“Right, I’ll get our getaway money out of the bank and then we’re off to Niigata.” They left the restaurant, Kita’s arm around her shoulder, and called in at the bank.
“I need to buy some clothes and disguise myself,” Shinobu announced. Kita’s bank balance should by now hold the money he was owed for selling his organs. But when he slipped his cash card into the machine, he was confronted with something unexpected. The machine refused to accept his card. Even if the organ money wasn’t there, he should still have five hundred thousand left in his account.
“How much have you got, Shinobu?”
“About five thousand I think.”
“Any credit card? Any cash card?”
“All I’ve brought is the Bible. I left everything in the car. What’s the problem? Isn’t there any money?”
Kita had the gut feeling that this was the doing of Heita Yashiro. He knew Kita’s bank account number, so he could fix things so the cash card was invalid. He didn’t want Kita getting away, that was it. Yashiro had dealings with those gangster businessmen, and he’d probably already sent someone to finish Kita off. After all, he’d boasted that he could arrange things with an assassin for five hundred thousand yen, hadn’t he?
Surgeon on the Side
A professional would consider a mere five hundred thousand an insult. In fact, Yashiro was driving a hard deal.
“You haven’t notched up a real murder yet, so this is all you’re worth. It includes expenses, by the way.”
Yashiro didn’t have a high opinion of the guy. He tossed him an envelope with a down payment of two hundred fifty thousand. The man tucked it away in the pocket of his dark blue suit, and launched into a complaint about the paradoxical ways of the world.
“In this profession, no sooner do you get a name for doing the job than you’re finished.” It wasn’t worth the game, he declared. He’d probably end up spending his retirement quietly awaiting execution. And if he made a hash of things, he’d die on the job.
“You just do it for a bit of extra on the side, though. I wouldn’t normally even bother asking an assassin who’d never killed anyone, you know.”
“Every assassin’s had a first assignment. Every job’s got to start somewhere. But I’ve spent years studying the art, and gaining knowledge and skill.”
“So all you’re lacking is experience, eh? That’s too bad. Oh well, you can have all the pride you want, just so long as you’re cheap.”
There was a few seconds silence while the contract killer simply stood gaping, then he closed his eyes and started to laugh. Yashiro laughed with him, watching him carefully as he did so. Finally the killer sighed and grew quiet. He drew a deep breath through his nose, and declared shrilly, “This money’s way too little, whatever you say. Too little to buy my skills, too little to buy the other guy’s life.”
“Don’t you worry about the other guy. Kita’s life is already paid for. And things are fixed so he pays you your reward as well.”
The killer looked unhappy. “Does this guy want to get himself killed or something?”
“Well he wants to die, let’s put it that way. This Friday, actually. Don’t ask me why.”
“You don’t need a reason to kill yourself,” said the killer. Still, he didn’t quite get it. Why should he have to kill a guy who’d do the job himself? He could throw in the job he’d undertaken and save the fellow, but it wasn’t the task of an assassin to save someone who wanted to kill himself.
“So my client’s going to get me to do something pointless, eh?”
“Just forget about the client, OK?” Yashiro said softly, his voice low and threatening. “It’s not just a matter of killing him. You seem to have a wide repertoire in the field. That’s why I’m employing you. Well in Kita’s case I want an accident, right? He mustn’t be allowed to kill himself, and he mustn’t die in anything crime-related. You got set it up so it’s clearly an accident, get it? And an accident that leaves his corneas and organs intact. Can you do that?”
A smile hovered on the killer’s face as he replied, “If the guy cooperates, I can extract his organs and deliver them, sure, but it’ll cost more.”
“Oh yeah, that reminds me, didn’t you work in a hospital or something? Surgery, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. I still do.”
“So your regular occupation’s saving lives, and on the side you’re in the business of taking them, eh? I guess it comes down to a way of balancing things out for yourself.”
The killer seemed dazed and remained silent for a moment, then he recovered with a laugh. “It’s all the same in the end,” he said.
Yashiro had been introduced to this killer through a gangster associate he played golf with. Apparently a younger member of the gang hadn’t had the guts to lop off the tip of his little finger for a misdemeanour as the rules required, so he’d gone along to the hospital and asked the surgeon if there was a way he could get the job done with anaesthetic so it wouldn’t hurt. The surgeon was only too happy to oblige, and promptly did the job that day in his lunch hour. He popped the severed piece of finger into a plastic bag in a saline salt solution, and handed it over to the young gangster like a goldfish in a bag, and even gave him a prescription for painkillers. The gangster froze the piece of finger and took it along and proffered to his boss together with his apology, and there he assumed the matter would end. But word got out that he’d actually had a surgeon do the job for him, and he was ordered to go off and do it all over again. Back he went to the surgeon with his bit of finger, and asked to have it put back on again. The surgeon didn’t so much as blink. He set to and performed a swift and meticulous operation, and there was the fingertip, beautifully reunited with its finger.
But the boss ordered the young gangster to sever his finger again while the stitches were still in the wound. When the man turned up at the surgery for the third time to get his finger stub attended to, the surgeon exploded. He demanded to know the name and address of the boss who’d put him to all this trouble for nothing, then he went right round there personally and gave him a piece of his mind.
“You got complaints about my surgical skills? You’d better learn more respect for the medical profession or else, my friend. I could come along and steal your organs in the night while you’re sleeping, you know!”
The surgeon stared down the gangster boss, gimlet-eyed. His underlings began to move in to eject this insolent fellow, but the boss had other ideas. A flash of intuition had told him that he could use this man. He soothed him with a polite apology about the severed finger episode, and added a hefty payment for all the fruitless trouble he’d been put to.
There was a fuss at the hospital over the fact that the surgeon had helped a gangster fulfil his obligations. The result was that he was removed from his post for unprofessional behaviour, and that was the end of his medical career. But the gangster boss had taken a fancy to him. He found him a new place in another hospital, and in effect he was kept under the wing of the gang as its pet surgeon. Most of his work these days was in the line of extracting bullets and looking after wounded patients who couldn’t reveal their identities in public.
Yashiro was aware of all this, but he hadn’t heard why this surgeon had added part-time murderer to his profession. It just takes a slight rerouting of the neurons for a surgeon to become a killer, of course, but the patients at their hospital have no idea. This man at least had conscience enough to perform the job outside the hospital.
To cut a long story short, the surgeon took on the job of assassinating Kita for five hundred thousand yen. Even if he did get the remaining half of his pay after Kita had met his accident according to instructions, plus an extra hundred thousand, it would still not be enough in his opinion. Sure, it was the going rate for a professional Filipino killer, but this guy came with a guarantee from Yashiro’s gangster friend, so he could be trusted. Yashiro calculated that if Kita could have an accident that didn’t involve much physical damage, he’d get a tidy thirt
een million in his own pocket: a million commission for selling the cornea and organ set to a waiting transplant patient, plus twelve million for being Kita’s insurance beneficiary. He’d done a deal with Miss Koikawa behind Kita’s back, which made Kita a paper employee of his company with the company head as beneficiary, and made thirty per cent of proceeds payable to the insurance agent (Miss Koikawa). Yashiro was taking meticulous care that Kita’s death should not go unrewarded.
Kita was apparently of the same opinion. Therefore, when Yashiro had heard from the studio boss that Shinobu had been kidnapped, he’d decided he had to hasten matters with the killer. Once the police got mixed up in the story, the killer would have a harder job, his plans for the insurance money would go awry, and the price of the victim’s organs would go down. Whatever Kita’s motives for this abduction might be, Yashiro wasn’t going to sit back quietly and watch his own profits go up in smoke.
In order to limit Kita’s movements, Yashiro cancelled his cash card and credit card. Meanwhile, the studio boss planned to use the abduction to give Yoimachi all the publicity he could. He also used his connections with the Finance Minister who’d paid for use of Shinobu, and thereby managed to get onto the bank’s online records and find out where he’d been trying to withdraw money. Then he set about controlling things by hastily selling the story of the abduction to the media, arranging to provide them with video footage and photographs from her debut as a star until now, and even gathered comments from family and friends.
Impelled not so much by the half a million yen reward as by an inextricable combination of Yashiro, who was intent on making a profit from Kita’s death, and the studio boss, who was intent on wringing money out of Shinobu’s abduction, the killer found himself to his own bewilderment mingling with the passengers on the northbound bullet train. At his feet lay a Boston bag containing the seven essential tools of his trade. Kita and Shinobu were apparently headed for Niigata. He knew that Kita had tried to withdraw money from a regional bank in a hot springs town in Gunma, and that he was hoping to escape somewhere and cover his tracks. The killer put in a telephone call to the station nearest the bank, and asked if anyone had seen Yoimachi Shinobu. Yes, one of the young station employees at Jomo Kogen had seen the nationally famous star apparently as happy as could be. Few people passed through the station, so the fellow’s memory would be reliable. Apparently the man with her had on a backpack, and was humming some unfamiliar tune. The two had taken the northbound bullet train.
Terrorist for Justice
Kita and Shinobu arrived at Niigata Station at two in the afternoon. After buying a change of clothes and a pair of sunglasses for Shinobu in the shopping mall of the station building, and some stomach and eye medicine for himself, Kita had only thirty thousand yen left in his wallet. Once they’d run through it, that would be that. But since all was due to be over on Friday anyway, things were going to plan. There was nothing to be scared of.
Shinobu emerged from the changing room in a shiny dress printed with tiny carnations, and crossed her white ankles in a pretty pose for him. “How do I look?” The faint brown birthmark on the outside of her left calf was clearly visible. Kita had discovered it the night before, and felt it added something new to Shinobu’s list of charms. This short black dress with its carnation print would be more photogenic than the torn jeans and shirt that revealed her belly button, he thought. He had Shinobu promise to reveal to the media that her abductor had bought her this dress. Shinobu said the round yellow sunglasses were to hide her tears.
At three, they boarded the bus for Niigata Port. Shinobu had declared she wanted to look at the sea.
Kita had been on the same bus two years earlier, but the ride felt quite different this time. Back then he’d been a travelling salesman in the health field, intent on cultivating his outlets, an expression on his face that was quite unrelated to his feelings and the same words constantly in his mouth. Sure, that had been one way of sustaining life, but he hadn’t felt there was much life in him to sustain. The company had a motto to the effect that an employee who was selling health had to be healthy himself, but in fact Kita was a burned out wreck at the end of every day. That had been back when health products actually sold. Egg oil, turtle extract, royal jelly, chlorophyll juice, immune system boosters, multivitamins, slimming oils, seaweed soap – this all-purpose health product company had handled them all. Health was no exception to the rules of season and fashion. The company employees were the monitors of early signs of trends; they anticipated what was going to be next, and went around promoting its health benefits to the public.
Two years ago, Kita had been in Niigata Port trying to sell turtle extract and multi-vitamins to the fishermen and crew of a Russian boat, but they weren’t having any of it. As long as they lived on the sea, they were plenty healthy enough, they told him. So Kita gave up selling health, with the result that his spirits markedly improved, and he regained his own health.
They arrived at the bus terminal. The sunlight bouncing off the white concrete was dazzling. They set off along the quayside, a warm salty breeze playing on their cheeks. Soon it would be time for Kita to telephone the television station again and make his announcement. They went into the ferry terminus, and located a public telephone. The ferry wouldn’t be in for quite a while, and there were only a couple of people in the waiting room. The ticket office was closed.
“I’d love to go there,” Shinobu said, pointing to a poster for Sado Island, but it seemed to Kita that they shouldn’t try an island. There’d be nowhere to go if they were cornered. He shook his head.
“I want to be on a boat,” Shinobu said in response. “Even a fishing boat’s OK.”
“I guess we won’t get a good night’s sleep tonight even if we’re on land,” he said.
“So let’s run away to sea.”
“Would there be a boat that would take us on board? I mean, you’re a star and I’m a kidnapper. We’d have to make sure it all went according to plan.”
Kita winked at Shinobu, picked up the receiver, and dialled the number of the television station. “I’m Shinobu Yoimachi’s abductor,” he said. “Put me onto the head of the news section.”
“S-s-s-sure, one moment,” mumbled the receptionist. Please hold, someone will be with you shortly, a recorded female voice repeated, before being replaced by a resonant baritone.
“Hullo, this is Yamanouchi from the SM television News Section. We received your message. You’re with Shinobu Yoimachi now, right?”
“Correct.”
“Why did you kidnap her?”
“I want to help children suffering from serious illnesses.”
“You say you’ve demanded that the thirty million in ransom money be donated to the International Red Cross, right?”
“That’s right. I have a few other demands as well, actually. Here goes, OK? Get rid of the American military bases in Okinawa, and scrap the Japan–U.S. Security Treaty. Resignation of all Cabinet members. An end to the death penalty. A mandatory retirement system for all members of the National Diet. A ban on those “golden parachutes” for retired government officials in private sector employment. Support Tibetan independence. And drop those stupid variety programs and gossip shows on TV.” Kita was reeling the list off the top of his head as he went on. His idea was to estimate Shinobu’s life at the highest possible value, though the effect was a little like praying at one of those shrines that offer lots of benefits for a mere coin or two at the altar.
You could hear the wry smile behind the voice as Yamanouchi replied, “These are demands to the Japanese government, are they? I have to tell you there’s no one in this country who could possibly fulfil them. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not expecting them to be fulfilled. But I want you to at least report the kidnapper’s demands verbatim to your listeners. If you don’t want to see her killed, you must report them all fully. All will be revealed on Friday. Shinobu will tell you herself, if she’s still alive the
n. I want you guys in the news media to put pressure on her studio manager to pay up that thirty million to the Red Cross. And while you’re at it, you must give a lesson to all those useless politicians. You’ll not only be saving Shinobu Yoimachi, but for once in your life you’ll be doing something for the sake of the world. This abduction is my own way of calling for justice. What I’m hoping is that it will set off a wave of Justice Terrorism. I want people to come clean about the secrets of the business or office they work in, and make a clean breast of all their nefarious doings. Terrorists of conscience throughout the nation, now is your hour! Here ends the declaration of Shinobu Yoimachi’s abductor.”
Kita put down the receiver, took a deep breath, and turned his mind to discussing with Shinobu where they should go to hole up.
“You sure made a lot of demands there. You’re a real pro, Kita.”
Kita had never received such praise in his life; in fact he’d been told the exact opposite when he worked as a salesman. Seemed like people really could change if they wanted to. Of course the level of responsibility was different when you were selling a life than when you were just selling health products. His working life had been devoid of responsibility until now, so it was only natural that he’d never improved. He’d been skilled at shutting up and listening to others, with the result that another of his skills was passively conforming to others’ expectations of him. Now he realized this old self had suddenly evolved. It felt pretty good.
“I’d say they know we’re in Niigata by now. That saleswoman in the shop where you bought the dress realized who you were.”
“Am I a millstone for you? Do I stand out?”
“That’s why we’ve got to hide somewhere, see. The police may already be on the move.”
“Well maybe, but this town feels pretty sleepy. It just doesn’t seem like the sort of place where anything would happen.”
“We’re the ones who’d be the event. If a patrol car sees us, we’re done for.”
Death By Choice Page 17