The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  The car pulled up in front of the Imperial Hotel and parked. They waited until the computer had finished uploading the files from the Palm Pilot. Tiger typed on the keyboard and the slideshow began. It was just as Bond had seen in the office: photos of mosquitoes going through their natural life cycles accompanied by kanji.

  “This is all about mosquito biology,” Tiger said. “CureLab does work with disease-carrying insects.”

  “But Fujimoto told us that they didn’t work with mosquitoes, remember?”

  “Ah, you are right, Bondo-san. We will turn this material over to someone who understands it and obtain a proper evaluation.”

  “I’m convinced that bastard was in on the McMahons’ deaths. He practically admitted it.” Bond told Tiger what Fujimoto had said about Peter McMahon. “And he said that ‘tomorrow, under the eyes of the Daibutsu, CureLab will rise to a new level of existence and be entirely controlled by Japanese.’ ”

  “The Daibutsu? That’s in Kamakura.”

  “What’s a Daibutsu?” Bond asked.

  “The Great Buddha. It’s the largest bronze Buddha in the world. He’s been sitting in Kamakura for over seven centuries.”

  “How far away is that?”

  “Not far. About an hour’s train ride.”

  “Why Kamakura?”

  “Because Fujimoto has a home there, as I understand it. He keeps a flat in Tokyo but goes to Kamakura on the weekends. I’ve always wanted to see the Daibutsu again. It has been a long time. Get some rest, Bondo-san. Put some antiseptic on those cuts and we will pick you up in the morning at seven o’clock.”

  Bond left his friend and walked into the Imperial lobby. Ignoring the stares from the concierge and other staff, he went straight to the lift and took it to his floor in the tower. Once he got into his room, Bond finally looked at himself in the mirror. The damage looked worse than it was, but it was bad enough. He cleaned and doctored his face, took a scalding hot shower, crawled into bed and was asleep in less than a minute.

  TWELVE

  THE DISTANT PAIN OF DEATH

  YASUTAKE TSUKAMOTO AWOKE ABRUPTLY TO THE SOUND OF HIS PRIVATE phone ringing. He glanced at the digital clock beside his bed and was horrified to see that it read 4:15. His wife stirred and grumbled sleepily.

  “Moshi moshi,” Tsukamoto said into the phone, not too pleasantly.

  “Tsukamoto.”

  He shuddered. It was the Yami Shogun.

  “Hai!”

  “Did I wake you?” Goro Yoshida asked.

  “It is all right. Please, let me change phones.” He pushed the Hold button and hung up.

  “Who is it?” his wife asked.

  “Business problem. Go back to sleep.”

  Tsukamoto got out of bed, went out of the room and walked into his study. While most of the house was traditional Japanese, this room looked like it would be more at home in a British law firm’s office. Besides a traditional desk and filing cabinets made from Hakone polished wood, the walls were covered with books. Over half of them were law books. Tsukamoto had long ago decided that he should know a thing or two about the law.

  His home in Sapporo was a large one, very luxurious and very well guarded. His men kept vigil around the compound twenty-four hours a day, for being the kaicho of the Ryujin-kai not only afforded him great opulence but also brought danger. There were plenty of other yakuza that hated him.

  He sat at the desk, picked up the phone and pushed the button to get back on the line.

  “I am here,” he said.

  “Good. Is everything ready for the transfer of CureLab?” Yoshida asked.

  “Yes. Kano is going to Kamakura today to meet with Fujimoto.”

  “What’s this I hear about some trouble at the CureLab office in Tokyo?”

  Tsukamoto drew in a breath and said, “Saaaa … Fujimoto took matters into his own hands. Very bad situation. There is an Englishman in Japan. He is here to investigate the deaths of the McMahon family. Fujimoto tried to have him killed last night.”

  “And the Englishman got away?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he know?”

  “We are not sure. He may have seen things. We have no way of knowing.”

  There was silence at the other end. Finally, Yoshida said, “We can’t afford to have undue attention on CureLab at the moment. Fujimoto has outlived his usefulness.”

  “I agree. Shinji Fujimoto is a bumbling fool.”

  “Then see to it that he experiences great pleasure today,” Yoshida said. “He will go to Kamakura and make the deal he has been preparing for all these many months, and for a short while he will be a very wealthy man. But as my mentor, Mishima-san, once wrote: ‘The distant pain of death refines the awareness of pleasure.’ We must ensure that Fujimoto knows both of these sensations.”

  “It has already been arranged,” Tsukamoto said.

  “Good. Now what about the Englishman?”

  “I will take care of it. Do not worry.”

  “I won’t. Tell me, how did yesterday’s tests go?”

  “Splendidly. We cut the incubation time down to exactly six days. The life span of the insects is still very short, but it’s long enough for them to do the damage we seek. The best news is that with the latest delivery from CureLab we have been able to further mutate the virus so that the onset of symptoms is much faster. Laboratory animals became sick within an hour.”

  “That is good news. Keep the engineers working on it. After this phase is completed, we must be ready to unleash a new and improved version of our product.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “What about the McMahon girl? Has she been eliminated?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “With all due respect, I have been asked by the so-honbucho, Kubo, that I speak to you about this. The girl is a big earner. She is one of the most popular girls in the establishment. And he wanted to have her around for the send-off of the carriers. You yourself instructed us to give the carriers a night on the town that they wouldn’t forget.”

  “I did indeed, but that was two days ago. You can find other girls. There are always other girls. Get rid of her. She is dangerous to have alive.”

  “Very well. She will not live to see the weekend.”

  After a short pause, Yoshida said, “Good night, Tsukamoto.”

  “Good night, Yoshida.”

  Tsukamoto hung up the phone and contemplated the original painting by Ogata Korin that hung on the wall between sets of bookshelves. He knew now that he would not be able to get back to sleep. He lit a cigarette and rang the servant whose duty was to stay up all night in case the master of the house needed anything. Tsukamoto ordered some coffee and yoghurt, then settled back in his chair to meditate.

  It was going to be an interesting week.

  Bond and Tiger arrived in Kamakura around 9:00 the next morning. One of Tiger’s men had been posted at the Daibutsu since the grounds opened at 7:00, but he reported by mobile phone that he had not yet seen Shinji Fujimoto. Tiger instructed the driver to take them directly to the Great Buddha and to park the car somewhere. Tiger and Bond got out in front of the main gates.

  Bond was stiff and sore from the beating he had taken the night before and his face was a mess. There were contusions around his mouth, an abrasion on his left cheek and swelling around the left side of his jaw. He had noticed the hotel staff grimacing at him behind his back when he had strolled through the Imperial lobby to meet the Toyota out in front before the hour-long drive.

  “Have you been to Kamakura before, Bondo-san?” Tiger asked.

  “If I have, I don’t remember it.”

  “It’s a beautiful place. It was an early capital of Japan and there is an abundance of Buddhist temples and some shrines here. The Daibutsu has been here since 1252. It used to be housed in a huge hall, but the building was washed away by a tsunami in the late 1400s.”

  They walked up the path to the entrance, which was guarded by tw
o statues on either side that portrayed the Buddha at two different stages—at the beginning of life and at the end.

  Tiger stopped at the pavilion to purify his hands. Bond did the same; the cold water felt good on his wounds as he swished it around in his mouth and spat it out. They continued into the courtyard where the impressive bronze Buddha sat, all-knowing and all-seeing. The metal was discoloured but the statue was in remarkably good shape considering its age. The figure towered a little over eleven metres tall.

  “Look at the curly hair, Bondo-san,” Tiger pointed out. “There are 656 curls altogether and it has a white hair curl on the forehead. This symbolises wisdom.”

  Abbreviated tea ceremonies were performed at regular intervals on one side of the courtyard. A group of tourists had already begun to gather there and some were looking at the souvenir kiosks on the opposite side.

  “Do you see our man?” Bond asked.

  “No. We should sit down over there and wait. And we should keep you out of sight.” He pointed to some benches at the back of the courtyard.

  “I look that bad, do I?”

  Tiger laughed. “I meant in case our friend shows up soon. We don’t want him to see either of us. Don’t worry, Bondo-san, you will be a handsome man again. Those cuts and bruises will heal in no time.”

  They sat under the shade of a large cherry tree. Bond inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air. The weather was pleasant and not too hot. The tranquillity of the place was infectious.

  “Quite a peaceful place for a business deal,” Bond said.

  “Yes, I’m not surprised by the choice. So many people come here and since Fujimoto lives in town, no one would think twice about him coming to pay his respects to the Buddha. The question is, where is the actual meeting going to take place?”

  “I think we’ll know in a few minutes,” Bond said, gesturing with his head. “There he is now.” They held open newspapers to cover their faces.

  Shinji Fujimoto entered the courtyard alone. He looked around nervously, then continued walking towards the Buddha. He pretended to show great interest in the statue, then walked over to the tea ceremony area and sat down. Obviously his contact was not there yet. Bond and Tiger watched from across the courtyard as Fujimoto was served green tea by the women wearing kimonos.

  “He appears ill at ease,” Bond noted.

  It wasn’t long before two men entered the courtyard and Tiger perked up. “Here we go,” he said. “That’s Masuzo Kano, the president of Yonai Enterprises.” He was referring to a tall grey-haired man who walked as if he owned the world. With him was what appeared to be a dwarf. The small man was the strangest looking human being Bond had ever seen. From this distance, Bond thought that the dwarfs head must be deformed, for it was oddly shaped. The top of his head was bald except for a few long strands of hair that had been greased and combed over the scalp. His skull had an unusual bowl-like depression in the top. They were too far away to study his facial features but it wasn’t difficult to see that he had the face of a monster.

  “Who’s the other fellow?” Bond asked.

  “I don’t know. He looks like a frog.”

  The dwarf was carrying a large metal briefcase. Like Kano he was dressed in a suit, which made him seem all the more out of place. The man reminded Bond of something. He was short, frog-like … of course! The “kappa.” Takuya Abo had mentioned a kappa, something out of Japanese supernatural fairy tales.

  “Tiger, do you know what a kappa is?” Bond asked.

  “Of course I do, Bondo-san.” Tiger paused a moment as he considered what Bond was getting at. “You are right, Bondo-san! That man does look like a kappa! I will have to call in his description and see if the police have anything on him. I have a feeling that one should not be deceived by his size. That little fellow is probably quite formidable or else he would not be accompanying Kano.”

  They watched as the two men approached the souvenir stand and made a show of looking at the trinkets which included charms like the ones sold at the Meiji shrine in Tokyo, miniature replicas of the Buddha, postcards and other items. Fujimoto finished his tea and bowed to the women, left the tented area and walked to the Buddha. Without acknowledging the other men, he paid the admission fee to go inside the statue, then went around the back of the monument to the entrance.

  The dwarf bought something from the kiosk then he and Masuzo Kano nonchalantly walked to the Buddha, paid the fee and disappeared behind the statue.

  Tiger punched a number and put his mobile to his ear. “My man is posted on the other side of courtyard,” he explained. He spoke quietly into the phone, listened, then rang off. “He says that they are inside the Buddha. Now we wait until they come out.”

  Ten minutes later, Masuzo Kano came out alone. He purposefully strode away from the Buddha and out of the courtyard. A few minutes later, Shinji Fujimoto emerged, carrying the metal briefcase. He, too, walked towards the exit but took his time in doing so. He stopped at a souvenir kiosk and pretended to study the trinkets, then finally left the grounds.

  “What happened to the kappa?” Bond asked.

  “He must still be inside the Buddha,” Tiger replied. Bond got up and walked around the courtyard, then paid the twenty yen required to go inside the statue. He ducked his head in the short doorway, then stood in the centre of the metal figure. The interior looked nothing like the Buddha. It was just discoloured bronze. The idol’s head was but a cavity in the metal. There was scaffolding set up inside where some repair work was in progress, but no workmen were there and there was no sign of the kappa.

  Bond emerged and met Tiger at the front gate. “I don’t know what the hell happened to the little fellow,” Bond said. “No one was in there.”

  Tiger asked his colleague on the phone about it. The man replied that he never saw the dwarf leave the statue.

  “Come on, let’s follow Fujimoto,” Tiger said.

  They left the Daibutsu grounds and saw Fujimoto walking up the hill toward Hase-dera, one of Kamakura’s more popular Buddhist temples. Bond and Tanaka followed him from a distance.

  “I suspect there is money in the briefcase. What is he going to do, make a donation to the temple?” Tiger asked sarcastically.

  They entered the temple grounds, which contains several buildings that date from the 1300s, a beautiful garden and a fascinating collection of statues of Jizo, who, as Tiger quietly explained, is the guardian of the souls of departed children. The two men made their way around the garden over a wooden bridge and then shadowed Fujimoto to the front of Kannon Hall, where the image of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of the goddess of mercy, is represented by a statue with eleven faces.

  Fujimoto appeared to be praying. He rang a bell and placed several wads of bills in the collection box.

  “That man has a guilty conscience,” Bond remarked.

  Fujimoto turned suddenly and almost saw them. Bond and Tiger ducked behind a post and waited until the man moved away. They started to follow him over the bridge and into the garden when they saw the dwarf again. The kappa had appeared from nowhere and was trailing behind Fujimoto by a few metres.

  “Where did he come from?” Bond asked.

  “I don’t know!”

  Fujimoto went around a group of cherry trees and was soon out of sight. The dwarf walked in the same direction.

  “Let’s go,” Tiger said. They continued their surveillance, moving over the bridge and stopping behind the trees. They saw Fujimoto, but the dwarf was gone.

  “He’s disappeared again!” Tiger exclaimed. “That thing really is a kappa!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Tiger,” Bond said. “He’s obviously skilled in stealth.”

  “I have a very bad feeling about this, Bondo-san.”

  Fujimoto left the temple and walked down the hill towards the street. Bond and Tiger carefully scanned the area but saw no sign of the dwarf. They got down to the street and surveyed the line of cars parked along the kerb. Fujimoto was on his way towards the main thoroughfare,
where several side streets intersected. He turned a corner and was gone.

  “Come on,” Tiger urged.

  They moved swiftly towards the first cross street and there it was—Fujimoto’s Toyota Celsior. Other than that, the street was deserted.

  Bond and Tiger stepped up to the car and looked inside. The driver was slumped forward over the wheel. Fujimoto was in the back seat, lying at an awkward angle. Tiger opened the door and they saw that the vice president of CureLab had been stabbed numerous times. Blood covered the seat and dripped onto the floor. The driver’s throat had been cut.

  “We’re too late,” Tiger said. He got out his mobile and immediately called for the police and an ambulance.

  Bond examined the car as best as he could. “That briefcase is gone,” he said. “And look here.”

  He pointed to Fujimoto’s hand. All of the fingers had been sliced off. Next to it was a miniature replica of the Great Buddha—the trinket that the kappa-man had bought from the souvenir stand.

  THIRTEEN

  LOOSE ENDS

  THEY WERE IN A SATELLITE KOAN-CHOSA-CHO OFFICE LOCATED IN THE elaborate Takanawa Prince Hotel complex in the Shinagawa district of the city. The room was on the top floor of one of the newer hotels, Sakura Tower. Bond could look out of the window and gaze at the famous city landmark, Tokyo Tower, Japan’s larger equivalent of the Eiffel Tower. The service owned the small private workspace and Tiger liked to use it since his pseudo-retirement. There was a complete link-up to the main headquarters so Tiger didn’t have to deal with any bureaucracy when he wanted to access electronic files. He also had full use of the hotel’s room service, which wasn’t a bad deal.

  Tiger and Bond had spent the remainder of the previous day in Kamakura, working with the local police investigating the murder of Shinji Fujimoto. Frustrating as it was, they both remained on the scene as the police worked and later gave statements at the police station. The police were unsuccessful in unearthing anything useful. Other than the miniature Buddha, no other clue was found at the crime scene that might indicate who the killer was.