To his great surprise, Goro inherited his father’s fortune. It was Goro who eventually consolidated Yonai Enterprises to focus on future technology. Yonai in the 1960s became the leader in chemical engineering and it was entirely attributable to Goro’s leadership.
His friends at the Ryujin-kai were very pleased with the situation. Goro invited the yakuza to insinuate itself into the running of the company and it wasn’t long before Yonai Enterprises had tentacles reaching into many facets of organised crime in Japan. With the future of the company secure, Goro began to concentrate more on his other interests, namely the philosophies of nationalism, attending kendo and karate classes and honing his body.
As time went on, Tsukamoto watched his friend Goro withdraw further from society. Goro spoke of nothing but his militaristic dreams. For a while he was a member of Yukio Mishima’s private army known as the Shield Society. But disagreements over Yoshida’s connections with the yakuza led to his discharge from the society before that fateful day in 1970 when Yukio Mishima committed public seppuku.
Even though they had had their disagreements, Yoshida was greatly moved by Mishima’s act of defiance. Partly in tribute to the writer’s act, Yoshida liquidated his private assets and hid his money in a network of front companies, bank accounts and foundations. He formed his own private army of nationalists, modelled after Mishima’s Shield Society. Using some of his father’s Red Guard connections, he made arms deals first with the Soviets and later with the Russian mafia and supplied his private army with weapons.
Eventually Goro Yoshida became the shadow kaicho of the Ryujinkai. While Tsukamoto had by that time become a rising yakuza enforcer, first as a wakashu, a “child,” then as a shatei, a “brother,” and eventually acting kaicho of the Ryuijin-kai itself, in reality Yoshida always pulled the strings. And Tsukamoto was honoured to work for him. Tsukamoto thought of Yoshida as his sensei, his master or mentor, but because of their lifelong friendship, Tsukamoto never called him that to his face. Even so, Yoshida had become something larger than life. He had a mystique among the yakuza as a man with a persuasive charisma and a tangible inner strength that seemed to transcend the earthly plain of existence. In essence, he became the spiritual leader of the Ryujin-kai, a position created specially for such a unique individual. Tsukamoto could not deny that Yoshida possessed an enlightened intelligence. He had seen it in action. And it should be said that Yoshida poured money into the yakuza and that didn’t hurt his stature in the organisation either. There was no question that Goro Yoshida should be Yami Shogun, the Dark Lord, of the Ryujin-kai.
By that time, their relationship had changed. Yoshida respected and trusted Tsukamoto as his lifelong friend and loyal colleague, but there were times when Tsukamoto was the victim of Yoshida’s volatile nature. Tsukamoto would never forget the shame he had felt when he had bungled a business arrangement with a rival yakuza. Yoshida had slapped him across the face, a gesture that left no doubt about who ran the organisation.
Nevertheless, Tsukamoto continued to support and serve the Yami Shogun, even when Yoshida went off the deep end in the 1980s with what he called the “New Offensive.” The targets were all over the world: Western companies whose businesses had a detrimental effect on Japanese traditions were bombed. The countries hit the hardest were the United States and Great Britain. The bombings started in Japan and then they spread to neighbouring countries. When the terror reached the big cities in the US and Britain the authorities knew that something had to be done.
The intelligence communities of the world gathered information and compared notes. Like his father before him, Goro Yoshida became a wanted man. He fled Japan, but since he rarely made an appearance anyway, no one really knew if he was in Japan or not. What was certain was that he and nearly one hundred followers mysteriously disappeared. He was thirty-eight years old.
Yasutake Tsukamoto was one of the few men outside of Yoshida’s camp who knew where he was. Most of their dealings were conducted by telephone and the Internet, but Tsukamoto had to fly to Etorofu once a month to meet with the Yami Shogun. He would then come back to Sapporo with Yoshida’s advice and guidance on Ryujinkai business. In 1993, Yonai Enterprises moved its base of operations from Tokyo to Sapporo so that the headquarters of the Ryujin-kai would be closer to their spiritual leader. A cover story was created to pacify the authorities: Goro Yoshida had sold Yonai Enterprises and others were now running it. In reality, Yoshida was still the owner, operating Yonai from afar through a puppet president.
The ensuing years were exciting and profitable. Yoshida masterminded several satisfying ventures, with only one notable failure—and if it hadn’t been for the incompetence of that terrorist-for-hire organisation, the Union, that would not have been the case.
Now the Yami Shogun was about to embark on a plan that frightened the hell out of Tsukamoto.
Today Goro Yoshida was fifty-nine years old but he still had the vitality of a twenty-four-year-old. Yasutake Tsukamoto was fifty-eight and felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.
After the helicopter had landed, two uniformed soldiers escorted Tsukamoto to a bunker. He had been through the routine dozens of times before. Steps led down to a dugout that had been completely furnished in the style of a traditional Japanese home. Tsukamoto removed his shoes and stepped up onto the shikidai. A guard opened the fusuma, the sliding door made by stretching thick decorative paper over both sides of a wooden frame—a distinctive component of a Japanese home or inn. The room was covered in eight tatami mats. Shoji, translucent screens of thin paper stretched over frames of crossed laths, lined one wall and allowed light to come into the room. A tokonoma, another traditional element, adorned a side of the room. This was a recessed alcove in the wall where a scroll was hung, and, in this case, an exquisite spray of orchids was displayed. One single unfinished vertical wooden post, the tokobashira, helped to support the tokonoma.
In the middle of the room was a low table. Tsukamoto sat on one of the zaisu, cushioned chairs with backs but no legs, and waited for his friend and mentor.
He could hear the hum of the power generators through the walls. It was an impressive complex: barracks for a hundred men, a mess hall, training facilities, arms storage; in fact a small army base, mostly located underground. It had taken Yoshida over a year to have it constructed. It was a monumental achievement.
After a moment, the fusuma at the back of the room slid open and Goro Yoshida stepped in. Tsukamoto remained in his seat but bowed as low as he could. Yoshida bowed less deeply and then sat down across from Tsukamoto.
The fusuma slid open again and a woman in a kimono, on her knees, looked in. She greeted the guest, placed a tray inside the room, then stood and came inside. She knelt at the table and served green tea to both men, then left the room in the same manner.
“You are looking well,” Tsukamoto said.
Yoshida shook his head. “I am looking old.”
“No, you are not. I look much older than you.” It was true. Yoshida appeared to be a man in his late forties or early fifties, certainly not someone who was pushing sixty. He was a small but solid, man. His bodybuilding had paid off and even at his age his muscles appeared still toned and bulky through the black and white silk kimono that he wore. His hair was short, cut in the style of his idol, Yukio Mishima. A portrait of the author sat on a low table against a wall, next to portraits of Yoshida’s mother and sister.
“How proceeds our latest venture?” Yoshida asked.
“Very well. It is just a matter of time before Yonai Enterprises will completely control our rival. We will no longer have to rely on a CureLab pawn to provide us with their latest technology.”
“This has taken much longer than you had anticipated.”
“I know, Yoshida. I apologise.”
“You sound like a woman,” Yoshida spat. “Sometimes I wonder if you are competent.”
Tsukamoto nearly gasped. The Yami Shogun had never spoken to him quite so harshly before.
“Yoshida,” he said, “I am very loyal to you. Why do you insult me? Without me running things in Japan—”
Yoshida slapped the table hard, startling Tsukamoto. “Do you forget who you’re talking to? Would you even be where you are without my leadership?”
Tsukamoto shuddered inside. “My mistake,” he said, bowing. Even though they were childhood friends, the relationship between them could be turbulent. Tsukamoto never knew how Yoshida would react to anything. This was the main reason why Tsukamoto both respected and feared his master.
After a pause, Yoshida asked, “When do you expect the final phase of the merger to take place?”
“Very soon. Within the week. With the, uhm, unfortunate death of CureLab’s CEO and chairman, the family’s stock has passed to the only remaining daughter. And as you know, she is under the thumb of the Ryujin-kai, making good money for us!”
“Good. Another strike against the Western barbarians. Of course, the girl must be eliminated now.”
Tsukamoto was surprised. “Eliminated?”
“We cannot keep her alive, Tsukamoto. Surely you know that.”
Tsukamoto cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Pardon me.”
“And the product? Have our people been working on it?” Yoshida asked.
“Yes. The strain that killed the McMahons is being perfected. That one was too slow and took too long to take effect. The next version will be much better and will work faster. We are also almost ready with a new version of the transmitters.”
Yoshida rubbed his chin. “I trust it will work. Our people have been working on them at the laboratory in Hokkaido for some time. The first version was a most impressive attempt but it wasn’t perfect. At this late stage, will we have enough time? You know the target date.”
“Our engineers swear that they are ready. They hope to complete the work in forty-eight hours or less. After what was already supplied to us from the CureLab traitor, it shouldn’t be too difficult to make the necessary adjustments.”
“I hope you’re right, Tsukamoto. Have all materials moved from Hokkaido to the distribution centre in Tokyo. We have to be ready by the end of the week.”
“Yes, sensei.” As soon as he said it, Tsukamoto realised that he had made a slip.
Yoshida shook his head slightly. “Tsukamoto, you know that you do not have to call me sensei. We have known each other since we were children.”
“I know. I apol—er, my mistake. It’s just that you are the master. I cannot help but think of you in this way.”
“I appreciate your loyalty and respect, Tsukamoto-san. Let us leave it at that. And now, my friend, let’s have lunch.”
Yoshida smiled and Tsukamoto felt relieved for the first time in days.
It was later the same day. Goro Yoshida took a wet cloth and laid it across his forehead. The only time he felt at peace with himself was when he put his head back against the large cypress tub and closed his eyes. The hot water stimulated his skin, reminding him of the sensations he had experienced when he had received the exquisite red tattoo that covered eighty per cent of his body. The intricate tattoo, depicting an ancient battle between samurai and dragons, decorated his skin from the base of the neck, down his back and arms, across his chest and stomach, and down his legs to his calves. Its red colour dominated the design, with only hints of black outlining figures and creatures, a few touches of yellow for highlights, and a little orange tinting. But mostly it was various shades of red. Dark red, crimson red, fiery red, pink red, blood red … it was totally unique. Many yakuza adorned their bodies with tattoos, but none had quite the impact of Yoshida’s. It was at once marvellous, beautiful and terrifying. He had gone through many hours of pain for the tattoo, one hundred for the back alone. The technique of traditional irezumi tattooing was painful. It was done slowly and manually, without the use of electric devices.
Tsukamoto was in another part of the complex. He would be leaving for the mainland in an hour, but Yoshida wanted him to see something first. In the interim, Yoshida had spent an hour in the gym practising kendo, lifting weights and participating in kenjutsu, Japanese swordsmanship. He had become one of the finest swordsmen in the Far East and was considered a master. Yoshida had first picked up a samurai sword when he was eight. By the time he was fourteen, it was a part of him.
Yoshida used a shinai, a bamboo sword used for practice, but his opponent always used a bokken, a wooden sword that had the potential to be deadly. So far, no opponent had ever been able to strike him. For a while Yoshida thought that his opponents might be holding back simply because he was the Yami Shogun and no one dared to hit him with a real weapon. He told the students that he could tell if they were trying their best or not. If they did not attempt their best, then he would have them killed. From then on, Yoshida noted a discernible difference in the attitudes of his opponents.
Yoshida removed the cloth from his face and opened his eyes. The bath had been relaxing and the ritual soaking in the o-furo hot tub had been invigorating, but now it was time to act. He was ready to launch the project that he had prepared himself for since the death of his father.
Dressed in a yukata and tanzen, Yoshida strode through the corridors of his compound until he came to the gymnasium. The workout equipment had been cleared, and Tsukamoto and several guards were standing at attention. They all bowed when he entered the room.
“My friend, Tsukamoto, you shall now see the real beginning of our venture. We have been preparing for it for a long time and finally we have the great pleasure of watching it commence.”
“I am honoured, Yoshida,” Tsukamoto said, bowing again.
Yoshida clapped his hands and a fusuma slid open. Twenty men dressed in civilian clothes marched in quickly and formed two lines of ten. Once they were in place, they bowed to Yoshida in unison. Yoshida walked around the group once, inspecting them. Finally, he addressed his long-time friend.
“Twenty men,” he said. “Not a bad luck number for us, eh, Tsukamoto?”
Tsukamoto knew what Yoshida meant. The name “yakuza” came from the combination of three numbers—8, 9 and 3. This referred to an ancient Japanese gambling game called Oicho-Kabu, in which the number 19 was the strongest hand to possess. A 20, the sum of 8, 9, and 3, was completely useless and considered bad luck. In the old days, the yakuza were known as the “useless hands” of society. The name stuck and their lucky number became 20.
Yoshida continued, “Twenty men. Twenty messages. You men will be our carriers. Like the kamikaze pilots during the honourable war with the Americans, you are willing to end your lives to accomplish the mission. For that I bow to you.”
With that, Yoshida bowed as low as Tsukamoto had ever seen him do. As there was a definite hierarchy of superiority that determined the degree of bowing in Japanese society, it was shocking to see the Yami Shogun bow so low.
Yoshida rose and said, “You will fly to Sapporo tonight for a couple of days of rest and relaxation. You will be the guests of Tsukamoto. Then you will fly to Tokyo for the final preparations. By the middle of next week, you will each be on a journey to deliver our messages to the West. Go swiftly and silently. Be diligent always, and never falter from your path. You and your families have been rewarded handsomely. If by some quirk of fate some of you do not return, then know that you will be rewarded more handsomely in heaven.”
The men shouted, “Hai!” and bowed again.
FIVE
YES, TOKYO!
BOND HAD MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT RETURNING TO JAPAN.
Sitting in the executive class cabin of the daily JAL flight from London to Tokyo’s Narita Airport, Bond had plenty of time to consider the situation. On the one hand, a reunion with his friend Tiger Tanaka, the head of the Koan-Chosa-Cho, was very appealing. Bond genuinely enjoyed Japan; he appreciated the attention to detail and cleanliness that was so important to the Japanese people. He was impressed that the population had the consideration to cover their noses and mouths with surgical masks and wear them in publ
ic when they had colds. He admired their efficiency and good manners, their dedication to tradition and their generosity. He found the scenery beautiful. He enjoyed sake and Japanese beer. He thought that a lot of the food was unique and delicious, but he avoided raw fish whenever possible.
And he considered Japanese women to be arguably the most beautiful in the world. Besides possessing classically pretty, nearly perfect facial features, Japanese women held a poise and grace not found in other societies, as well as a certain delicateness that was endearing and attractive. He had once facetiously told the Governor of the Bahamas that he would only marry a Japanese girl or an airline hostess. And, considering the JAL hostesses on today’s flight, it was still a half-serious proclamation.
The other side of the coin was an unknown. He had begun his first mission to Japan as a nervous and physical wreck due to his grief over the death of his only bride. By happenstance, Bond had discovered that Ernst Stavro Blofeld was hiding on a remote island in the south of Japan. The subsequent battle between the adversaries left Blofeld dead and Bond emotionally and physically scarred. He lived for months with an Ama girl, the lovely Kissy Suzuki, on a nearby island. Bond became a fisherman and boatman, with Kissy as his wife, until he was compelled to leave his simple existence as Taro Todoroki and search for his true identity in the Soviet Union.
When he had finally regained his memory, Bond retained everything that had happened on that island with Kissy. He had learned to speak Japanese (and could still do so, although he was very rusty) and had mastered the ability to read and write the script known as kana. He was less successful in learning kanji, the Japanese written language that was based on symbolic Chinese characters, but he had adopted many Japanese customs and manners and had practised them until they were second nature. It had taken him weeks to rid himself of a compulsion to remove his shoes before entering a house.
The Man With The Red Tattoo Page 4