Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  In its place was emptiness and despair and then a grim determination to survive and never to forget, whatever the cost.

  Kei Namaka, tall, well-built, muscular from his daily workouts at the dojo, and looking a decade younger than his age, uttered a terrible, anguished cry. He fell to his knees, his eyes wet with tears, and sobbed.

  He had had the dream countless times over the years.

  The NamakaTower stood on the site of what had once been Sugamo Prison. The whole development, which included a hotel, aquarium, offices, and a large shopping center, was no longer called Sugamo. After an open competition, the name SunshineCity had been chosen.

  Just a simple inscription on a boulder placed in a small outdoor sitting area at the foot of the NamakaTower recalled the executed.

  * * * * *

  When Kei and Fumio Namaka had first started their entrepreneurial activities, administration was comparatively simple.

  Fumio would scout for a victim and then Kei, bigger, stronger, faster, and decidedly dumber — though far from stupid — would dot he actual deed. It was a simple system and administratively undemanding. No paperwork was required. Counting the proceeds of armed robbery and related activities could scarcely be called financial planning, and personnel management was nothing more than the two brothers agreeing between themselves.

  That was no problem. The two were devoted to each other and painfully aware that they had not one else to turn to. Further, their roles were clearly defined by age and natural attributes. Kei was the official leader, man of action, and decision-maker. Fumio was the loyal second in command, the thinker, and, quickly and discreetly and in absolute privacy, and in such a manner that Kei was not really aware of the process, told Kei what decisions to make.

  The Namaka brothers were a pair of ragged, street-smart hoods in the late 1940s. As he grew older, Fumio found that more and more he recalled those early postwar days.

  They were the benchmark of the scale of their achievement. So much from so little; so much from virtually nothing. They were driven by desperation, for the immediate postwar period was indeed a desperate time.

  Their initial capital, Fumio Namaka remembered vividly, had come from a major in the Imperial Army. It had been late January, 1949, a month after the executions. The little family was shunned by many who were fearful of the imagined wrath of the occupation forces. Mother was seriously ill. The brothers were near-starving and desperate. They were living in a bomb site, really little more than a hole in the ground with a roof made of flattened U.S. Army ration cans.

  Priorities were elemental. Whereas before and during the war, people had been occupied with such issues as strategy, patriotism, social standing, and career prospects, by 1949 the issue was survival.

  You did whatever you had to to make it through the day. You dressed in rags and castoffs, you slept in ruins or worse, and you ate anything you could. Pride was irrelevant. Social status was a joke. Moral standards and ethics were an abstraction.

  You did what was necessary and you lived. You stood on principle and you died. You killed if you had to. After a while you got used to it and you killed because lethal force worked. It got results. It was effective.

  There was a thriving trade in Japanese Imperial Army militaria. Two hundred thousand occupation troops wanted war souvenirs and several million Imperial Army veterans wanted to eat. The action came together in street markets around Tokyo, and particularly in the Ginza.

  The major was of the samurai class and had been a member of the Imperial General Staff after distinguished service — initially in Manchuria and subsequently in the invasion of Burma. The latter exercise had cost him his left arm above the elbow after a British .303 bullet had shattered the bone into multiple fractures, but it had added to his chestful of medals and gained him promotion to the staff, where he was highly regarded. More medals soon followed. Promotion was a certainty, until Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the reedy voice of the Emperor, never before heard on the radio, called for surrender.

  Selling his medals one by one had kept the major alive. Now, on that freezing cold day in January 1949, his medals were gone and he was down to his last item of value, the long sword, or katana, that had been in his family since the eighteenth century. It was a blade signed by Tamaki Kiyomaro. It was bought for a fraction of its true worth by one of MacArthur's bodyguards.

  Inwardly, the major died a little as he sold it, but there was no choice. He and his family had to eat. Everything else of value had been sold. His wife had earned some food and a little military scrip from sleeping with members of the occupation forces, but her looks had gone and there was too much competition. They were starving. There was no other choice. He had to sell the last item of value they owned.

  The purchaser of the major's katana was not short of compassion and, by the standards of the time, paid generously for the blade. The exchange and the amount paid caught the attention of Fumio Namaka. Undersized and limping, he tended to be either ignored or dismissed as insignificant, and, as such, he was an ideal scout.

  The brothers had been searching for a worthy target for several days. The soldier's generosity toward the destitute major clinched their choice of victim. He had paid not in restricted military scrip, which could only be used in designated locations, but in U.S. dollars, greenbacks — in 1949 the hardest, strongest, most desirable currency in the world.

  Kei Namaka, skinny but tall for his age, and still, despite the hunger, reasonably fit and strong, followed the major home through the back streets and when he stopped to relieve himself in a deserted section, hit him with a rock.

  The major fell to the ground as Fumio limped up. The two brothers looked at each other, and then Fumio cut the unconscious man's throat with some broken glass. They had agreed in advance that there would be no witnesses. They had owned a knife but had to sell it to buy food. The broken glass did the job adequately but was slow. It was also messy. The brothers did not mind. They now had more money than they had ever seen before in their lives.

  Suddenly, the Namaka brothers did not just have enough money to buy food; they had capital. It was not much, but it was a beginning. They were no longer looking at bare survival. They could plan. And Fumio, crippled and physically less gifted than his brother, was a natural planner. He was gifted with a strategic sense, a decided cunning, and a talent for manipulating his fellows. In short, he had brains.

  When they returned to their shelter with a little boiled rice and some sake to celebrate, they found that their mother was dead.

  * * * * *

  Over the decades they had evolved into the Namaka Corporation, a vast corporate network of interlocking companies whose interests had spanned the length and breadth of Japan, most of the developed world, and much of the third world.

  The core operational group of the Namaka Corporation was not the Torishimariyakukai — Board of Directors — which was really about public image and strategic alliances and was kept well away from detail. The real planning and decisions were made by the more conveniently named General Affairs Department, or Somu Bu.

  The Somu Bu had served the Namaka brothers well. Nearly three decades after its creation, it now consisted of Kei and Fumio and six handpicked, seasoned buchos — department heads — of unquestioned loyalty.

  In the typical corporate world, a bucho would not have vice-presidential status, but in the case of the Namaka Corporation there were obvious security implications, which dictated a tighter vertical structure.

  * * * * *

  The guarded, soundproofed, and electronically swept meeting room of the Somu Bu of the Namaka Corporation was decidedly luxurious.

  Eight overstuffed handmade tan leather executive armchairs were placed around a boardroom table made from a single piece of handworked wood. Each chair was embossed with the Namaka crest in gold. The chairs at either end of the table were even larger and more luxurious, with deeper padding and higher headrests. The walls were covered in silk. Some of Kei Namaka's vast collec
tion of antique Japanese swords and Western weapons from the same periods were in illuminated glass cases on the walls. Underfoot, the carpet was thick and soft.

  The six buchos rose to their feet and bowed deeply as the Namaka brothers entered. Bows in Japan come in three grades: the informal, the formal, and the slow, deep, right-down-to-the-waist kind known as saikeirei, used for the Emperor and the less democratic yakuza bosses.

  The bows delivered to the Namaka brothers were of the saikeirei class. Japan's entire society was based on ranking, and the brothers were not known for their democratic approach to discipline.

  Kei entered the room first through the special padded double doors which led directly to the luxurious office the brothers shared.

  Fumio followed, at a respectful distance, limping and supported by a stick. He had not aged as well as his brother. His hair had gone completely silver and he looked as if he could easily have been in his mid-sixties. But his age gave him a dignity and gravitas that was not unhelpful.

  Kei sat down first, and Fumio followed some seconds later. All the buchos now too their seats. Kei called the meeting to order formally and then looked at Fumio. The younger brother ran it, but always gave the appearance of deferring to the chairman. This was the first formal meeting since the murder of the kuromaku. Kei had been attending secret talks in North Korea when the event had occurred, and had only recently returned.

  "The first item," said Fumio, "concerns the death of Hodama-sensei. His passing means that we have lost our most influential friend. The manner of his passing gives some cause for concern." He stood up and bowed his head in silence, and all the others followed suit.

  After several minutes, he sat down. The mention of Hodama was enough to get everyone's attention. The sensei had been the behind-the-scenes fixer for the Namaka brothers and had helped to give them a charmed life with the authorities and the competition over the last three decades.

  His untimely death was proving a disaster.

  The kuromaku had been an unparalleled protector but had been jealous of his power and influence, and now there was no obvious candidate to replace him. Despite his age, he had not nominated a successor. Because of his age and his sensitivity on that matter, the Namakas had not pushed the subject.

  The Namaka brothers' position had been that of two men in a sturdy boat in a shark-infested sea, with Hodama representing the security of the boat. Now that boat had been arbitrarily removed and they had been dumped unceremoniously into unfriendly waters to swim with the sharks. It was going to take a period of adjustment.

  There was also the matter of the Hodama's killers' methodology. After the sensei, who was next for the cooking pot? The assassins were efficient, brutal, and did not seem to be deterred by the status of the victim. These were disconcerting thoughts.

  "It would be helpful," said Kei to the gathering, "for the corporation if your thoughts on the current implication of the passing of Hodama-sensei could be prepared."

  The assembled buchos bowed their head respectfully in acknowledgment. They knew exactly what the chairman wanted. He was asking for a detailed paper and proposals on the full consequences of the Hodama affair. The procedure was known as ringi seido. It referred to a circulated written proposal which would be signed by the assembled team but only after a great deal of informal and behind-the-scenes discussion, known as nemawashi — literally, ‘binding the roots.’

  The ringi seido system could be slow and bureaucratic. At the Namaka Corporation, particularly in the General Affairs department, the system had been refined to an art.

  "Next item," said Kei. He was wearing a Savile Row — tailored dark-blue pinstripe suit and a handmade silk shirt. His tie was regimental. His hair, though streaked with gray, was still full and he wore it brushed straight back, the wings meeting behind his head. He had a high forehead, a strong nose, and firm, regular features. He looked every inch the chairman of the board. Fumio was very proud of him.

  "Our obligation in Ireland, Kaicho-san," said Fumio, with the appropriate honorifics. Privately, his brother was called by his first name. In public, the formalities were always followed. There were no fewer than seven different ways to address different social ranks. It was an area where foreigners — even if they spoke Japanese, a rare occurrence — normally fell down. Well, what could you expect? No gaijin could ever really understand Japan.

  One of the buchos, Toshiro Kitano, Vice President for General Affairs, cleared his throat. He was a slight, studious-looking man with thinning hair in his late fifties; he reminded some people of a priest or monk. There was an ascetic, spiritual quality about him. It was not entirely misleading, since he was a martial arts master — a field in which the spiritual was regarded as at least as important as the physical.

  Kitano's role in the group was security. Within the ethos of the Namaka culture, that had less to do with conventional industrial security than with the direct application of force against those who opposed the wishes of the brothers. Kitano was an enforcer and assassin, and had been with Kei and Fumio since the early years. These days, he rarely carried out assignments himself. He was now an executive, and in Fumio's view had made the transition rather well. He was an invaluable man, with the advantage of hands-on practical experience and organizational talent.

  Skilled killers with the administrative talents required by the corporate environment were not easy to find.

  "Kitano-sensei?" said Kei respectfully. Although Kitano was an employee and his junior in the Namaka Corporation, the master was his mentor and trainer in the martial arts field and as such was treated with an appropriate deference.

  "Several years ago, we had dealings with a terrorist, a gaijin, known as the Hangman," said Kitano. "He had many names and we never did find out his real background. But we cooperated on several assignments. It was a successful partnership."

  "He approached us, I recall," said Kei. He did not add that it had been a major breach of security. It was not appropriate to embarrass Kitano in front of his peers. Anyway, the sensei, once he had recovered from the shock, had handled the situation extremely well.

  "He had extensive connections," said Kitano. "A number of apparently separate groups in different countries reported to him. Some of his people trained with some of ours in the Middle East. This led to his attempting to penetrate our organization to find out more about us. Fortunately, we were able to block this infiltration, but not until he had learned rather more than he should. The situation was difficult. The solution was cooperation. His people were not known in some areas; our people were not known in others. By exploiting this we were able to carry out a number of assignments successfully."

  There were approving noises from around the table. The buchos were all aware that the subject was difficult for Kitano, and they were anxious to show support. The harmony of the group — wa — was very important.

  "I remember," said Kei. "It was an excellent solution, sensei."

  Kitano bowed slightly in acknowledgment. Actually, the whole business had been extremely serious. He had never been able to identify that damned gaijin, whereas the foreigner had penetrated the entire Namaka organization and their direct-action arm. The operations they had carried out together had been successful, but they had all been planned by the Hangman and carried out on his own terms. Then the fates had intervened. Just when the security chief had been at his wit's end, the Hangman had vanished. Subsequently, they had learned that he had been killed. It had been the best news of the decade, as far as Kitano had been concerned.

  Unfortunately, the Hangman's death was not the end of it. He was a player of games and a man with a warped sense of humor. He had left behind a request in the form of a video sent only to Kitano. If he was captured, he was to be freed. If he was killed, he was to be revenged. If his request was ignored, there would be one warning, then the detailed information he had on the Namaka Corporation would be given to the authorities and there would be other unpleasant consequences. Above all, the security chie
f would be disgraced in front of his colleagues and the brothers themselves. The brothers knew about the request; Kitano had not told them about the threat. They might consider it his fault, since the gaijin's infiltration was his responsibility — and Kitano shuddered to think of the punishment. No, he had to take care of this himself.

  "This gaijin was killed three years ago," said Fumio. He had more serious matters on his mind, and as a result was more direct than was customary in a formal discussion. "I am a little puzzled as to why the matter of this obligation has come up now."

  "It was a small matter," said the security chief, "not worthy of the meeting's attention. As to the passing of time, it was difficult to ascertain who had been responsible for the Hangman's death. Then there was the matter of finding an appropriate team to do the job. And there was not urgency. It was a matter of little operational consequence. It was delegated to Yaibo. The team they allocated was then held by the security forces for some time. All of these matters contributed to the delay. If it had been a priority, we would of course have acted sooner."

  Kei wanted to move on to other things. The security chief was an experienced enough man. A routine action six thousand miles away should not be occupying the time of the meeting. Delegation was about someone else getting on with it while you did what was really important. But still he hesitated. The security chief himself had put the item on the agenda.

  Kei looked at the security chief. "There is something you want to say, Kitano-sensei?"

  "The assassination attempt took place as planned," said the security chief, "but it was not entirely successful. Our team, it appears, was killed. The target was merely seriously wounded. Our lack of complete success is regrettable."

  There was a palpable feeling of relief around the table. The loss of a killing team was something they had to be made aware of, but it was not something to be concerned about. There was a steady supply of young men who wanted to prove themselves in action. Casualties in the field were almost inevitable these days, given the ever-increasing expertise of counterterrorist units, but were just an overhead of doing business. And it was infinitely better that the team were dead rather than captured. Dead men were poor material for interrogation.