Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "Namaka-san," said Fitzduane. "I am deeply honored by your gift. Now perhaps you would do me the honor of opening the simple token I have brought for you. It will not compare with your generosity, but you may find it interesting."

  If Kei had been excited while watching Fitzduane open his present, then this time he was practically panting, although to a less well-trained eye than Chifune's, his superficial physical demeanor did not betray him. This was Japan, where control was important and excess was frowned upon. Nonetheless, his fingers worked a little too hard at the outer wrapping and his eyes gleamed just a little too brightly. The man acted as if it was Christmas. It was curious, this mixture of childlike vulnerability and brutality.

  When the gleaming ax finally emerged, the blade double-headed and the handle inlaid with fine gold wire, Kei Namaka gave a gasp of admiration and then being unable to restrain himself any longer, gave a shout and stood up, ax in hand, and whirled it about his head.

  Kei, despite his handmade shirt and silk tie and Savile Row suit, did not look in any way incongruous as he whirled the weapon. On the contrary, he looked magnificent — every inch the Eternal Warrior, in Chifune's opinion, or a spoiled child with yet another lethal toy. It depended on your particular point of view.

  "I heard, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane, "that you had an unsurpassed collection of edged weapons, so I wanted to find something that you would not already possess. Unfortunately, Ireland's troubled history is such that almost all our early medieval weaponry has been destroyed, but what you have there is a precise reproduction of a thirteenth-century Irish fighting ax. It was a weapon used to great effect against the Norman invader because it could cleave through armor."

  Kei whirled the ax once again, then brought it back and laid it on its leather carrying case on the table. It was then that he noticed the Namaka crest etched into the blade. He looked up at Fitzduane .

  "You have gone to a great deal of trouble, Fitzduane-san," he said. "My brother and I deeply appreciate this gift. We must now make arrangements for you to visit the steel plant in which, through Yoshokawa-san, you have already expressed an interest. It is an awesome sight to see the hardest steels handled like putty. Also, I have a dojo there and most of my weapons collection. I think you'll find it fascinating."

  Fumio found it hard to take his eyes off the ax. Kei and this gaijin were getting along like old friends, and yet he could not shake the feeling of dread that gripped him. The weapon on the table reminded him forcibly of an executioner's ax. It was an ingenious gift, and perfect for the effect it was intended to achieve, but the sight of it made Fumio feel ill.

  He tore his eyes away from the ax and looked across at Fitzduane and then at Chifune. The woman was every inch the well-mannered interpreter, but there was something about her that gave him pause.

  "Fitzduane-san," said Fumio, with a slight smile. "We greatly look forward to your visit to Namaka Steel, but you will now realize that since we both speak English, you will not need an interpreter during your visit. Tanabu-san's service will not be required."

  Fitzduane played it very well, thought Chifune. He gave a dismissive gesture, as if to indicate that his interpreter was of no consequence, and the conversation moved on to other matters. The Namakas had taken the bait, but Chifune was now convinced they had every intention of keeping it. They had something in mind, she was sure of it, but what?

  As Kei Namaka and Fitzduane joked and chatted in the relaxed and easy manner of old friends, united in their common interest in antique weapons, Chifune started to worry.

  * * * * *

  That evening, Fitzduane had dinner with Chifune, an enjoyable if sexually disturbing experience, and returned to the bows of the night porter near midnight feeling pleasantly mellow but sexually aroused — an quaint combination.

  He endeavored to balance things out under a cold shower, a traditional remedy for such a conjunction, but his erection would not be subdued. Chifune had that kind of effect. Nothing explicit had either been said or done, but the sexual electricity had become strong enough, he felt, to make both of them glow in the dark like Russian sailors on the nuclear subs of the Northern fleet. It seemed a pity, he reflected, that for the balance of the night they would have to glow apart.

  Women were damn confusing. There was Etan, whom he loved but who did not want to settle down just when he did. There was Kathleen, of whom he was becoming increasingly fond, who evidently did want to settle down, just when he was beginning to think perhaps he didn't. And there was Chifune, where the chemistry was just plain sexual and who had Adachi-san hidden in the wings, if he read the signs right. He liked Adachi, and anyway it really would not be a good idea to confuse business and pleasure. He needed, and was getting, Adachi's cooperation, so sleeping with the superintendent's woman would not be tactful. Still, life was rarely about being sensible.

  Since the cold water did not seem to be having the desired effect, and he saw no point in giving the Namakas the satisfaction of dying of hypothermia, Fitzduane turned up the hot. He was endeavoring to have a pleasantly mindless soak when the phone rang. Evidently, his mind was not fooled. When he wrapped a towel around his waist, there remained a noticeable protrusion.

  "I'm asleep," said Fitzduane, "more or less. The earth is round and Japan is a long way from where you are and it's after midnight around here. Nobody civilized calls that late."

  "Well, ain't that nice," said Kilmara. "That leaves me in the clear. Listen, my good friend, this is a global village these days, and the ether has been hyperactive since you visited with Bergin. Somebody wants to talk to you to make sure you don't step into something you shouldn't. ‘There are things afoot we don't want to fuck up,’ he says. ‘We need our friends,’ he says."

  "Who is the somebody?" said Fitzduane, who already knew.

  "Our friend, the unlovable Paul Schwanberg," said Kilmara. "Head off to the New Otani tomorrow after breakfast if you have nothing doing, and ask for him at reception. He's got offices there. Something called the Japan-World Research Federation. Well, it's better than Acme Import-Export, but not much. Anyway, everyone knows who they are. It's just that it's more fun operating from a cover than out of the embassy, though they do that too. They have a proprietorial feeling about Japan. There is nothing like dropping a couple of nuclear bombs on a country to start a special relationship."

  As if on cue, the room started to shake, not violently but steadily. After about ten seconds, the movement stopped. Kilmara was still talking, but Fitzduane had not been listening. It had been frightening.

  "Hell," he said, "they really do have earthquakes here. It's scary."

  "They are due a big one soon," said Kilmara, "or so I hear. Something to take your mind off all this blood and guts you seem to attract. Just remember to stay away from reinforced concrete buildings and stuff like that. They do you no good at all if they fall on you — especially at your age."

  "I feel pretty young tonight," said Fitzduane, eyeing the obstinate bulge which had come unscathed through the earth tremor, "but unfortunately there is no one around to share this insight with."

  "Yeah, hotel rooms are like that sometimes," said Kilmara. "But not always. I remember when you and I were in..."

  Fitzduane laughed. He was asleep minutes later.

  * * * * *

  The New Otani, Tokyo, Japan

  June 20

  The New Otani complex was a fitting monument to the new superrich, self-confident Japan, and Fitzduane, having learned something about Japanese property prices, shuddered at what it might be worth.

  It was part luxury hotel and part office complex, and doubtless there were expensive apartments hidden away there also. The atrium was spectacular and looked high enough to have its own microclimate. Certainly you could jump off one of the internal balconies and hang-glide inside it if you were so inclined — provided you were well-tailored and wore polished Gucci loafers. There was an implied dress code.

  The soaring atrium was a truly magnificent was
te of Tokyo real estate. Such impracticality cheered up Fitzduane immensely, and he was already in a good mood. His favorite waiter had brought cold milk for his tea that morning, and no one had taken a shot at him or tried to cut him into pieces when he had gone for a prebreakfast run with his convoy. Also, it had not been raining, which was a decided improvement.

  It was soon clear that the loss the developers of the New Otani had taken with the atrium was being compensated for elsewhere. The offices of the Japan-World Research Federation were exquisitely finished, but tiny. It was the smallest suite of offices Fitzduane had ever seen, and everything — desks, cupboards, tables, chairs — seemed to be shrunk in proportion. Schwanberg was small, too, a not-quite-a-yuppie-anymore in his early fifties with thinning hair and a smooth, manufactured face. He wore a tie with a stickpin, and as he moved there was a flash of red suspenders. His jacket buttons were covered with the same material as his suit.

  For a brief moment Fitzduane remembered that horrendous scene from decades earlier as, without explanation or warning, Schwanberg suddenly inserted the blade of his knife into that young Vietnamese girl's mouth. He could never forget the gush of red blood and the terrible animal noise she had made. It had been reported, but then the Tet Offensive had intervened, and when the fighting died down again the file had been lost and the affair glossed over.

  Fitzduane despised the man. In his opinion, Schwanberg was vicious and cunning but absolutely without core values. He was also an extraordinarily colorless individual. Fitzduane had the feeling Schwanberg knew clamps were needed to climb the slippery bureaucratic pole, but otherwise he had been chose to match the furniture. Still, Kilmara had made the current introduction, and the game was not played by being overly concerned about personalities.

  "Colonel Fitzduane," said Schwanberg, smiling broadly and taking Fitzduane's hand in both of his. "This is a genuine pleasure and a privilege. It's good to see an old war buddy. We've both come a long way since then."

  Fitzduane extracted his hand, kept his face in neutral, and barely restrained himself from doing something painful and destructive to the little toad. The man's eyes were curiously dead, as if feelings and emotions were alien.

  Schwanberg snapped his fingers. Fitzduane's umbrella was removed by a bowing office lady and he was shown into a miniature conference room.

  Tea was brought in by another OL. Frankly, he could not see where they put all these people. The place was seriously small. They must rack up the staff in the filing cabinets. There did not seem enough space for a couple of real humans.

  Schwanberg pressed some buttons on a console recessed into the conference table and the door slid shut and there was the sound of humming.

  "We're now totally secure," said Schwanberg. "A bubble. A lot of dollars went into this place. Totally soundproof, totally bugproof. Nada gets out, Hugo, so we can speak quite freely."

  Fitzduane smiled disarmingly. "Speak away, Schwanberg," he said, and sat back in his miniature chair expectantly. Schwanberg looked at him, as if expecting him to say something. Fitzduane just nodded reassuringly, but said nothing.

  "You know, Colonel," said Schwanberg, "you've got one hell of an impressive track record. Most in the counterterrorism business just shuffle paper, send each other classified E-mail, and maneuver to get the most out of the public trough, but you and I and General Kilmara get right in there and get our hands bloody."

  He grinned. "Forgive me. I've been a desk jockey too long. The fact is that, compared to most in this business, you two are right at the top in terms of hands-on experience. You guys are not the product of endless expensive training and computer war games. You people have actually done it. You've tracked down the bad guys and wasted them. You know what to do and how to do it and how to get others to do it. In fact, apart from maybe the Israelis, there are few people more experienced at the game."

  Fitzduane drank his tea. He had absolutely no idea where Schwanberg was heading, except that he was being flattered for some, doubtless unpleasant, purpose.

  "Schwanberg," he said, "what you say is probably true about General Kilmara, but if your records are accurate, they will show that apart from a stint in the Irish Army, I have spent most of my life, including my stint in Vietnam, as a war photographer. I became involved in counterterrorism by accident, by being on the receiving end, and I am here as a consequence of that accident. I am not the expert you imagine. My rank is a reserve title, nothing more."

  "Colonel," said Schwanberg, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand repeated pinching the flesh on the back of his left in an irritating mannerism, "you're entitled to your story, but how you tracked down our friend the Hangman is a classic right up there with the Entebbe raid. You may have gotten into this business by accident, but you sure operate as a professional and you come highly recommended. And that's why we're talking. You're one of us. You're a member of the club, and, frankly, it's hard to get into, but it's even harder to leave."

  It crossed Fitzduane's mind that even if he had not realized it, he had crossed the line between amateur and professional. What the unpleasant Schwanberg was saying was true. Circumstances had forced him into the bloody world of counterterrorism, and the reality was that he seemed to have a talent for it. But it was not a concept he enjoyed.

  Violence might be necessary on occasion, but it was corrosive to the spirit. He thought of Boots. He wanted desperately to shelter his small son from that world. But the paradox was that, to shield him, he was prepared to do what had to be done. It was the endless spiral of destruction that seemed integral to the human condition.

  "The club?" he said.

  "The small group of us," said Schwanberg, "who do what is necessary so that Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen have nothing more serious to worry about than the IRS. The protectors of Western values, if you want to be pompous about it."

  "That is being pompous about it," said Fitzduane. "I am really not overly keen on flag-waving. And to focus this discussion a little more, where does Japan fit into your Western values?"

  Schwanberg flashed his organization man's professional grin. "That's the question that preoccupies us local boys," he said, "and right now it is a little delicate. Bergin will have told you some of it, but he's an old man now and out of the game, so he doesn't know much. I'll tell you what you need to know. It's a minefield out there, and we don't want a good friend and fellow club member treading on any of the mines. They are there for a purpose. We have specific targets in mind."

  "Hodama and the Namakas," said Fitzduane. "Onetime allies who strayed a little and got too greedy and now have exceeded their shelf life. Time for a little stock rotation. It's something the CIA is pretty good at. Look at what is happening in Italy these days, to name just one other country."

  Schwanberg was no longer smiling. He was looking at Fitzduane intently, s if weighing the issues, and as if one of those issues was the Irishman's continued existence. "You sound judgmental, Colonel," he said. "I would be disappointed to find that you are that naïve. Japan has notions of going its own way, but that is just tatemae. The honne is that Japan has always had a kuromaku, and since the end of World War Two that has been Uncle Sam's job. People like Hodama were the tools of power but not truly powerful in themselves — and circumstances change and tools wear out. That's the way life really is. People are organic. They degrade."

  Fitzduane spoke coldly. "Spare me the lecture, Schwanberg, and get to cases. What do you want and what have you got to offer?"

  "Hodama is gone, so that's history," said Schwanberg. "Now we want the Namakas permanently out of circulation. When they go, we can move another Japanese kuromaku into place who will be more amenable, and then engage in a little rearranging. The government has served us well, but the public is getting unhappy. We need an illusion of change."

  "Katsuda," said Fitzduane, "with some politician on a reformist platform fronting for him."

  "Jesus Christ!" said Schwanberg slowly. "You've only been here a couple of weeks. How the h
ell did you come up with that one?"

  "People talk to me," said Fitzduane, "and some have long memories. Who had reason to want to kill Hodama in that gruesome way and who was filling the power vacuum? Means, motive, and opportunity — the classic criteria — and they end up pointing clearly at Katsuda. The method of Hodama's killing was a mistake. It was so obviously personal. It should have looked like a professional hit. No signature. Just a dead body."

  "All the evidence is stacked against the Namakas," said Schwanberg, "and there is no way of tying this in to Katsuda. Believe me, I know. Katsuda may be guilty, but it will never be proved. A lot of care went into clearing up the loose ends. The Namakas will take the blame."

  Fitzduane shook his head. "There is a good cop on the case, and I think your frame-up has been detected."

  Schwanberg looked surprised. "We'd have been told."

  "As I said," said Fitzduane, "the man is a good cop — and he's also smart. I think he knows you've got a mole in there, and maybe even who."

  "Fuck this," said Schwanberg. "We're supposed to be on the same side on this. We both want the Namakas. Sure, they didn't kill Hodama, but so what. They certainly were behind the hits on you. So let's work together and nail the suckers. As to your cop friend Adachi, he's been showing signs of being difficult for some time, so there are arrangements in place. He's a natural for a domestic accident."

  Fitzduane, his face masking his inner feelings, wanted to reach across and strangle the man facing him. The cynicism and callousness of this little shit appalled him. Here was this bureaucrat talking about the death of a fellow human being as if it were no more significance than ordering more photocopy paper.

  He imagined the Namakas ordering his killing in the same indifferent way, and was extremely angry. His heart wanted him to rush out and somehow contact Adachi and prevent whatever was planned. His head advised caution. He must stay longer. There was more to come out of Schwanberg, and the man must not suspect the thoughts going through Fitzduane's brain.