Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  They crossed the docks, still a mass of activity, then went over the dark polluted waters of Tokyo bay, the traditional resting ground of yakuza victims and still popular, though now rivaled by more scientific disposal methods. The memory of so many faces frozen in fear flashed through Kei's mind as he looked down. The climb had been hard and bloody. Staying at the top was no easier. Standards had to be kept high. Examples had to be made.

  The lights of Kawasaki showed up ahead, and soon the cooling towers and industrial labyrinth that was the might of Namaka Steel. The plant was vast and operated around the clock. All kinds of steel were produced there. Pride of place was given to the well-guarded inner compound which housed the long, beige, ultramodern building of Namaka Special Steels. Special Steels forged the high-specification alloys required for the aerospace industry and it also made a range of items for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Accordingly, the facility was classified top secret and its security guards were legally authorized to be armed. Only the most carefully selected Namaka employees worked within it.

  It was an ideal location for Kei Namaka's purposes. He found the naked power of so many of the production processes an inspiration, and certain of the facilities a convenience. His favorite items of equipment were the giant forging press — which could mold white-hot forty-ton ingots as if they were plasticine — and the tempering ovens. The ovens, some bigger than a railway carriage, were used to change the molecular structure of steel by the application of heat, and could reach 1,400 degrees centigrade. When open, radiating the incredible destructive power of pure heat, they looked like the gates of Hell.

  Kei Namaka had had a private dojo, a training room for martial arts, constructed high up in the Special Steels facility. One wall was of shoji screens. When they were pulled back, it was possible to see through one-way glass the giant forging press and the ovens below. A bank of television monitors and one giant screen offered close-up observation of the factory floor and the various manufacturing processes.

  Kei's interest in the martial arts stemmed for the fundamental need to survive in the confused and desperate environment that was the Tokyo underworld of the 1940s and ‘50s. Most of his opponents had been unskilled thugs whom he had easily been able to overcome, given his natural speed, height, and strength; but an encounter with a seasoned yakuza of the old school, who had actually taken the time to master his weapons taught him the lesson that youth and brute force alone were not enough.

  The grizzled gangster had disarmed Kei and was just about to kill him, when Fumio shot the man in the thigh. Guns were rare then and seldom used, but Fumio always used one in those days to compensate for his physical weakness. He was a terrible shot.

  Kei had completed the termination of the yakuza with a thrust to the stomach, and he swore, as he watched the man writhe, that he would never again be outclassed. After a suitable interval, he had then decapitated his victim and gone to find the best sensei he could. The cleaning-up had been left to Fumio, who was good at that sort of thing and rarely failed to turn adversity into a benefit. The yakuza's body was encased in concrete and dumped in TokyoBay. His head was embalmed in sake and sent back to his boss in a lacquer box.

  Those were the days, thought Kei, good days in their way. That lacquer-box business was typical of how the brothers had prospered in the earlier years. His strong right arm and Fumio's brain had been a complementary combination, and then Hodama-sensei had taken them under his wing and their rise had accelerated, but their world had also become more complex.

  Fumio was in his element. Kei was confused by the endless complexities. He let the kuromaku and his brother get on with it and devoted as much of his time as he could to bujutsu, the martial arts, and above all to iai-do, the art of swordsmanship. For much of the time, Kei Namaka wore a business suit and availed himself of all modern conveniences as required, but in his heart and dreams he was a samurai, a warrior and soldier like his father and his ancestors before him.

  The helicopter set down on the landing pad on the roof of the Namaka Special Steels building and Kei jumped out into the brightly lit area. Armed company guards saluted, their uniforms whipping in the downdraft of the rotors as he strode impatiently toward the private elevator that linked with his office and the dojo below.

  Kei took a quick shower and changed into kendo costume. Kendo was a poor imitation of sword fighting, in Kei's opinion, but it was an excellent sport in its own right, and vigorous exercise, and his security chief, Kitano-sensei, was an effective teacher and opponent.

  They fought wearing full kendo armor; the keikogi, the loose-fitting quilted cotton jacket that both protected against bruising blows and also absorbed perspiration; the hakamu, the divided skirt made of cotton; tare, the multilayered stiff cotton waist and hip protector; the do, the chest armor made of strips of heavy bamboo lashed in place vertically and covered with heavy hide and lacquered leather; the hachimaki, the towel-like cotton cloth wrapped around the head to keep sweat from the eyes and also act as a cushioning for the helmet; the men, the helmetlike combination face mask and head protector made of steel bars and heavy, layered cotton; and finally the kote, long leather padded gloves which also protected the lower arms. Their feet were bare.

  They fought for over ninety minutes.

  The dojo echoed to the sound of rapidly moving bare feet on the polished hardwood floor, the creak of armor, the controlled rasping of breath, and the clashing of shinai, the split bamboo fencing foils.

  Halfway through the practice session, four men came into the room. Two were Namaka employees and reported directly to Kitano. The two visitors they were escorting were interi yakuza, the new so-called intellectual gangsters who specialized in financial racketeering. Their specialty was property fraud and their area was Hawaii. Recently, with the decline in value of the dollar, returns from that area had been disappointing.

  Iced tea was served, and the visitors, wearing the slippers provided, watched the training session with interest, shouting applause and clapping as points were scored. The two Namaka men stood in the background, their hands folded in front of them.

  The senior of the visitors thought that Kei Namaka looked quite magnificent. His kendo armor was crimson and his do was embossed in gold with the Namaka crest. He looked every inch the traditional samurai he aspired to be. In contrast, Kitano, in dull-black armor, seemed insignificant, despite his unquestioned technical proficiency.

  The practice session ended with a spectacular blow to the throat by Kei and a laugh from Kitano. "Namaka-san, you will soon be sensei," he said.

  Kei bowed toward the master. "The skill of the pupil is but a tribute to the quality of the teaching."

  Kei and Kitano greeted their visitors, then went to bathe and change. Meanwhile, the screens were pulled back and the two yakuza were entertained by watching the activity on the floor below. Both men were a little awed and impressed by what they saw. Iron and steel they associated with solidity and strength. Here it was being shaped and formed as if the effort were nothing. It was a stunning impression of power. There was a dynamism about such heavy industrial processes that made them compelling to watch.

  Kei and Kitano returned after twenty minutes. Both were wearing the customary house clothes of a samurai and each had the traditional two swords that went with the rank, placed as normal in the sash of his kimono. The right of wearing two swords had been abolished by imperial decree over two hundred years earlier, but in their private homes some traditionalists continued the custom.

  The two men and their visitors sat down cross-legged on tatami mats facing across a low table. Sake and sushi were brought. Kei and Kitano made a point of filling their guests' cups. The atmosphere was one of relaxation. Nonetheless, there were a few matters of business to be discussed before they could devote themselves completely to enjoying themselves. The senior gangster was relieved. His conscience was not entirely clear. On the other hand, he had rarely seen the chairman in better spirits.

  "I confess I am a
little puzzled," Kei said to him with a smile. "We have invested several billion yen in those beautiful islands and the return has not quite been what we expected. Perhaps you could explain. I am not a financial expert like my brother, but I suppose I should try and understand. Frankly, I find most of these schemes above me. I prefer the simplicity of the dojo."

  He laughed and his two visitors laughed with him. The senior gangster was grateful for the extra time to think, and he composed his answer with care. Kitano did not laugh, but smiled slightly. The man did not notice. His attention was focused on the chairman. Kei refilled all the glasses and smiled encouragingly.

  "The dollar has sunk dramatically and unexpectedly," said the man. "That means that when we make our returns to Japan in yen — as we have been requested to do — our returns appear to have shrunk. Actually, in dollar terms, it is as planned. It is merely when denominated in yen that it appears to be below our target."

  The chairman nodded and was silent, as if pondering this. Then he spoke again. "But surely, since we are continuing to invest in yen with fresh funds, the stronger yen should be buying us more. We should be getting more assets for our money."

  The man nodded in agreement. "That is so," he said, "or would be so if no other money were coming in from Japan. Unfortunately, many other organizations have the same idea as we do, and they are bidding up the price of property in Hawaii. Accordingly, our investments are costing us more than we originally planned."

  He was sweating a little. The dojo was air-conditioned, but the heat from the steel works below seemed to make itself felt. Or perhaps it was his imagination. The man tried to keep his mind clear of the numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands. The transactions had all been in cash. There was no paper trail. It had been very discreet skimming.

  The chairman spoke again. "Kitano-san," he said, gesturing with his left hand at the security chief, who sat beside him, "has interviewed some six of the vendors of property that we purchased. They all confirmed that what you say is true. Demand had bid up supply."

  The gangster's heart had been pounding, but at Kei's reassuring words he felt a flood of relief. Then Kitano spoke. "The chairman is talking about the initial interviews," he said, with a thin smile, "but it is in the nature of my responsibility to be thorough. Further interviews — conducted with some vigor by my staff — revealed an interesting reason for the high prices."

  He removed a folded sheet of paper from his sleeve, unfolded it, and placed it carefully in front of the man. The paper listed the Cayman Islands account number and each of the hidden payments. The amounts were accurate to the nearest yen. The gangster had insisted on payment in yen. He had little faith in the long-term strength of the dollar. How could you have faith in a country that would sell anything and everything for a profit? The Americans had already sold half of Hawaii and a goodly portion of California. The Statue of Liberty would be next. They were unprincipled.

  His focus had been on the paper. It was, he knew, his death warrant, unless he could act quickly. Dread filled his heart. He glanced at his companion. The other yakuza was shaking with fear. There would not be much help from there. He looked across at the chairman. Namaka-san seemed almost to be in a trance. There might just be a chance to grab one of the swords from his waist and make a run for it.

  There was a blur of movement, and the gangster felt a terrible agony and a sudden overwhelming weakness. In front of him, the chairman still sat, but now he held a bloody sword in his left hand. But Namaka-san was right-handed! He had been carefully watching for any sudden move, but the chairman had deceived him. He had executed a perfect left-handed draw and horizontal slashing cut from the sitting position, which had sliced open the lower torsos of the two men. The man looked down at his stomach, which now gaped open. He could see the edges of his izumi, the dragon tattoo covering much of his body which had been the symbol of acceptance into his group. It was now cut in two, the careful workmanship desecrated. Beside him, his companion had slumped forward.

  Waves of pain engulfed him, but still, although swaying slightly, he sat upright, blood draining from his body as he waited for the killing blow. His chin was held high. He expected the customary decapitation. "Namaka-san," he said, pleading. He could just manage the words. Blood flowed from his mouth.

  Namaka did not move. His katana was at rest. The blow did not come. "You have stolen from the clan," he said. "I take no pleasure in your death, nor in the manner of it, but examples must be made. You will die in the ovens."

  It was at that moment that the man's composure broke. He tried to scream, but blood filled his throat. He attempted to struggle as he was strapped to a wooden stretcher and carried down to the production floor.

  The end of the two interi yakuza was watched in close-up on the big television monitor by the chairman and his security chief. The heat of the oven was so great that in minutes nothing remained.

  Kei's greatest sword-fighting expertise was in iai-do — the art of drawing a sword. The blow he had executed in one continuous movement following his blade clearing the scabbard was a classic cut. Kitano had rarely seen it executed better.

  Kei had completed chiburi — shaking the blood off the blade by making an arclike movement over his head and then snapping the blade down by his side — and now commenced polishing the surface with a soft cloth and powdered limestone. He worked with care, both for his own well-being — the weapon was razor-sharp and lethal if mishandled — and for that of the sword.

  Too much polishing could damage the surface. Forty-five strokes had been determined over the centuries as the recommended optimum.

  He erred on the conservative side and gave the blade forty-two. Finally, he rubbed the gleaming surface with a very light coating of clove oil and replaced it in its sheath.

  11

  Connemara RegionalHospital

  February 8

  There was the sound of heavy breathing on the phone and then a giggle.

  The custom was that Fitzduane would put the phone down last, and Boots played this to the hilt at bedtime. When Boots was not sleeping over in the hospital, Fitzduane and he talked every night before Boots was tucked in. Boots still had some way to go with his telephone technique, but he made up for it with sheer zest.

  His gaiety made Fitzduane's heart sing. And there was the added reassurance of knowing his son was safe. Oona was looking after him, Christian de Guevain had flown over for a few weeks to lend a helping hand, and there was now a regular Ranger presence on the island.

  "’Night and big hug for the fifth time, you little monster," said Fitzduane, laughing. "Now! GO TO BED!"

  Boots burst into fits of giggles and then Fitzduane could hear Oona in the background and Boots's fading "’Night, ’night! Daddeee..." as he was carried to his bed. Whatever they were feeding him, Boots was in demon form.

  "Hugo?" It was de Guevain's voice.

  "Still here," said Fitzduane.

  "All is well here, mon ami," said de Guevain, amused. "The only threat here is from Boots."

  Fitzduane laughed. "I can hear that." His tone became more serious. "Christian, your keeping the home fires burning in much appreciated."

  de Guevain made a dismissive noise, and Fitzduane smiled to himself. His friend had film-star good looks, a debonair manner, and a way with gestures and body language that put most other Parisians of Fitzduane's acquaintance to shame. An ex-paratrooper and now a Paris-based merchant banker, the Frenchman had originally met Fitzduane as a result of a shared social interest in medieval weaponry and fencing. The two were expert swordsmen. It was a rather impractical skill in the late twentieth century, but for both, something of a family tradition.

  Their friendship had nearly come to an abrupt end during the Hangman's attack on the castle. It had been a grim business which had affected all the survivors, but also created a special bond between them. When de Guevain had heard from Kilmara about the attack on Fitzduane, he had come immediately. He was confident that his bank, wife, and mis
tress would prosper in his absence. They were all mature elements in his well-ordered social structure. He was equally confident, with good reason, that they would welcome him back with open arms. Christian de Guevain had that kind of charisma.

  "And how goes it for you, Hugo?" continued de Guevain. "I'm on red." The slight drop in voice quality and change to a more impersonal, manufactured sound confirmed the switch to encryption.

  "These people are not going to go away," said Fitzduane grimly, "and I'm not going to sit around waiting for their next play."

  "Japan?" said de Guevain. "You've decided."

  "Japan," confirmed Fitzduane. "The interrogation of Sasada has confirmed that the Namakas are directly involved. Sasada was briefed by the Namaka security chief, who is a member of the Namaka inner sanctum, and the word is that Kitano does nothing that does not come from the Namakas themselves."

  "Is there any chance of getting the Namakas through the courts?" asked de Guevain, without any real hope of getting an affirmative response. "Using Sasada as a witness?"

  "Not a snowball's chance in hell," said Fitzduane. "Kitano is the cutout, and there is the slight problem that Sasada did not come out of interrogation too well. Kilmara broke him, but there was a price."

  "Merde," said de Guevain, but with understanding. As a young man, he had served his time as a parachute lieutenant in Algeria, fighting in a very dirty war, and there were some situations where the Geneva conventions did not apply. Few people liked it, but in counterterrorism, it was sometimes a matter of weighing unpalatable alternatives.

  "Hugo," he went on, "if you go to Japan you are going to need friends. A foreigner alone won't get very far. The Japanese..."

  "...are very Japanese, and different from us Western types," completed Fitzduane dryly. "Yeah, I've heard that. It's even rumored they have their own language and eat with wooden skewers."