Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘And he asked you about something called the Koda memo?’

  ‘Yeah. He wanted to know who had it, so I told him I had no idea – told him I’d never heard of the damn thing, let alone knowing who had it now.’

  ‘And that’s the truth? You really don’t know?’

  ‘Come on, Mikami . . .’

  ‘Okay. He seemed happy with that?’

  ‘Sure, left without a fuss. Even gave me a look to apologize for intruding on my work.’

  ‘And you just let him go, without asking anything back?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You must have pushed a little, tried to suss out what he was talking about?’

  ‘Naturally. He said nothing, of course. Administrative Affairs, Internal Affairs; they ask the questions. You don’t know what they’re up to, and they certainly won’t tell you.’

  Mikami nodded sharply. He could feel his sympathies shifting to side with the detective’s. He felt something close to anger, even jealousy. That this was related to Six Four was certain. Futawatari had trampled barefoot over the holy ground of the investigation. He had emerged from his natural domain, the depths of Administrative Affairs, only to offer a glimpse of a mysterious document neither Mikami nor Mochizuki had known existed: the Koda memo.

  Mikami’s phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket. He cursed, checking the display. Media Relations.

  ‘Sir. I think you might need to come back.’

  Suwa’s whispering tone told Mikami something had happened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve just been told the press intend to issue a formal protest, in writing, to the station captain.’

  12

  Mikami hurried back to the Prefectural HQ.

  He came to a sudden stop after opening the door to the office. Akikawa from the Toyo was perched on one of the room’s couches. He’d been calling out to Mikumo, but when he looked at Mikami it was with the same detached expression he’d had earlier in the morning. Mikami took a seat, then levelled his gaze at the man opposite him.

  He already knew his opening line.

  ‘You seem determined to make trouble.’

  ‘You’ve left us no choice, Mikami.’

  He was utterly composed. Akikawa had never been the type to curry favour, even one to one. And he was even less likely to do so with Mikumo in the room. She was working on the layout of the bulletin, her expression impassive and doll-like. She’d clearly erected a barrier, deciding to completely ignore Akikawa so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Suwa adopted a different approach. Like Mikumo, he’d assumed a look of nonchalant disinterest, only his aim was to conceal the agitation in the room. He was acting as though Akikawa’s presence were perfectly normal.

  Mikami’s approach was similar to Suwa’s. When he spoke, his voice was measured and calm.

  ‘You don’t think you’re being a little unreasonable? Threatening to submit a written protest to the station captain out of the blue like this?’

  ‘I’ve arranged to hold it back for now. If you give us the woman’s name by tomorrow evening, we’ll withdraw the protest.’

  ‘Sounds like a threat to me.’

  ‘Such a negative word. It’s like I said – you left us no choice, flatly refusing to listen in that arbitrary way.’

  ‘We can’t compromise on everything.’

  ‘Nor can we. I’m sorry, but I can’t let this one go. It’s the consensus.’

  ‘Okay – who will it be?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who do you intend to submit the protest to?’

  ‘The station captain, of course.’

  Mikami felt a chill on his forehead. They really were planning to breach the inner temple of the Prefectural HQ. He pulled out a cigarette and lit the tip.

  Time to negotiate.

  ‘Could you lower your sights a little?’

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Address the document to me, or the chief of the Secretariat.’

  Suwa had told Mikami during their earlier call. Never, in the history of the station, had the Press Club submitted a written protest to anyone ranked higher than division chief. I don’t think it’s ever happened anywhere – for a written protest to be submitted to the captain of any headquarters. His voice had been stretched to breaking point.

  Akikawa was grinning faintly.

  ‘Mikami, are you asking for a favour?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You know, it didn’t really sound that way.’

  ‘Will you do it if I apologize?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Consensus, like I said.’

  Mikami clenched his fists under the table. ‘Okay. At least leave the document with me.’

  ‘Leave it with you? You’re asking me to hand you a document addressed to the station captain?’

  Mikami nodded; Akikawa suppressed a laugh.

  ‘Why would I do that? You’d only hold on to it . . . the captain would never see it.’

  ‘It’s enough to prove you did it.’

  Whoever they gave the document to, the fact would remain that they had submitted a written protest to the station captain. Yet Akikawa rejected the idea without hesitation.

  ‘Let’s not engage in politics, Mikami. All you have to do is give us the woman’s name. It shouldn’t be that hard.’

  From the corner of his eye, Mikami saw Suwa scratch his chin. The middle ground was to keep the document in Media Relations. Suwa’s expression made it clear he’d decided on that as the target.

  ‘We’d like your response by 4 p.m. tomorrow. We’ll hold another meeting once we have your answer.’

  Seeing that Akikawa was getting ready to stand, Mikami raised a hand. ‘There’s also the commissioner’s visit. Can I assume everything is on track with the questions?’

  ‘That is something to discuss once this is resolved.’

  ‘We need them soon.’

  Akikawa flashed a smile, the expression declaring he’d found another weakness.

  ‘More importantly, you’re really not going to tell us what this morning was all about?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The reason behind the change in you, Mikami. We’ve had no luck working it out ourselves.’

  ‘Don’t you have more important things you should be doing?’

  The words slipped out, a reflex.

  Akikawa looked puzzled. ‘More important things . . .?’

  ‘You’re representing the club this month, so you need to focus on the anonymity argument: fine, just make sure you don’t neglect your actual job. There’s also the investigation into bid-rigging charges concerning the art museum. That isn’t over yet.’

  Akikawa’s expression hardened. Second Division’s investigation was reaching a climax, and the race for coverage was intensifying. The Asahi and the Yomiuri had each run pieces covering the story. The Toyo had lost its initiative and would, if things continued as they were, have to face a miserable defeat.

  ‘We’re working on that, too, don’t you worry,’ Akikawa said, annoyed but unbeaten. ‘I take it it’s not illness, something like that?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know . . . maybe you haven’t been feeling well, had to change the way you do your job. That sort of thing.’

  Mikami felt a sudden, powerful urge to strike the man.

  ‘I’m just fine, as you can see.’

  ‘Okay. Well, don’t think we’re going to pull any punches, then.’

  Akikawa strode out of the room, sparing a glance for Mikumo. Suwa gave Mikami a quick look then jumped to his feet, following him out. He invited Akikawa to Amigos, the karaoke bar of choice in Administrative Affairs.

  It was a while before Mikami felt able to stand. It wasn’t just his anger at Akikawa. There was a bitterness in his throat, too.

  You could just give them her name, if they want it so badly.

  Mikami frowned, concentrating on the cowardly idea that had risen, scum-like, to the surface. If thin
gs did come to a head, he could always force a reset by giving them Hanako Kikunishi’s name. Doing so might flip the situation to his advantage. There wouldn’t be any damage. The press only wanted the police to reveal her identity. He’d already made sure to labour the point that she was pregnant and suffering from high levels of stress. As they tended to be oversensitive when it came to the weak, they wouldn’t run an article exposing her true identity. Even supposing they were considering it, the story would be three days old if they ran it in the next day’s news. No: it was highly unlikely any of them would actually put it in print.

  There was, of course, the issue of saving face. If he overturned their policy of not revealing the woman’s identity, he would be admitting that the Prefectural HQ had made a mistake. They would also have to ready themselves for this about-turn becoming a precedent, fuelling the press to escalate their demands.

  But the loss of face would be nothing compared to what might happen if he failed to act and let the press barge into the captain’s office. And worries of losing face would be the last thing on his mind if the trouble disrupted the commissioner’s visit.

  ‘I’m going upstairs for a bit.’

  Mikumo approached as he got to his feet, looking a little anxious. ‘Sir.’ Her face was flushed. Her eyes sharp, even angry. ‘Please let me go to Amigos with the others.’

  Mikami felt his head spin. Suwa had put her up to this. Either that, or she was trying to help, unwilling to stand back and watch him suffer.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he snapped, hurrying out of the room. He stopped himself after a few steps then turned to face the door again. Not a good idea? He turned back into the room. ‘Forget about it, for good,’ he commanded. Mikumo looked crestfallen. Even Mikami had been surprised by the harshness in his voice.

  But the poison was already coursing through his blood. He had for a moment considered taking advantage of the fact that Mikumo was a woman, and he knew he would come to regret it.

  13

  It was dark beyond the windows.

  Mikami was making his way to the first floor, this time via a different set of stairs from those that led to Administrative Affairs. The red carpet ran all the way up these stairs, starting at the entrance to the station, turning right at the landing to the first floor, and stretching as far as the Secretariat and the Public Safety Committee’s office. Mikami pushed open the door to the Secretariat. His gaze met that of Aiko Toda, who was sitting closest to the door. He couldn’t see Ishii at his desk.

  ‘Is the chief in?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in the visitor’s room.’

  Mikami glanced at the door set in the right-hand wall. The visitor’s room was a kind of annexe within the Secretariat, its main function to host confidential discussions.

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  He walked over the carpeted floor and settled into one of the couches in the middle of the room, its quality and comfort far superior to the ones in Media Relations. A selection of indoor plants had been arranged at even intervals, doubling up as a screen that could shield you from the office’s view if you sat in the right place.

  The room was soundless. Even though Mikami had grown used to it, it still managed to put him on edge. His eyes drifted off to the corner furthest to the left. A set of double doors fashioned out of finely grained wood announced the entrance to the captain’s office. The lamp was on, indicating that the room was occupied.

  The office staff were all hard at work. Even with the chief out of the office, it was rare for them to relax their sense of professional formality. They were polished and always on the ball – all the way down from the vice-chief through the section managers to the rank and file – impressive, even if compared to their colleagues in the Prefectural Government.

  The difference was incredible. Although his office was located separately, Mikami was also a member of the Secretariat. Welcoming the station captain from Tokyo. Protecting him. Returning him unscathed back to the NPA. There was no exaggeration in saying that these were the Secretariat’s principal duties.

  Toda came over with a mug of tea.

  ‘Will he be long?’ Mikami asked, keeping his voice low.

  Toda inclined her head a little. ‘He’s been in there for a while, so I wouldn’t—’

  ‘Who’s he with?’

  ‘Inspector Futawatari.’

  Mikami held his breath until Toda left. It was warm when he slowly exhaled. A second brush with Futawatari in a single day. It was becoming harder to dismiss it as coincidence. Futawatari would be meeting Ishii to discuss the commissioner’s visit, or something else to do with Six Four. Mikami had to assume this much.

  His eyes bored into the door. For a moment it was as though he could see Futawatari’s scrawny back through it. The sharp, clearly defined lines of his face. The razor-sharp intelligence of those cutting eyes.

  But . . .

  The look that had been burned in Mikami’s retina was altogether different.

  A summer day, long ago. It came vividly back: the unfathomable expression, fixed on Mikami as he held out a wet towel in both hands. They’d been in the same class in high school. Both members of the kendo club. It was their last prefectural tournament as third-year students; Mikami had been taisho – captain of his team – while Futawatari had reconciled himself to being in reserve. He’d lacked the necessary flair. He’d also been unlucky to find himself in a group of elites many of whom, in their year and the year below, had come up through the local dojo. Round one. Mikami had landed a nukido – a sharp strike to the abdomen – on the taisho of one of their main rivals. He had returned triumphant to the corridor that served as the rest area. Drenched in sweat, he’d looked for one of the wet towels the first years had to get ready but been unable to find any. The bus carrying the team’s supporters had been late to arrive, and the junior members had been sent to help unload luggage. Mikami had snapped around, annoyed, his eyes landing on Futawatari.

  However much he tried, Mikami couldn’t recall what had happened next. He suspected his eyes had barked the order.

  Get me a fucking towel.

  Futawatari had jumped into action. He’d disappeared behind the stands and reappeared moments later with a cooler box slung over his shoulder. He’d taken out a towel and proffered it in silence. Following the tradition of the club, he’d presented it with both hands. But he hadn’t shown any sign of deference. His eyes had remained fixed on Mikami. But their expression had been abnormal. They’d lacked any kind of light. Empty of consciousness or feeling, they’d appeared as black pits. He’d suppressed everything. Taken control. At seventeen years of age, Futawatari had been able fully to conceal all the humiliation, anger and bitterness that would have been seething inside him.

  A few months later, on the recommendation of a graduate of the kendo club, Mikami had sat the entrance exams to join the police. When he’d spotted Futawatari in the same examination hall, he’d stared, wide-eyed. I thought the civil service might be a good fit. That was all Mikami had managed to get out of him. Even now, Mikami wasn’t sure what had motivated Futawatari to chose a career in the force. The kendo club was a sizable organization. A harsh environment where you earned a place to fight by defeating your companions. Mikami had never considered a man like Futawatari, who had never handled a bokuto before entering the club, as an equal. He’d worked hard at it; that much was true. Never missed a practice session. Mikami had never heard him whine or complain. And he hadn’t been the kind of man who schemed behind people’s backs to bring them down. Although maybe that was just the impression he gave. The memories were hazy. Sure. Of course. I agree. Mikami couldn’t remember much beyond the man’s emotionless responses. For Mikami, whose high-school years had been physically and emotionally wild and unrestrained, the reticent and boring Futawatari, forever on reserve, had never been of interest, and nothing dramatic had ever happened to impart the feeling that they’d spent a part of their youth together. Considering they’d been in the same club
in the same school for three years, he knew far too little about the man.

  Mikami had graduated third in his year in police school. He would never forget his surprise when he learned that Futawatari had graduated first. The greater surprise had been yet to come. Futawatari began to race through his promotion exams, swiftly ascending through the ranks. He focused on administration, specializing in Personnel, and was made superintendent at forty – the youngest in the history of the Prefectural HQ. His record still stood.

  He spent the following seven years as an inspector in Administrative Affairs, the key position in managing personnel, enjoying a reputation as the department’s ‘ace’. He was highly regarded among the career officers, and Mikami had heard he’d been put in charge of drawing up the plans for executive transfers. A succession of directors had taken him in as their right-hand man; he had become the implicit authority behind decisions concerning personnel, and was on his way to becoming truly untouchable.

  You’re just their pet, nothing more. Mikami had muttered his contempt each time Futawatari crossed his thoughts. It wasn’t that he was a bad loser. His position as a detective had furnished him with a sense of pride and exclusivity. He belonged to a no-nonsense world, a family, where influence depended on the number of perps you brought in, a world divorced from the departments that competed to have stars on their collars. His ‘record’ hadn’t disappeared, but he’d beaten it with results. They’d needed him, and he’d always delivered. He’d been far removed from Futawatari’s reach in Personnel. He’d never doubted that was the truth.

  But . . .

  What if Futawatari had got to him?

  Mikami had always avoided thinking about it. He knew he would become a hostage to the suspicion if he did. He would lose sight of the reason for being in Media Relations; he would lose control. The fear of that happening had compelled him, until now, to look away.

  But there it was.

  Had his appointment really been down to Akama, and Akama alone?

  It had been this time last year. Word had begun to spread that Mikami might receive a transfer to be part of the Criminal Investigations Bureau in Tokyo. It’s looking likely. The decision’s all but made. Mikami had himself heard the whispers. Yet, when the announcement was made, it had been a different story. The promotion to superintendent – and the concurrent transfer to Tokyo – had been awarded to Yasuo Maejima, one of Mikami’s contemporaries. Postings to Tokyo were traditionally provided to groom candidates for the post of director. Mikami had been left stranded, as if the passport to his future career had been seized at the moment he boarded the flight. He could have perhaps shaken it off if that had been as far as it went. Told himself he’d never wanted to serve in Tokyo. And, at first, he’d been proud of how well he’d taken the blow. The real shock had come later, when he’d received the informal confirmation of his own upcoming transfer. His ‘criminal record’ hadn’t been the only thing that had crossed his mind. He’d recalled again the eyes like black pits, devoid of light and feeling, from that summer day long ago.