Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  In Japan, it was not considered polite to approach an established figure directly. An introduction by a mutual friend or business contact of the appropriate status was essential. In Japan, everything and everybody was ranked. Yoshokawa-san would make the appropriate introduction. He scarcely knew the Namakas, but as the chairman of Yoshokawa Electronics and a fellow member of the Keidanren, he was entirely appropriate.

  All in all, the whole damn thing was connected in one way or another. More and more it seemed to Fitzduane that the world was becoming a very small place. Very small and very dangerous.

  He thought of Kathleen and Boots and what he was leaving behind, and then focused on what must be done.

  Much later, he slept.

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  June 6

  His uniformed driver, in the front row of the crowd at the arrivals gate, was holding up his white-gloved hands a sign labeled ‘Namaka Industries’ and bearing the group logo.

  The security chief himself, Toshiro Kitano, was standing well back. As a senior executive, he would normally have sent an underling to greet someone at the airport, but this visitor was important. He was the chairman of a Japanese financial institution based in London who, according to the late Hodama, possessed a creative approach toward arbitrage and stock manipulation. The Namakas wanted to tap into his expertise and had been courting him for many months. The formalities would have to be observed punctiliously if negotiations were to be concluded successfully.

  Kitano regarded waiting at airports as an activity he could do without. His driver could be counted on to spot the new arrival, so he was daydreaming absentmindedly. He nearly had a seizure when a tall, broad-shouldered gaijin metamorphosed in the middle distance into someone he thought had been left for near-dead in Ireland. His heart pounded so loudly, he felt that the people around him must be able to hear. His mouth went absolutely dry. A vein in his throat started to twitch.

  This Fitzduane business had initially seemed an easy matter, and yet here was this gaijin of no consequence, not only fitter-looking than a man of his age had any right to be, but here in Tokyo! This was appalling. It was unforgivable. It would make for the most terrible loss of face.

  The chairman that Kitano had been expecting approached through the crowd, guided by the driver. As he approached the Namaka director, he expected that Kitano would recognize him, show pleasure at his arrival after such a long and arduous trip, and bow deeply. These were the minimum courtesies he could expect.

  Instead, Kitano, even after being respectfully reminded by his driver, stared like some idiot peasant.

  The chairman's face froze.

  I must kill this barbarian before anyone knows he is here, thought Kitano. Here and now amid all these people, it is impossible. I must find out where he is going, where he is staying. He ran toward the exit, just in time to see the gaijin stepping into a car. Frantically, he searched his pockets for a pen to write down the license-plate number.

  * * * * *

  The one thing Fitzduane knew about TokyoAirport was that only someone who wanted to take out a second mortgage took a cab from there into the city center. The experienced traveler took the limousine, which cost a fraction of the amount and was actually a small bus.

  The bus was unnecessary. Yoshokawa-san, a broad welcoming smile on his face, met Fitzduane and Tanabu-san in the terminal and guided them into a waiting car. The skies were low, gray, and unfriendly-looking, and it was raining. He had been expecting cherry blossoms and sun. He thought to himself that to travel halfway around the world to get the same appalling weather as Ireland was ridiculous. Worse, it was hot and humid.

  Yoshokawa caught his skyward look and laughed: "I'm sorry," he said, "it's the rainy season. We call it ‘plum rain.’"

  "We call it ‘having a nice soft day’ in Ireland," said Fitzduane, "but the stuff is still wet. When does it end?"

  "It has just begun," said Yoshokawa.

  "Fitzduane-san," said Chifune, "I fear you have spent too much time with our files and not enough reading guidebooks. Did we explain about earthquakes?"

  "No." said Fitzduane.

  "Tokyo is in an earthquake zone," said Chifune, smiling faintly, "and small tremors are very common. In 1923, there was an earthquake here in which a hundred and forty thousand people lost their lives."

  "When is the next big one due?" said Fitzduane.

  "Soon enough," said Chifune, "but I would not worry. I think more immediate risks will come from other sources."

  "Tanabu-san," said Fitzduane. "You are an unending source of consolation."

  * * * * *

  Detective Superintendent Adachi was feeling somewhat ground down by the many months of the Hodama investigation, so he was treating himself to a morning away from the squad room and a little serious thinking.

  He was having a late breakfast, cleaning his gun, and generally mooching around his apartment in his nice, scruffy house kimono.

  Police headquarters was all about action and work and, even more important, the appearance of work. He was not too sure how good it was for perspective. And right now he needed perspective. He needed a sense of detachment. His nose had been to the grindstone so long that it was being ground down. That was not quite the idea. He was after a bunch of murderers. The object was not to die of overwork, even though that was a common enough occurrence in Japan. The object was to unravel this mess and put the villains behind bars. He was doing all the right things, operating by the book, and he seemed to be getting nowhere.

  He was sitting comfortably on his knees on the tatami mat floor with his breakfast, his gun, and various files spread out in some disarray in front of him. Rain beat down on the skylight.

  He popped a pickle in his mouth and finished cleaning his gun as he munched. He was getting used to carrying the damn thing and he was getting quite good at shooting it. Recently, he had taken to practicing with it at least twice a week.

  He was feeling a little paranoid, and had the sense that he was under surveillance from time to time. He was sure his apartment had been searched. His instincts told him that he was part of a wider agenda. He had a nasty feeling that there was a leak somewhere in police headquarters or maybe even in the prosecutor's office. He really had not a clue as to where, but things were just a little too pat.

  The Namakas were an unsavory pair, but they were the last people who should have wanted to see Hodama dead; yet every time the investigation against the Namakas slowed, another morsel of proof against them turned up.

  But nothing was conclusive. It was as if there really was no hard evidence, but someone was manufacturing tidbits to put the pressure on the Namakas. And they were succeeding. The Namakas were the only suspects. They were now under around-the-clock police surveillance and had been brought in for questioning by the prosecutor on half a dozen occasions. The noose around the Namakas was steadily tightening, based on purely circumstantial evidence — and the absence of any alternative — but Adachi was uncomfortable. He was a policeman. He was a judge of people. He trusted his instincts. The Namakas were guilty of most things, including murder in his opinion, but not necessarily of the killing of Hodama. Adachi's gut feeling told him that the Namakas were being framed. Of course, it really could not be happening to nicer people.

  A few weeks back, he had started making a few inquiries of his own, independent of his team, and without telling anyone. He had used a couple of old classmates from the police academy who were now posted away from headquarters in prefecture stations — and had sworn them to secrecy. Information had begun to trickle in; and at the same time, he had begun to feel he was under surveillance.

  There was one consistent element in the replies. Practically all the people who were contributing to the growing case against the Namakas had been found, upon detailed investigation, to have a Korean connection.

  Adachi sipped his iced tea. Maybe it was just a coincidence. He cleaned up the room's clutter, showered, and got dressed. He slid
his holstered revolver onto his belt and took the subway to Kabutcho, the district where the stock market was located, to meet the Eel.

  * * * * *

  The Eel was in a quiet corner of his favorite restaurant, a dish of his favorite food — which had given rise to his name — in front of him. Conveniently, he also owned the restaurant.

  He was a round, merry-faced man in his early fifties. He had been a financial journalist for many years, but had been expelled from his press club for refusing to report a story according to the docile official line. This was a serious development, because news in Japan was disseminated only through press clubs. Members were expected to report favorably in exchange for being given information. Gaijin were not allowed to join. Press clubs were a less-than-subtle way of managing information.

  The Eel had lot his job when he had been evicted from the financial press club. This could have been a disastrous situation, but he was shrewd and street smart and financially adroit. The stock market was booming. He set up a financial newspaper. He was extremely well-informed, and the venture thrived.

  The rumor was that he made most of his money, not from what he published, but from businesses paying to keep stories out. Adachi did not doubt it. The Eel operated under the benevolent patronage of one of the major yakuza gangs. He owed Adachi from the time a rival organization had decided that the Eel might please them better as a publisher if he lost some weight. They had in mind the removal of his two arms and maybe a few other appendages. Adachi had stumbled on the transaction when he had dropped into the Eel's restaurant for a snack, and he had dissuaded the attackers. He had borrowed one of the assailants' swords and used it to good effect. It did not occur to him to draw his revolver.

  The Eel stood up as Adachi approached, and tried to bow while greeting the policeman effusively. This was difficult given the Eel's bulk, the space between the bench he was sitting on and the table, and the fact that the lighting fixture over the table hung rather low. He was also eating. It was nearly total mayhem.

  Adachi sat down and got comfortable with a beer with some relief. He liked the Eel. The man was intelligent and good company, and frankly Adachi preferred villains with something to say. Dumb thugs were all too common and made for a long working day.

  "Adachi-san," said the Eel. His read name was Origa. It was not good protocol to call him ‘the Eel’ to his face, though he was quite proud of the name. Eels were associated with force and power and energy, and there were aphrodisiac and indeed financial implications. When business was brisk in the stock market, dealers rushed out to fortify themselves with eels. "Adachi-san, is it fair to say that you are not a financial sophisticate?"

  Adachi smiled. "Probably," he said. "Origa-san, you've tried to interest me in your financial scams for years. I have not yet bitten. That should tell you something. I have little interest in the market."

  The Eel sucked his teeth. "The Namakas, Superintendent-san?" he said. "I had better give you some background." His tone was rhetorical.

  Adachi nodded encouragingly.

  "Adachi-san," said the Eel, "the Tokyo stock market is not as others. On the face of it there are nearly twenty-three million shareholders, shareholder democracy personified. Closer examination reveals that corporations are over seventy-three percent of the shares and that a mere six large keiretsu — corporate holding groups — own a quarter of the market. Individuals hold about twenty-two percent."

  "I'm not sure I understand the significance of this," said Adachi.

  "The Tokyo stock market is purported to be a free and open market," said the Eel. "It is not. Most shares — over three-quarters — are never traded. They are held by corporations and banks on a mutually supporting basis. The equity that is traded is widely manipulated. The trade is dominated by only a handful of dealers. Prices are fixed. The insider gets the nod, then come the corporates. Finally comes the individual, the shareholder who will pay the eventual price. Privileged insiders cannot lose. They are guaranteed against loss by the dealer. Certain politicians, in exchange for favors, are privileged insiders. Hodama-san was certainly such a man."

  "The Namakas?" said Adachi.

  The Eel, his face shiny, shoveled a portion of umaki — grilled eel wrapped in cooked egg — into his mouth and masticated. He positively glowed as the food descended into his stomach. "Well, there is the thing," he said. "The market is going up. Virtually all shares are being hyped up, and there is Namaka Industries languishing."

  "Falling?" said Adachi.

  The Eel shook his head. "Going up more slowly," he said. "Way out of step with the market."

  "Maybe they've shown bad results," said Adachi.

  "On paper — which means nothing — they look fine," said the Eel. "Anyway, profits are not that important. Dividends are lousy. The action is in the share price. That is how the Japanese shareholder makes his money. Shares here sell for sixty to eighty times earning, sometimes more. In America, it is more like ten to twenty."

  "So what is going on with the Namakas?" said Adachi.

  "They are being eased ever so gently outside the club," said the Eel.

  "Who's behind it?" said Adachi.

  The Eel smiled. "This was not easy to find out."

  Adachi picked up one chopstick and held it in both hands in a simulation of a sword, then brought it down in a fast, cutting motion.

  The Eel gulped. "Uzaemon," he said. "A holding company. Now are we even?"

  Adachi grinned. "Is the life that I saved worth so little?"

  The Eel gave a weak smile.

  "Tell me about Uzaemon," Adachi said. "And who is behind them."

  The Eel went a little pale. He leaned across the table. "Yakuza," he whispered. "Korean yakuza."

  "Who exactly?" insisted Adachi.

  "Katsuda-san," whispered the Eel. "The man no one ever sees. He of the hideous face."

  Suddenly, Adachi realized the significance of the Korean connection among the witnesses, and that the primary motive for Hodama's death could well lie, not in current events, but in something that had happened decades ago in the chaos and confusion of postwar Japan.

  He had heard something secondhand about the gang wars of the American occupation from one of the old-timers who had been his mentor. The details were hazy, but at least he knew whom to ask.

  But one important question was left. If Hodama's killing was, as he now suspected, a crime of vengeance for something that had happened during the occupation, why had the attackers waited until now? Why had Hodama, with all his power and influence, lost his protection?

  Indeed, who had been the true source of that protection? Japan, Korea, and the postwar period. There was only one serious contender, but many factions within it.

  It was beginning to make sense.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane had given much thought to the best tactic to employ with the Namaka brothers and had discussed the matter at length with Yoshokawa, the Spider, and Chifune. He also had his own, more lethal, agenda, which he did not discuss, except with Kilmara.

  The objective, as agreed upon with his Japanese colleagues, was to force a reaction from the Namakas that would break the impasse of the investigation, link them to Yaibo, and lead to their arrest. The best method was not so obvious. The tactic was the tried-and-true police technique of ‘rattling the suspect's cage,’ but it was in how to do it that the problems lay. In the end it was decided that the first move should be a meeting with the Namakas, and the Yoshokawa would make the introductions.

  The overt reason would be social. Fitzduane was in Japan and just wanted to pay his respects. Research had shown that companies in which Fitzduane had investments had done some business with the Namaka group — scarcely surprising given the pervasiveness of Japanese goods — so it could be considered that they had common business interests. Arguably of greater significance, he and Kei Namaka had a shared hobby: the Medieval Warrior's Society. To further arouse Kei Namaka's interest, he had brought him a gift, a handmade reproductio
n of a traditional Irish weapon.

  Along with the approach to the Namakas, it was agreed that Fitzduane would work with Detective Superintendent Adachi's unit, with Chifune acting as his interpreter. To give him official status with the police, Fitzduane, who had held a reserve commission with the Rangers — unpaid — for some years, would use his rank, and carry a special identity card in English and Japanese to go with it. In Japan, where appropriate, he would be Colonel Hugo Fitzduane.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane had arrived in Tokyo on a Friday, so it had been arranged that he would stay with Yoshokawa for the weekend.

  Mrs. Yoshokawa had been dying to meet this Irishman who had saved her son from a terrorist kidnapping, and Yoshokawa himself was anxious to pay Fitzduane for his hospitality in Ireland. Also, the two men had come to like each other. Long discussions in Ireland had dented Yoshokawa's formal façade. In the privacy of his home, he relaxed completely and revealed a warm nature. Fitzduane, who had approached the visit with some concern that he might drown in protocol, was enjoying himself immensely. The only drawback was that the delightful Chifune had disappeared. Two plainclothes detectives outside the house provided security.

  Given Yoshokawa's wealth, Fitzduane had expected a large house. Instead it was a relatively new modern dwelling of about two and a half thousand square feet; comfortable but not ostentatious. Two of the rooms were tatami rooms, decorated in Japanese style. The rest were Western. The family dinner, held in Fitzduane's honor, was served at a full-height table and featured smoked salmon, coq au vin, and an excellent sorbet, all accompanied with French wine. Japanese elements were the serving of rice as an option with the main course and plentiful supplies of sake. Fitzduane stuck to the wine. Sake had a habit, he had discovered, of creeping up on him.