‘Do you know what happened to his memo?’
‘What bloody memo?’
‘You know, the Koda memo.’
‘That’s the one thing I want to ask you. What the hell is this Koda memo thing?’ Tsuchigane’s expression made it clear he genuinely didn’t know. One of the officers on his team had reported it to him; that had been the first time he’d heard of it.
‘I don’t know either.’
‘You lying bastard, you set me up.’
‘The thing is, nobody seems to know where he is.’
‘It’s not that rare for someone who’s left the force to end up drifting.’
‘Are there any leads at all?’
‘I don’t know any.’
‘Okay. Well, see you again.’
Mikami bowed. Tsuchigane frowned and took a step closer. Mikami had suspected he might.
‘Go to the source. You find out what this Koda memo thing is, and come and tell me. If you do that, I’ll put in a good word with Arakida.’
Their eyes met.
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Come on, you can do better than that. I doubt you plan to run errands for the first floor until the day you retire.’
23
I need to go higher.
Mikami would approach First Division Chief Katsutoshi Matsuoka. His hands were digging into the steering wheel. He had learned enough to know that he was on the verge of something big. It fitted perfectly with everything Mochizuki had said back in the plastic greenhouse.
It was Administrative Affairs that had set out on the offensive. On orders from Akama, Futawatari was digging around Criminal Investigation’s weak spots. His sights were set on Six Four. In his hands, he held a card called the Koda memo.
But what was it?
Mikami had surmised from Tsuchigane that Amamiya’s split with the Six Four Investigative Team was no longer strictly confidential. It was no doubt far from ideal as far as the department was concerned, but Tsuchigane had all but said they’d given up trying to patch the relationship together a long time ago. They had decided there was nothing they could do to stop Administrative Affairs from finding out – if anything, they were showing signs of taking a belligerent ‘what of it?’ stance.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Mikami lit a cigarette.
The fact that the relationship had failed wasn’t the real issue; no, the root problem lay in whatever it was that had caused the split. Mikami was increasingly sure of it. The relationship hadn’t simply come to an end – Amamiya himself had made the conscious decision to end it. And yet Tsuchigane had flatly denied the existence of any problem. Mikami hadn’t sensed that he was lying or trying to throw him off.
Unless . . .
They’d kept Tsuchigane out of the loop. The idea had already taken shape in Mikami’s mind. Something at the highest levels of confidentiality. If that was what it was, it was possible. If something existed that was so potentially explosive they’d seen fit to block the information from the sub-chief of the Six Four Investigation Team, and if the Koda memo was at the core of that something, then the Iron Curtain policy – which had seemed reckless before – began to assume an air of necessity. One big secret. Something only a handful of high-ranking officials were privy to. That was why Arakida had obscured his reasons for imposing the gag order not only from the lower ranks but even from the Six Four team.
The executive block came into view up ahead.
Matsuoka would talk. He’ll talk to me. Mikami willed it to be true. A long time ago, he’d worked two years under Matsuoka in the Criminal Investigations Division of one of the district stations. Matsuoka respected his skill on the job and his qualities as an individual. He’d invited Mikami to become part of the Close Pursuit Unit he’d led during the Six Four kidnapping. If it was true for anyone, Mikami was confident Matsuoka wouldn’t mistake him for a stooge for Administrative Affairs.
Mikami pulled into the parking area behind the building. The executive block was split into apartments, over three storeys. It contained fifteen households, each representing the individual division chiefs in the Prefectural HQ. Mikami hated the idea of being seen, but he knew he needn’t be concerned on Matsuoka’s behalf. If Futawatari was the implicit authority when it came to Personnel, Matsuoka was, in turn, the de facto head of Criminal Investigations. Regardless of department, the division chiefs were all aware that he was the real head of investigations, and his second role – as Arakida’s chief adviser – meant that his official rank was also higher than the others’. His presence in the department was staggering, his determination suggesting he’d made a blood pact with the force. People would turn a blind eye even if he were to receive a personal visit from an officer in Administrative Affairs. And, in Mikami’s favour was the fact that the career officers’ network of informers did not stretch this far. Chief Ochiai of Second Division lived by himself, and as such was staying in another complex, one with smaller apartments. But Mikami was still tense as he hurried from his car, trying to conceal the sound of his footsteps as he climbed the stairwell.
He already knew Matsuoka’s apartment was on the second floor. Number 302. A nameplate bore the family name. Mikami pushed the buzzer before he could even think about changing his mind. A female voice responded almost immediately. The door opened a fraction and a jumper-clad Ikue – Matsuoka’s wife – popped her head through the gap. She seemed surprised to see him.
‘Mikami?’
‘Ikue, it’s good to see you.’
‘You, too.’
She flicked off the chain and opened the door fully. Her eyes creased in a smile. Ikue had been an officer, too. She and Minako were close. Even so, Mikami was struggling to remember the last time he’d spoken to her.
‘Sorry to turn up out of the blue like this. There’s something I was hoping to discuss with the chief adviser. Is he around?’
‘Oh, he left for work, not too long ago.’
‘Did a case come up?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
Mikami had a bad feeling. Going in at the weekend, even without a case on.
‘I see. Good to see you again, Ikue.’
He made to leave but heard Ikue quietly calling from behind. When he turned around he saw she was frowning, looking worried.
‘Have you . . . had any word from Ayumi at all?’
The question didn’t rattle him at all. If anything, he felt a warm sense of friendship, and the tension subsided from his shoulders. Matsuoka must have brought it up at home. The two of them were concerned about Ayumi.
‘We had a call, a while back.’
The words soothed as they came out. Ikue’s eyes seemed to double in size.
‘When? Where from?’
‘About a month ago. We don’t know where she called from, though. She didn’t say anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘That’s right. She called three times, but was silent the whole time.’
Ikue looked as if she was searching for something to say. Her expression suggested hesitation. No doubt the words ‘prank call’ were there in her head.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find Matsuoka in the office.’
The feeling of awkwardness stayed with him all the way back to the car. He drove away with a new carelessness. He’d begun to doubt his own convictions. Hadn’t Ikue’s embarrassment simply been a reflection of what he himself really believed? The calls had been someone messing around. Could he truly say he didn’t suspect it, deep down? It felt disloyal even to think it. Something else to add to the list of things he couldn’t discuss with Minako.
*
Fifteen minutes later, Mikami pulled up the handbrake in the parking lot of the Prefectural HQ. He stopped by the duty officer’s office next to the building’s entrance. The face of a young detective was visible through the small reception window. His eyes remained frosty as he acknowledged Mikami, although perhaps only in reflection of the latter’s expression. Mikami mut
tered a quick greeting as he opened the door and grabbed the key to Media Relations. He stepped back into the corridor, picking up speed the moment he was out of sight again; he began to charge up the stairs.
The fourth floor, together with the offices of Criminal Investigations, were bathed in silence. First Division sat at the end of the corridor. There was no doubt this was his home ground, but gone was the time when he could walk around without feeling self-conscious.
Mikami took a few breaths, edging the door open a fraction. Matsuoka was ahead, at the far end of the room, sitting at his desk with his back to the window. He was going through some papers. He was the only one in.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Ah, Mikami.’
Matsuoka wouldn’t have been expecting Mikami to turn up, but he showed no outward indications of surprise. He gestured for Mikami to sit; Mikami bowed and sat himself on the edge of one of the couches. He was aware it was a weekend. With the Iron Curtain in place, he would never have been able to waltz into First Division and have a one-on-one conversation with a man like Matsuoka on a weekday.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘Went by your apartment first.’
‘Right, of course. Sorry you had to go out of your way.’
And . . .?
Matsuoka’s fingers interlocked as his eyes asked the question. From his expression it was clear he had already worked out the reason for Mikami’s visit.
Mikami knew he couldn’t launch straight into business. He had to contend with the force of Matsuoka’s personality. He was the commander-in-chief of all investigations. A legitimate successor to Michio Osakabe. Despite this, there wasn’t a hint of arrogance about him. His eyes were enough to convey the breadth of his experience. And it was his unshakable confidence that allowed for his expression of kindly benevolence. Mikami couldn’t count the number of times he’d wished he could exhibit such power with nothing more than a look.
‘I think it’s time I admitted defeat. I’m getting the cold shoulder wherever I go,’ Mikami said, smiling. Brothers separated only by age. Memories from his easy-going days in district were surfacing in full force.
‘I would hope so,’ Matsuoka joked. He hadn’t even faltered.
‘I tried First Division, Second Division, too; both were a complete disaster.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Sir, the gag order – does it have your blessing?’
‘It does.’
Mikami’s smile withered under Matsuoka’s casual response. It had been in the back of his head that the gag order had been imposed at Arakida’s sole discretion, that Matsuoka had been secretly uncomfortable with it. He now knew that wasn’t the case. The Iron Curtain had been granted the full support of the de facto head of Criminal Investigations; it was the department’s legitimate policy.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Mikami asked, keeping his voice down.
Matsuoka stared right back, looking intrigued.
‘You mean to say you don’t know?’
Akama didn’t tell you?
It was the moment Mikami’s position in Administrative Affairs was made clear.
‘I don’t know.’
Something formed in Matsuoka’s eyes. Pity? Mikami had nothing to be ashamed of. He might have been superintendent in name only, just one of Akama’s limbs, but the fact that he didn’t know was also proof that he hadn’t truly switched to the other side.
‘I haven’t traded my soul away, not yet.’
It was the best he could muster in response, but Matsuoka did nothing more than blink to show he’d heard. Had it come across as a complaint? Or did he suspect Mikami of only having said it so he’d lower his guard?
Mikami shuffled forwards, reducing the distance between them.
‘I know that, whatever started this, it has something to do with Six Four.’
‘I see.’
‘I went to see Yoshio Amamiya. I know he’s severed all ties with us.’
Matsuoka nodded in silence.
The chief of First Division had admitted it. What came next was key. Mikami leaned forwards across the table.
‘What led to the breakdown?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ His voice carried weight. Was this the point where the gag order came into effect?
‘What’s the Koda memo?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Was it what triggered the gag order?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Okay, what about the commissioner’s visit? That has to be part of it.’
There was a pause, silence. Meaning: Yes, the commissioner’s visit is part of it.
‘Ask your boss,’ Matsuoka said, his voice low as he got to his feet.
‘Wait.’ Mikami was standing, too. ‘I can’t be like Futawatari. Nor do I ever intend to be.’
Matsuoka watched him silently. Mikami thought he saw pity in his eyes.
‘Sir, I’m asking you. Just tell me what this is.’
No response.
‘What happened – between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs?’
‘What would you propose to do with the information?’
The response halted Mikami’s excitement. His mind raced. Which side do you intend to be on? Was that what Matsuoka was asking him? His chest burned. It went without saying. With Criminal Investigations. The words forced themselves up from deep in his gut. Yet . . .
All that escaped his throat was a dried-up sigh.
He felt a shiver run through his body. It was as though he’d finally woken up. The whole morning he’d been working to find something he could use to convince Amamiya. That was the reason he was here now: in order to carry out Akama’s wishes. Circumstances were forcing his hand, perhaps, but the truth was that he was even now trying to gather intelligence for Administrative Affairs; he was no more than a cog in its wheel.
I’m on your side. He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it. The moment he did he would become a traitor to both sides – a bat, something between bird and beast. A molten thing; he would lose any individual identity.
Mikami’s eyes fell to the floor.
He’d been naive. Matsuoka was concerned for Ayumi’s wellbeing. Even now, he considered Mikami one of his own. Yet Mikami had let nostalgia for his time in district get the better of him, let the dam burst on the inner detective he was supposed to be keeping in check. He’d mistaken the proximity of Matsuoka across the table for the proximity of the department itself.
‘Try thinking about why the commissioner’s coming.’
Mikami looked up at the sound of his voice.
What . . .?
Matsuoka had turned so his back faced Mikami. He’d plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and was slowly stretching his neck from side to side. Mikami was stunned. Of course. It was Matsuoka who had taught him the technique of ‘thinking out loud’. He’d adopted the same pose in district, without fail, whenever he wanted to suggest something to a reporter who was getting the wrong end of the stick.
What did he mean? Mikami had no idea. Akama had already explained the reason behind the commissioner’s visit. It was PR, a message for the public, and at the same time designed to boost confidence that the commissioner wouldn’t shun Criminal Investigations.
Yet Matsuoka had—
There was a loud thud. The door to the division opened and Director Arakida strode in, his sizable frame rocking as he did so. He immediately caught sight of Mikami. His slanted eyes narrowed even further.
‘What’s Media Relations doing here?’ He was close to shouting. Mikami straightened his back. He had no idea how to respond. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’ His eyes drilled into him, now full of accusation. ‘This morning – the Toyo, the Times. Let me guess, you got something from that hotline you have with Itokawa?’
‘That wasn’t me . . .’
‘Well, who the hell leaked the story?’
‘I intend to look into that.’
‘You intend to?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Not that it matters. We’ll know soon enough.’
The pitch of his voice had dropped sharply. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Arakida flicked a glance in Mikami’s direction, communicating his message, then he gestured for Matsuoka to follow as he started towards his office.
‘If you’re not CID, get out.’
The door slammed as he delivered the barbed comment. The number one and number two of Criminal Investigations disappeared into the director’s weekend office. They were on full alert. It was as though they were getting ready for war.
24
The north wind stung Mikami’s cheeks.
Back in his car he shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine, but instead of pulling out, he took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one and savoured the smoke, immobile in the driver’s seat as he gazed out of the window, focused on the building he’d just come from. His heart was still thumping hard. He could hear Matsuoka’s words, a continuous loop in his ears.
Try thinking about why the commissioner’s coming.
What reason would Tokyo have to level its sights on the Criminal Investigations Department in Prefecture D? What was their real motive?
Matsuoka had told him to ask his boss, but Akama wouldn’t disclose the secret even if he did. He would kick him out, and say he’d already explained it. He hadn’t given any hint of the con man’s dilemma when it came to the commissioner’s visit. Akama had given orders and left no room for compromise. He didn’t trust Mikami, never had. Ayumi’s disappearance was holding him back, but Akama also knew Mikami would tear off his Administrative Affairs’ suit the moment this leverage became irrelevant.
Mikami checked the car’s digital clock. It was already gone 1 p.m. He felt an increasing sense of duty, as well as urgency. How could he get something to use in convincing Amamiya? It had been obvious from the ferociousness of Arakida’s expression that, if Mikami simply charged around blind, the gag order wouldn’t budge an inch. It hadn’t been the look of a man on the defensive. He’d been warlike, determined – and he was intent on keeping Administrative Affairs from interfering. That was it. Criminal Investigations was doing more than simply trying to protect itself. On the far side of the Iron Curtain, it was making preparations for a counter-strike.
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