by Barry Lancet
“Research. They don’t kill tatami makers, Brodie-san. Victims are prominent citizens of their prospective countries, often globally active.”
“Go on.”
“After years of probing, I now know to look for the Three Ps—property, promotion, power. If one or more of these change hands with the death of a major principal, the incident becomes a candidate for further research. Soga’s fee starts at half a million dollars American, and escalates according to degree of difficulty and what they see as the resultant benefits to their client. Soga offers a premier service at premium prices. For that, it delivers a clean job. No hitches. No loose ends. An error-free rollout of their plan. Viewed against assured future earnings for the client, the price is cheap. Through the tax filings of the Japanese car dealers’ next-of-kin, my people determined that by offering quick cash on the heels of the tragedy, the buyer—Soga’s client—picked up the businesses at two-thirds of their market value, a savings of nine-point-seven million dollars on those two deals alone.”
“You’re telling me they sell death to grease business deals?”
“To ‘smooth over’ a buyout or merger, yes. Or to secure a promotion. Or protect their client’s already lucrative position. Soga eliminates obstacles or threats when a carefully planned accident makes economic sense. Some would argue that such an idea is a logical extension of your American-style free market.”
The man was insane. “You may not be in the best position to pass judgment on such practices,” I said, knowing that his dirty tricks were probably just as devastating.
My nameless host’s eyes flashed, giving me the first physical sign of how dangerous he could be should he choose to flex his muscles. But then he rattled me with the candor of his next comment:
“That’s all the more reason I understand them.”
Suddenly, I felt soiled and depressed. Repulsed. But you couldn’t hunt in the swamp without slogging through the muck.
“So who hires them?” I asked.
“Businesspeople who share the same worldview. Soga is only doing what they have always done. To be frank, from the days of the shogun, there has always been undesirable work that needed doing. Today, the thriving capitalist system—whether in the U.S., Europe, Asia, or the Middle East—is simply another power base, and it too has undesirable work that needs handling. Soga has always filled that need. Sound familiar?”
“Disgustingly so. Why haven’t you . . . ?”
“Availed myself of their services? Not from lack of trying, I assure you. My competitors found Soga first. And if there is one thing Soga upholds, it’s loyalty to their client base. That and their guarantee to tidy up annoying loose ends.”
That stopped me. “Are you saying Brodie Security’s become a loose end?”
Frosty eyes regarded me. “At the very least. Despite your rudeness, I’m going to give you some advice, Mr. Brodie. Advice that could save your life. Continue on as you have been but be discreet in your movements. Discretion in the extreme is required if you desire to survive this ordeal. Any other regimen will bring Soga down on you like a sledgehammer.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. That horse had already left the barn. “Too late. We’ve been to the village.”
My host’s eyes widened in astonishment, maybe for the first time in years. “What? Did they approach you?”
“They did more than that.”
I gave him a short version of our visit. By the time I finished, his distaste for my presence had reshaped itself into unbridled admiration. Then he wagged his head in despair. “Such a waste. You had so much promise. I thought that this time I would have a shot at Soga.”
“Maybe you will.”
“I wish it were true, believe me. But it’s not possible now. Had I known of your trip to the village beforehand, I would never have initiated contact. There’s no point doing business with a dead man.”
“We’re not out of the game yet.”
“On the contrary, you’re in far too deeply. By now, if they don’t know everything about you, they will in short order. If there’s one mystery here, it’s why you’re still walking around.”
The cold certainty of his analysis curdled my blood. At the instant I opened my mouth to reply, I saw the bodyguard at the front door slump to the floor.
Was the powerbroker a psychic as well?
I leapt from my seat and, finding no cover in the room, instinctively crouched behind my armchair before the unconscious watchdog’s body had settled, waiting to see how the attack would unfold, hoping to shield myself from any gunfire. The next moment, unseen hands pulled the guard at the rear entrance into the darkened doorway behind him and we heard a muffled grunt as he too collapsed to the ground.
But still no sign of the assailants.
Just silence.
Swiftly scanning the dark chamber only confirmed what I already knew: I was cornered in a large room with no weapon and no cover worth a damn.
Adrenaline electrified me, and my body tensed. In seconds, I’d be facing them. I clenched my fists, set my shoulders, and readied myself. Then I rose from behind the overstuffed scarlet chair. Any bullets would soon penetrate its soft cushioning. Better to face them head-on and take my chances.
Looking frailer than ever, the old man’s glance swung nervously from his fallen servant to me while we waited—unarmed and unprotected—for men in black to charge into the room.
CHAPTER 44
IT was not my time to die.
Noda eased into the room with a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson leveled at the old man’s chest but his vigilant eyes focused on me. “You all right?”
“Am now.”
With a grunt, Noda scanned the room. “Need some light in here.”
He flicked on a switch by the doorway and the overhead chandelier sprang to life, spraying soft white beams into every corner of the room.
“Scenic,” the laconic detective said, gazing at the powerbroker with unvarnished curiosity.
Our host was completely hairless. Face, arms, and pate were bare. Incredibly, his eyebrows had also vanished with the rest of his body hair. His facial skin was dry and yellow-gray and had caved into eyesockets and cheeks like a farmer’s field into a cluster of sinkholes. Revolted, I looked away.
“Darkness suits me,” the old man said without any outward sign of uneasiness.
Strolling in through the back door, George asked, “You okay?”
My old friend was in top form today in a chic blue blazer and collarless black silk shirt buttoned to the neck.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Good. Noda figured this to be a milk run. Kept his promise down in Soga and let me tackle the two thugs on the back door. Strapped on the plasti-cuffs.” To the powerbroker, George offered a harsh censure. “You need to learn how to make appointments, sir. We don’t tolerate people strong-arming one of our own.”
My host grinned. “I am pleased to see that. You don’t know how pleased.”
George shot him a dismissive glance, then turned to Noda. “Who is this clown who doesn’t know how to pick up a phone?”
“Kozawa,” Noda said.
Despite what I’d already surmised about the withered powerbroker, my pulse jumped. Jesus. How had I missed the signs? Goro Kozawa had an ego larger than the Imperial Palace. People walked away from a summons one of four ways: richer, poorer, their career boosted or destroyed. Make that five ways. Sometimes they left pummeled.
Goro Kozawa was the patriarch of powerbrokers. Believed to have hooks in the ruling party and the opposition, as well as backdoor ties to yakuza from Hokkaido to Okinawa, the ruthless industrialist-turned-shadow-shogun had built his fortune from a small trading company importing oil, minerals, and luxury goods before expanding into construction, railroads, and retail. His companies held many monopolistic import licenses, and since he had more politicians in his pocket than crocodiles had teeth, his interests remained monopolistic. After erecting his power base, Kozawa had delegated the top positions in
his enterprises to the shrewdest of his loyal underlings and slipped underground. He attended VIP functions, yet was never photographed. If he showed up unannounced at a major gala, rumors circulated but were never confirmed. He was as much of a ghost as Soga.
George raised an eyebrow. “You’re Goro Kozawa? We’ve heard about you.”
“And I of Brodie Security. A treasure of a crew, if ever there was one.” He glanced at Noda. “You . . . distracted all four of my men?”
Noda’s nod was brief, his expression neutral. There was no sneer, no smirk. No sign of smugness or self-satisfaction.
“Excellent.”
George raised an eyebrow. “No doubt your people will have a dissenting opinion when they come around.”
“As they should. I warned them to expect a visit.” He gazed at a fallen guard before zeroing in on me. “I think you’re overexposed, Brodie-san. Your chances of living out the month are less than those of a Kabukicho whore walking through San’yo without being accosted. But assuming you somehow manage to stay alive, perhaps we can work together. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
George snorted. “With an attitude like that, why should we?”
“Young man, whoever you are, let me enlighten you. In my more naive past, I dispatched two of my bodyguards to Soga-jujo to dispose of what I thought a minor nuisance.”
“And?”
With hard, dark eyes he stared at George, then me. “Mr. Brodie, if you and your people are to survive Soga, you must be better informed.” To George, he said, “In answer to your question, young man, I am here. We are conversing.”
I bit my lip and dropped my gaze to the scarlet carpet, but George snapped up the bait: “The men you sent, how good are they?”
“Were,” Kozawa corrected, “were. They failed. They are dead. At least I presume they are dead. They never returned.”
Annoyed, I stepped in. “That’s a touching tale, Kozawa-san, but how do we know we can trust you?”
“They are old enemies. They have nipped at me in many ways over the years.”
Noda said, “Still doesn’t answer the question.”
Kozawa considered us for a long moment before making his next revelation. “Three years ago, my adopted son—the man I’d handpicked to carry on after my retirement—was found dead on the streets of Karuizawa, his neck sliced clean to the spine. Garroted. The police wrote off the attack as a casualty of a Chinese triad flare-up in the area, but I knew better. The man who hired Soga has paid for his arrogance, but I have a long memory and have made it my business to learn everything I can about them. But it’s not easy. Even for me.”
I didn’t like what I heard between the lines. “You come with too many strings. Why should we help you?”
“I believe you know Inspector Kato of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police?”
“You know I do.”
Last fall, Kato had saved me from a fifty-four-story plunge off the top of the Sumitomo Bank Building in West Shinjuku. Between Inspector Kato and myself was a bond stronger than anything Kozawa could summon up to break it.
“Will he do?”
I nodded and the powerbroker retrieved a sealed envelope from his jacket. I made the long trip around the immense table and took the proffered letter, from which I extracted a single sheet of paper.
To Brodie-sama,
This letter will introduce you to Mr. Goro Kozawa. While his name registers in very few foreign circles, I am certain it will mean something to you. In the matter of a certain village—and only that matter—you may accept my assurances of his reliability and eagerness to achieve the same ends you seek.
Respectfully,
Shin’ichi Kato
Inspector, Tokyo Metropolitan Police, Shibuya Station
Kato would not write a recommendation lightly, nor would he submit to any pressure of the kind Kozawa could apply. I passed the note to Noda, who read it and handed it to George. Neither of them voiced an objection.
Kozawa said, “Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go for a ride. There is someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?” Noda asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Were I to tell you certain things, would you believe me?”
“No blind trust,” Noda said flatly.
“Then understand this, Noda Kunio-san. I reached my position not by pleasing men but by knowing them. To my mind, your answer was a given. You need more information, so I’ll take you to where the big fish swim.”
A note of alarm chimed in my head. Neither George nor I had referred to Noda by his full name, yet the powerbroker had used it. He knew exactly who our chief detective was and wanted us to know it.
“Time to go, gentleman,” Kozawa said, indicating the front door while the chimes of a sonorous clock in a back room struck eight times.
Late-night machinations.
The way of Japan.
CHAPTER 45
THE old man led us to an exclusive ryotei, the favored haunt of people in power where the decisions of the ruling elite were finalized. Sometimes, in a single night, the course of the whole country’s policy in a certain business or political sector might be settled on, with the cost for a single session’s libation running into thousands of dollars.
Four kimono-clad women swooped down on our two-car entourage with beguiling smiles and bows of welcome. Once we were off the street, a suited man in his thirties stepped from the shadows and Kozawa said, “Let me introduce Akira Tejima, one of the brightest young stars in the Boeisho firmament.”
His words sent a tremor of anticipation through me. We were about to receive rarefied information of the highest order. The Boeisho was the Ministry of Defense. They wielded tremendous power in their sector, as did all the other ministries in their spheres of influence. The agency’s umbrella covered any program or institution involved in defending Japan’s borders, including the national defense budget, the training academies, and all three branches of the Japan Self-Defense Forces—air, ground, and maritime.
Tejima gave me the standard Japanese greeting followed by a slip of a bow that ungraciously put me in my place as a low-level guest. He would not expect a Caucasian guest to know the difference.
I was predisposed to dislike Tejima, and first impressions only reinforced what I already knew from previous dealings with Japanese bureaucrats. Most of the fast-track civil servants were arrogant and full of themselves. They were handpicked from the best universities and brandished the country’s power with smarmy self-confidence, keeping every aspect of the people’s daily lives under a tightly reined legal stranglehold. And if new hires weren’t overbearing by nature, it was instilled in them as a matter of policy. Except for the eyes, Tejima oozed the same sort of bloated self-importance, but it was tempered, at least tonight, by a haunted look.
We followed two kimonoed women down a string of dimly lit corridors, then through a darkened courtyard garden. Frail bamboo lamps set at ground level illuminated the stone footpath we trod but left faces in the shadows, our procession tasteful and discreet in the inimitable Japanese manner.
The women drew up at the entrance to a secluded cottage in the farthest corner of the garden and bowed us in. A large, low table laden with liquid refreshment and an overflowing buffet of fresh seafood and choice meats awaited us.
Kozawa’s bodyguard nudged the powerbroker’s wheelchair up an access ramp, while two female attendants delicately pressed damp towels against the backs of the rotating wheels so any dirt, seen or unseen, would not be tracked into the twelve-mat tatami room, an intimate yet suitably spacious dining area by Japanese standards. After propelling the kingmaker to the table, the watchdog hit an unseen lever that started a built-in mechanism and lowered the wheelchair seat to floor level.
I sat on the indicated throw cushion and immediately a woman in a powder-blue kimono knelt and offered me a hot hand towel for my face and hands. Declining seats, George and Noda took up positions in the corners of the room, where they
could watch the proceedings and the front door at the same time. On the way over in our own car, Noda suggested I continue to “be the face” of the investigation since Kozawa had reached out to me. As soon as the powerbroker was comfortable, his watcher settled in a third corner, crossing his arms and frowning at Noda and George.
The attendants pressed drinks into our hands, then rose, bowed, and departed. Noda and I exchanged glances and my heart kicked up a beat. Normally, the room would be bathed in alcohol and the liquid laughter of the hostesses until parties bonded. Tonight, though, the customary ritual had been suspended.
“This evening,” Goro Kozawa began, lifting his drink for a toast, “in deference to our American guest, let frankness and informality rule.”
We raised our glasses and drank. On the table, abalone sashimi, spiny lobster, and Russian caviar spilled from porcelain platters.
“Kozawa-sensei requests frankness, and I approve,” Tejima said. “Should our goals be the same, circumstances would dictate full cooperation. I would like, first, to have some indication that we are indeed discussing the, uh, same party. What can you tell me?”
I had no desire to reveal any of our hard-won secrets to this man. We had so little and I knew nothing of Tejima’s reputation, nor did I have any inkling of who was looking over his shoulder.
While I debated the issue, Noda stepped forward and produced a photograph of the digital interceptor Toru had discovered at Brodie Security.
With an eagerness that clashed with his aloofness, Tejima reached for the snapshot. His fingers were pink and plump and trembled slightly. After a moment’s examination, he passed the photograph back to Noda with a nod of satisfaction. “We are pursuing the same course. There can be no doubt.”
I studied the bureaucrat coolly before saying, “And why is that?”
With the habitual condescension of his breed, Tejima expounded for our benefit. “What you’ve uncovered is of Dutch manufacture by the Skoss Corporation out of Amsterdam, a high-tech firm with an exclusive clientele. Their product is very rare, made to order, and extremely expensive.”