He almost felt sympathy for the Namakas, until he remembered the slicing of the bullet as it drew blood from his little son's head.
He as acutely conscious of Chifune's physical presence beside him on the rear seat, quiet and demure as befitted her interpreter role.
* * * * *
The NamakaTower
Sunshine City, Tokyo, Japan
Fumio Namaka leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands in thought.
The gaijin Fitzduane was due shortly, and he wanted to satisfy himself that he had considered and provided for all the issues involved.
The news from North Korea had been extremely encouraging. What had seemed like a wild card now looked like it was turning into a financial windfall, and just at the right time. It would tip the balance. Namaka Industries would survive. Fumio had been very much against the idea of supplying the North Koreans with nuclear plants, but Kei had argued strongly in favor and he had turned out to be right. Frankly, Kei's investment enthusiasms rarely worked out, but the North Korea nuclear project was proving to be a notable exception.
It was at last becoming clear who was behind the Hodama killings and the financial onslaught on the Namaka's empire. A vast counterintelligence exercise and the calling-in of favors at the highest government, civil service, and corporate levels had uncovered a trial that had led in the end to the Katsuda-gumi. It was a much-feared and respected organization, the second-largest yakuza gang in Japan, but as to why the Katsuda people were mounting such a vicious and deadly campaign against the Namakas was a complete mystery. Perhaps they were merely fronting for some other faction. It was hard to be certain. Attempts to make direct contact through a highly respected and neutral intermediary had been rebuffed.
Still, whether they were the principals or not, the Katsuda-gumi were certainly heavily involved and there was now a specific opponent to fight. This was hugely encouraging. The Namakas had been in such wars before and had always emerged triumphant. And recently, there were signs that the tide was beginning to turn in the Namaka's favor.
The Namaka share prices were starting to perform in line with the market again. Contacts who had been mysteriously unavailable were starting to return calls and pay their respects. Damage control to compensate for the loss of the Hodama patronage was working.
It had been a matter of rearranging certain key elements in the extensive Namaka network of influence, and that had taken time, but now the new arrangements were in place and the Namakas were on the offensive.
The Katsuda-gumi would soon learn the reality of true power. Shortly, a Yaibo killing team would commence a campaign of selective assassination against the Katsuda-gumi, and other initiatives would be implemented. Even their hideous leader, rarely seen by any outsider, would find himself vulnerable.
The Namaka brothers were old hands at fighting this kind of gang warfare. And they would have the tacit support of the police, once this Hodama business was put aside.
The police were rarely much concerned about the yakuza being cut down to size, providing ordinary citizens were not harmed. The yakuza were tolerated because some organization was needed — even in crime — but the police were still their enemies. In contrast, the Namakas headed a powerful industrial group and had friends in the highest places.
Kitano's abuse of authority had been extremely convenient. It was outrageous that he should have mounted an assassination attempt on this gaijin Fitzduane without getting permission, but fortunately all avenues led to and stopped at him. He was a perfect scapegoat, not just for the Fitzduane attacks, but also for whatever else the Namakas were suspected of — even Hodama. He had been found out to be a rogue element. A single corrupt employee had scant significance in the scheme of things.
The Namakas were, of course, above such behavior. Their bun — the rights pertaining to their station in life — made this clear by implication. A rank-and-file yakuza or a junior employee might be made subject to special police interrogation, but those at the level of the Namakas were, for all practical purposes, immune. Even the much-feared Tokyo Prosecutor's Office treated those at the highest level with respect. This was Japan, the supreme hierarchical society. Rank was everything.
Ironically, it did not matter whether anyone believed Kitano had acted independently or not. The important thing was that it was a story which could save face all round. The tatemae was what was important. Fumio was reminded of the American phrase ‘plausible deniability.’
The gaijin Fitzduane remained a loose end. Left to himself, Fumio was all for leaving him alone and concentrating on more important issues. Three failed assassination attempts suggested he was an unusually hard man to kill and, really, they had satisfied their obligation to their dead associate by severely wounding the gaijin. Enough was enough.
Unfortunately, Kei — who combined a limited intellect with mule-like stubbornness — did not see things this way. He had taken their failure personally and was being extremely bullheaded about it. His pride was hurt, and he took Fitzduane's continued survival as an ongoing affront. He argued that there was more to the Irishman than they knew and that he was certainly an agent sent to secure the Namakas' downfall. Frankly, some of Kei's comments were excessive, but the result was straightforward enough. Kei Namaka wanted the gaijin, Fitzduane-san, dead, and if the hired help were not competent to do the job, he would carry out the task himself.
Fumio had pointed out that surveillance and informers had confirmed that the gaijin was under around-the-clock police protection, but his big brother had been adamant. He was going to kill Fitzduane and he would not be stopped. It was now a matter of giri. Reluctantly, Fumio had agreed, and had then applied his considerable brain to devising a method which would allow Kei his way without fear of discovery.
He had come up with a good plan, he thought. The gaijin's own initiative — his desire to see the steel plant, as communicated by Yoshokawa-san, who had set up the meeting — would be turned against him. The plan had pleased Kei greatly. The gaijin would not just be killed, but he would literally evaporate.
Thrown inside a tempering oven set to its highest temperature, his body fluids — the bulk of a corpse — would soon boil away and the small residue would turn to gas. It was a scientific truth that matter could not be destroyed, but its substance could certainly be altered. A gaseous Fitzduane would not pose a problem, whatever it might do for global warming.
His telephone buzzed, and a respectful voice announced that the gaijin Fitzduane-san's party had arrived at the security desk at the base of the NamakaTower. The call reminded Fumio to clear his desk. The meeting was to be in the conference room, but one could never be too careful. All was secure. After a final glance, he limped to the meeting.
* * * * *
After Chifune had introduced her gaijin employer at the first-floor reception desk, a uniformed OL came forward and bowed deeply toward Fitzduane and more moderately at Chifune.
She then spoke, and Chifune translated near-simultaneously. In fact, Chifune was so good at translation that Fitzduane realized it must have been part of her Koancho training. He wondered how many trade delegates admiring their attractive interpreter realized that they were under observation by the security services. Well, doubtless the CIA and God knows who else were doing the same thing at the other end.
"SunshineCity, of which the NamakaTower is the centerpiece, is a multifunction complex that is a center for business and commerce," translated Chifune, her face a blank. "The Higashi Ikeburo ramp of the Metropolitan Expressway connects directly to the basement parking area of the complex, and there is parking there for 1,800 cars. SunshineCity includes, in addition to the NamakaTower, a hotel, a shopping mall, a branch of the Mitsukoshi department store, many offices, a convention center, and the world's highest aquarium."
Fitzduane blinked and tried hard to keep a straight face. The Japanese had built an aquarium on the site where their wartime leaders had been executed.
SunshineCity had been Sugamo Prison. This
was making pragmatism into a high art. Well, maybe it was better to forget the past. The Irish never forgot the past and look what trouble the North was in. Still, an aquarium! He suppressed a desire to rush away and reread Alice in Wonderland.
"How high is the world's highest aquarium?" asked Fitzduane politely.
"It's on the tenth floor," translated Chifune, "forty meters above ground level. It has 20,000 fish covering 620 different species, and fresh seawater from HachichoIsland is supplied to them constantly so that their environment is entirely natural." Her mouth was beginning to twitch.
"If I was a fish," said Fitzduane, "I couldn't imagine anything less natural than being stuck in a tank ten floors up with 19,999 neighbors. It sounds more like the South Bronx, which certainly is not entirely natural. Still, to be fair, I am not a fish."
Since Sunshine City looked solidly rooted in northern Tokyo and the sea did not seem to be immediately available, he was dying to ask by what ingenious method seawater was constantly supplied from Hachicho Island, wherever that was, but then the elevator doors opened and their guide burst into action again. She had a cheerleader's energy and enthusiasm packed into her neat little body. Fitzduane half expected pom-poms to appear any second, but her body language was repressed and demure.
The doors closed and the elevator took off like a rocket. Fitzduane felt he had left his stomach somewhere about the level of the fish, and there were still fifty more floors to go.
"The NamakaTower, at 240 meters above ground level, is the tallest occupied building in Japan," translated Chifune, "and on a clear day you can see a hundred kilometers in any direction, and even Mount Fuji. You may also care to know that you are standing in the world's fastest elevator, which will make the entire journey in only thirty-five seconds.
Fitzduane's stomach had reappeared and was starting to go in the other direction as they decelerated. If the Namakas went through this rocket trip twice a day, it was clear that he was up against some fairly tough people.
"Doesn't this country have earthquakes?" said Fitzduane. "Is it really a good idea to be this high up when holes open up in the ground?"
There was no time for an answer. The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Facing him were two people who had casually arranged to have him killed, who had threatened the very core of his family.
He smiled and stepped forward, the gift he had brought with him in his left hand. It was a carefully packaged, handmade reproduction of a traditional Irish weapon, the Galloglass Axe, and with its blade and handle it was nearly the height of an average Western man. It towered over the smaller Japanese man, whom Fitzduane took to be the younger brother, Fumio. Set against the tall, broad-shouldered Kei Namaka, it looked to be a fair match.
17
Tokyo, Japan
June 19
Fumio Namaka had felt the chill fingers of fear caress his very soul the first time he saw Fitzduane, and ten minutes into the meeting in the luxuriously appointed conference room on the sixtieth floor of the NamakaTower, the grim feeling was still with him.
The gaijin had first come into their lives as a matter of obligation. At that time he had no substance, no reality. He was a name on a piece of paper, a photograph in a file.
Three failed assassination attempts later, and sitting across the table at the very heart of the Namaka empire, the gaijin was another matter entirely. This was a truly impressive man, confident and at ease with himself. He appeared relaxed and to be enjoying the discussion, and it was this very ease of manner, after he had been through so much, that convinced Fumio that his brother was right. Fitzduane was a fundamental threat and deserved to be taken most seriously, for it they failed to destroy him quickly, he would be their nemesis.
Looking across at Fitzduane, Fumio felt fear. Of course, there was always the chance that the gaijin actually knew nothing and would accept the story about Kitano being responsible for everything, but Fumio trusted his instincts. The gaijin was a bringer of death.
Kei Namaka, at his very best in the role of concerned, socially responsible captain of industry, was just expressing his shock at discovering the scheming of the Namaka security chief.
"It seems, Fitzduane-san," he said, "that we have all been victims of a cunning man who grossly abused his position. My brother and I were appalled to discover what our supposedly trusted employee was up to. Kitano-san has brought the respected name of Namaka Industries into disrepute, and my brother and I are extremely embarrassed by this. We apologize without reservation for what this renegade has done. You must let us make compensation, and of course we will do anything we can to make your trip here more interesting an enjoyable."
Fitzduane was struck by the contrast between the two brothers. Kei Namaka was truly a magnificent physical specimen, tall, broad-shouldered, and with the kind of confidence-inspiring good looks that would make him a natural for a business-magazine front cover. In contrast, Fumio, with his thin, disfigured body, was a decidedly puny-looking specimen unless you looked at him closely. There was a deep intelligence in those eyes. The physically unimpressive Fumio Namaka was, in Fitzduane's opinion, the one to watch.
"Namaka-san," said Fitzduane. "Your words are most gracious and are deeply appreciated, but you employ tens of thousands of people and cannot possibly be expected to be responsible for every one. All of us have suffered. I have had my life threatened, and you, I understand, have lost a great deal of money to this man. Well, let us think of ourselves as partners in our misfortune and hopefully partners in a future in happier affairs, and move on to more pleasant matters." He smiled.
Chifune, effectively invisible since she was a woman and her presence, strictly speaking, unnecessary — both Namakas spoke excellent English — was amused at Fitzduane's performance. Knowing what she did, she found the confrontation bizarre, but the Irishman was carrying off his role with aplomb. He was being quite charming, and she could see Kei Namaka responding.
Kei evidently saw himself as a leader and a man's man, and reacted well to having this self-image appreciated. In Chifune's opinion, he was a case of heart — or, more probably, impulse — over head. As for the sinister younger brother, he said almost nothing, but just sat there noting everything. He was a cold fish.
"You're most kind, Fitzduane-san," said Kei Namaka, "and you are right. Perhaps now it would be appropriate if we unwrapped our gifts. Thanks to Yoshokawa-san, I know we share an interest in medieval weaponry, so I hope you will enjoy the modest token we have selected for you."
Fitzduane unwrapped the long, rectangular package. Every aspect of the packaging was superb, both in quality and in execution, and yet again he could not but admire the Japanese attention to detail. With the paper removed, he found himself looking at a long, narrow, hand-made inlaid cedarwood box about four feet long and eight inches wide, itself a minor masterpiece of craftsmanship, but obviously the precursor to something more special.
He was enjoying this. Even under these dangerous circumstances, it was fun to receive a present, especially something that was obviously special. Of course, it could be lethal, but that was unlikely, he thought. The meeting had been arranged by Yoshokawa and was a public affair. No, whatever the Namakas had in mind, he was safe for the moment. He looked across at the Namakas and smiled in anticipation. Kei Namaka beamed back at him. The man was enjoying this as much as he was. Criminal though he might be, there was something rather likable about Kei. Fumio just sat there, stone-faced. It was hard to warm to Fumio.
"What superb workmanship!" he said, indicating the cedarwood box. "I cannot imagine what must be inside." He gently caressed the rich patina of the wood, taking his time. He could feel Kei's impatience. The man had childlike enthusiasm.
"You must open the box, Fitzduane-san," Kei said. "Press the chrysanthemum inlay in the middle and slide it to the left and it will open."
Fitzduane did as instructed. The chrysanthemum, he knew, was associated with the Japanese royal family, and he began to realize that what he had been gi
ven was very special indeed. He opened the box.
A magnificent Spanish cup-hilt rapier lay there, cushioned in padded crimson silk. The hilt was inlaid with scenes of hunting and warfare. The weapon was an antique, and extremely valuable. He removed it from the presentation box and it settled in his hand as if custom-made for him.
"Late seventeenth-century Spanish," he said. "The long, straight quillons and curved knuckle bow are typical of the designs of that time — but what a superb specimen. What perfect weight and balance, and what workmanship!"
Kei Namaka looked genuinely delighted at Fitzduane's obvious surprise and pleasure. "Fitzduane-san," he said, "we heard from Yoshokawa-san that you are a swordsman of some renown and a knowledgeable collector, so this small token seemed appropriate. Your weapon of choice is, I believe, the epee, the sporting evolution of the rapier, and it was that fact that motivated this particular selection."
Fitzduane smiled his appreciation. "I do fence a little, that is true, but I'm not sure I am in the same league as this fine weapon. Also, the swords I use have blunted points. Killing your opponent in this day and age is frowned upon."
Kei laughed heartily at this observation and Chifune tittered politely as she was expected to, her hand in front of her mouth. She found the convention ridiculous, but it was not considered polite for a well-brought-up young Japanese woman to give a full belly laugh or to laugh with her mouth uncovered. Kei was acting, Chifune thought, as if he were some medieval daimyo or clan lord in a good mood, posturing in front of his samurai.
Just as quickly, she recalled, the mood of such a man could swing the other way to violence. Of course, the brutal reality was that he was indeed the modern version of a powerful daimyo, only his holdings spanned the continents. The wealth of a modern keiretsu would make a medieval daimyo pale. Kei was not merely acting his role. He was strong and influential. This was the frightening truth.
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