake off.

  His ordered world was shattered, and since his return from leave he had found it next to impossible to integrate back into his role as leader of the team. If Fujiwara, his most trusted subordinate, could have been suborned, then so could anyone else in his operational group. All were suspect. None could be trusted absolutely. And if none could be relied upon absolutely, then he must work virtually alone.

  Ironically, he knew he could trust Chifune and the gaijin, Fitzduane, but then he saw the two of them together, and though nothing was said he knew instantly what had happened. He did not blame either of them, because that was not his nature and such things were natural, but inwardly he wept.

  He focused on the Hodama investigation. That whole miserable business had turned his life upside down, and he had now adopted the view that only with its resolution would sanity be restored in his life. He craved some peace of mind, and he had become convinced that only wrapping up the Hodama affair would bring it to him.

  He was listening to tapes in his office when the summons from the Spider came That was another twist in this affair. If he had suspected anyone of corruption it would have been the enigmatic and ambitious Deputy Superintendent-General, but it turned out that the Spider was one of the reformers. Hi
s father had told him so. Both were involved in some organization called Gamma.

  More intrigue, albeit in a worthy and decidedly uphill cause. Adachi, the policeman, craved duty and simplicity. It was why Adachi Senior, who was immensely proud of his son, had not asked him to join Gamma. Whatever the rationale, Superintendent Adachi was not made of the stuff of conspirators. He had simple direct values, and Gamma had to deal with complex issues, where sometimes difficult decisions had to be made for the greater good. The reform of Japan was a life-or-death struggle, and the stakes were immense.

  The Spider waved Adachi to a chair and tea was brought. Adachi was taken aback by the wave. The slightest gesture of the right hand was more the Deputy Superintendent-General's style. Further, there was a definite nuance of friendliness in the Spider's demeanor. True, it was no more than a nuance, but that, for the Spider, was downright extroverted behavior.

  "Superintendent-san," said the Spider. "It is good to have you back. How long has it been?"

  "I have been back on duty one week, sensei," said Adachi.

  Adachi had lost weight and was looking pale and gaunt. In the Spider's opinion, another few weeks' rest and relaxation would have been in order, but he made no comment. The aftereffects of the virus were not the problem. This man's very foundations had been shaken to the core. First, learning that the prosecutor was betraying him, and then the near-fatal assault by Sergeant Fujiwara. The man must be feeling quite paranoid. Perhaps the best solution lay in work, after all. He must learn that the failings of a couple of people were not representative of the majority.

  "I am sorry that we have not had an opportunity to talk earlier," said the Spider. "Tidying up this regrettable business at Namaka Steel has been distracting and there have been many ramifications. However, you must know, Superintendent-san, that you have my full support. The full resources of this department and other friends of goodwill are right behind you. You must remember that."