Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt

by O'Reilly-Victor

  Adachi inclined his head respectfully. "Other friends of goodwill": it was an interesting euphemism for Gamma. He felt sudden warmth for the Spider. That apparently distant, elusive, cold-blooded manipulator was reaching out, was genuinely trying to help. And, of course, he was right. One venal policeman did not mean the whole department was dirty. He should still be able to trust his team, he thought.

  But then doubt clouded his mind. Of course corrupt cops in the Tokyo MPD were the exception, but that did not mean that Fujiwara was an isolated case. Who else might be playing a double game? He could talk freely to the Spider, he now knew, but who would back him up in the field? Who could he trust with his life at the sharp end? Who could he be absolutely sure of?

  The Spider, his face impassive, his eyes hooded, contemplated his subordinate with concern. He could sense the raging conflict in the younger man's mind, and he realized that a satisfactory resolution was going to be a more difficult task than he had thought. The man was suffering. The first move would be to stop his brooding.

  "I hear there has been progress on the Hodama matter," he said. "Perhaps, Superintendent-san, you would be good enough to brief me."

  Adachi's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. His world had been badly shaken, but his faith in his ability as a policeman was undiminished. This was one case he would resolve no matter what — or die in the trying.

  Nearly ninety minutes later, the Spider's opinion of his subordinate's ability and sheer perseverance, already high, had notched up further.

  "I have one suggestion, Superintendent-san," he said. "It concerns the tapes."

  Adachi was immensely encouraged as he left the Spider's office. The bloodline of his samurai ancestors was clear to see. His back was straight and there was a confident spring in his step, and a sense of purpose suffused his whole demeanor.

  This man, the Spider reflected, would slay dragons with his bare hands, if that was what his duty dictated.

  If only dragons were the problem.

  * * * * *

  Kamakura, Japan

  July 10

  They were sitting on either side of a low table in the tea room in Yoshokawa's house in Kamakura. They had dined earlier with Yoshokawa's family, but now the two were alone.

  Both were cross-legged and seated directly on the tatami mats of the floor. Yoshokawa had offered Fitzduane a low chair with a supporting back to ease his untrained gaijin posture, but the Irishman had remarked that since he felt comfortable enough with Yoshokawa to rub his limbs or move about when pins and needles set in without upsetting protocol, he would try sitting the Japanese way. Yoshokawa had been pleased at the implied compliment. Subsequently, the intensity of the discussion caused Fitzduane to forget, temporarily, his physical discomfort. He was to be reminded when he tried to stand up.

  "Your plan is brilliant and daring, Fitzduane-san," said Yoshokawa, after Fitzduane had run through it the first time, "but quite outrageous."

  The Japanese industrialist looked a little shaken. As one of the leaders of Gamma, he was aware of the very real dangers inherent in the struggle to reform the Japanese system, but Fitzduane's easy familiarity with the world of violence was unsettling. Yoshokawa's wars stopped at trade and politics. Fitzduane's wars had not such limitations. The Irishman might not like the necessity of killing, but he didn't to shirk it. Faced with no alternatives, he thought pragmatically in terms of what had to be done. His cause might be just, but such an approach was chilling to encounter for the uninitiated.

  "We are dealing with multiple forces here," said Fitzduane. "And each element is strong enough and well enough entrenched to reconstitute itself when damaged. Yaibo lose a handful of terrorists. No problem, they can always recruit more. The Namakas lose a few contract yakuza and then their head of security and, for all practical purposes, they are absolutely unaffected and even turn Kitano's death to advantage. Then Kei Namaka is killed and Namaka Special Steels is exposed as making illegal nuclear plants for the North Koreans — and not only does Fumio claim innocence, but he gets the plant back within a couple of weeks, because he had massive political support and all the blame can be shoved on the dead brother. And in the shadows we have Katsuda, kuromaku in waiting, who bumps off Hodama and gets away with it, and behind him, Schwanberg, doubtless with some other candidate lined up in case Katsuda comes down with a cold.

  "Hell, this is like Vietnam. Slogging through the boonies won't work. We need a little chutzpah here, Yoshokawa-san. Think in terms of fencing, if you will. The clash of blades is all very exciting, but there comes a time when you have got to end it with a single aimed thrust."

  Yoshokawa made a gesture of helplessness and then filled Fitzduane's wineglass. "But what you are proposing, Fitzduane-san, can only be done with the cooperation of the police, and they will not accept it. It involves setting up a situation where the loss of life is certain, and that will not be tolerated."

  "The Tokyo Metropolitan Police won't officially back this, I'll grant you," said Fitzduane, "but Gamma has enough political muscle to set it up and do damage limitation afterwards. For all practical purposes, the Spider runs the department. If he backs it, it can happen. And Koancho will cooperate. That I already know."

  "What about the Americans?" said Yoshokawa. "Schwanberg is senior CIA."

  "Leave the CIA to me," said Fitzduane.

  Yoshokawa sipped some wine and was lost in silence. Then he looked at Fitzduane and shook his head regretfully. "The ruling council of Gamma are moderates," he said. "They want reform, but they will not support something as drastic as what you have proposed. Things are not that desperate."

  "They are," said Fitzduane grimly, "and if we do nothing, they are going to get worse. Believe me."

  Yoshokawa felt dread as he heard and agreed with his friend's words, but he knew his colleagues on Gamma. The key man to persuade in this situation was the Spider, and Yoshokawa just knew he would not support Fitzduane's scheme unless pushed to the edge.

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  July 10

  Adachi let himself into his apartment. It had been cleaned up and redecorated while he was ill and staying at his parents', and now there was no trace of the gunfight and of Sergeant Fujiwara's violent death.

  He had thought of moving, but he liked the place, and the unpleasant memories of that particular incident were more than compensated for by other happier recollections. Most of all, he was reminded of Chifune. When he closed his eyes, he could see her and smell her and touch her, and when he slept at night she slept beside him.

  He opened his eyes. Reality was an empty apartment and he was hungry and he had work to do.

  He had bought some take-out food at the restaurant on the corner and now he laid it out on the low table and went to the fridge and got a beer.

  The cold liquid and the food gave him a lift. He smiled to himself as he thought about finding the tapes. Now, that was an example of good police work and stamina if ever anything was. He, Adachi-san, might be a flawed human being and incapable of pinning down a beautiful butterfly like Chifune, but, whatever his limitations, he was a good policeman and that made him very proud. And he knew now that his achievements made his parents proud also, and that was very satisfying. They had not been so keen on his choice of a career in the early days.

  When Adachi had been at home convalescing he had thought about the late Inspector Fujiwara. The man had been an excellent administrator, well-organized and thorough. Indeed, it was his organizational skills which had made it possible for him to lead his double life without detection for so long.

  The investigation that had followed Fujiwara's death had been extraordinarily thorough and controlled directly by the Spider. Secret bank accounts had been found, together with other evidence of the policeman's duplicity, yet, in Adachi's opinion, as he read the reports, there was still something missing. Fujiwara, the investigation showed, was a greedy man who kept a flashlight by the bed in case of power failure and had spare batteries for t
he flashlight and candles in reserve. The spare tire in his car was nearly new and correctly inflated. He had regular health checks more often than was absolutely necessary. His substantial life insurance was paid up.

  Something told Adachi that such a man would take some precautions against his criminal employers. Supplementing his police salary by taking bribes from the Katsuda-gumi was a hazardous business. He was not a full-fledged member of the gang. That meant he was deniable and disposable, and he would have known this. So he would have made sure to have something on his extracurricular employers, a little blackmail to create a balance of power.

  And yet the Spider's team, despite their success in further confirming that Fujiwara was dirty and in turning up considerable sums of money he had hidden away, still did not find the blackmail material that Adachi was convinced was there. Better yet, Fujiwara had personally participated in the Hodama hit. He had been in Hodama's house. And Hodama was a man who kept records.

  Possibly, Fujiwara had even participated in sanitizing the process. Surely he would not have missed such an opportunity. Surely, he would have pocketed something to help secure his position if matters turned against him. If he could deceive the Tokyo MPD day after day, he could certainly pull a fast one on the Katsuda-gumi.

  When Adachi returned to duty, he went to his office off the squad room and tried to imagine where Fujiwara might have concealed something. The reports were meticulous in documenting every detail of the searches. Checklists had been compiled and each item methodically ticked off. Rooms had been photographed and each search area marked. The houses of friends and associates had been searched. Fujiwara's desk and locker had been searched and the squad room as a whole turned over.

  Nothing.

  Adachi had lain back on the too-small sofa and closed his eyes. It had taken him several days, but he had read every document in the now-vast Fujiwara case file and he could not think of a single thing the search team had missed. The Spider's close supervision was apparent. Where a report was not clear enough or some shortcut had taken place the first time around, there was a margin note by the Spider in his distinctive hand, and a page or two later in the file, a memo would turn up ordering a fresh search or a further check.

  Adachi realized that he and his colleagues had approached, and were continuing to look at the problem, in a Western way. They were being logical and methodical and punctilious to a point where a Prussian bureaucrat would have been proud of them, but they were not using their famed Japanese empathy. They were not feeling their way through the dead policeman's thought processes, sensing the answer intuitively.

  Of course, not many of the investigating team would have known Inspector Fujiwara personally. It was the nature of such an investigation that fresh, unsullied faces would be brought in from outside. Those who were close to the dead man were potentially contaminated. Only Adachi had escaped being a suspect and, who knows, perhaps he, too, was under surveillance.

  Adachi brushed aside such negative thoughts and focused on Fujiwara. There was something about his personality that the numerous reports and interviews had missed and which, indeed, had been demonstrated more by his actions than by his demeanor.

  The missing elements were arrogance and nerve. In Adachi's opinion, Inspector Fujiwara had been an arrogant man, and in leading his double life he had been brave to the point of foolishness. Sooner or later, given the company he was keeping, it was inevitable that he would have come to a bad end. And yet, in his arrogance, he did not seem to have realized this.

  Arrogance to the point of stupidity. Adachi thought not. He had worked with Fujiwara long enough. No, Fujiwara was very far from stupid, but he had certainly not thought too highly of the powers of observation of his fellow men.

  Adachi's eyes had snapped open. A horrible thing had occurred to him. Fujiwara was a baseball fanatic. Adachi swung his legs off the sofa and looked above his desk. One year after the formation of the squad, there had been a wild squad party, and the high point of the evening had been the presentation by Inspector Fujiwara, on behalf of the team, of an inscribed baseball bat symbolic of the striking down of wrongdoing. All the squad had signed it, and it was mounted proudly beside a group photo directly behind Adachi's own desk.

  Not in the squad room; not on the wall behind where Inspector Fujiwara sat; but in the private office of his very own squad commander, the very man he was deceiving.

  The memory had come back: Fujiwara working in Adachi's office on that Sunday and the rest of the squad watching the baseball game. Could it be?

  Adachi had tried to remove the bat, but a screwed-in brace held it in place and the signatures to the front. This was a symbolic presentation. It was not meant to be used. He remembered the ever-efficient Inspector Fujiwara himself screwing it to the wall. Very thoughtful.

  Adachi had looked closely. The bat looked solid, but it was made of some composition material. He put his hand on the base and turned it. Nothing happened at first. Perhaps it was solid after all. He tried once again, and suddenly the base turned and a line of screw thread appeared. The join was virtually invisible inside a red and black decorative ring. He went on unscrewing. Seconds later, he inserted two fingers and extracted a long, taped package. He opened it and slid eight microcassettes onto the table.

  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the discovery itself and then a sense of mounting excitement at what it might signify. "Inspector-san," he said to himself. "You have been true to your spirit."

  Adachi's discovery of the tapes had occurred only a couple of hours before his meeting with the Spider, and he still had to listen to most of them. He roused himself from his reverie, pushed the remains of his food aside, and drained his beer. A certain amount of private gloating was in order, but now there was work to be done.

  He debated getting another beer, but decided that a clear head was the priority. The quality of the recordings was variable, and he had found he had to concentrate to understand some of what was said. The tapes were labeled clearly enough with names and dates and sometimes the subject matter, but the names were in code. Still, that was only paying lip service to security. Most of the speakers were identified by name on the tapes as they were shown in to Hodama by one of the servants. Untangling the identities of the others was something the Tokyo MPD could do with ease.

  Adachi loaded the third microcassette into the tape recorder. He was just about to press the play button when the phone rang. He picked it up with irritation. This was no time to be interrupted. His salutation was abrupt.

  It was the Eel, and he sounded very frightened.

  "Superintendent-san," he said. "Many apologies, many apologies, but I must see you immediately."

  Adachi modified his tone. The Eel had to be kept in line, but he was a good informant and a little friendliness toward him did not go amiss.

  "Origa-san," said Adachi, "I am busy this evening, but I can drop by to see you tomorrow. An early lunch would be pleasant."

  "Superintendent-san," said the Eel, in a voice of desperation, "I must see you now. It is vital. But you must not come to the restaurant. It is being watched."

  Adachi looked at the tapes. It was annoying, but they could wait another couple of hours.

  "What do you want to see me about?" said Adachi. "What's wrong with the phone?"

  "Please, please, Adachi-san," beseeched the Eel, "this is not something we can discuss on the phone. It concerns the man we were talking about."

  Adachi's mind went back to their conversation. The Eel meant Katsuda, the real murderer of Hodama. First the tapes and now a breakthrough on the mysterious Korean. Matters were looking up. "The Korean connection?" he said.

  "Yes, yes," said the Eel frantically, "but, please, no names."

  Adachi debated having the Eel come around to his department, but he had never had an informant there before and did not feel like starting now. "Origa-san, where are you?"

  "SunshineCity, superintendent-san," said the Eel, "hiding in the aquarium."

/>   Adachi was amused. "Very appropriate," he said, laughing. He then looked at his watch. "But it must be closed by now."

  "Superintendent-san," said the Eel desperately, "this is no laughing matter. Members of the Korean's gang are hunting for me, but no one would suspect the aquarium and I have a cousin who works here who is helping me. I am safe here until I can work out what to do. But I need help, Superintendent-san, and I can help you. I have documents and other evidence. But you must come to me. It is too risky for me to move."

  Adachi thought for a moment. The Eel had been a good source in the past. It was worth the effort. "Very well," he said. "Tell me how I can get in."

  The Eel, sounding immensely relieved, gave Adachi instructions and hung up.

  Adachi contemplated his next move. Up to the Fujiwara business, he would have telephoned for someone in the squad to drive him over and provide backup if need be. Now he hesitated. Suppose there was another leak. The investigation was still ongoing. There was no one he could trust absolutely.

  He settled for calling a uniformed patrol. They could drive him up and wait outside while he spoke to the Eel. That would keep the contact secure while providing some backup on call if needed.

  He checked his weapon and then looked at the tapes. He did not feel safe leaving them anywhere. Then his eye caught the hideous parrot alarm clock given to him by Chifune. He opened up the back and slid out the battery pack. There was room. He inserted the eight microcassettes and replaced the batteries. Now, who would think of searching a parrot?

  His door buzzer sounded and he looked out the window. The reassuring sight of a Tokyo MPD patrol car was below. "I'll be right down," he said into the door intercom.