Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  He held out his card and Osakabe’s wife accepted it in both hands. She showed no signs of surprise at his visit, so soon after Futawatari’s.

  ‘Press Director Mikami?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘May I ask why you’re visiting?’

  ‘There’s a matter I wanted to discuss with Director Osakabe, if possible.’ Director, even after retirement. That would never change.

  ‘Of course. If you could give me a moment while I pass on your message.’ She disappeared briefly before emerging again. ‘Please, follow me.’ She gestured for him to enter, then led him along a cool hallway before showing him into the guest room.

  Mikami’s legs were as stiff as posts.

  ‘Sir. Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said, intoning clearly. He felt like a newly recruited officer again.

  Osakabe was sitting next to a low table on the floor. Eight years retired. Aged sixty-eight. He’d lost a little weight around his cheeks and neck, giving him a sinewy appearance that was in line with his age, but his eyes were sharp as they regarded Mikami, and commanded no less authority than they had during his time in active duty.

  ‘Sit yourself down.’

  Mikami obeyed, folding his knees. He declined Osakabe’s offer of a cushion and sat awkwardly in formal seiza. Osakabe folded his arms. Face to face, his presence was overwhelming.

  ‘Please excuse me for barging in like this. My name is Mikami, I’m in charge of Media Relations. I was assistant director in Second Division until the spring when—’

  ‘Just tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mikami forced himself to move on. ‘Inspector Shinji Futawatari was just here. I wanted to know the reason for his visit,’ he said, getting straight to the point.

  Osakabe’s expression told him to continue.

  ‘I’m sure you know this, but the headquarters is coming apart. Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs are at odds with each other over the commissioner’s proposed inspection of the Six Four investigation. The commissioner is scheduled to arrive in four days, but relations are strained to breaking.’

  Osakabe remained inscrutable. He looked like someone heading up a case meeting, waiting for his subordinates to finish their reports.

  ‘I think Commissioner Kozuka is planning to make an announcement, one that will have severe repercussions for Criminal Investigations. Futawatari is helping set the stage, asking questions of officers in the department.’

  Osakabe said nothing.

  ‘I wondered if he might have come here with the same purpose?’

  ‘I told him I had no idea what he was talking about,’ Osakabe said flatly.

  Mikami’s head started to race as he felt a surge of something like kinship. Osakabe had just told him he’d kept Futawatari in the dark. He was addressing Mikami as though he were in Criminal Investigations.

  ‘What did he try asking you about?’ Mikami tried pushing a little, but Osakabe said nothing else. ‘If I can be honest . . . I still don’t know what Tokyo intends to do. If you know what they’re planning, it would be a great help.’

  The silence seemed to deepen. What would happen if he were to bring up the subject of the Koda memo? Would Osakabe’s involvement in the cover-up compel him to walk away? There was no choice. Futawatari would have addressed the subject.

  ‘I believe Futawatari would have mentioned something called the “Koda memo”. Am I right to assume that?’

  ‘As press director, what is your interest in this?’

  This threw Mikami. Had Osakabe asked this defensively? Or did he want to clarify Mikami’s position first, before he moved on to talk about the core issue? I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. Stunned by Osakabe’s words and swept up by the murky, detective-like atmosphere of the room, Mikami had – despite the question being an obvious one – forgotten to explain his own stance.

  ‘My . . .’

  He could feel the sweat on his palms. Whatever Osakabe’s reasons for asking, now the question was in the air Mikami knew the conversation was over unless he answered.

  ‘It’s true that I am currently based in Administrative Affairs. That I am therefore under an obligation to follow my commanding officer’s orders. And while I don’t know Tokyo’s goal in this, I realize I am a part of the plan. But—’

  I haven’t sold my soul.

  ‘I only want to know what’s necessary in order for me to do my job as press director, as the person in charge of managing the sites during the commissioner’s visit. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘How would you use the information?’

  ‘I would keep it to myself and carry out my orders.’

  ‘Meaning you would commit yourself to Administrative Affairs but remain a detective?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Mikami stopped, reconsidering. It would be foolish to pretend he belonged in Administrative Affairs, not after he’d come here driven by his loathing for Futawatari. Osakabe was right. Mikami couldn’t erase the part of him that was still a detective. Even if he had sold his soul, he was still a detective in flesh and blood. He needed something that fundamentally differentiated him from Futawatari. Osakabe had turned Futawatari away, but Mikami had been confident he wouldn’t do the same to him.

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right. That’s just a part of me now, I can’t do anything about it. I won’t forget that I’m a detective, whatever it is I end up doing.’

  ‘You want to go back?’

  ‘I can’t deny it. But—’

  ‘So you’re saying you’d like to have an easy run of things?’

  ‘An . . . easy run?’

  ‘Sure. The job’s an easy one. Easiest in the world.’

  Mikami didn’t understand what he was hearing. The job was easy? Was that what he’d meant? Or had he meant being there was easy? Being a part of Criminal Investigations, where he could be himself. Where he’d left his desk, his pride, his achievements . . .

  Osakabe unfolded his arms.

  ‘Return to your post. There’s nothing so foolish as wasting the present for the future.’

  What?

  ‘Today is for today. Tomorrow is for tomorrow.’

  Mikami was stunned.

  Osakabe was already on his feet. Mikami needed to make the decision.

  ‘Please, wait.’

  He had to say it: it was the only thing that would keep him there.

  ‘I believe you know the truth about the Koda memo. If the information gets out, it will harm your reputation, too.’

  Osakabe peered down at him. His eyes were quiet, philosophical, as though he’d let go of everything years earlier.

  ‘Return to your post. Chance can define a lifetime.’

  ‘It could bring the department down.’

  Osakabe ignored the question to the end.

  So you’re going to run?

  Osakabe walked out of the room, leaving nothing but a brush of air wafting across Mikami’s cheeks. The sound of his footsteps receded along the hallway. As though it was a custom of the house, his wife came quietly in to take his place, carrying a cup and saucer.

  ‘Some tea before you go?’

  There was something reassuring about her voice. Mikami felt the tension slip away from his back and knees. Ten minutes, on the dot. He didn’t doubt Futawatari had been left with the same bitter aftertaste, drinking tea after Osakabe had left the room.

  39

  In the cold air outside, Mikami became aware of the heat in his face.

  In their fight for information, both he and Futawatari had suffered a painful defeat. While that was true for this particular round, however, the fact remained that Futawatari knew Tokyo’s intentions, while he didn’t. For his part, Mikami had learned the secret of the Koda memo. Yet, try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get Futawatari to talk, and Osakabe had presented an insurmountable rock face.

  But that wasn’t all . . .

  Return to your post.

&n
bsp; Chance can define a lifetime.

  Fatigue convinced him to go home. He made a detour to Hiyoshi’s home and left the letter he’d written with the man’s mother: It’s not your fault. Now that Kakinuma had confessed to the truth, he had less need to reach Hiyoshi, but he knew he’d feel bad if he abandoned him now without having first delivered his words.

  At home, Minako had prepared mackerel and a vegetable stir-fry. Although she wasn’t smiling, her expression had softened a little. Mikami had expected her to bring up the phone calls again but, dressed in her apron and perhaps satisfied after their conversation earlier in the day, she showed no signs of wanting to raise the subject.

  When they’d started to eat she said, ‘Did something good happen at work?’

  Mikami blinked at the sudden question. ‘Why, do I look different?’

  ‘A bit.’

  It was probably his relief showing through at finding Minako in a good mood. Although it was possible it was the other way around. He’d arrived home in good spirits, and she’d let his mood raise hers, too. That would explain it. It was the effect of the talk he’d had with Mizuki Murakushi. She’d helped fill one of the many gaps in the jigsaw puzzle of their marriage. It might have remained obscured beneath his self-consciousness, his other worries, but the warmth he’d felt when listening to Mizuki reminisce about Minako had already been integrated into his deep memory, settled into a place where it couldn’t be overwritten. It wasn’t just fatigue that had urged him to come home. He was sure of it.

  ‘You do look tired, though. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Got through a major obstacle, actually. Amamiya has agreed to let the commissioner visit him.’

  Mikami had expected her to take this as good news; instead, she tilted her head to the side.

  ‘Oh? Hadn’t he turned you down already?’

  ‘Yeah, the first time.’

  ‘Huh. I wonder why he would . . .’

  Mikami didn’t want to tell her that he’d cried at the Buddhist altar.

  ‘I think he probably realized I was being sincere.’

  ‘That must be it,’ Minako agreed, encouraging him, but the look of surprise was still there.

  Mikami felt sure that Amamiya had been moved by his reaction. He thought the tears had probably fallen because he’d seen Ayumi in the photographs; he was certain of it. Amamiya had lost his daughter; he would have sensed something was wrong in the way Mikami had acted.

  Still . . .

  Was it that he’d seen Ayumi? Mikami had asked the question several times during his drive back home, but he hadn’t been able to find a satisfactory answer.

  ‘I need to make a short call for work,’ he called to Minako, who had just started on the dishes. He picked up the phone and headed into the bedroom.

  Amamiya’s feelings on the matter aside, the hurdle of the commissioner’s visit had been cleared. As of tomorrow, Mikami could go back to working on the press – he would be involved in tough negotiations right up to the visit itself.

  He would return to his post.

  Mikami switched on the heater and settled heavily on to the floor, crossing his legs. He checked the alarm clock. Exactly half past seven. Ishii was probably still fuming, having not called back since. He would be lying if he said the next day’s round-table meeting didn’t weigh on his thoughts, but the first call he made was to Suwa at home.

  Suwa’s home line was busy.

  Feeling slightly out of the loop, Mikami lay back on the floor and stretched, the phone still in his hand. He pictured Suwa, busy canvassing the various reporters. Suwa understood his ‘post’ perfectly. He would complain, but it was clear he loved what he did.

  Getting restless, Mikami sat back up and pressed redial. This time the phone rang at the other end. Suwa’s wife picked up and told him her husband was out on a job. Mikami decided to call Suwa’s mobile directly. As he listened to the ringtone, he could feel a growing anticipation.

  ‘Suwa speaking.’

  The background blare of karaoke accompanied his voice.

  ‘It’s Mikami. Where are you?’

  ‘Sir. I’m in Amigos, with a few of the reporters.’

  Manning his post, of course. Even at the weekend. Anonymous reporting. The written protest. The boycott. Mikami felt each of the issues come back into focus.

  ‘Is Kuramae there with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here, too.’ It sounded as though Suwa had already had a fair amount to drink.

  ‘Who’s there from the press?’

  ‘Just give me a moment.’ Suwa seemed to be making his way out of the bar. The karaoke in the background was replaced with the sound of cars going by. ‘Sorry. I forgot to ask, how did it go with Amamiya?’

  ‘Yeah, good. He gave us permission to go ahead.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great! Fantastic.’

  ‘How about things on your side?’

  ‘Ah, right, well, I’d put out a call for everyone to come out and celebrate the owner’s birthday, although it’s actually next month – sorry, beside the point – anyway, the way it’s ended up it’s more of a “strengthen our defences” thing.’

  Strengthen our defences? He meant the only people who had shown up were the moderates, the ones still sitting on the fence.

  ‘Who have you got?’

  ‘Let’s see. There’s the Kyodo News, the Jiji Press, NHK, Tokyo. As far as the local press goes, I’ve got the D Daily, the Zenken Times, D Television and the FM Kenmin.’

  ‘So no one from the Asahi, the Mainichi or the Yomiuri . . .?’

  ‘Sorry to say it, but yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘What about the Sankei and the Toyo . . .?’

  ‘The Sankei turned me down flat. Said they couldn’t come out drinking until the whole thing was behind us. As for the Toyo . . . well, Akikawa did look like he intended to come. He definitely sounded interested when I told him Mikumo would be here.’

  Mikami almost shouted. Only barely managing to restrain himself, he asked the question in a whisper.

  ‘Is Mikumo there with you now?’

  ‘Yes, but of her own accord. I only brought her along because she insisted,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘We’ll talk about that afterwards. What else do you have to report first?’

  ‘Right – so, Akikawa made it sound like he’d be coming, but he hasn’t shown up. I just tried his office again but they said he was out covering a story. I get the feeling he’s going to run something in the morning edition. I wonder if it’s related to the bid-rigging charges?’

  It was a regular occurrence for one of the papers to release a story the morning after the others had been out drinking.

  ‘What’s the atmosphere like?’

  ‘Hmm? How do you mean?’

  ‘Does it seem like the boycott’s going ahead? What are the fence-sitters telling you?’

  ‘Ah, right. Well . . . that’s the . . . problem.’ Suwa’s skill in forming whole sentences seemed to be suffering, along with his ability to think logically. ‘Basically, they all think the boycott is going too far. The commissioner’s Six Four inspection is big news, so of course they want to cover it. It seems the original idea – in their last GM – was to boycott the entire visit, but now they’re saying the boycott only applies to the interview outside Amamiya’s house.’

  ‘So they want the best of both worlds . . .’

  ‘Yes. What it boils down to is that they’re planning to boycott the walking interview as a kind of sanction, even as they sneak out coverage of the rest of the visit. I think it’s just posturing. That interview is clearly the highlight of the inspection – they all want to be there, they all want full coverage. I’m certain they’re all agreed on that. It’s just . . .’ His voice tapered off. ‘They’re just unwilling to cooperate unless something changes.’

  ‘What would it take to bring them around?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Suwa hesitated.

  Mikami guessed the mood in Amigos was riding against him.

>   ‘It’s fine – just say it.’

  ‘First, they want you to make an official apology. Verbally and in writing . . . Then – and they don’t mind if this is unofficial – they want a verbal apology from Captain Tsujiuchi or Director Akama. I think if we can meet those demands . . . There’s also—’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Someone is apparently pushing for your replacement rather than an apology. I don’t know who it is, but it’s someone aligned with the hard-liners. My guess is that it’s the Toyo.’ He gave his conclusion without hesitation, despite his earlier wavering.

  ‘Someone’s after my head?’

  ‘Just a small fraction among the hard-liners.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ Mikami wanted Suwa’s honest opinion of things.

  ‘If you ask me, they’re getting carried away. If we give in to their demands at this stage, who knows where they’ll draw the line in the future? But, well, to be honest, I also don’t believe they’re being totally unreasonable. They might not need your head, but they probably do need an official apology so they don’t lose face. And they’ve got their bosses breathing down their necks. What matters is how it looks. If they at least seem to be getting their way, the moderates will come together to end the boycott.’

  Mikami felt like he’d been put on a leash. And by his own staff, not even just the reporters. ‘Do you think they’d actually cancel the boycott, though, even if I were to apologize? Don’t forget we thought we knew how the votes would fall, for the written protest.’

  ‘Well, I can’t offer any guarantees. But we’ve got to make sure they don’t go through with the boycott, whatever happens; we’ll have to make do with the hand we’ve been dealt.’

  Mikami gazed into empty space.

  ‘If we were to issue an official apology, how do you think that would affect our influence in the Press Club?’

  ‘There shouldn’t be any cause for concern. I’ve seen a number of similar cases in the past, and I’m pretty sure we’ve never lost ground after an apology. It usually seems to help . . . if anything, the relationship with the press tends to improve afterwards.’

  It came across as a sales pitch. He didn’t seem to think the apology came at any great cost.