Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘Okay. Although, perhaps, with things as they are, it might be easier to try our luck with the Yomiuri.’

  ‘They’ve run a scoop already.’

  Suwa nodded as if to say he’d just remembered. The Yomiuri and the Asahi had both run feature articles concerning the bid-rigging charges. The papers most starved for a story were, respectively, the Mainichi and the Toyo.

  ‘So you want me to leave the Asahi alone, too?’

  ‘Exactly. I think pushing them might backfire.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Suwa conceded, then frowned. ‘I suppose that leaves the Toyo. Are we going to leave them alone, too?’

  ‘No, I’m going to try and get a meeting with one of their editors.’

  The Toyo relaxing its stance was still the ideal scenario. There was Akikawa’s personal influence to consider, along with the fact that the paper was the club’s monthly representative. If the Toyo agreed to leave the protest with Media Relations, it was likely that many of the others – including NHK and the Jiji Press – would follow suit. But Mikami knew the relationship was strained, that Akikawa wasn’t the type to bite the moment a story was dangled before him. No – if they were aiming to get a quick reversal in what little time remained, their only chance was to go straight to Akikawa’s boss and hope for an executive decision.

  ‘There’s one more thing.’ Mikami lowered his voice to a whisper. He didn’t want Mikumo to overhear. ‘The old man from the accident passed away. I want you to look into the facts. Make sure the Press Club don’t realize what you’re doing until the meeting’s over.’

  After a moment to take it in, they nodded quietly. Mikami checked the clock on the wall. It was just gone eleven.

  ‘Okay, get to it.’

  The two men dipped their heads and got to their feet. Mikami also stood. He gave Kuramae’s back a light jab as the man made to walk away.

  ‘It’s appreciated.’

  Sorry I shouted at you. The meaning carried through his words. When Kuramae turned around he was slightly red, and clearly relieved. Mikumo seemed to brighten, too. She stood up from her corner desk, where she’d been hunched at her computer, typing by herself, and walked briskly over to the windows; she flung one open to let in some air. The four of them had to share an office that was cramped and in which they sat at close quarters, and it was easy to feel hemmed in. The slightest altercation or misunderstanding was enough to make it feel suffocating.

  Mikami returned to his seat and put in a call to the Toyo’s branch office. By a stroke of luck, Mikio Azusa – the man he’d been hoping to speak to – picked up the phone straight away. They had exchanged business cards at the last round-table meeting, but this was the first time they had really spoken. I’ve got something I want to discuss with you. Could we meet for lunch? Azusa seemed happy to agree. Well disposed to the police – Mikami was pleased that the man’s answer fitted with the impression he had got from the meeting. Hanging up, he saw that Mikumo had joined the others in going out, leaving him alone in the office.

  His head suddenly felt clear.

  He would meet the editor and buy his allegiance with information on the bid-rigging charges, make sure the protest never reached the captain. He picked up the receiver for a second time. I won’t be back for lunch today. He’d said this on the way to work but decided to check in regardless.

  ‘Order something from Sogetsuan. You only need to order a couple of portions. If you make one a large, we can heat it up later. I can have it for dinner tonight. All right? Good.’ Mikami directed the conversation, ending the call before his wife had a chance to get anxious.

  Mikumo returned holding a kettle.

  ‘Sir, is everything okay?’

  The question had come out of nowhere. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just that you look pale. Really pale . . .’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Perhaps in response to the curtness of his reply, Mikumo fell silent; she studied him for a while.

  ‘Sir, is there . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Is there anything else I can help with?’ Her voice was strained.

  ‘You’re already doing all you can.’

  ‘But I want to help . . . with the press.’

  Mikami kicked the floor so his chair spun a half-circle around. He couldn’t look her straight in the eye. He spoke with his back to her.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Please, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.’

  18

  Mikami left the station at eleven thirty, despite feeling it was still a little early. Azusa had suggested a Western-style diner not far from the Toyo’s office for their meeting.

  ‘Hey, over here.’

  Azusa was already there, seated near the windows with a paper open in front of him. Forty-six, the same age as Mikami. His dark features, which had given Mikami an impression of hardiness the last time they’d met, now seemed to suggest – perhaps because it was midwinter – a hard-to-shake bout of ill-health.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Mikami dipped his head and seated himself across the table.

  ‘Not at all, I got here too early. So many odd jobs to do in the office. Your call gave me a good chance to sneak out for a bit.’

  Face to face, the effect changed and Azusa seemed the very image of good health; he was more easy-going than Mikami remembered.

  ‘Your reputation precedes you, Mikami. When you led a team in Second Division, is it true that you arrested no less than three heads of local government on charges of corruption?’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘And you spent time in First Division, too?’

  ‘I did. About half my time in each.’

  ‘How about when Shoko was kidnapped?’

  ‘Special Investigations, First Division. As chance would have it.’

  ‘Right in the middle of it, then. What’s a kidnapping if not special? You know, I covered all sorts back when I was in Tokyo.’ Azusa used this to transition smoothly into a run of stories from when he was chief reporter for the Metropolitan Police, dressing up his accomplishments to sound like failures. Mikami struggled to find an opening, and it wasn’t until they’d both cleared away their curries and been given their coffees that Azusa broached the subject himself.

  ‘I assume you’re here to request that I put a stop to the protest?’

  Mikami put his mug, which he was already sipping from, back down on the table. Azusa’s sudden change of subject had almost caused him to spill its contents.

  He carefully rearranged the front of his jacket.

  ‘Yes, that’s the gist of it. Is there anything you can do to make them give it to me?’

  ‘I see. Well, I do agree that it’s a tad excessive to go straight to the captain. But I do have to consider the sentiments of my men in the field . . . and it does seem that your office bears some of the responsibility for getting them so worked up.’

  ‘I’ll admit to that. But the fact remains that the main party here is a pregnant woman.’

  ‘I understand your point of view on this. But I must also say . . .’

  Azusa began to discuss anonymous reporting. While he threw some of his own theories into the mix, the general thrust was no different to the argument of the younger reporters. Mikami stole a glance at his watch as he nodded. It was after one o’clock. The deadline was less than three hours away.

  ‘Azusa-san,’ Mikami said, trying to wrest back the conversation. ‘I’m sure, with your knowledge of the police, that you understand the gravity of a protest landing with the captain of a prefectural headquarters. I’m not saying you shouldn’t protest at all. However, looking at the precedents, wouldn’t you agree it is perhaps more suitable – at least at first – to lodge the protest with either the Secretariat or with General Affairs?’

  ‘Hmm. Well, that does seem to be the case.’

  He could push it through.

  Akikawa is under pressure from this editor with a background in police
reporting. Mikami was beginning to suspect that Suwa’s information was something Akikawa had made up, maybe to justify himself after Media Relations had footed the bill for his drinks. There was nothing stubborn or radical about the man sitting before him now. Unless the impression was something Azusa was putting on for his benefit, using the techniques he’d perfected in Tokyo.

  Mikami pressed again for an answer.

  ‘I don’t mean to suggest this isn’t an important issue, but it would be unfortunate if we were to let it harm the relationship between the club and the headquarters. If you would be willing to offer your assistance this time . . .’

  Mikami had stressed the last sentence.

  Azusa looked thoughtful as he answered. ‘Very well. Seeing as you went to all this trouble, I’ll see if I can talk with Akikawa. As I mentioned earlier, however, my men have an emotional investment in these things, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to guarantee his reaction. You are trying to take this over his head, after all.’

  Mikami nodded, suppressing any other reaction. A thought had taken shape. He wanted Akikawa to feel the humiliation of having someone bypass your authority. Even so, Azusa appeared to be steering the conversation to an inconclusive end.

  ‘I can’t make you any promises. Don’t hold it against me.’

  Having finished his escape clauses, Azusa reached for the bill on the table. Mikami got to it first. Azusa chuckled.

  ‘There’s no need to worry, Superintendent, I’m not going to pay the whole bill. I just wanted to pay my due, that’s all.’

  ‘Azusa-san. Please, sit down.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Mikami gave him a look that said: Just listen. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Tell Akikawa he’d benefit from focusing on the bid-rigging charges.’

  Azusa tilted his head a little, focusing his gaze on Mikami. As someone who had ascended the ranks to chief reporter for the Metropolitan Police, he would be well acquainted with the kind of gambit Mikami was about to make.

  Mikami was confident it would surpass his expectations.

  ‘For the last few days, we’ve had the CEO of Hakkaku Construction in for voluntary questioning. If things go to plan, we should be at the stage of making an arrest within the next few days.’

  Azusa stopped blinking. A number of his facial muscles tensed and relaxed. Gone was the distinction between rookie and veteran. The expression of a reporter landing a big story was always the same.

  The lunchtime crowd had already dispersed. In the comparative stillness of the restaurant, Mikami felt confident he’d closed the deal.

  19

  It was 4 p.m.

  Mikami pushed open the door to the Press Room. Suwa, Kuramae and Mikumo followed from behind. The press were lined up and waiting. Mikami was thrown by their sheer number. Over thirty, at a glance. Close to the club’s full roster. Seven or eight were seated on the couches in the middle of the room. Others had positioned themselves around them, on chairs dragged from their respective booths. The rest were on their feet, with no space even to put down chairs. With a pen in her hand, Mikumo did a head count. The previous day’s atmosphere of hostility had gone completely. The reporters had all adopted a look that said: We’ll wait and see what you have to say. Yamashina from the Zenken Times was standing directly ahead of Mikami, silent and ingratiating. He’d no doubt only taken the front row so the others wouldn’t notice his rather half-hearted demeanour. Akikawa was standing with his sub, Tejima, arms folded, behind one of the couches. On the outside he seemed no less composed than usual. But what about on the inside? What had his boss said to him? What was he feeling as he stood waiting? Utsuki, the Mainichi’s chief reporter, seemed in better spirits, suggesting that Suwa had perhaps been successful in his attempt to win him over. At the back of the room, Horoiwa from the NHK was standing shoulder to shoulder with Yanase from the Jiji Press. Their location perfectly matched Kuramae’s report that the two of them remained on the fence.

  ‘Right, is everybody here?’ Suwa spoke up. ‘Good. In line with yesterday’s request, Press Director Mikami will now read out our official response regarding the identity of instigator of the serious road accident in Station Y’s jurisdiction.’

  A camera flashed as Mikami took to the floor. It was Madoka Takagi from the Asahi.

  ‘Takagi, Takagi. I think we can dispense with that sort of thing. It’s not like this is a press conference,’ Suwa remonstrated, trying to sound informal.

  Takagi’s high-pitched voice came back. ‘I need a shot for my column. I’m doing a special on anonymous reporting.’

  ‘Okay, well, could you do it from the back? It wouldn’t be right to put our faces on this – you know we’re not the only ones dealing with this issue . . .’

  Having restored the peace, Suwa turned to Mikami and signalled the go-ahead. Mikami cleared his throat and looked down at the sheet in his hands.

  ‘I will now relay our official response. After much deliberation we have reached the decision that, due to the fact of the driver’s pregnancy, we will not in this case be able to make her identity known.’

  It was no doubt the answer they’d been expecting; there was an almost complete lack of response. Mikami continued to read.

  ‘We do, however, pledge to remain open to any discussions with you, the esteemed members of the Press Club, should a similar issue arise in the future. Thank you.’

  The second part had been added as a balance. Mikami had made the suggestion, and Chief Ishii had given his permission to include it just fifteen minutes earlier. Akikawa made an overstated nodding motion before opening his mouth to speak.

  ‘The Prefectural HQ’s position on this matter is very clear. We will now hold a meeting to discuss your response. If you’d be so kind as to leave us.’

  Following their return to the office, time seemed to stretch out interminably. For the duration, the room was dominated by the clock on the wall. Mikami sat on one of the couches; Ishii across from him. He’d come down from the first floor, clearly nervous about the result. Suwa, Kuramae and Mikumo were restless, too. They were each sitting at their respective desks, keeping busy writing or typing at their computers, but their eyes would drift up the wall to the clock every few minutes.

  Four fifteen . . . four twenty . . .

  A rubber stopper held the office door open by about five centimetres. They would hear footsteps if any of the reporters started down the corridor.

  They’d done everything they could.

  Moments before the press had convened their meeting, Suwa had quietly approached the four local outlets in an eleventh-hour attempt to sell them on the ‘antidotal’ section of the announcement. He’d pleaded their case: I want you all to raise the motion of leaving the protest with the chief of the Secretariat. Be assured, I’ll pay you back for this one. According to Suwa, Yamashina from the Times had agreed, while the others had grudgingly followed suit. If all four of them raised the motion together, even the hard-liners would have to pay attention. They would have no choice but to add it to the agenda.

  ‘They’re taking a long time. I wonder if everything’s all right,’ Ishii said. He looked uncomfortable with the silence.

  Mikami nodded without replying.

  They were probably arguing. The joint motion wouldn’t pass so easily. The protest has to go direct to the captain. The hard-liners would persist in their opinion to the end. The talks would come to nothing; it would be down to a vote. There were thirteen outlets in total, meaning they required only seven to vote for leaving the protest with Ishii.

  There was a chance they could pull it off.

  But they were late out. They should have reached their decision by now.

  Mikami was no less concerned than Ishii. Various undesirable outcomes were flashing through his mind. With the progress of time, doubts had begun to surface. Had Suwa actually managed to win Utsuki from the Mainichi over to their side? Had he really turned the vote? Had Kuramae managed to spread the bait concerning the bid-rigging
charges? Perhaps it was his fault. Had he somehow failed in his attempt to tame Akikawa?

  He didn’t think so. Azusa had bitten when Mikami had given him the inside information on the bid-rigging.

  Happy to do business with you.

  Akikawa should be under control. He could strut around, projecting the image of the perfect reporter, but he was still just a cog in a larger machine. He couldn’t turn his back on an order from one of the paper’s senior editors. While it was unlikely he would actually support leaving the protest somewhere else – not in front of the others – he could no longer advocate lodging the protest with the captain.

  It all hinged on the Asahi and Kyodo News. Perhaps on Ushiyama from the Yomiuri, who had a personal grudge against Akikawa. Might he have seen Akikawa’s about-turn and, deciding now was the time, changed his mind just to be perverse?

  It was now after four thirty.

  The stillness rang in their ears.

  Four thirty-five . . . four forty . . .

  They all turned to look at the door together. Footsteps. And not just one or two sets. Mikami was ahead as he flew out of the room. Something like ten reporters were already there, gathered in the corridor. They continued to flood out of the Press Room, the flow pushing the group in the direction of the stairs. Mikami glimpsed Akikawa’s face in the crowd. He saw Mikami and walked over. As though on cue, the reporters stopped talking and turned to face Mikami. Mikami searched Akikawa’s eyes.

  Which is it?

  Akikawa answered him flatly.

  ‘We intend to take our protest to the captain, right now.’

  Mikami went rigid. He heard someone suck in a breath behind him.

  They’d lost.

  He sensed all the strength draining from his body. It felt as though they’d hit him, as though they’d decimated a sandcastle he’d toiled over for a whole day so that not a trace remained.

  Akikawa’s face drew close. He whispered something in Mikami’s ear.

  ‘Azusa’s going back to Tokyo next week; he’s got a bad liver. He seemed grateful for his parting gift. Wanted me to pass on his regards.’