Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Cool down. Nothing bad is going to come of this. If anything, it’ll be a boost for efficiency.

  You shouldn’t take it so seriously. It’s a symbol. It hardly matters who actually sits there. The detectives will do their job, regardless of the top. Isn’t that right?

  What else had he said?

  You’re a perfect example, Mikami.

  A fine member of the Secretariat, in anyone’s eyes.

  Don’t take it the wrong way. I meant it as a compliment.

  Futawatari had wanted Mikami to dwell on his place in the organization. He’d known everyone would assume he was an agent for the NPA, and had used the misunderstanding to full effect. He’d been convinced that Mikami would side with Criminal Investigations, despite his posting in Administrative Affairs. He would have concluded that Mikami would forgo his duties as press director and take action to help his erstwhile department, letting the boycott go ahead and therefore completing Prefecture D’s transformation into Dallas. He’d been single-minded in his efforts to push Mikami into taking action. It was no doubt how the man worked. Even so . . . had all those words – each one a burning-hot poker – been necessary for him to reach his goal? When he found out he’d lost, he hadn’t accepted the defeat, masking his surprise at finding out Mikami had prevented the boycott with a single utterance: I’ll admit, there was some misjudgement on my part.

  All this time, Futawatari had been trying to save Criminal Investigations. He’d been trying to protect the Prefectural HQ. But Mikami felt no obligation to offer him praise or thanks. He’d fulfilled his duty as a member of Administrative Affairs. Nothing more, nothing less.

  At least it ended well. That was what he’d said. After all the planning, all the strategizing, the kidnapping had robbed him of his endgame. Even so, when Mikami retraced it all back to the start, it was Maejima he saw, smiling and waving his hand. He felt no more anger. Everything had come together to cancel everything out; Mikami’s emotional needle hung at zero.

  But . . .

  One mystery remained. One thing he still couldn’t understand. The weapon in Futawatari’s possession. Where could he have got wind of the Koda memo? It couldn’t have been Maejima. The information was top secret, the knowledge restricted to Matsuoka and the last eight directors of Criminal Investigations. Urushibara, Koda, Kakinuma, Hiyoshi . . . Mikami felt sure Futawatari wouldn’t have succeeded in getting anything from the four members of the Home Unit. Who did that leave?

  If he had to suggest a name . . .

  Mikami looked up. The first thing he did was check his watch. Twenty-three minutes late. He looked back up. The man’s slight frame seemed to cut through the wind as it approached.

  ‘All done cleaning up?’ Mikami called downwind, choosing to use the line he’d already prepared.

  Futawatari stopped, leaving about three metres between them. He put a hand on the viewing pillar. No one came to see it, but the concrete cylinder was marked with the bearing and direction of every city and town in the prefecture.

  ‘Not everything, not yet. People do like to leave a mess.’ From his expression, it was clear his mind was already grappling with the next issue. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘No apologies for being late?’

  ‘You’ll know the reason why soon enough.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Mikami moved closer and put a hand on the pillar. Futawatari was looking away from the wind.

  If he had to suggest a name . . .

  . . . it would be Michio Osakabe. With his own eyes, Mikami had seen Futawatari come and go from the director’s house. He couldn’t think of two men more diametrically opposed, but there was one point to connect them. Before too long Futawatari would assume his place as director of Criminal Investigations. They had met as one director to another, reaching beyond the constraints of time. They must have . . .

  Mikami knew Futawatari wouldn’t admit to anything, even if he asked. Besides, that wasn’t why Mikami had called him to meet up.

  ‘Have you started work on next spring’s transfers?’

  Futawatari showed no signs of a response. He became a brick wall. It was no doubt a habit he’d developed over time. Erecting a barrier the moment anyone raised the subject.

  ‘You know you made a right monkey of me with all this.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Futawatari’s eyes came up. Mikami stared right into them. Black and white, distributed evenly.

  ‘You had me jumping all over the place.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’d say you owe me one.’

  ‘I don’t ask for favours, and I’m in no one’s debt.’

  ‘There was that one time, when I lent you money for a train ticket.’

  ‘I paid that back.’

  ‘The day we went to see the Giants play in the Eastern League.’

  ‘Definitely paid that back, the next day.’

  ‘Anyway, are you getting ready for the spring?’

  The corners of Futawatari’s mouth came up, catching the meaning. ‘Maybe you’d do better to focus on how many balls Matsui hits this season.’

  Mikami grunted, laughing.

  ‘All this time I’d had you pinned as an Ichiro fan . . .’

  Ha! This time it was Futawatari who laughed. He went to say something but stopped before any words came out.

  ‘I hear it gets cold in New York.’

  Futawatari didn’t answer.

  The conversation had ended. They stood side by side but apart. Futawatari’s eyes were narrowed, his jaw slightly raised. He might have been enjoying the breeze. He might have been thinking up solutions for whatever problem was next on his list.

  The kind of people who made it to the top, the survivors, were those who kept their secrets close. The moment you let go of them, whether they were your own or someone else’s, was the moment you lost. Standing next to Futawatari, Mikami couldn’t help but think that was how it all worked.

  But . . .

  Futawatari was still standing there. He looked to be deep in thought, his hand still resting on the viewing pillar. Mikami glanced down to the man’s feet. Spotless. His shoes weren’t new, but the well-polished black leather reflected clearly the dull light of the overcast sky.

  ‘Maybe you don’t owe me anything. How about you let me owe you, for a change?’

  The man’s keen features came around, as though he’d been waiting to hear the words.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Don’t transfer me out of Media Relations.’

  The Six Four investigation would continue, at least beyond the window for drawing up the plans for the next batch of transfers. The time would come, however, when Prefecture D would find itself cast fourteen years into the past, when it would make an enemy of the press. Mikami would be there to see it through. As press director, he would stand with Matsuoka at the announcement.

  Futawatari was already walking away. He’d said nothing, and his expression had remained unchanged; all he’d done was flick his jacket collar up against the wind.

  His insubstantial frame passed through the doorway. Mikami watched him go before he started to walk. Their shoes had been mirror images. No doubt the same was true of the weight of their convictions.

  Mikami’s hand came up to his forehead. He looked up at the sky.

  Snowflakes, dancing.

  The white brought to mind his discovery of the Christmas rose.