The third development was a sense by the political analysts and intelligence services of the world's lat remaining superpower that the time of the postwar politicians was over. They had become associated with ‘money politics’ and their greed had surfaced once too often. There had been too many public scandals. The old regime had run its course. It had served its purpose.
It was time for an illusion of change.
New blood would be brought in, to public acclaim. But, of course, Japan's real kuromaku, the U.S., would continue as normal. Tatemae and honne. The public image and the private reality. Japan might indeed be the world's second-largest economy — but the operative word was ‘second.’
In the final analysis, a country of one hundred and twenty-nine million people on the wrong side of the globe, living on a chain of a thousand islands without almost any natural resources, could never fundamentally change the world's true leader. And if it thought of so doing, it would not be allowed to. What was needed to be done, would be done. Every action that might prove necessary.
The last item that made it possible, even desirable, for Katsuda to initiate his move was an act of sheer hubris by the Hodama faction. With their confidence boosted by their economic success, they started dabbling in the arms trade and then moved to supplying enemies of the West. Rumors surfaced of the North Korean deal. This was impertinent and would not be tolerated.
Nothing was said directly to Katsuda, but suddenly the signs were there that Hodama and his faction were no longer protected. It was open season, if handled discreetly and with a certain sophistication.
Katsuda made his move.
He had personally led the assault group on Hodama and had taken the greatest pleasure in linking the killing to the Namakas. Month by month, he had tightened the noose. At the same time, he had set in motion his economic initiative. The Namaka's financial power base was being weakened. The elements in the plan were working and coming together.
Yet the Namakas endured. They had taken the heaviest pressure and were still in business. And there were now signs that they were rebounding stronger than ever. Evidently, Katsuda's actions had been too subtle.
Fortunately, the Namakas' own actions had thrown up an unlikely ally. This gaijin, Hugo Fitzduane, could make the necessary difference if the right circumstances were created. An Irishman, another islander like the Japanese. An interesting man, by all accounts.
Katsuda picked up the phone.
* * * * *
Fitzduane looked up from his Japan Times as Adachi made his way across the floor of the hotel restaurant.
The remains of his Western-style breakfast, except for his tea and toast, were cleared away as the policeman approached.
"Good morning, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, waving the policeman to a chair. "You have a look about you that suggests developments."
A waiter rushed up and brought Adachi some green tea. The service was excellent in Japan, Fitzduane had found, though the language barrier could be a problem. His waiter, for instance, was convinced that hot milk was what the Irish gaijin required with tea, and he would not be persuaded otherwise. Still, that slight eccentricity notwithstanding, Fitzduane felt he was in good hands.
"Would you ever think of trying Japanese food, Fitzduane-san?" said Adachi. He was used to gaijins demonstrating their skill with chopsticks and endeavoring, unsuccessfully, to be more Japanese than the Japanese when it came to food. Fitzduane, in contrast, asked for a knife and fork and did not seem to feel he had to prove anything. Sometimes he ordered Japanese dishes, but mostly he ordered Western. It was easy to do so in Tokyo. Practically every type of national cuisine was represented there. "Fish, rice, vegetables and seaweed," continued Adachi. "It is a very healthy diet."
"A vicar was once served a dubious egg for breakfast," said Fitzduane, "and was then asked if everything was satisfactory. He replied, ‘Good in parts.’ Well, that is pretty much my impression of Japanese food." He smiled. "Though it is all superbly presented — a feast for the eye. Unfortunately, my taste buds do not always agree. They have a weakness for French and Northern Italian cooking, with forays into Indian and Chinese and the occasional medium-rare steak. Doubtless, they need further education."
Adachi laughed. He had been skeptical of the DSG's initiative in bringing a foreigner into what, in his view, was a Tokyo MPD affair, but Fitzduane, for a gaijin — a fundamental qualification — was an agreeable surprise.
Despite their unfortunate introduction, Adachi found the Irishman easy to get along with. He had a generous, low-key personality that invited confidences and he was sensitive to nuance, to the unspoken word. Also, his style was intuitive. He could almost have been a Japanese in his respect and understanding for giri-ninjo, yet he was very much his own man.
Adachi was somewhat puzzled by his own reactions to the man. As a Tokyo policeman, profoundly opposed to violence, he could not forget the carnage the Irishman had wrought the day they had met, yet Adachi still found he greatly enjoyed the man's company. Here was a man whose personal code seemed to reflect the most human of values, yet who killed without hesitation and without visible remorse. Adachi had never met anyone quite like him before.
"The two yakuza of the Insuji-gumi who you captured, Fitzduane-san," said Adachi, "have confessed." He did not sound surprised. It had been over a week since the botched assassination attempt. Fitzduane tried to imagine what a week of Japan's famous draconian police-custody system would have been like, under these rather embarrassing circumstances for the Tokyo MPD, and decided he did not particularly want to find out, nor was he overly sympathetic. It was hard to feel much about people who tried to kill you.
Fitzduane nodded. Adachi was slightly taken aback at Fitzduane's lack of reaction. It was yet another example of the man's atypical behavior. In his experience, most gaijin were surprised and sometimes shocked at how consistently Japanese police were able to get criminals to confess. They would raise questions of civil rights and habeas corpus and all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo, as if the rights of the victims and ordinary citizens were not an issue also. In Adachi's view, the West were hypocrites and had their priorities backward.
"The two yakuza," continued Adachi, "made separate confessions and have now signed statements. The contract on you, Fitzduane-san, was initiated by Kitano-san, the security chief of the Namaka Corporation. He personally briefed the killing team."
Fitzduane raised his eyebrows. "You surprise me, Adachi-san. Why would he get involved personally? Isn't a cutout the normal procedure? Hell, this links the assassination attempt directly to the Namakas. It sounds too good to be true."
Adachi shook his head. "Unfortunately, Fitzduane-san," he said, "this development is not all to our advantage. Yesterday, just prior to the yakuza confessions, we also received a written complaint from the Namaka brothers about their security chief, reporting their suspicions that he had been using his division for his own private advantage and also accusing him of embezzling company funds. Early this morning, we attempted to arrest Kitano. We were not successful. Instead we found him and his wife dead and a brief suicide note. In the note he stated that he had disgraced his entirely innocent employers by carrying out criminal activities and associating with terrorists. Yaibo was specifically mentioned. Effectively, the trail ends with Kitano. The evidence, regarding the attempts on your life at least, no longer points to the Namakas — whatever we may suppose."
"How did Kitano and his wife die?" said Fitzduane. "Could the suicide have been faked?"
"We have already carried out an autopsy," aid Adachi, "and although the results of some tests still have to come in, the findings seem fairly conclusive. The woman was shot in the back of the neck at close range by a .45 U.S. Army Colt automatic as she knelt on the floor. Kitano then placed the barrel of the same weapon in his mouth and pulled the trigger. There are no signs of a struggle, and there is evidence that Kitano fired the weapon with his right hand. And though the note was typed on a word processor, it was signed and we
have verified the signature. The evidence says suicide."
"Was the weapon his?" said Fitzduane.
Adachi smiled. "Fitzduane-san, you already know how hard it is to own a legally registered gun in this country. No, although Kitano-san was head of security, he was not licensed to carry a firearm. However, there is a black market in such weapons, and all too many are in circulation as a result of the U.S. force's presence and smuggling. Regrettably, the yakuza are tending to use firearms more frequently than they used to and their ownership is something of a criminal status symbol."
"Leaving evidence aside, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, "what do you think about the Namakas themselves? Were they behind the various assaults on me? Are they really responsible for the Hodama killing? Perhaps they are really the high-minded captains of industry they purport to be, and all of this is a smear caused by a renegade employee."
"I'm a policeman, Fitzduane-san," said Adachi, "and I have to go by the evidence. The fact is there is now no evidence at all linking the attacks on you with the Namakas. Instead we have a culprit, the late Kitano-san, with the means, motive, and opportunity — and a signed confession. As to Hodama, the evidence against the Namakas did appear strong, but on closer examination, I'm not so sure."
"You're still not saying what you think, Adachi-san," persevered Fitzduane, but gently. "Go-enryo-naku — please do not hold back."
Adachi smiled at Fitzduane's Japanese, but not at the thoughts he was expressing. The Irishman was touching on the amae element of a relationship — roughly translated as ‘childlike dependence’ — so important in Japan, which results in shinyo — absolute confidence in another person, confidence not only in his or her integrity but also that such a person will do whatever is expected, whatever the cost. Such a trust normally took years to develop in Japan, but curiously Adachi felt that he could have shinyo in Fitzduane.
"I think the Namakas are an evil pair who should be put out of business," said Adachi," and were certainly behind the attempts on your life and are involved with terrorism as a means to commercial gain. As to the Hodama business, here I do not feel they are guilty. Instead I believe that the Hodama killings are part of a power play, and that part of that scenario is the destruction of the Namakas. It's ironic. My investigation of the Hodama affair puts me, in a way, on the wrong side."
Fitzduane thought about what Adachi was saying. "The thought strikes me, Adachi-san," said Fitzduane, "that unless we are both careful, we could end up as the filling in this particular political sandwich. Perhaps a little pooling of resources might be an idea."
Adachi thought of the suspected leak in Keishicho — or was it the prosecutor's office? — and the blunt fact that he no longer knew whom to trust except, irony of ironies, for the Irishman. He nodded.
"Let's go for a stroll," he said. "There is a place we can talk in private and someone I would like you to meet again, a Sergeant Akamatsu."
"The veteran in the police box," said Fitzduane. "The man with the all-knowing eyes. He wasn't too happy I messed up his pavement, but lead on."
As Fitzduane was about to leave the hotel, he took a call from Yoshokawa. The Namakas regretted the delay, but one of the brothers had been away and both would like to meet Fitzduane-san. An appointment had been arranged for that afternoon. A car would arrive after lunch to take Fitzduane-san to the NamakaTower.
"So they are sniffing the bait, Yoshokawa-san," said Fitzduane.
"Be careful all they do is sniff," said Yoshokawa. "These are very dangerous people."
"I'll hang garlic around my neck," said Fitzduane, "and maybe take a few other precautions. But, what the hell, it should be interesting."
* * * * *
Fitzduane returned from his lengthy discussion with Adachi and Sergeant Akamatsu just before lunch and opted to eat in his room.
It made his Tokyo MPD minders happier when he was not sitting exposed in a public place, and he wanted to do some thinking. In a couple of hours' time, he was going to meet and exchange pleasantries with two people, the Namaka brothers, who he had every reason to believe had tried repeatedly to kill him.
The anticipation gave him a strange feeling. Fear and anger were components, but there were also elements of uncertainty. The initiative was still in his enemies' hands, and although he had many reasons to believe that the Namakas were behind the assassination attempts, he still had no legal proof. They would have to make the fist move or he could do nothing; or he could cross a line he preferred not to cross.
He could not kill on mere suspicion. There had to be some core values to live by, even in this confusing and dangerous world. Kilmara had chastised him for a lack of ruthlessness on occasions in the past, but the simple fact that he could not change. He had been brought up to believe in some standards, and there it was. Even to protect his own life and that of his child, he could not exercise lethal force unprovoked.
He ordered a sandwich and a glass of white wine and ran a bath. The food arrived within minutes, but was actually delivered by a smiling Sergeant Oga. He was becoming quite good friends with the sergeant, and the minders were not overly keen on an assassin disguised as room service. As they learned Fitzduane's ways, they were getting very good at their job. Surveillance was comprehensive but unobtrusive. Nonetheless, it was a bloody nuisance. Fitzduane liked wandering around strange cities on his own, and being part of an armed convoy definitely took some of the spontaneity out of the whole business.
You could not really act the relaxed tourist when surrounded by a bunch of submachine-gun-toting cops, even if they did keep their weapons in shoulder bags. The submachine guns had been added after the Yasukini-dori business. If the yakuza wanted to play hardball, the Tokyo cops were not going to fuck around, and they were quick students.
Insofar as any gaijin ever could, Fitzduane reflected, he was now beginning to get a handle on how the various players such as Hodama, the Namakas, Yoshokawa, and the others fitted in. A fresh element in the Namaka equations was their possible involvement in supplying embargoed equipment to North Korea. Kilmara had explained briefly in an encrypted phone call to Fitzduane in the relatively secure environs of the Irish Embassy, but he had been rushed and the communication had been short on detail.
All Fitzduane had understood was that intelligence reports indicated that the Namakas and some of their personnel from Namaka Special Steels were having secret negotiations with the North Korean nuclear people, and it might well behoove Fitzduane to watch his ass, because the stakes could be even higher than originally thought. On the other hand, it could prove helpful if he kept his eyes open. No one knew exactly what was going on. The intelligence reports were a mixture of scant fact and liberal extrapolation. Disturbingly, the final conclusion of the analysis was that all of this could involve the production by the North Koreans of nuclear weapons.
Kilmara had finished the conversation by pointing out that Fitzduane's Japanese hosts might not be too enthusiastic about the Namakas' possible arms-trading coming to light.
"My guess," Kilmara had said, "is that the local fuzz—"
"Adachi — the Tokyo MPD," Fitzduane had interrupted.
"—won't know about the nuclear thing, but that their security people will want to keep it very quiet. The Japanese depend on international trade and the U.S. is their largest single customer, so the last thing they will want is for them to be found peddling nuclear-weapons manufacturing plants to Uncle Sam's enemies. We're talking serious vested interests here, so watch it."
"While watching my ass, what am I supposed to be looking for?" said Fitzduane. "They could show me a complete hydrogen-bomb plant and tell me it made chocolate bars and I would be none the wiser. A nuclear expert I am not."
"Look, I'm just passing on the ruminations of the spooks," said Kilmara. "Just keep your eyes open and remember Japan is not that big a place — and happy hunting."
The land mass of Japan, Fitzduane recalled, was actually just under a hundred and forty-six thousand square miles, or just ov
er half the size of Texas. Sometimes Kilmara's comments could be unhelpful.
He ate his sandwich, then soaked in his bath and sipped his wine. The thought occurred to him that although Adachi, and indeed the DSG, might not be in the need-to-know loop, Koancho, the security service, almost certainly was. Which explained Chifune's presence and raised strong questions about her own personal agenda. The gaijin had been brought over to help break the impasse in the Hodama investigation, but supposing Fitzduane-san found out something which could embarrass Japanese interests?
He hopped out of the bath and toweled vigorously while singing an old Irish Army marching song, then dressed for the occasion. Lightweight dark-blue suit, pale-blue shirt, regimental tie, silk socks, highly polished loafers. He examined himself in the mirror and decided he looked the very model of a sarariman. All he was missing was the corporate pin.
He checked his throwing knives and the compact Calico automatic, and was just holstering the latter when his phone rang.
The limousine of the Namaka Corporation had arrived. He picked up the gift he had brought for the Namaka brothers and left. His interpreter, Chifune, was waiting for him in the lobby. She bowed, as any well-mannered interpreter would do, but when she rose he saw once again that enigmatic smile.
He was about to wave her through the door ahead of him, then remembered how the Japanese did such things. He grinned at Chifune, then walked out ahead and was ushered first into the waiting black limousine. The uniformed chauffeur wore white gloves and the seats had white head protectors like those in an airline. The Namaka corporate crest was discreetly painted on the limousine doors.
As they drove north toward Ikeburo and SunshineCity, Fitzduane reflected on the rise of the Namakas and tried to imagine what bombed-out postwar Tokyo must have been like for a pair of near-starving teenagers whose father had just been executed.
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