The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  “I envy you!” The shatei gestured to the cases. “So what’s in those things?”

  The man shook his head. “I am sorry, but I cannot reveal that. It’s part of our mission.”

  The shatei bowed. “Forgive me. I understand.” He looked at his watch. “Another hour before lunch, and then this afternoon the cars will come to pick you up and take you all to CureLab for your meeting.”

  The man laughed. “More meetings. I wish we’d just get on with it. We are all well trained and we know what to do. I don’t see why we have to wait five days.”

  “It’s because the materials are not quite ready,” another carrier said. He was the leader, a man named Ukita. “And stop talking about our mission.”

  The other carrier bowed rapidly, “I apologise, sempai.” He walked away quickly. Ukita looked at the shatei and said, “I am sorry. We are under orders not to talk about it.”

  “I understand,” the shatei said. When Ukita walked away, the shatei shrugged, left the lounge and strode back through the building to the public pachinko parlour.

  Yasutake Tsukamoto picked up the phone in his Sapporo office and dialled the number that only three people in the world knew. The other two were the Yami Shogun himself, and the Ryujin-kai’s wakagashira, or number two man.

  Goro Yoshida answered.

  “Ohayo gozaimasu,” Tsukamoto said.

  “Ohayo to you, too, Tsukamoto,” Yoshida said.

  “I am calling to report that everything is in order. The carriers arrived at the distribution centre in Tokyo on schedule and the equipment was delivered this morning. It will go to CureLab this afternoon.”

  “That’s good news. I trust that the new version will be completed within five days?”

  “If it needs to be completed in five days, then it will be completed in five days.”

  “Ah, but will it work? What do you think, Tsukamoto?”

  “You have always known my feelings about this project, Yoshida. Our chief engineer tells me that it will work but I am not a man of science.”

  “Tsukamoto, you surprise me. You still have doubts about our motives, don’t you?”

  If they had been with each other in person, Tsukamoto would have bowed to his master. The Yami Shogun was displeased.

  “Forgive me, Yoshida. I have complete faith in you and in the project. I never meant to question it.”

  “Very well. And what of our British friend who has been sticking his nose into our business?”

  “Kappa arrived this morning, master. According to him, our British friend is now the front ornament on the shinkansen. ”

  Tsukamoto heard Yoshida chuckle, and he wished that he could see it. Goro Yoshida rarely laughed. He hardly ever smiled, for that matter.

  “And the McMahon girl?” Yoshida asked. Tsukamoto had been anticipating the question.

  “Kubo at the soaplands tells me that she has been eliminated.”

  “Good. We couldn’t afford to have her around.”

  “Yes, you are right, as always.”

  After they rang off, Tsukamoto sat back in his leather swivel chair. He looked out the window at a patch of azalea in the park across the street. The lavender colour was a staple of Hokkaido. In the country, especially, it spread over the landscape like spilled paint.

  Why did he feel so wretched? Tsukamoto wondered. Why didn’t he feel comfortable with the project? Because it was wrong? Because he knew it was wrong? That was ridiculous. He had done many things that were wrong. He had killed men. He had stolen money. He had committed crimes that could put him away for life, but the wall of the yakuza organisation protected him from that fate. He was untouchable.

  So why did this particular project disturb him? Was it because it involved a deadly biological weapon? Was it because they would be delivering a strike against several countries, including Japan herself? Why should he feel bad about that? After all, it was the established Japanese government that still catered to the West. The project was meant to be a blow at the enemies of traditional Japan, and that included those within the boundaries of the country itself.

  Tsukamoto stood and walked to the window. He stared into the park, fourteen storeys below, and watched a pair of birds fly over the purple blot of azalea. A mother was wheeling her baby in a stroller. It was a beautiful day.

  It was no use pretending that he didn’t know. What bothered him about the project was the fact that it was completely mad. It was a symbolic strike, to be sure, but one that could possibly bring the wrath of foreign nations and the Japanese government down upon their heads. It had no further purpose but to make a statement. There was no profit to be made from it, it was extremely dangerous and the yakuza had no business waging a war of terrorism on the rest of the world. It was total, utter madness.

  But it’s what the man with the red tattoo wanted and that was what he was going to get.

  Bond had been picked up by the authorities and put onto the next train at Tappi station. He disembarked at Goryo-kaku station in Hokkaido and made phone contact with Tanaka, who had helped clear his activities with the police. Unfortunately, Tanaka had not heard from Reiko. The Cassiopeia had stopped at Goryo-kaku as well because “some passengers were ill.” That was all that he knew.

  Now that the train had arrived, perhaps he could find out something. Two officials who introduced themselves as Eto and Akira met him on the platform. Eto explained that they worked for the Public Security Investigation Agency and that they needed to debrief him.

  “What about agent Tamura?” Bond asked. “Has anyone heard from her?”

  The two men exchanged glances. Eto inhaled through his teeth and frowned.

  Bad news.

  “Tamura-san was one of the ill passengers,” Eto said. “She was taken to the hospital.”

  “Take me there now,” Bond commanded. “We can talk in the car.”

  They walked through the small station and got into a Suzuki Wagon-R. As they drove the short distance to the medical centre, Eto revealed more.

  “Three passengers and Tamura-san came down with a serious illness on the train,” he said.

  “What were the symptoms?”

  “High fever, bad headaches and finally, loss of consciousness. We will find out more when we talk to the doctors.”

  It took them only a few minutes to get to the busy Hakodate Municipal Hospital, which was located very close to the rail station. It was a large, six-storey building that was the principal medical facility in southern Hokkaido.

  Eto and Akira led Bond inside the brown and grey structure and took the lift to the fifth floor, where they found the doctor in charge of the passengers who had been brought in. He was a man in his thirties who appeared to be overworked and under a great deal of stress. When Eto asked about Reiko, the doctor looked grave.

  “Come with me,” he said. He led them into a small office and shut the door. “We are trying to figure out what happened to these people. One man has died, just minutes ago. He had a temperature of a hundred and six. He was in his seventies, so it’s not surprising that he didn’t survive. The other passengers are younger and healthier, so it is difficult to say whether or not they will pull through. From the small amount of information we have, it appears that these people were stricken with some powerful virus, an encephalitis of some sort.”

  “West Nile disease?” Bond asked.

  “Very similar,” the doctor said, nodding. “Only much stronger. I understand it came upon them suddenly and reached a peak very quickly.”

  “Do you happen to know if any of them have mosquito bites?”

  The doctor squinted at Bond. “Do you know more about this? What is it that you are not telling me?”

  “Doctor, I don’t know a lot, but I believe that there were some genetically engineered mosquitoes aboard that train. They escaped and might have bitten these people. I can’t tell you what that virus is, but it’s probably man-made.”

  “Then we will examine the patients and see what we can find. Why
don’t you gentlemen wait here and I’ll be back in a few moments after I give instructions to the nurses. They are afraid of touching the patients for fear of catching whatever it is.”

  “So far we have no reason to believe that the disease is contagious,” Bond said. “But I suppose you can’t be too careful.”

  “We don’t touch them without wearing gloves and masks. Pardon me.”

  He left the room and Bond got back on the phone to Tanaka. Tiger listened as Bond explained the situation and then said, “She is strong, Bondo-san. If anyone can pull through this, Miss Tamura can. Try not to worry.”

  “I’m going to stay here until we know for certain.”

  “Thank you, Bondo-san. I am sure Miss Tamura will appreciate that. Now, have you had your head looked at?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do it. I don’t want you walking around with a concussion.”

  “What about Sapporo?” Bond asked, changing the subject. “Is my contact expecting me?”

  “Yes. His name is Ikuo Yamamaru. He’s the Ainu gentleman I told you about. Very good man. He will meet you at the Sapporo Beer Garden tomorrow for lunch.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He will know you. Now go and have a doctor take a look at you. Since you are working under my authority I can say ‘that’s an order,’ Bondo-san. But it’s also for your own good.”

  “All right, Tiger.”

  When the doctor came back, he said, “You were right. Tamura-san has a mosquito bite on the back of her neck. The elderly gentleman who died has two bites on his arm. The other two patients both have bites on their arms as well. They look like fresh mosquito bites.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I have done all I can for now. We have to pray and wait.” He looked at his clipboard and noted something. “It says here that you received a head injury, Mr. Bond.”

  Bond nodded reluctantly. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Let’s go in an examination room and let me take a look.”

  The doctor performed the necessary tests to make sure that there was nothing seriously wrong with Bond. There was indeed a small lump above his right temple where the dwarfs shoe tip had struck. The doctor gave him some painkillers and said in English, “You have very hard head. You lucky man.”

  “May I see Tamura-san now?” Bond asked.

  “I suppose it would not hurt.” He led Bond into the critical ward and to a bed where Reiko lay. An IV was in her arm and she was wearing an oxygen mask. Her skin was pale but she was breathing slowly and deeply. She looked so helpless and fragile that Bond wanted to take her into his arms, hold her close, and protect her from whatever was in store for her.

  He placed his palm on her forehead. The skin was hot but dry. She was burning up. Bond leaned over and kissed her above her eyebrows. He whispered in her ear, “I’m here, Reiko-san. I will wait for you. Be strong. You have to pull through, you know. We have that date in Maui.”

  Reiko remained still and quiet. Could she hear him? Bond didn’t know.

  Then the doctor asked him to wait in the lounge.

  Bond spent the next half-hour talking to Eto and Akira about the dwarf and the incidents on the train. They took copious notes, Bond signed a statement, and then the two men left him alone.

  The day turned into night as Bond sat in the lobby staring out of the window first at the matchbox-like cars on the streets, then at the lights in the various buildings that could be seen from the hospital. He was dead tired.

  So this was the score, he thought. The ghosts had struck again. Just when he began to invest a little of himself into someone, something happened to wreck it. Was he forever going to be bad luck to anyone he came close to? All the women whom he had loved had come to a bad end. Vesper, Tracy, Kissy … Was this the price he had to pay for the lives he had taken throughout his career? Was this his fate, to be forever alone because whatever he touched turned to dust?

  Stop it, he commanded himself. Don’t be morose. Reiko will pull through. As Tiger said, she was strong.

  As he looked at his reflection in the window, Bond remembered the doubts and fears he had experienced before coming to Japan. Those old ghosts that he didn’t want to see were certainly nearby.

  “It is not your fault, Taro-san,” Kissy said. She sat next to him, gazing out the window, dressed in the yukata she had always worn before bedtime.

  “Yes it is,” Bond replied. “I bring death wherever I go. It’s a curse.”

  “No, Taro-san,” she said, softly. “It is merely the hand of fate. You travel in a dark and dangerous world but you do so because it is your destiny. You could not exist in any other world, Taro-san.”

  “I should never have left you,” Bond said. “Life was simpler on that island.”

  “It may have been, but you must not feel bad,” she said. “You would not be complete if you had changed your path. Trust me, Taro-san.”

  In that illogical way that things happened in a dreamworld, Kissy became Reiko. Bond could feel her gazing at him longingly. Then, she slowly smiled and put on her glasses. He thought that she whispered “Arigato,” but he wasn’t sure.

  Bond felt his heart being squeezed. He turned to look at the person beside him but there was no one there.

  The doctor woke him just after midnight. Bond had fallen asleep in the lobby in front of the large window.

  “I have bad news,” the doctor said.

  Bond sat up and prepared himself for what he knew was coming.

  “Tamura-san died ten minutes ago. I am sorry.”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE SEARCH FOR MAYUMI

  “DID EVERYTHING GO WELL REGARDING THE GIRL?” TSUKAMOTO ASKED Kubo, the shatei who ran the Casanova Club, the most exclusive and expensive soaplands in Sapporo. He was calling from his office, having put off the inevitable for long enough.

  “Yes, kaicho,” Kubo said. “Everything has been taken care of.”

  “Good. I assume that any traces of her existence have been destroyed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I need to send some men there tonight to have a look around?”

  Kubo was quiet for a brief moment and then said, “That is not necessary kaicho. I will personally see to it that there is no evidence.”

  “Very well.”

  Tsukamoto hung up and drummed his fingers on his desk. Should he trust Kubo to do a proper job? Perhaps he should go ahead and send some men anyway. If it were known that the McMahon girl had been at the soaplands, there could be a lot of trouble that even the Ryujin-kai might not be able to clear away.

  He picked up the phone again and made the call.

  James Bond was subdued when he arrived at the Sapporo Beer Garden and Museum grounds, which were located in the northeastern corner of Sapporo, Hokkaido’s largest city. He still felt punished by the previous night’s events. He had been unable to sleep in the brief time available to him. The sun had risen when he left for the train station and he had only managed to nod off for a short time on the morning express train to the city.

  Now, having arrived in Sapporo, he fully understood how hard Reiko’s death had hit him. He had gone to Japan with the misplaced notion that the assignment would be a holiday. Instead, they had made it personal and Bond was grimly determined to avenge Reiko’s death. She had been an ally, a professional colleague, they had shared wounds and danger and briefly something more. He vowed not to leave the country that had brought him so much personal pain without smashing Yoshida’s plans and—if possible—liquidating the evil man himself.

  It was time to leave the pain behind and move on.

  Bond got out of the car in front of the beer garden entrance and surveyed the area. There were several red-brick buildings that made up the museum, the complex of restaurants and the refineries. Bond was well aware of Sapporo beer and preferred it when he did drink beer in Japan. He therefore recognised the company’s emblem, a red star, painted on a tall brick smokestack that r
ose above everything else. The beer garden was a popular tourist haunt that had been around for a hundred years; visitors could tour the refineries, taste beer, learn about the history of the beverage in the museum and have their choice of a few kinds of Japanese barbecue for lunch.

  Bond walked into the information centre and gift shop, where one could purchase various souvenirs and tickets for the museum and make reservations for lunch. He was greeted with an enthusiastic, “Irrashaimase!” from every employee in the place, a greeting spoken in businesses throughout Japan, welcoming the customer.

  Bond smiled and bowed slightly, then approached the reservations desk. He confirmed that there was a table for two under the name, “Yamamaru,” and was led to a table in the Classic Hall on the ground floor.

  It was done up like a German beer garden and, in fact, the words “Sapporo Bier Garten” were painted above the bar. An elaborately painted wooden street organ was prominently displayed on the floor of the restaurant and wooden tables and benches surrounded it. The kitchen’s smoky grills were visible on one side of the room, staffed by a number of chefs dressed in white.

  He was led to a table near the organ where a man was sitting. He rose when he saw Bond and said, “Hajime mashite, I am Ikuo Yamamaru. Welcome to Sapporo.” He offered his business card and bowed.

  Bond repeated the ritual, and then they shook hands and sat down.

  He was immediately taken with Yamamaru. Bond usually had good instincts about people and he knew that this man was made of the same stuff as he.

  The Ainu are believed to be indigenous to Japan but very little of the original lineage remains. They are often compared to the Native American Indians and possess some striking cultural similarities.

  Yamamaru had bushy eyebrows over large blue eyes and his round full cheeks gave his face a lot of character. His long hair, tied into a ponytail, was black and streaked with grey. Bond guessed him to be about fifty years old. Yamamaru wore a ruunpe, a traditional garment elaborately embroidered with delicate appliqué in Ainu patterns, which were similar in style to those of Native Americans.